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triplesilverstar · 9 months

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Bugs don't fight fair

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, suspicion, Emotional Hurt, Medical Inaccuracies, Gunshot Wounds, Blood, Blood and Injury

Word count: Roughly 3.4K

A/N: Chap 4 of A mysterious stranger and eaten, what a day. I still don’t feel as happy with this chapter as I should but it I’m not going back and re-writing it.

Three days after the destruction of Jeneora Rock you decide you're done waiting for Vash to snap out of his pity party of one, planning when you stop for the day to take him aside. Too bad Meryl almost makes someone into roadkill first, and you realize that today might not be the best day for trying to find some alone time.

As you fall, the screeching in your ear is making your head feel like it’s being split open, but one advantage you’ve always had in your life is that when something happens to you a second time your response is always faster. Hand reaching and killing the power to your right ear, blessed silence. Just in time to hit the bottom of whatever opening that you fell through leads too, landing on your back rolling just in time to avoid pointed fingers aiming for your chest.

Using the motion you roll yourself up to your feet, unslinging your rifle as you turn, raising the butt to your shoulder, aiming right for the kids center of mass and firing. Watching the body turn into a flurry of worms, a single one falling to the ground split in half from your bullet. Well. That tactic isn’t going to work. Adjusting again you turn, left hand on the forstock. Right on the grip, so your rifle is reversed in your hands and you slam the butt plate into the kids face where he reappeared right behind you. A direct hit. That has the same result, a few falling worms but the body dissipating in a flurry.

You aren’t as fast the third time you turn, feeling the nails dig into the meat of your forearm dragging downwards from your elbow to your wrist, great slices digging into your flesh. Through the pain you respond, at least with fingers dug into your arm they can’t get away easily, and you cold clock the kid, making direct contact and sending them flying backwards. Hissing as their grip in your flesh disappears, along with a few chunks of you too. “Well, that’s gonna leave a mark.” While the blood drips down from your torn skin you reposition yourself, keeping an eye on the child. “So you aren’t human. Wanna tell me what you are?”

You watch as they stand, body movements too fluid for a human skeleton to make and narrow your eyes “Nah. I don’t think so.” Several of the smaller stinger-like worms are approaching you, so you sling your rifle and switch back to your baton. The little bastards are too nimble for you to hit with enough force using it, but just the right size for your baton. Enough force and the carapace of the creatures were split, dropping them to the ground. While you’re busy, dodging the worms, you miss the being dropping the chunks of your flesh into a container. “Besides, it’s been fun but I gotta run. Try not to get killed~”

“What’d you do with Penny!” you scream after them, a downward swing cracking another worm in half.

“Aw you wanna save her?” Another laugh from them, and you don’t see them anywhere again “maybe you should be more worried about yourself.” Senses high you swing around, left arm movings with a snap, if this child/being was human they would have dropped like a stone. A flurry of worms that you swing into, cracking a few more of them. “You are more interesting than you let on. But I do have other things to do right now, maybe you’ll find the other girl, maybe you won’t. Who knows~” All that remains is their laughter which fades away and you keep swinging at the worms left behind, a theory beginning to form in your head.

After you end the last worm you sigh, dropping to a knee and looking at your forearm. “Shit” The gouge in your arm is nearly the full length from elbow to wrist, three jagged lines and if they’d been any deeper they would have hit one of your tendons, the artery they nicked already healed. At least your body knows what’s a priority to heal as you grab a bandage from your pants to wrap the injury and tie it off, once that’s done you roll the sleeves of your jacket down. No reason for anyone to see the injury and freak out.

Glancing around you sigh, this place is even darker than the first few areas and moist, but in the low lighting you see the flashlight you’d given to Meryl. She might have dropped it earlier, but you’ll take it as a sign she might be closer than you think, pointing it around to see if the area you’re in can provide any more details on where you need to go.

It seems the only direction you can go is forward, a passage deeper inside the worm the only opening you see. Pointing the flashlight upwards you swear, even the opening you’d drop through has been closed up. You shake your head before heading towards the open passage, hoping Meryl is alright. And that your plant man is doing ok, because this kind of thing would be something to set him on edge.

At the sudden silence through his ear after hearing a short yelp of pain, Vash is engaging his own communication device “You ok Snipes?” All he can hear is silence, a sense of dread filling him, he’s not even getting the same interference that you’d been. Making an assumption it’s the difference between his being in his earring, while yours was a permanent addition to your senses, something you’d told him that’d replaced one of your ear drums since you tended to fire from your right shoulder and the device blocked out noises above a certain decibel.

“Come on Snipes, if you can hear me please answer, even if it’s two clicks because you can’t speak.” The silence continues in his ear, and he’s turning around back to the starting area. If you’ve gone silent, it means you and Meryl have run into something.

Back at the start of the tunnels he hops out, in time to see the undertaker doing the same “I’m going down the tunnel the girls went down. Something isn’t right.”

“Feel like you need to be the knight in shining armor or something? They’re fine.” Vash is wary of the answer but shrugs his shoulders, heading down the tunnel. He’s hopeful that all you did was turn your earpiece off, the static too loud in your ears again. Those hopes are soundly dashed when after a while he finds a worm splattered against the wall, and nothing else, you’d been in a tussle and there were no other signs of fighting ahead. Just a bit beyond, he doesn’t even see the signs of where you and Meryl would have been crawlings, something isn’t right and based on the loss of tracks, this tunnel isn’t going to provide anymore clues as to your whereabouts.

“Well, I got nothing there’s no trace of em.” Dropping back down this time, noticing the pile of burnt out cigarettes around the undertaker's feet. The man is clearly not interested in looking for the kid, or either of the girls.

“Nothing here either” At least Roberto is still safe, that’s a good sign.

“I say we call it, if we don’t figure a way out of here soon we’re dead too.” In his head, all Vash can think is he should have been paying more attention to what Snipes was trying to tell him. He’s missed something and his lady might have been able to fill in the blanks, a twisting of his stomach and he’s hoping her and Meryl are alright.

“Come on, nobodies dead ok. Snipes is too stubborn to let a worm do her in. Soon as we find them we’ll go” it’s an attempt at placating the undertaker into helping him keep looking. Because if there is one thing Vash knows, you don't kick the bucket all that easily. While the undertaker is berating him, he wants to keep his face neutral but everything he’s saying minus the survival part is something Snipes has told him in the past. Releasing the worm that had been thrown to him from his grasp.

“Slow your roll stampede. They always take the first bite to get your guard down Then lace the rest with poison before passing it to you, the target. Text book assassination technique. I’m a reporter after all, and though our agencies not much to write home about, we get decent intel.” Roberto is stepping closer to him and the undertaker, almost like he’s trying to make a barrier between the two of them. “I heard something the other day, something about folks who can control the worms around here, and something tells me, however the controlling is done, that’s been what’s screwing with our sniper. It’s a little suspicious that the second most dangerous person in our little rag tag group has gone missing.”

Vash has to admit, he’s been on the receiving end of that technique before, his most recent encounter with it had resulted in Snipes spending the night up with him while his body expelled the toxins. Hearing that Roberto has also figured out she’s missing has him worried, while the two males continue their little verbal battle. He’ll never forgive himself if this is what does Snipes in, there’s a lot they need to talk about, and the most pressing, at least for him is the need to apologize for his actions the last few days for a start. Noticing the escalations of the conversation around him he finally steps in “were all friends here. Aren’t we?”

“Just trust me with this one, Snipes would say the same, this guys the type of killer that does his work with a smile.” That does draw a smile to his face, wistful.

“Nah. I think I've gotta disagree with you there.” And not just because hearing Roberto say Snipes would agree with him has his heart clenching. His lady, while blunt, has better insights than he does.

“What makes you so sure?” The doubt in his voice is clear, but Vash knows people, it’s the one thing he’s learned to truly read in his long life.

“Those are the eyes of a good guy. Just like Snipes.” He doesn’t know why he tacks on that last part, but watches as the undertakers eyes widen just a bit more before he states he’ll take it as a compliment. “Good guy see” turning back to Roberto, he finds his face falling rather quickly. The older reporter is gone, swallowing he calls for him, and just like with Snipes, the resounding silence is his answer.

Convincing the undertaker to help him look Vash finds himself wandering around different passages inside the worm, voice calling out each of their names in time. He’s doing the best he can to keep his voice neutral as he calls out, thinking back to before they ended up inside the grand worm inside the diner. Had you been trying to tell him something before the others had come in for the body and he was too busy wallowing in his own sorrow to notice?

“It’s pointless. They’re long digested by now.” The undertaker is clearly trying to get him to give up on this hunt, and Vash knows why. Everything that has happened since they arrived in the worm was to separate him from the others, which means this guy works for Knives. He might not know to what capacity but all the signs and his gut are leading him to that line of thought.

“I dunno, this place is covered in all sorts of remains. Worms might not be the speedest digesters. Plus no reporter or sniper shaped skeletons.”

“All that to say?” The annoyance is clear in the man’s tone but Vash doesn’t care, keeping up his cheerful demeanor.

“That it’s way too early to throw in the old towel” he’ll stay in the worm forever if he has to, but he’s going to find the two reporters and his bounty hunter.

“So what’s the deal with you and the bounty hunter? I didn’t think people would willingly hang around someone that draws that much unwanted attention. Even if she does look like a sweet piece of meat.” That gets a squeak out of Vash as an answer, have they been doing a bad job of hiding what they are to one another? Or has it just been him blowing it himself with his actions? Taking a calming breath he starts with the first part he takes issues with.

“Please don’t call her a piece of meat. She’s a person. As to our deal, she’s a friend, a close friend that I'm pretty fond of.” Fond. That’s pretty tame when compared to how he actually feels about you. Neither one of you is willing to show it much outside of the privacy of a closed door or in the middle of nowhere, but he loves you and that fiery disposition that comes with it.

“You’re willing to die for someone you’re fond of?” his tone is one of disbelief like he can’t believe what Vash has to say about you. Vash knows the easy answer to that one.

“No, not die. But I'll protect her, just like I know she protects me. Everyone, no matter who they are have something or someone they wanna protect in this life. I’m sure you do too” Vash glances at him, a wide smile painted across his face, seeing nothing but disbelief looking back at him. “Believe me, once you find that something, you’ll do anything to protect it.” And today, has been a stark reminder to him that he hasn’t been doing the best protecting side of things, and maybe now that you have a bounty of your own. It’s time to stop caring if anyone sees the two of you making out in an alley.

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been wandering down this tunnel, eyes scanning through the beam of light your flashlight is giving off. One thing you do know for certain, you haven’t been alone for a while now. “So, we going for round two or not?”

“I already have what I need so I don’t see the point.” Glancing to your right you see the child sitting there, legs crossed over one another just high enough to be out of your reach. “Besides, maybe I just want to talk to another being that isn’t a human or a plant for a while.”

You pause in your walking, turning up to look at them “What makes you think I’m not human?” You watch them almost fall over from fake laughter.

“Of course you aren’t. Regular old humans can’t hear my network and you certainly can. And unlike most humans, you’re suspicious of just about everything that seems out of place. Most assume when they see a kid with dead adults they must be a family” at this a finger is pointed at you almost like a gun “but you? You see that and right away you start to question it. You seem to have a knack for knowing when things aren’t what they seem. Can’t say I’ve met many humans like that before.”

“Network huh? So are you a Hive mind, or a collection of minds?” You watch their eyes narrow as they look down at you, and you tense ready for the fight they say they didn’t want.

“You really are smarter than they give you credit for” the serious look on their face is replaced with a shrug, almost as if they no longer care. “How do you know what a hive mind is? Right now it’s just adding to my list of non-human traits about you.”

This time it’s you who shrugs “met a hive mind before. And let me tell you, they were a son of a bitch to kill. Listen you got a name? I’d like something to call you other than kid slash creepy being in my head.”

A round of roaring laughter leaves them this time “Oh I am starting to like you.” They pause almost contemplative before answering “You. May call me Zazie. Zazie the beast, the same as Millions Knives does.” Zazie makes a grand sweeping gesture as they say their name, and almost one of contempt at the mention of your lover’s twin. “Which leads me to a question, miss Ghost Sniper. What do you know about the twins?” A maniacal grin is on their face now, and you know this has nothing to do with either plant now. Zazie knows something you might not.

“Guess that depends on what you know about them” this gets another laugh from Zazie who agrees with your comeback.

“So you know they’re not human too. I guess any details after that don’t really matter. So my non-human friend, who do you think I should let live on this planet with me. Humans or Plants?” You roll your eyes at being called a non-human, sure you don’t know about all your parts but you know your DNA is still human. At least you think so.

“Both, they just need to figure out a way to do that without killing one another.” It’s an honest answer, because you’ve seen enough death in your life, enough genocide from one species to another and in the end the winner is left empty.

“That’s a rather naive response. I figured you’d be more inclined to give an answer, given your unique history with one of the twins.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” you find your eyes narrowed once more, and sneer on your face as you stare at Zazie. Nothing but a playful grin reflected back at you, he knows something and like the cheshire cat, he’s going to keep it close to his chest.

“Let’s just say, I think monsters like us need to stick together. Never know when the plant you share a bed with might be the reason you almost get killed. Besides, I'm the whole planet Mayfly , I know just how close you and your so called partner really are. In fact I’ve been following the two of you for a while, and I have to say I am intrigued by you.” That has you swallowing hard, if Zazie knows, and they’ve made it very clear they are on at least working terms with Knives then Knives knows all about your relationship. And it might fill in the blank as to who decided to throw a bounty on your head. It takes care of two birds with one stone, you can’t make money and it puts you in the cross hairs of every bounty hunter and outlaw in Noman’s Land.

“How much does Knives know about the two of us? And what exactly was your plan here today all about?” You try to keep the anger from your voice, and to keep your questions from sounding like commands. You need answers if you want to make sure you and Vash go up against Knives with all the information at your disposal.

“He knows enough to know you’d make great bait for his twin. But not so many more of the intimate details of what happens behind closed doors. After all, you do hate sand in your parts.” That is one shit eating grin that’s planted across their face as they look down at you. “As for today. I was told to cause some drama. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Well, now you’re flushed a deep crimson glad for the dim lighting and lack of other people around. From now on, you are only having sex with Vash behind a closed door. “What about Meryl? If you were just sent to cause drama will you let me have Meryl back?”

“You can have both reporters. You’re almost to them now anyway. This has been a fun little chat.” Standing up they send you another shit eating grin “I think you should consider my offer of sticking together. But for now, I need to go rile up your boyfriend, who’d have thought he’d be that willing to come back for you after being fired out a grand worms nose!”

“Wait, I have more” you find your voice fading away as Zazie does the bug thing again, disappearing from sight “questions.” You have so many more questions, doubting Zazie’s words, worried about what had happened since he said both reporters. Letting the hand you hadn’t realized you raised drop down to your side.

A lead weight dropping in your stomach just as quickly.

Back to Masterlist for the series

#vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #trigun #twink writes #Bullets Bandits Ghosts & Typhoons #tristamp

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harrison-abbott · 11 months

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A Trip to Paris - Part Three

Down the street there’s a famous cemetery.

Waking up in the young morning you decide to go there.

It’s not that far a walk.

The graveyard is clamped off from the modern world;

Walled off, literally: but, when you head in there it’s like

Jumping back a couple of centuries.

Each person has his or her own tremendous tomb.

Small little houses of stone, pretty, bleak and with moss

Growing atop their rooftops, and often with stained

Glass within their interiors, with Latin and French

Words inscribed in the stone alongside the religious references.

The leaves of the trees are scattered or fluttering or

Lilting along the path as you venture,

Landing in your hair or making pirouettes on the pathways

In the November breeze.

Oh, and all in auburn and wine reds and sad yellows.

First on your radar is Marcel Proust’s gravestone and you find

It and it’s a handsome tomb, of black, with his name in gold

Lettering across its front, and, there are flowers lain atop it –

Fresh flowers – and it must be exceptional to have somebody come

To your burial place so long after you left, to leave you flowers.

[What you say, to Marcel, is, thanks Marcel, for the influence,

And rest in peace, sir.]

Buried in the same yard is Oscar Wilde.

When you get to his grave, the masonry is fenced off with plastic.

And there’s a sign on it from the council saying

‘PLEASE DO NOT DO ANYTHING SILLY AROUND THIS

GRAVESTONE BECAUSE IF THERE IS ANY DAMAGE DONE

TO IT THEN THE FAMILY WILL HAVE TO PAY FOR THE REPAIRS.’

But there are bouquets left under the plastic fences, too.

That’s Oscar Wilde …

His skeleton is underneath you. A chilling magical morbid feeling.

You compliment Oscar for his words, as well, and then you bounce

Elsewhere along the cemetery.

There are elder women placing flowers around the gravestones;

With that curt placid hardworking way that older ladies labour.

Next on the list is the lead singer of The Doors.

When you get there his tomb is completely incongruous to all that

You’ve witnessed thus far … for it is properly sealed off with

Metal gates, and the pipes of them are plastered with multicoloured

Stickers, tacky and out of place and belonging to a lost modernity.

There’s a photo of him. Flowers, as well. [You were never that

Into the Doors, but, the into to Apocalypse Now remains among

Your favourite movie sequences.]

And it is bizarre how a rock musician seems to hold such an impress

Over other artists, other people in general …

Marcel’s bit was totally different.

What is it about popular music that makes people so swoony?

Just a question, observation.

Okay let’s venture somewhere else.

When you leave the graveyard – Paris and its rapping pulse come back,

And you’re suddenly back in the veins of it again.

Where next?

Down to the botanical gardens

Across the other side of the Seine.

The Seine seems cross and not to be messed with and you feel

Careful as you travail the bridge.

The early winter has made dormant much of the botanical slots, but,

There are various evergreen trees from perplexing parts

Of the world that are still here and in full bloom and some of them

Are mighty spectacles far far older than yourself: if one of their limbs

Were to be cut off it would kill you in an instant if you stood underneath.

At the end of the gardens you reach the streets once more,

And turn a different way,

And come across a campus of one of Paris’ universities.

There are many young folks spilling about, with their budding faces

Perched upwards, speaking in mini rings that you have no part of.

Makes you envious to not be that age anymore; with that stab of nostalgia

From your own student days that occurred so long ago.

But – good luck to them, bright chaps: you wish them well!

Back to the hotel.

As you go up the stairwell, the cleaning lady is doing the laundry

And the floors and the bin bags all at once, and she also works

With a manic intensity and you step over the bags and bounce up the

Tired carpets that line the stairs;

And think about what this building used to be: because it’s an old

Place and was obviously not always a hotel;

And the room you have now is small and right in the city centre

And thus you think of who might have lived here back in time.

