the corroding wilderking

EOIN (PAN) DOUGHERTY kings collective / 25 / weapon

[fightthegods]

badmoonstatic‌: 

There was likely a better way.  He he walked, he considered it.  Those little ticks he could radio in to cells that needed a small nudge to end their shuffling and start their sprint.  His hands were angry pink, translucent skin peeling away as he looked at them evenly.  His head tipped to the side, like it so often did when a thought caught him.  He ventured down his own brainstem, stepping along the third rail of his spinal column before he took the next train, a sudden sprint in a direction, passing what flurried the other way past him. 

He gave the nudge;  or more accurately a boot to the back in the form of a surge through his cells.  At the edges, he watched the skin start to knit itself, the body’s natural healing forced into overdrive.  The progress was slow and not worth taking his focus away from streets that would swallow him if they had the chance.  He’d try again later.  But it was shot that small tingle along the back of his skull that told him there was something new to explore.

  His life depended on it.  What a strange fucking sentence out of him. 

 He’d seen the way that Pan treated his life.  Hyperion was yet to seen him give a fuck about it.  As he turned to him, his eyebrows were raised and his expression was more annoyed than anything.  “Don’t lie to me.”  He held a hand up in motion, indicating for the other to lead the way;  but his frustration with the request was more than present.  It came in the static in the air, and the way it popped when he took a breath that didn’t help to steady anything.  “Quickly.”  

Not a lie, he wants to bite back. There's an impatience in Hyperion's movement now, and his annoyance is reflected back in Eoin. Why is he bothering? What's the endgame here? Eyes narrow at the motion and Eoin reaches out, hand shooting through the pain eating at his skin, the electricity dancing upon his arm, and by some miracle, fingers connect and twist into the already dried fabric of Hyperion's shirt. "I don't fuckin' lie." Just careless with my choice of words.

And then his hand is pulled back, and Eoin ignores the way he's lost sensation in his arm, the burns licked into his skin, the carmine blood of his victims caked on his skin now ashened in the breeze from the electrical current he'd willingly stuck his hand into. My life depends on it. Inaccurate, maybe, but this is a good reason why anyone would look at him and think he doesn't give a fuck if his life depended on anything. Sticking a fork into an electrical socket; doesn't speak much about someone who cared if his life depended on anything.

Quickly, he says, and Eoin agrees. He doesn't spend a second longer in this street he'd made his deadly playground; he takes off into a sprint. Going without her feels hollow, and he still can't believe he just forgot her. Has it been too long? Almost a decade, right? Something like that. He can't even remember her face or her voice or who she was. Just a name and that intense burn that washed away all his hurts.

The building he stays in comes into view, and it takes Eoin a few more steps to realise something's wrong about it. Shattered glass that wasn't there when he left last night. There's someone he knows sitting in the doorway, the door unable to close against the woman's lifeless body. A screech vibrates his brain, quiet at first, then impossibly loud, as proper realisation dawns on him. The shock and distress are foreign yet clear on his face.

"Fuck," he whispers under his breath.

[fightthegods]

ofhati‌:

She wastes no time taking her seat as soon as it’s offered, the handbag placed next to her and the scarf she’d been wearing loosened and folded across her lap. To hide openly in a place was more suspicious than making one’s self at home, after all. There was no pomp nor circumstance and truly she acted as if she had always belonged there; an old friend whom she’d taken the time to regard before finding her seat rather than a tense moment of indecision between two mutants on differing sides of thought.

Gloves still on, she lifts a menu to peruse it, motioning for a waitress and taking the time to order eggs, toast, bacon, and asking then for a jar of hot sauce, and after the woman had scurried off, returning her attention to Eoin.

“I’m not here to blow smoke up your ass, darling.” Minka’s words were not condescending, but merely matter-of-fact; she wasn’t trying to talk down to him or use a pet name to disregard him, but merely because names are powerful things in this day and age and she wasn’t going to openly give anyone else’s to the air, “We’ll always be in danger, no matter what, but there are places that offer us some form of… respite.”

It would have been easy to slide into her own history right then and there — to spill the blood of her life as a buffet for the boy to consume and make a decision on the validity of her statements — but instead, she left the silence hanging for a span of beats perhaps too long for comfort, “I doubt you want to know every detail about me, but if you ask me something I promise to tell you the truth — I’ve no reason to lie and it would do us both no good if I did.”

The plate placed before her was sub-par at best, but she smiled genially and used a triangle of toast to jab the yolk of one of her eggs, playing with it for a moment before biting its end off. The ball was in his court.

There's this thing about authority he has a problem with. Not because he and his ideas have always been in direct opposition of that of authority's, but because when someone believes they're in that position, it's easier for them to justify hurting those they have power over. He's seen it over and over; the woman seated in front of him now radiates it. Eoin tenses instinctively.

She won't lie, she says, and wants him to be honest too. A joke, right? He's never lied. Not out of principle, or some twisted sense of morality. It's rather that, if you lie once, you have to keep constant track of where you place them and who they belong to. Lies are complex entities, and frankly, Eoin just doesn't have the patience for them; not uttering them nor hearing them.

But he doesn't tell her that. In fact, he doesn't tell her anything. Not right now, not when the waitress sets down a plate of food. He might as well have been a dog begging its owner for a bite off their plate. When is the last time he'd eaten, really eaten? The fact that he can't remember means that it's been too long already. There's a stillness in him now, a singular focus as his eyes follow the movement of her hands, an intensity as it lingers for a moment, and then the bite.

It takes everything he has, every single ounce of unpracticed restraint, to tear his eyes away, growling alongside his protesting stomach. What does he want to know? "Why are you here?" Yes, that's a good start. "And why would you take the time to offer someone like me 'respite'?" He's heard the word. Familiar with it. Doesn't like it, though. The wrong people have used it in his past.

His eyes lift from where they'd resituated themselves on the table, passing along the food — not lingering, don't linger — and onto her face. "Who am I to you and who are you to me?"

