#to me its literally just that time mike bashed his head in the wall when he fought ron in season 3 of Jersey shore

[fina1chase]

I got exposed to hidaobi without my consent and I think its the funniest shit ever how toxic and batshit insane the concept of it is

[battleangel]

A History of Violence

I wonder if Kris Jenkins who was recently drafted in the second round by the Bengals, same name & same position as his father who was a Pro Bowler who played 10 seasons for the Panthers, Patriots & Jets, ever bothered to read what his father told the New York Times in 2011 about what it was like playing in the trenches in the NFL?

Kris Jenkins - View of Life in the NFL Trenches

Article Excerpt

"N.F.L. fans, people outside, they have no clue what goes on. This isn’t like playing Madden. This isn’t like being the popular kid in high school. When you do those things in the real world, and it don’t work out, you still have your health. The thing about football is you’re directly playing with your life, the quality of it and the longevity of it. The stakes are up there.

You ever been in a car crash? Done bumper cars? You know when that hit catches you off guard and jolts you, and you’re like, what the hell? Football is like that. But 10 times worse. It’s hell."

Nothing is questioned, nothing is learned.

Cycle and history of violence from father to son continues.

The son will just repeat everything his father went through.

Life in the trenches, on the line.

His fathers New York Times article was only written 13 years ago — did his son even bother to read it?

Article:

"The debate about concussions wasn’t there yet. I’ve had more than 10, including college and the pros. Nobody cared. And that’s the thing. We play football."

Are we as an audience, as fans, as a nation of football loving fanatics so blasé about the same violence that was visited upon the father being visited upon his son?

Does that not even get us to collectively pause before checking pre-season match ups in preparation for Week 1 next month?

America's collective Christmas in September — footballs back!!!!!!!

Do actual thoughts ever creep in amongst the unbridled ebullience, enthusiasm and unchecked joy of, "Football!!!!!!!!!!!!".

Or is the unthinking emotion inherent in football fanaticism across all levels, players and non-players alike, the point?

The pure emotion and the short circuiting of logic.

Its probably not a great idea for me to go bash my head against that dudes head 70 to 80 times a game, every game, every season.

But, its football!!!!!!!!!

So, nothing else matters?

Unlike rules now protecting quarterbacks and other positions from helmet to helmet hits, absolutely nothing has changed for offensive & defensive linemen and running backs — you're still smashing yourself head first into a concrete wall — as a running back, 20 to 30 times a game and as a lineman, 70 to 80 times a game.

No matter how much the NFL lies about this and tries to pretend the issue is concussions, its not — the existential issue threatening the sport of football itself is the repetitive SUBconcussive head impacts involved in every blocking and tackling play in football.

They are absolutely unavoidable and occur literally over a thousand times every single season.

It is these repetitive subconcussive head impacts — average 1500 hits to the head per season in high school, football & the pros — that 10 to 15 years after their playing careers are over, can cause neurological disorders and conditions like CTE, Parkinsons disease, Alzheimers disease, ALS and dementia in former players.

We have seen the movie before.

Im pretty sure Will Smith was in it.

And even that movie was nothing but masterful subterfuge from the NFL as they named it as their eternal smokescreen — Concussion — instead of what actually turned Mike Websters brain into CTE mush — Repetitive Subconcussive Head Impacts.

Doesn't have the same Hollywood ring to it, does it?

But it doesn't make it any less true or the NFL any less deceptive.

The NFL's own disability paperwork for former players says players can be compensated as early as 36 for early-onset dementia.

Is a game really worth someone losing their literal mind at 36?

When do we question the every day violence inherent in every tackling and blocking play in football?

Article:

"I remember one game, at Carolina, my second year. We played Arizona, and the double team weighed 780 pounds combined. They just kept double-teaming me, hoping I would fold and cave in. I didn’t. But that was probably the most painful day I had.

From the double teams, over the years, I wore the left side of my body down. I was past hurt.

I was at the point of numb. Like my body was shutting down nervous systems, so I didn’t have to deal with pain.

The numbness started at the very beginning. I couldn’t feel part of both arms. I couldn’t feel part of both legs. It was worse on the left.

I’m just starting to get feeling back in my left side. Look, football is no joke.

But I’m going to say this much: somebody has to be the grunt. That’s why there’s no better position on the field than interior defensive line. Forget quarterbacks or specialists. They’ve got it easy. If we don’t come to play, nobody else on defense can do their job. We’ve got the toughest job on the field. We don’t care about our facial hair. We play a grimy position.

Piles, oh, my God, they’re brutal. I’ve had my ankles twisted. I’ve been bit. I’ve done stuff. I’ve tried to break guys’ elbows, pinching people, twisting ankles, trying to bend up their arms, pop an elbow out. Why? I had to fight back."

Tackle football is cognitive dissonance & constant dissociation.

The inherent violence of football is never seriously questioned nor is it held up under a critical lens.

The most violent, punishing plays are casually dismissed post-game by players waving their hands and saying, "It was just a football play."

Yeah — thats actually the exact problem.

Ah, pile ups. Just a good old fashioned rugby scrum.

Nothing dehumanizing, nothing to worry about.

As long as its not my dick being grabbed at the bottom of a pile as I dig my way through my second bag of Fritos Scoops, safe and secure on my couch, while those dumb fucks kill themselves for an oblong shaped ball for my entertainment.

Exploitative, much?

The spectacle of the pile up.

The brainwashing so clearly evident when grown adult men who would be ashamed to act this way publicly over anything else suddenly leap in unison into the air like feral animals as Troy Aikman shouts with unfettered glee, "The ball is loose!!!!!!".

So is our collective humanity in watching a several ton mass of flesh undulate, eye gouge, scrotum twist, bite, spit and hurt each other for...what?

Us? Them? Football?

Article:

"Mentally, we’re conditioned to be tough. We’re conditioned to feel no pain. The only injury I ever felt while playing was when one of my knees tore. That’s the only time I felt pain and was like, O.K., that hurt.

But Mondays, you wake up, and it’s hard to get out of bed. It hurts wherever you got hit. I remember one time getting hit by Edgerrin James. He put his head in my chest. I woke up, and I couldn’t even move, because it felt like my chest was going to collapse. It was sore for days. All you want to do is get the blood circulating.

Hot tub. Cold tub. Hot tub. Cold tub."

Hot tub. Cold tub. Hot tub. Cold tub.

That's brainwashing.

A dissociative brainwashing ritual to dissociate the self from the pain & violence of the game.

It's like Junior Seau when he referred to himself in third person when he was mic'd up for NFL Films before every single hit for the duration of an entire game.

Very creepy if you can find it on youtube.

It literally sounded like he was programming himself to hit, then he would hit the hole, collect himself on the ground and do it.

Hard. Goddamned hard.

Again. And again. And again. And again.

If thats not brainwashing, what is?

Article:

"The brain fog? It still hasn’t stopped. It feels like you’re punch-drunk, like someone hit you over the head. It’s like you knock yourself stupid. When you have to concentrate on things, then it becomes an issue. My head gets foggy to the point where I really can’t function."

And yet you put a helmet on your son's head and you sent him out to play the same position.

Like father, like son.

Just like fathers in the military who have sons who "follow in their footsteps".

Often, articles will speak of a newly drafted player's heritage and lineage in the sport and if his father had a storied career, the hyperbole of the newly drafted son "being born to play" is routinely trotted out.

Smacks of eugenicism, genetic determinism, militarism, rigid heirarchies, dynasties.

Capitalist masculine toxicity.

Article:

"We know it’s going to hurt. We know because pain in football is consistent over time. You’re still hurting in the off-season. You’re hurting when the next season starts.

I mean, guys play hurt, but it’s a choice. They do a pretty good job now, with all the scrutiny around concussions.

On the line, it’s still painful. By the end of the year, half an offensive line might be getting shots, draining fluid from their knees. Most stay away from cortisone now, because it’s degenerative.

Everything gets off center. Bulging disk. Herniated disk. For linemen, it starts in the lower back. Throws everything off."

What did Jason Kelce recently say on his podcast with his wife?

His back is so fucked up from playing football that he cant bend down to pick up his 1 year old daughter nor can he hold her while standing.

Kelce also played on the line as the center for the Eagles.

Is it worth it?

Should children be playing this game?

Should anyone in its current incarnation?

Has science shown that the risk of repetitive subconcussive head impacts causing neurological conditions & disorders is too high for any child to assume?

What about teenagers in high school who are legally minors and not adults?

Should they be able to assume risks as teenagers that can mentally incapacitate them later in life as soon as their 30s?

Potential suicide due to CTE in their 20s?

1500 hits per season every season starting in high school.

So, that's 6k hits to the head in four years of high school football.

Another 6k more hits to the head in four years of college football.

12k hits to the head before the pros not counting youth football prior to high school which is ages 5 to 14 aka Pop Warner.

Even 5 year olds endure on average 336 hits to the head every season in Pop Warner.

5 year olds!

Kindergartners!

Ask yourself where else you could hit a 5 year old child 336 times in the head over the course of a few months without being arrested and jailed?

Is it really okay just because it's football?

Does that truly justify that amount of head impacts to a 5 year old child?

Wouldn't we call that abuse if it was happening in the Boy Scouts or any organization other than Pop Warner?

Should it be happening at all?

In service of whom and for what?

Football? Glory? Masculinity? Manhood? America? Pride? Militarism?

All of the above?

Article:

"I can’t blame anybody for my death. I made the choice to play football. I made the choice to walk through the concussions. I could have stopped. I could have said, my head hurts. It was my choice, as a man."

But who told you that playing through permanent brain injuries is what makes you a man?

Can't we blame that person?

Your father and your coaches from youth, high school, college all the way to the pros?

Militaristic views of masculinity kills boys and young men for the game of football.

It's a militaristic war game that simulates combat yet kills people in slow motion for real.

The violence suffered by players in football is as celebrated as militaristic ideals of what soldiers suffer through in war: valor, courage under fire, physical courage, endurance, stoically fighting through unimaginable injuries & pain, the quarterback heroically leading his squad as their captain marching his troops down the field to victory just like any military commander complete with a chevron like system that awards stars for each year or season of service very similar to how stripes function in the military.

This militaristic ideal of masculinity is endlessly promoted, encouraged, rewarded and valorized in football just as it is in the military.

Football is Americas killing fields.

High school players — teenaged boys, not adult men — die every year playing football.

Over a million boys play high school football each year and only a handful die or suffer permanent, disabling and/or catastrophic injury.

Would you be so glib about the numbers though if it was your son or your brother or your boyfriend or your best friend who died playing high school football?

What if they were permanently paralyzed from the neck down playing college football?

It's easy to treat the above numbers as a statistic or rounding error when you can close out of the Facebook support page for the now dead or disabled high school or college player and get ready for Chiefs/Ravens next month.

What if you couldn't just X out of the Facebook page because you had to quit your job to take care of your disabled son for the rest of your life?

Or what if your brother killed himself from having CTE from playing college football?

The reality is, we can drop a "sad crying" emoji on a Facebook status and move on — the families of the young boys and men sacrificed to this sport definitely can't.

Go ask Tyler Sash's mom if she's "moved on".

Hasn't science proven at this point that tackle football just doesnt work the way it is currently played?

Why are we okay risking future Junior Seaus, Mike Websters, Justin Strelczyks, Phillip Adams, Tyler Hillinskis with every boy and young man that straps on the pads and helmet and charges on to the field?

Is it 10% of players that get CTE? Is it 20%?

Is it more? Is it half?

More than half?

The truth is we wont know until a CTE test is developed for living players.

Pop Warners Chief Medical Director is working with the FDA to develop the test as I type this.

Why do you think that is?

The NFL's own study funded through a university admits that NFL players are 19 times more likely than non-NFL players to develop neurological conditions and disorders.

19 times!!!!!

As long as its not your brain getting scrambled right?

And you can just sit there and watch the leagues reigning back to back MVP and reigning Super Bowl Champ slowly deteriorate their minds while accumulating permanent brain damage for your entertainment.

Pass the chips.

Article:

"We consider football a gladiator sport because we understand you’re going to get hurt. You’re putting your life on the line.

You might not die now, like in an old Roman arena, but 5, 10 years down the road, you could. You know that.

I wouldn’t change anything.

During my career, I kept my mouth shut. This now, speaking out, it’s about telling you my life. There’s no agenda, no vendetta. This is what football’s really like.

The first warning is the first meeting you have with an agent, when you realize this is real. My choices count at this point. I’m going to be prostituting myself for the next 18 years of my life.

That’s the first warning.

The next one is that good old combine.

That’s when you realize, when you march in that room half naked, I’m a number now."

No, thats when you realize that the NFL is MODERN DAY SLAVERY.

It's a modern day meat market.

6% of the US population is Black male. 75% of the NFL is Black.

0% of the owners are Black. Only 2 out of 32 coaches are Black.

Almost all of the NFL owners are white with very few exceptions and exactly none of them are Black.

The NFL is a modern day plantation.

Article:

"I loved New York. I loved playing there. I loved the spotlight. I was fine in New York, but I also played for Eric Mangini. We started 8-3, Brett Favre, all of that. Everybody told Mangini, stop with the long practices, you’re killing us. You practice too hard. We’re on turf."

36% of all injuries that occur in the NFL are due to turf & 1/4 of all concussions are a result of players heads slamming against turf.

So...

Why won't the NFL replace turf with grass in their stadiums as the NFLPA has been asking for for years?

Because they're cheap as hell and would rather injure their own investments then pay for grass.

The owners & the league have the same exact disregard and disdain for their own players.

The NFL has agreed to switch out turf for grass for the World Cup because the soccer players refused to do what NFL players are forced to — fuck their bodies up on turf.

It proves the NFL and owners could do it and, in fact, they did do it so they could host the World Cup in their football stadium — unless it's actually for the players in their own league.

In that case, you're shit out of luck.

Should have played soccer.

Article:

"What you hear from guys like Ray Lewis, James Harrison, what they’re saying is we’re well aware what we’re signing up for. The violence, we love it. The madness, we love it. We love measuring ourselves in it.

Those guys express themselves with their pads. You soften the game, you’re taking away their freedom of expression. Nobody wants to see flag football, and now, you might as well give guys flags, tell them to hug afterward, all that."

Did he even read the beginning of his own article???

Constant cognitive dissonance is the distillation & essence of tackle football — by the players, the audience, coaches, trainers, medical personnel, announce team, play by play, color, pre-game & post-game hosts, team & network journalists.

I see no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

I hear no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

I speak no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

Article:

"The violence is what I remember. Like against Buffalo in 2009, when I had the game of my career. Or the time I slapped a lineman out of the way in Houston with one arm. Winning, the physical part, the mayhem, finding the line between insanity and sanity, that’s the exact reason why you play. That’s the reason fans like football in the first place.

A guy like James Harrison, he’s possessed, and that’s the guy you love to play with, love to watch. He doesn’t need to be babied."

Protection from permanent brain damage & trauma, fans bloodlust, coaches unreasonable demands, neurological disorders & conditions, neurological symptoms including suicidality, depression, memory loss, confusion, irritability, volatility, aggression, amnesia, mental incapicitation, deteroriation & decline is being "babied"??????????

Article:

"The N.F.L. is too big to fail. If that happened, it would be a slow death. It’s still the ultimate game. For us, it’s like legal prison rules. You have to protect your manhood, your well-being. You’re going to be challenged. You’re going to be tested."

"You have to protect your manhood."

Protect The Shield.

Brainwashed into the cult of American masculinity.

Just like all the other 2.6 million young boys & adolescents playing youth football.

Another million playing in high school.

100k playing in NCAA college football.

1600 play in the NFL.

All brainwashed into the cult of masculinity.

Millions of young boys and teenagers sacrificed on the altar of tackle football, Americas true religion.

Article:

"There aren’t too many places a 400-pound guy with an attitude can go and beat the crap out of somebody and not get locked up for it. I have a violent streak. I have to fight it out of my system. We signed up for it. All of it. We’re not trying to be sane or rational."

What does an 8 year old playing tackle football for Pop Warner sign up for?

Tradition, rigid authoritarianism, toxic masculinity, ideals of manhood worth sacrificing your body, mind, memories, personality, self and literal life for.

A 13 year old football player committed suicide after an egregious hit and post concussion symptoms that lasted for over a year in 2018.

He played through the hit and practiced in pads the very next day — think that might have made his concussion worse?

Prior to the hit, he was a straight A student, a voracious reader, erudite, sociable & well-liked.

After the hit, he became withdrawn.

He lost vision in one eye. He lost his balance frequently.

He was unable to read for more than a few minutes at a time.

He started tackle football at 9.

He played two ways as a linebacker and running back and was known as a ferocious hitter who never complained of pain.

He attempted suicide, was hospitalized, seemed to be improving, then the second suicide attempt was tragically successful.

Dead at 13 for the sport of football.

When is enough enough?

Football is a game, it's a magical talisman, it's a sport, it's a crucible, it's a maker of men, it's the distillation of manhood and masculinity, it's what being a man is.

It's worth bashing and battering your brains repeatedly.

It's worth your mind.

It's worth not knowing who you are at 50.

It's worth you committing suicide.

Just remember to shoot yourself in the chest so your brain can be donated and studied.

[rosewaterandivy]

https://youtube.com/shorts/QuNRoe29bPA?feature=share

Something like that? PLS

Love you <3

Wow, thanks so much for the request! I tweaked it a bit to fill one of the prompts from here, hope that's okay. Love you 💜

83. “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

When you told him what you and Eddie would be up to Saturday night, Steve groaned so loud you could swear the couch vibrated.

You can’t be serious. And leaving me at the mercy of the gremlins?

“Yes,” you grin, “I’m sure the Harrington babysitting service can handle it.” And then you’re off to get ready for the party. “Knowing you, you’ll probably have some hot date booked for after you’ve dropped the gremlins off.”

It’s not that Steve worries, really he doesn’t, because you’ll be with Eddie and Robin will show up at some point, so at least you’ll be safe. But Saturdays were for movies with the party, taking full advantage of Steve and Robin’s (five-fingered) employee discount at Family Video and hanging out.

Recently, it’s been the only time when he can see you—busy with work and classes and helping Eddie with his GED. All your free time was accounted for, used up, leaving nothing left for him.

He tried (and failed) to be accommodating about it.

This resulted in frequent calls to your house, which your mother or father usually answered with thinly veiled annoyance (Sorry Steve, she just left. No, I don’t know when she’ll be back), interrupted study sessions at Forest Hills (Eddie’s exasperated, ‘Dude, what the fuck. You’re infringing on my right to an education here.’), and drop-ins while you were working at the diner.

In short, it was becoming a problem.

So when you mentioned, last minute mind you, that Eddie needed a hand dealing for a party this weekend and you’d agreed to help out, Steve took it about as well as could be expected.

Which is to say, not at all.

It’s bad enough that he’s making them watch Rocky IV, according to Dustin. But Steve pays him no mind and pops the tape into the VCR. The kids grumble and complain, but otherwise occupy themselves by half-watching the saga of Rocky and Drago.

His leg won’t stop bouncing as he reclines against the couch. It continues for the whole movie. When the film concludes with Apollo’s tragic demise, Max starts sorting through the rest of the tapes.

“What else is in here?” Throws out a few titles as she sees them, The Color Purple, 101 Dalmations, Out of Africa—

“Nope!”

Steve nearly hip checks Lucas in his haste to wrestle the tape from Max. They grapple for a bit, nearly coming to blows but Steve’s not about to hit a child and a girl at that. This sense of chivalry does not stop Max from smacking him upside the head, but he’s victorious in the end.

“And why can’t we watch that particular one?” Dustin ventures with a curious glance to Lucas before Steve settles back on the couch between them.

“I’ll, uh,” he stashes the tape behind the sofa, wedges its case against the wall. “Tell you when you’re older.”

Dustin and Lucas continue to eye each other warily.

Then El pipes up, “Friends don’t lie.” And before Steve can stop her from what will inevitably be an embarrassing calamity—

“It’s a … sad movie,” she continues, “The last time he watched it, he cried.”

Oh. Shit.

He wants nothing more than to bash his head against the wall, but can’t risk another concussion according to the doctors and literally everyone else. Maybe the earth could swallow him whole instead? Anything to end this humiliation.

“Didn’t you watch that with—” Mike begins, because he is an asshole.

“Oh yeah,” Dustin confirms, “They watched it like, a few weeks ago. I mean, her crying I get,” he turns to Steve, an incredulous look on his face, “But you—”

“Robert Redford is a good actor, okay?” He rushes to defend himself, “Very convincing.”

“Okaaayy,” Max drawls.

An uncomfortable silence ensues. The kids settle on watching Clue while Steve takes an opportunity to refill drinks and snacks. Tries to ignore the furtive whispers from the living room. Tries to focus on the popcorn in the microwave and not imagining what you may be up to at the house party with Eddie.

“Why don’t you just ask her out already?” Will says when Steve returns from the kitchen. 

The group falls silent, awaiting his response. Keep your cool, Harrington. He sets the bowl of popcorn on the table, doing his best to ignore Will’s probing question. Is almost successful until—

“Steve, you’re literally in love with her.”

He scoffs at Lucas’ blatant betrayal. Helped the kid practice everyday after school leading up to tryouts and this is how he’s repaid? 

