#but instead I want something to numb my god dam emotions

[esperantoauthor]

Title: Let Me Hold Your Hand Author: Esperanto | Beta Reader: @blaineandersimp Rating: T Status: Complete (4,349 words) Genre: Hurt/Comfort (emotional)

Summary: For months now, Kurt has wanted nothing more than for Blaine to hold his hand. He has yearned for it, ached for it. But now, now that it is finally happening the only hand Kurt wants to hold is his Dad’s. [or, what if the order of events in season 2 were different and Burt's heart attack happened *after* Kurt and Blaine became close friends?]

✨ Read it on Ao3 or below the cut ✨

It started off as a painfully ordinary day.

Life-changing events shouldn’t be allowed to happen on days like this, with the sun shining and fluffy white clouds in the air. On a day when his pop quiz was cancelled and they actually served something edible in the cafeteria. It should have happened on a horribly overcast day where a thick layer of cloud cover kept the sun from shining a single ray of hope down to the ground.

It shouldn’t have happened at all.

—

Terror grips his heart as soon as Ms. Pillsbury pulls him out of class. He can see the bad news written in the stern lines of her face.

“Kurt, your father had a heart attack.”

The world shatters around him, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces that catch against his skin. Kurt blurts out the first question that pops into his head.

“Is he dead?”

Kurt presses through the rushing in his ears to hear her response. “No, Kurt. He’s in critical condition; that’s all they would tell me. Kurt, I’m so sorry; you must be so scared.”

The air around him is thick like molasses, his face is numb, and his heart is pounding so loudly he can hear each beat ricocheting around in his skull. He doesn’t know what this feeling is. Desperation? Shock?

He stares at her wordlessly, eyes wide, as his world falls apart.

She looks so earnestly concerned that Kurt wants to slap her. How dare she look so sympathetic when she has no idea what this feels like. What it feels like to be going through this for the second time.

“I need to see him, please,” he begs.

“Of course,” Ms. Pillsbury says with a nod. “I’ll take you there now.

—

Coma.

Kurt flexes the fingers in his hands, stretching them out as far as he can, wiggling each finger just to feel his own body move, to make sure it is still there.

His father is in a coma.

Kurt wishes he had written down what the doctor had told him because he’s already forgotten most of it. Not that word though. He’s watched enough soap operas and medical dramas to know that a coma is bad. Really bad. It’s the kind of thing people wake up from with amnesia. At least on TV.

They won’t let him in the room and it takes every ounce of control he possesses not to scream in frustration. He imagines the windows in the ICU waiting room shattering but instead he finds a vending machine and fumbles his way into procuring a diet coke.

The drink is blessedly cold and the sugar seems to kickstart his brain a little bit. When was the last time he ate? Kurt is not sure how much time has passed.

Ms. Pillsbury is still sitting primly in the waiting room chair, glancing nervously whenever someone coughs. Kurt remembers that she is a germaphobe and in a brief moment of clarity he manages to feel grateful that she is here with him anyways, even if it must be hard for her to be in a place like this, surrounded by germs and disease.

“Kurt? There are a few things we need to get settled.”

What could possibly matter when his father is lying in a room somewhere and no one can tell him if he is going to wake up?

“I need to make sure that someone is looking after you tonight. We need to find you a friend or a relative to stay with.”

“I want to stay here,” he says firmly.

She presses her lips together. “I’ll see if that can be arranged. But right now, no one knows besides you, me, and Principal Figgins. I can’t stay here all night with you Kurt but I don’t want you to be alone. Is there a friend who might come sit with you?”

Kurt nearly asks for Mercedes but instead… “I guess I could call Blaine.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s a friend of mine. He doesn’t go to McKinley but I… I feel safe when he’s around.”

Ms. Pillsbury nods softly and writes down the name. “Who else? Anyone close to Burt who should know? Do we need to call his workplace?”

“Oh my god, Carole! No one has told Carole.”

Ms. Pillsbury looks at him with a puzzled expression.

“My dad’s girlfriend,” he explains. “Carole Hudson? Finn’s mom.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful I didn’t realize that they were involved.”

Kurt finds her sudden perkiness unsettling. He clears his throat and looks at her expectantly.

“Would you like me to call her?”

“Please.”

—

When Kurt asks him to come to the hospital, for a brief terrible moment Blaine fears that the worst has happened and Karofsky has made good on his threats. Rage boils red hot in his chest at the thought of anyone harming Kurt, who is the best person he’s ever met.

“It’s my…it’s my dad, Blaine.” Kurt can barely get the words out, his voice cracking on the word ‘dad.’

“I’m on my way.”

—

The messy head of curls peering around the room is the first good thing that Kurt has seen since he heard the news. He catches Blaine’s eye and waves him over. Blaine deftly weaves his way through the backpacks and nurses until he makes it to the corner where Kurt and Ms. Pillsbury are waiting.

Blaine just stares at him, hazel eyes wide, before he pulls Kurt into his arms for a bone crushing hug. “I’m so sorry, Kurt. So, so sorry,” he whispers into Kurt’s ear, pulling him tighter, rubbing up and down his back.

It is the first moment of true comfort he has experienced since he heard the news and somehow that breaks the dam. Tears, hot and messy, finally come and he buries his face in Blaine’s shoulder, letting the thick fabric of Blaine’s sweater absorb his sorrow.

“Oh, Kurt,” Blaine says softly.

Somehow Blaine lowers them both onto the bench without letting go of Kurt. Kurt holds tight to the front of Blaine’s sweater, unwilling to chance that he might pull back before Kurt is ready for the world to see his face.

Blaine just lets Kurt use him, soak up comfort from him, asking nothing in return. He says nothing to acknowledge that they have only hugged briefly a few times before this and surely Kurt is asking too much of his friend right now.

But Blaine just lets him. Folds himself into whatever shape Kurt needs and just holds him, keeps him steady, supports him so he doesn’t fall to the floor and actually crack into pieces.

“Thank you for coming, Blaine,” he hears Ms. Pillsbury say, making conversation as if Kurt can’t hear them. “I’m so glad he has a friend to support him during this difficult time. Or… he said friend but, I mean…” she fumbles over her words.

Blaine’s chest bounces a few times with silent laughter. “We’re just friends, ma’am.”

“I’m just glad that he has someone. Kurt doesn’t… he doesn’t open up easily. Glee club has been so good for him. He’s made friends and they look out for each other. Will you two be alright if I head out? Carole is getting here as quickly as she can.”

“I’ve got him,” Blaine assures her.

—

After an eternity, they finally let Kurt see his dad.

Blaine shuffles his feet awkwardly. He wants to do whatever Kurt needs but he doesn’t know what that is. Does Kurt need moral support when he sees his dad for the first time or would it better to give him privacy? How is he supposed to know something like that? But asking feels like a burden.

A warm hand slips into Blaine’s. “Come?” Kurt asks hesitantly. Blaine nods and follows Kurt. He wonders where he wouldn’t follow his friend.

The door creaks when they open it and Kurt lets out a little gasp when he finally lays eyes on his father. There’s a feeding tube running into his nose and electrodes stuck to his skin, monitors beeping out their indecipherable codes. But at least they are beeping which is better than the alternative.

Kurt squeezes his hand so hard that Blaine grits his teeth. He waits for Kurt to move, to take a step towards his dad, perhaps to run to him. But Kurt just stands there, frozen.

Blaine gives him a minute but then, when he still doesn’t move, he pulls gently on Kurt’s hand, urging him to walk closer. Kurt finally snaps out of it and then suddenly he is the one dragging Blaine over to the bed.

“Dad,” he cries out. “I’m here, Dad. Please, you need to wake up.”

Blaine’s hand hurts but he resolves that he isn’t going to let go until Kurt decides it is time. His friend needs him and if this is what he has to give then it is Kurt’s, for as long as he needs it. Kurt who is so strong and so kind. Kurt whose whole world is this middle-aged mostly bald man that Blaine has only met once.

—

For months now, Kurt has wanted nothing more than for Blaine to hold his hand. He has yearned for it, ached for it. But now, now that it is finally happening the only hand Kurt wants to hold is his Dad’s.

“Squeeze my hand, Dad. I need to know that you can hear me.”

Nothing. Just a cold, limp hand that doesn’t squeeze back.

So he holds onto Blaine’s because it is warm and full of life and Kurt needs that right now. It crosses his mind that if circumstances were different, this would be exhilarating. If circumstances were different. He swallows thickly. He would give anything for circumstances to be different. He would even give up Blaine, who is becoming so important to him so fast, for circumstances to be different.

“Did I ever tell you about my tea parties?” he asks Blaine.

Blaine smiles fondly and shakes his head.

“It was one of my favorite games when I was little. I would arrange all of my stuffed animals and action figures, setting out little plates of cucumber sandwiches and giving everyone just the amount of sugar and milk that they asked for, making sure that everyone had what they needed.”

“Of course you did,” Blaine says, his smile growing wider.

If Kurt’s heart hadn’t beat itself into exhaustion hours ago, it might have skipped a beat.

“It’s not every dad that will play tea party with their son but he always said ‘yes,’ no matter how ridiculous he thought it was.”

“My dad definitely wouldn’t have done something like that with me,” Blaine replies solemnly.

Kurt’s heart, already broken and bleeding, still manages to ache for his friend. Blaine rarely talks about his parents. Kurt had assumed they were just very busy being high-powered executives but this latest revelation suggests that there is more to it than that. He gives Blaine’s hand a comforting squeeze and a questioning look.

“It was a long time ago, Kurt.” Blaine shrugs. “The tea parties sound really special.”

He nods. “And after she… after we lost her. I hadn’t played with it in years but suddenly that was all I wanted to do. I just wanted everyone to have their tea and their cookies. Why was that so important to me?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine responds. “Maybe you wanted to take care of them just like your mom used to take care of you?”

“I—“ Kurt stares at him wonderstruck. “Yeah, maybe. I…I never thought about it that way.”

Blaine shrugs. “I mean what do I know? I wasn’t there. I just… I mean just from how you described it and knowing you I just thought…I don’t know, I mean, please ignore me, I don’t know anything.”

“You know me,” Kurt counters.

Blaine squeezes his hand.

“Yeah. I know you.”

—

Blaine tries to wiggle some of the feeling back into his fingers without waking Kurt. He told himself he would let Kurt hold his hand as long as he wanted but he hadn’t thought through the repercussions of Kurt falling asleep clutching his hand, head resting on Blaine’s shoulder. His circulation isn’t aware that Kurt needs him.

He manages to readjust his arm enough that the blood starts to flow back into his hand. He sighs to himself in the silence and the half-darkness.

Blaine isn’t sure how Kurt is able to sleep with the beeping of the machines and the nurses coming in once an hour to check Burt’s vitals.

He must be exhausted.

Blaine wonders if he should have gone home. He didn’t exactly plan to spend the night with Kurt in his father’s hospital room. He figured he would come by, be there for Kurt, make sure he had something to eat, and then return home a couple hours later. But once he was there… he couldn’t tear himself away. Why couldn’t he tear himself away? Why was Kurt’s pain so utterly heartbreaking to see? Why was he so determined to do anything in his power to ease it, even slightly?

Blaine has always been a caring friend but he can’t imagine himself doing anything like this for Wesley or David.

But Kurt is just… Kurt has the biggest heart of anyone Blaine has ever met and he simply cannot stand to sit idly by while it is breaking.

An idea, half-formed, presses at the back of his mind, not quite coherent enough yet to rise to the forefront of his thoughts, but there nonetheless. Answers to those questions. The reasons to the why. He tries again to find a comfortable position on the chair and closes his eyes, hoping he can sleep a little before the nurse comes back.

—

Kurt isn’t sure where he is when he first wakes up. It takes a few sleepy moments before the unfamiliar sounds and smells alert him to the fact that he is definitely not in his bedroom. He starts to lift his arm to rub the sleep from his eyes but something heavy is holding it down.

Blaine.

Kurt stills, not wanting to wake his friend. Blaine’s hair is adorably rumpled from sleep and his clothes, once so neatly pressed, are scrunched and stretched from shifting around all night. Kurt feels the hot breath of Blaine’s exhale hit his neck and a shiver runs down his spine. Careful not to wake him, Kurt untangles himself from Blaine and tiptoes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and make use of the change of clothes he’d asked Blaine to bring him.

He feels fresher when he returns to the room, two paper cups of coffee in hand and smelling like Blaine’s laundry detergent.

“I’m sorry about the pants,” Blaine says when Kurt returns to the room.

Kurt shrugs. “They’re clean, which is about all I care about right now.”

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Blaine mutters as he accepts the coffee from Kurt. “You are a godsend, you know that?”

Kurt laughs and then he claps a hand to his mouth. His father is lying there in who knows what condition and here he is laughing.

“He would want you to laugh,” Blaine says softly.

Still stinging with embarrassment, Kurt lashes out. “How would you know?”

Blaine gapes at him. “I…I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Kurt, I shouldn’t say stuff like that. I was trying to be comforting but, you’re right. I hardly know him. I just know how much he means to you.”

“I’m sorry, Blaine. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just… would it be ridiculous if I said it has been a long day?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Blaine offers his hand and Kurt accepts it gladly.

After coffee, they chat about reality TV and exchange show choir war stories, acting like Kurt’s world isn’t hanging in the balance just a few feet away in that hospital bed.

When the doctor comes by, Kurt listens eagerly for any scrap of good news but all he hears is that nothing has changed since yesterday.

The doctor leaves and Kurt sets his chair next to the bed, taking his father’s hand and silently begging him to give him a sign, give him anything to show that he is going to pull through this.

Blaine is there too, letting Kurt hold tight to him, letting Kurt hold his hand.

—

The exhaustion of barely sleeping the night before finally catches up with Blaine, and he nods off in his chair, head lolling onto Kurt’s shoulder.

When he wakes up, it is to the purest and most beautiful singing that he has ever heard.

Oh please, say to me

You'll let me be your man

And please, say to me

You'll let me hold your hand

You'll let me hold your hand

I want to hold your hand

“I’m right here, Dad,” Kurt whispers. The words cut at Blaine’s heart like dull knives. He rubs his thumb over the knuckles on Kurt’s hand, hoping that his touch can offer some small comfort to his friend in this moment of despair.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“How long was I out?” Blaine asks.

“About an hour. The nurse came by ten minutes ago and said there was no change. Blaine… I keep asking but they keep saying there is no way to tell when he will wake up. It could be hours or days or… “ Kurt trails off as if he cannot bear the thought of a longer unit of time.

“I’m so sorry, Kurt. I can’t even imagine how hard this is for you. Is there anything else I can do to help? Do you want me to get anything from your house or…?”

“Just stay with me? Please.”

“As long as you want me to,” he promises.

Kurt smiles warmly at him and squeezes his hand. Kurt mutters something under his breath. Blaine can’t make out most of the words but he swears one of them is “always.”

Always. He turns the word over in his mind and in his heart. His chest feels warm. There is that thought again, not yet coherent but gradually taking shape. The reasons to the why.

“Dad?” Kurt’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Dad! I’m right here Dad.”

“Kurt?” Blaine doesn’t understand Kurt’s sudden excitement.

“He moved. Oh my god, Blaine, he moved; I’m sure of it. I squeezed his hand and then I felt it.”

Blaine jumps to his feet, fumbling for the call button which he can’t seem to locate. “Nurse! NURSE!” he shouts loudly. Footsteps sound in the hallway and one of the nurses appears in the doorway, out of breath.

“He moved!” Kurt says in disbelief, tears of joy welling up in his eyes. “He’s waking up. My Dad is waking up.”

The nurse jumps into action, fiddling with the monitors and clamping something onto Burt’s hand. “Kurt, I need to warn you, he may be very confused when he wakes up. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s important that you stay calm.” She turns to Kurt’s dad, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Hummel? It’s time to wake up Mr. Hummel. Your son really wants to say hello.”

At first, it seems as though nothing is happening. Burt’s fingers wiggle a few more times. Tears run down Kurt’s cheeks that he doesn’t bother to brush away.

Minutes pass.

Blaine wonders if he needs to remind Kurt to breathe.

Then eyelashes flutter and Burt’s cerulean eyes, the exact same shade as Kurt’s, crack open and Kurt let’s out an audible gasp.

“Dad? I’m here Dad. I’m right here.”

“Hey, kiddo,” Burt whispers roughly.

“Dad!” Kurt responds with wonder. Kurt leans forward and grasps his father’s hand with both of his now. Blaine’s hand drops heavily to his thigh. He stares at it as if a foreign object. He’s barely had it to himself for more than a few minutes to use the restroom since he got here. Kurt doesn’t need him anymore. His hand feels too light suddenly, without the weight of Kurt bearing down on it, keeping it grounded. He feels untethered.

Kurt is whispering in hushed voices with his father and Blaine leans back in his chair, the full weight of the past 24 hours hitting him all at once. He could probably sleep for a week. He tries to remember the last time he checked in with his parents, but he isn’t sure. He decides he needs to take a walk. Stretch his legs. Maybe hunt down some coffee. Have a few moments alone with his thoughts.

He’s about to tell Kurt where he is going but he can’t bear to interrupt the emotional family reunion happening beside him. Kurt won’t notice his absence. He leaves without a word.

The too-bright lights of the hospital thrum overhead as he wanders down the corridor. He looks to his left to see a family jubilant as they sign release papers, a middle-aged man in a wheelchair looking eager to go home. He looks to his right and he sees a woman sitting on the floor, head in her hands, weeping like the world is ending. The hospital is a topsy-turvy kind of place. Dreamlike, almost.

Eventually he finds a vending machine that dispenses coffee. Blaine isn’t looking forward to drinking it but at this point he needs the caffeine enough to be desperate. He inserts enough cash for two coffees and carefully punches the buttons so he doesn’t order the wrong thing.

The rhythmic thudding of his feet on the shiny linoleum floors feels grounding as he makes his way back to the hospital room.

“Blaine!” Kurt calls out his name eagerly when he enters the room. “I was worried you had left without saying goodbye.”

Blaine is surprised by how disappointed Kurt sounds.

“Nah, just went to get some coffees. I figured we could both use a little pick-me-up.”

“You are a gentleman and a scholar,” Kurt praises, reaching out his hand to accept the paper cup.

Kurt blows on the hot drink and gives Blaine a soft, contemplative look. “I don’t know how to thank you for this Blaine.”

“It’s just vending machine coffee, Kurt.”

Kurt bumps his knee into Blaine’s playfully. “You know that’s not what I mean. I can’t believe you stayed with me this whole time. Not a lot of people would do that.”

“There aren’t a lot of people I would do that for,” Blaine admits. Kurt is special. Kurt has always been special, but over the last 24 hours it has become painfully obvious to Blaine just how special he is. His devotion to his father has moved Blaine.

Oh.

There it is. The reason to the why.

Kurt smiles and holds his hand out, a question in his eyes. Blaine smiles and reaches back, lacing their fingers together.

“I can’t believe that before yesterday I’d never held a boy’s hand before. And now I’ve held one for 24 hours straight. I might never let you go, Blaine. I’m addicted.”

“I could think of worse things to endure,” Blaine says with a smirk.

They fall silent, neither boy sure what to say, but both of them feeling something huge and irrepressible bubbling up in their hearts. Kurt let’s his thumb trace circles lightly on Blaine’s skin and Blaine feels his heartbeat begin to pick up and his mouth turns to cotton.

“Kurt I—”

“Blaine?”

“I lied.”

Kurt flinches and yanks his hand back, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion and distrust.

I’m doing this all wrong.

“No, no that’s not what I meant. I... “ he reaches hesitantly for Kurt’s hand, asking, “Please?”

Kurt nods hesitantly. Blaine takes Kurt’s hand, holding it firmly with both of his, looking right into Kurt’s eyes.

“When I said there weren’t many people I would do this for. I lied. The truth is that there is only one person I would do this for. Because there is only one person I care about that much, whose happiness means so much to me that I couldn’t bear to see him sad without doing everything I could to comfort him.”

“Wow, I… Blaine, that’s really sweet. You’re my best friend and—”

Blaine cuts him off because he can’t bear to hear Kurt misunderstand. “ — no, no that’s not what I mean!” He desperately wants Kurt to understand. He needs Kurt to understand. Words fail him but his hands have known what to do since he got here.

They do not fail him now. He is reaching and finding and holding and guiding. Kurt’s lips are salty with tears when he finally tastes them, yet somehow the sweetest thing he’s ever known.

Blaine pulls back and clamps his hand over his mouth in horror. He can’t believe what he’s just done. Kurt’s father nearly died and all he is thinking about is kissing. Kurt is vulnerable right now and here he is throwing himself at him. This has to be the most inappropriate thing he has ever done.

“Oh my god! I am so sorry, Kurt.” He leaps to his feet and pushes down the urge to bolt from the room.

Kurt looks up at him in amusement. He crosses his arms. “Well you should be.”

Blaine hangs his head. “I know. I know. I just, I haven’t slept and it has been such an emotional day— not that that is any excuse. That was deeply inappropriate, I mean your father is upstairs getting an EEG for crying out loud and—”

Blaine stops blabbering when he feels something brush his cheek. He lifts his head to see that Kurt is inches away from him. “You should be sorry for taking so long to figure it out, dummy.”

Blaine’s heart soars and their lips crash together. Kurt lets out a soft whine that electrifies Blaine’s heart.

Kurt’s hand finds his and their fingers intertwine. Blaine is so very happy that he let Kurt hold his hand.

Even better, now he never has to let go.

#my fic #glee fanfiction #klaine fanfiction #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #s2e3 grilled cheesus inspired #one shot #happy ending #world's best dad #burt hummel #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #klaine #glee #read it on ao3 #read it on tumblr #let me hold your hand

[sugurus-slxt]

are you tired of this? - Iwaizumi

Type: angst (happy ending)

Warnings: cursing, mentions of mental illness

Note: Y’all are married in this story and um I’m not so if I mess up well I sincerely apologize

Hope you guys enjoy the story

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Thursday [11:15 p.m.]

“I just came home a little late what’s the fucking problem?” He shouted at you for the second time tonight. “I didn’t say there was a problem Haji. I just wanted to know what came up,” you spoke softly trying to keep a calm composure. The truth was your insides were shaking, every possible bad thought that you could think of hurtled at you over and over. You were just worried something had happened to him, your anxiety had calmed since he came home but it seems you had made one wrong move and here you were. “And I already told you the boss needed me to do some extra paperwork to take in some new trainees,” he spoke harshly but a bit calmer than before. He pinched his nose bridge between his fingers. “I’m not having an argument with you right now, forget it. I’m going to shower,” he turned to walk away from you but you grabbed his hand.

He turned to face you, “What!” He exclaimed loudly making you nearly jump out of your skin. “The dinner i-its getting cold… umm do you want me to heat it up?” You asked hoping he’d calm down, but it seems tonight was different he just got even angrier. He grabbed your wrist tightly, “What the fuck do you think? Dammit all you do is worry and cry! Now you don’t even have common sense. Sometimes I wonder why …” he stopped, words dying in his throat. Tear welled in your eyes; it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was going to say. Forgetting the pain of him squeezing your wrist, you shouted at him for the first time tonight, “Say it! Say it Hajime!” He stood mouth hanging open, not one word. You couldn’t hold back the tears that streamed down your face. There wasn’t one emotion but instead too many, everything you’ve bottled tonight had busted like a dam.

You tore away from his grip, every inch of anxiety, depression, panic, all the emotions were pouring out of you in tears, sobs and every word you cried out next. “What! You don’t know why you married me? Huh? Is that it Iwaizumi? Well I’m so sorry I worry about my husband ok? I’m sorry that I can’t control when I get depressed. I’m sorry that every day I pray for you to return home safe. Tell what else you wonder about me! Tell me!” You pushed him as hard as you could. “Do you really wanna know what I think because I don’t think you can handle it,” he asked in a scarily calm tone. You knew you weren’t prepared for what came next but your emotions clouded your judgement. Neither of you meant anything you said, you knew that. Well you hoped because you know you hadn’t meant any of it. Every fiber in your body loved this man but tonight you weren’t backing down even if it meant you’d get hurt. “Go ahead!” You shouted pushing him again.

“Dammit stop pushing me! I’ll tell you but don’t blame me because you asked for it,” he never backed down. He knew that would be best right now but he didn’t care today was hard and he was just mad that you couldn’t get that. “You cry too much. You worry much. You get things wrong all the damn time. Something as simple as cleaning the house can end up in a disaster. I am always fixing you fucking messes. Not to mention you are so childish. For fucks sake grow up. Sometimes I wonder why I married you yeah ok because I’m so sick of this,” he stopped, he wasn’t shouting but his tone was angry as he belted out everything he though was wrong. “Haji- I,” you didn’t know what to say. Everything had gone numb. You thought that he didn’t mean it, but he seems so serious so calm. It was scary, it was as if he knew he wanted to say this for a while. May he was tired of you, tired of this, was he going to leave you. He continued but his voice softened, “Sometimes I just want to scream. I get off all of my steam hitting that punching bag till it breaks but nothing helps like letting it out but I’m not mad. I really am not. I'm frustrated and I’m tired. So tired angel. So fucking tired” He hung is head looking at the ground and you looked at him but you just couldn’t see him clearly, the tears blurring your vision as you asked the scariest question of them all, “Are you tired of this? Tired of us?”

He just gave out a sad chuckle and you caught it somehow, in the moment you caught it, the tear that fell on the ground. You’ve never seen him cry. This was different for Iwa and you just looked at him as he sat leaned against the wall. You tried drying your tears and went and sat cross-legged next to him on the floor, looking at the ground as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. The silence was deafening but it didn’t stay like that for long.  “Tired of this? Yes Tired of us? Never,” he said softly. Your head shot up, “So you’re not leaving?” He turned and wiped the remaining tears from your cheek and smiled with his tear stained face,” I could never leave you” He smiled it was warm and genuine.  