[fightthegods]

shaemynamexoxo‌:

Stop it, stop it, stop it. He wasn’t allowed to look at them like that. Like they mattered. It was laughable. Shae should be dead. He would never have known if they weren’t. They should be dead, and he wouldn’t care, because the last time they had spoke, he had been so angry. Their nose gave a phantom ache and they sucked in a sharp breath. He hated them, and they clung to that imagine in their mind as Eoin looked at them with an expression void of most Eoin typically expressions. 

He was high out of his mind. Anyone would look at their savior like that. The let out the breath they took. For right now, they would pretend that night hadn’t happened. For as long as they could get him to Gerrard (and that was a whole other demon wasn’t it) they would put this turbulent, hurt, screaming thing inside of them to rest. Shae smiled sadly. Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was all them, but there was a rush of warmth to their eyes, and they shut them to prevent any tears from falling. Steady. Steady. 

When they opened them again, they were as clear as someone who had already smoked half a joint could be, and they continued to place a steady cool hand on the back of his neck. “It’s okay honey. Just got into a bit of a fight. It is your trade-mark, isn’t it sugar?” they asked teasingly. “Let’s get you back to Gerrard’s okay, honey? You just gotta sleep this off,” they said, carefully holding onto the places blood had not splattered in an attempt to help him begin to walk. 

It is okay. It's okay. It's so okay. It's not okay. It's not, you're falling, you have no legs, the floor is a lover — he leans forward too much and he stumbles, scrambles, flails… or he would have if Shae wasn't holding him. Shae… how do I feel about Shae? The haze is too much right now, but he's happy they're there. He's happy they're holding onto him, holding him up, even if he wasn't before. Before, but before was weeks ago and Eoin doesn't hold grudges.

Well, he does. But often there's no grudge to hold when the other party is slop on concrete. But they weren't. Aren't. They're here, and they're cool, and Eoin finds himself leaning into their Northern wind. A sigh. "Shae," he says again, but clearer now, with more purpose. You know who they are. Their words would've made him chuckle if his brain could wrap around the technicalities of how that sound worked. Instead there's a sharp expelling of air from his nose, a snort. It is his trademark. But his trademark is also fighting back.

Then that name. He doesn't mind it. Eoin finds pleasant, calming company in Gerrard Bermudez that catches him off guard but one he doesn't care to reflect on. It's the silence between them, the laughter when they're both high, the sound of electricity as another bolt courses through his body.

You like my face; The reply is a grin. It's very pretty, hides your disgustin' personality well; What're you doing here, then? I like trash.

But he needed space. He needs space. He needs to not see that pretty face, the one that hides that monster he's so enamoured by. So Eoin groans, and his head shakes. "Not right now," he protests. But there's tugging and there's walking and his feet are moving anyway.

[fightthegods]

xsuttungr‌:

Felix likes that soft chuckle. It’s the first thing that crosses his mind quickly followed by how much he wants to hear it more often. Everything is always so serious, balancing precariously with no sense of which way the scales will tip. Felix lives his life constantly in a state of ready. He’s ready to heal someone. He’s ready to fight if it has to come to that. He’s ready to analyze the situation and find the best possible route. Every room he walks into, Felix finds every exit. If he’s not ready, that’s when he’s caught off guard.

Eoin’s caught him off guard.

A sigh escapes from his lips as he leans his head against Eoin’s, the affectionate nuzzle making him smile and a silent laugh rumble through his chest. “Aren’t you funny,” Felix finally manages to say. He runs his hand up and down along the other’s back, fingers bumping over the soft raised scars. Would Eoin let him map them all out? Not mentally… but to physically touch each one and follow the trail that it spiders along Eoin’s body. It would only make him sad, but it would be another part of Eoin for his memories.

This isn’t a time for sadness. It isn’t a time for him to get lost in his thoughts despite how hard that might be for Felix. He has to pull himself out from his own ocean, to rest on the sandy shores and let the moon of the night sky awaken him, give him the promise of sunlight one day or another. Doing that means opening up, even if it’s a small bit.

“It’s different with you.” Felix finally says the words after finding Eoin’s eyes. They aren’t many words. Just four small ones but Felix can hope that it gets the point he wants across to the other. Where this goes, he isn’t sure. Felix has his own ideas and as much as he wants Eoin to be the one to question, he’s almost certain he wouldn’t. For now, he can leave it. For now he can work on opening the box little by little and maybe he can do it one of these days.

Is this real? Is this just fun? Will you leave me broken too?

“Maybe we should spend our time more like this than me healing you,” Felix teases to lighten the moment. Although, there is truth to the words. He’d much prefer this than seeing Eoin coming to him bleeding and injured. At least then he knows that the other will walk away okay. He shifted just enough to press his lips against the other’s neck, trailing a row of kisses down to the other’s shoulder before nipping the skin there.

It's different with you. Eoin doesn't know what the words mean, but he can see it means something to Felix, and that's more than enough for him to nod his acknowledgement. He's not a beast for words. They're meaningless to him at the end of the day; true meaning has always been within actions taken, because words lie and deceive, but actions rarely do. Actions, to Eoin, are what a person truly is. One of the reasons why he isn't a man of many words, but he'll show you over and over exactly what he doesn't say, whether good or bad.

Felix's teasing words bring up the mood a little, however, and Eoin is right there with him. There are so very few people who can coax this more playful side out of him, and at time of reflection, it must've been only a handful of people in his life. So he sits up, effectively straddling the other mutant's hips with a wicked smirk. "Oh?" he asks, tone coy, even as he wraps his hands around Felix's wrists. "What if I like you healin' me?"

He does. He likes it for the same reason he likes the scars wrapped around his body; everyone's power, when it hits his senses, has a signature. A feeling that's uniquely them, and especially in non-malicious situations, they feel intimate. There are no two powers that feel the same, though when he's high shit gets a bit muddled. Slowly, Eoin pulls Felix's hands up, dropping them on his thighs — he remembers the worry and harsh concentration, the edge in Felix's voice — and guides them up and up and up, from hips to stomach to chest. "What if I like your hands on me?"

