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rottinghouseplants · 5 months

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Made For Mercy: Chapter 2: Part 1: Toxic

(warning: this story does contain sensitive topics)

Two days later in the Art District of San Myshuno…

I stared at myself in the mirror, captivated by the unfamiliar face that stared back at me, fully expecting the reflection to move and shatter the illusion. Those eyes, surrounded with dark makeup, light shimmering from their glassy surface. My freshly-cut hair, courtesy of Adrian, had been swept up into messy buns that added a touch of wildness to my look. I ran my hands over the clothes I hadn't worn in years - a vibrant red neon lightning bolt slashed across my blouse at an angle, and the dark skirt I had chosen to replace my dingy jeans screamed rebellion. Had I become so dissociated from my own appearance that I truly just couldn't recognize this stranger as myself, or is this a dream? What am I doing? This is crazy. I don't know these people.

Fear and anticipation gripped my heart and mind, making my breath shudder and my skin crawl. I felt the tension in the air, as if something sinister was lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. I could hear the whispers of doubt in my head.

My heart was pounding, thudding in my chest like a drum. Sweat trickled down my back, dripping off my trembling fingers. The anxiety was overwhelming, each step sending shockwaves of fear and dread. I could feel the weight of a thousand questions on my shoulders, pressing me down with every step.

Don't go. What if you get hurt? You said it yourself. You don't know them. What if they are dangerous?

What if you wind up in an alley in downtown, no one would know. No one. You'd be all alone. Left to rot, with the rats…the rats. The anxiety echoed and vibrated off the inside of my skull.

Why don't you just go home? You don't belong here. Too afraid. Too broken…broken.

Taking a long and deep breath, I began to count up to ten. "I can do this," I uttered to myself as I swung around to see Pixel lying on my bed. He lifted his head to look at me before cuddling back into the blanket and starting to purr. "I will be back soon, buddy. I love you," I murmured as I bent down to stroke his head, afterwards heading off towards the front door. As I shut it behind me, I exhaled audibly, my feet feeling like concrete as I trudged down the hall, my anxieties weighing them down and binding them to the floor.

Don't go. Stay here..

Still, I carried on towards the elevator and pressed the call button. Now or never. The elevator made a buzzing sound as it came to life, the overhead light flashing. Taking one more deep breath, I counted to ten again. The doors opened to display the aged inside of the elevator, seeming like something from a strange world. Soft yellowish lightbulbs illuminated the shabby carpet and wall panels.

The streets of San Myshuno were just dimly lit enough that I could barely make out the faces of the people that passed me by on the sidewalk; occasionally being exposed by a passing set of headlights or the brightly lit neon signs that lined the walls of the occasional dive bar or convenient store. As I approached the Spice District of Downtown, I could hear the sounds of the nightclub, the smell of curry and samosas drifted through the air, pulling me closer.

As my foot touched the entrance of the club, pep talks started playing like a broken record in my head; This is it. You can do this. You made it. Upon crossing the threshold, I was immediately surrounded by a vivid red light, with glistening arcs of color. This seemed oddly familiar. I had been here before, but when? I saw Darling and Akira at the bar in the corner, accompanied by a lady with a vibrant pink ponytail running down her back.

Inhaling deeply…

1, 2, 3, 4-

"Hey, look who decided to take me up on my offer." I opened my eyes to see Darling looking back at me. "Care to take a seat? Move aside, Akira. Make room for the lady." Akira rolled his eyes gently and shifted to the adjacent chair, gesturing for me to sit.

"Oh... thank you. Hello everyone." The words tumbled out of my mouth, clumsily. "Thank you for inviting me." I bowed my head slightly. Darling laughed, radiating warmth once again. I was beginning to feel a strong connection to their energy.

"No need to thank me, that's silly," Darling withdrew a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes and winked at me before lighting it, "What do you drink? This one's on me, but you get the next round." They cocked their head to the side eagerly.

