#shes furious but how is she gonna set the record straight without admitting to lying herself?

[tennessoui]

would you ever do a hunger games au? like anakin and obi-wan in the arena and doing a katniss and peeta thing where they both survive? anakin maybe killing the competitors so obi-wan wouldn't have to? (just thinking that child killing is in character for him) anyway no pressure or anything I just haven't stopped thinking about a hunger games au of obikin and. I thought maybe you could do something with it!

i need you to know i shamefully snorted at the child murder thing i'm sorry and i'm also sorry this took so long and it's a bit all over the place and doesn't actually get into the Games at all (+ it's been years since I read the books so all inaccuracies should be tastefully ignored pls) this may not be what you asked for tbh but here you go!!

(content warnings: hunger games typical discussion of child murder, but nothing graphic)

(1.7k)

Anakin’s first emotion after his name is called is a strange sense of relief.

Good, he thinks. I’ll get to go with Obi-Wan. He won’t be alone.

He dutifully steps forward out of the crowd towards the stage, where the announcer is waiting next to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan who is looking at him with an expression of naked devastation.

Anakin tries to convey that it’ll be alright, that it’s fine, that they knew this was a possibility. Sure, it’s Anakin’s last year eligible to be in the Games. Sure his nineteenth birthday is in two weeks, at which point he would become too old to qualify as a child to the Capitol, but what’s done is done.

Obi-Wan will be his mentor, because Obi-Wan has been the mentor for District Four ever since he won his own Games seven years ago when he was sixteen and Anakin was twelve.

That year’s known unofficially as the most boring Games in Panem history, but the Capitol loves how handsome Obi-Wan’s grown to be. So what if he didn’t kill his competitors messily or with a bloodthirsty joy? He’s so polite in his interviews all these years later, and look at those dimples!

It makes Anakin sick, every time Obi-Wan has to leave District Four and travel to the Capitol to be fawned over and stroked and used. His nightmares are always worse the weeks after he gets back, and he never lets Anakin hold him during them.

And it’s even worse during the actual Games, when Obi-Wan is put in charge of two children’s lives only to see them brutally murdered on screen a week later. The cameras always show his reaction when the competitors from District Four die. They must think he cries pretty or something.

Anakin hates the Capitol. He hates them for what they’ve done to Obi-Wan. What they’ve made him into

As he gets close enough to the stage, he notices that Obi-Wan’s hands are shaking slightly.

He doesn’t even listen to the name of the girl being called. She’s not important. She’ll be dead in a few days time. What’s important is Obi-Wan. What’s important is comforting him, is reassuring him. Is coming back to him.

This is the moment when Anakin resolves that these Games will become known as the quickest in history.

---

The girl is understandably sullen and upset on the train. “I should get a different mentor!” she demands. “It’s obvious you’re going to play favorites with him.”

Anakin doesn’t snap back because she’ll be dead in a few days. Though she really shouldn’t use that tone with Obi-Wan.

“I’m not playing favorites,” Obi-Wan insists. “I don’t have favorites.”

“You literally just wiped sauce off his mouth with your finger,” the girl points out. “And then he licked it!”

Anakin smirks at her. Of course Obi-Wan has favorites. Of course Anakin is Obi-Wan’s favorite. It took him years to wear down Obi-Wan until he allowed him this close, and years after that until he finally got to kiss him for the first time, just a few months ago.

If she thinks he’s going to give up any of his Obi-Wan time so she can get her hopes up about not dying in a few days, she’s got another thing coming.

But Obi-Wan shifts away from him and he looks guilty.

If Anakin could get away with killing the other person from his district, he would. But it’d probably make Obi-Wan sad.

“Is whining part of your strategy?” he asks waspishly instead. “I don’t think it’ll make you many allies.”

She has the nerve to look offended.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan chides. Underneath the table, he squeezes his knee.

“Everyone in the district knows about you two,” she glares at him. “You haven’t exactly kept it a secret.”

Anakin hasn’t exactly tried to keep it a secret. The first night Obi-Wan had kissed him, he went straight home and told his mother, his neighbor, his schoolmates, his cat, and his ex-girlfriend.

(No one had been surprised, except maybe the cat.)

“It’s not fair,” she cries. “Who can I talk to to get a different mentor for me?”

“The ethics board,” Anakin smiles, all teeth, settling back into his seat and slinging an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says again, this time more exasperatedly. “Robin, I promise I will be the best mentor you can ask for. It is my wish to see you survive as long as possible in the next few weeks.”

The girl jumps to her feet in outrage. “You can’t even say you want me to win!” she yells. There are tears at the corners of her eyes. If she were a little less annoying, Anakin would feel quite bad for her. Obviously Obi-Wan doesn’t want her to win. Anakin’s right here.

She storms out of the train compartment, her face in her hands. Anakin barely waits for the door to close before he’s slipping into Obi-Wan’s lap and throwing his arms around his neck with a groan. “God, I thought she’d never leave.”

