#like I’d rather just be entirely consumed rather than self aware today thanks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sachigram · 3 years

Text

With Teeth Chapter 3

((click here to read on ao3!!))

“Is that man coming by here again?”

Izaya pauses in his typing, sparing a glance at Namie, who is staring at him from her side of the desk. She looks bored, but that's nothing new. She hides her emotions well. It's one reason he can tolerate her, despite her unpleasant personality and obsession with her brother. She's fun, hard to predict. She's a challenge.

“What man?” Izaya asks, knowing full well what she means. She scoffs at him, and he grins at her. “You'll have to be more specific.”

“That one. The one you're obsessed with. Heiwajima. He's been coming by here every month around this time, skulking and making rude comments. This will be the seventh month, right?”

“Observant, aren't you?” Izaya asks, turning back to his typing. “I can't predict what Shizu-chan does, you know that. He does what he wants.”

“Yeah, but there's a pattern now. People like him don't normally have patterns, do they?” Namie tilts her head at him, something other women might do to seem cute. With Namie, it's always a disarming tactic, something she does to seem smaller when she's actually a power player. Izaya is used to her by now, even without reading her mind.

“That's part of what makes him so unpredictable. He's random until he isn't, and then he breaks his pattern when you least expect.” Izaya waves her away. “Ask what you want to ask, and stop with the games. We're both busy people.”

“You've got something on him, right? You're blackmailing him? It has to be something like that. He wants you dead even more than I do, and that's saying a lot. There's no way he'd suffer in your company more than he had to.”

“Whatever I do or don't have on Shizu-chan is between him and me. That makes it none of your business, Namie-chan! Unfortunate for you, but true all the same.”

“Are you guys fucking or something?” she asks, and she shrugs at the look Izaya gives her. “What? There's not much else you'd keep secret. If he gave you something actually juicy, you'd be holding it over his head much worse than this. Unless you had something to lose too, you wouldn't care what happened to him.”

“You are the definition of an 'over-thinker',” Izaya informs her. “Sometimes things are what they are, and nothing more.” Almost on cue, a thundering knock raps at the door, and Izaya motions for Namie to get it. “Who knows who that could be! Look professional, would you? We're running a business, here.”

“Yeah, I'm so curious who it is,” Namie says sarcastically, wrenching the door open to reveal a grumpy-looking Shizuo. He doesn't bother greeting her, just steps around her as he stomps into Izaya's apartment.

“Shizu-chan, what a surprise!” Izaya calls. “Terrible to see you, as always.”

“Fuck off and die, flea,” Shizuo says, heading straight for Izaya's fridge. Namie watches him for a moment, and then she turns back to Izaya.

“Shall I leave you to your fornication?” she asks.

“Oh, I don't know,” Izaya muses. “You're pretty, Namie-chan, when I don't have to look at your face. Maybe you could join us for the evening.”

“I'd rather be eaten alive, thanks.”

“More like you have plans already to stalk that brother of yours. Don't bother; he's having a date night at with Mika-chan at your favorite Italian place! He made reservations yesterday.” Izaya tilts forward, smirking at her as her face reddens with rage. “Run along, won't you? Who knows what they might do for dessert?”

Rather than retort, she picks up a folder from Izaya's desk and throws it as hard as she can. The papers fly out, flowing through the air like confetti, and she slams the door behind her hard enough to make even Shizuo flinch.

“Fuck. What's her problem?” Shizuo asks.

“Lots of things. She has more problems than most,” Izaya says, going back to his typing. He makes a mental note of the fact that Shizuo went straight for the pork tenderloin Namie prepared the day before, and then he looks up at his expected guest. “How's the bloodlust?”

“Same as it always is. Too fucking much,” Shizuo replies, already chomping away on cold leftovers. He never bothers with reheating them, anymore.

“And yet, you haven't bitten anyone. It seems you either have more self-control than I ever would've guessed, or you're exaggerating your symptoms.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shizuo says, and he flops onto Izaya's couch, giving Izaya a scrutinizing stare. “Does your secretary not know you're a witch?”

“Of course she doesn't,” Izaya replies. “Why would she?”

“She practically lives here.”

“She works here, Shizu-chan. This is an office, first and foremost.”

“Funny. I thought it was your apartment.” Shizuo takes another bite of food, his cheeks bulging almost comically with the amount he's eating all at once. When he speaks again, it's with his mouth full. “Even your place is a front. No one knows anything about you, huh?”

Izaya gives him a withering stare, grimacing at the grotesque way Shizuo eats.

“You're awfully conversational today. Why the sudden interest in my life? Usually you just barge in here, eat my food, and sit in silence until you're the true monster you've always been.”

“I guess I'm just curious about the way you do shit. Shinra told me all about how rare it is, what you are. He said you're probably keeping my secret so I'll keep yours,” Shizuo says. He finishes the last of the container of pork tenderloin, and then he goes back to the fridge.

“By all means, tell everyone what you know about me. The people who don't immediately run screaming from you will hardly care. I've been called terrible things, and for good reason. Calling me a witch in public will hardly matter.” Izaya turns back to his screen.

“Got no reason to tell anyone about you. I don't give a shit what you are.”

“Wonderful.”

There's silence for a bit, the sound of Shizuo chewing, of Izaya's fingers clacking against the keyboard. Izaya spares a glance up at Shizuo, who seems to be thinking about something, his brows furrowed. Curious in spite of himself, Izaya can't help but dip into Shizuo's mind. He snorts, and it draws Shizuo's attention.

“If you wanted to go to Shinra's place for this, you should have,” Izaya says. Shizuo snarls at him.

“Don't fucking read my mind.”

“Then stop thinking so loudly.”

“You said you didn't read minds often!”

“And you said that was a lie.”

Shizuo growls, his mind going to static as he considers throwing Izaya's entire counter out the window. Truth be told, Izaya wasn't lying when he said he doesn't try to read minds very often. It would be helpful for him in his line of work, but he was always more interested in doing the work himself. It was more fun, more challenging, easier to convince himself he didn't need his magic to be as powerful as he was.

“I hate you,” Shizuo hisses. It's the truth, Izaya can sense. Shizuo hates everything about this, being here, relying on Izaya, speaking to Izaya, smelling Izaya's scent all around him. Like this, Shizuo's mind is so loud and consumed with rage that Izaya pulls back, unwilling to listen to all that incessant noise and clatter.

“So go to Shinra's, then.”

Shizuo doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to. Izaya doesn't even need to read the beast's mind to know what he's thinking. Shizuo doesn't want to be seen that way by anyone he actually cares about. Izaya doesn't count in Shizuo's simple mind.

Of course it would be something like that.

Izaya pushes it from his mind. He's always loved seeing the worst aspects of other people, seeing them at their lowest, their breaking points, and choosing to love them anyway. Part of what makes Izaya able to love mankind as a whole is being there when they break, observing them as they either pick up the pieces or destroy others as they have been destroyed. It doesn't matter how it happens, whether Izaya has to cause it himself, or not. Their choices are their own.

Even in Shizuo's case, he's choosing to come here, to rely on Izaya, to trust in Izaya to help him remain himself.

“What are you smiling about over there?” Shizuo barks, snapping Izaya from his reverie.

“Oh, nothing,” Izaya lilts.

Creepy fucker. Shizuo thinks it, so clearly it seems almost direct, as if he wanted Izaya to hear it. Knowing him, it's more than likely. Shizuo doesn't censor his thoughts or his words, after all, and he's never been afraid to tell Izaya what he really thinks.

Seemingly content with the amount he ate, Shizuo sits back on the couch, his legs bouncing in nervous anticipation. He's always filled with anxiety on nights of the full moon, and Izaya can't exactly blame him. Even if Shizuo has a higher pain tolerance than most, the transformation is still incredibly painful, and Shizuo worries about keeping his sanity more than anything else. He's terrified of hurting someone, anyone, even Izaya, and he finds comfort in the fact that Izaya would never let him get close enough to actually hurt him.

Sometimes Shizuo is so human it's sickening.

***

The first time Izaya was consciously aware he was dealing with a dangerous, inhuman creature, he was in middle school.

Tsukumoya Shinichi found Izaya first, of course, an incredibly tame bloodsucker, but an irritating one all the same. He was Izaya's first official client that wasn't a desperate spirit, and he also had the annoying habit of popping up out of nowhere, eager to poke and prod at Izaya like a test subject, much like Shinra, but much, much more adept at getting under Izaya's skin. Izaya was just beginning in his potion-making back then, and Tsukumoya was enthusiastic about needing to feed less. A fellow lover of humans, it had been a long time since Tsukumoya had taken a life. He knew the right amount to drink, but he also had the habit of getting lost in his work, forgetting to feed, and always risked taking too much from the first victim after a period of accidental starvation.

“That's where you'll come in. You could have an entire market of potions for those like me, those that don't want to hurt anyone in the world of the living,” Tsukumoya explained. He had popped up out of nowhere again, met Izaya on his walk home. The sun was freshly set, and Izaya was walking home from Shinra's, enjoying the rare break of caring for the toddlers since his parents were home.

“Isn't making a potion as simple as reading a recipe?” Izaya asked, already irritated by the vampire's presence. “Couldn't you do it yourself?”

“I could,” Tsukumoya said, “but it would only be a drink at that point. I'm not a witch. There would be no magic in it.”

“How fortunate for me,” Izaya said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Tsukumoya merely laughed at him, as he always did. The vampire seemed to view Izaya as a trinket of sorts, the kind of thing one might pick up on a whim, and then keep for a long time.

“Just think about it, would you? There aren't many options in this world, or the next. Witches are few and far between, as you're aware,” Tsukumoya said. “It's been centuries since I met one as powerful as you.”

“So you've said before,” Izaya replied.

They walked in silence for a while, Tsukumoya still grinning like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and Izaya with a small frown on his face, irritated by the fact that between Tsukumoya, Shinra, and the twins, he was always having someone trail after him. They were passing by an alleyway when Izaya's body screamed at him to RUN and NOW. He felt the pinpricks of danger along his skin, but he was rooted to the spot, too curious for his own good.

“Stay back,” Tsukumoya said, his voice calm, but tight. “That one's pretty strong.”

“What is it?” Izaya asked, straining to see through the darkness of the alley. He could see a figure, huge and looming, but he couldn't make out any details. As if in answer, a ferocious growl sounded, and Izaya was bombarded with the ugliest thoughts he ever heard in his life.

Kill, kill, blood, bite, KILL, KILL, KILL—

Izaya pulled back with disgust, and his sudden movement seemed to trigger the creature, who lunged forward. Tsukumoya yanked Izaya out of the way, too fast for Izaya to truly follow, and then Izaya got a full look at what was after him.

The creature was massive, covered in patches of thick, course fur. It had glowing eyes filled with madness, singularly focused on Izaya, the same thoughts running through its head. Teeth, sharp, jagged teeth, were in the creature's gaping maw, too large to truly fit.

“Werewolf,” Izaya said aloud, as fascinated as he was on edge.

“Yeah,” Tsukumoya answered, “and we interrupted his meal.”

Only then did Izaya notice the blood all over the creature, the viscera under its claws and in between its teeth. He inhaled sharply, and the creature lunged again. It seemed to be all Tsukumoya could do to dodge it.

“You shouldn't be out walking on nights of the full moon!” Tsukumoya said through clenched teeth, throwing Izaya over his shoulder as he ran up the side of the building, the wolf hot on his heels. “Haven't you read enough to know what's out here by now?”

Izaya had. He knew what was out here, knew the risk, but he didn't care enough to stay safe indoors. He couldn't bring himself to regret his decision, not when he could see firsthand what a werewolf could truly do. He propped himself on his elbows to watch the werewolf from over Tsukumoya's shoulder, and his stomach felt like it was dropping to his feet when the vampire detached from the building, free-falling in a careful spiral towards the ground.

The wolf fell after them, still only thinking the same thoughts as before, and Izaya didn't know what Tsukumoya's plan was, didn't wait to find out. He gripped his hand, and the wolf seized, a confused yelp leaving it as its arms and legs snapped to its sides, sending its body careening into a crumpled heap on the hard concrete. Tsukumoya wasn't breathing heavily, not the way he should've been after such physicality, but Izaya reminded himself that for as human as Tsukumoya seemed, he wasn't, and he had no need to breathe. He set Izaya down on the ground and moved towards the still snarling wolf, who snapped at them repeatedly, still trying in vain to bite them.

“Was he one who could've used a potion?” Izaya asked, watching in awe as he approached behind Tsukumoya. He felt fear, certainly, but not nearly enough to leave.

