#Internal Memory Recovery

[silentmagi]

Internal Memory Recovery: oh this au idea made me tear up a little imma be honest , I like when they get their memories back, sure there is good and bad ones, but being allowed to remember the good times are important, and to remember prior to tessa, ouuuugh. AND CYNDI, THAT IS AN ADORABLE NAME AAAAAAAAUGH firstly, how is V feeling after her memory prior to tessa being fixed

how is poor N feeling after realizing who cyndi really was to him prior to solver stuff?

is solver and cyn one in this au?

if not, did solver let cyndi remember it all?

Internal Memory Recovery

I'm happy that my writing reached you on an emotional level, and hope that the tears released some positive chemicals in the brain. The memories are important to have. The good... the bad... and the ugly, it's always intense and powerful. You need the negative ones to highlight the good ones, and the good ones to show you that the bad does not last.

V is conflicted and is trying to keep her tough girl appearances, but is secretly working on a new novel that Lizzy is reading happily. Listen, getting new entertainment is huge.

N is devastated when he finds out about Cyndi, and wishes that he could do something to help her. Uzi then has Cyn use the tail to talk to N, who breaks down and tells him that she knew all along, but Solver kept her from telling him more when she was brought back from the dump.

[drdemonprince]

The data does not support the assumption that all burned out people can “recover.” And when we fully appreciate what burnout signals in the body, and where it comes from on a social, economic, and psychological level, it should become clear to us that there’s nothing beneficial in returning to an unsustainable status quo. 

The term “burned out” is sometimes used to simply mean “stressed” or “tired,” and many organizations benefit from framing the condition in such light terms. Short-term, casual burnout (like you might get after one particularly stressful work deadline, or following final exams) has a positive prognosis: within three months of enjoying a reduced workload and increased time for rest and leisure, 80% of mildly burned-out workers are able to make a full return to their jobs. 

But there’s a lot of unanswered questions lurking behind this happy statistic. For instance, how many workers in this economy actually have the ability to take three months off work to focus on burnout recovery? What happens if a mildly burnt-out person does not get that rest, and has to keep toiling away as more deadlines pile up? And what is the point of returning to work if the job is going to remain as grueling and uncontrollable as it was when it first burned the worker out? 

Burnout that is not treated swiftly can become far more severe. Clinical psychologist and burnout expert Arno van Dam writes that when left unattended (or forcibly pushed through), mild burnout can metastasize into clinical burnout, which the International Classification of Diseases defines as feelings of energy depletion, increased mental distance, and a reduced sense of personal agency. Clinically burned-out people are not only tired, they also feel detached from other people and no longer in control of their lives, in other words.

Unfortunately, clinical burnout has quite a dismal trajectory. Multiple studies by van Dam and others have found that clinical burnout sufferers may require a year or more of rest following treatment before they can feel better, and that some of burnout’s lingering effects don’t go away easily, if at all. 

In one study conducted by Anita Eskildsen, for example, burnout sufferers continued to show memory and processing speed declines one year after burnout. Their cognitive processing skills improved slightly since seeking treatment, but the experience of having been burnt out had still left them operating significantly below their non-burned-out peers or their prior self, with no signs of bouncing back. 

It took two years for subjects in one of van Dam’s studies to return to “normal” levels of involvement and competence at work. following an incident of clinical burnout. However, even after a multi-year recovery period they still performed worse than the non-burned-out control group on a cognitive task designed to test their planning and preparation abilities. Though they no longer qualified as clinically burned out, former burnout sufferers still reported greater exhaustion, fatigue, depression, and distress than controls.

In his review of the scientific literature, van Dam reports that anywhere from 25% to 50% of clinical burnout sufferers do not make a full recovery even four years after their illness. Studies generally find that burnout sufferers make most of their mental and physical health gains in the first year after treatment, but continue to underperform on neuropsychological tests for many years afterward, compared to control subjects who were never burned out. 

People who have experienced burnout report worse memories, slower reaction times, less attentiveness, lower motivation, greater exhaustion, reduced work capability, and more negative health symptoms, long after their period of overwork has stopped. It’s as if burnout sufferers have fallen off their previous life trajectory, and cannot ever climb fully back up. 

And that’s just among the people who receive some kind of treatment for their burnout and have the opportunity to rest. I found one study that followed burned-out teachers for seven years and reported over 14% of them remained highly burnt-out the entire time. These teachers continued feeling depersonalized, emotionally drained, ineffective, dizzy, sick to their stomachs, and desperate to leave their jobs for the better part of a decade. But they kept working in spite of it (or more likely, from a lack of other options), lowering their odds of ever healing all the while. 

Van Dam observes that clinical burnout patients tend to suffer from an excess of perseverance, rather than the opposite: “Patients with clinical burnout…report that they ignored stress symptoms for several years,” he writes. “Living a stressful life was a normal condition for them. Some were not even aware of the stressfulness of their lives, until they collapsed.”

Instead of seeking help for workplace problems or reducing their workload, as most people do, clinical burnout sufferers typically push themselves through unpleasant circumstances and avoid asking for help. They’re also less likely to give up when placed under frustrating circumstances, instead throttling the gas in hopes that their problems can be fixed with extra effort. They become hyperactive, unable to rest or enjoy holidays, their bodies wired to treat work as the solution to every problem. It is only after living at this unrelenting pace for years that they tumble into severe burnout. 

Among both masked Autistics and overworked employees, the people most likely to reach catastrophic, body-breaking levels of burnout are the people most primed to ignore their own physical boundaries for as long as possible. Clinical burnout sufferers work far past the point that virtually anyone else would ask for help, take a break, or stop caring about their work.

And when viewed from this perspective, we can see burnout as the saving grace of the compulsive workaholic — and the path to liberation for the masked disabled person who has nearly killed themselves trying to pass as a diligent worker bee. 

I wrote about the latest data on burnout "recovery," and the similarities and differences between Autistic burnout and conventional clinical burnout. The full piece is free to read or have narrated to you in the Substack app at drdevonprice.substack.com

[luna-azzurra]

When writing toxic family dynamics

Toxic family stuff isn’t always screaming matches or broken plates. Sometimes it’s quiet control. The expectation to shrink, the pressure to be perfect, the guilt that rides shotgun. It’s complicated. And it’s deeply, deeply personal.

✧ Make the love real, but conditional.  One of the most damaging things about toxic family is the illusion of love. It’s not “I love you no matter what.” It’s “I love you when you obey.” Let your character notice that.

✧ Control shows up in micro ways... Who’s allowed to speak. Who’s allowed to feel. Who apologizes first, even when they’re not wrong. Control doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes it’s a raised eyebrow or a guilt trip.

✧  Let them question reality. Toxic families are great at gaslighting. Your character might constantly wonder, Was it really that bad? Am I being dramatic? Let them doubt their own memories. That internal confusion is real.

✧ The guilt will be crushing. Leaving a toxic family doesn’t feel empowering at first. It feels selfish. It feels wrong. It feels like betrayal, even when it's survival. Show your character grieving the fantasy of the family they wish they had.

✧ Let them try to earn love. Your character might work their ass off trying to “be good,” hoping maybe this time they’ll be enough. Toxic families move the goalposts. Let that break them a little.

✧ Show emotional whiplash... One moment everything is warm and nostalgic. The next, it’s tense and full of landmines. That unpredictability is the dynamic. Use it.

✧ Don’t make the villain cartoonish. Even the abuser might think they’re doing what’s best. They might bake cookies and say “I’m just worried about you.” That’s what makes it so damaging. Write them like people, flawed, manipulative, real.

✧ Let your character unlearn in layers. Even after they leave, they still flinch. Still fold under pressure. Still crave approval. Recovery isn’t clean. But it’s worth it. And when they finally say no, even just once, let it be electric.

[hayatheauthor]

10 Lethal Injuries to Add Pain to Your Writing

Prev: Non-Lethal Injury Ideas

Need some creative ways to give your characters a real fight for survival? Here are 10 ideas: 

1. Punctured Artery

A puncture to major arteries like the femoral artery (thigh), the carotid artery (neck), or radial artery (arm) can cause rapid blood loss. It starts off with a sharp pain, weakness, lightheadedness and eventually can lead to hypovolemic shock. Requires urgent medical attention.

2. Punctured Eye Socket

A punctured eye socket will cause blood vessel damage leading to internal bleeding. I would use this for non-combat characters trying to get away. The eyes are an easy weak spot + you don’t need much strength to cause a critical injury/puncture. Also good for a protag's tragic backstory.

3. Torn Achilles Tendon

A torn Achilles tendon can result in severe bleeding if nearby arteries or veins are damaged. Your character will be forced to hobble away as pain causes their foot to swell and bruise. Plus, you can easily adjust the pain levels per your scene, from swift cuts to explosive jumps. 

4. Neck Hyperextension (Hangman’s Fracture)

This injury will fracture the C2 vertebra and can lead to spinal cord damage, paralysis or sudden death. This isn’t a light injury your character can come back from, so I would suggest using it only when you’re aiming for death.

5. Pierced Lung

A punctured lung will lead to a pneumothorax where air escapes into the chest cavity, collapsing the lung. Characters with this injury may have difficulty breathing, chest pain, and a cough that produces frothy blood (all the dramatics you need). 

6. Severe Concussion

A severe concussion will lead to confusion, vomiting, immobility and memory loss. More dangerously, brain swelling, internal bleeding and damaged brain tissue. Plus, it has a long recovery period. 

7. Shattered Pelvis

If you need something severe that restricts mobility but also causes severe pain then this is perfect! Involves signs of shock, internal bleeding, numbness, swelling—really a lot of things. Can occur if OC falls from a high place, hit repeatedly, car accident, etc.  

8. Internal Bleeding from Blunt Force Trauma

I like using this when you need something subtle since it doesn't show immediate symptoms. Over time, they will feel weak, cold, nauseous, and intense pain. Perfect if you want that 'everyone made it out then suddenly someone collapses' moment. 

9. Intestinal Perforation

A sharp blow or penetrating wound can cause a tear in the intestines, leaking bacteria into the body cavity, then peritonitis. It can go from small stomach pain to near death pretty quickly. Without prompt medical care, sepsis can set in, causing organ failure and death.

10. Cut to the Jugular

If you need something more visibly dramatic then go with the classic cut to the jugular. A warm rush of blood will pour out, and blood would spurt with every heartbeat. Causes panic, choking, and internal bleeding too. All the blood and gore you need. 

This is a quick, brief list of ideas to provide writers inspiration. Since it is a shorter blog, I have not covered the injuries in detail. Remember the worse the injury the more likely your character is to die (so be realistic folks). Happy writing! :)

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

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[woniwontons]

dead end - CHAPTER TWO

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 2.1k

warnings: abuse by parent, psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, left some yearning crumbs for y'all in here since its shorter...

chapter nav: one | two | three | four | five | six

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

ANONYMOUS POV

Transcript Log | INTERNAL FILE [REDACTED] Access Level: TOP SECRET Date: [REDACTED] Location: Off-site - Audio Transcript Only

Scientist 1: “Vitals?”