He isn’t pushed away. Obi-Wan must realize they only have a handful of days left to be together before he goes into the arena.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says wearily, even as his arms encircle his waist.

Anakin presses a kiss to his nose and then another to his cheek. “It’s alright to have favorites, Obi-Wan,” he murmurs. “And she should know there’s no way she’s winning anything. Don’t waste your time.”

“I will do everything I can to make sure she survives as long as possible,” Obi-Wan repeats. “I don’t think I can survive anything else.”

Obi-Wan’s voice sounds shaky, so Anakin presses their lips together. Best not to talk for awhile.

------

“We should discuss strategy,” Obi-Wan says later that night through frantic kisses. “Sponsors, story, training--”

“I have a strategy,” Anakin murmurs back as he moves further down the bed, rucking up his partner’s shirt. “Win.”

----

“You look absolutely radiant,” Anakin tells the girl in an undertone while they’re in line for their interviews. She turns around to glare at him. The designer for their district has gone for the typical fish designs that people always associate with District Four, and they’ve dressed her up in a shimmering iridescent gown that flares at the ends like a fish’s tail.

Anakin’s own outfit is mostly a fishing net draped over one shoulder and a pair of tight pants. The designer, much to Obi-Wan’s embarrassment and Anakin’s satisfaction, had taken one look at his shirtless chest and decided to dress him in as little clothes as possible.

“Weird braid,” is all she says.

Obi-Wan had done it late last night when both of them had tired each other out and Anakin had curled up on his chest. After his Games, Obi-Wan’s hands like to do something. The repetitive motion of braiding and unbraiding Anakin’s hair soothes his demons.

It’s one of the reasons Anakin’s grown it out to his shoulders, much longer than is practical for his district.

Obi-Wan had gone to unbraid it, and Anakin had stopped him. He wanted to keep it. To wear it into the Games.

“Thank you,” he says generously. “I saw your score. 7’s not too bad.”

She sneers at him. “Did you celebrate your 11 with your boyfriend?”

“Oh sorry,” he winces. “Did you hear us? I’m just so bad at biting my tongue when he does this thing with his.”

She scoffs in disgust and turns back around. “I hope he has to watch you die.”

Anakin glares at her back. He knows he can’t kill her himself. But there has to be a way to hurt her and her chances and still have plausible deniability.

When it’s her turn for an interview, she’s vapid and pretty. She laughs and touches the interviewer’s arm.

“I’ve never spent much time in District Four,” the interviewer says jovially. “But tell me, really. Is everyone there as beautiful as the people you keep sending us? I mean. Obi-Wan Kenobi, ladies and gentlemen, am I right?” The audience laughs and hollers. Anakin hates them all. “And now you, Robin, and Anakin Skywalker. Damn!”

Robin--Anakin needs to stop forgetting her name--giggles high in her throat. “It was a very, very enjoyable train ride up,” she says with a stupid wiggle of her eyebrows. “Just this side of too long.”

The audience loses it.

Anakin loses it.

He can’t believe she’s sitting there publicly suggesting that Anakin shares Obi-Wan with anyone. With her. The nerve.

The camera pans to Obi-Wan in the crowd, who looks shocked, embarrassed, and deeply troubled.

Anakin won’t let this stand. He just hopes Obi-Wan forgives him.

The interviewer greets him excitedly when he walks out, and Anakin gives him a sheepish sort of smile.

“Lady killer Skywalker!” the interviewer says. Anakin laughs along with him. “All the girls back home must have been heartbroken to see you leave.”

“But I’ve heard they love watching me go,” he jokes with a charming smile. If that girl--Robin--can do it, he can do it much better. “There’s really only one person for me though,” he murmurs, letting his smile die.

“Oh?” The interviewer asks, leaning forward with interest.

“But sometimes I wonder if they’re only using me for my body,” he says, casting his eyes down. “I love them. Heart and soul, everything I am. But when I told them, they just laughed.”

This is technically true. The first time Anakin had told Obi-Wan that he was in love with him, the older boy had laughed his confession off, saying he was too young to know what he wanted.

“Oh, to be young and in love,” the interviewer sighs theatrically. “So your plan is to win the Games and then win her heart when you get back home?”

Anakin makes himself look sad. Tragically sad. Like he can’t bear to go on.

“They came with me,” he says.

If the audience’s reaction to Robin’s fake confession was huge, its reaction to Anakin’s words is even bigger. Of course they think he’s talking about the girl. That’s exactly what Anakin had wanted. Now he’s the broken-hearted boy and she’s the vapid, self-absorbed bitch. She'll have a hard time finding sponsors now.

It’s very, very hard to hide his smile, a task made exponentially more hard when he sees Obi-Wan bury his face in his hands.

“It’s alright,” Anakin tells the interviewer, without taking his eyes off of Obi-Wan. “I’ll survive.”