The hotel is ace, though; you really dig its atavistic quality.

Charge the phone up for a while inside your room.

Then head out into the addictive streets again.

Without much destination. Just wander.

The raw smells of coffee from the cafes,

And the ladies sitting under them with the wide eyeliner;

The shining pastry shops with their golden bread and croissants,

Where well dressed people move articulately inside;

The gaudy funk from the cheese shops and the grizzly

Slabs of meat, the dead animal in slippery plastic.

Then the chocolat shops with their exquisitely priced

Squares of cocoa and sugar displayed like wedding rings in the

Window frames;

Next to the niche shops that sell fancy electric lights;

Or a place that offers antique clocks; or this joint selling French

Paperbacks with brown pages that you wish you had the knowledge

To read; or these gnarly laundry joints with trundling machine machines

And women sitting under them gossiping about who knows what;

Or sandwich cafes with these sweating baguettes through the glass

With tired lettuce and tomato, pig and beef, all slippered up in that

Homecoming vibe that bread gives off when wrapped around.

There are a few spittles of rain.

It said on the weather report earlier that it was supposed to be

Raining heavily by now; but predictions of the weather are

As inaccurate and chaotic as anything else.

You get back to your hotel again.

The stairs smell like chlorine and they pingpong with echoes and

There’s a lady wanting to go down whilst you up, so you pause and let her pass.

Merci. She says.

Merci, you say.

#writeblr #creative writing #writers on tumblr #poetry #travel writing #paris #france #poets on tumblr #tumblr writers #travel poetry

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bunny584 · 5 months

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Bunny! After reading Priest Geto, something inside me burned! My love for fanfics has reignited. I was just wondering if you ever thought about making it a mini series and not just a 2 part story? because I tell you, it was amazing. Really amazing. You got us on a chokehold. I even held my breath while reading Geto praying in the bathroom. It made me pray for my sins too!

It’s a full fic little love 🥰 which would make a grand total of two (2) in my repertoire.

The cuties from H&H know I don’t tend to let my chapters exceed 5-6K words because brevity is the soul of wit. With my current FIHS skeleton it’ll likely be somewhere between 12-15 chapters.

(Speaking of H&H you are my first born and momma still loves you 💕 almost done with the next chap of that too).

#bunnyblabs #For I Have Sinned

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cookiepotofchaos · 3 years

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A few years back, I ended up in hospital then signed off work for a few months. In that time, the medication I was on left me struggling to read other than in short snippets so I read a lot of kids books and graphic novels. I also made notes about them in my e-reader and I've rediscovered them in all their "thoughts blurry from medication" glory.

The O'Sullivan Twins:

"Yes, 14 year-olds (are they still 14, I don't know) you must learn to sew to fulfill your inevitable wifely duties!"

"mate, these kids don't mess around with midnight feasts. They've got oil burners, frying pans, and sausages"

"are these kids talking in 3rd person about someone who is literally right there beside them? Weirdos"

Summer Term at St Clare's:

"There is a little black hole somewhere full of all the Blyton kids who get vanished away between each term."

"I never understood the form system in Blyton books. Is this saying they kept girls in a form until they were" ready" to move up? Could you end up being 18 and still in first form or were there limits? "

"Bloody hell, Blyton being positive about a fat character. Stop the presses"

"Ah yes, why would you need to vet the school your poor kid is going to spend 75% of their teenage years at"

Kitty at St. Clare's:

"The common room will soon be a battle ground, muskets at the ready!" (I have left no indication as to what part of the book this is referencing 😂)

Claudine at St Clare's:

"Into the cupboard you go, hateful woman, stay there for a bit."

"Claudine has flawless logic, some people are best served being put in cupboards."

Five Run Away Together:

"Shut up, Julian, you ass." (Again, no indication of the page it refers to but, to be fair, I hated Julian even when I was six and first reading these books so it may have been his existence in general.)

Five Go to Smuggler's Top:

"This book is just about all the domestic abuse George and Sooty have endured."

"Aunt Fanny and Sooty's mother should just Thelma and Louise it away from their asshole husbands. But without the driving off the cliff part."

"Quentin and Sooty got lobbed down that drop like old laundry"

The School at the Chalet:

"I do vaguely remember reading these before (and by that I mean I remember the French girl who was blatantly in love with one of the other girls)"

"The indecency of a child reading too much. How dare she."

"In a fictional AU, Sally Hope read this book and reassured herself that at least she wasn't in the same stratosphere of jealousy as Simone."

"What the everlasting fuck is going on?" (I think this may be a general statement for the Chalet School books 😂)

The Manor House School:

"Bloody hell, a health and safety inspection in a boarding school? Does this chap not know these kids are meant to be left to fend for themselves and hopefully not die in the process?"

"Something must be done! If children get themselves hurt or killed through their own daft choices, there's wiggle room. Dysentery is another matter entirely."

And possibly my favourite, from a Xena Warrior Princess comic:

"Why the fuck is Gabrielle lying in a seductive pose at the bottom of a pile of skeletons?"

#Enid Blyton #St Clare's #The Chalet School #Elinor Brent-Dyer #Angela Brazil #The Famous Five

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withoutmonsters · 4 years

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Maybe I’m Too Young (to Keep Good Love from Going Wrong)

tags: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced child neglect, a little bit of period typical homophobia, pining, so much pining, post s2, pre-s3

link to ao3

The broccoli sizzled when it hit the hot oil. Steve grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred it, getting all nice and coated in oil, before turning back to his cutting board and finishing chopping the florets. He hummed as he did, a Tears for Fears song that he had heard on the radio on the ride home. The sound of knuckles against a window startled him, and he whipped around. Through the cutout on the wall and the sliding glass doors, Steve could see Billy, smirking like a cat who got the cream and looking like a supermodel. Steve cursed him for surprising him, but crossed out of the kitchen and the living room.

He pulled open the door, glaring a bit. “What the fuck, Hargrove?”

Billy smirked. “What, pretty boy? It’s seven, you should’ve been expecting me.”

Steve glanced at the clock. It was, indeed, seven. “That doesn’t give you carte blanche to just startle me out of nowhere, dick.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that your door was locked and I couldn’t get in, right? I wasn’t trying to startle you.”

Steve huffed, not bothering to give a reply. He knew Billy was right, as Billy was in most things, but that didn’t mean that he liked to admit it.

His friendship with Billy was a strange one. It was made up of equal parts aggression and secrecy. There were so many unspoken words between them that sometimes it felt like it was choking Steve, but he was never going to admit that, especially to Billy. He didn’t know a lot about the other boy, but he treasured what he did know. Like that Billy liked eating vegetables with his meat. If there wasn’t something green on his plate, he’d grumble about it until Steve found some. Steve knew that Billy was constantly licking him lips because they were always chapped. He knew that Billy had three freckles stretched across the expanse of his carotid artery on his neck, lined up like Orion’s Belt. He knew that Billy chewed on his cuticles and that his knuckles were constantly bleeding, not because of fights but because he was perpetually working on the Camaro. He knew that Billy liked his coffee so sweet that it puckered Steve’s lips when he tried it and that Billy would always wear the same three shirts over and over and over again. Steve learned that Billy tied his shoes incredibly tight and would always wrap himself up in about four layers of blankets if he came even remotely close to a bed.

The things that Steve didn’t know about Billy were, somehow, much more than what he did. They seemed to fill up the space around Billy, flooding the air and expanding like some sort of invisible gas. Steve choked on Billy’s secrets sometimes, when Billy showed up at 2 am, battered and hurt and looking like he just lost a fight against a grizzly. Those were the times when Steve had so many words and yet none at all, when he felt like he would suffocate on the lack of his reassurances. Billy never asked for them. All Billy asked for, the first time and all the times since, was a bathroom sink to spread out the first aid supplies he kept in his car. The first time Steve had volunteered his own supplies, Billy had pushed him away until Steve got in his face, eyes locked and mouth hardened in an unforgiving line. He had pulled the same expression he pulled when the party decided to go off and do something so incredibly stupid like venture into demodog infested tunnels just because their friend was in danger. He had worn the authority of his borrowed paternal status, like a mantle on his shoulders, chin held high and head canted like a crown rested on it, and Billy had given in, slumping like Atlas under the weight of the world, bags under his eyes and breath in his chest and he looked, for a moment, like a child, young and sad and so tired that Steve had wanted to wrap him up like a lost kitten and never let him go.

It had only been for a moment. Because the next was ruined with Billy’s words spilling from his mouth, because you could never forget that this was Billy Hargrove, a perpetual snake spewing poison, aggressive and angry and so on fire that sometimes it took Steve’s breath away. Billy burned like a bonfire; he was always so alive, like no one else Steve had ever known. Steve’s life had been a ceaseless suburbia, gray days bleeding into dark nights, and he hadn’t realized how much of it he had missed until Billy had blazed into the school parking lot, Scorpions on blast and an engine roaring like some kind of animal. It was like, through his whole life, Steve had been dreaming, lucid eyes wandering under closed lids, with flashes of decisions that usually ended up with him gripping a bat impaled with nails and waiting for a monster straight out of Dante’s ninth circle coming for him with shark teeth and a flower-petal face and in those moments, he wished with all his ardent heart that he’d lived differently, that he’d changed and loved and hoped and wanted but he never could find the energy to lift a finger when all was said and done and he’d gone home, bruised and tired and feeling a few centuries too old for his body. When it was all over, all Steve was good for was sleeping. Sleeping and waiting like some dragon, sitting on his trove with nostrils open and eyes closed.

And then Billy had been there, looking like a predator, and something had awoken in Steve, flaring to life in his chest and blazing a path through his mind until all he could see was Billy Hargrove, bedroom eyes and his sneer curling his lips. That was all, some nights. All Steve dreamed was Billy’s voice sliding through his ears, Billy’s eyes giving him so many mixed signals that they made cocktails in his lungs, gasping and burning and slurring until all Steve felt was an overwhelming exasperation with himself and the boy across from him. And some nights it was a blank panic that blacked out his vision until Billy found him like that, bruised and hurt but still concerned, because under all his hatred, he was just a boy with too big a heart. On those nights, it was Billy taking care of Steve, even if he was limping like a stray dog, like a broken machine. Steve would cling to him because he was real, because he was firm muscle grounded on strong legs attached to feet firmly planted to the ground and Steve felt like he would float away if he didn’t hold on hold tight to Billy’s biceps until he was sobbing crying breaking in his living room with all the lights blazing through the doors and then Billy would scoop him up and sit with him until early morning, when Steve was sleeping the exhausted sleep of a small child and Billy needed to get home before Neil decided that he had more of a problem than normal with Billy’s nocturnal habits.

This was the friendship that these two boys shared, stolen affections under the table, eyes locked and smirks exchanged and elaborate rituals concocted so that they could share one soft moment, because Hawkins didn’t like boys who dared to be soft; because Hawkins would punish boys who dared to be soft.

Nobody knew—not even Nancy, who was, arguably, still Steve’s best friend despite the breakup. He wasn’t doing too well with friends these days, to be honest. He had ditched Tommy and Carol when he’d started dating Nancy, and he didn’t really regret it until it was late in the day and Tommy was still throwing him those glances that were at once hateful and longing, like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted Steve to be the scum in the storm drains or the king of the school. It was those days that Steve pushed Billy extra hard, meeting him glare-for-glare and shove-for-shove. Because he didn’t want to see those eyes watching hm from across the court, a sneer and tears in the same expression. He didn’t want to see Tommy, the boy who he’d loved and hated in equal measure since he was five years old and starting kindergarten.

And Billy was a nice distraction. A great one, in fact, from everything in his life. From demodogs and gates and girls with too-wise eyes that cut through the armor that Steve wore to the deep dark hole inside of him that ate up all his love, until he was an empty husk and everyone who’d ever made an effort to be his friend was standing six feet away, the same distance a coffin took up. But with Billy, the coffin was already there. Six feet of emotional distance, at all times. Enough space to shove a coffin, skeleton rotting through the body and all, placed like armor, because for Billy, anything that was living was potential to be hurt, and that meant weakness. And Billy wasn’t weak. Didn’t let himself be weak. Steve found it exhausting sometimes, the self-possession that Billy held. He kept it aloft, all the time, in rain or sun, through even his most deranged moments. At first, Steve thought he was wildly uncontrolled, a newborn colt kicking out at whatever he could reach, even if that was the life-giving mare right next to him. But the night at the Byers’ had made something painfully apparent: no, Billy wasn’t out of control. He was always, always in control, even if he was bashing his head into Steve’s like he didn’t care if he got a concussion. He knew everyone’s movements three steps ahead, and took the time to consider all of them and then make his own move; and most of the time, it was the worst move he could’ve made, designed specifically to hurt the most. He drove everyone away, with the careful precision of a surgeon overlaid by the brute force of a battering ram. It was distinctly Billy: strong and destructive and so completely unstoppable.

Billy leaned against the counter, blue eyes taking in too much as Steve fumbled with the broccoli florets. Steve’s nanny had taught him to cook in middle school. She had let him lurk in the kitchen as she moved about like a graceful ghost, hands quick and clever, eyes focused. Steve had asked to help one day, because the nights when she cooked were the closest he had gotten to family dinners in years, and she gave him a smile and showed him. When she was officially unemployed by the Harringtons, Steve kept in touch with her, receiving recipes weekly from her. It was something that endlessly fascinated Billy for some reason, Steve’s ability to cook. The first time he’d stayed for dinner, his eyes had been pinned to Steve the whole night. Steve had shifted, awkward under his stare, wondering if it would always be like that.

Steve added the broccoli heads, stirring until they were coated. After he was done with the broccoli, Steve added the chicken, cut up into bite sized pieces, to brown. Billy went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, silently offering to get one for Steve, too. Steve shook his head, motioning to the bottle of wine that he had opened when he started cooking dinner.

Billy’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Bougie wine mom,” he joked, voice gently teasing, and Steve wrinkled his nose at him.

They sat down to dinner in comfortable silence, forks clinking against plates and the sounds of chewing the only conversation. Steve didn’t mind; in fact, he enjoyed nights like these, where Billy was quietly soft, more focused on his own inner narrative than what is going on around him. The first few nights like this, Billy had swung between awkward and aggressive, until they had actually sat down to eat food and then Billy had dug in like a starving dog and suddenly the bubble of awkward dancing around each other was popped and it felt like they had been doing this since they were children.

“Damn,” Billy had muttered. “This is really good, Harrington.”

Steve’s cooking skills had spawned a slew of mom jokes from him, as well, but Steve weathered them good-naturedly because when Billy was teasing him about his cooking, he wasn’t flirting. And that was sort of the goal, for these nights. To avoid flirting with Billy Hargrove, because it was becoming more and more apparent that Steve was beginning to like him too much for his own good.

And he couldn’t like Billy, because liking Billy meant wanting Billy and if it was one thing that Steve knew for certain, it was that wanting Billy would kill him. It wouldn’t be the demodogs, it wouldn’t be the Mind Flayer—hell, it wouldn’t even be the snowy roads in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere, Indiana, that never got salted after a storm and were always perilous to drive. No, it would be the sheer wanting of Billy Hargrove.

And Steve couldn’t say he didn’t look forward to that day, but he also wasn’t the one who relished pain like Billy. He couldn’t laugh through a punch; he couldn’t make it seem like it was simultaneously all a big joke and deathly-serious at the same time. Steve didn’t like pain despite the number of fights he lost.

But Billy—Billy was the kind of pain he kept poking at. In the early mornings when the sun hadn’t quite risen yet, in the dark of night when the maws of the Demogorgon ate up his dreams, in the bright daylight at school when Steve could see Billy’s face all to clearly, he poked at it. It felt a little like a sore tooth; he could walk on it, chew with it, move with it, but it wasn’t comfortable.

Billy finished all the food on his plate in record time and got up to get more. Steve watched him go, thinking about how that broad back was always turned to him, even when Billy was walking toward him, and it hurt something deep inside of him, but he wouldn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say. There was food to eat, and a hungry boy to feed, and perhaps some bruises to tend. What there was not something between them. Steve could survive this strange friendship with Billy, but he couldn't survive love.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #season 2 #post season 2 #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced child neglect

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unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin · 4 years

Note

MM OKAY UUH, NOT ENOUGH DARBY, MAYBE THAT?

Summary- Dating Darby Allin and being plus size has people making fun of you, Darby isn’t having it .

Warning- Rude people, Body Issues, implied Smut.

AN- Definitely needs to be more Darby out there!! In This Ricky Stark is an asshole but it’s just for the plot and I actually like him. Hope you like it ano!

————————————————

Damn, didn’t know Darby was into fatasses

He doesn’t really have to go whale watching, he's dating one.

Does she know how to Buy clothes that fit??

I sat frowning at the comments under the picture I had posted of me and Darby. We had gone on a whale watching tour for our anniversary. The picture in particular was of us on the boat, the sun setting behind us. I had thought it was beautiful, and chose to post it on Instagram. The last comment had me looking at my outfit. It was just some jeans and a Darby Allin shirt, it wasn’t really that tight, was it? ““Hey.” I looked up to see Darby coming into the room.

““Hey, how was your meeting?” I asked as he flopped down on the couch next to me. ““About the same as normal. Basically just making sure all the travel plans. Oh, I almost forgot, I was going to ask you if you want to go to AEW with me this week. I have my big match against Jon Moxley and I wouldn’t mind my girl being there when I become champion.” He asked smiling at me.

I bit my lip thinking for a minute, when me and Darby first got together he was still in independent wrestling and I would go to his matches in my area, and when he signed onto AEW I went to a few of his bigger matches, and I did watch every week. “I guess I could, I mean as long as I have an internet connection I can still work.” I said. “Although I have a feeling if you win you won’t want me working on a computer.” I add making him raise an eyebrow.

“First off, it’s When I Win, not if. And secondly I can’t BELIEVE you and that sick mind! I would never do what you are suggesting.” He says dramatically, making me chuckle. This was my favorite part of dating him, only I got to see this silly part of him, the part that joked around. “Anyways, it’s good you said yes, as I already paid for the tickets.” He said, smiling softly, making me roll my eyes.

“What would you have done if I said I couldn’t?” I asked, making him shrug. “ beg you to come until you say yes.” I chuckle knowing he was probably right as I stood up.

“I’m going to go shower and get ready for bed.” I said walking towards our bedroom. I reached for my normal sleep clothes, one of Darby’s shirts and some underwear when I froze suddenly frowning. Darby was smaller then me, and even though the shirt was on of his bigger ones it may still look to tight on me. No way Darby would want to look at that. I ended up grabbing a sports bra, sweatshirt, and sweatpants and heading into the bathroom.