Scientist 2: “Stable. No unexpected rejection so far. Slight fluctuations during REM, but within limits.”

Scientist 1: “Neurological?”

Scientist 2: “That’s where it gets interesting. Her activity spikes in proximity to ▇▇▇▇▇.”

Scientist 1: “And the Void?”

Scientist 2: “We can’t detect it directly. But ▇▇▇▇'s energy readings dropped 17% during yesterday’s session. That’s the first time we’ve seen a suppression event without sedation or one of the New Avengers present.”

Scientist 1: “▇▇▇▇ doesn’t know?”

Scientist 2: “No. She thinks she’s been ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. She was flagged in her old unit. High trauma index, low emotional volatility, adaptable but guarded.”

Scientist 1: “Are you saying ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇ is working?"

Scientist 2: “There's too many variables here to know for sure, but I would say we're working towards a successful run.”

Scientist 1: “Continue observation. Let's try to introduce physical contact. If ▇▇▇▇▇ starts to escalate, we’ll pull her.”

Scientist 2: “And if he doesn’t?”

Scientist 1: “Then we’ve found the answer to our biggest problem.”

End of File

READER POV

You were barefoot.

The floor beneath your feet was sticky with something—beer, grease, maybe both—and the carpeted hallway stunk of cigarette smoke that had long since stained the drywall yellow. You knew, instantly, this wasn’t your memory, or at least nowhere you had ever been before.

You turned your head slowly.

A battered recliner sat in the living room, worn through at the armrests, facing a television that loudly blasted a wrestling match. The broken blinds cast sunlight across the floor. Outside, you could just barely make out a patch of dying grass.

"Where am I?" you asked yourself, feeling so lucid in this dream.

Down the hall, a door slammed.

"Useless piece of shit!" a man's voice roared from the other side of the house. You froze.

A crash. Glass shattering against the floor.

"You thought I wouldn't find out what you said to your uncle about me? Fucking liar, can't even man up and say it to my face."

Heavy footsteps approached the room you were in. Fear shot up your chest as you held your breath, slowly backing away from the hall before running to the nearest door. A set of steps appeared before you as you yanked the door open, and you ran upstairs to escape whatever was coming in your direction.

An attic.

You creeped quietly inside, looking for somewhere to hide if the footsteps continued to follow. It was a mess up there, filled with boxes and old furniture.

A broken patch in the floorboards appeared itself to you, drawing you to it. You crouched onto the floor and took in the scene underneath.

It was a small bedroom. On the floor, hunched near the edge of a mattress stripped bare, sat a boy. Knees to chest. Head down. Breathing shallow.

You recognized him.

Even this young, even under a mop of sweat-drenched brunette hair, you knew it was Bob. Thin. Shoulders curled inward, ready to disappear.

And across from him, towering in the doorframe, was his father.

Drunk. Flushed red. Breathing hard as he held a folded belt in his grasp.

His hand balled into a fist and slammed the doorframe hard enough to splinter it.

"Look at me, boy! Have you got something wrong with you in the head now?"

Bob didn't move. He didn't even cry, and you felt your heart throbbing in pain at the sight.

You leaned back from the floor as you felt a change in the energy of the attic, your senses screaming in paranoia.

A presence.

Your body swung around and your eyes met with your reflection in a mirror propped up in the corner of the attic. The air around you dropped in temperature, and behind you, stood a proper reason to shudder.

The Void.

He didn’t speak immediately, only stood at your back—close enough that you could feel the shape of him. His voice came low and deep, curling beneath your skin.

"No one came for me then."

You made in a sharp intake breath, unsure of what to do about such a powerful being standing right behind you. The crack of a whipped belt stung your ear from the room below you, causing you to wince at the following sound of younger Bob's cries.

"Why... why am I here?" you whispered, your voice cracking.

"I remember every time I wished I could simply burn this house down to get the peace I wanted. Every moment in this house turned me further into this."

You watch him reach toward you in the mirror, and you shut your eyes in horror, squeezing them in a grimace. But the touch that came was not in aggression, but a gentle grace of your forearm that made the hair stand up in goosebumps. You felt the tingle of his exhale meeting the back of your ear as he bent down to whisper.

"Is it wrong to want you to see it all?"

Your voice trembled. “This isn’t my memory to have, I shouldn't be here.”

"Well you've already seen it now, haven't you?"

You opened your eyes again to watch him. He tilted his head further forward, his gaze sweeping over the outline of your side profile. Refusing to look over, you held your gaze to the mirror, ignoring the sight of his blurred face in your peripheral. Examining you.

"You make it so quiet, I ought to consider you a threat." His hand on your forearm creeped downwards, his finger tips sliding down to the back of your palm. "But I can't help but to feel so intrigued."

You couldn’t breathe now. Your heart beat so loudly, you swore he could hear it hitting the inside of your chest.

"Let me keep you, y/n."

The training room on Sublevel 3 was colder than you remembered.

Bright, clinical lights shone down from above, reflecting off the polished floors. In the center of the mat, Bucky stood with his fists raised, sweat darkening the fabric of his T-shirt. Across from him, chest heaving but posture composed, was Bob.

He hadn’t seen you enter.

Neither had Bucky. But Yelena had.

She sat on the edge of a supply crate, legs crossed, examining the scene in front of her with careful precision. Her eyes flicked to you the moment you stepped inside and she swung her legs over the wooden crate to talk.

"You weren't on the schedule for today," she said, voice low.

“I’m not here officially,” you replied, watching as Bob ducked a punch and countered with a clean elbow to Bucky’s side. “Harding asked me to monitor some responses.”

That was a lie, but you needed to see Bob again. Or rather, you felt a strong, impulsive urge to do so. Especially after the dream.

“Again,” Bucky barked.

Bob nodded once. Then lunged.

The fight seemed brutal to you, all just weight and momentum. Bucky dodged the first blow and swept Bob’s leg, but Bob twisted midair, landing hard and kicking upward in the same motion.

You stepped closer to Yelena, clipboard clutched to your chest more out of reflex than necessity.

"Always with the clipboard, do you carry that around with you 24/7?" Yelena asked sarcastically. You scoffed back a laugh, realizing how nerdy you likely looked at all times. She eased your nerves a bit and you relaxed, letting your shoulders down as you watched the show.

Except, you couldn't help but notice that Bob was holding back. You could feel it.

Each punch he threw stopped just short of full force, like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go. But every time Bucky hit him, especially when it was hard, sharp, or unexpected, you saw it.

His eyes.

Brown. Then gold. Then back again.

A flash. So quick, you might’ve thought you imagined it. But the next time it happened, his hands changed too.

From flesh to something blacker than shadows, a smoke crawled up his wrists. Then, flickering back to normal as if nothing had happened.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just kept pushing him.

"Does that always happen? It's in the notes, but I've never seen it with my eyes before," you question Yelena.

She shrugs, looking at you curiously. "Usually it's a little crazier than this. I'm getting a bit bored if I'm being honest."

Your reply is interrupted by Bucky's shout, “Focus, Bob. Control it.”

Bob gritted his teeth, catching Bucky’s next blow with a forearm. “I am.”

The room felt like it was vibrating slightly. Just under the surface.

You took another step forward.

"Let m̷̻̑e̸͔̍ ̵̙͋o̸͖̕u̵̡̓t̸̫͛."

The hairs on your arm sparked up again in shock. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you felt it. Like pressure against your ribs. A whisper from inside someone else’s lungs. Something that had never occurred to you before. You looked to your side, but Yelena didn't seem to have heard the demonic voice that you had.

Bob swung wide and missed.

Bucky came in low and landed a blow to his ribs.

Bob staggered—and his eyes flared gold for just a second too long.

CRACK.

The floor beneath his foot cracked outward like broken glass.

Bucky immediately backed off, hands raised. “Bob—”

Bob doubled over, clutching his head.

“I’m fine,” he growled through his teeth, though his fingers had turned black again, wrists trembling. And simultaneously, a pressure grew in your own chest as he slowly lost control.

Bucky didn’t move.

Yelena stood, walking closer to the center of the room where the boys stood still. You followed closely behind her, ready to assist in any way you could.

"Bob?" Yelena spoke as she stopped in front of his crouched form.

And that was when Bob’s head snapped up, golden eyes searching the room like an animal sensing something off.

Then he saw you.

His posture stilled. His chest heaved once.

All of the blackness in his hands retreated at once.

“Did I lose control again?” he said softly, voice raw. It seemed like a question for the room, but he was staring directly at you. "Why do you make it so... quiet?"

You felt pathetic as your heart dropped as the memory of what the void said to you in the dream. "What?"

Bob straightened up quickly, smoothing the bottom of his shirt.

"Nothing," he exclaimed quickly, walking off to retrieve his water bottle at the corner of their training room.

Yelena looked between the two of you, confusion knitting her brows together. "What the hell was that?"

"Also nothing," you say curtly before spinning on your heel and walking away, noting the event on your clipboard.

The walls of Dr. Harding’s office were too white. The kind of professional warmth that pretended it wasn’t designed to contain people.

The artificial daylight panels made you squint as you sat in the stiff-backed chair across from her desk, hands folded politely in your lap. Your ridiculous clipboard rested beside you, useless for once.

Harding looked up from her tablet, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for coming by on short notice.”

You gave a small nod. “Of course. Is this about yesterday’s training observation?”

“Partly.” She adjusted something on her screen. “I just wanted to check in personally. After all, this assignment came with… heightened expectations.”

That was her way of saying: You aren't meeting them.

“I’ve been logging everything daily,” you said quickly. “Vitals. Verbal behavior. Motor regulation. There’s nothing I haven’t reported.”

Harding smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I know. Your notes have been thorough.” She paused, then added, “Surprisingly intuitive, actually.”

You sat up a little straighter.

She tapped her stylus once, then looked at you again. “How have you been sleeping?”

You blinked. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she repeated. “Any dreams? Emotional disturbances?”

You hesitated, just a second too long.

Harding noticed.

You cleared your throat. “I really don’t remember most of them.”

She smiled again. “That’s normal, especially under cognitive strain. The stress of being near dangerous people can elevate cortisol, even unconsciously.”

You gave a tight nod. “I’ve managed worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” She leaned forward slightly. “Still, Reynolds is… uniquely sensitive with his emotions. His feelings vary amongst the different staff members. But with you,” She gestured idly. “he seems to have a preference for.”

You looked at her. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Harding hummed. “Mm. That’s what makes it so effective.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your hands folded tighter in confusion.

“Have you noticed any… changes in your own behavior since starting the assignment?”

The question was clinical. Neutral. Like she was measuring you against a standard you weren’t aware of.

“No,” you said, but your voice came out flatter than intended.

Dr. Harding didn’t argue though. Just tapped her stylus again.

The silence dragged.

You stood a little too quickly. “If that’s all, I have reports to finish.”

She nodded, but you could feel her eyes following you even as you turned.