“No,” he says with a tone to convey the end of this conversation. “We’re friends, just friends and that’s it.”

A beat of silence as everyone pretends to watch as Tim Curry greets the six strangers upon their arrival to the mansion.

Dustin coughs. “Friends don’t look at each other the way you look at her, Steve.”

“Oh my god.” Max looks like she wants to brain herself on the edge of the coffee table at the stupidity of it all. 

“Fuck off.” Steve huffs in annoyance, “Like I’m gonna take advice from a bunch of high schoolers.”

“Dude.”

“We’ve saved the world.”

“Like, multiple times.”

“And,” El annoyingly points out, “It’s good advice.”

Thankfully, Steve is saved by the bell. The phone trills its ring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions. Unable to find the cordless, he’s forced to answer it in the kitchen.

“Harrington residence.”

There’s music thumping and cross chatter down the line as he tries to make out who’s calling.

“Steve?”

“Rob, that you?”

A laugh, “Yeah, s’me. How you doin’ babe?”

Her voice has taken on that light, dreamy cadence it gets when she’s tipsy or high and, knowing her, it’s probably both.

“Uh, fine.” He turns to check on the kids in the living room, “Watching Clue. Did you need something?”

“Oh my god,” she rasps, “I love that movie!” A hiccup followed by a chuckle. “Nah, I’m good babe. I’m calling for someone else.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Rob, you know you called my house, right? The kids are here, if you wanna talk to them but—”

“Nonono Stevie,” she says in a rush, “M’callin’ about your girl.”

“My… girl.”

“Yep.”

The sounds of the phone being handed off to someone else. A few breaths and then, “Hi Steve.”

And oh.

Your voice is low and breathy through the phone, he can hear you giggling about something to Robin as you pull the speaker away from your mouth ‘I’m on the phone Buckley.’

He melts, just a bit. Because he knows that tone very well— when you fall asleep leaning against his shoulder during movie nights or take a brief nap sitting shotgun in his car, all raspy and sweet. 

“Hey honey,” he coos, voice incredibly fond. Steve turns, closing himself off from the din in the living room. “Y’doin’ okay?”

“Mmhm, tired though.”

“Is that right?’

A yawn. “Yeah,” he can hear the pout in your voice, “Rob doesn’t wanna leave yet and Eddie went upstairs with someone like, forever ago.”

Steve’s already grabbing his keys from the counter. “Stay with Robin, okay? I’m coming get you.”

“Thanks Stevie,” you sigh prettily, “You’re the best.”

_

Dustin (unhelpfully) advised him to get flowers before he left, so Steve put Max in charge, out of spite. Which unfortunately broke the levy for a barrage of romantic advice from literal children: hold the door, make eye contact, give her your jacket and be on the left side of the sidewalk.

It’d be endearing if it wasn’t so tragic.

He rolls up to the house to find not only Robin, but Eddie too, at your side seated on the sidewalk. He crosses the hood of the car as you stand with a soft smile, “Sorry Steve,” you say, less sloshed since the phone call, but still tired. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“C’mon honey,” he scoffs, “There’s no way you could ruin my night.” He ushers you to the passenger seat, arm around your waist. He can smell the beer from the keg and stale cigarettes on you, laced with the comforting scent your perfume. 

He shuts the door after reminding you to put on your seatbelt and turns back to Eddie and Robin. They look like they’re up to no good— Eddie’s smirking and got that glint in his eye that says he’ll be a problem, all the while Rob has a dopey grin on her face.

“She’s had water and we took the drinks from her a while ago,” Eddie says, waving back at you from the sidewalk. “Try to have her eat something.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Like he needs advice from a dungeon master on how to deal with a drunk.

Robin blinks owlishly, “Ooh, Hardee’s, get her that.”

Steve laughs as Eddie shepherds Robin away. Says something about not fucking it up and using protection. He can’t bring himself to care as he slides back into the car. The radio kicked on as he starts the car, David Byrne rhapsodizing about a girl as she was. 

He watched as you bop to the song in your seat, bringing an affectionate smile to his face— eyes closed, hair whipping back in the cool night breeze as you sing along. The axels squeak when Steve pulls into the drive-thru lane.

Try as he might to keep his gaze on you, to watch you a little longer, the intercom sputters to life—a young boy’s voice greeting mechanically but trying nonetheless to adhere to Hardee’s hospitality best he can.

The burger you’d gotten—medium, double meat, bacon, all toppings between—has completely fallen apart in a splat back onto the wax paper in your lap.

“Here, honey.”

He fumbles for napkins. But you wave his worries away, licking your fingers before diving in to deconstruct your food.

“Sorry—I promise I have my shit together.” Another giggle, “Not doing well here. Makin’ a mess your car and everything.”

“I, uh, I think you’re doin’ great.”

The words slip out before he can catch them and around a mouthful of fries, you thank him, and then you take a breath, and he can literally see you winding up for another enormous bite.

“Sorry,” you pause sheepishly, “M’ starving—skipped lunch on accident.” You take the enormous bite he saw coming, and then, “Also doesn’t help—mm—nervous.”

Steve chews on a fry and slurps his soda, driving with ease. “Nervous ‘bout what?”

You swallow and steal his drink, “Weren’t you on a date?”

He blinks.

You blink.

He blinks again.

“No, I was watching movies with the kids.”

His face is so hot that he thinks someone must have thrown a fire into him. Should he have just gone along with it instead? It’s old news by now that King Steve had turned in his crown for a walkie-talkie and chauffeuring a bunch of teens around.

A beat passes and he tries again, now at the end of the meal and the stain on your shirt starting to sink in and spread, heavy enough to dip toward the skin beneath. “Do you want to take your shirt off?”

You choke on soda and add another splatter down your chest, “What?”

“You can wear my jacket,” he clarifies. “Give it back later. I mean, if you…” He frowns. “Uh. Um.”

The beemer comes to a stop in front of he Harrington house. Lights still on in the living room signalling that the party is still there. 

You changed out of your shirt, ducking down in the front seat bashfully (“Look away, damn it.”), your old t-shirt in a crumple inside his pocket. His jacket hung a bit loose, but zipped up all the way and it was a good enough cover for a while.

There’s a smear of grease on your cheek from the burger and Steve knows it’s just a personality trait at this point. He laughs when you stick your tongue out, trying to find exactly where it is before giving up and asking him to wipe it off.

He shoves his hands in his pocket afterwards, thumb jammed inside his fist like a souvenir, keeping it there the rest of the walk up the drive, all the way up to the front door of his house before he wonders if he should have been trying to hold your hand.

Maybe not.

“I missed this,” he says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

You hum, knocking your hip against his. “Thanks for dinner,” you say, looking up at him.

“Yeah, of course.”

“And picking me up.” A beat passes. “And the jacket, too. It’s really nice… comfortable and, uh, smells… good. Like, cinnamon and… nice body wash and… trees.” You make a queasy face and close your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose uncomfortably as Steve looks on.

Oh, he realizes. You must be woozy.

Oh, he realizes. You’re gonna hurl.

“Steve,” Your voice is small and tight, and you look like you’re struggling to take steadying breaths. “I gotta sit down.”

“Right,” he replies. You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck before he turns and unlocks the door.

The kids are passed out on the sofa and reclining chairs in the living room. He locks the door and sneaks you upstairs, hands politely on your waist to steady you on your feet. Guides you to the left toward the guest bath and flips on the lights. 

“You alright?”

The fluorescents cast you in a hazy yellow glow, squinting at the bright light. You paw at the countertop for something, water? You turn to open a drawer and find a spare toothbrush— the blue one, yours, a freebie from a check-up and gloop some toothpaste on the bristles. With a nod in response, you begin to brush your teeth, faucet running as you fill a cup of water. 

Steve leaves you with a clean washcloth and towel, should you need them, and goes to check that his room isn’t a complete disaster. Bed sheets are clean-ish and he doesn’t have time to run them through the wash, though there’s always one of the guest rooms…

“Hey.”

He startles slightly, not hearing you walk in. You’ve toed off your shoes by the door and are looking sheepish, lip pulled between your teeth. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

Steve pulls open some drawers, rifling through for something for you to sleep in. Throws your top into his hamper while he’s at it. He turns back to you with a ‘Hawkins Athletics’ shirt that’s seen better days and a pair of flannel pajamas. Shoves them toward you awkwardly and then promptly turns around to let you have some privacy while you change.

“Thanks.”

He makes a strangled noise of confirmation and clears his throat. “No problem.”

Hearing the rustling of sheets, he turns back around and catches sight of your bare leg as you hunker down in his bed. Heat rushes to his cheeks when he spies the pajama pants neatly folded and placed on his nightstand. You turn on your side, burrowing and fluffing the pillows to your liking.

Steve makes quick work of brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. Shoes by the door next to yours, jeans shucked into a pile by his desk, keeps his shirt on for the sake of decency, and slips in next to you. 

“I appreciate you coming to get me, y’didn’t have to do that.”

His arm drapes against your shoulder while you snuggle into him, casual affection being the norm between you two. He swallows thickly, tries to regulate his breathing when your hand rests against his chest.

“What’re friends for?”

“Hmm,” you consider for a moment. “Friends may not be the most accurate term.”

Steve bristles at that. 

“What do you mean?” He turns toward you, heart racing— did you not want to be friends anymore? Did he do something wrong?

Your face is impassive, blank. Steve couldn’t even begin to guess at what you’re thinking, is afraid to even try.

Then, you smile.

Fuck. That smile.

“S-so, not friends then?”

Steve is not a religious man, but he prays that your smile means what he thinks it does. Slowly reaching toward you, he brushes a lock of hair from your face, fingers grazing your cheek. 

Mischievously, you lean in, touch him soft on the lips and every beat of his pulse seems to be seeking out the sweet plush of your mouth. “If we were just friends, I shouldn’t wanna kiss you so bad, but we both seem to be … not good… at following decorum, so…” Your eyes light up teasingly, “What d’ya say?”

Steve makes a noise like a whimper. Wow. Babysitter extraordinaire with a bat of nails under his bed and it’s your smile that does him in.

You kiss him again, longer than the last, giggling softly and tugging on his bottom lip like you could pull his entire body toward you with just that. “I’m sure we could find a few more rules to break.”

[yikesharringrove]

So I have this theory that Steve and billy would take a long time to get to each other. They both have so much damage. They know they would be amazing but they also know they aren’t ready yet. So they go with their separate ways. They grow up, they get better. 10 years later they are both back home for a wedding (let’s say Dustin/Erica because I personally think they would be awesome. She would run his life and he would thank her for it) And S/B realize they are ready now. The timing is perfect

Read on Ao3.

“It looks good, buddy.”

Steve was sitting bored in the leather armchair. His hand was propping his chin as he stared at Dustin. He had tried out 18 suits and Steve was tired.

“I don’t know, Steve. I don’t think I like the blue.” It was his sixth navy suit. Steve wanted to bash his head in.

“I still maintain I like the first one.” Dustin took another look in the mirror before nodding.

“I’ll put the first one back on.” Steve groaned at the ceiling.

Steve was Dustin’s Best Man. They had kept in close contact even as Steve moved to Chicago, worked entry-level jobs until he went to college, studied, and became a special education teacher.

Dustin had recently graduated from MIT, was living in Indianapolis with Erica. He worked at an engineering lab, was designing already. Steve was very proud. The past few months he had driven to Indy every Friday and staying through the weekend, helping him with plans, the registry, and addressing invitations. He nearly shit when he wrote Billy Hargrove’s name and address.

“Okay, I think this is the one.” Dustin was back in the first one. Steve wanted to hit his head against the wall until he fucking died.

  “Okay, so we’ve got me and your mom, and the Sinclairs, and Marnie, and Robin at Table 1. Table 2 is El and Mike and Will and Seth and Reggie and Max and Angie and Lucas, which, shouldn’t he sit at table one? Family and that. Table 3 is Nancy and Jonathan and Mrs. Byers and Hopper and-” Steve choked on the next name. “Billy? Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” Dustin looked up from the huge board they had been using to make the seating chart.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. You know he’s the love of my fucking life.” Steve was gawking at Dustin who rolled his eyes.

"He's not. You've just been gross and hung up on him for ten years, Steve. That's lame."

"We could've had something! We were getting close and I kept-"

"You were getting closer and you kept feeling electricity and then he died and then he was fine and then he ran away to California I know, Steve." Steve felt his face heat up He looked back at the seating chart. "Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting." He was totally pouting. "It's just, I haven't seen him in ten years. It's gonna be, what if he's moved on."

"He's not bringing a plus one."

"Maybe they couldn't come." Dustin rolled his eyes.

"Just fucking talk to him when you see him. Don't know why it has to be such a big deal."

"I can't talk to him, Dustin. what would I say?"

"Start with hi, Billy. And just see where it takes you."

"I just, it's been a while since I've dated and-"

"But it's time you moved on from Taylor. I told you that guys was bad news, and lo and fucking behold, he ends up sucking." Steve shifted uncomfortably. That relationship had ended over three years ago, ended with Steve spending two months on Robin's couch. He was still in therapy over it. 

"Yeah, I know." Steve was talking to his arms, folding tightly over his chest.

"Buddy, I'm not trying to be an ass. Just saying. You're doing much better after that. And Max says Billy's really good. That he's got his life on track and is happy."

"Then he probably has someone. And he might not even be into guys!"

"Okay, then get over your lame self, and be his friend." Steve huffed. "But whatever you do, just help me finish this fucking seating chart."

Steve was fucking running.

He had been in charge of the rings, and he had, misplaced them.

Because of course he fucking did. Of course, he held onto them for weeks only to lose them on the day.

He was sweating through his white shirt in the Hawkins heat. Running from room to room in the upstairs of the old house. His parents kept the Hawkins house, just in case they were ever passing through. Steve doesn't think they've spent more than three hours in it since he was nineteen, but it gave him a free place to crash whenever he was in town.

He was tearing through rooms, anywhere he could've been these past few hours. He knows he had the rings when he put on his shirt, had them in his pocket when he realized he needed cufflinks.

He flew downstairs, rummaging through the drawer in his father's side of the bathroom, finding the rings exactly where he had stolen the cufflinks from. They were thin, gold bands. Erica's had a small diamond set into it. They were engraved on the inside, quotes for Star Wars, Dustin's holding Princess Leia's I love you, Erica's with Han Solo's I know. Steve had made fun of them endlessly when he had picked them up from the jeweler's.

"Steve, you're a fucking idiot and also a genius." He scrambled to his car, driving well over the speed limit to the venue, a historic house in the old part of Hawkins. It was grand and beautiful and much cooler than the summer air outside. Steve was so focused on delivering the rings he didn't notice the Camaro sitting out front, still in its pristine condition. He opened doors at random, getting screamed at by Erica's Maid of Honor, Marnie, when he burst into the wrong room. Marnie fucking hated Steve, and he didn't really know why. Apparently it had something to do with the engagement party. But, he got blackout fucking drunk at that thing, so he had no idea what she was so pissed about.

Well, now she was quite obviously pissed that he had slammed open the door to find her and Erica in robes, getting their makeup done. She threw a shoe at his head.

He was fucking sprinting down a hallway when he crashed right into a fucking wall, solid and steady. He was knocked back on his ass,

"Oh shit, sorry!" He looked up, finding Billy Hargrove staring down at him. "Steve fucking Harrington. As I live and breathe." Billy's hair was long, was wild and big. He was wearing a well-fitting suit, looked thick and muscled, more than he had in high school. Steve's mouth went fucking dry. Billy had his shirt unbuttoned to the bottom of his sternum, showing off a large chest piece, gorgeous flowers weaving around and through the scar on his chest. Steve could see it was healed, but still raised, pink and shiny in a few areas, the skin pulled and puckered where Billy had been stitched back together.

Billy extended a hand, a scarred tattooed hand, and heaved Steve off the floor.

"Hi, Billy." Billy grinned at him. It was softer than he remembered. "You look good."

"You seen yourself? You're still as pretty as I remember." Steve fucking giggled like a fucking schoolgirl. He had let his hair grow out some since high school. Some of the kids liked his long hair.

"What have you, what have you been up to?" Steve was overly aware of his arms. Was trying to find a way to hold himself that didn't look stupid.

"You know, California. USed my government hush money to go to culinary school. I'm a sous-chef now at a restaurant in L.A."

"Oh, wow. Congratulations. You've really, you've come a long way. You look, happy." Steve flushed a little more.

"What are you doin', Pretty Boy?" Steve's heart tripped over itself at the old nickname.

"I'm in Chicago, now. I teach special education at an elementary school. I'm actually, I'm in line to become head of the department when the current one, when she retires." Billy's eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile.

"That's so perfect for you. What made you choose special ed?"

"I went to college and learned I'm dyslexic." Billy barked a laugh, one Steve had never heard before, a fucking real one.

"You didn't know? I could've told you that!"

"I mean, I just thought I was fucking stupid, but once I learned what the problem was, the university gave me some resources to help. I was actually in the nursing program, but I kept thinking about how the university helped me so much, that getting a real diagnosis was fucking life-changing, not only for school, but just in the way I thought about myself. I don't want kids to grow up like I did, convinced that their literal disability is just, just stupidity." Steve met Billy's eyes, saw them glow with fondness.

"I'm so happy for you, Steve. I'm so proud you found such an amazing calling, you seem like you've come such a long way." Billy squeezed his upper arm, made Steve melt.

"Thank you, that, that really means a lot to m-"

"Steve! I have been looking for you for hours. Where have you been, Asshole?" Dustin was stomping down the hall

"Doesn't matter. I'm here, I've got the rings, I'm ready to go."

"Did you not have the rings?" Dustin looked like he was going to explode.

"I have them! See!" Steve pulled them out of his pocket, clinking them together. "All engraved with your nerd shit and ready." Billy was watching them, an amused look on his face.

"You are a nightmare and the worst best man in the history of-"

"Can you not be dramatic for one fucking da-"

"I'm allowed to be dramatic today, I'm getting marrie-"

"You're never allowed to be dramatic you little-"

"God, you two really are brothers. You fight like siblings." They both whipped to look at Billy, giving him the exact same pissed off-glare. Billy laughed at them.

"Look, I'll get outta y'all's hair." He clapped Steve on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, Stevie. Hope we can catch up more. Congrats, Dustin." He trotted down the hall. Dustin grinned at Steve.

"It's GOOD to see you, STEVIE. He's totally into you. It's exhausting being right all the time." Steve slapped his arm.

 The ceremony was short and sweet.

Steve stood behind Dustin, handed him a tissue when he got all misty, took one for himself when he began tearing up. He noticed Billy sitting a few rows back, noticed how his eyes were always on Steve whenever Steve's trailed over to him. He was smiling softly at him, even fucking winked at Steve, made him go red and look away. Robin noticed something off about him, noticed the way he was flushed, raised her eyebrow for her spot in the first row with Claudia. He shook his head.

The cocktail hour took place outside in the oppressive heat as the large ballroom was altered from ceremony set-up, to dinner and dancing. Steve was overseeing the transition, as Dustin was extremely specific, and someone needed to deal with it.

"You've been weird all day." Robin knocked her shoulder into his. "It finally catching up to you that one of your kids is married?"

"Mike and El have been married for like, years."

"Yeah, but Dustin is your baby." Steve rolled his eyes.

"It really doesn't bug me. I just, Billy's here. We like, talked earlier. And he kept, lookin' at me." She sighed.

"You know what I've always said about Billy. When he was coming into Scoops like, every day and being all flirty. But just, be careful he's been through a lot and, I just don't want the whole Taylor situation to happen again." He shuffled his feet.

"It won't. He seemed, happy. Like he was all bright and was, was laughing, and I've never heard him laugh like that." Her eyes were soft.

"Just be careful, Dingus."

 At dinner, Steve had to give his speech.

He was a wreck, had dropped his cards, and started fucking crying a couple different times. But he got laughs in all the right places, and Claudia had cried loudly so he was feeling pretty alright about it.

He had made a point not to look at Billy the whole time, couldn't fathom looking into his bright eyes as he talked. As dinner winded to a close, the bar opened, and the music began.

Dustin and Erica's first dance was so sweet, they had chosen At Last, the Etta James number that made Steve and Claudia tear up. Lucas took Erica out next, swapping with Mr. Sinclair as Claudia took Dustin.

And then the music devolved into upbeat dance numbers, kept everyone on their feet for hours.

Steve was taking a much-needed break. Nancy had worn him out during Rio, arguably the best Duran Duran dong to ever exist according to Steve.

"You're really tearing it up out there. Nice to see your taste hasn't changed at all." Billy was leaning against the bar, was nursing an amber-colored drink. Steve sipped his pink wine.

"I stand by Duran Duran." Billy laughed, leaning forward enough for Steve to feel his warmth.

"Your speech was nice."

"Thank you! I was so fucking nervous, you have no idea." It was easy talking to Billy. Felt like not a day had passed since they were sitting on the hood of Steve's car at the quarry together, throwing rocks into the water and passing a joint back and forth.

"I wanna know everything about from these past ten years." Steve took in a big breath.

"You pretty much know it all. Took me a good while to get my shit together and get through school, finding something I'm passionate about."

"But there has to be more. A lot can happen in ten years. You dating anyone?" Steve's heart lodged itself in his throat. He blinked down at his wine.

