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let-the-dream-begin · 3 years

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When the World is Free Chapter 5: Calm My Heart

Chapter 4

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Claire moaned again in pain, and Jamie rushed to grasp her hand, which she eagerly took.

“It’s alright, a nighean. Breathe. I’m here.”

She huffed through her puffed cheeks, panting heavily and riding out the wave of pain.

“There you go. It’s alright.”

Jamie looked up from Claire’s sweaty, pained face to find the source of the other voice. John was grasping her other hand, stroking her hair back. Jamie briefly saw red, but then another little sound from Claire had him snapping his attention back to her.

John had been the one to fetch Geillis after Claire’s waters had broken. He’d dashed out the door before Claire could say another word. After Claire had changed her dress and put on a sanitary belt to catch any leaking fluids that hadn’t come out in the initial gush, Jamie had tried to rush her into bed.

“It’s better if I walk around for a bit. Just walk around the flat with me. But not until you clean that up.”

Jamie obliged her immediately, cleaning up the fluids that had leaked from her body. She started clearing the table, washing her own dish and silverware along with the pots and pans Jamie had cooked with.

“Sassenach, let me — ”

“Make sure the floor is clean and dry. The last thing we need is somebody slipping while I’m in labor. I’m perfectly able to clean the dishes right now.”

Jamie stared at her, dumbfounded, before returning to his task on the floor. When he finished, he brought her his own and John’s plates.

“Absolutely not. You’ll be finishing that, and you’ll leave John’s out for him. It’s going to be a long night and I’ll not have either of you fainting on me.” She aggressively scrubbed the pan in her hands. “It’s not as if either of you got much eating done during that screaming match.”

“Claire…” Jamie said helplessly, putting the plates down on the counter. “Sassenach…I…”

“Eat, Jamie. Now.”

It was a barking command, the likes of which he’d often heard her give in a field hospital. Without another word, he swallowed his pride and continued eating his food at the counter, not leaving Claire’s side despite how she likely wanted him to at the moment.

“Seven and a half centimeters,” Geillis said, sounding satisfied. “Ye’re right on track, lass.”

“How much longer?” Jamie said, not at all unaware of the panic in his own voice. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear seeing Claire like this.

“She’s doing a wee bit over half a centimeter every hour, so if that keeps up, she’ll be fully dilated in about two and a half hours, maybe less, maybe more if she stalls.”

“Stalls? Is that bad?” John asked.

“No, no, just means it’ll take longer.”

“It better bloody not,” Claire growled through gritted teeth.

“Ye’re doing a braw job, mo ghraidh.” Jamie kissed her temple gently. “Ye’re a braw lass. You can do it, stalling or no.”

“Here, drink,” John urged, having retrieved the glass from the nightstand on his side of the bed. He held it to her lips and Claire sipped gratefully, letting her head fall back on the pillows after she finished.

“Aye, that’s it. Take a rest while ye can.”

Claire had apparently been in the latent stage of labor for about two days and not even known it. Claire had told Geillis that she’d apparently been cramping all day, news which Jamie had reacted very strongly to, lamenting that she should have told him. Geillis explained she’d likely nearly reached six centimeters without even realizing, and her water breaking had hastened along the process, putting the contractions much closer together.

Geillis arrived when Claire was scrubbing down the stove, having already cleaned the table and all the counters. Jamie had been following her around the kitchen with John’s plate, begging her to stop and sit down, drink some water, or just take a breath, dammit.

Geillis’s bubbly giggling had Jamie snapping his head up from the stove.

“Thank Christ ye’re here. Would ye tell this madwoman to stop fussing about the kitchen?”

“Actually, walking around is rather good to speed things along — ”

“I told you,” Claire snapped.

“But she’s been doing this since her waters broke. And she keeps stopping to howl in pain.”

“How far apart are the contractions?”

“Five minutes,” Claire answered, still scrubbing the stove.

“Oh! Bloody hell, Claire, get the hell off yer feet!”

“Thank you!” Jamie sighed in relief. “Will ye listen now, Sassenach?”

“Fine.” She threw her rag down. “But finish cleaning the stove.”

“Aye, aye,” Jamie waved her off. Anything to get her to listen.

She finally allowed Geillis to take her by the arm and lead her to the bedroom.

“Where’s John?” Jamie heard over his scrubbing, picking up on a clear tinge of panic to Claire’s voice.

“Oh, he told me he was off to get a drink. Dinna fash, my friend.”

“I want him here. Why did you let him go?”

Jamie grunted with annoyance, doubling down on his scrubbing so he perhaps wouldn’t hear Claire. Better she rage at Geillis than him, at least for now.

Jamie truly thought that Claire might fall asleep; her eyes were closed and she was peacefully still on her pillows. Then, unexpectedly, Claire jolted back up, her eyes popping open, all the veins in her neck and face popping out.

“Sassenach?” Jamie said, gripping her hand again.

She yelled out loud for the first time, her previous cries of pain having only been groans and moans.

“Breathe, Claire!” John said. “It’s alright, we’re here. Breathe.”

She continued her long, drawn-out cry, eventually clenching her teeth together and grunting through the rest of it.

“Well, I’ll be damned. The last contraction was only two minutes ago. And that was quite a long one. Wee Brian may be here sooner than expected,” Geillis said, her voice ever chipper.

“Ye hear that?” Jamie said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Ye’re a wonder, mo chridhe. Our son will be here so soon.”

Claire could only manage to nod, still breathing heavily.

Jamie finished up in the kitchen and sprinted into the bedroom upon hearing Claire groaning in pain. Geillis was inspecting between her legs, and they were conversing about how apparently several signs of labor had gone completely unnoticed by all inhabitants of the flat.

“Is that alright?” Jamie asked.

“Aye, that’s just fine,” Geillis said. “Makes it easier, really. Less work now that the water’s broken.”

“Jamie…”

“I’m here, Sassenach.” He was by her side in an instant, gripping her hand. “Dinna be afraid.” He could see it in her eyes, the doubt of herself that she was strong enough, the fear. “Ye’re tough as nails, lass. And I’m right here.”

She nodded uncertainly, and Jamie leaned in to kiss her sweetly.

“God…I’m so glad you’re here…” she said tearily, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. “I never thought…”

“Dinna allow those dark memories here, Claire. We’re all together now.” He put his hand on her belly, cupping her cheek with his other hand. “That’s all that matters.”

She kissed him again, then flicked her eyes away.

“Did John say when he was coming back?”

Jamie felt bile rise in his throat, burning.

“He didna. But, ye ken fathers,” Geillis said, and then blanched, looking over at Jamie with wide eyes. “Well…ye ken what I mean…men dinna usually want to see the gory bits of a child’s life beginning.”

Apparently, the strangeness of their situation was not lost on Geillis.

“But he knows I want him here,” Claire said, her voice rising in pitch and volume with panic. “He knows I want him here.”

“Oh. Well then I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Likely just needed to take the edge off.”

Claire turned her attention back to Jamie, her eyes frantic.

“Dinna fash, mo chridhe. All will be well. Just relax. Fer the bairn.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “All will be well.”

“You’re doing splendidly, my dear,” John said, his hand on her shoulder. “Little Brian has no idea how lucky he is to have you.”

Claire turned her head from Jamie to John, a groggy smile lighting her features.

“I’m…I’m so lucky to have you both here…” Claire said breathily, reaching up to cup both of their cheeks.

Jamie flicked his eyes to John, making brief, uncomfortable eye contact before they both turned their attention back to Claire.

“And we are lucky to have you, Claire,” John said, not skipping a beat. “Bringing this child into the world.”

Jamie heard what John left unsaid.

Bringing our child into the world.

Jamie had to literally bite down on his tongue to stop himself from protesting. He was fighting very hard to keep it together for Claire’s sake. It would do no good to upset her over this while she was in labor. These things could be addressed later.

Two hours passed of Claire intermittently pacing and lying down, contractions and dilations measured. Claire tried to heave herself off the bed again, but Geillis stopped her.

“I think it’s best if ye stay in bed from here on out, Claire,” she said gently. “Everything is going perfectly. It’s just going to keep getting harder and harder to get up.”

Claire nodded in complacence, lying back on the pillows. Jamie was secretly grateful; every time Claire heaved herself out of bed, he felt like he could vomit with fear.

“It’s been hours,” Claire said suddenly. “Where is he?”

Jamie saw red.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Sassenach,” he said as gently as he could muster. “Just taking the edge off, as Geillis said.”

“For three hours?” she snapped. “No, I don’t like this. I want him here, now.”

“Claire — ”

“You know how important this is to me, Jamie. I do not want a rehashing of the conversation at dinner.” She said the word ‘conversation’ with no small amount of bitterness. “It’s not as if having you here isn’t enough, so please don’t think that. It’s just…I can’t explain it. He needs to be here. And if you truly love me, you won’t need to know the reason why.”

Jamie swallowed thickly, taking a deep, calming breath.

“I’m sorry, lass. There’s nothing I can — ”

“Oh, yes there is. You can go get him. You know the pub he goes to.”

“Out of the question. I’ll not be leaving yer side.”

“Geillis and I are quite capable, thank you very much,” Claire said. “And I don’t think I need to remind you that you are the reason he isn’t here. The things you said and the way you acted are why he feels unwelcome.You need to make it right.”

She squeezed his hand tighter, moaning in pain, clenching her teeth through another contraction. Jamie guided her through it mutely, unable to muster any sound.

“…And you need to do it fast,” she continued, as though uninterrupted. “Or you’ll both be missing it.”

Geillis proceeded to veritably shoo him out of the room.

“And don’t even think about coming back here without him,” Claire added as he was pushed out the bedroom door. “I’ll want nothing to do with you if you manage to make it worse while I’m lying here in fucking labor.”

——

“Ten centimeters!” Geillis cried. “It’s time, Claire. Let’s move ye to the stool.”

Geillis had been right; Claire was fully dilated in under two hours. Jamie thought he might faint nearly eight times from nothing other than the sheer panic of hearing Claire’s pain.

And they’d assured him plenty of times that the worst was yet to come.

John rushed around the bed to help Jamie lift Claire off the bed and into the wooden birthing stool that Geillis promptly slid under her. Without even thinking, Jamie slid back into the chair that he’d been sitting in beside the bed, gathering her into his arms from behind. Claire gratefully leaned into him. Geillis blanched again, looking uncomfortably back and forth between Jamie and John.

Oh.

It hit Jamie just then that where he sat right at this moment is what John had been preparing himself for for months. Jamie looked up and met John’s eye, and John quickly looked away, busying himself with something else. Claire was none the wiser, panting against Jamie like a wilted flower.

“It’s alright mo ghraidh. I’ve got ye.” Jamie pressed a kiss to the crown of her sweaty head, lacing their hands together atop his thighs. “I’ve got ye.”

Jamie briskly walked down the sidewalk toward the pub, hands shoved into his coat as deeply as the pockets would allow. He shouldered the door open, and it didn’t take long to find John sitting at the bar with his head in his hands, staring at an empty glass. Jamie sighed heavily, in dread and preparation for what was to come, and made his way to the stool next to him.

John picked his head up at the sound and presence of someone so close, and he jumped. “Jamie,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m dragging ye home,” Jamie said gruffly. “Claire didna want to look at me anymore until I brought ye back.”

John blinked several times. “You don’t…mind…?”

“Mind?” Jamie said, his eyes darkening. “It boils my fucking blood that the father of her child isna enough to be wi’ her right now.”

John seemed to shrink before his eyes.

“But,” Jamie continued. “The last thing I want is Claire in any distress while she delivers my child. So ye’re coming wi’ me. For her.”

“Listen, Jamie, I’m…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of this. I didn’t know she didn’t want me to move out, I didn’t realize she still wanted me at the birth. I thought that since you were back…”

“Aye. I thought so too.”

“It isn’t what you think, Jamie,” John said, looking desperately into his eyes. “She can’t possibly…I don’t…”

“Aye,” Jamie said quickly, not wanting to hear where that line of conversation was headed. “She feels guilty. Her heart is too big fer her own good.”

John nodded curtly. “Right.”

“I think she feels like she used ye and needs to make it up to you.”

John sighed sadly. “She has nothing to make up for. I’d gladly let her use me over and over to spare her more pain. I’d do it all again, Jamie. I don’t regret it.”

“Aye,” Jamie said softly. “I don’t…I don’t regret ye doing it either. She needed…someone. I ken that now.”

John nodded.

“What I’m having a hard time understanding is why she still needs ye.”

John looked away, staring uncomfortably at the bottom of his glass.

“We’d uh…we’d better get back,” John said. “Before you miss it.”

“Keep going! Dinna stop!” Geillis called from the floor.

Claire was shrieking, lifting off the stool from the force of her bearing down on Jamie.

“You can do it, mo ghraidh,” Jamie cried over her howling.

“Alright, relax!” Geillis said. “She’s crowning. The head is coming.”

“I can’t do it…” Claire sputtered, sobbing against Jamie’s chest. “I can’t…”

“You can, and you will,” John said firmly, cupping her face in his hands. “You are the strongest woman I know, Claire Beauchamp.”

“Aye,” Jamie chimed in. “Ye must, Claire, and I know ye can. We’ve got ye.”

We.

That was the first time Jamie had acknowledged the other man in the room, and he noticed that was not lost on John.

Claire geared up for another shriek.

“It feels like I’m being split in half!”

“I ken, I ken, it’s alright — ”

“You don’t fucking ken!” she howled.

“Shh…” John soothed, wiping her face with the cold, wet rag.

“Push, Claire!” Geillis urged.

“Fuuuuuuuck!”

It was a long, drawn out cry that ended with a guttural sob.

“Braw, Claire! Two or three more pushes should do it!”

“Ye hear that?” Jamie said, squeezing her hands. “He’s almost here. He’s almost here, Sassenach.”

Jamie himself felt like sobbing, and he thanked the Lord that she wouldn’t be in pain for much longer. He also reminded himself to forbid her from giving birth like this ever again.

“You can do it,” John reminded gently, dabbing at her hairline. “You can do it.”

Claire shook her head, but even as she did, her body was seized by another contraction. She bore down fiercely again, lifting up. John stood so he could still reach her face with the rag, rubbing her back and shoulders as she pushed and wailed in pain.

“Good, good! Keep going!” Geillis cried.

Jamie was certain he was losing circulation in every one of his fingers, but he couldn’t bring himself to care in the slightest. Before Geillis said she could, Claire collapsed back onto the stool, her head thumping against Jamie’s sternum.

“That was braw, Claire!” Geillis said. “One more push when ye’re ready, as long as it’s a long, good push.”

“You can do it,” Jamie whispered, kissing her temple. “Ye can. Christ, I love you…”

Claire let out a little whimper. “I love you…”

Jamie was overcome with adoration and unable to speak. He was in utter awe of her strength, in utter awe at the miracle that was childbirth, in utter awe that his bairn would draw his first breath soon.

Claire tensed again.

“Go, Claire! Push! Push like ye never have before!”

Claire shrieked in such a way that Jamie did not even think she was capable of. Geillis continued to coach her through it, both John and Jamie soothed her with words and with touches, and then Geillis cried out triumphantly.

And then Jamie’s heart stopped.

A shrieking of an entirely different sort pierced the air, and he hardly even felt when Claire collapsed back into him. What he did feel, however, was a hand gripping his forearm. John.

“Ye’ve a bonny wee lass!” Geillis cried, snipping the cord and giving the baby a brief wipe down with one of the many towels that littered the floor around them.

“A girl?” John said.

Claire was panting and whimpering in exhausted relief.

“Here.” Geillis reached up, having wrapped the baby haphazardly in a towel.

“Claire…” Jamie whispered hoarsely. “Oh, Christ…Claire…”

Claire uttered a whimper of a new kind, and she unthreaded her trembling fingers from Jamie’s.

“Put her on yer breast,” Geillis said softly.

Claire looked up at Jamie, then over at John, her eyes glossy.

“Go on, take her,” John said gently.

She did, opening her weary arms and allowing Geillis to place the baby there. Claire let out a beautiful, choked sound as the squirming, squalling, slimy, red infant settled in her arms.

“Claire…” Jamie uttered again, apparently unable to say anything else.

“Oh, God…” Claire said, her voice high and thin. “Jamie…”

Jamie brought a trembling hand to cup the baby’s head nestled in the crook of Claire’s elbow.

“Oh, Christ…” Jamie felt tears streaming down his face, and his throat burned. He realized then that John’s hand had not left his forearm, and it was now trailing further down.

Without even thinking, Jamie laced their fingers together, squeezing.

“Oh…hello darling…” Claire wept. “Oh…my sweet girl…”

“I’m going tae help ye deliver the afterbirth,” Geillis said gently. “It’ll go a wee bit faster if she nurses.”

Jamie continued soothingly rubbing the baby’s head as Claire fumbled with her nightgown to expose her breast.

“Go on, sweetheart…” Claire cooed, holding her breast so the nipple nudged at the little open mouth, still shrieking. “It’s alright. Mummy’s got you. Go on…”

“Ye can push now, Claire.”

Jamie could not even tell if Claire was obeying, because at that moment, the baby latched onto Claire’s breast, and the rest of the world fell away.

“Jamie…” Claire squeaked. “She’s…look…”

Jamie let out a choked sound of his own, pressing a fervent kiss to her head.

“Does it…does it hurt…?” John asked tentatively.

“No…” Claire said. “They say it’s supposed to, just a little…but I don’t feel a single thing…”

Her eyes were locked on the little face, squinting eyes shut peacefully as she suckled, her tiny hand resting on the swell of her mother’s breast. Jamie’s hand still cupped her head.

“Another push.”

Jamie heard Claire give a little grunt then, but other than that, she seemed relatively unaffected by delivering the afterbirth. She’d mentioned that it wouldn’t be nearly as painful as the actual labor, and Jamie also understood what she meant when she said she couldn’t feel any pain at all. Jamie was certain that he could be run through with a dirk right at this moment and he wouldn’t feel a thing.

The only thing he could feel was Claire’s body pressed against him, his child’s head in his hand, his heart swelling permanently, and John’s hand in his.

“Hungry wee thing,” Jamie chuckled.

“After all that work she just did? Of course,” Claire said, her voice light and bouncy; her baby voice.

“She’s…she’s beautiful, Claire,” John whispered.

“She is,” Claire said reverently. “You’re so beautiful, darling…” She ran a finger over her delicate little cheek.

“Just wait until she’s all cleaned up,” Geillis said cheekily. “Few more pushes should do.”

Soon after, the baby’s mouth fell away from Claire’s nipple, but her hand remained on her breast, as did her cheek, squishing her open mouthed face. Claire giggled at this, and Jamie chuckled softly.

“All done,” Claire whispered in her little baby voice, gently pushing the baby’s lips together. “All sleepy now…”

Jamie didn’t realize Claire was rocking until he felt himself rocking as well. Claire gave the occasional grunt or small moan of pain, and then Geillis announced the afterbirth was delivered; labor was finished. Claire continued to wince as Geillis cleaned up her thighs and between her legs as delicately as she could, and then she was standing up in front of them.

“Alright. I’ve got tae clean her up and get her swaddled proper now.”

Claire shook her head adamantly, not taking her eyes off the baby.

“I’ll be bringing her right back, lass. Dinna fash.”

Jamie felt panic seize his own heart, despite knowing how ridiculous it was.

“It’s alright, mo nighean donn. She’ll be right back,” Jamie whispered gently.

“It feels like…I’ll die if I’m parted from her for even a moment…” Claire whimpered.

“Aye. I ken. It’s alright. I promise,” Jamie coaxed.

Claire relented then, sniffling as she looked up at Geillis and lifted the baby to her.

“That’s a good lass. Get her into bed, gentlemen. I’ll just be in the bathroom if ye need me.”

Jamie watched Geillis go, feeling as though she was walking away with a piece of his own heart, and he’d never feel whole again until it was returned to him.

Jamie only remembered the task at hand when he noticed that John had adjusted his position to prepare to lift Claire off the stool. Jamie felt the smallest flash of anger; he was perfectly capable of lifting her himself, of settling her gently into bed and seeing to her comfort on his own. But any lingering thoughts as such melted away when Claire leaned bodily into both of them, and Jamie got out of his chair and adjusted his grip as well. Jamie looked up to see John watched him, and they locked eyes. John counted to three, and then she was up and into the bed.

“Gently,” Jamie warned, though something was telling him John did not need to be told as such.

Claire groaned in pain as her body came in gentle contact with the mattress.

“Ye alright?” Jamie asked.

“I’m fine…” she panted, leaning gratefully into the pillows that she’d had to abandon earlier.

“Do you want a fresh nightgown?” John asked. “This one is clinging to you, it looks uncomfortable.”

“God, please,” she groaned, her eyes closed. “I feel absolutely revolting.”

“Alright,” John said, sitting on the bed beside her. “Jamie, hold her upright, I’ll get it off her.”

Jamie did not hesitate, did not even think. He sat down on the other side, lifting Claire off the pillows delicately. There was no room for pettiness right now; Claire’s comfort was paramount.

Besides, the wee pervert had apparently already seen her naked.

John slowly and carefully peeled her nightgown off of her.

“Ye’re so brave, mo chridhe...”

Nightgown fully removed, John stood up. “Cool her down with that wet rag while I fetch the nightgown.”

Jamie nodded, concern for Claire not allowing him to contemplate that John was telling him how to take care of his wife.

With great care, Jamie patted down her chest, her stomach, her shoulders, her arms, her underarms. He gently rolled her over so he could pat down her back, trickling water over the expanse of white skin. John stood by quietly, waiting with the fresh nightgown as Jamie rolled her back over.

“Does that feel better?” Jamie asked, cradling her in the crook of his elbow like she was an infant.

“Yes, thank you,” she said breathily.

“Here you go,” John said, putting the nightgown over her head while Jamie held her up. “Before you catch a chill.”

After some careful maneuvering, Claire was dressed and propped up against the pillows, blankets pulled up to her waist.

“When is she coming back…?” Claire said, wide-eyed. “I miss her…”

“Aye.” Jamie stroked her hair with one hand, and laced the other with hers. “I ken.”

“Shouldn’t be too long now,” John assured.

“Don’t let me fall asleep before she gets here,” Claire said, though even as she said it, her eyes slipped shut.

Low and behold, shortly after that, Geillis was opening the bedroom door, a tiny swaddled bundle in her arms.

“Claire,” Jamie said, nudging her gently. “Here she is.”

Despite how exhausted Jamie knew she was, Claire’s eyes popped open, darting around the room until they landed on the bundle in Geillis’s arms.

“Oh, my darling…” She held her arms out, trembling with the effort, and she sighed with relief when Geillis placed the baby there. “Oh…hello, love…Mummy missed you…”

The baby’s eyes were closed, but she was making little snuffling noises, her limbs stirring in her swaddle.

“Christ, Claire…” Jamie said, his voice thin and frail. “Look at that hair…”

Now that she was cleaned, it was abundantly clear that her head was covered in tufts of wild red, the same as her father. Claire looked up at Jamie, beaming with proud joy.

“It’s beautiful,” Claire said, her eyes locked with Jamie’s.

“We…we made her…” Jamie said, awed, weaving his fingers gently in her red peach fuzz. “And she’s so beautiful…”

“Mhmm…” Claire nodded, returning her eyes to the baby. Without thinking, Jamie sat on the bed, pulling his legs up and leaning on the pillows, laying beside her.

“I’ll give you two…erm…you three a moment,” Geillis said, a pile of bloody rags and towels in her hands. “I’ll be boiling rags if ye need me.”

With that, she dipped out of the room, leaving father and mother alone with their gift.

No…not alone.

You three.

Jamie tore his eyes away from his daughter to look up at John, who looked very much like he wanted to follow Geillis out of the room, but like he was cemented to the floor, unable to move. At that moment, the baby made a small noise, and Claire gasped.

“Oh…hello…yes, baby, hello…” Claire crooned. She’d opened her eyes.

“Look at how she looks at ye,” Jamie said, his voice hoarse. “That’s yer ma, a leannan. D’ye see…?”

“Oh, her eyes are so beautiful…” Claire bounced her, stroking her cheek. “I hope they stay blue. She’ll look just like you.”

Jamie wanted to say that he hoped her eyes would turn that beautiful shade of whisky, it was on the tip of his tongue, but it was lost when the tiny blue orbs shifted, looking up at him.

“Jamie…” Claire whispered, as if afraid to disrupt the moment.

“She’s…she’s looking at me…”

“Yes, lovie, that’s your Da,” Claire said. “He loves you so much, baby.”

Jamie brought a trembling hand to cup her soft head.

“Here,” Claire said, lifting the bundle. “Hold her.”

“I…” Jamie sputtered. “She…”

“You won’t break her,” Claire said. “Take her.”

Jamie’s mouth went dry and his lips flapped uselessly. With a few small adjustments, the baby was being placed in his arms, and he choked out a gasp.

“Christ…she’s light as a feather…” Jamie whispered. “She weighs next to nothing.”

Claire leaned her cheek on his shoulder, staring at the sight of her baby in her father’s arms.

“She’s…sae tiny…” Jamie ghosted a finger over each of her features, her cheeks, her button nose, her lips.

And he wept.

He didn’t know. He didn’t think it was possible. He knew he loved Jenny’s bairns, but he had no idea.

He had no idea that he’d love her so terribly much.

It ached, it burned, it ate him alive. In that moment, he knew he would kill for her, die for her. He wanted to tear his heart out and give it to her. It felt like it was already gone.

He’d thought his heart was Claire’s alone, that there couldn’t possibly be room for another. But it was as if his heart had grown, and this wee thing had wedged her way into the newly formed craters.

He felt wetness on his shirt where Claire was resting her head, and only then did he become conscious of the sweet noises she was making, weeping with joy. They didn’t need to speak; they both knew.

After a few more quiet moments like this, Jamie felt Claire’s breath chuckle against him.

“It would appear that our Brian James is a Brianna,” she said quietly, brushing a little cheek with her finger.

Jamie raked his eyes over the entire little bundle, and then they narrowed, his brow furrowing. “What an awful name fer a wee lass.”

“It’s not awful!” Claire said, aghast. “It’s beautiful.”

Jamie chuckled to himself, his lips twitching into an unconscious grin. “Brianna,” he tried again, the ‘r’ unconsciously rolling. He let it settle in the air for a moment, and so did Claire. After a brief silence, he said:

“Ellen?”

“Hm?”

“Brianna…Ellen?”

Claire breathed audibly, perhaps in awe. “Brianna Ellen.” She picked her head up and looked at Jamie, and he tore his eyes away from that sweet little face to look at Claire. “It’s…it’s perfect, Jamie.”

“Aye.” Claire’s breathy laughter tickled his face, and a single tear trickled down his cheek. “It is.”

Claire leaned in and kissed him, locking their lips together in a way that seemed like they never had before. He held her there for a moment, and then their lips parted, their foreheads resting together lovingly. Claire nuzzled his nose with hers, and Jamie swore to God he’d never been happier in his life.

Then one of the floorboards creaked.

Claire turned her head immediately, breaking the warm contact between her face and Jamie’s.

“John,” she said. “Don’t go.”

Evidently, he’d finally gotten himself to move, and was making his way to the door.

“No, no, it’s alright,” John said quickly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed…I should have just left when Geillis did…”

“No.” Claire shook her head. “Please don’t go. Come here.”

John remained rooted in place, eyes wide, looking back and forth between Claire and Jamie.

“Please, John,” she said again.

John cleared his throat and then returned to where he was standing, on the left side of Claire. She patted the bed, and John flicked his eyes to Jamie, seeking permission.

Jamie did not move, did not at all indicate that he was allowing this, but neither did he deny either of them.

So John sat down, bending his right leg and folding it under his left, which remained off the bed.

“Do you like it?” Claire asked, adjusting her body so she was no longer fully facing Jamie.

“Do I…?”

“Her name,” Claire said gently. “Do you like it?”

“Oh,” John seemed taken aback. “I…I do.”

“Really?” Claire’s voice got lighter, more giddy. “I want you to like it. Do you really?”

“Yes, Claire. I do.” He looked down at the bundle in Jamie’s arms, and Jamie suddenly felt warm. “It suits her. Both of Jamie’s parents. It’s beautiful.”

“Good,” Claire breathed, beaming. “Oh…I’m so happy…”

In spite of Jamie’s discomfort, he laughed softly. John smiled.

“It warms my heart to hear that, my dear,” John said, putting a hand on her knee.

Jamie tried not to feel the way his stomach churned at the endearment and the gesture.

“Jamie, let me have her.” Claire reached for little Brianna, and Jamie didn’t think twice before returning her to her mother. Claire sighed with contentment when the baby settled in her arms again, and Jamie was overcome with love. He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her far shoulder, kissing her temple. He closed his eyes, breathing her in, letting her hair tickle his nose, savoring the bliss of the moment.

“Here,” Claire said.

Jamie opened his eyes, and he stiffened.

She was holding the little bundle out to John.

Something was burning behind Jamie’s eyelids, throbbing his temples. It didn’t feel the same as when he’d found out about the marriage, or about their carnal knowledge of one another. But it was a burning nonetheless. It was making his head swim.

“I…” John stammered. “Claire…it’s…”

“You’re her father too, John,” she said softly, but adamantly.

Jamie tried not to feel the stabbing pang of betrayal.

He could not take his eyes off John as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his eyes locked on Brianna’s blue eyes.

“Go on. It’s alright,” Claire said.

John cleared his throat, swallowing again before he inched closer to Claire and outstretched his arms.

“Mind her head,” Claire reminded.

John exhaled with a tremor as Brianna’s warm weight rested fully in his arms, and Claire slowly pulled her hands away. John stared at her, and Brianna was staring back.