“Thank you,” she said politely. “And y/n? Please let me know if your dreams become more memorable to you.”

You sincerely hoped they did not become more memorable than they already were.

link to chapter three

hi everyone! a bit of a shorter update that i think is a good segue into the events of chapter three. i wanted to get this one out quickly since i know we're all starving for more bob content... or at least i am.

if you have any requests for bob one-shots, please feel free to let me know! link to my requests is in my pinned post <3

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on chapter one, don't worry because i've already added you :)

[s-soulwriter]

Creative misfortunes for characters

Identity Crisis: Have your character lose their memory, forcing them to rediscover their true self and past.

Betrayal by a Loved One: A close friend or family member betrays the character's trust, leading to emotional turmoil and inner conflict.

Physical Transformation: Give your character a physical ailment or transformation that they must come to terms with, such as sudden blindness, a debilitating illness, or turning into a different species.

Unrequited Love: Make your character fall deeply in love with someone who doesn't reciprocate their feelings, causing heartache and a quest for self-discovery.

Financial Ruin: Strip your character of their wealth and privilege, forcing them to adapt to a life of poverty and face the harsh realities of the world.

False Accusation: Have your character falsely accused of a crime they didn't commit, leading to a desperate quest to clear their name.

Natural Disaster: Place your character in the path of a devastating natural disaster, such as a hurricane, earthquake, or tsunami, and force them to survive and rebuild.

Loss of a Sense: Take away one of your character's senses (e.g., sight, hearing, taste) and explore how they adapt and cope with this profound change.

Forced Isolation: Trap your character in a remote location, like a deserted island, and make them confront their inner demons while struggling to survive.

Haunted Past: Reveal a dark secret from your character's past that comes back to haunt them, threatening their relationships and well-being.

Time Travel Consequences: Send your character back in time, but make them inadvertently change a crucial event in history, leading to unintended consequences in the present.

Psychological Breakdown: Push your character to the brink of a mental breakdown, exploring the complexities of their psyche and their journey towards recovery.

Unwanted Prophecy: Have your character be the subject of a prophecy they want no part of, as it places them in grave danger or disrupts their life.

Loss of a Loved One: Kill off a beloved character or make your protagonist witness the death of someone close to them, igniting a quest for revenge or justice.

Incurable Curse or Disease: Curse your character with an incurable ailment or supernatural curse, and follow their journey to find a cure or accept their fate.

Sudden Disappearance: Make a character disappear mysteriously, leaving the others to search for them and uncover the truth.

Betrayal of Morals: Force your character into a situation where they must compromise their ethical values for a greater cause, leading to moral dilemmas and internal conflict.

Loss of a Precious Object: Have your character lose a cherished possession or artifact that holds sentimental or magical significance, setting them on a quest to recover it.

Political Intrigue: Place your character in a position of power or influence, then subject them to political intrigue, manipulation, and power struggles.

Existential Crisis: Make your character question the meaning of life, their purpose, and their place in the universe, leading to a philosophical journey of self-discovery.

Remember that misfortunes should serve a purpose in your story, driving character growth, plot development, and thematic exploration.

[wosospacegirl]

And they were roommates - part 9

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate Kyra is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: Y/n is suffering from a very serious disease called jealousy <3 also.... omg are Alessia and Leah on a date!!???

Word count: 6.5k

MASTERLIST

notes: sorry it's a bit big

You can read Part 1 here and Part 10 here

..

Going on a few days without Kyra and Y/n had to admit. It was harder than she expected, but not only routine-wise. Sure, she had to adapt her ordinary day-to-day life now that Kyra was playing in the USA for the SheBelieves Cup.

Y/n had frozen meals in the freezer; and had turned her living room into a bedroom because she couldn’t go upstairs without assistance; she was only using the downstairs bathroom for the same reason, and her new driver to physion was Beth Mead.

It was hard to acclimate to all those changes, but it was manageable. But what wasn’t manageable? Missing Kyra.

Y/n didn’t wake up with kisses on her face, except for Footy, who licked her face in the morning because he wanted his wet food for breakfast. Kyra wasn’t there to massage her hands or paint her nails.

Kyra would always wake Y/n up in the morning to tell her about a crazy dream she had, Y/n would always get angry at her. She was sleeping! Why wake her up?...but now she missed it.

Kyra always lost the TV remote somewhere and they had to spend 20 minutes of their day looking for it, even though Kyra would –pinky finger– swear that she wasn’t the last one to see it. Now it was just boring to find the remote where Y/n actually had last placed it.

Y/n absolutely hated to share her stuff–Kyra wasn’t allowed to use her makeup, her hair care products, or her clothes. But now, Y/n would give them all away just to have Kyra back home.

Y/n wasn’t lonely. She had the company of her elderly neighbour, Mrs Petunia, Lotte and Beth also dropped by her house every evening for some girl dinner; Y/n texted Leah almost every day and video-chatted Kyra every single day.

But it still wasn’t enough.

It was weird to admit that Y/n just missed having people around–all of her people, especially Kyra.

Y/n thought the hardest thing about the international break was seeing every one of her teammates and other footballers playing while she had to watch on the sideline. But no, the hardest thing was watching her friend and Kyra making new memories while she was just sitting on her sofa eating chips.

She felt like the odd one out, and she couldn't even blame anyone. It was like watching a life Y/n wasn’t part of.

Y/n was reading a book about chess–that’s how bored she was –when she got a notification on her phone. Kyra was facetiming her. When Y/n picked up, Kyra’s face popped up on the screen, bright and smiling.

“Hi, baby,” Kyra said happily, a fork in her mouth as she was eating what looked like a fruit salad.

“Oh my god, are you eating fruits?” Y/n deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

Kyra rolled her eyes dramatically. “Shut up. What can I say, you’re rubbing off on me or something.”

Y/n had to bite back the thoughts running wild in her mind. Rubbing off on me, huh? But she bit her tongue.

“But how was your night? Did you sleep well”? Kyra continued, almost innocent compared to Y/n’s mind.

It seemed like Kyra was in the restaurant of the hotel, there were a lot of people walking behind her with plates in their hands. All of those people were wearing jerseys with their country’s flag on their left chest, Y/n saw the USA flag, Japan, Colombia and of course, Australia.

They were having breakfast while Y/n found herself stuck in that awkward limbo between afternoon and evening — a side effect of the frustrating time zone difference.

When Y/n was getting ready to reply, Kyra turned around from the camera and waved at whoever was on her right, a smile on her face as she talked to the person off-camera.

“Yeah, Yeah,” Kyra said. “I’ll be there as soon as I finish my breakfast,” Kyra said.

Y/n waited until Kyra was done, but it looked like the person had a whole lot to talk to her.

“No, I didn’t yet,” Kyra said more seriously, now turning her whole body away from her cell phone, so Y/n was only seeing her back. “But I think Alanna did, you could ask her.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but kept her patience.

“Sorry,” Kyra said, guilt on her face. “I'm a bit busy this morning with the match coming and all that.”

“It’s okay,” Y/n said, smiling. “Match days are the worst. Everybody gets stressed out.”

Maybe Y/n was feeling a little neglected, but she knew how intense any pre-match routine could get, especially an international one. “We can talk later if you want?” Y/n suggested..

“Nah, it’s okay, we can talk now,” Kyra said smiling. “I have gym later and then the game, it’s better if we talk now–but tell me, how was your night?” She picked up a banana and put it in her mouth.

“I’ve slept ok-ish” Y/n said, balancing the phone in one of her tights. 

“Just okay?” Kyra frowned. “What happened? Is the cast still bothering you? Did you try raising it on a pillow like we did last time?”

Y/n shifted, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought it up. She wasn’t going to say she couldn't sleep well because she got used to how Kyra would always softly scratch her back to lull her to sleep.

So, she lied.

“Oh yeah, this thing is my personal enemy, “Y/n said, faking a laugh. “I tried everything, but it didn’t work”.

Kyra's face softened, in the way she always did when she was worried. “I’m sorry, love���I wish I was there to help.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ky,” Y/n said, shrugging it off.  “But tell me about today’s game! How are you feeling?”

Australia would play against Colombia in the first game of the Shebelieves Cup. There haven't been any matches until now because all the teams were focusing on training and just getting used to each other's play style and getting back to their rhythm.

“Oh…I’m a little nervous,” Kyra admitted, taking a mouthful of her fruit salad, this time Y/n saw blueberries on her fork.

Y/n arched an eyebrow, silently challenging Kyra to be honest.

“–Okay, actually I’m very nervous,” she sighed, her tone betraying her fear. “I almost threw up when I woke up and realised the game was today.”

“Don’t be,” Y/n said softly. “It’s just like any other game, yeah? You’re one of the best midfielders in the world right now, Ky. You’ve been training a lot here at Arsenal and Houston.

Kyra’s face scrunched slightly, a little embarrassed–like she always did when Y/n said something nice to her. Kyra didn’t know how to take a compliment and Y/n thought it was cute.

“You’re turning into a cheesy person,” Kyra said, half-smile on her face. “What’s coming next? Serenades?

Y/n chuckled. “If you get lucky, I’ll write you an inspirational poem next.

Kyra laughed. Y/n missed her laugh…a lot.

Before Y/n could say anything, Kyra suddenly turned away from the camera and waved–again– to someone off-screen.

Y/n waited…and waited. Kyra kept talking to the mystery person, her voice was quieter and Y/n couldn't really listen to her or what she was saying.

Y/n was about to ask what was going on when Kyra’s screen was filled with blonde hair. Y/n narrowed her eyes, trying to understand what was happening and whose hair that was.

In a few seconds, the screen was clear of the hair and Kyra appeared in the frame again, but this time she wasn’t alone anymore, she had another girl by her side. 

Charli. She had golden, straight hair and was wearing a Matildas jersey. 

She was sitting on the chair next to Kyra, shoulder to shoulder. , a big smile on her face.

Charli was an Australian player, and she also played for Tottenham–a big rival of Arsenal. Y/n had, of course, played against her sometimes.

She knew Charli and Kyra were friends, but since Kyra moved in she didn’t mention her a lot, so she thought they were just the kind of friends you weren’t really the type to go out with much or spend a lot of time together..

But, weirdly, Charli was wrapping her arm around Kyras’s shoulder like they were pretty much intimate. 

Kyra and Charli began engaging in a conversation that Y/n couldn’t understand. And just like that, it was like  Y/n wasn’t even there on the screen. 

Y/n wanted to just end the call and be petty about the whole situation, but she decided to try and be a better person.

She breathed in and out.

“Hm… hi?” Y/n said flatly.

“Oh baby,” Kyra said, almost panicking as if she had really forgotten Y/n was there. “Sorry, um, this is Charli–my friend. I told you about her before, and of course, we’ve played against her in some matches.”

Kyra turned her phone to her right, so the screen was focusing on Charli. The blonde girl was waving at her, still casually slung around Kyra’s shoulder.

Y/n didn't want the camera on Charli, she wanted to see Kyra and only Kyra. And if it wasn't too much to ask, she wanted Charli a few meters away from Kyra.