I turned the water on, stripping out of my clothes and brushing my teeth as I waited for the water to warm up. As I rinsed my mouth out I caught myself looking in the mirror. My face was a bit more rounded than others, and my eyes ran down to my stomach. The red stretch marks made me sick, how could anyone see that and not be. I turned away quickly before I could cry and got in the shower.

My mind wondered to when I first met Darby. I had just gotten out of design school, and wasn’t working for the online company I was now, but a small wrestling school where I would make flyers for shows and such. This just so happened to be the school Darby was training at. I never really talked to any of the wrestlers but I needed some help putting out flyers and asked one of the coaches to see if anyone was free. Darby ended up get stuck with the job and walked around town hanging up flyers anywhere and everywhere. I guess I was somewhat exciting to talk too because he would talk to me whenever he got the chance. We ended up being really good friends, and a few months after he started traveling he ended up at my house and asked me on a date.

“Y/n! You good? You’ve been in there for like an hour!” Darby called opening the door a bit. “I’m fine. Got caught in my thoughts, I’ll be out in a sec.” I assured him as I turned the water off. I waited for the door to close before I got out, getting dressed quickly. As I walked out I saw Darby laying in bed already, looking at something on his phone.

“Hey you.” I said sitting on the side of the bed I reached down for my phone charger. I plugged my phone in before laying down pulling the covers over me. “Your wearing that to bed?” He asked looking over at me. “Ya, I’ve gotten cold the last few nights, so I’m trying this to see if it helps.” I lie, hoping he buys it. Lucky for me he just shrugs, setting his phone down and turning the light off on his bedside. He turns towards me, clearly thinking I would scoot closer like I normally do, but sometimes stops me, and I turn onto my other side away from him.

“Good night Darby.” I whisper, and hear a quiet good night back.

—————————————————————

I bit my lip lightly watching Darby fight Moxley. It wasn’t like any of Darby’s matches weren’t a bit intense, but this one was a bit extra. Moxley really was an older version of Darby, and heather were willing to give up. I knew Darby wouldn’t, but I silently hoped he would just stay down. “Hello.” I looked up to see…..Ricky Stark walking over to me??? I had never met him, but he was in quite the feud with Darby.

“Um…. hi?” I questioned as he stood in front of me. “Are you Y/n?” He asked, smirk on his face.

“Yes…. um, can I ask what you want?” I asked hoping to cut this conversation short, Darby had just finished his match and I wanted to check on him. “Well, to be completely honest, I hear Darby’s girlfriend was going to be here, and I was going to fake flirt with you to piss him off…… But nothing is worth even pretending to think I find you attractive.” I was a bit taken back by his words. “I mean, look at you. I’ve seen your Instagram and I thought maybe it was just the lighting of something that made you look that big….. but I was clearly wrong, soooooo I’m gonna leave.” He said walking away.

I sat there stunned for a moment. This person I didn’t know basically walked up to me, called me fat, and walked away. I had always in the back of my mind thought that none of those people online would ever say something like that to my face, but he just did. It had to be true if that many people were saying it right? I shook the thought for my head as best I could standing up so I could find Darby.

Luckily I didn’t have to go far because I could hear Darby yelling, and then Moxley yelling. When I got to the door I opened it enough to see inside. Darby was up in Moxleys face yelling and Moxley looked pissed. Darby’s eyes shifted over a bit and caught sight o for. “Y/n, you can head back to the hotel with the car. I can find a ride and they have some tests to run.” He said eyes softening for a moment. I simply nodded closing the door and hearing the yelling pick back up.

Back at the hotel I’m in the shower just finishing up when I heard the bathroom door open. “Just me.” I heard Darby say letting me know someone hadn’t broken into the room of something. I expected to hear him leave but instead a moment later he was stepping in the showers. When I looked at him I felt my heart hurt. He had cuts and bruises all over, and he just looked exhausted.

“How you feeling?” I ask as he steps a little closer. “Like shit, but I don’t have a concussion which is good.” He said smiling. Then like lightning this man had me pinned to the wall kissing me. My arms immediately went to grab him, but all of a sudden all I could hear was Ricky Starks voice telling me how fat I was, causing me to push him away slightly. He gave me a questioning look as I looked away.

“Just, not in the mood.” I whispered. My arms went and wrapped around my mid section trying to hide it. He backed off immediately but looked concerned. “I’ll get out so you can wash up.” I said quickly getting out, wrapping a towel around me and practically ran out of the bathroom.

I got dressed and laid on the bed, eyes closed trying to get his damn voice out of my head. I didn’t hear the shower turn off, or the door open, but I get the bed shift as Darby sat down. I opened my eyes looking over at him. He was sitting next to me, texting someone. He was only wearing boxers, and I automatically reached over and grabbed his tattooed hand, making him stop and look at me. I ran my fingers up and down the skeleton design. He stopped my hand, holding it in his making me look up at him. “Y/n, what’s wrong?” He asked.

“Nothing, there’s nothing wrong with not being in the mood.” I said refusing to look at him fully. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know there’s not. And you know I would never try to force you to do something you didn’t, but I know that look in your eyes. Something is bothering you, and I didn’t know what it was until tonight.” He said, licking his chapped lips. “Nothing is botheri-“

“I know what Stark said to you.” He said cutting me off. I sat in silence for a few moments before I said “oh”

y/n, please tell me you don’t believe what he said.” He said, a deep frown on his face. I wanted to say no, say I didn’t, but I couldn’t lie to him. When he realized I wasn’t going to answer he sighed laying down next to me. “Y/n, your size doesn’t matter.” He whispered, wrapping his arms around me. I felt a tear run down my face as I spoke. “It matters to everyone else it seems, what would it not matter to you. I don’t even know how you look at me, I mean, I must have an amazing personality to actually get your attention.” I said tears running down my face now.

“Is that what you think y/n? Do you remember how we met?” He asked pushing my chin up a bit so I would look at him. “Ya, I needed some help with putting flyers up because of how many there were. You just got stuck with the job.” I said shrugging.

He chuckled a bit, shaking his head. “I changed the settings on the printer so way more would print knowing you would need help. Then I just volunteered.” I looked up at him surprised. “Why would you do that?” I questioned. No one liked doing that stuff, Especially in winter.

“Because I saw you everyday and thought you were gorgeous. I wanted to talk to you but you avoided all the wrestlers, so I thought that would work. Y/n, you don’t even realize how beautiful you are. I mean, I set up a whole plan just to talk to you.” He said kissing my head lightly. “I know it might take some time, but can you believe me when I say, I think you're the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?” He asked looking into my eyes.

I smiled slightly at him, and nodded. “I can try.” I whispered. “Good, now if you don’t want to we don’t have to, but I want to show you how much I love you. Will you let me?” He questioned, hands resting on my hips. I nodded again, just before his lips crashed into mine.

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lionbled-aa · 4 years

Text

ACT V: THE LION THAT ONCE WAS.

The ambush happened all too fast. The valiant elf fought hard but they just kept coming and in the end, they overpowered him. They brought the Lion to his knees before her, making him kneel at her feet. At first he didn’t recognize her, thinking she was just another vampire but when he realized she was his maker, despair washed over him. How could this be possible? He killed her, he knows he did. He made sure to. These fleeting thoughts were quickly interrupted as she grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. ❝ Hello Faelmon. ❞ the red head’s voice was laced with malicious glee ❝ It’s been a very long time, has it not? ❞

❝ You should be dead! ❞ the elf barks back, ❝ I killed you! You should be dead! ❞ and that earns a laugh. ❝ Oh I was dead. Quite dead. For a very long time. ❞ she continues, ❝ However, necromancy is a very useful tool it seems. ❞ she says in a sing-song tone. ❝ Though those necromancers weren't as smart as they thought they were. They thought they could control an ancient vampire’s spirit but they were wrong. ❞ A grin forms on her features, ❝ It also helped that their little sacrifice was the spitting image of myself. ❞ That made sense. It was rare but it happens, having a person that looked exactly like you somewhere in the world. He pitied the poor woman who had hers. ❝ Get to the point, Fralda. ❞ the elf huffed. ❝ Why attack me? ❞ a giggle follows in response, ❝ Mainly revenge, but you would also interrupt my plans. ❞ She looks to her fledglings and gives a nod, and they bring the elf back to his feet, but bind him as they begin to lead him somewhere.

He doesn’t know where he’s going and whatever these restraints were he couldn’t break them, even with his vampiric strength. The journey however was not long, within a few hours they lead him to an ancient Nordic ruin, one he hasn’t seen before and push him inside. His maker humming as they venture deeper and deeper into the ruins. They encountered draugr but strangely enough they weren’t hostile to them. It must have been some sort of necromancy spell she casted upon them. Then he sees a sarcophagus with intricate runes and mechanisms he hasn’t quite seen before. ❝ Do you like it? Kalaril made it! ❞ she says motioning to the altmer vampire on his right side. ❝ He’s very smart, you know, studied baneful magic and dwarven mechanics for a couple hundred years now. ❞ He doesn’t like where this is going. ❝ He built it especially for you! Well, I made him make it but it’s still all for you. ❞ Another nod comes from her as she’s done speaking, which prompts them to drag him into the sarcophagus. He struggles to fight back but by the time he can free himself he’s locked in. He bangs and claws at the inside of the lid, screaming for them to let him out, but it’s too late. He’s trapped, and not a soul would know where he was.

The hours passed, and thoughts began swimming in his head, thoughts about his family. Oh Gods, his children. They were alone, he couldn’t be there with them. He left them alone. The Lion breaks down in sobs. He promised them he would always be there for them and now, he couldn’t be. Eventually the elf exhausts himself and passes out.

When he awakes again he notices the dryness in his mouth, the chapness of his lips. The second stage of hunger had begun but with no way out he knew he was going to be left to become blood starved. It scares him but there’s nothing he can do. He exhales and goes back to sleep, hoping maybe he wouldn’t be discovered now. It was probably for the best.

Decades pass when he reawakens again, the vampire hearing the sound of the sarcophagus’ lid bursting open. A hiss escapes him as life flows back into him once more. Then a clawed hand reaches out and grips the side of the it, pulling himself out of it to take a look around. Then he sees who broke the seal, a band of adventurers looking for treasure, but all they found was death. His movements are quick, even a corpse. He grabs the closest one to him, slashing open their neck with his claws, almost decapitating them before drinking the sweet lifeblood that spurted from the wound. He could hear them scream in horror as they watched their friend choke on whatever blood was left in them. He moves again grabbing one that flees and smashes their head into a bloody pulp against the sarcophagus that previously held him prisoner, licking the blood off his hands like some feral animal before moving onto the drain whatever was left in their body. The third adventurer did put up a fight, and a brave one as well but a starving vampire is a very tough adversary and it wasn’t long before the vampire killed them too. Biting open their throat and finishing them off until there was nothing left.

With all that blood in his system he could feel his mind clearing again. He stumbles back, falling on his ass and leans against the tomb. Those black scaleras finally returned to white. He looks around now conscious, and lets out a gasp in horror. He looks at his shaking hands, covered in sticky crimson. He… he did this. He knew this would happen but it still made him feel sick to his stomach. He is quick to remove his armor, throwing himself into a pool of water nearby to wash the blood off him and his clothing.

When the elf finally leaves the tomb he notices how warm it is outside. The bright light of the sun stinging his eyes. The last time he saw the sky it was snowing. Perhaps it’s only been a few months since this all happened he wishfully thinks but that was far from the case. He wandered the wilds of Haafingar, some of the territory he knew, some of it had changed. He eventually wanders enough to find the Thlamor Embassy, or what was left of it. It looked like it had been sieged, skeletons in Elven armor scattered across the grounds. Something happened here, and it happened long ago. Faelmon begins to wonder, how many years had passed when he was in that tomb, then those thoughts of his family come flooding back. His children. He needs to get home.

It’s sunset when he arrives and a sigh of relief leaves him, Solitude still stands. And it stands strong. Faelmon walks through the front gates, the guards stop him but he explains who he is, and they let him pass, though these were not the guards he knew. These were bright-eyed young men and women, a lot more cheerful than their previous incarnations. Okay so maybe it’s only been a couple years. If it had only been a couple years there was still a chance his children still resided in his home, which brought him slight joy.

He walks up to the porch of Proudspire, noticing the changes. The bench that he and his children had painted was gone, along with the plants and pottery that were scattered around it. He takes an old key he had on his person and to his surprise the key still works. He turns it and the door pops open, allowing him inside.

A loud growl as he steps through the door is the first thing he hears, it’s a dog, but not the dog he had given his children. Then the rushing footsteps of someone can be heard above him and moving down the stairs before he’s confronted by a Redguard man, brandishing a sword. His family’s sword. ❝ Halt! ❞ the man shouts, ❝ Who-- ❞ he stops, the sword falls. It takes the moment for the man to realize who the elf was. ❝ Papa…? ❞ Papa? It takes Faelmon a minute before he recognizes him ❝ Alesan. ❞ his son. His boy. Except he wasn’t a boy now. He was a man, a full grown man. ❝ Son… ❞ his son places the sword on a table nearby before stepping closer to him, looking at him to see the tears beginning to form in his eyes, ❝ Is it really you? ❞ he asks him. ❝ Yes, yes of course it’s me. ❞ The elf takes a step closer, a hand reaches out but draws back. He clears his throat ❝ I owe you an explanation. ❞ and more, he had been gone so long. He missed so much. Before he could continue he felt his son’s arms around him, hugging him tightly. It catches him off guard but within moments he finds himself hugging him back, a deep sigh of relief leaving him and soft sobs emitting from Alesan. It’s a good minute before Alesan pulls back from his father, wiping the tears from his face.

It’s a quiet evening, the only sound being the roaring fire in the fireplace. Alesan sits across from his father, petting his dog. ❝ We wondered for so long. ❞ he speaks, disrupting the silence. ❝ We knew you wouldn’t abandon us like that. ❞ hearing that brings relief to the altmer for that was another worry of his, his children resenting him for abandoning him. ❝ Sofie never stopped after we did. ❞ A pause as the Redguard stands from his chair, ❝ In fact… ❞ he walks over to the dining table, grabbing an opened letter and handing it to his father. ❝ She sent me this about a month ago from Hammerfell. ❞ He was amazed, hearing his eldest daughter had traveled that far, but to be fair she was always the adventurous one out of the trio of children. Alesan continues as he sits back down ❝ Lucia studied at the College of Winterhold to become a healer, and ended up in Riften at the Temple of Mara. ❞ He was overjoyed to hear that, his daughter, a healer, it was something so noble and honorable. ❝ And to not brag but I’ve become captain of the city guard. ❞ Faelmon’s features form into a slight smile, his children doing such wonderful things made him so proud. However, the smile quickly fades, realizing how much he’s missed. He missed watching his children grow. ❝ Father? ❞ Alesan asks, ❝ I’ve… missed so much of your lives. ❞ he replies somberly, ❝ I… I’m sorry. ❞ Unintentionally he grips the letter in his hand, crumbling the sides of it. Alesan stands moving to his father once more, a hand places itself upon his shoulder. ❝ It’s alright father. ❞

They chat for a little while longer before they both see the morning light peeking through the curtains, they have been talking since dawn. The elf yawns, exhaustion taking hold of him. ❝ I should probably be going. I need to find a bed to rest on. ❞ He stands and begins to move towards the door when he feels his son’s hand on his shoulder once more. ❝ Wait you only just got here, please, stay until I send word to Sofie and Lucia. I’m sure they’d want to see you again. Besides this is your home, you have a bed here. ❞ He insists, ❝ You can stay in Jordis’ old room. ❞ The elf nods in response, accepting his offer and begins to walk downstairs. Along the way he noticed some chances that had been made to the house, for instance the basement no longer holding a smithing area but instead became a grand library. He turns the corner to find Jordis’ room has been redecorated as well, looking more like a room at an inn. He shuts the door behind and flops down onto the bed, falling asleep.

The next day he makes his way back to the Blue Palace, relieved that it was still the same as it was when he was still thane. He explains to the guards who he was and they let him inside. He walked slowly up the grand staircase, and to his surprise not much had changed except for the people of the Court. He recognized Falk Firebeard now as an old man, Elisif now a woman of middle age, but Sybille however, still remained the same. They were in the middle of an argument when they stopped, turning towards him. ❝ Who interrupts this-- ❞ Falk begins to speak but Elsif stops him. ❝ Faelmon? ❞ she asks, ❝ Yes my Jarl, it is I. ❞ he bows his head in respect. He could hear the court whispering amongst themselves. Elisif stands from her throne, approaching him with a hand outstretched before it reaches his chest. ❝ You were gone for so long. ❞ He nods before placing his hand on hers. ❝ I apologize for that, my Jarl. ❞ A small smile forms on his face, ❝ Things happened that were out of my control, things that if you have the time I’d discuss with you and Falk privately. ❞ which earns him a nod from her in response. Falk walks over to him, placing a hand on his back ❝ We’re glad to have you back. ❞

The months pass, and as they do he ventures back into the wilds of Haafingar like he once did, making sure he is well fed, even taking bottles now in case he can’t get it later. He never wanted to become as feral as he did in that tomb, when he was locked away by his maker. Speaking of his maker, he had gotten word that she had become trapped in the Soul Cairn through word of Sybille Stentor. She didn’t get very far in her plans, whatever they were and that gave the elf solace. Though he wonders what became of the poor vessel that held her soul.

It took almost a year for him to finally be reunited with his family, Lucia and Sofie were overcome with joy when they finally saw him again. They almost knocked him over trying to hug him. They caught up about their adventures, their studies, their careers. Everything they could recall.

The thane takes a less active role in the court too. Eventually he stops coming to the court meetings altogether, only traveling to Skyrim to visit Elisif and Falk. A few more years pass when he and his eldest daughter decide to tackle the adventure of traveling all of Tamriel. Exploring the lands and uncovering their mysteries, and of course sending letters back home to his son, entailing of their findings and recalling their grand adventures.

#𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 ( act v. )#hi :)#gore //#claustrophobia //#17 paragraphs :)

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robinskey · 5 years

Text

Home (Billy x Reader)

Request: Hey! Wondering if you could do a Billy Hargrove x Reader on a roadtrip? Maybe heading back to Cali for a look around the old stomping grounds. Thank you much! 💚💜

A/N: Love the road trip idea! Thanks for requesting, my love! Hope you enjoy. :)

Warnings: Swearing, mention of abuse (just the word “abusive”, basically-I don’t go into detail at all)

About a month before summer break, you and Billy decided to start planning a road trip to California.

