#should some event reopen their hearts and eyes to the horrors they have created and perpetuated?

[badolmen]

I really feel like some of you genuinely think that if all billionaires died tomorrow the world would magically be a better place. Their wealth doesn’t come with a will ensuring it’s redistributed fairly across the planet - it goes to their kin or organizations of their choice. The systems that allowed such vile people to maintain their status will still exist. 4 dead billionaires isn’t this victory you think it is - there’s 4 new billionaires inheriting their wealth and status. Killing every billionaire would just shuffle the pieces and players, it wouldn’t change the game.

[classified-bluerose]

put me back together vi || quentin beck x reader

chapter six: cut me open, take my heart

a/n: chapter title from ‘’when you walk away’’ by 5sos. i may be taking a short break from this while i figure out where to go from here. i don’t have an exact ending in mind- should it be sad, or happy? or somewhere in between? who knows? not i.

warnings: manipulation, mentions of character death, quentin being a lil bitch, sad mcu scenes mentioned, also (almost) changes to the main plot of the mcu lol that i can’t say here w/out spoiling it. hope ya’ll enjoy.

a/n 2: major liberties taken with the timeline in ffh, the chain of events in ffh, and astral projection. (you’ll see).

—

—

(GIF is not mine)

—

stephen answers the phone on the final ring, just before it cuts to voicemail.

‘’ yes? ‘’

‘’ i need to astral project. ‘’

‘’ or hello, as people used to say, ‘’ the sorceror replies drily.

‘’ i don’t have time for pleasantries. this is urgent. how can i do it on my own? ‘’

on the other end of the phone, strange sighs. ‘’ i suppose warning you against it due to the potential dangers of the act is pointless? ‘’

‘’ yep, ‘’ you respond, popping the p.

‘’ and asking you why you need to astral project? ‘’

‘’ i don’t have time. ‘’

‘’ of course you don’t, ‘’ he mutters under his breath, before releasing a breath and turning serious. ‘’ okay. listen carefully, and follow these instructions exactly as i lay them out. ‘’

within thirty minutes, you’re set up and ready to go. taking some steadying breaths you lay in the rectangle of lit candles and close your eyes. focusing on where you want to go.

how long it takes, you can’t be sure. maybe seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours. eventually, the familiar floating sensation overwhelms your senses and when you reopen your eyes, you look down at your prone form on the ground. weird, you think, never getting used to it no matter how many times you do it.

right. you haven’t got long. ten minutes or less, any longer and the more difficult it will be for you to return to your physical form. you focus on the image of quentin in your mind; sparkling eyes, razorblade smile, smooth charm, slick hair. green smoke and fishbowl helmet, thick armour, flowing cape.

you drift through the plane and find yourself in a nondescript building, worn down and aging badly. quentin’s voice reaches your ears, loud and irritated.

‘’ what do you mean a drone was damaged? why didn’t you go and get it? ‘’

a man, bespectacled, behind a mass of computers. ‘’ it won’t matter, mr.beck, the loss won’t be noticable. ‘’

‘’ except, ‘’ the man himself, centre stage, through gritted teeth, ‘’ that peter parker has found that drone and will figure out the truth. ‘’

a cold breeze shifts around you; no. no. no.

‘’ when i have to kill that kid, his blood will be on your hands! ‘’

quentin roars, gone is the soft tenderness you experienced only hours ago, here is pure rage. this is a tantrum in a man, a storm of pure emotion.

‘’ kill that kid. ‘’

peter.

fuck.

you close your eyes and focus on getting back to yourself. the fear and panic creates obstacles, when you return, night has fallen outside - to your horror.

‘’ shit. shit. shit! ‘’

—

how many times can i screw up? you think to yourself, as you wait for quentin in your hotel room.

how many more people can i hurt, by not realising things until it’s too late? you close your eyes as a montage of painful memories plays across the screen of your mind.

steve’s secrets, tony, broken and alone in siberia. stephen and peter, the guardians, fading away to dust in front of your eyes. natasha’s hand slipping from yours on vormir; tony with the gauntlet and the stones swallowing him up in an easy gulp.

your hands start to shake. peter. please be okay. peter has to be okay.

‘’ honey? what’s going on? ‘’

you hadn’t even heard him arriving. you don’t look up, too fearful of what you may see in his face. too fearful of what he may see in your own.

he calls your name softly, worry in his tone. angry voices bite inside you. liar. falsehoods. trickster.

his footsteps grow closer and you raise your head, never opening your eyes.

this is where your illusion shatters. this is where his begins.

—

‘’ quentin beck - formerly employed by tony stark, under the illusion technology department. ‘’

quentin’s blood runs cold.

‘’ fired in 2014, due to instability and potential to become a danger to those around him. ‘’

his jaw clenches tight enough to ache. no. no. he will not let tony stark ruin this for him.

‘’ following beck’s departure from stark industries, tony stark unveils a new therapuetic technique, named BARF - binarily augmented retroframing. ‘’

your eyes open to meet his. brutal, unforgiving, a fire of ice blazing. mouth a harsh snarl, a far cry from the usual kind expression he sees.

‘’ listen to me. i can explain. ‘’

you don’t let him.

‘’ so, hang on. let me see if i’ve got this right, ‘’ you start, ‘’ you work for tony for years. you give your blood, sweat, and tears to a project that is more like, say, your baby, than a project. that’s right, yeah? ‘’

quentin tries to steady his breathing. ‘’ please, just - ‘’

‘’ so, tony fires you. right after you’ve made a big break in your work. cites the reason that you’re not stable enough to keep working on this project. you want to weaponise it. tony doesn’t, having shut down manufacturing of weapons years before. so ... what? you spend the next ten years working on this revenge plot? ‘’

you cock your head to the side and narrow your eyes. ‘’ or do you wait until he’s dead? because you know you can’t actually pull this shit off with him around. that he would figure it out in a nanosecond. because you can just about compete with a child? ‘’

he yells your name, reaching his breaking point.

you ignore him but match the volume. ‘’ did i i get it right, mr. beck? have i missed anything out? ‘’

‘’ you don’t understand and now you won’t listen! ‘’

‘’ i have heard enough from you! ‘’ you laugh, rolling like thunder, low and dangerous. you sober up suddenly. ‘’ the only thing i want you to say? where. is. peter. ‘’

quentin falls silent. you can hear your own heartbeat as he refuses to meet your eyes.