“Hi Y/n!” Charli said. “I know we’ve played against each other multiple times, but it's nice to meet you outside of football.

“Well, technically,” Y/n said, sharper than she intended. “We’re talking while you’re getting ready for a game, so I wouldn’t say it's outside of football,”

Charli's smile faltered slightly. 

Y/n sounded more harsh than she meant to. But it was done now.

“Hmm, yeah,” She said awkwardly. “Yeah, no, you are right–”

The camera wasn’t on Kyra, but she knew the girl had her mouth open at Y/n’s harshness like she always did when Y/n said something out of the pocket in any social situation.

“I’m sorry,” Charli said. “It must be hard for you, losing international break because of your injury and just having to watch everyone else pla–”

“Charli! Don’t say that” Y/n heard Kyra whisper, but well, she wasn’t really whispering, so Y/n heard it loud and clear.

“Say what?” Charli asked, turning her gaze from Y/n to Kyra. “Wasn’t she the one who broke her tibia?”

Y/n just watched, a little amused at the whole situation, although she still felt rather uncomfortable.

Y/n could picture Kyra facepalming herself.

“Yeah, but you don’t need to say it,” Kyra muttered.

“Why?” Charli said innocently. “She is injured I’m not–”

Y/n watched as the camera shook violently as if Kyra had stood up fast.

“Hi baby, sorry about that,” Kyra said, smiling nervously while clearly walking with the phone in her hand. 

‘Oh no, it’s totally cool to be the third wheel on Facetime,’ Y/n said dryly. She meant it to sound playful, but bitterness crept into her voice.

Kyra’s voice dropped to that soft, sweet tone Y/n knew too well — the one she always used when she knew Y/n was upset. 

“Baby,” Kyra said gently, “Don’t be like that…”

And just like that, Y/n’s walls began to crack. Kyra’s soft tone always made Y/n come completely undone. She felt like she could talk to Kyra about anything inside her mind, anything that was bothering her. 

For a split second Y/n wanted to push,  to talk about the whole Charli situation. She wanted to tell Kyra how much it sucked seeing her so close to somebody while Y/n missed her like crazy. 

Y/n was well aware the reason she was bothered had more to do with herself and how she was missing Kyra than with Charli per se.

Also, Kyra had a big game coming up in a few hours. She didn’t need Y/n annoying her jealousy right now.

So she just let it go.

“I’m fine,” Y/n said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just didn’t expect to have company during our call, that’s all.”

Kyra sighed, clearly not looking convinced. “I know it’s hard. I miss you too,” she said softly. “I wish I could be there.”

Y/n shifted her phone to her other hand, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “Me too.”

“Hey,” Kyra said more firmly now. “When I get back, we’re watching the new Marvel film.

“Oh come on,”  Y/n scoffed “You’re the only one that still likes Marvel,”

Kyra made her watch every single Marvel film there was. Y/n, trying to be good, did so without complaining, but  Kyra had promised that she wouldn’t make her watch any new ones, just the old “classics.

“Exactly,” Kyra said with a grin. I’m forcing you to watch it with me because you owe me for being mean to Charli.”

“I wasn’t mean,” Y/n protested, frowning on her face.

“You were a little mean,” Kyra teased, her smile wide enough that Y/n couldn’t stay annoyed.

“I’ll apologize,” Y/n muttered. “Someday.”

“Someday?” Kyra said. “I’ll text Charli right now and tell her you’re planning a public apology speech, white shirt on and all that.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Y/n rolled her eyes playfully.

Kyra was so dramatic, it always made her laugh.

“I have to go now,” Kyra said sadly. “I have a gym session and then our last training before the match.”

“Oh yeah,” Y/n said. “Okay, go kick ass out there.,”

“I’ll do my best?” Y/n was ready to end the call, but Kyra spoke. “I’ll call you again after the game, okay? Just me and you.” 

Y/n smiled, genuinely smiled. Just her and Kyra.

“Yeah, ok! I'll wait for your call after the game.”

Y/n ended the call and sunk back into the couch, her body aching in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

She might’ve been hurt, stuck in this stupid cast with nothing to do, but knowing that Kyra would come back soon, made everything feel a little easier.

And for now, that was enough.

..

Hours later, Y/n was still on the sofa, her only company was Footy, but even he wasn’t giving her attention to focus on the yellow butterfly that rested on the window’s glass.

Y/n had no plans for the day. Mrs Petunia was out of town for the day with some of her friends from bingo, and Beth and Lotte would come later in the evening. 

She had read every book in the house, and even though she had been dying to watch the new season of her favourite series she could’t because Kyra made her promise Y/n would wait and watch it with her.

Bored out of her mind, Y/n decided to open Instagram and scroll endlessly through her friends' stories. Each tap felt like wasted time…but again, she didn’t have much to do and it kept her distracted for a little while, at least.

Y/n found out Beth was on a walk with her dogs in some sunny park; Lotte was in a café with her partner. Caitlin was in the gym alongside Steph, and Katie McCabe was getting ready for a game.

The next story that popped up on her screen was one posted by Alessia. The girl had shared a picture of a table — a table for two — with wine on the side and every little detail that indicated it was a date.

There was someone there with Alessia, but Y/n could only see parts of the person's hands. She tilted her head, squinting at the screen. The rings on those fingers... they looked familiar…too familiar.

Y/n furrowed her brows, her mind racing. She knew she'd seen those rings before — the delicate silver band stacked just above a thicker one, the way they seemed to sit perfectly snug together. Then it hit her — she'd seen Leah absentmindedly spinning those rings around her fingers during a team meeting.

"This can’t be right," Y/n muttered to herself, suddenly feeling far more invested in Alessia’s love life–or possible love life–than she should be.

Everybody in her life was doing something while she was stuck inside her house with no form of entertainment — unless you counted piecing together a potential secret relationship as entertainment.

She was going to corner Leah about it when they came back from the Lionesses, she had to do it person to person or else Leah wouldn’t say anything… and she couldn’t talk to Alessia about it because the poor girl would combust and start stammering.

The thought made her smile faintly, but her mind drifted to Kyra and it reminded Y/nt of the situation she was in–all alone in a big house. If Kyra were here, she would’ve found a way to cheer Y/n up — suggesting some random date idea like pottery or something just as chaotic but sweet.

Talking about Kyra, her story shined on Y/n’s scream. Y/n clicked on her face and was quickly met with a picture of her and Charli, they were stretching on the floor of a gym while Charli held her phone, taking a mirror photo.

Kyra looked good, very good. 

She was wearing different clothes from hours earlier, her yellow shorts leaving a lot of skin showing. Her hair was also in a ponytail, leaving Y/n daydreaming about the day Kyra would be back and she would kiss it all over.

Y/n clicked the screen and went to the next stories. Kyra and Charli, again.

Now they were sitting on a bench in the changing room, Charli wrapping her arms around Kyra’s waist as they smiled at the picture.

Y/n felt her stomach boiling with…jealousy. It felt like a tight knot, unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

Y/n wasn’t the jealous type, or at least, she never thought she was. She had always been laid-back, trusting that the people who mattered would stick around and show it. And if they didn’t? Fine. She’d move on, no hard feelings. But with Kyra… with Kyra, it was different.

But when it came to Kyra, Y/n couldn’t shake it. She hated that Kyra was so close to Charli. Why did Charli get to be the one getting hugs, the one posing for pictures with her? Why wasn’t it her?

All of those reasons were very clear in Y/n’s mind. 

She knew that Charli and Kyra were friends and had grown up together inside the Matildas, she also knew the only reason she or Kyra didn’t post pictures together was because they didn’t want the media to know about them yet.

But still. Even if she tried to rationalize all her feelings, they still stung. The jealousy was still there, and it was uncomfortable.

Y/n wasn’t used to feeling jealous. She was confident, unbothered. She didn’t know what to do with it, or how to fix it. The only thing that would make Y/n feel better was to have Kyra just for her for the time being–yeah she did have Kyra just for her in the last 3 months, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

Y/n fought the urge to comment, to send something sarcastic or an angry emoji. That wasn’t the reaction she wanted, not from Kyra. She didn’t want to seem petty.

But the universe, or whatever form that controlled it, had other thoughts in mind because when Y/n skipped to the next story she was met with Leah and Keira laughing.

Great. Just great.

Y/n felt a twinge of jealousy again, but she wasn’t about to let Kyra see it. That would make her look ridiculous—like a possessive freak. But Leah? Leah could handle it.

Y/n stared at the picture of Leah and Keira together. A scowl tugged at her lips before she tapped out, “Ugly,” in Leah’s DMs. 

To her surprise, Leah replied almost instantly.

Y/n: Ugly

Leah: Block.

Y/n: Please do, I don’t want to see your face…or Keira’s

Leah: Bro you can’t still be jealous of Keira. It’s been years.

Y/n didn’t reply immediately.

Y/n: You’re literally smiling at the picture, tough. You never smile at our pictures.

Leah: You never smile either.

Y/n: 🙄

Leah: What’s going on? You’re being dramatic. That’s not like you.

Y/n: nothing. Don’t wanna talk about it

Leah: right…cranky.

Y/n: I gotta go, I have some stuff to do.

Leah: Yeah? Like taking a nap?

Y/n: i hate you.

Leah: I hate you too. Bye. I’ll tell Keira you sent her a kiss.

Y/n: Don’t lie.

Y/n growled under her breath and tossed her phone on the coffee table with a dramatic clunk.

“Great,” Y/n muttered, dragging her blanket up to her chin. “Guess I’ll just stay here..while everyone’s out having fun with their best friends.”

Footy meowed lazily from his spot on her lap, stretching one paw over her stomach like he was claiming her as his own. It seemed like he had forgotten the butterfly.

“At least you still love me,” Y/n grumbled, scratching behind his ears. “Not like some people that are off and about making new best friends like it’s a race.”

Footy blinked at her, utterly unimpressed.

“Exactly,” Y/n sighed. “It’s betrayal, plain and simple.”

Her phone buzzed again. Y/n reached for her phone and Footy jumped on the floor, not enjoying the sudden movement.

Leah: Keira’s not in my Spotify family plan like you are. Just saying.

Y/n grinned to herself, flopping back onto the couch. Footy, clearly over the dramatics, climbed back onto her stomach like nothing had happened.

“See?” Y/n murmured, giving him a smug scratch behind the ears. “Still got it.”

..

“You’re pouting,” Lotte pointed out. Raising an eyebrow at Y/n.

“I’m not,” Y/n grumbled, crossing her arms and sinking deeper into the sofa.

“Yes you are,” Beth chimed in, clearly enjoying herself. “It’s just a hug. We hug each other all the time and it doesn't mean a thing.”

Beth and Lotte had come by Y/n’s house to watch the Australian game for the Shebelieves Cup with her. They were having a good time–chips on the table, soda cans and sweets were on the coffee table–until Kyra scored,

“Yay!” Y/n said, happily, but her mood soured when Charli sprinted herself towards Kyra, launching herself into her arms. Kyra caught her mid-air, a grin on her face. No yay.