“Say hello, lovie,” Claire said in her baby voice. “Say hello to Daddy.”

Jamie tried not to feel like he’d been kicked in the throat.

John swallowed again, and his eyes began glistening.

And then he smiled.

He broke into the widest grin that Jamie had ever seen break over the man’s face.

And then tears trickled down his cheeks, and he laughed, a breathy, soft sound.

“Oh…hello sweetheart…” John cooed, bouncing her gently. “Hello…”

Jamie tried not to feel the way his heart fluttered.

“You beautiful little thing…” John went on. “Yes…hello, little love. I’m so glad to finally meet you…”

Jamie suddenly felt dizzy, and he tightened his grip on Claire’s shoulder to steady himself, feeling like he may fall over. Claire simply leaned into him, sighing blissfully.

“Thank you for letting him be here,” she whispered, barely audible.

Jamie said nothing, he just swallowed thickly.

And he tried not to hear the voice in his mind that said:

I’m glad he’s here, too.

#outlander #outlander au #outlander fanfiction #claire fraser #jamie fraser #john grey #lord john grey #john x jamie #john x claire #john x jamie x claire #jjc #throuple #ot3

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rowanwhitethornisbae · 3 years

Text

Faking It Ch 2

A/N: Thanks for all the love on chapter one! I’m defiantly going to make this at least ten chapters so buckle up haha. TW: Language

Aelin couldn't remember when she’d lost count of the number of shots she’d taken. All she knew was that the alcohol coursing through her veins offered temporary relief from the breathtaking pain. The pain that had her sobbing so hard that she vomited her guts up each and every night. These pointless high school parties were her only escape from reality. Her parents were dead. Who gave a fuck about anything. Stumbling a little, Aelin made her way over the kitchen sink, prepared to vomit if need be.

“Are you okay?” A low voice asked from behind her.

“Fine.” She muttered and leaned against the counter for some semblance of balance.

“You don't look it.” The stranger said kindly.

“Well isn't there some saying; Don’t judge a cover by its book or whatever.”

The mystery man laughed and Aelin finally lifted her head to look at him. He was handsome. So much so that if she hadn't already been leaning on something she might have swooned. His eyes were green, the colour of a pine tree in the dead of winter. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled and a tattoo crawled down the length of his arm and decorated the edge of his collarbone.

I like men with tattoos. She thought.

“Thanks.” He said, laughing awkwardly under his breath.

Oh shit. She avoided meeting his eye, instead landing her gaze upon his silver hair.

“Do you dye your hair.” She asked casually.

He seemed slightly taken aback, but smiled all the same. “No. Do you?”

She gasped as if it was the most preposterous thing he could've said and ran a hand through her long blond hair.

“I’d sooner eat snakes.” Aelin grinned.

“People all over the world do that voluntarily.” The green eyed man mused.

An image of someone eating snake popped into her head and Aelin suddenly felt bile rise in her throat. Before she could vomit on the perfect stranger, she bolted from the kitchen and into a vacant bathroom. Gagging, she fell onto her knees and was violently ill.

So gently that she barely even noticed, her hair was pulled back from her neck and shoulders as her stranger eased himself onto the cold tile beside her. When Aelin had finished vomiting, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and slumped against the wall.

“Thanks.” She said, tying her hair into a messy bun with shaking hands.

“I’m Rowan.” He answered, extending a hand.

For the first time in weeks, she felt a smile tug at the corner of her lips.

“Aelin.”

“Miss Galathynius are you even listening.” Her math teacher’s voice snapped her out of that very unwelcome flashback.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” She asked, earning a few laughs from her classmates and an elbow to the ribs from Aedion.

“Take a walk.” He snarled, and Aelin breathed a sigh of relief. She needed fresh air anyway.

The hallway was practically empty, save a few students on their way to the bathroom, and Aelin started towards the side doors to the parking lot. She passed a locker that had been decorated for someone’s birthday. Streamers flowed down from the top, framing the collage of photos perfectly. The girl in question looked to be a freshman, with a bright smile on her face and eyes that screamed innocence. The things Aelin would do to go back to freshman year. To live with that lack of knowledge and trauma that she so desired. But she couldn't.

She was rounding the last corner when something made her stop dead on her feet. There, leaning against the wall in a way she’d seen so many times before, was Chaol Westfall. Still, it wasn't the sight of him that send her heart into a flurry. It was the girl fiddling with her hair opposite him. It took Aelin a minute to recognize her. Nesryn Faliq, they had advanced chemistry together. She laughed at something Chaol said and reached out a hand to brush his arm. Shivers ran down Aelin’s spine at that hint of a touch. Chaol smiled back at Nesryn and leaned in to whisper something in her ear.

Unable to watch anymore, Aelin turned on her heels and bolted to the women's bathroom. She was breathing too hard, her heart racing much too fast to be healthy. God this was an awful time to have a panic attack. Slowly, she managed to calm her breathing enough to splash water on her face.

This was bad. Really fucking bad. They’d broken up barely 24 hours ago and Chaol was already flirting with the entire female population of Terrasen High. Fine, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration.

Clearly Lysandra had been right. Aelin slumped down against the wall and curled her knees to her chest. She needed a rebound, and fast. Aelin pondered names as she ran her fingers through the grooves in the bathroom wall. Name after name came forward and she found herself subconsciously shooting them all down.

Nox, Fenrys, Sam, Lorcan, Sartaq. None sounded right.

In fact, the only one she could ever see herself with was Rowan Whitethorn. The silver haired senior who’s heart she’d held in her hands sophomore year. Held and crushed. She deserved every ounce of the hatred he had for her.

Still, he wasn't a bad option. She knew he found her beautiful, he’d told her as much. The only problem was that he would never go for her again. People tended to put up a guard after having their heart shattered.

Flirting with him would be futile and unfair. The only way she could ever get him to date her was if she gave him something in return.

“Holy shit.” Aelin swore, jumping up so fast that she nearly hit her heat on the sink.

If there was anything Aelin knew about Rowan, it was that he wanted to play on the football team. He’d gone on and on about it before. According to him, he had been deathly ill during tryouts and had ended up vomiting off the side after one hit. He’d begged and begged the coach to let him try out again but it was four years later and Rowan still wasn't on the team. Lorcan, Fenrys, Vaughn, and Gavriel all were and Rowan was half miserable because of it.

There it was. A plan. She’d get him a tryout, somehow, and in exchange he would help her beat Chaol in whatever sick game they were playing. With a newfound purpose, Aelin washed her hands and walked back to math class.

Lunch. She’d make her move then.

----------------------

The cafeteria was mostly empty, a normal occurrence for Tuesday afternoons. The lunch provided was some weird crossover of meatloaf and mashed potatoes that had most students eating out. Unfortunately for Rowan, Fenrys had convinced them to eat in the cafeteria today in his attempts to stalk a blonde girl on spare in the lounge.

Now, he was picking at his food as his friends discussed the football game tomorrow. Rowan was just beginning to think his day couldn't get any worse, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?” Someone asked from over his shoulder. He knew that voice. Had heard it in both his dreams and his nightmares. Rowan’s grip on his fork tightened and his knuckles went white. His foot began drumming against the floor as he braced himself for impact. Everyone else at the table was rapidly flicking their gaze between Aelin and Rowan.

“No.” He said harshly, not daring to turn around. Rowan didn't think he’d have the will to deny her anything if he was forced to meet her eye.

“Please.” Aelin pleaded. “I have something to say to you.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad because I have nothing to say to you.” He responded, voice carefully exempt of any emotion.

“Then just listen.” She begged. “If you don't like what I have to say than we can go back to ignoring each other like you wanted.”

“I wasn't the one who wanted that.” He snapped before he could take it back.

Rowan felt more than saw Aelin stiffen behind him. Lorcan was drumming his fingers on the table, as if prepared to hold Rowan back if called for.

But it was Fenrys, the friend who was kind to everyone, who spoke. “I think you should go Aelin.”

She swallowed audibly behind him. “Alright.” She relented. “I’ll be at the Starbucks during fourth for spare. Come find me if you want.”

Rowan didn't bother to nod. Instead, he gripped his fork harder, letting up only when the sound of retreating footsteps subsided. He looked up slowly to find all eyes on him.

“So that just happened.” Lorcan mused.

“Yes thank you so much for that observation.” Rowan sniped sarcastically.

“Woah.” Lorcan replied, throwing up his arms in mock surrender. “You’re mad at Galathynius, not us remember.”

“Whatever.” He mumbled and went back to picking at his food. After a few seconds he threw his fork on the table and let out a groan of frustration.

“This food is the worst thing I have ever eaten in my entire life. It is terrible and horrible and fucked up and I have no idea what to do with it.” Rowan half-shouted. Heads swivelled in his direction and he ignored them. Judgement from people he didn't know was the least of his many concerns at the moment.

“Is that supposed to be some sort of metaphor for your life?” Vaughn asked, dead serious.

“Excuse me?”

“Seriously Rowan. All I've heard for the last year and a half is Aelin Galathynius this and Aelin Galathynius that and now she’s finally speaking to you and you’re not going to do anything about it.”

“I don't talk about her that much.” Rowan mumbled under his breath. Lorcan shot him a look as if to say “Yes. Yes you do.”

“I know I'm normally not one to get involved in deep shit, but Vaughn’s right. I’ve never seen you nearly as happy as you were for those few months in tenth. And honestly, what’s the worst that can happen. You hear what she has to say. You like it, great. You don't, fuck it and forget about her.” Rowan had never heard Fenrys speak for so long without sarcasm in his life.

“To be fair,” Gavriel said, always the buffer. “We’ve also never seen Rowan as broken as he was after Aelin. Maybe the risk outweighs the reward on this one Fen.”

Rowan didn't reply. He was too busy struggling to get the memory of those painful few weeks from his head.

“Just talk to her man. Who gives two fucks it’s high school.” Despite being mainly in an attempt to end this conversation, Lorcan’s words made sense. It was just high school. In one more year he’d be out of this shit hole and hopefully across the world in Rithfold. Talking to Aelin was just one step along the way.

“I’m going to.” He said, willing his tone to stay confident.

“Great man.” Fen said, patting him on the back. He barely felt it though. Barely felt anything as the rest of the day passed by in a blur, his thoughts occupied by a beautiful blond haired girl.

---------

It had been twenty minutes and Aelin was starting to think Rowan wasn't coming. In all honestly she should've expected that outcome from the beginning. Even though she understood, the way he had acted towards her at lunch had hurt more than she was willing to let on.

Instead of wallowing in her own self pity, Aelin took a long sip from her coffee. It seared her tongue and burned her throat, the pain helping to ground her in a way nothing else ever could. She was picking at her fingernails, head down, when he arrived.

A metal chair scraped against the cobblestone, a bird sung from a oak tree, a paper bag rustled in the wind, Aelin Galathynius blinked. That’s all she had time to do. One blink to compose herself before she was looking dead into the eyes of Rowan Whitethorn.

She allowed herself a brief second to take him in up close. His high and defined cheekbones, perfectly crafted nose, striking green eyes, and silver hair had always made for a truly stunning combination. He looked the same as ever. Except he didn't. His eyes no longer possessed that unbridled joy and love that she’d seen whenever he looked at her. Instead he just looked done. Done with life and done with her.

Aelin swallowed audibly and handed him a coffee. “Cream and sugar.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

Rowan’s hands tightened slightly. “You remembered.” It wasn't a question. After a brief moment of hesitation he accepted the coffee and went back to staring at the table.

“What is this about Aelin?” He asked softly. Although his voice was gentle, his tone was hurt in a way anyone else would’ve missed. She hated that. Hated that now, even a year later she was still somehow hurting him.

“So you know I broke up with Chaol. Or, he broke up with me.” She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. Rowan nodded once, nearly imperceptibly, and she took that as a sign to continue. “Anyway, Lysandra says that I need a rebound and I need one first because Chaol is the one who broke up with me.”

Rowan’s eye flared with surprise and something else she couldn't place. “I won't be your rebound. Please don't disrespect me by asking.”

Her heart nearly cracked open at the pain lingering in his words. “No no I would never.” Aelin paused for a brief moment to regain her bearings. “Here’s the thing. I don't want a rebound. I’ve been in a relationship for as long as I can remember and I'm in desperate need of a break. But, I’m also the most competitive person you'll ever meet. Like seriously it’s an issue, once -”

“I know.” Rowan interrupted. “Once you sprained your ankle 8 km into a 10 k run and still finished first because you couldn't stand the thought of losing. You told me already.”

Aelin just stared at him for a second, her chest unbearably tight. Rowan’s eyes looked her up and down and she could've sworn his eyes flashed in satisfaction at the pain written on her face.

Not wanting to look at him anymore, she went on. “I figured maybe instead of me actually doing the whole dating thing, we could fake date.”

She held out a hand as Rowan opened his mouth to protest. Begrudgingly, he restrained from commenting and gestured for her to go on.

“That way I'd beat Chaol in whatever this is, I wouldn't have to answer everyone’s condolences on my being dumped, and I’d be saved from the whole post breakup dating fiasco.”

Rowan’s voice was hoarser than before when he finally spoke. “What do I get out of this.”

She took a deep breath in. “I’ll get you a football tryout.”

His knee slammed into the table and Aelin couldn't help but flinch. His eyes were wide and lit up with hope. “Seriously? How the hell are you going to do that?”

“I have a plan.” She tried to sound confident despite her growing doubt.

Rowan let out a small laugh. “The last time you said that we ended up in the back of a police cruiser covered in raw eggs and paint.”

Aelin’s face broke into smile and she began to laugh. For a moment she could almost pretend they were back in sophomore year, lying on Rowan’s lawn and watching the stars. Neither of them had known anything about constellations so they’d made things up based on what they looked like. By the end of the night, Aelin’s stomach hurt from laughing. She wondered when the last time she’d been that blissfuly happy was.

Just as suddenly as they had arrived, their smiles and laughs died on their lips. An uncomfortable silence seized the air and Aelin began to play with the hair elastic on her wrist.

After a few more seconds, Rowan cleared his throat. “I’ll do it.” He announced, although it sounded like he was still trying to convince himself.

“Great.” Aelin smiled. “Why don't you come over tomorrow and we can work out logistics.”

“Don’t you live with Aedion?” Rowan asked cautiously.

“Yeah but he’ll be at Ren’s place tomorrow for a project. I checked.”

Rowan nodded slowly and rose from his chair. “Alright.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Rowan standing and Aelin sitting. “I’m going to uh... go.” He said at last, severing the quickly brewing tension.

Without waiting for answer, he turned and fled, leaving Aelin to do nothing but watch. So they were actually doing this now. What’s the worst that could go wrong?

TOG Tag List:

@queen-of-glass

@courtofjurdan

@fictional-horan

@bamchickawowow

@julemmaes

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato

@chieflemming

@morganofthewildfire

@http-itsrebecca

@captainswanandclintasha

@booknerdproblems

@sassys-world

@thegoddessofyou

@cityofchelsea16

@loudphantomdragon

@poisonous00

@wesupremeginger

@becarefuloflove

@more-espresso-less-depresso-xx

@tillyrubes10

@perseusannabeth

#rowaelin #rowaelin au #rowaelin angst #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius

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redhawtriot · 4 years

Text

Baby Boom (Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

I felt as though since this story had such a specific narrative (especially delving into the harsh world of modeling and the effects of discrimination) that it would reach out to a very specific niche of reader.

I was actually astonished by loud support this fic has obtained so for, so thank you so much! I cannot stress enough how much that means to me.

HnM 💕

Tag-list: @steggy4ever @library-trash @watevermelon @glimmadora-ble @persephones24 @dragonempress123 @your-pri-ncess @broken-from-fandoms @hot-pocket01 @tsukineho

Month 1, Month 3

--Month 2--

No.

You looked at the stick of plastic in your hand with wide eyes as your mouth stuttered into a slack jaw—your breaths hardly making their way in and out of your lungs evenly.

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard that you saw white spots underneath your lids before you snapped them back open again, internally praying that you would wake up form whatever nightmare you were having.

However, you couldn’t blink away the big, fat smiley face that stared back up at you from the piece of purple and white plastic that sealed your fate.

No. No. No!

The sudden urge to puke came back with a vengeance and you threw yourself to the toilet, slamming your knees to the ground in the process. As your stomach lurched up into your chest, you couldn’t tell whether the tears forming in your eyes were from the harshness of the motion or something else entirely.

“Gah!” you loudly choked out as you pulled away from the mess in the toilet.

Once the nausea became slightly less debilitating you leaned back against your bathtub, throwing your head up as you groaned to the ceiling, “No, no, no, nooo…” you softly sobbed. You tried your best to keep from bawling so you didn’t find yourself with your head back in the bowl, but you couldn’t help the stream of hot tears that spilled from your eyes as you stared at the vent in the ceiling.

How could this happen? How could you be… pr...

A sudden stirring in your gut made you swallow hard as you tried to keep your stomach out of your throat.

Don’t be an idiot, Y/N. You took sex education in high school. You put the condom on the banana and were scolded with constant threats of STDs and the fires of Hell like everybody else. So yeah. You know how it happened.

You sighed as you thought back to all the guys you had slept with recently-- which was luckily not too many within the past few months, and only one since your last period.

Fuck, you didn’t even remember what the damn fathe-- guy looked like.

Well, excluding his rippling muscles.

You threw your head into your hands as the uncanny image of a body builder newborn infiltrated your mind. Well, that didn’t fucking help at all. Grabbing your hair tightly as you stared at the tile between your legs, you cursed yourself, “You dumbass! How could you be so goddamn stupid!? Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you repeatedly knocked against your skull.

You reached into the recesses of your memory for any information you might have about the guy. Where was his apartment again...? On the other side of town somewhere right… Near Club 52? God, you didn’t even fucking know! and what did it matter anyway, huh? What were you gonna do? Storm up to his place, pregnancy tests a-blazin’, and tell the complete stranger that you were carrying his kid?!

With a weak and tired moan, you lifted yourself off of your bathroom floor and went to the sink to rinse your bile infested mouth out and wash the salty tears off of your cheeks.

But not before you got a good look at yourself in the mirror.

Swollen eyes.

Red nose.

Drying, teary snot pooling on the rim of your upper lip.

“You look like shit,” you harshly reprimanded yourself before turning the sink on and sticking your face into the cool water. Your hands blindly reached around your counter until you finally grabbed a nearby hand towel to bring to your face. As you patted your cheeks dry, your eyes wandered to the counter where three other positive pregnancy tests that you had taken earlier that morning resided.

The trio all sported a similar smug smile as they looked up to you as if to say ‘we told you so.’

The little shits.

“Shut up.” You quickly grabbed all four tests and with a hint of bitterness chucked them into a nearby trash bin before making your way to your bedroom across the hall.

Plopping down onto your screeching mattress, you took your phone out:

Boss Lady

[2:50 pm]

Hey, brat. I hope you’re doing better.

Don’t forget that we have that runway fitting next week. And the test shots. And the international scouting event.

Think. Thin.

No carbs. No red meats.

NO ALCOHOL!!!

Fucking no alcohol for nine whole months. You attempted to scoff at this, but what came out could have probably been mistaken for the last sounds of a dying animal.

Kimi:

[3:31 pm]

Hope you made it home safe last night!

As you read this text, a piece of you wished that maybe you hadn't made it home safe last night... Your brain briefly wandered into the dark territories of ‘what if’s’ as you imagined falling in front of the train at the subway, walking past a drug deal gone wrong, hell-- drowning on the water you took with your Pepto Bismol. You quickly brushed these thoughts away as you continued looking through your phone,

Boss Lady

[4:45 pm]

Oh, also Deku just asked for a meeting with you personally.

You’re going of course. Glad you got his attention. Good girl.

Tomorrow. 5:00pm. El Vino’s downtown. (EAT LIGHTLY!)

Inches! Inches! Inches!

You slammed your phone down onto your mattress as you loudly sighed.

Inches. Your entire livelihood depended on your damn inches and now there was no way you could maintain the “golden ratio.” The thought made your blood churn.

Modeling… was all that you had. You didn’t have any other fucking talents—no quirk to depend on-- so when would your growing stomach steal your life away?

When do people even start ‘showing’?

You haven’t come across many pregnant women, but all of the ones you have seen either looked like normal people or like freaking beach balls. For some reason your brain couldn’t conjure an intermediate.

Did they just blow up out of nowhere? If so, then when? How long could you pull a ruse off before your growing organ snitched on you? 5 months? 6 months? Next fucking week?

You realized then that you knew next to jack squat about pregnancy.

Or damn kids for that matter.

Okay so... abortion? For some reason, even just the thought of that word made an icky taste surge in your mouth—or maybe it was the leftover vomit, who knows?

To be honest, you had never really thought much on abortion before—it was one of the many topics filed into your brain under ‘that does not and will not pertain to me, so why the fuck should I care?’ Filtered out and forgotten, your feelings on abortion had yet to be developed.

Until now.

After a few beats, you opened your phone back up and began to dial Kimi, fearing that you might soon explode with the brunt of knowledge that weighed heavily upon your shoulders.

You paused.

Had you ever actually talked to her about anything that wasn’t exclusively work related? In the past two years of knowing her, have you ever actually learned anything about her, and she about you? Very suddenly, you were slapped in the face by a crude fact: Kimi was just a work-friend.

That was fucking fine and dandy up until now. You pretty much either worked, or drank, or showed up to work drunk. But now…

Shit.

Who the hell else could you call? You barely had any friends, and you hadn’t talked to your family in what felt like ages. Who was there for situations like this? If half of your life was working, and half of your life was drinking, and your work friends were a no go… what about your drinking friends? Your mind briefly fled to the stashes of your best buddies-- vodka and tequila-- that you kept in your kitchen.

But not even they could save you now.

Fuck you really were alone.

That night, you found yourself constantly flipping your pillow to find a new dry spot to assault with fresh tears. You hadn’t cried so much since you were a kid. Wait-- come to think of it, you couldn’t even remember the last time you had cried at all.

So, was it hormones? Pregnancy hormones?

The surreal thought made your tears fly down your face even more furiously.

The next evening there was practically no trace or evidence of your mental breakdown from the night before as you strolled up to El Vino’s. It was honestly kind of frightening how quickly you had managed to pull yourself together before this little meeting—but mostly, it was empowering.

Okay, Y/N. You fucking got this. Hormones or not, you were still a baddie to your very core.

Deku was easy enough to spot in the little Mediterranean themed restaurant—with the green-ass hair and all. You strolled up to the table with the warmest smile that you could muster, “Mr. Deku,” you quickly approached his table and gave a slight bow.

“H-Hey!” You seemed to startle him with your sudden appearance. He jumped a bit in his seat and awkwardly shifted as you made your way to your own chair. His face was a bit red as you maintained your eyes on his shying expression.

“Look, before you say anything. I just want to say sorry,” his shocked eyes suddenly snapped back up to yours as you continued, “I had no idea that the event was yours and I probably ruined the rest of the night for you. If you want me off the brand deal, then I completely understand, just... don’t blame Ainu’s agency.”

His mouth fumbled over itself for a moment, causing you to quirk an unsure eyebrow before he could finally speak up, “No t-that’s not what I am here for at all, Miss L/N.”

“Call me Y/N. please,” your smirk was a little less sure than usual and you prayed that he couldn’t detect how off he had thrown you. This was going much different than you had expected it to. For one, he wasn’t trying to ‘put you in your place for disrespecting him’ or bargain sex ‘as an apology’ like most power hungry men in his position would.

“Okay, M-miss Y/N,” the blush that adorned his cheeks confused you even further and you felt the space between your eyebrows involuntarily tighten. That was another thing… He didn’t seem like a typical man in a position of power. He was… soft... you didn’t know how else to explain it other than unusual for a man of his size and stature.

“I actually wanted to apologize to you,” he spoke up once more and you were completely lost by then. You could only blink as he continued to speak, “You really got me thinking about things the other night-- you were totally right. The brand of my sneakers did lose its true meaning. I really meant to have it be a symbol for kids growing up without a quirk to enjoy—to give them hope, but it turned into more of an endorsement to myself. The whole thing. It was wrong. That’s why I have decided to give 100% of my personal Red Sneakers profits to establishing my Quirkless Youth Initiative,”

You looked around for any hidden cameras—any hidden agenda behind his motives before looking back to him with a stiff expression. You had to physically keep your face from scrunching, “And just how are you going to make a living out of a mindset like that?” you dared to call his bluff.

“It’s just gonna have to work. It’s what my mentor would have done—given 100%. Beyond actually.”

Holy shit. This man was being serious. ‘100% and beyond’ serious, to be exact. Your face scrunched up once more, “Why do you care so much anyway?” you cut back on your tone as you noticed his eyes widen a bit at your accusatory voice, “Not to be rude, but… what’s a strong hero like you doing caring about us quirkless?”

He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment or two. Contemplating on whether or not he was going to lie, you noticed, “I… I… didn’t have a quirk until much later in life. I was 14. Growing up, I always wanted to be a hero, and I just wish that I had someone back then believe in me. I want to be the one that tells kid’s—with a smile-- that they can do it. That they have at least one person who believes in them.”

His name-- Deku-- it meant worthless. The puzzle pieces were finally coming together and things began to make sense. It was a name that either himself or others used to describe him when he was growing up probably, and the man had taken it and spun it around to make it his own. Even you had to admit--

“That’s pretty damn impressive,” you couldn’t help the curl that tugged into the corners of your lips as Deku bashfully looked away from you,

“It’s nothing, really!” he tried to deflect. You gave a small laugh before smoothly bringing up the glass of wine in front of you to your lips. As soon as the liquid rushed in your mouth, your eyes flew wide open with realization,

Shit! What the fuck were you doing?

You immediately spit the alcohol back into your cup and snapped your eyes back to Deku who had, thankfully, been too caught up in his own embarrassment to be paying attention to you. You gave a sigh of relief and sat the wine glass as far away from you as inconspicuously possible.

“So,” you leaned into the table a bit to get his eyes back on you, “Tell me about this Quirkless Youth Initiative,” you smiled.

From that point on, you and Deku actually found talking to each other relatively easy—okay, extremely easy. In fact, you stayed past the point of dinner and ended up talking at your table hours after the bill had been paid.

You talked about everything and nothing altogether and didn’t know just when to end the conversation. You lowered your borders for some reason. Well-- you knew the reason. It was because you had been dying to talk to someone since you found out that you were the ‘p-word.’

He ended up walking you home. Past that, for the next two weeks you guys pretty much saw each other every other day or two and talked fairly regularly. Things became habitual.

In fact.

As you stood in the beaming light of the wardrobe, getting your makeup done, you found yourself stealing little glances here and there to your phone to text with your new friend, Deku. Every buzz of your phone left you with a giddy sense of excitement.

One of the models sharing the gigantic mirror with you quickly took notice of your demeanor, “What are you smiling at, Y/N?”

“She’s texting someone,” another spoke up as your friend/babysitter, Kimi strolled up next to you,

“What?! Y/N L/N texting someone back? Have we entered the Twilight Zone??” she joked. You only responded with poking your tongue out at her before your phone buzzed again,

Deku:

[1:00 pm]

Good Luck on your runway thing today!

You:

More like run away thing🏃‍♀️💨

Deku:

I could help? Bring comfort snacks?

You:

Most of us haven’t eaten a full meal in days BB

You would literally be stampeded by women

Wait that sounded too good🤔

You will literally be stampeded by hungry women***

Deku:

You haven’t been eating?!

Since when?!

You:

That’s not what I said.

Just pre-show prep to keep the waists snatched and the legends skinny💁‍♀️

Deku:

Sorry I don’t know how your job really works.

I’ll come over again tonight after your show and bring dinner!

If that’s okay. Sorry didn’t mean to sound pushy.

“Didn’t you hear? Her and Deku really hit it off on their date,” Your attention was instantly snapped away from your phone screen.

You gave an ugly snort, “It wasn’t a date.” And you certainly weren’t lying. The friendly atmosphere between you and Izuku felt comfortable as best—nothing intimate about it.

You wouldn't have it any other way. It felt as though he was placed in your life to perfectly fill the holes in your boat just before you started sinking.

“Girl your phone is blowing up!” a co-worker exclaimed, loudly.

Kimi laughed as she pinched your cheeks, “Look at that smile on her face”

All of the commotion gathered the attention of Boss Lady, who was currently storming up to you with the ‘phone box’ (or phone cemetery as some of you liked to call it) in her hand. She liked to have this on her especially in big events like runways or show casings because some of the girls—you were guilty as charged—spent quite a bit of time on their phones behind the scenes, “Phone. Bin. Now.”

Usually, you would put up some type of argument or give a quick-witted remark, but this time around you only rushed to send one final text in before you threw your cellphone into the crate.

You:

[1:33pm]

I should get off at like 11 see you then broccoli boy🥦🤪

Kimi looked terrified as though she was the one who had just incurred Ainu’s wrath, “Still smiling, huh...?”

You hadn’t even notice that you had been.

Talking to Deku really did make you happy when you needed it. Just like he spun ‘deku’ around and made it make sense, he had spun your life around and did the same. He made you feel like life was normal—whatever the hell that was. You’d never really been classified as normal anyway, but you had some impression that this resembled what it must feel like.

For a fleeting moment you think that maybe you should just sleep with Deku and pass this pregnancy off as his since you had yet to tell him-- or anyone-- about it.

But the better half of you instantly slaps this thought out through your ears.

Hello? Welcome to psycho bitch incorporated. Seriously. What the fuck was wrong with you?

Damn, you had been separated from your phone (and Deku) for exactly 23 seconds and you were already outta your cot-damn mind. You get one friend and suddenly you don’t know how to act.

You needed to somehow find “blond muscle man” and let him know what was up. Fuck, how were you supposed to do that when you didn’t even know his name?