[our-smooty]

If It Ain’t Broke

Fandom: Gorillaz

Rating: Mature

Relationships: None

Tags: suicidal thoughts, self harm, drugs and alcohol

Summary: 4 times Murdoc needed help and the one time he accepted it

Murdoc held the lighter to his skin, watching the flame burn. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have thanks to the copious amount of alcohol and speed in his system. Honestly, he was a little disappointed; the pain was one of the best parts. Quite quickly a reddened spot appeared, getting worse and worse until the Satanist couldn’t stand the heat any longer. What was left after he flicked the lighter closed was an anger blister, one of numerous on that arm.

FuckingDisgustingAddictPoserPieceOfShitNoOneWouldCareIfYou--

A rapid, loud banging on the washroom door broke him out of his trance. He’s nearly forgotten where he was.

“Hey asshole!” someone called through the wood. “People are waiting out here!”

Murdoc swore gruffly. “Piss off! Go find another shitter. We’ve got lots of them!” Why had he thought throwing a house party was a good idea? Now it sounded like the guy outside was kicking the door. The bassist really didn’t have the energy to deal with this, though that could be fixed with a bump of speed.

He let the idiot keep smashing on the door as he got his fix and cleaned himself up. Pulling down the sleeves of his grey shirt and fiddling with the lock, Murdoc swung the door inward. The dullard on the other side was mid-kick, and the sudden removal of the door caused him to stumble forward onto the bathroom floor. Murdoc cackled.

“Serves you right,” he snarked, stepping over the fallen man and out into the hallway. The others in line for the loo were quiet now that they realized who had occupied it. The bassist leered at partygoers as he passed, stalking off to the living room where he knew his bandmates would be.

“Murdoc!” 2D cried as he walked through the doorway. The singer had a bird under each arm and a joint in hand as he lounged on the sofa. Russel was sitting at the--normally cluttered-dining room table playing cards with a group. Noodle was nowhere to be seen, though that wasn’t surprising, given that she was only 10 years old and the house was full of drugs and other illicit activities.

Murdoc didn’t answer the kid, choosing instead to head straight to the liquor cabinet and grab a bottle of whiskey. His high from the speed was kicking into gear and his knees were shaking, though he never would have admitted it out loud. Instead, he slunk over to the other couch and sat slouched into the peeling leather.

“Where’d you go, Muds. We missed you!” Satan did the singer ever shut up? Now he had the girls cooing and tittering over in his direction. Normally he would have slid over and stolen the birds from the other, but his heart just wast in it tonight.

“None of your sodding business,” he snapped, swigging from the bottle. 2D continued to smile--the simpleton probably didn’t even know he’d been insulted. Murdoc watched him go right back to chatting with the ladies without a care in the world. His arm burned and he resisted the urge to scratch.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Russel asked from the table. Murdoc’s nails dug into his palms and the skin under his sleeve throbbed. He felt the familiar heat of rage bubbling up from his stomach into his throat.

“Fuck off lard-arse!” he felt himself screaming. Before he knew it he was throwing the bottle, smashing it against the wall beside the TV. The women on the sofa began to shriek, and 2D jumped up, hands flying all over the place.

“Holy Hell, Murdoc!” he shouted, taking a step towards the bassist, and then back again with his hands outstretched. Murdoc was panting now, though he wasn’t sure why.

Russel stood and set his cards down, motioning to the others at the table to leave, then turned towards Murdoc. “Are we gonna have a problem, Murdoc?”

The drummer was so much bigger than him, and had already proved himself of taking Murdoc down. His nose was a testament to that. But still he was so angry for no reason and his heart was pounding. Maybe a fight would help him calm down. With three quick steps, he was up in the drummer's face, swinging wide.

He didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

“Where is Murdoc?”

Noodle was standing in the center of the studio, guitar plugged in and ready to play. Russel sat behind his drum kit reading a magazine and 2D was fiddling with one of his keyboards in the corner. The only member missing was the bassist.

“Probably still sleepin’,” Russel sighed, flipping the page. Noodle frowned.

“He knew we had practice this morning, yes?” she asked. Stu looked up from his keyboard to nod and shrug.

“I told him, but you know how he is,” he answered. This was so like their oldest member; make promises and then completely flake. She was getting really tired of his attitude.

Noodle threw off her guitar and stomped out the studio door. Neither Russel or 2D tried to stop her, they knew better than to get in her way. She could probably take them both out and barely break a sweat.

The guitarist strode through Kong towards the car park, the heels of her boots clacking loudly. No longer was she the little 10-year old running through the halls. Noodle was a force to be reckoned with now, something that Murdoc would come to learn in a few minutes.

When she got to the carpark it was silent. Normally when Murdoc was in his Winnebago it was filled with the sound of loud music and other debauched activities. It looked like 2D was right when he said the bassist was probably sleeping, though that wouldn’t save him from their youngest members wrath.

“Murdoc!” she shouted, banging on the door with her fist. No sound came from inside, but the door was locked so she knew the bassist was in there. “Murdoc! You are late for our practice!”

There was significant rattling and clanking from inside. The door swung open and Noodle only just had time to step back to avoid getting hit. “Who the fuck is poundin’ on my soddin’ door!”

