#this is after they cleaned the acid from him but poor boi is still not looking too great | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

manchasama · 3 years

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This idea is a darker themed AU, but I would like to say it's not meant to be angsty. It's just bad things happening to the good good bois. Still, since a lot of it is darker, everything will fully go under the cut.

An alternate history for the subway boys. What if Nimbasa used to be a more dangerous place. Full of gang activity, poor and exploited people, the works. What if Ingo and Emmet decided to make it their mission to clean up their town?

Mother abandoned them with their father after birth. Father took on a girlfriend to help support him with the twins, but she's kind of horrible. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, but she hates it, and he puts up with it. He does love his sons, but he is always tired, absent often, and…

Nimbasa city is honestly a cesspool. Gangs run rampant, using the subway center of power. There's plenty of hiding within the tunnels, it provides transport for their goods, etc. The subway is one of the most dangerous places to go for the average person as well, all sorts of bad things happening daily. And the gangs have their territories that they extort people in. The one their family lives in taxes homes based on how many people live in them. So early on, probably at the insistence of the girlfriend (or maybe it was his idea which is even worse), the father hides one of them away.

Very rarely are both allowed to be out in the house, for fear of someone overhearing and telling on them to gain favor for themselves, or in case of an unexpected "inspection" of the home. Initially he hides Emmet away, favoring Ingo as the elder son. (If one were to survive, it should be the elder is his thinking.) Emmet spends way too much time in isolation, hiding in a dark closet, playing quietly to himself. The best times are when he and Ingo get to play together, but they must be quiet, always so quiet. They learn to communicate with no words, able to read each other closely.

However Ingo hates this. So much. The injustice is burning acid in his stomach. He can see, even at this young age, how much this isolation is hurting Emmet. He doesn't even bother asking his father. He knows well the man's paranoia from previous times they had innocently asked why they couldn't play together. He just goes to Emmet's closet and insists that they switch. After all, who could tell the difference? (Even now Ingo was a serious child, and Emmet's smile a frozen grimace on his face. But kids were kids were kids, and no one noticed.)

Emmet didn't really grasp the situation, back then. He was just overjoyed at being allowed into his brother's world. And the closet wasn't that bad, surely. He'd spent so long in it, if it was really terrible, well, that would be horrible right? So it couldn't be horrible, so it wasn't terrible. (But Ingo learns to hate the dark and the cramped. It messes him up a lot more, probably some PTSD there.)

They take turns. Whether their father and the girlfriend catch on is unknown, but if they did realize they didn't do anything about it. And since the twins already share all the details of their lives (Ingo in a desperate attempt to give Emmet something of the outside world, and Emmet in relief to being able to interact with SOMEone), it's not like Emmet didn't already know what to do. In theory at least. So now Emmet is allowed to go outside, to attend school. Parts of it are overwhelming. The sky is so vast. That first step out the door was almost enough to wreck their plan. But Emmet thought of his brother, thought of going back into the closet without ever experiencing anything outside, and steels himself against the hysteria bubbling in his mind.

(Emmet tries to interact with their peers, the ones who would tolerate Ingo. But his manic energy turns them off, drives them away. He admits guiltily to Ingo that they don't like him, afraid Ingo will be mad he scared the "friends" off. Ingo just assures him that he'll always be there for him. They are together, forever.)

Emmet tries harder to gain at least one friend for them. When he finds one boy who doesn't immediately call him names or walk away, he tries so hard. He's not good at talking, but he tries. When the boy turns away disinterested, he desperately tells him he has a secret. The boy is intrigued, and Emmet (poor desperate Emmet) tells him that he is actually a twin, that he is Emmet and not Ingo.

Nothing comes of it at first. The other boy doesn't believe him, leaving Emmet sadder than before. But later…

Emmet is back in the closet, finding comfort in the dark and solitude (because he deserves it for doing badly at making friends), when the door is kicked in. The gang have come to make a surprise inspection/collection. But this time it's different. Because a little birdie told them something funny. Emmet can hear the voice moving around the small apartment, hear his dad's stammered protests, the girlfriend's voice rising in hysterics. See, the funny thing they heard was that the father was holding out on them, that they were harboring more people than they claimed. And if so, then the gang was owed some /money/.

Emmet can hear the steps getting closer. He can hear Ingo, his brother, raising his voice in protest. Too close, he must be in front of the closet door, trying in vain to protect his brother. He hears it when the gangster hits Ingo, knocking him out of the way. Then the door opens, and he's been exposed.

It's not a pretty scene. Perhaps the gangster demands what's owed in "taxes", perhaps even demands the backlog of money. In the end, whether the father can pay or not, the gangsters don't really care. They kill both the father and the girlfriend, kick around the brothers, and leave with everything of value. No need to kill the children, let them suffer a bit. Or maybe they beat them hard enough to think they were dead or dying.

But the brothers aren't dead. Ingo struggles to move, to get to Emmet. Helps his brother up despite their protesting bodies. They look at their dead father. They wish they could do something for him. All they can do is make their way to the phone and call the police. (It takes them too long to get there. The bodies are long cooled, the brothers huddled in the closet together.)

It's a whirlwind after that. A stop at the hospital to tend their wounds, then off to an orphanage/foster care system. They are sad, but also somewhat relieved. Because it's horrible, and yet…they are out of the house. Away from the bad things. Together. Maybe this will be better. When someone adopts them. Surely it couldn't get worse.

(It can)

Because the first family that shows interest in Emmet's sunny disposition offers to take him, foster him. Alone. They don't have the resources to support two children (and Ingo's serious demeanor is a little creepy if they are honest.) Ingo learns of this from the foster attendant, and is loud in his protests. She had taken him aside to tell him, anticipating the separation wouldn't go quietly. Emmet is unaware of what is in motion, waiting patiently for the return of his twin in their room.

But they can't be separated, Ingo protests. How could that even be suggested? The foster care attendant sounds so understanding, even as she says terrible things. Don't you want what's best for your brother? This is a big chance, where he can go live with a loving family. And surely another family will come along later for Ingo too. But she leans into the idea that it is for Emmet's benefit for Ingo to stay quiet and allow the adoption to happen. Does he understand? Doesn't he agree?

Ingo is frozen in horrified shock. She takes his silences as assent, and sends him back to their room, reminding him to not tell Emmet just yet. It will be a nice surprise for later!

(Ingo goes, numb and blind in horror and grief. They wouldn't survive this separation. He knew. He knew. He couldn't say later how he got back to their room, got back to Emmet. He says nothing. Emmet understands. Without a word between them needed, they escape. Later, once Ingo has told him what happened, Emmet just clings to his brother, almost as hard as Ingo is holding him. They are scared that if they let go, they'll be separated, even though there is no one here but them.)

They have hidden out in a tunnel. They have no idea what it's for, but it's big, it goes on forever, and there are little alcoves along the way. So many places to hide in, surely they won't be found here. Huddled in the dark, they shiver in fear, stress, and cold.

As they huddle together, waiting for the night to recede, they realize that there IS a light source. Despite their fatigue, they are curious boys. It didn't look like a search party, just one small flame. They wander out into the main tunnel, and see that it is coming from a pokemon. A little candle type.

And sure, they've seen pokemon around, usually in the company of the powerful and dangerous people. They hadn't been able to see one this close, for this long. They huddle around it, imagining the flame was actually producing a little heat for them. They talk about it, wondering what kind of pokemon it is, why it's here, admiring its lovely flame and adorable countenance. (Litwick is only half listening, simply swaying as it slowly sucks at the young lifeforce bleeding out of the two)

The cold sets in, the fatigue. Ingo realizes it first maybe. That their little friend is causing it. He mentions as much to Emmet. Emmet thinks about it, but cant bring himself to be bothered. Maybe it's better this way, they wonder. At least they are providing something for their new friend. And they are together.

Before the thought can really settle, a LOUD sound comes echoing up the tunnel, the ground rumbling. They leap to their feet in terror (Ingo scooping up the litwick unconsciously), all but diving into the nearest alcove as something large and fast zooms by. Without their realizing, morning had come, and the subway was beginning its day.

They are wide-eyed at the spector they'd just seen. Emmet is awed, wondering in excitement what it was. Ingo isn't much better. Sure, they maybe had almost just died, but the sound, the speed! It was so exciting.

(Litwick had lost track of time, not realizing how early it was. Normally they'd have been safely away from the tracks long before the trains started, but they had been distracted. If it hadn't been for Ingo taking it with them, it would have died. Realizing this, it cant help but feel a bond starting with these strange boys, who hadn't pushed it away when they'd realized it was eating their life force. It stops doing that, and has decided it wants to go with them.)

(Side side note, being feasted upon for so long left a few minor side effects, such as slightly glowy eyes in the dark. Perhaps Litwick tries to give back some of the lifeforce to the twins. Perhaps the twins find, later on, that being around people energizes them, though it tires people out. Ghosty thingssss)

The boys spend the day watching the trains speed by, quickly catching on (Emmet first) that they were timed perfectly and predictably. They are enamored with what they are. They THINK they know, it's not like they dont know what a train is in concept, but this was so much more than they could have imagined. They realize that litwick's light is no longer so cold, and take turns cuddling it for warmth. Eventually they do sleep, lulled by the roar of the subway around them.

When they wake again, it is quiet. (Neither of them like the quiet.) Litwick is happily flickering nearby, watching over them. Hunger drives them out of their hiding spot, back into town to try and figure out what to do. Ingo had been absently cuddling litwick as they started walking, before realizing that this would be where they part ways. They can't just take a pokemon with them, after all. Litwick has other plans. Through some pantomimes, the brothers realize that Litwick wants to go with them. They don't have a pokeball, they say. Like it cares. They give in without too much of a fight. They don't know yet enough about battling to think about it, but they like the company. Anyway, dumpster diving, probably. They do not steal (they are good boys still), so it's much harder to get enough to eat. They manage. (They are about 8 at this point)

So begins their time on the streets. They quickly fall into a routine. Waking up before dawn, going to the front entrance of the subway where they can observe the first train's departure (without going through the turnstile/paying), and wish the first train a good morning. They spend the day scavenging for food and resources, avoiding the bad people, and mostly just surviving. At the end of the day without fail they make it back to the subway entrance in time to wish the last train goodnight.

The night gate guard observes this ritual for a while, before one day offering to let the two see the trains up close. It's after hours, and he feels kinda bad for the pair to never get any closer. The sparkly eyes he receives, my dudes. The twins are ecstatic, drinking in any bit of information he has about the trains. His thoughts turn maudlin, however. He mentions how this place is doomed. Shocked, they ask why. The town is too full of crime, the subway being the worst of it. It stays just enough under the radar for the local police to be ineffective in quelling them. Once he realizes he's basically crushing the dreams of two children, he apologizes nervously, telling them to never mind. But the seed is planted.

That night the twins are contemplative. They love the subway more than anything they've ever loved before. The thought of it going away because of bad people is too terrible to bear. So, they decide, it's up to them to clean up the subway, get it back into working order. Make it safe. Make everyone happy to take it. However they need to get strong to do that.

I am very tired so just a few outlines.

They like to spend time outside of town watching the trains that travel across the country. They are fewer and far between, so it's not often. While out there (various times), at least 2 things happen.

One is a pokemon trainer runs into them, challenging them to a little battle. Ingo agrees, but since they only have Litwick only one of the twins can "battle". Ingo wins, and the trainer is disappointed but still happy about the fight. They pass the twins a little money, explaining at their bewilderment that it's customary to at least give some pocket change after a battle. The twins get some more information from the trainer (that you need a license, you can get it at 10, etc), before parting ways. They now have a Way to get money.

(Eventually they use some of the money to buy pokeballs, and Litwick gets its proper home.

Second is that Emmet stumbles across a pond that has a bunch of Tynamo. This is where he gets his first.

They slowly learn more about pokemon as they grow up. They also learn how to fight, because their goal remains. They want to drive the gangsters out. When they turn 10, they have to make a decision. Do they go on their adventure, get stronger that way? (Abandon their home?) Or do they stay, and focus on their goal.

In the end, they probably do a little of column a and a little of column b. They don't leave, at least not then, but they sometimes go on shorter journeys. Especially if they take a train to another city. Their focus is on what they can do now. And unfortunately a couple of ten year olds with one pokemon each isn't enough to do much. They need to get stronger. It's not like they don't already scuffle with gang members either. Attention on the streets is dangerous, and they've been caught out before. So they aren't unfamiliar with fighting either. They probably help at least a couple of people over the years from being robbed or attacked. They are underestimated, so their feral energy is enough to win the fight most times.

As they hit about 14, they are getting good at both pokemon fights, and driving off people. They don't just beat people up willy nilly. Their effort is more coordinated, and more gentle than one would think. They are trying to drive the bad people away, not kill them or anything. Their cleanup begins more in earnest. They have many more pokemon now, and are verrrry good at battles. For gangs who utilize pokemon, they do their best to stick to pokemon battles, though it does get a little down and dirty. For those that do not, they dont use pokemon to fight and just stick to their fists. It's wrong, in their mind, to use pokemon against other people. They refuse to fall to that level, refuse to force their friends to be like that.

They get jobs at the subway, some lowend clerklike position. Very much grunt/gopher work, less legal than one would hope (they are still young, no credentials or proper paperwork), but it gets them an in to the subway.

As the years go by, they gain a reputation. Two, actually. They make so many improvements to the subway experience that their tired manager is inundated with praise for them. More people start taking the trains with less fear. The gangsters are furious, but also starting to get dang scared of the terror twins. They are as ruthless as they are kind. The spark returns to the subway, while the dark underground roils.

During some fight, Emmet gets downed by a blow to the head, and Ingo goes a little crazy in retaliation, so scared that his brother is dead. Most would expect the berserker to be Emmet, with his unhinged grin and lack of impulse control. It's what makes it all the scarier that it's Ingo.

Timeline wise I think…

After they became the bosses but very early in their career, they are ambushed by some gang. The gang wants more than to beat them up, they want to humiliate them, show everyone that these so called subway bosses are nothing to be feared. Could push it to a rape, humilation online broadcast. They only get so far before the brothers retaliate. What should have been a straightforward humiliation turns into a vicious brawl the brothers win. (The gangsters think the brothers must have gotten soft with how upstanding they appear in the subway. They were wrong.) The ripples that go out from the video don't reach too far, but what's on the internet stays, and will probably make a reappearance.

The thing is, the brothers aren't easily intimidated, or broken. "You think you're the first to try this?" Emmet taunts. "You think we won't fight to keep our subway safe?" Ingo interjects. The fact that the assault doesn't worry them or put a dent in their confidence shakes up the underground. The broadcast of them overcoming such overwhelming odds is intimidating and terrifying. You do not want to cross the subway bosses. Just don't.

(Later, Ingo is trying to sob as quietly as he can, Emmet holding him tightly. It wasn't the first time someone had tried, no. It wasn't the first time they'd succeeded either. They repress the horror, the remembered pain. It can't hurt them now. Except it does, Ingo especially. They don't feel safe. For a while afterward, their gazes are a bit too sharp, even in their normal job. There is a buzz of manic energy just waiting to break over.)

So they've succeeded in raising the reputation of the subway and cleaning up the town, both above board and below it. The battle subway is initiated, and for a while it seems like they can leave their violent life behind them. Things are good now. They become friends with Elesa. (Would love to add a bunch of platonic friendship stuff, like the danceeee)

Somewhere down the line tho, some remnant of the gangs make a bid for revenge. They get Ingo, send threatening taunts to Emmet, etc. Their plan is actually pretty complex, aiming for destruction and pain. Locking Ingo away where Emmet will never find him before it's too late. Sabotaging the subway somehow. But they have activated the trap card of vengeful Emmet.

(Ingo is tied up, gagged, stuffed in a box and left. Not sure where yet, if it's deep in the tunnels, or aboard a train that's destined to crash. I think the slow death is worse, so I'm leaning that way. Also Ingo trapped in the dark, in a small space, injured. He is Not Okay. Perhaps he is left in a place that's intended to be destroyed by the sabotaged trains, where it would seal him in and make him unreachable in time.)

Emmet leaves behind his hat and coat, the symbols of his position. Because he's going into revenge mode, something not befitting an upstanding subway master. (The change is shocking to many who couldn't believe the brothers were anything but kind, mild mannered as it were. Shake it up.) Anyway, the boy absolutely outsmarts the gang and destroys them (leaving them to be arrested and all), and manages to figure out where Ingo is. I'm way too tired to detail it out. Emmet is a smart boi tho.

One other thought now that I've had some sleep, but maybe both Ingo and Elesa are taken, the gang trying to force Emmet to choose. Emmet can't not go for Ingo first, but when they are both together they would be able to rescue her as well. Would also open the door for other trainers/gym leaders to be involved in the effort.

#fun times ahead #pokemon #submas #pokemon writing #anti mob au #darker au #rubs face i wrote this very late at night and was Very Tired #anyway they stay kind despite it all #yes they are stronk but they are just and fair #and they much prefer the world when they can be safe and enjoy it with their friends and pokemon

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leggerefiore · 3 years

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I love your writing skills! It easy to imagine what's happening in my mind! Do you have any minor headcanons about the differences of the submas brothers? For example one could take long baths, the other likes a quick shower or one sleeps in a pjs set while the sleeps in a t-shirt and boxers. Stuff like that :D

i have tons.... i have created entire lives for these characters,,, i think i'm the one down bad. my poor OCs have been abandoned temporarily. thank you, anon! i try my hardest the scene build before running into too much mushy stuff!

▲Ingo & Emmet Minor Differences HCs▽

● Their bathing style is a great place to start! Ingo loves long, relaxing heated baths, while Emmet takes a sub ten minute cold shower and is content. Ingo sits buried in a world of oils and bubbles, their entangled scents hovering in the air: steam has fogged up the mirror from the heat of the liquid. It is a rare moment of relaxation for the older twin. Emmet goes into the bathroom, turns solely the cold knob, hops in and walks out in nine minutes. Does he actually clean himself? Yes, he's not disgusting, but he doesn't see the point in lingering in the tub. Ingo attempts to convince him of baths, but Emmet thinks they're conceptually gross.

“Brother, you are literally stewing in your own filth,” the younger twin claimed, sticking his tongue out. Ingo shakes his head at the claim and points at him dramatically, “You're 'literally' only under water for seven minutes. Don't talk to me about filth!” Emmet placed a hand over his heart and threw his head back. They go on about this for hours.

○ It's been mentioned somewhere before, but they have different flavours of food they enjoy. Ingo likes bitter tastes with maybe some spice. Think things like kale, ginger, and coffee. He eats those 91% cocoa chocolate bars and does not flinch. Emmet, however, likes sweets and umami flavoured things. Think things like shellfish, tomatoes, and mushrooms for umami. There have been times when all Emmet consumed in a day was sugar because he was too busy to fit in a meal. They always bicker at each other over where to go out for food because their tastes don't really overlap.

● Ingo likes to sleep in proper pyjamas, or at least, strangely, a robe. He thinks it's normal to have clothes you only specifically wear for bed. Emmet counters this in his pair of shorts and baggy graphic t-shirt. Both are things he's worn outside before; both are things that Ingo despises. The older twin often gifts the younger sleeping clothes, but he never wears them. Emmet used to sleep naked until Ingo asked what he would do in case of a fire. (A funny thing they do is steal each other's clothes and usually don't realize it happened for a few days.)

○ They style their hair similar, yet different. It's slicked back under their work caps but parted from left (Emmet) or right (Ingo). When it's au naturale it's noticeable how Ingo's bangs are longer than Emmet's. It likely isn't on purpose, and the older twin just hasn't made it to a stylist recently.

● Back from the pyjama questions: their fashion tastes! They are separate people with different tastes, after all. (They still own quite a few matching outfits. Part of it is nostalgia from their younger years where all of their clothes matched up except in colour.)

◆ Ingo leans more into formal styles of dress, with his more casual looks consisting of sweaters or button-downs with regular-fit trousers. The beatnik style closely aligns with his tastes. He could also dig the dark academia aesthetic. (Ingo also 100% had an emo phase he refuses to discuss.)

◇Emmet, though, loves the soft boy aesthetic. He thinks it fits his personality perfectly and it is comfortable enough to move around in. Baggy, comfortable sweatshirts with or without a collar top and acid washed jeans. He likes to have a bit of peppiness somewhere, yet still look chill and casual. Alternatively, he might also like a bit of vintage mod fashion.

○ Ingo is a night owl who gets is his best work done when the sun finally sets. This is part of the reason he stays so late at the office. Emmet is a morning person who gets out of bed with a smile on his face. It's night and day how they walk into the Gear Station in the mornings; Emmet is basically skipping, while Ingo is trying his hardest to not run into anything.

● Ingo is the type to stress over things and run every possible outcome through his head before moving to do something, while Emmet thinks about whether or not it's safe, then acts. Emmet believes thoroughly in active actions, while Ingo unconsciously leans into passive actions.

○ A cute thing that's different about them is gift giving. Ingo loves receiving sentimental gifts bring given to him but has a hard time accepting them. Emmet loves giving gifts to people. Whenever Emmet gets something for his older brother, Ingo never fails to melodramatically burst into tears. Emmet is enthusiastic that his brother likes his gift and also bursts into tears. Depot agents watch the bizarre scene.

● They have different dominant hands! Ingo is right-handed while Emmet is left-handed. This always surprises people because they’re identical twins; surely their bodies are exactly the same, but nope! Ingo actually cried when he realized Emmet’s dominant hand was different because that clearly meant they weren’t twins anymore. (He was like four when that happened.)

#pokemon ingo #subway boss ingo #pokemon emmet #subway boss emmet #subway bosses #these arent romantic hcs im sorry #but i will blab on about these conductors...#nonromantichcs

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urfictional · 3 years

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𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 – 𝐤𝐚𝐳 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐤𝐤𝐞𝐫

pairing: kaz brekker x fem!reader

summary: there's a new face in ketterdam and kaz will be forced to strike a deal with the devil in order to get what he desires

warnings: blood, blood, and again blood, mentions of torturing, did I mention blood? my bad writing

A/N: I'd like to say that this is my first time writing a fic but then I would be kind of lying because a while ago I started to write a Kaz Brekker fanfiction on Wattpad. BUT. this is my first time writing a short fic, so we'll see how it goes.

also, English is not my first language so bear with the mistakes (I'm sure that there are some)

It’s hard to earn a name for yourself in the Barrel. You essentially start from nothing and then slowly brick by brick you start to grow your empire. You spill sweat and blood to achieve the goal and from then it only takes so little to remain at the top. It’s simple. One just needs to show the power that they hold. And Y/N has power.

Kaz Brekker was wondering. Standing in a dark room with fancy furniture, his Crows, Inej and Jesper, behind him. He was wondering from where she came from. The girl, approximately his age. Just a few months ago, the Barrel practically swarmed with rumors about a girl that Ketterdam hadn’t seen yet. No one knows from where she came from, or who she is. If Kaz has to think, he even doesn’t know her name.

She has many names but none of them is her real one. At least Kaz thinks that the girl that is sitting in front of him couldn’t possibly be called the Executioner. On the other hand, who knows this is the Barrel. A perfect place for weird people.

“You surprise me Kaz Brekker.” Even her voice sounded mysterious. It was confident, powerful and Kaz caught himself thinking that he could listen to her voice till death finally takes him. “You came to my house, walk through my corridors and now your dirty boots are staining my Persian rug and the only thing that you tell me is that you want to strike a deal that would make us acquaintances.”

Kaz didn’t utter a word. He watched the girl and the girl watched him. Her feet were resting on her desk and she comfortably leaned into the chair. She smirked.

While the Y/H/C haired girl was staring at Kaz, Jesper let his eyes closely inspect the girl. In a weird way, she reminded him of Kaz. Perfectly tailored clothes, black dress shirt, and grey west. Dress pants and heeled boots on her feet that laid crossed at her ankles on the desk’s surface. Her Y/H/C hair made into a tight knot at the back of her head. The only thing missing was leather gloves and cane.

“People who hold power in the Barrel should have acquaintances who do the same.” Kaz would be lying if he said that he wasn’t nervous about this meeting. He has heard stories about this girl, stories that possibly are nasty rumors, yet you never know. This is the Barrel after all.

She let out an amused laugh.