“I wouldn’t rather do any of this with anyone else. Even if we are fighting. It's ok to make mistakes. It's ok to cry. It's ok to be sad, to be worried or to feel to not do anything. I know this isn’t easy for you. In fact I wasn’t even mad at you tonight, I was never mad at you to begin with. It’s just… ” He says cupping your check and stroking it with his thumb. Your wide eyes held anticipation, “T-thank y-you for saying that. And thank you for b-being honest with me. Even if you said it didn’t make you mad, I- I still want to try for you but Haji I know there’s more so p-please tell me,” you pleaded stuttering in between.

He moved his hand from your cheek and rested them on his knees as he turned to look straight ahead. “I was mad at myself because I always seem to mess up. I –I promised to make you happy, keep you safe and healthy but it seems like I always cause your despair or make your bad days worse. I make you cry, I don’t spend enough time with you. Babe you’re a trophy wife but I don’t think I’m you’re trophy husband. Hah maybe I should have let shittykawa have you all those years ago. I’m sure he’d always make you smile. Gosh… that beautiful smile. B-baby I-I’m so… so …sorry,” he broke down sobbing into his hands. You couldn’t believe it, all this time you thought that you were hurting him and always messing up but he was thinking the same. You huddled closer to him placing the words together on you head.

“Now you listen to me and let me finish o-ok H-haji,” he raised his head to look at you, tears still spilling out of his eyes, you bent forward and kissed them away and he smiled just a bit. “I love you. Only you are ok. Sure I cry, sure I worry and yes it’s about you but it’s because I love you. I’m going to do that no matter how the day turns out. God dammit you could be with me and I still worry because I never want to lose you. My depression and anxiety are always going to affect me but I always rest happily at night because you wrap me in your strong arms and tell me just what I need to hear. You make me feel like the most special girl in the world. Not a day goes by that there isn’t at least one happy moment for me and that is because of you Haji. And never give me to Oikawa. I will kill you myself if you do,” both of you giggle a bit, “You are the only one for me. The only one can make me happy. You are perfect for me in every way possible. I love you so much,” your cheeks are flushed and eyes puffy but you smile not because he needs it but because even now you’re happy with him. He bends over pulling you into a tight hug, “Thank you. Thank you. Gosh I love you so much. I’m supposed to be making you feel better but still thank you,” he buries his face in your nape. You whisper, “You already did.”

You both sat there for a bit just enjoying each other’s warm embrace. He finally rises up and lifts you along with him. “Let’s go take a warm shower together. We can eat dinner and maybe watch a movie. Maybe cuddle too. No definitely cuddle I think we need that. Ok with you baby?” He looks down at you for a response, “Of course I’d never say no to cuddles but don’t you have work tomorrow?” You ask heart-warmed by his gestures. “Nope. Not anymore. I’m taking a day off. I’m spending it with you. I’m gonna make you smile all day and we can talk about everything but tonight just enjoy each other,” he said kissing your forehead. “If you’re sure. I’m so lucky to have you. I love you so so much,” you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. His lips molded against yours perfectly, moving in sync. You break the kiss, hiding your red cheeks in his chest. “Hmmm. Six years and years with me and you still get flustered. How cute?” he chuckles to himself. “Hey it’s not my fault my husband is practically a Greek god.” He sets you down and pulls you into a hug, “And yes I’m sure. I’m just as lucky to have you, I love you my goddess.” You both spend the night just bathing in each other’s company and love.  

You guys can leave me suggestions or request. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

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#iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi angst #angst #haikyuu #haikyuu angst #haikyu #aoba jōsai #oikawa tōru #oikawa #hq #hq angst #anime #iwa chan #shittykawa #haikyu x reader #haikyuu mental illness #iwaizumi depressed #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #Sar.writes

[dizzydancingdreamer]

What Am I? | Kol Mikaelson

Hello my lovelies! Am I back doing my thing where I write for three days straight and then go missing for three weeks? Probably! But I’m not one to complain so I’m going to ride out this streak of inspiration for as long as I can! I’m not sure if any of you had the joy to read any of the chaos between @activist-af and I but if you did than you know exactly how I feel about Kol. Perhaps this can be my ode to him. Until next time, all my love <3

Description: Kol finally breaks from all the years of feeling like the bad guy

Pairing: Female!Reader x Kol Mikaelson

Warnings: It’s angsty at the beginning but it’s fine

Word count: 2.6k

Tags: Angst, Fluff

P.S. I strongly recommend listening to Paralyzed by NF while you read this because I had it on a loop the whole time and it really sets the mood

(Pics not mine but mood board is :) )

“Kol, stop!” your lungs are burning, your legs numb from trying to keep up with him.

He storms across the compound, not quite at full speed but fast enough to ensure you have to run to keep up with him. His shoulders are tense, his eyes locked in front of him. You can feel the anger rolling off of him in thick, hot waves. You’re not a vampire by any means but you don’t need super senses to understand how dangerous he is at this moment. Whatever, you don’t care. He’s not going to ignore you, you won’t let him.

“Fuck, Kol!” you grab his arm, tugging with all your strength, “god damnit, stop walking! Talk to me!”

He yanks his arm forward but you don’t let go. Instead your body swings forward with his movements, bringing you closer to him than you’ve been able to get all day. You shake your head. All week would be more accurate. Your best friend has been avoiding you all damn week and you have no idea why. You’re done waiting for him to tell you. If you have to rip away every layer of him to get to the bottom of this, you will.

“Let go of me, y/n,” he continues to stare forward, his jaw tight, “I don’t have time for this.”

You scoff, trying to ignore the way your chest stings, “no time for what, Kol? Me? What on earth is going on?”

He just clenches his jaw tighter, looking to the side. This time your chest feels like it’s being cracked open. You let go of his hand, taking a few steps away from him. You don’t know what the fuck has gotten into him but you don’t like it, not one bit. This isn’t your Kol. Your Kol is sweet. This is a monster. You haven’t ever dared to think of him as such but today, you suppose, his true colors are showing. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

The silence after your words is deafening but it doesn’t last long, seconds at the most. It’s like a dam breaks in Kol. No, that’s not strong enough. It’s like the tectonic plates inside him shift and it sends a tsunami storming to the surface. He whirls around, a myriad of emotions swirling through his eyes. He takes a step towards you, a darkness you’ve never seen hanging over his features. You take a step back, you're not completely stupid. You have no misconceptions about what’s happening. You’re the beach in this situation, and you’re about to get destroyed. 

“You really want to know who I am?” He takes another step towards you, a tiger on the prowl. 

You raise your chin but still step further away from him. He’s never hurt you before. Hell, he’s never even yelled at you. But today there’s something in his eyes, something dangerous, and you’re only a human. You grit your teeth, feeling much weaker than the front you’re putting on. 

“I know who you are and this isn’t it!” you spit the words at him, hoping they’ll break through the storm that’s clouding his features.

He laughs but it’s dry; humorless. Your heart zaps again. He’s still moving towards you and you’re still moving away from him.  This game of cat and mouse is slowly becoming lethal.

“No, darling, you don’t,” despite the circumstances you can’t stop the way your body sings at his term of endearment, “you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

You take another step back and freeze, your back colliding with the wall. Crap. You hold your arms out towards him but he doesn’t stop, closing the space between you and him even when your hands land on his chest. You can feel the heat rolling off of him through the shirt he’s wearing. He’s like a furnace, lulling you despite the clear threat he poses. You dig your nails into his chest, pushing back with as much fire as you can muster.

“Kol, please, you know that’s not true,” you back your head against the wall, biting your lip at the slight pain, “just talk to me. Please. You’re scaring me.”

You’ve never had to say those words before and you hate them but not as much as you hate the way Kol flinches, like he’s taken a bullet, and backs away from you. He drags a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut. Your breath hitches, your blood running cold. When he opens his eyes they’re glassy. If your chest felt like it was being ripped open before, now it feels like someone reached inside the crack and tore out your heart. 

“I-,” Kol stares into your eyes for a moment before turning away from you, “you need to go. Now. Don’t come back.”

You can’t breathe, you're just stuck, glued to the wall while all the oxygen is sucked from the room. You’re helpless, watching him walk away. Your heart is in his hands but you can’t get it back. You can’t move. You don’t want it back anyway. It means nothing without him. You slide down the wall, your eyes glued to his retreating figure. 

No. You furrow your eyebrows. No, he doesn’t get to walk away from you, not after this long. Who does he think he is? You push yourself up, a wave of red hot something flooding your entire being. It laces your blood with fire, one you’re pretty sure can only be quelled by the man walking away from you. You don’t think, you just go. 

You clear the space between the two of you in seconds, your hands once more wrapping around his arm, “No, you don’t get to walk away like that. You don’t get to leave me, Kol Mikaelson! I won’t let you!” 

He freezes, his body going tense. He doesn’t try and yank his arm out of your grasp again. You stare at him, refusing to look away, afraid that if you do he’ll disappear. He sucks in a breath, swallowing harshly. You watch his adam's apple bob and fight the agonoy eating at your core. Come on Kol, turn around. 

As if hearing your thoughts he spins around, his arm breaking from your grasp. You don’t have time to feel anything from it, though, before he grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. When you do you gasp, a chill running down your spine. His eyes are pitch black, nothing near their usual honey shade, and the skin around them is a sickly purple, dark blue veins running towards his cheeks. 

He sucks in another harsh breath, his nostrils flaring and his chest brushing yours, “do you honestly think that I could ever leave you?” he laughs bitterly, his eyes flitting over your face, “I couldn’t leave you if I tried. But I need to. Don’t you fucking get it? I’m a monster!”

This time it’s you who flinches. You wrap your hands around his arm, clinging to him as his words pour over you. You can’t breathe again but this time it’s a little different. It’s less agony and more breathlessness. You tighten your fingers, trying with everything you have to anchor yourself to him. 

“No you’re not,” you grit your teeth, meeting his harsh stare head on, “you’re not a monster, Kol! You’re so many things but you’re not a monster. You can’t be.”

His grip on your jaw lessens, his shoulders sagging. The black in his eyes begins fading, the veins receding and leaving nothing but his usual dark circles. Your heart clenches at the sight. He clearly hasn’t been sleeping. 

“Yes I am,” he mutters, his voice rough, “all I do is hurt people. Fuck, I’m hurting you right now!” 

You shake your head, trying to push back the flood of tears that suddenly blurs your vision, “No, Kol, you’re not,” your voice is thick, the lump in your throat a mountain, “you could never hurt me. Not in the way you’re thinking. You only hurt me by leaving me. Please, don’t leave me.” 

His hand fully loosens as he slumps to the floor, your words the final push to his crumbling will. He buries his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He’s crying. You are too, your heart in pieces at the sight of your best friend. The man you love. The best thing you’ve ever had now reduced to his knees. Pain explodes in your chest and your palms sting, an icy burn running up your arms and hitting your heart dead on. 

He lifts his head, revealing bloodshot eyes laced through with hell itself, “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I can’t separate anything in my head. The anger and the hurt, all of it! I can’t remember where I stop and everyone else starts. Who the fuck am I?” His voice cracks and, with it, your heart, “I’m just this fuck up to everyone but I haven’t even had the chance fuck up!” 

Your chest aches desperately for the man at your feet. You know what he’s talking about. A thousand years of life and yet only awake for a fraction of it. That would make any reasonable being crumble and it would take significantly less than a thousand years for most. You don’t know how the hell he does it. You haven’t died once. You’re only supposed to die once. He’s died a hundred times. Oh, Kol. You drop to your knees and pull him against you, crushing him to your chest to the best of your abilities.

“You don’t have to know who you are. I know who you are, Kol, and I’ve always known. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re my best friend. You’ve fought off death, and hunger, and your family. You don’t have to fight me off too!” you run your hands through his hair, pulling his face to meet yours, “you can rest now. You’re mine, Kol Mikaelson, that’s all you need to know.”

It’s surreal, to say the least, telling a vampire who he is. He should know better than anyone. After all, he’s supposed to have had a thousand years to figure out. Your chest squeezes painfully when you think of the years that were stolen from him. You run your fingers over his cheek, your thumb swiping some stray tears. 

He leans his face into your hand and you sag against him, cool relief fighting the fire in your veins. It’s the sweetest feeling you’ve ever experienced. Kol wraps his arms around you, pulling you into him. Even when kneeling he towers over you, curling around you. You can’t stop the sobs from coming and you don’t want to, gripping his shirt painfully. A week's worth of fear and worry pours out of you and he takes it like the rock he is. Maybe you’re the tsunami and he’s the beach after all.

He slips a hand into your hair, tugging gently to make you look at him, “I’m yours?”

His eyes are red rimmed and full of something that makes you ache. His lips swollen and red. His hair, mussed from your hands and his, sticks up at all angles. It doesn’t make him look bad, though. No, it makes him look like a fallen angel. His skin catches the light, a golden hue painting his features, pooling in the circles under his eyes. Your hands tighten on his button down, if that’s possible, and you swallow hard. He’s yours and you aren’t letting him go, not for the next thousand years. 

“Yes,” you nod your head hard, trying to drill into him how , “yes, you are. All mine. Just like me to you. I’m all yours Kol. Every part of me.”

His eyes darken again and the ache intensifies, curling around each nerve in your body and setting everything on fire. He’s no longer an angel. Who are you kidding, he was never one in the first place. He’s always been your demon, the one who crawled straight from hell to be with you. Looking into his eyes, you bite your lip, power surging through your veins. He survived a thousand years only to end up in your arms. His chest rumbles against yours, his hands finding your hips and hauling you into his lap. 

He takes your face in his hand again, a little rougher than before but you don’t care, “all mine. Always mine, do you hear me? I’m not just some short term fling. You’re mine until the end.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, your stomach a ball of white hot need. It’s final, there’s no allusions now, not that there ever was any. You love him. With every fibre of your being you love Kol Mikaelson.

You move your hands to his face, bringing his face down to yours, “Until the end, Kol.”

You smash your lips against his as soon as the words pass your lips, your fingers dragging through his hair. It’s like silk under your fingers and you can’t resist pulling at it. He moans into your mouth, the sexiest sound you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing, and squeezes your hip with his hand, bolts of lightning zapping straight to your core. You pull his bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard. He meets each nip with one of his own, running his tongue over your bottom lip. His mouth is like magic, spreading a warmth through each of your bones, one that melds with the inferno raging through your being.

“Darling,” he moans into your mouth again, his arms wrapping around your waist, “fuck, I need you.”

You tie your arms around his neck and cross your ankles around his hips, pressing yourself as close to him as you can get. You can feel the hard plains of his stomach against yours, the heat from his chest seeping against your blazing skin. You crash your lips against his harder, his fingers digging into your hips and pulling incoherent muses from your mouth. You can’t get enough of him, he’s like water. Like oxygen. Without him you would most certainly die. 

 “Then take me, Kol, I’m yours. Please.” 

His answer is a growl, one that sends more of the endless heat pooling in your core. There’s no way he can’t smell you right now. You can smell you. He must be fucking bathing in how much your want him. How much you need him. You run your fingers down his back, clawing at his shirt. He stands suddenly, jostling you against him deliciously. Before you can blink you’re in his bedroom, bouncing against his deep blue comforter. His room smells like him, like nutmeg and cloves, and it hits you hard, intoxicating you with everything Kol. 

He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it quickly to the side before settling over you. You run your fingers up his back, admiring the way his muscles tense under your fingers before pulling him against you. You wrap your legs around his hips, rolling against him hungrily. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his heaving chest. His nose brushes your cheek and you sigh, his lips finding your ear. 

When he speaks his words whisper against your skin, sending toe curling shivers down your spine, “I love you. You hear me? I love you, darling. It’s you and me.”

You arch your chest against him, digging your fingers into his hair and pulling his lips to graze yours, “I love you, Kol Mikaelson. If you ever need to know who you are just remember this. No matter what else, you’re mine,” you press your mouth against his, using your tongue to punctuate the most important words you’ve ever said, “that’s all that matters. Mine.” 

“All fucking yours.”

#Kol mikaelson #kol mikaelson imagine #kol mikaelson x reader #kol #mikaelson #tvd #to #the originals #the vampire diaries #fluff #angst #reader insert #y/n #imagine #tvd imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine #to imagine

[snek-snacc-ficc]

Alone Together

Summary: Janus is gone and Remus is alone. The other sides clearly have more important things to do and discuss and Logan is forgotten. In the aftermath of Putting Others First the two find each other in their shared pain.

He was happy for him.

That's what he just had to keep telling himself. Janus revealed his name and he was accepted. That's all Janus ever wanted and because of that he was happy for him. 

Now if only Remus could make himself actually believe that.

Janus had appeared back in the dark side of the mindscape, relaying everything that had happened with a sort of utter gleeful glow that Remus had only ever seen once before on Virgil just months before he packed up and left for good. He’d smiled along with him, cracked a few jokes at his brother's expense, pretended that the sick, twisted feeling in his gut was just from that glass of dish soap and drain cleaner he’d drank earlier, and left with an excuse that spilled out of his mouth like he was on autopilot. 

Janus didn’t notice the way his face slowly fell before completely crumbling as he sunk out. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been seated on the rotting, damp tree stump staring off at nothing in the dim light of the Imagination. His cheeks were red and raw from constantly wiping away the streams of tears falling down his face, but the slight sting of pain was a comforting distraction in a way, so he reached up once more. 

He froze his movement immediately though, hearing the sound of footsteps crunching over god knows what was on the forest floor. His heart skipped a beat and as much as he hated himself for it he couldn’t stop the tiny bit of hope rising up in his chest that maybe, just maybe, when he turned around Janus would be there laughing over how Remus had fallen for his lie hook line and sinker, and apologize for how he had made him cry over a silly little prank.

What he saw instead was a face that looked just as shocked to see him as he was to see it, a pair of eyes wet and shining behind thick black lenses in the moonlight.

“What are you doing here?” He meant for it to come out as a growl but it ended up sounding more surprised than anything, his voice cracking pathetically as he spoke.

Logan cleared his throat, trying to retain a sense of composure that Remus saw right through. He averted his blood shot eyes to the ground, off to the side, anywhere but on Remus. It felt more off putting than it should have to watch the only side that had had the gull to challenge him struggle to even look his way.

“I apologize Remus. I was merely out for a walk and I suppose I wasn’t paying attention to where I was. It was not my intention to intrude so if you’ll excuse me I’ll be on my w-”

“NO!” 

The yell ripped through Remus before he could even process the fact that he was speaking. Logan paused, eyes wide, and now locked onto him. 

Remus hesitated, unsure of what to say or even how to begin to voice an explanation of the squirming maggot-ball of emotions inside of him right now. But something in the back of his mind told him that he needed somebody-anybody to just feel the presence of, and if Logan walked away the opportunity for that would go with him.

“I,” he finally spoke, “I mean, you can stick around here if you want. Its dark as fuck, something could jump out of nowhere and rip your head off.”

Logan didn’t point out the fact that, as a figment in the mindscape, other imaginary creatures weren’t really a threat to him, and instead sunk down next to Remus, ignoring the uncomfortable moisture on the stump. He let out a deep, shaky breath, feeling the weight of his exhaustion and emotional overload wash over him for the first time since the end of the video. 

The two sat there in numbing silence, only broken by their uneven breathing, for an amount of time that was lost on them. It was Remus that was the one to eventually speak up.

“You guys better take care of Janus.”

Logan turned to him, a slight look of realization crossing his face before he let out a half hearted weary laugh.

“They will “take care of him” as you put it, I’m sure,” he said. “I on the other hand don’t believe any efforts on my behalf would even be noticed.”

It was Remus’s turn to give a look of understanding. 

“They’re your “friends” though, aren’t they? In a few days you’ll all kiss and make up and shit, right?”

“...I’m not so sure anymore. It's to my understanding that Virgil was a friend of yours too at one point.”

It wasn’t a jab, Remus could tell there was no malice in his voice, just a statement to prove his point. Yet with everything that had already happened that day the tiny, painful reminder was enough to knock down the dam he had been struggling to build up, and a forceful flow of fresh tears came flooding out once more. He let out a choked sob, tossing aside the last remaining pieces of his torn up pride and throwing himself into Logan’s arms. 

“They’re all gone,” he hiccuped, “J-Janus and Virgil, and-and R-Ro-”

His words were taken over by another sob as he buried his face in Logan’s chest, clutching onto him desperately like his life depended on it.

“They left me,” he struggled to get out in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’m all alone.”

The sudden rush of emotion did it in for Logan as well. He wrapped his arms around Remus’s shaking form, tears of his own slipping out uncontrollably. 

“Please,” Remus muttered, “don’t leave.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

They were both tired, lonely, and forgotten, but, as they sat there, grasping at each other’s warmth and presence, they were all those things together, and in that moment it was comfort enough.

#sanders sides #intrulogical #logan sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #remus angst #logan angst

[sarah-writes-marvel]

The Quiet Storm: Avengers x fem!Reader/ Bucky x fem!Reader

S.S.: little something I wrote at 3 Am. Kinda based off personal experience. If you want me to edit it so the story is gender nuetral let me know! Id be happy to do it but for now I’m going to post this! Hope you like it.

Warning: Depressive and Anxiety tendencies/ feelings. Could possibly be triggering so please proceed with caution. Major angst and a fluff ending

Word count: 1884

MASTERLIST

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The sound of my alarm continuously played as I laid on my back staring at my plain white ceiling. I could tell that today was going to be rough. The feeling of the weight of the world on my shoulders. The need to cry but no intention of passing the emotion. Everything is blurring together.

My alarm started to play the rhythmic and annoying tone again before I rolled over and silenced it. Even the smallest of movements took too much of my energy.

I sat up, my comforter billowing around me, as I ran my fingers through my tangled hair and stretched my aching muscles. That always happened, my body complaining after not being able to sleep. 

I sat in that spot for a moment more, staring at my wall, when a loud knock came to my door. I barely bother to respond, just letting out a hum loud enough for the person on the other side to hear.

“Breakfast will be ready soon. Get up lazy bones!” Steve’s unmistakable voice traveled through the door, barely reaching my ears. 

Running my hands over my face again before moving to get out of bed. Numb, that’s an appropriate word to use today. Numb to my surroundings. Not caring about the world around me.

My reflection stared back at me in the mirror of my bathroom. She wasn’t recognizable. Her eyes were dark and puffy, from the hours of unrest. Her skin was oddly pale, almost blinding against her oversized red pajama shirt that she had “borrowed” from one the boys. Her hair parted to the side, laying messily against her shoulder. Her usually bright eyes seemed to be grey and lifeless. The girl that was staring back at me is just a shell of a person. 

That familiar lump formed in my throat and tears stung at my eyes but didn’t dare fall down my cheeks. Instead my shaking hands wiped at my eyes roughly trying to hide the unwanted emotion.

“Stop. You don’t have any reason to feel like this.” I critiqued the girl in the mirror.

The faucet ran cold water, pooling in my hands before I splashed it onto my face. 

The hand towel was rough against my skin as I wiped away the drops, tossing the cloth next to the sink before turning off the light and leaving my room.

I could hear the laughter of the team down the hall as I approached the kitchen. A sudden feeling of dread came over me. The realization that I can't pull off the strong facade that I usually wear. The thought that I'm too weak for this life crossed my mind.

They all sat around the dining table, a display of food in the center. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, juice, fruits, muffins, the whole 9 yards. Yet none of it was appealing. Even the thought of eating brought an odd taste to my mouth. 

“Hey! Sleeping beauty finally joined us!” Tony joked as he leaned back in his seat, his glass of juice in his hand.

Good morning greetings bombarded me as I took the empty seat between Sam and Bucky. Purely intentional by Steve knowing neither would cause a riot with me in the way. I’m always in the way. 

The empty plate at my spot seemed to stare back at me, waiting for it to be filled with food. The sudden feeling of a hand on my shoulder brought me from my staring competition.

“What can I serve up for ya babe?” Sam asked, his pet name falling to deaf ears.

“Uh, I uh-“ my eyes scanned the table again, the panic rising in my chest. ‘God just make a decision. It’s not hard!’ 

“We’ve got pretty much anything.” He gestured to the layout.

“Just some fruit and a muffin.'' I voiced quietly, sulking against the back of my chair. “ Please.”

“That's it? Don’t you have training today?” Sam questioned as he reached for a muffin and grabbed the fruit bowl from Nat. A sudden tightness was in my chest, the realization that I, in fact, do have training later.

“I- uh I forgot I had training.” I admitted quietly, my hand covering my eyes as the hanging lights began to overwhelm my sight.

“That’s alright. How about some eggs and bacon too. It’ll be a good meal.” Nat suggested. I only nodded not trusting my voice, feeling the anxiety rise in my chest. 

Sam scooped the scrambled eggs onto my plate next to muffin and fruit he had placed there only a few minutes ago, garnishing it with two strips of bacon. 

Though it wasn’t much, it was still daunting. I picked up my fork and prodded the food. I could feel the eyes of a few people watching me as I eventually stabbed a cube of fruit, bringing it to my mouth. Even the sweetest fruit tasted bland. 

The conversation that had paused once I came into the room had resumed as I continued to pick away at the food on my plate, moving it around to seem as if I ate more than I had. I could still feel a pair of eyes watching me. I set my fork onto my plate trading it for the glass of juice set at my place, trying to steady the shake in my hands. I leaned back in my chair and sipped at my drink as I scanned for the pair of eyes that were still trained on me. 

I met the curious stare of Bucky before he could turn to look at his own plate of food, shoving a bite of pancakes into his mouth. I turned my gaze back to my scattered plate, the conversation droning out as my vision blurred, dissociating from reality, yet the pressure in my chest still there. 

The oddly familiar sound of my name was called out before I focused back in.

“Hmm?” I looked up to see everyone watching me.

“Are you ok?” Tony asked, his eyes squinting as if it would help him see through my lie.

“Mhmm,” I murmured one response, setting down my glass and picking my fork back up. 

“Ok, well we asked if you were opposed to a team dinner tonight? You know out on the town?” Nat cut in.

“Ya that’s fine.” I answered pushing my food around again. Of course a night out would be amazing, maybe it would lift this invisible weight from my chest. Yet the sound of being around people sounded exhausting. To be dressed up, smiling, laughing, talking… it was all too much. But I had already said it was fine, no turning back.

‘You would be an awful friend to back out right after you said yes’ the thought crossed my mind as I shoved a piece of egg across my plate.