‘’ where is he? ‘’ your tone, edged with desperation, grows aggressive, causing quentin to nearly wince away.

‘’ he had to be dealt with. ‘’ (quentin hopes he sounds more confident than he feels.)

you laugh again, no mirth, just sharp edges. ‘’ don’t. don’t you dare- quentin, where is peter? ‘’

he looks at you with sorrow weighing down his handsome features; features that you now want to punch, hard.

‘’ i’m sorry. it wasn’t supposed to go this way. ‘’

like ice water flooding your veins, everything around you freezes. you shake your head, words failing you.

‘’ you can’t have - you can’t - ‘’

quentin holds up his hands and slowly walks up to you. ‘’ i’m so sorry, ‘’ he repeats, and you’d almost believe him, if you could process anything in this moment.

peter. dead?

you let him down - again.

a ragged breath rips its way from your chest, knees buckling.

‘’ please, let me - ‘’

you rear back when quentin comes close enough to touch. ‘’ no. no. don’t. don’t you fucking - don’t you put a hand on me. you liar. liar. cheat. evil, manipulative, lying- ‘’

‘’ now, now, ‘’ quentin chides, almost hurt, ‘’ that’s not very nice. hmm? like i said - it wasn’t supposed to go like this. poor peter, he just - i tried to get him out of the way but he just. kept. interfering. ‘’ quentin chuckles, in a way that says ‘’i mean, what else was i to do? ‘’

you stare, swallowing down tears.

‘’ it’s a shame, ‘’ quentin sighs, ‘’ because i liked the kid. really, i did, ‘’ he insists, searching your face for something that will let him know you believe his words. ‘’ but, casualties happen. ‘’ he says it so matter-of-factly, you can’t even stop yourself.

he’s lying on his back and your knuckles are burning in the blink of an eye; it’s a good thing for quentin that your powers aren’t on full blast, otherwise the blow most likely would have killed him.

as it is, when he sits back up, stunned, his nose is crooked, streaming blood. he winces furiously when he touches two fingers to the swollen appendage, and then tilts his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth.

‘’ i really wish you hadn’t done that. ‘’

you open your mouth to speak - just as the room falls away beneath you. leaving you stranded in a black box. empty. vacant.

‘’ quentin? ‘’ you call out, trying to keep the anger in your voice. ‘’ quentin, don’t. ‘’ the warning comes as more of a plea and you hate that.

‘’ it’s gonna be okay, honey, ‘’ his voices comes from everywhere and no-where at the same time, disorientating as you get to your feet and stumble around the space. ‘’ don’t worry. you’ll see, soon. you’ll understand. ‘’

a low buzzing begins in the distance. your heart hammers against your chest, panic tightening your throat as breathing grows more and more difficult. ‘’ quentin, please- ‘’ you whisper, brokenly, and he almost wants to cut the scene. end the illusion. have you in his arms again, feel you kiss him, touch him, smile at him.

the buzzing grows louder and he watches you spin around and around as you try to make sense of your surroundings.

you don’t understand, not yet - he has to make you understand.

‘’ it’s gonna be okay, honey, ‘’ he promises a second time, sad and hopeless.

a swarm of wasps descend upon you, you shriek and slap them away, more appearing out of thin air. quentin tries to block out your yells of fear and pleas, ‘’ quentin, stop - stop it! please, stop it! ‘’

it’s okay, he whispers to himself, it’s gonna be okay. he draws out a syringe from a pocket on his hip, approaching you quietly.

you punch the air and twist and turn. trying to escape the flurry of buzzing wings swallowing you whole. one of them stings you, a pinch in your neck. dizziness warps your vision, loosens your limbs, throws the world up in the air.

you drift away into nothingness, peter’s face the last thing you see, in your mind.

quentin’s voice the last thing that you hear. whispering in your ear.

‘’ we’ll get through this, honey. don’t worry. i’m gonna keep you safe. ‘’

—

tag list: @djjffkd @kellzogg @bucky4cap45 @tuliptx @evee550 @stargeek727 @hrrykim @angeli-fucking-cat @glitter-rian

[renaroo]

The Dark Half (2/20)

Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were created by Kevin Eastman & Peter Laird and are owned by Viacom. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Psychological horror, Character death Rating: T   Summary: For years Leonardo has vowed to protect his family, but how is one supposed to protect their family from something that no one can see? And how can you tell whether or not the worst danger to your family is yourself? [TMNT 2k3]

A/N:  So back forever ago when I rewrote the first chapter of this fic I wanted to state it was kind of a side activity, for me, to rewrite story at all. Something to work with on the backburner because it’s already complete and available on my ffn account. But if it wasn’t obvious by the amount of time between updates, this is not a super high priority for me and, worse than that, rewriting something I did when I was 12, as it turns out, takes a LOT more effort and work than I initially thought it would. But good lord lol 

Like most people, I have some unexpected time on my hands recently, so that gave me time for a new swing at chapter 2 and I had a decently good time working on it, so here it is in its glory. 

[[Original Author’s Notes circa 2005] Turtlefreak121: Ah...the smell of a new story fresh out of the oven - gives me that calming sense of accomplishment...like a banana split on Christmas Eve. (crowd looks strangely at TF) Ahem...alright, maybe it's not that big of a deal, but this is my first 'pure' turtle story. Heh heh...nice to lay out the facts. I may sound a little jumpy - that's because I'm probably going to get mauled by an angry reader of Baby Bro for leaving them on such a sour note... (shrugs) What can ya do? Anyway, back to the present!Thanks to: coldsunshin, Scottenkainen, Lunar-ninja, jaunt, and kinguofdoragons.]

Chapter Two: Restless Night

When they made it home, Master Splinter was awake and waiting for them. In some ways, it felt infantilizing, but in other ways, the ways Leonardo usually chose to examine these things, there was a genuine comfort in their father’s persistent guidance.

Usually, anyway.

That night, Leonardo led the explanation of the night’s events with inserted commentary from his brothers which ran the usual gambit from helpful to utterly unhelpful. But the concern for the incident didn’t seem to go anywhere.