“No,” Tsukumoya said, “this one enjoys the hunt.” With that, he lifted his foot, bringing it down hard on the wolf's head. Bits of skull and brain-matter splattered onto the ground and walls as the wolf's growls ceased, and slowly, the body left behind became that of a man's. Izaya stared at the grisly scene, finding it strange that the first tangible thought he had was that he wished Shinra could be here to see this.

“Sorry,” Tsukumoya said, turning to Izaya. “He would've just killed someone else next month. It was better this way.”

“Yeah,” Izaya said, his body still thrumming with adrenaline. “I've never used my power like that on anything living before.” He didn't really even mean to. He didn't realize it was happening until he was doing it. Tsukumoya only laughed, of course.

“Oh, Izaya, that's only the beginning of what you could do.”

***

Hours later, and Shizuo is back to his usual pacing, his looming form weaving between the coffee table and the TV. Izaya is staring at his computer screen, trying to keep up with the chatroom conversation, but it's nothing he's interested in, and his attention keeps drifting elsewhere, his vision blurring as he loses himself to his thoughts.

He was up the last few days with another assignment. Shiki has been keeping him busy lately, definitely trying to occupy as much of Izaya's time as possible. Shiki really enjoys his petty tormenting, and Izaya has to admit he's been stepping out of line these past few months. He hasn't admitted to anything, of course, but he doesn't have to.

—like shit.

Shizuo's thoughts cut through Izaya's. Shizuo is glancing at him as he paces, his mind the usual maze of self-loathing, bloodlust, and emotional static, but it's clear he's thinking of Izaya, too, specifically that Izaya doesn't look well. Shizuo is thinking of the last time he saw Izaya in the middle of the city, and how he resembled a caged animal, manic, listless, poised to strike. Izaya's jaw tightens, and he fights to keep his expression neutral as he stands and moves to the kitchen, bypassing Shizuo.

Shizuo's thoughts continue to carry as Izaya makes tea. The monster is thinking of how small Izaya is, like this, with Shizuo's form so massive in comparison, but also all the time. Shizuo has always thought of Izaya as flea-sized, a beanpole, something annoying to be flicked away, but somehow Izaya always returns. Shizuo thinks Izaya is completely out of his mind, would have to be in order to keep coming back to annoy him.

But there's a comfort in that, isn't there? Izaya thinks, and Shizuo goes completely stiff, his body turning slowly to face Izaya.

Get the fuck out of my head.

“It's not my fault your thoughts are so loud. You're practically screaming them at me.” Izaya finishes with his tea, and makes his way back to his desk. “Besides, is it really even considered eavesdropping if you're thinking of me?”

Yes. Shizuo's ears are pulled back, his teeth bared. You've invaded enough of my life, you fucking parasite. Let me think in peace.

“Monsters don't deserve any peace,” Izaya mutters, but he grants Shizuo's request, and leaves his mind. At least, Izaya tries to. It's strange. He's never encountered this before. Izaya doesn't read minds often, at least on purpose, but most people are always subconsciously guarding themselves, even without being aware of Izaya's abilities. With Shizuo, he's both protecting and projecting his thoughts to the point that he's pulling Izaya in more than he's pushing him away. If Izaya had to guess, he'd say it's because Shizuo has never had to guard himself. For all of Shizuo's confounding nature, he's incredibly simplistic and straightforward, and his close proximity to Izaya is only making his thoughts even louder. Izaya groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

What's wrong with you? Shizuo sends, and Izaya blinks up at him when he realizes Shizuo is now sending his thoughts freely and directly.

You're making my head hurt. Izaya thinks back. Shizuo growls a bit.

Good. You deserve it. Fuck you.

Izaya snorts and sips at his tea. This is new for them. In all the time Shizuo has spent here in his transformed state, he's never really conversed with Izaya before. The conversation isn't exactly thrilling, but it's an improvement over Shizuo's usual brooding pity party.

Izaya turns off his computer, deciding he's done playing with his humans tonight. He carries his tea with him as he pads over to the couch, passing by Shizuo again, who glowers at him the entire time. Izaya sits down on the couch and turns the TV on, flicking through some different channels before he decides on a cartoon he likes.

Shizuo isn't looking at the screen, but his ears are twitching towards the sound of whimsical music. Izaya wonders if Shizuo deprives himself of all creature comforts on nights of the full moon because he's afraid of this being his new normal, afraid of accepting this is his life now. It's laughable, and Izaya does laugh, can't stop himself. Shizuo's head whips towards him, dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, still incredibly human even in that distorted, monstrous face of his.

“Don't look at me like that. I'm only watching TV,” Izaya says, and he sips at his tea. Shizuo goes back to his pacing, his ears pulled back. He's pissed, as usual, and he wants to ask questions, but he knows Izaya won't answer them. Curiously, Izaya delves a little deeper into Shizuo's mind, wondering what it is exactly that Shizuo wants to know.

Out of my head. Shizuo sends angrily. Izaya pouts and obeys, wondering how Shizuo even sensed him eavesdropping.

You're no fun at all, Shizu-chan.

***

The first thing Izaya really notices when he stops floating along is that he doesn't recognize where he is. It's a normal-looking house, filled with pictures on the walls, and it takes a few moments for Izaya's eyes to focus on them long enough to make sense of the faces. Shizuo's picture is there, and he's smiling, flexing for the camera as Kasuka stands stiffly at his side. They're both young, and like this, with Shizuo's dark hair, it's incredibly easy to see the similarities between them. From a distance, they could be mistaken for the same person.

“Why are you here?” A voice asks from behind Izaya. He turns to face Shizuo, a spitting image of the child in the photograph. He's maybe ten years old, if Izaya had to guess. He's looking at Izaya like he knows who Izaya is, despite the drastic difference in their ages. “Get out.”

“I'm not sure why I'm here,” Izaya says, his hands going in his pockets. “Is there something you wanted to show me?”

“Fuck, no. I want you to get out.” Shizuo's fists are bloody, and his body is covered in tiny scrapes, his clothes filthy. He's been fighting. Izaya can't help but wonder when the fights started, how young Shizuo was the first time he was jumped.

“Am I dreaming?” Izaya asks aloud. He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but it's possible he passed out. He hasn't slept, and he hasn't eaten. He thinks of Shizuo in werewolf form, pacing around and refusing the comforts he desires and he scoffs.

“How the fuck should I know?” Shizuo's fingers twitch, and he's glancing nervously at the stairs. His parents are up there, Izaya realizes, and Shizuo is afraid of them for some reason. No, that's not it. He's not scared of them. He's scared of them being scared of him.

“Were you fighting? You're so young here,” Izaya says. The Shizuo he met was already broad-shouldered and blond, carrying a heavy reputation with that strength of his. This Shizuo is nervous, jittery, unsure of himself.

“You're in my head,” Shizuo accuses, and then he jolts as a door upstairs opens. “Why are you always in my head?”

“I don't know,” Izaya says honestly. “I'm beginning to think you want me to be here.”

A woman begins walking downstairs. She's strikingly pretty, her face similar to Shizuo's and Kasuka's, her dark eyes large and kind. She moves to Shizuo's side, putting her arms around him. She doesn't acknowledge Izaya.

“You didn't mean to,” she says, petting through Shizuo's hair. “You were trying to help.”

“I still hurt her,” Shizuo says, leaning into her and closing his eyes. He seems to have forgotten about Izaya. “I couldn't stop myself.”

“Kasuka said you were trying to do the right thing. You were only trying to scare the bad men away. You're a good, sweet boy, Shizuo.”

“Where's dad?” Shizuo asks, and his mother pulls away a little, giving him a false, gentle smile.

“On the phone with the police. Don't worry, they just want a report of what happened.”

“I already told them what happened.”

“Yes, but they want to hear it from an adult.”

Izaya looks from the scene to the doorway, which is shrouded in darkness. He makes his way over to it, stepping through, and he finds himself outside the wreckage of a convenience store, multiple people buried in the rubble. Shizuo is there, breathing heavily, Kasuka at his side.

“Was this your first time hurting an innocent person?” Izaya asks, and Shizuo snarls at him, tears in his eyes.

“Go away.”

“I can't,” Izaya says, and he walks towards the woman's unconscious body. “You throw your little tantrums all the time. Who knows how many people you've injured?”

“I don't mean to!” Shizuo shouts. Kasuka isn't paying either of them any attention, is only looking towards the distance where a cacophony of sirens are moving closer to them. “You hurt people more than me. You ruin lives all the fucking time, you like doing it. You're the real monster here and you know it!”

Izaya ignores him and looks around, deciding to explore all he can while he's here. Shizuo follows after him, face still contorted in rage.

“How would you fucking like it, huh, if we walked around your memories, all the things you don't want people to see out in the open? All the things you're scared of, ashamed of? How would you like it, flea?!”

Izaya scoffs, turns to tell him to shut up, but everything shifts around them, and they're suddenly in Izaya's childhood home, the twins both screaming in their cribs as a young Izaya curls in the corner, sobbing as the lights flicker around them and doors open and slam repeatedly. Shizuo's expression changes as he looks from Izaya's younger, terrified self, to the real Izaya in front of him.

“Flea?” Shizuo is older, suddenly, and he looks so fucking concerned that it makes Izaya's teeth click together.

“OUT!” Izaya roars, and the scene dissolves around them. He and Shizuo both wake with a start, still in Izaya's living room, Izaya on the couch, Shizuo curled up in the floor, human again, sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Wha— What was that?” Shizuo asks as he sits up, his voice unsteady. “Were you in my past? Was I in yours?”

“Get the fuck out,” Izaya hisses, scrambling to get off the couch and stand over Shizuo. “You had no right, no right.”

“I didn't do anything! You're the one with—magic. What did you do, huh?!”

“I don't fucking know!” Izaya snaps, and then he turns on his heel, marching towards the door. He steps into his shoes, throws his coat on. If Shizuo won't leave, then he will. He refuses to stay here with Shizuo looking at him like this, with pity clear in his gaze. The door slams behind him as he hurries out of the building, his skin prickling and his hands shaking more and more with every step he takes away from Shizuo.

#with teeth fic #shizaya #Izaya Orihara #Shizuo Heiwajima #werewolf shizuo #witchy izaya

26 notes · View notes

ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years

Text

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic!

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block.

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that!

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

205 notes · View notes

alitheamateur · 5 years

Text

A Taste of Home-Chapter 6

Warnings: Language. Fluff.

You dizzied barefoot around the torn apart suitcase in the floor of your hotel room. It seemed as you’d packed every essential for your time in Malibu, except the perfect ensemble for a date with Chris ‘full of surprises’ Evans. Were jeans to casual? Would heels be over the top? Did you need to wear matching undergarments….?

Assumption isn’t a good look, although maybe better than downright desperation.

Your body wanted him down to the very lowest layer of your flesh. It was needy, and maybe drastic. Careless even. But, your every thought was sickeningly consumed by the daydreams of you in his bed. Whether it be due to his righteous kindness, his charming wit, or those damn fitted t-shirts would be an eternal unsolved mystery. But, you knew he was well aware of his plethora of desirous traits, and more pathetically you were alright with the way he purposely highlighted them.

A: I need something to go on here, Evans. Where are you taking me?

You spritzed rosy perfume over the naked span of your body, and into the stretched line of your neck under your loosely fallen hair. You’d rather look impatient and ruin the surprise rather than dress inappropriately for the occasion, so you texted him.

C: Casual. No heels. Bring a sweater. And Amelia?

A: Chris?

C: Stop worrying.

C: See you in an hour. Smile, gorgeous. Today was a good day.

Your lips obeyed his command and you felt a lax smile creep onto your cheeks.

Choosing the most practical outfit in your suitcase, you pulled the thin straps of a loose, blue cotton dress up, it’s hem dragging to the middle of your thigh. It seemed your hair, once perfectly plain and straight from the earlier photo shoot, had disagreed with the humidity of the hot afternoon. Your blonde, swirling curls were raging at full attention, wild around your pink-stained cheeks.

The dip of its neckline sagged tastefully low, but enough to display your most confident feature. You truly never felt even the slightest bit comfortable in your own skin, which is why clothes sang to you. If your own skin wouldn’t do the job, you’d make it a hobby to find the most perfect piece of fabric to boost where you lacked in self-confidence.

Swiping a melon, lip-plumping balm over your mouth at the bathroom vanity, your phone buzzed.

Shithead: I’m in Boston on business. I’ve got the papers with me, so let’s meet around lunch tomorrow to discuss. You may bring a lawyer, but good luck paying for one.

So many replies that still wouldn’t do his most undesirable actions justice cluttered around your thoughts, but you composed yourself, prepping to defend his unacceptable demands as an adult. Sort of.

A: With your very prompt notice of one day, it seems I’m out of town until day after next. You can either wait, or leave them with my parents. I sincerely hope you choose the latter.