"Oh…I'm, um, I'm not picky." I folded my hands in my lap under the bar, fidgeting with my thumbs as anxiety bubbled in my chest. Akira watched me from the corner of his eyes, a crooked smile growing across his face that only added to my unease.

"No need to be nervous, we don't bite," Darling narrowed their eyes playfully, "if that's what you're worried about." They turned their attention to the man behind the bar, a remarkably tall gentleman with shoulder length blonde curly hair. "Yo, Johnny, get the lady a hazy IPA, and fill me up if you could, put it on my tab."

The man behind the bar cracked his knuckles and snapped his fingers at Darling, exuding an air of power. "You got it, pal. By the way, try not to ash on the bar this time, D. I got in trouble last time." His mischievous smile revealed a glint of amusement in his eyes. "And if you're gonna smoke that good stuff, go out back, Salim doesn't like it when you do it in here."

The smell of beer and smoke hung heavy in the air as he poured two IPAs from the tap into red solo cups, placing them in front of us. Darling took a sip, and ashed onto the floor, their gaze a million miles away. I sipped my beer slowly, savoring the warmth of the liquid as it rushed to my cheeks, calming my nerves.

"So what made you move to San Myshuno? Of all places, I'd take you more for a Del Sol Valley, or Windenburg type of person." I could hear a slight judgement in their voice as they spoke, and I couldn't help but let a laugh erupt from my chest and smile. The sound of it was so sharp, it cut through the stale air and bounced off the walls. I could feel the warmth of their gaze on my face, their eyes narrowed, as if they were assessing my every move.

"That's an interesting conclusion," I said, my voice strong and confident. I closed my eyes gently, still smiling, letting the small amount of liquid courage mask the pain in my heart as memories flooded my mind. "I guess I just craved a little more excitement."

"Ha, well there's no shortage of that. Between the crime, drugs, and politics out here, there's never a dull fucking moment." They spoke with a venomous edge, as if they were trying to trip me up and test my boundaries. I paused, feeling the need to change the subject to avoid confrontation.

I turned to face them, leaning into the bar to soften my body language. Letting my nerves loosen with every swig of hops. "So what's your story, huh?" I smiled gently, my voice laced with a slight challenge. "Since you're so nosy." They let a booming laugh echo from their chest, and stuffed the dead cigarette butt in their pocket, leaning closer to my face.

"Oh no, babe. Ya gotta wine and dine me a lot more than one beer to hear all that." They picked the red solo cup up and swirled it in their hand, somehow they had almost finished it in the time we had been sitting there, I made a quick glance at my cup that was still half full. I felt a strange sensation in my chest, almost like I was separating, someone else was taking over in my place.

Oh, we are playing games. Little did you know, I can play games too.

The air seemed to buzz with silent energy, and I could feel the anticipation building within me. I chuckled under my breath and brushed my hair from my face softly, "Well then, I guess we both have our own mysteries." My voice was teasing, as my lips curled into a mischievous smirk. Darling titled their head slightly, a goofy grin still plastered across their face. I could feel my heart flutter at the sight.

"Okay, okay, I like a little mystery." I felt my cheeks flush as I smiled nervously, a hotness rushing across my whole face. I wasn't sure if it was embarrassment, or something else. Their eyes were piercing as they looked past me towards Akira and the woman. "Akira, Miko, you want to come out back with me to smoke?" Their gaze shifted to me, "You can come too, of course." Murmurs of agreement echoed down the bar as we all began to move towards the back patio. I watched as Darling pulled out a joint from their pack of Lucky Strikes, flicking their lighter and passing it underneath quickly.

We found a secluded table on the edge of the patio, away from the other patrons. "I didn't introduce you earlier. My bad, this is Miko, my other roommate," the girl with pink hair said with a shy smile. Darling held the joint between their lips, igniting the end with their lighter and inhaling slowly. I couldn't help but be mesmerized as I watched their pupils dilate and constrict with the light of the flame.