The runway that night went pretty much how every single other runway went, except this time-- you opted not to attend any of the after parties. Instead, you went home and had Deku over, who delivered on his promise with sushi.

You could smell the sushi as soon as he walked through the door and your mouth instantly watered. He really was god sent.

The two of you settled quickly in your apartment, deciding to risk it all and eat on your living room couch to watch TV; however, you quickly noticed that the TV wasn’t the only thing that Izuku was watching. As soon as you turned to raise an eyebrow on him he feebly attempted to avert his gaze, but you caught him anyways, “What? You better stop sizing me up unless you wanna fight, Deku,” you sang as you popped another sushi roll into your mouth.

“W-what sizing you up?!”

You cackled at the sudden redness of his face, “I’m just joking. We both know I’d probably kick your ass!”

“You think so?” he actually sounded a bit nervous in his tone, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Oh, I know so,” you shrugged with a growing smirk, “Anyway. What are you staring so hard at me for?”

The air became very still around the two of you as he looked down to think. This was something that became pretty expectant of him these past few week-- a funny little habit.

“It’s just… we’ve been hanging out a lot the past few weeks and I never really noticed it—your… dieting,” he seemed to fall into that last word a bit as if it wasn’t exactly the word that he had wanted to use.

You knew that he meant to say ‘starving yourself’ but was too reserved for that level of bluntness. That was okay with you. You weren't particularly ready to open that can of worms, “Damn, and here I was thinkin’ I was looking pretty damn good,” you joked as the both of you began cleaning up your food mess.

“No. That’s not what I meant I—”

“Joking! I’m just joking with you, Big D,” you found yourself using this nickname for him whenever you wanted to see his face fall into it’s deepest shades of red. It worked every single time,

“I have just been at this for a long time—modeling for Ainu’s agency. Since I was 15 actually,” you shook your head a little at the surge of nostalgia that wanted to bubble up your back. You clutched a nearby pillow and hugged it to your chest, “She scouted me at a mall food court. She changed my entire life—for the better of course. She is practically my mom... I owe her a lot,” you found yourself giving into the nostalgia a bit-- a small, fond smile tugging at your lips. You looked up after a few beats of silence filled the air and was met with Deku’s admiring stare, “What? You nerd!” you exclaimed with a giggle, chucking the pillow at him.

“It’s nothing. I just like hearing about you. I feel like I have been doing a lot of talking about me since we have been hanging out.”

Yeah, he was a Cancer zodiac for sure. You pretty much knew his entire life’s story after only the first week of knowing him, “Are you kidding me?! Your life is straight out of a comic book, BB! I love hearing about it!” You began talking to him from out of the kitchen as you put your leftovers in the fridge,

“You went up against the League of Villains, the Vanguard Action Front and The Paranormal Liberation Front as a freshman?? You powered up from a quirkless crybaby! (Hey!) to an amazing, uprising, super considerate, overpowered crybaby on his way to number one! Your U.A. friends all seem like comic book characters, too. I love them already from what you tell me,” you closed the fridge, revealing his shocked expression.

“Really?” You nodded, igniting a spark in his eyes, “Well, I am actually having a little get together at my place for my friends if you wanna stop by.”

“Yeah sure. As long as my favorite character, Kaminari, is there,” Izuku seemed shocked and slightly offended by your choice in favorite, so you clarified, “He sounded really cool and all with his ‘chatty zappy’ thing going on,” you suddenly rolled your eyes as a bad taste emerged in your mouth, “Kacchan sounds like a little bitch baby though, no offense.”

“Y/N!”

“What?! Kacchan can ‘Kach’ these ‘hans’! Oh come on. Not even a pity laugh? A little one?” You apparently thought you were a lot funnier than Izuku did.

“I think the two of you might actually get along. You’re very similar now that I think about it,” he trailed off on his last part, seemingly talking to himself as he grabbed his chin.

You almost felt offended by his comparison, “Fuck that. Oppisites attract, Similars repel. Besides. Why would I wanna be friends with a little bitch baby that bullies and pisses on quirkless people?”

“Well, when you meet him next week you might like him…”

You clicked your tongue, “So now I am obligated to come, huh?” you smirked.

“N-no well that’s not what I meant but I would appreciate if you—”

You were only half paying attention to his freak out as the abrupt craving for orange juice infiltrated your mind and placed itself on the forefront of your thoughts, “Deku. I am joking!” you absentmindedly reminded him as you scoured your pantries for a wine glass. You had taken to drinking out of these instead of regular cups to at least maintain a semblance of your old self.

Izuku’s eyes widened at the sight of your collection of wines and alcohols in one of your cupboards. You smirked at him-- throwing him look that said ‘you ain’t seen nothin yet’ as you opened your freezer to reveal the insane hoard of alcohol you had stored.

His jaw practically dropped to the floor at the sight, “Holy woah, you have an entire liquor store in here!”

“Saving for a rainy day,” you almost immediately realized the error of your words as Izuku motions to one of the windows near you. The two of you sat in a beat of silence as the pitter-patter of rainfall splattered against the glass pane.

“It’s raining today,” he grinned excitedly.

“No... I cant,” the way that the words fell out sounded about as convincing as a disguise with groucho glasses. You could really go for a drink right about now.

He looked to you a bit sadly, if not disappointed, “Y/N if this is about your diet… I am just saying, I don’t think one day will hurt too much.”

“No, I really shouldn't.” Understatement of the century.

Izuku grabbed two glasses out of your cupboard with a soft smile gracing his features, “We’ll pour you just a little bit in case you change your mind—”

Maybe one glass wouldn't hurt... No. NO! God, you knew he meant well, but he is really fucking making this hard for you!! “I cant, I’m pregnant!!” you suddenly yelled. He immediately froze,

“Wha...?”

“I’m pregnant...”

“Oh... Uhhh congratulations,” the most unconvincing thing to have ever come out of his mouth probably, “Who…”

“I don’t know,” the look of utter horror on his face had you instantly backtracking your answer, “Well—let me rephrase that. I do know who it is, but I don’t know his name. It was a umm.. ‘Wam. Bam. Thank you ma’am’ type deal.” Your face began burning as hot blood rushed into your cheeks. You literally couldn't have phrased that worse if you tried. What the hell was wrong with you?

“You don’t look pregnant...” the horror on his face now registered into your mind as pure shock.

“I sure as hell would hope not. I am like a month-ish along—I think.”

“You haven’t been to the doctor?”

“Uhh no...” He was right, you didn't even look pregnant. There was no way in hell that you needed to go to the doctor yet. Right?

“W-wait! Y/N the night we met! You were drinking alcohol!”

“So? I am probably only like a few weeks pregnant and I drank like two glasses. I am sure it didn’t do anything…?”

“Are you really sure? How can you know!? You have to go see a doctor!” he looked terrified. It was as if he suddenly was the embodiment every stressed emotion that you had been shoving away from you these past few weeks and the sight scared you.

“You’re freaking me out, Deku.”

He instantly froze, “S-sorry,” he looked down to his shoes. Maybe you just might let him pour those drinks after all. He looked like he could use both of them right about now...

The next week dragged on for what felt like eons, as Izuku seemed to cautiously dance around the topic of your “preexisting condition.” It was quite obvious that every time the topic came up, a cloud of discomfort would come and sit on his shoulders; however, the man still made it a point to urge the fact that you needed to set up a doctor’s appointment.

Eventually, you caved in and scheduled for one at a local clinic, but they couldn't get you in for a few weeks anyway-- the joint was at maximum capacity, you guessed? Apparently, there were more pregnant bitches waddling around than you thought.

Still, Deku urged you to read up and research some things prior to your appointment so that you could ask the doctor any questions that might pop up. It seemed like he was almost way too into this-- taking notes in a composition notepad that he dubbed “Baby Notes Vol 1″ and even mentioning coming along with you to your clinic visit.

It made things extremely real.

Your little safe space with Deku had effectively been conquered and subjugated by the little parasite that took residence in your body. You shook your shoulders with a sigh as you neared Deku’s door for the party.

*KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK*

When the door opened you couldn't help the way that your eyebrows flew up in surprise at the sight of a woman opening the door. Uhh... did you go to the wrong house?

The brown haired girl in front of you looked just as surprised as you-- if not even more so.

Okay, you definitely went to the wrong house.

The sudden sound of Izuku’s voice coming deep from withing the apartment led you to breath easy. You deflated a little bit as you relaxed. You wouldn't have to make a mad dash in a lagged game of ‘ding dong ditch’ after all, “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.”

A series of emotions flashed across her expression at your greeting: shocked, nervous, then... disappointed? “Y/N! I’ve heard... so so much about you!” the smile that stretched across her lips seemed almost painful, “I’m Ochako Uraraka! I... love your hair!” she threw out the last part like a rabbit would throw steak to wolves.

“Thank’s...” you felt fucking awkward and she still hasn’t let you into the apartment, “I’ll make sure to thank the stylist and the bottle of dye she used.”

“That’s not your real hair color? It looks so healthy though!” she seemed heartbroken as she used a pitying tone and you could gauge that the pity was not for yourself.

“Nah. My agency pretty much determines what hairstyles I wear...” You made eye contact with Deku inside of the house as he made his way to the door... Thank god! you were saved from that terribly awkward interaction.

“Agency? Hero agency?”

“Modeling, actually. I’m not that badass,” you smirked before walking into the party.

Her figure deflated as if to say, ‘of fucking course’, “Oh. That’s cool!” You didn’t see much of Uraraka after that

Meanwhile, Bakugou was just a tick away from being angry enough to kill. His roommates had all three convinced him to go to this get together over Deku’s house and they weren't even going to be there on time!

He had honestly never been to a party with these losers without at least Shitty Hair being with him, so he wasn’t exactly sure how it would pan out and that really bothered him. He wasn’t exactly social at these events, but at least the three stooges kept him somewhat entertained (he would never admit this aloud).

What could those other losers possible do to entertain him?

“Whyyyyyyy?” he heard crying as he neared Deku’s home. His face scrunched in on itself even further than usual as he approached the whining noise. He scoffed at the inebriated mess in front of him,

“What the hell are you doing, round face?”

Uraraka, who was leaning against the edge of Izuku’s front patio looked up, causing Bakugou to deeply grimace at the germy snot that trailed down her red face, “Deku’s new girlfriend sure is cool. He deserves someone like her, right? She’s perfect!” Bakugou couldn't help the way that his face shriveled into itself in disgust.

It wasn't too late. He could still turn around and go the fuck home and no one would even know he was here. Well, save for bubble cheeks here, but she probably wouldn't even remember to be honest.

But as soon as Bakugou turned back around to make his escape Uraraka spoke up again, “She’s a model. They met at the Red Sneakers Event apparently,” Of course this piqued the man’s interest. There were only a few models branding the event and he just so happened to be searching for one of them. Uraraka continued with her drooling of words as Bakugou brushed past her and made his way into the house-- not bothering to knock,

“You know I am the one who gave him that idea in the first place? It’s kinda like. I set him up with his future wife!” she drunkenly cried to no one in particular as Bakugou stormed away.

He passed Iida on his way in, “Go get round face and shut her drunk ass up-- she’s outside,” he didn't bother on stopping to further explain before walking back to the commotion of the party.

As soon as he entered the packed room, his eyes landed on you. It was like the Red Sneakers Event all over again. You were simply glowing-- hard to miss-- especially with the crowd of his old classmates hovering around you like some damn flies on shit-- especially Deku. He was way too close to you-- the rat bastard.

“Oooh! You’ve been to Milan! That’s so cool, girl! So you must get to sight-see like a lot!”

The way that your shoulders leaned and swayed as you talked sent flutters into Bakugou’s heart. Fucking gross. He watched you speak very intently-- searching for the magic you had used to bewitch him, “Actually I was working a lot when I was there, so I really only got to see the sets and runways,” you made fleeting eye contact with him from across the room, furrowing your eye brows a bit at his stare before breaking the gaze.

“Do you get to keep the outfits after the shoots?!”

“Pfft. Hell no! This loser still hasn’t sent me a pair of his red shoes. What happened to helping the quirkless, huh, broccoli boi?” The most primal urge of jealousy that Bakugou had ever felt sprinted through his body as you leaned over to playfully tap that shitty Deku in the arm. The feeling was so intense that he hadn’t even registered what you had said fully.

“You’re quirkless?” Racoon Eyes inquired, snapping Bakugou out of his feral trance. His face fell a bit as he dutifully awaited your answer.

“Yeah. It’s whatever,” you shrugged.

“The competition must be so difficult!” Momo spoke up as she placed and apologetic hand to her chest. The gesture made you tense up a bit, but you reminded yourself that she probably didn't mean it in a belittling way as she continued, “I’ve been to a few magazine shoots myself and it is always girls with flashy quirks who end up in front and center!”

“Well, I compete well, I guess,” you knew that hero hero modeling and your fashion modelling were two completely different worlds. Designers saw you guys mostly as clothing racks and mannequins for their clothes, so usually they wanted their models to be as mundane as possible-- not to distract from their fabric art. So basically the perfect job for someone like you, “it’s no big deal. I get by like everybody else.”

“You just live your life like normal!”

“Awhhhh. Y/N. You’re an inspiration!”

Suddenly you felt extremely tired. You couldn't find the energy within yourself to filter out and soften your next response, “Glad I could inspire you just by breathing I guess.” you gave the girls a slight smile as you shrugged, but the undertone of your comment had not gone unnoticed-- especially by Bakugou who found himself stifling a proud smirk.

You once again made eye contact with him in this moment-- this time not daring to backtrack your gaze until he did-- a warning sign to back he hell off with that staring shit.

As the night progressed you found yourself becoming more and more tired. The debilitating sense of sudden fatigue actually felt like it had taken over even your bones at this point as the aching structures weighed heavily inside of you skin. You decided after about an hour that you were gonna make an early trip back home.

“What, why!?” Deku scanned your face nervously-- he thought you had been having fun!

“Just really damn tired suddenly.”

“Oh...” he trailed off, but suddenly realized the hidden context of your words. Baby Notes vol 1 page 4 section 3: ‘prenatal fatigue’, “Ohhhhh okay! Right! Well Let me call you a taxi or something.”

“Nahh, I’ll walk,” you waved him off as you made your journey toward small crowds of his friends-- waving them goodbye. Deku followed you in your path around his house,

“W-what? You can’t be serious! You shouldn’t do that!”

You turned around and threw your hand on his shoulder, causing him to instantly freeze up, “I’ll be fine,” you smirked throwing your hand up to his cheek to gently pat his face. Of course, he was left a shivering, blushing mess. It was a low blow, but, hey, it gave you a good opportunity to escape.

You felt a wave of relief as soon as you made it a few steps outside of the apartment. You released a heavy sigh as you continued walking away.

Finally. You internally planned the rest of the night in your head: orange juice, Netflix and sleeeep. You could finally just let yourself relax and--

“HEY!” you jumped out of your skin a little at the sudden loud shout. You whipped around to see that blond spikey-haired dude from Deku’s house attempting to close in on you.

You rolled your eyes as he neared. Hardly throwing him a glance as he approached you to walk a little behind you, “God. You’re the weirdo that was staring at me all night,” you groaned, hoping he would catch your drift.

“We need to talk!”

One of you eyebrows instantly quirked up as your lips curled into a look of disgust. You whipped back around towards him, “Look, I am actually tired as hell, so excuse me for my bluntness, but FUCK OFF!” You only caught a glimpse of his flabbergasted expression before you spun back around to storm down the stairs entering the subway.

“You really don’t know me?” he sounded pissed.

That’s when it hit you.

“Oh! it’s you!” you snapped your fingers at the sudden realization,

“You’re Kacchan!” the look of disgust that hardened on his face intensified by ten fold when he heard you use that nickname. You continued regardless as you neared the train platform, “The asshole bully who likes to pick on quirkless kids. Yeah, well, I don’t give a damn how great you think you are, buddy. You can really fuck off now!” you spun once more to ditch him; however this time around your ankle twisted from underneath you, causing your body to fall down toward the ledge of the platform where underneath the tracks resided.

Bakugou cried out something like ‘you idiot!’ before grabbing you by the waist and yanking you into him before you could completely fall down the ledge. Everything happened so quickly that you hadn't even realized that you were holding your breath until you gasped heavily into his chest.

With a shocked expression you trailed up his neck to his face until you were met with his vermilion eyes, “Shit…” suddenly a wave of familiarity crashed into you. you breathed deeply, “I-It’s you...”

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academi #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #katsuki bakugo imagine #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou imagine #bakugou x reader #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #mha imagine #mha imagines

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hale-13 · 3 years

Text

Ulcerated

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 8 - Force Feeding

It’s only been a week since Tony last saw the kid but the weight he’s lost is clear in the way his shirt is just a little baggier than normal, the paleness of his face, the gauntness of his cheeks and Tony has to hold in his sympathetic wince. May Parker was never one to exaggerate but Tony had kind of been hoping that she was this time.

Words: 2720, Chapters: 1/1 (Completed), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & May Parker

Characters: Peter Parker, May Parker, Tony Stark, Helen Cho

TW: Vomiting, Medical Procedures

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Hey Pete,” he says, trying to keep his tone light and his voice gentle, Peter looks like he’s one stiff breeze from passing out or crying – it’s a toss up – and Tony doesn’t want to find out which is more likely. Peter raises one hand just above waist level in a half-assed wave and Tony bites the inside of his cheek sharply. “May said you’d been feeling pretty crummy kiddo.”

Peter shrugs and hums noncommittally, eyes a little unfocused from, what Tony guesses is, low blood sugar. He purses his lips and weighs his options before crossing the room to pull Peter into a careful hug. Peter goes nearly boneless in his arms but doesn’t raise his own to return the embrace which worries Tony even more; Peter is more tactile than just about anyone Tony’s ever met and is always eager for any physical affection. His stomach turns and he looks up to make eye contact with May where she’s wringing her hands in stress and looking guilty in her navy scrubs.

“Thanks for this Tony,” she says, approaching them and running her fingers through the rat’s nest of Peter’s curls. He’s still leaning up against Tony either for emotional or physical support, he’s not sure which. “I was worried about leaving him alone.”

“It’s no problem at all,” he assured and it wasn’t. When May had first called him about Peter’s supposed stomach flu earlier in the week he had sent all of the kid’s medical information to Cho who had told them, based on his symptoms and history, that they just needed to fill him up with as many fluids as possible and start a bland diet. They couldn’t afford not to with Peter’s wicked fast metabolism. May had taken most of the week off work to cram electrolytes and soup down Peter’s throat but her PTO had run out and she was on shift for the next three days. When she had called Tony for their daily update he had insisted that Peter come stay with him in the Tower – the penthouse a convenient few floors above the MedBay if they needed it.

“Okay Petey,” May said, pulling Peter into her own arms to fold him into a soft hug that Peter at least attempted to return. “You get some rest and try to eat something for Tony okay? I’ll call you in the morning when I get home but I’ll have my phone on if you need me and the hospital can always page me if I’m not able to answer okay?”

“Sure,” Peter rasped and Tony winced at how rough his voice sounded but, he supposed, non-stop vomiting for the majority of the week would do that to you.

“Alright,” May said, looking torn and a little devastated and Tony empathized. Peter was the closest thing he had to a son and he couldn’t imagine leaving him like this now that they were together. She made eye contact with him and Tony could read the clear ‘you’re going to have to take him from me or I won’t let go’ expression on her face and pulled Peter gently back to him.

“I’ve got him May,” Tony promised. “The chefs at the Tower have prepared a ton of bland foods for us to try and Cho’s on call if we need her. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” she said, eyes a little damp. She cleared her throat and pressed her lips to Peter’s forehead. “I love you Pete.”

“Love you too,” Peter mumbled back and Tony slipped his arm a little lower down the kid’s back to support him when he swayed a little unsteadily, dazed. He needed to get Peter off his feet fast before he passed out. They rode down the janky elevator together but went their separate ways at the curb – May toward the subway and Tony maneuvering Peter to lay half in his lap in the back seat of the town car Happy had been idling in the fire lane in front of the apartment.

“Step on it Hap,” Tony said once he had Peter settled, ignoring the concerned look his friend was giving them both in the rear view mirror. “Make it a smooth ride yeah?”

“No problem Boss,” Happy promised, pulling away from the curb with the utmost care and merging them into the Queens traffic.

——————————————

“I know you don’t want to,” Tony began, apologetic as he nearly shoved a bite of unsalted, unbuttered white rice into Peter’s unwilling mouth, trying not to feel overly guilty about the look of pure betrayal on Peter’s face. “But you’ve already lost over eight pounds and its hard enough to keep up with your metabolism as it is. I know you don’t want to end up in the MedBay.”

Peter sighed around the mouthful of rice but chewed it and swallowed it, begrudgingly accepting the next bite Tony forced into his mouth. They got through about half the bowl before Peter abruptly turned pale and then green, barely managing to grab the empty bucket Tony had placed next to him, vomiting up a mixture of bile and undigested rice. Tony squeezed his eyes shut a second in commiseration before rubbing the kid’s back to help him through it. “It was a good attempt buddy,” he said quietly as Peter retched painfully into the bucket until he was dry heaving only.

The episode only lasted for a couple minutes but Peter looked completely exhausted when he collapsed back to rest against the headboard of his bed, letting Tony pull the bucket from his limp grasp. “No thanks,” he said, voice sounding even worse now, throatier and deeper than normal with the wear and tear on his vocal cords, and pushing away the bottle of Pedialyte Tony had tried to force into his hand.

“Not optional kiddo,” Tony told him sympathetically, pressing the straw between Peter’s unwilling lips and staring until he finally gave in and took a few swallows, his Adam’s apple spasming.

“Can I just sleep?” He asked pathetically, eyes red rimmed and skin both pale and flushed, skin drooping with how tired he clearly was.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Tony offered. “You eat another five bites and drink a quarter of the Pedialyte and I’ll let you have a four hour nap before we repeat. Do we have an accord?”

Peter looked at him with sad eyes, the bags under them dark and deep. “I don’t really get a choice huh?”

“Not if you want to avoid the MedBay,” Tony agreed. “The only reason I haven’t taken you already is because you asked me not to but, if this gets any worse, you’ll have to go.”

“Give me the rice,” Peter said, defeated and Tony passed it to his shaking grip, steadying the bowl while Peter forced down five bites of the rice, washing it down with the drink before lying back and cuddling up to Tony’s side, eyes already half-lidded with sleep.

“Put on some Brooklyn 99 would you FRI? Volume at twenty percent.”

“On it Boss,” FRIDAY’s voice responded quietly, pulling the show up on the flat screen in Peter’s room as Tony started massaging Peter’s scalp.

At some point he must have fallen asleep as well because, the next thing he knew, he was waking up to Peter gagging out his name and lurching for the trash can next to the bed. Tony hastened to grab it and thrust it under Peter’s chin – just in time for the poor kid to retch weakly into it. “Let it all out Webs,” Tony said, rubbing Peter’s sweaty back and brushing his lank bangs out of his face. It wasn’t until Peter was done and panting against Tony’s chest that Tony noticed that the bucket contained a concerning amount of blood and material that looked like coffee grounds. “FRI tell Cho to meet me in the MedBay.”

“No,” Peter whined, curling closer to Tony and tucking his legs into his stomach – balling himself up tight.

“Sorry buddy,” Tony told him, crawling out of the bed as carefully as possible to not jostle Peter too much. “You’re vomiting blood so we have to.”

“What?” Peter asked, confused, craning his neck to look into the trash can and then paling further. “Oh.”

“Yep,” Tony agreed, dragging him up to stand before finally just scooping Peter up into a bridal carry when it became obvious that Peter’s knees weren’t going to support him the whole way downstairs. Tellingly, Peter didn’t protest; he just curled into Tony’s shoulder, one hand tangling into his sweatshirt.

Helen wasn’t present when Tony burst into the MedBay a few minutes later but her nursing staff were quick to get Peter settled into a bed and get his vitals and an updated history from Tony. By the time Helen had swept into the room, looking put together and not at all like Tony had woken her up in the middle on the night, the nurses had already drawn blood and placed an IV catheter to start fluids.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t be seeing you in here Peter,” she said, taking his chart and flicking through it.

“Same,” the kid agreed with a weak smile, not letting go of Tony’s hand or the basin he had been given shortly after they got him in a bed.

“So you still have the nausea but it says here that you been having some issues with acid reflux and that you had a fair bit of blood mixed with the bile you just threw up?” She asked, using her stethoscope to listen to Peter’s heart and lungs before moving on to feeling his lymph nodes. “How much blood?” She directed to Tony.

“All of it was blood,” Tony answered, trying to stay calm. He needed to text May ASAP but he was hesitant to do so until he knew what was wrong. “Maybe half a cup? Some of it looked like coffee grounds.”

Helen hummed as she moved on to palpating Peter’s abdomen, apologizing when he flinched. “Have you been on any medications recently Peter? Aspirin, Advil, Aleve? Any stress?”

“Midterms were last week,” Peter answered slowly. “I had a pretty bad headache the whole week and I did take some Advil a few times a day.”

“How much and how often?”

“Uh…,” Peter said, face scrunching as he tried to think. “Maybe like eight to ten pills three or four times a day? I’ve done that before though, Dr. Banner told me I would need that many because of my metabolism.”

“Very true,” Helen agreed. “But not that often. Based on your symptoms and history I’m tentatively diagnosing you with a stomach ulcer that has likely perforated based on the blood in your vomit.”

“An ulcer?” Peter asked, looking like he was having a hard time tracking, Tony gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“So what do we do next?” He asked, running his hand through Peter’s hair quickly in solidarity. An ulcer. Of course his kid would end up with a bleeding ulcer.

“Well we’ve already drawn blood to check for infection or anemia,” Cho answered. “Depending on the results I’ll start him on fluids and maybe a blood transfusion. Since this has been affecting him for a while and because we need to get some calories in his as soon as we can, I’ll stop the bleed and remove the ulcer via an endoscopy. You won’t even have to be fully under for it, just sedated.”

“Okay,” Peter agreed blandly – a sure tell that the kid felt like shit. Cho made steady eye contact with Tony for just a second before reaching out to squeeze Peter’s bicep.

“Tony can I speak to you in the hall? I need to get you to sign some releases while the nurses get Peter prepped,” she asked.

“Sure,” Tony nodded, giving Peter a careful side hug before following the doctor out of the room, shutting the door behind him – all the rooms were soundproofed due to all the enhanced humans in the Tower and their sensitive hearing. “You were clearly holding something back,” he accused. “You’re lucky Pete’s so out of it or he would have picked up on it too.”

Helen sighed deeply, finally looking tired. “He’s lost too much weight.”

“I know,” Tony agreed sadly, reaching up to massage his temples with one hand. “What are we going to do about it?”

Helen clicked her tongue and tapped a finger against the tablet in her hands. “He’ll probably be able to eat once her wakes up but I really just want to place an NG tube while he’s under so he can have a continuous stream of nutrients going in. We could even continue feeding him while he’s sleeping, really get the weight back on. I wanted to talk to you first before I brought it up. He’s on the cusp right now so he could get away without having it but I don’t really want to give him the option to decline it. It would help him recover a lot faster.”

Tony hummed, torn. He didn’t really want to take away Peter’s agency here but he agreed with Helen that he doubted the kid would go for it. “Let me talk to him about it,” Tony finally conceded. “I might be able to get further with him.”

“Sure,” Helen said with a nod. “You should be good to go back in and sit with him, it’ll take another thirty minutes to an hour to get everything ready but we’ll let you know when it’s time.”

“Thanks,” Tony said sincerely, re-entering the room. Peter was still sitting propped up in bed in his comfortable sweatpants and hoodie, not having to change since the procedure was so simple, but with the addition of another IV catheter in his other arm connected to a bag of his own blood – donated earlier in the year for occasions such as this.

“So what did Dr. Cho want,” he asked, eyes still tired but shining with his usual intelligence and a bit of curiosity.

“Figured we wouldn’t be able to get that past you,” Tony said sardonically, taking a seat on the edge of Peter’s bed, facing him. “Helen wants to place an NG tube while you’re under. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand preemptively when Peter opened his mouth. “You’ve lost too much weight as it is and it’s going to be hard to put it back on with the bland diet she’s going to have you on while you heal. Doing this will make your recovery go so much faster.”

“I don’t want to be stuck in here,” Peter grumbled, gesturing the the room and Tony let one side of his mouth tick up in a smile.

“Hate to break it to you kiddo,” he said, “but that’s already a forgone conclusion.” The kid groaned and Tony let a full smile pull across his face, many of his previous worries eased with the diagnosis and treatment plan. “Let Cho do this and I’ll pull as many strings as I have to to spring you early. Deal?”

Peter made a face, his nose crinkled in disgust but he nodded in defeat anyway. “Two days. At most.”

“Three,” Tony haggled, holding out a hand which Peter eventually took with a sigh. “Great! FRI, relay that to Helen please.”

“Done Boss. She said she’ll be ready for Peter in about ten minutes.”

“Thanks honey,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll call May while you’re out and have Happy pick her up after her shift. She can stay here for the next few days.”

“Thanks Mr. Stark,” Peter said, his voice still sounding more destroyed than Tony had ever heard it but lighter somehow – probably because he could see the light at the end of the tunnel and knew he would be feeling much better soon.

“Anytime kiddo. Anytime.”

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump8 #Prompt: Force Feeding #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump

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zutaradreams · 4 years

Text

Day 3: Season 4 Zutara

AO3 Part 2

“Can you heal minds?” Zuko asks Katara to help him with Azula; To be continued tomorrow

“I abandoned her.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“When the news broke that Aang defeated my father, I felt victory. But when we fought Azula...well, did you feel victorious?”