He read instantly your answer, and a reply was in hot pursuit.

Shithead: Out of town? Why?

A: Business. Mine, not yours.

Your thumbs patted against the screen, waiting for the awful reaction your vague explanation would undoubtably ensue, just as a knock patted on the locked door of your suit. Rather than let the sour taste of Ben ruin your evening furthermore, you shifted the off switch and marched towards the man waiting in the hall.

You picked up a small clutch on the way, but it fell to the floor, probably in slow motion like your jaw, when you answered his knock.

Instantly, you elected once back in your bed tonight, you would make yourself decide whether you liked suited, James Bond-like Chris, or this Chris more. The easy jeans, half-torn at the collar t-shirt, dirty sneakers Chris standing in your doorway, smiling behind midnight black sunglasses.

You could smell him with the wind of the opening door, and you hoped he got a warm dose of your scent, too, knowing what the sweet scent of a woman could do to the male species.

“I was going to call, but I thought I’d come up to get you instead. You know, manners and all.” He rolled his eyes, his shoulders danced in a nonchalant shrug.

“Manners are nice, yes. Manners are always good, right?” You wondered if he noticed how you seemed to always get a case of these weird hiccups when he was around.

“Sometimes I like a little impoliteness. It has its place on occasion, wouldn’t you say?” Chris greeted you with a kiss to the feverish curve of your cheekbone, his words humming into your ear not by accident.

You disregarded his already unfair advantage for the evening, and boldly counteracted.

“Oh, definitely. I couldn’t agree more! I may have thrown my manners out the window a time or two, and been downright bad mannered.”

Chris chuckled, and I watched him gulp down his Adams apple. He may have been better at hiding his attractions than you, but you noticed the little hitch in the pattern of his breaths.

You whipped of the switch of your light on that note, double checking your keycard for the room was tucked away in your wallet, and strolled next to him down the abnormally quite hall.

“I see the hair is back,” he commented, staring at the lit-up buttons on the wall of the elevator. “I like this Millie much better. Not that the other version isn’t…. well, it isn’t… you look beautiful. I’m trying to say that you look fucking beautiful, Amelia.”

The way his words stammered on his tongue like a confused drunk pleased you.

Nervous. You, make him, nervous.

“ I don’t think you need little old me telling you how handsome you are, Evans.”

The drop to each floor ticked by like an infinite second, and with every moment your pull the him itched stronger. He seemed to possess his own magnetic forcefield that your body’s every molecule responded to, which made the resistance inexplicably painful. Alone. Trapped in the silent solitude of the elevator, you locked stares. The icy glimmer in his eye played from dangerously calm, to shuddering sensuality when he looked at you. His emotions battling to behave, or otherwise. And, God, his smell. The divine smell of him alone made you think of sex.

When we dinged to the lobby, you gasped in relief at the fresh, open air as you stepped outside the elevator car, needing a momentary escape from his irresistible, palatable force. You felt in control of your senses for a moment, until Chris moved his veined hand to the exposed skin between the blades of your shoulders, close to your sweating nape.

“My car is out back waiting. This way.” He pulled.

The two of you escaped the treacherous clutches of the frenzied paps snapping photos, and tucked yourselves safely into the back seat of an SUV that seemed to follow him around. You buckled yourself into the seatbelt, squirming a bit with the strange feeling of unusual silence.

“Tess was raving about you after you left today. She was beyond impressed.” He caught your attention from gazing out the window at the swaying palm trees.

“I had an amazing day, Chris. That is exactly how I pictured my life when I started up the blog, and it came to pass, finally. All thanks to you.”

He groaned, but with a smile. “If you thank me one more time, I’m dropping you off on the side of the road. Its what friends do, Millie. Help each other.” He swallowed your hand into his. “And besides, seeing you so smiley the entire afternoon was well worth it.”

He pulled his lip between his teeth, as if he was the one suffering from his salacious thoughts. Your self-control, however much longer it may last, was admirably unwavering.

The car slowed, and somehow you managed to shake yourself back to some form of reality to make note of where you had ended up. Pulling into the emptying parking lot next to a sandy beach, Chris leaned to do the service of unbuckling your belt.

“Don’t touch that door.” He commanded as he dropped to the ground, leaving you alone in the second row of the vehicle.

Confused, you followed his jog around the car through the hazy tint of the black windows until he landed directly outside your door, where he pulled it open, offering you his hand.

The sun was still hanging droopily over the endless span of blue, fluffy caps of white waves rolling to the shore. You internally hoped whatever he had planned, you’d at least get to watch the orange-y glow of the sunset fall over the Malibu beach.

“Come with me. It’s just around those rocks there.” Chris tucked your hand into his palm, and you wished he had given you a moment to dry the nervy sweat between your fingers.

The tepid wind whipped your dress to and fro, along with the wave of your hair as he guided you down the sandy hill of a rocky, secluded cove.

“I hope this is alright for a celebration? I wasn’t sure if you’d feel up to a big crowd after your busy day.

The hinge of your jaw broke open, and a gasp fell from your lips. A blanket, what looked to be made of expensive chenille was laid into the sand, a basket holding it back from escaping with the gusts of welcomed ocean breeze. There were 2 fluted glasses turned upward onto the lid of the picnic basket, next to a chilling tin of some sort of bottle sealed with gold foil.

“You did all this? How did you manage to pull all of this together in what, 3 hours?!”

“I can’t take all the credit, no. As badly as I want to claim entire responsibility for the look on your face right this second.” Chris brushed back a curl of your hair away from your face, the tips of his fingers lingering heated at the corner of your mouth.

You turned into his touch, happily abandoning your better judgment. Hoping to see that mischievous, roused glaze paint over his eye, you barely popped your lips into the curve of a kiss to the pad of his finger. The stir of his usually sure demeanor crumbled, and you relished that it had been at your hand.

“Behave, Chris.” You heard him mistakenly whisper to himself.

*If you’d like to be added, or removed to the tag-list, let me know*

TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @eap1935 @littleluna98

#Chris Evans #chrisevans #chris evans x ofc #chris evans fanfiction #fanfiction

29 notes · View notes

chaosbrewing · 5 years

Text

little angel

((full disclosure—this was, like, entirely inspired by @fox-guardian’s doodles of Utterson taking care of an infant Enfield and I’m guilty of being self-indulgent and writing some cutesy fluff to go along with it. Also, I’m giving Utterson a butler and calling him Peterson because that’s the first name in my head. Enjoy!))

“Thank you so much for taking care of him for the weekend, Gabriel. It’s quite a relief.”

“Of course, of course,” Gabriel hummed absentmindedly, more focused on the dry tome he was paging through than the conversation he was half-engaged in.

“We’ll be back for him in two days!” came the cheery reply.

And suddenly the door slammed, and Gabe’s head shot up, and he was alone once more.

“What—Peterson, what was that?” he called out.

His butler stepped out from the dark doorway he had been standing in, ready to serve.

“Sir, your cousins,” the man replied quietly.

“And why were they here again?”

Gabriel stood up, stretching, and set the book upon the table. He paid no attention as the cover fell closed; he hadn’t been invested in its contents, anyways.

“....because you agreed to mind their young son for the weekend?” Peterson blinked.

“...oh. I did. I did? I did,” Gabriel muttered, frowning. “Very well. Where is he? I’d expected him to start assaulting my ankles by now.”

“In his carrier, sir. He is not yet of walking age,” the butler replied patiently. “Or at least not very well, as his parents have said. He tends to fall.”

“....oh.”

Gabriel sighed and walked over to the carrier.

“Let’s have a look at this little demon—”

He trailed off, mouth opening slightly as he gazed at the tiny little baby who had been placed in his care. Blue eyes sparkled as he took in the angelic face, the soft black hair, the cute little nose.

“Oh! He’s just an angel,” Gabriel cooed softly, immediately bending down and scooping up his younger cousin. He held him close to his chest, rocking him slowly.

“Richard...that’s his name, isn’t it? Richard….so handsome…”

He laughed softly as the child in his arms began to stir and wake up.

“Well hello there,” he chuckled, smiling at the awestruck infant in his arms. “I’m Gabriel.”

Richard tilted his head to the side.

“Gurbrdur? Gurbrdur! Abababa…”

“No, no, Gabriel!”

Gabriel laughed. “I suppose you can’t understand me. All you hear is probably gurbrdur gubur, isn’t it?”

Richard seemed to have already taken a liking to his elder cousin. He had cozied up against the lawyer’s sweater vest, making himself perfectly at home. It was adorable and precious and most certainly a moment fit for permanent preservation by some form of portrait artistry.

Peterson smiled faintly. Content that his master had established a strong bond with his temporary young charge, he slipped away.

“I’m no doctor, but I diagnose you with baby,” Gabriel cooed, barely aware of what he was saying. He was far too taken with how cute Richard was to worry about being sensical.

Richard paused, staring straight up at Gabriel with wide eyes. He seemed amazed at the words that had left the man’s mouth, as if he had been trusted with some great universal secret.

Gabriel giggled.

So adorable…

“It’s true!” he nodded. “You’re just baby. Baby Richard.”

He poked Richard on the nose.

The small child let out an ear-piercing shriek; Gabriel nearly dropped him while trying to cover his ears.

“Christ, don’t—”

“Ahaha! Abababababbabaa!”

Richard’s little coos and squeals of glee were enough to make Gabriel completely forget that his eardrums were throbbing. He was instantly enamored of him once again, even as the baby proceeded to grab his shoulder and attempt to consume his shirt.

“No, no, that’s not for eating,” he chuckled, prying Richard away from his shoulder. He then received two small hands on his nose.

He sighed fondly.

“You little angel...right, let’s see what I can do with you,” he smiled, turning and walking into his study with Richard still in his arms.

~XXXXX~

“Come along, Richard. Your parents will be here any second,” Gabriel hummed.

Richard came toddling in from the kitchen in his pale blue onesie, a cookie in hand. He seemed quite intent on nibbling at it until he arrived at Gabriel’s feet, wherein he waved the cookie above his head in a rather frantic manner.

“Is that for me?” Gabriel laughed. “Richard, that’s the fourth cookie you’ve given me today—and it’s only ten in the morning! I’ll end up even softer if you keep giving me cookies!”

Truth be told, he didn’t care. That much was evident in the way he scooped up the young boy and gazed at him with all the love and affection he could muster.

The doorbell rang; Gabe sighed. Peterson dutifully opened it to reveal Richard’s parents, who immediately rushed in to claim their son.

Richard, however, had other plans.

As his mother began to pry him from Gabriel’s arms, he began to scream at extremely high auditory frequencies. The further away he got from Gabriel, the more dramatic it became until he was flailing and sobbing and throwing a full tantrum in his mother’s arms.

“Behave, Richard! Quiet down,” his mother said sternly.

“Gurbrdur! Gabriel! Want Gabriel!” Richard screamed, reaching out for his cousin with grabby little hands. His face was contorted into an expression of hurt and upset; his eyes were filled with tears.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” Gabriel said immediately, rushing forward and brushing the dark curls out of Richard’s eyes. “I’m here, Richard. I’m not going anywhere.”

Instantly, the infant began to calm until he was once more a burbling baby in his mother’s arms.

“You have a way with him,” she remarked. “I’m impressed.”

“He’s quite the little angel,” Gabriel said softly.

“...would it...would it be at all possible for me to do this every weekend? I would love to take care of him some more…”

Both parents blinked.

“I suppose that isn’t a problem, no,” the father shook his head. “If you are so inclined...and he wasn’t any trouble, was he?”

“No, no, not at all,” Gabriel shook his head. “He was an adorable little angel.”

Richard cooed softly, gazing up at his older cousin. This prompted a soft laugh from the lawyer, who was clearly more than happy to be charged with babysitting.

“An angel, I say. I shall be more than happy to take him off your hands as often as you like.”

#alyssa’s writing #gabriel john utterson #richard enfield #fluff #they’re just so precious how could I not write this

44 notes · View notes

renaroo · 6 years

Text

Promises (11/30)

Disclaimer: Batman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: One Year Later/Evil Cass allusions Rating: T Synopsis: For an entire year after the Crisis which threatened to wipe everything they knew and loved off the Earth, after so many hardships and loved ones lost, Cass and Tim find themselves battling on different sides of the globe not only for the fate of what’s left of the world, but for the sake of once again feeling purpose. [A One Year Later fixer upper]

A/N: Ohhhh boy. So, I didn’t have the opportunity to update this fic prior to my big move which has kept me pretty busy and my life completely consumed until about this week, unfortunately. But! I’m back now and more than ready to give my writing the attention it really deserves, I’m glad to say. Thank you to everyone who was so patient in waiting for this update and I hope that it’s worth the time you’ve been waiting!