He presses one of Felix's hands into his chest where his heart is — he does have a heart — the slow, steady, even rhythm under his palm. Keeping eye contact, he leans forward again, but only slightly, bringing Felix's other hand up to press a lingering kiss to the man's knuckles. "What else can these hands do?"

[fightthegods]

xsuttungr‌:

Eoin accepts the invitation and there’s a relief in Felix’s eyes that he tries his best to keep hidden. This moment leaves him vulnerable. It’s natural the way his body complies and relaxes against the bed again, eyes unwavering on Eoin hovering above him. There are no walls here - the steely gaze that Felix typically adorns is replaced with something softer but jagged. A piece that has been hidden away for far too long. Most occasions when it has come out, it has only been for the briefest of moments. But this time, it lasts. Felix accepts the kiss, lips molded against lips in something soft and tender before it turns into something more desperate and urgent.

One of Felix’s hands is slow to drift up, fingers finding Eoin’s jaw before sliding up to rest his hand against the other’s cheek. Thumb glides along his cheekbone, a caring soft caress that’s sharply contrasting of what the kiss has morphed into between the two of them. His other arm wraps around Eoin’s waist, hand at the small of his back and touching the hot skin. There’s that need to touch, to know that this is real.

He doesn’t want to admit to himself or to Eoin that he’s scared. No, he’s terrified. A simple gesture, a hand held out in an invitation meant much more to Felix than it would have to anyone else. After Rosa, Felix pulled away from most people that weren’t family or Blackburn. Even among them, he kept a distance. He dealt with his emotions, his depression, in the best way that he knew how and that was by shutting down. Everything was shoved into a nice little box, wrapped with a bow, and left in the attic of his mind to never be touched. It was easier to do that. He didn’t have time to be sad. He didn’t have time for emotions when he had people to heal, jobs to do, and Alma to watch out for every day.

Sure, since then he’s let a few people inside to a certain point. One person in particular Felix had let in more than others and his recent suspicions had left him recoiled back into himself. Uncertain. Lost. Worthless. Felix had accepted his place as the one who would never be first. He would only be the one people sought after when they needed help. And yet, here above him in the bedroom of his apartment, his sanctuary, was Eoin. Somehow this man had weaved his way in without Felix noticing. The door to that old lighthouse had been melted away to nothing, the old stone stairs that were cracked and eroded away, covered in dead vines were climbed one step at a time until the top was reached. And without Felix realizing, Eoin stood in that room in front of the box that had long since been forgotten and rusted shut.

If Felix had been asked a long time ago, when the two of them had met, if they would one day be in this position - he would have laughed.

Felix is the one who pulls away from the kiss - a deep breath of air to try to fill his lungs again and bring his mind back from the muddy waters of Eoin. He could have stayed deep in those waters forever. His eyes close as his hand moves away from Eoin’s cheek to the back of the other’s head, to gently press his forehead against the other’s. There are questions swimming around in his mind, ones that he wants answers to but don’t necessarily need. Why does he have so much trouble talking sometimes? Because they’re selfish. Felix tries so hard not to be selfish and even in this moment when he could be, he can’t find it in himself to do it. Felix has locked himself away in his own prison and trying to break free feels impossible. He feels as if he’s just reaching his arm out through the bars, a desperate grab for Eoin.

When he drops his head back against the bed and opens his eyes to look at Eoin, it’s with the intention of saying words. His lips part but nothing comes from them. Instead, his arm around the other just tightens.

When Felix pulls his head back, Eoin pulls in air slow and calm. Watching the man under him, forehead to forehead, the grin spreads across his face once more, entirely unbidden but not at all unwelcome. This is not an unusual situation for Eoin to be in; not when he still lived in Dorchester, and not here either, but yet… people like Felix usually aren't the kind of people he manages to attract. Most of them are thrill-seekers of some manner; the kind who look at him and see a danger they want to tame or overcome. And if they're not aware he's a mutant, it's not even anything to do with him at all.

But this is different, right? Felix never struck him as a thrill seeker. Maybe he is, it's just never come out in all the months he's known him, and it's certainly not the reason they're here now. If anything, Felix has always scolded him for not being careful enough, and Eoin would just watch him silently, following him with his eyes as he darted from corner to corner to clean another cut or scrape or stab. He never said anything. There was never a response to Felix's scolding.

There are always two reasons Eoin doesn't mind getting hurt, particularly since he'd arrived in this city. First is… well, it's just what happens, and he's not a careful person. He's an all-or-nothing, make it happen or die trying kind of person, too relentless to let something like bodily harm get in the way of ruthless goals, long-term or short-term. And the second… at least in the first few months, Eoin's reasoning was, you can't see a doctor without getting hurt, right? Perhaps it wasn't always intentional, but Eoin's gone through his entirely with minimal medical assistance, even when it would be very, very advised that he did reach out. He could've dealt with his injuries the way he'd always done; alcohol, his lighter, and a piece of metal.

But he didn't. He's let himself bleed ever since waking up to see Felix's cold, hard face of concentration, telling him he's going to be okay back in June. And then eventually, he'd just show up without a good excuse. Every step he took was one step closer into Felix's personal space. Only reason he never stopped is because Felix never told him to.

Eoin watches him, sees the words on his lips as they part, but the room stays silent. A chuckle escapes him before he has an idea to stop it. "Yes, doc?" he asks teasingly, lowering his head to nuzzle his nose in a sign of unadulterated affection. There's been a few of those littered throughout their relationship, but tonight has been a night for a lot of them. His voice lowers. "Cat got your tongue? Or y'think I could have it?"

There's open mischief on his face, eyes sparkling with trouble in a manner they've not done before in Felix's presence. This spells a different kind of danger; light-hearted and cheeky, but equally devastation for the target of said mischief. Give a finger, he might just bite your hand with a wicked grin.