She remembered how Azula writhed like an animal in chains, and how she screamed the most heart wrenching shriek, all while Zuko’s weight pressed against her as he struggled to his feet from the brutal wound that should have killed him.

“No.”

“I was lucky, now that I think about it. I had my uncle. I had been banished. I had the freedom to understand the world in a way Azula never could. My inclinations had already been challenged, but when Azula was finally forced to face the same realities, she couldn’t handle it.”

“So you want me to take a look at her?”

Can you heal minds, his desperate letter had asked her. It was the first letter they’d received addressed to her. All the others went to Aang. But Zuko wrote her a letter that told her Azula’s madness was now her permanent state. His worry for his sister bled off the page and seeped into this evening meal they shared. He wanted to know if there was any hope for her at all.

Another time, when there was less on his mind, she would tell him she was worried about Aang too, and the new darkness thriving inside him since he stole Ozai’s bending away. Another time, she would admit she was afraid of him.

“If you’re comfortable with it. I just want to know if her brain is suffering some kind of physical trauma, or if it’s all mental.”

“I’ll do it. First thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, Katara.”

She shuddered. The last time he said that she had started his heart back up in her hands. That whole battle would forever be something only the two of them understood.

Azula didn’t acknowledge her at all when she went to see her the next morning. She just stared at the metal bars of her cell door.

“We have to lock you in,” a guard said. “Just yell if you need to get out.”

She swallowed down the bile. She could be strong. She could do this for Zuko. “Hi, Azula, I’m just here to make sure you don’t have any injuries.”

Azula didn’t move.

“I’ll, um, start with your hands.” Katara reached for one, but Azula ripped her hand away and screamed. Katara jerked back. She was deathly afraid Azula would shoot a wave of fire at her, but she didn’t. She only screamed. The sound reverberated off the damp walls of her iron cell and surged the fear Katara had struggled to suppress.

Then as suddenly as she started, she stopped. Katara exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry I grabbed you. I wasn’t thinking.”

Azula didn’t respond, but as Katara looked into the blank depths of her eyes, she realized Azula’s hair was a knotted mess. Matted clumps collected at the nape of her neck, and jagged bangs fell in her eyes. “I bet no one’s done your hair, have they?”

So Katara came back with a wide-tooth comb, special soaps, and hair oils. She spent two hours bending water through her hair and detangling the weeks-old knots, smoothing her hair back to a healthy condition. Azula didn’t fight her once, and it gave her the perfect opportunity to probe healing hands against her temples. It would hurt Zuko to know there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could be fixed with her “magic water”.

When she finished, Azula lifted her fingers and ran them through the freshly-combed strands. “Mother,” she called, the first word she had spoken all day.

“No, it’s not Mother. I’m a friend of Zuko’s.”

Azula smiled. “Zuzu.”

“Yes, Zuzu. Get some sleep. I’ll be back later.”

The spices on the chicken burned the back of her throat. She tried some of the soup to wash it down.

“So, no physical trauma.”

“Not that I saw.”

He struck his palm into his forehead. “I don’t know what to do for her. I’ve had all kinds of sanatorium physicians talk to her. None of them recommended anything but keeping her locked up for the rest of her life!”

“While I do admit she isn’t stable now, I don’t think it’ll be like this forever.”

“You always have hope.”

She rolled her eyes at him, though she didn’t take offense. “Do you know why I have hope right now?”

“Why?”

“Because she smiled when I said your name.”

The next day, Katara combed Azula’s hair, and after, she gathered it all in her hands and styled it into a neat topknot.

“I have something for you,” Katara said. She didn’t ask Zuko for Azula’s crown. She wanted to stray away from the influence of their father and recover her memories of her mother. Those memories seemed to be from a more pleasant time. She brought with her one of Ursa’s hair combs and held it out for Azula to see.

“Look, it’s Mother’s.”

Azula tentatively held her palm out. Katara placed the hair comb in her palm, thinking about how excited she would be to tell Zuko over dinner that night. Then her fist clenched around the comb, and flames erupted from her hands. The melted comb flew towards Katara’s head along with a burst of fire. She ducked as Azula bent formations randomly around the cell.

The guards got her out of there as fast as they could.

“I should have known it would be a bad idea as soon as you asked for that comb. Azula hated our mother.”

“Zuko, it’s not your fault.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Her guards told me it was the most she had firebent since she was put in there.”

Her face lit up, despite it all. “Maybe that’s a good thing! Maybe it’s good for her to get all that anger out.”

“I’d agree...if she was directing the flames far away from you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. You have enough to worry about, Fire Lord.”

He shook his head at her. “I worry about the nation as my job. I get to worry about you recreationally.”

She tried a different strategy on the third day when she went to do Azula’s hair. This time, she wouldn’t mention Ozai, or Ursa, just--

“Zuzu sent me to check on you.”

“Zuzu.”

“He wants to make sure you’re eating.” She wasn’t. Her untouched food usually stayed right where the guards dropped it off, and nobody was going to force feed her.

Katara picked up a spoonful of oatmeal. It looked terribly unappetizing, but it was food, and Azula’s cheeks were looking rather sunken. She pressed the spoon to Azula’s lips and watched her swallow the bite. She wouldn’t hold the spoon herself, no matter how many tricks Katara tried, but Katara did manage to get her to eat every bite.

Then Azula threw it all up. Katara patted her back as she cried and murmured soothing words as she expelled all the oatmeal and painfully heaved up bile after the oatmeal was gone. Katara used her waterbending to wash away the mess. She would need the guards to bring more food and water.

Azula sat in the middle of the floor with vomit in her nose, on her clothes, stuck to her mouth. “Is he okay?”

“Who, Azula?”

“It smells so bad.”

“You just threw up. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Is he okay?” she asked again as Katara used her sleeve to clean Azula’s face.

“Let’s make sure you’re okay.”

“That’s what happens when you disobey. Suffering will be your teacher. Did you see his face?”

His face? “Zuko?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Yes, Azula, I saw his face.”

“Is he okay?”

She patted her back again. “Yes, he’s okay.”

Azula stopped crying long enough for Katara to get her to drink some water. Soon after, she got some more oatmeal and fed her a quarter of the bowl to prevent her stomach from getting too full and have the same thing happen again.

“My name’s Katara,” she said to her because it dawned on her that Azula might not know. “I’m Katara. You’re Azula. You’re okay. Zuko’s okay.”

Azula said nothing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I appreciate all the time you’re putting into her care.”

“Of course.”

“I should be the one to do it.”

“You don’t have the time,” she reminded him. “But maybe you could go to see her. You seem to be the only one she cares anything about.”

“She hates me. She doesn’t want to see me. She shot me with lightning.”

But she didn’t mean to. She was aiming for me. “If you have the time, go see her.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Katara--”

“Come on, Fire Lord.”

“Fine. I promise.”

On the fourth day, she talked and talked, trying to coax some sort of response out of Azula. It was a bit like talking to a baby, talking and talking to someone who couldn’t reply. Azula stared blankly at her as Katara styled her hair, changed her linens, fed her small bites of food.

“I have an older brother too. Can I tell you a secret? I love him more than anyone in the whole world. If something ever happened to him, I don’t think I’d be okay. I’d go on, but part of me would be missing for the rest of my life.”

Katara was young. Until she was fourteen years old, there hadn’t been a world outside her family and her village. She loved everyone she met; they’d become a part of her family, but Sokka was the one she’s spent most of her life with. Until she started her own family, he would always be the most important to her. They would always understand each other better than anyone else.

She was lost in thought, wondering what everyone else was up to, spoon feeding another bite into Azula’s mouth, when Azula reached out and burned the wrist of the arm holding the spoon.

“You will learn, and suffering will be your teacher.”

Katara cried out, but Azula’s fiery hand grasped her harder. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes, and she wrenched away from her just in time for the guards to pull her out. One of the guards delivered a blow to Azula’s head, and Azula fell limply to the floor.

“You didn’t have to do that!” Katara shouted at him, while the rest of her could only register the white-hot pain surging from her wrist. Against her better judgment, she looked down. The sight of the blistering, bloody skin made her stomach turn. She needed to work on this quickly.

“The Fire Lord must be notified.”

“No, please the Fire Lord is busy.”

“He told us to inform him immediately if any incident like this occurred.” The guard critically glanced at her wrist. “It clearly has. You have to be taken to the palace physician at once.”

“I can heal it,” she insisted. She just needed some cool, clean water. She didn’t need a physician to rub salves on it, or Zuko to tell her never to visit Azula again. This was just a setback. It didn’t mean there wasn’t any hope for Azula. Just like it didn’t mean there wasn’t any hope for Aang.

She did end up agreeing to see the physician, so long as she was given a chance to heal it first. She soaked the blistered skin in cool water to soothe it and set to work on healing the skin. It was not as easy as when Aang burned her while he was learning. Those burns were minor compared to this one. She was able to ease some of the pain and keep the blisters from thickening, but the physician would need to rub a salve on it to prevent infection. The physician also had the proper bandages.

The physician, named Sazura, was bandaging the wound when Zuko came in dressed head-to-toe in his Fire Lord regalia. “She burned you?”

“Just a little bit on my wrist.”

“The guards said she held onto you and wouldn’t let go.”

“I was able to get away from her. It’s okay, Zuko. It’s just a little burn.”

Sazura added, “My Lord, with Lady Katara’s accelerated healing, I expect it to heal completely in less than a week.”

This information did nothing to calm the worried look in Zuko’s eyes. Once the physician finished wrapping Katara’s wrist, she recommended the lady get some rest. It was the only other medicine she prescribed Katara. Zuko offered to walk Katara back to her room.

“I’m not tired.”

“Then take a walk with me.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” It was the middle of the day. Zuko was usually stuck in back-to-back meetings, pouring over documents, seeking advice. He never had time to walk in the middle of the day.

“Not right now.”

She agreed to go with him. They ended up wandering into some part of the palace she hadn’t had the chance to visit in her relatively short stay. It was a grand room filled wall-to-wall with tapestries of the history of the Fire Nation.

“I wish you wouldn’t see her again.”

“Zuko, please don’t lose hope.”

“Katara, I can accept that I’m never going to get my sister back. I can make peace with that. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You don’t need to risk yourself for a lost cause.”

“I don’t think she’s a lost cause! You don’t either! I know you don’t. You never would have asked me here in the first place if you thought she was.”

“I want her bending taken away, just like my father.”

“No!” Katara shouted at him. “You can’t do that. You don’t get to decide who gets to bend and who doesn’t. You don’t understand how dangerous that kind of power is.” There were tears in her eyes just thinking about it.

“What do you mean?”

It felt like a betrayal to even say it out loud. “Aang’s not the same.”

“Not the same how?”

“He has these awful dreams at night. He swears they’re memories of your father’s life, and when he wakes in the middle of one of them, he’s merciless and sadistic and destructive. He’s terrifying, and there’s no snapping him out of it until he wakes up completely. No Avatar has ever taken another’s bending before. There’s no one to help him understand the consequences of what he did. There’s no one to help him heal. You can’t ask him to do it again.”

“Then I won’t.”

“Thank you.” She hugged him. She needed a hug.

“We’re going to figure out what’s going on with Aang,” he assured her, rubbing his hand soothingly along her back. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“He wanted me to keep it a secret.”

“That’s too much of a burden to put on you,” he said gently. She knew she needed to pull away from him soon, but his arms were too comforting. “Is that why you came here? You thought if you could figure out how to help Azula, you could figure out how to help Aang?”

She squeezed him tighter one last time before she let go. “No. I came here for you.” She looked down at her bandaged wrist and sighed. “I didn’t think the end of the war was going to be like this.”

“Neither did I. I imagined a lot less chaos.”

“Yeah, I was hoping for more parties. Some nice festivals.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he mused along with her before he steered the conversation back to reality. “When Azula burned you, was it an accident, do you think?”

“No. I wish it was. She said ‘suffering will be your teacher’ like she knew what she was doing.”

Zuko tensed, and his eyes turned cold. “What did she say?”

Did she even need to repeat herself? From his reaction, she was sure he already knew. “‘Suffering will be your teacher.’ She said it before a couple days ago when she threw up after eating. What does it mean?”

He didn’t reply at first.

“Zuko, what does it mean?”

“It’s what my father said before he burned me.”

An answer to a question she never asked, though she wondered a million times. Zuko, how did you get your scar? Now so many more questions. He was gone before she could ask them.

#zutarafic #zutaramonth #zutaradreams #zutara month 2020 #zutara

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bluesey-182 · 5 years

Text

We Have To Stop Meeting Like This: Chapter 3

chapter one, chapter two, or read the whole fic (so far) on ao3

Taryn caught up to Jude when she was halfway across the expansive front lawn trying to order an Uber. But of course, her phone died before she could finish downloading the app.

“Damnit!” Jude screamed and threw the phone down into the grass, hard.

“Jude!” Taryn called as she jogged towards her sister with her heels in her hands. “Jude, where are you going?”

“I’m going home.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate parties and I hate assholes and this party is filled with assholes!”

“But--”

“No, Taryn! I’m going home!”

“Jude, please. Just... just stay with me, I’m sorry I left you alone, okay? Please just come back inside.”

Jude felt tears of frustration pricking at her eyes, but she didn't cry often cried and she wasn’t about to do it now over some stupid pompous jerk making her angry. She wanted to say no, she wanted to go home and lay in bed and watch TV, but Taryn was giving her those doe eyes again and, of course, of course, she couldn’t say no.

“Fine,” she muttered, defeated. Her heart sank when Taryn’s eyes sparked with joy and triumph. Leaving her no time to change her mind, Taryn took hold of Jude’s hand and pulled her back to the party and suddenly Jude was a little girl again, going everywhere with her identical twin sister’s hand in hers because when they were together they were unstoppable.

“Wait,” Jude said, and Taryn looked at her pleadingly as if to say “don’t you dare change your mind.” Instead, Jude said, “I left my phone in the grass.”

After a quick retrieval, she clasped hands with Taryn again and they walked back into the party as a solid front.

It was still loud. And packed. And at this point in the night almost everyone was drunk. Jude gritted her teeth and forced herself to continue on. On through the conversations with Taryn’s friends, on through seeing the occasional flash of Cardan in the crowds, on through the urge to punch him in the throat when he finally caught her eye and smirked at her from across the room. Her vision went red.

When the night was, finally, blissfully over, Taryn went out to wait in the car while Jude used the bathroom one last time. The drive back to their apartment was a solid thirty minutes and Jude had drank a solid bottle of vodka.

She stumbled out of the bathroom and nearly collided with someone turning the corner. Thankfully, it wasn’t Cardan. Unfortunately it was one of his friends.

“Hey, easy there,” Locke said as Jude pitched to the side in her drunken state. “Are you good?”

“Leave me alone.” She had meant to sound menacing but the slur of her words ruined the effect. She brushed past him, trying to stay as steady on her feet as she could, but he lightly caught her arm to stop her.

“Wait,” Locke said quietly. Jude considered throwing her elbow into his face as well as several other acts of violence but dismissed all of those options and instead turned to face him again. “I wanted to apologize. For earlier. I wasn’t the nicest and Cardan was definitely an ass, so I’m sorry if we ruined your night.”

Jude opened her mouth to respond but Locke cut her off. “I’m sorry if I ruined your night.”

“You weren’t so bad,” she found herself admitting. “Cardan just drives me crazy and I’ve only ever met him twice.

Locke laughed, low and quiet. “In our messed up friend group Valerian is usually the ring leader when it comes to cruelty but Cardan has his moments of total douche-baginess.”

Jude surprised even herself by laughing and Locke’s look of surprise quickly shifted into something softer. He looked at her like her laugh might have been the best sound he ever heard. She felt her cheeks warm and dipped her head, letting her hair fall into her face in an attempt to hide the blush.

“I know this is a stretch but,” Locke paused. Jude looked up to see him rubbing his palm against the back of his neck while he stared at his shoes. As if noticing her gaze he lifted his head to meet her eyes and continued, “would you maybe want to grab dinner with me tomorrow? Maybe eight o’clock at Molly’s? That diner by campus?”

Maybe it was the alcohol running through her veins or maybe it was the way he was looking at her or maybe some small part of her was hoping it would piss off Cardan to go on a date with his friend but, despite her better judgement, Jude found herself saying, “Yes.”

Some tune was playing on the radio that sounded vaguely familiar but Jude was too far gone to place it. The lines of the road were blurring past and she watched them go with her forehead against the window as Taryn drove. Jude kept feeling her sister’s gaze shifting over to her as if to say something, though she seemed to change her mind each time. After about the dozenth time of this charade, Jude finally snapped, “Just say it, Taryn.”

“What happened back at the party that made you so upset?”

She groaned to herself. “Cardan.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Although her head was spinning Jude forced herself to peel her face away from the cold window and turned to face her sister. The world swooped underneath her and without thinking she grabbed onto the center console with white knuckles. Jesus, she was probably gonna puke. Regardless, she tried to power through.

“Remember that guy that rear ended us the other day?” She managed, forcing down the rising bile in her throat.

Taryn was appropriately confused. “Yeah? What about him?”

“He was at the party tonight.” She watched with mild satisfaction as Taryn shot her a quick look of surprised horror before turning back to the road. The world was spinning again and the comfortable cotton feeling in Jude’s head was starting to turn into a throbbing pain. “Yeah turns out he’s friends with Valerian and equally as douchey.”

“What did he say to you?”

Although Taryn couldn’t see it, Jude shrugged her shoulders and let her head fall back against the window with a dull thud.

“I hate him.” She hadn’t realized she had spoken out loud until she heard Taryn hum her own agreement.

Without warning, Jude rolled down her window, leaned her head out, and puked.

----

Hangovers always seemed to be worse than Jude remembered, no matter how many times she experienced them and thought “this is as bad as it can get” they always seemed to get more and more unpleasant every time.

Upon waking, Jude groaned loud enough for the sound to carry through the apartment and she promptly pulled the covers over her face to block out what little light came streaming through her closed window blinds. Several attempts to fall back asleep were thwarted as noise from the world, impossibly loud, somehow reached her room until finally she was forced to leave her blanket cocoon and the blessed darkness of her room.

The morning went by in a blur of coffee and Ibuprofen and too much noise and light, and oh God she was so hungover. Taryn tried to start a conversation with Jude as she was slumped over a bowl of soggy cereal--she was too nauseous to eat it--at the kitchen table, but the spark in Taryn’s voice made Jude want to stab herself with the spoon. Taryn quickly left her alone.

It wasn’t until much later in the afternoon, when the last cobwebs of Jude’s hangover were finally clearing away that she remembered…

She had a date.

“Shit!” Jude cried as she threw the blankets off her from her place on the couch and bolted to the apartments single bathroom. She showered in a rush, threw on her best pair of jeans with a favorite tee, attempted to wrangle her hair into some semblance of an up-do, and pulled on a pair of converse. A glance at the clock told her she would have to run the few blocks to Molly’s if she wanted to make it there on time. Of course Taryn had taken the Jeep and left Jude without a vehicle, but she supposed a little running never did anyone harm.

A little running definitely did Jude some harm. By the time she came to a stop in front of the diner her ribs were aching and she was breathing hard from excursion. It would seem she had gotten out of shape since her soccer days in high school. Damn.

At the very least, she had gotten to the diner with four minutes to spare.

Inside was blessedly cool and relatively quiet once she stepped through the front doors. The hostess sat her with a forced smile before abandoning Jude with the unfamiliar menu at a table by the front. She craned her head to scan the rest of the restaurant for a shock of red hair in case she had missed Locke walking in but her search came up empty.

Maybe he’s running late, she told herself for the first twenty minutes of waiting.

Maybe he forgot, she told herself as she told the waiter for the sixth time that she needed a few more minutes.

Or maybe he’s just an asshole, she told herself as the clock face on her watch declared the time to be nearly nine o’clock. It was final then. She had been stood up.

Feeling embarrassed and angry, Jude threw a ten dollar bill on the table--a tip even though she hadn’t ordered anything, more of an “I’m sorry for taking up your time for no reason” tip than anything else--before sliding from the booth to leave.

Once on her feet she collided with something solid. Suddenly she was sitting again, not sure what had just happened, until she looked up at what she had ran into.

Or rather, who she had ran into.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Cardan said as he rubbed the place on his chest where Jude’s face had collided.

“Are you following me or something?” She demanded.

The comment seemed to confuse him. “What?”

“Are. You. Following. Me?” She asked again, venom in each of her words.

“No, I guess I just didn’t realize you had the monopoly on coming here all of a sudden,” Cardan bit back. “This is the closest diner to campus and I didn’t feel like walking much further.”

Right. Of course. She had forgotten that.

“Waiting for somebody?” That teasing tone had slipped back into his voice as he indicated the menu and empty seat across from her. Shame pricked her skin and she tried her best to keep it out of her expression as she stared him down without a response. It seemed her silence was answer enough because she saw something in his eyes change. Pity? But before she could decide what it was, he had slid into the booth across from her in one fluid, languid motion.

“What do you think you’re do-,” her words were cut short as the waiter suddenly appeared out of thin air, as if the sight of someone finally joining her at the table had summoned him.

“Lovely, since you’re both finally here, can I take a drink order for you?” The waiter was pointedly not looking at Jude as if she was to blame for her “date” not showing up, leaving her to waste the waiter’s time.

“We’re not-,” she started, only to be cut off again.

“Two lemonades, please,” Cardan said with a flash of that arrogant smile. The waiter nodded and hustled off like he couldn’t get away from their table fast enough.

“I don’t want a lemonade,” Jude said as she watched him with narrowed eyes.

“And who says one of them is for you?” Cardan leaned across the table as he said it until his face was inches from hers and before she could process the weird flutter in her stomach he was pulling away and the waiter was there with the drinks. Cardan didn’t look at her as he took the wrapper off a straw and dropped it into his drinks. He took a sip, and despite his earlier remark, slid the second glass of lemonade across the table to her, still not making eye contact once.

“So,” his voice interrupted her thoughts and she tried to hide her small jump of surprise. “Spill the tea, what asshole stood you up?”

She was instantly angry that he had assumed someone stood her up but let it go when she realized that, admittedly, it was pretty obvious. “Funny you should call him an asshole given the fact that he’s your friend.”

Cardan’s eyes flashed with something dark. There and gone again in an instant. “Who was it?” His voice lacked any emotion and for some reason it made Jude uneasy.

“Locke.”

“Goddamnit,” Cardan said under his breath. Jude was confused.

“What?” She asked.

“You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?” Now she was getting irritated.

“Locke just started dating your sister.”

The words made ice spread through Jude’s veins, quickly replaced by the burning heat of her rage. Why did he ask her out then? Was Cardan messing with her? And, if he wasn’t, why hadn’t Taryn told her?

All of her confusion came out in one choked out word, “Why?”

Seeming to understand what she meant, Cardan ran a hand through his long hair. “Look, Locke’s an ass that likes to mess with people’s lives. He probably saw a chance to cause drama with you and your sister and have a good laugh about it in the meantime so he took it.”

“What the fuck.” Jude said rather astutely.

“Yeah,” Cardan agreed quietly. “He’s a dick.

“And yet your friends with him, so what does that say about you?” Jude meant it to be teasing but the anger still boiling in her veins made her voice come out more harsh.

Cardan winced--at her tone or at her question, she didn’t know. “It’s,” he began but trailed off before starting again a beat later. “It’s complicated.”

Jude pretended to consider his words for a moment. “Mm, no. No, I don’t think it is.” She felt a small amount of satisfaction as Cardan winced again and started staring into his drink where he was moving the ice around with his straw.

“We grew up together,” he spoke into the silence after Jude was sure he wouldn’t say anything at all. She waited, expecting more of an explanation, but when it became clear there was none, she said,

“And?”

“And… it’s complicated.”

Jude rolled her eyes and suddenly realized that she had been sitting there for several minutes with Cardan instead of just leaving like she should have in the first place. Feeling annoyed with herself, she started to get out of the booth again, intending to go home and hopefully never run into Cardan again. But he stopped her when he quietly said her name. Despite her better judgement, she stopped on the edge of the seat and looked at him. His face was soft as he looked back at her and she felt her heart do something funny inside her chest. As much as she wanted to deny it, he really was beautiful. His eyes were dark as night, cheekbones sharp enough to cut skin, lips full and maybe even a little inviting. Even in his skater boy getup--all black with a pair of Vans--he seemed a bit otherworldly.

“Jude,” he said again, snapping her out of the inappropriate thoughts that had started to creep in. She didn’t trust her voice at the moment so instead responded with a single lifted brow. He took it as an invitation to continue. “Look… I’m sorry.” That caught her off guard. “I’m sorry for hitting your car and for how I acted at the party.”

She was speechless. But the waiter saved her from having to reply by showing up again. “Can I get you two something to eat?” He asked.

Cardan never once took his eyes off her and his stare seemed to have frozen her where she still sat at the edge of the booth. “Let me buy you some fries?” He asked.

She nodded.

Jude couldn’t believe that, out of all the people in the world, she was sitting in a diner sharing a plate of fries and laughing with Cardan. Cardan! Jesus Christ, she must be losing her mind. Yet at the same time it was hard to believe that the boy sitting across from her was the same one that had towered over her at the party in an attempt to intimidate her. An attempt that, had her adoptive father not been intimidating her for her whole life, might have worked.

Beside her elbow on the table, Jude’s phone started ringing. Somehow the volume had been taken off of vibrate and some ridiculous song began blaring out. The noise shocked Jude enough to spill some of her lemonade. Cardan laughed as she scrambled to pick up the phone but when she saw the caller ID, she paused. A glance at Cardan showed a look of confusion at her own hesitation. She looked back down at the phone in her hands.

Taryn.

Jude didn’t feel like talking to her twin right now. Not after she didn’t tell Jude she was seeing someone, and especially not after that someone had decided to pull a joke on Jude and left her sitting in a restaurant by herself for an hour. So, with no trace of regret, Jude denied the call and set her phone to silent.

“Should I ask?” Cardan inquired with his eyebrows still raised at her.

“No,” she replied shortly. Luckily Cardan got the message and dropped the matter.

“So,” he attempted. There was a pause, as if he was considering what topic of conversation to choose from, before he settled on, “Do you go to Elfhame University as well? I’ve seen your sister around campus but not you.”

Terrible choice in conversation, but fine, Jude would deal with it. “Yeah, I go there.”

“What are you majoring in?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. “You?”

“Well I’m flattered but I’m afraid I’m not available as a college course to major in.”

Jude threw a fry at him and rolled her eyes as he chuckled. “Idiot. I meant what are you majoring in?”

His laughs dissolved into that smile of his again as he threw the fry back at her without much conviction. “Business.”

“Should’ve guessed.”

Cardan pretended to be wounded by her words and she was loathe to admit that it made her grin. “Whatever do you mean, dear Jude?”

She barked out a laugh. “It’s just that business majors have a certain air about them. They’re all conceited and think they’re above everyone else. Like ‘oh look at me, I’m the hottest shit around. No one’s better or hotter than me’. And the worst part is, they all seem to think it makes them charming and that all the girls are falling over themselves to get into bed with them.”

If Cardan was offended by anything she said, he didn’t show it. “Your scathing yet accurate analysis has given me much to think about. But I’m only a business major because my dad insisted on me following in his footsteps even though he’s made it explicitly clear since I was a child that I would never inherent even the smallest bit of his businesses.”

“Then why not just do what you want?”

He shrugged. “It’s-”

“Complicated?” She supplied, seeing where his words were going.

“Yeah.” His demeanor had shifted ever so slightly and, for once, he seemed to be making himself small instead of trying to take control of the room. Jude felt a pang of remorse for taking the conversation down an uncomfortable road and tried to think of something, anything, to say. But she kept coming up empty.

Trying to stall for time as well as distract herself from the sudden awkwardness, she glanced down at her phone to find three missed calls from Taryn. When Jude saw the time on her screen, she was shocked to see it was nearly eleven. She had been sitting and talking with Cardan for almost two hours.

What the fuck.

“I should get going,” she said.

The smallest hint of distress seemed to show in Cardan’s face, “Have I upset you?”

“No, no, not at all. I just hadn’t realized it’s gotten to be so late.” Cardan looked at his own phone and surprise made his eyes go wide.

“Damn,” he said, “I should probably get going too. I’m sure my roommate is done by now.”

“Done with what?”

“My roommate had a boy over. That’s why I came here in the first place. I didn’t want to be in the apartment with all the screaming and ‘oh god!’s and the banging of the headboard hitting the wall.”

“Oh,” she felt her cheeks heat up again and instantly regretted asking. Unfortunately, Cardan caught the blush and smirked at her.

“Why the blush, Jude?”

She tried her best to glare at him but was afraid the heat of her look was ruined by the red still spreading across her face. “I’m not blushing.” She insisted.

“Sure,” he laughed, “and I’m not a conceited business major.”

Jude rolled her eyes but stood from the booth without bothering to answer his question. “It’s none of your business.” She muttered.

“What, are you a virgin? Is that why you're blushing?” He teased. She could tell from his words that he meant it as a joke but the truth of his words hit her like a slap to the face. He seemed to realize this a second too late and he started to stammer some apology in an attempt to fix the situation, but Jude already had her back turned to him as she stormed out the diner.

The bastard had the nerve to follow her.

“Jude!” He shouted as he caught up to her in the middle of the parking lot. “Jude, I’m sorry.”

“Leave me alone, Cardan,” she snapped.

“Jude--,”

“I said leave me alone!”

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m an ass and I feel like one, I didn’t think before I spoke.”

“Seems pretty on brand for you.”