Special thanks to @mitchthebat, @go-wandering, @pullinajalonzallnite, @secretlystephaniebrown, and Kiyomisa on tumblr, ffnet, and AO3 for the feedback and support!

The Family Affair

Tim had always hated engaging in the high society and unknowable nuances of formal dinners. The few times his parents traveled with him had meant a risk of causing incident with international archeological diplomacy on the line.

It made Tim worldly and terrified of social conduct well beyond his years.

Those long buried memories were the only ones in mind which could even come close to his discomfort at the feast tent, sitting beside Dick on pillows which Talia’s guard had set up for them — Talia at the head of the gathering and Bruce sat across from them.

Though, of course, Tim also supposed that awkward was a close enough sensation to it as well. Maybe that should have been his first instinctive association.

And by maybe, he of course meant most likely.

“I am afraid, Robin, that we only have access to local cuisine,” Talia spoke lightly. “My resources are stretched thin as it is at the moment, I have various assets in the region requiring my…” Talia trailed off, looking toward Bruce meaningfully, “guardianship.”

Bruce took another drink prior to returning Talia’s gaze.

“There are many things in this region which require my attention as well,” Bruce replied. “Direct or otherwise.”

There was something in his tone that made both Tim and Dick glance to each other, like they couldn’t tell if it was something they alone had heard. But it wasn’t.

There was a context to the conversation utterly lost on them.

Talia looked to Tim again, her gaze all but freezing him in place. “Robin, if you do require something, however, you have only to ask.”

It was becoming obvious to Tim that he was encroaching on rude behavior, and anxieties buried with childhood began to fester once more.

He looked at the Ethiopian food, something he actually had liked for most of his life, and felt his stomach betray him with a sickly turn. It wasn’t made better by imagining it as American fast food either.

It was like Tim’s appetite had gone on strike and he only just realized how little hunger had motivated him at all in the last few months.

The connection as to why seemed obvious, but Timothy Drake had made himself familiar with denial since the first moments of realizing his heroes were only human in every way that hurt under their masks.

“Thanks, but I’ve not had much of an appetite today. The food looks… great though,” Tim fumbled through his words.

Considering the looks he received, Tim wasn’t sure if his explanation was completely accepted at face value. Fortunately, though, no one seemed all that interested in testing him either. Soon Talia turned her full attention back to Bruce and to the strangely stilted conversation that had been carrying on between them.

“Last we spoke I had chosen the side of my sister, as I recall,” Talia continued. “It was important to me that you understood my adherence to family. Even when that family no longer held the guidance and instruction of my father. I would assume that you still feel very much the same when it comes to family.”

“Of course,” Bruce answered. “And considering you and your sister’s hands in Ra’s no longer being the head of your family, I suppose my own part in the destruction of the Lazarus Pits is not held against me or mine.”

Dick wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, slowly eyeing the two adults. “Well, this isn’t uncomfortable at all,” he muttered.

“Of course, my Beloved,” Talia answered simply. “If either Nyssa or I felt different you surely would have been made aware. The problems with my father’s inheritance have mostly to do with those who have taken pieces from his legacy for themselves in some banal attempts at a rebellion.”

Bruce seemed interested, folding his hands together. “Whisper A’Daire and her anthropomorphic followers, I’d assume.”

“How did you know?” Talia asked genuinely impressed.

“She had been the lead in the attack on Gotham after its recovery from the No Man’s Land sanctions. Her addiction to the poison which turned her and the others in that sect of your father’s empire was matched only by her servitude to him. Your insurrection along with your sister would not be conducive to her already unsteady loyalty and she and the other members of that sect following the word of the Book of Cain were still active in Gotham despite your sister’s promise to me as lately as the Gotham Gang Wars,” he concluded strongly. “My only question is why Nyssa would be against you meeting with me when I can assume we all similarly would like to see an end put to the Cult of Crime.”

“She is confident that its conclusion will come at the hands of someone you left in Gotham, my Beloved,” Talia explained. “Her concern comes only from how much control you can maintain from where you are now.”

Tim frowned, putting the pieces together himself. Bruce was concerned about Gotham, second guessing their journey, he could already tell. But Talia… she was speaking in half truths. And Tim wasn’t sure if Bruce was in a mind to see it after she had already helped them out.

So, against those instincts of self preservation, Tim coughed into his fist and drew attention to himself. Good children were seen but not heard. And Tim had always found a way to not be a good little child.

“Nyssa’s attention would be less on Gotham if she was worried about a different insurrection right under her nose,” Tim pointed out. “And I have it, from a few little Birdies, that she no longer has Lady Shiva supporting her claim. That would mean she needed someone else to support her who would have either a legitimate claim or was respected by the League of Assassins.” Tim squinted at Talia. “Wouldn’t you have both of those in check if you were behind her?”

“Tim,” Dick muttered lowly toward him.

Talia smiled. “Robin, you are becoming quite the detective yourself.”

“Are you turning against your sister, Talia? Do you need our help?” Bruce asked a little too freely for Tim’s tastes.

“Your concerns are noted, my Beloved. And appreciated. But I am not taking claim against my sister, merely removing a chess piece from her set,” Talia answered. “Some would claim that to be even worse.”

“What could be more important than a blood heir like the two of you?” Dick asked in concern.

The smile that sat flatly on Talia’s face was unsettling to Tim. “Perhaps it was impolite to bring such matters to the table. They are better for another time.”

“And when would that be?” Tim pressed protectively.

“Tim,” Bruce said, a cautious furrow in his brow. It was still enough to make Tim back off. At least for the time being.

Dick began wrapping some of the food in a napkin. “For when you get hungry tonight,” he said to Tim.

The rest of the dinner was quiet and cold.

There were small, private tents available but Talia and Bruce were in the main tent where they had ate well after Tim was ready to sleep.

That, of course, ended with Tim laying on his back, staring at the tent above him and anxious about what could be keeping Bruce up and with Talia rather than conferring with them in the private tent. There was a third place made for Bruce, but hours later it still wasn’t filled by him.

Dick, to his credit, had came along not much later than Tim had, but he never fully laid down to sleep.

Even with one arm in a cast, Dick was determined to exercise his body with his usual routine. It was the kind of dedication to exercise that Tim might have found inspiring for himself if he wasn’t thoroughly uninterested in maintaining his own shape at the time. Instead, he was just watching the tent, the ripples in the fabric as it rolled with the desert winds.

“What are you thinking, Tim?”

After a few moments of silence, Tim turned his head enough to look at Dick as he continued his one armed pushups. He frowned a bit more. “What am I thinking?” he parroted.

“You’re quiet and you weren’t stuffing your face with food,” Dick pointed out. “Very unlike you. Plus you kept looking at Talia like you were going to leap over the table and tackle her at a moment’s notice. Pretty sure that she was prodding you for it.”

“Was she?” Tim asked before looking back at the ceiling. “I don’t think she’s being fully honest with us.”

“Not surprising,” Dick countered.

“And neither is Bruce.” Tim added it before he could even think over the words, realize what he was saying. But the moment they left him, he knew that there wasn’t any taking them back. He glanced over to Dick a little sheepishly, unsure of how he’d react to the statement.

Taking a deep breath, Dick finished a last push up before dropping to his knees and rising up to sit back, legs folded beneath him. There was a light sweat on his brow as he looked at Tim, which only served to distract Tim from the tight frown for a few seconds.

In the silence, Tim’s heart was pounding, threatening to break free from his chest at a moment’s notice.

“Fair,” Dick finally said, reluctantly like Tim was all but pulling the word out of him. “There’s something strange going on. But do we have any idea what?”

Too relieved to really give Dick’s question that much thought, Tim melted into his pillows and shrugged slightly in return.

“I don’t know, but Bruce hasn’t been big on providing answers lately,” he said back to Dick.

Nodding, Dick began to settle down in the cot laid out for him. “That’s fair.” When he settled, Tim could hear the breaths he took with a regular rhythm.

Somehow, the sound of it settled Tim’s nerves, began to lull him into a gentle rest.

“Are you hungry?” Dick asked without warning. “I still have the rolls from dinner.”

“Mmebeem lahturrf,” Tim tried his best to answer, but an unnatural tiredness was overcoming him. And even then, Dick was snoring before him.

The moment Tim woke up it was to a clatter of metal and the shine of a sword inches from his face.

It was a startling moment, one that nearly froze him in his cot, but as deadly as hesitation could often be for them in their line of duty, it didn’t cost Tim his life yet. Not because the sword had been stopped by his prepared hand or because of anything he did to save himself, but because a second blade wielded by none other than Talia al Ghul herself was bracing over Tim’s head, fighting back the sword meant for his neck.

For a moment, Tim wasn’t thinking about anything — a bleary haze in his brain trying to process what the hell had just happened. Then his first coherent thought bubbled to the surface, a nagging question of why as he looked at the ferocity on Talia’s face.

“Tell your master that the sword has been drawn,” Talia hissed at the cloaked dervish.

For a moment, Tim was just impressed more than anything else, but before the dervish could back down and run off, there was a flurry of movement and the dervish’s feet were knocked out from under him. The dervish flung backward onto his back but did not get far before the same flurry of motion knocked him out with the same viciousness that Talia had been using to defend Tim earlier.

When the moment was over and Tim could clearly see Dick was the blur, he felt even more relief, able to breathe easier.

Talia seemed less impressed. “He was to deliver a message for me,” she snapped at him. “Now it shall be delayed.”

“We need to interrogate him and find out who he is and why he was after us,” Dick snapped back.

Feeling a need to do more than sit dumbly in his bed, Tim pushed himself up onto his knees. “Yeah, I’d be interested in that, too.”

“Apprehending the warrior was not necessary for that endeavor!” Talia defended. “I can recognize the elite guard of my own family. And now our time is cut shorter due to the politics at play.”

Getting to their feet at the same time, Dick and Tim glanced toward each other questioningly.

“Your family’s? So that means…” Tim got out slowly just before the flaps of their tent were blown open.

“The dervishes are from Nyssa Raatko, she has decided to make her move,” Bruce said as he entered, a strangely familiar, stoic expression on his face. It was as if he had slipped back into an old hat, an old cowl in those moments.

“Dervishes? Plural?” Dick asked before heading toward the edge of the tent and raising the flap open himself.

Sure enough, there were multiple similarly dressed warriors left strewn across the dark night sands of the desert. There were more without slashing wounds than there were with, but Tim could still see them clearly, and when he reexamined the blade in Talia’s hands he could see a matching sight of gore.

But that meant that she had been fighting with Bruce while Tim and Dick had not even woke yet. That meant that his unnatural tiredness was—

“We were drugged,” Tim deduced.

“Not all these dervishes appeared out of nowhere,” Dick equally deduced, a furious glare on his face as he turned back to face Talia and Bruce.

Bruce had no reaction but Talia… Well, by Tim’s estimates she almost seemed pained.

“I have declared war on my family,” Talia stated without remorse, no matter her expression. “The repercussions of such will go beyond me.” Then, to Tim’s surprise, her Lazarus green eyes turned squarely onto Tim. “They already have once tonight. And so I must see to it that others are not harmed likewise.”

To that, Tim squinted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure what she meant.

“You can’t leave alone, not after this,” Bruce said firmly.

Talia looked over her shoulder and almost tisked him for the concern. “Beloved, it is not a decision for you to make. Not when my own have betrayed me once tonight already. I will not have them endangering my heart as well.”

Surprisingly, at least for Tim, Bruce didn’t seem to have any visible reaction to Talia’s claims. Instead, he merely watched her as she left the tent as mysteriously as she had come into their journey back at the market, and it left an unsettled, confused feeling in Tim’s stomach. He could not shake the same sense he had at dinner that something larger, something more pressing, was going on, and he was maybe the only one who was blissfully unaware of the remaining details.

It was not a feeling Tim appreciated, not when the last few times he had been removed from the grander details it had all led to him losing things he would have never possibly thought he could afford to lose.

“Are the two of you alright?” Bruce finoallyasked, turning back to Dick and Tim.

“Groggy, but I’ll power through it,” Dick said firmly before glancing to Tim. “What about you, Timbo?”

“Fine. What are we doing next?” Tim asked, more that happy to change the subject. “We can’t just leave this stone unturned—“

“It doesn’t have to do with us for now,” Bruce said firmly, surprising them both.

“It… doesn’t?” Dick pressed, brow raised suspiciously.

“No, and we don’t have the time to spare. Talia can reach me if she needs to,” Bruce continued, pushing forward.

“Where do we have to get that is so important?” Tim asked, gathering his stuff as quickly as possible.

“Nanda Parapet,” Bruce answered. “To meet a friend.”