"Not right now. Last one was, uh, it really fucked me up." Billy's hand was so warm when he placed it on Steve's shoulder.

"I'm sorry I asked. You don't gotta explain." Steve blinked, shaking himself.

"Are you, are you with someone?" Billy chuckled. He ran a hand through his hair, through the wild curls Steve was obsessed with.

"Nah. Hard to find guys that don't get weirded out by the scars. I've got a whole lotta baggage."

"Sorry, guys?" Billy gave him an odd look.

"Yeah, Harrington. Guys. I'm gay. That a problem?" It was the closest Billy had looked to his old Hawkins self, puffing his chest up.

"No, that's not a problem. Just didn't know is all. I'm, uh, I'm bisexual." Billy's eyebrows shot up.

"No shit?"

"No shit." Billy smirked at him.

"You know I've always had a thing for you." Steve choked on his wine, coughing harshly as Billy laughed, thumping him on the back.

"Don't say that shit to me. I've had the biggest stupidest fucking crush on you since I was seventeen. That summer before everything when to shit, when we were, like, hanging out, I kept thinking something was gonna, was gonna happen." Billy's smile fell.

"I know. I'm sorry, Stevie. I just, I wasn't good back then. I was so fucking angry, about moving to Hawkins, and everything with my dad, and then getting possessed, I wouldn't've been good to you. And you deserve good, Stevie. You wouldn't have grown like you did if you were always trying to take care 'a me."

"Sometimes, the growing hurt, and I, I wish some of it hadn't have happened."

"I know how that feels, Pretty Boy. But the growing, sometimes it has to hurt. Everything that happened to me, everything with that thing, it made me who I am, and for the first time in my whole life, I really like who I am." Steve took a breath.

"You know, I never got the story from you. Why you actually moved to Hawkins. You'd say something different and ridiculous every time I asked." Billy looked down at his drink.

"My dad. He caught me with a boy in my room. He said, he told me living in the midwest would straighten me out. I think he thought either I play straight or I'd get hate crimed."

"I'm sorry, Bill." He smiled at him, just one side of his mouth ticking up.

"Honestly, Pretty Boy. Like I said, everything really happens for a reason. That's what I live by now, because all that horrible shit, it led me here, and I'm okay."

"Good for you, Bill. I really mean that. You've made such a great life for yourself." Billy pressed in closer to him, made Steve's breath catch.

"Thank you, Sweet Thing. That means a lot comin' from you." He leaned even further into Steve's space. "You wanna get outta here? I've got a nice hotel room." Steve felt warmth spread down his spine. He hooked a finger into one of Billy's belt loops.

"You know, I've always loved that car 'a yours. First time I saw you get out of it, kept thinking about getting fucked in that back seat." Billy groaned, his head falling onto Steve's shoulder.

"It's parked right outside." Steve leaned to Billy's ear.

"Race ya."

They ran, giggling like little kids all the way to Billy's vintage car. Billy fumbled with the keys, dropping them twice before Steve yanked open the door, diving in the back seat.

They were still giggling as they struggled outta their clothes, making out in between items. Steve flopped down once he was undressed, pulling Billy down on top of him, laughing as Billy knocked the wind out of him.

The giggles turned to moans when Billy latched onto his neck, sucking and biting. He finally put his hand in those curls, the other trailing down his back, ghosting over the scars there.

"I love all your tattoos. So gorgeous." Billy pressed kisses down his chest. He stopped at the large scar running from the inside of Steve's collarbone a few inches down his arm.

"What's this from?" Steve stiffened under him. He sat up, brushing some hair off of Steve's forehead.

"It's, it's from a surgery I had."

"What happened?" Steve pushed his hand away from the scar.

"Shattered my collarbone." Steve was sitting up, was tugging his pants back on.

"Shit, Stevie, I'm sorry. I won't, you don't have to talk about it." Steve huffed, flopping back into the seat.

"It's okay. It's just-" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Billy tugged his own slacks back on. "The relationship I told you about. The last one I was in." BIlly's eyes went big. He took Steve's hand.

"Stevie, I'm sorry." Steve shook his head."How long were you two together?"

"A little over four years."

"Holy shit."

"I ended things over three years ago. Packed my shit and left when he was at work. Lived with Robin after that." He crossed his arms over his middle. "I should've known too. There were, there were so many red flags, but I didn't, I never really ever felt loved, and he told me that he loved me, and so I stayed. Through everything."

"Was he your first relationship since Nancy?"

"Like, full relationship. Once I moved to the city, I let myself go wild a little bit, fucked around with a lot of different people. I thought he was it for me, thought he was the one. We moved in together after about six months." Billy placed a hand on Steve's thigh.

"I'm sorry, Baby. I know how you feel. I know how painful it is to live like that."

"I know you do. And I'm, Robin and Dustin really helped me. They helped me find a support group for queer abuse survivors, and, and Robin drove me to therapies, and I'm so much better, but it's, especially the scar, it's a painful reminder." Billy leaned over, pressing a light kiss to the center of it.

"Stevie, I really like you. I'd like to do this properly. I want to take you on a date." Steve looked at him with wide eyes.

"You, really?"

"Yeah, Baby. Been gone on you since I was sixteen years old." Steve took Billy's face between each palm, kissed him softly, smiled into it, into how right it felt, these two broken boys, these two healed men finally finding one another again.

[sadlittlenerdking]

Hi, so here’s a masterpost of all my Magicians fic. Complete with summaries and warnings for angst. If there’s no excerpt, it’s just a drabble. 

A quick key for you: 

Italics means Angst.  Bold means Fluff.  Both means Hurt/Comfort.  Nothing means crack. 

to love to die - Quentin & Eliot through the time loops.

The first time Eliot Waugh sees Quentin Coldwater, it feels like a bucket of ice waters been dropped over his head. It's almost as if his life resets itself, readying itself and settling in on this moment as his rebirth.

Truth - Quentin uses a truth serum on Eliot following Mike’s death.

Quentin’s ashamed to admit it takes him a week to realize something's wrong. Eliot’s barely conscious, lying on the couch, mumbling about some lizard man watching him, when Quentin walks into the cottage. He doesn’t think anything of it for a moment, because this is Eliot, and Eliot likes his drugs and copious amounts of booze. Except, on closer examination, Quentin can see the tear tracks that Eliot lazily swiped away, and it’s enough to make it click in his head.

Nausea comes crushing through him in an intensive wave, and Quentin barely makes it to the bathroom before the bile forces itself out of him.

Home - Quentin misses Eliot. 

Quentin Coldwater fucking misses Eliot Waugh. And it’s more than the, ‘he’s my friend and he matters’ kind of missing. It’s the full body ache, migraine inducing longing kind of missing. He wakes up missing him, he falls asleep wondering if he’s even alive. Every day, every moment, every thought is of Eliot.

breathe it in - post season two finale angst.

The first time he sees the cigarettes, he’s sitting on the couch in the cottage, feeling himself fading away almost like he had in the fictional mental ward. Part of him wonders if Penny’s going to pop up here as well. Of course, he doesn’t, because magic is dead - Penny might very well be too, for all he knows - and it’s Quentin’s fault.

Even when he does the right thing, he fucks everything up.

The Death of Magic (Rains Hell On Us All) - Eliot & Margo realize Quentin’s not coming back.

They don't get a warning when it happens. They're in the throne room, celebrating their victory, stressing over what the hell they're going to do now that there are no gods to run Fillory. Now that they have to do everything on their own.

And then the flames all go out at once.

Magicians Moon - Eliot’s a secret romantic. 

The thing about Eliot, Quentin thinks as he’s quietly dragged through the cottage by his right hand, is nothing he does makes sense. It’s all carefully planned out, but he doesn’t explain anything until he absolutely has to. So, Quentin being pulled through the Physical Kids Cottage at two in the morning by an invisible force, while wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and socks - is clearly Eliot’s doing, but it makes no sense.

Not even two hours ago, they’d curled up in bed, and fell asleep. Quentin to Eliot’s soft snores, and Eliot, well, to put it gently, Eliot was fairly spent after the nights events. For once. What? Quentin’s allowed to be smug every once in a while - it takes a lot to wear Eliot out.

Which makes this even more confusing.

Project Seduce Quentin Coldwater And So Lift His Spirits - (WIP) Eliot is definitely not falling in love with Quentin Coldwater, he’s simply fulfilling a promise. (There’s some fluff in here too.) 

Morality. Eliot scoffs, pulling his flask out of his jacket pocket and spilling a fair amount of this weeks alcohol into his coffee. Who the fuck needs morality? He’s happy with general debauchery and a mild case of alcoholism. Who wouldn’t be? Just a week ago, Margo had been on the same boat as him, planning to float off into an actual universe of nothing but sex, drugs, and alcohol. But then she found out he’s been kind of, maybe, definitely, stalking Quentin, and practically kicked him off of the Ibiza trip.

She’s going to regret that decision when she comes back and finds all her clothes are cursed to make her look fat.

Soulmates - Margo realizes Quentin is a part of her and Eliot. 

It's not that she doesn't see it coming. It's just that its so fluid, and natural, that it kind of hits her long after it's happened.

It all started when Eliot got assigned to get a first year to his entrance exam. Kid was late, but he was cute, and Eliot had nothing but good things to say. Well, on Eliot and Margos terms of good - it probably wouldn't be seen the same way if he'd said any of it to someone else. Not that he would have, it's always been just them. They don't confide in, or really bother getting close to anyone.

Misguided - Quentin starts getting texts from a stranger. 

The first time it happens, Quentin’s walking across the quad, head in the clouds, desperately trying to figure out a plan to defeat the beast. But his phone dings in his pocket, making him remember he actually has a phone, as he passes through the tech areas. He stops, pulls it out of his pocket, surprised the battery isn’t dead, and reads the text.

Angst and Anger - Penntin. Takes place at Brakebills south, Penny doesn’t want to admit he likes Quentin. 

“What are you doing?" Mayakovsky demands, “You think you choose partners? No. I choose partners.” He glares at them, walking around the table with slow, careful steps. “You,” He points at Quentin, “Failure waiting to happen. You will work with tall, dark, and angry.” He points a finger at Penny. "Go."

Quentin looks at Alice, sighing as he pushes himself up from the table and makes his way out of the room, Penny just a few steps behind him.

Denial ain’t just a river - Penntin. Sequel to Angst and Anger. Quentin wants to talk about the kiss. 

“Quentin,” Penny mutters, slamming his book shut and squeezing his eyes closed, “If you don’t shut up, I am going to bash your face into the wall until you literally can’t think ever again.”

Quentin looks up from his own book, “No you won’t,” He says before looking back down at it and turning the page. ‘Just like you won’t talk about what happened,’ he thinks.

Whole - Quentin’s an oblivious idiot, and Margo’s a schemer. And Eliot’s just a victim, damn it. 

“I don’t think it’s us,” Alice says, gaze barely glancing away from the books stacked in front of her. Her pencil taps along the edges of her paper, eraser dancing along the outline of one of the spells she’s studying.

Quentins brow furrows as he lets his eyes trail from the pencil, up her arm, to land on the curtain of hair she’s using to hide her face from him. “What isn’t us?” He asks. It’s the first thing she’s said in hours, since Eliot and Margo left the library to go do something less boring. Whatever that means.

“Us.” She answers after a moments silence, before looking up and setting the pencil down. “I think Mayakovsky was wrong.”

Sing Me To Sleep - They defeat the beast, but something goes horribly wrong. 

Alice has the beast in her grasp, when the beast fires off a spell and Quentin goes crashing against a tree. Eliot rushes to his side, kneeling next to him, one hand on his shoulder, one on his thigh. Quentin shakes his head, “Go - I’m fine. Stop the beast.” But his words are singed with pain as his eyes squeeze shut, and he takes a deep, shuttering breath.

“Q -,” As he speaks, the battle disappears through the brush of the woods.

Quentin opens his eyes, but Eliot can tell it takes more effort than he’s letting on. “Do - do you want to be the reason the world ends? Go help Alice!” He yanks his arm out of Eliot’s hand, and sits up, “I just need a second. I’m fine. I’ll catch up. Go.”

There’s This Idiot - Quentin accidentally eavesdrops, and Eliot’s the idiot. 

Quentin doesn’t even remember falling asleep in the nook. But here he is, waking up, curled in on himself, with both of the sliding doors shut almost all the way. For a moment, he’s confused, mouth smacking together with sleep and thirst. He’s not sure what wakes up him up, but there’s a soft hum of voices beyond the doors. For a moment, he’s tempted to push them up and reveal himself, but the familiar sounds of Eliot and Margo’s laughing, followed by Todd’s disgruntled, confused grumbling, stays him for a moment.

Expectations - The morning after the threesome. Fix it fic. 

Eliot expects a lot of things to happen when he opens his eyes. He expects Quentin to be freaking out, but too much himself to risk waking either Eliot or Margo by running out of the room. Or for Quentin to be gone, and this warm, Quentin like shape under his arm to just be a pillow spelled to keep him from waking up. He expects a lot of things, none of them pleasant.

Well, none of them pleasant for him.

No Mercy For the Living - Quentin’s dying and nobody knows why. 

They’re working on a solution to bring back magic when it happens. Not Julia’s sparks, or any of the other stuff she can do that nobody else can. They’re - Quentin, Julia, Josh, and Kady - in the library working on one of Dean Foggs essay assignments. Quentins reaching up, arm stretched out, standing on the tips of his toes, when all the air comes rushing out of him in an angry gasp. He falls to the ground, knocking books off the shelf on the way, most of which come tumbling down on his head and shoulders. He’s reaching up, grabbing at his chest and throat, gasping for air. The taste of iron floods his mouth as he bites down on his tongue and his knees crash down on the ground with an aching crack.

Hold On - Hey look I killed Margo in this one. 

Quentin knows something’s wrong when his bedroom door crashes open, slams against his dresser, and nearly closes again with the force. But Eliot’s hand reaches out, stops it with a small thump, and takes a slow, staggering step into the room. He stares blankly at the door, jaw slack and eyes wide and misty.

Quentin sets his book aside, pitches his legs over the side of the bed, hand coming to his side to push himself up. “Eliot?” He asks, tentative, as Eliot takes another, slow, clumsy step into the room. “Eliot, what’s wrong?”

Power - Eliot’s a Niffin. 

Eliot’s hands pause mid-cast as a blue flame erupts around him. Quentin tries to run towards him, screaming his name, but Margo pulls him back, unusually silent, as Eliot screams out in pain, the blue light engulfing him whole. Quentin struggles against Margo’s hold, but her arms wrap around him, and she holds her ground. Eliot’s eyes dart across the clearing towards them, then up towards the sky as he screams the rest of his soul away -

And then he’s gone.

“No!” Quentin screams, finally pulling free from Margo. He whips around, glares at her as tears well in his eyes. “We could have stopped him!”

Self Sacrifice is Bullshit - Quentin tries to sacrifice himself, and Margo’s not having it. 

Margo slams her fist into Quentins shoulder with a glare. “What the fuck!” She exclaims, punching him again. “You fucking idiot!”

Flinching, he backs away from her assault, “OW - Margo, stop! Why - ow! Stop punching me!”

“You! Could! Have! Gotten! Yourself! Killed!” She emphasizes each word with another punch. She advances on him with every step he takes backwards, until Eliot rolls his eyes, taking pity on Quentin, and gently pulls her away from him. “Let me go!” She exclaims, eyes following Quentin’s movements as he moves backwards, and bumps into the nook.

Got a Bad Case of Loving You - Quentin’s dealing with memory loss, and is confused by a photo he finds in his drawer. 

The picture is clutched tight in his hands as he makes his way down the stairs, back to the living room of the cottage. It has to be a manipulation, or a spell, but he checked it. There’s no spell on it. There’s no evidence of any kind of tampering. He’s just spent fifteen minutes raking over every inch of the damn thing, and nothing came back positive - other than the picture being genuine. It doesn’t make sense. As he steps off the last stair, Alice and Margo turn to grin at him, stopping short at the look on his face.

Margo slowly stands up, “Q?” She asks, “Are you okay?”

Eliot turns around, then, as well, eyes tracing Quentin as he looks him over. His eyes stutter to a stop as he sees what’s in Quentin’s hand and he stumbles to his feet as well, turning around. The drink in his hand nearly spills as he tries to set it down. The cigarette on his lips vanishes, spelled off to wherever garbage goes, and his mouth falls open. He knows exactly what it is before Quentin has to say anything. His mouth works open and closed like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

Game On - Eliot’s a flirt, and Quentin doesn’t have a chance. 

He’s struggling to reach the cereal on the top shelf of the pantry when a warm presence appears behind him. Heat runs all up and down his back, even though the person is a few inches away from him. Static shoots through the air, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. “Need help?” Eliot asks, voice soft and gruff and sleep laden.

Quentin inhales, nodding, and Eliot moves forward, until he’s pushing up against his back, and reaching up for the cereal. Quentins eyes close as the warmth washes over him, sweet and summery, as the smell of Eliots woodsy aftershave fills the whole of the pantry. His eyes trail up Eliots arm as it extends past him, breathing quickening as long fingers close around the edge of the box and lift it from the shelf.

Prickly Like a Porcupine - Let’s pretend Quentin and Eliot are allowed to be happy. 

Eliot opens his eyes to find Quentin staring at him. His eyes are soft, and one of his hands is running through Eliot’s hair, twirling his curls. He smiles as he realizes Eliot’s woken up. “Morning.”

Eliot nods sleepily, curling in closer and humming, "Morning. Were you watching me sleep?”

Quentin shakes his head, “No, I woke up a few minutes ago.” He twists a curl around his finger and gently tugs at it. “Was gonna go make some breakfast. But your hair is so . . .”

I’ve Got You Cared On My Heart - post it communication. 

The first one Eliot sees is on the throne room floor. He furrows his brow, bends over and picks up the bright yellow post-it note ambiguously thrown to the floor. Part of him wonders how it got here because post-it notes don’t exist in Fillory, or at least, not that he’s aware. But another part figures Quentin dropped it sometime before Magic disappeared, and it’d somehow been swept through the castle to find itself to him. The theory seems even more valid when he unfolds the crumpled ball, and reads, in Quentin’s handwriting,

There has to be a solution.

He checks to make sure there’s nobody else in the throne room before silently slipping the post-it in his back pocket and heading down the hall.

The Price We Pay - The Gods are willing to bring back magic, at a cost. 

The gods are willing to give magic back. But Quentin must give something to them first. A punishment for what he took from them. The cost of killing a god.

"Q, don't!" Julia calls from her place, where two celestial hands hold her back. "You don't know what they're asking of you!"

But neither does she. None of them do. But the whole of the magical community is depending on them. Eliot and Margo are depending on them, and quite frankly, Quentin would give his own life if it meant bringing magic back. And getting Eliot and Margo back. Nothing else matters. Not himself, not the price, nothing. He will pay whatever he has to.

This Moment - Quentin and Eliot are finally reunited. 

Something changes when they’re together. In the air, in the world - in Quentin. Before they figured out how to get magic back, there’d been a point where he convinced himself Eliot was the magic. The absence of magic, and the absence of Eliot somehow held the same weight over his heart, now that he didn’t have grief over Alice clouding everything. Eliot is a part of what made Brakebills what it is, magic or not. And living there for five months without Eliot, learning magic they couldn’t practice -

It made Quentin realize a few things.

Hot Chocolate - There’s been some confusion. 

A steaming mug of … something suddenly appears in Quentin’s line of sight. He frowns, following the length of the hand and arm holding the cup out in front of him, up to a shoulder and oh. It’s Eliot. “What?” Quentin asks, eyeing the mug warily.

Eliot sighs, “It’s hot chocolate,” He says, shaking the cup slightly at him, “Drink it before it gets cold.”

“Hot … Chocolate.”

Insanity - Quentin accidentally casts a spell that makes the entire Brakebills campus fall in love with him. Except Eliot, oddly. 

“Eliot…”

Quentin sits down on the couch and stares at him with wide eyes, until Eliot sighs and looks up at him. “What, Quentin? I’m busy.”

Quentin makes a face because that’s clearly not quite true but shakes his head because this is more important and Eliots the only one who hasn’t lost his god damned mind. “I think everyone’s gone insane,” he nods erratically as if it emphasize the statement.

Eliot sighs again, leaning back on the couch with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his arm in a go on motion, “And how have they gone insane?”

“Well,” Quentin kicks his lips, “Penny pushed me up against a tree this morning -,”

“Sounds pretty par for course, Q.”

“– and kissed me.”

Wake Me Up - Eliot’s pretty sure Quentin keeps dying. 

Eliots eyes flutter open, and for a moment, he’s startled by the TADA sign blaring bright and beautiful in the peripheral of his gaze. His right hand comes up to block it, and he groans as he attempts to push himself upright. But a soft, calm warmth holds him steady and he looks down.

Oh.

He smiles softly, sleep riddled and stares down at him for a moment. His head is on Eliots lap, while his legs are dangling off the couch, and his arms are wrapped tight around Eliot’s waist. Eliot reaches down and lets a hand cart through Quentins hair softly, careful to not wake him up, as he tries to remember how they got here.

The Mad Royal Family of Fillory - (WIP) A timeline where they do defeat the beast, but are driven so far beyond the brink of insanity that Jane has no choice but to reset.