[fightthegods]

CONNECTIONS [ — shae ]

The eye of the storm does not usually notice the destruction it leaves. It comes much without warning; if you’re unlucky, it strips you of everything you ever held dear. And if you don’t respect the storm, it will tear you to shreds. Like the hurricane cannot be sated until it decides it’s had enough, you cannot look up at the pouring skies to ask it to stop its flood. You simply hold on for dear life or drown in its muddy depths. It’s a constant struggle, a battle to wage to keep what you know close and to not lose it. It’s only when the waters have passed, the lightning has struck, the winds have ceased raging, and the drought ends that you can look around if who and what you are is still intact.

There’s something to say for storm chasers. People who look at the raging of the skies, how it licks upon the earth and chews away swathes and breadths, and think, I want to follow that. I want it to swallow me whole, I want it to grab hold of everything I am, and if it decides it’s done with me, know that it won’t put me down gently. He saw that at one point, the delight of that danger, the scalding warmth of sunlight burning deep into his skin, relentless; how no matter which way he turned, it’d be there, a soft breeze in a raging inferno. There are no rains to put out that blaze. He’s a fuel, he can only add to it, lead it to the next forest it will burn to cinders.

But he can’t hold wind, yet the wind can uproot everything he is. He can only cup his hands and accept a portion of the sky’s water, but the rains can drown him with ease. A lightning strike may not be fatal, but it will forever leave its scars. And even in the shadows of the sun’s light, the heat will swelter and gnaw at his skin until it cracks.

You can be a pillar in the sea upon a raging storm, and perhaps the storm might notice you. You can stand and stand and stand until you’re battered enough and you bend or break. The only defence you have is to watch the skies and turn once you see it darken. And it will. It always darkens; rainbows, however beautiful and delightful, only look upon the world in the wake of that chaos. You only notice the cooling breeze because the sunlight has been beating your skin raw.

The raging, burning, freezing storm asks, “don’t you love me?” and you only nod if you’re ready to stop fighting it.

[fightthegods]

CONNECTIONS [ — felix ]

There's some people who're just born good and right. Some people you look at and their light burns into your retinas until it's the last thing you'll ever see. Felix Alvarez is decidedly not one of these people. There's no inherent good in him that moves his bones, that guides his actions, that direct his thoughts. He looks into Felix's eyes and he sees the depth of his shadows. Not the eyes of a man untouched by life, unencumbered by the dark that swirls within him; he's flawed and terrible and scarred, like he himself is.

No, Felix is not inherently good. Felix belongs to every shadow he hides in, darkening it just that much more. But God, if he doesn't make every active choice to try. Every movement of his eyes seeks a light, every thought he has is for others, every turn of his hand tries to shake that shadow off and do something better with what he's given. Inherently good is not good. Inherently good wages no wars. Inherently good doesn't struggle to be good in spite of the dark like Felix does.

He admires that struggle. He sees it and he's reminded of himself, a lifetime ago; not inherently good, but trying. And then he stopped and he decided to not pick that thankless labour back up. In many ways, Felix is much stronger than he ever will be. Where he gave up young, Felix kept going. Keeps going. Every day, every step, is a reaching towards the light that binds and shackles him into those shadows.

All he wants is to tear the sun out of the sky and let him taste true freedom.

That's his true devotion; to bathe this man in the light of the moon, the light he can still reach for, but a moon that lengthens his shadows. Let him step out of the corner the sun burns him into, reach out a hand to him in the softened glow of that night's light, and let him see what he can truly accomplish. And if Felix decides, after that dark night of wandering, that reaching for the light is no longer in his cards, if he decides to step into the light of the morning sun and show the world how ugly he truly is…

Then he will still hold his hand. He will still kiss the knuckles of this new monster the night birthed, and he will forge every shadow Felix was ever bound to into chains, shackle his entire being to the whims of this shadowed, flawed, good creature.

[fightthegods]

CONNECTIONS [ — gerrard ]

A tingling across his scalp that he now associates with soothing. The ozone after a sharp whine and crackle that leaves his entire body sore. A rhythmic heartbeat in his ear in the dead of night while his cheek rubs against warm skin. Breathing. Breathing. It's the mischief in his eyes, the grin on his mouth that forces a mirror onto his own; admiration in the way he pulls people close as surely as he does his electricity.

He's always said that Gerrard is a monster below the surface, and he is. Without a doubt, the monster under your bed that'll just as easily rip your leg off as it will caress it, and it's hypnotising. But the monster isn't just a shadow. The monster has its own unique colours, and they're mesmerising.

God, he's fucking petty. He's annoying, and he pushes, and he pokes, and he arches his back. And no matter how hard he looks, there's no colour in that monster that matches his own. They're vastly different people, safe for the scars they wear, the scars forced upon them by other people. The scars that burn with anger, with resentment and lashing out.

"Have you ever?" "Killed without meaning to? Yes." "What'd you do with it?" "Is what it is. Not much to do beyond let it the fuck go." "I got angry." "So did I." "Never stopped." "Being angry?" "Yeah." "Yeah, usually doesn't."

So they're not the same monster, they don't share any colours, but their scars are the same and that's how they recognise one another for who they are. And despite this, that deep understanding despite their differences, the recognition, the way he has him entirely enchanted, they're not fixtures of one another. They orbit, around the same idea but neither taking the same path. They meet, cross, enjoy the pull they have on one another, and move on into their orbit once more.

Gerrard is… a flame in the ice. People will see the cold, yet don't notice within its depths all the colours refracted. He's a comet that tears through the universe and one he can't help but be pulled into. He's the danger you love, feeling adrenaline pumping with a single terrible smile. And he smiles. So many of them, there's not enough stars in the sky to reflect the intricate meanings of each upturned mouth corner. Teasing and laughter and mischief and malice.

He's been touched now. Scarred, but for all the scars he receives, he daren't return them for fear of making lesser something that's already so perfect. The scars he bears from Gerrard hide the scars the rest of his life beat upon him. Like artwork they trail along his spine, down his arms, blooming onto his chest. They mark him and force everything else away. He looks in the mirror, at the jagged twists climbing along his skin, and he sees safety in it.

The brush against the scar on his scalp insists he will always fight his battles alone. The scars dancing upon his body promises that a sparkly-eyed demon decides that he won't be for as long as it takes.