“And you count yourself as one?” She raised her eyebrows, an amused smile present on her face. “An acquaintance who holds power in the Barrel?” Y/N waited for Kaz to say something, to defend his honor yet he stayed quiet. She smirked while standing up. “Congratulations, you just passed the first test.”

Y/N needed to know if Kaz Brekker really is the Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel. She won’t let the boy know all her secrets and ways how she works if he isn’t half of what Ketterdam claims him to be.

“Though I have to ask.” She stopped millimeters away from him. Y/N could feel the ragged breath of his that made her furrow her eyebrows and tilt her head a little. She looked into his eyes and stepped one step away from him. “If you claim that people who hold power in the Barrel need to, say, familiarize with others. What about Pekka Rollins? Hmm?” She watched how Kaz visibly stiffened upon that name. She smirked. Y/N got what she wanted. “I hope you will pass the next test, for I would be glad to make you an acquaintance.” With that Y/N walked past the trio towards the door. “Follow me.”

From outside, the building seemed to look like any other building on this street. Yet when the group made the turns for what seemed like a thousand times, they realized that the exterior is just an illusion. The Crows followed the girl down the steps and judging by the fact that there were no windows, and the air was a tad humid, they were in a basement.

They walked down a corridor. Kaz noted that there were doors every few meters on the left side. It looked awfully like a prison down here. Y/N walked past one door but then stopped causing the group to halt. She walked back towards the doors she just passed and opened the latch in the door. A small window with bars allowed to see inside the room yet the group couldn’t see anything from the position where they were standing.

They could hear a chain rattling and groaning which forced Kaz to think that there was someone in there.

“Well, have you changed your mind?” Her tone was demanding. Kaz observed her side profile. Sharp eyes and clenched jaw, he wondered if this is how he looked when he demanded something and didn’t accept no for an answer. The group heard more chain rattling and louder groan that sounded awfully like no with a couple of colorful words that were no doubt directed towards the girl. Y/N smirked. “As you wish.”

She went to close the latch when she glanced at the group on her left. Then without closing it moved forward along the corridor. Y/N purposely left the window open, she wanted Kaz to see with what kind of devil he is making the deal.

While walking past the doors Kaz glanced inside and visibly gulped. A man in his late thirties was hanging by his hands from the ceiling, his feet barely touching the ground. He was bleeding from, well, everywhere, and by the looks of it, he has been here for a long time. He was barely alive, and it seemed hasn’t eaten for weeks. Kaz wondered if behind all those doors were hanging men or even women.

“Do they even get food or water?” Inej was troubled by the scene that she saw behind the doors and couldn’t help but to be a tad concerned.

Y/N glanced behind her before turning to face the front again.

“When I remember, they do.” She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders. They turned a corner and continued to walk along another hallway. The girl turned to throw a smirk towards the Suli girl. “I am a tad forgetful; you know. Can’t always remember all those poor souls that need feeding.”

So, then there were more people down here. Kaz suddenly wondered how many of them were still alive and how many were just hanging dead.

The group reached the end of the corridor. They were met with a man who was undoubtedly guarding the doors. With one nod from the girl in front of them, the guard opened the doors and let them inside.

This room was bigger than the previous cell that they saw. The walls were lined with cabinets that contained things, starting from various kinds of weapons to bottles of different sizes and colorful liquids.

“How’s our guest feeling today?” The Crows turned to where Y/N was standing in front of a man who, much like the previous prisoner, was hanged by his hands from the ceiling. The only difference was that there were also chains on his feet and he was hovering above the ground. Kaz observed the room and noticed three men standing on the sides. More guards. “Did the acid did its work?”

The Y/H/C-haired girl walked towards the table on her left. She was slowly unrolling the sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows. After she was done Y/N picked up a bottle inspecting it.

“The man at the market said that it's pretty effective.” Only now Kaz noticed the burn marks on the prisoner’s body. One of the guards stepped forward.

“He didn’t utter a word.”

Y/N tsked while shaking her head in disappointment. She then turned to the hanging man.

“This is not how we work, darling, you know that.” The mock concern in the girl’s voice caused Kaz to shiver slightly. “Such a pretty face ruined for nothing. I can give you one more chance.”

The prisoner raised his head and looked at the girl in front of him. Y/N could easily live without the information that this man could give her but then it wouldn’t be interesting anymore. Any kind of information even the smallest one about the people of Ketterdam could turn out to be useful. You just need to find the right way, the right place and time.

“I am bound by an oath, I won’t tell you anything. Even if I’ll have-”

“-have to die, yeah, yeah don’t I know it.” Y/n interrupted the man by rolling her eyes. “You’re pathetic.”

The Crows braced themselves after what came next. The hanging man mustered all the strength that was in him and spit the blood that was in his mouth right into her face. The guards launched forwards, but Y/N raised her hand halting them in their steps.

Kaz watched how the girl was trying to calm her breathing the muscles of her back stiffened. He admired the control that this girl possessed. Not many people that Kaz knew would have such a perfect grip of themselves. Hell, even Kaz himself sometimes dropped the controlled behavior behind and acted a little reckless.

Y/N slowly turned around and the group of three could see the specks of blood on her face mixed with spit.

“Alright, if this is how you want to play. Let’s play.” She pulled out a cloth from her vest pocket and walked to her left where a small mirror was hanged on the wall.

When she was done cleaning her face, she walked back to stand in front of the prisoner. One of the guards walked beside her and handed something that reminded Kaz of a sheathed sword. Y/n took the handle and pulled out a long shiny sword. It was very long, it even was longer than Jesper’s arm. It looked heavy but she held it like it was light as a feather.

“I have always admired the old weapons.” She turned to face the Crows. “All those revolvers, pistols, and bombs, they are boring.” The girl extended her arm and pointed her sword at Kaz while smirking. “There is something about swords and weapons that have sharp and pointy things that excite me.” She glanced at the Suli girl on Kaz’s right. “Wouldn’t you agree with me?”

Inej couldn’t get anything past her lips, so she opted with just a nod.

Y/N lowered the sword and Kaz dared to breathe again. He didn’t even notice that he was holding his breath.

“There is nothing more exciting than feeling the sword digging in the flesh. Feeling the muscles breaking when you turn the sword-” She suddenly looked up at the group and offered a half-embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

Then the smile disappeared, and she turned to walk closer to the hanged man.

“Let’s play a game. Heads or tails, Kaz Brekker?” Kaz looked up startled and watched how the girl turned to face him, any sign of the embarrassed smile long gone. Two steely eyes were staring into his soul waiting for his answer. “Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

Kaz knew that it was something to do with the way how the girl is going to kill the man. There was no point in trying to get away from that. The man is going to die anyway. With or without Kaz’s answer.

“Tails.” She smirked while turning to the hanged man. “This is your lucky day. You’ll be able to see me perfectly in the last seconds of your life.” Then she turned to face the Crows once more. “I have many names, yet only one of them is true. I am an Executioner.”

Kaz watched how she turned her head and raised her sword. With one swing sideways, the sword cut through the hanged man detaching the top half from the bottom separating him just above the waist. Kaz could hear Jesper cursing from his left and Inej taking in a sharp breath from his right. But Kaz did not let his eyes wander from the girl whose arm was still extended with the sword. The blood dripping from the weapon and the top half of the dead man.

“This part is my favorite.” Y/N lowered the sword and grasped the hilt in both hands, she supported the tip of the sword against the ground like a cane. Now the only thing missing is leather gloves. Jesper thought while watching the girl who yet again looked exactly like Kaz. “His brain hasn’t fully comprehended the pain and the fact that half of him is missing. Last seconds before he dies, he sees my face and wishes he had done otherwise.” Kaz couldn’t see her face, but he imagined a contented smile resting on her face. “The silent art. What could be more beautiful than this?”

Y/N turned around to face the Crows. One of the guards walked closer with the empty sheath. She cleaned the sword before taking the sheath and putting the sword in it. With the sheathed weapon in one hand, Y/N walked closer to the group of three. She stopped before Kaz and squinted her eyes while inspecting him. Satisfied with whatever she saw, the girl smirked.

“Congratulations. You managed to keep everything inside. So did your friends.” She looked from Inej to Jesper then back at Kaz with a cheeky smile. “Some people have the need to display their previous meals. I’m not a fan of those people.” She then pointed at the guards behind her. “Nor are they. Because, well, they are the ones that are cleaning everything.”

Kaz forced himself to not look at the hanging body behind the girl, not a second longer, otherwise, he too will have the need to display the meal he had earlier this day. He was surprised how Jesper managed to hold himself together. Kaz took a mental note to ask him that after they will be done here.

Soon they left the basement and followed the girl back upstairs. They arrived in the room they previously were in. Y/N walked to the cabinet on the left and placed the sheathed sword on a stand. Then she walked to the front of the desk and her hands crossed on her chest leaned against it.

“Well? You still want to make the deal?”

Kaz knew that there is a possibility that he will regret the decision but there was one thing that forced him to not think about this possibility. There was a reason she mentioned Pekka Rollins. And that reason was simple, she wanted him gone just as much as he. If that wouldn’t be the case, she wouldn’t have bothered with all this play. Therefore, Kaz firmly nodded his head forcing a smirk to appear on the girl’s face.

She stood straight and extended her hand, waiting for Kaz to shake it.

For a moment he hesitated, but then slowly extended his hand and felt her fingers wrap around his leather-clad hand.

And so, the devil made deal with the devil.

A/N: aight let me know what you think. ;))

#kaz brekker #six of crows #kazzle dazzle #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows imagines #six of crows imagine #kaz brekker imagines #shadow and bone #jesper fahey #inej ghafa #kaz brekker imagine #shadow and bone x reader #grishaverse #shadow and bone imagines

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clonewarslover55 · 3 years

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I totally forgot to send this in but I saw your post again and it reminded me! I'd love to see Vau around Mird's pups if they had a litter and that made me think about seeing Vau around babies. Like maybe someone is like, oh kad threw up on himself and Vau's not busy so he's like oh I got it. Just calmly washes him off and changes his clothes no big deal and everyone else is like omg wtf?? How do you know how to do that??

Walon Vau taking care of Kad

Omg yes! I loved this so much I decided to do a drabble on it.

Notes: If you haven’t read Memories then the ending of this won’t make much sense….

Warnings: baby vomit, Walon Vau doesn’t sleep because *Trauma*, I have never had a child nor dealt with one of this age so I may be wrong about handling one...….but Kad is also highly intelligent for a toddler so some things may seem incorrect but they’re not. Idk, just enjoy this lol

Walon Vau was sitting in the common room, just reading something on his holopad. Mird was asleep on the couch beside him, snoring gently. It was peaceful and very silent for Kyrimourt…..Well it was the middle of the night after all. Reading was his favorite pastime when he couldn’t sleep. Either that or exercising.

He glanced up when he heard sniffling, seeing Kad tottle into the room. He raised his eyebrows.

The poor toddler was covered in vomit and had obviously just woken up. Walon stood up and walked to him slowly, “Poor Ad’ika. Not feeling well?” He spoke softly, the little boy nodding. “Mhmmm….” Kad whined.

Kad sniffed loudly, hugging his stuffed nerf close to his chest. Walon frowned, kneeling in front of the little boy. He held out his arms, “Come ‘ere. Let's get you cleaned up. It’ll make you feel better.”

He rubbed his eyes, hesitating. He glanced at a still sleeping Mird then back to Walon. The very intelligent kid then nodded again before walking into his arms. A smile twitched onto Vau’s lips as he gently picked up Kad.

He felt his forehead with the back of his hand, “Well, you’re not running a fever. That’s good.” He smiled when Kad nodded like he understood every word. The kid was incredibly smart ....so maybe he did. Vau didn’t know. He never spent a lot of time with Kad.

He carried Kad into the freshers to give him a bath. The toddler was staring at him with big brown eyes the whole time. The vibes he had slightly unnerved Walon…….But he was also just a baby so he wasn’t that bad.

Walon undressed Kad as he filled the tub with water. Kad tried to undress himself, apparently he thought he was grown enough. Vau couldn’t help but chuckle at the little scowl he wore when Vau undressed him instead of letting him do it.

First Walon sat the stuffed Nerf beside the sink, in Kad’s line of sight of course. Then he tossed the clothes in the hamper that sat in the corner; then kneeled by the tub, a squirming toddler in his arms. He shook his head slightly and rolled up his sleeves. Kyrimorut was supposed to be temporary….and here he was bathing a child that wasn’t even his own….

Usually he only bathed Mird, so it was different sitting a toddler into the warm water instead of a Strill. Kad splashed around the warm water, clearly already feeling a bit better.

Walon found the toys that Darman and Kal had bought for Kad to play with in the bath. In the same cupboard there were also some clean pajamas and extra soft towels. Poor Kad had bad acid reflux at times, so this clearly happened enough.

He washed all of the mess from Kad’s face and hands. Kad splashed water everywhere, getting it all over Vau’s clothes. He sighed as he washed the toddler, ignoring the water that was now everywhere.

“You’re very messy Ad’ika.” Walon mumbled as he poured a cup of water over the child's head, Kad giggling in glee. He chuckled at that, the child splashing some more.

Once he was finally all clean Vau drained the tub and removed Kad from it, wrapping him up in a towel. “Do you feel better?” Walon questioned while toweling him dry. The little one nodded quickly, a wide smile on his face.

Walon helped change him into fresh clothes and a clean diaper, Kad yawning once he was done. “Sleepy?” Walon asked in a soft voice, the child nodding as he rubbed his eyes with a tiny fist.

He sat Kad on the floor as he wiped down the water that he got everywhere. Once it was all dry he tossed the towels in the hamper. Walon then picked Kad back up, the toddler nuzzling his face into his neck.

He handed Kad his stuffed Nurf before carrying him to where he slept. Vau checked the bed first, apparently he had only gotten the vomit on himself. That made it easier for Walon. He wouldn’t have to look for sheets.

Walon sat Kad in his crib, tucking him in. Kad yawned once again, hugging Walon’s hand. “You’re welcome.” He whispered, pulling away. Kad fell asleep as quickly as most young children do. Once he was asleep Vau turned around.

He was greeted with a half asleep Darman. “What-” Walon cut him off before he was accused of anything. “He threw up on himself and crawled out. I was already awake in the common room when he wandered in looking for you.” Darman crossed his arms, an eyebrow raised.

Walon sighed, “I bathed him and put him back to bed. You’re welcome. You need to get him some medicine for that acid reflux, he seems to be especially bad at night. Poor kid needs his rest.” Darman was speechless.

“I….How….How do you know this?” Walon shrugged and averted his eyes from the Commandos. Darman blinked at that. Vau walked to him and moved around the clone, leaving the room.

“Thank you…” Dar said. Vau nodded, walking back to the common room. Darman checked on Kad, his son sleeping peacefully and not smelling of vomit. “Wow…” Dar chuckled, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe it.

Vau clicked his tongue and patted his thigh once he got back into the common room. Mird looked up and hopped off the couch with a loud high pitched yawn. “Let’s get to bed.” Walon muttered, handing his holopad to Mird so they could carry it.

He walked into his own quarters, Mird right on his heels. He quickly changed out of his damp clothes, his mind flashing with memories of his past. Mird sat the holopad on a nightstand and crawled onto the bed.

Walon sat on the foot of the bed beside Mird, gently scratching its head. “I haven’t done that in years, Mird.” He muttered, his golden eyes staring at the floor, his mind somewhere else.

“It's a lot different without Rose helping me or watching…. And without Stella crying because she can’t bring her favorite stuffy into the bath with her.” He smiled at the memory of his young daughter, the beautiful little girl that was so much like her mother. And perhaps a little bit like her father…..

“I know you miss those girls too.” He rested his head on Mird’s side, the corners of his eyes burning. Mird whined, licking its master's hand.

Sadly the daughter of Walon Vau and Verda Tal Rose was nothing more than a memory now. Luckily, she will never be forgotten.

Tags: @leias-left-hair-bun @iamassbuttkingofhell @catsnkooks @azem-thefourteenth @colorfulloverbatturkey @blueberrybubblesandboba @ahsokatano-thetogruta @jedi-mando @peacefulwizardfox @hounding-around @julyzaa @feathersforclones @chr0nicbackpain @Strangebroadwaykinks @fyrepen33 @mistflyer1102 @kamino-mermaid @cherry-cokes-posts @cherry-cokes-world @darmanfi @silverinkandstardust @chewychewyque @majorshiraharu @ravenpuff01 @808tsuika @meabravo

If you’d like to be added to my taglist the link is on my masterlist!

#walon vau #kal skirata #darman skirata #memories #verda tal rose #venku skirata #kad skirata #lord mirdalan #Walon Vau and Mird #Mird #mird'ika

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totallyexhausted · 3 years

Text

So, I am re-watching Danny Phantom and the idea of Lancer caring for an ill Danny crossed my mind after I read all the ones I could find. I also toyed with Danny’s powers; him being able to change, obviously, but also seance and see dead spirits (and ghosts; leaving spirits and ghosts as separate entities) walking around. Basically, I upped the rating on Danny Phantom and combined Klaus Hargreeves powers with Danny’s own abilities.

Also, I’ll say, and maybe it’s the song I’m listening to, or the fact that I was reworking Greenberg and Coach from TW, but I got the picture of Danny showing up at Lancer’s door, high off his ass mumbling about Sam, Ghosts, and other teenager things.

…………………………………..

Lance Lancer had never seen a kid so sick, nor did he remember his own son ever being this ill. Danny groaned loudly, curling further into himself, his arms tightly protecting his stomach as his nails dug bloody indents on his forearms. He was shivering, his ghost sense going off every few minutes, creating a barely visible burst of cold air biting back against his sweaty flesh. He clenched his eyes shut as he tried to forget about the spirits flooding the room. As he tried to forget their voices, their screams, their hands brushing over him as they pleaded for him to look. As they begged for him to help.

Lancer bit his bottom lip as he pressed his hand harder against the 17-year-old’s shaking front shoulder, his other trying to work through some of the knots plaguing the boy’s shoulder blades. He shouldn’t have this many tight muscles, this much stress forced in his back at his age… and the fact that Danny seemed to curl tighter into himself, straining his muscles further every time he took a slow, shallow breath, worried the English teacher more.

The teenager groaned again, clenching his eyes shut tighter as he swallowed quickly, letting out a shaky breath. He stilled, hoping his lack of movement would help ease the nausea stampeding through his body and after taking several slow breaths, he relaxed. He hated being sick… not that anyone loved puking their guts out for hours, let alone in someone else’s home, but his ghost sense always made him on-edge, unable to sleep peacefully or unwind. Every spark of Ghost-breath as Tucker called it, sent violent shivers through him making it harder for his body to heat or cool properly.

The last time Danny remembered being this sick was a few days after the Accident. He’d been on a famous “Fenton Family Vacation,” which was just code for some lame ghost-convention his parents attended every year, forcing their two kids to cram in the RV for a 12-hour car trip to some middle-class hotel. Usually, Jazz and Danny occupied their time exploring the city or making fun of the people who attended the convention. But since the Accident a few days before, for Danny, the family vacation turned into 3-days of complete feverish hell as his body tried to figure out how to survive with only half an immune system, half the person he used to be.

There wasn’t much to remember from that experience except cold showers, endless puking, aimless wondering in some sauna-type hotel as Danny tried running from himself, and the vague memory of leaning against his father several times as his mother coaxed him to take whatever foul-tasting liquid she wanted him to drink. Whether or not his parents actually attended the convention, or if Jazz had explored the same boring city, Danny couldn’t remember. But he remembered his parents arguing, his sister cradling him to her chest on the bathroom floor, and at some point, crouching under the bathroom counter as he forced himself small, trying to hide from the green-eyed, white-haired kid in the mirror or the bloody, contorted people following him. Since then, sickness never came easy despite his immune system being half-dead or ghosted or whatever it was Tucker had told him.

The 17-year-old pressed his face against the comforter, lessening the pain shooting through his temples as the thought of puking again slowly began to evade, and his head welcomed the soft cool fabric cushioning the migraine eating away at his jawline. He was lying at the edge of the bed, curled into what had to be a pathetic sweaty ball, his knees pulled halfway to his chest as he braced his arms across his stomach. This was hell. It had to be. Because only some sick fuck would make him miserable, feverishly grasping what little reality he could hold onto, and so nauseous he couldn’t move, away from his parents with only Mr. Lancer as his only comfort. It was some kind of sick joke.

Danny’s stomach churned, and he swallowed hard, his hands clammy against his overheated skin, trying to will whatever else he could possibly still have in his stomach, back down. He stilled again, breathing shallowly through his nose, feeling his stomach relax slightly. He sighed internally, praying to God he was done puking as heat lit through his veins, and Danny lurched, retching loudly as he shut his eyes, willing for everything to stop. He had no strength left to hold himself up; his mind fuzzy and everything hard to piece together through sweaty nauseating moments. He whimpered as he lurched again, retching as bitter acidic bile spewed from his mouth, running down his chin, and the 17-year-old coughed harshly, tightening his grip across his stomach, and clenching his eyes shut as he struggled to breathe through the rest of it.

He felt something wipe across his chin and mouth, his stomach lurching further at the thought of the humiliation of being so exhausted and sick he couldn’t even be bothered to wipe any of his vomit away from him. Danny whimpered loudly, letting foul saliva pool from his mouth as his stomach heaved, hanging his head off the edge of the bed over what he had been hoping for the past two hours was a wastebasket… but considering Lancer had rapidly become more concerned with other ailments such as the teenager’s temperature or the tight muscles straining in his shoulders and back, the 17-year-old was willing to bet the dark wooden floor wasn’t pretty. He’d also been too scared to look, not wanting the guilt of Lancer having to clean up his vomit added onto the guilt and humiliation he already felt.

“Alright. Easy, Daniel. It’s alright… just let it all up. It’s alright,” Lancer said as softly as he could. He was pretty sure the kid was mostly delirious by now, his fever spiking as sweat layered on top of him, soaked through damp clothes and sheets that were plastered to the teenager’s pale skin. He couldn’t even hold himself up anymore, his face pressed against the edge of the bed while Lancer kept a firm grasp on his shoulder so the kid wouldn’t topple off.

Lancer pressed the disregarded and mostly warm rag from the nightstand against the teenager’s face; forehead, cheeks, neck, trying his best to mop up as much sweat as he could, trying to cool Danny off as much as he could without physically carrying him into the bathroom and forcing him under a cold shower. It wasn’t ideal, and Lancer knew from previous experience with his own son, it wouldn’t be pretty; but considering Lancer was currently in charge of the poor kid, he was willing to do whatever was necessary. He’d just never seen a kid so sick.

Lightening flashed outside as a branch scrapped against the glass windowpane, thunder clashing loudly as rain continued to beat against the old house. The small leak in the roof audible in the kitchen as tiny droplets fell against some crappy tin figurines his wife failed to take in the divorce. Lancer had always hated them… but he didn’t have the heart to toss them… or admit to himself that those stupid scrap metal trinkets were his last thread he had tied to her. His last hope that maybe she’d come back. But it’d been 12 years… and she wasn’t coming back. Neither was Charlie.

Danny coughed harshly, flinching as something cool touched the back of his neck, brushing sweaty sticky hair matted to his neck from his burning flesh. He felt like he was on fire. No, worse… his core was always cold, freezing almost; so, his temperature was lower than any other humans. So, the fire eating away at his muscles and memories, was excruciating.

He coughed again, wheezing slightly as his heart skipped. He had to be breathing faster than normal… hell, he was breathing faster than normal. Air sucked through achy lungs and forced out through a dry mouth as his heart tried keeping up the pace. He swallowed, pulling his knees further to his chest, shivering again as his ghost sense went off, and he opened his eyes slightly, wincing as the dark room spun in a multitude of blacks, browns, and dark purples. Red mixed against almost translucent flesh as faces inched closer, and Danny’s stomach lurched, hard, as his eyes met the contorted and split face of a middle-aged man in coveralls.

The teenager choked, swallowing loudly as his stomach cramped again, barely feeling Lancer’s hands trying desperately to work out the clenched muscles in his back. Blood dripped from the man’s face; his appearance split into two as his smile dropped in opposite directions. Normally, Danny could ignore it; ignore them… but it was worse when he was vulnerable. He couldn’t block them out. And to be completely honest, the past couple of months hadn’t been easy on him.