‘You’re already awful, but that would wreck everything completely’

‘You’re not good enough to be here. You don’t deserve these people in your life.’

‘Your not enough. You just weigh them down.’

The thoughts burying my rational reasoning as they continued to grow. My fork clacked against my plate as I took the dish and my cup to the sink, taking the muffin off before dumping the rest into the garbage and placing the dishware into the sink. I grabbed the muffin before walking out of the kitchen without another word and back to my room. 

The door shut quietly behind me as I put the untouched muffin onto my night stand. I crawled under the covers, my back towards the door as I huddled under the comforter hoping to block out the thoughts. 

The silence was deafening. The thoughts were loud and overpowering as they continued to enter my mind, questioning my purpose on this team of superhumans, my purpose in life... questioning why I was alive at all. 

A single tear and a sniffle escaped my being breaking the silence of the room. The sound of my door knob turning and clicking added to the noise.

“Y/N?” I could hear the concern in Buckys voice. Why would he be concerned about a nobody like me? 

I felt the bed dip and the gentle pressure of his hand on my arm through the comforter. A simple hum came from my mouth, acknowledging his presence next to me.

“Nat just wanted me to let you know that she can’t train with you today. She said to take the day off.” His voice was soft, as if he raised it just slightly it would break me. And i’m sure he wasn’t far from wrong.

“Ok.” the small word came out broken and timid.

The deafening silence fell on the room again. The sound of Bucky's deep breaths and my own labored breaths were the only noise that filled the air.

“Do you need to talk?” the question broke the silence. I shook my head, unsure if he even saw it. “Do you want me to go?” another shake of my head. “Can I lay down next to you?” A nod. A shift in the bed. Quiet.

“I don’t know what’s wrong.” I admit quietly. Another tear slid over the bridge of my nose.

“Nothing has to be wrong to not feel right.”

I turned over, facing him. He was propped up by a few pillows, his arm crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning my room before looking at me. 

“Come here doll.” his arms opened wide motioning me to come closer.

I laid my head against his broad chest, the sound of his heartbeat soothing my aching soul. The feeling of his arms tightening over my back as I rest my own around his waist.

“It’s gonna be ok.” He whispered, placing a kiss in my hair. “Maybe not now or today or this week but it’ll be ok.” 

The tears broke through the dam, choked sobs coming from my mouth as Bucky's grip tightened around me.

“I don’t wanna wait anymore.” I confess through ragged breaths, my heart rate picking up.

“Hey hey, shhh. I need you to breathe, doll.” his voice was so gentle, trying to calm the raging storm of built up emotions that were crashing through the surface of my being. His hand rubbing curled on my back as his metal arm tightened just a little more.

A few more tears slipped across my face dampening a spot on Bucky's henley. My breathing slowly reverting to normal.

“There we go. that’s it. Deep breaths.” Bucky coached, continuously rubbing my back.

“i‘m sorry.” I mumbled wiping the mess from my face.

“Don’t apologize. You don’t need to.” 

My hand gripped the fabric of his henley, his hand still rubbing my back, his heartbeat grounding me. A vibration ran through his chest as the tune of a song echoed quietly in the room. My eyes flutter shut as his baritone voice hummed out a tune. I slipped into the unconsciousness still listening to him.

His humming paused for a moment, a kiss placed on my head. “Please don’t think you aren’t good enough. You are more worthy than any of us. Don’t leave me, doll.”

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

S.S.: let me know what you think! also let me know hwich perspective you prefer: first second or thrid person? (i, you, or him/her/them)

ps.:::::: sorry I just found a few mistakes so I fixed them.. sorry to those who already read it with those in there!!

#marvel #avengers #angst #fluff #Steve rogers #Bucky barnes #Sam wilson #Tony stark #Natahsa romanoff #winter soldier #captain america #iron man #falcon #black widow #fem reader #reader insert #avengers x reader #bucky x reader #depression #anxiety #comfort

[onlyfortheplot]

This is Me

Hey, I know requests are closed but this ones kinda an emergency. Feel free to not take it though, I'm kinda not important anyway. But I was wondering if you could do either Hinata, Oikawa, Sugawara, Nishinoya, or Kageyama (can be all, can be just some, can be just 1) helping you through a panic attack, and you coming out to them as non-binary? I could use some comfort :( I just came out to my best friend (well I guess former best friend now), and she dropped me, said I was weird. Thank you <3 - Anon

Synopsis:

Coming out to your boyfriend as non-binary, after one of your friends rejects you for it.

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x reader, Sugawara Koushi x reader

Song: “This is Me” ---- The Greatest Showman

Warning: Cissexism, Bullying, Implied Panic Attacks

A/N: 

Hello Anon!!! I hope you know that you do matter, and I was more than happy to write this for you! (I left out certain words I wasn’t sure that I could use such as:babe or baby) Let me know if there is anything, on my side, I could do to help you! Remember my Dm’s and ask boxes are always open for you! Thank you so much for trusting my in writing this <3 REQUESTS CLOSED (excluding emergency requests) reposting because of tags

MASTERLIST

Your hands were wrapped around your throat as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Oh god, you hated yourself right now.

Your eyes darted to the phone on your bathroom counter, to your face, tears streaming down it.

The phone buzzed, the vibration moving it slightly. You couldn’t look at it. You knew what she would say, anyway. But, there was something —something from deep inside you that believed, maybe just maybe your friend would understand.

You let go of your heart, instead placing your wet palm on your chest. You could feel the great pounding of your heartbeat. You clenched at your think shirt.

You closed your eyes, quickly tapping the notification. Please, don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Please don’t—

BFF <3

What? Umm? Okay, that’s kinda...

BFF has blocked you.

You felt your heart jump in your throat, your hands dropping to your sides as you stared at the message. S-she doesn’t...

“Why is this so different?“ You stared at your hands, looking for any difference in your skin. There was nothing. Nothing. You were the same weren’t you.

If anything... weren’t you better. After years of being uncomfortable in your own skin. After years of knowing that something was off... you had found it.

“Is being non-binary such a bad thing?“ you whispered to yourself, as tears dropped onto your skin. You tried to hold back a sob.

“Love?“ You flinched at the sudden knock on the door. Oh crap, you had forgotten you weren’t alone. You sighed, pushing your hair back as you rubbed your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Tooru?“ you said, forcing your voice to stay level. To hide all the emotions you were feeling.

“Open the door, please?“ He sounded so sweet and innocent, and you could almost see his puppy dog eyes as he continued to murmur soft words.

You leaned over, clutching the handle. But, you couldn’t open it. There was something in you that stopped.

“No,“ you whispered to yourself at thoughts began to swamp your head. No. There was no way.

But, what if... he left you like she did. What happens if he were to think you’re weird. You wouldn’t be able to take it. The physical pain would be to real. To intense. You clutched at your chest again.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You dropped to your knees, your arms quacking as you stared at the bathroom floor. Your head was spinning and you could feel your stomach clench tightly.

“Y/N, Y/N!“ He was pounding the door now. The sounds only mixed in with the loud screeching in your head. It was as if you had lost control of your body.

“Y/N,“ The door slammed open, crashing against the wall as Oikawa shouted, gasping for air as he looked at you.

“Tooru?“ you whimpered as he stared at you confused.

“Y/N?“ his voice trembled as he spoke, his hand slowly reaching towards you. “Are you okay?“

“No,“ It was an instinctive answer. You weren’t okay. How could you be. You’re best friend, former rather, dumped you. Because you accepted yourself. Accepted who you were.

“Y/N, you want to talk about it.“

No. You didn’t want to talk about it. The physical pain you could feel from her rejection. But, you had too. He had the right to know. You were dating him after all.

“Tooru, can you sit down,“ you didn’t look at him, “Please.“

He shuffled closer to you, slowly lowering himself down beside you. He pressed his knees into his chest as he looked up at you curiously.

“Tooru,“ you took a deep breath. Oh god. Your hands were shaking. You were scared. What happens if he breaks up with you. What happens if he —

“Y/N?“ he grabbed your hands, bringing it to his lips, you flinched at the contact “Tell me, Y/N, it’s okay.“

“Tooru,“ you swiped your hands from him, “I’m...” You struggled to find the words. Never in a million years had you thought you would come out to your boyfriend in a bathroom. After a breakdown.

“I’m non-binary.“ The words were out before you knew it. You lowered your head, tucking your chin in as tears started to form. You braced yourself for his harsh words.

“Non-binary?“ he repeated, he grabbed your shoulders and shook you a bit, “Y/N, can you look at me, please.“

You didn’t want to.

But, you did,

“I don’t know much, so you’ll have to explain, but...“ he trailed off as the tears overcame you. You sobbed as you lunged at him, grabbing his sweater.

“You don’t mind?“ you croaked as you hugged his neck.

“Of course not, Y/N, why would I?“ he rubbed soothing circles on your back as you continued to sob into his neck.

“Rita, thought it was...weird,“ you confessed. You felt the soothing rubs stop.

“Ignore that idiot.“ he hissed into your ear as he pulled you in.

“You really don’t mind.“ It was like a weight of your shoulders.

“Of course not, I love you.“ He almost sounded surprised that you would even assume that, “I love my amazing, significant other.“

You smiled through your tears as you cuddled into him

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

You didn’t know what to feel after that conversation. How was one to feel after being dropped by someone you knew for most of your life.

You curled into a ball on your bed, tightly squeezing your knees. You closed your eyes, willing the tears to stay put and to not come out.

It was, all in all, a pretty horrible conversation. You hadn’t expected it to go this bad. It hurt it really did. You didn’t think being non-binary made you any different.

You were still the same loving, caring person from before. If anything, you had just come to terms with who you were. But, apparently he didn’t think so.

The disgusted look etched in his face had scared you. He had looked completely appalled with you. He had given you a scornful look, as he chucked a soft drink at you.

You were, still, wearing the soaked sweater. You were sure Koushi was going to scold you for soaking the bed, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. It was almost as if you were numb.

It hurt, it really did. Even if you didn’t want to accept it. It hurt being treated like that. Like you were an alien, in a human’s skin. You had been before. Before coming to terms with being non-binary. But, now you couldn’t help but feel lost.

“It’s probably 5.“ you mumbled into your knees. Koushi should be home by now. You sighed. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to be hated for who you were. You didn’t want this. At least Koushi—

Your heart stopped. Koushi.

What happens if he didn’t agree with you. What happens if he thinks the same way he did. What happens if he breaks up with you.

“No, no!” you hissed at yourself.

There was no way, Sugawara would do that. Would he?

You could feel it start. Your fingers trembled, unable to even hold your knees together. Your heartbeat elevated, at the terrible  thoughts that flooded your brain.

“No, no,no.“ It was a chant now. As huffed breaths. You could’t even feel yourself draw in any air. No. No. No. No. No...

“Angel?“ there was a soft rap on the door. You squirmed in your spot. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breath.

You must have been screaming. Your voice was hoarse, there was no sound. It was blank. But, your mind roared. No. No. No...

“Y/N,“ Sugawara frantically draped a blanket over your shoulders, drawing you into his arms.

“Koushi,“ you muttered. Or at least you thought you did,

“Y/N,“ he rocked in his arms, moving slowly. “Look at me, look at me.“

You turned your head towards him, resting it upon his shoulder. He was nervous. You could tell from his eyes. It was a stormy gray, much darker then his light silver.

“What happened.“ You thought he would scold you for your wet attire, “Tell me, angel, what happened?“

“Suga, can I tell you something.“ You weren’t ignoring his question. Not really.

“Yes, love.“ It was now or never. Now or never. Now...or never. Now.

“I think...No. I know I’m non-binary.“ he stilled his movements. You wriggled in his grasp. Was he...Did he...

“Okay, Y/N,“ he whispered into your ear, as he continued with the rocking motion.

“You—you don’t mind?“ your voice cracked at the last word, as your dam broke, tears flooding his neck.

“Of course not, my love.“ he pressed a kiss onto your hair.

“Really?“ You couldn’t believe it. It was a hard thing to believe after all that.

He hummed a small ‘yes’. As he tucked you closer, drawing the blankets in, pressing it against your body.

You felt your eyes close, from relief, as you let go of your worries.

Of course not.

He love you. No matter what.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu agnst #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu #haikyuu sugawara #sugawara x reader #sugawara fluff #sugawara imagine #sugawara headcanon #koushi sugawara #oikawa #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #oikawa torū #oikawa angst #oikawa x y/n #oikawa headcanons #oikawa x you #oikawa tooru x reader #sugawara angst #sugawara koshi imagine #haikyuu drabble #haikyuu comfort

[yeah-im-weak-and-wanting]

this started as a short, incoherent thing of me projecting/processing my own shit and it turned into that but longer.

tw; discussions of death, grief, complicated/confusing grief

(quick note that probably unnecessary but oh well, because this is me projecting and cause I can i would like to add; this is a modern!AU but still like, Witchers and mages but there was no djinn death wish)

His phone isn’t groaning with how tightly he’s holding it, or whatever clichéd description one could give. Partially because he isn’t gripping it tightly at all and partially because it is a phone and he is a human being, or close enough.

He’s seen Lambert breaking a phone by gripping too tight, can’t remember why though.

Grip still loose, he stares down at the dark screen. Maybe squeezing would help? Gripping right until his knuckles bleach and the indents in his palm linger. Is that how he should be feeling?

There’s a shout from in front of him and a flailed movement, Lambert’s indignation clear in response to whatever Eskel just said. Yen sighs from the passenger seat, glancing at the driver’s seat to share an exasperated look with Vesemir. Geralt says nothing from where he’s crammed between his brothers. They’re loud and rowdy but he knows if he opened his mouth they would all listen. He could tell them.

He should tell them. He’s the one who pushes for them to be open, to be honest, to not try to go it alone. But they- for them it’s not-

Besides, he’s said it once. Said the words out loud and once is still reversible. Once could still be a mistake. Once can be taken back and he won’t be left here so confused and unsure and- and and and. Gods, hollow maybe? Drained and numb, only barely present in the moment. He knows disassociation but he’s drifted away from applying the knowledge.

It’s just that- he didn’t exactly like the guy and it’d be shitty to start lying about it now. They were forced friends, stuck in proximity for long periods of time and working together, interacting positively. And he can’t prove the “see I’ve got a gay friend” tokenism, just knew the vibe, judged by other things and he was pretty sure he was right. But, but there was never anything clear. Anything certain. Just knowing who else the other hung out with and what they were like. Just the other man being unfailingly kind to him. Not with any fakeness or agenda. Just kindness. Just memories that aren’t all that bad. Good ones even.

And Essi’s voice was so, so desperate on the phone, desperate for him to take the words back. He didn’t say them again but the shaky confirmation wasn’t any better. Priscilla choked on the words while telling him. He needs to tell- he was going to- but Yen knocked on his hotel room door and told him to hurry up before he could. He will, he just-

Geralt grumbles about the radio station, leaning forward as if he thinks he’ll actually be able to reach it.

“Valdo’s dead.”

He says it a second time. He kind of wants a tear to drop down onto his phone screen, the dramatic realization that he’s crying. A cinematic staging with crystalline liquid on a dark screen. A dam breaking to clear, understandable emotions, he didn’t like the guy. But nothing he just feels vaguely nauseous and so very lost.

Lambert chuckles, “Gods, what’d the guy do this time?”

“Not like- I don’t mean- he’s-“ fuck it’s still not real and he knows the saying is third times the charm so he switches, he can’t say those words again. “He was driving back from- I don’t- he was driving- there was- was behind a wrecker- I don’t know.”

The radio cuts out, Yen getting it off on the second attempt, he’s pretty sure they’ve all turned to look at him. Not Vesemir. He’s driving gods, he’s driving he shouldn’t distract him, what if-

“Wait, Jask, you’re not- you’re not complaining about something he did, you’re saying he was...”

“Priscilla texted me. Asked to call. One of our, she got told and realized I’d need to know. Want to know. I’m- I told Essi, still need to- I’ve still got to talk to the others.”

It’s silent then, no other cars near them, just them, their engine. It’s dark outside. Priscilla said it happened in the afternoon. Early afternoon. The one article from the local news from the area where it happened -hours away from where they are, hours away from where Valdo lives, fuck, not lives- said 2:06pm. It wasn’t dark then.

It’s silent and Jaskier waits for the detached comment, an acknowledgment that it’s sad. Everyone’s heard his bitching about the other man, has had their own gripes from their interactions with him. And maybe he shouldn’t be affected? That seems cruel, seems wrong. That’s not what he means. It’s sad even when strangers die. Maybe he shouldn’t be so affected. He’s not- is he affected? He doesn’t fucking know, he’s just so lost.

He waits for the “oh that’s sad, moving on-”, eyes squeezing shut tight enough that they water. And that aches. He’s not crying. He wants to because that’s a concrete something he knows how to identify. Something he has words for.

There’s a click, movement, rustling, a weird amalgamation of them. And suddenly weight and warmth. Jaskier jerks and blinks his eyes open.

Geralt’s half over the seat back and dragging himself the rest of the way. There’s a couple of grunts -not from just Geralt’s, but from his brothers too. The other Witchers shove him and Geralt half-falls the rest of the way in jerky stutters. He manages to mostly aim himself to the seat next to Jaskier but not completely and some limb -Jaskier’s not honestly sure, he’s not willing to care enough to figure it out- lands in his lap. Geralt rights himself quickly enough.

There’s a quiet, “no, you don’t need go to as well” but Jaskier doesn’t know who said it or to whom. He looks back down at his phone, the screen’s still dark. He’s not waiting for a message from Valdo, they didn’t text all that much. He’s not waiting for a message but waiting for a message, for a call, for something is the narrative image he knows, and that would be something.

“Hey.” Geralt’s voice isn’t quiet or soft. It isn’t that clear attempt at comforting that people do and that- the fact that it’s not, the fact that it’s just familiarly Geralt helps. Because that usual comforting attempt is that identifiable reaction and Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s feeling. What he’s supposed to be feeling.

Jaskier flips his phone a few times. “I- I checked. Googled it. Happened yesterday. When we- while we were at IKEA.” His voice is part way towards flat but not all the way there.

“You were on the phone when I knocked.” It’s not a question, just a quiet acknowledgement with a note of apology. Yen had been annoyed when she knocked. Reasonably so. Jaskier had been edging towards lateness and she didn’t know.”

“Was Essi. She didn’t-” Essi’s young. She’s lost people, grandparents, an aunt. But never some one closer in age. Never this, this suddenly. And grief is grief. And despite what some angsty assholes may half-boast about, there’s no getting better at it. There’s no being an old hat at it. Everyone grieves differently and each grief, each loss is different. So there’s no- there’s no right way or one way to feel.

He knows he should listen to that himself but, but, but it’s different. That’s not-

Geralt doesn’t lean over, instead scots over, pressed close against Jaskier, warmth immediately sinking in. Warm is alive. Alive. Valdo’s not- Valdo wasn’t actually a good hugger, loose and an awkward hold. But warm. And now- now he’s-

The fucking article said enough for Jaskier to work out how the accident happened. And Google didn’t help- told him what the back end of the other vehicle was like- he can figure out what- what-

Fuck.

“Geralt, I-” He’s still not crying, his voice isn’t breaking, isn’t cracking but it is chipping. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

It’s not fair for him to do this to the other man. He’s supposed to help Geralt, help the others figure out their emotions and their shit. And now, now he doesn’t know. He’s supposed to know, supposed to be the one who-

This time it’s his seatbelt that clicks -he’s the one that clicks it but it’s disconnected from his thinking- and he moves. Twists into Geralt’s warmth. Geralt doesn’t hesitate, he’s always been all confident action, wraps him close. They shift a smidge until it’s comfortable. Seatbelts are important. Valdo was wearing his the article said. He’s pressed close and feels Geralt’s chest move when he talks, “You don’t have to, you don’t have to. Jaskier, you don’t have to be the one who knows.”

Apparently he said some of that aloud. At least he can fulfill one cliché.

“Wolf’s right, Buttercup. Don’t hafta know. ‘Specially not right now.” Lambert’s never been one for pity. No one in this car is. But Lambert’s self-proclaimed asshole status is one he works to live up to. He’s saying this because he believes it.

“I didn’t like him.”

“That’s not how this works. Not how grief works.”

A clicking starts. The turn signal. It’s the turn for Kaer Morhen. Not that anyone else in the world would know. They’re not exactly close to getting there but their closer. Two more hours in their four hour drive.

“It’s fucking stupid.”

“You looked up articles?”

Eskel’s question doesn’t come out of left field cause Jaskier knows everyone in the car knows him well enough to know he’d done exactly that. “Yeah.”

“Oh, Jaskier.” It’s not pitying or scolding. Just soft and kind. “That was also fucking stupid.” It’s still Yen. She means it kindly.

“Yup.”

There’s a huffed breath, “I’m already doing the same.”

“Don’t.”

A second huffed breath says that Lambert is doing it anyway. Jaskier’s got a wild imagination and too much creativity but everyone in the car does too, in their own way. And the information is enough anyway. But Lambert, the others, they’re Witcher. An unimaginably powerful sorceress. This is- they’ve lost and seen and- a car accident isn’t-

“Fucking hell.” Lambert’s voice is steady and sure. “‘S real.”

Jaskier doesn’t take offense. He knows the other man believed him. But seeing someone reporting on it is different.

It’s also, it’s also, it’s also-

Lambert’s saying it now. Saying it with gravity and heaviness. 

The weight drops, the one he hadn’t realized had been pressing down on him. His chest felt hollow before but now-

Now a wind blows through his veins, empty in every limb. The poetic part of him likens his body to a winterbare tree, branches empty and bandied about by winter gales. He still doesn’t cry because of course not. Why would it be easy. Why should how he feels make sense why can’t he just figure it fucking out.

Blunt fingernails run over his scalp, steady pressure against his head. Geralt’s other arm around his waist, a single finger tapping against Jaskier’s hip. The same grounding Jaskier’s used on the other man. Vesemir hums tunelessly. The oldest Witcher does that often enough for the sound to slot in seamlessly. Not stand out as an uncharacteristic attempt at comfort.

He doesn’t know how to feel, how to think, what to do but he does know that this car is full of people who will help, who will care.

Jaskier waits for that to be enough.

It isn’t.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #Jaskier #Geralt #Lambert #eskel #yennefer #vesemir #valdo marx #fic #this is a mess #to be fair i am also a mess #and not just because of the inspiration for this rambling #tw death #tw grief #tw car accident mentioned #tbh i just needed to write something like this and chuck it into the void #i was gonna put 'minor character death' but like #considering where this fic came from that felt horribly incorrect to put #my post

[doctor243]

Alcoholism

So this is a sequel to Stretched Too Thin by @you-guys--are-losers and I wanna thank her for letting me write a follow up^^ 

Summary: Once bitten twice shy, even if the Spider is the one who was bitten. 

Characters: Michelle Jones, Peter Parker, Tony Stark

Warnings: MAJOR angst, hurt/comfort(??), cheating, alcohol

People often got drinking wrong. The movies, the stories, the memories – all wrong. College parties were never as much fun as American Pie or 21 Jump Street or your friend Brad made it seem. The truth is that everybody was drunk off their rocker and more nauseous than happy. Even their happiness was more of an effort than an expression. They tried to be happy because when they inevitably left, they knew that they wouldn’t be. Drinking away sorrows was another thing that everyone got wrong. Nobody actually successfully drank away their sorrows. It is literally impossible because alcohol is a depressant. Your mind doesn’t get numb, your body does, and if it is numb enough, you could perhaps convince yourself that you weren’t hurting as much as you are. A mind can indeed trick itself.

Peter stared at the polaroid of MJ and him in his wallet as he sipped at a bottle of Wild Turkey. Irony was a terrible thing. “I was drunk,” was all that he could hear in his mind. He wasn’t drunk yet, and it wasn’t particularly good whisky, but it gave him a little buzz and that’s all he craved at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he remembered hearing, through her sobs and hiccups.

“MJ?” he had practically yelled into his phone, his heart sinking further with every second that passed. “What happened? Are you alright?”

A muffled sob had come through the phone line before a stuttered voice spoke through. “I…I fucked up, Peter.”

“What do you mean you fucked up?” he had demanded. Well he had meant it as a demand, but it had come out as a choked whisper. He knew what she had meant, but he needed to hear her say it, to verbalise it, to eliminate the one percent chance that he could have been over-imagining things. How he dreaded that he was all the way with the Avengers in Siberia with no way home except for the quinjet flight in a week. How he hated that he couldn’t see her face to face. “What did you do?” he’d asked again when she offered nothing but silence.

“I cheated on you,” she finally answered.

His world had immediately come to a halt. The feelings his suspicions gave him were nothing in comparison to the feelings he felt rushing into his body. He clenched up as rage and sadness and jealousy and pain invaded his heart and wreaked havoc. He wanted to scream but he was in the hotel Falcon would definitely hear him from next door. He dared not ask her to repeat herself lest the emotions came again.

“It’s only been three months since the last time, MJ,” he heard himself say through gritted teeth.

“I know,” she has whispered, evidently still crying. His heart threatened to rip in two as one side roared and demanded to know what right she had to cry. The other longed to be by her side and wipe away her tears. Count to ten, Peter, he told himself. Breathe…

“Did you fuck him?” he asked. Well that was unexpected.

The silence that had followed was louder than anything he could have yelled. He forced every muscle in his body to keep still before he started screaming into the empty room.

He had hung up soon after, unable to utter any more coherent words, but he knew the conversation was not over. Now, he sat in hangar of the quinjet at 3 in the morning, away from the rest of the team who were still recuperating in the hotel rooms after a three-day mission, taking occasional sips from a bottle of whiskey. There hadn’t been any on the jet (of all times, Mr Stark), so he’d hopped down to the nearby liquor store as Spider-man and offered the store clerk an autograph in lieu of an ID. His first sip had burned his throat and he nearly spat it out, but forced himself to swallow instead. This was how people felt better right? This was how people stopped thinking about all the shitty things in life?

By the time he started his second bottle, he’d gotten used to the burning in his throat and was starting to feel a little woozy. He pulled out his wallet and looked at the polaroid in his wallet. There was no significance in the photograph; they were testing the camera and had decided to take a selfie. But he’d kept it precisely because it was so unimportant, a small snippet of normalcy, and it was just so beautiful.