The game ended like that. Kyra had scored the only goal of the match in the 86th minute–Y/n was extremely proud and happy for Kyra– but also irritated.

Y/n was well aware that it was a normal type of celebration, it was totally platonic. 

She had done similar celebrations with plenty of her teammates. However, watching Charli do it with Kyra? Nope, it didn’t sound platonic at all.

“I know it doesn't mean anything,” Y/n said, trying her best to sound casual “I’m not bothered by that.” 

Y/She  reached over the coffee table and took some chips, bringing them into her mouth, chewing them as if they’d solace all her problems–and also–she’d hoped having a mouth full would signal Beth that Y/n didn’t wanna talk about it.

But it was Beth, and she wasn’t known for picking hints.

“Boiling it up won’t help!” Beth sang dramatically, clearly enjoying herself. “But whatever you want, we can keep on eating chips and pretend you’re not mad.” 

“I wanna eat chips and pretend I’m not mad,” Y/n deadpanned, rolling her eyes.  Then, with a sigh, she added more gently, “Hey, Lotte, can you grab my phone for me, please?”

She pointed at her phone charging beside the loveseat where Lotte was sitting. 

“Yeah, of course,” Lotte replied, handing it over.

“Thanks, baby” Y/n said, her voice quieter. “Kyra said she’d call after the game.” She paused, fiddling with her phone like she wasn’t sure why she’d brought it up at all.

“Maybe you should talk to her about it when she calls,” Lotted suggested, sipping on some tea she had made herself, a thoughtful look on her face,

“Talk to her about what?” Y/n asked, pretending to be confused.

“Oh please,”  Beth cut in impatiently “About the whole ‘I’m jealous of your best friend’ thing?”

“I’m not talking to Kyra about it!” Y/n scoffed, unlocking her phone. “She’ll think I’m possessive,” 

“You are a bit possessive,” Lotte said matter-of-factly. “Not in a bad way! It’s just…part of your personality.”

“What? No, I’m not!” Y/n argued, her voice rising slightly.

“Yeah,” Beth nodded, grinning “You don’t like to share your stuff during training.”

“That’s because we should all carry our personal items in our training bag!” Y/n snapped. “I’m not giving you my socks!”

“You also don’t share food,” Lotte pointed out, her tone light.

"That’s called having boundaries!” Y/n shot back. “I'm not a buffet."

“You’re also very jealous of Leah and Keira,” Beth said casually, leaning back with a smirk.

“Because Leah’s my friend!” Y/n exclaimed defensively. “For years!”

“Baby get over it! Keira and Leah’s been best friends since they were fourteen.”  Beth teased, dramatically throwing her hands up.

“Well, they should’ve broken up by now. No friendship lasts that long,” Y/n muttered under her breath, mostly to herself.

“You know that’s not how friendships work, right?” Lotte laughed.

“All we’re saying is,” Lotte continued softly. “You’re a bit…jealous. It’s who you are, you can’t do much about it besides talking to Kyra and explaining how you feel.”

Y/n let out a long sigh, rolling her eyes like she was done with the conversation. She heard Lotte and Beth exchange a quiet sigh too. Good. They got the hint.

What better way to ignore a problem than some endless Instagram scrolling?

“What if we order pizza?” Beth suggested, ending the silence that hung between them.

“Yes! pepperoni pizza!” Lotte said happily. “What do you want, Y/n?”

“Pepperoni is fine, Lottie,” Y/n replied absently, distracted by her phone. “Thanks.”

Y/n saw Kyra’s profile picture pop up with a new story. 

When she clicked on it, her heart sank. The story was a photo of Kyra’s arm slung lazily over Charli’s shoulder, a grin on both their faces. 

‘Best assistant ever ❤️’ written right in the centre of the picture.

“Yeah. Great assist.” Y/n scoffed bitterly, locking her phone and tossing it on the couch.

“What?” Beth questioned, looking up at Y/n. “What happened?”

“Kyra and Charli,” Y/n mumbled., not even wanting to look at Beth and Lotte. “It's on her Instagram.” 

Both Beth and Lotte checked their phone and exchanged a look before giving Y/n pitying glances.

“Best assistant ever,” Y/n repeated under her breath.

The worst part? The last time she played, she’d assisted Kyra too–a perfect cross to Kyra’s feet, setting her up for the winning goal. 

Y/n remembered the way Kyra had sprinted straight to her afterwards. ‘You’re actually the best!’ she had said while grinning and cupping Y/n’s cheeks, their teammate around them, cheering Kyra on.

That memory felt distant now–buried under the sharp crack of her tibia snapping just ten minutes later. 

Now Kyra had a new best assistant.

Lotte and Beth sat closer, one on either side of Y/n. Lotte shifted closer, quietly wrapping her arm around Y/n’s shoulders and pulling her into a gentle hug.

Y/n usually hated physical contact — too awkward, too much — but she let Lotte hold her. It felt... steadying. Safe.

Beth settled on her other side, placing a firm, grounding hand over Y/n’s tightly clenched fist.

“Guess that didn’t help about how you were feeling, huh?” Beth said an empathetic smile on her face.

Y/n just shook her head.

“It’s okay to feel jealous, you know,” Beth continued. “It doesn't mean you’re possessive, I mean– I’d lose my mind if Viv posted a picture with someone hugging her like that.”

“I don’t know,” Y/n said, shaking her head. “It’s just… everything feels off. Like, Kyra’s gone, and I’m stuck here, and… I don’t know.” She paused, fingers anxiously picking at a loose thread on her hoodie. “I guess I’m scared she’s gonna realize I’m just... not enough.”

Lotte gave her a gentle nudge. “Hey, it’s okay to feel like this, and it’s nice that you’re talking about it.

“No, it’s not..” Y/n muttered under her breath.”It’s stupid to feel like this. I know they’re just friends. It’s just Charli. But…” She trailed off, her thumb swiping over the screen again. “I hate how it feels.”

“–I think I’m also scared that Kyra will, um, realize she can do better than me,” Y/n confessed, her voice low. “Because I’m cranky and grumpy all the time and she’s just the nicest and kindest person I have ever met.

"Look, if Kyra wanted ‘nice and kind’ she wouldn’t have picked you in the first place," Beth said with a smirk.

“Wow, thanks” Y/n murmured, rolling her eyes.

“I mean it lovingly,” Beth said. “But, seriously, this is the most I’ve heard you talk about in months. Please, continue.”

Y/n groaned, feeling both embarrassed and relieved 

“You guys are right, I am possessive– over my stuff, with my friends and Kyra. But I don't like it, this feeling makes me feel like crap and I–I just hate it.”

“Kyra told me she was going to call me after the game but it’s been–” Y/n looked at her watch. “Almost 40 minutes. Nothing. But she still had time to post a picture with Charli.”

“She’s probably out commemorating the team,” Lotte said gently. “When we win a gem with Arsenla we always go out to do something fun…she’ll call you when she gets back at the hotel.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right–I just missed her,” Y/n admitted, her voice quieter now. “I got used to having her around all by myself and now she’s gone and…I don’t like having her attention split–”

“–I know I sound like a little kid, but I really don’t like sharing. And I really don’t like sharing Kyra.” 

"Yeah, we noticed, baby,” Beth said, teasing, but also comforting.

“That’s normal though... you’re allowed to miss her,” Lotte said shooting.

“And I don’t know what to do about it.” she continued, frustration creeping into her voice. “Maybe I’ll have to talk to Kyra about that or maybe I should just suck it up and learn that Kyra is her own person with her own life and I’m gonna be on the sidelines sometimes and that’s okay.”

"You know, you don’t have to figure it all out right now..." Lotted said, “It’s something you’re learning about yourself.”

“Also doesn't mean love,” Lotted murmured, her voice soft.

“Huh?” Y/n blinked, confused. 

“She means,” Beth chimed in, “just because someone can’t give you all their attention doesn’t mean they love you any less.”

“Or that if they’re giving someone else attention, they love that person more,” Lotte added. “I think you’re just... mixing up love and attention. And that’s probably where the jealousy’s coming from.”

“Especially now that everyone you care about is away, and you don’t have much to keep yourself busy,” Beth pointed out.

Y/n was quiet, trying to understand what Lotte and Beth were saying. Wow, maybe they were right and–

“Wait.” Y/n’s head shot up from Lotte’s shoulder. “Did you guys just get me ranting about everything?”

Beth shrugged casually. “Yeah, but you feel better, don’t you?”

“Hm, yeah, I do,” Y/n said suspiciously. “Kinda…”

“Great,” Beth said, holding out her hand “Now pass me the chips before you start crying on them.”

“Why are you like that?” Y/n grumbled, shoving the bag into her hand.

..

Y/n was lying down on the sofa–on her made-up bed– with Footy sleeping by her feet. Kyra had sent her a message minutes earlier that she was going to Videochat Y/n as soon as she got back to the hotel room.

Just like that, Y/n got a Facetime notification. She accepted and Kyra's face appeared on the screen, but by the looks of her background, it looked like Kyra was hiding in the bathroom from Steph and Caitlin again.

“Hi love,” Kyra said, waving. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, we just got back from the bar we went to celebrate.”

She was still wearing her jersey, so she really had just got back from the celebration, her tired face also giving it away.

“It’s okay, Ky,” Y/n said softly, even though she did get upset by it earlier. “It was a great game, you guys deserve to celebrate.”

“Also,” Y/n continued smiling. “I’m so so proud of you, you were amazing, one of your best games yet.”

“Yeah?” Kyra asked, slightly blushing on her cheeks. “Did you watch like..the whole game?”

“Of course! Me, Beth and Lotted did, we did this to get together,” Y/n said. “I told you I’d be your hype girl, didn’t I? Just doing my job.”

Kyra smiled. “I’m so glad it was good, the whole team was in great sync, but the defence wasn’t one of our best, but we’re getting there.”

“It was just the first game,” Y/n said. “You guys gonna get even better by the next one, just keep on training like you’re doing.”

They continued to talk about their game and its technicalities until Kyra completely changed the subjects.

“Baby,” Kyra said, almost carefully. “Is there like…something you wanna talk to me about?”

Y/n froze, feeling her cheeks getting hot. Did Kyra know about the whole jealous thing? It was obvious she was upset in the morning when Charli messed up their conversation, but she hadn’t let out how she felt after Charli hugged her.

“Hm, why?” Y/n asked, fidgeting with her phone. 

“It’s just…” Kyra began. “Leah sent me a weird message.”

Y/n furrowed her eyebrow and moved closer to the camera.

“Weird like what?” she asked suspiciously.

“She said, quote on quote, ‘Y/n is being clingy and showing emotions, what the fuck did you do?” Kyra said, her face startled, as if Leah’s message had caught her off guard.

“Oh, I-I don’t know what she's talking about?” Y/n lied.

“And then Beth just sent me a picture of you, like,  no text, just a picture.”

What the fuck Bethany.