He and Sam had broken up before they ever began dating. Tucker had maintained under the radar both boyfriends and girlfriends while helping his childhood crush, Valerie, pick off the ghosts Danny had missed. They were still close, the three of them; but Sam had been more distant, avoiding plans with Danny when it was just the two of them… and deep down the teenager knew it was his fault. Everything was.

The 17-year-old bit his lip, blood coating his tongue as he buried his nails further against his flesh. Sam had almost died. She had been willing to sacrifice everything for Danny… and that was something Danny would never have been able to live with. He had fucked up. He had tried to help… and she had almost died. The faint tan scars still visible against her neckline, shining as a reminder in the sunlight and under the florescent lighting in the chemistry lab. Since then, she’d been doing her best to avoid Danny, and Danny let her. He couldn’t face her. He didn’t know how.

That had been months ago, but it still flooded the teenager’s mind every time he glanced in her direction. Every time their hands touched in chemistry… every time she forced a watered-down excuse past purple lipstick. The sigh. That sigh. She had been scared of him that night. He saw it. The fear plagued across her face. The horror. And Danny didn’t blame her because he scared himself nowadays too.

He felt colder than he had been in his youth, emotions concrete against things that troubled his peers. His demeanor seemed further away as he toppled over the puny shadow of his early years. He wasn’t a pushover; Dash didn’t come near him anymore… but he was still outcasted, marked freakshow as newer threats and tougher bullies appeared. Sam had borne witness to things Tucker knew nothing about; she had seen a darker side of Danny that the teenager tried so damn hard to hide. But it was getting harder… the spirits were bleeding through more and more, scratching his mind and haunting him with nightmares that kept the 17-year-old up most nights. Nothing was a comfort anymore. Not even his friends. Not even his sister.

The teenager’s stomach lurched again, and he felt cooper flood his mouth as he bit his lip harder, forcing his eyes shut, cutting off the images around him as the spirits continued to scream. He breathed through his nose slowly, feeling Lancer’s hand grip his fingers as he tried to pry the teenager’s grip baring against his sweaty flesh.

“Wuthering Heights, Daniel!” Lancer breathed, still trying to force Danny’s fingers away from his arm as the small bloody marks from his nails became visible. Despite visibly shaking, and his breathing coming in teeth-chattering waves, Lancer was surprised Danny’s grip remained resilient. Likewise, when Danny had grabbed his wrist in the hallway earlier, when Lancer had startled the teenager, his icy-blue eyes daggered towards him, watching the older man’s actions, his fingers tight and threatening around his wrist… Lancer had been taken aback by the teenager’s strength. Just like now.

The English teacher sighed, giving up and pressing his hand against the 17-year-old’s shoulder once more as Danny lurched, coughing harshly. Concern and sympathy ate away at Lancer’s expression; his own actions feeling clumsy and foreign as he tried to soothe the teenager as much as he could. As much as he remembered. But he hadn’t comforted his own son in almost 12 years… and Danny had become much more distant and independent over the past three. So, the comfort Lancer used to try and reassure the kid, felt awkward, just as the sickened pain written across the teenager’s pale face, looked wrong.

The lights flickered above, and Lancer glanced up, hoping he wasn’t going to lose power as that would add to his already worrying list of problems. Lightening cracked again, a tree in the front yard visible momentarily as a branch fell against the window, rain threatening to break glass, and the distant sound of a tornado signal blaring through Amity Park.

Danny whimpered loudly, clenching his eyes as voices cut through his skull, pounding against the pain enveloped in his forehead and cheekbones, trailing down his jawline and neck. The bed spun despite the teenager being curled into a tight motionless ball, sweat falling from his hairline as the smell of body odor reached his nostrils, and the 17-year-old gagged.

Lancer pressed a reassuring hand against the teenager’s shoulder, murmuring he’d be right back before rising, grabbing the lukewarm rag from the nightstand, and trashcan from beside the bed as he made his way towards the kitchen. After replacing the trash bag and running the rag through cold water, Lancer sighed loudly, pressing his hands against the counter as he watched water droplets forming through the small hole in his ceiling and ping against the metal statues harbored on the bar.

He huffed again, running a tired hand over his bald head as he stared at his reflection in the dark window. The electricity shut off as the lights flickered before the microwave beeped loudly as the powerlines fought against the storm. He didn’t need this. And if there was any type of superior being looking out for him, they’d keep the lights on. At least, Lancer would have one thing going for him then.

He sighed again, glancing towards the direction of his guestroom then back towards his reflection. It was nearing 5am, and despite the sun aimed to rise in an hour, Lancer doubted it would bleed through the storm that had showed no signs of letting up. He wished it would, wished the skies would clear… wished flights would take off because that meant Danny’s parents and sister could fly home. They’d be able to take better care their son… they’d know what to do. Lancer didn’t. He hadn’t been a dad in years… he hadn’t looked after someone in years…

Danny had been miserable all day, this had become evident to Lancer in 4th period as he berated the teenager for once again sleeping in his class. His cocky, sarcastic attitude pushing the English teacher to his limit as he awarded the 17-year-old with another days’ detention. But it hadn’t been until later that Lancer began to notice things he should have seen to begin with. The dark circles, pale complexion, the bloody nose, and red tint painted across sharp cheekbones; his voice, cracked and sudden, as Danny retorted sarcasm aimed to hurt… his stare gazing past whatever Lancer had been teaching, staring at nothing but looking at everything.

Lancer shook his head as he glanced down at the red coffee cup and abandoned bowl of cereal lying in the sink. This had not been in his Wednesday evening plans… then again, there was no way in hell Lancer was going to let the teenager go home to an empty house. Lord knows what could have happened, and the fact that Danny’s temperature had spiked in the night, confirmed any doubts the older man had of letting the kid stay with him until his parent’s plane landed, which had been grounded until tomorrow evening, at best.

The older man glanced back towards his reflection, catching sight of the radar flashing across the television in his living room, silently. The storm was huge, coming from the Gulf, pressure building from the North and East as it moved slowly over Amity Park. And it was only expected to get worse which was ironically befitting. Lancer had played with the idea of taking Danny to the Emergency Room several times within the past few hours; the only thing stopping him was the question of what was more dangerous: Danny’s illness or the storm?

Jack Fenton had argued while on the phone with Lancer that he had half a mind to rent a car and drive back, despite it being a 20-hour drive back to upstate New York. But much to the English teacher’s amusement, Mr. Fenton’s plan had been shot down from his wife in the background, asking Lancer the condition of her son. Danny’s sister groaning loudly in the background, yelling something about embarrassment. But that had been yesterday evening…

And now. Danny couldn’t keep anything down, not even the miniscule amounts of water Lancer had encouraged him to take to prevent dehydration. His fever had spiked from 102 yesterday to 104.8 through the night, and most of the hardened demeanor Lancer had come to expect from his pupil over the years, was vanquished within a matter of hours. The tough, fuck-you-attitude Danny had adapted, was replaced with the youthfulness of his age. Only 17. He was still a kid; scared, alone, and whether he wanted to admit it, trying his best not to cause his teacher any further inconveniences than he already had. And despite Lancer finding the teenager’s attempts admirable, he found himself at a loss of trying to convince not only the teenager, but himself, that he only wanted to help, to make the kid feel better. But Lancer was so far out of his parental element, and he’d never seen a kid so sick before.

It hadn’t taken long once Lancer had settled down for the night, warming his hands against a mug of tea, quietly watching the news, for things to take a turn. Danny had been rather quiet during the drive to Lancer’s house, slumped in the passenger side, forehead pressed against frosted glass and still mumbling in disagreement with whoever thought he needed a babysitter every couple of minutes. The 17-year-old had attempted to convince Lancer he was fine, that he felt better since puking in detention, and his parents were overreacting. And despite sloppily scribbling through his homework, half of which the older man was certain Danny hadn’t even bothered to read, the teenager remained sullen, flushed, barely touching the sandwich Lancer had offered.

After some time spent brooding in a chair at the kitchen table, Danny had apparently concluded his English teacher wasn’t going to take him home anytime soon. He seemed more compliant then, taking up to inspecting Lancer’s memorabilia instead, trying his best to leave everything exactly as he’d found it. The older man had admired how careful the 17-year-old had been when picking up photos or knickknacks, casting weird what-the-hell-is-this glances towards his teacher as he explored.

Something sounded to his right, and Lancer blinked, running another hand over his head as he cleared his mind. Most of the things taking up refuge in the old house were objects ghosted with the memories of previous family, previous love, a previous life. He had never had the heart to take them down… it was creepily comforting.

Lancer sighed, reaching for the water-soaked rag puddling on the counter as something moved in the corner of his eye causing the older man to jump. He turned, facing the 17-year-old leaning heavily against the wooden arch of the hallway, shaking as he pressed a hand firmly against the wall for support, the rest of his lanky form hunched.

“Great Gatsby, Fenton! What are you doing up?” Lancer advanced, his tone slightly harsher than intended causing the older man to grimace. The teenager looked fairly close to passing out, a hand on his stomach firmly, the other grasped at flat wallpaper. Sweat trailing down his flushed face, forming in droplets at the kid’s chin before melting into his sweat-soaked shirt. Red set high across the bridge of his nose, painting his cheeks as he opened his mouth to speak before closing it, confusion setting across his features.

Lancer made a move towards the teenager as Danny stepped back, his eyes wide as they observed the older man cautiously. The English teacher raised an eyebrow, taking another step forward, a sick feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach as the teenager recoiled once more. Lancer cursed softly, pushing his hand towards the 17-year-old slowly, his voice low and calm as Danny reeled back. Lancer hesitated, “I’m not going to hurt you, Daniel.”

Danny pressed against the wall as Lancer took another step forward, leaning a shoulder against the wall, his eyebrows furrowing together as he tried to focus on the swimming interior around him. He couldn’t breathe, the air around him sucked from tired lungs, voices piercing through his head as he raised a shaky hand to his ear, wincing loudly as the spirits around him grew louder. He clenched his eyes shut, feeling his body struggle against the wall supporting him as he jerked away, wincing again as questions pelted him, begging, pleading for his help, for him to look. Look. Look! Just look at what had happened to them!

“Daniel?” Lancer questioned quickly, stepping forward again as the teenager gasped loudly, forcing a hand against his left ear as blood began dripping slowly from his nose, his shoulder slamming against the ugly wallpaper, “Daniel? Danny! Hey!”

The 17-year-old felt something brush against his wrist, and he forced his eyes open against the harsh lights flickering above him. Everything was hot, confusing, mashed together in a nauseating off-kilter vibrancy that hurt; his legs refusing to support him, lungs unwilling to take air as panic took over as he tried to clear his head, as he tried to remember where the hell he was.

He grimaced, sliding against the wall as his legs fought to keep him upright. He felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, weird, gone. He swallowed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, fear crossing his face as he pulled back, red sticky liquid coating his fingertips. Tears threatened to spill as he tried to catch his breath. This was his fault. Everything. And now he had blood on his hands. Sam’s blood.

Piercing cut through as Danny pressed a shoulder to his ear, crying out as the man in coveralls laughed, reaching towards him. Danny dropped to his knees, his fingers trembling as they slid down the wallpaper, forcing a picture of a little boy in a baseball uniform to the ground; the glass breaking around it as it smashed against the wood flooring. Tears clouded his vision as he glanced towards the photo, the blonde-haired kid morphing, mirroring Danny’s own reflection through splintered glass.

“No,” The 17-year-old choked, pulling the photo from the floor, glass splinters slicing his trembling fingers as the kid’s gap-tooth smile distorted. He couldn’t breathe; suffocating fear eating away at him as he realized he was gone. The kid in the photo was gone. Taken, dead, his soul split, lifeless as the portal had taken everything from him. He had died, leaving behind grief and broken disappointment. His friend’s hurt, bleeding out on the side of the road as Danny struggled to hold onto any humanity he had. As he struggled to save those he should have left long ago.

Blood dotted the photo, the boy’s face hidden by crimson, and Danny wiped his hand under his nose again, smearing blood across his face. The innocent boy in the photo was gone; he had killed himself in the Accident, left behind by evil contentment and a nightmarish reality that he’d never been good enough. He was broken, built in a sweetness that no longer existed, a black gaping hole where his soul was, under aching ribs, sweaty skin and a tormented, fucked up version of himself. A black pit of beautiful disappointment. An unlovable thing. He had become something unlovable, the portal killing the good and resurrecting the bad, and even that wasn’t worth much. He wasn’t worth much.

Danny gagged harshly, crumpling the photo in his hands as the leftover glass pressed into his palm. The floor swaying under his body as he grasped the wall for any support he could find. He wanted to go back; to be his parent’s innocent little boy again, to forget about the shitstorm around him, forget about the portal, forget about those he’d hurt, the blood he’d shed. But that was unfixable. He was. And unforgivable. He’d hurt Sam; hurt others, the blood of death splattered on what was left of himself, his human self. And in the end, he was the cause of everything; the collector of souls, the Grim Reaper labelled by Freakshow years ago. The bringer of death.

Lancer took another cautious step forward, crunching down before reaching once more towards the teenager as Danny crumpled sideways, slamming against the wall beside him. The older man faltered. Sweat glistened against the 17-year-old’s face as he gulped for air, his breathing harsh and sporadic as he pressed a trembling hand against his chest, eyes towards Lancer, clearly alarmed by his own breathing. He coughed roughly, doubling over as he caught his breath, and Lancer reached towards the kid, his fingers brushing against the sweat-soaked cotton fabric clinging to Danny’s shoulders.

The 17-year-old flinched, shoving his English teacher away from him harshly, wincing again as he pressed his shoulder to his left ear. He fell backwards, his knees failing him as he slammed against the wall, his head smacking against the small hall table. Darkness swallowed him momentarily, his hands shaking as the photo was crumpled tighter in his hands, letting out a strangled cry as the spirits towered over him, their eyes white, pupils missing as they shouted his name.

The electricity failed as the teenager recoiled violently, and Lancer swore the kid’s cold-blue eyes flashed green before the lights flickered back on, the light in the living room broke, glass shattering to the ground as Danny flinched, gripping one of the iron legs of the hall table, tightly. He eyed Lancer, his knuckles white against black, his forehead pressed against the cold metal, his breathing labored as he pulled his knees towards him in an effort to make his lanky form small.

The 17-year-old coughed, the sound hurting his chest, forcing his headache to crawl, spreading across his shoulders. He grasped at the metal leg of the table, yearning for more cold than the iron rod was willing to give as he sucked in breath after breath. He couldn’t think anymore, the heat had taken everything from him, had taken his core, leaving him with a spinning floor, voices flooding in dizzying waves, and the horrifying notion he was surrounded by death. He had died… the portal had stolen half of him, and now, the nightmares screaming at him, had killed whatever he had left. And the photo crushed in his hand was all he had of forgotten innocence.

Phantom had taken everything. And no one knew. No one understood. The beating, aching heart pounding in his chest was a lie. He was soulless; Phantom was soulless. Welcoming the darkness that swallowed the person Danny once was. And everything else, everything he did, was insignificant. His life was insignificant, a short dull buzz, a flicker. Just shit that happened and none of it meant anything. It was the flick on his lighter as he tried cupping his trembling hands against the wind, trying to spark one of the cigarettes he’d stolen from his father; the light fading, barely there; lighting what has killing him. Because no one wanted Danny Fenton. He was just a mask of stupid disappointment, broken and haunted by his past, damaged by unlovable fear. A shell of a person; a shell of a kid with nothing else to offer the world except the blood he was willing to spill. And then, life moved on.

Something pressed against his wrist, and the teenager yanked it back quickly, clawing at the back of his neck with both hands as he pressed his forehead against his knees, trembling as he tried blocking out all of them. Tried blocking out the tormented and lost souls swallowing him. He clawed again at the back of his neck, pressing his head between his sweaty arms as he rocked on his heels.

Something wet splashed against his joggers, barely noticeable against the heat plaguing him as the 17-year-old coughed. He clenched his arms over his ears as he realized he was crying, hard. He felt sick, wrong, the ghost sense no longer going off because he had nothing else left to give. Tears sliding down overheated flesh, meshing against black cotton as loud pleas left his mouth, the taste of blood sitting on his tongue. Something grabbed his arm, and Danny choked, “Please go away. Please go away. Go away. Go away. Go away...”

His parents would be disappointed. His sister would be a wreck. If they knew. Knew he had killed himself years ago; that the innocence that he once had, was gone; eaten away by the things his parents aimed to hurt. Danny Fenton had surrounded himself in a hypocritical tranquility; believing nothing past the Ghost Zone yet praying to God every night that there was a way out, a way away from himself, from Phantom. Because despite the good he’d done, bad followed him further, bathing his body in the blood of those around him. Sam’s screams, her tears, the fear she felt as Danny shred the last remaining hope of becoming more than the ghost killing him.

Some people deserved to die, and yet, he was the exception. An unkillable thing because the Accident had done that for him; and no amount of pills, cuts, stupid mistakes, or blood could take that from him. A cosmic joke of isolated soulless bullshit. The 17-year-old dug his nails harder into the back of his neck, coughing on the blood in the back of his throat as it smeared further down his chin. Tears mixed with the monster he’d become, crushing his heart as the reality of himself, the fact that no amount of water could wash away the pain he’d caused others, was coated in blood on halfa hands. An unholy thing.

Someone laughed, and Danny flinched, digging harder as something sticky coated his fingertips. The spirits were louder, yelling for him, scratching his skin as they tried forcing him to look; to look at their pain, to look at what had happened to them, at what he had done to them. The 17-year-old gagged as the scent of blood, dirt, and rotting flesh overpowered him. This was his fault. Their lives. Their souls. Death had collected those around him, pulling their individualities from themselves as the teenager tried to hang onto his. Danny was drowning in death, spirits shredding him, ghosts pulling him apart molecule-by-molecule as he constructed more damage than his parents ever could.

Air fell between his lips as his lungs refused to take any more. He couldn’t do this anymore. He needed his friends, his family- but they didn’t need him. They needed Phantom. Leaving Fenton as nothing more than a liability, a liar with cops and parents, a part-time substance abuser as he tried killing what everyone needed. Danny refused to move, pressing his body as hard as he could against the wall as spirits crowded him, ripping skin from his body, screaming for him to look at the damage around him, the lives he had taken.

The grip tightened on his arm, clawing at bruised skin as his world morphed and the ground hovered below him. He was pulled up, his body slamming against the spirits pulling towards him, no longer able to cooperate himself. He gagged loudly as he forced his eyes open, meeting the upside-down bloodied split face of the man in coveralls, an elderly woman praying in the corner, the back of her head blown off revealing dark grey matter.

Danny heaved as some of the grey matter fell from the woman’s white hair to her rosary, liquid meshing against him as the man in coveralls slapped another man, his head decapitating slightly, spewing blood across his vision. The teenager groaned as he glanced towards a German couple screaming at each other in the hall, the wall moving as hot fingers braced against the memories etched in the wood paneling and ugly wallpaper. He whimpered as he locked eyes with a small boy reading in the corner; the boy glanced up from his book and waved towards Danny as the 17-year-old wheezed.

Words passed his ears, muttered and useless as the pleas continued to pierce his mind. Red tears of pain he’d caused, spirits forcing him to look; their bodies distorted and warped as they screamed for the souls he had taken. The ones that had left him, a bloody and tormented ending of human life. His death was coming fast, Danny knew. He could feel it. A sudden drop-off from connection, any humanity left, falling moment-by-moment, a punctuating ending happening so involuntary fast as those would soon realize the monster he had become; realize the death he had collected. Danny retched weakly as the man in coveralls forced his head together, pain screaming from his mouth as lips that no longer wanted to meet, met, and hatred ate away at his features before the heat that fell from the 17-year-old washed over them, their bodies disappearing in the flames.

Danny gagged as the smell of menthol and stale sweat filled his nostrils, his head falling back further as a heartbeat echoed around him. Sweat trailing upward as blood fell back down in a disheveled passion, choking any air left, and the teenager’s body gave out. His eyes connected with the flames engulfing the man in coveralls, his disgust bleeding from his eyes as his face separated again before he disappeared in the fire. Danny whispered, “I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save anyone…”

His vision failed as he continued floating through those he couldn’t protect… and death swallowed what was left.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Danny had fallen asleep, and relief settled across Lancer’s features as he took another slow sip of his tea, leaning further back in the couch. The teenager had been pretty quiet, but his looks and constant moving had become a distraction to the older man as he tried re-reading Pride and Prejudice. It’d been a long time since there’d been a kid in his home, and Lancer had forgotten how annoying they could be despite wrangling them during class as he desperately tried to pour some type of education into his students.

Lancer set his book down, glancing towards the television as the weatherman showed another map of the storm outside, the pictures flashing silently across the screen as Lancer hit mute. He sighed as rain began to pelt against the roof, the shutters on his windows slamming against the old brick harshly, and thunder echoing around a few other houses in the neighborhood as wind threatened to tear down the old house. It was going to be a long night if the storm kept up and the damage was probably going to cost him a fortune considering his salary wasn’t worth a lot these days.

The teenager coughed, and Lancer turned to see the kid curled at the other end of the couch. His head resting on the armrest at an awkward angle, his knees drawn to his chest as he refused to take any more space than needed, as he tried to force as much distance between himself and his teacher as possible. He shivered slightly, and Lancer wondered whether he should have told his charge to take the guestroom or given him a blanket… or checked for fever. After all, the 17-year-old had been trying to convince the teacher he was fine over the last few hours, but something about him, something about his demeanor told Lancer otherwise.

Lancer sighed again, setting his mug on the coffee table, eyeing the pile of books crammed into the rickety wooden shelf as it slanted forward. He needed to fix it, to buy another one before it fell, or before the weight of the books forced it down. He swallowed loudly as his eyes met the ripped, yellowed copy of Catcher in the Rye, dust coating it as it lay on the top shelf, untouched and abandoned for years. Despite all the books Lancer had reread, all the books he spent his nights enveloped in, that one, that book, he refused to touch… refused to move, to think about, to reread. Memories sat in its pages, crushed between folded pieces of paper from being read over and over, and that was something Lancer didn’t want to revisit, to think about, to remember.

Danny shifted uncomfortably, and the English teacher leaned back again, pulling his book from his lap once more, opening to the page he’d left off on. Considering it was closing in on midnight, Lancer debated heading to bed, but he hadn’t reread Jane Austen in a while. And besides, with the storm raging outside, and a kid he would feel guilty about waking, the older man considered waiting to see if he would need to dig the flashlights from the back of his silverware drawer before making any further decisions.

The ceiling fan sputtered slightly as the lights flickered, and Lancer grit his teeth as the teenager shivered again, his teeth chattered momentarily. Lancer sighed. The situation was uncomfortable needless to say; but Lancer had been a teacher and dad long enough to know that kids were good at hiding things… especially Daniel as he always had some excuse for his tardiness, his absences… his injuries. And a simple cold could turn quickly because most of the students at Casper High were walking petri dishes. Besides, Lancer and Danny’s parents agreed it was best, if the teenager were to become ill, to be surrounded by someone who could look after him or take responsibility for him if he were taken to the hospital seeing as he was still a minor and given the circumstances.

So yeah, the situation was uncomfortable; and Lancer knew that pissed Danny off. But the Fenton’s had gone with Jasmine to visit several Universities, refusing to let their only daughter attend if they couldn’t ensure the campuses were safe from ghosts. An amusing and almost stupid idea but considering Amity Park had seen its fair share of ghosts, not ridiculous. Besides Lancer could understand the Fenton’s concern, their protectiveness over their children as he once had felt it too. He knew what it was like to want to hide your kids from the evil in the world… to protect them, to hurt anything that hurt them, to give them everything. But that was gone now.

The lights flickered again as the screen door slammed against the side of the house. Wind howling outside as the news channel flashed a weather advisory warning across the screen, and Lancer exhaled, setting his book down, and leaning further against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, closing his eyes. It’d been a long day… like most. Lancer spent a good portion of his time trying to keep a classroom of 17-year-olds from laughing over the cringing dramaticism of The Mysteries of Udolpho. Considering most of the books he taught were classic romanticism or gothic, the English teacher understood he was faced with a level of immaturity from his students. After all, it was hard for 17-year-olds to fully grasp the concept of metaphorical and real monsters of society.