I felt the chill of the wind bite at my bare shoulders on the patio, and I glanced over my shoulder to take in the sight of the boat docks over the railing. Lights of freight boats shimmered off the water in the distance, while the soft crash of the waves lulled me into a comfortable daydream. The smell of marijuana mingled with the delectable aromas of the Spice District, filling the air around me. The chatter of my new acquaintances seemed muffled and far away. Suddenly, Darling tapped my arm gently with the side of their hand, softly anchoring me back to reality. I looked at them, and they handed me the joint. I took it between my fingers and put it to my lips timidly, my hands shaking slightly. I took a small inhale, smoothly filling my lungs, and exhaled, blowing the smoke over my shoulder. I then offered it to Akira.

He took a long drag and looked down as he rolled it back and forth in between his index finger and his thumb. His cold icy eyes shifted to the side to look at me as he asked, "So, you think you might stay in San Myshuno long? Hasn't it scared you off yet?" He formed a smirk as Miko gently slapped his arm. I took a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes.

"I just moved here a few days ago, actually the day I met you both. So maybe it hasn't had time to scare me yet." I paused and felt a sudden surge of courage rush through me. "Or maybe I'm not the type to be scared off." His eyes widened at my response and he coughed smoke out onto the table, gritting his teeth.

Miko snorted and ripped the joint out of his hand, sending sparks of embers flying around the table. She puffed on it a few times and swayed side to side in her chair with the background music of the Warble. "Don't listen to him, he's just jaded cause he grew up here. It's not that bad, if you mind your own business, people will leave you alone. Well.." She shot a piercing glance at Darling and chuckled mischievously, "Unless it's Darling, then they will 100% bother you, with no remorse."

Darling rolled their eyes and scoffed, their lips curling into an expression of utter contempt. "Gee thanks, just expose me I guess." Miko cackled and waved her hand dismissively.

Akira let out a frustrated sigh and hung his head over the back of his chair, closing his eyes before muttering, "Whatever, I'm not joking. This city can be a dangerous place for the faint of heart. Fun and games, here? Don't catch yourself alone walking at night downtown. The boogeyman might find you when you least expect it, and monsters hide in plain sight." He stood up from the chair and held his hand out for Miko, beckoning her to follow him. "She can call me jaded if she likes, but she knows I'm right. Just keep an eye out, use your head. If you don't have what it takes, San Myshuno will probably chase you out before it kills you. So at least there's that." His voice was a cold rasp, the words shot chills through my body. Miko took his hand softly and stood, straightening her skirt and handing the joint to Darling.

She smiled a beautiful toothy grin that sparkled in the light, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she spun into Akira's arms. "Darling, behave yourself please, for once," she said in a playful yet stern voice, her laugh ringing in the air as she pulled her beloved into the brightly lit dance club. Darling scoffed sarcastically before looking up at her, their eyes softening almost shyly. "You guys have fun," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "I'm going to make Akira dance with me." They disappeared around the corner and we were left alone at the patio table.

Darling pushed the joint into the glass table top, embers crackling out from underneath it until finally burning out and crumbling to dust. They stood up, pushing the chair in. "Do you want to see something really cool?" They beckoned for me to follow them to the end of the patio. "I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but maybe that's part of the excitement of my mystery." I stood up, confused but intrigued, and followed them to the edge of the patio.

They stepped down off the patio and took my hand, looking up at me. Confidence radiated off them, but the energy of nervousness laced itself through their demeanor. "Do you like stars?" My eyes widened in amazement as I looked down into their brilliant, flame-filled gaze. I felt a spark of electricity run up my arm, as their hand squeezed mine tightly. I could feel warmth radiating from them, and the sweet smell of their cologne tickled my senses.

"I guess, yeah. It's been a really long time since I've given it any thought." I smiled, looking down at our hands still intertwined. I slowly ran my fingers over their skin, feeling the softness and warmth of their touch. I glanced back up at them, and watched as their face lit up in joy, noticing my body language. Their other hand slipping under mine and running their fingers over both of my hands now. We stood on the end of the patio alone in the dark. The sounds of the harbor playing like a beautiful cinematic melody behind us. I felt my entire being fill with a sense of awe and wonder, and I felt closer to this person than I had ever felt to anyone before, despite knowing little to nothing about them.