When Martin Chatwin dies, Eliot falls to his knees, drained and broken down. His vision is etched red with the blood of a popped blood vessel in his right eye and his chest heaves as he takes in his surroundings. His hands shake as he looks over his friends bodies, gaze sweeping across the clearing in search of any sign of life. A careful breezes brushes his hair out of his face, cooling the sweat and blood in its place.

A moment later, there’s a soft groan from Margo, stuttering into a hacking cough that wracks her whole body. And then a wheezing inhale from his right indicates Penny’s not dead, either. Alice’s fingers twitch at her side, and Julia and Kady are already starting to stand.

Twenty Five - Quentin’s inexperience is a problem. Jane has a solution. 

Jane looks up as Henry enters the office. She attempts a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach as he makes his way around the desk and sits down. They sit in silence for a moment, Jane watching Henry, Henry staring down at his desk, a glare faint in his gaze.

“They’re going to fail again,” he finally says, eyes darting up to hers. “Three of them are dead already.”

Jane nods solemnly, “I know.” But she leans forward, crossing one leg over the other. “But, I think I know the problem.” Henry raises an eyebrow, prompting her to continue. “It’s Quentin.”

Got Your Back - Eliot links up with Quentin’s emotions.

Linking up with Quentin’s emotions did spur Eliot on to try harder, though. The only way he’d been able to get through that particular week was with a heavy —er than normal—dose of narcotics. And Quentin got through every day of it with nothing more than pessimsm and sad, puppy dog pouts directed at nobody in particular.

So, maybe Eliot spent six months perfecting a spell that allowed him to be there for Quentin whenever he experienced any sort of negative emotions. So what? Eliot’s a perfectionist.

And he also kind of, really, cares about Quentin.

Magnetic - Quentin and Eliot see something else when they touch the Truth key.

“Did you see anything?” Eliot finally asks, leaning his head back against the headboard and turning to look at him.

“Huh?” Quentin blinks away memories, returning the look.

“When you touched the key. Other than Penny.” He shrugs a shoulder, “You said it makes you see the truth.”

God, did he see anything?

How does he say, Yeah. You were shimmering gold and ever since all I can do is feel your lips on my skin, and your fingers in my hair. All I can see is you, Eliot. Jesus Christ I was so blind before—

“Not really,” he says instead, swallowing thick. “Just Penny.”

The Test - Rupert set up a test for the final key. 

The last thing they expect is for Quentin to die immediately after acquiring the last key.

Something happens when he touches it. Something Eliot and Margo can’t even begin to try to explain. Though it’s like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there. For a moment they think maybe it’s like the Truth Key and is showing him something hidden.

That Which Binds - Eliot expects Quentin to stop the wedding.

He keeps expecting the doors to the throne room to burst open and for Quentin to stand there, huffing and puffing as he yells, “Stop the wedding!”

But Eliot says I do, slow and cautious, with his eyes locked on the door rather than on his soon to be husband.

Idri squeezes his hand and pulls him closer, gazes at him in the way Eliot just wishes Quentin would allow himself to. It’s not even sweet, not really. Maybe it’s loving. But Eliot can’t be assed to care. Isn’t sure he could even identify if he did care. “I do.”

Fifty Year Break - Quentin and Eliot have a meddling son.

Quentin shakily climbs to his knees, silently cursing his aching joints and holds out his arms just in time to get two armfuls of grandchildren. He laughs into their hair, ruffles the youngest and looks over their heads at his son. “You came.”

But Rupert just shakes his head with a laugh, and says, “Of course we came, dad.”

Even now, it’s so strange when he says it. When he calls him dad. His eyes well up and he lets go of two of the grandkids to wipe at the tears before they can fall. The last thing he needs is his son worrying about him. He’s already made him worry about Eliot. “I missed you,” He says, grateful smile on his lips as he brushes away the tears.

Sacrifice - Eliot finds out about the depression key. 

“You did what?” Eliot hisses, rushing forward to grab Quentin by his elbows. One hand slides up Quentin’s left arm to cup his jaw. “Are you okay?”

“Y—Yeah. No, no. I’m fine. El, really. I—Benedict was the one—“

Eliot shakes his head, his hand moving around to grip the back of Quentin’s neck. “We’ll talk about that later. Where’s the key? You got it back?”

“Yeah, I—“

“Give it to me.”

Sharp - Quentin accidentally cuts his finger. 

Cooking is Eliot’s thing. Especially in Fillory, where he can experiment with new recipes with strange and exciting ingredients. Where he can tests the limits of cooking and magic—together.

But they’ve been here for five years, and dammit, Quentin wanted to do something for him.

Warm Kisses - There’s a reason Quentin isn’t the one that does the seducing. 

They’re working on the mosaic in the dead of winter, and Quentin should be focusing on the way his fingers go numb with each tile he presses into the sand, or the way his knees ache with each tile he accidentally crawls over. Or the snow that crunches beneath them. Hell, he should focus on literally anything other than what he is.

Which is the length of Eliot’s fingers, and the lithe movements of his body. He’s graceful like a cat, but sexy like—well, like a man. Every tile he places, shuffles his shirt up a little higher, and Quentin catches a glimpse of the V forming on his hips, and he’s clearly got a warming spell to keep him from freezing to death like Quentin is. Quentin could cast a spell and warm himself up, too. Could do a whole lot to end his misery. But he’d kind of hoped Eliot would notice how pink his skins gone, and the way his spine shakes every few seconds. But, nope.

Date - Quentin and Eliot need a break, and Rupert knows just what to do. 

When Rupert grins at them, all mischievous and dangerous, Quentin and Eliot prepare themselves for the worst. No teenager with that look on their face should ever be trusted, and they learned that years ago. And then again and again and again. Because teenagers are fucking difficult.

Eliot is the one to narrow his eyes suspiciously. “What are you up to?” He asks, pointing a finger, “You’ve got that look.”

Cry - Quentin’s had the depression key for too long. 

They’ve been passing the key around. Alice had it for a while, then Josh, then Julia and then Quentin again. He’s curled up on the floor of his bedroom at the physical kids cottage when two pairs of shoes appear in front of him. And then two pairs of knees, and two sets of hands. And then he’s being manhandled until there’s a large warmth at his back, and a smaller warmth at his front.

Margo wraps her arms around his stomach, rests her head on his chest. Her shampoo is a somewhat familiar comfort as her legs tangle in his. Behind him, one of Eliot’s hands come up to comb through Quentin’s hair, soft and easy. His breath is like fire on Quentin’s chest.

Proposal; Take 1 - Eliot’s proposal to Idri is back on. Quentin’s not a fan.

Penny expects a lot when he walks into the the throne room. He doesn’t expect his friends to react, they’d done all their reacting after Julia gave him a new body, but he does expect a hello from one of them or something. He expects chaos now that the fairies are dead. He expects hustle and bustle. He expects a lot.

But, what he finds are three of his friends, Kings and Queen, sitting on their thrones, just staring out at nothing. Quentin’s hairs fallen all in his face, and jesus, he’s still got the fairies blood, dried up where it dripped down his cheeks. Margo’s toying with the ends of her hair as she stares listlessly. And Eliot’s staring at Quentin like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Too Late for Goodbye - Quentin makes a horrifying realization.

It’s three days after they remember that Quentin makes the realization. He’s sitting in Eliot’s room in the castle, flipping through the quest book. Every page is replaced by a memory from their other life, and it plays like a movie in his head. Stupidly simple words bring another memory on, and then he’s lost in it.

But this is the first real one of his—their—son. It’s not long after Ariel died.

Maybe thinking about her is what makes him realize.

No Fear - Eliot takes to being a father surprisingly well. 

When Quentin pulls Eliot aside, Ariel watching them with careful eyes from a distance, Eliot figures he has plenty reason to be afraid.

Somewhere deep down he knows he’s been afraid of Quentin leaving him—and the quest—for Ariel. And it’s only confirmed when Quentin tells him Ariel’s pregnant. He grabs his hand, though, squeezes and says with more emotion than Eliot knows what to do with that he’s not not going anywhere.

Eliot and the key - Eliot gets his hands on the depression key.

He doesn’t mean to touch it, but his life sucks and the universe hates him. He’s shuffling through the stacks of papers Quentin’s left on the table in the dining room, trying to figure out where they’d left off so he can at least help Quentin in that aspect. Since he won’t pass the key to anyone else, or come out of his room.

Rupert - Quentin and Eliot have the best son.

He’s fifteen when he realizes. Honestly, he’s always suspected that his dads loved each other, but growing up, they’d always just been there. And they’d always just been . . . them. Close and somehow, not. He’d had moments before, obviously, where he expected Papa El to lean in and kiss Dad, but then, he just leaned passed him, and picked up a new mosaic piece, and in all honesty, Rupert’s attention span has never been long enough to really pay too much attention to his parents beyond that.

Todd - Todd gets to have a backstory too damn it. 

Todd’s always been an outcast. As far back as he can remember, he’s had to fight to be a part of any sort of social group. He’s always been too enthusiastic, too permeable. Too willing to flex until he’s the guy people want to be around. Or, as his step dad likes to say—He’s always been too much. It’s not like he means to be. It’s just, he wants so badly to be a part of something, that he’ll say or do whatever he needs to. He’ll be the guy people need him to be, even if it kills him.

No More Goodbyes - another marriage proposal. 

Quentin is so fucking sick of goodbyes. Every other day for longer than he has the energy to remember, he’s had to say goodbye to the people he cares the most for without knowing if he’ll ever see them again. First, it’s all to defeat the beast. Then it’s to deal with bored gods. Then it’s a fucking quest.

He’s done saying goodbye.

Not Today - let’s pretend Quentin and Poppy didn’t sleep together.

“No, Poppy–” Quentin says, pushing her away and taking three, steadying steps away from her. He holds one hand out between them, like a lion tamer. “I can’t–I can’t do this.”

She tilts her head, “Why not? It’s not like it has to mean anything.”

“But it will–”

“Look, I’m amazing and all, but, I’m not the type to get attached.”

“I’m kind of–I’m. I’m seeing. Someone?”

Dark Places - Even Quentin’s capable of doing something awful to save the people he loves. 

He climbs to his feet shakily. The world goes wobbly for a second, dizzying and dancing until it balances itself out and Quentin remembers he hasn’t eaten or had anything to drink in days. But it’s okay. He can eat and drink and do whatever the fuck else when he fixes this. He blinks away the blurry vision, shaking his head slightly, as he takes a wobbly step towards the doors on the opposite side of the throne room. He takes another step, pulling the key in and clutching it to his chest. This is the only way. This is his—their—salvation.

He follows a map he’d written lifetimes ago. He’s not even sure how he remembers it. But it’s there, stuck in his mind, vague but just strong enough to outshine the memories he doesn’t want to access.

She’s not even surprised when he stumbles through the barrier.

Holding out for a Hero - Todd’s time to shine. (WIP)

He knows the minute magic comes back. Feels it when the cancer returns. Scorching pain through his veins that leaves him lying on the kitchen floor, curled up in agony.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, before everything settles, and he falls asleep, too weak to get up or call for an ambulance. All he knows, is he wakes the next day, to the sun shining in through the kitchen window. He finds the strength to pull himself up on shaking legs, using the counters as leverage, and forces himself to the table, where his phone and wallet are.

First, he calls Quentin.

“We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed has been disconnected.”

Promise Me - The monster gives Quentin his memories back. 

“You’re sad.”

Quentin looks up from his book, heart jumping into his throat at the sight before him. It’s been four months, but he’s only had his memories a few days. Before, he was just a stranger that pulled him into his life. Now... it’s so jarring. Because he knows it’s Eliot. He’d recognize him anywhere—Which is why it’s so strange seeing something new beneath his eyes.

He’s not sure what hurts more: having had been by his side all this time without knowing, or Looking into his eyes and realizing that while it looks like Eliot, it’s not him.

Happy Birthday - Margo & Co., throw Todd a birthday party.

Kady sets down the cake on the dining room table and crosses her arms, “Remind me again why were doing this?”

Margo barely looks up from her place of directing Eliot on where to hang the banner, “Because you heard what he said.”

“Yeah, his life is pathetic. That doesn’t exp—“

“No, El. Two inches higher.”

Eliot sighs and lifts the banner another two inches, shooting Margo an exasperated eyebrow raise. “Here?”

“Perfect.” She turns to Kady, then, tilting her head. “The reason we’re doing this, is because whenever we need help or information, he’s always there for us.”

Patchwork Love - Quentin’s grand romantic gesture. 

He’s not even sure it’ll work. But Kady mentioned it once, absentmindedly, from her place at the center of the couch in the physical kids cottage. And they’ve (once again) successfully stopped another disaster, and beat the library, and got magic back.

The only thing that’s not how it should be is entirely Quentin’s fault, and even if this doesn’t work, he has a back up plan. Because things are finally going to be perfect. They’re all going to live, no more monsters are coming to kill them or fuck shit up, and they’re going back to Fillory. For good. He just . . . needs to make something as abundantly clear as is possible, so nobody (read: Eliot) gets it into their thick skulls that what he’s asking for is less than what he wants.

Three Words - Brian’s still regaining his memories, but there’s one thing that comes in clear.

They told him to sleep. That they’d distract his gate keeper, and he could finally get some rest.

Maybe they’re all dead.

The creature doesn’t like strangers. Then again, maybe they’re on it’s list of enemies. One of those it wishes to punish for imprisoning it, torturing it, abandoning it—whatever the reason.

He doubts they’re alive.

Maybe that’s why the creature is suddenly kneeling next to the couch, like he’s the prisoner needing comforting, and placing a gentle hand on his elbow. Maybe it knows something he doesn’t. Who these people were to him when he was Quentin. If he ever was Quentin.

and it’s no sacrifice - Todd sacrifices himself.

He wishes he could say goodbye to them. But he doubts they’ll even notice he’s gone. He doesn’t mind. He’d have helped them no matter what; they’re his friends. Even if he’s not theirs. They’ll probably never even know it was him; that he sacrificed himself for them, for magic.

Lifeboat - (70k words) Todd is a time traveler set out to save his family. 

He stumbles across Jane Chatwin’s little clearing in the Fillorian woods shortly after being crowned king. The crown dangles from his fingertips, vague memories of it resting atop his father’s head flitting across his mind the closer to the tips of his fingers it gets, as he crosses the barrier. He only recognizes her because his family had described her and their heroics practically all his life. Remembers his father, former High King of Fillory, sneering at the ground and proclaiming her, “The ultimate anti-hero.”

And when she looks up at him with shining eyes and a gentle smile, his other Dad’s words ring even louder. “Anti-hero or not. She’s the only reason we’re alive. So we’re thankful, El.”

He can practically hear the two of them bickering as if they were standing right beside him, facing their past with him. But, of course they’re not. He’ll never stand side by side with them again. The crown in his hand, digging into his fingertips, is an unwelcome reminder of that fact.

thus with a kiss, i die - Quentin kills the monster to save his friends.

He’s lying on the ground, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Unseeing.

The knife slips out of Quentin’s hand and falls to the ground with a clatter. His mouth falls open on a staggered exhale. There’s a noise behind him—someone getting up, crunching their shoes on the broken glass.

“Is—is everyone—“

He’s not sure who’s speaking. They sound like they’re underwater, or far away. Maybe both. Quentin’s legs give out from beneath him, and he falls to his knees in front of the body. A large piece of glass digs into his knee—punctures the skin. Be Quentin can’t feel it. Or he can. But it doesn’t hurt. Not like this. It’s deep, can feel it in the skin of his knee, cutting through skin. Stinging.

Comfort - Eliot and Margo realize they’re all in. 

“You need to tell me what the problem is,” Eliot murmurs, running a hand through Quentins hair.

They’re sitting on Quentins bed, Quentin curled up in Eliots lap, head on Eliots thigh while he shakes. He hasn’t spoken in hours.

“Q,” Eliot says, leaning down, ignoring the way his spine practically screams at the angle, “I don’t know how to do the comforting thing. I can’t say what you need to hear, because I don’t know what you need. Tell me what you need. Please.”

You Push, I’ll Pull - Quentin’s there for Eliot after the mike debacle. 

Margo comes to him one night, terrified and not at all herself. She doesn’t even say anything, completely ignores Alice, who is sitting with him. She just grabs his arm by the wrist, and drags him up the stairs and to Eliot’s room. He looks at her, confused, as she stares at the closed door. “Talk to him,” She whispers, “I can’t get through.”

“But you’re his best friend.”

She gives him a face, “We both know he and I don’t talk, you can stop pretending you think we do. He’ll talk to you. He won’t talk to me. Not about this.”

Spoon me like you mean it - In which Quentin and Eliot spoon. 

Quentin & the clock - Post season two finale. 

i can hold you - Quentin has a bad day

Teaching Quentin to Bake - in which Eliot teaches Quentin how to bake. 

Eliot’s secret - Eliot has a secret. 

R & R - Quentin needs a break. 

An Evolution of kissing - Quentin and Eliot’s kisses. 

Glasses - Eliot has another secret. 

Teach Me - “Do your lips move when you read?” 

The Banning of Public Displays of Affection - Quentin and Eliot get caught a few too many times. 

Waffles - Penntin. Quentin’s useless. Penny’s gotta help.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Penny asks, walking into the kitchen, half asleep. Quentin’s standing on top of a chair, waving a dish rag over the smoke detector, while smoke billows out behind him on the stove.

He looks at him guiltily as the incessant beeping finally stops. His arm stillw aves frantically, as Penny rushes across the kitchen, grabs the pan off the stove and throws it in the sink, turning the water on. “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Quentin says, breathless.

Can’t Stop This Feeling - Eliot resets the loop. 

Margo and Quentin are dead. Alice is going to defeat the beast, he can see the tremble in Martin’s hands, the way he eyes the spell Alice is working up. Something inside Eliot snaps as he looks across the field at Penny and Kady. They’re watching Alice intent, waiting for her to finish the spell.

If she finishes the spell, there won’t be any more loops. If she finishes the spell, the beast will die, and Eliot will have to go on with his life without Margo or Quentin. If she finishes the spell, Eliot realizes, he’ll be completely alone. They’ll have won, but at what cost? Is he really willing to sacrifice them for victory? If he ready to take that leap into the world without at least Margo at his side?

I Won’t Let You Go - Eliot’s never been good at being alone. Neither has Quentin. 

Eliot approaches, murder in his eyes, and Quentin takes a deep breath, swallowing. His breath quickens with each slow step he takes towards him. He looks around the cottage from where he’s pressed up against the wall, searches for an answer, but all he see’s is blue dancing across his vision. And then his jaw drops, and he looks back at Eliot.

He pulls away from the wall, and starts casting the most powerful spell he can think of, can remember.

Eliot tits his head, “You think a spell will save you?”

The Woods - Who thought hiking was good bonding activity?

“Okay, that’s it,” Eliot pants, shaking his head as he comes to a stop, hand waving in front of him as he doubles over, trying to catch his breath. “That -,” He raises his head enough to look at Quentin, pointing at him as he gulps down air, “Is it!”

Quentin frowns, crossing his arms across his own heaving chest. “We’re just a little … lost. We’ll find the trail -,”

Margo steps in between them, pointing a perfectly manicured nail at both of them, “No,” She says, breathless as well, though she doesn’t seem to be sweating at all. Quentin wonders if it’s because she cast a no persperation spell or something. “We’re done,” She growls between gritted teeth. “Do whatever - you do to summon Penny so we can go home!”

Diamond Kisses - “Did you steal that $100,000 diamond?”

Quentin runs a hand over his face before eyeing the bulge in Margo’s skirt pocket with disdain. His eyes dart up to her face, which is a bizarre mix of smug innocence, and then over to Eliot - her clear accomplice, who also has a ridiculous mixture of elite smugness and something that Quentin figures is the closest Eliots able to come to innocence.

“Margo,” Quentin says, slow, as he drags his eyes back over to her. She tilts her head, lips twitching as she tries to hold in her grin. “Did you steal that $100,000 diamond?”

Little Lamb - It’s Quentin’s Birthday. Never underestimate Eliot’s willingness to make him happy.

Remarkably, it’d been Margo’s idea to head into the city and take Quentin to an arcade for his birthday. “He’s a nerd,” She said, “Nerds like games. And if it’ll make him laugh, at least, why not?”

And Eliot wasn’t about to argue, especially with Quentin curled up on the couch downstairs, pillow tucked up against his chest and gaze lost off in some fantasy of Fillory. At least with this they were able to help get him out of his head.

Petrichor - Quentin and Eliot have a moment alone in the rain. 

“Q,” Eliot murmurs, leaning into the doorway, shoulder up against the hard wood. “Why are you standing in the rain?”

Quentin looks over his shoulder at him, shrugging with a soft smile. “I love the rain,” he whispers, the sound barely making it to Eliot over the rushing water. He turns his gaze back on the backyard, watching the rain fade into the ground.

Stupid Tattoo - Quentin has the dumbest tattoo. 

Roots - (WIP) Soulmate AU.

“What did you do?!” Margo cries out from her place next to the coffee table, curled up with her arm hugged tight to her chest. She hefts herself up over the table to glare at Quentin, “You absolute baffoon, what did you do?!”