“It sounds as though you have done everything within your power to do what is good and correct, my sons,” Splinter had said. “You deserve to rest.”

And that is exactly the advice that everyone followed.

Leonardo had watched as his brothers and even his father packed up and moved to the bed. Everyone in the entire lair other than him.

He tried to follow their leads eventually. There was, after all, nothing from his nighttime routine left. His swords were cleaned and purified. His body was loosened with his warm down exercises. He drank water to hydrate, his alarm was set, his sheets were turned down.

But his aura, it seemed to him, was weakened and unsettled. Unfocused. Unnerved.

There was something more to the night than what had happened even in the playbacks of his mind. Something off and unnatural to the events which haunted him without making themselves so obvious as to be known.

He paced his room, he went through his sleeping routine a second time, and he made a point of checking the lair, just to settle his nerves with the reminded security of their home.

When his head hit his pillow, however, Leonardo was left starring at his brick ceiling once more.

Giving in to the sinking feeling in his stomach, Leo got up again and headed for the stairs.

There was only one person in the family he knew for certain would keep the curious and, quite frankly, embarrassing feelings Leonardo had quiet.

Each step Leonardo took seemed to stretch the walk to Master Splinter’s room even more. It was like trying to reach the light at the end of a never-ending tunnel.

He could always see the light and could almost reach out and touch it, but Leonardo could never quite get there.

After a few moments of dragging his feet, Leonardo stood in the rare silence of his home and put a hand to his head. He screwed his eyes closed and thought to himself, wondering, what exactly it was he was wanting to discuss with his father? What was it that he wanted to accomplish? What was keeping him up late at night?

Compared to so many strange and unusual things in their lives, this was nothing. This was completely useless. A waste of time.

He was upset by the death of two men who had meant less than nothing to him before. Whose lives were arguably not worth the thought, all things considering. At most, they would be footnotes in a territory grab between other fractions in the city.

That aspect was worrisome, especially when the city had been in an all-out war not terribly long before, but it was manageable. It wasn’t something that would affect Leonardo’s family directly soon.

But he was sickened all the same. He just couldn’t figure out why.

Leonardo wasn’t sure what to do when he heard rustling from Splinter’s room. Through the paper walls, he could see a light come on and be carried from one side to the next.

Mind racing, Leo tried to think of a concise explanation to his father why he was standing in the dark, staring at his door, but it was too late by the time Splinter opened his sliding door.

The old rat stood at the entrance of his room, holding a single candle as he looked through the darkness and at Leo directly.

Then, so very peculiarly, Splinter looked from left to right, checking the area. He swung his candle in each direction, never stopping directly on Leonardo again.

Leo couldn’t help himself, he blinked and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

When Splinter stopped his check and faced forward toward Leonardo again, his eyes did not focus on anything in particular. Let alone on Leo. More clearly than ever before, Leo could see that his father had been looking through him somehow before.

It was as if there was no Leo there. Only the darkness of the lair.

Uncertain of how to process the information, Leonardo shuffled back and away from Master Splinter. Away from the light, even if it had done nothing to reveal Leo yet.

When he worked up the energy to at last turn back toward his room, however, he was met with something different. Something frightfully dark, putrid. There was a muskiness to the air as shadows gave way to sharp and moving coiling darkness. The hall led not to bedrooms but onward to endless, caverns and consuming umbrae.

The world disappeared and in its place stood frightfully familiar forgotten passages.

“What is going on?” Leo asked out loud, voice returned in the nothingness.

He turned again, back toward Master Splinter and the home he had just seen with his own eyes, but it was eaten up by disturbing darkness as well.

Heart racing, Leo tried to square himself, ready for attack in the uncertainty.

In the confusion of the moment, he wasn’t sure where he needed to go but he knew movement was his only possible salvation. So he moved, he climbed, he ventured through gnawing and echoing blackness until he could no longer tell when his eyes were open or closed.

Leo had stared so long into the darkness that he felt truly blind.

“This is a dream,” he finally concluded, stopping his stride and taking a breath.

The realization was immediately soothing. He felt as though a great burden had been lifted from him. Dreaming — of course, it had to be dreaming. There was no logic to the fright, to the sights. He was lucid enough to catch the disturbing nature.

And, surely, if he was lucid enough to make the realization, he was more than enough awake to pull himself from a strange nightmare.

Standing still, Leonardo continued his breathing then closed his eyes tightly. As before, there was no difference between the darkness of his dream and the blackness hidden behind his own eyes.

It all changed the moment his eyes were reopened.

But not how Leonardo expected.

He looked at the alley before him. It was nighttime, but the light trickled down to him from the tops of the buildings and from the corner of the alley’s opening. There were bricks and mortar, even a trash bin near him. He could see a manhole cover and the fire escape positioned exactly where he knew they should have been for April’s building.

“What the,” he muttered, backing up and away until there was the soft click of his shell against a hard surface behind him.

Turning around, Leonardo could see the flutter of his mask’s tails fly past him. It was enough to urge him to look down to his person, see that he was fully dressed as if he was out for a patrol. He blinked, head throbbing, and reached with one hand for his aching temple.

His other hand found purchase just over his shoulder, gripping onto the familiar handle of his katana.

When he looked back to what his shell had hit earlier, he saw that it was the backdoor to Second Time Around. And, more than that, it was creaked open.

Considering how late it was, Leo knew it was wrong for the door to be open at all.

Deep within him, something stirred. Coiling angrily around his heart was heat and it wasn’t entirely unwanted.

If there was something wrong with April’s shop, that meant that there was trouble. And where there was trouble, well, dream or no, Leonardo had more than enough reason to unleash on it.

No more hesitation, Leo unsheathed his blades and kicked the door open with a swift, singular motion.

The heat around his chest moved and churned in him, hungry and ready for something Leonardo wasn’t ready to give voice.

He stepped onto the hardwood floors with ferocity in his spirit. It was wrong, everything that was happening was wrong, but Leonardo felt why exactly it was wrong was intangible.

The intangible feeling grew as the slithering, hissing claws of darkness began to warp the vision of April’s store again. The darkness chewed away at the scenery, the silence breaking into a ring of deafening noise.

He rushed in, the heat in his chest much more preferable to the terrifying unknowing he had felt from before.