The other portion of his day was spent grading poorly written essays over whatever topic he had sought to assign his students for the week. Honestly, Lancer had come to the conclusion that the only capable student in his class, after Jasmine Fenton had graduated two years prior, was Tucker Foley. If only his intelligence would rub off on Daniel, Lancer would have very little to worry about. Clearly, the teenager was capable of decent grades as Lancer had always been surprised when Fenton passed an exam or book report. But he seemed more concerned in his peers, in his life outside academics, to give his grades the attention they needed. He wasn’t stupid, Lancer knew that… and considering he came from a family thriving on higher IQ’s than half the city, the English teacher was sure that if Danny put even a little effort in his studies, he’d have no problem climbing to number one in his graduating class just as Jazz had.

But Jasmine Fenton had been competitive; aiming for greatness through academics and challenging those who threatened her perfect GPA. Daniel, however, competed with his teachers, refusing their help as he challenged them, challenged Lancer on a daily basis. Danny’s comments and cockiness had become a problem in his classroom; his antics or clownishness, difficult, as he proved how very little he cared about his grades. And despite his attitude problem, the older man was almost certain the teenager suffered from ADHD, which would explain his inability to focus most of the time and his forgetfulness.

Today had been no different. And Lancer had given the 17-year-old several chances to correct his behavior, letting his less-than-quiet remarks slide under the radar as he continued teaching. But with the constant bickering between him and Tucker, the annoyed whispers from Sam, falling from his seat twice, and the inability to explain what page the class was even reading from, Lancer had had enough. He’d tried to push back, pointing his ruler in Daniel’s direction and explaining there was an idiot at the end of it; but this resulted in the teenager’s sarcastic question of which end? After the laughter had died down, Lancer retorted that the 17-year-old could find out in detention.

Normally, detention was Lancer’s chance to unwind; to bask in the quiet as he encouraged his students to take the time to go over their studies. But today had been different. Not only had the lights gone out more than twice during his 3-hour prison sentence, but Danny had seemed different than earlier that day. Distracted, his eyes out of focus, shivering, and his quiet, slumped demeanor. Usually, the 17-year-old was pouting, refusing to do any real work, or trying to rally those who shared detention with him. But today he just sat there, quietly tracing some type of drawing on his textbook with his finger, his head resting against his desk.

Lancer had let it go for a while… after all, it was beginning to become obvious something was wrong. But into the 2nd hour, the complete lack of motivation, had become annoying, eating away at the older man’s patience. The other students in the classroom had taken Danny’s character as an invitation to abandon their own work for better things such as texting, making paper planes, or horseplay. Through the 17-year-old’s melodramatic and pitiful attitude, Lancer was losing control of his classroom. That had been when things had taken a turn, going from long to endless.

The older man had risen, scowling the other students into compliance as he made his way towards the cause of his current problem. Lancer scoffed when the teenager didn’t even bother reacting to his presence, but continued tracing over the outline of Thomas Jefferson on his torn-up history textbook. And it hadn’t been until Lancer had slammed his copy of Northanger Abbey on the 17-year-old’s desk that Danny reacted.

He jumped, flinging his book from the desk as he jerked towards Lancer, a look of horror crossing his face as he straightened slightly. The older man crossed his arms, a stern look casted down as he raised an eyebrow while the teenager scrambled to grab his textbook from the floor, flipping to a random chapter. Lancer stood there for several minutes, ensuring Daniel was at least pretending to read the words in front of him, and to enforce his authority as the superior in the classroom to his other students. This didn’t last long.

Once he had situated himself back at his desk, opening his book to the last page he’d read, Danny had raised his hand. Lancer raised his head towards his pupil but ignored him and continued reading. After a few minutes, the teenager put his hand down but forced it in the air a few moments later. Again, the English teacher refused to acknowledge his student’s attempt to leave detention. Normally, Danny would give up and ride out the rest of his punishment, partially compliant. Lancer had learned this during the kid’s Sophomore year; refusing to acknowledge or give the teenager permission for whatever excuse he had, was the only way to ensure he completed detention without further incident.

Lancer watched from his peripheral as the 17-year-old dropped his hand, sighing loudly as he continued scanning the words in his barely passible history book; Lancer smiled slightly. Some quiet had passed, relaxing the mood in the room as the older man felt himself beginning to unwind from the day once again. A few seconds later, however, there had been a noise, and the older man had glanced up to see Daniel rushing from the room, his book once again smacked against the tiled floor. The remaining students had jumped, conversing amongst themselves as their eyes watched the open-door slam against the wall.

Lancer grit his teeth, a scowl crossing his face as he calmly rose, placing his book on his desk before glaring towards the remaining students. They straightened, returning to their tasks as the older man exited the classroom, closing the door gently as he traced over the small indent in the wall from the door handle slamming against it. He shook his head as he glared back inside the classroom to his students watching him before looking busy as the wooden door clicked shut.

Out of all his antics, Danny had never defied Lancer enough to leave. And something in his gut told the English teacher this was either a new low from the teenager or an incident that needed attending to. Lancer had hoped all that was needed was a harsh conversation and another week of detention, but as he rounded the corner past the lockers, the root of the 17-year-old’s behavior became evident.

The older man closed his eyes briefly, sighing loudly as he ran a hand over his bald head and made his way towards the kid. Danny was hunched over one of the trashcans in the hallway, retching loudly as his arms trembled slightly, threatening to bring him down from his own weight. He had expected the unpleasant smell of half-digested food, but what Lancer hadn’t expected was the warmth radiating off the teenager as he reached out to grasp his shoulder. Both him, and the 17-year-old gasped, and Lancer stumbled back slightly as Danny pushed him away, slumping against the wall as he slid to the floor.

Danny had landed with a small smack, and he groaned as he eyed his teacher before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall. He mumbled something that sounded like a half-assed apology as Lancer inspected his character. Pale, sweaty features set in a flushed undertone as pink ate at his cheekbones. The English teacher ran another hand over his head as he glanced towards his classroom, then back towards his pupil, before turning and advancing towards the class.

After explaining that he felt like cutting detention short due to the storm clouds forming outside, Lancer had gathered his belongings, slinging Danny’s tattered backpack over his shoulder as he crossed through the halls towards the teenager still slumped against the wall, pitifully. He knelt down, reaching a hand out to rouse the 17-year-old, his fingers brushing against his hairline as he made an attempt to check his temperature before the kid jumped. He grasped Lancer’s wrist, pulling it from him harshly, his fingers tight enough around his arm that the older man could feel Danny’s fingernails digging into his flesh.

The teenager’s eyes were locked on his English teacher; the warm blue turning cold and hard as a menacing look crossed his face. Lancer had opened his mouth to speak but closed it a second later as Danny tightened his grip. He’d been surprised by the amount of strength the kid possessed seeing as he always seemed lanky, awkward, and weak. And the threat crossing the 17-year-old’s face sent chills down Lancer’s spine as Danny blinked, releasing his grip before apologizing quickly.

The older man stilled, his eyes glancing over his student as the kid refused to make eye-contact with him. Lancer sighed, offering the teenager a ride home, only to find out that his parents had been out of town for the past few days and weren’t due back until later that evening. And after a very awkward but short conversation with the Fenton’s and finding out their flight had been cancelled due to the oncoming weather, Lancer was driving a pissed off teenager to his own house until his parents returned. Thus, claiming an uncomfortable situation which neither Daniel nor Lancer liked much. But the older man wasn’t a monster… and if a night of letting Danny occupy his guestroom until he was convinced the 17-year-old was fine was what it took, then the English teacher would bare through it.

Lancer sighed again, letting his mind drift as he felt his body relaxing, sleep creeping towards him. Outside, the wind ate away at the chimes and shutters surrounding the house, lightening sparking against powerlines as the lights wavered in and out. Thunder roared overhead, creating a low rumble through the old house as the imminent threat of a tornado loomed in the horizon. But silence engulfed the English teacher as the thought of just resting for a few minutes evaded his tired mind…

It hadn’t been the flinch that woke Lancer, but the loud crash of things falling. Panic clouded his mind as the thought of a tree crashing through the front windows washed over him as he jumped up, cursing loudly. He glanced towards the windows quickly to find them intact and instead turned his attention in front of him as another sound hit him. Heaving.

“Lord of the Flies!” Lancer remarked as he turned his attention towards the sound. The coffee table had been overturned, laying on its side, its belongings littering the floor. And the rickety bookshelf the older man had been wary of earlier, had fallen slightly; its shelves no longer apart of it as the books wedged between non-existent space had crashed to the floor, surrounding Danny as he struggled to breath.

Lancer made his way around the overturned table, crouching down next to the kid as he gagged again, vomit coating his sweatshirt, puddling on the floor below as sweat trickled down his temple. The older man put a steady hand on the teenager’s shoulder, running his hand between his shoulder blades as the muscles in the 17-year-old’s back spasmed between heaves. Lancer let out a slow breath, his voice low and calm, “Alright. It’s alright, Daniel. You’re alright, just get it up. It’s alright…”

The teenager tensed, breathing through his nose lowly as he spit foul-tasting salvia from his mouth, and concentrated on settling his stomach. He felt disgusting, sweaty and embarrassed. He could feel vomit squished between his fingers, and the fact that he had just emptied the contents of his stomach on his English teacher’s floor, mortifying. But considering he had forgotten he wasn’t home, and in attempt to seek out the bathroom, tripped over the coffee table, not only taking it and its belongings down, but falling against the bookshelf, bringing a pile of books crashing to the floor with him, was more humiliating than the acidic puddle in front of him.

Danny closed his eyes briefly, breathing slowly as he leaned back on his knees, scrapping a hand against his mouth and chin. He turned his head towards his teacher but refused to make eye contact because he was afraid of the expression on the older man’s face. The 17-year-old groaned inwardly, setting a hand on his stomach as he let the short silence pass over them; the television cutting off then flicking back on a second later.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Lancer asked softly as he glanced around at the state of his living room. Surely, the shelves or books had fallen on top of the kid when he fell, and given the state of the coffee table, Lancer was betting the kid had tripped over it or something. The splintered shelves could have cut him, or his foot could have gotten caught on the ledge, and injury wasn’t something the older man really wanted to add to his list of problems right now.

Danny was quiet for a while, making brief eye contact with Lancer before looking back towards the floor. He swallowed loudly against the hiccups forcing themselves up his throat and hunched his posture further. He looked downright miserable which didn’t help Lancer’s current situation. The 17-year-old swallowed again before muttering quietly, “Sorry, I’ll help you clean up… I’m sorry about all the mess.”

Lancer sighed, relief washing over him as the kid finally spoke. He ran a hand over his head as he bowed his head, trying to get the teenager to look him in the face, “That doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Fenton. Are you hurt?”

Danny froze for a few seconds before meeting the teacher’s gaze slowly. He shook his head, his body twitching slightly as hiccups still resonated through his chest. Lancer nodded, glancing over the kid quickly, looking for any visible injuries but finding none, and ran his hands over his knees before standing, exhaling loudly.

The wind howled outside, and the branches on the tree outside knocked against the window forcefully as Lancer glanced towards the clock hanging on the wall. It was around 2am, which answered two questions: Was he to be expected at school tomorrow and was he going to get any sleep tonight. The 17-year-old coughed gently, and the older man turned his attention back towards the teenager.

“Well,” Lancer started carefully, “Let’s get things cleaned up.”

Danny cast his gaze back towards the floor as he moved to pick up one of the books next to him. Lancer crouched down again, pulling the book from the kid’s grasp, “What are you doing, Daniel?’

The teenager glanced up slowly, “You said to clean-”

Lancer shook his head, cutting the kid off, “The state of my living room doesn’t concern me right now, Mr. Fenton. You, however, do. Despite what you and your friends may think of me, I’m not heartless.”

Danny’s expression shifted as the older man grasped the kid’s arm, pulling him to his feet. He put a hand on the teenager’s shoulder as he swayed slightly, an eyebrow raised as a silent question flashed across the teacher’s face. The 17-year-old swallowed and gave Lancer a weak nod before crossing his arms over his stomach gently, stepping around the chaos as he followed Lancer into the hallway.

He shivered harshly as his ghost sense went off, and his eyes danced over the photos nailed against the ugly wallpaper in the hallway. Pictures of family- of times no one at Casper High knew of; a different side of the English teacher never shown. Danny lingered on the photo of a young boy with blonde hair, a huge gap-toothed smile swallowing his face as he held his ice cream cone towards the photographer. Confusion crossed the teenager’s face as he glanced over some of the other photos, the blonde kid present in almost all of them… and a pretty woman in a few others, posing next to the kid. As far as everyone knew, Lancer didn’t have kids, and he wasn’t married.

His ghost sense went off again, and Danny shivered as he paused momentarily, the photos around him blurring together, spinning into a colorful mess as dizzying fatigue washed over him, his limbs shaking as they fought to bring him down. He made a slight noise as he glanced towards the end of the hall, towards a small boy hiding behind a half-closed door; his green eyes huge and alarmed as he watched the teenager. Danny swallowed, Lancer’s questions floating over him as the boy peered further out the door, motioning for the 17-year-old to follow.

The teenager made an attempt to move, the hallway spinning as the pictures on the wall melted together in an array of sickening colors, and Danny blinked slowly as several spirits began to crowd around him, blood forced from gruesome wounds. A sharp noise escaped his mouth as he glanced back towards the boy, only to find the doorway empty, the door fully open now. Chills washed over him as his knees gave out, and his ghost sense sparked again.

Someone grasped at him, a hand gripping his arm while another snaked over his torse, pulling him back on his feet. Black filtered through Danny’s vision momentarily as his body went limp before he groaned, looking towards his left as Lancer adjusted his grip on his torso, asking something Danny couldn’t grasp. The teenager’s feet dragged against the wooden floor as he struggled to gain his footing, but his legs felt clumsy and foreign. He felt like shit, weird, split into two, leaning heavily against his teacher as the older man led him slowly down the hall, towards the room that’d been previously occupied by a scared little boy.

The 17-year-old hadn’t realized he’d been deposited on a bed until everything stopped moving. The room swaying slightly but no longer spinning in a multitude of nauseating colors. Heat pressed against his body as he glanced over the side of the bed towards the boy he’d seen earlier, hiding behind the rocking chair in the corner. His eyes fixed on the teenager as cold air pushed past Danny’s lips, and he shivered again, turning towards the ceiling fan as his shoes were slipped off his feet, followed by his socks.

He groaned as Lancer pulled his hoodie over his head gently, forcing his arms from the sleeves, leaving him shivering against the warmth dotting against his skin. He was freezing. His ghost sense going off every few minutes, causing his body to ice, goosebumps breaking out over his arms as warmth rushed through him a second later. He blinked slowly, feeling something press against his forehead, and he squinted towards Lancer leaning over him.

“We need to get that fever down, Daniel,” He whispered, running his hands through the kid’s messy black hair. Danny groaned, tuning out his teacher’s movements as he turned back towards the boy hiding behind the chair, hoping that this was as worse as his night got…

……………………………………………………

Heat. Heat blistered against tired flesh and limbs that refused to move… and warmth. Warmth pressed against bruised flesh gently, killing the heat sweating against him, weighing him down in thick blankets. Warmth poured over him, comforting him, drowning the confusion and panic etched in his veins, and Danny suddenly found himself calling to his childhood memories.

“M-mom?” He whispered, his voice barely audible as it scratched past his throat, rough and raw. He swallowed harshly, trying to force his eyes open but finding the task difficult. His body felt heavy, weak, tired… he felt like he had gone several rounds with Skulker… or someone worse.

“Shh, don’t talk, Daniel,” Someone said softly, and Danny blinked slowly, squinting against the dim lights swaying next to him. He shivered as shadows danced around him, and he groaned loudly as he tried pushing himself up. Strong warm hands pressed against his chest, keeping him in place as any strength the teenager had, left him momentarily.

Warmth threatened to pull him under again, and Danny swallowed, his head lolling to his right as he forced his eyes to stay open against flickering, dancing lights. Something pressed against his temple, his cheek, his neck, dampening the fire momentarily wherever the warmth touched, lingering against his skin just long enough to cool the sweat clammed against his body.

Danny coughed harshly as he opened his eyes sluggishly, unaware he had closed them, and he glanced around disoriented, his neck aching from the little effort he put into turning it. His vision wavered slightly, and the 17-year-old groaned as he made another feeble attempt to move only to be stilled by calm hands.

“Just relax, Daniel. Otherwise, I might be obliged to add to your weeks’ worth of detention,” Someone chuckled softly, and Danny forced his eyes open again, “Mr. L’ncer?”

The 17-year-old winced as his voice met his ears, weak and small; the syllables barely leaving his mouth as his tongue felt heavy against his teeth. He swallowed, his mouth feeling cottony and thick as his eyes lazily met his English teacher’s face hovering above him; a stern expression settled on tired features.

The teenager groaned loudly, closing his eyes briefly as the room began to spin, leaning his head back as he listened to the silence surrounding him. A quiet popping echoing around him, and Danny squinted, noticing several candles sitting on the counter and next to him, their flames flickering wildly. Confusion crossed his face as Lancer leaned further over him, “The power went out a while ago, so I had to improvise as I couldn’t find any batteries for the flashlight.”

The older man held up the flashlight, shaking it gently as confusion continued to sit on the 17-year-old’s face. He blinked slowly as he tried to piece together everything. But it was hot. And he felt weird, sick, his mind a muddled mess of exhaustion; his headache still pounding behind his eyes. He tried moving again, sitting up slightly before being pushed back down gently as Lancer sighed, “I swear, Mr. Fenton, do you ever listen?”

Danny swallowed, doing his best to understand his surroundings. He sighed loudly, letting his head fall behind him as he slowly connected the dots. He was in a bathroom. More importantly, he was lying in a warm bath, shivering against the heat beaded on his skin. And more embarrassingly, Lancer was soaking washcloths in the water, pressing them against his face, wiping down the sweat that was forming on Danny’s body. It took him longer than he liked to realize his shirt was gone, gentle fingers pressing lightly against his torso, covering every inch of heat that surrounded the bruised and scarred flesh. Whether or not he was wearing further clothing wasn’t something Danny tried to think about, and if he had the energy, he would have protested this level of comfort. This level of embarrassment. This level of weakness. But he felt too tired, too sick, and too hot to care.

Something moved in his peripheral, and Danny peered at the end of the tub to find the boy from earlier sitting on the edge, his gaze still watching the teenager. He bent down slightly, his blonde hair covering his face as he touched the water before jerking his hand back and shivering. Warmth hit him as Lancer washed over his chest, and the 17-year-old squinted, his eyes still watching the boy, refusing to let his exhaustion overpower him.

The boy disappeared momentarily before returning to his spot at the edge of the bathtub, a rubber duck in his hand. He set it in the water gently, pushing it in Danny’s direction before smiling widely, his two front teeth gapped, three missing from the bottom. The 17-year-old stirred, pressing against Lancer’s hands as his eyebrows furrowed together, and he yelled, “Hey!”

The boy jumped from the ledge, fear setting on his face as Danny struggled against his teacher’s grasp. His ghost sense went off, goosebumps breaking out over his naked skin as the boy disappeared, and the teenager let out a strangled cry as he shoved Lancer’s hands away, leaning over the edge, water splashing to the floor as he scanned the hallway for the boy. The 17-year-old gripped the slippery ledge of the tub as he scrambled to pull himself up, water slapping against the ground loudly.

Lancer gripped the kid’s shoulders, forcing him back down as alarm crossed his face. He held the teenager down as the candles flickered, water soaking into his khakis as the 17-year-old continued to thrash. The older man let out a quick breath as he tried grabbing the kid’s attention, “Daniel! Danny!”

The teenager stilled, his gaze moving from the hallway towards his teacher as his nickname left Lancer’s mouth. The older man sighed softly as he felt the kid’s body relax, his grip loosening on the bathtub as the teacher eased him back down. The alarm that crossed Danny’s face earlier, vanishing as confusion set in, his head smacking once again against the back of the bathtub as exhaustion ate away at his features.

He exhaled loudly as Lancer pressed a washcloth against his forehead, leaving it there for several minutes before repeating the action. Danny swallowed softly, closing his eyes against the dimly-lit room as his teacher cleared his throat, “I’m sorry about the circumstances, Daniel. But your temperature spiked again causing you to pass out, and I had no other way of bringing it down quicker. I know it’s uncomfortable. My son freaked too.”

Danny turned towards his teacher’s voice but kept his eyes closed as his mind spun violently. He furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to understand the information, as he tried to recall the pictures on the wall in the hallway. He coughed, sweat dripping from his hair plastered against his face, “The kid…”

“In the photos. Yeah,” Lancer sighed, wiping across the teenager’s chest again before pressing another rag against his forehead, “He passed some time ago… a car accident.”

The 17-year-old’s eyes opened slightly as he met his teacher’s sad smile before his focus lazily danced towards the hallway. The boy stood there, leaning against the doorway as he fumbled with the zipper on the bottom of his blue jacket, worry flashing across his face as he met Danny’s gaze. The teenager swallowed again, closing his eyes as he turned his head away from the door, sweat rolling down his cheeks as it dripped from his chin.

“Hey…” He muttered softly as he tried calling the boy closer, as he tried to connect the dots. He felt like shit. Even after being extremely sick after the Accident, he didn’t remember it feeling like this. Then again, that had been 3 years ago… and Danny hadn’t really been sick since. But maybe that had to do more with Phantom. Maybe he’d left… leaving the 17-year-old as a barely alive thing. Maybe this was his immune system dying, the other half giving out as it had struggled to survive with half function over the years. Maybe this was the portal killing the other part of him, claiming what it had started.

Danny’s teeth chattered loudly as he shivered against the warmth, “I shou-should call my parents…”

“I assure you they’re fine, Mr. Fenton,” Lancer said calmly, rewetting a washcloth and pressing it against the teenager’s neck, “They’re just concerned, trying to find a quicker way back to New York… unfortunately, the storm is making that difficult.”

The 17-year-old swallowed slowly, confusion washing over him before swallowing again. He coughed, his throat raw and his mouth dry like sandpaper, feeling his mind slipping, the reality he could understand becoming harder and harder to grasp. Everything was muddled, fuzzy, hard to comprehend.

“I- I should call them,” He muttered softly, “Apologize for killing myself… they’re going to be-be so- disappointed in me…”

Lancer froze, alarm flooding through him as he choked. He watched the confusion on Danny’s face melt, his features relaxing slightly as moments passed. The older man turned the teenager’s face towards him, shaking his shoulder gently as he let out a sharp breath, “What? Mr. Fenton- what! What does that mean? Daniel? Daniel- Danny!”

The kid whimpered but other than that, showed no sign that he had even heard Lancer’s questions. The English teacher took a few slow breaths, closing his eyes as he forced the panic back down. Perhaps he had misheard… or the 17-year-old’s temperature was getting to him. Hallucinations and muddled speech were common, so perhaps, that’s all it was. Thoughts of a delusional and feverish mind.

Then again, Danny’s attitude had shifted over the years as he still maintained his cocky and sarcastic demeanor… but darker things lurked over him. Lancer knew the kid smoked from time-to-time, and he had heard from a few rumors that Fenton had become no stranger to weed or alcohol. Then again, the aspect of rebellion was fairly common in teenagers, and Lancer couldn’t see the Fenton’s letting their son get away with anything too serious. But perhaps they didn’t know… perhaps they didn’t know about their son’s newer habits. Or the fights. The grades. The attitude problem. The bruises or scars. Perhaps Danny was hiding his true self from them just as he was from his peers.

But it wasn’t Lancer’s place. Not exactly. Sure, he cared for the kid, as he did for many of his pupils. But Jack and Maddie had become neighborly to him after the loss of his son, and the divorce. They expected Lancer to keep Jasmine and Daniel on the straight-and-narrow when they entered high school… which Jazz was no problem… but Danny. Danny was a different story.

Every direction Lancer took, the 17-year-old steered in the opposite direction. And it seemed even worse the last couple of months. Lancer knew something had happened between Fenton and Manson… and Danny seemed really broken up about it. After all, he had overheard Foley’s comment that the two had begun dating… among other things. And rumors were they’d been caught in the Janitor’s closet several weeks prior… But for the past few months, both Danny and Sam could barely sit next to each other, let alone look at each other. And most of the flirting Lancer had come to expect from the two, was replaced with cold stares, harsh short comments, and feeble excuses as to why they couldn’t work together.