“What picture?” Y/n asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“You’re like sitting on the sofa, you have a pout on and look really angry,” Kyra explained. “You rarely pout so I was really worried.”

“Hmm, well–” Y/n hesitated for a moment, then went quiet, unsure whether to tell Kyra what had been going on in her head.

“It’s okay, you can tell me. " Kyra said gently. “I’m not there with you, but I still wanna know if you’re upset.”

Y/n bit her lip, unsure whether to voice what had been eating at her all day. It wasn’t like she liked feeling jealous, but the emotions had hit her all at once, and now they were bubbling up, and there was no stopping them.

She trusted Kyra–she was one of the most important people in Y/n’s life, and had been for the last month. She could talk to her about how she felt…she just needed to be brave.

“I was jealous of you and Charli,” Y/n blurted out before she could change her mind.

Kyra lifted her eyebrows as if she was really surprised by the revelation.

“You’re jealous? Of Charli?” Kyra said. “Why? Did I do something?”

“No, no!” Y/n said quickly. “You didn’t do anything, I'm just…” She swallowed, her voice dropping to a mumble. “...possessive.”

“I was a bit, hm, upset, by the way she hugged you after your goal,” Y/n admitted, hating to open up. “And then you wrote the ‘best assistance ever’ and I got jealous because…hm, I also assisted you a lot, and I wanted to be your best assistance. Not Charli.”

For a second, Y/n braced herself for Kyra to respond seriously — maybe even get annoyed. But instead, Kyra chuckled softly.

“Baby, my love,” Kyra said, her voice warm. “You don’t even need to be jealous of anyone, especially Charli… I’m like, so down bad for you, it’s pathetic.

Y/n smiled, shyly. “I'm also down bad for you.”

“I know,” Kyra teased with a wink. “Got you talking about feelings and all that.”

“Shut up,” Y/n murmured.

“Now tell me,” Kyra grinned. “What the bloody hell were you talking about with Leha that got her worried?”

“Nothing,” Y/n said with a dismissive wave. “She was just being all friendly with Keira again…”

If it was safe to say Y/n jealousy of Keira was a very common topic of conversation between the Arsenal girls.

Y/n grumbled something unintelligible, earning another giggle from Kyra.

“But I gotta admit,” Kyra said. “You’re kinda cute when you're jealous.”

“No I'm not,” Y/n grumbled again.

“Yes you are,” Kyra insisted. “I even made that picture Beth sent into my wallpaper.”

“Kyra, please,” Y/n said deadpan. “Take it off. Put a picture of footy instead.”

“Nah, you’re cuter.”

Y/n groaned, tugging the blanket over her head.

“Hey, come on!” Kyra called out. “Don’t hide from me, you grump!”

Y/n peeked out, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not a grump.”

“You are,” Kyra laughed. “But you’re my grump.”

There was a pause — a warm, comfortable silence that neither of them felt the need to fill. Kyra’s face softened, her voice quieter when she spoke again.

“I miss you, you know?” Kyra murmured. “It’s weird not having you around to be obsessed over what I eat…Steph and Caitlin don’t let me pick any films during team movie night.”

Y/n’s chest tightened at that. “I miss you too,” she admitted. “It’s too quiet here without you… and Footy keeps sighing like he's disappointed in me. Guess I’m not the favourite mom”

“Poor boy,” Kyra teased. “He’s probably wondering why you’re so bad at cuddling.”

“Rude,” Y/n said, but she smiled. “I’m great at cuddling…but only within my own species.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Kyra promised. “And when I get back, I’m dragging you out of the house– I feel like you’re a part of this sofa already.

“You’re the worst,” Y/n muttered, her voice soft. 

“You love me, thought ” Kyra shot back.

“Yes I do,” Y/n said quietly, smiling despite herself. “Kinda love you a lot.”

..

Part 10 here

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Notes//2: literally just wanted to write 3 little scenes: Y/n jealous of Charli, Y/n jealous of Keira and Y/n slowly realising something is going on between Alessia and Leah, but then it turned into a 6.5k monsters

Read more of my work here -> Masterlist

[charseraph]

Noosciocircus agent backgrounds, former jobs at C&A, assigned roles, and current internal status.

Kinger

Former professor — Studied child psychology and computer science, moved into neobotanics via germination theory and seedlet development.

Seedlet trainer — Socialized and educated newly germinated seedlets to suit their future assignments. I.e. worked alongside a small team to serve as seedlets’ social parents, K-12 instructors, and upper-education mentors in rapid succession (about a year).

Intermediary — Inserted to assist cooperation and understanding of Caine.

Partially mentally mulekicked — Lives in state of forgetfulness after abstraction of spouse, is prone to reliving past from prior to event.

Ragatha

Former EMT — Worked in a rural community.

Semiohazard medic — Underwent training to treat and assess mulekick victims and to administer care in the presence of semiohazards.

Nootic health supervisor— Inserted to provide nootic endurance training, treat psychological mulekick, and maintain morale.

Obsessive-compulsive — Receives new agents and struggles to maintain morale among team and herself due to low trust in her honesty.

Jax

Former programmer — Gained experience when acquired out of university by a large software company.

Scioner — Developed virtual interfaces for seedlets to operate machinery with.

Circus surveyor — Inserted to assess and map nature of circus simulation, potentially finding avenues of escape.

Anomic — Detached from morals and social stake. Uncooperative and gleefully combative.

Gangle

Former navy sailor — Performed clerical work as a yeoman, served in one of the first semiotically-armed submarines.

Personnel manager — Recordkept C&A researcher employments and managed mess hall.

Task coordinator — Inserted to organize team effort towards escape.

Reclused — Abandoned task and lives in quiet, depressive state.

Zooble

No formal background — Onboarded out of secondary school for certification by C&A as part of a youth outreach initiative.

Mule trainer — Physically handled mules, living semiohazard conveyors for tactical use.

Semiohazard specialist — Inserted to identify, evaluate, and attempt to disarm semiotic tripwires.

Debilitated and self-isolating — Suffers chronic vertigo from randomly pulled avatar. Struggles to participate in adventures at risk of episode.

Pomni

Former accountant — Worked for a chemical research firm before completing her accreditation to become a biochemist.

Collochemist — Performed mesh checkups and oversaw industrial hormone synthesis.

Field researcher — Inserted to collect data from fellows and organize reports for indeterminate recovery. Versed in scientific conduct.

In shock — Currently acclimating to new condition. Fresh and overwhelming preoccupation with escape.

Caine

Neglected — Due to project deadline tightening, Caine’s socialization was expedited in favor of lessons pertinent to his practical purpose. Emerged a well-meaning but awkward and insecure individual unprepared for noosciocircus entrapment.

Prototype — Germinated as an experimental mustard, or semiotic filter seedlet, capable of subconsciously assembling semiohazards and detonating them in controlled conditions.

Nooscioarchitect — Constructs spaces and nonsophont AI for the agents to occupy and interact with using his asset library and computation power. Organizes adventures to mentally stimulate the agents, unknowingly lacing them with hazards.

Helpless — After semiohazard overexposure, an agent’s attachment to their avatar dissolves and their blackroom exposes, a process called abstraction. These open holes in the noosciocircus simulation spill potentially hazardous memories and emotion from the abstracted agent’s mind. Caine stores them in the cellar, a stimulus-free and infoproofed zone that calms the abstracted and nullifies emitted hazards. He genuinely cares about the inserted, but after only being able to do damage control for a continually deteriorating situation, the weight of his failure is beginning to weigh on him in a way he did not get to learn how to express.

[narnian-neverlander]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

[silentmagi]

Internal Memory Recovery: is J's hypercorporatism shaken by this?

Internal Memory Recovery

A little bit, she is still a corporate drone, however she doesn't go to the extreme level unless stressed, then she falls back on it. She is still most comfortable in a corporate setting, but not as intense about it.

[ms-demeanor]

Is hypnotherapy on your psudomedicine shitlist or do you think it has validity? (To be clear, I'm not talking about 'hypnotic memory recovery' which is proven to be false)

It's worked for me and some other people I know, but I've also heard some people say it doesn't work.

I very badly want it to be on my shitlist but it gets slotted in next to meditation on the shelf labeled "infuriatingly, sometimes believing something hard enough makes it work." Some kinds of hypnosis seem to reliably create altered mental states that allow people who enter those states to internalize and process things that they might otherwise struggle with; I see this as somewhat analogous to, like, using mushrooms to feel a deeper connection to a shared sense of humanity or something along those lines. It does seem to have some reliably measurable effects but how well it works varies wildly from person to person is basically my take, which makes sense to me because I'm pretty sure hypnosis is just, like, extremely focused guided meditation.

Yesterday someone brought up an example saying that they had heard that a relatively recent study from a trustworthy scientific organization had proved the existence of one of the primary acupuncture meridians; searches for the name of the meridian, the name of the institution, searches for studies with those terms, searches for those terms and "proof", searches for only the meridian and scientific study only turned up low-quality studies that were exclusively from either acupuncture or alternative medicine journals.

A search for "hypnosis study" immediately turns up recent articles on the effectiveness of hypnosis from the American Psychological Association, Stanford University, mainstream behavioral journals, and discussion of at least one experiment that has been replicated by multiple people testing the validity of hypnosis (in multiple experiments on different groups of hypnotizable people, the stroop effect is noticeably mitigated by hypnotic suggestion). None of that is evidence that hypnosis "works" but it is evidence that something is actually happening there that *could* prove to be effective.

I'm still pretty skeptical, but there's enough evidence of an effect to say that it's not pure bullshit. Like I'll say that chiropractic is bullshit (subluxations don't cause asthma even if none of the chiros involved believe in ghosts; it's unscientific and wrong regardless of the origins) but note that I never said herbalism was bullshit - just that it's on my shit list and it's dangerous - many many many herbal treatments DO have effects and that's why it can be dangerous, doses and interactions are unpredictable.

I think that hypnosis is probably not inherently dangerous, and it seems like there may be some measurable positive effects, and even though it SEEMS really fake to me enough serious people have done enough serious looking into it that I don't feel comfortable calling it fake-like-souls-are-fake; it doesn't appear to be exclusively based on magical thinking and it has a lot in common with other altered states that people are capable of putting themselves into voluntarily through a variety of means.

So I guess tick the box for "I'm suspicious and skeptical but could be convinced if presented with enough high quality evidence, which I think it is likely possible to produce."

So it's not on my shit list but if I found out that someone I loved was using hypnosis as a treatment I'd be doing a deep dive on the person providing the hypnosis to figure out if they were a charlatan.