It was anger, it was thrill, stepping into nauseating satisfaction of breaking and busting and hurting the familiar setting around him.

When he came across the junk on display, watching as it stuck out from the tendrils of blackness like a sore thumb, he smashed and broke it.

Glass clashed against his fists and dresses ripped jaggedly with the edges of his swords.

It felt good. It felt right.

When he came across the large glass central display, he mindlessly used the edge of his sword to scratch into the glass.

The sound of scraping glass momentarily disoriented him and Leo sat back on his haunches.

“Stop,” he said to himself. “Why are you doing this?”

But the darkness never stopped growing. A dream, it had to be.

And if it was a dream, then what was the harm? It was as simple as that.

“Who’s going to stop me?” his voice asked, his lips unmoving. “You?”

It was a ridiculous question to ask oneself. So ridiculous, especially, when it felt as though — when he knew — he had been the one to ask himself. He laughed at it, at the pure insanity of it all, and continued on with his mindless destruction.

And it did feel good. He watched things shatter and break — objects that were no doubt considered priceless to a former owner. He crushed an old collectible figurine then knocked over a dusty coat wrack. He brought a hanging bike down crashing onto the register and felt the glee of it.

“This is wrong,” Leo reminded himself. “If I was awake, it would be so, so wrong to do this.”

He paused and smirked as the shop began to come out of focus, like eyes blearily opening awake. “Yes, it’d be terrible to do this if I was awake.”

Even though Leo was watching himself in motion, he knew where his body was going almost immediately. Toward the back of the store, clear for all customers to see when they first entered, was the prized picture of April’s family hung for all to see. It was there as a testament to the store’s history. Even though it had been burned down and lost once before, it was still something old and handed down. Just like the store’s stock.

Family, history — it meant something.

“It’d be terrible if I was doing this. Wouldn’t it?” Leo asked himself.

He looked down at his forearm taking in the familiar sight of his own green flesh and the definition of his tense muscle. Leo sheathed one katana, then rested the flat side of the blade against his arm.

With a swift motion, Leo cut through the top layer of skin. He could feel the sensation for only an instant — the searing heat that had been fueling him since he entered leaving with a sickening, oozing sensation across his arm. Then he went numb and painfully, painfully cold.

Mesmerized, he watched the trickle of red escaping him, so bright and contrasting to his dark green skin.

Then his body, never seeming to give him time, moved again. He mashed his thumb into the painful wound, searing pain hissing through his body.

When his body strode over to the family portrait, Leo used that red soaked hand to begin pressing and pawing and destroying the image in front of him.

When that wasn’t enough, he began writing.

The longer it went, the less real it began to feel, and Leonardo felt his mind begin to teeter back away from the dark visage that had unfolded before him. The image clouded, the gnawing darkness that had been ever-present in the dream finally eating up the little light he could see.

A whisper followed him into the bleariness halfway between waking and sleeping.

An old voice, more ancient than any Leonardo had once known, whispered into his mind fervently. And together, I said to you once. And together, I say to you again. And together we shall rule the world. All you need, all I need, is for you to sleep. Sleep and I will let you have so much fun. It will be like living in a dream.

Leonardo didn’t wake with a start, didn’t jolt out of his bed.

He opened his eyes and stared into the quiet nothing of his room. It wasn’t the blackness of nothing he had been staring into like the void. It was his room, in the dark. A familiar and not altogether unwelcoming sight.

There was some sweat at his brow which he wiped at with one arm, flinching slightly at a sting he felt when he did so. But he didn’t do much else.

He laid in bed and tossed to his other side, vaguely uncomfortable. Despite having only just woke up, he was exhausted. So he closed his eyes and drifted off again.

***

With a turn of her keys, April unlocked the front door of the shop. She turned and faced Casey, pushing the door open so they could walk in together.

It had been a rare, quiet night for them, kept far away from the noise and nonsense that usually followed their unusual lives and, especially, their unusual adopted family. And she would have never had such a night to herself had it not been for Casey’s encouragement, if not full insistence that they do so.

“Thanks, Casey,” she said as she looked down at her shoes. Despite herself, she always managed to go slightly pigeon-toed in her nervousness, the points of her red heels nearly touching. “I mean it, for everything.” When she dared to look up, she found her date smiling back.

He always managed to put a smile on her face more easily than anyone else.

Fishing in her purse for her favored pocket, April began to deposit her keys securely.

Casey slicked back his hair again, in that nervous way he seemed to do. His smile dropped into unadulterated nervousness. “It was the dinner,” he concluded from nothing. “Man, I knew I shoulda made reservations at that stupid Chinese—“

“No, really, Casey,” April laughed. “I’m not being sarcastic. I really had a good time. I like Italian, and the movie was great. The park was great.”

Before April could walk much further into her shop, however, Casey’s large hands grabbed her shoulders and held her back. April felt herself be pulled flush to his chest and she was momentarily confused.

“Did you leave the backdoor open?” Casey asked in hushed tones, nodding to the other side of the shop.

“Of course not,” April whispered back. But, of course, the door to the alley was open, letting in the pale moonlight and illuminating reflective glass on the floor. “Oh, god, my shop.”

“Maybe it’s the guys,” Casey muttered, twisting himself around April and putting her between him and the known safe door they had come through. He groped around in the darkness until his hands found purchase on something hardwood and he pulled it up like a bat. “Just in case, though.”

“That’s an umbrella, Casey,” April informed him before securely walking over to the wall and pulling off an antique cavalry sword she had hung up only a few days prior.

“Hey, you’ve heard Master Splinter,” Casey shrugged. “Anything’s a weapon in the hands of a monster.”

“Master,” April corrected. She sighed and shook her head. “Okay, if there was an element of surprise we’ve lost it, I’m turning on the lights.”

She reached for the switch and flipped it, only to receive an ominous click. She frowned and attempted again — off then on — and received the same lightless response. “That’s funny,” April muttered. “The power must be out.”

“Or cut,” Casey offered.

When April turned to face Casey, she saw from the corner of her eye something darker than even the shadows of the store move. It nearly made her jump and, considering Casey did jump, he must have seen it as well.

The couple looked at each other curiously, but silent. They knew that the turtles had enemies, and it wasn’t unheard of for those enemies to attempt to make easy targets out of either April or Casey. It was best to stay calm, alert, and quiet until they had a better grasp of what was happening.