Normally, Billy was a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. He rarely used any forethought before making a decision. Instead, he preferred to play things by ear and just sort of hope for the best. Though his unpremeditated plans went awry, things usually worked out okay in the end.

When just doing something for himself, okay was enough. But this trip wasn’t just for himself. It was also for his girl-who had never visited the golden coast. For that reason, this trip had to be damn near perfect.

Billy picks you up in the Camaro one Sunday morning. While he helps you load your bags into the trunk, a low buzzing sound reaches your ear. For a moment, you wonder if something’s wrong with his engine. Then, you realize the hum is coming from him.

You fail to suppress a grin as you both get into the car.

“What?” Billy asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just like seeing you happy.”

Billy smirks and reaches across the console for your hand. His rough, calloused palm slides into yours, fingers intertwining.

“I’m always happy when I’m with you,” he says, even though you both know that’s a lie. He’d never admit it, but Billy’s expressed a plethora of emotions while in your presence. You’ve seen his anger flare at a guy for looking at you the wrong way; you’ve held Billy on the nights when his grief over the loss of his mother becomes too much to bear. And, even though he tries to act all macho, Billy has expressed his fears to you more than once-most of which revolve around his abusive father.

But you don’t want to think about Neil right now. You can’t think about him right now. So you simply smile back at Billy and listen as he lists off all the places you’re going to visit on the West Coast.

***

You and Billy take turns behind the wheel for the next day and a half. Because you both stocked up on snacks for the trip, you don’t need to stop for food. When you pull into truck stops to use the restrooms, you know you only have about thirty seconds before Billy will be calling into the bathroom, asking if you’re done in there yet.

Usually, you’d scold him for his impatience. Your boyfriend is seventeen years old, not an eight-year-old on his way to Disney World. But you see the way his eyes light up as he points out landmarks and hear the way he cheers with every state line crossed. Billy can’t wait to arrive in California-to arrive home.

At sunset on the second day, you make it to Arizona, the last state you need to pass through. You expect Billy to floor the gas and drive 100 miles per hour until you reach your destination. Thus, you’re shocked when your boyfriend turns to ask if you’d mind spending the night in a motel. However, getting a good night’s sleep on an actual mattress sounds like a dream after spending the last thirty hours powered by car naps, so you don’t question his decision.

Twenty minutes later, Billy pulls into the parking lot of a place called the Cactus Inn. (You make a joke about the bed being prickly and unstable, since succulents aren’t the best building material.) Billy scores a front-row spot only a few feet from the reception area. Aside from a beat-up pickup truck and an old station wagon, the lot is vacant. The lack of customers isn’t exactly the best sign, but you’re both exhausted and can’t fathom driving another mile tonight. You pay for a single room. The original key given to you by the concierge doesn’t even turn in the lock, so you offer to make the trip back to the main office while Billy stays with the bags.

“Oh!” The guy behind the counter drags out the word. He chuckles, then rifles around in the desk drawer, finally producing a key without a tag. “That lock is whack. Just take the skeleton key. It’ll unlock any room you want.”

You frown at the man, who-judging by his bloodshot eyes and blissed-out demeanor-has clearly been smoking something a little stronger than Billy’s cigarettes.

“Are you sure? Can’t you, like, get in trouble for that?”

The scruffy man shrugs indifferently. “Probably. But my dad owns this damn place. What’s he going to do, fire me?”

When you return to room 202, however, both Billy and the luggage have vanished. For a second, you think he went to sit in the Camaro, but the car’s empty, too. Then, a light clicks on behind the curtains, and a slim silhouette passes the window. The door flings open a half-second later. A shirtless Billy leans against the doorframe, one of his arms extended to the other side.

“Care to come in, beautiful?”

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of why I got the key,” you say, ducking under the bridge formed by his body and the door. “How did you even get in?”

“Got bored. Picked the lock,” Billy explains as you zip open your duffel bag.

“I was gone two minutes, Billy. Two minutes, and you’re breaking into a hotel room,” you groan, pulling out your toothbrush and toothpaste, along with a fresh t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. You duck into the bathroom to change.

“We already paid for the hotel room, Y/N. It’s not breaking in if it’s yours,” Billy calls. He allows the door to creak shut, and metal squeaks as he moves the chain into place.

“I’m pretty sure any time you can’t enter a building without picking the lock, it counts as breaking in.” You yank your shirt over your head, hop into your trousers, and unscrew the lid from your tube of toothpaste.

“Whatever.” There’s a rustling sound; then, Billy appears at your shoulder with his toothbrush. You squeeze a bit of paste onto his brush, then yours.

As the two of you scrub at your teeth, you watch your reflection in the mirror. The backdrop of the dismal hotel room fades away, and you picture this scene in a different setting: in the future home you’ll share with the love of your life. You get so caught up in your fantasy that Billy has to gently nudge you out of the way so he can spit into the sink. After he’s washed his mouth out with water, he presses his chapped lips to your bare shoulder. The contact sends a shiver up your spine that jolts you out of your daydream.

Springs creak as Billy settles into the bed. He holds the covers up so you can crawl in, then reaches over you to flick off the light switch, submerging you both into darkness. Billy’s toned arms wind around your waist, fingers interlacing over your stomach. He buries his face into the nuzzle of your neck, and his slightly scruffy face tickles your skin.

“This time tomorrow, we’ll be falling asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the sand,” he murmurs.

“Can’t wait.”

That’s the last thing you remember before you fall asleep.

***

When Billy tries to drag you out of bed at three in the morning, you chuck pillows at his head. He dodges every single one of your terrible throws. You beg for another hour of rest; Billy promises you can sleep in the car. That isn’t enough to convince you to leave the down mattress and cotton sheets, so Billy picks you up bridal-style, plops you into the passenger seat, and hands you a wadded-up jacket to use as a pillow. You lean your head against the window, lips pressed into a pout.

Billy slips into the driver’s seat a few minutes later, having loaded all your things into the trunk. When he reaches over to squeeze your thigh, you curl your legs into your chest defiantly and stick your tongue out at him.

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.”

“I certainly will be like this. We paid for a whole night in a hotel room, and you let me have four hours,” you huff.

“Well, first of all, I paid for the room, princess,” he says, backing out of the lot, “and second, we have to leave this early if we want to get to the beach on time.”

“On time?” you mumble. Your eyelids are heavy, so you shut them.

“On time to see the sun rise over the ocean,” Billy says, and there’s a sort of wistfulness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. If you were awake enough, you’d tease him about it.

But as it stands, your brain can barely process the words coming out of his mouth.

“That sounds nice,” you murmur before the world fades back to black.

***

“Y/N.”

“Mm?”

“Wake up, babe. We’re here.”

Your eyes flutter open and meet Billy’s. He’s leaning over you, his hands on your shoulders. For a second, you think that you’ve just arrived at another rest stop. Then, Billy gently tugs you out of the car. The air is dry and slightly chilly when the breeze hits your bare arms. Your feet sink into the earth ever so slightly; grains of sand lodge themselves between your toes. In the distance, an endless expanse of clear blue water ripples with movement and marine life.

The last of the stars have faded from the sky, replaced by a pale pink hue covered in fluffy clouds. The very top of an orange ball of light peeks above the horizon like a nervous toddler afraid of strangers. Billy hoists you onto the hood of the Camaro before hopping up himself. You swing your legs over his. He wraps his arms around your midsection and pulls you into his lap, just as the sun starts to appear above the skyline.

Low-tide waves collide with the shoreline. They glimmer with the golden reflection of the sunlight before retreating back into the depths of the ocean. As the sun rises higher above the water, more color bleeds into the atmosphere. The previously-pastel pink darkens into a vibrant salmon streaked with scarlet and sunflower yellow.

You glance up at Billy. He stares at the sea in awe. You slip one finger under his chin to draw his attention, and he gazes down at you with the same expression. His eyes glitter with wonder, nostalgia, and the reflection of the sun’s palette.

“What do you think?” he asks, breathless, even though you’ve barely moved in the last forty-eight hours.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, bringing your lips up to meet his. You swear you can already taste the saltwater on them, as if he simply absorbs it through the air.

“Welcome home, baby.”

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ladykeane · 5 years

Note

Bertie and Reg dress up for Halloween at Dahlia's!! and the party!!!

To the lovely Nonny who sent this, I profusely apologise if you’re not the massive weeb/animation geek that I am. But this idea stuck, and I couldn’t help myself!

Fair warning, it’s quite silly, most definitely cracky, and completely self indulgent…

There was a lesson given to me by my drama teacher at school, Mrs Irving, that has always stayed with me. The gist of her teaching was that a good actor must have a sort of dual consciousness. I suppose what she meant was that a chap should have the power to transform his mindset into that of the character he plays - and then just as easily slip back into his usual mental space, once the curtain falls. There must co-exist a Bertie-the-Wooster and Bertie-the-Prince-Hal within a single animal. Well, I suppose I have put this lesson to good use in my adult life, as I can attest that Bertie-the-Drone, Bertie-the-obedient-nephew and Bertie-the-seducer-of-certain-Jeeveses manage to be conjured at the drop of a whatsit.

A particularly surprising example of this dual consciousness wheeze occurred just recently, on the night of Aunt Dahlia’s annual Halloween bash. I suppose the lifted veil to the spirit world aided this shift of the Wooster disposish. (Well, the costume probably helped too, not to mention my dear auntie’s insistence that her party guests never drop out of character for the whole of the evening. That can make certain things a tad awkward, such as bathroom ablutions. One must ask: does Superman use the lavatory at all?)

I was given the scoop on the event by my ancestor over the phone, as I sat digesting a fourth-or-fifth slice of Reg’s birthday cake. (This year he had requested a Black Forest, and I have to say that I outdid myself. The leftover kirsch was also a boon.)

‘Super-groups?’ I asked. ‘You mean like the Travelling Wilburys?’‘No, young clot, I mean super-groups like the Avengers, Justice League, and their lycra-clad ilk. The group with the best costumes and most convincing delivery will receive a prize from your Uncle Tom and myself.’‘Ooh! And what is that?’‘For one, a cooking lesson with Anatole. Apparently he owed Reg a favour, and your man generously donated said favour to me.’I glanced an appreciative glance at my beloved, who sat perusing the W.H. Auden anthology I had given him.‘Secondly, a near-pristine Nintendo Gamecube, complete with controllers and a collection of best-selling game cartridges.’‘You mean the one you confiscated from Angela and myself? I still think that was an unfair punishment.’‘I say, it was entirely fair! Do you forget that I got stuck with the bill to clean your old headmaster’s office!? I am told that the stench of baked beans can still be detected throughout the school halls, to this very day! Anyway, I would advise you to get cracking. The competition will be stiff, I hear Angela’s little friends have been working on their costumes since August. Perhaps you and Reg could go as Batman and Robin!’‘Perhaps, auntie.’‘Well, pip-pip then. I’ve got many a fake tombstone and skeleton to haul down from the attic.’

As I hung up, Reg raised his head from his book. ‘I believe Mrs Travers has briefed you on this year’s Halloween festivities?’‘Indeed. She’s never offered a prize for the guests before. They’re real plums, at that. I reckon it would be well worth the splurge to get some first-rate togs.’‘May I ask what this year’s theme is?’‘Super-groups. By which I mean, groups of superheroes. She suggested we go as Batman and Robin! We’re already quite the dynamic duo, anyway. What d’you think?’

As I uttered these words, the Jeevesian brow began sinking south, until the look on his face chilled the lukewarm cup of tea sitting at my elbow.‘I should say not, Bertram.’‘Oh. Well… what about Danger Mouse and Penfold? You could be DM, of course.’‘I regret that I shall be unable to attend this year’s festivities. I have much to do to complete the Earl of Rowcester’s living will.’

Of all the paper-thin excuses! ‘Oh, don’t give me that Reg! What is it? You don’t care to be in the same room as all that brightly-coloured spandex? You fared just fine at last year’s “Stranger Things” soiree, and we were surrounded by a multitude of eighties fashion, at that!’(He made quite the dashing Steve Harrington, actually. Aunt Dahlia cast this Bertram as Dustin, so while I was able to tag after him all night there was an unfortunate dearth of snogging.)‘I am afraid I must insist. I do not care to be dressed in the bright, garish apparel that is requisite of superheroes.’

Given that it was the lowly rotter’s birthday, I held on to the flames that should have escaped from my nostrils. ‘Oh, very well, Reg. Have it your way.’ To ensure that none of my internal invective against him slipped past the Wooster lips, I left the flat for a sullen trudge about Mayfair.

***

That very evening, Bingo Little summoned self and several other Drones to dinner. He was in town with his husband Randy, to look for a property where they could spend their Winters. While the reports given indicated that all was spiffy within their NYC townhouse, Randy wanted to ensure that his paramour did not lose touch with his British roots. And I think I remembered him saying that his next novel was to be set in South Kensington, inspired by the likes of Richard Curtis and Hugh Grant. All rather convenient, no?

‘That Gamecube and cooking lesson with Anatole is as good as ours, lads. I have the perfect idea for our super-group.’ Here Bingo took a long sip of tea, leaving us in a state of eye-boggling suspense.‘Christ and his disciples?’ suggested Stinker.‘The Bloomsbury Group?’ queried Boko.‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?’ asked Gussie.

‘Better,’ Bingo finally replied, a rivulet of tea dribbling down his chin. ‘Do you know “Sailor Moon”?’

‘Sparkly schoolgirl with the pigtails? Yes, I recall watching the English language version with Angela sometimes. Quite a cheesy romp, that.’‘Oh, you ought to read the original manga ,’ said Boko. ‘A perfect blend of costumed superhero action and romantic high fantasy!’

For the next half hour, we were subject to Boko and Bingo giving us a full synopsis of the dratted space opera, complete with character studies, mythological references, and feminist overtones. Now, I have known my fellow Drones to sometimes possess hidden depths, but I was unsure whether this encyclopedic grasp of a Japanese super-girl-group was more of a mild pathology instead.

‘So,’ Bingo announced, ‘I believe I’ve figured out the perfect casting for each of us. I shall be Sailor Venus, of course, the soldier of love. Randy does call me his golden love god, after all.’ (Pause here for requisite retching.) ‘Gussie can be Sailor Mercury, given his general… wateriness. Boko’s love of house plants is perfect for Sailor Jupiter. And due to his spiritual calling, Stinker will be Sailor Mars, the shrine-maiden.’

I was trying to picture each of my chums kitted out in a colour coded schoolgirl costume. Perhaps we would score points for comedic effect, if nothing else.‘And what about me?’ I asked.‘Well, you’ll be our Sailor Moon, naturally.’‘Golly! I must say, Bingo, I’m quite chuffed to be given the starring role. I assume that it’s due to my former experience with drag, not to mention my theatrical prowess and general heroic gravitas.’‘Well… I suppose. It’s also because Sailor Moon is supposed to be a ditzy blonde crybaby.’‘Ah.’The judicious nods that the others gave were a tad insulting.

‘Does this mean that I’ll have to wax? ’ asked Gussie.

***

Now, if you’ve ever seen the much-celebrated cartoon, you’ll know that one of the highlights of every episode is the spangly transformation sequences, where each heroine morphs from humdrum schoolgirl into celestial warrioress. Our first go at donning the famous fuku was much less glamorous.

Boko knew a chap who knew a lass who worked at a highly-regarded fancy dress company. Apparently, many a masquerade-goer and cosplayer has raved about their beautifully crafted goods. As we trundled our way out their HQ on the tube, we were all in high hopes of scoring the perfect outfits. As it happens, the fitting session that followed made me appreciate just how inadequate the standard sizing of womens’ apparel really is.

Bingo and I had the best luck, but the costumes closest to fitting us were narrow in the shoulders and wide in the hips. Gussie managed to squeeze into one of the larger sizes, but resembled more of a wrinkly chicken sausage than a cute superheroine. (The skirt was appallingly short on him, and when he bent over to grab his phone from his bag I was quite traumatised.) Stinker, who is built akin to a silverback gorilla, utterly utterly destroyed the costume he attempted to yank on. I offered to foot the bill for that one, as a vicar’s salary can only cover so many breakages per month.

‘It’s no good, boys,’ sighed the seamstress who had patiently assisted us, ‘you’ll need to get these custom-made.’‘And how long will that take?’ asked Bingo.She put on a brave face. ‘I’ll do my best to get them ready for Halloween, but bear in mind I’ve already got a backlog of orders to finish.’‘Chin up!’ I replied. ‘I can probably ask a favour of the drag queen who did my costuming for “Legally Blonde” - Reg cut her a sweet deal with a new agent at the time. I’ll ask if she can source the shoes and wigs and things.’

A level of relief washed on to the girl’s face at this. I’d feel the same, if I were freed from the task of cobbling a pair of Stinker Pinker-sized red pumps.‘Even so, we’ll be cutting it close with this order. I doubt I’ll be done before the morning of the 31st.’‘Send me the bill for your energy drinks,’ I offered.‘It’s a deal.’

***

Time ticked on, and All Hallows Eve drew near. While I did my best not to harbour any full-on wrath against Reg at his blowing-off of the party, I couldn’t help but act a tad pipped towards him. Were lurid leotards and shiny accessories really so horrid?When he snuggled close to me on the sofa, I scooched away. When he dropped a kiss upon my map, my only response was tight-lipped disinterest. The blighter refused to compromise, so wherefore should this Wooster succumb to his entreaties? I took a lot of cold showers that week.

The big day came, and still nary a costume was yet received.‘5pm, she said,’ Boko told me, ‘and we’ll have to go and pick them up ourselves.’‘Hm, that is cutting it close. Well, bear up, old fruits! Leather Smalls will be along this arvo to do our make-up and hair.’‘Leather Smalls?’‘Didn’t I tell you? She’s part of an all-drag M People tribute act.’

If I can impart to you the experience of tubing it across suburban London in a long blonde, pigtailed wig, a full face of makeup, and masculine civvies, accompanied by four other similarly styled blokes, you probably wouldn’t doubt my claim that it was one of the more surreal experiences in my life. Halloween is not quite the big deal here that it is across the pond, so we got quite the share of wolf whistles, disapproving auntly glares, and ‘yaaaas, queen’s from our fellow travellers.

At last, at last, we arrived at Brinkley Court, freshly finished costumes in hand. The coloured lights, costumed crowd, and strains of ‘Monster Mash’ from within indicated a party already in full swing.As we entered the front door, I grabbed for the first bowl of sweets I could find, given my lowered blood sugar.‘That’s it!? Gawd, Bertie, you could have at least made an effort!’