And yet, despite this all, he doesn't care if it's remotely the same view from the demon's eyes.

[fightthegods]

xsuttungr‌:

Felix doesn’t like the answer but it’s a fault of his own. Used to fixing everything, how could he just leave them there? But Eoin’s given his answer and sealed it with a kiss to worn knuckles. The offer would always be there even if the words never leave his lips again. It would take just a touch, a moment of concentration and he could vanish them. But they would remain for now. Maybe forever.

A frown pulls at the corner of Felix’s lips at the mention that new ones would only take their place. There’s a vital piece of information that he’s missing and a part of his brain is screaming a red alert. Felix never likes not having all the information - all the chess pieces in line. It means he’s at a disadvantage and Felix hates being in that position. Felix’s hand falls down to his side again and he falls to the bed easily with Eoin’s push.

You never actually told me what happened. What’s happening.

The words bounce around and they’re at the tip of his tongue before they’re drowned away once again. Does he want to know? He does. He’ll suffocate with worry, more than he already does. But Felix doesn’t want to push. What right does he have? None.

“I am not old, thank you very much,” Felix says instead with the smile he can manage. “But tired, yes. The world is far too busy for people like me to sleep.” Too much truth in those words. “Besides, who are you to order me around, hm?” Felix questions with a quirk of an eyebrow and the smile turning into the faintest touch of a smirk - as if Felix is almost too scared to give into the playful side of himself.

A man always forced to be serious, composed, it’s too easy to forget other parts of himself. Forget that he’s allowed to feel other emotions. He can’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy relishing in it just a bit. It’s a freedom he doesn’t allow himself very often. And moments like these… it’s too easy to forget everything on the outside. Forget about Blackburn and the Kings. Forget about the mutants warring against each other and humans. Forget that this is dangerous. 

Felix reaches a hand up and palm out to Eoin. A silent invitation. For what… he’s not even sure yet. But it’s there.

Eoin looks at the hand and the invitation attached to it, considering it for a moment. Not the first time he's slept in Felix's presence, not the first time Felix has slept in his presence, but certainly the first time an invitation like this has extended. He'd resigned to sleep on the floor, as he usually does. Of course he doesn't like sleeping on the floor, it's not conducive to a long night's sleep to him, finding his eyes open every two hours, and his headache worsening every time. But he would've committed to it anyway.

Now the invitation's here, however, and Eoin can't say he's not surprised. Hand lifting slowly, he rests his palm in Felix's gently, noting for the first time that they're rough in a way he never expected them to be; a little grin tugs at his mouth. "Who else are you gonna listen to?" Eoin replies in a murmur, fingers wrapping around his hand.

There's something in his gut now, like a tugging, but not the same kind he associates with the death he spreads. This is… magnetic. Of course he's always felt a pull towards the other mutant; his subconscious mind autopilots to him even when he doesn't have it in him to make the active decision. He's always found himself at Felix's door for one reason or another. If it's not a scrape — or more — it's the safety he feels in his silence, in the rustling of pages, the muted scratching of pen on paper, the way that couch gives just enough when met with his weight. For the longest time, he considered it as much a home as he could anything.

But this pull is different. This pull doesn't just bring him to Felix's door and onto his couch; this pull brings him into Felix's bed and over him. He's not as heavy as some, but he's still a grown man, and he eliminates his full weight onto Felix's body by leaning on his forearms at either side of his head. He watches him, eyes moving over his face; the curve of his cheekbone, the dark of his eyes, the angle of his jaw…

His gaze stops. Now there's something he hasn't considered before. Has Felix? He wonders, sure, but not for very long; before he actually has an active mind to, his head is moving down and his lips connect with Felix's. And now there's no stopping. It starts soft, slow, and it quickly turns into a lot more than that. Like a patience that's been broken, an itch finally scratched until your skin is raw, a waiting and waiting and waiting that's ended.

Maybe this could be forever.

[fightthegods]

dated —  january 24, 9:46PM located — unknown alley with — @disasterxsong status — closed

It's not often you see your history walking down the street. The streetlights overhead cast shadows perfect to hide in, and curfew comes and goes, every good mutant tucked away into their homes; except this decade makes 'good mutant' an irony. In this new decade, there's no such thing as a 'good mutant' anymore. This suits Eoin just fine, of course, as he's never counted among that group in the first place. Out after curfew is kind of what he does, blending into shadows and alleys with the hood of his vest over his head, watching. He might as well be nineteen again, when he first met her.

Eoin knows what she can do. God, how could he forget that voice? He glances around the corner, shoulder propped against the alley wall, a vague shape in the dark of it. 

He's twenty now; just let go, Bea. You're not supposed to be scared of them, let them be scared of you. But he rules Dorchester with an iron fist curled around the throat of its streets, and no one but a choice few know his name, his face, his true nature. He's the face of death, the last thing you see before you see nothing at all, until you're evened and stomped into the concrete of those streets. Make them scared of crossing you, Bea, they'll listen. And if they don't, they're worthless. If they don't, take their heads off.

She'd always been fine with him doing it. But that was years ago, when it was just a handful of them and you couldn't trust anyone. In the end, of course, Eoin realised that you couldn't actually trust those close to you either. A hard but important lesson that chased him into the streets of Chicago, with all its filthy politics. Eoin's hand clenches by his side.

With quick movements, Eoin grabs his old friend by the arm and pulls her into the alley, shoving her back against the wall. His hand is over her mouth, but Eoin knows that if she really wanted to, she could obliterate him despite it. "Bea," he breathes her name into her ear, "it's me." Leaning back so she can see his face despite the shadow his hood casts over it, Eoin removes his hand slowly.

He shoots her a faint grin. "Don't take my head off." Or do, if you really want to, it's all the same to me.

[fightthegods]

shaemynamexoxo‌:

NSFW UNDER CUT

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Shae shuddered delightfully when Eoin pressed on their tongue, and they watched him through eyes clouded with lust as he roughly pulled their panties down around their thighs. The gave a slow smirk, before their head perked up at the sound of shouts.