At least, that was April’s take on it.

“It’s totally Raph, he knew I was taking you out tonight,” Casey grunted. “Maybe Mikey, he’d totally break something.”

“Casey, hush,” April shushed him, going so far as to put her hands over his mouth for emphasis.

He muttered around her hands, childishly, but it was muffled enough that they both could hear an eerie dripping noise from the blackest shadows of the store.

“Okay, c’mon, guys,” Casey burst out, grabbing April’s wrists to pull her hands away from his mouth. He looked toward the darkened store. “This ain’t funny anymore!”

April looked to see that the light just outside the door was on and it clicked in her mind that the power wasn’t cut as Casey suspected. She then glanced at the large neon open sign in her window.

Pulling herself free from Casey, April stepped back over to the light switch and flipped it again. She didn’t flip for the indoor lights, however, just for the sign, which immediately shown with a brilliant glow, lighting up the shop behind it.

With more of the shop lit up, April and Casey could both see the ruin which had been left by the intruder. Hanging instruments were on the ground, a bike smashed through the main display, fabric slashed, glass cracked and strewn around.

It was enough to make April gasp, her lip quiver. She worked so hard on her store, worked with so much pride.

Casey was already on the move. He stepped over the left display window with cautious, slow steps. He was gripping the umbrella tightly as he felt around the darkness.

“On the right,” April directed him toward the display’s plugin.

“There’s something sticky over here,” he informed her. “The open sign’s not strong enough this far out, can’t see what it is.”

“If you plug in the display lamps, we’ll be able to get a clearer assessment,” April coaxed. She walked closer herself, daring to examine her destroyed retail. She held the cavalry sword in her hands. “Casey, we saw something move, we need to get the lights on—“

“Got it,” Casey said and, with a click, the display lamps began to light up, a good number of them flickering and buzzing from damage.

Once more of the store was lit, April put a hand over her mouth and held back a gasp.

The damage was worse than she had hoped, but that seemed like such a small thing compared to the true horrors of the scene. Everything, particularly the countertops, was bloody.

Casey got to his feet almost immediately and looked down at his hand to see the thick, dark blood on him. He looked back to April worriedly.

“Oh my god, what happened here?” April whispered in awe. A cold chill ran through her body as the words escaped her.

She was mesmerized and, yet, she also wasn’t sure she wanted to know, that she could have accepted whatever evils had taken hold of her store.

All the same, she looked to the aisles where their moving shadow had appeared and saw, to her relief, nothing. Perhaps her mind had been playing tricks on her. But, then again, Casey had acted like he saw it, too. Whatever it was.

Her mind raced with possible answers, but they all came back to the most likely scenario.

“Casey, we need to check on the guys,” she said, beginning to walk around the store and inspect the damage closer up. “This is a lot of blood. Maybe something happened tonight and they haven’t called us yet.”

“God, let’s hope not,” Casey muttered, wiping his blood-covered hand off on his pants before fishing a shell cell from his pocket. Long before he said a word, April could take a guess of who was first on his list to call. “Hey, Raph!”

There were some unkind sounding words thrown out on the other side of the phone, but April had wandered far enough through the store that she missed the specifics. She looked down and noticed a pool of the dark blood, like it had been settled for a while. And out from it were red splatters against the hardwood — the drips from before? But then how could the blood look so coagulated and darkened already?

Had she been seeing things or not?

“You mean you’re in bed right now?” Casey asked, putting the umbrella down on the counter. “How long? Did you guys get into something tonight? Come by the store?” He paused then, earnestly asked. “Okay but are all of you in bed?”

April followed the drips of blood, only nominally taking in the conversation between Casey and Raphael. As she did so, she found herself reaching the wall, where even more blood had pooled.

“Yeah, someone trashed the store, looks like someone got their butts handed to them.” Casey walked in a tight circle. “No, I mean someone got hurt it looks like. Wanted to make sure it was none of you.”

When April looked up the wall, her heartfelt as though it dropped out of her chest, plunging into her stomach with a cold splash. She covered her mouth with her free hand and let out a choked cry.

“April!?” Casey yelled in alarm, immediately rushing to her side.

Even at a distance, Raphael’s voice carried in a harsh, “What’s going on over there!?”

Turning her gaze from the wall to the counter, April couldn’t help the sting of tears that reached her eyes. Her family portrait, her store, everything defaced with some sickening message.

“Christ,” Casey muttered, coming up behind April and comfortingly putting his hand on her shoulder. “Raph, listen, I know it’s late, but you guys need to come here immediately.”

***

“Sure thing, we’ll be right there!” Raphael yelled back into his shell cell before hanging up.

As groggy as he had been when he first got the call from Casey, by the time it ended Raphael had been in full motion. He was put together and had his sai in holsters before he was out the door.

Outside of his room, two of his three brothers were already up and dressed to leave. Michelangelo and Donatello both had expressions that ranged from concerned to exhausted, but there was no doubt that they had overheard Raphael’s expressive conversation over the phone with Casey.

“What’s going on?” Don asked, tightening the tails of his mask.

“Something bad’s gone down at April’s store while they were out,” Raph growled, already making his way to the stairs. “Casey said we needed to head over immediately.”

“Yikes,” Mikey uttered, leaping athletically ahead of Raph like it was a competition.

Notably, though, Don hung back. “Hey,” Don called, drawing Raph and Mike’s attention back to him and the hallway. Don’s face was drawn down into a frown. “Where’s Leo?”

When they looked around, the air felt stilted and strange.

Leo wasn’t there. But his room was closer to Raphael’s than Don’s room was. Not to mention, their fearless leader was a notoriously light sleeper — arguably more difficult to sneak past than their constantly alert father.

“Weird, think he’s okay? He was kinda acting weird earlier,” Mike noted, tapping on his chin in thought. “Maybe he was coming down with something.”

“Hey, what part of immediately do you guys not get?” Raph asked, pushing past Mikey to continue down the stairs. “Let him get his beauty sleep for all I care.”

“Now, hold on,” Don argued, walking back down the hall and toward Leo’s door. “He’s going to want to be there if it’s something serious, Raph.”