#writing #batfic #Batfic: Promises #Tim Drake #Talia al Ghul #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson

14 notes · View notes

stilljumpingback · 7 years

Photo

(via Black Sails Episode 309 - XXVII)

WELL-FORMED THOUGHTS

We’ve been circling themes of leadership and darkness this whole season (and series, honestly), and in Flint’s warning/welcome to Silver, we are explicitly told the connection between the two.

Flint: I’d hazard the guess that you learned of what had happened, told him how fucking stupid he was, and in that moment, he gave you a look that amounted to something less than contrite. And in that moment, you felt it. Silver: Felt what? Flint: Darkness. Hate. Showing indifference to the authority that you sacrificed so much to acquire, disdain for refusing to acknowledge that his actions, had you not intervened, would have led to an outcome that he would have held you responsible for reversing. Pride. Questioning what kind of man you are if you don’t seek retribution for the offense.

This sounds a lot like Madi’s analogy of the heavy crown. Flint knows about the crown, but in contrast to Madi, who has been supported by family and community, Flint knows what it is to bear that crown alone. He knows what it is to carry an enormous weight, and to resent everyone around him for not seeing it, respecting it, acknowledging it. And he knows that in his worst moments, he can act out of that resentment.

Flint believes that the darkness isn’t inherently wrong, but he knows that one must have control over it, and not the other way around. This is where Madi’s analogy of the tether is so important. In order to endure the darkness, it is essential to have someone with you, supporting you, aware of the heavy crown and its costs.

This whole show is about the power of partnerships, huh? God, it’s so beautiful.

FRAGMENTED THOUGHTS

“It is not the treasure that concerns me most. Charles Vane’s sacrifice is in that box. If your man is unsuccessful in seeing to his rescue, Charles Vane’s death is inside that box. Along with my good name. Along with her lost love. Along with your late quartermaster’s life. All the awful sacrifices made to assemble that box are now part of its contents, and those things are sacred things that I trust in no man’s hands.”

The weight of what they’ve all done is settling in on everyone, and that’s before one of our major characters is executed.

The scene between Eleanor and Vane is so good because these two know exactly how best to hurt each other. Eleanor calls Vane a coward, and Vane tells Eleanor she isn’t loved. As has always been the case, they’re simultaneously so wrong and so right. They see some things about each other so clearly, but they are utterly blind to other things. As they began, so they end: as a tragedy.

Eleanor’s speech to Vane is the perfect summation of how civilization justifies their demeaning hatred of pirates.

“You’re not a man. You’re deformed. Unformed. Flesh, bone, and bile, and missing all that which takes shape through a mother’s love. You cannot comprehend what you took from me or why it was good, because there is no goodness in you. There is no humanity in you, no capacity for compromise, nor instinct toward repair, nor progress, nor forgiveness. You are an animal.”

Woodes Rogers is bedridden with the Nassau disease that is taking down his soldiers, which is a very reminder that even the island itself is trying to expel the English.

Eleanor is motivated by revenge, but I believe she also genuinely wants to move beyond both Vane and her hatred of him. “There is no leaving it behind, but I’m ready to move forward.”

Featherstone and Idelle riding in a carriage together makes me very happy.

Billy’s job is to make people give a shit, but am I alone in thinking this is a very weird job for him to latch onto? He’s never been good at convincing anyone of anything, as Flint and Silver consistently and effectively walk all over his concerns. Am I not giving our tall boy enough credit?

I LOVE seeing the reunion of families on Maroon Island. It’s no wonder Flint regained his desire to live and fight after meeting them – this is the homeland he’s so long envisioned creating.

Madi: I stood in Nassau, and I realized when this war begins, it will have many different meanings. But to you this war is a civil war between two cities you held together for so long with unseen bonds. You will have people on both sides of it. You will have daughters on both sides of it. And I want you to know– Mr. Scott: Only you.

This is SO SWEET and makes me cry, but I can’t help but feel sorry for Eleanor. Vane’s accusations of no one really loving her are not untrue. She’s never felt secure in anyone’s love, because everyone who has loved her has had multiple obligations. But I’m making this lovely scene into a white woman’s pain. More importantly: How wonderful for Madi to have her father’s full support, and for them to have this moment together before he died.

Mrs. Mapleton tells Max that Idelle is the spy, but she won’t tell Eleanor because she believes Eleanor is self-destructive, implying Max is not. “Some people can only understand themselves through the eyes of those who hate them.” God, this episode is really making me feel sad for Eleanor.

Eleanor says she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her except for Woodes Rogers, which begs the question: why him? She barely knows him. But I think that’s exactly the reason. She has idealized him to the point that she subconsciously believes he represents everything: civilization, stability, hope. If she can earn his approval, then she will feel that everything she has done has been worth it.

Flint: The more you deny its [darkness] presence, the more powerful it gets, and the more likely it is to consume you entirely without you ever even knowing it was there. Now, if you and I are to lead these men together, you must learn to know its presence well so that you may use it rather than it use you. Silver: You have some experience with this, I imagine, living in fear of such a thing within you? Flint: Yeah, I do. Silver: I can’t tell if this was a warning or a welcome.

It’s BOTH, because that’s what a partnership is: Thank God there’s someone here with me, now let’s help each other get out.

Silver comforting Madi after Mr. Scott’s death is very sweet.

Max tries very hard to caution Eleanor that the people of Nassau tolerate England’s presence because they’re given security and order. The second she takes away that order, people will question why they should keep England around. But Eleanor just wants this all DONE, blinding herself to the possible consequences.

Lambrick visits Vane, which will be an entire post for my theology section soon!

Vane refuses to be enslaved, even to fear of death.

“These men who brought me here today do not fear me. They brought me here today because they fear you. Because they know that my voice, a voice that refuses to be enslaved, once lived in you. And may yet still. They brought me here today to show you death and use it to frighten you into ignoring that voice. But know this: We are many. They are few. To fear death is a choice, and they can’t hang us all. Get on with it, motherfucker.”

Wow. Just, wow. I hate that Vane died, but what a way to die.

Vane looks into Eleanor’s eyes and walks off the cart to his death. Even in death, they are playing a game of who wins, and clearly Eleanor’s “victory” doesn’t feel very sweet.

Mr. Scott also dies, though in contrast to Vane, he is surrounded by people who love and honor him. …Also Jack, who takes the opportunity to further his ambitions by requesting command of the ship Vane would have led in the upcoming battle.

Flint snarkily saying, “All struggles are uphill, that’s why they’re called struggles” gives me life!

Other people talking about Flint’s brilliance is my kink.

“He wants the force you bring to bear, he wants it. I know this enemy, Commodore. I know his mind. He took that cache with the express purpose of compelling us to commit your force to a battlefield of his choosing. Your force is factored into his thinking. He has planned for it. And I assure, you, if you allow him to dictate the terms of battle, you court a disastrous outcome.”

My heart continues to break at shots of Eleanor and Flint staring across the sea at each other, enemies now instead of partners.

And then Teach finds out that Vane is dead, and my heart officially shatters.

6 notes · View notes

emilyplaysotome · 7 years

Text

Part 6

The final part of this short series that was inspired by someone I met on my travels during the month of June.

Hope you enjoy!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

I knew I should have been paying attention, but I was too consumed by my own thoughts.

Had she been anyone else, I would have done what I always did.

Had she been any another woman, the second I’d seen her eyes flicker with doubt I would have made my intentions known, despite the fact that they had come as a surprise to me as well.

As we’d stood in front of her building, I found myself wanting to grab her and pull her close, claiming her mouth with my own, but instead I’d frozen in fear.

For the first time in my life I was petrified that my advances would ruin the genuine connection we’d shared that night.

Instead of being my usual brazen self, I’d run off like the coward I was with my tail between my legs, too scared to determine if the uncertainty in her eyes was my doing.

The entire ride home I’d wondered what our night together meant, and feeling as if I were in uncharted territory, I found myself obsessing in the days to come over what to do from here. Back at the hotel I immediately holed up in my room, and for fear of anyone tracking my searches booted up a vpn, followed by a Tor window and searched DuckDuckGo for, “How long after a date do you contact a girl?”

I found myself reading thread after thread of traditional dating threads, and marveled over how much discussion came as a result of such a simple question.

In the past women had always come to me, and I never needed to follow up as they’d either reappear at a party, or pursue me until I ultimately tired of them.

They’d always message me the night after we slept together, offering praise and flattery with the hopes of seeing me sooner rather than later, and I usually ignored their advances, fully expecting that if I wanted they’d end up at my beck and call.

I would reply when and if I wanted.

I made it known to the ones I enjoyed sleeping with that I was not interested in who they were, and preferred their silence to inane chattering about their lives. When I called them it meant one thing and one thing only - I would have them for a night as they would me, and the next morning we would go our separate ways.

Now the tables had turned and I was at the mercy of a woman, unsure if she was even aware of that fact.

Wait a few days.

Be casual.

Leave her wanting more.

I sighed, embarrassed by my own incompetence, and stewed in silence as I wondered if she wanted me at all.

The sounds of the ice melting in my tumbler made a clinking noise which brought me back to the present, and I found myself letting out a regretful sigh for the umpteenth time this week.

“Yo Eisuke. Are you listening?”

I was sitting in the lounge after another night of consulting search engines for advice, and had zoned out in the midst of Mamoru updating me on the status of my case. He looked grumpier than usual, and when I shook my head no, he rolled his eyes and lit up a cigarette before reiterating what he’d said when I zoned out.

“I was sayin’ that the case against you is pretty thin. Someone’s got a grudge for sure but this should be easy to squash now that I got all the info. So long as ya don’t do somethin’ stupid like hold another auction, this’ll all blow over in no time.”

“Thanks Mamoru.”

The lit cigarette almost fell from his lips as he looked at me with his mouth agape.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re thankin’ me?”

I scowled at him in response, but my glare didn’t seem to deter him in the slightest.

“So is it true? What Baba said about you findin’ a woman who melted your heart?”

“Remind me never to thank you again.”

He chuckled at my caustic response and sank back into the couch.

“I didn’t think so. Ain’t a woman alive who could manage that.”

I scoffed and walked away, worried that if I stayed any longer he’d catch the reddish hue which was beginning to stain my cheeks.

For over a month the investigation had slowly been wearing me down and even though Mamoru was now certain he could exonerate me, the stress had taken a toll.

Physically my clothes were all looser, and I realized that I’d lost significant muscle mass.

I’d started to look like my gangly adolescent self which was something I’d worked hard to shed over the years.

Before I’d seen her, I found myself drained at all points in the day, but somehow in the few days that had passed since we’d been together I’d rediscovered my energy.

I poured all my unease and regret into my workouts, obsessing over what had transpired between us and how I should move forward from here. I questioned if I was right for her - if I deserved her or if I should give up on her with the thought that we were too different and came from too different worlds.

However, on the third day as I ran mile after mile, I decided that I didn’t want to concede to losing her, and I thought about what my text to her should say.

I decided that “When can I see you again?” was too needy and too obvious. I could ask her “What’s up?” but that indicated she had me wrapped around her little finger. At mile 7 I couldn’t take it anymore and sent off a simple, “Hey” which I thought indicated I was thinking of her but wasn’t desperate.

I thought I’d get a reply pretty quickly but when a few hours had gone by and I hadn’t heard so much as a peep I found the anxiety beginning to build.

“Take me to that cafe.”

“Yes sir.”

I was glad he didn’t make me say the name of it, and that he knew me well enough not to comment.

The entire ride there I stared at my phone and my “Hey” which had been left in limbo for the past 3 hours.

Had she been any other woman she would have replied by now.

Had she been another, she would have known not to keep the great Eisuke Ichinomiya waiting.

…but she wasn’t any other woman, and that’s why I liked her.

The feelings confused me and made me uncomfortable.

I didn’t like feeling nervous or vulnerable, and meeting her had made me realize that I’d crafted my life in a way that purged me from having to feel these unpleasant emotions. Even though I’d called my driver on impulse, as my limo got closer to her cafe I found myself waffling over what I should do once we’d arrived.

I had no idea if she was there, or if she was working, or really, anything about her life other than the tiny fragments she’d told me that night.

There was a chance that she wasn’t there at all and had just been ignoring me because she didn’t want anything to do with me.

Perhaps she was out, or even, on a date with him and that had prevented her from replying.

The thought of her with him made me a bit ill, and I felt my stomach churn just in time for my driver to pull up in front of her cafe.

“We’re here sir.”

“Mmm.”

I told myself that it was too late to second guess my actions, and feigning confidence I exited the limo and entered the cafe.

Seeing as how it was around 4PM, the crowd had thinned out, and I found myself immediately face to face with my rival.

He’d looked up upon hearing the door open, but instead of greeting me with his usual befuddled expression, narrowed his eyes suspiciously and asked, “What are you doing here?”