“Jude. I’m sorry.” His apology seemed sincere, oddly enough. Especially paired with the desperation in his eyes that she forgive him. She should slap him for being a jerk, storm off without another word, scream at him for being disrespectful. But the last two hours of enjoying his company came flashing back and Jude felt herself forgiving him.

“It’s not okay.” He seemed to deflate a little at her words. “So don’t say shit like that again next time we’re talking.” She hated the small smile of relief that spread across his face. “But I was serious, I need to get home.”

“Did you drive?” He asked, scanning the cars in the lot like he could guess hers on site.

“No, I walked.” Jude’s words snapped his attention back to her face. For some reason he looked mildly alarmed.

“You walked?” He asked stupidly.

“Yes?” She answered, the word turning into a question because of her confusion at his reaction.

“Let me walk you home.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s eleven o’clock in a college town and you’re a girl by yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second. But I can’t in good conscience let you walk home alone in the dark.” Jude knew that, despite his insistence, if she said no he would respect it. Perhaps that’s why she finally relented.

“Fine. Let’s go then.”

At her door she paused to face Cardan again, the door propped open with the toe of her shoe after she had unlocked it. “Thanks,” she said lamely.

The responding smile that split his lips made her regret it instantly. Yet at the same time the grin made something in her belly stir.

“See you around?” He asked. And as he began walking backwards down the outdoor corridor leading to her apartment, she felt herself nod. With one more flash of a smile, Cardan turned his back and was gone.

Damn him.

#hopefullt it's not too bad???#idk #my writing #text post #okay to reblog #jurdan #jude x cardan #jurdan au #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the folk of the air

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smileyoongle · 5 years

Text

Deception (A Kim Namjoon Mafia AU)

Summary: A damsel in distress and a lonely mafia leader. Different but not too different. The two worlds collide on a rainy night when Kim Namjoon, a renowned Mafia leader is called for an emergency and Y/N Y/L/N is on the run from her abusive father. Feelings stir and he rescues her. But one of them is a liar. And the other's life is on the line. It's only a matter of time until all secrets are out in the open.

Will love be born? Or will death conquer?

cнapтer ғιve: тнє ραѕт ιѕ ιи тнє ρяєѕєит

Character Count:

Pairing: Namjoon×Reader (Appearances by the whole of BTS)

---------------------------------------

The past creates the monsters we feed today, which become the demons we fear tomorrow.

-Vexicus

----------------------------------------------------------

Namjoon could tell that the day wasn't in his favour at all. Since the previous night, he had to endure a countless number of surprises. The revelation that Hana was actually on the run from a gang who called themselves 'The Black Serpents', was one of them. Namjoon remembered that gang very well. This gang was the one he was busy killing on the night of Hana's disappearance.

They had taken her.

They had tortured her for 4 years until she escaped.

Namjoon gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, a heavy silence falling over the living room of the gang's house. Everyone was shocked and guilty. If only they had dug deeper into that gang's whereabouts.

Suddenly, Namjoon stood up and looked at Hana, who was sitting on the couch and trying her best to not cry.

"Find them. I want each and every one of them alive."

Yoongi simply stared at Namjoon, not really believing Hana's story.

"Didn't we actually kill the entire gang that night?" Hoseok asked, frowning in confusion as everyone nodded in agreement. Except Namjoon and Jungkook.

"No one ever dies in our world. You think you killed someone until they come back alive the next day." Jungkook replied, staring intently at the sun which was beginning to set.

It had been hours since they came to the gang house with Namjoon. Hours since Hana began to narrate her story, which according to Jungkook, sounded pretty accurate.

Everyone's mind was a mess. They didn't know what to believe and what not to believe. Everything sounded so right yet so wrong.

"I'm sorry for everything you had to go through." Hana mumbled, making everyone's head turn to her. Her cheeks were red and stained with tears. Her lips were quivering as she tried to sound normal. But she was far from that at the moment.

Namjoon kneeled down in front of her and placed his hands on her knees, looking into her eyes as she wiped away her tears.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. This wasn't your fault, okay? You're here now and I'm not gonna let anyone touch you." He promised, smiling softly at her. Those words seemed to pierce through her heart as she threw her arms around Namjoon. He caressed her hair and mumbled calming things to her.

Moments like these made the members question their leader's choice. To them, Namjoon seemed so normal at times and it looked like he was born in the wrong family. He didn't belong to the darkness. Not at all.

"I'm glad you're back." Namjoon stated, rubbing Hana's back in soothing circles. She meekly nodded, giving him a broken smile as she pulled away.

Nobody saw it. Nobody but Yoongi. The glint in Hana's eyes was almost negligible but it was there. Yoongi could see through her lies and he was determined to find out what she was hiding. Without a word, he left the house and made mental notes on where to begin.

___________________________________________

"You can start tomorrow. Be here at 7." You nodded at the middle aged man as he handed you your uniform. He was too busy calculating the profits to even acknowledge your 'thank you'. You shook your head and headed out of the dark building, glancing over your shoulder while your mind screamed at you to go back and return the uniform.

It's supposed to be a new start. Why would you wanna throw yourself back into the kind of life you lived before?!

You bit your lip and walked faster, willing the provoking thoughts to leave you alone. What could you do anyway? You needed the money so that you could get out of Namjoon's hair. Because no matter how much he insisted, this wasn't right. You couldn't be a burden to anyone anymore. You wanted to be independent. You wanted to be someone who people looked up to.

Running towards the bus, you got inside just as the doors closed. You handed some change to the ticket collector and proceeded to sit at the last row. The bus was quiet and warm, the low purring of the engine lulling you to sleep.

"You better behave, young lady. That man has paid a fortune for you. If I hear any complaints, you won't like what I'll do to you."

You didn't respond, your fingers busy tugging at the small dress that you had to wear. It wasn't a dress actually. It was more of a lingerie set. Because that's what you were to your father. More of a slut than a daughter.

The door opened and your head jolted up, eyeing the man who stepped in, the smell of his expensive perfume invading your senses. He seemed to be in a good mood but as soon as he saw you, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"H-how old are you?" He asked, his eyes raking over your body. You glanced at the floor and bit your lip, knowing that he was probably gonna leave you alone.

"15…" you mumbled, your eyes filling with tears as your heart sank for the nth time on reminding yourself about your life. The man chuckled bitterly.

"That bastard….he was gonna let me do this…. fucking animal." He murmured a string of curses and within a second, he was out the door.

You sighed in relief and hesitantly pulled the blanket on the huge bed up to your neck, covering your exposed body as you cowered further into the headboard. You could hear shouts and curses along with a number of thuds and yelps from outside. And just like that, everything fell silent. You gulped and stared at the closed door, waiting for him to come and pounce on you. After what felt like centuries, the door finally opened to reveal your father standing in front of you with a busted lip and a bruised eye, a long tail of leather trailing after him as you realized that it was a whip. Immediately, you started shaking and crying.

"I didn't do anything ...please don't hurt me…." You begged, clasping your hands in front of you as he moved closer to you. His face was blank and his eyes were cold. This wasn't your father. No. This was a money-hungry man. "Useless is what you are. I should have killed you when your mother died. You deserve this. You deserve this and every single kind of pain that exists in the world…." He mumbled, gripping the whip harshly before letting out a growl of frustration. You screamed as he threw the leather towards you, the harsh material making contact with your skin and leaving a bloody trail behind….

With a sudden jolt, you woke up. Loud gasps left your mouth as sweat beaded on your forehead.

Just a dream. Just a dream.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you looked out the window, your vision hazy as a tear slipped down your cheek. It was your stop.

You staggered down the last row, making your way to the exit as people stared at you. Everyone looked so angry with you. Like you had committed a crime.

Like you were useless.

Gasps continued to leave your lips as your lungs burned. You managed to get off at your stop, the cold night air making you hiss. Your vision was still blurry, you couldn't make out your surroundings very well. The image of your father kept dancing in your mind. His words playing again and again like a broken record player. You started running as soon as you realized what was wrong with you. You were having a panic attack and Namjoon's house was still pretty far from the bus stop. You couldn't pass out in the middle, it was a long and quiet road. No one would know what happened to you.

Your legs started giving out as you rushed, wincing as you struggled to breathe. Your breathing was heavy and erratic.

No. He isn't here anymore. He can't hurt you.

Your heart yelled at you but the words didn't fit well with you. You could feel bile rising in your throat as you squinted to see Namjoon's house in the distance.

Just a little more.

White spots started covering your vision. You couldn't stand anymore and you felt like you were drowning. A faint noise buzzed in your ear and you turned around to see blinding lights directed towards you. It was a car. You slowly brought your hand up and covered your eyes as an overwhelming pain covered your head. You let out a small whimper before falling to the gravel road, your eyes closing and pulling you to the darkness.

___________________________________________

Namjoon paced around in the living room of his house, worry and concern eating him up inside and out. According to Walter, he had come home right after you left for your job hunting. If only he could have come a couple minutes earlier.

Since you didn't have a phone with you, there was no way to get in touch with you. You didn't tell him what kind of jobs you were considering either so he didn't know where to find you. He glanced at the clock, gritting his teeth on seeing the time.

9:30 PM

"Where are you, Y/N?" He mumbled to himself, shaking his head and sitting down on the couch. He was already guilty when he had come to the realisation that he had left you alone without any explanation. He didn't want to do that. He was just caught off guard by Hana's appearance.

Namjoon winced on thinking about what you must have thought when you saw Hana hugging him.

No, Y/N. She's only my best friend.

He felt the need to explain to you. He wasn't in love with you or anything but he wanted to tell you that he isn't playing around. He genuinely and desperately wants to know you.

The ringing of the housebell brought him back to his current situation. Thinking it was you, he rushed to the door and pulled it open.

"Thank God you're ho-Yoongi?"

Namjoon gaped, his eyes trailing down to the body in Yoongi's hands.

You.

"Y/N?!" Namjoon exclaimed as he took you from Yoongi's hands and rushed inside to place you on the couch. You weren't completely unconscious as your incoherent mumbles could still be heard. Namjoon tapped your cheek, trying to get you to open your eyes. He leaned his ear towards your lips, wanting to hear your voice.

"He's never gonna leave me alone…."

Namjoon frowned and brushed your hair away from your face before lifting you up again, your small form fitting perfectly in his arms.

"Walter, get some water. Also, call the doctor. Now!" Namjoon ordered, carrying you up the stairs and into your bedroom. He gently placed you on the bed and covered you with a blanket, rubbing your hands which were freezing in order to keep them warm.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I should've come back sooner."

Meanwhile, Yoongi stood completely shocked. He didn't know who you were when he saw you fainting right in front of his car. Namjoon's house was the closest so he thought he should just take you there. Oh, what a surprise….

Yoongi trudged up the stairs and followed Namjoon's voice into a bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"She fainted in the middle of the road. She seemed to be struggling to breath. If you must know." Yoongi stated, catching Namjoon's attention who was too busy trying to wake you up.

Namjoon's heart sank after hearing those words. He couldn't know what happened to you unless you woke up and told him but he assumed it was some sort of panic attack. He glanced at Yoongi, not wanting to deal with him at the moment. He knew that he was gonna have to answer Yoongi's questions but he wasn't ready. Cause he didn't have any answers himself.

Yoongi stared at the younger male, enjoying the worrisome look on his face. He guessed that you were the reason behind Namjoon's distracted behaviour these past days. Whatever it was, he was gonna find out sooner or later. For the moment, he just had a name to hold himself back from bombarding Namjoon.

Y/N...

Taglist: @uwunamjoon @shadowstark @addy-nerd @tzuyyyuuu @stressedinmedschool247 @ifellinluvwithdorks @min-t-posts @floofwrites @pretty-in-pink-just-because @bts-d-onut @fangirllbookworm @mystical-writer @it-is-dana @ximaginx @kpopgirlbtssvt @pearylove @anothermisspark @annoyingpessimist @motivation-idontknowher @tipu-tempus

Lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist! Also tell me if I missed out anyone on the taglist! Did you like this chapter though?

-XX

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bekahdoesnerdshit · 4 years

Note

anxiety boredom and mischief for raini, excitement sorrow panic and fright for ayen, impatience confusion disgust for cog!!

Raini

Anxiety: Anxious Raini is an irritated Raini, because like I’ve said before it is So much easier to be angry than to feel any other negative emotion. I also think an anxious Raini is a Raini who’s looking at a problem she can’t directly fix, because otherwise she’s not going to bother getting anxious when she can instead focus on getting results. Anxious Raini is fussing with the tassels on her robe, pacing, tugging at the end of her braid, glaring at people with 80% more heat than normal, just generally a ball of nervous energy. Times Raini has been anxious! Meeting Ecstasy’s parents and figuring out what that means! When we killed the goddess of magic and Raini realized she was suddenly a defenseless sack of hit points! End of list. Boredom: Bored Raini is a Problem. Like, Raini is generally a problem? But bored Raini is a problem (With a capital P and that rhymes with T and that stands for Trouble, I guess?). She gets huffy. Arms crossed, head falling back or to the side to show her Displeasure, rolled eyes, the whole nine yards. Bored because there’s nothing to do? Solution: find something to do! Probably, unfortunately, get off. Because she’s Nasty. Bored because someone is boring her? Make sure they Know that they are Boring, and trust that with enough sighing and raised, unimpressed eyebrows, they’ll fuck off. Mischief: Raini doesn’t get mischievous very often! Which means when she’s in a Mood, it’s an Event. I think there’s a lot of biting the inside of her cheek to hide a grin, a lot of glancing at any co-conspirator she may have, a lot of acting too casual, just to attract a little bit of suspicion and keep things fun. Did she and Yocheved fantasy spray paint a statue to Amaunator last night even though Lent told them not to? Of course not. Did she use a 9th level spell to Polymorph Zize to be about four inches taller, so she would bump her head on things every so often? Preposterous! That certainly doesn’t sound like something Raini would do. You can’t prove shit.

Ayen

Excitement: Excited Ayen is a bouncy Ayen! She’s walking alongside and then in front of whoever she’s with, hands clasped behind her back, ponytail swishing behind her, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she grins and looks back with wide, bright eyes! The world is in front of them! It’s here and it’s alive and their’s to explore! Why waste time dragging your feet? She’s already pretty energetic as is, but when she gets herself worked up like this? It’s best to just let her tire herself out and try to keep up in the meantime. Sorrow: For Ayen, the most concrete experience she has with sorrow is the subtle, aching thing that is her grief for a family she never got to know. It’s not the same as knowing and losing them, of course, but sometimes she feels like she grieves them in the same way. And she’s going to find them! Of course she is! It’s just...it might take a while. And what if she doesn’t? And what if they don’t want her when she does? It isn’t often, but I think Ayen gets wrapped up in that spiral every so often, especially when she’s taking watches alone and just has time to Think. I think her sorrow looks like droopy ears, chin on her knees, eyes cast downward. Managing a small smile for anyone who looks over at her, because that’s what they’re expecting, but letting it slip away again when they turn around. She’s quiet, for a while, until she gathers herself enough to shake off the funk and remind herself who the fuck she is. Panic: While short lived, panic is definitely something Ayen has experienced. See: when she went to fight those spiders in the middle of the night, missed, and then saw like three more pop up. Uh oh! I think there’s a fair amount of wordless yelling (along with swearing, but the question did specify ‘nonverbal’ so), fumbling with whatever she’s holding (a weapon, a glass bottle she wasn’t supposed to touch, etc.), and tripping over herself to put distance between herself and whatever’s scared her. Basically, I think she loses any semblance of grace she may have had, and turns into the living embodiment of “Oh shit FUCK ass BALLS uh shit fuck TITS” Fright: I’m going to differentiate “fright” from “panic” by approaching this one as a longer term sort of thing. I think growing up in the Shadowfell, it takes a lot to rattle Ayen in regards to traditional horror. Like, when you spent most of your life looking out your window to see the sentient shadow goop that makes up your backyard eating unlucky mortal travelers on the reg, anything else is kinda....eh? I think she also suffers from “haha this is an Adventure everything is fun and games!” disease, also called “not having the life experience to realize sometimes things are just actually fucked up and it’s not gonna turn out okay by default”. None of which answers the question, but is still true. I think if something really, deeply scared her, she would just shake. Her hands, her voice, everything. Ears pinned back against her head, eyes wide and darting around for something she can claim as “safe” to recenter herself, slow, careful steps away from the source of her fear as opposed to the scrambling from the previous question. But, of course, I’m sure it won’t ever come to this in game!!

Cog

Impatience: Not a very common Cog mood! She’s no saint, but if anything she’s usually the one slowing people down. And honestly, even if she’s not, she’s not generally in enough of a rush ever that it matters. I can think of a handful of times where she’s been impatient with someone, and both of those times were pretty different. As a rule, though, she defaults to this sort of tight lipped, tense, closed mouth smile, with varying degrees of warmth depending on how Frustrated she is. She crosses her arms, raises her eyebrows, looks between the person she’s waiting on and where they need to go or the door (but in a way she thinks is subtle, and probably isn’t), but generally just. Resigns herself to wait it out until the other person is done rambling or taking their sweet time doing whatever it is they’re doing. The only exception? When the party thought Ace might be double crossing them, and had spent So long dithering about whether to go back to New Alexandria to confront him. Cog had enough; she put her foot down and said she was going with or without the party so that she could prove his innocence. If they wanted to keep her alive, they could come too. Confusion: While the other two may be things that Cog has little to no experience with, she’s got confusion in the bag. Not to flex on anybody? But we’re confused twenty! four! seven!! Absolutely nothing sexier than a woman who’s always just a little bit out of it!!! Confused Cog is smiling politely, but she’s very obviously lost. She’s fidgeting with her hands somewhere low around her stomach, looking up at the people around her and kinda. Half reaching out every so often? Looking for a place to cut in to ask for clarification? Oh you’re still talking? No worries! I’ll wait. :) I hate to be mean to Cog, because I do love her, but also once she’s figured out she’s not getting caught up, it’s just elevator music up there. Someone -probably Wol- will get her caught up later, she’s sure! :)) Disgust: Cog has been outright disgusted once in her LIFE and it was when the party went to meet the Guardians -a group of gods that protect Lafaroh in exchange for occasional offerings- in the swamp outside the town. On their way to the Guardian’s meeting place, the party was attacked by some fucked up, homophobic scorpions which poisoned the Fuck out of Ace. The Guardians could fix him, but they did this by producing this alien? Bug? Thing?? That went inside Ace to clean the poison out. Nasty. Disgusting. Vile I hate it. Cog very nearly threw up I think, and dropped her first (and for a long time, only!) f-bomb of the campaign. It was a eyes wide, face pale, hand pressed to mouth, too horrified to look away kind of disgust. I think it was mostly luck that she didn’t actually throw up, because she has a weak enough stomach (read: low enough con) that it’s probably about 50/50. Similarly, in like the next session, Cog was the one to find the body of the headmaster of the Academy, and all she could manage was to tear her eyes away long enough to nod silently at the party, fighting rising bile the whole time.

#rainivere #amnesia campaign #creepy campaign #ayen morwraek #cog #wasteland campaign #answered #mine #sam says: ayen! lore! now!!!! and he's RIGHT #also? ask me about the homophobic scorpions if you want! it's pretty good Lore #spaghettoland

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years

Text

Monsters Don’t Soften When They Die (part 3)

once again, this co-written by @millie1536 who has been an absolute joy to work with! she really knocked it out of the ball park with this one, especially how she took on two parts to get this chapter done! please go read her writing, she is so unbelievably talented!!

TW: Panic attacks, purging/vomiting, destructive stimming

--------------

To say that Maggie was on edge would be an understatement. Finding three headless cats on her bed had certainly taken her by surprise. The strangest thing wasn’t even the cats, though. They may have been the most fucked up thing, but they weren’t the strangest. The cats were horrifying, disgusting, yes, but what really threw Maggie was the prayer book. She had thought its location was a secret, and even it if hadn’t been, who would go to all the trouble of picking a lock just to get to it?

One name came to mind.

Margaret.

She knew the others didn’t believe her but she was certain Margaret had been the one to drug her before the show. The more Maggie thought about it the more certain she was that Margaret was dangerous.

Despite wanting to be as far away from Margaret as possible, Maggie spends all day watching her. She does her best to keep the girl in sight at all times. Maggie hadn’t been expecting it to be so difficult, watching the girl, but seeing how she and Bessie talked and laughed together felt like someone was constricting her chest with iron rings. Seeing Bessie being so soft, so loving, to someone who had caused her so much harm only worked to further the pain.

Joan and Maria both knew, as did Bessie, that Maggie needed time alone after shows to unwind. She needed the quiet and the space to relax as the adrenaline left her system, and so when Maria and Joan didn’t see Maggie go upstairs to be alone alarm bells began to ring.

As the hours passed Maggie only became more anxious. She thought back to one of Margaret’s first nights at the house. Maggie had woken up to find her standing at the edge of her bed, just watching her. She started to wonder if that really was all she had been doing that night. Maybe she was trying to see how deep of a sleeper Maggie was. Maybe she was planning on taking an axe to Maggie’s head.

To her neck.

The cats. They’d been decapitated. Three black cats.

In her last life she had heard many stories of witches taking the form of black cats. It was something she and Anne used to talk about, whether or not it was possible for someone to change their appearance like that. In the end it didn’t matter, not to Henry. All he cared about was getting rid of his wife quickly. He had no intention of going through the process of divorcing her. No, he knew how messy that could be.

And so Anne, like the cats, was killed. Beheaded.

Margaret must have known this. Must have known that Anne had given her the prayer book. Why else would she have laid it out like that?

What if it was a warning? What if Anne was next?

What if she was next?

By the time it was dark Maggie could feel the signs of an oncoming panic attack. Nothing felt real, it was as if, were she to reach out and touch something, it would shatter and leave her in darkness. She had locked herself in her room after dinner, having had enough of Margaret and Bessie by that point. Maggie just stood there. In the middle of her room. Not moving. She can feel her mind fogging over as the panic grows. Leaving only one thought.

Bessie.

As the fear takes over Maggie finds herself running to Bessie’s room. She knocks, surprised when the door didn’t disappear beneath her hand.

“What is it?” Bessie asked when she saw the shaking girl before her.

“I-I uh,” Maggie struggled to find the words, “Scared… ADD…. M-Meltdown.” Maggie stammered; it wasn’t unusual for the guitarist to struggle speaking when scared.

“You’re probably just tired.” The bassist told her, not seeming to register the clear signs that that was not the case. “Just go to bed, you’ll be fine in the morning.” Bessie closes the door before Maggie can respond.

Maggie just stares at the door a moment. Not knowing what to do she stumbled back into her own room. Her mind seemed to clear a bit as she looked around the room. Now that she was certain Bessie wouldn’t step in to help her should Margaret try something, all she could do was hide. Knowing it was the most obvious hiding place, but unable to think of any others, Maggie did her best to make herself comfortable in her closet.

Alone and scared in the dark proved to be a terrible combination.

Without being able to see her hands shaking, or the blood that bubbled to the surface of her arms as she scratched, Maggie didn’t realized how far she was slipping. She didn’t notice how her vision was becoming blurry as she fought to breathe, the black dots that appeared in front of her eyes simply blended in with the surrounding darkness.

----------

Breakfast the next morning was a silent affair. Joan and Maria exchanging concerned looks as the morning continued with no sign of Maggie. Bessie, too, had noticed the absence of the guitarist.

“I’m going to go check on Maggie.” Bessie announced after breakfast, only to feel a small hand wrap around her wrist.

“I spoke to her earlier, she said she had some work to do. She’s fine.” Margaret smiled sweetly. Bessie nodded.

“Well then, that’s that I guess.”

Maria and Joan weren’t convinced. After breakfast they found themselves in Maggie’s room. Maggie’s empty room.

“Where is she?” Joan asked, collapsing onto Maggie’s bed in frustration.

“I-” Maria cut herself off.

“You?” Joan prompted. Maria just nodded at the wardrobe and the way one of the doors seemed to bend towards them. Joan stood up as Maria opened the doors, only just managing to catch an unconscious Maggie.

“Is she alright?” Joan rushed to Maggie as Maria lay her on the floor.

“She’s alive, but I don’t understand what could have scared her so badly.”

“You think it was a panic attack?” Joan asked. Maria nodded.

It takes almost half an hour for the guitarist to wake up. Her eyes flutter for a moment before she relaxes, however it doesn’t last long. In the blink of an eye Maggie has dragged herself back into the closet, her back pressed against the wall as she watches Maria and Joan through frightened eyes.

“Hey, it’s alright, sweetie. It’s just us.” Maria sees the flicker of recognition that crosses the girl’s eyes, “You’re okay, we’re not going to hurt you.” At that the fear fades from Maggie’s eyes, replaced instead by despair. Maggie buries her head in her knees and sobs. Her whole body shakes as she struggles for air. She flinches when she feels an arm around her.

“Shh, we’re right here.” Maggie allows herself to melt into Maria’s touch, as she does she feels a second pair of arms wrap around her. Joan.

The three of them stay like that for what feels like hours, but none of them mind. Maggie feels safe, loved for the first time since Margaret had arrived and Maria and Joan had no objections to sitting in a closet with their friend. They doubted they would ever say it out loud, but Maggie was their baby sister, and so they sat there with her as she cried, holding her and reminding her of just how much they loved her.

----------

After finding Maggie passed out in her closet of all places Maria and Joan decided to keep an eye on their bandmate. It was hard to know how far her mental health had deteriorated, it had never been great to begin with and sometimes her ADD caused her to slip into an almost depressive state. Her physical health, however, was far easier to track.

She was barely eating. Her eyes were dull and sunken, with dark bags underneath them. They can’t stand to see her like this but they don’t know what to do. Maria does her best to get Maggie to eat and Joan has started sitting up outside Maggie’s door at night, but it isn’t enough.

Maggie herself knew she wasn’t well. She knew that, if she didn’t break out of the cycle she was trapped in, she was going to make herself sick. As she lay in bed she felt as though she were on a ship. She shut her eyes in an attempt to keep the world from spinning but when she did the bed began to rock. Her mouth and throat felt as dry as sand but the thought of swallowing anything, even water, made her already roiling stomach churn. She just wanted it to end. She wanted the pain in her stomach to go away. Maybe if she was sick it would.

Maggie pushed aside the voice telling her that what she was about to do was dangerous as she stumbled out of bed and down the hall, using the wall as support. When she reached the bathroom she allowed herself to collapse onto the cool tiles for a moment. Eventually, she dragged herself up so that she was crouched in front of the toilet. She never tried anything like this before, but she’d seen it in movies.

“It can’t be that hard.” She said aloud, her voice booming in the bathroom. She closed her eyes before sticking her fingers down her throat.

Nothing at first.

But then she felt her throat constricting around her fingers as it tried to clear the blockage. She felt her body shake as she gagged before, finally, she felt the bile burning her throat.

She had hoped that by throwing up she would get rid of the nauseous felling in her stomach but she hadn’t. For a moment she considered trying again, but the sound of someone coming up the staircase stopped her.

She hurried to wash her hands; it was one thing for someone to see the vomit, it was another for them to know how it came to be there.

“Maggie?” Joan asked cautiously as she entered the upstairs bathroom, “Are you alright, hun?” Maggie nodded.

“Sick.” The girl said quietly. Joan’s eyes fell on the toilet.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you back to bed.” Joan smiled sadly as she wrapped an arm around Maggie’s shoulder before leading her to bed. She made a mental note to come back and clean the toilet once Maggie was settled.

----------

“You need to eat something, Mags.” Maria insists, her hand clenched around Maggie’s bottle of pills, “We both know you can’t take these on an empty stomach, so please love? Just a slice of toast? Can you try for me?”

Maggie nods. She can’t face the thought that she could lose Maria and Joan too, so she does as she’s asked. The toast is dry and flaky in her mouth, and she desperately wants to spit it out, but she needs her meds, she knows she does, and she knows that Maria was right. She really shouldn’t take them on an empty stomach, and so she swallows the toast and hopes that her stomach will accept it long enough for her to take her pills.

“Sometimes I think those things do more damage than good.” Bessie sighed as she entered the kitchen that morning; Maria had made sure to get Maggie away before Bessie and Margaret got up.

Joan just shrugged. Maggie had told her and Maria about Bessie’s behavior the night of her meltdown and it was safe to say that neither of them were too pleased with her.

“I mean I know that anxiety and loss of appetite are common side effects but surely they shouldn’t be this severe.” Bessie tried to start a conversation with the other two.

“You’d have to ask the doctor.” Joan said coldly. There had been a time where she, where all three of them, knew they could talk to the bassist. They knew that she would listen to them and make sure that they knew they were safe, but not anymore. Now it seemed like the only person Bessie cared about was Margaret.

“Hey, Bess, can we talk, actually?” Maria asked after a moment of awkward silence. The bassist quirked a brow at them.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“It’s about Maggie,” Joan started and didn’t miss the slight flare of Bessie’s nose, “We think something is going on between her and Margaret.”

“Oh?” Bessie crossed her arms.

“A lot of things have been going on lately,” Maria continued, “I mean...the allergic reaction, Maggie getting knocked into the street, her guitar strings weirdly snapping even though she always takes care of her instruments, the morphine incident, the...” She swallowed hard and winced, “...cats.”

“We think Margaret is targeting Maggie for some reason.” Joan concluded.

Bessie’s furious expression was not what the two of them had been hoping for. The bassist clenches her jaw and pushes her tongue up against the inside of her lip like she usually does when she was agitated.

“You really believe that? That my eleven year old child could do all of that?”

“Bessie, you heard what the police said,” Maria counters, “Nobody broke in last night. Someone in this house planted those cats, and it sure as hell wasn’t one of us.”

“Plus, only Maggie knows where the key to the drawer the prayer book is in and-”

“Well, there you go,” Bessie cut Joan off, “You just said it yourself. Maggie set this all up.”