Murdoc was a mess. As usual, he was mostly naked, though Noodle was eternally grateful he was still wearing underwear. His cape was missing, and he only had one boot on. His normally tidy but greasy mop-top was in disarray, and the bags under his eyes were ten-fold. But that wasn’t what Noodle noticed most.

“Kore wa Nan desu ka? You are injured!” she grabbed at his arms, pulling them forward. There were cuts and burns dotting both of them and covering up old scars. A trickle of fear and concern broke through her previously furious mood.

Murdoc flinched and pulled back, retreating into the Winnebago. Noodle followed him before he could lock the door, stepping over debris and clothing. The bassist was rifling through said clothing for something to cover up with, muttering to himself.

“What are you doin’ here Noodle?” he asked, voice rough as he pulled on a long-sleeve shirt. The injuries disappeared under the cloth, and she had to wonder how she’d never seen his scars before.

“We have band practice,” she answered, watching him. “You promised you would be there.”

Murdoc swore and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit. I forgot.” He was stumbling around now, hopping into a pair of trousers that looked well beyond their lifespan.

“I’ll be there inna minute, Noodle,” he said, still not looking at her as he fumbled around for his other shoe. It was a little sad, and her concern increased.

“Are you alright?” Some of those injuries looked recent and swollen.

“Perfectly fine, Noodle-girl. Jus’ slept in a lil’, that’s all.” He was most certainly lying. He’d opened the door much too quickly for him to have been passed out after a night of drinking. She frowned.

“Do not treat me like a child,” she insisted, striding towards him and grabbing his arm again. “I am not stupid, Murdoc.”

He deflated a little, the fake smile he’d plastered on sliding from his lips. Pants on but not buttoned he sat heavily on the bed, hanging his head.

“I don’t--Can we not talk about this?” he asked, gaze trained on the floor. She knew that he knew what the injuries were, where they’d come from. But she didn’t know what to do about it; for all her eagerness, she was still only a teen. So she sighed and nodded, turning back towards the door.

“Please, be careful,” she asked before walking down the Winne steps. He didn’t say anything as she left. Before swinging the door closed the looked back at him. “Do not worry about practice, we will reschedule.”

When Noodle got back to the studio, 2D and Russel were jamming, riffing off of each other in a lazy sort of way. They stopped when she entered, obviously looking at the doorway behind her. It was obviously empty.

“Did you kill him?” 2D asked, and the warble in his voice gave away that he was only half-kidding. Russel chuckled.

“He will not be joining us today. We will have to practice tomorrow,” Noodle informed them neutrally, moving to put her neglected guitar away. 2D shrugged and started to pack up while Russel tossed his sticks to the side.

“What, was he too drunk to bother showing up?” he asked. Noodle wasn’t sure what to say to either of them. Should she tell them what she saw? Should she keep Murdoc’s secret? It felt like she had half the pieces to a puzzle, with the other half nowhere in sight.

“He is ill,” was what she settled on. For now Noodle would keep Murdoc’s secret, at least until she could figure out what the best thing to do would be.

2D was settling into life on Plastic Beach, if you could call it that. After the first week he discovered that most of the time, Murdoc forgot to lock him in his room or order the Cyborg to do it. So he spent most of his time not recording wandering the island avoiding the foul-tempered bassist.

Sometimes though, he wasn’t so successful. It had been at least two weeks since Murdoc sent the Cyborg for a supply run, and he was getting tired of eating cereal for every meal. They hadn’t been recording anything either, so the singer hadn’t had the chance to ask if and when they’d be getting more of anything. If he wanted to find out, he’d have to seek out the other willingly.

“Uh, Murdoc?” he called, knocking on the other’s bedroom door. Cyborg was nowhere to be seen, which made him uneasy. It was always creeping around making those God-awful mechanical sounds.

When he heard nothing from inside he tried the handle--it was unlocked. Very slowly he pushed the door open just enough for him to stick his head inside. It was dark, as usual, and empty. Plastic Beach wasn’t exactly massive, where could  Murdoc be hiding?

He got his answer in a loud clattering coming from Murdoc’s en-suite bathroom, followed by Cyborgs usual beeps. Taking care to not step on anything important the singer made his way over to the bathroom, peering through the doorway.

Inside Cyborg was standing in front of the tub, an open first aid hit at its feet. On the edge of the tub sat Murdoc, shirtless and bedraggled and most certainly drunk. 2D stared as Cyborg meticulously wrapped one of the bassist’s hands in gauze. His other hand was still unwrapped and sat bloody and bruised in his lap. Had Murdoc gotten into a fight? There was no one else on the island since they’d finished with the last contributor. And fighting didn’t explain the other scratches and scars littering his entire upper body.

“Please give me your other hand, Master,” Cyborg said, placing the wrapped one down. Murdoc winced as he held it up, looking longingly at the half-empty bottle of rum on the floor. As his eyes slid over the rest of the bathroom, his gaze landed on 2D peeking in through the doorway. Stu gulped and stepped back, sure that he was in for a beating.