I found myself smirking, suddenly amused by the fact that in our heart of hearts, all men are merely stupid animals possessing an inherent desire to claim the woman we liked as our own, in addition to shielding her from the advances of another. Seeing the malice behind his usual gaze made me realize that he had identified my true intentions in visiting the cafe, and as a result he was clearly on the defensive.

Like him, I’d quickly understood that his kindness towards her was laced with a selfish desire to be with her. Conversely, my presence had forced him to realize that having her would be more complicated than he initially expected.

After all, I offered the ultimate fantasy to most women.

In his mind, I was the person who could free her from her circumstances, and looking at me he saw all the things that most people saw when they attempted to befriend me for their own benefit. Even if he dedicated the rest of his life to building an empire he’d still be second to me, and it was obvious that the resentment in his eyes was a result of feeling threatened by my presence.

What he didn’t know was that she was different, and despite standing before him with my head held high I worried that none of those things gave me an edge when it came to winning her over.

In the three days that had passed, he hadn’t grasped the fact that he was actually the one who had an edge in the race to win her heart, and I couldn’t allow him to figure that out.

I continued to smirk, thankful for my adept poker face and said, “As a successful businessman I think you might benefit from knowing that you shouldn’t speak to a valuable customer like that.”

“Save it. You’re so full of it.”

“My, my…full of bite today aren’t we? You were far more docile the other times…I’m guessing she’s not in. After all, you wouldn’t dream of letting her see you like this would you.”

Yuki glared at me, “It has nothing to do with her, I just think you’re bad news.”

“Can’t argue with that I guess,” I said with a shrug, pretending that his words didn’t bother me when in actuality, he’d managed to hit me where it hurt.

Despite having done it countless times before, I couldn’t help but think again about what it would mean to bring someone like her into my world.

If I was to go after her, at some point she’d be exposed to all the dishonest, phony people in my life. If it all went my way, my world would inevitably overshadow her own, and her life would go from working part time in a cafe to being by my side at all times.

I hesitated for a moment, and felt my poker face crumble as it started to sink in that my selfishness would most likely cause her to suffer. Exposing someone like her to my world meant opening her up to all the pernicious consequences of my actions.

Would I really be able to protect her from all that?

“Yuki, I think we’re out of the vanilla.”

She appeared from the back, her eyes fixated on a clipboard she was holding and I felt my heart lurch in my chest upon seeing her for the first time in days.

“Hey,” I found myself saying, which I soon realized was exactly what I’d said in unanswered text, and having exposed my intentions by appearing in front of her I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Oh - Eisuke!”

Seeing her smile shook any resolve I’d had to push her away for her own benefit, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Can you make me a coffee?”

“Sure thing - two seconds.”

Yuki grumpily rang me up, and I paid in addition to giving a 200% tip in an attempt to flaunt my wealth and intimidate my opponent. He muttered a “thank you, come again” and ignoring him I walked over to where Niki was making my drink.

I wanted to ask her when her shift was over, but I once again felt the fear that paralyzed me take over and instead stood there in silence until she finally handed me my drink.

“Here you go.”

Her smile was more familiar than it’d been in the past, and I wondered what the significance of that was. Since that night she’d been on my mind for most of the hours in the day, but seeing her carefree grin made me worry that the feelings I had for her were one sided.

I watched her trot back over to Yuki, and felt my heart sink as smiled a similar smile at him. I hated being a slave to my emotions, and I attempted to hide my unease by taking what turned out to be too big of a sip.

“Damn it!” I muttered to myself, as the hot liquid scalded my mouth.

I felt clumsy and useless, but thankfully neither she nor Yuki noticed and I did my best to sit with the hopes that she would soon join me.

When she continued to focus on her work, I could feel my heart sink yet again.

It wasn’t simply that I felt ignored, but the fact that I was forced to idly sit by and watch as she spoke with him.

I strained to eavesdrop on their conversation, and even though it appeared fairly benign on first glance I knew better. Even though she might be completely unaware of his intentions, I could tell that he wanted to get close to her as I did.

He was playful with her, finding any excuse to put his hands on her, and each time, when she didn’t push those filthy hands of his away, I felt more and more certain of the fact that I was fighting a losing battle.

“Hey Niki,” he said, loud enough for me to hear. “Did you see they’re doing a Miyazaki retrospective in the park?”

“What? Really??”

“Totoro’s your favorite right?”

“To say the least! I’ve loved all things Totoro since I was a kid.”

Yuki laughed at her excitement and I found myself watching her with a tender expression despite the fact that my heart filled with unease.

“Well funny you should say that, cuz I won two tickets the other day in a raffle. Do you want to go with me? They said they were good for any movie we wanted and Totoro’s this Saturday.”

“Seriously? Of course I want to go!”

“You sure?” He teased. “You don’t seem that excited about it…”

“I want to go! I want to!”

He laughed and knowing full well I was watching reached out and rested his hand on her head, giving it an affectionate pat.

“Great. It’s a date then.”

With that he retracted his hand and cooly headed back into the employees only area behind the bar. Niki’s face suddenly flushed and upon realizing what had happened I was forced to watch as an elated smile crept across her face.

He’d played it all masterfully - making his affections known to her as he broadcast to me that he was not to be messed with.

If it had been any other girl I would have gone behind the counter, taken her hand, and whisked her away.

If it had been any other girl I could have won her over by lavishing her with expensive dinners and gifts, flaunting my wealth before inevitably dazzling her with my proficiency in the bedroom.

…but she wasn’t any other girl.

She was someone I cared about, and she looked so happy. I didn’t want to be the guy that ruined her smile.

I didn’t want to be the guy that trapped her in my world which I sought refuge from with her.

I liked her too much to do that to her.

I felt my heart break a little upon realizing that if I liked her as much as I claimed to, I’d need to do what was best for her.

I’d need to let her go.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, placing the ceramic mug back on the counter.

“You’re leaving already?”

I nodded, “Work. Now that my case is close to being thrown out, things are starting to pick up.”

“That’s great, right?”

I nodded again and with smile added, “Though I’ll miss having time to stop by for a cup of your coffee.”

“Oh.”

Her face fell and for a moment I hoped that meant what I wanted it to. Behind her, Yuki watched me sharply and I could tell he worried about exactly what I wished for.

“We’ll still be friends though, right? That is…maybe I’ll see you at the hotel?”

Friends.

Hearing her say it out loud made it sting more than it should have.

It was illogical seeing as how I’d gone from being certain she was just like all the others, to realizing that I had feelings for her in such a short amount of time. She was atypical of everyone I’d ever liked and somehow, that had made me like her more.

Her earnest expression on her imperfect face never failed to cause something I’d pushed deep down to bubble up, and I found myself averting my eyes and nodding.

“Yeah. Friends. We’ll be in touch.”

She texted me a few times in the weeks after my last cafe visit, but I never really knew how to respond, so I found myself not responding at all.

As the weeks passed I found myself wondering if she was happy - if she was dating that guy, and living a happy life doing whatever it was that she did in her spare time.

As Mamoru predicted, the case against me got thrown out pretty quickly, and soon things were back to normal.

Seeing as how she’d left my heart open and vulnerable, it felt good to distract myself with the onslaught of work that maintaining my empire required. For three months I did nothing but eat, breathe, and sleep the Tres Spades and my auctions.

I found myself returning to the life I’d lead before the scandal, and before she’d melted my heart a bit.

I returned to laying with women who gave themselves to me in the hope of gaining a portion of my wealth, and I found myself feeling emptier and lonelier with every encounter. I’d lie next to them wide awake, long after they’d fallen asleep in my bed, distracting myself on my phone and wondering about her.

Was she wondering about me?

For the man that had everything, I’d come to realize that I had nothing worthwhile.

I’d never realized that before, and now that I had I didn’t know how to fix it.

Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to Fall.

Occasionally I’d make my chauffeur drive by the cafe, but we never stopped. He knew me well enough not to say anything, and I felt thankful to him for that.

Before I knew it we were putting up Christmas decorations and I was on every news station bragging about how the Tres Spades Christmas Tree was the largest and most spectacular tree in all of Japan, and maybe, the world.

People began to pour into my hotel to see the spectacle for themselves and I found myself scanning the crowds for her face.

Would she come with him?

For two weeks I looked for her, and never saw her.

The tree, which had singlehandedly created more revenue than any other event had managed to bring in people from around the world but it hadn’t brought me the one person I wanted to see.

I found myself looking up at it, late at night when the crowds had thinned, my eyes landing on the star up top.

Tomorrow would bring Christmas Eve with it, then Christmas, and soon after that the tree would be taken down and I’d lose all hope of seeing her.

“You put a Totoro up top…”

I looked over my shoulder and saw her smiling at me.

“…they’re my favorite, you know.”

My heart swelled and my pulse quickened.

I’d fantasized about this moment for months now. I’d planned to grab her and kiss her and whisk her away to my suite where I’d proceed to make love to her late into the night.

Yet in reality I gawked, too stunned to articulate everything I was feeling and blurted a pathetic, “How?”

“He offered me a ride to come see the tree when my shift was up,” she said, and I glanced behind her to see my driver out front.

“I see.”

We stood there in silence, and I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she gazed up at the tree.

“You should have just asked me on a date, you know.”

It was the last thing I ever thought she’d say to me.

A wry chuckle fell from lips as I realized the depths of my foolishness. I’d made the decision that she should be happy without me before even asking her what she’d wanted.

It was pompous and arrogant, and very much something the daft Eisuke Ichinomiya would do.

“I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“You don’t know ‘til you ask…”

“What happened with that other guy?”

“I realized that I liked someone else more.”

“Oh.”

I thought of her texts that I’d left unanswered all those months ago, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment as I realized how inept I was.

I’d managed to build an empire for myself, but I struggled to decipher the signals of the only woman who cared about me for me.

“Would you like to spend Christmas with me?” I asked her clumsily.

“Hmmm…”

She smiled at me mischievously, and took my hand in hers.

“As long as we don’t have to go to any of your terrible parties.”

“Sure.”

She gave me a playful nudge, and I squeezed her hand with a smile, feeling truly wealthy for the first time in my life.

I hope you guys are satisfied with this ending and it wasn’t too sappy.

I had two potentials ends and decided to go with happy over heartbreaking which is not like me at all (especially since I’m still not a fan of Eisuke).

If you liked this story I hope you’ll consider checking out my 50 chapter extravaganza (master post here) or buying me a coffee!

@uniqhoe

@innocent-username

@hifftn

@robotloveskitten

@dreamfar628

@kyliina

@hazeldite

@lxvescramble

@kingdomzeldaquest

@nitelotus

@nxndas

@deedeemj

@severussnapeismybff

@earprinting

@wakisa2402

@aeirwen

@nina15teen

@saintvixx

@brilexa

@suzunesays

@mandakatt

@krispycherryblossomchild

@macandcheesy1

@ashcordova

@lexlesnik

@juliettebbgamer

@untilsmidnight

@kaylove101

@tres-spades-hotel

@senaki13

@scorpioslover

@ariaspencer1028

@lilombc123

@belxsar

@suyi-nandar

@friendship-blog

@allycastor27

@littlecutie101

@speakfearlessly1989

@kiniloves-yoi

@new2otomelol

@huntressofsheep

@snootz33

#eisuke ichinomiya #kissed by the baddest bidder fan fic #kissed by the bidder fanfic #voltage fanfic #Voltage fan fiction

158 notes · View notes

nusrattalks · 5 years

Text

30 Days of No Sugar and More: Day 1

CHALLENGE: 30 days of No Added Sugar.

Duration: 24th June 2019 – 23rd July 2019

CHALLENGE BLOGGING FREQUENCY: Every 3 days.

KEY GOALS: 1. Consuming sugar moderately as opposed to depriving self and/or binging. 2. Better physical and mental health. 3. MORE POWER to real ingredients.

MOST IMPORTANT GOAL: 1. Become more awesome than currently am. 2.SAVE MONEY (if you’re not feeling me on this one, please take a bow.

Today marks Day 1 of my ’30 days of No-SUGAR’ challenge.

Firstly, as this is my second time this year, there are some hard assed lessons I learnt the first time around which I’m carrying with me this time. Key ones are as follows:

· Plan ahead for the day ahead- This cannot be exaggerated enough. And applies in case of EVERYTHING. Starting from planning out the work outs and documenting the entire journey, right down to the extra serving of fruit I’ll pretend isn’t excess.