Maria and Joan stare at her in shock.

“You can’t be serious.” Joan said.

“She’s doing it for attention.” Bessie went on.

“Elizabeth, are you even hearing yourself?!” Maria cried, ignoring the hard stare she earned from Bessie for using her real name. “You are accusing Maggie of not only doing everything that has happened lately, but also killing and decapitating cats! Do you really believe for a moment that she would ever do such a thing?”

“You know what condition she has.” Bessie said coolly.

“Bessie!” Joan yelped.

“You two are just wrapped around her little finger,” Bessie continued, “It’s unbelievable. You both need to open your eyes.”

That was the end of that conversation, as Bessie walked away to go find Margaret, leaving Joan and Maria alone in the kitchen in silence. They exchange nervous looks, feeling like they just made everything ten times worse.

—————

That day, Maggie noticed how Bessie was completely ignoring her. The bassist wouldn’t answer her when she tried to talk to her, she side-glared instead of making full eye contact, and generally just acted like her protégé didn’t exist.

It hurt, to say the least.

Maggie had already assumed Bessie was avoiding her, but this just confirmed that theory. And it didn’t make her feel good at all.

The queens started to really notice the tension between the ladies in waiting when it got so bad that they couldn’t even all be in the same dressing room without it being awkward. They wanted to help, but getting caught in the crossfire could be disastrous. So, instead, they decided to support Maggie, who seemed to be struggling the most by what was going on, by inviting her over more often.

“Bessie hates me.” Maggie said at dinner with the queens. It’s taken a little bit of prying, but she was finally opening up to them about what was going on.

“No,” Jane spoke first, jumping to comfort the distraught and stressed out girl, “That woman does not hate you.”

“She adores you.” Parr added.

“Not anymore.” Maggie mumbled, “I’m just a replacement...”

Katherine silently reached over and took the guitarist’s hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. Maggie smiles thinly to be polite.

“Bessie sometimes gets like this,” Cleves said, slightly defensive of her close friend, but that was natural, “I mean, she is finally getting to be with the daughter she never got to meet.”

“The lady had, like, seven kids,” Anne countered, “Don’t you think she’d be tired of knowing them after, I dunno, the first one she had with Henrat?”

She was kicked under the table for that one.

“Besides,” She went on, despite the foot that had drove into her shin, “If, say, Edward came back, do you think Jane would start being an ass to all of us? Especially if he starts trying to hurt us?”

“Well,” Jane said, straightening up, “If you’re putting me in that situation, then I can see why Bessie is in denial of it. She doesn’t want her little girl being some monster people are claiming she is. But I wouldn’t start shunning any of you and I would definitely realize something was wrong if it got really bad.”

“Bessie’s not stupid, she’s just protective.” Cleves jumped back in, a little worked up about all this criticism her friend was getting, “She’s going to get aggressive over things she’s defensive of.”

“So I just have to wait and hope she won’t be mad anymore?” Maggie asked.

From across the table, Aragon sighed both heavily and loudly. She rubbed her forehead with her thumb and pointer finger as eyes turned to look at her.

“This is going to give me a headache,” She muttered before raising her voice so everyone could hear, “Elizabeth is difficult. Very, very difficult. It seems as though the stubbornness she had as a child had transferred over through reincarnation. And it’s gotten ten times worse.”

“Is there a point here?” Anne asked.

“What I’ve learned is that one of the best ways to get through to Elizabeth is to appeal to her emotions.” Aragon said, “Open a door for a conversation to happen instead of prying. Forcing to try and talk to her will only make her more defensive and aggressive.”

When she finishes, she notices some of the others grinning at her. She crosses her arms.

“What? I’m just stating what I know.”

“You wouldn’t remember all of that if you’d didn’t care about her.” Anne teased.

“What did you do when this happened?” Maggie asked.

“Me? Well, I usually sang to her.”

An uproar of coos rebounded throughout the dining room.

“Oh, shut it!”

————

It was almost the end of the next day’s show and Maggie couldn’t stop fidgeting. She kept glancing back at Joan and Maria, who smiled reassuringly at her each time.

After the MegaSix ended, Anne spoke back up, catching the crowd’s attention.

“One moment, folks!” She said, “I know our show is over, but my friend actually had a little something planned, so you’re gonna get one last performance. So, please, give it up for Maggie!”

A supportive applause whisked through the theater as Maggie shuffled up to the apron with as much confidence as she could muster. Anne quickly retrieved a microphone stand for her.

“Okay, hi! I’m Maggie, I play guitar. Umm... Sorry if I’m a little awkward, haha, I’m not used to talking during shows. Uh. So the song I’m about to play for you was actually written by my m-”

Many eyebrows were quirked.

“-friend, Bessie!”

Maggie turned to gesture to the bassist, who looks very confused.

“So this is dedicated to her. I hope you enjoy.”

Taking a deep breath, Maggie strummed her guitar and began to sing.

Behind her, Bessie was rigid.

At a musician’s standpoint, she was quite impressed by how Maggie was able to merge the chords of an electric guitar with Old English, but as a human being, she was horrified. Old memories, memories of Henry, Henry’s words, Henry’s touch, Henry’s tongue, came back strong and she wasn’t able to get rid of them. They only got worse as the song progressed, and she could suddenly feel phantom hands dancing all over her body.

Bessie’s stomach bubbles in warning and she sprints offstage.

Maggie doesn’t notice the bassist’s absence until she finished the song and had turned around, expecting to see the woman’s proud smile, only to find her not there. After thanking the crowd, she hurries offstage, looking for Bessie, and eventually finding her in the dressing room, hunched in a chair with her head in her hands. Margaret was by her side.

“Bessie!” Maggie cried, “Are you-”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The tone of voice made Maggie flinch and back away. Bessie rises to her feet slowly, like a bear rearing to strike, and anger flashes in her dark eyes.

“What gave you the right to sing that song?” She demanded.

“I-I just wanted to try and cheer you up.” Maggie stammered.

“Cheer me up?!” Bessie barked a harsh laugh, “How stupid are you, girl? Haven’t you ever wondered why I never bring up my music? It’s because it brings back traumatic memories.”

Maggie felt like she was just punched in the stomach when she heard that.

“And all the songs you could have played, you decided to go with the one that made me sound like a whore! Is that what you think of me, Margaret Elizabeth? Do you think I’m a whore?”

Maggie made a tiny, strangled noise and shook her head, but that wasn’t good enough for Bessie.

“ANSWER ME, MARGARET!” Bessie yelled, slamming her fist down on one of the makeup tables and making Maggie nearly jump out of her skin. If it hurt her hand, she doesn’t show it.

“N-no!” Maggie yelped, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying.

“Then why?” Bessie snarled lowly, drawing her face in close to Maggie’s. Her voice is reminiscent of a bear growling. “Oh!” She sprang backwards, arms outstretched in an overexcited gesture, “You wanted to cheer me up! Well, why didn’t you pour a bucket of pig’s blood over my head while you were at it? That would have made me even happier!”

By then, the shouting has been noticed by everyone, who can only hover uselessly outside the door.

“I-I’m sorry,” Maggie whimpered, cowering beneath to bassist’s burning glare.

“You’re sorry?” Bessie exclaimed way louder than she needed to, “Yeah, that fixes everything!”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Joan finally steps in. She quickly got between Bessie and Maggie.

Bessie scowls, but says no more, giving Maria and Joan a chance to take Maggie out of the room. The moment she was out of sight from the angry bassist, Maggie broke, dissolving into tears. She nearly collapsed when her knees buckled, but Maria held her upright.

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean-” The girl stuttered over heavy breaths.

“Shh, shh,” Maria hushed her gently, smoothing out the hair on her head, “What you did was so sweet, honey.”

“B-but-”

“Don’t listen to what Bessie said,” Joan went on, “She’s just being an ass.”

The two of them sat Maggie down in one of the queen’s dressing rooms and Maria began to rub her back.

“She wouldn’t be angry if Margaret had sang.”

Neither Joan or Maria knew how to reply to that, so they changed subjects.

“Hey, why don’t we all get changed and then go out and get some food?” Joan suggested, “Just the three of us.”

Maggie sniffled, nodding as she leaned against Maria’s side. An arm snaked around her waist, pulling her in securely.

“Love you, Mags.” Maria said when Joan went to go retrieve their clothes.

“Love you too, RiRi.”

----------

Once again Maggie finds herself craving comfort as she lies in bed that night. She briefly considers going to Maria or Joan but decides that she’s bothered them enough in the last few days. And, so, she does what she always does: she unlocks the drawer beside her bed and reaches in for her prayer book.

But the drawer is empty.

Maggie’s chest tightens as she thinks back to the last time she had it. She had taken it off her bed, away from the cats, that night. She was sure of it. She remembered falling asleep with it that night and then… Nothing.

Jumping out of bed Maggie used her phone to illuminate the darkness beneath her bed, hoping that the book had simply fallen. But there was nothing there. Sitting up Maggie can feel the tears forming behind her eyes. She couldn’t help but think about how many times she had felt like this, felt so utterly hopeless, since meeting Margaret. Without her book Maggie didn’t know what to do. She tried think of anything that could possibly calm her down.

Only one thing came to mind.

No. She wouldn’t. She had promised Bessie she would stop.

But did that matter anymore? Did Bessie even care if she started again?

As the tears fell more and more rapidly and her chest constricted to the point where she felt as though her ribs would snap, Maggie realized that she didn’t have a choice.

She bit down. Hard.

The pain in her hand seemed to tell the rest of her body to relax. As she sunk her teeth into her flesh she could feel herself coming back, could feel her mind clearing. She had forgotten how good it felt. The pain grounded her. It kept her from spiraling. After a few minutes, she crawled back into bed, her hand still held between her teeth. She didn’t care who saw her. She didn’t care if Bessie came in to find her mauling herself in her sleep, it wasn’t like Bessie cared enough to do anything. The chances of Bessie even considering checking on Maggie were practically non-existent. And so Maggie found her eyes closing as she was lulled to sleep by the pain.

#maggie on the guitar #bessie on the bass #joan on the keys #maria on the drums #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #anna of cleves #katherine howard #catherine parr #six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six ff #six fic #tw: vomit #tw: purging #tw: panic attack

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veneataur · 5 years

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Whumptober day 14

Prompt: Torture

Fandom: Salvation

Title: Obstinate

A/N: October is long past, but I never did finish all of the Whumptober prompts. Life got busy and crappy and I was barely keeping up with the work I had to do, so something had to go and completing the prompts was the thing that went. I had the ideas laid out, but I never did get the chance to write them. They’re finished now, though, and ready to go. So here’s some very late Whumptober prompt fills.

“You’re blowing this out of proportion, Darius,” Liam says. “It’s nothing big that we’re asking. Just a little time. A short break.”

“A short break? Do you realize how much it takes to run this company? If I take a break, then this company will go haywire. I haven’t taken a vacation in years, Liam.” Darius paces around the Treehouse main room, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

“All the more reason that you need to take a break. Think of the last six months, Darius. You’ve been tortured twice, shot, in a coma. And you’re still not fully over the last bout of torture.”

“I’m fine,” he says tersely.

“How’s the headache?”

Darius growls lightly and turns away from Liam. He has work to do on implementing the newly tested nanotech and many new customers around the world thanks to the work he and his company did in attempting to save the planet. Many of the Re/Syst scientists have gone home but some have stuck around to work on projects, further boosting his company’s credibility.

“You need to take a break, Darius. If you don’t, you’re going to collapse.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Liam. Now, get back to work.”

Liam sighs, deciding to give in. He meant what he said several months ago in the forest when they thought Russia nukes were going to wipe out their hopes of stopping the asteroid, that working for Darius hadn’t always been a pleasure. The man is stubborn and Liam knows that he won’t get him to budge. Instead, he’ll just have to keep an eye on him and enlist Alycia and TESS as well in case the man wanders out of his sight.

Looking after Darius for the day until his body forces him to take the break they’ve asked him to take proves more difficult than Liam thought. The man seems intent on escaping him today. Still, with the help of Alycia and TESS, he’s able to find out how Darius is doing. He knows that the headache grows worse during the day, with Darius squinting and wincing at the light, turning down the lighting in the rooms he enters. He also knows that Darius has had several more attacks as they’ve been calling the sharp waves of noise that hit his ears and make him clasp his head in pain. He’s in pain and has refused all of the food offered to him, sipping on water only. In short, Darius is set for a collapse and Liam just hopes that someone is there to catch him when his body says it’s had enough.

When that collapse does come, it’s night and it’s TESS who informs him. They’d had dinner an hour ago when they finally managed to convince Darius to sit for long enough to attempt to eat. Pale and shaky, he picked at his food but Liam and Alycia didn’t push him to eat, in part because he did eat a little. But they also know that part of is refusal is nausea from the constant headache.

Rushing out of his room, Liam runs into Alycia on the way to the Treehouse. It was little over a half hour ago when the two of them gave up the ship, leaving Darius to his work with the knowledge that TESS was looking after him and would alert them, as she did.

Entering the Treehouse, the two easily spot Darius next to his drafting board, collapsed on the floor and rush to his side.

“Darius,” Liam asks hoping for a response. He’s not surprised when he doesn’t get one, however.

“He feels warm,” Alycia says. “And he’s a bit flushed.”

“Fever?”

“Very likely. He’s pushed himself too hard. TESS, what happened before he passed out?”

“He was in pain. His blood pressure and heart rate increased and then he collapsed,” TESS says.

“Sounds like he had a really bad attack,” Liam says. Darius groans then, shifting and wincing. He pales before throwing up, giving Liam and Alycia little warning to get him more upright so he doesn’t choke on his vomit. Most of what he brings up is bile, but the remnants of the little bit of dinner come up too. When he’s done, he collapses back into their arms with little awareness of where he is.

“Darius,” Alycia says.

Darius moans but doesn’t speak.

“Let’s get him to his bedroom,” Liam says. “We can get his temperature and let him rest while we decide what to do.”

“Alright. Let’s get up, Darius,” Alycia says.

“Wha’?” Darius’ voice is quiet and pained.

“Up, Darius. We need to get you up on your feet so you can go rest in bed,” Liam says.

“Work.”

“No, it’s time to rest and for more than the few days we’d asked you to.”

“‘ine.”

“No, you’re not,” Liam says. “You’ve passed out and just threw up, Darius. When are you going to admit that you need to take a break?”

“No, Liam. Maybe he’s right,” Alycia says.

“What are you doing?” Liam gives her a confused look. She shakes her head as she continues talking to Darius.

“Let’s make a deal, Darius,” she says. “If you can get to your feet and stand on your own for more than three minutes, then we’ll let you go. If not, then you listen to us and let your body rest until you’re healthy again. Okay?”

“D… deal,” Darius says.

“Alright then. Let’s see. You’ve got three chances to get to your feet.”

Darius nods and takes a breath before shifting to try to get his feet under him. It’s painstakingly long for Liam and Alycia as they watch him try. Just as he manages to get on his hands and knees, he’s hit with another attack that makes his arms bend and he gasps loudly.

“That’s one,” Alycia says. The second and third attempt go little better as Darius isn’t even able to get anywhere near standing. After the third try, he falls to the side, giving Liam little time to catch him.

“Well, I think that settles it,” Alycia says, exasperation clear. Darius moans.

“Let’s get him to bed,” Liam says. Getting him on his feet is tricky, especially as Darius tries to help but his limbs are weak and tend to bend unexpectantly more than help to hold his weight. It means that once they get him standing, Alycia and Liam support him on either side, doing their best to ignore the cries of pain. Once in his bedroom, they set him down on the bed and help him to lay back. While Liam works on getting his shoes off, Alycia grabs the thermometer and sticks it in Darius’ mouth. The man doesn’t react to their ministrations other than wincing at the pain caused by moving.

“He’s got a fever. Not bad enough to cause alarm,” Alycia says.

“At least there’s that,” Liam says. He sits on the bed next to Darius. “Darius, how’re you feeling?”

“Hurts.” Darius’ voice is weak.

“What hurts,” Alycia asks.

“Head. Hurts.”

“Anything else? Other than your head hurting,” Liam asks.

“Sick, hot.”

“Maybe we need to call the doctor.”

“Sick like a cold or sick like nauseous,” Alycia asks.

“Nau…” Darius begins but it cut off when he starts coughing which quickly turns to throw up. Liam gets him to a sitting position while Alycia grabs a trash can to stick under his chin. After this last bout of vomiting, he has nothing more in his stomach, leaving him with the dry heave. When he’s finished, he groans loudly and Liam helps him to lay back down. Alycia takes the trash can to the bathroom and comes back with a wet washcloth to clean his face. It’s then that she notices Darius hasn’t opened his eyes.

“Darius, is the light painful,” Alycia asks. He nods slightly, wincing. “TESS, turn down the lights to ten percent over the bed and thirty by the door.”

“A migraine,” Liam says with sudden realization. The doctor had warned them of migraines being a possibility if he didn’t give his body a chance to heal.

“Yeah. I’m going to see what we have to give him.” As Alycia goes into the bathroom in search of medicine, ibuprofen at the very least, Liam turns to take care of Darius.

“You feel like throwing up anymore,” he asks quietly.

“Don’t think so.” Darius’ voice is raspy and low as he lays there, eyes firmly shut, trying to put aside the constant ache in his head and churning in his stomach. He tries taking a deep breath, breathing carefully through his nose, but the nausea still goes on. Liam sees Darius’ struggle with his stomach, how he seems to be a constant shade of green and goes to the bathroom where Alycia’s looking through the vanity for any kind of painkiller.

“Maybe we should call his doctor,” Liam says. “He can barely keep from throwing up.”

“I called her. She said she’s still out of town.”

“And he won’t accept another doctor.” Liam leans against the door frame.

“No, but she did send in a prescription for some painkillers and anti-nausea medication. The pharmacy’s filling them now.”

“So, what’re you looking for?”

“They can’t deliver the prescriptions, so Harris is going to bring them by later. It’ll be quicker than if one of us goes out. So, I’m hoping to find something, but the man seems averse to any type of medication.” With the world still coming to terms with nearly coming to an end and negotiations over the not-an-asteroid, Harris has spent more time at work lately than at home with long meetings and extra paperwork.

“He has bad reactions to most painkillers. There’s a few he can take, but a lot of the others give him problems.”

“How?” Alycia gives him a puzzled look. She’s known the eccentric inventor for longer and still didn’t know about that detail.

“The man’s a trouble magnet. I learned about that painkiller thing after he was waterboarded by the government.”

“Waterboarded?”

“Yeah. He likes to forget about it though,” Liam says.

“Typical Darius. Well, I found a nearly expired bottle of ibuprofen. Can he take that?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know that it’s going to do him any good, especially if he can’t keep the pills down.”

“Let’s try some ginger ale. If he brings it back up, we’ll just leave him be until Harris comes.”

While Alycia goes to the kitchen, Liam grabs a washcloth, soaking it in cool water and wringing it as dry as he can. Back out in the bedroom, Darius has shifted onto his side, curled up and is breathing heavily. Liam folds the washcloth up enough to be able to stick it on Darius’ neck. His mom always used a cold washcloth when he’d get head aches from staying up too long working on a new project. Darius starts at the touch of the cloth but doesn’t say anything.

Once Alycia’s back with the soda, Liam’s let Darius know of their plans. She sticks a straw in the can and gently taps Darius to draw his attention.

“Just a little sip at first. Let’s see if you can keep it down,” Alycia says.

Darius mumbles an okay and takes a small sip of the drink. The reaction is almost immediate. He sits up quickly as the coughing turns to vomiting and the dry heaves. Liam steadies and supports him while Alycia holds the bucket under his mouth. Nothing more than the little bit of soda and some bile comes up.

When Darius is done, he sags back into Liam, who gently lays him back down. With a low moan, Darius turns onto his side. Alycia rinses the bucket out in the bathroom while Liam replaces the cool, wet towel on Darius’ neck.

“I’ve texted Harris that we need to get her ASAP,” Alycia says when Liam joins her in the bathroom. “He’s in too much pain to keep on with this for much longer.”

“He doesn’t have anything else in here that would help?”

“Expired medications. The doctor said not to use them.”

“So he’s stuck.”

“Yeah. We’ll just keep the room dark and quiet and hope that Harris gets here soon.”

Liam nods, glancing back into the bedroom where he sees Darius trying to push himself out of bed.

“Darius, no,” he calls out, ignoring the need to be quiet. He and Alycia rush back into the room, pushing Darius back down on the bed as gently as they can.

“You need to lay back down,” Alycia says.

“… have to wor’,” Darius says, pushing back on them weakly. His voice equally lacks strength as he seems to be running more on autopilot than any active choices.

“You have a migraine. You can’t work.”

“No. No. Projects and people waiting.” Even though they’ve pushed him back on the bed, he’s not given up. He tries pushing up against them but lacks the strength. His limbs shake with the effort of trying to keep going.

“That’s all going to have to wait. You’ve been working yourself too hard lately. Your body’s said enough’s enough.”

“No time for that.”

“If me or Alycia had a migraine, what would you have us do,” Liam asks.

“Not the same,” Darius says.

“Yes, it is. You’d have us rest, wouldn’t you.”

“You’d have us rest because if we didn’t, we’d just make ourselves sicker,” Alycia says. “If you don’t rest now, you’re going to get sicker and that probably will mean the hospital.” She doesn’t like using the hospital as a threat, but she knows how much he dislikes it.

“Harris will be bringing some medication later to help you rest.”

“Harris is here with that medication,” Harris says, surprising the trio. He’s quickly at Darius’ bedside, a disproving look on his face. “Are you giving these two problems, Darius?”

“My work,” Darius says, voice drifting as he protests.

“Yeah, your work. Now, I’m sure this exhaustion that’s given you a migraine has been building over the last few days at least only you’ve ignored it, even as these two urged you to take a break because your work is so much more important than yourself, right?”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t. You wanted to. Now, you’re going to take this medication that I canceled the last of my meetings to go pick up and you’re going to get some rest so you can be back up on your feet in a few days causing us new worries. Okay?”

“Okay.” Darius licks his lips, swallowing heavily.

“Hey, you need the bucket again,” Liam asks.

“No,” Darius says, though there’s a questioning in the weak voice.

“I think I’ll go grab it just in case.”

“Let’s start with the nausea medication,” Harris says. “The note from the doctor via the pharmacist says to take it a half hour before the painkiller to help the painkiller to stay down.” Harris sorts through the bottles, finding the right one and getting the dosage for Darius to take. Liam comes back with the bucket in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Working together, they get Darius up just enough so that he can take the medication before settling him back down.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Liam says to Harris as they and Alycia stand just outside the bedroom, hoping to give Darius some solitude from their talking.

“Yeah, we didn’t expect you for another couple hours,” Alycia says.

“Well, I know Darius and I knew if he got himself so exhausted that he had a migraine, he was going to be difficult to deal with. And that he wouldn’t listen to the doctor who told him to let his body rest or this would happen. And that he’d need that medication quickly. Exhaustion is something that he’s familiar with and it takes a toll on his body,” Harris says. He also knew that as much as Darius respects Liam and Alycia, neither of them has the history with him to stop him in his tracks. In his automated mode that comes from deep exhaustion, Darius stops either when his body refuses to move anymore or when someone, usually Harris, can force him to put a stop to it. Harris has had to do it before, far too often when they were younger and worked the same project as young men. Darius would know his voice instinctively and listen to Harris’ reason.

“He’ll get better,” Harris says, seeing their worry. “Given everything that’s happened to him in the last seven months means he won’t bounce back as quickly as usual, but Darius is used to this happening. Give him a week and he’ll be back to annoying all of us.”

#salvation cbs #fan fiction #whump #whumptober #darius tanz #liam cole #alycia vrettou

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darley1101 · 6 years

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Chasing Fairytales: Part 1 The Bachelor Party

A/N With so many amazing The Royal Romance authors out there I as a bit skeptical of not only writing this but sharing it. I was reminded by my dear friend @blackcatkita that there can never be too many Royal Romance fics out there, so here we go. Some things to know: My MC is named Carin, she's around 23 but feels older due to life experiences, and she didn't have the easiest childhood. You will learn a bit more about her as the story unfolds. I hope you guys enjoy! If you want to be tagged in future updates, let me know!

Chasing Fairy tales

Part One: The Bachelor Party

The stench of garbage assaulted Carin Brooks nostrils as she stepped into the dimly lit alleyway behind the bar where she worked. Taking out the trash wasn't the greatest of tasks but it did allow her a moments reprieve from her dick of a boss. Growing up in the New York State foster care system, Carin had met her fair share of assholes. Her boss was was starting to come close to topping that list. More than once she had caught him licking his lips while watching her bend over to wipe down a table. So far he had managed to keep his lewd thoughts to himself but Carin knew it was only a matter of time before the looks turned into words and the words into actions. When that happened it would be time to hunt up another job. No matter how good the hourly pay or tips were, Carin was not a fan of being groped. Especially by middle aged sleazeballs.

“Cari?”

Carin jumped, her bright blue eyes widening in a fear. The fear slowly turned to relief as her co-worker, a baby faced college kid named Daniel, stepped out of the shadows closest to the trash bins. “Daniel! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry,” Daniel smiled sheepishly. “I heard something in the bins and it's making me a little paranoid. Think you could come with to check it out?”

If the invitation to check out the garbage bins had come from anyone but Daniel she would have been a bit skeptical. Daniel was a total sweetheart though, who was more inclined to ramble on about his experiences waiting tables on a cruise ship than he was to try something shady. Plus, noises in garbage bins were always a real concern. It seemed like once a month there was some story about an unwanted newborn baby being found in the trash bins. The stories always left her with a hollow ache. She'd once been the unwanted baby, only her mother had been decent enough to leave her at a church. Brooks Street Baptist Church to be exact, where a cleaning lady named Carin had discovered her in a box on a pew.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” Carin cleared her throat. Please let it be a stray cat, she thought as she followed Daniel over to the bins. Her heart rate accelerated as the lid to the bin moved slightly and a tiny squeak pierced the otherwise silent alley. She took a deep breath and tossed back the lid. A wave of relief washed over her as several pairs of shiny, unblinking eyes stared up at her. She couldn't help but chuckle. “Daniel, come look!” She took a step to the side so he could peer in at what appeared to be a family of mice eating dinner.

“I don't know if I should go aw because that has to be the cutest thing I've ever seen or if I should be embarrassed that I let mice in a garbage can freak me out.” Daniel shook his head, a bemused look on his face.

“Lets go with the aw,” Carin giggled. “How about we let them finish dinner in private.” Another wave of giggles erupted from her.

“Bonappetite little buddies,” Daniel grinned as he slowly lowered the trash bin's lid. He motioned towards the bag Carin had set down. “Want me to toss it into the-”

The sound of a metal door slamming against brick caused them both to jump. Their boss scowled at them from the doorway. “I don't pay you to stand around in the alleyway flirting and giggling.”

“Sorry sir,” Daniel muttered, lowering his head.

Anger surged up in Carin's gut. “We weren't standing around flirting and giggling. We were taking out the trash like you asked us to,” she shot back.

“It doesn't take both of you and the last time I checked hauling garbage around wasn't all that funny,” the asshole sneered. “Now, if you're done wasting time, we just had a bachelor party come in. Daniel, they're in booth 5. I believe that is your section. Do try to be professional and for the love of God leave off with your little claim of meeting some former prince on that little cruise you took this summer.”

Carin waited until the asshole retreated back into the kitchen before flipping him off. “Asshole,” she muttered. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched as Daniel flung the trash bag into the dumpster that belonged to some Chinese bistro across the way. They weren't supposed to be using it, but more often then not their trash found its way in since the two little bins that belonged to the bar weren't big enough to hold all the trash that was hauled out every night. “I can't believe him. Acting like we're wasting time when he's the jerk who told us to take the trash out.”

“Yeah,” Daniel agreed glumly.

A frown creased Carin's brow. It wasn't like Daniel to let the asshole get under his skin but there was no denying the defeated look on his baby face. “You okay?”

“I finally asked out Jody. Tonight was supposed to be our first date. But now...” His voice trailed off.

Now he had a bachelor party to contend with. Carin let out a sigh. “You look like you don't feel very well,” she said slowly. “I would hate for you to get anyone else sick. Why don't you head on home and I'll cover the rest of your shift. Bachelor party included.” It wasn't like she had any plans tonight anyway. She didn't date and the few friends she did have either had plans with their significant others or were working. So why not help out Daniel? Besides, most bachelor parties tipped well and if things kept going the way they were going with her boss she was going to need that extra cash while she job hunted.

“Are you sure?”

Putting her hands on his back, Carin gave Daniel a little push. “Yes, I'm sure! Now go! I'll tell asshole you started throwing up.” Daniel threw a few more thank you's over his shoulder before hurrying into the kitchen.

Carin shoved her hands into her back pockets and took a moment to brace herself. The asshole wouldn't care that Daniel was leaving early, but he would still make a dramatic stink over it. There would be some whining about unreliable staff and how he had to pick up the slack before he slunk back to his office. Squaring her shoulders, Carin dropped her arms to her sides and walked into the kitchen. Sure enough the asshole was there waiting for her. “I hear Daniel isn't very well and that you're going to cover for him,” he sneered.

Fighting back a sigh, Carin stepped around her boss and into the little restroom off the kitchen that was reserved for staff only. It was little more than a toilet and cracked sink but it served its purpose. “Yup. Poor kid started throwing up.” She stared at her reflection in the mirror and wrinkled her nose. Seven hours of handing out drinks, busing dishes, and throwing out trash had taken its toll. She reached up and pulled down her dirty blonde hair and shook it out before finger combing it back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. As she tightened the rubber band her body stiffened. She didn't have to look to her right to know that her boss had blocked the doorway. “Excuse me,” Carin said stiffly. “I have a bachelor party waiting on me.”