“That you, Faceache?” Murdoc sounded tired and cranky, never a good sign. 2D could probably outrun him, but then who knew when he’d seen the man again. And he was really, really tired of cereal.

“Y-yeah, it’s me Muds,” he answered, stepping into the bathroom fully. The smell of antiseptic stung his nose. Murdoc swatted the Cyborg away and stood with some effort. He was much drunker than the singer first thought.

“Th’fuck d’you want?” he slurred. 2D had the sinking suspicion that if Murdoc hadn’t been so uselessly drunk he would have been spitting mad.

Hands drawn up and fingers twiddling, 2D warbled, “W-well there’s no food, ‘cept cereal a-and expired milk.”

Murdoc wobbled dangerously, and the Cyborg shot a hand out to support him. A sick feeling ran through the singer as he looked on. Murdoc had been frightening and intense when they lived at Kong, but now he looked like an old, unstable drunk. It was honestly sad, and Stu felt a stab of pity for the other.

“Y-y-you,” Murdoc stuttered, pointing a shaky finger in the singer’s face. “The fuck d-d-’you know?”

2D raised an eyebrow, still wary but not as scared. He could definitely get away from Murdoc right now if he had to; it’d been a long time since he saw the other this drunk. “I think I know when the cupboards are empty, Muds.”

Cyborg took this moment to pipe up. “It has been approximately 15 days since the last supply run.” Murdoc growled

“I knew that, y-you bucket of bolts!” 2D flinched. This wasn’t going at all like he’d imagined. After seeing the bassist in this state, 2D was less worried about supplies and more worried about his health.

“Murdoc, a-are you alrigh’?” he asked, reaching out to put a hand on the Satanist’s arm. Murdoc winced and drew back, nearly falling into the tub.

“I’m fu-fuckin’ fine,” he said, face going pale.  Blood began to drip from his untreated hand. Not two seconds later he was pushing 2D out of the way and retching into the toilet bowl. All that came up was bile and, presumably, alcohol.

“I dunno... you’re hurt an’ you look pretty rough, mate.” Was Murdoc even his mate anymore? He’d beat him and kidnapped him and treated him like shit for years now, but something about seeing the other man so broken made 2D forget most of that. His mother had always said his kind nature would get him into trouble one of these days. “Why don’t you go lay down for a bit?”

“Sod off!” Murdoc shouted, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and staggering to his feet.

2D persisted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea mate…” But Murdoc was angry now, advancing towards the singer with a hard glint in his eye. 2D recognized that look and decided it might be time to make his escape.

“Get the fuck out!” he screamed, making a grab for the singer’s shirt. 2D dodged and scampered out of the room with a small squeak. So much for trying to be nice, or getting more food. It looked like he’d be eating cereal for a while longer.

One of the main perks of being so huge and living on the roof was that Russel had a good amount of privacy from the rest of the band. Minus the occasional car and passerby, it was almost peaceful. Well, at least it usually was.

For the last couple of weeks, at around 3 am every morning, one of his bandmates had started causing a racket. It was mostly thumps and bumps, like someone pounding on the walls, and in general, he could sleep through it, but he was still curious. 2D and Noodle weren’t usually the type to be so discourteous, though sometimes the singer would forget the expected social niceties. Russel had his suspicions that it was Murdoc making all the noise, but he hadn’t been able to catch the man in the act. Until one night.

As usual, the banging began around 3. Unusually, Russel was still awake, having been in the clutches of a transient spell of insomnia for a few days. It was definitely coming from the part of the house where Murdoc’s room was, and this time Russel was determined to tell the older man off. Carefully he leaned down to his bedroom window, using one giant finger to tap on the glass.

“Yo Muds,” he whispered, “what the fuck are you doin’ in there man?”

The banging stopped abruptly, and Russel tried to see inside to locate the other man. It was incredibly dark like the bassist had intentionally removed all the light fixtures from the room. While squinting through the window, the drummer was caught by surprise when Murdoc appeared at the glass, yanking the dirty pane up and open to stick his head out.

“What’re you shouting abou'?” he drawled, the unmistakable stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke leaking from the open window. Russel’s nose crinkled in disgust.

“I’m asking you what the hell you’re doing to make all the noise every night,” he repeated. Murdoc rolled his eyes and took a drag of the smoke he was sucking on.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Russel.”

The drummer huffed. “Like hell you don’t.”

Murdoc blew his lungful of smoke out the window, and subsequently into Russel’s face with a smirk. “Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

“Fuck you,” Russel snarled, choosing to return to his rooftop and ignore the disgusting man. As he retreated he could hear Murdoc’s croaky laugh echoing into the night.

But the drummer wasn’t going to give up that easily. Still unable to sleep the next night, he lay and waited for Murdoc to start up again, and like clockwork, the banging began. This time, Russel was quiet about it, leaning down to peek through the window and hopefully catch the other in the act. He looked through the glass, willing his eyes to adjust and see whatever was going on.