They looked up and then back at me. The city lights reflecting in their gaze. "Wow," they whispered, their voice barely more than a hushed breath. "This is hands down the best view of the stars in all of the city. Normally, you can't even see anything because of the smog, but here by the harbor, you can see so many."

I chuckled playfully, wrapping my fingers around theirs. "What a line, that must work wonders for you normally."

They paused, biting their lip, and then laughed nervously. "Believe it or not, that's not actually a line, I don't normally tell people about it. You just seem kind of different," They looked away shyly and then peered at me through the corners of their eyes. "Maybe I like that, ya know? It must be all that mysterious stranger act."

"Maybe it's not an act." I didn't recognize the voice that fell from my mouth so smoothly, as if I had been taken over by something much bigger than me. Something much more powerful. "Maybe you were meant to discover it from the start."

Darling sat slowly next to me on the step of the patio, pulling me gently with them. "Maybe," they said, a hint of a smile playing on their lips as they looked up again at the stars.

They released my hands and fell back onto the patio with a thud that reverberated through my body. "San Myshuno's finest view, right here," they breathed, their eyes twinkling with delight, "totally free of charge, on me." I hesitated, not fully trusting, but with a spark of curiosity I slowly laid down next to them, my heart pounding in anticipation. "Look up," they whispered, their voice husky and alluring, "just trust me. It's worth it." I felt the energy radiating off them, and the intensity of the moment sent a thrill of anticipation through me. I opened my eyes and let go, allowing myself to be lost in the beauty of the night. I swear I could feel every star above San Myshuno, their light illuminating the dark expanse above the looming high rises. We laid there for what felt like an eternity with each passing second charged with a palpable electricity, just basking in each other's presence mixed with the scents and sights of the night. The electric atmosphere between us was palpable as we found ourselves lost in a beautiful moment that would stay with us forever.

Finally, Darling sat up and leaned forward on the patio step, their eyes blazing like molten lava amidst a chaotic sunburst. Their voice was gentle yet firm as they spoke, “Are you getting tired, it's getting kind of late. The Warble is gonna close in a few.”

I felt the exhaustion of the day bearing down on me, and a broad smile spread across my flushed red face. "I'm definitely getting kind of worn out. Maybe I should head home." I sat up slowly, Darling put a comforting hand on my back to support me.

They looked down at the ground, tracing delicate patterns with their finger on the cement in front of them. "Thank you for coming out tonight, I had an absolutely amazing time. I never expected my night to be any different from any other Saturday at this dive." They cocked their head to the side and looked up at me, their hair cascading over their face, eyes sparkling with delight. "For real, I had a blast." They stood up, brushing the dust off their back and turning towards me. "Let me help you up." They extended their hand out and bowed, a soft chuckle escaping their lips. I tentatively took their hand, marveling at the warmth emanating from it. I stood up slowly, trying to gain my balance with my heels, when they quickly grabbed my other hand to steady me. Our eyes met and I felt a jolt of electricity course through my veins, almost losing myself in the golden pools that stared back at me.

Darling cleared their throat, still gripping my hands tightly. "Listen, let me walk you home. It's dangerous to walk alone at night." A chill ran down my spine as I recalled these same words echoing throughout the night. I forced my jaw to relax and gave them a soft, knowing smile.

"How noble of you," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

"I don't know about all of that," they replied, their gaze drifting away from me for a moment. I could sense something dark lurking beneath the surface, ready to emerge. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. "But I'd like to do that for you. I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again, I'd like to raise my chances of this happening again." They gave my hands a gentle squeeze before meeting my gaze again, the sentiment behind their words ringing clear in the air.

"I think I'll allow it." I said gently with my newfound confidence. I raised my hand gently to their face and held it for a moment. Their skin was soft against my fingertips. "Just this once." I said, my voice gentle yet firm, as I laughed softly and dropped my hand from their cheek. The tension in their posture softened, and they turned, gesturing towards the street.