Angela had grabbed one of the sweets from my hand and popped it in her mouth. I wasn’t quite sure who she was supposed to be, but her costume was really quite the thing.She was caked head-to-toe in light purple body paint, with a long wig in a paler shade of the same colour. A brilliant gem was affixed to her chest, and she wielded a long double-headed whip. I did not feel inclined to backtalk her.‘So who’ve you come as?’‘One of the Crystal Gems, obvs. Anyway, you need to go easy on those. Mum says that some neighbourhood bullies have been stealing sweets from the trick-or-treating kids, and she’s promised to recompense them.’‘What!?’My blood was now boiling - what lowly cad felt the need to scam helpless rugrats out of their jelly babies and smarties?

‘Oh, it’s awful,’ said Aunt Dahlia, swiping the remaining sweets from my hand and depositing them back in their bag. ‘I just saw Captain America crying his poor little eyes out, being comforted by Bucky Barnes. A whole evening’s worth of trick-or-treating swag, stolen from them by three nasty teenagers!’‘She means Thos and Edwin,’ Angela translated.‘What teenagers?’ asked Stinker.‘Some of the nastier upperclassmen from Eton, apparently. Captain America tells me that they have a reputation for bullying even the house masters and head teachers. Great brutes.’‘Rum,’ I said. ‘But, Aunt Dahlia-’‘Who?’I took in my auntie’s costume.‘But, Catwoman, hasn’t anyone tried to pull them up for it?’‘They’ve been too wily. I was told that they also egged the Emsworths’ place, running off onto Ham Common before anyone could catch them.’‘Travesty!’ cried Boko. ‘They can’t get away with this!’‘Too right!’ I said.‘Well? You lot are supposed to be the Sailor Senshi, aren’t you? You fight for love and justice, yes?’‘Er…?’‘You must transform, and thwart the damned villains!’

The Drones and I shared a look askance. ‘Um.’‘May I remind you, Sailor Moon, of the video games and French cuisine that are up for grabs for the group who best embodies their chosen superheroes?’‘Right ho. Moon Prism Power Make Up, then!’

***

We stampeded upstairs, bottlenecking on the landing, and Stinker stumbled noisily upon the top step. Into my old bedroom, and our everyday trappings were cast off in favour of our splendid, sparkly sailor ensembles.It was a bit of a muddle - the others needed help donning their padded brassieres, not to mention adjusting their skirts to preserve modesty. But after a few fumbling minutes, we were ready to go, as resplendent a team of magical girls as Brinkley Court had ever seen.

I allowed myself an indulgent linger before the full-length mirror. I really did look cute. The big pink bow was quite flattering to my proportions, and the blue skirt and collar set off my eyes nicely.‘Come on, Sailor Moon! We’ve got a contest to win!’With a flick of my pigtails, I was off.

Bursting out of Brinkley’s front door again, we charged into the gloaming. The place looks directly out over Ham Common, and on the great stretch of lawn, it did not take us long to spot the perps.

A juvenile, quivering Wallace and Gromit were surrounded by three of the largest, most grotesque teenage boys that I’d ever beheld. Though a good decade younger than myself, they looked to be twice my height and about four times my body weight. Most ghastly of all were their choices of costume: the ringleader was dressed as Pennywise the Clown, with his two lieutenants cast as Thanos and a zombie version of Napoleon Dynamite. I admit that the hint of rotten green brain showing through his blonde afro was an impressive use of make-up, but it did turn my stomach a tad.

Just before they could rip the trick-or-treat bags from the youngsters, I put a solid, heeled boot forward.‘Leave those beloved icons of childrens’ entertainment alone!’‘Hurrr,’ slurred Thanos, ‘check out the anime drag queens.’‘Wanna come party with us, girls?’ said Pennywise. ‘We got heaps of sweeties for the sweeties!’I puffed out my padded chest. ‘Never! I stand for love and justice! And… by the Code of the Woosters, I shall punish you!’

And so it began. We swooped upon them. Wallace and Gromit scarpered, and we were met with a barrage of large humbugs. When thrown with enough velocity, those things can leave a bruise.

Behind me, Gussie boldly came up bearing a large garden hose. He turned the nozzle on the head, but instead of dousing the monsters, the force of the spray was a bit too much for him, and he clung on for dear life as the hose thrashed about in his arms. He quickly went down in a self-inflicted mud puddle.

Stinker managed to plant a shiner of a right hook on Thanos. The brute staggered away, doubled over in pain. He threw off his plastic infinity gauntlet, upon which Stinker tripped magnificently, going pumps over skirt into the turf as well.

Boko fearlessly leapt upon Napoleon’s back, wrapping his noodly arms about an equally noodly neck. Napoleon bucked about like a bronco with a bad itch. Boko did his best to hang on, but the slippery satin gloves ultimately betrayed him, and the poor soul was flung off into a nearby rose bush.

The three monsters continued running from us. It was just me and Bingo now. We exchanged a silent glance of Sailor Senshi solidarity, as we pursued them towards a clump of oak trees.With a well aimed stomp, Bingo got Pennywise right in the oversized foot, with the heel of his pump. However, before I could back him up, the two lieutenants grabbed my chum and snatched his wig by its red ribbon, hurling it up into the branches of one of the trees.‘NOT MY VENUS WIG!’Abandoning the skirmish, Bingo pathetically began clambering up the branches to try and retrieve the thing. (I mean, it was a nice wig. And if it came back damaged, I would be owing Leather Smalls big time.)

And so, the beasts turned their attention to me. Three cruel grins bore down upon me like vultures on a dying wildebeeste. They looked like they could easily pummel me into a boneless mush, and not even feel it the next day. I’m not too proud to admit that I quivered in my heeled boots.‘What was that about punishing us, sweetie?’‘Let’s hang her from the branches by those stupid pigtails!’‘Yeah! And then we’ll-’

All of a sudden, something sleek and sharp came whistling through the night air. It popped Pennywise’s balloon, and struck Thanos right between the cheeks of his ample bum.‘Ow!’‘What the…’It was a fine, thin blade, attached to a deep red rose.

The four of us whipped our heads towards the source of the floral projectile. Imagine my total astonishment to perceive, perched upon a high stone wall before the radiant moon, none other than Tuxedo Mask. Gosh, he was splendid, with his billowing black cape and aura of general rakishness.‘How dare you blackguards steal from innocent children and assault these brave soldiers. Sailor Moon, I know you can defeat them.’‘But how, dash it!?’

He tossed me a bright pink plastic object. It took me a moment to discern that it was an external hard drive. It bore a little decal of one of those colourful cartoon pony characters.I looked back at the monsters, to find Pennywise agog.‘Wh… WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!?’‘Uhm…’‘Dude… is that what I think it is?’ said Napoleon.‘GIVE IT BACK!’ cried Pennywise.

Tuxedo Mask and I shared a single silent, meaningful glance, and I dropped the thing to the grass, raising my heeled boot above it, primed to smash.‘Well… I might, if you agree to apologise to every last child you terrorised, AND return their sweeties.’‘But we already ate some,’ said Thanos.‘Alright… maybe just give them a few quid, in that case. AND you’ll be cleaning the egg off Mrs Emsworth’s front stoop.’‘Anything, ANYTHING!’ begged Pennywise. ‘Please just give me back my-’‘NIGEL!!!’

A robust, sour-faced Jean Grey was stomping across the grass, her fiery gaze fixed on Pennywise.‘You have a lot of explaining to do, young man!’‘But Mum-’‘I should confiscate your little pony stories this instant!’‘No! Please…’‘Instead, you will do exactly as Sailor Moon says, and apologise to all the people whose Halloween you have ruined! You too, Cyril, Edgar! Don’t think I won’t be telling your mothers what you’ve done!’

The clown was dragged off by his ear to begin his penance, but not before he could snatch up his pink hard drive. Now that the leader had fallen, his two henchmen slunk along in his wake.

The Sailor Senshi had regrouped, and Angela, Thos, and Edwin (sorry, Amethyst, Captain America, and Bucky) had also dashed up to join us.‘You know who that was?’ said Angela, ‘Little Nigel Belfry. I went to St George’s with his big sister Diedre. Rotten little punk. One of the worst trolls in the online “My Little Pony” fandom too.’‘He bullies us all the time,’ said Thos.‘Well, dangle the name “Eulalie” in front of him. That’s his username on all the major MLP forums. Not sure he’d like that info getting out at Eton.’ Here she thumped me on the back. ‘Well done, Sailor Moon, you gave him the punishment that he sorely needed.’‘Oh, but I couldn’t have done it without…’I turned towards the stone wall. Of course, Tuxedo Mask had already biffed off. Probably to go hunt down the Silver Imperium Crystal or something.

***

Now that the drama had wound down, we finally had a chance to mingle. I got to take in the costumes of Angela’s group: Honoria was some sort of giant magenta woman with sunglasses and boxing gloves; Florence looked lovely and delicate in a gossamer tutu, and gleefully swung about a rather frightening spear; while Madeline was surprisingly dressed in drag - some charming little chap by the name of Steven, I think. The craftwork of their outfits was simply matchless, and they were clearly the ones to beat for the contest.

After Time-Warping and Thriller-ing and Caramelldansen-ing the night away, as well as quaffing some questionable looking cocktails with names like Chemical X and Radioactive Sludge, it was time to announce the winners of the costume competition.Uncle Tom (sorry, the 4th Doctor) killed the music, and tapped a fork against his glass of Chemical X to call for silence.Dahlia-or-Catwoman hopped up on the coffee table, to better survey the throng. ‘The door prize goes to Winnie the Pooh, who clearly misunderstood the assignment.’Spode-the-Pooh shuffled up to grab his bag of humbugs, and Madeline-or-Steven applauded wildly.

‘The runners-up are Wario and Waluigi, who regrettably stayed true to their despicable characters all evening!’Claude and Eustace collected their swag of Quality Street and Jack Daniels, fighting over who would get to carry them.

Angela and I exchanged a tense side eye. Could one of us really have been left out?

‘And the first prize… is a joint win, between the Crystal Gems and the Sailor Senshi! Come on down, ladies!’Well, everyone pooh-poohs nepotism until they benefit from it. Angela and I joined hands, and led our respective groups to their shared moment of glory. (And after a little bartering, we agreed to let the girls take the cooking lesson, while we scored the Gamecube. I know that Angela has long been an avid fan of Anatole’s show ‘Cuisine Inferno’.)

***

After a little more merrymaking, the music changed from novelty festive monster songs to the cheesy fodder of slow dancing. As couples began to pair off and pitch woo, a thought occurred to me: where the devil had Tuxedo Mask gone?

At the very least, I wished to thank the fellow. It was anyone’s guess as to how he had picked up on Nigel-or-Pennywise’s little secret, but he had truly been my saviour.

I squeezed through the waves of slow dancers, trying to keep my eyes peeled for a top hat or a black cape. Alas, the only capes I could spy were of bright and garish hues.

I escaped to the quiet of Brinkley’s large, rambling back yard, in the hopes of getting a little air. As I ankled along the gravelled drive in my heeled boots, I couldn’t help but let a little melancholy sink in. Despite my search for Tuxedo Mask, I well knew who I really wanted to spend this night with.I reached the fountain, ornamented by Aunt Dahlia’s favoured statue of Artemis, and plonked my sorry self down upon its edge.‘Sailor Moon… we meet again.’

He emerged from behind the shadow of the trees, and I leapt right up.‘Tuxedo Mask! Ah… I really did want to thank you for your help back there. Awful solid of you, old chap.’

He did not come closer. ‘You are most welcome. I had been charged with organising the family affairs of the Earl of Rowcester. I encountered his youngest son, who proved to possess a most malicious and scheming temperament. I felt the temporary acquisition of the lad’s most prized digital information would prove a useful bargaining chip at some juncture.’‘And right you were, Tuxedo Mask! What a bally stroke of genius you…’

He stepped forward, and removed his eyemask.

‘Bertram, I am sorry that I was so intractable about tonight.’‘Oh… Good Lord… Reg, I hoped so dearly that it was you!’

I flew to his arms. And Angela, the sneaky brat, managed to get a good number of happy snaps of Sailor Bertie and Tuxedo Reg locked in a passionate embrace.

‘Reg?’‘Yes, my moonbeam?’‘Keep the cape.’

#jeeves and wooster #bertie's blog #fanfic prompts #seriously tho this is total crack

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delcat177 · 5 years

Photo

Text in captions, if that won’t read on text to voice please let me know <3

This is a half-year old, but I only paid Blobs Magician to help me out once and I’m fresh out of delicately painted acorns and he gave me commission rights so I’ll be tipping him a ziploc bag of goldfish later

I feel awkward writing about all of this--there was a bit of jealousy when I got my hyst (not projecting, I was told flat by a trans friend), and I worry that I may be making other people feel alone, anxious, or less-than in their gender by talking about it. If you feel that at all, please, stop right now. Don’t look in the mirror, because mirrors are scary. Like, really scary, they have ghosts or stuff probably, but also in the genders sense, so instead, look in your head. Look at your self. It’s in there, because it is you. What is happening to me now is a shell upgrade, a hermit crab moving domiciles. I was a boy once, then a young man, then a oldman, and now I’m a oldman with a society man shell. Never mistake the shell for the crab, go “hey crab, I like your shell, I hope you find the perfect shell, because you are the perfect inhabitant” and celebrate that crab. Because we are all crabs, and we are all beautiful, and we all deserve the shells that reflect us as individuals, and anyone who says otherwise can fuck off into a spiny urchin bush and not have a shell. Or. Something. Did I say I felt awkward? I AM awkward. But anyway, drive-in movie totals and such after cut, potential TMI, and protect yourself love yourself, you lovely crabs <333

(with cut ‘cause longtext is looong)

(ORIGINAL POST)

Alt-text: I'm always the last one to know

so uh

I'm a blithe idiot and somehow never processed or dared to dream that this was possible

which makes the timeline look SPECTACULARLY dumb but I was going through SO MANY LIFESTYLE CHANGES

HYST DATE: SEPTEMBER 28, 2016

2017: Me: Man, living in the townhouse has really amped up my leg game, all that up and down stairs.

Me: I'm down ten pounds since the hyst! Megan: That's probably your natural weight. Me: That or getting there. Not surprising, I'm not feeding the beast constantly.

Me: *punches Megan playfully in the arm* Megan: OW goddammit Del that hurt like SHIT! Me: oh my God I'm sorry I didn't mean to! Megan: It's okay, just be careful! Me: That's so weird I'm sorry D8

Me: man is it just me or am I good in bed lately? oh right I'm the only one here...I guess it's because I'm more confident?

Me: ghghjh my hair's thinning out at the temples, well been expecting that one for awhile, at least it waited for 30

2018:

Me: Holy shit, the stairs plus the shopping is paying off! My thighs are HUGE! I wonder if cracking a watermelon with these bad boys is hyperbole. I bet I could though. I BET.

Me: Down to 162 and holding, fuck you past doctors! I just needed ENERGY goddammit!

Me: Wow, I've lost a lot of weight from my face especially. That makes me super happy. Anyway better pluck these stray hairs. ...have I been yanking these more lately? Getting old is weird.

Me: (struggling with shorts) Megan: Do you need a belt? Me: I'M WEARING A BELT (lifts shirt to reveal belt double wrapped around hips) Megan: Well then Me: I just need to buy new shorts, my ass is just GONE Megan: In the meantime maybe pay attention to what underwear you have on Me: yeah thank God for boxers

Me: My acne scars are heck of acting up. I wish I hadn't picked at my face so much as a kid, I guess the pores are just kinda fucked, I've read about that happening.

2019:

Megan: New shorts look good Me: I am so bad at shopping Megan: At least you have them now Me: I'm an assless chap is all Megan: Go to bed Del Me: It's four in the afternoon

Me: My throat feels so *thick* lately. I haven't been hitting the vape that often, why does it feel weird? And why am I noticing my own voice more? I NEVER notice my own voice, I make a point of it. Am I subconsciously pitching it lower like I used to do talking on Skype because I'm more socially active? What is my brain I'm so AWKWARD Me: UGH I'm falling back into derma habits, I haven't picked in my face in years, I think I need to change cleansers. But...my face looks...good? I guess I had this hiding under that baby fat all these years. ...I guess? Me: Am I getting a hump from my bad computer posture? Shit. Me: Oh no, it's not a hump, my shoulders are starting to put on muscle! That's a relief. That must be from the...laundry? Carrying...laundry?

AUGUST 5, 2019: Me: (lying in bed) 2 + 2

Me: wait why am I putting on shoulder muscle now? I've been doing laundry for years, and it's never done that. And my legs didn't get this buff with a routine job where I was walking three hours a d--

Me:

AUGUST 14, 2019:

New Endocrinologist: We'll test your levels to make sure it isn't a pituitary gland issue or (some syndrome I've already forgotten the name of), and it could be because there's some small element of testosterone in the estrogen replacement, but the brain does produce androgens. We can definitely look into switching you to T if you want, but if it's facial hair you're worried about...well, once the follicle is there, it's there. These are irreversible changes.

Me: No on that then but irreversible,, like,, what I have now,, is forever,,,,,,,?

New Endocrinologist: Forever, and I would expect to continue to see muscle gains if you work out.

Me:

welcome to my second puberty please be aware it apparently involves as many mood swings as the first one but i'm tryin'

Since then, it’s been continuing confirm, confirm, confirm.

My acne turned out to be little follicles growing in odd places--not fullblown hair, just enough to irritate the skin while it was developing. Tiny tufts of 1-3 entirely white, downy hairs have popped up in a few places on my breasts. The real fuzz proliferation has been in the southern quarters--with all delicacy, there is no itch like the itch of hair beginning to grow anywhere sweat can proliferate, and I now understand why cis men scratch privates in public. Having NOT gone through a unified social experience with a peer group accepting of such measures, I am sure there is footage on grocery store cams of someone with an agonized expression walking like he has a weasel down his pants and worrying that 30 is early for hemorrhoids. Both have settled in for the most part, leaving me with a very fluffy, barely-there peach fuzz mustache that’s only noticeable in the right light, some spare hairs across my chin and neck that I keep in order, and a profound relief that I prefer boy shorts and swim trunks.

I went through a few weeks of being especially rank despite all the showering and was worried that was my new normal, but apparently T sweats be like that, and I’m back to smelling like...whatever I smell like, probably lavender with our fabric softener. I experienced what I believed was a relapse a month later that turned out to be a false positive--specifically, our thermostat was slowly dying and frog-boiling us until it got hot enough that my sister also went “dear God it is a sauna in here”, leading to replacement of the faulty element and another notch in the “my life is dumb” bedpost.