“Yes. Of course.” He stepped aside. “And Carin...these gentlemen strike me as the sort to leave a nice tip if you're extra nice to them.” The wink he shot her filled her mouth with the taste of bile. She was always nice to her customers, just not in the way her boss liked to insinuate.

Pig, she thought as she pushed past him. Behind her she could hear him chuckling. The sound causes her blood to boil. She takes a few calming breathes before approaching a group of young men lingering near the bar. Presumably this was the bachelor party. If one could call three guys a party. “Good evening, my name is Carin and I will be taking care of you this evening,” she said in what she hoped was a pleasant enough voice.

“We'll be needing your best table,” bit out a man who would have been good looking if he wasn't trying so hard. From his perfectly groomed medium brown hair to his custom fitted suit, it was clear that this guy put way too much thought into how he looked. He also seemed to know that he was good looking, which was a huge turn off in Carin's book.

“Forget the table,” the man standing next to him drawled. “Just bring us whiskey and lots of it.” If the first guy cared too much about appearances, this one didn't care at all. He'd thrown a denim button down work shirt on over a plain white tee and his jeans sported holes that could have been intentional but were probably the result of hours of hard work. There was an air of 'do not come any closer' about the guy that made Carin wonder if he'd been dealt a shitty hand in life as well.

“That can be arranged,” Carin laughed. Had the first guy made the comment about whiskey she would have kept quiet but this one, despite his 'hands off' vibe, seemed like the sort she could joke with. She gestured towards the booths at the back of the bar. “If you'll follow me.”She led them towards a booth that was close enough to the bar to make a steady stream of whisper an easy enough feat, but not so close that the trio would have to deal with the rowdy drunks that liked to line the stools in front of the bar. “Would you like any appetizers to go with the whiskey?”

“We'll start with the steaks!” For the first time since being approached, the third member of the group spoke. He was good looking enough, with a smile that made Carin smile in return. There was a sort of happy go lucky light burning in his blue eyes that Carin envied. This was someone who enjoyed life to the fullest. Since he also seemed to be the happiest of the bunch, she was fairly certain he was the groom.

“Oh yes!” Mr. Metro-sexual perked up at the thought of steak. “I'll take a filet mignon, medium rare, and prepared with a beaurnaise sauce.”

Carin offered an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry sir, but the closest we have to filet mignon is the deluxe burger.” She had told the asshole time and time again that it wouldn't hurt to put a steak on the menu. Steak were almost as easy to sell as burgers and added a bit of class to an otherwise mundane menu.

“Dare I ask for you wine list?”

“We have an excellent vintage house red,” Carin offered. From the way his nose wrinkled and his upper lip curled, Carin knew the house wine was going to be a no go.

“We'll be fine with a bottle of whiskey and four deluxe burgers,” chuckled the second guy.

“Four?” Carin wrinkles her brow in confusion. The guy nods behind her. Carin turns around, her gray-green eyes widening. Less than a foot away is a man that looked like some sort of god. He was well over six feet tall, with blonde hair, a cut jaw line, and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. For a split second their eyes meet and Carin feels as though she can't catch her breathe. She feels her heart beating faster and her palms sweating. Her mind and heart argued over how to proceed. Logic argued that men like this, men who looked like they belonged on the cover of GQ magazine, didn't dally with the help. They stuck with corporate barbies or pampered heiresses. Longing made her wish she stood half a chance.

“Sorry I'm late.” Her golden god smiled, causing her heart to skip a beat. “Thank you for your patience, Miss...” he looked pointedly at Carin, an expectant look upon his handsome face.

“Uh,” she stammered, “Carin. My name is Carin.”

His smile widens. “Charmed to make your acquaintance, Carin.”

Oh the pleasure is all mine, she thought “It's nice to meet you, as well.” She can hear one of his friends snickering. Her cheeks grow warm as she realizes they're laughing at her. “Um, I'll just go put in your order,” she murmurs.

After placing and then delivering their order, Carin made a point to only interact with the bachelor party as little as possible. It was probably going to cost her a really great tip, but she didn't care. There was something about the blonde one that turned her into a bumbling school girl. She was twenty-three, not thirteen; too old for crushes that left her tongue tied. Not that any man, or boy for that matter, had made her feel the way he did. That alone was reason to stay away. Guys like him were only good for two things: a good time and a broken heart. Carin wasn't interested in either. So, she kept her distance. She focused on catching up with all the closing chores Daniel hadn't gotten to before leaving. As she filled the last salt shaker, she felt a tap on her shoulder. A gasp whooshes past her lips as she turns and finds herself, yet again, face to face with golden boy.

“I'm sorry Carin. I didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to let you know that we're about ready to head out. I also wanted to thank you...and apologize. I know we kept you late, and my friends can be...” his brow wrinkles, “demanding.”

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” Carin assured him. She nods towards the wait station where the register is located. “If you're ready, I can cash out your ticket.”

“Yes. Of course. I don't want to keep you any longer than we already have.”

Her body thrums with awareness as they walk side by side towards the wait station. She tries to keep her head lowered, her eyes trained on the ticket, but couldn't. It was impossible not to steal little glances. Each time she would look up, she would catch him staring in return, a warm smile on his face. He doesn't bat an eye when she tells him the total. Without losing his smile, he pulls out a credit card and hands it to her. She can't resist looking at his name. Liam Rhys. She frowns slightly as she runs the card. Why did that name sound so familiar? Carin shook it off. She had probably heard one of his friends use it. “If you could just sign here,” she murmurs. She watches as he signs his name, her eyes widening as he writes in the tip. A thousand dollars. She blinked, then looked a second time. It was still there. A one and three zeroes after it. “That's way too much,” she protests.

“You should let me be the one to determine that,” Liam laughed. “Have a wonderful life, Carin.”

Carin stares after him, her mouth gaped open. A shiver runs down her spine as she feels someone press against her side. A lump forms in her throat as the asshole places a hand on the small of her back and leans over to read the ticket. “Looks like you took my advice,” he snickered.

“Please move,” she bites out tersely.

“Why don't you show me what you did to earn that tip.” His hand travels from her lower back towards her rear. She can feel his fingers splaying across her buttocks. Her eyes start to burn slightly as he squeezes one ass cheek.

“Stop it! Let me go!”

The pub was empty of customers and a quick glance at the bar revealed the bartender intentionally looking everywhere but their way. There would be no help there. She lets out a small cry as her boss pushes her up against the small counter where they cut lemons and limes for the drinks. As the hand that isn't squeezing her ass moves towards the hem of her shirt, she wonders if she screams loud enough if Liam and his friends are close enough to hear. They didn't strike her as the sort of guys to turn a blind eye to what her boss was about to do. Her mouth opens, ready to let out an ear piercing screech, when the front door swings open. Liam stands there, his smile waivering as he takes in Carin and her boss. “Carin,” he said slowly. “I meant to ask if you knew of a club that was still open. My friend Maxwell has this sudden urge to dance.”

Carin heard her boss mutter several curses under his breath as she wiggled pass him. “Yes. Of course. I...I know several. If you give me just a moment...” She ran towards the kitchen, praying her boss wouldn't follow. Behind her she can hear Liam attempting to engage the asshole in conversation and she sends up silent prayer of thanks. She grabs her tote and locks herself in the bathroom. Her body starts to shake as she turns on the cold water. This was it. The end of the line. There was no way in hell she was going to stay working here after that. If Liam hadn't....Carin bit back a sob as she splashed cold water on her face. God, if Liam hadn't come back when he did there was no telling how far the asshole would have gone. She took a few deep breaths before exchanging her plain white work blouse and black slacks for an emerald green skater dress. After stuffing her work clothes in the tote, she pulled the rubber band from her hair, letting the light brown tresses fall around her shoulders. Normally, she would stop to apply a bit of mascara and lip gloss but at the moment she just wanted to get the hell out of there while Liam was around to make sure she escaped physically unscathed.

“I quit,” she hisses at the asshole as she storms past him to where Liam is waiting. She tunes out the obscenities he's yelling after her. Instead, she focuses on Liam. Liam with his bright blue eyes and dimpled smile. Liam who had saved her.

#choices trr #the royal romance #liam x mc #mc x liam #king liam

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myfictionalife · 7 years

Text

Understand Me, Understand My Love.

“We’re sorry to bother you Sir, but we have a few questions to ask you regarding the restraining order Miss Lexi Jenkins has filed against you?” It was the older officer who began, he disgusts me they both do really.

“Alright, but I was under the impression Miss Jenkins was going to drop the charges today?” I asked somehow managing not to cringe, I hate calling My Angel that.

“And why would she do that?” This time it is the younger officer who speaks, I have a feeling he does not believe me, but I had a plan.

“Well when I spoke with her, after I was released, I explained that it was all a misunderstanding. And she was quite embarrassed as was I to be honest.” I slightly chuckled and looked sheepish.

“Where were you last night?” The older officer takes the lead this time.

“Well I was home all night.”

“Can anyone validate that?”

“Yes over a hundred employees.” I say this with an emotionless face but on the inside I am celebrating there is no way that these two want to interview 100+ employees over one missing woman. And even if they did, none of them would talk and Angel and I would be far way before anyone could do anything.

“Would you mind if we asked them?”

I shake my head, “No. please go ahead.” I can see it in the older officer’s eyes, his suspicion is starting to falter since I am being to compliant, but the younger officer was not being fooled; he was going to be a problem.

“Well, if you hear anything from her, please call us. Thank you for your time.” The older one hands me a business card, they bow and then leave.

“No, no thank you and here,” I hand them my business card. “Feel free to call me any time if you have any other questions.”

“We will, have a nice day, Sir.” The younger one says as they exit the door.

“You too.” I say, keeping smugness out of my voice.

As soon as those buffoons were gone I laughed heartily, the younger one would be back maybe but by then everything with Angel would be worked out and we will be gone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two officers left that house, one was fooled by his very convincing act and the other just had a feeling he was not all that he seemed to be. While the men were conversing Lexi had fallen to the floor sobbing into her hands. Her smaller dog, Rayne, wiggled her way into Lexi’s lap trying to comfort her crying master; her other dog Starr placed her shaggy head on top of Rayne’s back and wagged her tail when she placed a hand on each and began stroking their fur.

Hours passed and no one bothered Lexi while she has been locked in the most luxurious prison when finally Jo Min sends a maid, Min Ji to take Lexi down to dinner.

~Lexi~

I had absolutely no appetite I actually felt like I was going to be sick, like at any moment I was just going to vomit everywhere. But the message that Jo Min had the maid pass on to me made it very clear my attendance was mandatory.

This was the message;

‘If you do not come willingly I will be compelled to come fetch you my self, and you don’t want that, do you?’

I shuddered at the memory of his hands clasped around my neck as I followed the maid out of the room I was immediately boxed in by four large guards, the maid led the way to the dinning room.

When we entered the huge dinning room Jo Min stood from his seat a the head of the table, his eyes were gleaming with longing-like child looking at a toy he desperately wanted- it creeped me out to say the least. The butler who had been with Jo Min pulled out the chair to his master’s right, now I really didn’t want to eat.

“Thank you for joining me, I had hoped you would come.” He said in perfect English and was smiling and…blushing, I could only nod.

The maid, Min Ji, puts her arm out motioning me to the chair that was pulled out when I sit down the butler pushes me in, I can’t look at him. As he sits I can feel his eyes watching me, it scares me how familiar his stare is those eyes are the ones that had been watching me. The unnecessarily large table is filled from one end to the other with various dishes some I knew and others I didn’t. As I look up from surveying the table I see that his eyes have never left me, my eyes shifted uncomfortably down to my hands that were in my lap playing with a loose string on my shirt.

“I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for so I told the chef to prepare everything” He said with a smile on his face, I smiled back and nod my head in response. “Eat.”

I wasn’t hungry but I was to scared of what he would do to me if I didn’t comply with his command, so I took a little bit of food and ate it.

~Jo Min~

I could tell she was afraid of me, I didn’t blame her she was forced to see the side of me that she was never meant to see. I was ashamed of my self, but I knew she would come to understand that I was not her enemy. All I had to do was get her to open her eyes to the real threat around her. I tell her to eat and to my pleasure she does. After dinner I ask her if she would like desert and she politely declines in a small voice. She asked of she could go back to her room, I wanted to spend more time with her, but I said ‘yes.’ I called her personal maid, Min Ji, to take her back to her room for the night.

~Saturday 6:30 A.M. Beginning of Day 2~

~N~

I have been up all night going insane wondering what he was doing to her, I knew in the bottom of my heart that Jo Min had taken her. But what really bothered me was that didn’t seem like the police were looking at him as a suspect. Somehow our amazing manager was able to get our vacation extended. The very thought of what that man could be doing to her made me sick and the thought that the police believed he was innocent made me even more ill. I ran my fingers through my hair, gripping a handful I bent over wanting nothing more than to scream.

“Lexi,” I whispered, “Where are you?” It sounded almost like a sob.

~Lexi~

I woke up early the next morning thinking that everything was just a horrible nightmare, but when I felt the plush blankets and pillows beneath me I knew that it was all to real. I pushed my self up into a sitting position, my small frame being slightly devoured by everything. I look around to see the maid, Min Ji, busying her self with cleaning the room in complete silence.

She looks up startled, “I’m sorry young Miss, I didn’t mean to wake you.” She says in Korean and bows.

“You didn’t. We’re the same age you know so young miss is a little weird.” I replied with my eyebrows raised.

She simply nodded which made me sigh, I assumed he wouldn’t let her be informal with me. I threw the covers off and Min Ji instantly runs into the en-suite to run a bath, when she comes back in she attempted to pick my clothes out for me but I don’t let her.

“No, no I’ll do that myself please.” I say as I walk over to the walk-in closet.

The entire front half of the closet is filled with gorgeous dresses and in the back there are pants of various colors and styles, a cross from those are shirts also of different colors and styles, then the entire back wall is a shelf filled with shoes of all kinds. I pick out a pair of cut up jeans, a pink over-sized sweater with a cat in specks on the front and neon pink ballet flats. I place everything on the counter, close and lock the door, and get in the bath, I just soak for a while letting the warm water relax me as I try to think of a way to get out of this hell hole. Finally, I wash up and get out, then I get dressed. I am still drying my hair with a towel as I walk out of the bathroom but I stop in my tracks when I see Jo-min sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the bathroom so intensely, like he was trying to will the door to open for him; when I step out he smiles at me.

“Did you have a nice bath?” He asks with that nausea inducing smile of his. I nod my response as Min Ji begins to dry my hair for me. “Gently Min Ji, she still has a slight bump on her head.” His fake kind tone agitates me.

I hate how he talks to people, like he is above all of them I want to scream, cry anything to show my frustration coursing through my veins every moment I spend in this place and in his nauseating presence.

“What would you like for breakfast my dear?” Jo-Min smiles at me.

“Whatever you would like.” I mumble.

“I asked what you wanted not what I would like.” He clenches his fists and jaw tightly as he speaks trying to keep his temper calm.

“Omu-rice.” I say quickly hoping to satisfy him.

He unclenches his jaw and fist to smile, pleased with my having answered him, he nods to the butler from yesterday who then buts his hand to his ear and speaks my order into a walkie-talkie relaying my order to the kitchen staff. The butler nods back his confirmation to Jo-Min who looks back at me with that smile still plastered on his face. When Min Ji finishes drying my hair Jo-Min rises from his position on the bed and begins to make his way to me. Out of instinct I back away, he still advances toward me until my back hits the wall effectively cornering me.

“I’m sorry for my ungentlemanly outburst yesterday, I assure you Angel it will not happen again.” He brings up his right hand to touch my cheek, letting his thumb run against it gently. I can feel the bile rise in my throat.

“mhmm.” I mumble as my lack of escape brings me no comfort with him this close to me.

He nods at my response and give me this look that he saves only for me, a look that a child would give to their favorite toy. I want to fight, to lash out at him, to escape but the thought of what he might do to VIXX -to N- makes me bend to his will, obediently. I decided to change the subject – to change his focus- from yesterday to going down to eat breakfast.

“Should we head down for breakfast now? Master?” He looks at me in confusion for a moment then laughs.

“Don’t call me Master, call me Oppa.” He smiles.

“Of course, Oppa.” I say with a very small smile.

After I call him Oppa we walk out of the room and down the spiral staircase side-by-side with guards surrounding us, Min Ji and his main butler Min Seok trailing behind. As we walk down the stairs a thought crosses my mind all of these people are aware that I am being held prisoner and yet none of them are willing to help me, they are all involved. The mansion he lives in is like a palace from a Disney movie but the atmosphere is the complete opposite. The dinning room is beautiful a large chandelier hangs above a large ornate mahogany table that could easily seat 20 people. Min Seok must have a twin because a man that looks exactly like him waits by the head of the table. Taking advantage of my momentary confusion Jo-Min takes me by the hand and leads me to the place set on the right of the Min Seok double. He pulls out the chair, as I begin to sit down he pushes the chair in pushing me close to the table then takes his seat to the left of me at the head of the table. A moment later my omu-rice is placed before me along with a mug of coffee.

“Six teaspoons of sugar and French vanilla creamer.” Jo-Min states proudly.

“How did you know I like my coffee like that?” I ask as my discomfort grows and I shudder at the thought of what he would say.

“My Angel, I have been watching over you for quite sometime, besides I should know what the love of my life likes. Don’t you agree?” He says before taking a sip from his own mug.

I nod my agreement but I am thinking about how messed up all of this is and I try to understand how he thinks any of this is okay, how this is showing me love.

#vixx #vixxn #fanfic #oc #kpop

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trippinglynet · 6 years

Text

LSD: My Life-Saving Drug

When a freak brain hemorrhage struck out of nowhere a couple of years ago, I became a little depressed, stuck in a rut, and strangely fearful of death. So when I heard about people (in my neighborhood, even) using hallucinogens to push beyond their preoccupations, to help them live without fear, I decided that was a trip I had to take.

icture this: You’re in a house in suburban Baltimore, tripping on four different drugs, watching grown men and women—including at least one grandmother—cuddle platonically on mattresses. Some are weeping, some are stroking each other’s faces, one is reciting the nursery rhyme “Humpty Dumpty” in a voice stunned by grief. There are candles and Buddha statues and a watercooler with crystals in it. Filling every room, blaring from Sonos speakers, is Mariah Carey’s version of “I Want to Know What Love Is.” You want to lie down yourself, preferably on a vacant mattress, but someone tells you to stay out of the sunroom because it’s “very angry.” The drugs you’ve been given have cute names, like secret agents: S and K and Ma, a blend of several “sacraments.” Their true identities are MDMA, DMT, psilocybin, and whatever the active compound is in kanna. Still, you feel good but not transformed.

You fill up your water bottle. In the living room, a woman claims that Jesus visited her in the middle of the night and told her to pull up her kitchen floor, under which she discovered blood stains. The stains were from a girl who’d been made into soup and fed to the homeless. There’s a hammock in the backyard. You make a journey to it. You lie there, sipping crystal power. When you look at the tree above your head, the branches all burst into ghostly flowers, a continuous bloom. It’s like the tree is auditioning for a part called TREE. Per instruction, you haven’t eaten since lunchtime. Your stomach is in psychedelic pain. Your guide, a suburban mother who’s confessed to tripping over 500 times, is nowhere to be found.* You lie there, waiting for something bigger to happen. Because all this—the drugs, the group work, presumably the Mariah Carey as well—is supposed to cure you of your crippling fear of death.

Why was I, a father of two young children, tripping in a house with a bunch of strangers? It’s a complicated question. At its root is something that happened to me the summer before. I was 44 at the time: no longer in the prime of youth, but certainly someone who anticipated a good thirty or forty more years of life on earth. My blood pressure is normal. I run regularly. I eat shitloads of kale. Aside from the occasional cheeseburger, I pretty much ascribe to the Mediterranean diet. But last July, climbing the stairs on an otherwise uneventful day of writing, my head exploded. I had heard about “thunderclap headaches,” and it was exactly that: a thunderclap of pain that began in my head and flashed down my neck, as though my spine were a lightning rod, before melting away. The experience fit the name so perfectly that I felt a bit of semantic pleasure.

Now, I get a lot of headaches. Little ones, migraines, the whole gamut. The neck thing worried me—I’d never felt that before—but I wasn’t horrendously concerned. I took a piss and went downstairs, feeling a vague lingering pain. I sat on the couch for a while and then called my wife, who insisted we go to the hospital just to be safe. In the car, my head started to hurt again: no thunderclap this time, but a slow storm rolling in from the horizon. By the time we got to the ER, I was crying. It felt like my head was being laboriously crushed. A nurse sat me in a wheelchair, where I started to howl, clutching my head as if I could maybe tear it off my neck. I threw up all over myself. The doctors seemed alarmed. I was past all pride at this point, bellowing like a madman, pausing only to heave up bile. They tried to give me an MRI, but I puked in the MRI machine and they had to start over. If someone had offered to kill me, I would have given them the thumbs-up. The world and my elaborate, one-of-a-kind past in it had evaporated: I was Present Pain. When the doctor returned with the results—“You’ve had a brain hemorrhage, a significant bleed”—they seemed obvious to me, as if someone had diagnosed me as a man.

Thus began a week in the ICU, the worst of my life. A subarachnoid hemorrhage is like a bruise in your brain—I heard this many times, from a battalion of doctors—and like a bruise, it takes a long time to heal. Even on Dilaudid and oxycodone, surfing in and out of consciousness, I had abominable headaches. I threw up for days, sometimes in front of my children. I had my penis shish-kebabbed by a catheter, which hurts exactly as much as it sounds. I was shaken from the depths of sleep, once an hour, for the same torture test: Where are you? What’s the date? Why are you here? I endured an angiogram without anesthesia—my heart rate was too low—which squirted my head with pyrotechnic bursts of pain. I discovered that walking is a triumph, a subconscious alignment of highly skilled maneuvers that requires a perfectly unbruised brain.

Once a day, feeling like I’d stepped off the Pequod after a year at sea, I minced around the ICU with my wife’s help, the nurses cheering at the end of two or three laps, as if I’d won the Olympics. And I was in good shape, relatively speaking.If you ever want to remind yourself that we’re all animals, clinging to our humanity by the thinnest of threads, hang out in the neuroscience ICU of a major hospital. The guy next to me, fresh from brain surgery, couldn’t speak but only moan-bellow over and over again at the top of his lungs, as if calling for the rest of his brain to come home. He sounded uncannily like Chewbacca, when the walls of the trash compactor close in on him.

They never found the source of my bleeding—apparently a good thing—but it added to the sense I had of Death as mad sniper, poised to drop me for no reason. I was in His sights. Even being told by two neurosurgeons that the hemorrhage was a fluke thing, that it would never happen again, failed to assuage my dread. I wondered, perhaps to make my brain-clap seem less random, if my lifelong fear of death had somehow brought it on. It didn’t help things that it took me a couple months to recover, or that for some strange reason I felt compelled to keep it a secret from all but my closest friends. I was too nauseated to eat; I lost over 30 pounds; people stopped me in the halls at work and asked me why my lips were white. The two biggest toes on my left foot stayed numb, as if I’d dipped them in the grave. I worried about dropping dead while taking a dump. I was losing sleep. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, heart drumming, that poor man’s Wookiee-like howls haunting my head.

"I lay there immobilized, trying to hold on to the fact that I was doing this for a reason—that I was supposed to go spelunking in the void and therapeutically return, purged of my fear of death. Then: BOOM."

o when I read about psychedelic therapy for terminal-cancer patients in The New Yorker, in an article by Michael Pollan, I was immediately intrigued. Here were people far worse off than I was, people staring their own deaths in the face, who after a hefty dose of psilocybin seemed to have made their peace with dying. They spoke of venturing into the void and then returning with an ineffable sense of well-being, of touching “the face of God.” The article made it sound like a miracle cure.

Which all leads me to what I was doing in a suburban house with a trampoline in the backyard, trying to swan-dive into my essential self. My guide for the evening had accepted my 400 dollars, the price for my journey, in tie-dyed pants. It was my own fault I wasn’t tripping very hard—I’d told her, out of nervousness, I didn’t want to travel to other planets—though I suspected she knew less about the “sacraments” she was prescribing to us than she purported to. (“Do you know that Peruvians drip ayahuasca into the eyes of their newborns?” she’d told me earlier. “All Peruvians?” I’d asked, and she’d blushed.) Still, I liked her, partly because there was something in her eyes that made me think of the Wordsworth line from “Elegiac Stanzas”: “A deep distress hath humanized my soul.” I sensed there’d been some suffering in her past. Many of the participants, I noticed, had the same benignly haunted look. An ex-physician told us that ten years ago she’d been diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer; she’d recovered, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it would return any second to finish her off. To allay her lingering fear of death, she’d enrolled in a psilocybin trial, and her “whole reality changed.” She divorced her husband and began to juggle motherhood and what full-time psychonauts call “The Work,” traveling the world to partake in aya ceremonies.

The more I talked to my fellow journeyers, the more I realized that almost all of them were dealing with death in some way. One guy—an ex-stockbroker who’d quit his job at a brokerage firm and was developing a health app called, mind-bogglingly, Nurse Ratched—told me he’d managed to purge his own fear of death by dying.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean I died on Ma. I stopped breathing for a long time. I couldn’t move or speak. But I was still there nonetheless. There was continuity—I continued.”

“You believed you were dead.”

He touched my shoulder. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I was actually dead.”

I nodded. Was he off his nut? Was it possible that if you “die” in Ayahuasca Land, it was somehow as real as brushing your teeth? Is our boring analytical mind only showing us half the truth? One of the four hallmarks of a mystical experience, according to William James, is the “noetic”: the conviction that the experience has illuminated some authentic truth. But don’t crazy people also believe—just as passionately—in their delusions? If I tripped hard enough, would I emerge with the conviction that I was immortal and could shine divine light out of my ass? If it got rid of my fear of death, would it matter?

The ex-stockbroker proceeded to tell me a story about a train running over someone, actually cleaving the guy in two and stopping with its wheel in the middle of his body. As long as the train didn’t move, the person was able to survive that way for a while. There was enough time to call his loved ones and have them say good-bye. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with me.

“Maybe you just need a deeper journey,” he explained.

That was it. Maybe I just needed to trip harder. To die without dying. I was determined, in any case, to try it.

* * *

I was not new to hallucinogens; in fact, I’d experimented with all manner of drugs in my youth. This was partly why the question of authenticity intrigued me. Over time I’d come to regard my drug experiences as resolutely inauthentic: quaint little escapades, akin to the stupid-drunk tales you trot out at parties. They weren’t trips so much as “trips,” pratfalls that made people laugh. Inevitably the stories ended with a punch line, the moment of disillusionment after I’d come down and recognized that the profound epiphany I’d experienced had been trite and farcical. There was the day, shrooming in Santa Barbara, when I brought a random twig home from the beach, convinced it was a priceless souvenir. Or the time my buddy Pete and I thought we’d unlocked the secret of the universe and wrote it down on a strip of paper, which we stashed in one of those wooden puzzle boxes with the trick latches. (When I opened the box the next morning, to discover what we’d written, I found SPECIFICITY INTO CHAOS.) Or the first time I tried Ecstasy. I bonded with a guy I’d never met, convinced he was the other half of me that Zeus had torn asunder. For two hours we sat with our arms around each other, listening to Jane’s Addiction’s Ritual de lo habitual and trading awestruck faces as each new song became THE GREATEST SONG EVER. After I’d started to come down, and to wonder why as a straight man I’d been snuggling with a dude on the couch, I wandered into his kitchen and discovered that my soul mate had a “Garfield” comic strip taped to his fridge.

And I’d had some bad trips as well, which worried me. This is why I’d stopped doing mushrooms in college. Once, after a party in which I covered myself head to toe in mud, I returned to my dorm room to shower, only to discover too late that the mud was my natural-born carapace, my naked body the repulsive lobster-like innards of an alien species. I cowered in the bathroom for an hour. Far worse was the time, in my twenties, when I tripped by accident. My best friend from high school came through town with his rock band, and I stupidly ate a cookie from a bowl sitting on the dashboard of their van. It tasted like shit. When I looked up, the whole band was staring at me. My friend asked me solemnly if I’d eaten the entire cookie.

“Yes,” I said.

He massaged my shoulder, very gently. This was someone who traveled with his own drug supplier. “Just remember, no matter what happens, it’s only hash.”

The rest of the band passed a single cookie around, taking little nibbles. At dinner, my enchilada began talking to me. It was not a pleasant conversation. I don’t remember the details, except that the enchilada had a strong survival instinct. I ended up in the fetal position for eight hours, whimpering like a dog. For the next couple days I called in sick to my construction job, terrified I’d never return to normal. Except for the occasional puff of weed, that was my last experience with mind-altering drugs.

***

o it was with trepidation and hope that I ended up at a “psychedelic salon” at Red Emma’s bookstore, the sort of place whose Fiction section is smaller than its Prison Literature one. That’s how I met Dr. Albert Garcia-Romeu, a research psychologist at Johns Hopkins and an expert in the field of psychedelic science. He gave a talk about the psilocybin study he was running, working with nicotine addicts to get them to quit smoking. (So far, they’ve had an 80 percent success rate at six months, about a 40 percent improvement over the best treatment on the market.) Unlike most of the journeyers I talked to, Garcia-Romeu is smart and scientifically-minded, with a handy chemical knowledge of the brain. He has a doctorate in psychology and publishes papers with titles like “Self-transcendence as a Measurable Transpersonal Construct.” If there was ever a trustworthy ambassador for the transformative effects of psychedelics, he was it.