"Lead the way." They walked with me, one hand in their pocket, the other entwined in mine, fingers wrapping around each of mine, feeling as if it were home. The walk back was eerily silent, traffic had died down, and the city slept peacefully, with the occasional lone taxi rolling past us on the street. Open signs had been dimmed for the night, street lights flickered above us. But even with this almost complete stranger, I felt safer than I had felt the entire three days I had been in this place. Seeing the way they had each crack in the side walk memorized, every street name remembered like an old friend. Only letting my hand go, to finally hold the door of my apartment building open for me. We stood in the elevator silently, listening to the old mechanical noises of the elevator track carry us to the top floor. Finally, the elevator alert chimed and the doors slid open. As I walked towards my door, Darling grabbed my hand from behind me. I looked back at them, standing there nervously staring down towards the floor. "Hold on.." The way they said it made my heart flutter, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

My eyes softened with admiration as I glanced at them. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling, realizing that the tables had now turned. "Well, thank you for walking me home," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Darling's gaze lingered on mine for a moment before they looked away, fumbling with their fingers at their side. The nervousness emanating off them was palpable in the air, and I couldn't help but wonder what had brought it on. "Can I ask you something before you go?" they said, their voice barely above a whisper as well. This was a side of them I had not seen at all tonight, and I couldn't help but feel a strange mixture of curiosity and anxiety for whatever was next.

"Sure..what is it?" I asked, my heart pounding in anticipation. Had my new found confidence led me astray throughout the night?

"What's your name? You never told me, the other day.." They paused, and the moment felt heavy with anticipation as they looked up at me, holding my gaze. They ran their thumb over my fingers, and stepped slightly closer to me. I could feel their energy radiating in the air between us, and my heart raced. "I wanted to ask, but I figured we were kind of immersed in the game we were playing. But I think I'd like some insight into that part of this mystery." My mind raced, my tongue tying itself in knots in my throat once again. Why can't I tell them my name? I had never had trouble introducing myself in the past. I worked in customer service everyday. I told people my name everyday, but for some reason, I couldn't get the words out now. It felt like they were trapped in my chest, locked away. Panic began to set in as I felt that familiar intensity rising, somewhere between a migraine and a breakdown.

"Nyx." The word flew out of my mouth unexpectedly. My eyes widened, and I looked down at my heels, embarrassed and confused. I looked back up at Darling, and saw that they were grinning ear to ear, their grip on my hand still tight. I could feel the intensity in the air, and I knew that something was about to happen.

They pulled their phone out of their pocket, their gaze burning into me as they extended it towards me. "I'm not sure if this is too forward," they continued, their voice quavering with anticipation as their eyes searched mine for an answer, "but I'd love to see you again and, if it's alright with you, can I have your number?" I took the cellphone from their hand and typed my phone number into it, with Nyx as the contact id.

As I handed it back to them, their eyes sparkled with anticipation as they closed the gap between us. Their hand, strong and confident, wrapped around my waist, the other cupping my face with a gentle tenderness. "Is this okay?" They looked down into my eyes, the nervousness that had once filled the air now gone, replaced by a booming confidence that seemed to radiate from their very being. Their face was so close to mine that I could smell the subtle, yet unmistakable, mix of cigarette and marijuana smoke blended together with a woodsy cologne. I could feel my body melting into their hands, my senses enveloped in the warmth of their touch as if I was made of nothing more than molten gelatin. I just nodded, unable to find words even if I wanted to, if I was being honest with myself, I wanted nothing more than to be in this position right now. A mischievous smirk crossed their face, and before I could catch my breath, they leaned in and pressed their lips against mine. They pulled away and smiled again before turning towards the elevator. "Goodnight, Nyx. Sleep well."

I turned towards my door and whispered, "You too, Darling. Goodnight." I shut the door behind me and collapsed against it, slowly sliding to the floor, my heart racing with adrenaline and dopamine.