“Again, for all I care,” Raph grumbled, but he had come to a complete stop already. He crossed his arms and theatrically tapped his foot in wait. “Just hurry, won’t ya?”

Don waved off Raphael’s comment before knocking on the door. “Hey, Leo? Leonardo! I’m coming in.”

Their brainy brother followed through and continued talking, his words more muddled with walls between them. If Raphael had initially cared more about the specifics of their conversation, he might have paid slightly more attention, but for the time being, he couldn’t have cared less.

“What do you think he was dreaming about?” Mikey asked, bouncing on his feet. “Had to be dreaming and snoozing pretty deeply to not overhear your racket, Raph.”

“I don’t care,” Raph huffed. “I just know I’m gonna leave both of them of they don’t hurry up.”

There was a lull in the conversation as whatever was happening in Leo’s room picked up. It was enough to make Raph and Mike glance at each other in mutual concern.

Don’s head popped back out and he looked frazzled. “Hey, guys, you go ahead, we’ll meet up with you at April’s. Won’t take us long.”

“What? Why?” Raph demanded.

“Thought you didn’t care,” Mike whistled, earning the punch to the shoulder Raph gave.

“Leo had some kind of accident or something. It’s not…” Don hesitated, then waved at them. “I’m just going to take care of it. Don’t want it to get infected or something.”

“Infected?” Mikey asked, face scrunched up.

“What the hell did he do exactly?” Raph snapped.

“We don’t know, just, get to April’s, they said it was immediate, right?” Don said, ducking back into Leo’s room and disappearing from sight.

Michelangelo crossed his arms and tilted his head. “This is the weirdest night we’ve had in a while, isn’t it?”

“God, don’t jinx us,” Raph grouched before grabbing onto the top of Mike’s shell and dragging him along. “Now, c’mon. If Don’s got whatever’s going on with fearless leader, more power to him. But I ain’t leaving April and Casey hanging when they ask for our help directly.

“Fair, I guess,” Mikey responded, though he wasn’t sounding particularly convinced. “Hey, did you hear Leo talking in his sleep earlier?”

Raph glanced back at him only momentarily as he unlocked the sewer gate. “No. I was happily asleep before Casey called. Why?”

Shrugging, Mikey attempted to seem calm and collected, but there was a hint of something unsettled in him. Uncertain. “It was just weird. Like it was definitely Leo but, I don’t know.”

“What’d he say?” Raph asked over the echo of their footsteps through the cold tunnel.

“He was just talking in the third person or something,” Mikey explained. “Never heard him do that before. Never heard him talk in his sleep before either.”

Giving it only a passing thought, Raph frowned. “Yeah, me neither,” he admitted. “Now shut up, we’ve got April and Casey to worry about.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Michelangelo attempted to joke, but his heart wasn’t in it.

The rest of their run was eerily silent.

[leonawriter]

His Heart Burnt Black

Read it on AO3

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs

Characters/Pairing: Dazai/Chuuya

Summary: Soul-marks were supposed to make it so that one could find the person who was your match, but when they're easily hidden - especially when the person with the mark wears bandages, or gloves - it doesn't do much good at all.

And that's not even allowing for the people attached to them.

(AKA, mutual pining, because idiots.)

...

Dazai was born with a black burn mark over his heart, and when people started to notice how odd he acted, the way he didn't respond in the way people thought he should, all cold and bored and lacking in any care or compassion at all, their first thought wasn't to connect it to the soul-marks that many people would manifest by the time they started interacting with others - some earlier, some later - and instead spoke in whispers behind their hands of how it was such a shame, for such a boy so young, didn't it just look so much like his heart had been burnt out?

Doesn't it just make sense, then, that his ability is one that takes and takes and takes, and leaves a person powerless?

The war, then, would be a good place for him, they said. 

No one, after all, needs a heart in the middle of a war.

...

The first time he meets Chuuya, he gets kicked into a wall, and the air is rushed out of him by the foot that's kicked onto his chest again before he has a chance to recover.

The so-called King of the Sheep looks down on him, and he feels something flare up inside, and later he'll see it as novel in its newness, but in the moment, he's just consumed by annoyance.

...

In the heat of the battle, he doesn't get a good look at Chuuya's hands, and they're vanished again before he can get a proper look - not that he even thinks to, because other than what Chuuya himself had said about them himself, he doesn't assume there being anything special about them.

After that, they're covered up by gloves - or at least, they are whenever he doesn't use Corruption.

And after Corruption, they're usually covered up by blood and dirt and gods alone knew what else.

Which doesn't bother him, honestly, because he sees no need to pry, since he knows he'll find out anything he needs to know sooner or later anyway.

...

It's years later, when Dazai's cleaning up after Chuuya's first use of Corruption in over four years, and one that pushed him to his limit at that, when he first gets a good look at Chuuya's hands, as he's cleaning the blood off.

Normally, in the past, Corruption wouldn't take this much out of him, or there'd been other people around, or... more likely, more often, he simply hadn't bothered, and had just dragged his partner's limp body back to the extraction point as he was.

The pale skin on Chuuya's left hand sticks out, looking so much like an old scar, a burn that had long since healed, yet without any of the disfiguration that should have come from such an injury, and just touching it without bandages or damp tissue in the way creates a reaction like electricity, raising the hair on the back of his neck. 

Something about it feels incredibly personal, and he hesitates, before leaving that hand alone, to clean the rest of what he can.

Chuuya, he realises as he searches for his former partner's hat and coat, had a soulmate somewhere.

Chuuya, he realises, had a life outside of Dazai, and always had, and maybe that was better.

...

He doesn't speak to Chuuya directly for a while after that, and it has nothing to do with not knowing what to say, though he wonders at times if it has anything to do with Chuuya being angry that Dazai had pried into something so private.

(Then Shibusawa happens, and Dazai dies, for a while, and Chuuya comes for him, like a prince in a fairy tale coming to wake Snow White, and he can find it a little beautiful, at least, and feel at least a little reassured, that Chuuya will still do such a thing for him.

Maybe it's wrong, to feel so possessive of someone who isn't even his, when he shouldn't act in such a way, but he's selfish like that, and he'll take what he can get.)

Events happen, and the world doesn't end, and life - whether he wants it to or not - goes on.

...

