ruginite

to the literal five people that she still has threads with here...

baz’s new blog is up. those that asked for the new url she will send it to u shortly.

threads: 

please LINK back to the original thread in a new post and tag the new url with it if you are continuing any thing.

inbox:

is now closed. like she’s literally turning off the ask box. so please dont try to send anything to this blog anymore it’s officially dead in the water and being archived so as not to lose any of the thread material on it.

Thank you all for a great run on this blog...

Most of u have been a delight.

anyone wanting to give baz bday wishes you can still do so here. she will post them as a last ‘hurrah’ for this blog.

thank u to everyone that still cares about her and this idiot.

Meme:  send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muses handStatus: acceptin’

Under the slide. Hands clasped over his ears. It had seemed like the best place to hide at the time. Hidden from view of just about everyone, the teacher included. He hated school. Couldn’t understand why he had to go. Why he couldn’t just stay home with his dad. It wasn’t like he was learning anything here anyway. With their stupid circle times and coloring pictures. How the heck was coloring pictures going to do him any good later in life? What could it possible teach him that would help in when he was bigger? 

But all of that comes seconds to the pounding in his veins right now. The places in his skin that are still stinging like live wires because they’d touched him. Pushed him out of the way because they wanted to go on the monkey bars first. So he’d crawled under here, with the hope the world would just forget he existed.

                 Bazzy?

He hears her, but he can’t move. At least not until she’s got him by the face. Pulling it up and making him look at her. All red curls and bright eyed. Verity Willis. His only friend. The only one in this terrible place it doesn’t hurt to connect with. And despite himself he tries to give her a smile. To console her. Tell her that he’s okay, he just needs a minute. But Verity never did know when to not. And all thirty-five pounds of her gets up from the wood chips. Brushing the dust from her knees and marching herself across the playground.

And it all happens so fast he still doesn’t know how he did it. How he moved from where he was to clear across the yard to the swings. Davy Litman landing on his butt so hard it knocked him for a loop. Though the quickly growing black eye might have had something to do with it. Bastian helping Verity back up from where the bully had sent her tumbling when he slapped her.

Meme:  send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muses handStatus: acceptin’

Goodbyes.

They…had not been easy. Though goodbyes never really are, are they? Whether its for a day, a week…or a life time. Because once he goes, there’s no going back. Forever displaced from this ground upon which he was born. Bound for another realm where he will live out the rest of his life. And while in comparison to current company that is…not that long–how much the concept of forever hangs over his shoulders, like atlas holding up the earth.

Heavy steps that carry him down the steps of the truck. Out of the darkened cage and out into the early morning sun. He’d spent last night telling his parents goodbye. They were probably half way around the world by right now. Facing their day with the knowledge their only child was moments away from being gone for good. Alive but gone. And it’s that thought that has him taking in what he can of the open field in which he stands. Surrounded by a small team of SHIELD’s finest. One of whom lowers their weapon when the approach.

                 Don’t blow this. Nice and easy. Here to there and out of our hair. Got it?

A nod even though he never gives them the courtesy of looking at them. To focused on the person ahead. Standing just out of arms reach of his detail. The person that was giving him a chance, a place to be without cages and chains. Someone else that loves him despite the fact maybe they shouldn’t. But there’s no undoing it now. Choices were made, choices that could not be undone.

One foot in front of the other. Coulson coming out of the proverbial wood works. He should have known the director would show up. Can’t send off one of your greatest security risks without someone in charge standing around to make sure they disappear like promised. The small group of agents closing in around him like a gravitating wall of guns and unspoken ‘try us’. Though he’s ignoring it as best he can. Focused entirely on the over sized blonde that waits for him. That greets him with a small nod.

                Bastian.

                “Hammer.”

Still as stone as the restraints at his wrists are removed. The damned power blocking collar around his neck. The thick clunky thing winding down and popping apart as it’s pulled free of him. Bastian rolling his neck and shoulders once it’s gone. The slightest of glares over his shoulder, as he’s encouraged to step forward by the butt of a gun behind him. 

               Go on. One over powered super freak was already one too many.

And that lights it doesn’t it? That temper of his that could go one to a billion in one second flat. But even as he’s moving. Fingers curling; a sharp grip to his jaw stops him dead in the water. Six feet plus of thundering god yanking him back from the brink. Grounding him again into the real world, and the compromise that’s been painfully drafted to see him here to begin with.

                   Not here. Remember what you promised.

Tenuous seconds beat by in the heart beats of everyone present. Hang from the ends of the dozen guns all pointed at him. Beat in between the heat lightening that’s always set’s Thor’s gaze shining brighter than his ever could. And inch by painful inch, he relents. Turns away from the smart mouthed agent and goes where the would be god leads.

Because Thor’s right even if Bastian doesn’t want to admit it. It’s over. His time here is done. And he has no one to blame but himself.