He’s pressed up against the bookshelves, head digging into the door of the secret nook, where he’s holding his own arm against himself. He works his mouth open and closed for a moment, before shaking his head, dumbfounded. His eyes work around the room; Penny’s passed out by the front door, Eliot’s just now coming to on the sofa, and Alice is still unconscious on the jean chair. The sound of pounding footsteps and panicked screams above him tell him the rest of the house is starting to wake up as well.

Read Me To Sleep - prompt: who reads to who? 

Home - Eliot’s finally home. 

i been looking at the stars tonight (and i think, oh how i miss that bright sun) - Quentin and Eliot acknowledge they missed each other. 

Operation Friendship - Todd has a puppy. 

Fillory - Margo takes Todd to Fillory. 

Purple - A spell reveals all. 

Quentin’s an idiot.

It’s what everyone’s thinking, but god, he can’t help but agree. Because, while practicing his class work (which is somehow he always finds himself in ridiculous predicaments) he manages to … accidentally nab everyone in a spell that has nothing to do with his classwork.

Which is to say.

He may have accidentally cast a spell that makes everyone turn the color of their current mood.

oh my god they were roommates - Quentin and Eliot are roommates.

“Oh my god,” Margo says, smirking at Penny as Quentin lifts another box.

He doesn’t expect Penny to play along, but he does. “They were roommates!”

Quentin narrows his eyes at both of them, as he moves past them to set the box on the counter in the kitchen. Eliot closes the door of the refrigerator, and grins all cool and ease. “You could help,” Quentin mutters, heaving out a breath.

Eliot shakes his head, “Oh, no, dear. I don’t move. I observe. Manage. But I don’t move.”

The Path We Follow - is Eliot even alive beneath the monster? 

The day they all find out is a harsh juxtaposition to the solemn heartache in the air. The creature is off playing a game with Quentin, to give them a chance to get their answers. But the sun is shining, and there’s a soft breeze blowing through the trees surrounding the playground they’re huddled up under.

“You’re sure?” Kady asks, soft.

Julia nods, wrapping her arms around herself tighter. “I asked. Then I asked again, and then I asked two more gods. They all say the same thing.”

Because - Quentin gets his memories back and makes a realization. 

It’s Margo, because of course it is, that helps him remember. She practically flips a switch, and the parts of his mind–the Quentin within–that were off, are back on, and everything he was and isn’t is all there. Like it’d just been waiting for him to remember.

And he looks between her, and the creature, and back.

There are a lot of things to process. So many of them, in fact, that it’s overwhelming on literally every front his brain even tries to approach. Except one.

codependent - Jane and Fogg set the loop further back. 

Jane and Henry realize three of their group of idiots are somewhat intrinsically linked. So much so that they hatch a plan. It’s dangerous, and so much more than either of them have ever planned—but going back twenty three years and rearranging their lives — while a hassle, isn’t so much so that they can’t do it.

And, honestly, Jane loves a challenge (that doesn’t risk her life).

never send me roses - Eliot discovers a surprising allergy. 

Quentin’s curled up on the couch in the cottage when Eliot bursts in, nose red and runny, eyes puffy. He looks positively furious, as he slams his way through the cottage to the small kitchenette to drop off the take from the village. Quentin watches him, unmoving, opting to let him work out the hissy fit of anger before even thinking to ask him what the fuck happened.

Rupert’s off at a friends in a village down the stream, and they’ve opted to take the weekend off from working on the mosaic. It’s been weeks without a break, and ultimately, the world has waited this long, it can wait a little longer for them to live their lives around it. He glances at the stack of tiles on the table by his socked feet, tilting his head for a moment. Maybe Eliot’s angry that the mosaic isn’t done.

Holiday Blues - Quentin’s got a classic case of the holiday blues. 

Eliot peeks out the cottage door, tilting his head at Quentin, who’s solemnly sitting in his chair, staring off into the distance. It’s a very Quentin thing to do. Pretend to be okay when Eliot’s near, but as soon as he thinks nobodies looking, he lets all the sadness and everything take hold, and capture him like–well, Eliot’s not sure like what.

All he knows is it’s Quentin’s first christmas without Rupert since, well, since Rupert’s first christmas.

Eliot clears his throat and makes his way out, holding a cup of tea in each hand. Quentin jumps, forces a smile on his lips, and quickly wipes at his eyes like he doesn’t think Eliot will realize he’s been crying like the sad sap he is.

Walk With Me - Inexplicably, Quentin wants to go on a hike.

“You want to do what.”

Eliot shouldn’t be surprised that Quentin’s finally cracked. They’ve been out in the woods for six months, and of course he’s lost his mind. Honestly, it wasn’t ever really completely there in the first place. Look at half the shit he’s done at Brakebills, and his history, for an example of how not there Eliot’s second favorite person in the world is.

Okay, he’s tied for first, but for the love of all that is good in the world don’t tell Margo. The last thing he needs is Quentin’s death on his hands. Though, if he’s being honest, Margo wouldn’t hurt Quentin. He’s her second favorite person, too.

stargazing - Quentin wants to comfort Eliot. 

Eliot wakes up to Quentin leaning over him, a soft, sad smile on his lips. He wants to be angry for being woken up, but then Quentin moves away, and he can’t help but sit up. And then Quentin’s hold a hand out to him, eyes hiding something tht Eliot can’t quite decipher. But, as always, he can’t really say no to Quentin, so he takes his hand, and allows himself to be lead through the Physical Kids cottage, through the backyard, and across campus, until they’re right there where they met for the first time.

He doesn’t realize Quentin has a blanket, until he silent lets go of Eliot’s hand and flaps it open until it falls flat against the grass, right in front of the stone BRAKEBILLS sign, Eliot spent twenty minutes trying to get the perfect pose all the months ago on. Eliot blinks down at the blanket, sleepily looking between it and Quentin.

TADA - They’re about to graduate from Brakebills. 

The cottage isn’t where it’s suppose to be. Which isn’t weird, exactly. But usually, Eliot can just, kind of … sense where it’s at. Find his way to it. But it’s gone. The front and back lawns are still here, with the fire pit and the grill and the flowers and walkways. Almost like the cottage is still here, just invisible.

But it’s not, because Eliot’s walking through the big gaping space at the center of it all and he hasn’t walked into any invisible walls yet.

He’s not going to admit it, but he’s getting frustrated. This is his last day here. All of their last days. They’ll get alum keys, but it won’t be the same. They won’t be apart of the cottage anymore. He won’t be a part of the cottage anymore.

Take Me Away - Quentin and Eliot give up magic for a chance at happiness. 

They meet in a little coffee shop. It feels set up, when a tall man with curly hair bumps into Quentin, and spills his both of their coffees all over them. Quentin can’t even freak out, beyond staring at the stain seeping through the mans white shirt, and the soft, billowing curls of his hair.

There’s somebody about him that seems familiar. But it doesn’t matter, because the man is freaking out.

“Fuckity fuck fuck!” He spreads his arms–his long, long arms–wide, and shakes off the coffee clinging to his fingertips.

Rainbow Sprinkles - Quentin hates rainbow sprinkles. 

Rainbow sprinkles? I asked for chocolate.” Quentin looks up at the ice cream bar with a frown.

Margo snorts through her spoonful of mango sorbet. She twists her spoon as Quentin looks up at her.

“What?”

Her eyebrow quirks. “What, what?”

“Why’d you make that sound?”

She smirks around the spoon before pulling it out of her mouth with a soft pop, and reaching for more sorbet. “Oh,” she says as she scoops some into the spoon and eyes him mirthfully, “I just think it’s funny.”

The Point (of No Return) - Quentin doesn’t take well to getting his memories back. 

There’s a point, Quentin realizes while everyone’s off doing their own thing. There’s a point to all the pain and anguish they have to go through. All the loss. Magic comes from pain, right? To be strong they have to lose everything. He gets it. As much as one can really get that they have to lose everything to amount to anything.

But there’s a point beyond all that. A point that he can’t hide from.

He’s sitting on the roof of Marina’s building, staring up at the stars, wondering how they all got here. The monster is off masquerading in Eliot’s body who-the-fuck-knows-where, and Quentin’s got to find the strength to face off with him one day. When the others track him down. When they figure out how to kill it.

Let These Hard Times Pass - fuck the season four promo. 

Crossroads - Eliot and the Suicide Fountain 

They open it back up in the spring. When Sunderland makes the announcement during class, Eliot merely rolls his eyes, and carries on pretending to do his work while a first year finishes up both of their projects. But he saves it. He’s not sure why he does, isn’t even sure it’s a conscious decision. But it’s there, ticking like a time bomb at the back of his mind. He finds himself staring at it as he walks across campus. They’re all trying to pretend everything’s normal, but he killed Mike; Mike didn’t even know—He’s not doing it consciously. Really. It’s just . . . there’s something about it that pulls him in closer. Something that makes him see it, in a way that he never has before. Maybe that’s the danger of it. It wins.

These Goodbyes (Dance Like Fire) - Eliot visits a grave. 

Eliot walks down the path, careful to avoid stepping on the grass, with a clear destination in mind. The ground beneath his feet is wet, and gives way with each step, but it doesn’t deter him. Only urges him forward, even as mud cakes the sides of his shoes.

When he arrives, he stands there for a few long moments, gazing down at the one thing he’s been too scared to come face to face with. He’d missed the funeral, in his grief. Missed the wake, when the stone replaced the little plaque--too guilt ridden to even get out of bed. Margo came back after both, shedding her little black dresses, and climbed into his bed. She didn’t say anything, but when she curled up around him, he felt her silent sobs shaking her.  

Even now, he’s cheating. He’s here, but not really.

He licks his lips. “Hi,” he says to the plot in front of the stone.

Oh, Brother - Todd is Eliot’s brother.

He sits at the bar in the kitchen. At least here when he looks out over the kitchen, clutching the coffee cup close to his chest, while he feet dangle over the side of the chair, he isn’t faced with an empty house. The steam floats up, fills his lungs with sweet, sugary warmth, and he lets his eyes fall closed.

His jaw clenches unconsciously.

They left him again.

Ease My Mind - rarepair challenge -- Todd/Eliot

Look. When your friends, who are too socially maladjusted to admit they’re your friends, ask you to watch your not crush while they go conquer some great evil across the planes of existence—you do it.

You just. Need to ask more questions than Todd did.

“When will you be back?”

Margo’s hurried response of, “Can’t say. Just—read him what we wrote. He’ll start remembering when the fairy spell wears off and then demand you leave his presence for all of eternity. Just like normal.” hadn’t really been all that helpful when it comes to calming Eliot down.

And it figured that Quentin and Margo had dashed back into the portal before Todd could even raise a finger to point out that maybe he’s not the best person for the job.

--

Prompt: Character A gets temporary short-term amnesia. Character B gets bored of constantly updating them on what's going on, so they start telling bigger and bigger lies to see what they'll believe.

Familiar Taste of Poison - Quentin’s reaction. Post 4x05 drabble. 

Coming Home - Post 4x05 Eliot decides to be brave.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

Quentin stands in the doorway, watching over Eliot’s sleeping form, still somehow at awe of the rise and fall of his chest. There’s still a stressed furrow between his brow, even though he’s been unconscious for hours. But, Quentin’s sure it’s something that’ll fade with time. Or, he hopes, it is. He crosses his arms, and rests his head against the door frame. God. It’d been so close.

He swallows thickly, and tries not to think about all the times he almost lost him.

Always and Never - Quentin tells Margo that Eliot’s alive (and other sad stuff)

Quentin twists at the waist, side to side, slightly swaying, before mumbling, “We need to talk.”

Margo closes her eyes for half a second, exhaling slowly, before saying, careful and concise, “Q. I have an entire world to rule over. I don’t have time to help you mour—“

“Eliot’s alive, Margo.”

She stops. Sets down the pen in her hand, and turns to face him full on, clumsily reaching up to cross her arms. Whether it’s a way to defend herself, or because she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, Quentin doesn’t know. “What do you mean, he’s alive?” Quentin’s gaze darts away as her lip twitches. “You told me he died.”

Unhinged - Todd finds out Eliot’s alive.

Too Much - Quentin has a panic attack. 

The glass shatters in slow motion.

Quentin feels the world shift, something cold and dark and familiar settling in his chest. Heavier and heavier the closer to the ground the glass gets. The further the pieces of glass spread. Time stops being linear, flashing forward and back—between the moment the glass slipped out of his hand, and the second it hits the ground. As the bourbon seeps into his pant legs, and the sound finally breaks through—it’s like something else snaps.

Something he’s been fighting to keep a hold on for months.

It cracks, and webs up through his heart, his soul—his chest, fast forward and aching. Blistering agony seeping through his veins at the speed of light. And he finally hears it—

The startling cataclysm of the base of the glass crashing into the floor—finally feels the warmth of the bourbon on his pants. Finally feels.

Feels everything.

how to dance in time - Eliot and Quentin are very in love. 

A rush of warmth shoots up into his heart, and his feet move of their own accord. Quentin must sense him enter the room, because he looks up, and his chest heaves as he breathes in a big gust of air, and the small smile on his lips slowly softens to just a tiny uptick of the corners of his mouth. But his eyes are wide and shining, and he’s not moving. Just. Watching Eliot approach.

Julia makes a face, smiling but not really, and as Eliot comes to a stop beside them, she clears her throat and shoves up from the couch. “I’m just gonna—“ She breaks off as Eliot shakes his head, barely able to take his gaze off Quentin.

“No,” He says, waving a hand at her, “We need some privacy, anyways.” He glances at her, even as the thought of looking away from Quentin feels like too much of a loss. He reminds himself that he has another lifetime to do so. That this isn’t the end. That they finally managed to solve the problem, and that there aren’t any more apocalypses on the horizon. That he and Quentin have another chance to spend a lifetime together. That he can spare a few seconds without looking at him, because he’s got billions left.

She quirks an eyebrow, but shrugs a shoulder, dropping back down onto the couch. “All right,” She says, turning to look at Quentin. Eliot follows her gaze, feels his breath hitch.

Quentin’s hair is just as messy as it always is. But for once, instead of forcing down the fondness, Eliot embraces it wholly. Feels his cheek twitch with it. He reaches out, holds a hand out for him, and tries not to look too expectant.

with no space between us - Quentin and Eliot are reunited and a little desperate.

Quentin drops to his knees, wide eyed and awe struck. His chest heaves as he tries to catch a breath, but that’s all automatic, because he can’t care less about what his lungs are doing. Because there’s a glint of simmering hazel peaking out from beneath curly black hair—there’s a nose and a mouth. And before Quentin can really be sure he’s done it, long, lithe fingers are pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt, and clumsy arms are making their way around the back of his neck and around his waist. He freezes, just a moment of hesitation, before all the air his lungs keep trying to collect whooshes out of him in one big burst and he’s collapsing against a familiar chest. All warmth and ease.

He squeezes Eliot with all the strength he has in him. Grips his fingers into the back of the monsters jacket, holds on for dear life. All the desperation that’s stacked up on his shoulders moves down; seeps into the air around them as Eliot pulls him in impossibly tighter.

“You did it,” Eliot whispers into his ear, twisting his chin around and catching it on Quentin’s hair. He inhales, deep, and breathes him in.

Quentin shakes his head, but makes no move to pull away. “El,” He mumbles, his words dancing along the skin of Eliot’s collar bone, lips dragging in their wake. “If you think I’m letting go—“

“Don’t,” Eliot interrupts, shaking his own head, closing his eyes. “Don’t let go. Not yet.”

not said to me - quentin’s favorite color is purple.

Quentin’s favorite color is purple.

It hasn’t always been, but there’s a lifetime between when it wasn’t, and now. Years upon years, and moments upon moments.

Quentin’s favorite color is purple. Not just any shade of purple, though. Not like the plums Arielle used to bring to the mosaic before she became a part of their lives. Not the pale, pastel of the magic mushrooms Eliot once found lining the river. Not even the deep royal purple of Teddy’s first girlfriends dress. It’s a particular purple. He doubts anyone else even remembers it.

on a sunny tuesday afternoon, with the sunlight glowing in your hair - Eliot relives a memory.

He’s hit with the taste of opium, and the sweet, hickory scent of the Fillorian woods. Magic swells up within him, dances along his fingertips, and up into the air all around him. He feels his smile inch wider; even more so when he looks to his right and see’s the meadow. And beyond that—the cottage. Three little kids are running around chasing one another in the front of it, and Quentin’s sitting on the ground with a baby, smiling hopelessly at her, while she gurgles and laughs, tugging at his beard. Teddy comes from around the side of the cottage, holding a stack of freshly washed mosaic tiles, his wife trailing after him, content smiles on both their faces.

This is Eliot’s happy place.

He swallows, before making his way over. The leaves and twigs beneath his feet crunch and crack, giving him away. And before he knows it, three excited screams are directed at him, and he’s got a child attached to each leg, hugging him tight like a viper, and one holding her arms up at him, hands opening and closing; yelling for him to pick her up.

The laugh bubbles up out of his chest of its own volition as he leans down and picks her up, pulling her in. She tucks her head under his chin, giggling breathlessly and wrapping her arms around his neck, while he secures his hold on her by wrapping his hand around her thigh. It’s almost too tight, her hold on his throat, but in a good way. Content suffocation, is what he calls it. Not enough to strangle, just enough to remind him that he’s here. Enough to make him think he’s alive, and that this is real.

as a hello - Eliot makes a wish. 

El . . .” Margo says from behind him. She’s being cautious, which is fair, because he’s holding a coin over the most powerful magic in all of Fillory, ready to make his wish. “Just—remember. That these things never turn out how you expect.”

He knows. His thumb brushes over the face of the coin, his eyes fluttering shut. ‘Be careful,’ the questing dog had said, ‘for the wishing fountain grants the wish in the way it so chooses.’ Not like the winters doe—who’s gone missing—but with a twist. Sometimes it grants what’s beyond the words, resting on the veins of the wishers heart. Sometimes it senses evil, and grants the opposite if not worded precisely. It’d been the only reason Martin Chatwin stayed away. One wrong word, and Eliot could blow up the entire universe and every living thing that inhabits it.

So, of course, the entire trek up he’d thought about his wording. Simple. As few words as possible, but clear enough. Precise. No room for the fountain to take it the wrong way. Made sure to keep all his feelings about Quentin’s death bubbling up on the surface so the fountain can’t even think that his heart isn’t in it when he makes the wish.

Truth be told, Margo and Julia had spent the entire quest sharing side eyed glances as the tears quietly slipped over his cheeks. He’s sure they’ve wanted to tell him to turn back a dozen or more times. But they got to say goodbye. They got closure.

so we keep waiting (as restless as an avalanche) - Penny and Quentin have a chat. 

“Uh, hey.”

Quentin looks up from the book, blinking away the sleep dark that threatens at the edges of his vision, and narrows his eyes up at Penny standing in the doorway. He’s got his arms crossed like he’s uncomfortable. Which means Quentin’s about to be uncomfortable. Well. More uncomfortable. He hasn’t not felt uncomfortable in weeks. Months. Years, even.

The one time he can think back on being comfortable is on the worlds most uncomfortable couch, filled to the brim with easing spells, straw sticking out the sides, while he lay across it horizontally with his legs dipping over the side, and his head in Eliot’s lap. Eliot’s fingers scratching mindless patterns in Quentin’s scalp, getting tangled in the unkempt mess. All while their son laughs in the other room, a giddy little manic joy that only a child can possess. The comfort, then, had been easy and real. Especially when he opened his eyes and found Eliot watching him with a soft smile that he’d reserved solely for moments like these.

hot water on wool -- Quentin takes a shower. 

Like the fucking world is doing to him.

He steps out of the his pants, and toes off the wet socks. Looks at himself in the mirror again.

He’s not—emaciated. Unhealthy. No, he’s just. Pale. Shivering. Even as the steam settles on the edges of the mirror, spreading in. Like a tunnel closing in on him. He lets it. Let’s the steam fill the room, fog the mirror. Let’s himself fade away beneath it, until he’s nothing more than an unrecognizable blur. Then he turns, reaches into the shower. His hand settles beneath the spray.

Hot.

Hot, hot, hot.

Too fucking hot.

He—he feels like it’ll set him aflame.

(i’m) coming back to you (wip) - turns out Penny made a bet with Hades that quentin wouldn’t go through the archway.

Quentin stops just outside the archway, and looks down at the metro card in his hand. He mattered to them. It’s okay. They’ll be okay. He just needs to--to walk through the door.

But.

“Something wrong?”

He blinks down at the card, turning it over in his palm, and quietly says to it, “You never did answer my question.” He looks up from the card, and twists around to turn his gaze on Penny. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he seems mostly surprised that Quentin hasn’t gone through the door yet. “Did I? Kill myself?”

Penny stares at him for a long moment before taking a half step towards him and rolling his shoulders. “Does it matter?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? His friends were mourning him--he mattered to them. His life wasn’t this meaningless disaster he’d always thought it was. And for once, his brain isn’t compounded by countless thoughts of ‘what if I--’s. For once in his entire life, it’s all just silent, and it shouldn’t matter how it happened. He should just turn, and step through the door and--

“Yes.”

rage, rage against the dying of the light - Eliot’s pissed after (4x13) and rightfully so.

“Where are you going?”