He snapped up when he heard footsteps coming towards him, but deflated in relief when he saw who was entering the quinjet. “Mr Stark,” he breathed. “You scared me.”

“And you’re intoxicated,” his mentor replied, more amused than anything.

“Lay off me, man,” Peter groaned. “It’s been a rough week.” He took another swig. “…or month… or year…”

“I’ve noticed,” Tony took the bottle from his hand and took a sip before wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ew kid, if you’re drinking whiskey, at least get the good stuff.”

When Peter made no effort to retort, Tony sighed and sat down on the floor, opposite the Spiderling. They sat in silence, occasionally passing the bottle to each other, but otherwise just offering each other the comfort of company. Tony would, in the near future, question his decision to condone drinking with a minor. He would then follow that thought by memories of himself at Peter’s age, and then excuse Peter completely for consuming copious amounts of alcohol.

“Have you ever…” Peter finally spoke up. “Have you ever trusted someone with your entire heart, and then been betrayed?” Yeah he was definitely getting drunk. “And then forgiven them, trusted them again, and been betrayed again?”

Tony sat up a little straighter when he heard this, and his heart ached at how defeated Peter looked. The kid was nineteen, for crying out loud. “I have,” he replied tentatively, unsure of what Peter actually wanted to hear.

“Could you forgive them again?” he all but whispered.

Tony sighed and took another swig from the bottle before smiling ruefully. “Well, I’m still on the same team as Cap, aren’t I?”

Peter fell silent again, and they carried on, drinking slowly and sighing every now and then.

“What’s going on, kid?” Tony whispered finally, as if a sound louder than that would break the roof that was protecting them both from all the terrors and suffering that the world could throw at them.

Something flashed in Peter’s eyes and he seemed to wake up a little, before choking out a sob. “MJ cheated on me,” he croaked at last, hand bunching up his hair. “Twice.”

“What the fuck?” Tony hissed in disbelief. He knew MJ really well, since Peter kept bringing her to the tower during their high school days, and even more after the snap. She was a god girl, and hearing that she’d betrayed the trust of his, for lack of better words, son, was absolutely unthinkable.

“I thought that drinking would make me feel better,” Peter continued, as though he hadn’t heard Tony. “But now it’s worse. It just hurts so bad.” He was crying at this point and Tony made a point not to pass the bottle back to him.

“Come here kid,” Tony said as he got up and pulled Peter into a hug. He knew that no amount of words and condolences would comfort him, but he still had to try. Peter accepted the gesture wholeheartedly, fingers digging into Tony’s jacket as he sobbed, the dam that held his feelings broken and his heart flooding with emotion.

“I don’t know what to do, Mr Stark,” he hiccupped. “I don’t know what to do.”

Tony continued to rub Peter’s back as he tried to soothe his shaking child. He whispered acknowledgements and apologies to keep Peter in the present, but nothing could help Peter feel better.

After a little more than half an hour, Peter’s sobs reduced to intermittent gasps, and eventually, occasional sniffs, and Tony decided it was time to get some rest. He made a mental note to hold off on calling Peter in for any missions, but would make sure his attendance was required at the tower, if only to make sure that Peter wasn’t alone. “C’mon kid,” he grunted as he struggled to pull Peter up from their seats on the floor. “You can sleep in my room tonight.” The boy nodded and stumbled out the door of the quinjet, arm around his mentor for support.

“What do I do?” Peter whispered as they entered the elevator of the hotel.

Tony sighed, unable to find the right answer to this impossible situation. He knew how much they loved each other, and how much they fought to stay together and keep their love alive. There was no correct answer, and no mathematical equation that could solve this dilemma.

“You’re going to take this one day at a time,” he finally answered. He took a deep breath and tried his best to find the words. “I can’t tell you what to do about MJ, but you’re going to be alright kid. Whatever decision you make, I’ll be here to keep you standing. You will be happy again one day.”  

Master List: Here

AO3: Here

@you-guys--are-losers​ @irondadofficial @irondadfics @spideychelleforever @kage-e @dej-okay

#spiderman #spider-man #spiderchelle #michelle jones #tony stark #irondad #iron dad #iron man #cheating #hurt #comfort #fic #marvel #mcu #endgame #tony stark is alive #alcohol #wild turkey #whiskey #alcoholism #drunk

[angelofthequeers]

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 49

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Thank you SO much to everyone that’s stuck with this fic and read it to the very end!

@smolplantmum tagged as requested :)

Chapter 48 | AO3 link

“Selfish! Selfish!”

“Don’t you love me anymore, Adrien? Don’t you love your mother? All it takes is a wish –”

Cold, numb, frozen, not Adrien, not Chat Noir, no one, he’s no one, can’t feel, can’t see, can’t breathe, help, help, someone help –

Adrien gasps and jolts when the underground garden vanishes before his eyes and is instead replaced with a dark room, with unsynced breathing and warm weight all around him. Oh. Oh. Right. He’s not trapped underground with Hawkmoth and his dying zompire mother, her skin grey and black and wizened in the nightmare that haunts him every night. He’s in Marinette’s room, in the middle of a gigantic blanket pile on the floor, with Marinette snoring into his hair, Luka clinging to his left arm for dear life, and Kagami appearing to have an arm slung around Marinette’s waist, from what he can make out in the darkness.

He’s safe. He’s safe. But every time he closes his eyes, he can’t escape: from the comatose mother who couldn’t be revived due to the degree of Miraculous damage from the Peacock, whose funeral had apparently been earlier that week, though he remembers absolutely none of it; from the father who’d been sentenced to life in prison only yesterday in possibly the quickest trial ever held, the universe stripping him of both parents in the span of two weeks, and even Nathalie, who’s taken up damage control for the company but who’s never at the mansion anymore; from the chill, the freezing cold emptiness that plagues him when he least expects it, remnants of the akumatisation that he can’t remember. Have the last two weeks even happened? Or has he just been stuck in one, long, disjointed dream, to wake up before he becomes Phantom and to realise that he has to go through this all over again?

“Are you okay, Mr Adrien?” whispers a small voice. Something small snuggles into the crook of his neck, and Adrien’s breath catches in his chest until he reaches up to feel the softness of fairy wings and realises that it’s Nooroo.

“Sorry I woke you,” Adrien murmurs. Thank god none of the others had awoken, because they’ve been jerked awake enough times lately from his nightmares and there’s no sense in them being as miserably bone-tired as he’s been since Hawkmoth’s defeat.

“You didn’t wake me,” Nooroo says. “I can feel your emotional pain, so I’ve been staying awake to keep watch over you.”

“You don’t have to –”

“I do, Mr Adrien. I’m…I’m the reason why…”

Adrien shakes his head. Careful not to wake his partners, he untangles himself from Marinette and Luka’s grips and then tiptoes over to Marinette’s bed to climb out onto the balcony through the hatch. The Parisian night air is cool but not freezing, thank god, because staying in the cold for too long now makes Adrien’s heart race for reasons he can only assume are akuma-related.

“It wasn’t your fault, Nooroo,” Adrien finally says once Nooroo’s snuggling in under his shirt. There’s a flash of black and green out of the corner of his eye and then Plagg’s joining them, wriggling in on Adrien’s other side and purring against Adrien’s collar. Adrien slumps in his seat and hugs his knees to his chest, shivering when the cool breeze brushes over his bare feet.

“But it was my akuma, Mr Adrien. If it wasn’t for me –”

“Could you help it? Could you stop Father from transforming and akumatising people?”

“N-No…I tried to sway him, to push him away from evil, but he wouldn’t listen. And we kwamis are bound to obey our masters.”

“Then how is it your fault?” Adrien reaches up to cup Nooroo with one hand, then hugs Plagg with his other hand so that his own kwami isn’t left out. “You did all you could. He’s the one who chose to do that. He’s the one who went that far to get Mother back instead of moving on like a normal person. He’s…I feel like the worst son ever for even thinking this, but I’m glad he’s gone. I’m glad I don’t ever have to see him again. And then I remind myself that he was doing the best he could –”

“Nah,” Plagg says. “He really wasn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t’ve grabbed Nooroo in the first place. And you’re not a bad person for feeling that way, kid. He akumatised you. You can play pretend all you want, but you know how violating it is to be akumatised like that. The Butterfly’s meant to empower you, not do…that. And every other friend of yours can back you up, except for Pigtails and Guitar Boy, and Hawkdick didn’t go tormenting everyone else like he did with you.”

“Plagg –”

“Adrien. Kid.” Plagg wriggles free of Adrien’s hand so that he can float up in front of Adrien’s face, his bright green eyes holding Adrien’s gaze captive. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help. You tried to deal with Lila’s touchy crap by yourself and look where that got you till you listened to your friends. I get your dad’s a massive pile of dicks and taught you that you can’t speak up when you don’t like something or when you need help, but he was wrong. You got those amazing partners down there and you got friends that’ll have your back through thick and thin. Lean on ‘em, kid. They’re there to take some of the weight.”

“But…” Adrien blinks rapidly to try and quell the stinging in his eyes, but it just causes the tears to well up faster. “If I admit I need help…Plagg, I won’t ever stop asking. What if it gets too much? What if they can’t handle me? I don’t think I could bear to lose them.”

“They won’t, Mr Adrien,” Nooroo says, still snuggling against Adrien. “I’ve felt their emotions since I bonded with Master Luka. They all care so much for you and all they want to do is help. And you’ll be there to help them in return when they need help. That’s what makes you partners and best friends.”

“Okay, but even if I said you were right – which you’re not – it’s, like, one in the morning,” Adrien says. “I can’t wake them up just for my angst.”

“Why not? You’d insist they wake you if the roles were reversed,” Plagg drawls. “And the fact that you’re calling trauma angst really says a lot about your daddy dearest.” Then he phases through the floor before Adrien can even begin to process that.

“Plagg!” Adrien hisses. “No – don’t you dare – I swear –” He groans and crosses his arms. “Stupid cat. Sometimes, I wish he’d just do what I tell him to do.”

“Trust me, you don’t want that at all,” Nooroo whispers. It only takes a moment of frowning down at the kwami for Adrien to realise the implications of what he’d just said.

“Oh, no, no!” Adrien reaches up to cup Nooroo again. “No, Nooroo, I don’t mean – it’s just something I say when I’m frustrated. God, I’d never…I could never treat him like that.”

“I know, Mr Adrien. I suppose I was just…reminded of unpleasant memories.”

“Adrien?” The hatch door creaks open and a mess of black hair pokes out, accompanied by bleary grey eyes, and holy crap, how can Marinette be so beautiful even when she’s half-asleep? “Plagg said you needed us?”

“I don’t need you,” Adrien snaps. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean – goddammit, Plagg!”

Marinette’s face softens and she holds out a hand. “Come back to bed, kitty,” she says. “Even if you don’t need us, it’s okay to want us.”

“But –”

“Adrien Agreste, if you’re trying to be a martyr, I give Marinette full permission to throw you off the balcony,” calls Kagami’s voice from inside the room. Adrien can’t hold back his snort at that, and that’s the opening that Marinette needs to climb half-out of her room and latch onto his ankle.

“I’ll stay here all night if I have to,” she says. A pair of arms rise out of the hatch to slip around her waist.

“Tell us when to start pulling,” Luka’s voice says. “We’ll get this cat on a leash one way or another.”

A burst of laughter splutters out of Adrien. He fails to hold back another one, then he’s devolving into such a hysterical fit of laughter that he slides out of his seat and ends up on his back on the cool concrete. Somewhere in the middle of his breakdown, his laughter turns to choked sobs, then the dam bursts and tears start streaming down his cheeks for the first time since before his mother had disappeared.

“Shh,” murmurs a voice, enveloping him in warmth, along with arms and skin and rustling clothes all around him. “It’s okay, Adrien. Let it out.”

He’s not sure which one of his partners had said that. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Not when they’re all there for him, each one supporting him all the same but bringing different warmth, different light waves, to him. Luka’s a vivid indigo, somehow both freezing and scorching at the same time, but not the kind of freezing that threatens to pitch him into unwanted flashbacks. Kagami’s a warm gold, fiery and brilliant but also subdued enough to dim herself when needed, to avoid overload. And Marinette’s a deep scarlet, hot and full of passion, throwing herself into life with everything she has no matter her guise, much more a crackling wildfire than a hurricane now that he knows her so much better. And maybe that’s why he loves them so much.

.

“We can’t thank you enough, Chloé,” Luka says once they’ve left Le Grand Paris to head back to Marinette’s place, with the Gorilla driving closely behind them. “I’m sure Adrien’s aunt is a wonderful person –”

“No need for pleasantries,” Chloé scoffs. “Wonderful person or not, no way is Adrichat going to live with that aunt and cousin of his. As if anyone’s going to let Chat Noir move to England, especially when I’m the daughter of the mayor of Paris…”

Honestly, most of what Chloé’s saying is going in one ear and out the other for Marinette. All she can focus on is the disturbing mix of both overwhelming emotion and suffocating numbness radiating off Adrien, easily detectable even without the empathetic abilities that Luka has or the little purple brooch that’s fastened to his jacket, disguised among other pins. But Marinette doesn’t have a clue what to do. How are you supposed to help someone who’s mourning their mother for a second time and whose father tortured them and now won’t ever see them again?

“The Gorilla’s cool,” Adrien says with a weak smile. “He knows I’ll be at Marinette’s or Luka’s or Kagami’s a lot of the time.”

“Or at my hotel,” Chloé supplies.

“Yeah, that. He doesn’t really care where I am so long as, well…he knows I’m okay, I guess. Physically,” Adrien adds just as Luka opens his mouth. “Thanks for helping him get custody, Chlo.”

“Hmph. Of course.” Chloé flips her ponytail. “I’ve known him for as long as I’ve known you. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of you, Adrichat.”

“Sometimes, I wonder if Gorilla and Nathalie are the only two adults who ever cared about me.” Adrien’s shoulders slump. “Mother can’t have cared that much if – if she kept using the Peacock –”

“Hey.” Marinette stops and grabs Adrien’s hand. Kagami grabs his other hand and Luka, being the tallest, just wraps all three of them in a hug on the spot. There’s a little huff from Chloé, but she doesn’t complain about being left out like she might have just a few months ago.

“You don’t have to forgive her,” Luka says. “You don’t ever have to be okay with what happened.”

“Just so long as you don’t try to be a martyr and push us away,” Kagami says. “You’re so annoyingly self-sacrificing.”

“Yep, that’s Adrikins to a tee,” Chloé drawls. “Okay, like, can I have my best friend back?”

After a few moments, Marinette, Luka, and Kagami release Adrien to let him gulp in shuddering breaths. Chloé jumps onto his back, just like when she used to tackle and cling to him, except that this time, Adrien’s arms fly back to grab Chloé and hold her securely as she wraps her legs around his waist and clings to him like a monkey.

“Are you…giving her a piggyback?” Marinette splutters. Chloé flips her off.

“Buzz off, Dupain-Cheng. Adrien and I used to do this all the time as kids.”

“I just don’t think any of us imagined that Chloé Bourgeois would enjoy piggyback rides,” Kagami drawls. Chloé pokes her tongue out in response.

“If I never see my mother again and cop her “ridiculously childish” lectures, it’ll be too soon,” Chloé says. “Thank god she fucked off back to New York. I’ve never felt this light in years, and I didn’t even realise till now.”

“Last time I gave Chlo a piggyback was when we were nine,” Adrien says, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Chloé shrieks and tightens her arms and legs so much that he chokes until she loosens her grip. “Then she sniffed at me and said that only babies did that, but she was a young lady.”

“Are you sure that you’re –” Marinette begins.

“The only reason I won’t deck you if you finish that sentence is because you’re Ladybug,” Chloé says without even looking at Marinette. Marinette’s pretty sure that it’s more to do with not wanting to upset Adrien by attempting to murder one of his girlfriends, but she manages to hold her tongue. Just.

“Please don’t kill my lady,” Adrien jokes, but the twitch of his lips is weak. Marinette and Chloé exchange looks, then come to an unspoken truce.

“Look, Adrikins, you’re not gonna be alone, alright?” Chloé says with an uncharacteristically soft look. “It’s not just me and your fucked-up father anymore.”

“You were nowhere near as bad as him,” Adrien says. Chloé just shrugs.

“Well, you’ve also got those three. And you’ve also got the Ladyblogger and DJ Tupac. I’m not gonna pretend I know how you’re feeling, but I do know what it’s like to have a parent put you through hell. As if I’d let you be alone.”

Adrien’s lips twitch and he stops outside the bakery and sets Chloé down so that he can hug her. “Thanks, Chlo,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, enough with the mush!” Chloé protests, though she contradicts herself by moving her hands to his back to hug him. “I so don’t have time for this. Unlike you, I have places to be.”

“Really? Like where?” Kagami says. Chloé raises a perfect eyebrow.

“I…may be hanging out with Kubdel,” she mutters. Kagami tilts her head with an innocent smile.

“I didn’t hear you. Could you speak up?”

“I’m hanging out with Alix Kubdel because I’ve been thinking about her since the Sanguisuga thing, okay?” Chloé shrieks. With a huff, she crosses her arms and stalks off.

“Did I do something wrong?” Kagami says as Marinette holds the bakery doors open so that they can slip inside and head on upstairs. “I was only trying to tease her as a friend.”

“I guess it just wasn’t the right time?” Marinette says. Kagami sighs and looks down.

“I wish I could “read the room” better, as most people say. Now I have to go and apologise to her.”

“You can’t exactly help not being able to read the atmosphere sometimes.” Marinette waits until they’re in her bedroom to grab one of Kagami’s hands and squeeze, and Adrien takes her other arm and pulls her close. “What matters is that you realised you messed up and you need to apologise.”

“What Mari said.” Adrien leans down to kiss the top of Kagami’s head. Her cheeks pinken and she leans into his touch with a soft smile. “It did make me want to laugh, if that makes you feel better.”

“…A little, yes. We should –”

Whatever Kagami’s going to say is cut off by a colossal roar from outside that shakes the building and nearly sends them crashing to the floor. What the heck? An akuma? But that’s not possible! Luka and Nooroo are right here!

“It’s…a lava monster?” Luka says once all four of them have scrambled up onto Marinette’s balcony and are leaning over the railing to find the source of the sound a few streets away. “But how? I haven’t even tried to create any champions!”

“Oh.” Nooroo’s wings droop as he’s joined by Tikki, Plagg, and Longg. “It’s not an akuma. It’s a sentimonster.”

Marinette’s mouth dries until it’s more arid than a desert. “A sentimonster?” she croaks. “But that’s – the Peacock creates sentimonsters, and it’s not broken anymore since Master Fu got back from Tibet –”

“Indeed,” Longg sighs. “It seems that whoever has stolen Duusu and Roaar is Hawkmoth’s ally after all. It’s possible that we will also encounter a Tiger wielder, if this Peacock has an ally of their own.”

“Just when I thought it was all over,” Adrien groans.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Marinette takes his hand and runs her thumb over the back of it.

“I mean, I was kind of expecting it. I guess I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the Peacock and Tiger were stolen. But we’ve got something that the Peacock and Tiger wielders don’t have.” Adrien takes Marinette and Kagami’s hands, and Luka grabs Marinette’s free hand. “We’ve got each other.”

“That,” Marinette says, “was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m so exposing you in the group chat tonight.”

“But milady!” Adrien pouts. Marinette absolutely refuses to acknowledge the way her stomach flips and shivers at those kitty eyes, because there’s no way in hell she’s handing Adrien that victory. “I thought you loved me!”

“Oh my god, can you guys hurry the hell up?” Honeybee’s standing on the roof behind them with crossed arms, tapping her foot, as the four of them whirl around. “That thing’s not gonna ice itself! Shut up!” she splutters when Adrien grins at her for her joke.

“Ladybug! Chat Noir!” A slim figure with magenta-tipped brown hair and a tight magenta suit lands on the building next to the lava sentimonster. From this distance, the only details Marinette can make out are that her long hair is bunched near the end and her angular face is framed by two thick locks of brown hair. “Come out and give your Miraculouses up, or Mayura’s sentimonster and I, Felina, will destroy Paris! Where are you, Adrien?”

Adrien immediately throws himself to the ground in case the magenta girl – Felina, obviously the wielder of the Tiger Miraculous – happens to look his way.

“Looks like it’s time to introduce Morpho to the world, then,” Luka sighs. “Not that anyone will trust me. I’m pretty sure the sight of an akuma’s going to make them run the other way.”

“We did mention in our press conference that the Butterfly was in good hands now instead of evil,” Marinette says. “But yeah, I think Hawkmoth’s wounds are too deep to heal overnight. It can’t hurt to try, though.”

“We should transform before Honeybee Venoms us and throws us at the sentimonster,” Kagami says. Honeybee’s eye twitches.

“Don’t give me ideas. I’ll meet you losers there.”

Marinette grins at her partners as Honeybee leaps away. “Ready, guys?”

“But of course, bugaboo,” Adrien says from the balcony ground. “Plagg, claws out!”

“Always. Longg, bring the storm!”

“I’ll always have your backs. Nooroo, wings rise!”

Marinette’s grin widens at the sight of Chat Noir, Ryuuko, and Morpho before her. Morpho’s outfit is less formal and stuffy than Hawkmoth’s had been; his rich purple blazer is open over a button-down shirt that’s silver with black butterflies and artfully undone a few buttons down from his throat. The sleeves of both his blazer and shirt are rolled to his elbows and the lapels flare out like butterfly wings, and he also has a pair of black fingerless gloves and silver boots that rise halfway up his calves, over his tight indigo pants. His teal tips have turned the same rich purple as his blazer and, in contrast to his distressed formal outfit, his mask looks airy and delicate, with silver butterfly wings arching from the sides of his face, a silver butterfly body and antennae over his nose and forehead, and pale purple detailing that blends with the silver. The Butterfly Miraculous, now with four thin lilac spikes like wings, rests on his left breast.

“Not bad, Morpho,” Chat Noir says with his usual roguish wink. “I don’t know why you didn’t let us see this until now.”

“I was trying to get used to the fact that I had the same magic jewel as the major supervillain,” Morpho says dryly. “And it’s only the second time I’ve transformed.”

“Well, it suits you. A lot,” Marinette says. “It’s perfect for kicking sentimonster butt. Speaking of which…Tikki, spots on!”

#miraculous ladybug #ml fic #aotq fic #aotq: hold me #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #kagami tsurugi #luka couffaine #butterfly!luka #plagg #nooroo #lila rossi #anti-lila #ugh #tiger!lila #mayura #poor adrien #good job traumatising your son gabriel #gabriel agreste's a+ parenting #chloe bourgeois #gorilla is adrien's true dad #lukadrigaminette #ml polyamory

[unholyhelbig]

I don't know man, give me something angsty with Hope and Josie?

A/N: I don’t know how this is going to hold up, my angst isn’t the greatest so hopefully you like it! 

Read all my Hosie Oneshots

Josie’s hands were cold, so much so that she couldn’t exactly unlatch the buttons of her coat without frustration. She could feel the smooth plastic under her fingertips, and suddenly the black scarf around her neck seemed too constricting, the fabric wrapping close to her jugular. Something so simple that was supposed to protect her made her feel trapped instead.

She could feel the emotion building behind the brick wall she had lain behind within her mind. A dam that was filling up slowly with water as black as night- the lump in her throat thickening as she struggled to steady her breath. No, she told herself sternly Lizzie is the one who gets to feel everything. She’s the one who’s allowed to break. But you have to stay strong.

Josie Saltzman had remained strong for her sister, for her school, for her father who had lost too much to even comprehend. But never for herself, she realized, standing in the school’s chapel under the blood-red stained glass. It left a watery reflecting against the dusty pews and the large golden cross that hovered over them with it’s looming shadow. Josie hadn’t even made it to the front row before she started to feel the hot air push against every inch of her.

It was empty. Across the courtyard and past the replaced statue of the gargoyle that still had those dusty demon eyes. The snow had made him look less threatening, dwarfing him into stone and nothing more. Her fingers tingled at the memory as she let out a frustrated grunt, once again trapped by her coat. It shouldn’t’ be this hard, nothing should be this hard. It was a coat- and she had only wanted to come here to think. For the silence. No one had enough faith to worship here anymore.

“can I help you with that?”

Josie gulped down stale air and whipped around in the carpeted aisle. She had her numb fingers raised, ready to shoot off a mumbled spell consisting of ancient languages. She frowned, she had been followed, and it brought her anger to boil. Her boots probably left tracks in the freshly fallen snow. It was her own fault, she decided.

“There’s no magic to siphon here,” Hope said, letting the intricately carved doors fall behind her. “Unless you want to take some from me.”

The Saltzman twin scoffed and dropped her hand completely. Hope wasn’t a danger, if anything, she had annoying perseverance about her that made Josie want to scream sometimes. But she never did. Instead, she just watched as the tribrid’s boots left half-moon snow prints against the floor.

She was close, within touching distance before she finally stopped and glanced around at the way the building stretched. How the bibles were left untouched and a thin layer of dust collected against everything. They both stood in the crimson light leaking from the full moon ushering through the stained glass. It shaded Hope’s face, demonized her features.

“I’ve never been in here.” She admitted, moving her golden stare back to Josie’s. “I have to admit, my family has never been much for faith. But the churches in New Orleans are nothing to cry home about. This one is a close second.”

She was rambling, and Josie could recognize that. She could recognize how close so was, and the questioning look of approval that Hope offered as she lilted her chin slightly to the side. Josie nodded and Hope laced her fingers against the collar of her peacoat before moving to the first button.

“Alaric never told me you were religious.”

“I’m not, I just needed a place to think.” Josie finally spoke, voice hoarse “I don’t think there’s much to be said about God when we’re capable of what we are.”

The first button came undone and Josie felt an immense pressure lift from her chest. Her fingers still numb and her lungs filling with the dull orange scent that Hope carried. Always mixed with blood, always mixed with the earth. This time it was comforting though.

“Any solace in what you’re thinking?”

“No, not much, I’m afraid.”