Meme:  send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muses handStatus: acceptin’

Panic.

Throbbing. 

Breathing. 

Alive in her skin. 

Weaving itself down into her bones. The shuddering of the ground with an aftershock of the earthquake that’s rocked the city. The slow realization she is not the epicenter. That she did not cause it. That nature was still nature and the mother of it had found it necessary to release tension. And there’s an amusing sort of concept that’s born and dies in the span of a heart beat. A concept that the person next to her makes a verbal reality.

              It was such a nice day, too.

But then there’s another shudder. Something that is not at all made by shifting tectonic plates far beneath them. A jerk. A split second free fall and stop. The cars around them all jolting. And its a series of sensations, not sounds that makes her understand what’s happening. Has her jumping out of Riggs truck, no heed to his warnings to get back inside. Hands and knees finding concrete and—She knows.

Up again, feet carrying her at their fastest pace to the edge. Weaving around cars to come to a dead flinching stop along the railing. Another jolt that has her holding on to keep her feet. Riggs colliding with the concrete beside her. Yelling something though what it is precisely she can’t say. Already making hand holds to pull her self up and over. At least until there’s a hand wrapping around her arm. Pulling her back.

                  Whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing?!

          “Le’go a me.”

No! A frim grip on her face. Forcing her to look at him. To center her attention on him and not what must look like a suicidal dive over the side of the Vincent Thomas Bridge. Get back in the tru-

          “We gotta ‘bout thirty seconds ‘fore this entire thing goes n’takes everyone with it.”

A heart beat that seems to stretch for decades. What she’s saying, what it means if she’s seen. What it means if she fails. And blonde curls start to shift with the way his head begins to shake.

                   No. No, it’s too big. Yer gonna get yourself killed                               and that ain’t gonna do anyone any go—

            “Y’gotta let me go. I got this, Curly….trust me. I had a big breakfast.”

A smile that flickers in pieces and parts at the corner of her mouth. A wink he so often gave her before running head long into impossible odds. And she cheats a little then doesn’t she? Makes herself impossible to hold on to. Bolting up and over the side before Riggs can attempt to reaffirm his grip. He’ll forgive her later…maybe. 

Meme:  send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muses handStatus: acceptin’

The sun, the wind on his face; he can’t remember them anymore. No concept of them ever having existed. All there is, is pain. And when that is vacant? Numbing disconnected nothingness. That lies heavy in his veins, preventing him access to the natural world. That chips away at his sanity as much as the mind warping torture does. The only momentary solace provided is the moments between waking and that door so tantalizing close he can taste it, opens. Though the silence is hardly a comfort. Even it spoiled by the screams, of the other poor souls bound, the same as him within this place. Victims of an inhuman that should have the capability to inflict the kind of invasive hell that he does. And how god-damn-hypocritical that is of Bastian to come to terms with in hindsight.

              Good morning. And how's my favorite little mouse today? Did you sleep well?

         “F---uck you.”

The words seem to swim, the way everything else does. A sensation he’s learned to get used too. And how very telling that is, in regards to how long he must have spent here. How many weeks this bastard has been picking away at Bastian’s mind. Looking for something but never finding it. Not believing him every time he reiterates his mother is dead. That there is no rebellion. That inhumans are hiding because they are scared. Not because they are forming some sort of resistance to over throw the powers that be. This isn’t the movies. Real life just doesn’t work like that.

               You’re not that lucky.

He would laugh had he the strength but that is a commodity that’s been taken from him. The track marks in his arms and neck have taken care of it. Slowly murdered it over time with the help of this mind fuck of a suit. But where his body has failed him, his mind still holds out. His mother had taught him to withstand things like this, the innate stubbornness inherited from his father only reinforcing it. This asshole would not break him, Bastian would die first. But the thought does not make it any easier to stomach the sudden stroke down his face.

                I do owe you an apology, we're going to have to make this quick today.                I'm on a bit of a schedule. Company meetings, personal reports.                        But I'm sure you'll forgive me, eventua---

It’s violent an sudden. The heavy proectile of spit that he sends flying between them. Connecting with the asshole’s face. And maybe there’s a smile on Bastian’s part at the way he marginally jolts. Takes several moments to understand what happened, before he’s wiping it away. But oh how the satisfaction is short lived. How quickly his jaw is locked down in a crushing vice like grip. No real chance of escape, not with how weak he is now. Not with how useless his body has become. And he goes where it directs. Face turned upwards to the person he wishes to kill most in the world.

             “I ain’t le--”

Blue rolls backward with the intensity of the blow. Every nerve ending screaming as they are ignited. Burning away everything else that came before it, until his lock lock up. Until his mind is inches away from oblivion before it is yanked back hard and abruptly. Leaving Bastian to heave for breath. Blood trickling from places it was never meant too.

           Now that I have your attention....