Something sounded behind him, and the English teacher jerked, turning his head quickly towards the hall, squinting against the flame’s shadow dancing over the dark doorway. He scanned the empty area before closing his eyes briefly, breathing slowly through his nose, allowing his thoughts to calm as thunder roared overhead. Most nights Lancer could swear his house was haunted. Haunted by the memories of his past, the memories of his wife, his son… the life he missed every day. But that was ridiculous. An idealization deluded from the minds of Jack and Maddie Fenton… and nothing more.

The lights flicked several times as one of the lightbulbs above the bathroom counter popped, before burning out. The TV in the living room spluttering to life, news blasted through old speakers loudly before silence and darkness once again evaded the small house. Lancer sighed, running a hand over his head, listening to the rain pelt against the roof. Despite it being close to 10am, the storm hadn’t ceased… in fact, it seemed worse with every passing hour which was ironically befitting given Lancer’s current situation, and Danny’s condition.

The English teacher sighed loudly, wringing another washcloth out before pressing gently against the teenager’s forehead, cheeks, and neck as lightening cracked against the house. The 17-year-old whimpered softly, his eyebrows drawing together momentarily before Lancer shushed him, forcing another rag against his forehead lightly. Despite trying his best to bring the kid’s fever down, the older man was more than certain he was doing little to cause a significant change in the teenager’s temperature. Or at least it felt like that.

When the 17-year-old had passed out in the hallway, collapsing against Lancer the second he was pulled from the floor, going limp in his arms as the older man tried his best to hold Danny as gently as he could, Lancer had been at a loss. But when the lights spazzed, the shutter door slamming against the entryway and the power gave out, Lancer was close to both panicked tears and self-consumed anger.

He’d been angry over the situation. Over the power going out, the storm wreaking havoc outside and forcing flights to ground. Angry with his own useless attempts to soothe the teenager he thought he could care for. Angry he hadn’t taken Danny to the Emergency Room earlier and angry, that in spite of everything, the teenager seemed to be getting worse rather than better. Panic had eaten away worry and concern, leaving fear racing through thoughts riddled with questions; his own parental instincts, despite having died long ago, blaring as every sound, every cough, every whimper, and every unconscious groan that whispered from the 17-year-old’s mouth, sent Lancer’s senses on high alert.

Something that had scared Lancer more than he could account for was the fact that the 17-year-old was crying, hard, and his temperature. The moment he was near, the heat melting off Danny was deeply concerning, sweat plastered down pale flesh, dripping in puddles down his face and soaked through hand-me-down clothes Lancer had given him earlier. The teenager had been on the verge of hyperventilating when Lancer pressed his hand against his forehead, worry and panic lacing his tired mind as Danny cried harder, pleading with fevered hallucinations to leave and forgive him.

The thought of which was worse, the storm or Danny’s illness, no longer a debate but a firm decided answer that should have been sought long ago. But Lancer wasn’t sure if he would be able to find his keys in the dark, the rain pounding sideways against the windows as it threatened to break glass… and even though it was early morning now, the sun having rose two hours prior, it was still black as hell outside. Lancer’s own attempts to calm the teenager were futile. He was out of his element… so beyond his own familiarity, and he had forgotten how to soothe his own child. Lancer needed help, he needed another adult, and Danny needed a parent, but the older man hadn’t been a parent in a long time…

…………………………………………………………………………………….

He wasn’t a hero. Because a hero wouldn’t do this. A hero couldn’t. And Danny Fenton was no hero. He’d shed blood through Phantom hands, ghosted in hellish torment as he sat, throne to bodies and souls collected at his feet. Human hands forever red with mortal lives, halfa instincts more dead than alive as Fenton became a facade for Phantom. A mask. A plaything. A puppet of normality and bitter resentment as Phantom was forced to live in a barely alive flesh suit. And now, only now, was the teenager hit with the realization that he was no hero. He’d never been.

He’d been a boy. Stupid and ignorant in childish idealization, playing make-believe, costumed in his parent’s clothes, pretending to be something more. Something better. But he wasn’t. He was joke. A harsh cosmic occurrence of puny humanity and preemptive temperament of selfish actions. Cocooned in the tranquility of his youth as he tried to convince himself that he was more than the blood dripping from halfa hands, that he was the savior of death instead of the bringer. But he’d been stupid. Weak. Pathetic. Insignificant. A joke.

Danny Fenton was a joke of unlovable fear and horrible outcomes. Death followed him. Shadowed by terrible posture and cold features. Sam had fallen for the wrong boy. Had loved the wrong boy. Fenton wasn’t a hero. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t save her… fuck, he couldn’t save anyone. He was just a stupid kid with stupid luck. A false identity born to humanity, mirrored from the reality of Phantom, a messenger, a front for what had killed him years ago. Fake bravery. Fake chivalry. Everything fake.

Ectoplasm oozed down his temple, sliding past his left cheekbone, gathering at his chin as sweat and dirt fell past, splattering against ashen snow and green puddles of forgotten souls. Blood pooling from open wounds, forced between busted knuckles and broken fingers as red stained white. Danny choked, his fingers pressing tighter across Sam’s neck as blood gushed from wounds he couldn’t close… from a death he couldn’t stop. From a love he couldn’t lose.

The purple haloed around Sam no longer vibrant or visible through dark crimson, eaten away by the innocence of her youth, and the immorality dripping from Danny. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a good guy… and Phantom? Phantom couldn’t save her. Phantom couldn’t save anyone. Ever. But Phantom wouldn’t have done this… he couldn’t. Fenton had.

Fingers slipping from flesh, Sam’s necklace pulled from her neck as Danny fought for a better grip, forcing the broken bones in his right hand to bend, to curve, to keep blood from puddling around him… to fix this. But he couldn’t. There wasn’t a way to fix it. A way to fix death. To restore what was lost. What he had taken. What he had always taken. Over and over and over again.

And now, because he wasn’t willing to live without Phantom, Fenton had destroyed the one thing he loved more than anything. The one girl he loved more than anyone. The one girl willing to fight for him instead of Phantom. But that had been a mistake. Sam loving him had been a mistake. He and Sam had been a mistake. An intimate beautiful mistake.

Danny wasn’t the same person she’d fallen in love with. He wasn’t the same person he used to be. He was different. Darker. Quieter. Colder. He was awkward in his own shadow, uncomfortable in a foreign skin as he allowed Phantom more and more control. Danny Fenton was a waste. Danny Phantom wasn’t. He was the thing people needed. But Phantom wasn’t the one Sam had loved. He wasn’t the one she trusted. He wasn’t the one she tried so desperately to save… He wasn’t the one who had killed her.

The fight was over the second it’d begun. Box Ghost had slipped through the Ghost Zone, followed by Skulker and Johnny; the three musketeers of complete failure as they threatened to destroy the state of New York. But Danny had barely broken a sweat. Ghosts were easier now; less challenging than in his youth, repetitive and old, and most of the time, the teenager had bigger things to worry about. Like Spirits. The Veil. The Spirit World. And Vlad. There was always Vlad fucking Masters. A pain in the Fenton family ass… not that Jack would ever admit it.

Snow had started littering the ground in heavy flurries by the time Vlad appeared. Danny had sat on the park bench for hours, waiting for the stupid pointy-haired bastard to make an appearance; after all, Danny had gotten his message the night before when he was pulled into the Veil. He always got the message while in the Veil. He wasn’t welcome. He was never welcomed. And the Spirits collected within made sure he knew it, made sure he stayed long enough to understand the damage he had caused, the lives he had fucked, and the lives he had taken. Many in the Spirit World knew him, but he knew very little about them.

Despite knowing almost everything about the Ghost Zone, the teenager knew almost nothing about the Spirit World. About summoning. The Veil. The Spirits. He only knew how to tune them out, but the older he got, the more his power grew, the harder it was to keep them in check. Too many times had he been caught in public, or with his parents, or his sister, talking, ranting, yelling or even fighting Spirits that refused to leave. He couldn’t block them out. Their voices, cries in the dark, hands pulled through murky water towards his body as he dreamed, screams echoed through restless thoughts. They were getting harder to ignore… harder to kill.

Drugs didn’t really work anymore, barely a dull buzz of quiet whispers, and other outlets were laughable options. Weed made it hard to focus between Fenton and Phantom, his abilities harder to control… and the Spirits had barely left. Ecstasy was great, the screams a distant thought, the Spirits warping into smokes of green, yellow and red; but Phantom disappeared too, refusing to appear for several days after. And Acid… Acid just made the teenager more jittery, more paranoid, more on-edge than he already was.

Vlad had taught him a few tricks to keep the Spirits quiet enough to function before he died. He’d promised to teach Danny more, but his death made that almost impossible. Unlike the Ghost Zone, the Spirit World lacked a supernatural possession; rather turning anyone such as Vlad, normal and human- barely able to summon Danny through the Veil to talk. And Danny? Danny’s powers were pretty much useless inside the Veil, humanity coursed through fragile bones, muscle, and skin as blood beat through a half-alive thing. The teenager could barely summon, barely survive a night in the Veil, of being pulled through, forced out-of-body through airless lungs and the stillness of a barely beating heart.

In the Spirit World, the teenager was human. So very human. And so very vulnerable. A War progressed through the Veil, the Spirits capable of darker, more sinister realities than Ghosts such as Skulker or Freakshow could ever procure. A world of Death. True Death. The promises of the Ghost Zone vanquished through shreds of paper-thin souls of victims to the War. Death in the Spirit World meant no Ghost Zone after. No other World beyond. No connection or tie back to humanity. To the Human World. Nothing. Just black. Just…

The 17-year-old’s ghost sense had been going off for hours; his teeth chattering as he pulled the thin green jacket closer, cursing Vlad for taking his sweet time. To any untrained individual, the teenager appeared to be alone… but Danny was never alone. Not anymore. His shove through the Veil on his 16th had killed any isolation or solitude he had. They were always there. Always watching. Always with him.

The teenager grit his teeth as he smacked his head against the bench behind him, staring towards the grey sky as white dust fell in clumps, blanketing Amity Park… and most likely, the rest of New York. The weather had been unpredictable lately; a chaotic shitshow of indescribable patterns, something his father chalked up to some weird readings in the Ghost Zone. Despite never really seeing a ghost, his parents still obsessed over them, inching closer and closer to diving into the portal with each passing week. But Danny, Danny wished he’d never have to see another fucking ghost in his life.

More and more of the transparent bastards had been slipping through the portal lately. Part of that was Danny’s fault. The other, unknown. Valerie had helped pick up the slack, along with the Fenton Duo, but the teenager had more important things to worry about like Spirits. The harder they were to ignore, the more of them appeared… and they could touch him. Hurt him. Kill him… the scars plastered against his right ribs should be evident enough to speak to their danger. He’d barely survived his first trip through the Veil, and Vlad kept pulling him fucking through… mainly because summoning wasn’t something the 17-year-old had mastered yet. And with Vlad dead, Danny doubted if he’d ever actually be able to master summoning… leaving no hope for resurrection.

Something kicked against the teenager’s red converse, and Danny shot up quickly, expecting Vlad to be standing over him. A smile crawled across his face as his eyes met Sam, her black hoodie blowing viciously against the winter air, small specks of white clinging to the fabric. She kicked his foot again, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Danny smirked, forcing his hands in his pocket, his right hand clamped around the red lighter he had stolen from his dad’s secret stash. Whether or not Jack Fenton had noticed a few of his smokes were missing, the teenager would never know. After all, if his father ended up confronting him about it, then that meant Jack would also have to come clean to Maddie about smoking… something he supposedly gave up a few years after Danny was born.

Sam slumped down next to him, her shoulder hitting his as Danny turned towards her, smiling. Sam rolled her eyes, her purple lipstick twisting into a grin as she leaned her head against his shoulder. She sighed, “So, I take it Vlad hasn’t shown?”

The 17-year-old shook his head, before clearing his throat, “No.”

“That’s pretty unusual for him, isn’t it?” She asked, pulling her head up as wind forced her hood down, short black hair flying chaotically. She glanced in Danny’s direction as he flicked some snow off his jeans. He hadn’t really thought about Vald’s behavior- about his pretty punctual habits, but now that it was mentioned, it was rather worrisome the older man hadn’t shown yet. Especially given he seemed rather paranoid the night before. But surely, the older man would have said if he was in danger.

Danny shrugged his shoulders, meeting Sam’s gaze, biting his bottom lip. Pieces of ice clung to her hair, freckled across her face, and the 17-year-old hesitated, before brushing his thumb across her cheek carefully, wiping away some of the fallen snow. He paused, his fingers pressing gently against her jawline, following the curve softly before Sam pressed her hand over his. Danny froze, warmth flooding his face as he refused to advert his gaze.

Sam had been weird lately. She’d been acting weird… almost feminine… which was weird for both Tucker and Danny as they had always seen her as one of the guys. But between a few awkward non-date dates, a few fake-out make-outs, and being caught half-naked in the Janitor’s Closet a few weeks prior when Danny had phased through the wrong room after a fight; Danny was finding it harder to act normal around her. And then there was the Annual Winter Dance last month which neither Sam nor Danny refused to acknowledge, involving some sloppy drinking, heated kissing, and one awkward morning after at the Fenton household as Danny tried sneaking Sam from his room only to be caught by his sister.

Since then, Sam had become more… Well, it was hard to explain because Danny was pretty sure he’d become more of it too. Every moment he was around her, it seemed like he had reverted back to his weird, awkward, clumsy demeanor. He couldn’t talk around her anymore, let alone act normal anymore. His ghost sense unpredictable, his powers uncontrollable as his body forgot how to be him around her. He couldn’t eat or sleep and paying what little attention he normally did in class, unbearable. He couldn’t get Sam out of his head. Her purple lipstick. Her laugh. Her hands clasped around his. Her mouth… Her. And it was driving him insane.

Mentioning it to anyone was out of the question. Tucker had them married in 9th grade. His parents were too hyperactive and weird to be able to deal with their only son dating- let alone his sister’s recollection of her very awkward first date that involved more of Jack Fenton than Danny wanted to picture. And Jazz? Jazz had freaked when she had caught Danny and Sam together the morning after the Annual Winter Dance, forcing both teenagers to attend a lecture involving responsible actions, so asking Jazz for advice was out of the question. Honestly, Danny had found some console in Vlad, but that bastard’s advice was wishy-washy and outdated.

Sam’s fingers brushed over the rough scars on his hand before she trailed up his arm. Her hand hesitating on his shoulder before cupping the back of his neck, her fingers tussling his hair softly. The wind whooshed past, snow raining over them as Sam met the 17-year-old’s gaze, a small smirk painted across purple lips. Danny shivered slightly, brushing his thumb over her cheek again, “I-”

“Shut up,” Sam cut him off, pulling herself from the bench as she pressed her lips against his, pushing the 17-year-old back slowly as he dropped his hand from her cheek, trailing down her shoulder slowly, arm, back. He inhaled loudly, a hand pressed against the small of Sam’s back, the other pressing her closer to him as she kissed him again, one of her hand’s slipping underneath his shirt. Cold fingers pressed against the warmth on his back. Black nails scrapping gently over scarred flesh, fingers through black hair, and Danny’s hands dragging her closer. Sam was driving him insane… but maybe this time, they could acknowledge it… maybe this time, he could tell her how he really felt.

Maybe this time he could tell her he couldn’t get her out of his mind. That he couldn’t concentrate around her, he couldn’t get that night at the dance out of his mind… that she made everything better, made everything okay. He needed her like he needed air. She was a reminder that he was still alive, that he was still human, that he was still more than Phantom. Because she seemed to want him more than Phantom… She liked him. Not Phantom. And that- that was all Danny ever wanted from someone. From her…

Her nails scrapped harder against his back as Sam straddled him; her hair flying in the wind, covering her face, smacking against Danny’s face comfortingly. His hands gentle as they trailed down the rest of her back, her thighs, holding her steady against him. Her lips forceful against his, nails marked against skin, her heart pounding against his. She breathed deeply, “Danny…”

“Well, isn’t this nice,” Someone sneered. Danny pushed Sam off him gently, jumping to his feet as he pressed Sam behind him, his stance protective as he met the stranger’s gaze. The 17-year-old watched as a woman stepped forward, a smirk on her face as she pushed some of her long blonde hair behind her ear. She eyed the 17-year-old, sizing him up as she walked around the small bench. She scoffed, “They said the halfa was young, but I never would have thought this young… Tell me, handsome, do you even know how to tie your own shoes?”

Danny tensed, “Do you want to find out?”

The woman laughed loudly, circling them once more before standing a few feet from him, “Oh, and that wit. I bet you’re a troublemaker, uh?”

She crossed her arms, straightening her posture until she was eyelevel with him. Her skin almost translucent against the white ground, blood dotting against her neck where a necklace should have been. Her bright pink and blue jumpsuit standing out against the snow, fitting the ideal clothing for an 80’s teenager… her blonde hair in half-buns, purple triangle earrings dangling from her ears. She laughed again, shaking her head, her red lipstick twisting slightly as she peered towards Sam.

Sam had risen from the bench, pulling her hoody back over head as her hair still fought against the wind. She forced the sleeves past her hands, her fingers intertwining gently with Danny’s as the 17-year-old stepped forward, “Where’s Vlad?”

The woman cocked her head, her smile offsetting as she held up her hand, inspecting her chipped blue fingernails, “I wouldn’t worry about Grandpa anymore. He’s been taken care of.”

The teenager swallowed, dropping his hand from Sam’s as he took another step forward, his hands burning slightly as Phantom threatened to appear. Danny swallowed, “What did you do to him?”

The woman laughed again, shoving her hands on her hips as she faced the 17-year-old again, “You’ve become quite the gossip in the Veil. Did you know that? Everyone talks about the halfa; the teenage boy with a hitlist bigger than… well… for decency, think of someone historically bad. The merciless angel. The bringer of death. The red. You could say you’ve become very popular amongst Spirits… and to hear, the little ghost boy could be harmed,” She paused, clasping her hands together as a smile painted her face, “Well, that was like Christmas morning.”

Sam reached for Danny’s shoulder, her fingers gracing over the fabric of his hoodie as he stepped forward again, “What did you do with Vlad?”

The woman smirked, “Me? No, honey, I’ve done nothing. See, I don’t really care for the creepy-uncle-lotion-in-the-basket types. You, however, are much more interesting. Much more powerful than Vlad would be… I can feel it. Radiating off you like the wind around you. It’s beautiful… And we can hurt you. We can touch you. Something those pathetic airbags in the Ghost Zone could only dream of. And believe me, pretty boy, there are many in the Veil eager to show you their real power. Eager to walk this Earth again… all we need is the blood of the halfa.”

“Fuck you!” Sam yelled, stepping in front of the 17-year-old, her finger’s gripping Danny’s wrist. Sam took a step forward, her stance tense, her hood down as wind washed over her. Snow beading in black hair, melting down her face as hatred flashed across her features. Her grip tightened around the teenager’s wrist, protectively; and Danny swallowed softly as he realized she wasn’t about to let go.

The woman stepped forward slowly, smirking again as she chuckled, “Call off your guard-dog, Daniel. I have no intention of killing you today… besides, in order for us to be reborn, you have to come to us willingly. Which I give you… a year before you enter the Veil for the last time.”

Danny scoffed, “Unlikely.”

He shivered as he met the woman’s gaze, her smile hiding something that scared the teenager more than the threat. An understanding… knowing. She knew what went through his mind. What he thought about, how he thought about himself… The way she looked at him, the way she smirked towards him, sneering… she knew. About the drugs. The blood. About the recklessness. She knew what stimmed through a tired mind in the nightmarish reality of Fenton from Phantom. She had to know… but the only way she would, would be- Vlad.

Danny glanced down for a second, swallowing loudly. Him and Vlad had had their differences, but they seemed to work it out over the years… so would Vlad really tell people about him? Would he really betray his secrets to other people, well, Spirits? The teenager had confided in him over the years. Not about everything… but about himself, about how he had come to hate Phantom. How he had become forced to live with Phantom’s pain and torment. How he felt, as the years past, and he let Phantom have more power, he could feel reality crumpling around him. Crumpling in, and slipping through his fingers, through the cracks created by Phantom, opened and birthed through the Ghost Zone and Spirit World. How it felt like he was being drained… that his humanity was dying. Would Vlad really betray him like that? After all this time?

The woman scoffed again, “Perhaps. But I’m willing to help you out… give you another nudge in the right direction.”

Confusion crossed the 17-year-old’s face as he stepped forward again, only a few feet from the woman as she crossed her arms, raising her head. She shook her head slowly, “I can see you’re confused, so I’ll make it simple for your stupid hormonal teenage brain.”

There was a flash, and Danny dropped harshly, his hands and arms burning as he felt the shift starting to take over. Phantom gaining control as the Fenton canister, forgotten on the park bench, exploded loudly, and the teenager pressed his burning hands against the snow. Cold braced against his fingers as he looked up, wiping away some green ectoplasm that litter across his body, blood dripping down his chin slowly from a cut on his upper lip. His eyes flashed green as he let Phantom gain control, his body burning slightly as he shifted, the aching pain that plagued him, gone as Phantom took over.

Within a second, he had the woman pinned against the tree, a smirk twisting against his lips as she struggled pathetically. He huffed, his tone cocky as he tightened his grip, “You missed.”

The woman hesitated before laughing loudly, snapping her fingers as Phantom reverted back, forcing Fenton through translucent skin as he was shoved back into his teenage body. Sweaty fatigue washed over him as she kicked his leg, slamming him against the ground harshly, pinning him against the snow. The 17-year-old squirmed, trying to coax Phantom out, trying to shift but finding the task difficult, his fingers tingling and sparking green but refusing to change.

The woman snorted, grasping his hand in hers, smiling down at him as her blonde hair brushed over his chest. She pressed her fingers between his, humming softly before jerking her hand back, bending Danny’s fingers as she clawed at his palm, bones cracking, causing the teenager to scream loudly as he fought against her. After a few seconds, she let go as wind rushed past them, and she pressed her chest against his, stroking his hair back gently. She bent down further, her lips brushing against his ear, “I wasn’t aiming for you, honey.”

The 17-year-old twisted; his head jerked towards Sam as he tried forcing the woman from him. Blood splattered against the snow as Sam fell, her face pressing against the ice, her hand, bloodied and shaky, as she reached in Danny’s direction. The teenager cried loudly as Sam’s hand dropped in the snow, her body going limp as red bled through white. The woman pressed her fingers against the 17-year-old’s cheek as he screamed again; his hands and arms burning as heat clawed through his chest. Sam opened her mouth, purple lips parted but no words came, only tears trailing down pale flesh before green eyes shut.

The woman laughed softly, digging her nails painfully into Danny’s cheek and chin, prying his eyes away from Sam and towards her. Rage ate away at his features, his skin scorching against Phantom as green began to steam off him, his eyes flashing bright green before darkening as his eyes met hers. The woman tightened her grip as green smoke continued to envelope them; a smirk plastered to skin pulled back too tightly as she pressed her clammy forehead against his, gently. She took a deep breath as Danny struggled against her, his skin itching as black ectoplasm began to drip from his nose and ears, running down his face before smacking against the ground. Cold soaking through his clothes as his skin began to burn away, green fading to black, and black sparks radiating from his fingertips as the woman pressed her lips against his.

The teenager jerked away, his gaze meeting Sam’s stilled face. Her features silent, and Danny choked again as he yelled her name, fighting against the woman’s grasp again. Her nails dug once more into his flesh, pulling his face back towards her as black tears fell down his cheeks in thick trails. She thumbed some away slowly before licking the liquid from her thumb and smirking, pressing her chest once again against his.

“Such power. Such a waste,” She bent down further, her lips pressing against his temple, “Two down… See you in a year, lover.”

Pain seared across his chest, and the 17-year-old screamed as her hand pressed over his heart, burning against flesh as the greenish black swallowing him, ceased. His eyes flashed back to blue as he choked, grasping towards her hand before realizing she was gone. His hand pressing over the bloody handprint stained against his shirt as the pain slowly began to evade, and he twisted around, stumbling to his feet as he forced himself towards Sam….

#in the mood to watch danny phantom #danny phantom #fandom life #i need some fanfiction in my life right now #sick Danny #I was told to stop writing this and create a book out of this lol #posted on archive #lancer taking care of Danny #kb

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junicai · 4 years

Text

painting.

| summary | Aria moves into the 127 dorms, and does a little bit of bonding with her new leader.

| word count | 1.5k

| warnings | none

| era | circa. 2016

13. “The paint’s supposed to go where?”