They frowned, watching the entrance of the alleyway closely, looking to see if it was drunk screaming, or the kind of screaming that signaled a fight. Again, the riot should be any minute.

But the thought was forcefully ripped from their head as two fingers were pushed roughly inside of them. They rocked up on the tiptoes, letting out a soft broken moan as Eoin curled their fingers, and they let their chin dip towards their chest.

“Fuck,” they murmured as they rocked their hips back wanting more and attempting to demand it by squeezing impatiently around his fingers and canting their hips back. They were exposed pretty much completely, their dress riding up to their chest now, but they couldn’t care less. “More,” they demanded hoarsely as they heard the screams grow more frequently. They were running out of time and if Shae didn’t get his dick inside at least in some way, they would single-handedly start a one person riot. 

More, they demand, and Eoin complies with a third finger accompanying his other two. It's getting harder to twist his hand now, what with the resistance, but he sings Shae would be the type to mind very much if he simply brute force it. With a free hand, he pushes his jeans down, grateful he doesn't have to attempt to fumble with his belt with one very occupied hand.

Even as he's pushing his boxers down, Eoin's attention is torn to the mouth of the alley once more; even as his hand twists and his fingers curl down; even as he pulls it away and rests both hands on their bare hips. A few people have turned into a few more, and it's undeniable that *something* is going on beyond their bubble; and still, Eoin resituates his attention on the more-than-indecent person shuddering under his hands. Whatever is going on out there can wait for later.

That's the decision Eoin's landed on, and at this point, very little can sway him from it. And so his fingers dig into the skin at their hips, and he's sure it would've hurt — it'd leave some definite bruises at the very least — if it wasn't for the rough way he pushes into them. Again it's without warning, not slow, no easing, never gentle, and it's nothing then suddenly everything; it tears a loud groan from deep without his chest, a groan that is drowned out by the sound of an explosion — definitely not firework — nearby, or at least somewhere on the pier. "What the fuck?"

[fightthegods]

replicaticns‌:

It’s simple, really: the things Isaac should be fearing, like Eoin, he runs towards, while that which he should be embracing, like safety, he throws his middle fingers to. There’s little he values other than his own entertainment, and the things that pique his interest the most are the those rebellious things that go against the norm, go against what should be. It’s frowned upon to spew acid from one’s body. It’s not recommended to use that ability on a police car. But both are extremely chaotic and thus exactly the thing that excites Isaac. So yes, Eoin and his powers were both sick, if that word was defined by a barely-adult who got his kicks in the forbidden.

“I dunno, I saw the damage a bit back. Thought I’d find the guy responsible,” Isaac responded with a shrug. His logic wasn’t always sound, as was evident in that answer; it wasn’t logical to seek out someone who had just done something so violent and dangerous, for he, too, could be violent and dangerous. Isaac, obviously, didn’t consider that, but he also didn’t really care. “They did,” he stated after a moment, completely swapping the order of the conversation. “Deserve it, I mean.”

There’s a grin that could only be described as mischievous when Eoin assumes Isaac’s species correctly. Of course he’s one of them. He couldn’t be prouder to be one of them. He’s especially proud to be one of “them” when “them” is the brand of mutant who causes chaos in any capacity, whether it’s for fun or their own personal gain or what have you. “No shit,” said Isaac’s voice, but the man before Eoin didn’t move his lips. Instead, a clone had said it, an identical copy of Isaac appearing only a few feet away, in order to prove that he was, in fact, “one of us.” 

Eoin turned down the corner to immerse himself in the darkness, and Isaac followed. “Eh,” he dismissed. “Sounds like a good night to me.” Danger thrilled him. Near-escapes were his bread and butter. He was a kid with nothing to lose and every moment to savor.

Of course there's a pause in him. Often other people's powers cause momentary pause in Eoin as he tries to parse the information. But it's just that; a pause. "Neat trick," he murmurs as he keeps walking. It's not that other mutants' powers aren't interesting to him, because they are; there's no time right now to discuss or prod at length. When he rounds the corner, the kid's voice follows, and again Eoin pauses, but this time he rounds on him.

His movement is quick and sudden, shoving the kid against the wall, forearm barred against his collarbones to keep him in place. Does he have the right clone? He doesn't know, doesn't care. "Listen, kid," he growls, the sound of sirens growing louder; he's wasting time here. "Go find the nearest playground and set fire to a bunch of dead leaves to get your danger dick wet with, yeah?" Eoin takes a deep breath as he leans back, glancing around the corner from where they'd come from.

Eyes moving back to the kid, Eoin drops his arm. His stomach is still lurching and he doesn't care to manage his own fear on top of this dude. "I'm not your babysitter. So be smart—” he knocks his knuckles against the top of the kid's skull a bit harshly, "—and fuck off." There's not much he really remembers from his childhood years, but this stupid, daring behaviour is one of them. Eoin knows where it leads; at the wrong end of a solid object.

A sigh escapes him, muffled through the gas mask, and he puts his hand on the back of the kid's head, pulling him with him a few steps before pushing him down an alternate route in the alley. "Keep headin' that way. Use your damn brain, go." With that, Eoin keeps walking down his intended path and, taking a sprint, jumps and climbs over the chainlink fence that bars the entrance to the alley from this end, dropping on the other side easily.

He glances back at the kid. "Go."

[fightthegods]

ciarasawyer‌:

Ciara’s not sure how to take the reaction of the man in front of her. Her brain was just yelling at her to just go invisible and take of. Screw the groceries, screw making any food. But the rest of her knew that she was better than that. There was no need to run right now. Was the man in front of her extremely intimidating. Yes. Especially since she knows he had gone through the same time she had done the night before. Everyone was currently on edge. But that didn’t mean she had to let it chase her away. Would he really do something in front of so many people? She didn’t know, but she was currently gambling and hoping it came out in her favor.

Although all that flew out of the window as he stepped into her personal space. She could feel herself tense up. He was an unknown, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen but she would brace herself for whatever it was. But as she looked up at him, all she saw was him looking back at her. One of her eyebrows raised in confusion as she watched him eat the candy bar. Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, keeping the eye contact but growing more confused the longer it lasted. She didn’t usually understand other people, but it seemed like she didn’t understand the man in front of her even more than usual. He moves to walk away, at least she thinks so, before a box is pushed into her chest. Oh. So he had gotten the box for her after all.