Like the night before it was completely dark, but that didn’t stop the drummer. He was patient, waiting until his eyes adjusted enough to be able to see into the room. Inside he could see the piles of trash and other junk that was omnipresent in any space Murdoc stayed in for long. In the far corner, there was a bed covered in lumpy sheets. As Russel watched, the sheets shifted violently, a green arm coming into view for a brief second.

He was about to look away, almost certain he was about to see something he really didn’t want to when he heard a muffled, shout that sounded far from sexual. Suddenly, Murdoc sat up, his arms flailing and bumping into the walls, making a familiar banging noise. Had Murdoc been having nightmares this whole time?

“Sweet Satan!” the bassist screamed upon noticing Russel lurking outside of his window. Russel winced--he really should have seen that coming--and opened the window with one massive finger.

“Uh, hey Muds,” he said, a bit embarrassed to have been caught. “Sorry I scared ya.”

Murdoc had the covers draw up over his chest, eyes wide. He wasn’t even trying to play it cool, Russel had scared him silly. “W-w-what the fuck are y-you doin’ at m-m-my window!?”

“You were thumpin’ around again so I decided to check up on you.” Really he’d wanted to catch the bassist in the act and tell him off, but now that he knew why Murdoc was making so much noise…

“Are you OK man?” Russel asked, watching Murdoc try to quell the shakiness of his limbs. The drummer couldn’t help but feel a little bit worried. Murdoc might have been horrible and rude, but he was still Russel’s friend.

“I’d be a lot be-better without you starin’ i-in my sodding w-window!” The bassist said through chattering teeth. Russel wondered if he should push, or if he should knock on 2D or Noodles window and let them know. But then Murdoc was swinging his legs out of bed and walking towards the window, fist raised and lips drawn back in a snarl. He banged the window shut and drew the curtains with such force one of them ripped off the rod.

Russel didn’t waste time staring at the swaying fabric; if Murdoc wanted to be an asshole, then fine. He huffed and lay back on the roof, staring up at the stars. It wasn’t really his place to be getting into the bassist’s business anyway. Murdoc had made it clear what he thought about the rest of the band.

It was over. He’d made it through the fire to the other side, and he was exhausted. Murdoc had managed to get home to the Spirit House, apologize to the band, and make it safely to his room before breaking down. Finally alone, he crumpled to his knees, ugly but silent sobs bursting from his chest.

Despite the things he’d said online, prison had been absolute hell. He honestly hadn’t thought that he’d make it out alive--and almost didn’t, after his stupid stunt. It might have been worth it to tell the others, to let them know, but every time he tried, he couldn’t get the words out. He’d been close when they’d greeted him with hugs and kind words, so so close. But at the last minute he’d choked up; how do you tell your family about the things that had happened? Story of his life.

But he didn’t want to think of that now. All the awful things he’d done in the past, or had done to him were always in the back of his mind and it was so easy for them to come bubbling out when he was already upset. It was nearly impossible to stop the tears now, and it was getting harder to stay quiet. Shakily, he shoved a knuckle between his teeth, biting down.

He didn’t want to do this anymore, he couldn’t do this, he couldn--

Of course, just as he felt himself shaking apart, there was a quiet knocking at the door. The bassist went stock-still as 2D’s twangy voice filtered in through the wood.

“You in there Murdoc?” he didn’t answer, but the singer didn’t seem put off. “I saw you come up here and I wanted to make sure you were alrigh’.”

Murdoc gasped in an effort to quell his crying and find his voice. Unfortunately, 2D had never been the most curtious person when it came to personal space, and the doorknob was already turning, revealing the singer staring down at Murdoc’s pathetic form.

“Oh uh, what happened?” he asked dumbly. If Murdoc hadn’t been in such a state he would have said something nasty, but as he was all that came out was a choked whine. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, finger still jammed between his fangs and dripping blood. 2D finally caught sight of it after the blood began to dribble down the bassist's hand. Immediately, he shot forward, gently pulling the skin away from Murdoc’s grasp and sitting beside him. “Jeeze Muds, don’t hurt yourself.”

Now he had the smaller man’s hand in his, and Stu began running his thumb in comforting circles. “What the matter Murdoc?”

“I-I-I--” He was shaking so bad it nearly looked like convulsions. 2D’s eyes went wide, then softened as he leaned in to slowly wrap an arm around the bassist. It made Murdoc realize how long it’d been since someone actually hugged him.

“Take your time mate, it’s alrigh’,” 2D assured him. Murdoc nodded, though he felt like a complete idiot the entire time. When did he get so soft?

Eventually, he got the shaking under control, mostly thanks to the pressure of Stu’s arm around his shoulders. If he’d been on his own it could have taken hours to calm down, and not without a good bit of alcohol. But 2D was there and warm and familiar in a way Murdoc desperately needed right now, so he let himself be weak just this once.

“Feelin’ better?” the singer asked, giving Murdoc space to shift and get comfortable. Again, he nodded, opening his mouth and taking a deep breath.