She swallowed thickly as the second button came undone, and then the third. Each lifted a weight from Josie’s chest until the coat was shed completely and the scarf soon followed. She draped them over the nearest pew and plopped down, ignoring the dust and the immittance of a kneel.

Hope carefully lowered herself into the wooden seat next to Josie. The two of them stared up at the blank cross. At the way the window warped and how quiet the church was against the howling wind and falling snow past the doors.

“People die too easily around here. And I think if there was a God, a higher power, that could prevent it, then it would have.” She stared, feeling Hope’s stare against the side of her face. It made her skin prickle. “My mother created this school to protect the outside from what we’re capable of. But who is going to protect us from each other?”

Hope swallowed thickly to fill the silence that the statement had created and the pit in her stomach she knew wouldn’t dissipate as quickly as the knot in her throat. Josie was right. Hopes mind flashing to leaning against the large doors of Alaric’s office. Trying not to listen as he explained to parents that entrusted them that the estate, that the school, wasn’t safe anymore.

“You can’t take all of that on, Josie.” Hope finally mustered the courage to say, her knee was hot against the Saltzman girl who resigned to holding her breath to keep out that intoxicating rusty scent. “None of this is your fault, and you- hey, look at me.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement and Hope grasped Josie’s chin and turned her tear-stained eyes towards hers. They looked blood-red in the reflection of the window, and she searched for something other than tenderness.

“It’s true, we can’t be there to save everyone, but the people we have helped wouldn’t see it that way. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the closest thing to safety people have in this place and you can’t burden yourself with the fear, with the… with the pain of not being able to help everyone.”

“If we don’t help them, who will?”

Hope had a slight twinge of a smile against her lips. One of those effortlessly charming ones that made Josie cross her ankles and look away at the sheer cockiness that it possessed. Most of the time she had that look when she knew they had won. This time it was more of an effort of comfort. “Don’t know, Jo. Maybe God.”

#hope mikaelson #josie saltzman #hosie #hosie fanfic #hosie oneshot #Legacies #legacies fanfic #lizzie saltzman #the originals #fanficiton #request

[babyybitchhh]

Okay ... episode 82 really fucked me up there at the beginning and I kind of figured it would. I’m really glad I didn’t watch this last night. The emotional whiplash between Asuma dying, Naruto doing his stupid, inconsequential clown act and then Shikamaru struggling to process what happened would have pissed me off ten times more if I hadn’t spaced these episodes out. I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to squeeze Naruto’s godforsaken training right into the middle of this heavy, emotional shit but I hope he got fired.

The guy who directed “Team 10” though? Fuck. I’d kiss him right now if I could. And I’m not just saying that because I’m rabid over Shikamaru. This episode was a full on experience, especially the first half. The directorial choices were just consistently on point; the lighting, the camera angles, the pacing. This is the first time throughout the entirety of Naruto that I’ve watched so far where the mood was unhindered, uninterrupted, unburdened by whatever stupid shit is going on with team 7. It felt decidedly raw and the emotion throughout was palpable. This episode was a directorial masterpiece as far as I’m concerned and I will revisit it again at some point, without a doubt.

I’m sitting here trying to figure out which part was my favorite and I just can’t come up with an answer. Everything leading up to the break was simply fantastic. The opening scene with Shikamaru and Kurenai? The abrupt reminder that Konohamaru has now lost his uncle in addition to his grandfather? Shikamaru just coming right out and telling the bbq lady that Asuma is dead, like he wasn’t silently suffering under that cool facade? The shogi scene??? Fuck. That was intense. Watching Shikamaru gradually become more and more restless and irritated while his father talked was moving - at least for me, because I’ve definitely been there. Struggling to keep your feelings in check, trying desperately not to let the dam break when you’re so dangerously close to reaching critical mass, and the inevitable explosion. The way he really stepped up to Shikaku like he was going to do something. Just looking for that fight because it’s the only safety net you’ve got to fall back on when you’re literally incapable of comprehending your own heartache.

And then the cathartic numbness that comes after you scream and cry and allow yourself to actually feel the helpless anguish you don’t know what to do with. When you’re lying there, weak and spent and gross with dried tears on your face and aching puffy eyes, and you finally just stop feeling. It’s a blissful moment of internal quiet and you could see the moment where Shikamaru started to mentally pick himself up, trying to put the broken pieces of his psyche back together again while running completely on autopilot, and the accompanying symbolism of him picking up the shogi pieces was just ... nut. Like, it was real shit. I felt that entire scene deep in my bones tbh.

Actually this episode made me feel a LOT of things and I’d absolutely label it the best the series has to offer at this point. And what’s funny is you can tell it still didn’t have a very big budget but the director skillfully made due with what he had to really convey a very poignant and, imo, heartfelt message about the profoundly personal experience of loss. It was very human in a way that Naruto as a series has up until now failed to deliver on and, honestly, my love for Shikamaru has only grown because of it. I’m honestly weak right now. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.

I would die for Shikamaru and that’s not an exaggeration. Lol

But also can I mention how much I love Shikaku. He doesn’t get to show up very often but it seems like every time he does, he leaves an impression. I get this vibe from him that hes just slightly more empathetic than his son but he sort of coats it in a tough, hardass, masculine way that makes him come off as very blunt and almost cold. Which is exactly where Shikamaru got it from but (imo) his virtue as a Virgo sort of softens the bite. Whereas with Shikaku it feels borderline antagonistic, almost like he’s being purposely mean, but if you listen to what he’s saying he’s actually telling you exactly what you need to hear. It might not be what you want to hear but it will help you in the long run. This is not the first time he’s served up some cold hard truths and, in all honesty, it seems like every time he does make an appearance it’s specifically to kick Shikamaru’s butt into gear. I know I’ve seen people say that he didn’t really seem that bothered about his dad dying (which I take offense to, I haven’t even gotten to that part and I know that’s wrong) but I think we have to acknowledge the inherent difference in his relationship with Asuma and his relationship with his dad.

They BOTH played a huge role in shaping Shikamaru into the person he is but in completely different ways, drastically different roles. Asuma was almost like the cool, rough and tumble older brother he never had and Shikaku was the immovable rock supporting him throughout everything he did in life. This is why I so badly wanted the other characters to be satisfactorily fleshed out and explored because, based on what little tidbits of detail we’ve gotten about Shikamaru’s home life, it seems that even though he comes off as almost stern Shikaku never actually pushed him in any one direction. Nudges sure, I have no doubt. But even when his son was putting in the absolute bare minimum with no real goals or drive, he let him be. Like, I have this nagging thought in the back of my head that Shikaku knew Shikamaru would find his own way in life without his intervention, because he both loves and trusts his son, so he simply watched over him instead of trying to force something out of the boy. Protective and supportive, but at a healthy distance, yknow? Which is another thing ... I’ve also seen people say that Shikamaru was spoiled growing up and honestly? That’s not wrong. I don’t think he ever experienced real hardship until Asuma died and the growth we’re seeing in him as a person is just ... ugh.

Anyway, I word vomited all that just so I could say: my heart broke when Shikaku started talking about how he’s proud to be Shikamaru’s father and that he knows he’s not stupid enough to run off and get himself killed. I know what he was doing. Indirectly saying he loved him and would support whatever choice he made at this crucial junction. He let Shikamaru make his own decision and he was clearly proud of the path his son ended up choosing. But fuck, if the morbid irony didn’t pull at my heart strings. 😭 Knowing what’s coming at some point in the future, I look at scenes like that and I just ... it makes me real fucking sad, fam.

I’m just so weak for father figures anyway, even if they’re not good fathers. But when it involves a character I’m emotionally soft for AND he’s got a good dad .... god. Imma need a box of tissues here in a second. I wish Shikaku was my dad. 🤧 And I mean, I’m just saying, but I have this very distinct feeling that the Nara men - both Shikaku and Shikamaru - would treat a girl child different from a boy so honestly Shikadai is real fucking lucky he didn’t get that sister Shikamaru was talking about during the Chunin exam because he’d be all up in his feelings about it. He’s probably got it bad enough with Mirai tbh. But also how absolutely beautiful would Shikamaru’s hypothetical daughter be, hnnng.

Y’all thought my mans was spoiled, wait until you see what daddy Shikaku’s got to say about me.

💅

#god how annoying are their names #lmao #this post is a mess between my inane rambling #and shikamaru this #and shikaku that #and then i had to be a smart ass and throw shikadai in at the end #smh i love inoshikacho but come on #also let me apologize for the long post #this episode made me feel some type of way and i had a lot of things to get off my chest #🤣🤣🤣 #please disregard #naruto #shikamaru nara #nara shikaku

[rainforestgeek]

If you lose your strength to stand (I’m gonna reach for your hand) pt. 11 “I’m Always on Your Side”

Part 10

AO3 link

--

Krolia sat down and gestured for Keith to do the same. He couldn’t begin to decipher all the thoughts and emotions whirling around his head. They almost became white noise, leaving a strange, painful numbness. He tried to look Krolia in the eyes, but if human eye contact was difficult, it had nothing on the sharp and glowing gaze of a galra.

She folded her hands. “Twenty decaphoebes ago, I was under cover in a scouting team searching for the missing Voltron lions. We picked up a matching signature on Earth. I could not allow another Lion to fall into the hands of the Empire. The Red one had long since been found.”

Keith’s heart clenched. He hated thinking about Red’s time under Zarkon’s thumb. His beloved Lion had spent so many long years trapped, and it filled him with hand-trembling rage.

Lance’s Lion, he reminded himself firmly. He may have a lingering connection to Red, but he wasn’t her pilot anymore.

“So I attacked the other scouts, destroyed them, and crash landed onto the planet’s surface. As all Blades are, I was fully prepared to die for my mission. But instead I woke up in your father’s house,” Krolia’s voice quieted, “in pain but alive. He cared for me while I was at my weakest.”

She paused. Keith dared a glance back at her face to find her gaze was still firmly locked on his. He looked away again.

“It took a long while to trust him. But I sensed the fellow spirit of a warrior. He was kind and righteous and he vowed to protect the Blue Lion by my side, once we’d found her. I said I’d stay out of devotion to my mission. Truthfully, I stayed because I already loved him. A Blade’s life is lonely and hard. I believed I’d paid my dues and earned a peaceful life. And then we had you.”

Keith gritted his teeth. “But you left. If you were so done with the war then why did you leave?”

“Keith.” He looked up at her. “More scouts found the Blue Lion. They attacked and your father nearly died. As long as the Empire suspected a Lion of Voltron was on Earth, you both would have always been a target. I left to divert their attention from your solar system. I left to protect my family and the one I love most in the entire universe: you.

“The pain of being apart from you was second only to the thought of putting your life in danger.”

Keith unsheathed his knife. “Is that why you left me this? Did you know I’d find myself in the war? Or did you expect me to find you?”

“I knew,” she said softly, “if you grew to be anything like your father, you would be a fighter.”

“Dad died ten years ago.” The words rushed out of Keith like a dam breaking. “I was alone until Shiro found me and now I’ve lost him again! But I found you and now you’re the only family I’ve got left and I’m so goddamn sick of being angry at you!” He’d accidentally yelled, his voice echoing in the room. Krolia moved her chair closer to where he was rocking back and forth in his and held out her hand. He grabbed it with both of his and started crying the moment her other hand clutched them. She let him cry and scream it out, all the tornado of everything he’d been through ripping from his throat. She stayed and held his hands as tightly as he gripped hers, anchoring him without pushing him.

Once his eyes had nothing left to shed, he calmed himself one shuddering gulp of air at a time. Keith wiped away the tears from his cheeks. He was surprised to find that he felt a little lighter, not unlike stepping onto a slightly less massive planet than Earth.

“I’d hoped, for so many decaphoebes,” Krolia said, voice low, “that I would see you again once you were old enough and strong enough. We can’t get that lost time back, but Keith.” She gripped his shoulder and the touch revived something warm and powerful in him. With a shock, Keith realized he felt safe with his mother. “I’m here now. And I know a warrior when I see one.”

The words made Keith feel strong. Like the day he’d first flown the Red Lion, a sensation of controlled power. He understood what had drawn his righteous and bullheaded dad to Krolia. Honestly, leave it to him to fall in love with an alien spy wielding a knife.

“Nothing was more important to Dad than saving lives. He was trying to drag two people out of a burning building when a gas line exploded under him.”

The day he’d died was the worst of Keith’s life. It began a pattern of losing the only family member he had. Dad, then Shiro. But Keith had been the one to walk away from Krolia, her words ringing in his ears, “I’ll never leave you again.”

“I left my team,” he said. “I need to go back to them.”

Kolivan chose that moment to stride back into the room. “Keith, Krolia. The Red Paladin has just arrived.”

--

[several vargas earlier]

“I knew it.”

Lance stood in his armor in the Black Lion’s hangar, where there was – shocker – no Black Lion. He put on his helmet and commed Allura. “Princess, Keith ran away.”

There was a long pause before he heard “…quiznak.”

He did an about face and stalked past Matt, who was staring blankly at the empty hangar, and made a beeline for the Red Lion. “He took Black with him, so do you think you could magic-find the Black Lion like you did when we first showed up?”

“Yes, I’m on my way to the bridge now. I can’t believe he did this.”

Because he was a mature adult, Lance bit his tongue against an I told you so. “As long as you can get me his location I’m gonna drag Keith back here by his ears.”

“Good.”

“Because you were right, we need everyone right now.” Red’s eyes lit up as Lance approached her and she smoothly leaned down to let him board. He settled into the pilot’s seat of the scarlet-bathed cockpit. “Hey. Uh. I’m really sorry for yelling earlier.”

Allura didn’t even pause with her response. “So am I. Give me a moment to find him.”

Lance was sure there was more that needed to be said between him and the princess, but they had to focus. He booted up the console, feeling the metal walls around him hum with power and magic. The viewscreen blinked to life and quickly enough he was ready to take off.

Except that Red refused to close her mouth.

“Girl, come on, we’ve gotta go get Keith.” She stubbornly kept her jaw to the floor. “What is your deal?”

Then he spotted a figure jogging toward him on the screen. Matt disappeared as he boarded then reappeared behind him. Red finally shut her maw and stood up with a self-satisfied rumble.

“What are you doing?” Lance demanded.

“I’m coming with you to get Keith. I’m worried about him, too, and besides, you might need backup.”

Lance wanted to argue, not least because spending a bunch of time alone in outer space with Pidge’s older brother made him kind of fear for his life. But both his Lion and Matt seemed to have their minds made up. In the back of his head, he felt Red anxiously growling and whipping her tail back and forth. She wanted to find her old paladin. Envy flashed through Lance and he grit his teeth against it.

The console lit up with a comm from Allura. “I found them. Keith went to the Blade of Marmora Headquarters.”

Huh? “So he’s not out looking for Shiro?” Lance puzzled as they launched out of the Castle and blazed through the atmosphere. He glanced at Matt, who was holding tight to the back of his chair to steady himself from the sudden momentum. He didn’t look surprised by the news.

“Apparently not. I want an explanation once you’ve brought him back. Allura out.”

Keeping his eyes on his flight path, Lance asked, “You know something about this?”

“Yeah,” Matt replied. “I think so.”

When he failed to elaborate, Lance sighed harshly through his nose. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

“It’s not my secret, it’s Keith’s. And if he hasn’t told anyone else about it, I won’t do it for him.”

“No, I get it, some things stay between you and your boyfriend. Speaking of which, one of those things that stays private is definitely bedroom stuff and my bunk is right next to Keith’s, so please for the love of God keep it down next time.” It was difficult to tell with the red light of the cockpit, but Lance noted with some satisfaction that Matt’s face looked unnaturally flushed.

It was a long, awkward flight, them sitting in silence. If he didn’t have piloting to concentrate on Lance would probably have broken out in nervous rambling a long time ago. They were coming close to the HQ and out of the corner of his eye Lance saw his passenger was messing with some gadget or whatever. He worked with the same unblinking, owl-eyed stare that Pidge did on her projects. It made Lance’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He hardly knew this guy outside the context of a battle or when Pidge talked about her brother like he’d hung the moon. Other than that…Matt had this outward appearance of being perfect or something. He was a genius and, apparently, universally likable. He even got prickly Keith to open up.

Lance finally gathered his nerve and broke the silence. “By the way. I don’t want to know about the ins and outs of your relationship with Keith – and I mean that literally, too – but he’s had super rough go in life and if you hurt him I’ll shoot you in the face.”

Matt immediately burst into laughter. Lance frowned. “Hey! Seriously, I’ll do it!”

“Oh, I believe you. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve known Keith for several years. I know what buttons not to push. This just isn’t the shovel talk I pictured us having.”

The back of Lance’s neck felt hot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?”

“Look, me and Keith might fight a lot but that doesn’t mean I wanna find him someday angry and heartbroken and fighting the gladiator at level fifty.”

“I won’t break up with him,” Matt said tightly.

“Like, so far you seem pretty good to him, but I’m just saying – ”

“Is this what you meant by staying out of our relationship?” Matt demanded. He didn’t shout, but his tone was like icicles threatening to fall from the ceiling and skewer you to the ground. “I…I get that you care about Keith, and you and I don’t know each other.”

Lance snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

“Keith was right, you are annoying.”

“Please tell me I’m not a part of your pillow talk, ‘cause that’s just disturbing.”

Matt resolutely moved himself into Lance’s line of vision. His arms were crossed over his armored chest. “But, he told me you wouldn’t play with my sister’s feelings. And I’d prefer to trust his word.”

Every trace of sarcasm melted off Lance like an ice cube on the hood of a hot car. He stubbornly fixed his eyes on the stars flashing by them as he flew. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about that. Pidge doesn’t have feelings for me in the first place.”

“Oh.”

“She’s too…” Lance debated on the best word to explain how unfathomably out of his league Pidge is. “…special.”

Even just out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matt glaring at him. Holy hell, what did I say to piss him off? The rebel pinched the bridge of his nose and took three deep breaths.

“Two things. First, no matter how unusual she might seem to you, Pidge is still a person who can feel the entire spectrum of human emotion. Quite powerfully, in fact. Second, you can shove that bullshit ‘special’ euphemism right up your ass, autism is not a cuss word.”

Lance jerked the controls in surprise, making Red jolt and list violently. She wrenched control from him and steadied herself, growling irritably. He stroked the console apologetically then turned wide-eyed to Matt. “Pidge is autistic?”

Matt kept glaring and raised one eyebrow, and he looked too much like Pidge right now and it was distracting. Still kind of reeling, enough of Lance’s brain calmed down to sift through what he’d said that was so offensive.

Oh. He waved his hands between them in a time-out, clear-the-air kind of motion. “Dude, dude, dude, I did not mean it like that. Pidge is special. Like one in a billion, way too smart and tough and pretty to look twice at a guy like me. And also – Pidge is autistic? I mean, I kinda figured Keith is, he’s so awkward and confused all the time and you’ve seen his resting bitch face but Pidge – well, I guess that does explain the babbling and the sensory weirdness – not that Pidge is weird – ”

“Lance, you’re rambling.” Matt rubbed the back of his neck, murderous expression thankfully gone. “I just thought you’d put two and two together. She’s…something. Truthfully, we don’t actually know for sure. My parents got her tested for autism and later ADHD but nobody would diagnose a smart girl who looked them in the eyes. I had to watch my little sister struggle in school with almost no friends and no help, so now that she has you guys, I’d rather none of you die or leave or hurt her in any way.”

He gave Lance a very pointed look. The dude apparently didn’t blink an eye at his fifteen (sixteen?) year old sister flying a giant war machine and killing bad guys, but the minute any kind of relationships got involved he went full mama bear. Go figure. Lance knew better than anyone that explosions hurt less than broken hearts. He spun his chair so he was facing the view screen instead of Matt.

“Don’t worry. Pidge is my friend, and I’ve always got her back. I wouldn’t do anything to mess that up.”

There was a pause. “You know I’m not, like, forbidding you from dating her, right?”

Lance huffed in frustration. “Doesn’t matter, it’s not a thing.”

“So you don’t like her? When I ran into you the other night, it seemed – ”

“I do, it’s just – urgh!” Lance stood abruptly and paced to the back of the cockpit, leaving Red to autopilot for a while, and grabbing furiously at his hair. “It’s so confusing! I was just starting to get over Allura and then – then Pidge almost died and – what the hell is wrong with me?”

“I’m not following.”

“There’s a word for suddenly getting feelings for another girl right after getting your heart broken, and I’m pretty freaking sure it’s REBOUND.” Lance slumped against the wall and dropped his head in his hands. “Pidge deserves better than that.”

Matt hummed thoughtfully. “You’re right. But what I’m hearing is that you respect her a lot.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m keeping my mouth shut about this BS.”

“So are you sure the feelings are new?”

Lance side-eyed him. “Have you been listening?”

“Yeah, yeah, the whole princess thing. I’m just saying, maybe you’ve had feelings for Pidge for a long time and you’re just now realizing it. It’s possible to like more than one girl at once, you know.”

The words struck a chord in Lance and it made his stomach turn over. Loving two girls at once? Didn’t matter that he wasn’t dating either of them, the very possibility felt slimy. He jumped back to his feet and got in the chair. Sensing his distress, Red purred at him in his mind. “It doesn’t even matter, okay? Pidge doesn’t look at me like that and I won’t stop being her friend. End of discussion.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Fine.”

“I was serious though. Be good to Keith or I will shoot you.”

--

Keith startled when the doors burst open and a very red-faced Lance stalked inside, Matt hot on his heels. Both Keith and Krolia stood up.

“What the hell, Keith? We thought you’d jetted off on a half-cocked rescue mission in the middle of empty space! The least you could do is tell somebody what you’re doing!”

“Lance, shut up, please,” Matt begged.

“You shut up!”

“Lance. Shut. Up.” Keith agreed. He got a long, brown finger too close to his face for his trouble.

“Keith, one of these days you’re going to give me a stroke.” With that said, Lance looked around, realized who else was there, stood up straight, and cleared his throat. “Oh, hi, Kolivan. Sorry for barging in like that. Did we interrupt something?”

“Not from my end,” the old galra said wryly.

Keith awkwardly cleared his throat and addressed Krolia. “The annoying one is Lance, the Red Paladin of Voltron. And this is Matt Holt.” Keith halted, not sure if he should announce their personal relationship. Probably not. “He’s a leader in the rebel forces.

“Guys, this is Krolia. She’s my mother.”

“Your what? You’re his – ” Lance turned to Matt, mouth gaping open like a fish. “Did you know Keith found his galra mom?”

“Yes.”

“Lance,” Keith said, “I’m sorry for leaving without notice. I didn’t mean to worry you guys.”

Lance had his face buried in his hands. “Dude, you can’t just vanish then drop a bomb like your galra mom popping up and then just move on. You are giving me gray hair. I’m too young for that.” He turned and walked off to lean his head against the wall. Krolia watched him with an eyebrow disappearing beneath her hair.

“He needs a minute,” Keith explained. “Lance’s brain can’t process more than one surprise each day.”

Matt snickered. Lance groaned a little and came back. “I’m sorry for intruding, Kolivan, but could the three of us stay here for the night?  We should get back to the Castle of Lions soon but it’s been a very long day.”

“Certainly. Have you made any progress with General Ezor?” Kolivan asked.

“Annoying progress, but yeah, she’s been talking. Apparently the assassination attempt wasn’t an assassination attempt, but Haggar wanted to kidnap Allura and that’s not even the bad news.

“The Princess and the Emperor were searching for a place that’s like, the ultimate source of all Altean magic. Long story short, we found it in something called a white hole, Allura’s super powerful now, and we’re pretty sure Haggar found it too so the enemy just might be a thousand times more powerful than she was before.”

Lance paused to catch his breath. “Also, Pidge and I think she might still have Shiro. Alive.”

Keith clenched his fists against the small surge of hope that gave him. He felt Matt take one hand and gently smooth his thumb over his knuckles, until Keith relaxed and slotted their fingers together.

Kolivan said, “The Blade has been pursuing what we think may be a major source of the druids’ power. A place that holds extremely potent quintessence.”

Keith turned to his mother. “The same quintessence that made that superweapon?”

She nodded.

“Superweapon?” Lance demanded.

“Are we looking at another Naxzela type of situation?” Matt asked. Deep wrinkles formed between his eyebrows.

“Nothing to that scale. I know how this sounds, but it can wait until morning,” Krolia assured.

Part 12

#plance #pidge #lance #matt #matt holt #keith #keith kogane #platonic klance #protective matt #protective lance #katie holt #krolia #texas kogane #keith needs a hug #autistic keith #autistic pidge #adhd pidge #vld #voltron #voltron legendary defender #pidgance #flirtyrobot #fic #vld fix it #fix it fic #CANON DIVERGENCE

[markswoman]

regrets | ldh

summary: god, what he would give to turn back time, to do this over. 

warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, angst

a/n: no pairing.