How they got there doesn't matter, and Dazai isn't about to jinx the situation with too many questions, in case it falls apart, because after all this time and all these years there are things he's afraid to lose, and a part of him is afraid to fight for, because he doesn't know the lengths he'd go to if pushed. The Agency's one thing, with everyone who's accepted him for everything he is and everything he's been.

Chuuya's something else entirely, with the way he's already half dressed while Dazai is still getting out of bed. 

This is new, and it's strange, and he could wake up like this every morning for the rest of his life, however long that'll be, even if he does wind up with Chuuya drooling onto his bandages while he sleeps.

They don't bring up the matter of the soul-mark on Chuuya's left hand, and Dazai prefers it that way, something clenching in his chest at the idea that it might come up one day and Chuuya will say that he's one of the people who believes that it'd be only right to leave whoever you were with just because you've found that one person at last.

Dazai only realises that Chuuya is staring at him when he follows his eyes to his own chest, bandages (slightly off-colour in some places, thankfully just from drool instead of reopened old injuries) visible with the way his sleepwear had pulled down, and-

The black mark can, just about, be seen. 

It's never changed, never faded or grown. 

"How... how long have you had that?"

Dazai blinks, nonplussed, not entirely sure if he's comfortable about this. 

"As long as I can remember," he says, which is the truth. Longer, he thinks to himself privately, which is also the truth.

Doesn't it just look like someone's burnt his heart out? he remembers, and maybe-

"That long...?" 

Chuuya is barely whispering now, and Dazai doesn't understand, although perhaps he does, because horror and discomfort had always sounded similar, even if something doesn't sound quite the same here.

"Is there something wrong?"

Chuuya starts, and blinks, looking up at his face again, and that wide-eyed look is still there.

"It's just - it looks like black fire," Chuuya says, sounding like it's hard for him to speak. Dazai doesn't understand, because that's what everyone else who's seen it has said - what makes this any different? Something sparks in the back of his mind, tickling the tip of his tongue, but the thoughts and ideas are blotted and blanked out, and then everything is when Chuuya holds out his left hand, the one with the soul-mark. Reaches for Dazai's right hand. "Come on, Dazai," Chuuya says.

Understanding dawns.

"Chuuya." He laughs, because of how ridiculous it is, because of how long they've waited, because of all of that unnecessary worry and fear. "My Chuuya."

"Mmph. I'll allow it this time." Chuuya's voice is somewhat muffled, what with the way his head is resting against Dazai's chest, their hands still linked. "'n only because I've been waiting so long, idiot." He sighed, and Dazai's heart warmed. "Thought it was just me."

The moment is broken by an alarm going off, which Chuuya reaches out for and turns off with a frustrated groan, and there's something different about the kiss they share for just a few seconds that makes it closer, more intimate, than any of the ones they've shared before.

He isn't afraid anymore, Dazai realises, halfway to the Agency, as the sun rises in the sky. Not for this, at least.

He isn't so afraid, and the barriers, that had already started to weaken, have had their foundations cracked with the way Chuuya had said Come on, Dazai, like a more beautiful repetition of the first time his partner - his soulmate - had ever said his name.

Atsushi blinks, when he turns around at Dazai entering the office later than usual, and perhaps he should feel a little ashamed of that, but he can't bring himself to feel shame right now.

"Eh? Dazai-san? You look - happy."

"I do?" He touches his face, wondering what it looks like. "I suppose I am," he says, the smile he gives being one that comes without invitation, but is welcome all the same.

[forgedasset-a]

Teeth had cut clean through his lower lip, whilst a number of other had been knocked out of place. Blood pools in his mouth and he’s forced to gulp to catch his breath, and God... he’s certain he’d just swallowed his own teeth. Every ragged breath forces him to become more alert, giving him the ability to comprehend some of the damage that had been inflicted from the fall. White, blinding pain that shoots from his left, that causes blood to stain the snow underneath him. Drenches the jacket that’s hardly doing anything to fight off the dropping temperatures. Nose is slanted sideways, snapping to the side the instant his head hit the first branch. Finger tips twitch, attempting to bring his attention to the right. Away from the limb that’s missing, that caused for his stomach to knot and turn. Lips part in an attempt to cry out, as if someone from his platoon would have been close enough to hear... even if he could, he wouldn’t be heard. Breathing in is difficult enough, a punctured lung from broken ribs. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours... an eternity seeming to slip him by. 

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and there’s only one thought that echoes consistently in his mind. No hope of survival, but  only the pleas of death. Willing anything to finish him off, to end a suffering he never would have imagined possible. Begging his body and brain to simply shut down, to pass out from the pain. Anything, so that he could stop feeling. Eyes flutter shut, a final breath exhaled before a blissful peace floods over him. Pain becomes a foreign sensation, and there’s a sudden high - that he feels he could go anywhere in the world. But there’s a call, a whisper that is calling to him. That makes him follow without a second thought, and every step closer he took, he could feel the warmth of safety engulf him. Ripping him away from the horrors of the world, stripping him of his suffering. Reaching out, his finger tips graze against this light, and he feels electricity spiral from his finger tips towards his forearm, lifting towards his shoulder. A tingling that continues - until it abruptly stops. Foreign shouts begin to become audible, instructions being thrown around. 

Gravity grasps and pulls down on him, hard. Snapping his soul back into place, remaining tainted from the way he’s been forced to cheat death. A soul that will only be soiled from there on out, hands that will be stained with innocent blood, and a mind corrupted and manipulated beyond human recognition. Eyes shoot open, and his heart hammers hard against broken ribs. Beating so fast, he’s certain that it’s going to tear through and fall right out of his chest. Weight lifts onto a stretcher, and he sees the face of the man that even in present times, he loathes. “Sergeant Barnes...” Hard to recollect what else is said. Last thing he recognizes before his life is burnt out of his memories, is his name. 

Eyes close and reopen, and the entire scenario has changed, yet stayed the same. Now he stands, at the end of the bloodied trail he’d left as he was whisked away. Vibranium and gold gleamed in the light of the sun that was now shining down upon him. Droplets of ice and snow against the ground, melting as the warmth pools around him, around the area. Steel toed boots crunch against the snow, and he turns - much to his own surprise, he didn’t tense. Didn’t whirl around with the expectation of a fight, reaching for one of the many weapon that are hidden away. But what causes him to freeze as shock overcomes the Soldier, is that he’s facing... himself? No, it’s different. It isn’t like looking in a mirror and seeing the same reflection looking back at him. He’s different, from the way he stands and holds himself, to the very look in his eyes. The Winter Soldier. 