“Not really, no.” His voice was wrecked and gruff. “I feel like a total prat.”

“Uh, why?” 2D asked, cocking his head to the side. Murdoc wanted to punch him, but he was afraid he didn’t have the strength to really lift his fist. Instead, he weakly gestured to himself with a sigh.

“Jus’ all of this, s’not d-dignified.” He sniffed and rubbed at how eyes until he saw stars. “Why’d you bother knockin’ if you were jus’ gonna barge in here?”

2D chuckled nervously and shrugged. “I had a gut feelin’ you weren’t doin’ alrigh’ when I saw you downstairs. And then I came up here and your door was locked…” He angled his body toward the bassist, making it clear that the older man wasn’t getting out of this conversation without a fight. “You don’t have to deal with this stuff alone, Muds.”

Murdoc laughed wetly with a grimace. “Y-yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Spare me the--”

“I’m serious!” 2D interrupted. “Murdoc we’ve known each other a lot of years. And we have a lot of history. But we’re still family, and I don’t like t’see you hurtin’. I care about you, you old sod.”

The truthful tone made Murdoc squirm a little. He’d never been very comfortable sharing his emotions with others, but he really was at the end of his rope. Taking another steadying breath to stave off the tightening in his chest, he looked up at 2D.

“I-I-I don’t know how.”

Stu smiled a little, probably glad Murdoc wasn’t screaming in his face. “You could start by tellin’ me what’s got you so worked up, and then we could go back downstairs and watch a movie with Russel and Noodle.”

He could feel the exhaustion in his limbs and behind his eyes. “I-I don’t think-- I’m tired, D.”

“Maybe you should get some rest then, and we can talk tomorrow?” That sounded incredible.

“Y-yeah, that’d be good,” he agreed. 2D got to his feet and held out a hand to the bassist, crouching down a little because of his height. Murdoc thought about getting up on his own, something about the way the singer kept trying to help him made his stomach churn. But he was also so tired, and he didn’t want to keep pretending to be something he wasn’t, so he took Stu’s hand and let himself be pulled up. It felt like making progress, in a weird way.

[not-close-to-straight]

Movies (Chapter Six)

MASTERLIST

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"Pay attention!” Steve snapped as he landed a bone-cracking blow to Bucky's jaw. “Where's your head today?”

Bucky just barely dodged a second punch, twisting quickly to gain some space between them. “I'm fine.” He swung a fist, the right one, and Steve frowned at him.

“Step it up, buddy, let's go. Use your other arm.”

“No.” Bucky swung again, connecting hard enough that Steve stumbled back.

“We were doing great with it.” He coaxed, ducking under the next punch. With several weeks of solid sleep behind him, Bucky had just recently, FINALLY felt in control enough of his mind to practice sparring using the weapon that had replaced his left arm. Learning to pull his punches so they were still devastating but not deadly. Slowly building a wall in his mind so his fight instinct wasn't a direct link to his kill instinct. He only trusted himself to spar with Steve, knowing that he would really have to lose his mind to come close to seriously hurting the super soldier.

Not even Tony in his suit was allowed in the training room, Bucky was too concerned that the sight of all the weaponry would set him off.

So Tony stood outside the bullet proof windows of the private room and watched jealously as Steve and Bucky battled it out. Except Bucky was getting his ass handed to him today.

“Bucky! Come on! Engage with me!” Steve backed off in frustration and slung his shield as hard as he could. With an ear shattering clang, it connected with the metal of Bucky's hand, the impact not even swaying the soldier on his feet.

Steve's eyes widened. They had never really went shield to arm, not even when they fought as enemies, and he was more than surprised to see Bucky snatch it from mid air like a frisbee.

Bucky was frozen in place. Before it had even registered that Steve was throwing the shield, he had thrown his arm up to stop it, but the usual instinct to fling it back with all his strength wasn't there. His eyes lit, and Steve pumped a fist in the air.

“There you go.” Steve said excitedly. “You stopped it and didn't automatically try to smash me with it! This is huge! That's the very first time you haven't tried to escalate things!”

Bucky tried not to smile, but it was hard when Steve was grinning like that. “Let's call it a day.” He said finally and Steve nodded.

“Yeah man, whatever you say. This is great! Few more weeks like this and you can come out with us to fight!”

“I don't think he's ready for that.” Natasha's voice interrupted their moment, and Steve looked up in surprise.

“Hey Tash. What are you doing--”

“Let me and Winter do a few rounds.”

“Tasha I really don't think--”

“I wasn't asking.” Natasha was in full battle mode, wrapped in all that dark spandex, twin holsters on her thighs, ammo and knives and a third gun around her little waist. “Get out Steve.”

“I said--”

“It's alright.” Bucky said quietly, too quietly, and Steve backed off.

“What are they doing?” Tony asked, as Steve joined him behind the glass.

“I don't know.” he admitted. “She's never even shown an interest in sparring with me, much less him. But she looks scary and I don't really want to cross her like that.