My face bonebs, which I frankly expected the least out of (when I wasn’t expecting at all), have slowly but surely been rearranging, a visual effect doubled by the much faster redistribution of fat. I honestly have no idea how this one works. I know more about dead bonebs than live ones. I would doubt it if I didn’t have pictures to back it up. I would say it’s easier to look in the mirror now, but I already stated my opinion on mirrors, do it too much and a skeleton will pop out. It WILL. My brain tells me this and it is never wrong about fears and or phobias. Don’t do it kids.

If there’s been a single most beautiful moment so far, it’s been getting back into Steven Universe after a long hiatus, opening my mouth to sing the opening like I did years ago, and realizing all at once that I was singing falsetto. I ran it back, dropped a register, and the first names I sang became those who would believe in me most. There were tears, and later, showing it off, there were fierce hugs. (Yes, the first ep I watched once I realized was Stevonnie, and YES GARNET GOING “GO HAVE FUN” wah)

I can’t begin to express the validation--I am no gender essentialist’s data point, this is MY experience and no one else’s, but I keep going “my aunt had a hyst and didn’t transition and I had one and I am because my brain makes androgens my brain makes androgens MY BRAIN MAKES ANDROGENS IT HAS BEEN MAKING ANDROGENS ALL THIS TIME IT HAS BEEN TRYING” and living in that, living in��“not even SCIENCE is against me”, which is a tremendous thing as a scientist. (As a scientist, I would be a blithering dullard to claim this is the only thing that affects or proves my gender, and I do not. Again, TERFs fuck off. This is simply a very validating thing to me, personally, in my experience. I’m not thrilled that I have to underline that this hard dammit internet.)

What lies ahead is...I don’t know! I thought I was done changing, but the post I saw that nudged me to finally do this on here went “you may stop being able to cry for awhile” and this is Important because I have been trying to figure out if I have Sjogren’s but apparently I have androgens which is slightly easier to pronounce. I’m not sure how I feel about that, because transitioning is a lot of “I’m not sure how I feel about this” and then things being okay. I would definitely say that the more I learn, the easier it is to feel steady and normal, which is important because the mood swings have been REAL. This is more than I asked for or bargained for, but I still only have one regret, and that’s that my hyst scars are just slightly asymmetrical and it Bothers Me, but even that is growing on me.

I don’t know how to end this post. I love you all to death, and I hope if you’re seeking transition, you find it and twenty dollars, and if you’re not seeking transition, you still find twenty dollars. Thank you so much for you and all you do and are. Remember--you are great!

Unless you’re truscum. Then this post isn’t for you (dammit Internet) and you can fall off a boardwalk onto a dead fish. Have fun with that!

hekk

#trans #trans mtf #trans timeline #del is a trans guy #gender #gender*#blobs magician #i'm sorry this wasn't sooner i was shy aaaaa #you are all tock to me #and you are all wonderful crabs #let us go for a scuttle #longpost #long post #scrolling

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avidfanficwriter · 5 years

Text

Two Drunken Fools (Chapter 1)

Characters: Tony Stark x OFC.

Warnings: So flippin many. Cursing, Alcoholism, depression, suicidal-ness(?) (I’m blanking the word), Smut, Pain, Will update as chapter arrive. Honestly, it’s messy. SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR AND ENDGAME

Ratings: M.

Summary: When Tony fought Thanos, he thought that was as bad as it could get. He'd walk away with a bruised ego, a stab wound and the kid in tote. It didn't end like that, it never does for Tony Stark. His world fell. The kid's gone, Pepper's gone and he's in dire need of help but refuse to let anyone know that. Instead he cures it the only way he knows how: booze and seclusion. Until he discovers he shares shocking similarities with someone else whose curing their own pain the same way.

Author’s Note: I HATE Absolutely freaking HATE chapters 1 and 2 but i give up. it’s pathetic, I know but I have a shit ton of other stuff written for this and the first two chaps aren’t getting any better. No matter how much I re-read and judge. I probably should get a beta, now that I think about it. Anyway, if you don’t like the first two i don't blame you, I hate them.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4.

"When I'm done half of humanity will still be alive."

Of all the things, Tony has heard or been told, he never considered Thanos' threat to be the one that would haunt him.

He never considered the possibility that he would lose either... but he had. The Avengers lost.

The day he lost has started to haunt him, he second guesses every choice he made and his mind is filled with Thanos... again. After New York, the battle, the wormhole and Nuke, he didn't think it could get worse. He saw a threat and he new they would need to protect the world. Thanos had only showed him a glimpse of the destruction he would bring. What he actually did was much worse. He took the world into his fist and squeezed until he felt victorious.

There's the sting in Tony's abdomen where Thanos impaled him that has phantom pains but it's Thanos' voice that he can't forget. Every day he wakes, it's the first thing he hears.

Thanos, the villain, the monster, the boogeyman who hides in children's closets had won. He followed through with the threat to rid the world of half human life but it's not the threat Tony wishes Thanos' would have acted on, he threatened to kill him, said in a gritty voice: "I hope they remember you." and Tony accepted it. He knew in that moment he was going to die. Only it never came. Thanos abandoned him, gathered the infinity stones and turned people to ash. Death would have been easier than living, buried six feet under with his flesh rotting and clothes turning to dirt would be easier than living with the knowledge that he let the world down. If he would have managed to stop Quill from reacting foolishly or stopped Strange from giving Thanos the stone, maybe they would've won. Maybe he would have succeeded but Thanos didn't allow him.

The gaping wound to his abdomen should've killed him, he deserved that. He should have went down with pain coursing through his body, blood seeping through his clothes and his body going cold but the world was to cruel to let Tony finally rest. He watched everyone around him disintegrate and he stayed. Tony remained in tact with his body bleeding and pain having yet to invade his mind. It should've killed him, plain and simple. Tony wanted to die, He longed for death but it never came. Everyone was gone, he was on a unknown planet and there was no telling who was still alive on earth. Did Pepper survive? Did Natasha? Was Steve---

Tony Stark deserved to die.

... but he hadn't.

Even as he was in a foreign spaceship suspended in the solar system with no food and water, an android as his only means of company and an infection infection running rampant throughout his body. He lived. Survival was harder to accept.

He lost Peter, a fifteen year old kid, he took under his arm and swore to protect. Tony looked the kid's aunt in her eyes and promised he'd be safe. He let her down.

The final nail in the coffin was, losing his heart, his everything, his reason for living. The light at the end of his tunnel was gone.

When Tony makes it to earth after days of being suspended in space, sickly and skeleton like with crusted lips and a heart beating far to slow, it's Steve who helps him from the ship. Wrapping his arm around his waist and silently forgetting everything from their turbulent past.

"I lost the kid." Tony forces out with a scratchy throat and dry eyes. He doesn't remember whose surrounding them or who else is there to greet him but he can remember the feeling of dread seeping off of the Captain.

Steve is quick to respond, not an ounce of hesitation as he meets Tony's eyes. "Tony, we lost." He corrects.

"Is... is Pep..." Steve nods before Tony has a chance to finish the question, his eyes solem and Tony's heart audible drops.

Tony lost the kid, held him as he turned to ash and blamed himself but there was still a tiny part of him that hoped Pepper was safe on earth, waiting for him to come back. Discovering she wasn't, created more pain than the blood infection and stab wound could have ever made. Pepper was taken from him, taken like everyone else. He wasn't there when death kidnapped Pepper, he didn't get to hold her in his arms, cradle her body close to his chest and promise her she would be okay. She died waiting for Tony, alone and scared.

Thanos took away half the population but he also managed to destroy Tony. He cursed Tony, forced him to live knowing he failed. He was right, the world would remember Tony Stark, the would remember him as the one who let humanity down. The man who had the opportunity to save everyone and wasn't able to do it. Everyone died because he couldn't do what needed to be done. Everyone died and he lived. Because Tony always lives and everyone he loves eventually leaves him.

Tony turns to drinking when the pain is too much to bare, he considers jumping off the roof but some sick twist of fate doesn't let him walk off the balcony. He drinks anything he can get his hands on because it helps just enough to get him through the day, the moment he's released from the hospital he goes home and downs a bottle of scotch. Then another and another. It cuts off his emotions, shuts down the parts of his brain that yearn for Pepper. Yet once the alcohol wears off, it all comes back with a vengeance. Memories fill his brain, loving kisses, the feeling of fingers running through his hair, smiles, her laugh or how she felt beneath him. No matter how much he drinks, the torment and emptiness of his heart can't be cured fully. She's always there, haunting him. Reminding him of how he failed and who he was before everything happened.

Iron Man is tucked away in a closet, piling with dust while FRIDAY is ordered to not let anyone in unless he okays it. Not a soul is allowed inside his home. He wants to be left alone, he can't handle the shame that fills people's eyes as he passes or the whispered conversations whenever his presence is around. Everyone knows, he failed. Everyone blames him.

Happy is the first to arrive at his door with a bag of cheeseburgers from fifteen different fast food restaurants, he knocks, jiggles the handles and calls out for his boss. Tony ignores him. Rhodey is the next, his hand slams against the solid door and he spares no expense at bribery. Vegas, he offers, like the old times. Tony ignores him. Natasha shows up, slamming her palm against the door much like Rhodey had only she demands to know what is going on and why no one has seen or heard from him in two months. She is treated the same response.

Tony has FRIDAY send over paperwork informing Natasha and Steve that they are now officially in control of whatever is left of The Avengers Compound, there is a short typed note from Tony simply saying: "You deserve it now."

Three months after the decision has been made official and is announced to whoever is left of the population, Steve makes an appearance at Tony's door saying something, he doesn't care enough to listen anymore. He's drank to much, spent too much time wallowing in self pity and still slightly angered at the great Captain America. He's forced to endure pain, carry it around with him while Steve Fucking Rogers walks around with his head held high and smile on his stupid face. Steve leaves after just five minutes, his hands buried in his pockets and his eyes aimed at the ground. Voicemails start after that, Happy, Natasha, Rhodey and Steve. They all eventually start to sound the same.

Happy: Boss, are you doing okay? What are you up to? Do you need me to get you anything? Boss, there is a meeting today, you should be there. Tony... You can't live like this. ...The world needs Iron Man. They need you, Tony. Pepper would want you to continue.

Natasha: Tony, I can't do this, I can't run a company. Tony, you need to come back, I need you to come back. Pepper would have wanted you at the helm.

Rhodey: Tony, you have to get out. You can't lock yourself up in your house and just give up. Pepper wouldn't want this. There is still so much left.

Steve: Tony, Look... I uh.. I get it, okay. I know what you're going through. You just have to think about who you're doing this for. Think about Pepper.

Voicemail after voicemail goes unanswered, he can't even bring himself to listen to them anymore. They all want something from him, run the company, show the world he's still here, the team still needs you but no one even noticed Tony needed something once upon a time too. He needed Pepper, needed friends and needed support. Tony needed them once and they left him, betrayed him and beat him down. Why would he believe them now? Why it would be any different now?

Tony can't remember when he did it but eventually he disconnects his cell phone, deletes his email account and puts Friday on lockdown (mostly because he knows she's been sending people updates on him). He eventually becomes a prisoner in his own home, cuts off from the world and the people. Every so often he checks the cameras in the compound out of boredom and possibly because he misses his 'friends.'

A few overheard conversations between Rhodey and Nat from his security feeds in the compound lead him to believe the teams Bird is on some Warrior mission serial killer style. Natasha is doing a better than he expected job at the helm of the compound, Steve tends to lurk in the shadows when it comes to the business but he resides in the compound and usually eats dinner alongside Nat. Rhodey is still actively involved in the military occasionally popping by to check up on things. Tony is stuck watching as they move on, continuing with life all while he doesn't get the privilege to. He has moments where his fingers dance across the keyboard or pad of phone, the phone numbers he knows by heart all scream out to be dialed. He could call Happy or Rhodey, even Banner (whatever he's up to now, he's the only one who hasn't been at the compound lately. He overheard Natasha say he was off being a doctor in some foreign country again) Tony also gets threatening close to starting a conference call with whoever is inside the conference room. It'd be so easy to press the call button and talk to someone, anyone. He never does. The first month of watching the feeds included witnessing Natasha come to terms that she was interacting with a build-a-bear, one who also happened to steal a few things from her office. Tony has a list of all the things, he's noticed the racoon taking and leaving money in place of. The second was trying to decipher where Steve spent his time outside of the compound but other than a bag of fast food he brought for Natasha, he's still at a loss. Months pass and the only interactions Tony's had with the team are one sided, video shots of their lives without him. Tony witnesses Natasha fire another round of employees they no longer deemed necessary with Steve standing by, he'd cross his arms over his chest and put on his signature stoic facial expression. Rhodey, meets a girl but it doesn't last long. Steve joins a group but has yet to say what for, he mockingly hopes it's one that helps him remove the stick from his ass.

It's late when he turns on the camera in Natasha's office, a glass of vodka and coke swirling in his hands as he props his feet up on the coffee table. He's running out of alcohol and desperately needs to order another six cases when he accidently clicks the icon for the security feeds, instead of changing it, watches it. The alcohol will still be there tomorrow and his bank account will still have money for it. Natasha is a blonde now with shorter hair, she has a stack of files in front of her. Steve is standing besides her, another firing spree Tony assumes. He watches her fire a young man and as he leaves he notices a sudden a shift in Natasha's behavior, she looks to Steve with weary lips: "Should we?" She asks in a gentle tone.

Steve nods, tightening his jaw. "He's not here. He's not coming back." They're talking about him, he knows it. The mood always shifts whenever he's brought up. "She's been doing a little of everything but... they're gone."

They're greeted by a young woman with curly brown hair in a white blouse, tight pencil skirt and six inch heels. He vaguely remembers her, she was an assistant to someone or on loan from SHIELD, he doesn't remember exactly. Their first meeting replays in his head, she asked for a signature holding a large stack of papers towards him, he thought she was a fan and it turned out to be an embarrassing encounter he hoped to forget. After he signed the document and let his mouth run with sarcastic comments about being asked to sign things because of his fame only to be told it was official business, he was redder than his iron man suit and she walked away smirking.

"You're being let go." Natasha informs her.

The brunette nods.

"It's temporary."

Another nod.

"You'll be paid for the first year of your absence."

Another nod.

"You were an asset to the company, if things change..." She means if things every become normal again. "I can guarantee you, you'll be brought back. A complete reinstatement."

Tony sets his glass onto the coffee table and for the first time in months, asks FRIDAY to turn on. "Who is that, FRIDAY?" He asks ignoring the greeting the A.I. gives him. The screen changes wiping away the security cameras and replacing it with her glowing picture and file. Her image takes residence on the right side of the screen and everything they have on her is displayed before him, employee records, position at the company, an entire database of information about her is before him. Wren Granger, he reads at the top of the page. Her name triggers the few memories he has of her, she worked for the Avengers, behind a desk with a smile that made you feel as though you'd known her for years. She'd attended a few parties at the Stark Tower but kept to herself. They had few interactions together but she never seemed the tiniest bit interested in him, her eyelashes didn't flutter when he came around nor find any excuse to touch him like most woman. She simply did her job and went home.

The first conversation they had that wasn't business related was at a party, years before everything happened. He was looking for Rhodey, ready to mock him over his insistent retelling of his adventures when he spotted yet another unfortunate soul being forced to listen to Rhodey's tales. Tony refills his drink and rushes to save the young lady.

"Rhodey, you're torturing the poor woman." Tony says swiftly joining them, resting his hand on his longtime friends shoulder.

Rhodey opens his mouth to respond, a wise crack at the tip of his tongue but the woman beside him beats him to it. "I beg to differ, Mr. Stark, it was just getting interesting."

"See, Tony..." Rhodey says a smile stretching across his face. "Somebody appreciates my stories."

"It's not all that fascinating," Tony quips. "He's been telling the same story for a week."

The brunette cocks her head and gives a dramatic gasp. "Is that so, Mr. Rhodes?" She asks with a smirk.

Once again, someone else who beats Rhodey before he has a chance to speak, it's Tony this time. "Don't feel to bad for him, he's just upset that the world only tolerates War Machine. Iron man is their preference but they settle for second best in time of need." She tries to fight her chuckle by covering her mouth with her hand but the sounds of laughter leak through causing Rhodey to scoff and walk away annoyed. He grabs his drink and shouts a quip about War Machine being better as he heads to the other side of room.

"Oh no." The woman chuckles as she watches Rhodey leave.

Tony leans against the counter alongside the brunette and lets his eyes trail along her body. She's traded her usual pencil skirt for a pair of tight black jeans and a flowery blouse. "Which of these lovely prospectors do you plan to mooch off of?" He asks with a sly smile and cock of an eyebrow.

"I suspect you've taken yourself out of the equation?" She asks without missing a beat.

Tony jerks his head towards her and lets out a surprised breath, "Yes... why was I in the equation?" He asks, a cheeky grin now plastered on his face.

"Not originally but I figure why close all doors, huh?" She asks with a smile as she meets his dark brown eyes. "Besides wouldn't you be the best to mooch off of considering you're the billionaire?" There's a small shrug of her shoulders as she relaxes against the wooden counter behind her.

"Wise decision." Tony remarks. "But I'm taken."

"That's true." She smiles. "I've heard Steve Rogers is nice."

Tony turns his nose up, "Capsicle?" He leans closer hovering his lips near her ear. "You'd have to devirginize him."

Full of shock, she turns to face him eyebrows furrowed with her lips press tightly together. Her dark green eyes fall back to the Captain whose engaged in a competitive game of pool alongside Sam. "Well, maybe not. It might get a bit awkward when I don't call him the day after."

Tony chuckles, nearly spilling the drink he's holding. "Tony Stark." he says offering her his free hand.

"I know, I work for you." She says with a smile, accepting his hand in a firm handshake. "Wren Granger."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Granger."

"You as well, Mr. Stark."

"Tony, please."

"Tony."

They keep each other company throughout the night, talking for hours about any little topic that sparks interest. Wren doesn't ask about his time as Iron Man or his life as a billionaire, she has simple questions or comments that only people who really want to know someone ask. It's easy to talk to one another, the conversations flows and doesn't feel stressed. It's comfortable, something Tony hasn't experienced in a long time. As the party dies down and the guests begin returning home, she glances at the watch on her left wrist and says that she should leave as she has an hour drive.

"An hour? You don't live in the city?"

"No, Not at all." Wren shakes her head almost insulted by the indication.