Donghyuck followed from a distance, eyes glued to his feet as he put one foot in front of the other. Repeat, repeat, continue forward, silent against the yellowish vinyl flooring. There was a part of him – rather masochistic, he thought, but well, what else was new – that was desperate to hear everything going on up ahead, from Mark’s distraught crying, to Jaemin’s feeble attempts at comforting him when also he was trying not try break down sobbing, to Renjun’s silence broken only by sniffles. Some kind of self-imposed punishment for everything that had happened, he supposed. The other part was scared shitless. “Your friend is currently in the ICU,” the woman had said, kindly. “He was brought in immediately. A team of doctors and surgeons are doing their best to save his life as we speak.” Fuck, this wasn’t what was supposed to have happened. When they reached the end of the corridor, with the imposing doors leading into the ICU in front of them, Mark headed straight for the closest chair and seemingly just collapsed there. “Oh, God,” he croaked, wiping away tears with his palms. “Oh my God.” “He’ll be all right,” Jaemin said, sinking into the seat next to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. Renjun plummeted onto a chair opposite of them and immediately dropped his face in his hands. Something that sounded like a sob escaped him, as if everything were slowly dawning on him, now, here, in front of the ICU. Donghyuck hesitated, wringing his hands as he took in the miserable lot before him, before slowly sinking down beside Renjun. They were the first ones here. Small mercies. Donghyuck didn’t think he had it in him to stick around for when everyone else would arrive. He couldn’t handle seeing how distraught those he cared for were. “He almost died,” Mark wailed, eyes bloodshot from all the crying as he looked to Jaemin for – Donghyuck didn’t know. A miracle? Like Jaemin could do a thing about this. It wasn’t his fault. “They said he – that he wasn’t breathing, that his heart had stopped beating. Oh my God, oh my God.” Mark sounded so crushed that Donghyuck was seconds away from walking over and wrapping his arms around him, but – but. “He’s strong, remember,” whispered Jaemin. He did what Donghyuck couldn’t, gathering Mark in his arms and hugging him tightly. “And the doctors are professionals, yeah? He will survive this, and we will be there to help him overcome this. He’s not alone, and he needs to know that.” “I can’t believe this,” Mark sobbed, smearing tears and snot into Jaemin’s shirt. Jaemin seemed not to mind. He probably didn’t even notice. “If I had known – I thought… I didn’t think he would…” “No one did,” Jaemin said. “It’s not your fault for not noticing. It’s no one’s fault.” Donghyuck looked down on his hands in his lap, picking at the skin around his nails. It was not their fault, no. He hoped they didn’t really believe that. Renjun remained eerily quiet by his side, albeit Donghyuck caught the minute trembling of his shoulders. He was crying, too. Everyone was crying. Donghyuck dropped his head in his hands as his own tears overwhelmed him finally, the dam he had put on his emotions no longer able to withstand the pressure. God, what he would give to turn back time, to do this over. This shouldn’t have happened.

The heart monitor’s steady beeps filled the hospital room, at the time being the only noise to break the stifling silence. Donghyuck had always hated this particular silence, with nothing to keep the doubt and self-loathing at bay. Music usually helped, but there was no music to drown out the noise in his head. He hated the quiet. The steady beeps weren’t helping, acting more as a metronome for the thoughts, keeping them coming in a steady, predictable rhythm. It was late, around four in the morning, Donghyuck reckoned. A nurse would probably come by for a routine check within the next hour, like they had yesterday. He didn’t feel tired despite the late hour, didn’t feel much else but grief and regret, but all of it was dull, as if he had smothered those feelings in a heavy blanket inside. More than anything, he felt empty, oddly numb. Next to silence, this numbness was almost worse. But, he supposed, it was still better than feeling too much of everything. It was still better than feeling worthless, hopeless, miserable, still better than feeling smothered by every thought and every emotion. For a second he wondered, again, why he hated the numbness so. Sometimes it seemed more like the only solace he had left, like the last friend he could turn to. He had friends, of course. Not that he could turn to them for help. Not after what had happened. “Mr. Lee has been through a lot,” a doctor had explained, as if they didn’t know. “For now he remains comatose, and we will continue to monitor him closely.” The doctor had continued talking for another minute or so, but Donghyuck had tuned out, looking towards the bed everyone had gathered around instead. It was in the middle of the room, pushed up against the white wall, with white sheets. So clean, sterile. Several machines occupied the space right beside the bed, monitoring vital signs and administering blood and fluids through dreadful tubes. Everything worked like clockwork, mechanical, smooth, from the beeps and clicks of the machines, to the drips of the IVs, to the rise and fall of a chest. He had quickly looked away. He hadn’t really moved from his spot on the floor despite having sat there for – hours. He didn’t want to move. Why should he? He was fine here. He would probably move when someone entered the room. Probably. He recalled Chenle and Jeno’s tears when they had arrived, back in front of the doors to the ICU, when Mark had launched from his seat like a man possessed and gathered them both in his arms. Renjun had joined them, Jaemin, too, and Donghyuck had stayed behind, wringing his hands and picking at the skin around his nails, feeling like he didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. Everyone had been crying. So many tears, too many – Donghyuck had left. Had returned a little later, had listened to the doctor, looked at the white sheets on the bed, had left, again. When he came back, everyone was gone. He had been alone, and even now – despite everything, the grief and frustration and misery, it had consumed him, his own thoughts turned against him. He was useless, so completely useless, why was he still here? His thoughts had quieted down since, drawing back to allow the numb to take hold. Why did he consider it an enemy, again? “Why are you like this?” he asked the air, asked himself. Looked at the bed. “Why are you there? You shouldn’t be there. You were supposed to die.” He closed his eyes, sighing. He shouldn’t be here.

In the morning and up until noon, the only visitors in the room were nurses, checking that everything was as it should be, changing the bags of fluids, tidying up, leaving with no words spoken, albeit Donghyuck had seen a couple of them look in his direction, their expressions a little helpless, a little at a loss. Not that it meant anything. Donghyuck left the room to walk futilely down the corridors in the afternoon until dinnertime, and when he came back, no one he wouldn’t want to face was there. There were people he couldn’t look in the eye, people he wished to avoid, no matter how many hours he had to walk up and down the corridors of the hospital. There was nothing he really wanted to do, nothing he really could do. So long as he wasn’t in the room when they were there, it was fine. Mark tended to save his visit for evenings. Donghyuck would be there with him, sometimes next to him at the bedside, sometimes standing awkwardly near one of the walls, sometimes sitting with too much distance between them. If Donghyuck were Mark, he wouldn’t want to sit near him. The first evening Mark had sat by the bed, holding a pale hand tightly between his. Donghyuck could almost feel it, feel Mark’s hands around his own. He had sat by the wall, too anxious to choose the empty chair next to Mark. The first evening had been spent in silence, mostly, with Mark not even sparing him so much as a glance, his eyes fixed on the hand between his as he tried not to cry. (He eventually did.) Donghyuck wouldn’t want to hold his own hand, either. He had scratched distractedly at his wrists whilst he watched Mark that first evening, and when Mark eventually had stumbled to his feet, legs probably numb from spending two hours in the same position – Mark hadn’t looked at him then, either. In the days that followed, passing by at a snail’s pace, Donghyuck continued avoiding the room in the hours between noon and dinnertime, coming back only when he knew it was safe to. He had nearly walked into Jaemin and Renjun on one occasion, Jeno and Chenle on another, exiting the room quietly. It was all he could do to stand his ground, to keep walking. They never really looked at him, either, as he slipped past them, back into the room. Donghyuck didn’t blame them. He’d hate himself, too. He did hate himself. But it was fine, really. After all, if someone turned to him, he would have too much explaining to do. He didn’t want that. He preferred this, the silence that on most days was his worst enemy, on some days – not. A friend? Perhaps a friend was stretching it. Silence was still crueller than numbness. He felt out of place. Out of sorts. An itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t reach no matter how much he scratched. It was infuriating. He wished he could shed his skin. What a laughable thought. It was the fourth day, and Donghyuck had dared sit next to Mark this time, despite the urge to fiddle with the sleeves of his sweater, the urge to look at Mark, the urge to look away. God, he was a mess. No wonder everything had gone to shit. He was useless. “The nurse said there were no changes,” said Mark quietly, holding that pale hand between his own again. He did, always, every evening. Donghyuck’s heart ached. Perhaps he could claw it out. He would almost definitely not succeed. Donghyuck shook his head, slowly, looking at the hand between Mark’s palms. He couldn’t look further, couldn’t make himself drag his eyes along the length of the arm and up, up, to a face obscured by an oxygen mask. “No. None so far,” he murmured in response. Worried his bottom lip. Looked away when Mark squeezed the hand between his. “What are we going to do with you?” Mark asked quietly. Donghyuck remained silent. Mark talked a little now and then, random observations, random thoughts, memories. Donghyuck answered some of them. It was horribly awkward. Donghyuck considered leaving. He didn’t. Mark did, eventually. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, getting back on his feet. Donghyuck’s eyes were glued to that pale hand as Mark gently laid it on top of the covers, on top of the chest rhythmically rising and falling with breaths granted by the oxygen mask. He nodded absently. “I’ll be here.”

“They miss you, you know?” Donghyuck watched Mark from across the room, listened to the sombreness of his voice, caught between wanting to be near him and wanting to run away. Far, far away. As far away as his legs could carry him. It didn’t matter where he ended up, he just didn’t want to be here. (The noises in his head ridiculed him for such thoughts. He had tried, before, and look at where that had gotten him. Stupid, stupid, stupid –) Mark, unaware of the turmoil inside Donghyuck, continued talking, absently caressing the back of that pale hand. “The kids miss you a lot. We all do.” He was quiet for a bit, and when he spoke next, he sounded a little choked up. “Won’t you please wake up?” Donghyuck shifted on his feet, lifted his arms to wrap around himself. He glanced out the window, at the buildings out there. This tiny hospital room felt suspended in time, at odds with the lights and activity he could see outside, where the rest of the world carried on undisturbed. It always would, no matter what happened in his life. He knew that. He did. His eyes found Mark again when his voice, once more, filled the room. Never loud enough to deafen the grating beeps, but always soft enough to hurt. “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago? We were together, all of us, eating and goofing around. You smiled a lot that day, almost every time I looked at you.” Donghyuck remembered that day. It had been fun and had filled him with a kind of energy he had long since lost, slipping between his fingers despite his best attempts. He had been unable to stop it, and it was just another thing he could add to his list of things he couldn’t do. That list was long. Mark suddenly chuckled, albeit Donghyuck supposed it resembled a snort more. “I talked with the doctor yesterday. She said that patients in comas can hear what you say, and that, if I wanted to, I could do that. Talk to you, I mean.” There was that odd snort-laughter combination again. “So that’s what I’m doing. But it’s so hard.” He straightened his back, squeezed the hand between his, and continued where he left off. “It made me happy to see you happy that day, you know? It always makes me happy when I see your smile, and I know the others feel the same way. We just want you to be happy, want to lighten your mind a little. I guess we failed spectacularly at that, huh?” “It’s not your fault, hyung,” Donghyuck said quietly, sincerity bleeding into his words. Mark shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know Jaemin said it wasn’t our fault, but I can’t help – I can’t help but blaming myself a little. I should’ve noticed. And I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but – a little, maybe, but – couldn’t you have thought of us? Just for a second? Or your parents, or your brother, or – or – or everyone who cares about you? You have a lot who care about you, did you know?” This time his laugh was definitely self-deprecating, like the ache in his chest had come to a head and burst from his throat. Donghyuck wanted to cry, wanted to bury his face against Mark’s chest and cry his heart out. It used to help, a little. But he fought it, this time. There was no way he could do that now. “I guess you didn’t know,” Mark muttered, wiping away the few tears that had spilled. “I should’ve done a better job, shouldn’t I? We all should have.” “It wasn’t your fault,” Donghyuck whispered again, blinking away his own tears. Really, he had no right to cry when things had gone the way they had. With effort, he pulled himself up, slowly coming to sit by Mark’s side on the empty chair, because he couldn’t help himself. He refrained from reaching out for his hands when he saw the way his expression twisted in anguish. Mark sucked in a deep breath, trying for a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was fine. It was enough to be genuine. “I wonder what you dream of. I hope the nightmares are leaving you alone. Let me know if they aren’t, okay? I’ll come running and chase them away for you.” Donghyuck hadn’t dreamed in a while, but the nightmares – the nightmares had seeped into his daytime. They just wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t know how to tell Mark about them, even if he had the strength to do so. “It’s getting late,” Mark said after a glance on the clock hanging on the wall. “Visiting hours are over soon, so I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll see you then, okay? Perhaps you will be able to give me a smile, then. Or squeeze my hand back.” He squeezed the hand between his palms, a last attempt, before getting to his feet. “Tomorrow,” Donghyuck croaked, closing his eyes against the onslaught of tears. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hyung.” That night, Donghyuck curled up in a corner and wept. “Why didn’t you just die?” he asked the still form in the bed. Life was so unfair.

By the sixth day, Donghyuck had mapped down pretty much the entire hospital in his head, as well as memorised the names and faces of the staff. Some still evaded him, but he had time to get them right. Probably. It was upon returning to the hospital room that he saw Mark and Renjun standing outside, talking quietly. It struck Donghyuck as odd. It was nearing eight pm, so wasn’t Mark supposed to be alone? And why were they standing in the corridor when they could be talking in the room instead? Mark answered that for him. “They are talking with the doctor, I think,” he said, eyeing the door. “I didn’t want to impose. It’s their son in there, and I… They said I didn’t have to leave, but they need time alone with him. Perhaps their voices will wake him up.” Oh. “Of course,” Renjun murmured. “I would feel… wrong-footed, somehow. They’re… It must be tough for them. I can’t imagine.” “What if he doesn’t wake up?” Mark whispered, as if saying the words themselves would bring them to fulfilment. “What if –” “Hyung,” Renjun said, grabbing Mark’s arms firmly, anchoring him. “Don’t say that, please. Have faith in him. He’ll wake up, and he might not – might not be well, might not remember us, might not want to – but we’ll be there, we’ll help him move past this. Okay? Please, hyung. It’s hard on all of us. You – we mustn’t give up. He could wake tomorrow or in three days, or three years, but we can’t give up, hyung.” “Yes, right, yes – I know.” Mark sniffed. “I know –” What else he said after that, Donghyuck didn’t catch. He had already turned and walked away. He only returned when he was sure no one would be there. Sometimes, Mark sang a lullaby or one of his favourite songs. Mark’s singing voice had always been pleasant to listen to, Donghyuck thought. He tended to hum when he cooked or cleaned, loudly – and not as careful to reach a certain note – singing along to various songs on the radio with the members. It was one of the few things these days that actually made Donghyuck smile with genuine amusement and fondness. Inside the hospital room, Mark sang quietly, like he was afraid of breaking the silence, or afraid of breaking something else. Donghyuck could still hear the beeps, but at least he could tune it out and focus on Mark’s voice instead, letting the sharp rhythm of the machines work as a kind of metronome. Besides singing, Mark had been oddly quiet since entering the hospital room today. He had taken to talking about everything and nothing in the hours he visited, but for some reason he hadn’t spoken much this evening. Donghyuck couldn’t help but wonder, but then, it might be a bad day. He left half an hour earlier than usual, and Donghyuck was alone, feeling hollow and wrong and miserable. It was probably his fault that Mark had left so soon. It was the tenth day when Donghyuck learned what had been on Mark’s mind, something he had been ignoring in favour of doing other things, of functioning. At least it answered the other question he had also guiltily been pondering: Why had Jisung not come to visit? “Jisung went to see you with your parents yesterday,” Mark said. “They said he broke down when he saw you. He has been so angry since he found you, and – damn it, I wish Jisung hadn’t been the one to find you. He still has nightmares, for God’s sake. He’s just a kid.” Donghyuck’s breath caught in his chest, staring wide-eyed at Mark. “Jisung – Jisung was the one who found me? Oh, God.” It was selfish of him, so selfish, because he knew someone would have eventually found him. But he – if all had went according to plan, he would’ve been dead, and he wouldn’t have known who, and – oh, no, why had it been Jisung? He hadn’t allowed himself to give much thought to who would find him, but of anyone, he had hoped it wouldn’t be one of the kids. “I can’t imagine –” Mark cut himself off, looking pained and glancing at – at the bed. At the face Donghyuck couldn’t look at, because it made him feel nauseous to see himself like that. It made him angry and miserable, knowing he had failed so spectacularly and was dragging everyone down with him. “Has anyone even told you? That Jisung found you in the – the bathtub, with your wrists slit and – and your head underwater, and he gave you CPR until the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over. Did you know? When they took you away, you – He performed CPR on a dead person for five minutes, and you still weren’t breathing when they arrived and –” He broke off, this time with a sob, as he dropped his head in his hands, still holding – Donghyuck’s hand, the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrist. The sight made Donghyuck want to scratch his – fuck, he didn’t even know what he was at this point. He wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead, so obviously he wasn’t a ghost. Not yet. Though it was not from a lack of trying. “I’m sorry,” Donghyuck whimpered, fighting the urge to reach out, knowing he couldn’t. “Donghyuck, why did you do it?” Mark wept. “Why – why didn’t you stop to think of what it would do to us to find you like that? What it would do to your parents and your brother to know that you tried to commit suicide? God – what it would do to Jisung. What it would do to me, to Jaemin and Renjun, to Chenle and Jeno. Jisung called me after he called your parents, Hyuck. Just – why? “I knew you were – depressed, that you weren’t well. I tried to be there on your bad days, as much as I tried to be there on your good ones. It was hard, sometimes, but I love you and I –” Donghyuck’s heart dropped at the words. Mark loved him? “– have always wanted you happy. I wish you had told me, Donghyuck, that you had allowed me more glimpses of what is going on in your head. If I had known you suffered this much, enough to think that – that killing yourself was the answer – I would have tried to help. I would have listened. I have always listened.” Mark loved him? “Did anyone ever know, really know, what burdens you walk around with? Did you ever tell anyone? Did you tell your therapist, at least? Just, please, please don’t let me find out that you told no one. Don’t you trust me?” Of course he loved him. Mark loved him just like he loved all the members, a love that ran deep, thicker than blood, but purely platonic. It had to be. Because Donghyuck would have seen it. As much as Donghyuck loved Mark like a brother, had loved him for so long, he would have seen the signs of something other than platonic love, but – who knew if he were only saying this now because Donghyuck had tried to take his own life? Mark has never admitted that he loved any of the Dream members, so why now?

“For how long have you felt so alone?” Mark continued. “For how long have you been alone with all those thoughts in your head? I wish you had told me. But – but I’m being unfair. I’m – I am angry with you, but I’m more angry with myself for not having realised how much pain you were actually in. I knew you were hurting, just – I never knew how much. Not this much. I’m sorry.” “Please don’t be,” Donghyuck said miserably. God, what had he done to deserve listening to this now? He had not thought of what would happen after. He hadn’t wanted to know. “Please don’t be sorry when I’m the one who did this.” “When you wake up, I’ll be better, okay?” Mark promised, grimly smiling at the Donghyuck who lay unresponsive in the hospital bed. “I’ll be more attentive. And I hope you will talk to me more. Or, if not me, then someone else. I love you, and I just want you to realise that you are beautiful and smart and kind, and that you deserve to be happy, to feel loved. I will tell you this every day, so just wake up soon, all right? Just, please, wake up.” Whether he wanted to wake up or not mattered little when Donghyuck didn’t know how. He had worn his favourite sweater, that day. It was old, worn, but he loved it. It was cosy and a little too big on him, hadn’t always been, and sometimes it had managed to defeat the cold spreading from the tips of his fingers to his toes, clamping around his lungs and making it a little harder to breathe. On the day that he had numbly filled the bathtub to the brim with water, he had decided to die with his favourite sweater on. He had pulled up the soft sleeves and run the blade across his wrists, blood colouring the water red. And then he had sat back and waited for the darkness to wrap around him, for death to finally take him into its arms, away, away, away from everything that hurt. He couldn’t remember sinking into the water. He must have lost consciousness before that. In this existence between life and death, or whatever it was he was experiencing, this punishment for trying to do whatever he had done wrong (everything), he wore the clothes he had worn on the day he had planned to die. His sweater was still as worn and soft as it had been on that day, but there were splotches of blood on the sleeves, stains he couldn’t make go away. It didn’t bother him too much. The sweater was still his favourite. Another day of avoiding his parents, another day of aimlessly wandering the halls of the hospital. Another day of wondering how it would have been to not be stuck like this, to have just died as he had wanted to. There were new flowers in his hospital room when he came back, a vibrant contrast to the white everything. He didn’t know what sort of flowers they were, but they were pretty. Oranges, reds, yellows. Bright. Happy. Hopeful. But Mark, when he entered through the door, looked crestfallen, eyes red and swollen. He made way for the chair beside the bed, sinking onto it and grabbing comatose-Donghyuck’s hand straight away. He brought it to his mouth, and Donghyuck could almost feel the touch of lips against his knuckles. Almost. “Please, Donghyuck, wake up,” he sobbed, cradling Donghyuck’s hand tightly between his as he let his head fall. His tears fell on the bedding. Donghyuck, standing by the flowers, so close to Mark, close enough to touch, longed to do so. He wanted to cry himself, seeing Mark like this. Who up there decided to make him suffer like this? What deity up there thought this was all right? Was there anyone up there, at all? Donghyuck’s prayers to a God he wanted to have faith in had never been answered, so, he supposed, maybe not. Or maybe he was just not worth it. (He wasn’t.) “Can’t you squeeze my hand back?” Mark sounded so frail, so distraught. “Or just wiggle your little finger. Something, Donghyuck, to let me – us – know that you’re still in there. That you’re not gone. Please, Donghyuck.” “Please don’t cry,” Donghyuck whispered, moving to stand beside Mark. He lifted his hand to Mark’s shoulder, but hesitated. He wanted so badly to touch Mark, but didn’t know if he could. He didn’t think he could touch anything else than inanimate objects. A stool, a table. Not humans. “Please, wake up,” Mark moaned. “Please, or they’re going to take you off life support. They’re going to let you die.” Donghyuck’s hand fell, missing Mark’s shoulder entirely. Oh. The doctors didn’t believe in a recovery. They had sat down with his parents just hours after stabilising his body to explain what brain-dead meant. His body could be kept alive probably for years, but he would not wake up, so it had been up to his parents to decide where to go from there. It would be better to let him pass, they had said. There was no reason to keep him like this. He wouldn’t wake up. But they had given his parents time to come to terms with everything, and had told no one else the details before a decision was made. Donghyuck hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did. After all, this was what he had wanted. Right? Alone in the hospital room with only his own body in the bed as company, he fought to breathe against the spikes of anxiety. There was no one to calm him, no one to tell him everything would be all right, no one to tell him to breathe, Donghyuck, just breathe with me. He tried to imagine his mother holding him, tried to imagine Mark telling him to breathe, tried to imagine him drawing shapes on his wrist to ground him whilst whispering, it’ll be okay, Hyuckie. The walls seemed to close in on him, and he sobbed, burying his face against his knees, covering his ears with his hands. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Just breathe. It took a day of evading everyone he loved, stuck in his head as he thought it all over, to, the next day, stay in the hospital room after noon. It took everything in him to not run out of the room, fought tooth and nail with himself to stay. He had to do this. His mother looked haunted, more frail than he remembered her, thinner, paler. His father looked much the same, dark circles underneath his eyes, a hunch in his shoulders, like he was moments away from crumpling under the weight of everything Donghyuck had done. His brother, his sweet brother, was already in tears when he entered the room with their parents. His hair was unkempt, and didn’t seem to care about his appearance at all. He looked exhausted. Donghyuck burst into tears within the first thirty seconds of laying eyes on them, of taking them in, and realising he was the reason they were like this. He was a terrible son. A terrible brother. He turned his back to them as he fought to breathe between the sobs, to get a hold of himself. “Hello, sweetheart,” his mother’s sweet voice sounded behind him, and he pressed his hand against his mouth to stifle another sob. Not that she would hear it. Not that anyone would. “How are you?” Donghyuck slowly sank into a crouch, hating himself for doing this to them and to himself. God, he had never hated himself more than right now. “We miss you,” said his father. “I hope you’re well, wherever you are now.” There was a pause, a breath. “We don’t want you in pain, Donghyuck-ah. You know that, right?” “We only want what’s best for you,” his mother continued, sounding close to tears herself. “And if… If that’s…” “We don’t want you to suffer like this,” said his father softly. “The doctors said to think about it, and we have, for more than a week. As parents, to have to sit down to make a decision like this… But if there’s nothing to be done, no hope for your future, we will not force you through it. We love you very much.” “Do you?” Donghyuck blurted, painfully aware that he would get no answer to his questions. “You’re giving up on me, aren’t you? You aren’t supposed to –” his voice broke, “– to give up on me. You’re my parents. You’re my family.” He whimpered. “You can’t give up on me.” But the anger was misplaced. He had done this, he had been the one to give up. Even as he said the words he knew how unfair it was of him, but damn it, he was so scared. “Please don’t hate us,” his brother sobbed, and Donghyuck lowered his head. He needed to see them, but working up the courage to turn around was no easy thing to do. He felt so guilty for making them cry. “Please, please don’t hate us.” “He won’t hate us, especially not you,” their father said gently. “I could never,” Donghyuck whispered, slowly turning around and looking up at them. He sat on the floor, watching his mother and brother cry, even his father. “I would never.” “If you can hear us, dear,” his mother said, holding Donghyuck’s hand tightly between hers, “please don’t feel sad. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel angry. Know that we’re not angry or disappointed with you. We love you, and if saying – if saying goodbye to you is what we must, we will. In return, promise us to find happiness wherever you end up. Promise us to try. I want you to be happy, sweetheart. We all do.” “I promise,” Donghyuck said brokenly, not bothering to wipe away his tears. “I love you. I love you, and I’m sorry. Promise me to be happy, too.” “We love you.” Time was ticking, but Donghyuck still had a few things left to do. He had to face everyone before there was no time left. After his parents, he waited for Jisung. He prayed for Jisung to come by his hospital room, just once more, so that he could apologise for everything he had put Jisung through. He couldn’t change the past, and Jisung wouldn’t be able to hear his apologies, but he had to do something. Thankfully, Jisung came over later that day, together with Jaemin and Chenle. Donghyuck realised he had less time than he had thought. Less than twenty-four hours before he could finally close his eyes and be free. Less than twenty-four hours before he had to let go of everyone he loved. Jaemin and Chenle stayed outside as Jisung took a seat next to the Donghyuck in the bed. He looked miserable, haggard. His voice cracked as he said, “Hyung.” “Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “I know you – you wanted to die, but I f-found you and – I couldn’t just let you die, hyung. I’m sorry, because now, because of me, you’re like this, and they’re going to let you die anyway, and – and –” “Jisung-ah,” Donghyuck said, but Jisung continued undeterred. “I don’t want to say goodbye, hyung,” he sobbed. “You’ve been such a good hyung to me and I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t leave me.” “I’m sorry,” Donghyuck whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you in time. I’m sorry I found you at all, when you didn’t want me to. I need –” he hiccupped, “– to say goodbye, I know. And I need to do it – now, because I can’t watch you die again. Please forgive me, but I just can’t be there tomorrow.” “I’m not mad,” Donghyuck said. “There’s nothing to forgive, because you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one needing forgiveness, from you. Everyone. I’m so fucking sorry that it was you who found me. I would have never wished that upon you. So forgive your undeserving hyung, if not today, or tomorrow, then sometime, after I’m gone. I hope the nightmares will release you soon, that the others will be there to make you smile again. I hate seeing you cry. “I’m so sorry, Jisung,” he whispered, wishing there was something he could do to comfort Jisung as he sobbed. “I hope you will forgive me.” He bid the others goodbye, as well, one by one. Everyone except Mark, for he was the only one amongst his friends who would be in the room with him when he passed. His mother, father, brother, and Mark. And a doctor and a nurse. Six people would be there with him in his last moments. He couldn’t remember ever crying this much. There had been bad – horrible even – days in the past where he had hidden in a corner or buried himself in his bed and cried until his head hurt and his eyes were sore. His head didn’t hurt now, nor were his eyes sore, but he knew, still, that he had never shed this many tears in less than twenty-four hours. It hurt to say goodbye like this. It hurt to say goodbye to people he had always adored and looked up to, people who couldn’t hear him, didn’t know he was there with them while they said their parting words and cried with him. Considering he had tried to leave them without any words of goodbye at all, this was a bittersweet curse. He hated himself for causing them so much grief, but he was also relieved to finally find peace. This kind of existence where he was only himself, forced to look at everyone from another world – it was painful. He was happy it would be over soon. No matter what he did, there would be regrets left behind, regrets he would carry with him to death. Regrets he would hopefully not have to shoulder in a new life. He regretted letting everyone around him down, regretted putting them through this torture of not knowing what would happen to him, regretted not telling Mark his true feelings, regretted not getting the chance to actually be with them one last time. He regretted saying goodbye like this, when this existence of him didn’t exist for them. He wouldn’t regret dying. He loved them all, and knew, despite everything, they loved him. But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. They weren’t enough. He hated that, knowing nothing of it was enough – but. He was so tired. He just wanted this to be over. In the dark hours, he sat in the corner, watching his own form on the bed while flexing his fingers, over and over. Waiting for a reaction from his physical form. Kind of almost hoping for a reaction. Something to tie him to the comatose-Donghyuck on the bed. (Trying his damned hardest to wake up, wake up, wake up, to make his physical body do something. Something to convince him he wasn’t a lost cause, that he wasn’t brain-dead. After all, he was fine like this, wasn’t he? How could he be brain-dead when this existence of him was fine?) He screamed. Once. Twice. Too many times to count. He grabbed at things, to no avail. He wasn’t able to throw them. They were stuck in another dimension, another time. He was trapped in this existence. The sun was peering through the window by the time he had finally given up, head thrown against the wall as he cried. He cried until his family entered the room, and then he started screaming again. No reaction. Nothing. He collapsed against the wall, sobbing together with his parents and brother who didn’t know he was here with them. Eventually, Mark came around. Donghyuck’s hysterics had reduced to soft sniffles, and he looked up when he entered, looking crushed. Donghyuck’s mother, upon noticing him, rushed over and pulled him into her arms, which broke the fragile mask Mark had put on. He returned the embrace, sobbing against her shoulder and apologising for acting like this when it was their son – She just shushed him, silent tears trailing down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare apologise, dear. Bawl your heart out if you need to. This is just as hard for you as it is for us.” Mark had nothing to say to that. Donghyuck’s brother came over to join the hug, and eventually Donghyuck’s father also moved to comfort the trio. While it pained him to see his family and dearest friend suffer like this, he was comforted to know they could support each other. They didn’t move for a while. Donghyuck didn’t know how long it was before a nurse peeked inside to see how they were doing, and his father cleared his throat. His mother wiped her eyes, smiling valiantly at Mark and Donghyuck’s brother. “It will be okay,” she assured them, even if her eyes were tearing up again. The doctor entered with the nurse behind her. Donghyuck joined his family and Mark, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater as he looked at himself in the bed. He wished they didn’t have to say goodbye to him when he looked like this. “We will turn off the respirator,” the doctor explained kindly. “Mr. Lee is not able to breathe on his own, so when we turn off the machine, it will be a few minutes before his heart stops. I assure you that he will not suffer through this. When you are ready, we will proceed.” “We just need a few minutes,” Donghyuck’s father said. “You can stay. We just need to say goodbye.” The doctor nodded, stepping back together with the nurse. “We love you,” Donghyuck’s mother said, squeezing Donghyuck’s physical hand. Donghyuck fisted his hand, wishing he could’ve touched her one last time. He was crying again, but he was calmer than he had been earlier. He supposed he was ready. As ready as he could be. “I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t know how many times he’d said that, only that he hadn’t said it enough. It would never be enough. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you about… about everything,” Mark said quietly. “I don’t know if it could have helped, and I probably shouldn’t wonder… But I can’t help it. I can’t help but wonder about every little thing I did and said, every little thing I didn’t do and didn’t say. I will miss you dearly, my friend.” “I will miss you, too,” Donghyuck said, “and I’m sorry, too.” His brother was crying, but he managed to say between his sobs, “I’ll miss you, hyung. Please be happy.” “I’ll try,” Donghyuck whispered. “We will always love you,” his father said, patting comatose-Donghyuck’s shoulder. “And we won’t forget you. Everything will be all right, I promise you.” There was a minute where no one said anything, and then Donghyuck’s mother straightened her back and nodded at the doctor, holding a hand to her mouth. Donghyuck’s father pulled her into his arms as the doctor and the nurse stepped forward. Donghyuck spent his last minutes walking up to each of them and hugging them. They may not feel it, like he couldn’t feel them, but he felt a little better. His tears wouldn’t stop, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that everyone he loved would finally be able to let go and move on, and he wouldn’t be stuck like this anymore. “Be happy,” he whispered. “Please.” He was, in the end, surrounded by those he loved the most. It felt, in ways, better than dying alone in a bathtub. God, it hurt, but there was something about them being there that eased the pain a little. He attempted a smile through his tears, didn’t quite succeed, but that didn’t matter. He was trying. The last thing he heard, before he died, was quiet. Peaceful, blessed quiet.