“Neurons that fire together, wire together,” he explained to me when I met him a week later over beers. We were at a historic Baltimore watering hole called The Owl Bar, most likely the only patrons talking about the ruminative patterns of the brain. “That’s what they say in neurological circles. We think particular thoughts—obsessive ones, anxious ones, all those elements of cultural programming that we accept without questioning—and then it gets chemically easier and easier to think them. It’s like wearing ruts into a carpet. These pathways can be very unhealthy. Sometimes the only way to get rid of them is to reset them completely.”

He used the metaphor of a sand castle; you spend years and years building one in your brain, without even knowing it, and it becomes a permanent fixture. Psilocybin, at least in high dosages, serves as the wave that wipes it away.

“How high?” I asked.

He put down his beer and looked at me. “It’s supposed to be an epic experience.”

On his iPhone, Garcia-Romeu showed me a pair of circles meant to represent people’s brains. The graphics were taken from a recent Journal of the Royal Society Interface study, which involved doing fMRIs on subjects who’d either taken psilocybin or hadn’t. The first circle—a normal brain—had a few colored lines arcing across it, whereas the second one looked like one of the rubber-band balls my friend’s mother used to keep in her pantry. These were the neural pathways of a tripping brain. “On psilocybin, all these parts of your brain that don’t usually communicate with each other start chatting. It literally reorders your brain.”

I started to get nervous. I liked my brain the way it was. I mean, there were some pretty big issues there, no doubt about it—a proclivity for depression, an obsession with the mistakes I’d made in life, the whole death-terror thing—but I didn’t want a new one. I had no interest, for example, in leaving my wife. A friend had told me a story about a couple who’d done ayahuasca and had an epiphany that they should get divorced, then took a second dose the same weekend and had an epiphany that they should stay together. What if they’d stopped after the first trip?

In fact, there was something a bit contradictory about this whole idea of self-transformation. You were supposed to get back in touch with your essential self, to tsunami away all the cultural programming in your brain, and yet the psychedelic experience was all about losing one’s self. (Which is why Brian Wilson, in his admonition to acidheads, warned them to “hang on to your ego.”) How could you escape your “self” and find it at the same time? Probably, in the Journey People’s calculation, the ego is different from the self; one of the paradoxical teachings of Buddhism is that there’s a “self” and a “Self,” and that you have to lose the small to find the big. Over and over that night at the suburban guide’s house, I heard the “analytical mind” referred to with distaste. But it was the analytical part of my mind—the one that thought critically about the world, that saw the absurdity in life and death, that was able to write clear and concrete things as opposed to “specificity into chaos”—that I admired most. Who would I be without it?

On the other hand, Garcia-Romeu’s good-hearted advocacy was seductive. It helped that I liked him a lot. Bearded and benevolent, he’d ordered a Bushmills with his beer; in different clothes he would not have looked out of place on a Harley. He recently got a tattoo of a serotonin molecule with an oriole perched on it. He told me he’d struggled with depression in college but had found his calling in what he deems the “Renaissance in psychedelic science.” In ten years, he believes, psilocybin will be reclassified a Schedule II drug; there will be clinical centers, equipped with trained and certified guides, around the country. This is his life’s mission—not only to get to the bottom of why psychedelic therapy works wonders but to legitimize it as a viable treatment.

There’s some thought, he told me, that our brains have evolved to attribute special meaning to life-altering events and that due to their neurochemistry, psychedelics trigger such feelings. How else to explain the long history of psilocybin and mescaline use among ancient peoples? (Archaeologists have found sculptures of magic mushrooms—“mushroom stones”—dating all the way back to 1000 B.C.) This jibes with what Garcia-Romeu has seen in the lab: “Consistently, people in our studies rank their experience as one of the most meaningful events of their lives, right up there with the death of a parent and the birth of a child.”

I’d read the same thing in The New Yorker but still found this hard to believe. “The death of a parent?”

“That’s what they say. Even 14 months later.”

I told him about my disappointing “journey” at the suburban guide’s house. He seemed a bit disheartened by the whole ayahuasca fad, as if it were giving his work a bad name. Maybe there was some value in these drug-ins, but they didn’t sound all that useful to him as therapy: “The work we do generally requires two to three months, working one-on-one with the subject and building up trust. The idea is to plant the seeds very carefully, then let it storm.”

He seemed like a dream gardener to me, someone I’d love working with. I asked him if he could fit me into one of the Hopkins studies, but alas, I wasn’t a smoker, and the other available one involved dosing people blindly with various drugs. I wasn’t into being a guinea pig. For several reasons—not the least being my brain hemorrhage—I wouldn’t have qualified, anyway. If I wanted to experience the real thing, I’d have to find a psychologist willing to do it on the Q.T.

***

Now, here’s where things get a bit tricky. Because I did find someone, a trained psychologist, willing to work with me on the condition that she remain anonymous. Because for the time being, these are still Schedule I drugs we’re talking about and she could lose her license (or worse). So let’s call the trained psychologist S. Why did S agree to do this for me? I don’t think it had anything to do with money, though I was paying her for her work, of course. Like everyone else in the field of psychedelic science that I talked to, she’s a true crusader and wants to spread the word any way she can. I think she also wanted, sincerely, to help me.

So we made up a plan, compressed into a month because of scheduling issues: eight hours of “preparation,” followed by an all-day psilocybin session, followed by four hours of “integration.” The preparation, meted out in face-to-face therapy sessions, would take up most of the month. And quite honestly, these drugless sessions—essentially talk therapy—were a hundred times more useful to me than lying in someone’s hammock, watching the trees blossom. I told S about my life. I talked about my mother’s Alzheimer’s. I discovered that I still have Daddy issues. I cried, sober as a judge. I discussed my “intentions” for the upcoming session, all the issues I was hoping to address: my terror of death. My chronic insomnia. My on-and-off struggle with depression. My life-is-elsewhere syndrome. My desire to recapture some of the gleeful spontaneity I felt when I first started writing. As the intentions mounted, multiplying like rabbits, I began to invest psilocybin with legendary powers.

“I should warn you that during the session, you might believe that you’re going crazy. You might also think you’re exploding.”

I shifted in my chair. “What percentage of people have bad trips?”

“A little less than half.”

“Half?”

“Give or take.”

“How bad are these trips?”

“Some of them are hellacious,” S said calmly.

This did not seem like a scientific term to me. I remembered my all-nighter in the fetal position. But I’d signed on to this thing; it would have seemed cowardly—an acquiescence to my thanatophobia—to back out now. What if I was transformed?

***

n the day of the session, S picked me up at ten thirty in the morning and drove me to her apartment. The sun was out, sparkling off cars and delivery trucks, and it seemed a bit unseemly to be doing drugs before lunchtime. At S’s request, I’d made a playlist on Spotify of various jazz and classical albums I liked. (Words were too distracting, she’d said, and could interfere with the session.) I’d also brought some old family photo albums, to peruse while we waited for the drug to kick in.

S, who for obvious reasons couldn’t commandeer any lab-grade psilocybin, had bought some magic mushrooms from a friend. I knew she had done this, but it was still a bit startling to see her pull out a Ziploc bag full of caps and stems. There was something dispiritingly undergrad about it. Also, it looked like a lot to me. Enough for more than one person. I couldn’t remember ever taking that much as a kid. Outside a lab, of course, it’s impossible to measure the dose perfectly, so the best S could do was guess; she worried that it wouldn’t be enough. (When I asked her what constituted too high a dose, she told me that for our purposes there was “no such thing.”) I couldn’t imagine getting them all down my throat, so she very hospitably tossed the shrooms into a blender and mixed them up with some OJ and berries. A purple smoothie. It was delicious, with a hint of umami.

It’s a weird thing waiting for a drug to come on while someone observes you from a chair. You feel a bit like a TV set. I fought the urge to put on a good show. I was also scared, nauseated, and making some teary costume-drama good-byes to my brain. Eventually the shadows on the ceiling began to interest me. Not deeply, but in a vaguely groovy way. I couldn’t tell if a piece of geometric art on the wall was actually three-dimensional or not (it was). I put on my sleep mask—or “night shade,” as S called it—and waited to confront the void. The night shade is a major component of psychedelic therapy; it’s meant to direct you brainward, so you’re not distracted by groovy shadows. The music, too, is designed to take you inside yourself—to lead you, Pied Piper-style, to “a wondrous portal.” Or so I imagined.

But there were no portals in my brain, or even portholes. Just business as usual. Admittedly, the music sounded fucking great. It was like a trip to the stereo store, except we were listening to The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady instead of “Stairway to Heaven.” Still, I could have played a passable game of tennis. The only vision that came to me was that of an ice-cold beer. After a while, fighting off boredom, I started to wonder if this whole thing was an elaborate hoax.

“It looked like a good dose to me,” S said, perplexed. “It might have been a potency issue. Or you might be one of those people with an extremely high tolerance.”

“What do you do in those cases?”

“We up the dose.”

***

This is how I found myself in a hotel room a couple days later, preparing to take some LSD that S happened to have in her fridge. The only way we could fit the session in was to pull an all-nighter. I didn’t want to do it at home with my children upstairs, and S’s partner meant that her place was off-limits, so I’d booked a room at the Royal Sonesta with sweeping views of the harbor. Red and blue lights shimmered off the water, painting the face of the bay like smears of mascara. Yachts rocked gently in the dark. In the distance, giving us the neon finger, was the humongous guitar sign of the Hard Rock Cafe.

Like all hotel rooms, it was freezing cold. We had a portable speaker, a night shade, and the LSD. I’d never done acid before—had assumed I would die happily without trying it—but S assured me it was very similar to psilocybin. The main difference was the length of the trip, which was one of the reasons they didn’t use it in the lab. “Personally, I prefer it,” she told me. “Easier on the stomach.” Still, I was taken aback when she pulled two tabs from her satchel and told me to stick them under my tongue.

“Both of them?”

“That’s right.”

“Are they low doses?”

“Ordinarily I’d start you off with one, but we’ve seen how little you’ve been affected. Plus, they’ve been sitting around for a year.” S looked at me encouragingly. She didn’t seem worried. “I’d say we’re talking 150 to 200 micrograms.”

Later I’d find out that 200 micrograms was what Aldous Huxley asked his wife to inject him with when he was dying of cancer—in two smaller doses—but at the time it meant nothing to me. I melted the tabs under my tongue. Then I sat on the bed, waiting for my plane to depart. At this point, I half expected nothing to happen. S had to take a phone call, and I remember thinking that this was maybe the weirdest thing I’d ever done: sitting in a hotel room after dark with a near-stranger, waiting for a double hit of acid to kick in while she chatted amiably with her parents. Eventually, things began to look strange. I remember that my legs extended on the bed in front of me looked very long. Everything was long. I’d entered Long Land. The corners of the desk looked sharper and more protuberant. It was like I’d put on 3 1/2-D glasses. The chiaroscuro, too, was Vermeerian. Before long I began to swoon. It was like having the spins. After drinking the shroom smoothie, I had voluntarily lain down and put on the night shade, but now I had no choice: I couldn’t possibly sit up or look at things or move an inch. I lay there immobilized, trying to hold on to the fact that I was doing this for a reason—that I was supposed to go spelunking in the void and therapeutically return, purged of my fear of death. Then: BOOM.

"And then I felt something: “Rapture,” I guess you’d call it, though it bears about as much relationship to the way I’ve used that word in the past as a sneeze does to an orgasm."

Drug narratives are boring for the same reason that other people’s dreams are boring: Any attempts to describe the experience, which is by essence non-narrative, or in the very least experimentally plotted, come out sounding like dorm-room malarkey. You can’t make a plot without time, and time—chronology, cause and effect, some sense of action or drama—is what’s missing from the psychedelic experience. Time and, well, a protagonist. For about an hour and a half (or so I learned later, from S, because time had ceased to mean anything) I was completely obliterated. Blown into smithereens. I didn’t exist. The only thing that remained was a feeling, and even this is hard to describe, as it’s like no feeling I’d ever experienced before. It should be, in fact, impossible to feel. The best description I’ve found for it is the term mysterium tremendum et fascinans,coined by theologians to describe an encounter with the “Wholly Other”: a feeling of joy and demonic terror at the same time. Not two different feelings, mind you, but a single unbearable one. Huxley talks about it in The Doors of Perception as “the fear of…being overwhelmed, of disintegrating under a pressure of reality greater than a mind, accustomed to living most of the time in a cozy world of symbols, could possibly bear.” That’s how I felt: completely overwhelmed, though not by fear but by Joyterror. Even the notion of a “bad trip” was meaningless, though I could feel myself teetering on the edge of something evil. But the notion of “teetering” was meaningless too—I was on both sides of the precipice at once. The only thing I remember doing is crying, though S’s notes claim I said the following things: “intense,” “too intense,” “overwhelming,” “wow,” and “melting.” Rising action, climax, denouement. Not bad for someone narrating from the primordial void.

And then something happened. A tunnel opened up in the void, shaped something like a heating duct, though more attractive, pimped out with divine light, and at the end of this very long heating duct I saw my self. It was a joyous reunion. I don’t think I’ve been so happy to see anyone in my entire life. I conceived—in the way you sort of immaculately conceive things while on drugs—that this self, this Eric P., existed eight hours from now. I was looking down a time-tunnel, into the future. And this Eric from the future, no longer tripping, spoke to me in a small, faraway voice, assuring me that everything I was experiencing wasn’t real, that I’d merely taken a shitload of LSD. For the first time, the Joyterror relaxed its grip on me a bit and I was able to think, to understand that I was listening to music, and that this music was unspeakably beautiful, the shouting of angels. It was Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis (though I didn’t realize this at the time), and it was pouring down upon me from above. And then I felt something I will never forget. “Rapture,” I guess you’d call it, though it bears about as much relationship to the way I’ve used that word in the past as a sneeze does to an orgasm. The music became Beauty, and the waves of Beauty cascaded over me, rippling though my body, again and again and again. I was being bathed in it. A baptism. At the same time that I was being baptized by Beauty—and weeping, and trying to describe it to S—I was being delivered upward toward the source of the music, floating away from my body, ecstatic to leave the crummy, aging thing behind. I heard Eric P. talking from the end of the time-tunnel, saying This isn’t real or profound or unique, it conforms exactly to the Rapture as described in those Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets that come in the mail, but what I thought was: Fuck you, Eric, it doesn’t matter.

And then we floated back to earth, Eric and I, separate but within earshot, and the Beauty was gone. We hadn’t been raptured. We pulled the night shade off and took a look around us. The air vent on the ceiling rippled like the gills of a fish. The whole room was alive, pulsing in and out. We could see the world breathing. We thought about my mother’s Alzheimer’s, how meaningless it was that she was losing her mind, how cruel and senseless and obscene, and an image materialized of the Creator as a beast. He looked something like the Minotaur. We explained this to S, that God was a beast. We decided to take revenge on this beast, for the universe’s meaninglessness. We chased Him down and slit His throat with a sword, Theseus-style, and there was some catharsis in this. The blood of God was on us, and we liked it. As the night wore on, there were other epiphanies, ones that would sound trite in the retelling; suffice it to say that we forgave certain people that had wounded us, and lamented that we’d wounded others.

Eventually, the room stopped breathing and we began to feel more like a single person again. Then the only truly bad part of the trip began. Because S fell asleep on the couch—I don’t blame her; she was exhausted and I hadn’t been the most exciting company—and I was left to my own devices in a strange hotel room at three in the morning, too wired to sleep and feeling the seriously bad vibes of being my analytical self again in an out-of-whack world, wanting to leave the fun house but unable to find an exit. I paced the room, my clothes soaked with sweat despite the arctic temperature. The view across the bay morphed into an enormous Aztec mask blowing me a raspberry. It wouldn’t go away. The Hard Rock guitar, pointing up at the lonely dark, looked like the YOU ARE HERE arrow on a map. I tried watching TV, but the programming at 4 A.M.—Adult Swim and a show consisting of home videos of people throwing up—made me feel like I was still peaking. I wondered if the entire world had gone insane. Finally, just before dawn, sincerely losing my shit and feeling like my head had been gouged out like a pumpkin, I woke up S, who seemed alarmed by my appearance. As reassuringly as she could at five in the morning, she helped me into a cab and sent me home.

d having my ego obliterated, then gradually resurrected, cure me of my fear of death? Was I transformed? In a year, I might have something different to report, but right now I have to say: not miraculously, no. Psychedelic therapy, at least as it was practiced outside a lab, did not solve all my problems. I still have trouble sleeping. I get badly depressed sometimes. And the biggie—my fear of death—seems to be in fine fettle. By experiencing the mysterium tremendum of the void, I may have even made it worse. Instantaneous transformation, I think it’s safe to say, is a seductive myth.

And yet I’m not exactly the same person I used to be. I feel the bottoms of my feet more acutely. I’ve stopped putting on sunscreen every time I go outside. I worry a bit more that I’m crazy, especially late at night. I feel exceptionally attached to my wife and children. And maybe it’s only a phase, but the idea that there might be another life out there for me, that I’ve somehow forsaken it, doesn’t haunt me so much. I suppose (and here the cliché takes over, my analytical mind is powerless) it’s called “being present.” Dr. Garcia-Romeu talks about re-acquainting people with what he calls “the beginner’s mind”: stripping away all the petty wants and concerns that we’ve mistakenly imbued with meaning, so that we can recognize again what’s truly important. I’m sure—and all the evidence seems to point to this fact—that he and S are helping people.

And there remains that feeling of euphoric beauty, of being—let’s just come out and say it—raptured. I don’t believe that I had a God-moment, or that I touched the oneness of the universe, or that I actually croaked and came back to life. As far as yoga-speak goes, I’m still on the Woody Allen side of the mat: “Students achieving oneness will move ahead to twoness.” Does that mean the feeling I had wasn’t authentic? It came from somewhere, from the chemicals in my brain, and the idea that my brain—this three-pound electric sponge in my head, made up of 86 billion neurons, with more connections among them than there are stars in the galaxy—created it kind of amazes me. This brain I had the good or bad luck to be born with can bleed spontaneously for no reason, and make me so depressed I can’t move, but it can also fill me with beauty until I weep. It can make me float to the heavens. For whatever reason, I have this superpower inside me.

A few weeks after my night in the hotel, I watched a video of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream—*a play that’s often staged as a kind of hallucination—with my kids. This staging, a Royal Shakespeare production, was particularly trippy; Puck and Oberon seemed almost demonic, dosing people with magic flower juice. I found myself sympathizing more than usual with Bottom, the woeful thespian, who undergoes a literal transformation when Puck gives him the head of an ass. When he wakes up as his old self again, he says he’s had “a most rare vision” that can’t be described. “I will get Peter Quince to write a ballet of this dream,” he says. “It will be called ‘Bottom’s Dream,’ because it hath no bottom,” meaning that it has no core but also that he, Bottom, is missing from it.

Later, after the kids were in bed, I sat outside on the patio, listening to Spotify drifting from the kitchen. Bob Dylan’s “Death Is Not the End” came on. Actually, it was Nick Cave’s version, sung in his sepulchral baritone:

When you’re sad and when you’re lonely And you haven’t got a friend Just remember that death is not the end

I don’t know if you could call it a flashback or not, but I stepped out of myself. Or rather: split in two. No heating ducts this time—more of a feeling, a disunity, like I’d grown a second head. It was a starless night. We were listening to a famously morbid singer tell us that life goes on after death. Dream on, the analytical me thought, frowning, while the other me thought, unburdened of him: Dream on and on.

Eric Perry is a pseudonym for a writer who has contributed regularly to GQ.

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trainingbrahs-blog · 7 years

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Patched In: The Artistic Brah

The Bro Series honours a variety of bros and gives us the opportunity to get to know some of our favourite little buddies a bit better. Knowledge is power sisters and brothers! Our fifth interview in the Bro Series is with Zoe, the stand-up-bro-turned-jits-bro, also known as the Artistic Brah.

We should probably mention that apart from being a tough blue belt that loves judo, Zoe makes amazing jiu jitsu inspired art, which we obviously asked her exactly zero questions about because we were too busy talking about gross things and Gucci Mane. You can see Zoe’s excellent art here and here.

Vicky - Ok. Why do you think ringworm is called ringworm? It’s not a worm. So why make it any grosser than athlete’s foot?

Zoe - You know what? I’ve thought a lot about this for the last ten days. I’ve read every single… My first 2 pages of google, all the titles are purple because I’ve clicked on them and I really think they should change the name. I think the history is that they used to think it was a worm because it makes that circle. Do worms even make a circle?

V - There’s the snake that eats its tail, but that’s symbolic.

Z - So yeah, my symbolic worm disease. I honestly think if it had a different name, people would be chill about it. I would be chill about it.

V - Right? Athlete’s foot. Or athlete’s circle?

Mike - That sounds like a store.

Darcie - I would shop there.

V - It’s something that happens to someone who’s fit and active.

Z - I dunno make it sound like at least not terrible. Can you please not? Can this please not happen to me right now? Everything is terrible. Why am I having ringworm too?

V - How much hair do you think you’ve lost in jiu jitsu?

Z - Not enough. My hair’s still really puffy and big.

V - Do you lose it from the back, the front, or the side?

Z - I think it gets torn out from deep within the clump. My hair has no back front or side. Especially once I’ve been rolling for a bit. It’s very sweet when guys crossface me then go “oh oh oh your hair!” But you’re already crossfacing me. Why are you concerned about my hair?

D - That’s why I just got an undercut. It solved all of my problems.

V - Don’t you think it’s weird when they sort of gently brush it out of the way? They lift your head up then smooth your hair.

M - I do that to guys with long hair too. It’s like come on, man.

V - But sometimes it’s oddly intimate, like you’re being cradled?

M - From now on, never again. Oddly intimate with other men? No.

V - It touches me!

M - Does it touch them too? I’m not staring at your tender hair.

D -- Everyone should just get an undercut.

V - Yeah, we’ll talk to you again when you’re growing that thing out.

D - How do you feel about competition?

Z - I enjoy it when I grab their lapels, but everything up to that point including the two weeks prior pretending that I’m not doing it is just very uncomfortable. I never regret it, even if I lose miserably. I do enjoy the excitement, even if I’m losing tremendously. I like to be in it, I just don’t like to get there. My mind is my problem. I like it and I’m going to challenge myself and do no gi for my next competition.

M - ooh.

D - Does Mike know about the challenge?

M - What challenge?

Z - haha yes. Chad told me that I should challenge Mike to no gi because I could probably take him..

M - Probably. Challenge accepted.

D - We should market this

V - Like a superfight?

D - Yeah. But you should get some sort of… you know. Mike has weight and more years of jiu jitsu.

V - So like a handicap.

D - I didn’t want to use the word handicap, but yes.

M - A seven point lead? Is that what you want?

D - I dunno a hammer or something.

V - Or like Zoe gets to do slap jiu jitsu and Mike doesn’t

M - If it’s a gun, I’m ok. I just did firearm self defence this week. I’ll take you on with a gun.

D - So we’ve written a lot of posts on cutting weight and not cutting weight because it’s for suckers, but tell us about the last time you made weight.

Z - Alright. I was cocky. Because the previous competition I was underweight because the scale at our gym was six pounds over.

D - Still is.

V - Is it really?

D - It’s over by quite a bit.

V - Thank god.

Z - So I was super cocky and was like, “I’m not gonna be careful at all. I’m just gonna have a hamburger and onion rings the night before and I’m gonna drink coffee in the morning with four bananas.” Then I was in the car with Shannon and I was getting this feeling of “Ahh I gotta compete.” I dunno I have a feeling. The go to to calm my nerves is to vomit. It works like a charm. It relaxes me. Honestly I’ve been vomiting to relax myself since I was like 4. Whenever too much stress was happening I’d vomit. Almost without warning, especially on playgrounds and stuff. Someone would upset me or something and that was my go to. So I know this about myself. So I knew. I was like, “Shannon, I don’t know if you have to pull over when we’re driving but I’m gonna have to throw up soon.” She was like, “no problem.” Anyway we found parking and I knew it. Shannon had walked off to put money in the meter and I knew it. I felt it. But the vomit doesn’t just come out. I have to like force it out. It’s just that sick feeling in my stomach so it’s just like “blech.” It’s really, really hoarse and forced but I have to expel something.

M - Oh my god, your face.

Z - I only had like 4 bananas and two cups of coffee.

V - That’s a lot of bananas.

Z - So I was in the parking lot and I was kind of embarrassed because there were a bunch of construction guys having lunch so I was trying to hide, retching behind a tree at BCIT and my stomach wasn’t full enough so it was just like that gooey stomach acid bile. But, I managed to throw up my coffee. Then Shannon told me I didn’t look so great, but I was good to go. So then I’m waiting for my fight and I thought “oh I might as well weigh myself” and then I step on the scale and I was just so confident. Like you know, I’ve done this before. TWICE already. So I got on the scale and then I looked at the guy’s face and he was like, “ohhhhh you’re at the limit” and I was 141.5. I was at the cut off. And I was like “oh no, thank god I threw up in the parking lot, otherwise I would’ve missed weight!” So I scraped by and I learned a hard lesson that I shouldn’t eat junk food 12 hours before I fight. And to keep my retching vomit to a minimum.

V - Zoe, I will never forget you at the in-house competition.

Z - What the one I did after two weeks?

D - Yeah, that’s why we decided we were going to adopt you. Well that and because you came out dancing after.

V - Yeah, you showed up for two weeks, we barely even knew who you were and you had the most laser focused insane maniac look on your face and you just destroyed everybody. It was terrifying. And kind of amazing.

Z - Well thank you, also I really don’t remember it. I remember Rodrigo had said “Zoe, it’s ok. Two weeks. Whatever just do it.” and I said “well you know what, ok.” My mindset like that works for me sometimes, when I’m almost naive to what is actually happening or if I don’t really understand the situation, I just usually say yes and I usually have a really good experience from it. I remember when I woke up that morning, it was about 10:30 and I said “oh yeah, I’m about to do this competition at 11:30” and I didn’t even know what that meant. So the sense of relaxation and chill that I had was the best that I ever felt in terms of thinking about going to compete. I didn’t know what I was doing and now when I watch white belts I’m like, “Is that what I was doing?”

V - Yeah, you had no chill. It was amazing though. Really. You just came out of nowhere and just destroyed. So you’ve been working at the gym for a while now. What’s the grossest thing that you’ve found there?

Z - Well today I found a bandaid on the wall.

V - That’s nothing.

Z - I know that’s nothing. Mike handed me a bag of vomit once. I said, “I’m not touching that without gloves” and he’s like, “Oh that’s a good idea.”

M - It really stunk too. It’s like thick foamy. A guy was like, “My daughter threw up.” It was me and Zoe only. We were way overwhelmed with kids and one kid barfed. It was just a little girl. She was 3 or 4, but the amount of throw up that came out of her was like the size of her. I was looking at her and looking at it… and looking at her. It didn’t match up. That’s an adult barf. So I brought the garbage can and I was like, “How are we gonna navigate this?” So I swept it all up and it was all over the edge of the bag and my hands and Zoe was just like, “No fucking way. GLOVES.”

Z - Mike, you know that’s a biohazard. You need to not pick vomit up with your hands. That’s the one that comes to mind but honest to god, I’m disgusted by people everyday.

V - If you had to tattoo something on your face what would it be?

Z - uhhh my… That’s a good question

V - Is it?

Z - I would have to research more. Actually it would probably be something… I was going to say decorative. I dunno I couldn’t go full ice cream cone.

M - Gucci Mane? It’s Gucci that has that right?

V - That’s a thing? He has an ice cream?

M - It’s the whole side of his head.

V - Shut up.

D - I’m so glad we get to put a picture of Gucci Mane on the blog.

V - I don’t understand. Are these spikes coming out of the ice cream cone as well? Seriously. Can somebody look up why? There’s gotta be some meaning behind that.

Z - It’s because he always says ice cold.

V - Ok but you could do like an ice cube.

Z - Ice Cube is taken.

M - He’s the ice cream man. It’s because he chooses to live his life cool as ice.

V - That’s stupid. It’s an ice cream cone on his face.

D - Ok let’s go straight to Interview Sharktank. It’s one minute. I think Brancao still holds the title. He answered like 35 questions or something ridiculous.

V - I still think we stopped timing him.

D - We’ll have to look it up. Anyway, we’re not going to ask you what your walkout song is because we already know from Manuel’s birthday party.

V - for the record it is…

Z - Oh for the record, it’s Kate Bush, Running Up That Hill

D - So if you were practicing for sharktank, we’re not going to ask that.

V - Practice? That’s how Brancao beat everybody. And go…

D - Favorite sub?

Z - What?... Favorite? I was gonna say turkey!

M - Go! Next question!

D - Favorite Subway sub!

Z - I said! It’s turkey!

D - What’s Chad’s walk out song

Z - Oh no. A Handsome Man?

D - Gi or no gi?

Z - No gi

V - REALLY.

D - Best thing about jiu jitsu?

Z - Everything

D - Worst thing about jiu jitsu?

Z - Everything!

D - Broken nose or broken toe?

Z - Both.

D - Name a country that starts with A.

Z - America

D - Staph or ringworm?

Z - Ringworm

D - Cher or Dolly Parton?

Z - Cher

D - Best take down.

Z - Osoto gari

D - Give us your favorite Louis quote

Z - Oh my god.

V - done!

D - Oh I wanted to hear it.

V - Does Louis have quotes?

D - “You can’t arm drag me! I’m already sitting down!”

M - “You should’ve cut that big toenail, that’s gross” [for the full story, see Patched in- the Original bro]

11 questions. Aaaaaaaaaaaand stilllllllll Brancao remains the Interview Sharktank champion. Thanks for sitting down with us, Zoe.

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