Aria groaned in exhaustion as she bent forwards, various objects falling from the precarious stack she had carried in her arms previously. They bounced and rolled across the floor, one canister of hairspray coming to meet the tip of a man’s shoe from where he was leaning against the open doorway.

Taeyong coughed out a chuckle at Aria’s folded form, pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to her. “Need a hand?”

Aria waved him off with a forced air of nonchalance, still panting heavily despite her best efforts to get her rapid breathing under control, “No, no I’m good. The stairs just tried to kill me that’s all.”

Taeyong snuck a glance at the closed doors of the elevator, blocked off by a single piece of red signage reading “Out of Order” in bold font. The lift had coughed and spluttered it’s way through the last two months, and had finally given out on its last stand yesterday evening, almost leaving Jaehyun and Winwin trapped inside if they hadn’t decided to take the stairs down.

How unfortunate it was, that the following morning was the day that Aria was due to move in.

In hindsight, Taeyong probably should have gotten some of the other boys in to help them carry the boxes that Aria had shoved her things into; the sweat was beading at his forehead by the time they had dragged the cardboard through into the living room, and Aria had pulled off her sweater to allow herself to cool down.

She leant against the wall, breathing through her nose as she chalked up the distance between the living room and her new bedroom to be too far to continue for the time being.

“Oppa?” the word still felt unfamiliar on her tongue, unused to the honorific. It had been at Taeyong’s request that she used it in the first place, him wanting her to feel comfortable around him; but Aria was still finding her ways around the Korean honorific system, and found herself stumbling over her words more often than not.

The first time she had tried to use honorifics had ended in Aria having extremely red cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and Mark trying to explain to her that hyung was the name he used for the older members, and oppa was the one she was to use.

It had gone a little like this.

“Ari- Ari, you gotta, like, you gotta use oppa not hyung, ya’know? Because hyung is like, an older brother to a brother, but oppa is an older brother to you? Because you - you’re a girl? An’, and then you’d use unnie for the make-up nooans but I’d use noona, like I just did. So to you, they’re the make-up unnies, and to me they’re the makeup noonas. Johnny hyung, Johnny oppa. Does that make sense?”

Aria had looked at him with the most bewildered face, eyes widened and lips parted slightly.

From across the room, Taeil had bit his lip to stop himself from laughing, before swooping in to offer an out for poor Mark, who was beginning to delve into another convoluted explanation.

“Yeah, Aria?” Taeyong’s voice came from across the room.

Aria looked up, searching for the taller man and her eyes found him shuffling around in the kitchen, two glasses of water on the counter top.

“There you go,” he pointed towards one of the glasses. “If one of the others aren’t back soon to help, we might have to drag the boxes in ourselves,” he smiled ruefully. “I knew we shouldn’t have let Jaehyun go out today.”

Aria thanked him, before picking up the glass with her two hands and turned to the side to drink.

The silence was buffering, and ate away at whatever comforting atmosphere Taeyong had tried to create.

It wasn’t that Aria was uncomfortable around him - no not at all. It was just the fact that she knew the boys were being more than accommodating for her, she knew that Yuta was sharing a room with Winwin now because they insisted on her having her own space, she knew that she was toe-ing a barely there line between intruding and just being downright entitled.

Having voiced these thoughts during the early hours of the night to Donghyuck almost a week ago, Aria knew exactly what kind of spiel she’d be on the receiving end of should she protest the room changes - but that didn’t stop the little pool of guilt from settling in the bottom of her stomach when she snuck a glance around and saw the empty bedroom’s door partially opened, all of Sicheng’s things having been moved out two nights ago.

“Oppa,” Aria tried the honorific out again, finding that it still felt fumbled out, but from Taeyong’s affirming hum she must have sounded less stilted than the last time, “Do you think you could help me move the box of paints into my room? I can carry the rest, but that box is really heavy, and I don’t want to drop it.”

Taeyong turned around to her, “Yeah no problem, Aria. Which one is it?”

Aria pointed to the singular plastic box among the cardboard ones; spattered with white and yellow and various other colors. The pair of them made their way over, hands curling around the lip of the box.

“On three?” Taeyong nodded.

He counted them through before Aria was heaving up her side of the box and Taeyong was slipping his arm underneath it to hold some of the weight steady. They paused momentarily once they had the box in the air, finding a good balance and ensuring nothing inside had tipped over, before Aria began her shuffle backwards.

“Mind behind you,” Taeyong warned, and Aria lifted her feet over the box that would have tripped her otherwise.

The small steps they took to bring the paint box into her room felt never ending, and by the time they passed the threshold, both Aria and Taeyong’s arms were shaking lightly.

“The paint’s supposed to go where?” Taeyong’s voice was breathless, anticipating the moment when he could give his arms a rest.

“Maybe - just in the corner? Over there, out of the way.” Aria jerked her head towards the far corner, on the opposite side of the room of the bed and empty desk.

The box was placed down with a thud, and Taeyong straightened up - shaking out his arms. Aria sat down harshly on the bed free of coverings, legs beginning to burn from the numerous flights of stairs she had climbed earlier on in the day. Taeyong joined her after a moment, sitting down beside her.

“You need a hand taking in the rest of your things?” he questioned, turning to look at her.

“Nah,” Aria shook her head. “I might wait a while and get Hyuck to drag them in for me.”

Taeyong snorted slightly. “You know, I think you’re the only person who can get that boy to do something he doesn’t already want to do.”

“Jokes on him, I just convince him that it was his idea.”

The silence settled again, less acidic this time.

It was broken after a second by Taeyong. “I didn’t know you could paint?”

Aria cast her gaze over to the stained box in the corner. A dry paintbrush was sticking out the top of it, the bristles clean but the wooden handle covered in splashes of colourful paint - intermittent with streaks of white and black and a mixture of the two.

“Yeah,” Aria hummed. “I don’t know when I started, I just. Always have, I think.”

“Did someone teach you? Your parents?”

Aria coughed to hide the laugh that threatened to break from her chest. “Oh no, no. Youtube taught me most of what I know, I won’t lie. And I’m not, very good - it’s just, therapeutic? Like poetry, but you don’t have to concentrate on finding the right words.”

Taeyong nodded knowingly.

Aria supposed he would understand the sentiment; given the hours he spends doing what it is he does in the practice rooms or the recording studios for hours after their ‘official’ days end. She supposed that there has to be hundreds of wordless messages hidden in forty second tracks on the USB stick he keeps on his keychain.

“You know, Ten is really artistic,” Taeyong begins again. “I never really understood it much - the colours and the images you pull out of nothing - but he seems to. A lot more than I ever could. He gets it a little bit more, I guess. The whole, unspoken words thing. I’d love to know how he did it.”

His eyes had shifted into something sincere now, and he was gazing down at Aria. She got the sense that they weren’t just talking about painting anymore.

“I’m just saying that, if you ever need someone to talk to - about painting - then I’ll always have an open ear.”

Aria supposed Taeyong didn’t quite understand what those words meant to her just yet.

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

It’s A Wonderful Life

Part Two

I don’t know how I feel about this chapter but I’m putting it up and dealing with it later. I need to go study for my sociology test and get some coffee-- so, now it’s your problem

Warning: tw for suicide, major character death (IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK AT ALL)

Part One here

“Aaron!”

He’s flat on his back, a rickety old ceiling fan wobbling above him. The base sways back and forth as the blades turn. That has to be a hazard...

Two cold hands press to his cheeks, blonde strands of hair falling into his face. “Aaron,” his name comes out more urgently from her mouth. Those cold fingers tapping at his cheek, trying to rouse some sort of reaction out of him. He can’t. Can’t think of what to say. He just looks up at her. Haley. “Baby--”

He coughs, weakly craning his neck as the pain of his fall registers throughout the rest of his body. “Ah!” rolling onto his side, pulling his knees up, he groans at the sharp stabs of pain up his back. He clenches his jaw, a moment of sheer panic blinding him as he fails to recover from the feeling of having the wind knocked out of him. Unable to draw air into his shocked lungs.

Haley leans over him, moving to compensate for his pained struggle. Her fingers probe along the back of his head wincing in sympathy when she finds blood and he whimpers, weakly pulling from her touch. “What were you doing?” she asks, smoothing down the hair on the back of his neck. Trying to offer some comfort.

He can’t remember anything before the fan.

“Maybe--” she smiles down at him but he can see she’s just trying to look assured. His head is turned into her palm, Aaron having slowly curled into her. Trying to compress himself, needing to feel that she’s really here. “Maybe you should go to the hospital? You’re bleeding--”

He aims to shake his head but ends up grunting, blinded by the pain that mistake shoots up the base of his neck. “No,” he whispers, trembling hand coming up to blindly touch her. She catches his hand, folding his fingers within her own and pressing them down. Holding him still. “No,” he manages, a little more assured. “I’m--I’m okay.”

Blinking, a cold sweat breaking out across his face he shifts a numb arm underneath him. Biting down to keep himself from making a sound as he eases him up. Attempting to sit up quickly dispels what he thought was a fact for fiction. His eyes roll back, white cold pain eating up his skin.

“Aaron,” she calls frantically.

The color of his naturally pale cheeks drains and sways for a moment, the color drained from his body. “I’m-- I’m--” he squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to calm. He’s taken far worse hits than this. This is nothing. Fingernails digging sharp pain into his palms is grounding and slowly he opens his eyes and the living doesn’t spin. Everything is still, if not hazy.

“I’m okay,” he breathes.

I’m okay.

smoke burns his nose, his vision too poor to see past the steering wheel, past the spiderwebbed glass right in front of him

crying, strained screaming-- he can’t tell where the sound is coming from

his chest aches, stomach twisting with each pitched, nearly choked inhale of--

Jack.

Jack is screaming, little feet kicking hard and solidly as his chair

he has to get to--

“Aaron?”

He’s looking down at the carpet, confused but… It’s gone. The vision, his vision, is swimming dangerously and he weakly manages to place a hand on the carpet beneath him. Leaning onto it, as he tries to ground himself. “Sorry,” he rasps, swallowing down the fear that itches at the back of his throat. “Sorry, I just…” he went somewhere else. He’s not sure what happened but something feels incredibly wrong about this, about here.

Haley’s hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades, gently rubbing. “Let me make you some tea,” she offers.

Tea. No one can make tea like Haley. “Yeah,” he agrees. Just thinking about it calms him. “Please?”

She nods, pressing a kiss to his temple. As she steps around him she pulls a blanket off the couch, settling it over his shoulders. “Stay here,” she asks, brushing the back of her hand across his cheek. “I don’t want you to fall again.” He can feel her hesitancy, she doesn’t want to leave him by himself.

He doesn’t get up, he’s not even sure his legs will hold him, but he does manage to scoot himself across the carpet until he can lean against the couch behind him. The cushions are old, they give easily against him but he loves this old couch. Haley’s parents had given it to them when they moved away. It had been his bed many a night in their tiny hometown. This old couch has cured many of his ailments.

It sat in the spare room of Haley’s childhood home. An off to the side, usually shut room full of old but loved things from Haley and Jessica’s childhood. Including the beat-to-hell sofa her parents didn’t have the heart to throw out-- plus they’re southern and the couch wasn’t falling apart so it still had a use.

Every night he crawled home to them, he’d find himself lovingly tucked in on it.

He finds himself nodding off, head leaning into the sunken cushions. The whistle of the kettle startling him slightly. It makes his pulse jump, vision swimming. “Haley?”

sirens

a hand, padded by thick gloves wrap around the base of his neck

“easy, just hold still. you’re okay”

he glances as far as he can to his left, out the door to asphalt

he can see Jack, his happy little hands, rocking back and forth on his feet

“J…” his tongue heavy, body sinking

“stay with me”

“Aaron?” Haley’s squatting down over him, her cold hands cupping his head. “Baby, you’re scaring me.”

He’s scaring himself.

She slides down next to him, throwing her legs over his so she can sit close. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go to the hospital?” Pulling the edges of the blanket back around him, she frowns when he leans against her. Tiredly just deflating until he’s limply laying with his head under her chin.

“I’m okay,” he whispers. His head is really starting to hurt. “I just… I think I need to lay down.”

Haley looks unconvinced but caves, nodding her. “Please let me help you?”

He’s not sure he can do it otherwise.

His feet drag on the carpet, nearly unable to lift them to move properly. There’s this chill he can’t fight, leaving him shaking as Haley holds them welded together. The bed, impossibly soft, as he sinks down is cold with their absence. He goes limply down, not fighting Haley as she tucks the thick comforter around him.

She crawls in after him.

He finally relaxes. The comfort of familiarity soothing his nerves. Haley’s arm over his chest, head on his shoulder is just as things should be. Closing his eyes, he lets sleep consume him. He needs it so badly. He can’t get warm, squirming, and trying to curl into himself to get some sort of warmth. No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t rest.

He turns over searching the nightstand for a clock but there are none. He frowns, sitting up. Tossing the blanket off his legs he gets up. Unable to see the time, he needs to go figure it out. He has to make oatmeal, get the day going. His every day revolves around a strictly held schedule. A maybe concussion doesn’t warrant straying from that.

“What are you doing?”

“I was looking for--” Jack. Aaron realizes where he is. He feels sick. There is no Jack. Not yet. This fantasy of his has no Jack. He swallows thickly and turns back around, shaking his head. He goes back to the bed. “Most have been dreaming,” he whispers, fighting to keep his emotions from getting the best of him.

He can’t remember having Jack. This boy, a whole child that he can visualize, is nothing more than a concept. They have no children.

He can’t sleep after that.

-----

“Let’s got out.”

He wakes, startles, alone in bed. Painful goosebumps have raised over his skin, shivering he squints up at her. She’s in the same clothes as yesterday, a fast that strikes him as odd. He can’t remember her changing her clothes yesterday either before they’d gone to bed. Yet, her hair is clean and swept back into a low ponytail. She looks happy.

“Out?” he asks. Sitting up, he self-consciously runs his hand through his hair. Taming what he knows is a rat’s nest. “Out-- Out where?” He tries so hard to rub the sleep from his eyes, aware of the fact that he’s gotten just enough sleep to wear him down more. Pulling himself out from under the sheets he glares down at his own body, he’s dressed too. They’d gone to bed in their clothes…

She sits down on the edge with him, taking his left hand. “For coffee,” she says with a smile. “You know that little bookshop just downtown? They put in a coffee bar! It’ll be fun. Come on, we can get a coffee and search the shelves. I know you finished the last one you got.” She smiles assuredly, rubbing at his arm but she’s so cold that she does nothing to abate his shivering.

“Coffee,” he repeats. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, coffee sounds good.”

His stomach aches as they go. Twisted and acidic, he feels like he’s going to be sick but it’s not nausea. Disenfranchisement. Like he’s somewhere he shouldn’t be.

“The normal?” Haley asks as they step into the shop. He nods, regardless of not being able to conjure up what his “normal” is. She lets go of his hand and he drifts, ghosting across the old, dust-caked carpet. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he’s just guided by the undertoned scent of the old books.

The crime section-- novels covered in deeps seas of black highlighted to catch the eye with the harrowing shifts to crimson-- is where he finds himself. Deja vu. Ted Bundy. Ed Gein. He knows these men far more intimately than he feels the novels he briefly skims through do. He slides one of the books back, grimacing at the tone. The baroque, vulgarity of it unsettling him. Some people just don’t have any business dealing with sensitive things like this.

He hovers over a copy of a book--

FBI Novelist David Rossi

The words are crimson, meant to catch your eyes.

He looks over his shoulder, stomach twisting like he’s afraid to be caught doing something he’d convinced maybe he shouldn’t be doing. He opens the first page, swallowing thickly at the dedication. To the footnote for the author Agent Rossi and his untimely demise--

Haley appears to his left, smiling when she sees him. “Whatcha got?”

He takes the coffee she offers out to him-- he glares at the cup but doesn’t comment. He can’t feel the warmth that should be pouring out of it. “Uhm…” he shows her the back. To the picture of the agent, unsure of how to ask what’s on his mind. Hotch turns the book over in his hand, an immense pressure building in his chest. Anxiety making him jittery. “I-- I thought… I thought he was--” he looks to Haley, mouth parted as he fails to draw these connections that he knows, intuitively, that he should have the knowledge to understand.

Haley turns the book, manipulating his hold to face the book to her so she can really see what it is that he’d got. “Oh God,” she whispers, sadly. “Don’t you remember that bombing?” She shakes her head, “it killed all those agents. You were furious, I’m surprised you don’t remember.”

But, suddenly, he does. It’s such a graphic memory that it feels more like… it feels fake with its intensity. He knows, though. His face hot, knees anxiously drumming as he sat precariously on the edge of the couch. Watching on hesitant, nervous breathes as the news spread steady, if not a bit misleading information on a bombing. He’d seen them. Sat there all day watching them add people’s names to a growing list of the dead.

“It’s written by that David Rossi guy,” Haley says. “You’d probably like it.”

He nods, dejectedly opening the cover. The book is dedicated to Rossi, a small note thanking him for his service to the country and his insights with the FBI. He thumbs through it a little more, nearly morbidly curious for what he might find. Scanning the words, waiting for something to strike him.

He nearly drops it, unable to breathe as he takes in something he can’t imagine.

In the months after the bombing, I reached out to the remaining members of the elite Behavior Analysis Unit (Behavioral Science when I founded it some nearly thirty years earlier with my now deceased ex-partner Jason Gideon). Derek Morgan, now the only profiler left of Jason’s team, was hesitant to continue any prolonged contact with me. I suspected his reliance having to do with the perseverance of Jason’s memory. After Agent Spencer Reid’s suicide, only a matter of weeks after the bombing, any contact I had with Agent Morgan ended. The Bureau has no comment on what lead the young genius to suicide.

“Oh,” Haley whispers sadly. “That’s so sad.”

He can’t breathe.

“Do you think he had PTSD?”

He roughly pushes the book back where he found it. His left hand coming to rub at his head.

“Aaron?”

That’s not how that ends. That’s not how any of that happened.

The day that Jason Gideon made that call in Boston Aaron been standing right beside him. Reid had been sent back to a local precinct with busywork to calm down. He was a new recruit and, rightfully, had no business even being in the field with them let alone in a situation like that. It had been him, his decision to pull Reid.

He remembers the feeling of the heat hitting his body.

The shrapnel wounds impeding his ability to stand so he’d dragged himself ten feet to safety where he’d passed out. Having no memory of what happened a week later and years after the fact he still can’t actually tell you what happened other than to repeat back what he’s been told.

“Let’s go home,” Haley slips her hand into his.

He nods, eyes unfocused as he follows blankly where she guides him. Chest tight, hands trembling weakly he realizes this must be some fucked joke. Revenge? A test? He’s done. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore. It’s tantalizing and demeaning and so overwhelming. Is this within his control and if it is can he stop?

He wants to stay here with Haley.

“What--What about--” he’s worked himself into such a state that he’s shaking. Unable to speak properly as finds himself desperately asking, “what about kids?”

Haley winces, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t want any.”

No Jack.

“I think,” his voice is rasped whisper. “I think I need to lie down.”

Haley’s face falls, “ok. I’ll come with you.”

She holds his hand, whispering soft questions but he’s… gone. Hardly there at all, unable to even focus on the worried tone of her words. Asking if his head hurts or if he’d like some tea or something to eat. He just needs to lay down and eventually, she gives up and lets him.

Somberly, she lays down beside him. The bed sinks with her weight but she already feels too far away.

He can feel the weight of his chest deepening, each inhales a little shorter. “Haley,” he calls, hand searching blindly across their bedsheet for her. He finds her, skin chilled, but there. “I’m sorry.” Though she curls around him, wrapping an arm up around his back and pressing their hips close-- her contact does not abate his shivering. She can not comfort him.

“You have nothing to apologize for, darling.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #haley hotchner #tw suicide

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angstyaches · 4 years

Note

Hey! A fic where Shayne just CANNOT stop throwing up and Charlie is taking care of him, and outwardly, he seems to appear very calm and methodical to keep Shayne calm (psst Shayne notices and is even more attracted to charlie because he hasn’t seen him be this in command before) but inside Charlie is freaking out big time because he isn’t sure if he’s taking care of Shayne properly or not?? I’m sorry this is so detailed sdgsgs you don’t have to write it if it’s boring or anything

Anon, I love this request so much! I really hope I did it justice. Get ready for some post-reunion Charlie and Shayne (I’ll probably write the actual reunion eventually, but for now we’re time-skipping).

CW: nausea, emeto. Otherwise it’s just bois being Soft.

___

“Hey,” came a soft whisper next to his ear. “You still with me?”

Shayne tried to open his eyes, eyelashes sticking together a bit with dried tears. He was shivering between the arms that were holding him up, drooling slightly against the shoulder supporting his head.

“Hmm?” was all he could manage to get out.

“Poor thing. You must be so tired,” Charlie said, tilting his head to try to get a look at Shayne’s face. “Are you ready to head back to bed, or…?”

Shayne faintly shook his head. The nausea was rushing back in force now that he was awake, now that he’d remembered where he was and what had been happening for the past few hours. He had vague memories of Charlie helping him drink some water right before he’d dozed off there on the floor, and he could feel it sloshing inside him even while sitting still.

“Charlie,” he groaned, reaching for one of Charlie’s hands.

“Yes?”

He didn’t know what he’d wanted to say. He’d just wanted to let Charlie know that he could feel him, that he was glad he was there.

Hot and cold liquid began to gurgle up his throat at the same time. He turned towards the toilet bowl, his body just going through the motions by now. He heard Charlie sigh before he sat forward to stroke Shayne’s back, even though his t-shirt was stuck to his back with chilled sweat by now. His stomach lurched, slamming against his ribs like a fist.

He spat out mouthfuls of water, gasping and coughing as droplets attempted to go the wrong way in his throat. He leaned a little harder against the toilet bowl with each heave, his chin eventually resting on the seat, eyes glistening with fresh tears. His stomach gave a deep rumble, empty again and still writhing inside him as his abdominal muscles spasmed.

“Hey, come here,” Charlie whispered, prying him away from the toilet. Shayne gladly let his body slump against him. He closed his eyes again as Charlie used the sleeve of his hoodie to dry the tears from underneath them.

“Charlie, my stomach,” he whined.

“I know.” Charlie rested his hand on Shayne’s belly, without lifting his t-shirt. Shayne winced and then sighed as Charlie’s fingers began to trace gently up and down. The taller boy nuzzled his face against the back of Shayne’s neck.

Something seemed to flutter in Shayne’s gut, but maybe it was to do with the nausea fading slightly. His stomach hadn’t felt this awful in ages, yet Charlie seemed so sure of his movements that Shayne was falling into a weird sense of calm. The soothing pressure of Charlie’s hand over his belly was forcing his eyelids halfway closed.

He shivered, which Charlie seemed to assume was due to the cold, because he rubbed a hand briskly up the side of his arm.

“Come on, let’s go, huh?” Charlie asked. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Mmm, no...” Shayne looked up with his half-closed eyes as Charlie slid his hands under his elbows. “Still feel sick.”

“You can throw up on me, or on the duvet, or wherever you need to,” Charlie said, starting to get both of them up, “but I’m not letting you sit on this cold floor all night.”

Nausea swirled deep in Shayne’s stomach, and he found his legs too shaky to take his own weight. There was an awful moment when he thought he was going to drop right back down onto the tiles, but thanks to Charlie, it didn’t happen.

“Whoa – it’s okay, lovely, I’ve got you.”

Their eyes met briefly, and Shayne felt that weird flutter again. Usually he couldn’t stand having anyone’s arms looped all the way around him, but this felt different. Charlie was acting so calm and sure of himself, and Shayne didn’t have the urge to push him away.

There was just the urge to keep rolling that word around on his tongue. Lovely. It was the only thing he could focus on to keep his mind off the wrenching pain in his belly. It had a taste to it, like butter melting onto toast. Had Charlie really meant to call him that?

Despite Charlie’s pull, Shayne paused in the bathroom doorway and put his hands to his stomach, overwhelmed with what felt like a wave crashing against its walls. He felt a gurgle working its way up from deep in his gut, burning behind his ribs, making his cheeks ache.

The heaving began so quickly this time that he didn’t think he’d make it back to the toilet, so he turned and puked bright yellow acid into the sink instead. Charlie was practically tangled up in him, and was still holding his waist when he started throwing up again. Shayne’s hands were clammy and kept slipping on the edges of the sink as his stomach flipped over again, with nothing left to force out of him but a weak belch and a dry sob that made Charlie’s heart twist.