He pauses by the refrigerator, tries not to notice the sticky note with Quentin’s handwriting stuck to a menu on the freezer door--though, it hasn’t worked the other six times he’s been in the kitchen, so why would it now? “Well,” he says, reaching up with only a minor twinge in his gut, to scratch at the edge of the menu. “Everyone’s getting their happy ever afters. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.” The words come out softer than he intends, but he’s too busy following the anxious loop on the y of Friday with his eyes, while the crisp cardboard of the menu falls into the crook between his nail and skin.

“Eliot.” It’s all command seeped in worry.

And if he weren’t already so sick of people pretending to care, he’d play along.

--

Or, Eliot's sick of the "pretend everything's okay" game.

Lucidity - Eliot’s mourning, the others are Questing. Cupid makes an appearance. 

Margo barges into his room on the eve of day ninety, glares at him with a trembling jaw and says, “We’re going to save Quentin Mother Fucking Coldwater from the other god damned side, and you are going to help us.”

He blinks owlishly up at her, before the words finally register and he scrambles so he’s sitting upright in his bed, wincing only slightly along the way. “What?” He asks. “How? What?”

“I’ve respected your mourning period because I’m a great fucking friend. But Julia and Josh and Penny and I have taken this as far as we can. It’s your turn.”

She looks kind of angry, and he’s just. He’s confused.

Clarity - missing scene from Lucidity. Quentin and Eliot talk shit out.

They’re curled up together, lying face to face in Eliot’s bed with their hands interlaced in between them. Eliot blinks quietly, index finger tracing the vein overtop the back of Quentin’s hand, and swallows heavily as Quentin’s lips tilt upwards, eyes following the motion. It’s been a week of this. Of warm beds and soft skin and calm ease. Of reacquainting and allowing themselves to say everything they’ve spent years too afraid to even acknowledge.

He swallows again as his palm flattens out over the whole of Quentin’s, edges extending out onto the boney expanse of his wrist, and fingers curling over the tips of Quentins. Quentin’s eyes flutter shut, and Eliot weaves his fingers in through the space between Quentin’s. It’s strange, still, how easily and perfectly his hand fits in Quentin’s. How even after a lifetime of memories of doing nothing more than this for near an hour every morning, it still sends an electric shock down his arm and spine, and jump starts his heart for the day.

to love and back - Eliot rescues Quentin from the afterlife.

It’s not what he expected to lie on this side of the door. For the peace and ease of it all to be so all consuming that he’d just. Not want to go. But, the door’s still there, can feel the rope wrapped around his waist scratching at the corner of the doorframe whenever he moves, and he doesn’t even care, because he’d walked through, and Quentin had just been standing there. Almost like he’d been waiting for him. And for the past however long it’s been, if he can even quantify time in a timeless expanse of everything, they’ve been unable to unravel from one another.

“Is this the afterlife?” Quentin asks, a moment later, breath gushing out of him, and forming a small cloud above them. It’s not even cold. It’s just this place; everything they do creates color or planets or clouds. Every breath, and every movement. There’s a tree forming at the edges of the clearing--which stills feels eerily similar to the one Quentin and Eliot spent a lifetime together finding the beauty of all life in—creaking and crackling; Eliot pretends not to see the fresh bark as it crackles to life, and flutters to the ground; not quite ready for the growth spurt that spawns it.

(i’m) coming back to you - fuck you, Quentin’s not perma-dead.

Quentin stops just outside the archway, and looks down at the metro card in his hand. He mattered to them. It’s okay. They’ll be okay. He just needs to--to walk through the door.

But.

“Something wrong?”

He blinks down at the card, turning it over in his palm, and quietly says to it, “You never did answer my question.” He looks up from the card, and twists around to turn his gaze on Penny. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he seems mostly surprised that Quentin hasn’t gone through the door yet. “Did I? Kill myself?”

Penny stares at him for a long moment before taking a half step towards him and rolling his shoulders. “Does it matter?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? His friends were mourning him--he mattered to them. His life wasn’t this meaningless disaster he’d always thought it was. And for once, his brain isn’t compounded by countless thoughts of ‘what if I--’s. For once in his entire life, it’s all just silent, and it shouldn’t matter how it happened. He should just turn, and step through the door and--

“Yes.”

Anything (& more) - Eliot’s a big ol’ romantic. 

Two days after everything settles down, and a week after they get Quentin back, Eliot tells Margo to have Quentin meet him where they first met.

He’s wearing the same outfit, though he’ll never admit the fit has grown a bit snug, thanks to the monsters dietary habits. He’s in the same position he was when Quentin first came stumbling back up to him—lit cigarette in one hand, a hastily made card with Quentin’s name in the other—while he lounges across the stone. All poise and confidence—even, if he’s being honest, right about now his hearts definitely arguing the confidence of it all. If the way it’s pounding anxiously in his chest is anything to go by, that is.

But, it doesn’t matter, because he remembers that first day perfectly. And for the bits he didn’t, Margo had been gracious enough to cast a remembrance spell, because, ‘Like hell I’m leaving this all in your hands, El. You have a tendency to screw up when it comes to Q.’

Happiness Begins - Eliot of the future barges in on Quentin’s first moments at brakebills.

“Quentin Coldwater?”

Quentin blinks up at the man in white, an angel in his own right, as he glares down at him, contempt and mild interest battling it out on his face. All Quentin can do is nod with a, “Uh-huh,” because the words can’t seem to find him anymore than his heart seems capable of slowing down.

The man’s eyes narrow, before his gaze sweeps over Quentin’s body, sending a chill down Quentin’s spine, and a malease of how beautiful the angel is, and what he must see when he looks over him. He swallows thickly, and the man jumps down from the stone, a soft little smirk settling on his lips. “I’m Eliot. You’re late.”

Quentin blinks again, not quite sure what to say, but the man turns on his heel, and Quentin stares after him. He’s talking, but he can’t quite register any of the words with the sudden summer sun blaring down on him, and the cool breeze ruffling his hair and sweeping away the nervous sweat building along his hairline. He takes a step, moves to follow after the man, not quite ready to let him go, when a warm hand wraps around his arm from behind, and spins him around.

Dancing in the Dark (WIP) - Eliot recreates the happy place for some time with Quentin, but not everything it as it seems. 

“Hey, old man.”

Eliot smiles softly to himself, glancing across the room. “Q,” he murmurs. He hadn’t meant to conjure him just yet, but he’s not exactly upset to see him, either. Especially like this. Happy, and old. And, god, that’s more than he probably could have even hoped for from this spell. Exactly like his final memories of him from the life that never happened.

Quentin grins; his smile lines are deep enough to hide a lifetime of laughter. It pulls at something in Eliot’s chest, the way the wrinkles and grey hair only seem to make Quentin all the more endearing. “You seem surprised to see me.”

(this is not a) Temporary Love - there’s a use for the vial of blood. Also, letters. so many letters. 

There’s a layer of dust coating everything in the cottage, like nobody’s been here since them. A thick white film, almost the perfect representation of what their lives ended up being. He swipes a finger along the counter as he goes, a thin streak left behind, as he marvels at the fact that it’s exactly how they left it — despite never having actually been here. Even the lines along the doorway to the kitchen, where Quentin had insisted on marking Teddy’s height; Eliot pauses here, to press his nail into the tallest mark, a soft smile dancing along his lips at the memory of Quentin pouting when they finally had the proof that Teddy had officially grown taller than him.

He swallows down a lump and moves down the short hallway. The door to the bedroom is closed, and he hesitates for a moment, before reaching out and wrapping his hand around the knob. He freezes, a memory flashing of Quentin.

Uncle Jerichos boat - (this is James/Q) James shows off his uncles boat.

Written for the covenant house drabbles thing. 

First Date Flirting - Margo & Alice go on their first date.

written for the covenant house drabbles thing.

Quentin’s Wards - Penny overhears something in Quentin’s head. (Penntin)

written for the covenant house drabbles thing.

if not by fate, then by fire (not to me) - another i love you.

There’s a webbing of magic there, glinting in the sunlight. He squints his eyes and tilts his head, moving to sit on his knees to get a closer look. It looks like wards; ghostly equations dancing in the air and letting the wind gently guide them back and forth. Like a flag on a gentle summer day. He watches it, almost like he’s caught in a trance, for a moment. Almost starts swaying with it.

And then he gets up, and follows it.

Lets it lead him. And when he approaches it, settling a hand in the air a breath away from making contact, he takes a deep breath, and looks up over it towering over him. Still swaying, like a dance to say hello and remind him he’s alive. His lips falls into a soft smile, and he presses forward. Expects a shockwave or for the magic to refuse his entrance. But his hand pushes through, and then his wrist with it’s magic rune, and then his arm and shoulder and before he knows it, he’s blinking up into a cloudless summer sky.

Relief - Quentin and Eliot have a talk (andthensome)

“You’re missing your own party.”

Quentin startles, flipping around so his back against the balcony wall, and bringing a hand to his chest as Eliot steps out onto the balcony with him. He’s watching him expectantly, a strange little smile on his lips, and Quentin swallows, attempts a sheepish shrug. “It’s a lot,” he says after a moment, carefully turning back around to look over the city view the penthouse grants. He reaches up and clutches the bars on the wall, fists tight and knuckles burning white.

The sound of Eliot’s shoes tapping against the concrete beneath their feet fills the silence, until Quentin can feel him, warm and real, standing just behind him.

In Case You Don’t Live Forever - Quentin and Eliot decide to get Help. 

“I had a dream,” he murmurs, letting the words drift, directionless into the air around him. He doesn’t expect Quentin to reply. How could he? He hasn’t said more than a handful of words since Eliot woke up, barring the quiet, ‘I’m glad you’re not dead’ whispered into his bed while he thought Eliot was sleeping.

Eliot twists his neck, catches the tail end of a too quick movement of Quentin purposefully looking away—back up to the sky. Swallows down the hurt that suddenly fills him up with the residual panic from his dreams. “I think it was more a nightmare, actually.” He pauses, but Quentin only blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing; the barest hint of a shadow movement beneath the moonlight. “Can I tell you about it?”

Tell Me You Love Me - Penntin, the first i love you.

Quentin Coldwater realizes he’s in love with his boyfriend on a Tuesday in the middle of June. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be an issue. He could keep it tucked up in his head, this quiet little longing all for himself forever if need be.

Except his boyfriend can read minds. And Quentin’s wards, despite his best efforts, are crap. Add to that his inability to tell a decent lie, and well.

Penny Adiyodi finds out Quentin loves him on a Wednesday morning in the middle of June.

timekeeper - Eliot uses stoppards machine. 

(written for the covenant house drabbles)

“How the fuck did I agree to this?”

“I think the better question is why didn’t we stop Eliot from knocking Stoppard out,” Julia murmurs, staring down at Stoppard's sleeping body. “That’s definitely something we could have done.”

Eliot looks over his shoulder at them, his hand slipping from the edge of the window. “Would you two stop wasting time and tell me how to work this fucking thing?” When Penny turns a glare on him, Eliot simply offers a glare right back and motions towards the mirror. “Please.” He adds obligingly, when Julia pointedly raises her eyebrows at him. His hand slowly falls until Penny sighs and moves around him, gently shoving Eliot out of the way.

in awe, the first time you realized it - another i love you.

They’re lying on the grass not far off from the mosaic. Quentin’s laying on his back with his arm tucked up under his head, pointing up at a cloud, claiming it’s making a shape it most certainly isn’t, and Eliot’s lying next to him on his side, a fond little smile on his lips as he lets him ramble. He’s making up a story about the cloud, how it’s a fierce dragon, fighting its way to victory across the skies, seeking out its mate. Or the knight meant to slay it. Quentin adds this bit with a slight shake of his head, glancing at Eliot just long enough to make sure he laughs. He does. Because it’s ridiculous.

Eliot plucks a blade of grass from between them and rolls it between his fingers. His knuckles brush up against Quentin’s stomach, and Quentin stumbles along what he’s trying to say. Smirking, Eliot leans in and quirks an eyebrow. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, Q. You’ll have to start over.”

a whisper in the ear - another i love you.

Quentin’s sitting in the living room, reading a book — something new that Kady had tossed to him when she came back from the library to help him “find a new obsession preferably not created by a pedophile, yeah?” — with his legs tucked up underneath him. His hair falls from it’s place behind his ear, and he reaches up to tuck it back into its place; a fruitless task but a habit that he’s not likely to break unless he cuts his hair. He shuffles further into the cushion of the couch, brow furrowing as the protagonist in the book hears a strange noise and decides to follow it. He shakes his head at her — never fucking following the strange noise, Patrice, god — but turns the page anyways.

The sound of the front door opening and closing fills the room, but it’s not enough to break his concentration. The books great, and the characters in it don’t make the best life decisions, but he can’t help but think that that’s why he relates to them. He still jumps when a creature jumps out of the closet and bares it’s teeth at Patrice. Still tries not to cheer, when a couple paragraphs later, she jabs the broken leg of a chair through its chest.

Still I come back to you - 4x13 never happened, but Quentin and Eliot still manage to be disasters.

He’s able to sit up for the first time on a Thursday. Has been weaving in and out of consciousness for the better half of a week. Flanked by Margo on his left, Quentin on his right, and a revolving door of characters at his feet. Visitors who come and go and sometimes come back. Like Penny and Alice and Julia. Or who come once, stay for a few minutes, and then disappear to never return. Like Dean Fogg and Kady. Nothing more than courtesy drop by.

He doesn’t mind. Quentin squeezes his hand tight like he thinks he might, though, so he just nuzzles his cheek into Quentin’s shoulder and opts not to mention that he has all he needs right here. Pretends not to hear Margo’s judgement when she huffs out an amused breath. Squeezes her hand as if to say not now, Bambi.

dance with me - another i love you

What was it he’d said in his happy place all those months ago?

Oh, right.

He promised to be brave.

One moment of bravery for a lifetime of happiness. Quentin had been brave, back in Fillory, when he’d kissed Eliot that first time. And the culmination of that one moment had been fifty years of ups and downs and — Maybe Eliot just has to be the one to take that leap this time.

Family Ties - Eliot finds Quentin’s mom after his death. (WIP)

They’d spent nights under the stars, lying beside one another, revealing little bits of themselves in ways they’d never felt safe before. Until every part of their lives laid out, open and bare for the other to hold and protect.

It’s why when Julia and Alice both each volunteered to do this, he couldn’t let them. Why when Julia, watery eyed and jittery, sitting beside him in the infirmary, said, “I have to tell his mother.” He squeezed her hand.

And said no.

here’s to the so much better - another i love you

They’ve lived the so much better. They fought and died for the so much better. They literally went to hell and back and if that wasn’t for so much better than what the fuck was it for? Longing glances across the room but an unwillingness to act on feelings they both know are there? A lingering touch in the kitchen when Eliot reaches the top shelf and hands the cup to Quentin? Falling asleep on each other in the living room because they’re too comfortable and too cowardly to go upstairs together?

Fuck. That.

Golden - Quentin pines. Eliot’s oblivious.

“What do you think it looks like?” He asks, voice barely loud enough to pass over the soft rustling of the trees.

“It’s called the Golden Tile, Q. I imagine it’s golden. And a tile.”

Quentin rolls his eyes and looks back up at him. “I meant the beauty of all life. What do you think it looks like?”

delicate - Quentin just really loves Taylor Swift.

Quentin blanched, eyes going wide as he took an annoyed step backwards. “Taylor Swift released two new albums while I was gone and you didn’t tell me?” A hand came up and rushed through his greasy, unwashed hair as best it could with the tangles, and he shook his head. “How dare you.”

perspective - Quentin and Eliot have a talk after Quentin’s resurrection.

Eliots down here somewhere — he knows, because he’d checked his room first. Because not long after Margo went to bed last night, Eliot, beautiful, kind Eliot, lit by the glow of the dimming fire set by Quentin’s magic-clumsy hands, and in a searing moment of deja vu, pulled Quentin in and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Now That the Chips are Down - Quentin claws himself out of a grave. (WIP)

He’s bleary eyed, stumbling along the sidewalk, lights from the city glaring down at him, chest heaving with every aching, heavy breath. He can still feel the dirt between his teeth, the coarse texture of it lining his throat from where he’d breathed it in. His fingers ache, cuticles bleeding and tender where the dirt lines them. He glances down at them, vision going dark for a moment before phasing back in. His hands stretched out in front of him, palm out. Hands are so dirty.

Ghost of You - Eliot keeps seeing Quentin die. Resurrection fic.

“I see him,” He says, voice crackling like a fire struggling to stay lit. “Every night when I go to sleep. I see him die. It’s never the same. And then I see his ghost, and he never goes away.” He offers her a wry smile, finally looking away from Quentin to meet her eyes. “I’m literally being haunted by the ghost of my past and there’s no escape. Sleep only makes it worse. Being drunk makes it more vivid. Being high makes me nauseous. I can’t fucking escape it or him or how much it fucking hurts.” He waves a hand. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He half expects the world to burst into flames around him. But no fire singes his skin. Kady just narrows her eyes, lets go of his knee and stands up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He’s too tired to move. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” he says.

Too tired to breathe, sometimes.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Thank you so much for all of your fic! I know you probably have a lot on your plate and many prompts in your inbox, but literally one of my absolute favourite tropes ever is "Tony taking out the Arc Reactor to look at it for a moment and because he's him and hasn't actually explained a lot about it to people those around watching him suddenly pop it out his chest for no reason have a mini panic". Could you maybe do a fic with this with Tony and Peter?

Thank you, anon! Sorry that it took me so long toget this done. And sorry if it came out too angsty. If you´re still around, I´d like toknow what you think.Also, if you don´t know it yet, check out this awesome ficby @darkestsight. It works with the same storyline.

Let´s ignore canon for this one and imagineTony still has his arc reactor after Civil War. Light angst, mentions of canonical deaths, injury and emeto.

Lose another one

The drone is larger than any Peter´s ever seenbefore. It looks nearly awe-inspiring when it is encased by Iron Man´s repulsor blasts and ignites in a series of explosions. But then an energy ray strikes the chest piece of Tony´sarmour, causing the arc reactor´s glow to fade, and it all goes downhill from there.

When Peter makes a hard and hasty landing on the ground, Tony isalready on his feet again,impatiently waving ahand at him.

“Followme,” Peter hears him rasp hoarsely in his ear piece, and it doesn´t need the slightly-off tone inhis voice for Peter´s spider senses to dial up.

“Are youalright?” he asks while hurrying to keep up with Tony´s jog. His glove is torn, a finger bleeding sluggishly, and he must have bashed his knee somewhere, because he can feel himself limping.

“Don´t callthe others,” he gets a cut-off reply, and then Tony must have muted his mike,because the panting breaths Peter´s been hearing stop all of the sudden.

They don´tmake it far into the forest before Tony starts to sway on his feet, visibly having problems walking a straight line.

Peter isabout to call him out on it, but Tony´s legs are already giving outunder him. He sinks to his knees, bracing one arm against a tree strunk, before doubling over. His helmet withdraws, and Peter can just make out hisstark white face in the last shimmers of evening light.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony starts to reply, but instead of words he brings up a mouthful of vomit. His upper body seems to vanish and then return for moments in the pale-blue flickering of the arc reactor´s light.

Petercan see little white clouds of air leaving his mentor´s lips in rapid succession. He takes a step forward, torn between the urge to help and the wish to give him some privacy.

“Mr. Stark, is this – are you having a panic attack?”

Tonydoesn’t answer, too busy throwing up again. He clutches his chest with his free hand, still retching, his face contorting in sudden agony.He seems to beunable to stay upright, listing to the side until Peter catches him in anawkward angle against his chest and slowly lowers him to the ground.

“Oh, shit,” Peter´s brains runs frantically, searching for the right words, the right actions, his heart pounding so hard that he can feel it till his fingertips.

“I, uhm, we´re here, near New York, we had a fight, but we are save now -”

“F - fuckingknow where I am,” Tony can´t resist to press out between gritted teeth. “Just…”

His trembling hand reaches for the hidden switchthat opens the suit. He sure as hell didn´t want to do this in front of the kid, but timing is not on his side today, or ever, for that matter.

His vision is getting increasingly blurred. Peter isnothing but a whisp of red and blue, but luckily his fingers don´t need sight to find the outline of the reactor, twist it a little and take it out of hischest. Blue energy frizzles around the tip of his thumb.

The relief is instantaneous. The chest pain doesn´t vanish, but Tony stops feeling like he is actively dying, the nausea decreases to a minimum, and he can finally take a deep breath.

He lies there, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of oxygen flooding his veins and the buzzing in his head slowly dying down. It´s only Peter´s panicking voice that pulls im out of the haze.

“Please, areyou awake?“ Tony squints upwards, momentarily surprised at the presence of another human being. The expression on the kid´s face is pure terror.

“Oh god, why would you do that?”

“Do what?” Tony grunts.

“The arc reactor, why did you take it out?”

Tony has to think about that for a moment, his mind still catching up with the events.

“Oh, that. It overcharged, that bastard of a drone pulled some trick I wasn´t expecting.”

“Can you put it back in now?” Peter´s voice is impatient, still on the brink of tripping over itself.

“It should decharge on its own, just give it a moment,” Tony reassures.

Peter doesn´t seem convinced. He gives Tony a sceptical glance, chewing on his lower lip. Tony knows that this is probably owed to him not having the bestreputation of self-care, but honestly-

“Come on, I´m the one with trust issues,” he teases, but the grin Peter gives in reply is half-hearted at best.