#haha i wonder if anyone will read this #nct imagines #haechan #haechan scenarios #haechan imagines #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct scenarios #nct angst

[myaekingheart]

55. Dorimuchimu

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3

index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

I've said it once, I've said it twice, I've said it a thousand fucking times That I'm OK, that I'm fine, that it's all just in my mind But this has got the best of me, and I can't seem to sleep It's not 'cause you're not with me, it's 'cause you never leave -It Never Ends, Bring Me The Horizon

               Four days had passed before Rei had the courage to face Naru again. She awoke far too early with a fire in her belly, an anxiety, that she needed to quench. Without a second of hesitation, she slipped on her shoes and raced toward the cemetery.

               It was ANBU custom that a shinobi destroy their body before death so as to prevent the enemy from getting ahold of valuable information. After all, you can glean just as much from a dead body as you can a living one. Therefore, Naru was never even buried but rather memorialized in some sort of bogus mock grave. Quite frankly, it made Rei sick but she presumed she would rather have a fake grave than nothing at all. It took her some time to actually find it but when she did, she immediately realized how terrible of a decision she had made.

               Despite there not even being a body, she felt as if she had to tread carefully so as to not stand directly over where Naru’s corpse would’ve been. She swore she had heard something somewhere about that being bad, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was bad luck. Whatever. It wasn’t important. She knelt down before the gravestone, her fingers tracing over her etched name, and then slapped her hand hard in hopes of waking up from this terrible nightmare. It was too surreal, none of this could possibly be happening. Maybe if she just squeezed her eyes shut tight enough and said a bunch of words backwards, she would reverse time and Naru would come bounding up behind her with that new hairstyle she was contemplating. They would stop for food and laugh and gossip and everything would be as it was once more. But that was stupid. No amount of wishing was ever going to change things back. Death was finite, irrevocable. There was nothing she could do.

               She couldn’t tell whether it had been hours or mere minutes when a voice suddenly spoke to her from behind. “Fancy seeing you here, Carrots” it called, and Rei recognized it immediately. She turned slowly, catching Sekkachi staring down at her. Backlit by a blinding sun, she looked almost demonic.

               “Can I not pay my respects?” Rei said sourly as she turned back around. She caught Sekkachi approach in her periphery and set a small bouquet of flowers down before the grave. They knelt there in silence for a long while, an uneasiness hanging in the air. Without Naru to bind them, Rei and Sekkachi felt out of place and awkward. “It still doesn’t feel real” Rei murmured, breaking the silence. “None of this feels real.”

               “Yeah, well, get used to it” Sekkachi spat. Despite the hostility of her words, there was a fragile undercurrent to her tone. Defeatist, cynical, heartbroken.

               Rei shook her head, an airy laugh breaking past her lips. “To think, we were the strongest kunoichi team of our generation…”

               “The Dream Girls” Sekkachi replied, slightly bitter.

               “Dorimuchimu” Rei said. That word held so much weight to it, so much meaning both positive and negative. She wondered how Chikara-sensei felt about all of this. Losing one of your students, even if they had long ago graduated from your tutelage, no doubt stung. If they could only go back to those old days when they were young and naïve, so full of life and high spirits. The weight of other’s harsh criticism didn’t feel quite so heavy. They were destined to fail, and yet exceeded every expectation.

               An all-girls team can’t possibly get any work done, they would say. They’re so weak. That’s too much estrogen for one team. It was a wonder none of them ever quit, but they all had their reasons to pursue a career like this. And they had Chikara: a powerhouse of a woman, tall and thick and tan. She accepted them as if they were her own children. Whatever their faults in the personal sphere didn’t matter. The only thing that was important now was teamwork, and damn were they a perfect combination. The very things that people argued would destine them for failure only contributed to their success. Tiny Rei was the sly spy, chatty Naru the intelligent deceiver, and aggressive Sekkachi the brute force. Soon their names were known across the five great nations: Chikara’s Dream Girls. Short-lived ecstasy.

               “Feels so anticlimactic” Rei murmured, reminiscing about it all. “Falling apart like this.”

               “No” Sekkachi countered, “No, we fell apart way before any of this.” As much as she respected the good things, Sekkachi was not blind to the reality of their formation. They were little girls with power, but also imperfections. That was the trouble with growing up—it also entailed growing apart and growing against. The very things that strengthened them as comrades only weakened them as friends. They were destined to fail from the very start.

               It was true that their progress, as well, was a point of contention. Where Rei and Naru excelled into the ANBU, Sekkachi was never given the privilege. Lord Third only ever promoted her as far as “specialized jonin,” which for all intents and purposes didn’t mean shit. Just a coat of gold paint on a cheap plastic knock off as if to make it feel shiny and worthwhile. In the end, it didn’t mean anything.

               Rei shook her head. “Don’t say that” she whispered. “Something like that would make Naru mad.”

               “Well, Naru isn’t here anymore, Rei!” Sekkachi suddenly exploded, leaping to her feet. “It’s not like she can hear us!” Taken aback, Rei turned to her slowly, her heart pounding. Sekkachi’s face was growing redder by the second. She was teetering on the verge of madness after having held herself back for far too long.

               “Sekkachi, please….” Rei whispered, slowly standing herself. She really didn’t want to do this. Not right now. “This isn’t the right place to argue—”

               “As if it’s your place to say!” Sekkachi shouted. “If it wasn’t for you, Naru would still be here!”

               Her words were like a kunai to the chest. Rei staggered backwards, suddenly breathless. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Her entire body went numb. After a few moments of gasping and glitchy recalculating, she finally choked out, “I-I didn’t mean to…”

               Sekkachi balled up her fist and for a moment Rei was certain she was going to strike her. However, a softness slowly filled her eyes and she began to lower her hand. “That doesn’t mean anything” Sekkachi growled. Her voice quaked, and for the first time in a long time she was holding back tears. “You don’t get a free pass by saying sorry. I want you to live with the guilt of what you’ve done every single day for the rest of your miserable life.”

               Now Rei was fighting back tears. She clenched her fists at her sides so hard, her nails dug deep into her palms. A lump rose in her throat and the earth began to swing back and forth beneath her feet. “I know…I know…I wish it had been me instead. It should’ve been me…oh god, it should’ve been me…”

               “Your tears aren’t going to help you win my sympathy, Rei” Sekkachi snapped. “I refuse to sit by and watch you get everything you ever wanted while having stolen this from me.” She gestured to Naru’s grave, and a sickening fear began to well up inside of Rei.

               “W-what do you mean…?” the redhead asked, though she was terrified of the answer. She wasn’t stupid. She could make the inferences. All the pieces of this tragic puzzle began coming together in her head and it only added to the crushing weight.

               Sekkachi sniffled and tried to act tough, unaffected, but was failing. “I had plans, you know” she said. “I had things I wanted, too. A happy life. Good future. Loving relationship. But the one person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was too much of a fucking coward to confess to. And now…now it’s too fucking late!”—here, she kicked the small bouquet of flowers she had placed by Naru’s grave. “She’s gone and there’s nothing I can fucking do about it!”

               The sky was spinning. This was so much worse than she expected. Rei gasped for breath, trying to make sense of everything. Her entire world felt like one bizarre dream where nothing made sense and everything was fake. “Y-you mean…the bookshop…and—”

               “Yes, you fucking idiot!” Sekkachi screamed. “It was Naru! It was all for fucking Naru! And now she’s motherfucking gone, and I’ll never be able to tell her how much my stupid ass fucking loved her, and there’s nothing I can do about it!” At this point, there was no holding back now. The dam had broken and tears were spilling down Sekkachi’s face. It was the most raw and gruesome display of emotion Rei had ever seen her express in public, if not in the entire course of their friendship. She gripped her stomach, tugging at the chub on her sides, and shrieked in agony. “This is all your fucking fault!”

               “I’m sorry! I’m sorry…I’m so fucking sorry…” Rei wailed, falling to her knees. She curled up on the ground, pressing a hand to Naru’s gravestone in hopes that perhaps wherever her spirit was, it would flutter down to bring them peace or reassurance or some other poetic bullshit she knew wasn’t actually attainable.

               Sekkachi knelt down and grabbed Rei by her shirt collar, a tearful anger overflowing from inside of her. Through clenched teeth, she growled, “Sorry isn’t going to bring her back to me.” Then she tossed Rei back into the ground and walked off feeling dirty and disgusting and depressed.

               Rei gripped the grass as she watched her leave, feeling the natural little bugs of the terrain crawl through her tangled hair and across her fingers. Something inside of her was dying, rancid and raw, threatening to overtake her entire body. Her forearms itched for something sharp, some way to drain herself of this darkness, but she was too worn down to move. She would just have to suffer through the hunger. She turned to the sky and stared directly at the sun until black spots clouded her vision, then pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and whispered, “It never ends…it never ends…”

#kakashi hatake #rei natsuki #the scarecrow and the bell #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Lola Thomas

Will she friend us on Facebook yet? Lola has been accepted! Send in your blog and faceclaim!

out of character info

Name/Alias: lexi (yeah im gonna try this again because looks like the negativity is GONE. BLESS.)

Pronouns: she/her

Age: 18

Join Our Discord: Yeaaaah

Timezone: central

Activity: 7 ( i do work so activity will prolly bump before 2pm and after 8pm lmao )

Triggers: nada

Password: jimmy can fast pass my ass ;))

Character that you’re applying for: Lola Thomas

Favourite ships for your character: going in this with a clean slate so try and give me a favorite ship? ’,:)

in character info

Full name: Lola Diane Thomas

Birthday: May 20th.

Sexuality, gender, pronouns: pansexual, female, she/her

Age and grade: 16 (almost 17) && senior.

Faceclaim: Taylor Hill

Appearance:

Head: Lola is what you call a tall glass of water. She’s refreshingly attractive. Her eyes are neither blue or green but a weird combination of the two colors, making them pop against her naturally darkened complexion. Her hair is soft and wavy and like to tangle near the ends by the time Lola is out of school and on the way to work. It’s color likes to change with the rare sunlight, meaning if she is outside in the sun all day every day natural highlights will appear in her honey chestnut tresses. Her nose is like a little button that deserves to be booped constantly. Her lips are full and plump- to that she owes genetics. Lola believes it is her only good trait.

Body: A natural looker. She stands at about 5'8, so be prepared if you’re tiny. She will tower you with her legs for DAYS.  She doesn’t have particularly large assets but they are there. And it’s a nice handful on either side of the equator. You just gotta look for them behind her non-stop barrage of sweaters. She likes to say she has a white girl booty- its cute && snooty. Her shoulders and cheeks are very, very, lightly dusted in freckles you can only see in the winter. Despiter her tall figure, Lola is NOT a bean pole, she’s slim thicccc weighing about 145 pounds and it’s not in her face.

Style: Lola dresses like she lives in Goodwill, trendy and thrifty. She would kill for knee socks and button up blouses. She aims to look like ‘The classic look of a teenager in the 90’s’. Her shoes will never don a heel for she believes she is 'too tall’ for them. She likes to keep a mellow color scheme for all her clothing items. Tan, green, white. Sometimes she looks like the first instagram post you see tagged * v i n t a g e. *

Personality: 

First off let’s get this straight, with Lola it’s not a personality but more of how she adopts a personality to fit each social clique she is suckered into that day. If you dig deeep deeeeeep down pass the meme references and pop culture shout outs- she’s awfully shy and hates making the first move in ANY kind of situation. She is sympathetic to most of the problems she hears- other than relationship ones. What’s a feeling for someone else other than your cat? She doesn’t get it. Skittish doesn’t even cover how much of a fraidy cat she is.. One little boo when she’s not expecting it is enough to get Lola to shriek and jump three feet into the air. She does have a nuturing instinct, finding it rather difficult to see anyone lonely or upset.

Once you get to know Lola, she is a sweetheart with a soul of gold. She would freeze in the frigid temperatures to keep her friend warm. She’s the girl who will sneak you into her house so you dont have to go home if you’re scared too or can’t. She is quite snarky however- as if a dam broke and every witty thought ever spun in her head rushes out. Once you get her talking about something she is personally interested in, good luck shutting her up. Lola is also a very superstitious person. Never one too step on a crack or split a pole. Her biggest quirk would have to be her need for reassurance that her jokes are funny. She thinks of herself as a comedian but is already sure everyone thinks she is trying too hard. She is a rather dull girl on the outside, moody and solemn. But if you can crack into her cold shell there’s an ooey gooey sweetness inside. Lola is often easily upset- movies to road kill make her tear up. Anytime she even gets mad the salry reminders if her lameness well up in her eyes. And that only pisses her off more.

Despite having a cool exterior she can and will snap- just push the right buttons. 

History:

Lola wouldnt deem herself an outcast yet she would always feel that way. Whether she was cheering with the girls or writing lists with Jenny, her feelings were uncontrollable. Her anxiety makes it impossible to determine if someone is being nice to her or if they have a plot to harm her. In middle school, Lola secretly dreamt of becoming a goth kid- going as far as painting her nails black for two years. But her fears never made her set out to do it. Plus everyone was a little then so isn’t that technically confirming? Her school work was the only thing Lola was ever certain in. Work was easy, you couldn’t fuck it up by being a complete oddball. It was practically memorization. After starting high school, Lola was practically a wallflower. Hell she was the wall and the flower all wrapped in one. She dropped every friendship and dedicated herself to her studies and her pets. After she got a job she was allowed to have them finally and her fur babies were the only things she cared about truly and deeply. For they could never hate their mother.

Things were always tough for Lola, socially or economically, but that didn’t mean her childhood sucked. It just meant instead of a Barbie dreamhouse for Christmas she got the summer edition Barbie. Not a house. Just the doll. Jealousy is an emotion often clouding her anxieties and judgement on people. It caused her to lose her best friend since.. Well, as long as she could remember. Lola grew jealous and almost possessive over Jenny. She probably didn’t mean too but when she saw Jenny getting along with people when she couldnt caused a burning rage to settle in her chest. It got so bad Lola didnt even speak to anyone for a week before blowing up and ruining her only real friendship.

Just because she looks innocent doesn’t mean the brunette is. There are probably a few flat tires and keyed cars residing in South Park that are Lola’s own doing. Not to mention she is a total bystander. You wanna skip school? Cool, yeah I’ll watch for a teacher. You wanna smoke pot in the bathroom? It’s all good as long as she gets a hit. These are all childish 'bad behaviors’ but as Lola sees it, there’s no point in trying that hard to be bad. After all the one time she tried it, the poor thing almost died from hypothermia after blindly listening to a slumber party dare.

You aren’t supposed to sneak out in slumber parties. Or streak in Wal-Mart. Or jump of a bridge into negative temp waters. But these are all things Lola did too prove she was cool. And it ended up with her grounded, being hospitalised for pneumonia, and gaining a large fear of heights. And a hatred for party games.

Sample paragraph:

Of course, it was another cold blustery day. Chestnut tresses fluttered in front of her sight along the whole way home, it didn’t matter how many times she forcefully blew the bangs out of her face- they always flopped back down. Numbing fingers clutched tighter to the soft cloth lining of her jacket pockets. The index fingers and thumbs of both hands pinching at the materiel. Gosh- why is it always freezing? Dull orbs flittered around the blank scenery of the all too familiar path from her house to the school. The only sounds Lola could hear were the crunching of her flats against the snow and the wind whipping furiously around her. Boring. It was all white and boring. Lola was tired of being bored. She imagined that would be the only feeling she could muster for the rest of her life and it made the corners of her glossed lips tug down.

She shook her head as if to clear the thoughts instantly, humming a tune to distract herself as she continued on her trek.

One step, two step, three step…

…Sixteenth step-

Lola really needed a friend. A small sigh lifted her chest and as it billowed past her mouth she noticed movement in her peripherals. Was she really looking down this whole time like an idiot? How embarrassing! She clenched her hands into fists, further rumpling the jacket from its own pockets. Avoiding any kind of eye contact she swayed over to the side near the street and hurried her steps along. Too fast to count now. She passed the figure and her hands slowly unfurled. The blood rushing to her digits made them quite warm and her face flushed as well. God she was awkard.

Just as she thought she was in the clear, Lola felt a tap on her shoulder and her heart stuttered in its cavity as she stumbled to a stop. Fuck.

Headcanons:

🌟 owns a bike but rarely rides it.

🌟 has one cat- a black kitten named sparrow.

🌟 also two rats- yin and yang which are little chocolate colored sisters.

🌟 3.8 GPA

🌟 wants to learn french

🌟 owns a polaroid camera kinda girl

🌟 gardens in her free time

Anything else:

Im really insecure so if it takes me time to reply its cuz im demeaning myself and my baby and my words. 

#accepted #submission

[raevenlywrites]

Excerpt Tag

Thanks for the tag @converginglives I like this idea of expanding the last line tag, since we all kinda bend the rules on it anyways :P I’m tagging back @cirianne @oceanwriter and @silvertalonwriteblr

I’m also tagging my update list, cause this is a pretty lengthy bit: @chaos-reign  @ageekyreader @merigreenleaf @a-sundeen

In honor of Seth’s birthday, I’m posting my favorite chapter from Asylum’s first draft. I did a series of dreams/memories of Seth’s while trying to figure out who he was a character vs. who Naj was, how they interacted in the past, and so on. It’s a loooooong one, so I’m tossing it under a cut, and I don’t remember if it’s spoilery or not, so read at your own risk if you care about that sort of thing.

He scowled at the figured curled up on the sand before him. He couldn't be mad at him, but he was still so full of anger and hurt, even after giving everything he had in the whispering dark. Why were the negative emotions always the first to return? Why couldn't he recall his mother's face, his cousin's laughter, a kind word, a sunny day? It was always the things he tried to keep buried that rose to the surface first. He sat down in the white sand, hurling a handful of sparks to call a fire into life before him. He watched the shadows play across his sleeping companion, wondering if he should wake him. He never rested, never slept, and something about watching the other man lay there made him want to shake him. He didn't feel like himself at all. He was usually so much better at keeping his calm. He turned his gaze to the waxing moon, days away from zenith. The desert always seemed so haunted beneath the silvery light, but it was preferable to the empty stretches of darkness left when il'li Dareiya turned her face away. Balance. Where was his balance? He searched the goddess's face for answers, but she was as empty and silent as he.

He turned back to the crackling fire, willing the heat to seep into him, to chase away the chill from his bones. Funny, but he never seemed to feel the cold of the Whispering Dark before. Numb, yes, empty, yes, but never the cold. Could it be the hawk?

And what was he going to do with her? She was clearly not the devious raptor spell caster she might have seemed—no, it appeared she knew just enough to be a danger to herself and those around her. And he'd shown her how to add more fuel to the fire. What a mess. With a sigh, Naj pushed himself to his feet, deliberately divorcing himself from the tangle of thoughts and memories he should be putting to order. Let Seth do it, when he finally woke. The man never slept, and Naj didn't have it in his heart to wake him, no matter how angry with him he was. But he wasn't of a mind to Seth's work for him, either. He turned away and walked out of the desert without a backward glance.

–

The earth pressed close and cold around them. The smell of an extinguished torch was an acrid tickle at the edge of the shadows. He longed for a fire, but he knew why Aezir held their magic closed tight against them. Just a little longer, a few more days in the darkness, and the danger would be past. He hoped. They'd already gone so deep into the tunnels, flushed out of every corner they'd found to hide in...

A stern cough brought Seth from his fear, and he wrapped himself tighter around Naj, even as Aezir shifted his foot to brush against Seth's leg. The long hours without contact from his nest was taking its toll. Not to mention the eerily silent dark.

He knew they were dead. Anyone who had not fled like they had were certainly smoldering in the remains of the temple above. How ironic that the Ahn'Ki Dai had been burned out of their stronghold. Perhaps that biting smell was more than just the torch.

Seth tossed in his sleep as the fire popped on the sand beside him. One memory of flames gave way to another, a long line of unbroken pain smoldering in his mind.

-

They were coming, and Master isn't here. Why had he left him behind?

The Dai was fallen, there was nothing left to protect, nothing left to fear. So why had he been left with the nest, when Master marched off to war? Because there was still a war to fight, even with the temple razed. Their enemies would not stop until everything was s'Era, lost to the shadows.

This nest was nothing but shadows. Children of the gods, left to scrabble and fend for themselves in the ruins of a broken world. There had been power here, once. It had never been paradise, but it had been ours, and we will have it again...