“Sorry,” Shayne murmured, shakily bringing one hand up to hold onto Charlie’s. “Can’t... can’t stop.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie sighed. “Take all the time you need, it’s – it’s okay.

Was it okay, though? Charlie couldn’t understand exactly how it was possible to keep throwing up after so long. His heart was threatening to escape up his throat at any minute, his nerves tingling with worry at every retch, every flinch in Shayne’s body.

“Oh, that’s okay, lovely, I’ve got that,” Charlie whispered, reaching for the faucet as he saw Shayne try to do it himself.

There, you said it again. He cringed and tucked his cheek closer to Shayne’s shoulder as the running water cleared the sink a bit. He prayed uselessly that Shayne had managed to not hear him both times he’d called him lovely. God, he was a mess, and he wasn’t even the one who couldn’t stop puking. He needed to get it together.

“You okay?” he asked. “Ready to try for the bed again?”

Shayne nodded and kept a weak grip on Charlie’s hand as he turned around. Charlie was sure his heart was going to burst as he let him wrap his arms around him for the second time that night.

Charlie grew anxious again when he noticed how Shayne kept his hands on his belly all the way back to bed, as though he was afraid something was going to fall out if he let go. Maybe it would have been better to let Shayne stay by the toilet for as long as he wanted, instead of dragging him to bed, but… Charlie’s chest ached at the thought of Shayne falling asleep on the cold floor again, when they could be tucked up under the duvet together.

Charlie eased Shayne down onto the edge of the bed, but instead of lying down, Shayne let out a whimper and leaned forward slowly. He rested the top of his head against Charlie’s belly while keeping his hands pressed to his own. Charlie’s spine tingled, and he gently traced his fingertips over the back of Shayne’s neck and up into his soft dark curls.

“Shayne, are you –?”

He was cut off by a muffled retching sound, which made Shayne’s spine curl harshly. There was a slight choking sound as the dark-haired boy lifted one hand to his mouth. Charlie stepped back a little to see that he had retched up a thin string of liquid that now ran from his lips to his palm.

“Shit,” Shayne mumbled.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Charlie said, rubbing a hand across his shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

He grabbed the hand towel from the bathroom, running one corner of it under the tap for a few seconds. When he made it back to the side of the bed, he knelt down and cleaned the mess from Shayne’s face and hands.

“Still –” Shayne scoffed weakly. “Still think I’m lovely?”

Charlie’s heart sank. Of course, he heard the little pet name. He looked up from the floor, ready to try to explain it all away somehow, maybe by blaming the verbal slips on nerves and exhaustion. What he wasn’t expecting was to see Shayne’s dark brown eyes filling up with tears and shying away from meeting Charlie’s gaze.

“Yes,” Charlie whispered, dropping the towel on the floor without looking away. He swallowed against a lump in his throat and climbed up onto the bed. “You want to know a little secret?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I always think you’re lovely.”

Shayne leaned against Charlie’s shoulder, laying a shaky hand on his knee. Charlie felt both a thrill and a wave of relief, the combination of which made his head feel a little funny. He ran a hand up and down Shayne’s back and nuzzled his cheek against his curls.

“Let’s lie down, yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

Charlie got in first, holding out his arm for Shayne to curl up with his back against him. Their fingers slipped together under the sheets. The bedside lamp was still on, Charlie realised, but there was no way he was moving from this position again.

Charlie felt a little guilty for allowing himself a smile while Shayne was probably feeling miserable. “How are you feeling now?”

“Mmm,” Shayne mumbled against the pillow. “My stomach hurts, but this - this is... good.”

“Good.” Charlie once again nuzzled the back of Shayne’s head. He was quickly getting used to the smell and feel of his hair against his face, yet felt like he’d never, ever get sick of it. “If I gently rubbed your tummy, would that also be good? Or would it make you nauseous again..?”

Shayne’s heart skipped a beat. He was already guiding Charlie’s hand down, lifting his t-shirt out of the way and letting Charlie’s hand slip underneath. He’d thrown up so much that he could feel how empty he was, and the emptiness itself had brought on its own kind of ache.

Charlie rubbed soft, wide circles over his belly with the palm of his hand, causing Shayne to melt further into the mattress, the pillow, the warmth of another body. The caring touches seemed to slowly chase out the ache and fill up the hollow spaces left behind by the nausea.

His eyelids continued getting heavier, and he meant to say something to Charlie about falling asleep, but he never got around to it before drifting off.

Charlie also found his eyes closing sporadically, found his hand drifting to a stop at intervals. He smiled faintly to himself when he heard Shayne’s breathing deepen. He pressed a kiss into his hair before tucking his face away again. He fell asleep holding Shayne like one of them would fall off the bed if he decided to let go.

#sickfic #emeto sickfic #emeto #shayne and charlie #oc sickfic #oc emeto #emeto fic #nausea #stomach ache #belly rubs #just the bois being soft for each other #aagghh

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shorkbrian · 4 years

Note

Yoooooooo idk if youve done this before buuuuut im always thorsty for alien!readers :))) but could you do an alien!reader with anyone or all of fdom the bakusquad. Cant get enough from themmmm

Bro I’ve been sitting on this FOREVER cause like??? alien reader is such a broad request. Like - what kind of alien? Idek.

So I’m just gonna say that reader is similar to Mina (except instead of acid, it’s sweet smelling liquid that turns into a vapor after a second - calms people down), and took Mina’s place in class 1-A.

(Warnings - NSFW, noncon, reader is intersex. Intersex peeps have a rough time, and ik a lot of questions are ALWAYS asked and people are so invasive and rude, and I’m so, so sorry. Like bruh it’s just another way of having a body... pls do not make it into something it is not. Poor reader takes the blame for the noncon, lots of self-deprecation bc intersex ppl get told a lot that they're “alien” or that they’re different and that's bad - Which it so totally is not!!! Differences are cool!! Anyways, read at your own discretion y’all)

Now, in their society, everyone is used to quirk manifestations creating... interesting-looking physical features. You have some people sporting wings, others with textured skin, some are even literal animals.

So reader really isn’t that unusual.... except their quirk makes them popular with teachers and students. Stressed for finals? Go to reader. Can’t make your students chill? Ask reader to stop by. Reader’s quirk makes everyone calm, loopy, less angry and vicious.

When they get into UA, everyone’s curious about how it feels, curious about the kid that would’ve probably been better suited in class B or in a support class.

The bakusquad is especially intrigued, because the applications of reader’s quirk could be awesome for a little problem of theirs that screams and yells and destroys things.

So at the beginning of the semester, reader hears a couple knocks at their door, opens it only to have the bakusquad practically fall inside, complete with a very irate Bakugou.

Denki and Sero propose the idea that reader uses their quirk, helps everyone calm down a bit (we all know Sero’s a stoner, he’s here for the feeling lol). Reader makes sure everybody is down with it, even Kirishima and Bakugou, and when the other two boys nod, reader agrees.

The air in the room would instantly turn sickly-sweet as liquid oozed from reader’s skin, quickly evaporating into a vapor. The affect was almost instantaneous - shoulders sagging, muscles relaxing, soft smiles playing against faces.

Usually reader wears a masks so their quirk doesn’t effect them, but here, in the safety of the dorms? it’s not needed. They get just as relaxed and loopy as the group squished into the small room.

But apparently, relaxing isn’t the best idea.

Some people get so relaxed that their inhibitions disappear, similar to alcohol, just without the loss of fine motor control. Denki is one of those people. He sidles up next to reader, runs his hands over their shoulders until he’s pressed against their side. He leans in close, giggles into their ear about how calm he feels right now, how useful their quirk is.

He’s naturally flirty, so it’s not alarming when he starts like, stroking their hair, holding their hand, practically falling into their lap, complimenting them the entire time, shooting off rapid-fire pick-up-lines like it’s his job. Sero, Kirishima, and Bakugou are lazing in the background, watching the blond drape himself over you.

The pick-up lines devolve into lewd questions, Denki asking what your bodycount is, have you ever blown someone, what's your favorite position? This is a safe environment, and your relaxed, so you don’t mind answering.

Even when he asks what you look like “down there”.

It’s a semi-common question. A lot of people wonder if the pink color of your skin extends to your genitals, if your pubes are pink as well. Your body is alien, do you even have genitals? What kind? Are you a boy? Or a girl? It’s easy to laugh and brush off these invasive questions.

But it’s not that big of a deal here, especially since you’re trying to make friends. You answer the question easily - yes, you’re pink down there, even your pubes. When Sero pipes up and pushes for what exactly you have down there, you shrug - It’s not that big of a deal; you have both.

Kirishima asks to see.

That’s a little weird, so you decline, but Denki whines and pouts, says that it isn’t fair you’re being such a cute little tease, they’re just curious! They’ve all seen each other’s dicks already, it’s the same thing! You aren’t convinced, but your quirk keeps everybody calm, doesn’t let the situation escalate.

Except it does.

Bakugou is relaxed, not yelling, not angry, but still demanding. He tells you to get on your back, and you do, entirely submissive in your relaxed state. You squirm and try to stop him (Bro, that’s weird dude - He shouldn’t be trying to strip you) as the blonde moves to take off your pants, but he casually tells Denki and Sero to hold down your arms, so they do.

The atmosphere is still relaxed, calming, casual, but you feel a tiny nudge of unease in your stomach. The ease with which your quirk pushes that down is extraordinary.

Then Bakugou and Kirishima are looking at you, hands smoothing down your stomach, over your dick, stopping to cradle your pussy. Your squirm. Sero wolf-whistles at what he can see from his position holding down your arm, and you can feel Denki starting to harden from where he’s kneeling across your arm, crotch pushed close to your shoulder.

But everything fine, there’s no trouble.

Your sweet-smelling quirk batters down your inhibitions and discomfort again.

It’s not long before Bakugou is jerking you off, grinning up at you, while Kirishima is fingering you open, focused on your lower lips as he runs his fingers through them before plunging them inside of you.

The dual stimulation feels good, but this is weird, and you distantly know that without the calming effects of your quirk, this would be bad, and you’d be screaming and thrashing. But Denki’s moving off of your arm, grabbing your hand and guiding it to rub against him in his pants. Sero’s unbuckling his belt, getting his dick out and cooing at you to open your mouth. You go to shake your head, but he laughs, just gives you a light pat across the face, insists that this isn’t weird, you all have dicks, and none of them are gay, don’t worry.

Somehow, his dick ends up in your mouth, choking you.

This is wrong, this is assault, they shouldn’t be touching you, you don’t want them to.

But there’s four of them, and only one of you.

You can only pump more of your quirk in the air to keep yourself calm, listen to the boys discuss your “alien” body as they touch and fondle and explore, occasionally stopping to ask you how something feels. It feels bad.

Eventually, they end up fucking you, taking turns in your pussy, stroking your dick. Sero even tries docking his dick against yours. It feels weirdly good. Kirishima asks if you’re able to get pregnant while he’s thrusting inside, whoops when you tell him you can’t. He cums inside.

Someone suggests taking your ass too, but Bakugou disregards that idea. He seems like he’s the ringleader. You’re pretty sure you don’t want to be friends with them after this. But is it their fault? You’re the one who lowered their inhibitions, you’re the one who made them curious about your body.

It’s your fault.

so you lay there and take it, let them move you into different positions as they laugh and joke above you.

They get tired of exploring eventually, leave you with cum dripping out of your body, all sticky and sweaty. You’re calm.

You keep your quirk going until you manage to head to the showers, to wash every inch of yourself. You keep your quirk going as you clean up your room, stripping the sheets, washing everything, sanitizing everything. You even move your bed, away from the door and into a corner.

Keeping your quirk active isn’t possible for ever, but you’re going to push it until your body gives out.

Being “different” is never a good thing.

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feverishbangtan · 4 years

Text

This is something I worked on before. Next one’s going to be either Yoongi or Namjoon, still haven’t decided...

Sickie: Jungkook

Caretaker: Seokjin

Word count: 1290

TW: emeto

Seokjin slipped quietly into his bedroom so he wouldn’t wake the maknae, should he be asleep. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was glad to see that Jungkook, indeed, seemed to be sleeping.

Earlier that day, the youngest woke up feeling very nauseous and generally unwell. It wasn’t until the afternoon that he started actually throwing up but once he did, it didn’t stop anymore. He spent a good four hours in the bathroom, vomiting every few minutes or so. Jungkook had a fever on and off all day, which left him achy and tired.

However, when he could finally catch a break and rest on the living room couch instead of in front of the toilet, he still wasn’t able to sleep.

Not even when Jimin had joined him, spooning the maknae and holding him. Not when Taehyung had offered him belly rubs that he declined because he feared that any kind of contact to his middle would set him off again. Not when Hoseok and Namjoon had turned on the TV to play his favorite movie. And not when Yoongi had set up his laptop in the living room, playing soft melodies he's been working on.

Seokjin brushed the back of his hand over Jungkook's forehead and cheeks, noting that he still felt warm. He glanced at his phone to see the time; Seokjin gave the youngest some medicine not too long ago so he couldn't give him more now.

Sighing, he slipped into the bed and tugged on the blanket in Jungkook's grip so he could cover himself. The maknae let go of it with a moan but quickly settled again as he curled up against Seokjin's chest. The oldest wrapped his arms around him and soon fell asleep as well.

—

Seokjin was awoken by distressed mumbling and small jerking movements a few hours later. In his tired, confused state it took him a moment to collect himself.

But then he remembered. Remembered that Jungkook was sick and he was sleeping next to him.

The maknae squirmed in his sleep, groans escaping his lips. Seokjin smoothed his long hair back, pushing it out of his face and simultaneously checking for a fever. He still felt warm, maybe even a little warmer than before he went to sleep.

Seokjin gently slipped his hand under Jungkook's shirt to give him tummy rubs, hoping it would help settle his stomach. He could feel the upset organ rumbling as Jungkook groaned in his sleep.

Even after a while, it was not getting better, in fact, it got worse and the oldest knew his attempts were futile. So, he moved his hand from Jungkook's tummy to his cheek, gently rubbing it to wake the boy.

"Jungkook-ah. Jungkookie, wake up," he whispered.

The maknae startled awake, a confused, hazy look in his eyes. It was clear that he wasn't quite there and didn't understand what was happening.

So, Seokjin tried to stay calm, even as all color drained from Jungkook's face and he swallowed audibly.

"Okay, okay, let's go to the bathroom."

Seokjin tried to maneuver the youngest out of the sheets but he was too confused and disoriented to cooperate with him.

It happened in a split second; Jungkook opened his mouth and then he was suddenly burping, the taste of stomach acid clinging to the back of his tongue. He heaved unproductively, nothing left in his stomach due to the lack of food throughout the day.

A particularly hard retch had him lurching forward. Bile and the few sips of water Jungkook had before going to sleep splashing onto the sheets.

Seokjin cringed at his soiled bedding but moved closer to the maknae, rubbing his back and muttering soothing words of comfort.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay."

Jungkook's hair was still in a messy half-up ponytail. Taehyung tied it up earlier that day when he first found the maknae puking into the toilet. It proved to be useful in keeping Jungkook’s growing hair clean.

The youngest kept on dry heaving for a while before his stomach finally gave him a break. He was breathing hard, frustrated tears running down his cheeks. Jungkook was exhausted and achy and still so confused. One second he was sleeping peacefully and the next he was puking and his stomach was cramping up painfully.

Seokjin carefully used the already dirtied blanket to dab the puke from Jungkook's chin before he removed it from the maknae's lap.

"Okay, let's go to the washroom," the oldest said quietly, "I think you should take a quick shower."

Poor Jungkook could only nod in agreement as he simply followed his hyung's instructions.

The two men slowly walked to the bathroom. Seokjin had an arm wrapped around Jungkook's waist for support.

Inside the bathroom, Seokjin helped Jungkook sit down on the toilet. Then he went to turn on the shower, making sure the water was a comfortable temperature for the sick maknae.

"Do you need help?" he asked, turning back to Jungkook, who looked quite uncomfortable and a little embarrassed if the blush on his cheeks was anything to go by.

The youngest shook his head no and Seokjin told him he'd get him a fresh set of pajamas while he's showering.

"Just yell if you need anything," he told him, "I'll be right outside."

Unsurprisingly, Jungkook didn't ask for help.

The only time he said anything at all was when he asked Seokjin to pass him the clothes but he quickly shut the door on him.

When it opened again, Jungkook was shirtless and only wearing the underwear and sweatpants Seokjin had brought him.

"How do you feel?" the older asked, mustering Jungkook as if he was trying to find the answer himself.

The maknae shrugged, "not as queasy anymore. But my tummy still hurts."

Seokjin hummed and gently took the younger's hand, leading him down the hallway.

"I'm sorry, hyung," Jungkook suddenly apologized quietly.

Seokjin stopped in his tracks and turned around to look at him. Jungkook didn’t look back at him, tired gaze focused on his feet instead.

"What for?" Seokjin asked and squeezed Jungkook's hand encouragingly.

"For throwing up in your bed. I'm sorry."

Jin chuckled and started walking again, pulling the maknae along with him.

"Don't worry about it," he told him genuinely.

Jungkook still felt bad about it, though. Admittedly, he was a little embarrassed about throwing up in bed. Seokjin's bed on top of it, not even his own. He felt childish for not being able to keep it down and make it to the bathroom before spilling his guts.

"But- your sheets, hyung," Jungkook whined, not being able to just brush it off like that, "I made them all dirty."

Seokjin could see the tears gathering in the maknae's eyes and was quick to soothe him.

"Don't worry about it, really, I can wash them. It's not a problem at all." Seokjin gathered the youngest into his arms and rubbed his back.

"Let's go sleep in your bed instead," he suggested and guided Jungkook further down the corridor to his own bedroom.

Jin tucked him into bed, making sure the maknae was comfortable before he left, assuring him that he would be back soon.

Seokjin filled the washing machine with his soiled bedsheets and opened the window inside his room, hoping that airing it out for the rest of the night would get rid of the stench.

He then made sure to grab a bowl, just in case Jungkook needed to throw up again and didn't make it to the bathroom.

By the time he got back, Jungkook was fast asleep. Carefully, Seokjin slipped in next to him once again, spooning the youngest and softly palming his tummy.

#bts sickfic #sick jungkook #sick!jungkook #caretaker seokjin #caretaker!seokjin #emeto #sleepy cuddles #tummy rubs #it's soft #random

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thesandersinitiative · 4 years

Note

Virgil stop fangirling over Patton

“Am I....?” Virgil repeats looking fainter than before. He tugs on the strings of his hoodie staring at Patton. “NO! I am NOT alright! That is-- That’s--!! Captain Morality! Don’t you know who he is?!”

Without waiting for you to actually answer Virgil turns to you, with a spark in his eerily purple eyes and starts talking.....

....and behind him Patton’s eyes go distant.

[TW: depression, PTSD, violence, Nazis]

***

To be completely honest, Patton Hart is used to tragedy. He's been bred on sad sob stories, one after the other. A father who did not stick around long enough to see him first open his eyes, grandparents who did not live to see his third birthday, a mother who loved him too much, too often, too desperately. He'd been blessed with a forgettable face, with a submissive aura, with a backpack of items to call his own that was never unpacked because they always moved in the end, anyway. He was there and then he was gone like a bank of fog, like the sun on a cloudy day.

Patton grew up with sadness clinging to his bones, kissing nightmares in the dark, and singing eulogies in the graveyards for reflections of himself.

The Stock Market Crash paves the way for the Depression that chases him and his mother through the country, nipping at their heels, sinking its claws into their backs, and tearing their throats with its teeth. It’s bad.

But its nothing new for Patton.

The War, though.

The War is new.

The War steals the cute boy at the drug store who smiles at Patton across the counter. The War makes each penny stretch less and less. The War plasters propaganda posters condemning the Nazi menace across telephone poles and mailboxes.

(The War wasn’t America’s problem until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The War wasn’t America’s problem when he lived in Brooklyn for six scant months at fourteen and helped a Jewish boy clean out his cuts after a group of sixteen year olds pushed him down and sneered you know, those Germans have the right idea.)

The War kills his Mom.

Not, directly, no, but. But it places her in a factory assembling turbines for the planes. They have money in their pockets for the first time in years but the War hands her ration cards and says they have to keep on starving. The War gets her sick in the factory, and the entire time she just smiles, ruffles Patton’s hair, and keeps handing him half of her rations because he’s still a growing boy.

Patton’s Mom dies when he’s seventeen; she’s sick and starving and dies with her head in her son’s lap as he strokes her hair and sobs.

Patton Hart is seventeen when he volunteers for the draft. He’s a year too young, but they don’t look hard enough, don’t care hard enough. Patton’s never known what he’s wanted to do with his life—bouncing from tragedy to tragedy and just barely managing to stay afloat but, well. He never thought he’d do this.

The War has taken all he has left; Patton thinks it might as well take him too.

Some might have started calling it a tragedy then, because if there hadn't been a war, if the Depression hadn't hit, if Patton hadn't been left all alone, he might have grown up to be a store clerk, a factory worker, a journalist, a self respecting average person. He might have learned to smile for real and not just to placate people. He might have settled down somewhere with a pretty boy and become that dad he had always wanted to be. He might have been happy.

They might have called it tragic that that sort of life had been stolen from him.

(Patton thinks it’s tragic that he could never imagine having that life at all.)

The War is...its something else really. They send him to a training camp run by both Americans and the British and they work them all to bone. Push ups, daily runs, crawling through barbed wire, carrying twice his body weight in supplies and keeping march. They press them until they can’t stand and fill their heads with delusions of grandeur that will come when they beat those pesky Germans.

The boys that he shows up with change very fast.

Patton feels like he doesn't change at all.

It's a problem, they say. Because Patton is still smiling at them while marching, still making jokes when the rest of the platoon is struggling to keep their eyes open, still acting soft and kind and friendly when they are trying to go to war.

It's a problem, they say. So they send him to the front lines.

Patton just smiles at them and nods his head. What's another order? What's another threat? What more can this life take from him anyway?

Patton thinks it's silly that the generals there are in the business of making tragedies, and yet they can't seem to see that Patton is a tragedy personified. It's a blindsiding attack: he's the comedy with a bad ending no one sees coming.

He gets captured six weeks after he’s sent to the front lines; it’s just another bump in the story, another trip into tragedy, and another thing to smile through and laugh over even as bitterness burns like acid in the back of his throat.

It’s funny he thinks, because he was the only man in his regiment to get captured. The only man in his regiment none of them would be sorry to see go. The only one that lives to see the sunrise after that day.

(Its a blood orange sunrise, that boils the sky and makes hazy lines in Patton’s vision.)

The soldiers that dig him out of the trenches, that dig him from the dirt and the rubble and the bodies, that dig him out of the grave he had been so content to lie in, force him to his feet and tell him to march. They don’t like him, don’t like the way he stumbles, don’t like the way he collapses.

And they certainly don’t like the way he smiles. With blood in his teeth and his freckles dancing and his eyes as cold and dead as the rest of the allied forces in the area.

It doesn’t matter much though. This is War, after all.

They take him to a POW camp and they stuff him into a crowded cell with two French soldiers who know scattered English, and an Italian who likely was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Patton had cared, he might have thought about how different it was from what he had been told being captured would be like, about how secret the base seemed, how violent the gatekeepers were. He might have been scared.

But all he can think about is how cold it is. How dark it is. How unfriendly it is.

This is War.

And Patton wonders why no one here knows how to smile.

Its a stand still: the days are the same and they blur together like the lines of a newspaper in the rain. He sleeps a lot, probably too much, but there’s nothing else to do. He’s got his own little corner where he keeps his legs folded up so that the Italian can lie down and without touching anyone. He offers half his food to one of the French soldiers because he’s nearly eighteen but the poor kiddo looked barely older than sixteen. He smiles, smiles, smiles, until that too becomes an unconscious action. The guards that pace the block snarl at him and Patton smiles each and every time.

He loses track of how many times they drag him out of the bars and beat him with their rifle butts. But that might just be him being bad at math.

His cellmates probably think he’s insane. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s what the War got from him.

It isn’t until three weeks later that the Brit with the mustache is thrown in with them and things start..starting again.