"Where do you live? I can get someone to drop you."

She nods, "I don't think you or I need that type of talk surrounding us." extending her hand to shake his. "Besides, I'm actually out of the city, rural area." Tony flinches at the comment and she notices his discomfort. "Not a country boy, i take it?"

"City boy, born and raised."

"Shame." She tsks him and stands. "It's nice break from the chaos that is the city. We get a lot less alien invasions." She winks at him with a smile. Tony chuckles quietly, at the remark. The noises that came with the city life, is what makes his home, a home. "If you ever manage to make it out there, in the quiet that is, you're more than welcome to stop by for a drink." She says straight faced. "Quiet can do you some good, it's a nice break to get away from all the noise and people."

The offer runs rampant in his mind as if it was offered just yesterday, he watches Wren leave Natasha's office, clutching a manilla folder to her chest. At the time, when she mentioned him coming out for the quiet, he thought nothing of. It was a friendly offer. Now, it felt like a calling. He can claim it's because he's severely lacking from human contact or slightly hungover and curing the hangover by drinking more and his mind isn't working at full capacity, or it's much simpler, he wants to talk to someone who isn't artificial and doesn't have a ulterior motive behind their words. He ponders the idea, when they met she treated him like he was a person maybe she'd do the same now. Everyone else tried to fix him until he longed to strangle them or share ways he can get over his loss. She could be different. There was no judgement when they first spoke.

He writes down her address, just in case and pins it to the fridge. Just in case, he thinks. If it really gets to him, he'll visit.

The ache in Wren's chest is raw, flesh eating and nausea inducing raw.

Everyone is gone.

The bad guy won.

The Avengers lost.

In an instant half the population was gone, wiped away from the world as if they never existed. Friends, family and lovers are gone. In a blink of an eye, they disappeared with a gust of wind.

The world feels empty now, those that were lucky enough to survive wish they hadn't. No one had time to prepare, they didn't have the luxury of a final goodbye or a warning that this would happen, it just did. Not many knew how to cope with the sudden loss, the trauma and pain resides deep in their chest unable to be cured. No funerals, no bodies and no final resting grounds. Ash in the wind. The world was at a standstill, abandoned cars rest in the middle of the roads, toys left untouched and groceries left to rot in the hot sun. Time seemed to stop.

Everyone hurts and most people blame the Avengers. The world's mightiest heroes were suppose to protect them, save the world but they let it down instead.

A year ago, Wren worked at the compound, her position wasn't of any importance but she had a way with words and could talk anyone into anything. When a business went awry, Wren Granger was your girl. A few sentences stringed together and the deal was back in place. The day it all happened, the day people disappeared without any explanation Captain America strode into the compound for the first time in years, defeat written on his face sporting a bearded jaw and glossy eyes while the building echoed with gasps. He ordered a meeting, standing before everyone in his uniform, the white star in the middle of his chest was absent, his fingers bloody and his suit looked darker. He explained what happened, omitting most of the classified details. Thanos had arrived to earth, threatened to cleanse the world and succeeded. He wiped out half of the population. The next order of business he asked, "Where is Tony Stark?" No one had the answer.

It would be a month before Tony would miraculously be found, "He was injured in a remote area." was the official cover story but there had to be more to it. There always was.

Tony was once again named the official boss, after it was discovered Pepper Potts had also been taken. Tony's health improved but he disappeared.

Days passed and Natasha Romanoff, a beautiful redhead with an attitude that could scare a 210 pound man and boy next door Steve Rogers were announced as the new boss. It should have gotten better but it didn't, employees were cut, costs were cut and within three months Wren was forced to move on. Natasha promised in a year, she'd be brought back if things returned to normal. If there was a normal to look forward too.

One year passed and the world was still broken and her job never came back, the Avengers weren't rallying up for round two and Iron Man let alone Tony Stark still hadn't shown up in public again. It was public knowledge that the loss of his fiancee Pepper had hit him hard. Rumors swirled that he was on the deep end of a depression, two pills away from ending it all. Wren didn't blame him for doing so, she'd lost people too. It's difficult to move on when you can't mourn any specific area except for a large wall that stretched for miles with names etched into it. It was personal, not an area you could make your own. It was covered in dead flowers, tattered teddy bears and letters from loved ones.

Wren started drinking six months after her job was gone when everything became to much to handle, little things would spark ripples of anger. Misplaced keys, grocery stores not being stocked, a rude comment she'd overhear and the neurons inside her brain would fire up creating a alter personality that attacked with anger. She drank to stop it all, the pain and the anger. It was easy. She fought it with a crooked smile and another bottle of alcohol.

He came next. Tony Stark, that is.

Wren was sitting at her dining table working on her latest jewelry design, it seemed her hobby as a teenager had paid off since being politely let go. A knack for making customized bracelets and necklaces had provided a substantial amount of pay. Requests came online shortly after for pieces engraved or in tribute to a lost loved one. The current piece beneath her small fingers with light blue nails was for a woman who lost her daughter, she asked for her birthdate, birthstone and a small pink heart on the necklace. The roar of an engine startled her, the necklace slipping between her fingers as she stood up. Her home was far enough away from civilization that no one would just be simply passing by, in order to get here, you had to look for it and in order to find it, you had to know where to look. The image of Tony Stark approaching the front door, with a case of Guinness in his left hand and his hair slightly tousled as if he just awoke with pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes felt like a dream. She pinches herself before moving from the window, this can't be real. Tony Stark is hiding? Gone? Scared? Missing? Lo-- the doorbell startles her again, it's followed by a short pair of knocks. Her lower lip comes between her teeth as she approaches the door, a shaky hand reaches for the lock, unlatching it and slowly twisting the door knob.

"Hey." He says as if this is a normal occurrence, like it's not unusual for him to be at her door in the middle of the afternoon. "I was in the neighborhood." He blatantly lies.

"Hi." Wren says in a whispered tone and her eyes grow even wider. "Uh...Come, come inside."

Tony sat across from her on the brown couch, his sunglasses discarded on the counter in the kitchen while his fingers danced across the glass bottle of beer. He's wearing an AC/DC t-shirt that is tightly stretched across his chest, it's the first time she's seen him in person in years, probably since anyone has seen him in person. His hair is longer, unkept and littered with greying strands and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot, his jaw is held hostage by months of unshaved facial hair. He looks broken. Nothing like the man who could throw out a sarcastic remark like he was a pitcher for a baseball team, the man whose eyes crinkled when he laughed or was rumored to obsessively work on new projects. Mr. Stark sits before her, unrecognizable. He's a different man but she's a different woman now to. Everyone is different since it happened.

"This place is nice." Tony remarks as his eyes explore the home. He's seen better, undoubtedly, he's made of money. He owns a better home than this. His homes are in the cities full of people and tall buildings, millions of dollars put into the home with remarkable electronics while Wren's is secluded from civilization, surrounded by trees and wildlife, the closest grocery store was nearly two hours away and her closet neighbors were miles away. She has a broken bathroom sink, a window that never completely locks and a floorboard in the kitchen between the counter and fridge that squeaks every time you step on it, she knows he's pulling the comment out of his ass. Tony's been locked up for so long, he's forgotten what nice truly means.

"It makes do." She says with a small shrug.

Tony nods, bringing the bottle to his lips. He still hasn't explained why he was here or where he's been and he doesn't know if he can even begin to. He hadn't left home in a year, hadn't interacted with people in over a year but here he was.

"Did you actually stop at a grocery store and pick this up?" Wren asks nudging the case of beer with her foot. It's sitting on the glass coffee table covering a assortment of magazines and papers, she has yet to pick up.

"Yes." He nods. "Didn't want to show up empty handed."

"I like scotch too." Wren mentions with a smile. "In case you're ever in the neighborhood again." For a brief second, a smile crosses his face. It almost passes for real but his eyes give him away. "How are you doing Tony?" She asks interrupting the silence that encapsulates them. It's a difficult question, one that managed to escape her mouth before she had a moment to think of the consequences. Tony could answer with another fake smile or gather what's left of the beer and decide he's being called away.

There's a pause in the conversation and a hitch of his breathe before he answers, "I'm fine." His reply surprises her, she didn't expect an answer. When he poses the same question to Wren her answer is far from polite.

Her intent was to lie as he did but what comes out is not a fib, "I"m terrible." Wren mutters. "Fuckin terrible." She glances around the living room, shame written across her face. "I'm drunk, don't mind me."

"It doesn't help, does it?" Tony asks after another round of silence.

"No... Not really."

"No..." He repeats.

"You live here alone?" He asks even though FRIDAY already told him that answer.

She nods. "Me and my shadow."

"Must get lonely."

"I make do." She shrugs her shoulders. "The quiet--"

"--can do you some good."

"Is that what you needed?" Wren asks reaching out to grab another bottle of beer, one for her and one for Tony. It's a question in place of the one she really wants to ask, 'what are you doing here?' is on the tip of her tongue but she refuse to give it a voice. "Quiet?"

Tony opens the bottle, tossing the lid onto the table and relaxing his posture on the couch once again. He kicks a leg up on the coffee table, slides his arm across the back of the couch and stares at Wren whose legs are dangling off the arm of the loveseat. "I don't know anymore." He whispers, dropping his head back. "I think... I just needed somebody..." For the first time in years, Tony lets the truth out. He's got tears welting at the corners of his eyes, a knot forming in his throat and his suave personality he's had on display for his entire life is crumbling before a woman he barely knows. "who didn't know me... before." He lets out with a deep breathe. Wren simply nods and takes another long sip of her beer.

Tony leaves around midnight, alcohol on his breathe and his heart feeling a little less heavy. "It gets dark out here." Tony says surprised when he steps outside of the small house, glancing up at the sky.

"Yeah, no tall buildings to make it seem like it's always day. You can see the stars too." Wren says with a smile.

"I'll see you." Is the last thing Tony says as he leaves.

Neither Tony or Wren have any idea how to explain the last few hours of their lives, Wren is still in shock that Tony showed up at her door when she lays down in bed while Tony is still trying to piece together why he arrived there in the first place. He'd come across the post it note with Wren's address when he slipped in the kitchen and knocked off the papers stuck to his fridge. It was the only piece of paper that fell directly in front of him, rightside up and caught the little light he allowed into the house. He didn't plan to go there neither was he intending to but his legs went on autopilot and before he knew it, he was in the front seat of his car, driving to her home. Leaving his house for the first time in a year was easier than he would have thought. The world didn't care about him anymore. His car left the garage unnoticed, his appearance at the grocery store went unnoticed. Tony Stark was nothing to the world now.

Wren created a spark in the deepest crevice of Tony's chest, he felt relieved to speak to someone who didn't judge him. She didn't see him as a pompous ass or billionaire who would only think of himself. The time they spent together felt like two old friends catching up over a beer. It was relaxed. He didn't suspect that she would rush off and tell the media about his reappearance into society or find a gossip magazine to sell the dark tales that were Tony Stark.

Maybe she could become a much needed friend in whatever world they're forced to reside in.

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sansy-fresh · 5 years

Text

Little Fangs chap. 8

damn this took a while to write lol have some angst!!

tags: Panic Attacks, Extremely Justified Paranoia, Dadby is peeking through

ao3 link

Papyrus watched carefully as the Flame sorted out the white bottles, sipping at his “coffee” with bated breath. It wasn’t clear what was in the bottles until the Flame titled one of them into his hand, the cap off and on a nearby table, two tiny white pills dropping into his hand.

He felt his soul stop in his chest as the Flame then reached for his helpless brother, Papyrus rushing forward and covering Sans with his body.

“Don’t hurt him, I’ll dust you if you hurt him!” he snarled, baring his fangs at a what seemed to be bewildered Flame. The pills were slowly taken back, though the Flame was clearly still intending to do something with them, no matter what Papyrus wished about the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt him.” The Flame said, his tone similar to His when Papyrus was being troublesome; Papyrus only held onto Sans tighter, his baby brother starting to squirm from the pressure. He’d start to cry soon, Papyrus couldn’t keep him safe if he made too much noise, please no, please, it was warm here let them stay a little bit longer-

He came back from the near blackness that surrounded his vision to a warmth that surrounded him, warmed his bones from the outside in and he looked around, confused, until he saw the Flame glowing a little more brightly. He shied back, at first, afraid the reaction was anger but… the look on the Flame’s face was sad. Sad, bitter, any number of negative emotions, but no anger. None of that spark of malice that always filled His eyes when Papyrus had done something, anything wrong.

Sans was full on squirming now, huffing in that way that meant if Papyrus didn’t let up soon it’d turn into bawling. He backed up a little, still hovering over him in case the Flame tried to bring the pills any closer.

“I’m not going to hurt you, or your brother.” The Flame said again, holding up the pills for him to see. “They’re cold meds. They’ll help him get better faster.”

Papyrus stared at them with a vicious scrutiny, studying their seemingly innocuous, white appearance. “Cold” medicine? For when they were cold? Surely the Flame’s warmth would be enough to take care of that on its own. Did he think Sans was too bad off? There was only one way he could think to compromise here, since the Flame seemed insistent Sans needed them, and refusal might get them kicked back out into the cold.

So he held his hand out. The Flame raised a brow, glancing from his outstretched hand back up to his face, but didn’t say anything.

Sighing, Papyrus gestured with his open hand. “Let me take them first.”

The Flame gaped at him for a moment, then with a slight shake of his head, refused. “No can do kid.”

Papyrus felt something like anger roiling in his soul, something even more like desperation sitting like a rock in the pit of his stomach. “Why not?”

The Flame grimaced, shaking the bottle that clearly only had a few pills left in it. “Meds are hard to come by. I’d have to trade quite a bit of gold to get more and I’m not going to waste what I have on a snot nosed brat who won’t trust me.” He gave Papyrus a meaningful look, and even if Papyrus didn’t know what a snot nosed brat was, he caught the intention behind the words.

The Flame wasn’t going to let him try the medicine, but he was going to insist that Sans take whatever they were. He had to come up with some sort of compromise here; he could not allow Sans to take any of the medicines He had given Papyrus. Not the ones that made his bones burn, not the ones that made it feel as though there was something trying to burst through the front of his skull.

He worried the tip of Sans’ blanket in his hands, glancing from the pills back to the Flame, then to Sans, who’d fallen back into a fitful sleep. He couldn’t just trust the Flame, he couldn’t… but he didn’t have a choice. Tears springing in his eyes, he leaned down to press a skeleton kiss to the top of his brother’s skull, then scooted back to give the Flame room.

The Flame gave him a strange look, then gently opened Sans’ mouth to place the pills inside. The two white capsules disintegrated almost immediately, Sans’ face scrunching up in displeasure as the taste full hit him. He started to fuss, the whines turning into a cry. Papyrus felt panic grip him, the light coming through the back window, boarded up as it was, reminding him that other monsters were out and about and if they heard Sans-!

He picked the toddler up, holding him to his chest and bouncing him up and down carefully, muttering calming things that he only barely knew as his eyelights flitted from door to window to door with panicked precision.

The sudden warm hand on his shoulder made him yelp, holding Sans tighter which only made him cry harder. The pressure was gone instantly, Papyrus glancing up to find that look on the Flames face again.

“I’m going to keep you both safe. I promise I’d never hurt either of you.” he said, crossing his soul. Papyrus had no idea what the symbolism was supposed to mean, but he knew he shouldn’t trust it.

“You will. They all do.” he answered, eyes wide as he gave up on trying to calm his now screaming brother.

The Flame nodded. “I might not be the perfect ally. But I’m your best bet. If you leave, he’ll die.”

Papyrus couldn’t help but glance down at Sans, who was crying with all of his might, tiny hands waving in the air in frustration. He let up a bit on the tight hold, Sans quieting down some even as he continued to sob. Once again, he had no real choice here. Sans would die if he left, and they’d never not be in danger.

Looking up at the Flame, he narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see.”

#fresh writes #LF #angst #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underfell grillby #dadby #babybones #baby sans #older bro papyrus #panic attacks #extreme paranoia #but its justified

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emoboijk · 5 years

Text

pjm | hydrangeas

“A dead hydrangea is as intricate and lovely as one in bloom.” (Toni Morrison) He’s willing to die for love and for the act of loving. —hanahaki disease!au, non-idol!au, angst, flora & fauna series :: major character death

2,717 words

p.cred

The waiting room is beige with a dark brown carpet, the kind that has either always been that color or is that color as a result of years of use. There are paintings (ironically) of flowers on the walls, and potted plants stationed randomly between the chairs. A receptionist sits behind a counter, typing on a computer and answering the phone when it rings. Aside from her, there are seven people scattered about the room.

Jimin is sitting in a corner of the office, his eyes half-open, holding a handkerchief (your handkerchief, of course) to his face as an endless trail of blood and blue petals fall from his mouth. His lungs ache like nothing else, his throat burns for lack of air, all he can picture is your face. He's practically curled into the fetal position in the chair; a skeleton filled with flowers.

They must have called his name multiple times but Jimin doesn't hear. But now there’s a kind looking nurse bending down in front of him so that he can vaguely see his face in his blurry vision. Oh, he thinks, forgot to put in my contacts. Odd; he hadn’t noticed before now.

“Come on, man,” the nurse says, surprisingly casual as he hooks his arms beneath Jimin’s and pulls him from the chair. His feet feel numb (poor circulation when all your blood is busy drowning your lungs), and he stumbles once he’s upright, leaning against the nurse heavily as he’s all but dragged into a private room.

He sits on the examination table and almost immediately blacks out from being upright for so long. The doctor warned him weeks ago that if the blood loss got too severe that would happen; there's not enough to go around, he thought. But he’s jostled awake two minutes later when the doctor comes in, her stern face hovering above his. She crosses her arms but doesn’t force him to sit up as she begins her lecture, “Jimin, I can’t help you if you refuse to help yourself.”

He doesn’t say anything. Probably couldn’t if he wanted to.

“The anti-growth pills do not work anymore. Your lungs are completely infested. You’re losing blood faster than you can make it.”

Jimin coughs and holds the handkerchief to his mouth, pulling his phone from the pocket of his jean jacket. His fingers look odd, like they’re not his own—thin and skeletal. He can't remember the last time he ate something... He shakes his head, it's hard to focus these days, and types quickly.

Even if I had the surgery now, I would probably die

The doctor purses her lips. She’s been with Jimin from the start, and his apparent lack of self-preservation is infuriating. He loves her, whoever she is, but at what cost?

Jimin types again:

And even if I lived, I would be dead anyway

She reads the words and takes a moment before saying anything, wanting to shake him, wanting him to wake up.