“Looks to me like she's showing quite a bit of interest in sparring with him.” Tony pointed inside the room, where Bucky was standing still, fists clenched, as Natasha circled him. “I hate when she walks like that. Like she's closing in on a kill. Say, Steven, what did our favorite ex super assassin do to piss her off so badly?”

“You think she's mad?” Steve asked, crossing his arms and frowning and Tony rolled his eyes.

“It's just… astonishing how little you know of women.”

“That's why I married a man.” Steve deadpanned, and Tony grinned.

“Damn straight.”

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

“I'm sorry.” Bucky said, and Natasha only smiled, a vicious little thing that had him tensing. In the three days since they almost....., well, he hadn't seen her once. “I shouldn't have--” He threw his arm up when she snatched a gun and fired at him.

The bullets plinked off harmlessly, but her point was made. Vaguely he heard Steve yelling through the window, but ignored it, all his attention on the green eyed woman still pacing around him. She was furious, and had every right to be.

“Well a couple nights of sleeping alone haven't slowed your reflexes.” She said calmly so calmly and tossed her empty gun aside. Bucky dropped his arm, spreading his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“I wasn't trying to be--”

“How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet!” Natasha leapt at him, wrapping those slim legs around his neck and twisting her body in a hard spiral, dragging him to the ground before he could even react.

“Natasha I just--” She smashed her fist into his jaw, pain blooming across his face as she hit the same spot Steve had earlier.

“Damn it!!” He bucked underneath her, upsetting her balance and flipped her over, pinning her hard to the ground, metal arm pushing against her throat. Both of her small hands came up to grip the thick forearm, legs kicking, trying to get around his waist to flip him.

Behind the glass, Tony grabbed Steve's hand to keep him from charging into the room. “They are fine.”

“He's going to kill her!” Steve snapped. “He's gone! Look at him!”

“Honey, you need to look at him.” Tony dragged him back to the window and pointed. Sure, Bucky had most of his considerable weight on Natasha's hundred and twenty pound frame, and yes his arm was lying across her throat while she writhed and kicked, but Bucky wasn't fighting her, not even trying.

“Please.” Bucky ground out, and Natasha stilled underneath him. “I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry. I hurt you, Tasha. And I hate myself for that but--”

“You pushed me away.” She snapped. “I told you I was fine and you still kicked me out.”

“I left bruises.” He bit out. “Bruises on your skin. You have MARKS on your hips from my hand.”

“Some girls think bruises are sexy.” She hissed and he growled at her.

“Yeah, Tasha, from their normal strength boyfriends. I could have broken you. Look at me.” He demanded. “I could have broken. Your. Hip. if I hadn't stopped.”

“You would have stopped!” She argued and started struggling against him again.

“Let's just back up and try again, okay? Slowly. I'll go slowly and… and I don't know. Let's just--”

“It doesn't matter.” She shook her head. “It doesn't matter if we try again or go slowly because whatever this is, is gone.”

“It's not.” Bucky answered, pleadingly. “I want this.”

“What? What do you want? To have a relationship like a couple of teenagers whose parents say they can't sleep together?” She demanded, starting to struggle again. “To be together but NOT because you think I'll break like a doll? What do you want?” She arched her back, forcing her hips up to try and throw him.

Bucky simply shifted so more of his weight was on top of her, and she froze again. “I want this.” He whispered, “Bad spy films in the middle of the night. Your feet on my lap. The way you bring me back to myself when I wake up.” Bucky's voice dropped low, his eyes darkening and Natasha's breath hitched in her throat. “How you feel lying in my arms. The way you smile first thing in the morning. The way you sigh after we kiss. You're not scared for me-my arm to touch you, to hold you. How you looked when I--”

Natasha hooked a leg around his waist and arched her whole body, flipping him over and smacking his head on the concrete. She straddled him, leaning very close to whisper in his ear.

“How I looked right before you pushed me off of you? Pushed me away? That's what you want? Because I have to tell you, the rejection sucks.”

“I'm never going to reject you again.” Bucky promised, and Natasha sat back and laughed out loud.

“Yeah, you're right about that.” She got off him, collected her gun from the floor and walked out without a backwards glance. “Boys.” She nodded to Steve and Tony who were staring wide eyed at her.

“Okay well. I didn't hear what they were whispering, but did that look like angry post break up fighting to you?” Tony asked and Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“If it wasn't Bucky and Natasha I'd say sure but… Bucky and Natasha?”

“Hey, I'd watch that go down.” Tony said with a shrug and Steve rolled his eyes.

“I'm gonna go check on Bucky. You go make sure Natasha's not on the warpath.”

“For the record, Steven.” Tony called as he walked away, and Steve turned with his eyebrows raised. “Ever since Bucky shaved and cut his hair, I can see why you always said he was the good looking one.”

“What are you saying, Tony?” he said with a laugh.

“I'm saying don't let up on your squats and chest presses or I will leave you All American ass for some Winter booty!” Tony waved over his shoulder. “Hit the gym handsome!” Steve couldn't stop his grin as he watched his husband walk away.

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