[urween]

If Logan Howlett/Wolverine was your partner. ENGLISH VERSION french here

notes : GN!reader + adjusted passages for AFAB/AMAB (assigned female to birth/assigned male at birth). English isn't my first language, so tell me if you see mistakes ;)

⚠︎ warnings : sexual aspects (oral, fluff), war, violence, insecurities, jealousy, alcohol, cigar

2 065 words

Global

smell is very important for him, he doesn’t like when you change your shampoo or face cream, and he is always sulky for days because of it.

in the same range, if he smells his cologne on you, he becomes a bit feral, growling in your neck and biting your skin.

he’s highly jealous, even if he doesn’t make it obvious. He’s more like contain himself, telling himself he shouldn't think that way, until it explodes and he’s pin on the floor the man who made you laugh.

furthermore, he lets you defend yourself, he intervenes only when he feels like you need to, or if you ask him.

same at home when you got a project in mind, like a furniture to build or a wall to paint, he will ask you if you need his help but if you don’t, he’ll not insist. He’ll always be in the same room though, to catch a photo framer or just look at you.

he is proud of you, and he says it a lot. When you finish a personal project, he’s always the first to hold you and say how proud he is.

sometimes you think he has a shitty memory, ‘cause he forgets the evening with your mutual friends or that milk is missing in the fridge. But when it is about you, he remembers everything. Often it’s him that reminds you about your board games evening with Ororo or even your medical appointments. So, he doesn’t have a shitty memory, he retains only what is important to him.

he would love to be able to fall asleep on you, but his weight doesn’t allow him to, because of the adamantium which makes him too heavy. So you try to cuddle him on your side by holding him tight against your chest, and you know that he loves it as much as you do.

the both of you made a lot of jokes, most of the people don’t understand why you are laughing out loud and it pleases you, it’s between you two.

you love to spend your days with him, but sometimes he pushes you to go out with your friends ‘cause he doesn’t want you to isolate yourself because of him. But you always find a way to bring a little something that belongs to him with you, like a scarf or a jacket or a love bite.

he took time to share his feelings, a long time. But now you two can talk about every subject, and in the end he’s quite talkative.

you love to give him nicknames, in fact you give him a lot and he remembers every single one.

he give you nicknames too, but there are only a few ‘cause they are meaningful for the two of you. Even if of course, “bub” is the most used since the beginning of your relationship.

he smells a lot of things, with his smell but also much more with “his instinct” like you loved to name it. Of course he smells when a disaster's gonna happen and things like that, but he can also smell when you have a health issue, or any type of intern change, he smells it. He smells when you’re sad, when you’re hurt, when you’re overthinking, when you want to jump on his cock.

he doesn’t give a shit about a lot of things, really a lot. You don’t shave yourself ? He doesn’t care. You fart or burp ? He doesn’t care. One time, you were in a really bad condition and the pain was so hard that you couldn't wash yourself for four days, and guess what ? He didn't give a damn, all that mattered for him was your recovery. He is so comfortable with this, that sometimes he helps you shave yourself and he even enjoys it, so you don’t cut yourself.

you two live quite away from the city, in a quiet place and a bit lost, but that means you are in peace, without noisy neighborhoods or attacks on every street corner.

Sexual life

your pleasure is his priority, in everydays life like sexual one. He can spend hours torturing you without touching himself once. In fact, he often forgets his own pleasure so much he loves hearing you scream his name under him. It is your job to pin him on the mattress and take off his clothes, even if he says that he is ok and that he can handle the pain. But you just have to look at him with your doll eyes and say something like “please, it makes me high to suck your cock” and he becomes hot as the sun.

about that, he loves blowjobs but he’ll never ask for it, fortunately you can recognize the signs.

FOR AFAB : everytime he tells you how much he loves when you get wet quickly for him. And he loves making this wet audible while making huge movements with fingers/tongue/cock/toy, he also loves when you blush because of these noises.

FOR AMAB : he loves to titillate you until your precum drips all over your dick, and he also loves the noises your body makes, so if he has to speed up his movements to make these noises louder, he will without any hesitation.

when he cums, he’ll do everything to let his knuckles away from your body, ‘cause he is always scared to not contain himself and that his claws go out.

same when he has freaky nightmares, he’ll force himself to stay on his tummy with hands under his pillow.

he is the opposite of sauvage. He already spent an entire hour just kissing your body and smelling your perfume. I mean, he is always so rude and rough in everyday life, the bedroom is the only place when he takes his time and enjoys every single moment with you like it was the last one.

despite this, it happens that your intimate moments are much more eventful. When you spend a long time away from each other, or when a jealousy peak comes in the day.

he’s kinda from the old days, he doesn’t have weird kinks, he just loves being with you. He has absolutely experience, but he always says that public sex or dirty talk were not his things. However, if it is you that proposes something new, like a toy or an outfit, he will always be part of it, and with a massive pleasure.

he is very attentive, and sometimes he prefers to slow down and even stop, because he feels and sees like you got something bulky in your head.

in the same way, he loves to know what you feel : he loves to ask you if you like what he’s doing, where he presses, the position you are in.

Everyday life moments

he loves when you sit on him, wherever it’s his chest or his hips or his face. If there are five seats, the only one you allow to sit on is his lap.

if you need to test something, he is always volunteering. For example, when you buy your face cream or makeup, he always ends up with about ten different cosmetic products spread out on his hand and arm.

when the both of you go shopping, he always makes a way to carry the heaviest bags without you realizing it.

he’ll always say yes if you want to visit another shop, even if it is almost night or freezing outside. Sometimes it’s even him that suggests you go to a store because he saw the look you gave to this storefront.

you often make him laugh when you come up with old objects/songs/expressions that he knew decades ago.

he doesn’t like when you say that but he really has cat similarities. When he’s against you, he curls up and wedges his face against your belly. And you can swear that you heard a purr coming out his throat, may it was only a growl, but it was in any way really cute.

he listens to old music, unexceptional for his age, and it always makes you smile when you see him sing quietly the lyrics that maybe your grandpa could have sung.

you always ask to taste or test what he is drinking/eating, unfortunately for you it’s often very strong in mouth (spice, alcohol, meat).

when he buys new cigars, you always ask to try one drag even if you don't like the taste. But you know it makes him happy to see that you try things he loves, even if he avoids making you taste too often ‘cause he doesn’t want you to start smoking because of him.

you two have the habit of going for a long ride on his bike, when you feel a bit overwhelmed by some events or just life.

he loves winter, above all the seasons, and he can spend his day out just looking at the falling snowflakes.

Vulnerability

he frequently has nightmares, all violent and traumatic. In that case, he leaves the bed and goes to get some air, because he doesn't want you to see him angry or sad. But you always wake up, sometimes you let him alone ‘cause you know he needs it, and other times you take him in your arms.

he cries more than he admits, often after his nightmares. You know he doesn’t like it, even if you say that crying is beautiful, he just can’t feel that way for himself. So you pretend not to see his tears, you kiss his head and take him against your chest. The day after, he always thanks you, with words or actions.

when you have bad days, he smells it and he does everything to make you feel better. He even went to another city for some apple/cinnamon chocolate ‘cause you mention it.

Entourage

he doesn’t have family, or at least not blood ties, but Charles and all the team take a big place in Logan’s heart, even if he doesn’t say it.

you two often go for several weeks in the manor, you love to see a safe place open for every mutant and Logan needs to come back there sometimes, it’s kinda the only home he never has (with you, of course).

Charles is so kind with you, he immediately loves your person and he doesn’t forget to say that to Logan.

you and Ororo are good friends, she becomes a bit like a sister for you.

Logan told you about his tricky relationship with Cyclops and you could see with your own eyes, they constantly send each other peaks.

he also spoke about Jean, and honestly, at first you don’t like talking about her, you were afraid that he may still love her. But quickly, you realize that it was over between them, it was only a really big crush but he meets you and no one equals you, his words.

twice, you saw Magneto in the garden playing chess with Charles, but you preferred not to get involved, Logan doesn’t like Magneto too and apparently it is mutual.

the x-men kinda became like a second family for you, they immediately welcomed you and you’ll forever be grateful for that.

the first time Logan brought you here, everybody looked at you two with frog eyes. The pupils had a hard time believing that Wolverine was in a relationship, but it is.

Sentences that scream "Logan"

I’m proud of you

You need somethin’ ?

On my lap bub

SHE/HER READER : I know you can open this jar alone, since you are “a big girl”, but i want to open it for ya

HE/HIM READER : I know you can open this jar alone, since you are “a big boy”, but i want to open it for ya

Somebody hurt you ? Tell me

Movie ? Seat down, i take blankets

Hot chocolate ?

Come here, come in my arms darl’

SEXUALITY

You feel it ? Tell me that ya feel how you’re shakin’ for me

God, look at you, fuckin’ beautiful

Never ever someone’ll see you like that huh ?

Say it, say my name darling

Fuck, do it again, do it for me beautiful

° x-men masterlist

gifs : @/asgardswinter

bannière : @/saradika-graphics and @/thecutestgrotto

[literaryvein-reblogs]

do you have any tips on pacing? for me I always tend to right way faster then I would like to. thanks!

Writing Notes: Narrative Pacing

The best storytellers across all genres of fiction writing are often masters of the pace at which the story unfolds.

Pacing - refers to how fast or slow the story is moving for the reader.

This is determined by the length of a scene and the speed at which you, the writer, distribute information.

Generally speaking, descriptive passages tend to slow things down, while dialogue and action scenes speed things up—but slowing the pacing of action down at choice moments can also build suspense.

Good pacing is crucial to the flow of a successful narrative and without it, the story is dead on the page.

The reader wants to be immersed in the thoughts and actions of your characters.

They want to feel that they’re in the world you’ve created.

Clunky language, bad dialogue, and poorly-conceived scenes will all draw your reader out of the story.

Pace will help keep them there.

Writing Tips: On Narrative Pacing

Whether it’s through subplots, playing with sentence structure (longer sentences can slow things down, rapid-fire dialogue and short sentences can speed them up), or experimenting with passive versus active voice—here are a few ideas to keep your story moving:

Utilize breathers. By balancing action scenes with more reflective, internal moments, you give the reader an equal dose of excitement and recovery. The quieter moments in any novel—the “negative space”—are the places to share relationship details, a character’s thoughts and memories, and anything a character might do while taking a break. These spaces, which are just as important as the more dramatic scenes, give readers a chance to orient themselves and process their reactions. Too much of the same pace—no matter how exciting it is—will begin to feel tedious to the reader.

Change the order of events. Try a method called in medias res—opening the story in the middle of the action and filling in details later. This works well when you want to capture your reader’s attention quickly, like in a short story. If you are writing something longer, try placing the sole dramatic question of your story upfront while using the rest of the novel to slowly parse out information that leads to the final answer. Your readers will keep reading to discover the answer to the question you’ve given them.

Vary your sentence length. Try breaking up long passages of exposition with short dialogue—even a sentence or two can be refreshing. If you have a very long section of dialogue, insert brief sections of exposition to keep your reader grounded in time and place.

Keep characters physically moving during dialogue. If your characters are on the run and having a conversation in an airport, you can show the numerous distractions they might notice as they walk nervously through the airport. By interspersing brief distractions (clumsy passengers, stern security guards) between segments of dialogue, you prevent the pacing from becoming monotonous.