· Read the labels more carefully- Last time around, I wasn’t aware of the many names that sugar has. Which means that even though I was reading the labels, I was easily swayed by anything that read ‘sugar free.’ However, thorough research this time around is helping me ensure that I look out for the sneaky ways in which ‘sugar free’ products are also capable of being full of sugar. For instance, this rack full of ‘sugar free’ chocolates which, on closer inspection, are full of artifical sweeteners. 💔

· Think ‘SUSTAINABLE’- The rule for me is always that I make my own rules. It is a well known fact for those who know me that I suck with restrictions. I just refuse to live along with restrictions. Which is also a huge factor in how I decide my lifestyle changes. The last time I was doing this challenge, I had allowed sweeteners into the 30 days because I didn’t research more into naturally occuring sugar and how to use them. This time though, I am more determined to use naturally occurring sugar more in my diet as an alternative to sugar. However, that does not mean I won’t be reaching out for the sweeteners at all. Why? Because the goal is SUSTAINABILITY. What I am aiming for is a lifestyle that does not end at the 30 day mark but rather becomes permanent and helps me towards becoming a healthier and better version of myself. And never reaching out for sweeteners (or sugar for that matter) is anything but sustainable in my world. There are some other ones too but right now, for the life of me, I can’t remember. Maybe I’ll put those on next time.

I started today with a good kick-ass cardio workout, 50 squats and lots of happy hormones. I also opted for an iced americano today instead of the regular hot one I get and I CANNOT BELIEVE how much my tastebuds and heart and soul loved it. It was gone in less than 10 minutes and the weirdest part is, my thirst for water went up like 10 notches right after. Before midday, I’d gone through 1.5 litres of water. So whatever this magical iced americano is, more for me, please.

Some home-made pineapple juice took care of my ritual post-lunch sugar craving fabulously. Also, I love pineapple juice. So win-win.

Earlier in the day, during an instagram-break, I had come across a picture of an avocado toast which left me drooling and I, very confidently, told my sugar-free squad that I’ll save this one for my Friday brunch. Of course, my greedy, forever-hungry ass had other plans.

So, I found myself buying exactly ONE avocado at the supermarket (they are expensive, guys) ,followed by a sourdough bread run, before I arrived home and made myself the best avocado on toast I had ever tasted. That’s mozarella and feta on top, yes. And lemon drizzle, yes. And magic, yes yes.

And now, as I’m ready to call it a day, I am extremely grateful. In the midst of the chaos that is my headspace nowadays, I feel like today has been nourishing for both my body and soul. I took care of me. REALLY took care of me. Everytime I decided to make a healthy choice, that extra minute on the treadmill, the portions I controlled, all of it came together because of me, to remind myself that I am capable of loving me. And sometimes, that is just EVERYTHING.

I will be weighing myself weekly and tracking progress by the way my clothes fit and most importantly, by the way the inside of my head feels.

I have also promised myself to blog for religiously for the next 30 days, i. e.

- Every 3 days, I’ll be checking in with the challenge.

- Other days, I’ll be writing about whatever the heart desires.

I am psyched. I am SO READY to start this rollercoaster ride. I can only imagine the highs and lows that await, given the different promises I made to myself for the month, but no one got out of life pain-free anyways.

I hope you will be beside me on this journey, cheering me on and reading what my heart has to say. Even if not, thank you for reading this far. It means everything!

Here we go, Nussy! ❤️💪🏾

#30 day challenge #writers of the world #spilled ink #spilled words #saynotosugar #health #mental health #writing challenge #lifeisgood

0 notes

theconservativebrief · 5 years

Link

I’ve been a hypochondriac for much of my life.

When I was 13, I read an article about a girl my age who had recently lost her hair to alopecia. For the next six months, my teenage self developed an obsessive hair-counting habit every time some collected in my hairbrush.

A few years later, as a freshman at university, a three-day headache led me to call home in tears, convinced I had a brain tumor. (I did not.)

In 2008, my 24 years of neuroticism reached their dizzying peak. I had gone wakeboarding on a warm lake during a trip to Las Vegas, and I woke up a few days later feeling a little under the weather. One three-hour Google spiral later, I was in a full-blown panic.

You see, there is an extremely rare but nevertheless horrifying amoeba called Naegleria fowleri that occasionally appears in warm freshwater lakes in the southern states and, if said lake water gets into your sinuses through a mistimed splash, the amoeba can climb up your olfactory nerve, reproduce, and quite literally eat your brain. Even though I understood the meaning of the words “extremely rare,” the narrative was just too perfect — neurotic hypochondriac who always worried needlessly about rare terrible diseases succumbs to rare terrible disease.

Of course, I was wrong again. The only thing eating my brain was my own irrational anxiety, and after a few sleepless nights, I felt sheepishly well enough to rejoin the Vegas revelry.

Fast-forward to today, and I’m pleased to say that my hypochondria — and my reasoning skills in general — have significantly improved. A large part of that was my choice of profession; I began playing professional poker shortly after the amoeba episode, and 10 years later, the game has trained my mind to better handle uncertainty.

But the most powerful antidote to my irrationality came from a surprising source: an 18th-century English priest named Reverend Thomas Bayes. His pioneering work in statistics uncovered an immensely powerful mental tool that, if properly used, can drastically improve the way we reason about the world.

Our modern world is notoriously unpredictable and complex. Should I buy bitcoin? Is that news headline reliable? Is my crush actually into me, or just stringing me along?

Whether it’s our finances or our careers or our love lives, we have to tackle tricky decisions on a daily basis. Additionally, our smartphones bombard us around the clock with a never-ending stream of news and information. Some of that information is reliable, some is noise, and some is intentionally created to mislead. So how do we decide what to believe?

Reverend Bayes made enormous steps toward solving this age-old problem. A statistician by training, his work on the nature of probability and chance laid the groundwork of what is now known as Bayes’s theorem. While its formal definition appears as a rather intimidating mathematical equation, it essentially boils down to this:

Javier Zarracina/Vox

In other words, whenever we receive a new piece of evidence, how much should it affect what we currently believe to be true? Does the information support that belief, dispute it, or not affect it at all?

This line of questioning is known as Bayesian reasoning, and chances are, you have been using this method of belief-building all your life without realizing it has a formal name.

For example, imagine a co-worker comes to you with a shocking piece of news: He suspects that your boss has been siphoning money from the company. You’ve always respected your boss, and if you had been asked to estimate the likelihood of him being a thief prior to hearing any gossip (the “prior odds”), you would think it extremely unlikely. Meanwhile, your colleague has been known to exaggerate and dramatize situations, especially about people in managerial positions. As such, their word alone carries little evidential weight — and you don’t take their accusation too seriously. Statistically speaking, your “posterior odds” stay pretty much the same.

Now, take the same scenario but instead of verbal information, your colleague produces a paper trail of company money going into a bank account in your boss’s name. In this case, the weight of evidence against him is much stronger, and so the likelihood of “boss = thief” should increase proportionally. The stronger the evidence, the stronger your level of belief. And if the evidence is compelling enough, it should make you change your mind about him entirely.

If this feels obvious and intuitive, it should. The human brain is, to some extent, a natural Bayesian reasoning machine through a process known as predictive processing. The trouble is, almost all our intuitions evolved out of simpler times for savannah-type survival situations. The complexity of more modern-day decisions can sometimes cause our Bayesian reasoning to malfunction, especially when something we really care about is on the line.

What if, instead of respecting your boss, you’re annoyed at him because you feel he’d been unfairly promoted to his current position instead of you? Objectively speaking, your “prior” belief that he is an actual account-skimming thief should be almost as unlikely as in the previous example.

However, because you dislike him for another reason, you now have extra motivation to believe the gossip from your co-worker. This can result in you excessively shifting your “posterior” likelihood despite the lack of hard evidence … and perhaps even doing or saying something unwise.

The phenomenon of being swayed from accurate belief-building by our personal desires or emotions is known as motivated reasoning, and it affects every one of us, no matter how rational we think we are. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve made an objectively stupid play at the poker table thanks to an excessive emotional attachment to a particular outcome — from chasing lost chips with reckless bluffs after an unlucky run of cards, to foolhardy heroics against opponents who’ve gotten under my skin.

When we identify too strongly with a deeply held belief, idea, or outcome, a plethora of cognitive biases can rear their ugly heads. Take confirmation bias, for example. This is our inclination to eagerly accept any information that confirms our opinion, and undervalue anything that contradicts it. It’s remarkably easy to spot in other people (especially those you don’t agree with politically), but extremely hard to spot in ourselves because the biasing happens unconsciously. But it’s always there.

And this kind of Bayesian error can have very real and tragic consequences: Criminal cases where jurors unconsciously ignore exonerating evidence and send an innocent person to jail because of a bad experience with someone of the defendant’s demographic. The growing inability to hear alternative arguments in good faith from other parts of the political spectrum. Conspiracy theorists swallowing any unconventional belief they can get their hands on until they think the Earth is flat, or movie stars are lizards, or that a random pizza shop is the base for a sex slavery ring because of a comment thread they read on the internet.

So how do we overcome this deeply ingrained part of human nature? How can we become better Bayesians?

For motivated reasoning, the solution is somewhat obvious: self-awareness.

While confirmation bias is usually invisible to us in the moment, its physiological triggers are more detectable. Is there someone who makes your jaw clench and blood boil the moment they’re mentioned? A societal or religious belief you hold so dear that you think anyone is ridiculous to even want to discuss it?

We all have some deeply held belief that immediately puts us on the defensive. Defensiveness doesn’t mean that belief is actually incorrect. But it does mean we’re vulnerable to bad reasoning around it. And if you can learn to identify the emotional warning signs in yourself, you stand a better chance of evaluating the other side’s evidence or arguments more objectively.

With some Bayesian errors, however, the best remedy is hard data. This was certainly the case with my battle against hypochondria. Examining the numerical probabilities of the ailments I feared meant I could digest the risks the same way I would approach a poker game.

Sick of my neuroticism, a friend looked up the approximate odds that someone of my age, sex, and medical history would have contracted the deadly bug after swimming in that particular lake. “Liv, it’s significantly less likely than you making royal flush twice in a row,” he said. “You’ve played thousands of hands and that has never happened to you, or anyone you know. Stop worrying about the fucking amoeba.”

If I wanted to go one step further, I could have plugged those prior odds into Bayes’s formula and multiplied it by the evidential strength of my headache-y symptoms. To do this mathematically, I’d consider the counter case: How likely are my symptoms without having the amoeba? (Answer: very likely!) As headaches happen to people all the time, they provide very weak evidence of an amoebic infection, and so the resulting posterior odds remain virtually unchanged.

And this is a crucial lesson. When dealing with statistics, it is so easy to focus on fear-mongering headlines, like “thousands of people died from terrorism last year,” and forget about the other equally relevant part of the equation: the number of people last year who didn’t die from it.

Occasionally, “red-pill” or conspiracy enthusiasts fall into a similar statistical trap. On its face, questioning mainstream belief is a good scientific practice — it can uncover injustice and prevent systemic mistakes from repeating in society. But for some, proving the mainstream wrong becomes an all-consuming mission. And this is especially dangerous in the internet era, where a Google search will always spit out something that fits a chosen narrative. Bayes’s rule teaches you that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.

And yet for some people, the less likely an explanation, the more likely they are to believe it. Take flat-Earth believers. Their claim rests on the idea that all the pilots, astronomers, geologists, physicists, and GPS engineers in the world are intentionally coordinating to mislead the public about the shape of the planet. From a prior odds perspective, the likelihood of a plot so enormous and intricate coming together out of all other conceivable possibilities is vanishingly small. But bizarrely, any demonstration of counterevidence, no matter how strong, just seems to cement their worldview further.

If there is one thing Bayes can teach us to be certain of, however, it is that there is no such thing as absolute certainty of belief. Like a spaceship trying to reach the speed of light, a posterior likelihood can only ever approach 100 percent (or 0 percent). It can never exactly reach it.

And so, anytime we say or think, “I’m absolutely 100 percent certain!” — even for something as probable as our globe-shaped Earth — we’re not only being foolish, we’re being factually wrong. By that statement, we’re effectively saying there is no further evidence in the world, no matter how strong, that could change our minds. And that is as ridiculous as claiming, “I know everything about everything that could ever possibly happen in the universe, ever,” because there are always some unknown unknowns we cannot conceive of, no matter how knowledgeable and wise we think we are.

Which is why science never officially “proves” anything — it just seeks evidence to improve or weaken current theories until they approach 0 percent or 100 percent. This should serve as a reminder that we should always remain open to the possibility of changing our minds if strong enough evidence emerges. And most importantly, we must remember to see our deepest beliefs for what they ultimately are: just another prior probability, floating in a sea of uncertainty.

Liv Boeree is a science communicator and TV host specializing in astrophysics, rationality, and poker.

Sign up for the Future Perfect newsletter. Twice a week, you’ll get a roundup of ideas and solutions for tackling our biggest challenges: improving public health, decreasing human and animal suffering, easing catastrophic risks, and — to put it simply — getting better at doing good.