“Then why are you here Jimin?”

Jimin smiles ruefully and types: Old habits die hard. He even cracks a smile at this own joke.

He leaves fifteen minutes later with a prescription for morphine and a lot of it. He’d protested at the amount she was giving him, but he could read the sympathy in her eyes. She’d seen a lot of patients, was intimately aware of how much pain he was in. She was giving him an option, at the risk of her license and her practice. Also, probably, because she knew he wouldn’t take them. One or two to help, but not enough to kill himself. She knew his character. He felt noble, dying for love. He’d taken it this far, and to experience any less than the slow death of one-sided love...it wouldn’t be right.

She also gives him a cane, one of the metallic ones with tennis balls on the end. He had scoffed at it, splattering blood on it, to which the doctor had said, “Now you absolutely have to take it. That’s disgusting.” Jimin had almost chuckled at that.

And now that he has it, it is undeniably necessary. He leans against it heavily, holding the handkerchief and the crumpled prescription in his hand as he turns the corner to the pharmacy. As he stumbles through the doors, his phone starts to ring, your face appearing on the screen.

His chest hurts at the sight, and it’s been so long (six months almost?) that he’s not sure if the pain in his chest is from a new bloom or from his heartbreak. Either way, it’s incredibly painful, and he presses ignore immediately.

Jimin recognizes the pharmacist behind the counter, and the man frowns when he reads the prescription. He doesn’t have to say the words for Jimin to hear him, or to read them in his eyes, “So you’ve given up,” they say. Jimin can only nod.

And is it really giving up? He has to wonder. In many ways, having the surgery would’ve been giving up. Sacrificing love for a breath...while easier, would have been giving up. No, this wasn’t that. This was strength and resilience and courage. The realization that some things are worth dying for; some things are worth dying slowly for.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he was trying to sleep at night, waking every few hours to vomit into a bin.

He runs a hand through his hair and tries to remember the last full night’s sleep he got. And you know, he really can’t.

“Back in a sec,” the pharmacist says and Jimin stumbles over to the bench nearby, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth as he coughs again. Walking and talking; both really take it out of him. He fights the urge to lay down, already feeling his head spinning; instead, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, focusing on the shallow breaths he can take. They just have to last him until he gets back to his apartment, then a blackout would be almost welcome. He's exhausted.

His phone begins to buzz in his pocket again and he is unsurprised to see your name. It does make him smile, that you seem to miss him, but even reading your name brings fresh buds blooming in his lungs. Unrequited love at a distance. What a curse. He hits ignore.

Jimin falls asleep waiting for the medicine so that when it’s ready the pharmacist has to come out and shake him awake. He approaches the counter again and pays, wondering how much he resembles a homeless man at this point. He’s wearing the last of his clothes (when he realized that, he thought morbidly, I better die soon because I can’t do laundry anymore ) and he can’t stand up long enough to take a shower.

As he walks back through the store his phone rings again. Ignore.

You call three more times by the time he gets home. You call so much that he just turns his phone off. It’s not like he has a job anymore, or the doctor can give him any more news. He’s told all of his other friends about the disease, they know if he needs to talk he’ll reach out first.

You’re the only one.

He’s not sure why he didn’t tell you. Well, that’s a lie. If he told you about the disease, you would have pressured him into telling him who he was in love with. And he didn’t want to do that to you. He didn’t want to force you into feeling something you may not truly feel. It had to be in your own time, if at all.

Of course, if he’d explained any of this reasoning to you, you would have called him an idiot. He falls onto his couch with his eyes closed, picturing your face as you scold him, “If you don’t say anything, nothing can happen!” That’s what you would’ve said.

He can’t bring himself to open his eyes now that he’s conjured your image in his mind, so he lets himself succumb to sleep, pulling a garbage can/vomit bucket closer to the edge of the couch and drifting off. His dreams are all dead hydrangeas, beautiful and wilting, and you; of course, all his dreams are morbid now ("Flora chemical effects on the brain..." the doctor had said).

Jimin wakes up an hour later to a loud banging on the door. It startles him awake, and he’s glad because his mouth is full of blood and soggy petals. He curls into his side and aims for the trash can, spitting out irony blood painfully. He ignores the knocking; people usually give up and go away.

But when he hears your voice, he knows he’s done for.

“I know you’re in there!” you call, pounding your fist on the door again, “Open up Jimin!” You raise your fist again to take out your anger and frustration on the sturdy door, but you pause when it creaks open. He still has the security chain in place, so it barely opens enough for you to see his face, but what you do see startles you.

Gone is the golden, happy boy you’d known forever. He’s pale and thin, you can see his cheekbones like their cutting through his skin. And his lips are chapped and stained red, there’s a blue petal stuck to his collar. And his eyes…desperate and lonely and huge amongst the now sharp angles of his face.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” you whisper, your voice soft as if speaking too loud might break him.

“Just leave me alone,” Jimin whispers, averting his gaze. His voice is hoarse and choked, like he’s speaking around something. He doesn’t mean the words, that much is clear. But then...why bother saying them at all?

“Jimin,” you whisper softly, “What’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me?”

“Leave,” he whispers, moving to close the door, but you stick your foot between it and the frame to keep it open.

“Let me in, right now, Park Jimin or I will call the firefighters or the cops or the next strong person I see and have them break the door down,” you demand fiercely.

Jimin chuckles despite himself, frowning again when he realizes that he’s going to relent like he always does. He nods and whispers, “Okay, okay, but you have to move your foot.” You glare at him, but do it and Jimin closes the door. He pauses before undoing the security chain—that was the most speaking he’d done in nearly a month. It was incredibly painful and he coughs harshly to dislodge the petals it roused; it leaves a dripping, abstract art piece on the back of the door.

You start to worry that he won’t open it again, listening to his coughing. You hadn’t even known he was sick. Why hadn’t you known? Your ignorance feels like a betrayal; him against you or you against him, you're not sure.

He coughs for another moment before undoing the chain and opening the door fully so that you can step inside. He turns away and walks further into his apartment, not wanting to see your face as you take in the state it’s in.

And you are surprised, frozen in the entryway. You can see the whole apartment from here and it’s...nightmarish. He had always been messy, but this was different—dirty dishes and clothes, dust and garbage. It must’ve been weeks since he’d done any chores at all. And as worrying as that is, it’s not what grabs your attention. No, the only thing that really registers is the blood. On the walls and the floor, the hundreds of bloody tissues littering every surface. And the petals, soft blue and delicate, everywhere.

Your mind is already grasping at an idea, but you can’t get it to fully form, so instead, you whisper, “Why does it look like a florist was murdered in here?”

He chuckles despite himself, three or four petals falling from his mouth, one sticking to his face with blood. He wipes it away with his hand and feels his head getting dizzy, so he sits down instead of responding. He really shouldn’t be talking anymore.

When you’re finally able to take your eyes off the apartment, you look at him wide-eyed, “Jimin.”

He tries to say something with his eyes, but he’s not sure what; he’s not sure how he would explain it even if he could say more than ten words without choking. But something seems to click because you finally say, “Do you have Hanahaki disease?”

His eyes are sad and you know you’re right. He reaches for a pad of paper on the coffee table and scribbles messily across it, when he turns it to face you, you do your best to focus on the words and not the bloodstains.

Six months now

Blue hydrangeas, they stand for rejection

Can’t talk anymore - painful

When you look back up at him, he’s chuckling. You know if he could speak he’d point out the irony. A disease born of rejection giving rise to a symbol of it as well. A double dose then.

“ Six months,” you gasp, stumbling backward into a chair, “Why didn’t you...I could’ve…”

He shakes his head to cut you off, but he doesn’t make a move to write anything more. You’re still in shock. Six months. Six months he’s been choking on hydrangea petals and blood and unreciprocated love.

“Who is it?” you demand, “Have you said anything?” You’re angry, at whoever he loves and at him. Why not get the surgery? Why not save himself? Doesn’t he know how important he is?

He just shakes his head and he seems resolute in his decision; it infuriates you. How can he be so apathetic to his own fate?

“Well,” you sputter, stamping your foot like you used to when you were young (Jimin smiles at the action), “what about the surgery, huh?”

This time when he looks at you his eyes are so serious they're like knives, he shakes his head. Absolutely not, you hear him in your head. You stamp your foot again, “You have to do something Jimin! You can’t just…” You cross the room to sit next to him on the couch, taking his hands in your own. Immediately, he feels flowers bloom in his chest and as much as it pains him, he pulls his hands away and readjusts his position on the couch.

You're surprised by how much that hurts, but press on anyway, “It’s not worth it, Jimin. Whoever it is...they’re not worth your life.”

Jimin watches you seriously for a moment before reaching for his pad of paper again, he scribbles on it quickly. Just as he puts the pen down, he coughs loudly, blood spraying the page, soft blue hydrangea petals sticking to the corners. He looks at you, genuine fear in his eyes as he coughs again.

“Jimin?” you gasp, reaching forward and holding his arm, but his eyes have already lost their light. Blood trails past his lips and down his chin, staining the perfect white shirt he was wearing as he falls backward onto the couch. “Jimin!” you scream.

The pad of paper drops from his lifeless hands and the words on the page break your heart.

You’re worth it.

author’s note—look i cried writing it so no shame if you cry reading it

for more of my works check out my m.list

#rosynamjoon #bts #bangtanbuds #bts x reader #park jimin #jimin #jimin x reader #hanahaki disease au #angst

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istheresomebodywhocanimagine · 6 years

Text

A Want or A Need

anonymous said: 1970s Freddie comforting you while you’re having an anxiety attack (or when you’re depressed)

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of depression, not explicit, but implied

“Knock, knock!” Freddie called out as he entered your apartment without warning, shutting the door behind him before carefully kicking his shoes off. As he picked them up to store them to the side, he looked around and furrowed his eyebrows at the state of your flat.

It looked dusty, as if it hadn’t seen much movement in weeks, and no lights were on at all. There was no music softly droning on from the shoddy old record player, which was usually running at all times. Slowly making his way through the living room, he was greeted by the sight of half-drank cups of water, dirty dishes that had gone stale, and used tissues laying around.

Your design homework was unfinished, laying haphazardly across the couch, but there was no sign of you in the living room or kitchen. This wasn’t you. You never neglected your homework, not once.

Freddie was dismayed – he hadn’t seen you in class for a week or so at this point, and he thought it was because you’d been working nonstop, or possibly sick. Now, signs were beginning to point in the other direction. Walking across the living room, he carefully slid the window open and pulled the drapes back, letting some air in before he made his way back to your bedroom. “Y/N, darling, it’s Freddie,” he called out, his voice less aggressive than before. Something was wrong.

Your bedroom door was shut but not locked when Freddie tested the handle, so he threw caution to the wind and slowly opened the door. It didn’t appear that anyone was in the room at first. It was in a similar state of disarray to the living room, as there were piles of unwashed laundry that appeared untouched, and what Freddie thought was a small pile of blankets on the bed. But then that pile of blankets moved, and out popped your head.

His heart dropped when he saw your own personal state of disarray. Your hair was partially matted on one side, and you looked like you hadn’t showered in a bit because of it. Your cheekbones were more prominent, eye sockets sunken, lips chapped – you looked like a skeleton, wasting away.

“Y/N,” he murmured, mouth slightly agape as he stood in the doorway, not sure whether to cry or comfort you. For your sake, he chose the latter, and he quickly made his way over to the bed, crawling in and kneeling in front of you as he took your head in his hands.

“Hello, Fred,” you murmured, your voice a bit weak as you attempted a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Wish you would have let me know you were on your way, I would have cleaned the place up a bit.”

“I’m not worried about your place,” Freddie almost laughed, an anxious expression crossing his face as he saw the unhealthy pallor of your skin. “I haven’t heard from you in a week, I decided to drop by to see if you were sick, to see if I could get you anything. But, no offense, Y/N, you look like death warmed over! I’ve been worried sick, lovie, what’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing,” you murmured, leaning against one of his hands and giving him another smile, this one a bit more convincing. “I’ve just been sick, like you’ve said.”

Freddie pursed his lips, noticing the redness of your eyes and the way your cheeks almost looked tear-stained. “I find that hard to believe,” he answered softly, and you felt your chest tighten as you heard the genuine concern lacing his voice.

He was right. You knew so well that he was right, but your mind was telling you to push him away, to make him leave so you could be alone with your thoughts again. What good had that done you this week? None. It had destroyed you both mentally and physically. But why would your brain care about that? It was the reason you were this fucked up in the first place.

“Freddie, don’t worry about me,” you sighed as you reached up and took one of his hands, squeezing it before letting it go. “I’ll be fine, you go out and have a good night with the crew.” He shook his head. Freddie was not about to let you spend tonight alone, and he wasn’t about to leave your apartment without making sure one of his closest friends knew that they were loved and appreciated.

“Scoot,” he demanded, keeping his tone gentle so he wouldn’t upset you. You frowned and complied, Freddie settling down in the bed next to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You cuddled up to him, resting your head on his chest and draping your arm across his stomach as your mind lurched and reeled at the sudden human contact. It wasn’t ready for this much attention, and you would have preferred none at all so you could continue to wallow in your sad state. “So what’s got you down for the count, dear?” he asked sensitively, his touch gentle and reassuring as he began to rub your back.

A shrug was all you could give him. “Just bummed out of my mind,” you almost whispered, your eyes zoning in and out on a fly that was picking its way over one of your half-eaten plates.

“Anything in particular?”

You gave him a small shake of the head this time, a pout forming on Freddie’s lips as he looked down at your motionless being. “Too much happening up here, I can’t focus. I try to eat, but it just makes me feel worse.”

“Well, you have to eat, honey.” He was frowning now and growing more alarmed by the second. The physicality of your deterioration was bad enough, but he wasn’t beyond believing that it could be even worse than he anticipated. “Here, let’s go to the kitchen.”

“M’not hungry,” you mumbled, your voice apathetic to match your reluctance to get up when he tried to lift your arm. He tried again, and again you let your arm flop back down onto his stomach.

Freddie was never one to be discouraged. You knew this, and yet you still were surprised when he simply lifted you up off the bed and carried you like a sack of potatoes into the kitchen. He sat you down on the counter and started to rifle through your cabinets, humming as he did so and finally taking out some rice and a pot to cook it in. “Butter and soy sauce?” he asked, looking up at you with a raised eyebrow, and you pursed your lips before nodding at the fridge. Nothing sounded appetizing, and the fact that Freddie was about to make you eat simultaneously sparked a miniscule amount of joy and a large amount of distress in you.

“Freddie, really, it’s not worth your time-“

“Y/N, it’s alright that you’re feeling this way,” he cut you off before you had the chance to protest any further, your mouth hanging slightly agape as he casually retrieved the butter and soy sauce from the fridge, walking back over to the stovetop. “You aren’t broken, and you certainly aren’t alone in this. I want you to know that. You have me, Mary, hell, even Brian and the boys – we’re all here for you, and we all want you to know that we love you no matter what.”

“Fred, I-“ you faltered for a moment, overwhelmed by what he was saying. Tears were quickly threatening to spill over if you didn’t get a grip, and get it quick. “I don’t doubt that, thank you. But I’d just want to be alone.”

“I understand that,” he replied, looking up at you and smiling softly before pouring the rice into the boiling water and turning it down to simmer, putting a lid on it after stirring it. “But do you need to be alone, or do you need to talk about it?” You didn’t have an answer for that, and stared blankly at him as he came to rest on the counter next to you. “Because I’ll listen, darling, believe me. I wouldn’t ever get tired of your voice.”

That brought a small laugh bubbling up to your lips, and you smiled sadly as you rested your head on his shoulder, letting the tears just roll down your cheeks. “You’re a ham,” you scolded softly, and Freddie chuckled quietly at that, his smile broad as he went to rest his head on yours.

“That’s sort of my specialty, if you haven’t noticed,” he teased, getting another soft giggle out of you. “How do you feel about some dinner, and then we’ll clean this place until it’s spotless? That sound good? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I want to help you however I can tonight.”

You nodded, sniffling a bit and raising your head when Freddie went to turn off the rice. You grabbed two bowls out of the cupboard as he grabbed spoons, and he mixed the two ingredients in before filling two bowls with rice and carrying them to your table, which was the cleanest part of the flat. It took a minute, but once you started eating, it felt renewing, like you were recharging after a full week spent on a low battery. And so you started talking, and Freddie started listening. He never interrupted, not once. It was your time to speak, and his time to hear you and your words. Only when you paused to allow his questions did he dare to utter a word.

“So have you been sleeping all week, or where have you been?” he asked, wondering if you’d left the flat.

“Here,” you sighed, playing with your spoon and sniffling a bit. “I’ve just been laying in bed mostly, some journal writing, reading here and there. I don’t remember the last time I tried to eat, though.”

“Any particular reason you decided to stay in?” he asked gently, trying to be hyper-aware of what questions would irk you.

“I’m just exhausted, and I keep getting overwhelmed by all of the work I have to do,” you said, leaning your head back as you stared at the ceiling, having finished your rice. “As soon as I finish one project, it feels like I’m right on to the next and there’s no room to breathe. I have no clue how I’m going to catch up from being gone this whole week, and it stresses me out.”

“Well, how about we take tomorrow night off and get through all of last week’s work together? My place, we can order delivery and just spend the whole night knocking it out,” Freddie offered, picking up both of your bowls and taking them to the sink.

“Oh, you don’t have to deal with me two nights in a row,” you quickly countered, but Freddie shook his head and started washing the dishes.

“It’s not dealing with you, you ninny. I want you to come over.” You smiled as he said that, hugging yourself and suddenly feeling a wave of guilt for assuming he was pitying you. Freddie was your best friend, after all, and it was horrible of you to think that he didn’t truly care about you. Here he was, washing your dishes, about to help you clean up after a rough patch, letting you vent. You had a lot to be thankful for, and you wanted to let him know that.

“Fred, you’re seriously the best,” you said, standing up and walking over to him as he put the bowls back up in the cupboard after drying them. He pulled you into an affectionate hug, letting you bury your face in his chest, and you both just stood there. It was nice, just having him there for you, knowing that he was present.

“You’re the best,” he corrected, smiling as he rested his chin on your head and rubbed your back slowly. “You’re so strong for doing this and not kicking me out. I’m proud of you, Y/N, really. It’s a lot to deal with, and you’re being so brave.”

Tears welled in your eyes again as he spoke, and you cleared your throat as you wrapped your arms around him tighter. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

“Oh, darling, you don’t need to thank me,” he replied, humming a soft melody as he started to sway back and forth with you. “Just let me help you, and that would be enough for me.”

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