She blinked a few times, trying to understand what had just happened. She wasn’t sure but it hadn’t gone terrible? So she’d take that. Ciara offered him a small smile. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.” She bends down to pick up the wrapper he had thrown on the floor. “No. No you didn’t have to do anything for me. But I’m grateful that you did.” She offers another smile before putting both the box and the wrapper into her basket. Though she pales a little at his next set of words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump you. I wouldn’t do that.”

Why is she being so nice? Eoin narrows his eyes at her and again finds himself stepping into her personal space; after all, the way to understand people is to just get closer to them. Right? I'm grateful that you did, that sentence alone feels like static running along the expanse of his brain. Weird. But he did just do something for her, didn't he?

Hand moving up, Eoin grabs her chin lightly and tilts her head up; at this point their noses are barely an inch apart and his eyes move over her face as though he's studying her. "You wouldn't do that," he repeats, voice low, and the sentence is followed by a sardonic smile. "You did, though. So you would do that."

When he steps back again, the hand that had been holding her chin raises further to pat the top of her head. "Now fuck off." The words are uttered more with amusement than anything else before Eoin turns again, glancing over at the employee at the end of the aisle watching them, and, maintaining eye contact, Eoin shoves another candy bar into his pocket.

[fightthegods]

shae: if i did, i wouldnt have responded

shae: do you want me to fuck off?

unknown number: no

unknown number: idk

unknown number: ur frustrating

unknown number: just stop bulldhiting me

[cain-douglas]

open

[cain-douglas]

fightthegods‌:

If he wasn’t high, this would be a different matter. If this wasn’t a game, it would go differently. If he didn’t think the guy was amusing, he’d not be breathing now. But he is high and it is a game and he does think the guy’s entertaining, so when he ends up on his back, he just grins up at him.

“Fuckin’ quakin’,” he taunts, lifting his head sharply to bite at Cain’s lower lip. Hard, maybe breaking skin, but over just as quickly as it started. Of course he doesn’t physically stand much of a chance against someone of Cain’s proportions; by no means is Eoin scrawny, but he’s built for speed, for dexterity, agility. He’s only slightly taller than average, and even without more muscle mass, Cain easily has a few inches in him.

But it’s academic at this point, isn’t it? He doesn’t care to move much, just keeps grinning up at the guy, squirming under him. “Ticklish. I got you now.”

Cain rolls his eyes. Elon or whatever his name is is pretty fucking annoying. Cain’s gonna have to remember that for if they ever fuck again. 

Which is looking to be pretty soon. The lip-biting salves the sore spot he’s got about the tickling and well, Cain didn’t choose to fuck this guy cuz he was ugly. He looks nice pushed down into the bed and Cain still strung out from work, and now he’s a little cold and there’s still about half an hour before he’s gonna have to occupy his hands holding a burrito. 

[fightthegods]

xsuttungr‌:

Felix has long since been used to silence. When he was a child and his questions were met with silence. The days when he shut himself away in his bedroom from sun up to sun down. The long hours in a library corner with books surrounding him. The silence that stood between him in Rosa before he turned around and walked away from a life that should have been his future. Silence has been a long friend of Felix and it’s the only reason why he’s so patient in that moment. With his brain running rampant and needing to know more, it’s hard for him to clamp his mouth shut. But not impossible. Felix is rarely ever out of control. Eoin has only ever seen that once and Felix would like to keep the occasions to a minimum for his own protection. His own sanity. He’s built his kingdom up far too high to watch it come crashing down.

Those two words drive themselves into Felix and he hates them. He hates the sound of them in his ears, hates the taste of them in his mouth when he almost dared to repeat the words. Why does everyone always utter those two words and expect them to not cause a reaction? When is anything in this world just fine? This. This map of history. This map of scars that Felix can now commit to memory are not just fine.

His eyes are running over the scars that had been hidden from him. Felix is on his feet despite what little distance had been between Eoin and the bed. His fingers are tracing the scars, the ones within his reach. His touch gentle and feather light but the look on his face is far from gentle. It’s full of concern and anger. Partially at Eoin. Partially at fate. It’s sudden the way his hand moves from such a ghost of a touch to pressing hard against the center of Eoin’s chest, Felix’s eyes closing and connecting all of the lines. The pathway of cells, the network and all of them speaking to each other and to him. Felix can see them. He knows he just needs to destroy them. All at once, every fibrous cell that does not belong to just be gone. A moment of pain until new skin replaced where the scars had once been. Healthy cells. Not a single trace of a scar to be seen.

But Felix doesn’t do it. It was mostly voluntary. Those words hurt in a different way. Felix doesn’t like them either but those are alone the words that stop them. There are too many questions in his brain and he doesn’t know where to begin when his eyes open and land on Eoin. His shoulders sag with a weight that had not been there moments ago.

“Do you want them gone?”

It’s permission. Consent. The scars are part of Eoin, physical history that mars his skin and Felix can’t simply take that away no matter how much he hates seeing it. It means that pain was there previously. Something Felix couldn’t have fixed. A pain that Eoin wanted and what right did Felix have to take those away?

It was mostly voluntary. Those words repeat again. Felix hates the mostly part of it almost as much as he hates the voluntary part of that sentence.

The question tears abrupt laughter from Eoin's throat and he wraps his hand around the wrist of the hand resting on his chest. "God no," he chuckles, and lifts his hand to kiss his chuckles. The fact that he'd offer is so… wild is probably the right word. He can see the anger on the man's face, mixing with the exhaustion, and if he were anyone else, Eoin might've felt bad for it. But he is who he is, so he doesn't. In fact, he doesn't really understand why there's anger at all.

It's as sweet as it is strange that Felix thinks to ask. 

Sweet because he thinks removing the scars will mean they'll be gone; there'll just be new ones, in different patterns but entirely the same. These scars are just never leaving if he keeps certain company, which he entirely plans to. 