Original Source -> How an 18th-century priest gave us the tools to make better decisions

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

0 notes

politicalfilth-blog · 7 years

Text

Cornell Student Exposes the GMO Propaganda that is Pushed in University

We Are Change

Article Via: Alt Healthworks

My name is Robert, and I am a Cornell University undergraduate student. However, I’m not sure if I want to be one any more. Allow me to explain.

Cornell, as an institution, appears to be complicit in a shocking amount of ecologically destructive, academically unethical, and scientifically deceitful behavior. Perhaps the most potent example is Cornell’s deep ties to industrial GMO agriculture, and the affiliated corporations such as Monsanto. I’d like to share how I became aware of this troubling state of affairs.

Throughout my secondary education, I’ve always had a passion for science. In particular, physics and mathematics captured my fascination. My sophomore AP physics teacher, Mr. Jones, became my main source of motivation to succeed. He convinced us students that our generation was crucial to repairing humanity’s relationship to science, and how we would play key roles in solving immense global issues, such as climate change. Thank you Mr. Jones! Without your vision, I would have never had the chance to attend such an amazing university.

I came to Cornell as freshman, deeply unaware of our current GMO agriculture paradigm, and my university’s connection to it. It just wasn’t on my radar quite yet. After two years of school, I was rather uninspired to continue traditional study. I never felt quite at ease, jumping through hoops, taking classes and tests that didn’t inspire me, in exchange for a piece of paper (degree) that somehow magically granted me a superior life. I know many undergraduates fit right in with the university education model, and that’s fantastic. I certainly didn’t, and my mental and physical health began to suffer as a result. I was left with no choice but to take a leave of absence, and pursue another path.

Instead, I began to self-study nutrition in earnest, honestly, out of pure necessity. Luckily, I found Cornell Professor Emeritus T. Colin Campbell’s legendary epidemiological research on nutrition and human disease. His evidence was so clear that I quickly transitioned to a plant-based diet. This personal dietary shift had profound benefits, dispelled my depression, and led me to a deep fascination with the precursor to nutrition: agriculture. I became particularly interested in agroecology. I was astonished to learn that there existed alternatives to chemical-intensive, corporate-controlled models of agriculture, and that they were far safer, more effective, and more sustainable. During my time away from Cornell, I participated in three unique seasons of agroecological crop production, with incredible results. I am immensely grateful for these experiences.

It’s impossible to study and practice agroecology without becoming deeply aware of the other end of the spectrum: the genetic modification of our food supply, ruled by giant agribusiness corporations.

Currently, the vast majority of U.S. commodity crops (corn, soy, alfalfa, sugar beet) are genetically engineered to either withstand Roundup herbicide or produce Bt toxin pesticide. These “technologies” are ecologically damaging and unsafe. The majority of these crops go to feed animals in factory farms. The remainder generally gets converted into corn syrup, white sugar, vegetable oil, or biofuels — you know, good stuff! This combined approach of growing GMO commodity monoculture crops, and feeding them to factory-farmed livestock, is one of the most ecologically destructive forces our planet has ever seen. It’s also a leading contributor to climate change. In fact, some experts believe it to be the leading cause.

As Professor T. Colin Campbell will tell you, the foods that come from this system (animal products and processed foods) are responsible for causing the vast majority of chronic disease. That’s a story for another day.

Cornell’s GMO Propaganda Campaign

I came back to Cornell a changed person, with a drastically different perspective. I was in for quite a shock, however: I sat in on a course entitled “The GMO Debate.” I was expecting members of an intellectual community coming together, with proponents and critics of GMO food each giving the best verified evidence they had to support their cause. Given all that I had learned about GMO agriculture, I was excited to participate for the “GMO skeptic” side.

The GMO Debate course, which ran in the fall of 2015, was a blatant display of unscientific propaganda in an academic setting. There were a total of 4 active professors in the course, and several guest speakers. They took turns each session defending industrial agriculture and biotechnology with exactly zero critical examination of GMOs. In spite of the course’s name, there was a complete lack of actual “debate.” Here are some of the more memorable claims I heard that fall semester:

* GMO food is necessary to feed the world * There is no instance of harm from agricultural GMOs * Glyphosate, the main ingredient in Roundup, is safer than coffee and table salt * If you believe in science, you must believe in GMO technology * The science of genetic engineering is well understood * “What off-target effects?” … when asked about the proven biochemical risks of GE technology * Vitamin A rice is curing children of Vitamin A deficiency (even though the IRRI, the research institute responsible for rolling it out, says it won’t be ready for some years) * Current pesticides and herbicides don’t pose an ecological or human health risk * Bt is an organic pesticide, therefore Bt GMO crops are safe and pose no additional risk * Bt crops work just fine — but we are now engineering insects as a complementary technology — to make the Bt work better * “Are you scared of GMO insects? Because you shouldn’t be.” * GMO crops are the most rigorously tested crops in the history of food * “If [renowned environmentalist] Rachel Carson were alive today, she would be pro-GMO”.

It gets better. During the semester, emails were released following a Freedom of Information Act request, showing that all four of the professors in the class, as well as several guest speakers, the head of Cornell’s pro-GMO group “Alliance for Science,” and the Dean of the College of Arts and Life Sciences were all copied in on emails with Monsanto. This was part of a much larger circle of academics promoting GMO crops on behalf of the biotech industry. Jonathan Latham PhD, virologist and editor of independentsciencenews.org, documented this in an article titled “The Puppetmasters of Academia.” I highly recommend giving it a read, for further context.

Perhaps saddest of all was the inclusion of several visiting African agriculture-academics in the course. They were brought here by the “Cornell Alliance for Science. ” This organization was completely funded by a $5.6 million grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and appears to espouse only pro-GMO rhetoric. For those of you who are unaware, Bill Gates is a proponent of using agricultural biotechnology in Africa, India, and other developing regions. So in essence, a group of African representatives got indoctrinated into the industrial and GMO agriculture framework, and were sent home to disseminate this information … after all, who could question the expertise of an Ivy League powerhouse such as Cornell?

I then learned of Cornell’s deep historic ties to the biotech industry, which explained what I witnessed in the “GMO Debate” course. Notable examples include the invention of both the controversial bovine growth hormone, and the particle bombardment (“gene gun”) method of creating GMO crops. Both of these cases are connected to Monsanto.

To say the least, I was completely stunned.

What I’m Going to Do About All of This

You didn’t think I was just going to complain about a pro-GMO, industry-sponsored Cornell all day, did you? Good, because I have come up with a plan to create actual, lasting change on campus: a student-led, expert-backed, evidence-based GMO course.

I have decided to host an independent course on the current GMO paradigm, in response to Cornell’s course. It will be held on campus, but will have zero influence from Cornell or any biotech organization. Every Wednesday evening, from September 7th to November 16, we will host a lecture. This lecture series is completely free, open to the entire Cornell community and broader public, and will be published online (for free, forever) at my project, gmowtf.com.

There will be several experts and scientists coming in to lecture for this course. Frances Moore Lappé, of ‘Diet for a Small Planet’ and ‘World Hunger: 10 Myths’ fame, will be introducing the course on September 7, via video presentation. She will be speaking on how GMO agriculture is unnecessary to end world hunger.

Steven Druker is a public interest attorney and author of the powerful book ‘Altered Genes, Twisted Truth: How the Venture to Genetically Engineer Our Food Has Subverted Science, Corrupted Government, and Systematically Deceived the Public,’ which Jane Goodall (in her foreword) hails as “one of the most important books in the last 50 years.” He will be giving two lectures that elaborate on the themes in the book’s subtitle and demonstrate that the GMO venture has been chronically and crucially dependent on deception, and could not survive without it.

Jonathan Latham PhD will be giving two lectures, on the dangers of Roundup Ready and Bt crops, respectively. He will also be participating in our special October 5 debate, representing the anti-GMO panel, alongside Michael Hansen PhD, a senior scientist for the Consumers Union. Jonathan has direct experience genetically modifying organisms, so his expertise is guaranteed.

Allison Wilson PhD is a geneticist and editor/science director of the Bioscience Resource Project. She will be giving a lecture on how GMOs are actually created, to dispel any industry myths of precision, accuracy, or deep genetic understanding.

Belinda Martineau PhD is a geneticist with an interesting history — she was on the team of genetic engineers that created the first commercial GM food crop, the Flavr Savr Tomato. She authored a book on her experience, titled “First Fruit: The Creation of the Flavr Savr Tomato and the Birth of Biotech Foods.” Her lecture will be a historical and personal account of the science, regulation, and commercialization of genetically engineered foods, effectively giving context for today’s GMO paradigm.

My personal scientific hero, T. Colin Campbell, who started me on this whole journey years ago, will not be speaking on GMOs per se … but will address some critically important, related topics: academic freedom and scientific integrity. He began his Cornell career over half a century ago, and has “seen it all.” He has fascinating anecdotes that will illuminate these campus-wide issues beautifully.

Jane Goodall, if you’re reading this, you are personally invited to take time out of your busy schedule to come and give the final capstone lecture. I know how passionate you are about saving our species, our planet, and all of its beautiful inhabitants. Your wise presence in this project would take it to the next level. Alternatively, please consider a short video interview. This offer stands indefinitely. Same for Vandana Shiva!

All in all, our independent GMO lecture series will focus on real threats and real solutions to our current ecological crisis … and perhaps most importantly, will feature 100% less Monsanto influence than Cornell’s course! Sounds good to me.

Taking It Further

I’m on my second leave of absence from Cornell to work on this project, and due to my experiences, I have somewhat given up on a Cornell degree … not that I was ever intensely focused on attaining one. This GMO course is by far the most important thing I can do with my Cornell “career.” However, it is just the beginning of my plan.

Remember the $5.6 million Bill Gates gave Cornell through his foundation, to push the pro-GMO propaganda? Well, to coincide with our course, we’re launching an initiative to raise the same amount of money or more to sponsor more appropriate forms of agriculture, educational outreach, and activism.

Go to gmowtf.com for more information, but in essence, this would finance:

* Continued grassroots educational activism at Cornell, and similar programs in other compromised universities (UC Davis and Berkeley, University of Florida, etc.) across the country. * A plant-based, NON-GMO independent dining hall for Cornell students. It would source as close to 100% organic and local food as possible. Ideally, it would be cheaper than Cornell’s plan (plant-based eaters won’t subsidize expensive meat and dairy for omnivorous eaters). * gmowtf.com as a permanent, free, independent, constantly updated resource for GMO science, policy, news, etc. … also the GMO course would remain online * My dream: a research farm focused on rigorous analysis of agroecological practices. There is an infinitum of fascinatingly effective agroecological techniques that are underrepresented in the scientific community (in favor of faddist, ineffective GMO “technology”). * Completely paying off student debt for a group of 10-15 undergraduates who are willing to help spread this message to the Cornell community.

Mr. Gates, if you truly care about feeding the world in a safe and sustainable manner, and if you are truly dedicated to science and to the kind of open, fact-based discourse on which it depends, I implore you to learn the important facts about which you have apparently been misinformed — and which are being systematically misrepresented by the Cornell organization you are funding.

You can easily gain illumination by reading “Altered Genes, Twisted Truth” by Steven Druker, one of our key contributors to our independent GMO course. You might find Chapter 11, on the ramifications and risks of altering complex information systems, of particular interest. You are, after all, the world’s most famous software developer!

As that chapter demonstrates, biotechnicians are significantly altering the most complex yet least understood group of information systems on earth — the ones that undergird the development and function of living organisms. Yet, they fail to implement the kind of safeguards that software engineers have learned are imperative when making even minor revisions to life-critical human-made systems. Can this be legitimately called science-based engineering?

Bill, feel free to reach out to any of the experts in our course, and don’t be hesitant to update your views on GMO agriculture in light of new understanding. A genuine scientist lives by this principle.

I invite you all to go to gmowtf.com and explore my proposals more. Please bear with the construction of the site in the coming weeks, in preparation for our amazing GMO course!

We live in somewhat of a scientific dark age. Our universities have become extensions of corporate power, at the cost of our health, livelihoods, and ecology. This has to stop, yesterday.

We cannot afford to spread lies to our undergraduate students. Cornell, please reconsider your ways. Until you do, I will be doing everything in my power to counter your industry GMO propaganda efforts with the facts.

With love, Robert Schooler

Article originally seen at AltHealthworks.com and was authored by Nick Meyer

The post Cornell Student Exposes the GMO Propaganda that is Pushed in University appeared first on We Are Change.

from We Are Change https://wearechange.org/cornell-student-exposes-gmo-propaganda-pushed-university/

#We are Change #We Are Change

0 notes