A mind brushed over his, and he shrunk away, pulling deeper into himself as he went serpent still, willing himself to be silent, unnoticed.

-

Why were the raptors always so agitated?

Or, more importantly, why were they the ones sent to tend the ill? He was certain he'd fare much better with quiet, a serpent nursemaid, and the chance to simply sleep.

But rough arms were around him, forcing him to sit up and drink. The herbs were suspended in what felt like raw power, and he sputtered and gagged on the strength of the spirit.

The falcon swore at him, called him an ignorant hatchling as she rushed to clean the mess from her skin. What could they possibly fear from touching something they expected him to drink? But it was true, under all the prickly agitation and the hot anger, there was a thread of fear.

He took what little energy he had and wrapped the remains of the potion in a venom crystal. He spat the little pearly lump out onto the bed and covered it with his hand.

-

He gritted his teeth in an attempt to stifle his growing agitation as Sioban calmly batted his spell away, again. They'd been at it for what felt like days, and the only thing he'd set on fire was the room around him. The smothering heat surely was not helping his mood.

But they could not leave until burned away the spelled rope that bound her, proving him an acceptable student and her a capable teacher.

“It's still lacking substance, naja. Just get angry already and try to burn me, will you? I assure you, your little fireballs will have no effect on me.”

The golden hawk met his gaze with an almost bored nonchalance, but he could tell she was losing her patience. Had she never worked with serpent-kin before? If so, she was failing this test as surely as he. Her emotions were plastered across her aura, digging and niggling at him every time he tried to hold a thought. She angry, aggravated, impatient, haughty—everything he'd come to expect from raptor-kin. But laying over it all like a slick mildew was fear. He never seen that in a raptor's aura. Never. It was the first thing they learned to hide as children, and the last thing they'd ever admit to feeling. How precarious was her position that the clearly high-born hawk hen was all but sweating her fear?

It wasn't him—most of the raptors had hardly given him any notice when he'd traveled with his father to the h'somu of the D'ahnkkhna priesthood to establish peaceful intent. Only the serpent-kin of the mixed group would speak to them, after the initial presentation, and Seth was certain it was only their constant guard that had granted them entrance to towering mountain stronghold at all. No, none of the feathered folk he'd encountered then or now had paid him any mind—so what was Sioban afraid of?

He couldn't attack her, not like this. He couldn't strike at anyone resonating so strongly with fear. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself up from the cross-legged position he'd been instructed to sit in and climbed down from his raised dais. As he approached hers, the hawk froze, not even a hissed breath marring her perfect stillness.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Seth stilled, not the motionless terror that she was caught in, but the quiet emptiness that all serpents could assume. He counted heartbeats, one, two, three, until taking another step forward. Her wrists surged against the bonds pinning her to the altar, eyes growing to show whites all the way around, but still she did not breathe. Was she drawing power?

Still, Seth could not raise a hand against her, even if she claimed it was the only route to free them both. He could not, and would not do it, so instead of sending another ungrounded surge of flame to lick uselessly at the walls, he'd resolved to try something different.

“Don't touch me!”

The desperate shriek that pierced the silence send prickles racing along Seth's skin to tighten in painful gooseflesh. She was terrified, and not even trying to hide it any longer as she writhed against the bonds she knew she could not break. Her breath returned to her in ragged, rapid gasps, and her wild eyes now squeezed tightly shut against the coming inevitability.

What inevitability? What does she know that I do not?

He drew a long breath, willing it to be steady and strong against the bitter tang of her panic. He took another,and another, trying to drain the room of her desperation, trying to impose his calm over it, trying to find balance in his soul against the terrified pounding of her heart.

“What are you so afraid of?”

It was a question never asked of any avian, and it was barely asked now. Seth could not bring his voice to anything louder than the brush of a whisper, but her eyes flew open and locked on him just the same. They stared at each other for a moment, his confusion and her fear both wore open and naked between them, then her words came in a babbling rush as the dam of her resolve broke.

“Don't you know what they want to do with us? Don't you know why we're here? Monsters, they're all monsters, and they want to make more of the same. What they want—it's madness, nothing but madness! They'll take us back to the burning times, to those savage wars—there won't be a single feather or scale left unsigned—they can't be allowed to do this!”

Her babbling broke off into a cascade of prayer, a rush of words in the old tongue that Seth could barely understand. They'd been forbidden to speak it outside of a set circle, didn't she know that, for fear the power they could accidentally call. But the words of flight and grace and mercy she summoned never came, despite the desperation in her pleas. The only answer was a falling of darkness complete, the sound of steel on stone, and the wet gurgle as her prayer broke off and winged its way to the heavens.

-

Music drifted over the white sand, a tinkling of sound as faint and distant as the starlight. It came on a small wind, gentle and warm as a mother's kiss. Seth's hair ruffled in the breeze, air cooling the sweat on his brow. The tension in his face eased, and the campfire beside him quieted to a bed of banked coals.

-

There was always fire burning in the big pit in the middle of the long house, no matter how hot it was outside. Even if it was a simple bed of coals, buried under a fine layer of ash, the fire was never allowed to completely burn out.

He sat before the pit, little face screwed up in concentration. He could feel the fire beneath the ashes, but he had no idea how to call it. It was fire. It didn't listen. It didn't come bounding gleefully into the room when you whistled, didn't alight on an arm held out to the sky, didn't beg for fish scraps when it followed you to the river. It was fire.

And yet, his mother said this was his lesson for the day. Call the fire. She sat at the far end of the long room, calmly working at her loom, seeming to ignore him. He knew better—den'Shelena saw everything. Like the great eye of Dareiya herself, mother's namesake, the moon saw day and night alike, in darkness and light. Nothing was hidden from her.

But the fire remained hidden from him. He wanted to cry. Wanted to yell at the fire, to kick and rage and command it to rise, as he'd learned to command his scales. Was that the trick to it? Did he need to touch his serpent self?

Tentatively, he let a ripple of pale scales slide over his hand. His mother coughed, and he jerked back, tucking his hand guiltily behind him. But she kept weaving, picking up a shuttle of crimson thread, and he turned back to the fire. His hand was sheathed in red scales now, and when his mother remained silent, he reached out and brushed the ashes from the coals.

-

Mother had taught him to be very, very careful of his manners.

All growing up, hours in the long house had been spent practicing greetings and gestures, the languages of their neighbors, along with the dances and magics and stories of their own people. He felt confident he could handle anything, even with his adult's wrappings still unfinished on his mother's loom. Surely it was long enough by now?

But even without the ceremonial garment, his parents had agreed that he should travel with his father's group to the h'somu Danhkkhna. It was probably better this way, actually, because dressed in the wrappings of a child, his mistakes could be more easily forgiven—Oh yes, overhearing that little bit of conversation had done wonders for his meditation, practicing to clamp his aura down tight so as not to offend their avian neighbors with his emotions.

And what of their offense to him, hmm? Why should he have to pretend to be something he was not, cut away a part of him so precious, so as not to be seen as improper? What exactly was proper about pretending not to be moved by the world around him? Mother said it would be a different story if they were coming to the longhouse—but of course, that would never happen. If a leh'Danhkkhna'ra came here, it would be a serpent member of their ranks. And even that was unlikely—why visit a small village on the borders of leshkan and lefu holdings, instead of visiting their respective strongholds?

And yet lah'Seth was expected to make the journey to the h'somu. And his son was expected to come with him.

But we don't even want to be a kingdom, he'd complained to this mother. Why do we have to act like one?

Because we want the right not to be a kingdom, she'd answered, and left the longhouse without another word.

She wouldn't return for another three days. And by then, he was finally emptied of everything.

-

Hannah was a piece of the sunlight itself.

Her mother, h'eija of the priesthood was even more radiant, shining with a light that came from within, but Hannah was still young enough that she merely glowed with power, rather than blazed.

Her golden wings had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Standing behind her mother's seat, an intricately carved stool with no back that let her wings spread wide behind her, Hannah was almost lost in the golden haze. She held herself so perfectly straight and still, he had wondered if she were part of the carvings. Though, honestly, he'd wondered that about everyone in the room. They could be standing in audience before an assembly of statues, cold jewels and precious metals wrought into the image of living beings, but completely devoid of life.

Then Hannah had shifted, ever so slightly, to get a better look at their party.

He wouldn't have noticed it, except for the small flash of light as her mother's blaze reflected off a razor-edged feather in Hannah's wing. He told her this as they lunched on the balcony, after the formal introductions were over. She'd been dying to know what had draw his attention to her, over all the glittering throng of the priesthood. She'd stood perfectly patient throughout the rest of the audience, and even kept up the image of polite but detached interest through most of lunch. But finally, her curiosity got the better of her, and it had colored her aura with the slightest of tint. In a serpent, it would have gone completely unnoticed. But it was the first inkling of emotion he'd gotten off of any of these cold, beautiful people, and he'd pounced on it without a thought.

He'd apologized profusely, but that slip had allowed Hannah to finally breathe, and for the rest of the afternoon, they'd talked quietly and still politely about each others peoples, but he had finally felt like he was talking to another living person, and it had done much to put him at ease.

He thought of the little golden girl for weeks afterwards, a million questions he'd wished he'd been brave enough ask niggling at him in the night. Don't you get lonely, locked in your own skin like that? What's it like, being groomed to rule but not knowing for a certainty that it will be your duty? How do you work so closely with serpents and not laugh or cry or yell like they do? Why had our parents talked of allegiances, and fealties, and duties?

Are we going to be enemies some day?

-

Bird passed him another stone, and he hurled it violently into the river. It didn't skip lightly, as all of Bird's had, and he didn't care. He hadn't wanted to play this stupid game in the first place. Bird sighed and heaved to his feet, popping his back with a stretch.

“Alright, rei'shkan, let's have it. You've taken enough of your rage out on the river. Time to talk.”

He scowled and thought about throwing himself in the river, but he knew Bird would never let him hear the end of it if he had to half-drown himself saving his best friend.

“I don't want any of it, Bird. You know that.”

“Aaand?”

That man had no sympathy. And he had to admit, Bird was fully a man now. Sometime over the summer, when he had been in the mountains, his friend had grown up without him. Why he had had to go and Bird had been allowed to stay, he didn't understand. Bird's second form actually bore the mark of the king cobra. Who cared that he himself was technically closer to the royal line? Who cared about royalty this far out into the woods anyways? The fact that Bird still called him simply rei'shkan, cobra, was probably the only reason he hadn't slipped his guard and cousin and went off to brood on his own. reijye Xane Kismeron lah'Seth'ra felt less like an actual name than it ever had, and more and more like the ropes he knew it to be. Whether harness or noose, he hadn't yet decided.

Bird poked him in the back with the butt of his spear, earning his lanky cousin a growl. Bird only met it with a snort.

“Brooding's done now, unless you want to go to be the h'somu and join the priesthood. I'm sure they could use another savage to watch over their little hatchlings.”

With the fluid grace and alarming speed of his animal form, he sprang from the ground and punched Bird firmly in the face.

“Don't talk about Hannah!”

Bird looked up the dirt, crooked grin on his face, blood trickling down his chin.

“Finally, he speaks.”

He didn't answer, fine tremors running through his limbs. If he spoke now, he would burn his cousin alive. Or pound his head into the dirt until his brains spilled out. Or both. His cobra temper had finally had enough.

Bird pushed himself into a sitting position, but otherwise didn't move. He wouldn't be the one to start this fight. Any more than he'd already done with his words.

“If she's that important to you, do something about it.”

Apparently, Bird didn't feel he'd said his piece yet. It was all he could do to calm his own anger, so he remained silent. Bird took that for an invitation to continue.

“You're of royal blood, lah'Seth'ra. It may not count for much among our fathers, but the h'somu thought enough of it to invite you over me. You're eligible for the priesthood, the real priesthood, and not just some glorified baby sitting job.” After a slight pause to taste the air, he added, “You could work together, as equals. H'il'li.”

Finally, he was calmed enough to speak.

“You know I can't, Bird. I don't have a twin, like my father. The line is completely dependent on me. My threads haven't been on Fate's shuttle for a long time. I'm already locked by weave and weft. And what has been woven can't be unthreaded without tearing apart all else, the good and the bad.”

“And why must they be unraveled?” Bird said immediately, giving him no quarter. “It is you that hold to them, not the other way around. Let them go, and dance.”

It was so easy for his cousin. Bird would never be expected to lead, never be called on to sit on any serpent throne—the real one in Obsidian Castle or the just as heavy but never acknowledged one of his father's people. Bird was the person who understood him the most, and even he couldn't grasp the impossibility of his suggestion, his devil-may-care dare to dance freely. He couldn't. He could not, so that his people could have the choice to. He gave the freedom they held so very dear, so that at least someone could dance. So that they could take that freedom for granted.

Suddenly, he was very, very angry. His rage flickered across his skin, lines of fire racing up and down his bare limbs and middle, his face. The fire burned all along his body, because it had no where else to go. He couldn't direct it outward, at any effigy of his imprisonment. He couldn't flame and rage at the cage that held him. So he burned, brighter and brighter like a falling star, spending its all in one last desperate dive to the earth.

When he'd burned himself out, Bird covered him with a blanket against the growing chill of the night, and climbed a tree to keep watch over their camp.

--

The fire raged across the white desert, re-charring trees that had already stood empty and black. Only the large dark rock by the lake, and the man sleeping in the hollow of it's lee, remained untouched. The little campfire at Seth's side went out, starved for oxygen as the larger inferno blazed on, razing the already desolate landscape.

Seth's lips dried and cracked in the heat, and whatever other words he'd been about to say died. What tenuous grasp on wakefulness he'd had was stolen away, as the fire stole his breath, and he collapsed again into unconsciousness.

–

Llorinda's fingers on the laces at his hips tickled. He wanted to bat her away, but he understood her need to make sure everything looked just so. He'd asked her to do it, out of the same fastidious need. And because she was the only female who's eye he trusted that he actually could ask such things of.

“You'll be fine, Meron,” she said lightly, eyes still on her work.

He wanted to scowl or give some curt reply, but the annoyance in his aura, and the anxiety underneath, were clear enough. Though he held his aura more closely than his neighbors—especially after visiting the h'somu in the mountains—skin to skin contact would tell her almost his every thought. It didn't help that she was one of his oldest friends.

Or rather, it did help. Llorinda's presence, her support by extension, did much to soothe his frazzled nerves. She didn't say, “I know,” didn't give the laces a firmer tug than necessary to drive the point home. She just quietly went about her work, sitting back on her heels occasionally to judge their evenness, and let him stew in his own dread.

It's just a dance, he told himself. Just one stupid little dance you've practiced a hundred times. With his nerves this ramped up, he was just as likely to call the fire on accident as with the ceremonial dance. Either way, the central fire would be lit for the year, and his people's prosperity would be assured.

The only real question was whether or not his dignity would survive the winter.

“Up or down?”

He started from his thoughts at Llorinda's question, and stared stupidly down at her until she asked again.

“U-up, of course,” he said.

She nodded and began to lace the pants just under his knees. Her lack of comment prompted him to continue. “It's traditional, isn't it? Cuffs are worn high for any fire dances.”

Llorinda nodded again, holding one end of the cord in her teeth as she worked. Once free of the burden she answered. “I know how to dress a leh'shcarmn for a ki'ramn. I was asking you how you'd prefer to be dressed.”

He paused and mulled over her words, knowing she'd made the distinction for a reason. Was it belittling his skills, calling his footwork into question? If he wore them down, his calves wouldn't be painted with the gold markings that would glint in the firelight, showing off the steps.

No, that wasn't it. Llorinda would tease him about just about anything, but not things of real importance. He was truly nervous about this, and she would know it, and wouldn't undermine his confidence.

So what was she asking? She hadn't stopped lacing the cuff up around his knee, like he'd asked, so why even say anything? Would she be willing to take them back down if he changed his mind? He wouldn't want to make her redo the all over again—

And it wouldn't be like her to waste the effort, if she thought he really might. So she knew he wanted them up, but wanted him to think about why.

Was he wearing them this way, simply because of tradition? What was he trying to prove? Yes, the night was about proving their reijye was a capable areta, able to call the magic of his birthright and fit to lead them. But most of them had seen him call fire at one time or another before, albeit informally. So what was this evening really about?

How would you prefer to be dressed?

She was asking him to present his real face to the people, he realized. His friend was challenging him to be more than icon and leader to the people he lived and loved with. To stop holding himself back, to truly dance when he called the fire.

But could he do it? Could he let his people in, let them see the pain that hovered just behind his smile, darted in the shadows at the corners of his eyes, sighed out with his every laugh and joke?

“I prefer them laced down.”

“I know.”

Still she laced them above the knee, moving on to fix the next cuff.

–

“Your cakes taste like dirt.”

Raith made a face as Llorinda passed him a bun, frosted in honey paste. That self-pleased smile touched at the edge of her lips, and he always wondered what she was thinking when she wore that look. It couldn't be pride in her work. Raith was right. They did taste like dirt.

Marl stumbled forward, helped along by Bird's knee, and blushed furiously. Llorinda smiled prettily, batting her eyes and turning a little rosy herself. He wondered when the two of them were finally going to get together. Marl had fancied her all growing up, and the feeling only seemed to be deepening.

“G-good morning, Miss Llorinda.”

The other baker apprentices surfaced in a flurry of giggles, trying to look busy setting out the morning's ware, but they were almost as gossipy as dancers. One stuck her thumb right in the middle of a fruit tart. She'd been too busy watching their group to notice.

He was never sure what drew their attention. The infamous Four Winds, his band of closest friends, or the strangely reserved romance between Marl and Llorinda. Both sights were sure to yield excellent gossip.

Bird mimicked Marl's greeting in a high falsetto, tossing his head and looking for all the world like the stork he was nicknamed for. He wanted to throw a fish at him and see if he'd catch it with his teeth or his face.

Raith elbowed him, coming to Marl's defense. “Manners are just as important to have as to hear,” he chided him, pushing him away from Marl and Llorinda. Bird stammered, “But you just said they taste like dirt!”, struggling to get around Raith's corralling.

“That I did, and they do, but there's no call to make fun of them. Good morning, Miss Llorinda.” He never looked back as he literally pushed Bird to another stall.

He walked away himself, shaking his head. He heard Marl behind him declaring that he loved Llorinda's baking, and thought this year's h'Cheres cakes would be the best year, echoed by another twitting of giggles from the other bakers.

He just smiled and ate his breakfast, chewing on the grit.

–

A hot wind blew across the desert, but it was a gentle warmth compared to the blaze from before. It carried the smell of sun and spices, a bustling marketplace somewhere far, far away. The heat wrapped around Seth, chasing away the chill that been trying to settle on him after the campfire had gone out.

For the first time since falling asleep, the creases in Seth's forehead eased. He didn't quite smile, but he was finally resting easily.

-?-

Seth woke in an instant, feeling the sudden press of so much earth above him. He was deep in a cave, warm and close like a mother, and it terrified him. He should be in the desert, if he were anywhere other than Naj's side, and this much earth made him feel suffocated.

He drew a harsh zig zag in the air above his chest—zt, the symbol of negating. It would hide his presence and calm his panic until he could figure out what was going on. It was just an ignorant gesture, an old wives' charm to ward off the evil eye, unlikely to do anything more than soothe him.

He certainly hadn't expected it to tear a jagged line in the darkness.

Where his hand had moved, the cool white sand of the desert night glowed like a lightning strike, harsh against the darkness. Seth began methodically wiping it away, using proper banishing circles to chase away the darkness, like he would the remains of any other spell gone awry. The darkness didn't dissipate easily, more phantom earth falling in to fill whatever he had banished. He worked slowly and carefully, cutting the darkness with a frantic zt when his window to the outside world vanished in the darkness again. He would not panic. He would not let this rising feeling of dread overcome him.

Not even when the view outside his prison changed.

No longer did the zt cut the darkness to reveal the white desert. Now it opened up to a view of the stage, dark except for one harsh spotlight. He couldn't see much, didn't dare waste his concentration on making sense of it, because every moment he wasn't actively pushing away the darkness, it caved back in on him. Somewhere, after hours or minutes in the long, false night, the cave had gone from earthly to sinister. Feelings of movement flashed behind him—always behind him—and the impression of eyes and teeth in the dark. He felt hunted, stalked, trapped, and it ate away at his calm, urging him toward the madness of fight or flight. So far, he was still in command of his senses, but for how long? How long until his panic made him forget something, made him slip? Until the image of the dark stage no longer soothed him with the promise of freedom. The white desert was his home, his safe place. The slice of stage in the spotlight was almost as dark as the press around him.

In a way, Seth was lucky this darkness was so foreboding. If it had called to him, soothed him in the way of the whispering dark... Things did call to him, groping in the darkness for him as if knowing he was there, but he pushed it all away with a banishing zt. Whatever wanted him in this darkness, it couldn't have him.

Of course, his gesture had only opened a larger window onto the stage.

A woman in the center of the spotlight. Dark streaks marred her flesh, but he couldn't make out if they were wounds, or...

Another figure stepped between them, icy shadows radiating off of him, spilling in through the window. Seth drew back with a hiss, but it made no sound. He clutched at his throat, panic clawing at his chest, and the darkness closed back in around him.

The same icy shadows that had been rolling off the man on stage.

“I trust you understand what's happening?”

It wasn't a question—it was so thick with promise and seduction, it was almost more foreplay than anything else. And it made Seth's stomach roil. He began to sing, knowing it would make no sound but hoping that if he focused on his own words, it would block out that other voice. He'd spent many a long hours in his first training with the Dai, singing and singing until his throat cracked and bled, unless his instructor had broken his jaw before that point. And even still, he'd sing in his mind, drawing strength from the one thing that had kept him sane as a serpent who hadn't been allowed to freely dance.

Song was his savior now.

He sang poems and ballads of ancient heroes, sang love songs and tragedies and children's ditties—anything and everything he could think of. He filled the darkness with silent music and desperate tears as he wiped and wiped at the darkness, not daring to draw another window. Still, the occasional sound broke through. Screaming. Laughing. Moaning, not all of it in pain. Each sound spurred him to sing louder, until eventually, even his trial-hardened determination gave out, and he was swallowed up by the darkness.

-

When he woke again, he was still wrapped in darkness. But it was the warm and welcoming darkness of before, the press of the earth. It still panicked him, but the place in his brain where fear lived was empty and cold. He was glad for that.

All around him, threads of that otherness, that icy darkness still lingered. He reached for one and tried to follow it, hoping it would lead to something other than darkness, but it vanished the instant he touched it.

Not without leaving its mark.

The ghostly memories of pain and sick laughter pierced through his mind, searing an image into his brain like a brand. Nica, hanging limp and lifeless, dark marks covering her flesh. Blood or magic, he couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. Her head fell back in a wordless scream, but he could still feel the sound of it through the emotion that poured off of her. She was breaking, and she knew it. Soon, Azriel would grow bored of her and search for new playthings among her nestmates. She had to hold out, had to endure until he was finished, had to keep her nest safe—

Another scream, and a sense of violation Seth had never before felt. Rape had been just another tool in the Dai trainers' arsenal, another way to break their captives down into tools, but it had never been like this. It didn't have a damned thing to do with the disconnect between their bodies—Azriel was violating their soul. The things he did with their flesh were mere echoes of the things he did with their minds, and Seth nearly feel unconscious against it.

But Nica had held strong, and that kept the memory alive and burning in his mind. Even when he was too weak, she remained, and did what it took to keep her nest safe. How she'd forged such mettle in herself, in so few years compared to his own, he'd never fathom. But she was strong, stronger than him, and she would protect what was hers.

In that moment, Seth was determined to stand at her back. This woman would hold against all the nightmares that might rise from Naj's past. This woman was strong enough to see him through terrors, remembered and resurfaced, and she would protect him with her all. He didn't know yet how he could help, but he would pledge his all to upholding Nica, and in doing so fulfill his promise to Naj, and Aezir.

Finally, the memory ended, and Seth fell mercifully into the black. His last thought was an almost amused realization that the whispering dark would never hold sway over him again.

-

He awoke again and again in the darkness, surrounding him with gentle warmth. Each time, he reached for a thread, bracing as it unraveled and pressed upon him a new memory. They danced and blurred together in a long line of torture, release, blackness. He was beginning to wonder if he'd died, and this was his eternal punishment, for the perversion of Li'Daea's gifts he'd allowed himself to become. He should have found a way to kill himself in those first days as a Dai captive, to escape with his magic pure and untainted, never bent against his fellow man. But the time for such things was past. And so, with another waking in the dark behind him, he reached for a thread.

Seth almost didn't understand what was happening, this change from the endless litany. The thread had wrapped around him, racing up his wrist, coiling around his chest, splitting off into many, many strands to wrap around his legs and neck, to cover his mouth. He was too bewildered to untangle the idea that he was being pulled, drawn inexorably toward...somewhere?

The blackness was changing, losing its thickness and morphing into black smoke. Endless upon endless billows of black, inky smoke. All being drawn Somewhere.

Not drawn. Pushed. Something was pushing the darkness away, willing it to be Elsewhere, anywhere else, so long as it didn't settle on her.

But it had to go to her. It had been meant for her. He had drawn shares of it into himself, and it hadn't been intended to happen that way. So now that she was near, or he was nearer her, the spell wrapped in on itself, on the pieces of itself that he carried, and tried to drag him back home.

The motion was stop and go. The pulling was insistent, constant, but whatever was allowing them to bridge the gap to her was intermittent. As his wits gathered, Seth remembered that the her was Nica, and the spell was a demon's, and he had sworn to himself to her. He dug his will in deep, anchoring it to the darkness that was warm and safe, and pull the smoke around himself.

Memories beat at him, bits of the spell trying to wear him down. He would not yield. If the spell wanted Nica, then he would keep it here with himself with his dying breath. He drew the smoke inside him, dragging it down, down, willing it to become his. Each vision of Nica's torment only made him stronger, showing him the determination radiating from her bruised and broken body. If she could endure, he would endure, and give her whatever strength he had. Nica would lead this nest, would keep Naj safe, and Seth could rest. Even if it meant resting in this endless darkness.

#OC Seth #WIP excerpts #asylum spoilers #tag games