He makes to sit, grabbing Peter´s arm for support when the dizziness dials up again.

“Huh.” He takesa deep breath. “Wow, this is how it feels to bea high voltage plant?”

Peter doesn´t even laugh, his eyes darting to and fro between Tony´s face and the arc reactor in his hand. There´s bit of dirt and ice on it, and he absent-mindedly rubs it clean with numb fingers.

“Kid, quit looking at me like that. I´ll be okay if I take it out for a fewminutes,” Tony adds ina more sober tone, although the greying edges around his vision tell him that his few minutes are nearly over.“Scout´s honour. ”

Half an hour later, Bruce is sitting with Peter in a van that is slowly making its way back to the compound through a New York clouded by icy rain.

Tony is lying on a gurney, out like a light. He´d stumbled to the vehicle on shaky legs, insisting that he was fine, and had only grumpily let Bruce check him over while Pete distracted him with tech talk, just to fade out on them less than five minutes into the ride.

He is fine, as Bruce assured Peter several times, or at least Tony´s definition of it. But his heart has taken a heavy shock during the drone´s attack and the aftershocks are still catching up with him, causing his blood pressure to fall through the basement. He looks almost peaceful now, apart from the slim oxygen tube leading to his nose and the cuff fixed around his upper arm.

“But does anyone even know how it works? What if something happens, how to fix it… “

Peter shakes Bruce out of his thoughts.

“Friday´s got all the data saved. Tony might be the best in the field, but there are quite a few engineers that could help fixing it even if he´s incapacitated.” If Tony lets them, he thinks, but he doesn´t say that out loud. “He´s gonna be okay, kid, we are taking good care of him.”

Peter nods, but it´s the kind of nod Bruce knows all too well from himself, one lacking any conviction.

He´s going to have a word with Tony.

That night Peter finds himself standing at the window, unable to sleep, staring at the snowflakes that are slowly morphing the compound from a boring grey into a fairytale landscape.

Tony had woken up groggily shortly after they´d reached back, and Bruce and Friday had to threaten to lock him out of the lab in order to make him stay in bed and rest.

“Traitor,” Tony had growled at the ceiling, and Peter had grinned, and then he´d sat on the edge of the bed while Tony talked him through fixing his glove, pretending not to see the way his right hand was still massaging his chest every now and then.

Tony had needed his reading glasses to see the small bits and pieces, and Peter had called him grandpa, causing Bruce to laugh so hard he nearly turned green. The arc reactor had been glowing steadily, and for a moment things had seemed okay.

He´d excused himself soon after, citing homework as a reason. And now here he was, staring at the snow like it could tell him what´s wrong with him, what´s causing his chest to feel tight and his breaths to stock every here and there.

Maybe it was the casuality with which Tony had removed the device that´s keeping him alive, as if it wasn´t just more than another thing, something of not more value to Tony than any other of his machines.

His neck warns him with a tickling even before he can hear the footsteps.

“Shouldn´t you be resting?” he asks when Tony rounds the corner.He still looks paler than he usually does, and Peter notices that he is staying close to the wall, legs a little unstable.

“I could ask you the same thing, Spider-kid,” he replies.

“How are you?” Peter asks instead of giving an answer.

“I´m great, I´m peachy.“

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles, biting his lip. He concentrates on the pattern the snow flakes leave on the window pane.

“What´s up, Spiderling? Doesn´t suit you, this grumpy sort of silence.” Tony eyes him with an intensity that´s usually reserved for tricky bits of code or wire.

Peter evades his gaze, but he notices when Tony doesn´t walk up till the window, sinking down into an armchair insteadwith visible relief.

“How are you, really?”

“I told, you, I´m fine. I´m always fine.” Tony says in a dismissive tone, slightly annoyed. Something about it suddenly makes Peter feel incredibly angry.

“You always say this,” he blurts out. “And then you nearly get electrocuted, or you die from a heart attack, and…I…I just stand there - and -”

He doesn´t want to shout, to fight, to make more of a fool of himself. He knows that his mentor has stayed alive, more or less, for 50 years without his supervision. But the words are out before he can stop himself.

There´s a long silence before Tony starts to speak.

“I do understand you,“ he finally says, and Peter hears the but even before the next words leave his mouth.

“I would like to promise you that things will change, that I´ll take care of myself, that I´ll keep my nose out of all the dangerous stuff. But honestly, what´s the sense of raising false expectations?” Tony draws in a breath, a little shaky, and Peter is almost sure that this has nothing to do with his heart condition.

“Yeah, I get it.” And he does, he sees the layers of Tony´s fears and obligations, his pride and responsibilities, doesn´t see through them exactly, but he understands that it´s not his place to expect anything more than what he has already received. But still…

Something childish in Peter just wants to urge him to promise it anyways, just wants to hear the words from his mouth, eventhough he knows that they can´t become true.

He turns away, back to the window, hoping that the room is too dark for Tony to see his reflection in the glass. Maybe this is just part of growing up, he thinks, the knowledge that at some point, nobody you love is safe anymore.

“Hey.” Tony´s voice is a little softer now. He gets up with a groan, rests a hand on Peter´s shoulder.

“Listen, kid. I might be a grandpa to you, but I can take care of myself. And contrary to popular belief, I don´t have an active interest in kicking the bucket anytime soon.”

“I know,” Peter says. “It´s just…” It´s just that that nobody ever planned to leave. They were just gone, from one moment to the next.

He stubbornly blinks away a tear, feeling infinitely silly. It falls nonetheless, leaving a wet spot on the window sill.

And then Tony is there, finally, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him towards his chest. It´s the closest thing to a hug Peter has ever received from him.

“I can’t lose another one,” he whispers.

“I know,“ Tony says, a hint of sadness in his tone when his arms tighten fast around Peter and make the world seem a little bit less insecure. “I´ll try. I´ll try my best, I promise.”

[mojo562j]

My Living Nightmare Caused by Liver Disease

My nightmare started overnight, sometime in the spring of 2013. After 4 straight days of binge drinking, I woke up and immediately noticed my stomach was swollen as an 8-month pregnant woman. I lifted my bed sheets and saw a mixture of blood and pus running down my thighs.

I immediately rushed to the restroom to clean up the mess. Then, I urinated. The color was rusty looking- a mixture of orange and dark brown. I looked in the mirror and noticed that the whites of my eyes and the color of my skin was yellow.

I panicked. I knew I had a major medical problem.

I immediately rushed to the ER. The nurse drew blood, then the technicians performed an MRI and an ultrasound. About an hour later, the doctor sat beside me and regretfully informed me that I had liver cirrhosis. I quickly said, “please doctor, tell me that I can still drink?” He replied “yes, but you won’t live longer than three months” I went into shock. I couldn’t imagine my life without alcohol. Next, he inserted a thin plastic tube into my abdomen and drained about 9 liters of fluid.

Liver cirrhosis is a relentless, nasty, barbaric painful disease with no mercy whatsoever! Compared to others with this disease, my case was more severe. When I arrived home from the ER, I had a massive sharp pain running down my lower back and upper thigh, similar to a sciatic nerve, except the pain was much more intense.

The decades of alcohol and drug abuse suddenly caught up with me.

The doctor that diagnosed me with liver cirrhosis told me that he strongly recommended that I take the next flight back to the US. He informed me that the Philippines is a developing country and doesn’t have medical technology as advanced as the US. He said if I stayed there, I’ll probably die.

So, I bought a ticket for the next flight to the US, then walked to the nearest bar. It was July 18th, 2013, my birthday. It would be the last time I ever drank. I sat alone. I needed to mourn. I was devoid of any emotion. I remember gazing at the people in the bar. Most of them were smiling and laughing. However, for some strange reason, I couldn’t hear them-they were on mute.

I knew this was going to be my last drink ever. I suddenly felt like I lost my closest loved one. I relived the first time I took a sip of beer, at the tender age of five-Budweiser in a can. I remembered all the times I got arrested as a teen (13 times), for alcohol related offenses. I  reminisced getting hooked on heavy drugs because of alcohol. I recalled my head getting bashed in the middle of the street by five Blood gang members from South-Central L.A. because of alcohol. I remember attempting suicide because of alcohol. I recalled the countless problems associated with alcohol. And now I am dying because of alcohol. It was at this moment, that I realized I hit rock bottom. The game was over.

So, I stared at the empty beer bottle. I had to say good-bye to something that I desperately clung onto for the past 35 years. I love the taste of alcohol. Until this day, I crave alcohol. I would much rather lock myself in my room and drink a 12 pack then go on a world cruise. You see, alcohol was my best friend, a substitute for a girlfriend, a father whom I’ve always wanted and most important, an escape from reality.

I am 53 years old, single and no kids.  

I knew once I stopped drinking, I would feel like I was on national television, naked for the world to see. I would be exposed. There would be nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. How would I adjust to living sober? What would I do every day?  

When I returned to the US, my condition worsened. For the next three years, I suffered the following:  nausea, vomiting, flu-like symptoms, anemia, insomnia, swollen feet, ankles and calves, Hepatitis C, type 2 diabetes, kidney failure, several infections, two hernias, gallstones, whole body itching, permanent loss of body hair, except scalp and facial hair, a constant metallic taste in my mouth, jaundice, sluggishness, bruises on my arms and legs, craters in my cheek bones and neck, nerve pain in my feet, excruciating abdominal pain, severe weight loss (went from 210 lbs. to 136 lbs.), swollen belly, diarrhea, anxiety, paranoia, massive hallucinations so intense that I fell into three comas, partial brain damage, muscle atrophy, severe leg cramps, extreme fatigue, shortness of breath, and sharp “stabbing-like” pains all over my body. I never imagined a dreadful disease with so many symptoms and so much pain!

Imagine having all of these symptoms for three years straight. Imagine having only one of these symptoms, such as the flu for 3 years straight. After a few months, I could no longer stand the pain. I wanted out. While in the hospital, three times I asked the doctors to put me under, permanently. They stared at me for a few seconds, turned around and walked away. There was nothing the doctors nor anyone else could do. If a liver is more than 75% damaged, it’s irreversible and irreparable. A liver transplant was my only option.

I recall never feeling warm. I was anemic. Even in the summer, I would wear a tee shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, 2 sweaters, and a jacket. No matter how many clothes I wore, I would still feel like my bones were in the freezer. The chill was relentless and wouldn’t go away.

There were many instances when I didn’t know my name, who I was, where I was, or what year it was. Every time I blacked out, the EMT always asked me what year it was and who is the current president of the US. I usually replied something like “1948. Bill Clinton.”

In late 2013, I had the scare of my life. My muscles were so weak, I couldn’t get out of bed for four days. I had no water during that time. I screamed for help, but to no avail. At the time, I was living alone in the Philippines. My parents hadn’t heard from me. They were worried and called the local Red Cross chapter in Long Beach, CA. A gentleman named Mike contacted the Manila, Philippine branch for assistance.

Suddenly, I heard my front door open. A doctor, nurse, a Red Cross volunteer and my landlord appeared at my bedside. I was briefly examined, then rushed to the ER. The doctor informed me that a human can go without water for about 6 days max. If it wasn’t for the Red Cross’s quick response in coordinating my rescue, I may not be alive today!

 During my two-year waiting period for a new liver, the doctors refused to give me morphine. They gave me two reasons why: one, my liver was so scarred, they were afraid I may die since opiates damage the liver. Two, I was an addict. No need for further explanation. I was prescribed only small doses of Tylenol, which did nothing to alleviate my pain.

In December 2013, my kidneys started to fail. I was on dialysis to clean my blood 3x a week for about 18 months. I couldn’t urinate for about 15 months straight. My kidneys failed to extract urine from my body. All the fluids I drank remained in my abdomen. This condition is known as ascites.

Every 5–6 days my stomach would start to balloon. As a result, my abdominal organs would suffocate from the weight of the fluid. I suffered a constant shortness of breath. I would keep my mouth wide open, gasping for air until my jaws ached. I felt like a fish out of water. Worse, I would experience massive abdominal pain. It felt like an elephant stepped on my stomach and wouldn’t get off.

My most painful experience was after my liver and kidney transplant. My surgery took about 17 hours. I ended up with massive amounts of blood clots settling at the tip of my penis. The nurses had to remove them. Every 2 hours around the clock, for the next 14 days they used a motorized pump with a plastic tube the diameter of a drinking straw, shoved it inside my penis and sucked out the blood clots. The pain was excruciating and barbaric.

You have no idea how sensitive the inside of a penis is. Extracting the blood clots felt like ripping off a finger nail and repeatedly stabbing the top of the skin with a sharp knife!

When I was in the hospital, prior to my transplant, my step- father collapsed right in front of the nursing station from a heart attack. I think it was from all the stress. What better place to have a heart attack?

I felt so helpless. My mother is old and there are just the three of us. Shortly after I was diagnosed with cirrhosis, my step-father quit his job and didn’t work for four years, so he could help my mother take care of me. I was a handful. It took around the clock supervision to take care of me. I would constantly scream in the middle of the night from either scorching pain or hallucinations. Since my mother is old, my father didn’t want her to be my sole caregiver.

The scariest events were the hallucinations. These were worse than nightmares. Unlike a nightmare, you’re awake during a hallucination. In your mind, it is real- it doesn’t just feel real.

I suffered what is known as hepatic encephalopathy. This condition occurs when the liver loses its capacity to eliminate toxins from the bloodstream. As a result, massive amounts of toxins flowed through my brain. This causes mass confusion and ultimately hallucinations. At higher toxicity levels, coma and even death may occur.

The feeling is very similar to a bad PCP trip. Every time my toxin level would skyrocket, I had a horrendously bad trip. One older ER doctor told my mother he never seen a patient with such high levels of ammonia. He said that normal ammonia levels are 15–45. My level was 503!

Once when I was at the hospital, I thought the walls were infested with snakes. I could hear the constant hissing sound. I knew I had to get rid of them. I didn’t want them to swarm me. So, I grabbed my walker and strolled down to the cafeteria. Next, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife and began cutting out the hospital walls! Pieces of drywall were everywhere. People were staring at me as though I had lost my mind! Security rushed me, tackled me and I ended up in restraints- one of 17 times during a three-year period.

Another time, I believed my sitting nurse was an alien trying to kidnap me and take me to another planet. This guy was intimidating. He was about 6′3′’, 270 lbs. I saw a syringe filled with what I believed to be poison in his left hand. I could hear the drops of liquid splattering on the tile floor as he glared at me.

My “captive” had an identical twin brother standing about 5 feet to his left. His twin was also holding a poison-filled syringe. They somehow managed to communicate to each other not through words, but via thoughts! I was horrified. They both had a stern look on their face. They constantly glanced at each other, then glared back at me. I sensed they were discussing which one was going to put me under. It was so bizarre.

I screamed and kicked so violently, security and staff had to restrain me. Without fail, the next day I awoke, strapped down with a rubber ball in my mouth, not knowing what the hell happened.

There was, however, one comedic event while hallucinating. At home, I was in the restroom for a very long time. When I came out, my mother asked me who the heck I was talking to. I paused, then replied “Calvin.” She said “Calvin who?” I replied “Calvin Klein.”

When I was on the toilet, I was staring at my underwear, which were down to my ankles. The name Calvin Klein was embroidered at the top. Apparently, I thought my underwear was the famous designer in the flesh! So, I’m sitting there, having a one-way conversation with my underwear! Don’t ask me what “we” discussed. I have no idea.

Another time, I believed several of my male nurses were posing as DEA agents. They were trying to arrest me. The DEA suspected me of assisting the Columbians with developing strategic drug smuggling routes to the US. The nurses wouldn’t stop staring at me. So, I waited until one of them wasn’t looking, and snuck up behind him. I stripped off my hospital gown, wrapped it around his neck and proceeded to choke him. Someone called security. When they arrived, I threatened them that I would choke the “agent” to death if they approached me.

I felt like an absolute madman. I recall that my eyes widened, and my facial expression looked like Charles Manson when he was pissed off. I remember possessing this enormous amount of strength. I had no idea where it came from. I threw the nurse to the floor like a ragdoll. For some odd reason I remember being extremely angry and paranoid. My toxin levels were through the roof.

Security kept their distance. I recall the presence of doctors, nurses and hospital staff in the background. The doctors were calm, but a couple of the nurses were hysterical. Security was ranting on their walkie talkies. About 5–6 minutes later, a handful of cops stormed through the hospital doors and surrounded me with their weapons pointed at me.

I kept hearing a doctor telling the police not to shoot-that I was hallucinating. A few minutes later, a nurse that took care of me and whom I was closest to started talking to me in a very calm manner. She kept telling me to relax, that everything was going to be ok. She kept telling me that I was under an enormous amount of stress and that I’m just having a bad day.

She kept asking me to slowly loosen my grip and relax. She then told me that my doctors will take care of me-that everything will be ok. At first, I thought she was part of the conspiracy. I was suspicious. However, I kept recalling how she always cared for me. I recalled the numerous times when she went beyond her duties as a nurse and was always there for me in my time of duress. She felt like a second mother.

About 20 minutes later my hallucination started to wear off. Since I trusted my nurse, I loosened my grip on the nurse that I had a stranglehold on. Next, the cops told the nurse to slowly stand and walk away. After that, the police started barking instructions at me. They told me to drop to my knees with my back facing them. Next, they told me to keep my arms raised high in the air. I complied. After that, they slowly approached me and told me to put my hands behind my back. Then, they proceeded to handcuff me.

A nurse arrived with a gurney. A couple of nurses lifted me on the gurney. The police immediately handcuffed both my wrists to the side bars. They wheeled me to the ER. A moment later a nurse injected me with a sedative. I immediately felt very relaxed and drowsy. Once again, I woke up the next day strapped to my bed wondering what the hell happened.

My ammonia levels were so high that I fell into a coma three times. The longest period was 23 days. About the 20th day, my doctors advised my parents to “get things in order.” They didn’t think I would make it. They feared my toxin levels were so high that if I awoke from the coma, I would be a vegetable. So, the hospital called hospice and they spoke with my parents about my living arrangements for my final days.

My mother fumed and told both hospice and my doctors that no matter what, she was not giving up. A while back, I told my mother if I was ever in a situation where I couldn’t make a life or death decision on my own, I didn’t want the doctors to pull the plug-no matter how much pain I was in.

When I awoke from my 23-day coma, I had no idea where I was. I felt as though I was a million miles from earth. Everything was extremely peaceful. I asked my sitting nurse where I was. He informed me I was in the hospital. I had no idea what a hospital was.

After I awoke, I was immediately bumped up the transplant list from #247 to #2. My failed kidneys were a blessing in disguise. My doctor told me that since both organs were failing, I had a much higher chance of dying. As a result, I was moved up the list very fast.

A couple weeks later, I was elevated to #1 on the transplant list. My nurse informed me that any day I should be expecting new organs. Cool. I asked her “how are the organs  delivered?” She told me via helicopter. She said there’s a landing pad on the top of the hospital. I recall I would get excited every time I heard a loud noise outside.

Approximately 10 days later, my nurse rushed in my room and cheerfully informed me that the organs are on their way. She told me the doctor will call me soon to discuss the details. I found it odd that a physician would call me on the phone.

About 20 minutes later, the doctor called. He told me that he was at blah blah prison. He said a 41-year-old male just committed suicide by hanging himself in his cell. He informed me the prisoner was an organ donor. The doctor told me that the prison officials gave he and a couple of other physicians with him only 15 minutes to visually inspect the organs. The doctor told me the organs appeared to be fine. He asked me if I wanted them. Since I was very confused at the time, I replied “what would you do if you were in my shoes?” He paused and said, “I would take them.” So, I did.

Later, the doctors told me they had a difficult time deciding whom shall receive the organs. It was between me and the patient next door. They informed me they select the beneficiary that has the greatest probability of surviving the operation. I was told I had about a 50% chance of surviving the surgery. That was higher than the other patient. My doctor said the other patient was weaker than me, hence the reason they chose me.

Prior to my transplant, the strangest thing happened. Thoughts continuously flooded my mind, at least 500 times during a two-year period. They kept telling me to share my story at AA, NA and high schools. Never in my life had I experienced recurring thoughts with no apparent ending. What am I supposed to make of this?

I spent hundreds of hours thinking about this and the only conclusion I could make is that God put these thoughts in my head. What other logical reason could it be? So, I made a covenant with God. I begged Him if He let me live, I would spend the rest of my life helping other addicts get clean.

On August 5, 2015, at 11:00 am, I had a liver and kidney transplant. I must admit, aside from the hallucinations, it was the scariest event I’ve ever endured. I never felt so alone in my life. I never forgot what I was up against: heads I survive, tails I die. My destiny was completely out of my hands. At this point, there was nothing my family, the priest or the doctors could say or do to guarantee me that I would survive.

Well, the surgery was a success. It took 17 hours. I had no complications, except massive chronic back pain that shoots through my body whenever I move.

After the transplant, I often wondered how I lived. Why did I get so lucky? Was God looking over me all this time? Was it His plan? What did I ever do for Him to deserve this? For some strange reason, I feel that I am destined to live. Maybe He’s telling me that it’s just not my time to go. I don’t know. Even three years later, tears stream down my face for no apparent reason. Like now. I’m not quite sure if they are tears of happiness, sadness or the trauma I suffered. Perhaps, it’s a mixture of all three.