Hearing his voice for over half a century is one thing, but seeing him physically? This is when pieces start to click together, and confusion spreads across Bucky’s face. “Where---” He isn’t allowed to finish his sentence, automatically cut off. Dismissively, the Asset waves his metal hand, motioning to the surrounding area - where he fell, where he’d been brought back, where the remainder of his limb was ripped off. Memory that had long been forgotten, that came whirling back so quickly, he nearly lost his balance. No, he hadn’t lost his arm in the fall, not completely. Trajectory changed upon impact, tissue, veins and nerves were still attached to the rest of his arm. Those that found him had no time to stabilize it, nor the patience. They knew what horror they’d inflict upon him. Attach metal with man, to create a soldier. Why bother trying to save it? Taking hold of his hand and twisting before they pulled, ripping half of a limb without a second thought. “This is where I was created.” Russian accent hangs heavy as the words roll from his tongue. Native to his tongue, foreign upon Bucky’s. 

Bucky’s brows pull together, ominous answer making things all the more confusing. “I don’t un---” Damn him, for being in his head so long, he knew every question that was already soaring through Bucky’s mind. “The trauma was too much. Your mind could not comprehend, could not cope. In a desperate attempt to protect what was left of your mind, I came to be.” Some part of it made sense. As much as Bucky wanted to claim it was a lie, he knew better. “No...” He’s hesitant nonetheless, because there were few things he was certain of, that he didn’t want to break away from that shell. “HYDRA did. That’s what the activation words are for, it’s---” Lips pinch, and he feels a sure of frustration rattle him. “Why are we here?” How did they get there? Why here, why now? Why were memories from this event coming back, and what was the significance? Too many questions, and much less time than he thought. 

Hours seem to pass. Temperatures have risen, the world around them seeming to come to life. Many questions were left unanswered, not that he was doing much talking. Only thing he knew is that this place wasn’t real, he’s deep in his mind. 

Bullet lodged and rattling somewhere in his brain, a miracle that in itself that it didn’t kill him upon entry. Connection, however, has been severed. The Asset’s voice would sometimes fade in and out, as if the signal was being blocked between them. He knows the same is happening with him, with the way the Asset’s gaze would drop to his mouth as if he’s reading what he’s saying, rather than listening. Somehow, for the first time in ages, they appear to be on the same page. Seated close together, watching as the river that once rushed in fury, slowed to a gentle pace. Anyone who would have seen them, would have thought they were brothers. “We’re dying, aren’t we?” Finally, the question that has been on his mind since he’s woken up here. Looking around, it’s become too tranquil. That alarms him more than anything. A moment of silence, before the other shrugs. “One of us.” It’d lodged directly between them. Metaphorically, and literally. Part of Bucky’s brain had practically split, creating the personality to cope. He’d become like a phantom limb, that is now being severed and ripped from his body once more due to damage. 

What could he possibly say to that? Comfort was not a concept either understood nor wanted. Death should come to one, with their heads held high and the last thing they should feel, is the undeniable pride of everything that they have lived through. 

Didn’t mean that a speech wasn’t coming, and Bucky knew it was. Would have been out of character for the Asset to go out in silence. This was familiar, this is exactly what happened in his mind for years, only now - it was physical. Or so, that was the illusion. “You won’t make it more than a year without me. You’re smart, but I’m smarter. Faster, better.” Always with the God complex, even while at the mercy of a bullet. A chuckle slips, and Bucky can’t help but shake his head. “I’ll finally get some peace and quiet. You’ve no idea how loud you can be. Like a child, crying for attention.” The longer he was ignored, the more he would scream at the top of his lungs. Demand to be listened to. Both can agree.

 Imagery ruptures, as if all his senses have become muffled, before it comes back. Darker than before, and it’s difficult now to make sense of his surroundings. Even the Asset besides him becomes a distorted image. Bucky’s lips part, as if he wants to get a final word in - and everything shuts down. Bullet clinks against the metal tray, advanced technology carefully and expertly used to withdraw without creating more damage, to accelerate his healing. From there on out, it was the waiting game. No real answer would be granted as to his state, because the brain was so complex. He could recover and come back from it, or the damage could be permanent. 

His wake is long, and confusing. Eyes open and it takes him a moment to realize where he is, what had happened, and that something is different. An emptiness in his mind, that carries to the pit of his stomach. Causes his stomach to turn, before his lips pinch. “They’ll come for you, and you have to be ready. I won’t be there anymore to force your hand in the game of survival. You hesitate, you die.” Words echo in his mind, constantly playing. It’s the last thing he told him, and the last thing he’ll ever say again. Days pass, and he always waits. But it never comes, and the reality becomes harder to deal with. As if now, he’s functioning with something less. His crutch is gone, and he’s learning to walk on his own again. It isn’t difficult to swallow, but he’s turned his focus on Vali. Who had suffered the same fate, yet managed to get them out. He was strong, stronger than even Bucky expected him to be. He isn’t angry nor disappointed that his life had been saved - it’s a debt that he won’t be able to repay. 

Walking causes his head to spin and for his stomach to do enough flips that he sometimes grasps a bucket, and yet here he is - the room he spends every morning, evening and night in. Vali’s. Arms are crossed and he’s leaning back in the cushioned chair, realizing then that he’s been staring at the wall across for him for quite some time. Blinking, he reels himself back to reality, blue eyes turning in the direction of the boy. Almost desperate for him to wake, finding it unfair that he’s already up and about, while the one that gave him life was still under. He’d figured that he was taking longer to recover due to the magic expelled, but even so... “Come on, kid. Wake up so I can kick your ass. I told you it was a horrible idea.” This isn’t anything new, the constant conversations. He has to, has to talk out loud in an attempt to fill in the silence. Silence not only around him, but inside his mind. Not to mention, it’s a guilt that’s at play. Guilt that he hadn’t been able to protect Vali from their enemies after capture, guilt that he’d stabilized before him, guilt that he had let someone die. 

@wolfraged | | x