Reveal information selectively. Writing suspense into any novel is a matter of controlling information—how much you reveal, and when and how you reveal it. In its most practical sense, suspense is a series of incremental steps. While every novel will have a central, overarching storyline that seeks to answer the sole dramatic question, that question is an engine built of thousands of smaller components that carry the reader through each chapter, sustaining their interest along the way.

Vary your narration. In all writing, there are 2 types of narration: scene and dramatic narration. In the former, you show the characters performing an action or having a conversation. This tends to speed up the pacing. In the latter, you simply tell the reader what the characters did, but the event remains “offstage.” This type of narration can slow the story down. To keep pacing from feeling monotonous, it’s a good idea to vary the two modes of writing. Show the reader a scene when it’s interesting or necessary, and use a summary to move over the less exciting parts.

Read the work out loud. Notice the amount of time it takes you to read through a scene and pay attention to how the sentences feel to read and mark where the rhythms naturally change. Where should you slow down? Where should you pause? Where should your pacing gain momentum?

How to Pace Your Novel

How Long Should Book Chapters Be? The overall story arc of a novel is essential, but meticulous construction of individual chapters is just as important to the reader’s experience. Here are a few of David Baldacci's tips for structuring chapters:

Keep scenes and chapters short. David keeps his chapters short—between three to five pages. This keeps the narrative moving at a brisk pace.

Keep your audience asking questions. When a chapter answers a question from a previous chapter, you have the opportunity to introduce a new one. The new question will propel you through the next chapter. A classic example from crime fiction: “Will this serial killer strike again?” becomes “He struck again—now how many more people will he kill?” Keep this up over the course of a novel, and the book will be a page-turner.

Make sure each chapter has a purpose that ties into the bigger story. If you lose sight of the overarching narrative of your novel, your individual chapters can begin to feel aimless. To keep your novel focused and on track, you should have a clear objective with every scene you write.

Don’t fluff up the novel with irrelevant content. Scene-setting and vivid descriptions are critical for a compelling novel, but don’t get bogged down in the details. Focus on sustaining narrative momentum from chapter one onward.

Make your scenes multitask. Driving the plot forward, conveying information, and deepening a character’s development are the three most critical jobs that a chapter can do. The short chapters you write should make use of at least one of these tools, and preferably more than one.

A Writing Exercise on Pacing

One person punches another.

Describe this act in 10 words.

Describe the same act in 100 words.

You’ll find that the second description reads more like the end of a chapter, while the first may sound more like the beginning or middle. 

To follow up, write a scene leading up to the punch and play with sentence lengths.

For the scene leading up to 2, for instance, try making all the preceding sentences no longer than five words apiece.

In the scene leading up to 1, keep all the sentences equally short, except when you get to the action that directly provokes the punch and describe that one action in 100 words.

After completing this exercise, you should see how very different the exact same scene can feel, depending on which elements of that scene are sped through, and which are dragged out.   

A good advice on pacing: Read and learn. The next time you come across a book that keeps you up all night turning pages, give it a second read once you’ve finished and caught your breath. Take a look at what the author does, whether it’s speeding up scenes, slowing them down or shifting points of view at crucial moments. Odds are, you’ll appreciate the book even more… and pick up a few pacing tricks of your own.

Techniques to Slow Down the Pace

Lengthen your sentences

Add descriptions

Include subplots

Use flashbacks and backstory

Add more introspection

Techniques to Speed Things Up

Shorten your sentences

Use more dialogue

Remove (or limit) secondary subplots

Use cliffhangers

Increase the action

There is no formula for a great story: it can be either fast or slow depending on how it is told. So, don’t be afraid to play with your story’s pacing and explore different ways in which a scene can be slowed down or sped up until you find the right fit. Above all, remember that nailing the pace is a matter of balance.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing!

[littlest-bugz]

The Collective You

[one system's brief advice about accepting the idea of the collective you]

One of the best pieces of system advice started from a tumblr post and was elaborated by my DID specialist. I can't find the original tumblr post that started it, so I'm making a little post of my own <3 Share the knowledge. and also hope that someone can link the original post lol.

When I was REALLY going through it™ with my first diagnosis w/ DID, and a lack of integration, all of my alters felt like separate individuals, some of us feeling as distanced as a coworker or a stranger altogether. We were just getting a grasp on internal communication between all of our subsystems, and it was rough. We felt so entirely differentiated that we were our own people trapped in one body. While I don't really care about what language you use, all alters in CDDs are a part of one person [there's only one body and brain]- the collective you.

So obvs, I'm scrolling tumblr like the chronically online doomscroller that I am, and I see this post that goes along the line of not knowing who you are, but knowing you are 'you', regardless of who you are [referring to alters]. And it said something like "we're all me enough to pick up our meds"- something like that. iirc it was a half light hearted, half advice post, but that was really good advice for me. I kind of internalized it after I processed it in therapy. It's actually why I have started to love parts language lately tbh.

After further processing this idea in therapy, Identity Confusion stopped mattering in the grand scheme of things. I focused less on worrying about who I was, and just focused on the fact that I'm me. Just like the post I saw- We are all me. The example of all being me enough to pick up my medications just applied, like, everywhere. Even when it came down to the smallest things- with coping with other symptoms too.

Oh? I don't like coffee right now? I guess I should switch to something else. [differentiated alters]

Oh? I have barely any drawing skills right now? Okay, really sucks but I can work on something else and come back to it later. [skill variance between alters]

Oh? I have to go to a doctor's appointment? I know I'll forget that- Gotta write a list, and put it up on the board so I remember. [day to day amnesia]

You know what happened? My dissociation got better! Not immediately or entirely, obviously, and my memory [re amnesia] still sucks, but that's part of the disorder- plus other disorders that I have. This idea of the collective you is something that I think is really beneficial to all CDD systems, especially during the mid to later stages of recovery.

I, admittedly, credit most of my healing to conversations I have had with my DID specialist. Especially since, without her, I wouldn't have been able to process this idea of the collective me further, but the conversation wouldn't have been started if I hadn't seen that post on tumblr. This was a budding concept with us due to the separation we had. It helped with integration. GRANTED... Not every alter got the memo, obviously, but It's something that I'm still working on. Of course, being me comes with the prerequisite that I am a person with DID, and that I am made up of multiple parts.

Now for the piece of advice I got from my therapist- Though it requires a certain level of knowledge of your own system, such as a list of alters and some identifying info [fav drinks, fav colors, those type of things]. Look at the list of your alters wherever it may be. Just whatever you use for logging your system members. Look for the commonalities between alters. There will be at least some commonalities.

For example; A good 45% of us like bunnies, 45% like cats, and 10% have a liking for other kinds of animals. Using this information, I can pretty much deduce that 1. the collective me loves animals and 2. the collective me likes cats and bunnies especially.

Another example; I looked through our simplyplural, which has a favorite color thing [in ours at least]. By looking through the list, I figured out 1. wow I like literally all colors- my fav color is rainbows and 2. I especially like pink and light blue.

More examples; the list.. THE LIST... I looked through it and saw that a good 90% of us like MONSTER ENERGY DRINKS- of varying flavors, but the common denominator was Ultra Strawberry Dreams, but all of us like [or tolerate] water as a preferred drink. From there I can come to the conclusion that I prefer water over anything else and that I have a problem with monster [being light hearted but I genuinely do].

I hope you get the idea I'm going for. I used this process for nearly every aspect of our collective identity, though some had to genuinely be voted on, such as our LGBTQIA+ labels [offline, we just call ourself queer, but that's.. aside the point LMAO].

Obviously, there are going to be outliers- Having DID comes with the fun [/s] aspect of alters being differentiated from each other in some capacity. Example for the monster energy one- We have a handful of alters that HATE energy drinks- even just fizzy drinks in general. There's one guy who will only drink Black Coffee and water- nothing else. He's the guy who is always hiding away our monsters in the way back of the fridge, but guess what!! He's me!! The part of me that doesn't want me to ruin my health over energy drinks. The part of me that knows I deserve better than my unhealthy habits.

Getting to know the collective you is just like learning about your system! It is not inherently different than figuring out what an alters dislikes or likes are. The idea of The Collective You shouldn't feel scary or anxiety inducing- if it is, you may want to confront those feelings with a therapist if you have access to one. Every CDD system is the collective [or, well, system] of one fragmented individual- That is a studied and objective fact. I wanted to give advice from one recovering system to another.

No, this will not work for everyone, every system is different, but I'm hoping this post finds the right audience in knowing that it's worth a shot to try this!

[jar-of-omegaverse]

Overloading

Definition: Overwhelming a person’s instincts to the point where it creates a high. Used in recreational and medicinal instances. Acts as a natural painkiller and stimulant, however, it is highly addictive so it’s often a last resort in the medical field. In most instances when used recreationally, it turns into an addiction if it’s not one already.

How: To overload someone, a combination of senses including but not limited to smell, sound, touch, taste, and mental bonds must be used. For example, scratching someone’s wrist scent glands while biting their neck scent glands, releasing a high amount of one’s scent, and pulling on a mental bond is a way overloading can occur. This is, of course, not the only way to achieve overloading but is an example of the amount of effort that must be put into overloading someone. 

Overloading is often an intimate process and can be hard to achieve for people unbonded (platonic, romantic, pack, etc). In medical uses, the medical professional will often have someone bonded to their patient perform the overloading while they supervise.

Health organizations do not recommend overloading more than four times a year for any reason.

Who can overload: Technically, all dynamics, however, it is easiest for omegas to overload and they get addicted quicker. For these reasons, omegas are often targeted victims of overloading and make up about 85% of overload addicts.

Short-term effects: High, euphoric feeling. Can aid in physical and mental pain. Relaxed, sleepy state. 

Long-term effects: Dependency. Tolerance (quickly builds). Internal deterioration and shut down. Dynamic dysregulation (irregular mating cycle (very common), struggle to maintain bonds/weakened or overpowered bonds, lack of control over scent, etc). Mental health disorders (depression, anxiety, and panic disorders are the most common). Memory loss, early onset dementia (in extreme cases).

Addiction: For addicts, there are people who “deal” in overloading. It is similar to a drug deal, however, to make themselves more appealing to clients, they will offer their clients private spaces to stay and keep safe while they ride the high. This is how overloading houses came to be. Clients also often stay with one dealer as it is easier to overload with someone you trust.

Overdose: Overdosing is not possible with overloading which is one of the reasons it is so dangerous. Because there are no immediate consequences, people think it is safer than drugs, however, the long term effects are far more severe.

Withdrawals: Withdrawals from overloading are incredibly hard on the body and often lead to hospitalization and in some cases, death. People suffering from overloading withdrawals must be slowly weaned off for the best chance of survival and recovery. Rehab centers specifically for overloading are becoming more prominent as the overloading epidemic rises. 

Pups: It is difficult to overload pups, but there have been recorded cases of it. It is considered instinctual abuse to overload a pup as it creates addiction and dependency at a young age and can lead to various health problems. As such, any presented individual over the age of 16 caught overloading a pup without explicit medical permission will go to jail for a minimum of 3 months.