The first real attack comes then. And he’s panicking to back peddle. Lock down his kingdom. Bar the door. And when that rattles and warps he throws himself against it. Planting his feet, pushing back with every bit of himself he has left. Blue fixed on golden green, defying the fucker his prize with every ounce of his stubborn inability to give ground. 

            Give in.

        “No.”

Even as the door...the ground beneath his feet begins to crack. Even when his legs give out beneath the weight of exhaustion no one was ever meant to live through.He fights. Holds that ground because if he doesn’t...if he slips...the people he’s helped escape---it will all be for nothing. His mother would have died for nothing...and that is not a betrayal a son like him can live with. So he holds...holds until the very foundations of him give way and---

It’s like free falling. The pressure and the pain fading into never having happened. Memories being written, removed and re-arranged without his consent or knowledge. The once bright autumn hue of him, fading to something sickly and black. Weaving itself into every corner of who he is. To sink below the surface; out of sight and untraceable by any that yet lived. Tucked in for the long sleep, by the most languid of strokes along his jaw. The rush of warmth and pleasure that drowns the lingering pangs.

           There’s my good boy.

Meme:  send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muses handStatus: acceptin’

Silence. Bold and deafening. Though the peace only exists in the exterior. Inside there are wars being waged. Fighting every front at once. Boxed in. Folding the steal of his make up over and over again. Until the pressure struggles to compress him. Until the silence is eaten up by the roaring in his skull. The piece of paper between his hands shuddering with the amount of sheer will it is taking to keep his hands steady. To keep them in place. To stop him from deconstructing everything around him, until ants would not concern themselves with the ashes. But the built of rage has to go somewhere and it pushes and strains at the cracks in his armor. In the mended holes in his skin. The very dust around him alighting like small cracks of lightening. And just when he can’t bare it a moment more…

Fingers soft but firm against his skin. Familiar in their make up to the point he does not shy away from them, despite how he jumps. Autumn short circuiting, blinking out of existence; leaving only sky blue in its wake. Though there is anything but the normal determination settled in them. Something lost, something adrift in the oceans of himself. And Beth has become the only safe haven in the entire world. 

Bas’jen, wha’s wrong?

Her voice as gently strong has her touch. But he can’t seem to make his mouth work. Can’t bait his tongue into forming words. The paper between his fingers gripped so much harder as though if he tries hard enough the ruined message will speak for itself some how. But the silence of the room beats on, like nails being driven into a coffin. And eventually he forces words out. No matter how damaged and broken they are.

             “She’s gone.”

And it’s terrifying isn’t it? How god damn scared he is. How much the true realization he is going to have to make decisions once not left up to him. That they are on their own. With no support and no one they can trust in this world gone to hell over night. That the boy that hid behind his mother for so long can’t anymore because she’s gone. And with her down? The targets been moved to him. Because like they said, one over powered freak show was bad enough.

Hands come up, the paper drifting to ash against the floor. Gather her own up in a tight grip. Where they remain for several long seconds. Precious seconds they really can’t afford; before he’s standing up. Pulling Beth with him. Voice pitched low and urgent in it’s tone.

Killing time. 

Seems rather appropriate all things considered. Exams out of his way at least until the end of the next semester. No where to be in a hurry. He should have probably gone home but for once it just didn’t seem…appealing. So his feet had steered him elsewhere. Both sets of wheels left at home, relying on public transit was a bit freeing. At least in the sense you didn’t have to worry about going back to the meter every two hours to feed it more money; or spend half a paycheck for all day parking.

So in so much as he could be anymore…he’s free as a bird. Walking the concrete. Enjoying the snow that had started half an hour ago. Letting the city bleed into him; along with the added merriment of Christmas not being that far away. And honestly she’s lucky that he’d just stopped up short. A rather intricate yet simple pair of earrings glinting at just the right angle to catch his attention. But no sooner had he decided to go inside and make a quick purchase than…

           WHAM.

It’s not that she’s heavy or that there is anything at all about her physically that could move someone as stout as him into falling on a good day–its the sheer surprise of it. And while every muscle tenses in the split second aftermath. The intention to rid himself of whoever it is that had decided to play monkey on his back–the retaliation comes up short. Tiny pins and needles working through his skin where fingers had brushed against it, in the forefront of dark hair combing through the air at the corners of his gaze. The sweet pastry brought front and center, upon which he focuses almost instantaneously. 

             Peanuts.

        “Jesus Christ.”

It’s as much relief as it is a curse. Because she’d dropped off the face of the earth for a while hadn’t she? Well his earth anyway. She could have been as close as New Jersey and he wouldn’t have known. Boxed in like he is. But it’s only a heart beat more before he’s snitching the donut out of her hand; while the other hand moves to help hoist her up his back into something a little more comfortable for the two of them. Feet starting to move again like she ways nothing at all. Teases rolling off his tongue as they go.

           “Yer lucky I knew it was you, y’know. Almost elbowed ya in t’face, Peanuts.”