Strange because… scars are not wounds. They're remnants of wounds, surely, but they don't harm him. He doesn't understand why Felix would ask him that; he has plenty of other scars that haven't warranted the question, so it's not about the scars, but what caused it. And what caused them is an ongoing venture.

"If you remove these," Eoin explains, kissing Felix's knuckles again, "there'll just be new ones that'll take their place." Letting go of his wrist, it's Eoin's turn to splay his hand on Felix's chest. "Besides, you're goin' to sleep right now, 'cause you're all old an' tired an' shit." And with that, he gives the other man a sharp shove back onto the bed, the hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth.

[fightthegods]

xsuttungr‌:

The last to get Felix’s attention are the little succulents in a pot in the kitchen by the window. He’s careful in watering them despite knowing that they seem pretty much impervious to death. A certain someone would likely tell him otherwise but he’s not about to play mad scientist on them to find out the succulents’ limits. It’s odd, he thinks to himself as he sets the cup in the sink, to do this with someone else in his home. The only two people who have likely seen this ritual would be Alma and Isabel. Felix can be very methodical in many aspects of his life - sometimes to a point where it can hinder him. But this… there’s something gentle about it. Felix can’t heal these plants. He has to keep them alive through traditional means - love and care. Does Eoin think it’s too much? Does it seem silly? Felix always thought it was silly but it was something that had always brought him joy.

After washing his hands and putting the cup back once it was clean, he’s ready to ask Eoin again about dinner. He could cook them something easy. A grilled cheese sandwich sounded like heaven to him in that moment. However, he’s only facing Eoin for a single second and could only open his mouth before he let out a gasp of surprise at being lifted and sent over Eoin’s shoulder. This… is not what he had expected. “Eoin - let me down,” Felix complains with a whine that sounds uncharacteristic from Felix. He’s not really fighting. Felix is tired and he sees no point because the other is going to set him down eventually. Where… he’s not sure yet. He can find one reason to be content this way.

“Wrong door.” Felix had said when Eoin had opened up the bathroom door. Felix can guess where he’s being taken to now that the other rooms are being searched. When he hits the bed, Felix bounces slightly and looks up at Eoin with a look of mild annoyance. “I could have walked, you know,” he says despite knowing that he would have argued if Eoin had told him to go to bed. There were a number of tasks that needed his attention, plenty to do before he could rest and go to bed. Like every night. It isn’t usually for Felix to get only a few hours of sleep by choice - even if he lectures others about sleeping properly.

There’s another set of words on the tip of his tongue - another lecture or complaint - but they fade away into an afterthought. Everything shuts off for a beat of time, Felix looking at Eoin standing above him. It’s slow motion in his own line of vision, the way his hands come up to find Eoin’s wrists, to bring them gently and slowly between them. His fingertips graze over Eoin’s wrists to the inside before they ghost up along his arm, tracing the visible scars up and up until they disappear under the sleeves of the shirt and Felix stops only to trace them back down once again.

The look in Felix’s eyes is guarded. His mind is running a mile a second suddenly - where did they come from? Something mechanical? A strike of lightning? Then a shift - how far do they extend? How much of Eoin’s body? Not all of it, Felix has seen some parts of Eoin’s body. Then another shift - what memories are attached to these scars? Dangerous? Traumatic? Then another shift but different. Felix can see the map in his head. Only of Eoin’s arms, the cells vibrating with life but particularly the cells that make up the fibrous tissue of the scars. Everything fades away until it’s just the trials and Felix can see them all in his mind, can feel them without even touching them.

“What happened?” Felix finally says, but his voice is dazed as he’s still looking at the map in his mind. A part of him wonders if Eoin did something stupid, but his voice wasn’t accusatory. It was worried. “Are there more?” This time, he breaks away from the map in his brain to look up at Eoin. Exhaustion be damned.

This is important.

People protesting is always amusing to him, in any context. Begging, whining, praying, objecting, in his experience, it's always born from the loss of control; especially funny when it's someone insistent on their own authority. Eoin has always enjoyed breaking the unbreakable, shaking the unshakeable, and since he'd met Felix, he's been just that. So having him whine and protest over his shoulder is not just delightful, it's downright endearing.

The smirk he fixes Felix with as he stands next to the bed spells enough of his thoughts out. Fight me, it says. Struggle, it taunts. Misbehave, it challenges. The expression on Felix's face Eoin knows too well; he prepares for a lecture. A lecture that never comes. There's a sudden lag in the other mutant's movements, and Eoin watches curiously as the hand comes up, landing on his wrist only to snake up his arm and back down again.

Phantom pain. God, of course the creation of those scars had hurt. They'd hurt, for days and days, the burns uncovered, dragging against the fabric of his threadbare hooded vest; a reminder until the wounds healed, until they stopped burning, until all there was left were the fuzzy imprints of electricity that now have Felix's entire attention. And then it would start all over again.

Anyone would look at them and the pain their creation had caused and they would've cried torture. Eoin calls it being dreadfully and emphatically alive. The burn grounds and centres him even through a high, the initial impact sending every inch of his body reeling until he's lying on the floor amid the white noise of screaming nerves. Heart hammering, the smell of ozone and burnt flesh ravaging his nose until it becomes the safest place he could be.

Felix asks a question, and another, and for a moment, all Eoin can do is tilt his head. A second of five passes as he contemplates words; they all make way for his hand reaching back to grab the collar of his shirt, and Eoin pulls it over his head until it's on the floor. He's always been scarred; this is not the first time Felix has seen his harsh life written like words on his skin, but they're paled by these new scars. Like branching from his shoulder, an ugly scar speaking tales of improvising; twisting like live lightning, like bolts of electricity burnt straight into his skin, darker against his pale skin. It's almost like artwork, if you don't consider what it would've taken for those scars to come into existence in the first place.

"It's fine," Eoin assures Felix, raising an eyebrow as he watches him. He'd not considered the worry; he doesn't want Felix to worry. "It was mostly voluntary."