His name is something fancy, something posh, and Patton hears it, but doesn’t remember it at all. It seems silly that he could have forgotten how to speak English in three weeks, but it happens that he can’t figure out how to answer the Brit with anything more than a half shrug and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes even on a good day.

And good days are rare. It’s not that the others are bad, because how can something be bad when he’s got food, and quietness, and a roof over his head? It's strange to think that before he joined the Army, before the War had started, before his mother died, there had been times when he hadn’t even had that. Surely if he was tragic before, he had to be something slightly better now?

Patton tries to give his food to the French boy, who always, always hesitates. The Brit watches him.

“Why do you do that?” He asks.

And Patton shrugs.

The French boy says something, or maybe he doesn’t. There’s a hollowness in Patton’s skull that rings when he looks too hard so its better just to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

The Brit speaks French and Russian and German. Patton doesn’t really notice it at first, because he’s been used to the sounds of his cellmates whispering softly in the cold dark, but at one point he realizes that there’s an extra voice, speaking foreign hushed words in the darkness. He doesn’t know how long they had been talking before he realizes, and he hadn’t been asleep but he hadn’t been there either. It had been like his body was there and his mind had stepped from the room for a moment, or ten, or an hour.

When he glances over the Brit is listening intently to what the older of the French boys is saying, nodding along, maybe partially in disbelief. Patton doesn’t get exactly what they’re talking about until there’s motion in his direction and the Brit’s jaw drops. There’s a rough laugh that follows, and it grows like a thunderstorm, rumbling closer and closer.

And oh, they’re talking about him.

Patton smiles for them. Because even if he's the joke they’re telling, at least they’re laughing.

The Brit’s eyes widen, and he says something back to the French boys, something with too many front-rounded syllables, and then he turns back to Patton and scoots close.

“They were telling me that you smile all the time,” He says. “They call you Mr. Blueskies!”

“Blueskies?” The word chokes in Patton’s throat, rattling in his ribcage like a bird trying to break free. His own inhale scratches the inside of his throat, like nails tearing up his esophagus. It feels bad, and strange and foreign. He coughs.

“Yeah,” The Brit says, “Like clear skies. Bright and Happy. I didn’t think people like you existed in this hellhole.”

Patton doesn’t know what to say to that. So he just shrugs and smiles a bit more.

The Brit still smells like lavender soap, which was probably from a care package from home before he was caught and brought here. It reminds Patton of the flower shop he had to walk by to bring his mother lunch when she worked at the factory, before she died.

“Mr. Blueskies,” The Brit says somewhat still in disbelief, “What’s your real name, Smiles?”

Patton leaned against the wall ignoring the painful cramp in his legs because the Italian was still sleeping. “Hart,” He says, “Patton Hart.”

“Unbelievable,” He says, “They should have been putting you on posters, not sticking you on the front lines.”

(And thats another tragedy for the list, isn’t it? Something so sweet and soft like Patton shouldn’t have ever been to War at all.)

“Patton “Blueskies” Hart,” the Brit hums. “Tell me something, kid, whats there left to smile for?”

And isn’t that the trillion dollar question? What is there left to smile for when his family is dead and he is halfway to meeting them again, when his legs are cramped, his cheeks are hollowed, his head rings, and his throat is dry, when he’s so far from anything that is familiar and has no chance of getting back?

But Patton knows the answer, has known for a while. He can still feel the soft hand of the Jewish boy when he helped pick him off the ground in Brooklyn, can still hear the laughter from his mother before she got sick, can still smell the cookies that his platoon-mate got that in a care package that made the man cry.

War is a Tragedy.

It takes and it takes and it takes.

What is left to smile for?

“Spite,” Patton says with the sweetest tone he’s ever managed.

And across the halls, in the cell parallel to them, laughter rings out. Patton blinks almost in surprise. He hadn’t realized that anyone else had been listening, and if he is being truly honest he forgot that anyone else existed outside their tiny blocked area.

“I like you,” The words are harsh and thickly accented, but the soldier’s voice is warm with laughter and it softens the hardness of his enunciation, “Revenge served best with smile.”

“It’s not revenge,” Patton says automatically, because the word feels wrong. Because revenge is something you wait for, an expectation that sits deep in your bones, a vicious prize you endure for. Patton isn’t waiting for anything, not a reward nor not a reparation. He doesn’t smile because he thinks he might get revenge because he knows he won’t. Patton smiles, Patton smiles, Patton smiles, because—”It’s rebellion.”

The Soviet laughs again and again, “Even better,” He says and it sends a shiver down Patton’s spine.

The Soviet-Russian isn’t alone in his cell. He’s joined by a ruddy cheeked and auburn haired Irish boy, a quiet pale-skinned Soviet-Ukranian, and a blue-eyed North Brit. Patton doesn’t know if they introduce themselves because it doesn’t matter: he won’t remember their names anyway.

They’ll all die, anyway.

But Patton will smile all the way through it.

Things start, Patton notices.

Because the next time the guards pass through, he forgets to turn away and somehow his smile is still bright enough for them to pick it out of the blue grey shadows. Patton thinks that maybe the Allied forces had been gaining ground, had beat off the Nazi’s one time too many, had tipped the War back into their favor, because the Germans are especially angry.

Its not anything new. It can’t be when Patton smiles at the grasping hands of Death, and the enemy soldiers have always been so ready to deliver him to the brink. Its not anything new when he can’t force his smile to fall, and the but of the rifle slams between the bars of the cell and clocks him right between the eyes.

And his head flings back, cracking against the shoulder of the Brit and so hard he doesn’t even hear the snapping of his wireframe glasses. The halves fall into his lap, blurry and distant and almost as broken as he is.

And Patton laughs.

Maybe it is a little new. War is like that, he thinks.

Its a repetition that repeats until it doesn’t and there’s no telling when that change will come: when it suddenly turns from him trying to inch through the haze of bullets towards the trenches across no mans land, to him trying to dig himself out from under the weight of another soldier from his platoon without screaming in frustration, because death was right there and it missed him again.

“Mr. Blueskies--” The Brit says as Patton gasps for air.

“Oi! Was that that smiley fellow?” Someone else yells from another cell, some other cell.

“Is he alright?” Another voice adds in.

“Bloody Germans!”

Its a clamor. Patton hears it; its impossible not to hear with how close the cells are to each other, with how many of them are pressed together, with how each whisper reverberates off the stone around them and makes it ten times louder.

Something warm trickles down his face and Patton blinks hard as he tastes blood between his grinning lips. He thinks there’s some orders being tossed around but the full honesty is he can’t hear at all. All there is are yells about leaving him alone, about those where those Germans can stuff their guns, about how they can pick on prisoners their own size--

There’s nothing new, and yet the entire camp, the hall of their cells, Patton suddenly feels more alive than ever before.

Their captors don’t know what to do suddenly. There’s several thwamps as something gets thrown at them, but Patton can’t see it at all.

The gunshots rattle all of them to their bones, a noise so loud in their small cells made of stone that turns the vibrations back on them. Patton’s hands cover his ears, his ringing ears, and he feels the Brit next to him stiffen. The echoes of the noise, steal all the fire from them, until they’re just cowering from the bars again, and selling lethal glares.

Patton blinks blurrily at the indistinct forms where their captors were, dully recognizing that orders are being spit out in rapid German. The cells ring with the foreign words, and then fizzle out as the soldiers move on.

And the silence returns, same as its always been.

Although something is different, Patton thinks, clutching the halves of his glasses that his mother had spent four months saving up to afford him, back before she had gotten sick. Something is different, he thinks, as the Brit softly presses a swatch of cloth he got who knows where to Patton’s forehead.

Something is different, Patton knows.

Because the next time they get their portions of food and Patton tries to foist some of his off the French boy gives him a hard “No” complete with him reaching out and pushing Patton’s hand away. Patton eats a whole piece of bread, and he thinks it even had a taste. Its strange and weird and Patton doesn’t want to think about it so he sleeps instead.

He wakes up when the Italian reaches over and nudges him, and waddles around so that his long legs fold up and there’s space in the cell for the first time. The Italian motions for him to lie down, and Patton’s first instinct is to offer it French boys, to the Brit, to the Italian who was looking far too uncomfortable.

The Brit offers him a shoulder to his head on when he’s tired, talks when he’s not. The Brit asks him questions about home, about before the War, about what America is like because he’d always wanted to visit just to see if it really was as bad as he’s thought it was. Patton can’t see anything anymore, but its nice to hear the barking laughter that shows up sometimes.

(Patton makes up things sometimes, just to hear it, because its pretty and it makes Patton’s chest warm in a way that it hasn’t, doesn’t, won’t any other time.)

The Brit is warm and gruff. He smells like lavender and sounds like the rumbling of streetcars back home. He’s strong and steady and bold and brave.

“Hey, Blueskies--”

The War is a bad thing, Patton thinks, as he starts to notice things moving again. The War is a bad thing, Patton reminds himself, as his smile feels less forced than it has in years. The War is a bad thing, Patton whispers at night, as he stares at the sleeping face of a man who’s laugh made Patton’s heart jump straight into his throat.

The War is a bad thing.

But if it weren’t for the War they never would have met.

And if it weren’t for the War the Brit never would have died. Not like this.

People disappear from the cells. Taken by the guards, dragged out of their block in the middle of the night, and they never return. The Soviet, who’s been here the longest, almost a year, spins tales of his old, original cell mates, and the people who’d originally filled the cell that Patton was occupying. They’d all been dragged off in the night, one by one, he’d claimed, and the only reason the Soviet himself hadn’t gone taken with them was because he always squeezed himself tight into a corner during the guards rounds.

“What about food?” The Brit had asked, half curious and half concerned, “How did you eat?”

“I didn’t,” The Soviet barked with laughter, “Going hungry is small price to pay for life. And now…” The Soviet reached into his tattered jacket, and pulled out a stale chunk of bread, “I am prepared.”

The Irish boy glances up from where he was playing some sort of hand game with the Ukranian, wide eyed and red cheeked, “You think they’ll come back to our block?”

“I no think,” The Soviet said with complete surety, tucking the bread back into his coat, “I know.”

And he’s right, because two weeks later Patton’s woken from a half restless sleep by his head knocking hard against the wall as the shoulder he’d fallen asleep against was ripped out from underneath him. Patton’s vision is blurry, muddled by darkness and the sudden hit he took to his temple but he can see, suddenly, the open gate to their cell blocked off by one of their bulky captors as two others wrapped their hands tight on the arms of the struggling Brit.

Desperate cuts through the drowsy fog in Patton’s mind, and he’s scrambling forward, knocking into the Italian who wakes with a sharp gasp, and accidentally kicking the leg of the French boy who squirms from sleep and proceeds to shake his older counterpart awake within in the second but Patton doesn’t notice. He’s attempting to stand, reach for the Brit, pull him back, but one of the guards shoves him away and Patton lands bruisingly hard on his backside just as the grated door is slammed shut and locked in front of him.

Patton lunges again, sticks his arm through the wire, ignores the burn, grabs onto the Brit’s shoulder, and gasps out his name, “...”

The Brit swings his head up and over his shoulder, eyes alight in the dark. A guard brings his gun down on Patton’s elbow and he screams, loud enough to wake the rest of the block, certainly. He sees the Ukranian boy with one arm around the Irish boy’s stomach and the other covering his mouth as he presses them both against the back wall, sees the other Brit, the Northern one, pressed into the less shadowed corner, shaking and doesn’t even see a hint of the Russian, but knows he’s curled into himself and watching Patton too, waiting for him to give up, let go.

He doesn’t. His fingers dig deeper into the Brit’s shoulder, grasping onto the fabric desperately, even as the guard lands a second blow on his wrist, and his vision swims with bright purple spots.

Patton lets out a ragged breath, faintly hears the Italian quietly begging him to let go through the ringing in his ears, and tightens his grip because he’s selfish. The Brit is his friend. Makes him happy in a way Patton hasn’t known in years, with his kind words and gruff voice, and Patton can’t let him go, he can’t. Not, at least, without a fight.

(The Brit deserves that much.)

“...Mr. Blueskies,” The Brit says, voice quiet, voice terrified, but still steady, “Let go.”

“No—” The guard swings his gun through the slots in the door and slams Patton’s nose with a loud crack. His vision dissolves into bright, spotted stars, and his face burns and he’s coughing on blood dripping down his throat and his ears ring, and his fingers are starting to loosen against his will and—

“LET GO BLUESKIES!”

“Let go! Let go!”

“Blueskies!”

—The clamor is back. Echoing in his ears and as violent as a thunderstorm as the rest of their block, wide awake now, scream and shout, and some of them, a few of them, are shouting swears and curses at the Germans for hurting Patton, for taking away the Brit, for everything, but the rest are yelling at him. To let go.

His fingers are loosening against the fabric of the Brit’s jacket—but he can’t, he won’t.

“Let go, Patton,” The Brit begs him, and Patton can feel his eyes burn, “And take care of them.”

The guard moves to hit a fourth time, on Patton’s fingers, on the Brit’s shoulder. But Patton unclenches his hand first. His fingers slip off. His arm hits the grated door and the guard kicks it for good measure, but Patton can’t even feel it. He just watches, through blurry, spotted vision, as they drag the Brit away.

The Brit doesn’t come back. Never comes back. And something like anger starts to burn in Patton’s mind.

Patton is not a stranger to tragedy. He’s not a stranger to the sadness that wells up in him and then floods his senses, he’s not a stranger to that grief in his chest that tears apart his heart and lungs with bargains to a god that’s not interested in anything he has to offer. He’s not even a stranger to death that calmly reaps yet another soul without an inch of mercy.

(They don’t get to see the body; Patton doesn’t know if that’s mercy, doesn’t know if after what they did to the Brit disposing him without Patton’s knowing was a favor, doesn’t know if where the grief ends and the fury begins.)

Patton is not a stranger to the tragedy that sings in his bones when he’s left in that too cold cell, but the anger that comes rushing through him is violent and bursting and that--

That is new.

And Patton embraces it.

“Oh,” The Soviet says, when Patton looks up with that rage in his eyes. “Oh.”

They come again a week later, and this time Patton is waiting.

He’s sitting closest to the door, eyes closed but alert, but the guards reach past him for the sleeping older French boy, who’d determinedly sandwiched his younger counterpart between himself and the Italian in a sham of protection hours ago. They reach for him, even though Patton is right there, and the guard has barely twisted his fingers into the thin fabric of the boy’s shirt before Patton lunges.

He tackles the guard against the wall of the small cell, and surprise on his side gives him a momentary advantage before the other three are jolted from a restless sleep by the guard’s violent swears.

Patton doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, beyond a reckless sort of anger and a desperate kind of despair, but it’s better than sitting here and doing nothing while the older French boy is taken. He knows the rest of the cell block is going to wake up and notice soon, urging him to give up again, but this time Patton is ready: ready to fight, ready to defend, ready to die.

The second guard smacks the back of his head hard with a gun and he thinks it’s the third that pulls him off of the first, the first, who’s staring at Patton with a death glare and a broken nose, and Patton grins viciously back at him. A challenge.

(Patton’s vision swims with black. His head pounds, and there’s a dripping warmth down the back of his neck he thinks may be blood.)

“Take him,” The first guard says, in clear, accented English, intended to make Patton quiver with terror and beg for mercy but Patton’s grin only widens, tugs harder at his cheeks, because in one move the guard has accepted his challenge and lost. And Patton has won.

The two guards drag him out of the cell, and Patton flashes his battle-grin at his three remaining cellmates; a reassurance, a reminder.

“Take care of them.”

And Patton does. In the only way he can manage.

The War takes and takes and takes.

It takes the great things, the good things, the not so bad things-- it takes Patton and drags him down the cell block, with his well worn leather shoes scraping the floor with a cacophony of screams behind him.

Its strange, because Patton thinks he can pick out the individual voices in the noise around him: the Soviet who threw himself from the shadows into the metal bars once he saw what Patton had forced the soldiers to do (take him, take him, take him), the French boy who started sobbing once he realized that he had been the intended target, the unknown voices from down the cell that he had come to recognize over the months. He’s pulled down the hall and he puts those voices to outraged faces for the first time.

His grin makes his cheeks ache, a feral looking sort of thing that awakens some sort of primordial beast in each prisoner he passes.

It’s his name they scream. The name that he forged in spite, the name that he earned, the name that was his and his alone.

The name the War didn’t, doesn’t, can’t take.

The soldiers drag him down the hall, out of the cell block and the metal door slams behind them, cutting off the riot of noise so effectively that Patton almost thinks he fell into some sort of alternate reality.

The noise was nothing compared to the silence.

The lab was far from pristine. It had the same old, grey rock walls and hard dirt floors. But it was filled with shelves, counters, and tables--all metal, all steel, and all shining under the artificial lights so brightly that Patton had to half-squint his eyes to keep from being blinded.

It was meticulously organized. Neat and clean in a way Patton hadn’t seen in years and had never had the luxury of experiencing. Almost painfully so. The alcohol in the air stung at his nose and made his eyes water, but Patton blinked it away hard and fast less the guards think he was crying, less they think his anger and rage and determination had faded to fear and desperation.

Because it hadn’t.

Because Patton won, would win, would continue to win even as they stripped him of his jacket and strapped him to the table, because when he dies here--goosebumps prickling at his bare arms from the chill, heart pounding hard and fast, anger dancing in his blood--it’s a victory.

Because it’s him. And not them.

The guards leave him there for what feels like minutes, yet could be seconds, but is really hours. He gazes through the lone, bar window in the lab until day breaks over the horizon and his eyes burn with the first glimpse of the sun in months.

It heats his face and warms something in his chest, but he doesn’t cry, doesn’t smile, and stops his stare. He relieves the ache in his neck and stares flatly at the ceiling, ignores the pain in his gut, in his head, and waits.

For what? He doesn’t know.

(A another lie: he waits for, wants for, craves for the end. They call him Mr. Blueskies, they call him brave, but really he’s just as much a coward as they all are: he just dresses it up in dull smiles and habitual kindness as he hopes for relief.)

(Any kind really, but at this point he thinks, knows, fears that the end is the only kind he’ll get.)

Patton waits until the sun stretches out of the window. Hunger starts to burn against the nausea in his gut. It must be past noon when the scientist comes in, decked in sterile white marred with red and checking things off on a clipboard, like he’s a doctor and Patton is a patient in for a fever, like he isn’t strapped to a table, waiting.

(Waiting to die.)

Patton’s stiff with tension as the scientist presses a stethoscope to his chest, mouthing numbers as he measure’s Patton’s rapid pulse against the watch on his wrist. His fists curl into white knuckles as his blood pressure is measured, and the scientist has the gall to chide him for it as he clicks his tongue at the results and takes them again and again until Patton’s sweaty palm is flat against the cool metal of the table. A thermometer is stuck under his tongue and Patton bites it so hard he’s almost disappointed when it doesn’t snap in half.

His headache pounds. The scientist peels back his eyelids to check with a light, and pokes at the blood-crusted bump on the back of his head until Patton hisses.

The scientist smirks at him as Patton scowls, says something that Patton forgets as soon as it’s slipped from the man’s lips. Something about “glory of HYDRA” and “dehydration.” He hangs an IV and sticks the needle in Patton's arm and leaves him.

Four vials rehung by guards and the rest of daylight pass by before the scientist returns, pushing through the door as he snaps bloodied gloves off his hands and slings them on one of the clear counters.

“Another failure,” He sighs to himself. He picks up a vial and examines it, twists it back and forth as the blue liquid catches the artificial light. He glances over at Patton through his glasses, head tilted to the side, “But...perhaps not a set back.”

The scientist swings around the table, settling just next to where Patton’s head is, holding the vial up so both of them can see it. Patton can feel the man’s breath on his skin, and he yanks on the restraints without getting anywhere.

“Do you know what this is?” The man asks so calmly, so logically, so friendly-- like Patton and him are old acquaintances about to catch up. His voice is so loud, his tone so-- so-- Patton hates it. Patton hates it so much.

There’s something about it that reaches down his spine, and picks apart Patton’s anger, his misery, his emotions that have been twisted and warped and neglected ever since that day his mother’s hand had gone limp. The scientist’s voice disarms the everything that Patton had been clinging to for the past hours, the months, the years, and with just a couple words Patton is just a kid again.

“This is the glory of HYDRA,” The scientist says, so proudly. “The glory of humanity.”

“What good is your glory?” Patton’s voice shakes, “All it does is kill people. It’s useless. It’s...stupid!”

“Oh…” The scientist trails, looking at him with something akin to pity, “You don’t understand.” He sighs, and then moves his free hand outside of what Patton can see--

Patton’s entire body seizes as the scientist over him suddenly starts pressing his fingers through Patton’s unruly curls. The man pets him, running those fingers through Patton’s oily hair, gently massaging his scalp, touching him.

Patton thinks he’ll throw up. Because-- Because this is different from them taking his blood, from them sticking needles in him, from them hitting him. This is-- its--

Patton yanks against the restraints, yanks his head away from the touch, but the Scientist just tuts at him and moves his hand further down the sides of Patton’s head, before cupping Patton’s jaw. The skin on skin contact-- it burns. Patton struggles against it, but the hand follows him wherever he goes.

“Your people never understand,” the man says, “Why don’t they understand? This is going to save the human race.” His thumb rubs the soft flesh under Patton’s chin, and Patton squeezes his eyes closed, squeezing back the tears and biting his touch when every muscle in his chest begs him to whimper.

This is okay, Patton thinks. Because it’s him and not the French boy, not the russian from the cell across from them, not anyone else. It’s okay, its okay, its okay.

This is War.

The thumb rolls a circle over Patton’s pulse, and the scientist peers down at him with a bright smile, something so blinding that Patton can see nearly all of his teeth. “I’ve heard about you-- the smiler. You make my friends very uneasy.”

The pad of the thumb presses slightly, and the grin widens when he sees Patton’s heart rate fluttering. “The one before you-- he said that I should be the one on the table.” Patton’s breath freezes in his lungs. “He didn’t know what he was talking about.”

The scientist sets down the vial and uses the second hand to go back to curling through Patton’s hair. One hand on his pulse, on hand in his hair, and Patton feels every inch where he’s touching him, every bit where his skin feels like white hot embers, every point where Patton is burning alive on that table.

“I didn’t like him, personally.” The man says, smiles in spite of how Patton’s turning to ashes under his handling. “He fought too much, screamed too much. I don’t like it when they scream.” The face comes closer. “You aren’t going to be like him, are you?”

Patton’s body seizes, and before he can even think, even register what the hell he’s doing, the bonds are digging against his chest and upper arms as he leans as far forward as he dares and spits right in the scientist’s smug face.

The scientist scrambles back cursing in a foreign tongue and Patton’s flighty enough to revel in the feeling of accomplishment, of winning-- even if he knows there’s really nothing left to win at all.

Because this is War.

And he’s just another face, another shadow, another soldier sent to die. He’s forgettable. And it's a tragedy, just like every other moment of Patton’s life.

“Whats left to smile for?” the Brit had asked him once.

And Patton’s still spiteful enough to grin as the hands come off his body, as the scientist who knows nothing and care nothing about humanity stumbles away from him, as the ceiling lights flicker, as that vial of blue liquid death is jammed into the IV line that's connected right into Patton’s body.

“This should teach you some respect,” The scientist sneers, and Patton watches as the blue drip, drip, drips down the tube, “Mr. Blueskies.”

And Patton’s fury burns hot because that’s, that’s his name. The one he earned by passing the French boy bread and getting beat by the butts of the guard’s guns. It’s his name—it’s his name that got shouted down that hall by every other prisoner, a rallying cry, a war cry, a child’s plea.

Its his name and it doesn’t belong in the mouth of a Nazi.

Patton burns and burns and burns. And when blue liquid enters his veins, he burns even more.

He does not stop burning.---

***

“I think they get the idea, Kiddo!” Patton interjects quickly, brightly, and borderline coldly. Despite his smile, there’s a sudden air about him, a sudden dangerous aura as he shakes himself from the stillness he had adopted while Virgil was talking.

Virgil blinks, realizing that he had barely gotten more than a sentence out to the new recruits, “But its...you’re really him aren’t you? Captain Morality. Patton Hart? I grew up reading about you-- and now I’m older than you! Oh god, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

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#avengers au #chapter three #patton sanders #virgil sanders #thomas sanders #TW depression #ptsd #Patton is straight up not having a good time #memory unlocked (1/2)

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