On July 18, 2018, I accomplished something I never ever imagined- I celebrated five years of sobriety from alcohol. It’s been an incredibly difficult journey. The old Joe always succumbed to temptation. But I’m not the same person anymore. I’ll be damned if I’ll go through another living nightmare again.

I’ve been in bed for the past eight years. It’s so frustrating because there is nothing I could do about it. My inactivity has caused my muscle atrophy to return. My legs are like jelly again. Also, my lower back scorches with pain whenever I move. As a result, I have to sleep sitting up. The pain is so severe, I’m in bed an average of  23 and a half hours a day. The only time I get out of bed is to visit the doctor. I tried walking a few times, but my knees buckled, and I fell each time.

I’ve seen three doctors so far. They did x-rays, MRI’s, and CAT scans but can’t find the source of my back pain. My insurance company won’t allow me to see a back-pain specialist or get physical therapy because I already seen three physicians. With your  help, I plan to see a specialist and get physical therapy soon. Also, not only will I be able to walk again, but you’ll indirectly save other drug addicts’ lives. I know by sharing my story with addicts and high school kids, some of them will be able to realize the extreme psychological and physical trauma that alcohol and drug can cause and turn their lives around.

I always wondered what’s the purpose of life. I spent many years trying to figure it out. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I know what mine is.

My Living Nightmare with Liver Disease. Liver cirrhosis is a relentless, barbaric, non-stop, excruciating painful disease with no mercy whatsoever! Witness the real horror as it unfolds prior to my liver and kidney transplant. Please help me walk again by donating now-even if it’s only $5, it would help me tremendously! www.gofundme.com/dreaming-to-walk-again  

Please share my story with friends and family so that I may walk again. Thank you so much!

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

SCSI

The little shit was avoiding him. Since their fight, Levi could count one hand how many times he'd seen Eren. Being the stubborn brat he was, Eren had gone back to his duties like he hadn't been poisoned, and like everything was just... magically ok, or some shit. He didn't even bother coming to get him for their morning runs, instead Eren had gone out with Armin. He'd been replaced by a coconut bob wearing brat! All he'd wanted was for Eren to take better care of himself, now the kid was audacity to act like this! He wasn't taking it. Marching into Erwin's office, Erwin looked less than thrilled to see him "Levi. What do I owe this pleasure?" "I want to take my team on a scouting mission" "You, what?" "You heard me. After our extended absences, I want to take my team out further than the training forest" "I thought you were busy protecting Eren?" "Cut the shit" "You're the one who said you'd never forgive me if he dies, and now you want to go on a wolf hunt?" "What I want is to train with team, without the influence of other people around" "You know I can't let you go" "Why the fuck not?" "Because you just came storming into my office!" "That's nothing new" "Look. You told me to lay off, and I did. But that is completely different to letting you recklessly endanger your team because Eren got bored with you already" Levi snarled, his teeth exposed as his hands gripped the edge of Erwin's desk "What the fuck did you say?" "I said, you can't allow your lack of a relationship with Eren lead to the team being endangered. You know we have a big mission coming up in two months time. We can't afford to lose any more of our elite staff before then" "Actually, I didn't. But now that you've decided to tell me about it, why don't you actually fill me in?" "We've always intended to push out and retake Shinganshima" "Are you fucking serious?" "We aren't making any more progress with Eren. By all accounts, he had a normal childhood until he presented. I've already looked into his father's past and found nothing" "Then there's nothing to find" "No. I mean. We literally found nothing. Grisha Yeager was found outside the walls. Do you know what that means?" "That he wandered off? Tried to feed himself to wolves?" "Possibly. Or, he came from somewhere else" Levi's laughter bubbled past his lips "Are you fucking serious? Do you have any idea how far fetched that is?" "Yes. And while you've been falling off a teenager boy, I've been liaising with the Government to make this happen" "Then why hasn't it been announced? Why throw this is in my face right now?" "To make you see how stupid you're being. Didn't you know Eren has quite the reputation?" "What reputation?" "He'll sleep with anyone. It looks like he got sleeping with you out his system" It felt like someone had bashed him over the head with rock. Levi swayed on the spot as growled "That's a fucking lie" "Is it? Just how much do you know about him?" "I can't fucking believe you would stoop this low. You made a huge show of stopping this shit, only for you start it all over again!" "You're making a fool of yourself. The sooner you wake up reality, the sooner we can talk about moving Eren to another squad" "You will not be removing him from my care!" "We'll talk about this once you've had time to think" "Fuck you, Erwin. You've changed. I knew you hid your true colours, but they've no doubt been on display for quite some time now. Eren is staying with me, and that is final" "I do believe I have the final say in matter" "If you try and pull anything, I will take him and we will leave" "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that" "Why? Seriously. You were supposed to be my friend, but because I don't fucking love you, you start acting like a jealous piece of shit. I never loved you. I also never knew the arousal that came from feeding, so don't you dare throw that in my face" "How could you not?" "Because none of you ever fucking told me. You know what. This isn't your business. I'm fucking Eren, and if you hurt him, I will end you" He probably could have phrased that better, but his anger had definitely got the better of him, each word dripping with venom. Marching back out of Erwin's office, he slammed the door hard enough that it fell from its hinges. Eren was going to kill him. Provided he could get the teen to actually talk to him... Scouring the castle, Levi ended up finding Eren mucking out the stables with Mike's team, Mike was of course absent due to the smell. Taking one look at him, Eren tried to bolt "Don't you even think about it" "Ooooh, someone's in trouble" "Horseface, shut the fuck up, or you'll be finishing this on your own. Yeager, you're with me" Jean's laughed ended abruptly, while Eren slowly placed the rake down. The teen hanging his head as he walked from the stall he was in with Armin. Stupid mushroom head. Once close enough, Levi stepped aside, allowing Eren to lead them both out the stables. "What's this about?" "You. Why have you been avoiding me?" "I haven't" "We both know you have" Huffing, Eren wrapped his arms around his waist "Fine. I have" "Why?" "Because you yelled at Hanji for no reason. You yelled at me without even listening" "You wanted to poison yourself" "You think I liked throwing my guts up?! Or bleeding?! Or shifting uncontrollably?!" "I don't know, you were so eager to run back to it all!" "I wasn't fucking eager. I just don't want to die anymore! I'm trying to do everything I can to stay alive. I want to stay alive... I don't want to die..." "So why go back to being tested on?" "Because the Government could step in and take me away whenever they feel like it. Hanji has to do the experiments they design or they'll come and do them themselves. I don't want to die. I don't want to be cut up all over again. I don't want to watch my fingers burnt off or my organs pulled out and played with! I want to stay here and solve cases and be with you, but I can't say no to them. You know this" The vivid images of Eren's torture his mind conjured had his heart racing even future as he resisted the urge to reach out and pull the teen close. If anyone was stupid enough to approach them right now, they'd be put down before they could even utter "hello". Choking slightly on his words, he tried to articulate what he'd wanted to say all along "I do... I... what I wanted to say was that all I want is for you to take better care of yourself. I don't want you to force down drugs when they make you violently ill. You're not a monster" "I kind of am" "No. The werewolves are the monsters. You're not like them" "Sometimes I'm not so sure" "That's why you should leave the thinking to me. And as for the Government, I don't think you'll have to worry for a while" "What does that mean?" "It means Erwin is an arsehole, but he wants to reclaim Shingashima" "He what?" "In two months time" "Then why hasn't it been announced?" "I don't know. I'm still not completely convinced it's going to happen" "Then why tell me?" "Because you're supposed to be my partner. If you're done avoiding me, why don't we go do some actual training. I'd planned to take the squad scouting, but he shot me down" "With a mission that big, I can see why" "Yeah. Look. I'm shit at feelings. You need to tell me what I do wrong, when I do it. Or I'm not going to get it" "I already knew you were. That and tact" "Speaking of tact... Erwin knows we're fucking" Eren's eyes bugged out, before the teen dramatically threw himself down on the grass "I'm dead. He's going to kill me" "He's not going to kill you" "He is. Here lies Eren. Killed by Erwin" "You're being over dramatic" "The man was in love with you for years and then you tell him you're fucking me. What were you thinking?" "I wasn't. You've gotten in my head and fucked me up" "Don't blame me! Ugh!" "He would have found out anyway. And he already suspected... now it's just openly declared" Well, he already knew, but Eren was too much of an air head to put the pieces together on his own "Did you at least word it better? You didn't, did you? Great. I've already got a reputation as a slut and all did was kiss a guy. Now everyone's going to know I lost my virginity to the scariest man around here" "So what?" "So I don't know what to say or do now. I enjoyed having this between us. I liked not having everyone in business for a change..." "It's not like it really changes anything" "It changes everything" "How?" "Because every time I'm in your room cleaning or doing stupid paperwork, they're going to think we're fucking. Every time I actually manage not to fuck up, they're going to put it down to favouritism. They're going to look at the two months we spent together and think we were just shirking out responsibilities. I want to work hard and achieve things on my own terms. I want my own successes. Now everything I achieve will be linked back to you somehow" "I think you're overreacting" "Am I?!" "Yes. You are. Erwin won't be telling anyone" "You say that now, but all it takes is for one person to overhear anything and I'll be through the castle by the end of the night. That's why I was hesitant in telling Hanji anything. I just want to keep my head down and stay alive. I know you care about me and shit, but we can't be whatever this is, if I'm dead" "You've really thought about this" "I've thought about this since the moment I realised I actually liked you" "I think you're over thinking things, brat. Now get up off the grass" "I don't want to" "Get off the shitty grass and get you nasty arse moving! We don't have time for your tantrums!" Eren flinched, slowly obey his words. As he did, he caught sight of his friends who'd left the stable to watch whatever was happening between them. Reaching his hand down, Eren slapped it away. Waiting until he was back on this feet, Levi shoved him towards the training courtyard "Think they bought it?" "So your new plan is to yell at me?" "I did before" "I guess I can live with this" "Good. Because I also haven't fed in days and you could do with a run" "I should have known" "Now get a move on, unless you want me to keep yelling at you" * Laying down some ground rules, things seemed to be actually working. Erwin was lumping him with the shittiest assignments ever, on top of all of Eren's other, at least the only time he had to see the man was when Erwin coldly dished out another job to do. Every time he was in Levi's room, the door was left open. Feeding now happened during their morning run, which was frankly the best way to start the day. Filled and wrecked, his arse left to throb all day. And Levi knew all the best places off the running tracks... now one ever found them, no one found the evidence, even though more than a few trees now witness to their urges... He ate breakfast and lunch with his friends, while he ate dinner with Levi and the rest of the squad. He only snuck out his room at night if he couldn't calm down. After his fight with Levi, he'd clung to Armin until he'd been able to calm down, but it really didn't have the same affect on him as Levi did. If they did give in and have sex in Levi's room, he'd always shower after, and return to his own pretty much straight after. Even when the first thing he did in the morning was wake up and return to Levi. He missed sleeping with Levi, and being held protectively tight. He missed it like crazy, and sometimes it physically hurt to be parted from him. But so far, no one had said or even hinted at anything along the lines of him dating his partner. Armin had given shit over his new clothes and the thick blankets Levi had bought for him, to replace the ones that had been ruined, but smoothly explaining his previous ones had been destroyed when he was being bullied, his best friend backed off. One blanket lived on Levi's bed, the other on his, traded on a near daily basis so he didn't have to go without Levi's scent. Without it, Eren's anxieties decided he needed nonstop nightmares. He was just so nervous about finally returning to Shinganshima. His home...

[richiesmashmouthtozier]

Sleep in the Heat!

PART ONE

read: 1 | 2 | 3

Inspired by Pup’s “Sleep in the Heat”

A/N: Hello!!!!!!!!

I’ve decided to write a new fic (NOT CLICKBAIT),, beware this is really fluffy :3 I legit have no plans for this, and no goals at all so just go with it.

DESCRIPTION: Beverly Marsh was cursed with her hit being hard enough and her dad coming back to  consciousness after being bashed in the head with a glass tray. The abuse only gets worse until the losers respond to a distress call and walk in on Mr. Marsh suffocating his own daughter. Things get out of hand when a huge fight breaks out between the six boys and a grown man ending in murder. The losers were forced to pack up and leave their home on a road trip to find a place to breathe,,,

DISCLAIMER: I tried to write in songs during the situations so if you could, I suggest changing the song as the losers do in the story to add more effect :O

Pairings: Reddie!!, stenbrough, benverly (Each chapter will feature more of one)

a list of the songs for this chapter 1  in order:

In between Days - The Cure

Heroes - David Bowie

Reddie shippers anthem (Africa) - Toto

just a btw- There’s a lot of angst and fluff and a decent amount of swears ;)

and without further ado,

enjoy

Eddie's eyes were slowly falling down so he could be finally put to sleep after being up for nearly 24 hours. It was 6 am and the losers club was still on the road in the van wagon they stole from Richie's parents. It was really worn out since no one used it for years, but it sure was gigantic.

Stan was driving and Bill was in the passenger seat sleeping next to him. Mike sat in the middle seat in the back with a map open. He wanted to sit in front but he understood Bill wanting to be next to Stan. Ben and Beverly were in the seat on either sides of Mike probably sleeping. Eddie wanted to sleep, but he wouldn’t. He and Richie were in the very back where they took out three rows of seats and replaced it with Eddie’s mattress, topped off with a buttload of blankets and pillows. It was way more comfortable than anyone gave it credit for.

Eddie was wrapped in a soft blanket, leaning on a pillow laid against the wall. He kept brushing his hand through his hair and fidgeting with his hands to try and stay awake. Across from him was a sleeping trash mouth. He had fallen asleep a couple of minutes ago. The small boy was replaying everything that had happened the past day? couple of days? he wasn’t sure. It was all confusing and just the thought made him want to scream and cry, but he kept quiet. In fact, everyone did. The only sounds were the humming engine, the rain tapping the vehicle and the song being switched to “In Between Days” by The Cure playing on the radio. The ride was pretty smooth so far as they drove across the state and up mountains to find somewhere to hide. To Eddie, the whole idea was crazy and he was surprised everyone agreed to just get up and leave, but the reasons were understandable-

“Pothole!”

“Shit!”

the car swerved but Stan was too late and the car bounced off the divot in the road.

“Fuck…” Richie jolted awake after a 10 minute slumber but everyone else stayed asleep. The trash mouth was a really light sleeper and to be honest he didn’t sleep that much at all.

“Welcome back,” Eddie said tiredly.

“You’re still awake, Eds?”

“Yeah,” he yawned out, “and don’t call me that.”

“You look disturbed.”

“Take a left,” Mike said quietly.

“Well what do you expect? This is kinda crazy,” He said waking up a bit at the thought.

“It’s been a whole day. Go to sleep.”

“You’re acting like you just slept for 12 hours. You were literally out for 5 minutes!”

“First of all, chill out okay? Second, insomnia my guy, it’s a blessing and a curse.”

Eddie frowned. He knew insomnia was a symptom of ADHD and he felt guilty for bringing it up.

“Stan!” Mike said.

“Goddamnit!” they hit another pothole but this one woke everyone but Beverley up.

“Stuh-st-st-stan…” Bill tiredly spoke from under the blanket covering his body and Stan's legs as he woke up and looked for Stan’s hand with his own, eyes slowly adjusting. Stan found his hand and held it softly.

“Do you need a break Stan?” Mike said.

Ben just mumbled gibberish.

“Yes, yes you seem to be fallin’ asleep at the wheel my good sir,” Richie said from the back.

“Shut up Richie,” Stan said then Bill squeezed his hand and unintentionally gave him puppy dog eyes, “Let’s juh-just pull over into the-th-these woods and tuh-take a ruh-r-rest,”

“Okay, fine.” he reluctantly turned the wheel and went off the road. They slowly maneuvered through scattered trees and found a place in the woods where he parked the slender vehicle.

“No need to get the sleeping bags this time,” Mike said referring to the rain.

“Yeah there’s no way i’m sleeping out there,” Eddie replied as he slowly sunk into the bunch of blankets and pillows in the back “seat” and slowly drifted off.

THUD

Eddie shot up at the sudden noise that disrupted his dream and shook the car. The radio station was to the end of David Bowie’s “Heroes” and it accompanied the silence well. He searched the van to see if anyone else heard it. The front windows had covers over them to keep the sunlight out and the rest had blankets doing the best they could, but since it was really cloudy the sun wouldn’t peek through anyways. He scanned the losers until his eyes met the empty seat next to him.

“What the fuck?” he whispered to himself.

He got up slowly and noticed the stupid blankets that had covered the back windows on the doors had fallen off. he crawled to the window and squinted out of it. He saw Richie?

“What the hell is he doing?” he grabbed a thin blanket that he could ruin so he wouldn’t get any of their only nice blankets dirty and wet. He shivered at the touch of the cold door as he quietly forced it opened until it ripped from the other door to its side.

“Fuck Richie! What the hell are you thinking!” he whispered to himself as his feet made contact with the wet patches of dirt and grass and the droplets began to deep into his skin, hair and clothes. But it felt good. Why?

He got goosebumps from the chilled air accompanied by the rain despite him wearing worn, gray sweats and his own shirt under Big Bill’s navy blue sweatshirt hat said “GEORGIA” in white letters. He would never admit it but his true intentions were to see if Richie would give him his hoodie even though Eddie didn’t like the band “Guns n’ Roses” which was plastered on the front, but when Bill offered his jacket first he couldn’t just say no.

The blanket got the first coat of rain soaked in pretty fast while Eddie listened to the song switch to Toto’s “Africa” and he walked towards Richie who had stopped in the middle of the trees.

“Richie?!” He yelled when he was about 20 feet from the boy. His glasses weren’t on and his curls had been flattened from the rain. His lips were slowly turning purple and his skin pale, making the freckles pop out even more.

Richie shook his head and snapped out of his daze, “Eddie? What are you doing?!” Richie sounded concerned.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie yelled as the both slowly shuffled towards each other.

“I- uh- I just needed to-“

“To what?! You’re gonna get a cold!” but Eddie didn’t move. He stood there and stared up at Richie.

“I know, I know, it’s just- I felt guilty…” He got quieter as he finished the sentence. Eddie went wide-eyed. The memories flowed in as if Mr. Marsh was standing right in front of him again hold Beverly against the wall by her neck. The look he gave was almost as bad as It’s.

“I-“

“Go back, Eds, you’ll catch a cold.” he said as he turned away from the short little boy with a tinge of jealousy that he was wearing Bill’s sweater.

“No.”

Richie turned to him again, “What?”

“It feels good out here. It feels-“

“Clean.”

“Yeah.”

The boys all had blood on their hands that night when Beverly woke up from being suffocated. The bruise was still on her neck. She was trembling as Ben held her in his arms while they all told her what happened.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.” Ben’s words replayed in Eddie’s head a lot while they had driven out of the town without telling anyone. They were just some missing kids now.

Just.

Eddie remembered that look Richie had on his face when he frantically waved around the faux missing poster. That thought disturbed him considering Richie was ready to leave that toxic house, not that Eddie didn’t sigh in relief at the thought that he was free and in charge of his own life every now and then. Richie seemed to be deathly afraid of going missing (or dying? Eddie wasn’t sure since they never spoke of that summer) and now he was forgotten across the border of Derry, Maine.

Forgotten.

Forgotten!

Eddie stared at him with sympathy. He was still unsure the reason he was easiest to convince to leave but he didn’t need to be sure.

“You know it’s kinda fun,” Richie said quietly.

Eddie was taken back, “What?!”

“You know being a missing kid,”

Eddie just looked down.

“You know sometimes I look back and think, why didn’t you run away Tozier? You wanted too, you could’ve..” He sniffed

“Richie, you wanted to runaway?”

“Everyday, Eds. I walk downstairs to see my parents fighting or my mom passed out in the kitchen. Everyday I walked outside to see you guys. This gang was the only thing keeping in Derry and now look where we are.”

“Come on, Rich-“

“I told myself, are you just gonna let pennywise win?” Eddie’s expression went dark at the name, “Are you just gonna let them for-“

“Richie!” Eddie was crying now, “I would never let that happen!”

“It’s what happened to everyone!”

“Richie! You matter! Okay?! You fucking matter! and if you think for a moment that you don’t then…then-“ Eddie kissed him. He missed the perfect spot, but it was a kiss. Richie stumbled back with wide eyes that went closed as he wrapped his arms around the small boy. After a few seconds, they pulled back.

“Let's go back,” Eddie motioned towards the van wagon.

Richie showed his dimples while he weakly smiled, looking out to the forest, “Let’s go, Eds.”

The taller boy wrapped his arm around the worry-ridden teen. The two boys were both soaking wet and smiling. Eddie thought to himself,

I bless the rains…

A/N: HEY HEY HEY! I wrote something decent! are you proud of me mom?! anyways,, i’m pretty excited because i’ve always loved the idea of a couple living on the road with some good friends and yeah that’s what this is,, i’m gonna wait a chapter to get into the deeper stuff and more into detail about what happened, but no worries, i’ve been procrastinating posting this so long that the second chapter is already done and will be posted tomorrow (hopefully)  so yeah!

If you ever wanted to make art/aesthetics/playlist/etc I would be so happy and surprised tahaha

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