The warmth of the kiss was still lingering on my lips, and I could feel the faint trace of their breath on my skin. I felt as though I were in a different world, almost suspended in time and all my worries had suddenly melted away. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but none of them seemed to make any sense. A strange sense of calm descended upon me and for the first time in a long time, I felt truly content. I hadn't expected this moment to come, and yet here it was, unfolding before me. It felt like my life had taken a complete one hundred and eighty degree turn in the last three days. I let out a deep, long breath and opened my eyes to see Pixel, my cat, sitting before me, his crystal blue eyes staring up at me.

"Hey, buddy." I said, picking him up in my arms and cradling the bundle of fluff against my chest. His purrs vibrated against my racing heart and brought a sense of peace. "Thank you for giving me a reason to stay here.." I whispered into his head, my hand running softly along his fur. Tears began to well up in my eyes as I sat there for a long time, just letting my emotions finally pour out freely. I slept better that night than I had in ages. And for the first time, in what felt like a millennium, I couldn't wait to wake up in the morning.

#long post #sims 4 story #sims story #creative writing #madeformercy #sims 4 #ts4 #simblr #ts4 stories #ts4 storytelling

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dreamsmp-au-ideas · 3 years

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sorry in advance for the sheer amount of ideas and words

GiH

whenever tommy encounters a dementor he either appears unaffected or he starts screaming and crying and just goes catatonic since whenever in the presence of one or more dementors the person(s) around them relive their worst memories

also since tommy is a phoenix in this au I propose: 2b2t tommy. aka Bloodletter aka the risen aka the phoenix

it’s perfect bc more angst

ooooo what if he’s the son of Death? like he’s the actual angel of death, not phil. everyone just assumes it’s Phil bc the description of the angel of death fits him rly well. blond hair, blue eyes, British accent, wings, extremely skilled at fighting and survival in general. so like tommy summons Death cuz he misses his mum and everyone is freaking out bc this child just summoned the embodiment of death and then fucking hugged her and said hi in such an excited and happy voice and I just. this < 3 besides he’s called the zombie child for a reason

and tommy encounters a bogart and there’s the sounds of explosions and screaming and crying and it constantly switches from techno to vilbur to schlatt to eret to dream to phil to a bloodied and bruised tubbo and somewhere in there there’s the disc confrontation and it’s just “it’s okay tommy, I’ve lived a long enough life” “what will I be without you?” “yourself” and there’s also tubbo saying that it’s him and tommy against the world and there’s a chorus of “it was never meant to be” and then there’s “kill me phil! kill me! murder me right now!” and then “tommy, let’s be the villains” followed by “you wanna be a hero tommy? THEN DIE LIKE ONE” and there’s Dream saying “it’s not your time to die” and then there’s “I’m sorry please dream I’m sorry please-“ “sorry doesn’t cut it tommy” and then more explosion sounds and then there’s schlatt saying “my first decree as president, as emperor of this great country, is to REVOKE the citizenship of wilbur soot and tommyinnit” then schlatt saying “do you know what happens to traitors tubbo? they get executed” followed by techno saying “I’m sorry tubbo. I’ll try to make this as painless and colorful as possible” followed by the sound of tommy shouting tubbos name and fireworks and then techno saying “welcome home Theseus!” and laughing and then techno saying “blood for the blood god” then there’s a chorus of “flames for the phoenix” and “the angel of death” and “bloodletter” and then there’s the sound of wilbur saying “let’s blow that place sky high!” and “everyone betrayed us tommy! you can’t trust anyone! tubbo? he’s going to betray you!” and Dream saying that everyone hates tommy, how he’s his only friend, how he doesn’t have the guts to- how this is for tommys own good, and then tommy shouting for Sam and phil and Dream saying that he’s stuck with him, it’s going to be just like exile and the whole time tommy just looks so so tired and sad and apathetic and he’s kinda dissociating ig while everyone else is just. staring in horror and fear and shock

tommy gets hit with the crucio curse and he just powers on

anygay, moving on from the angst (for now)

mandrake: *screams*

tommy: *screams louder to assert dominance*

Ranboo: uh, should we stop them?

Purpled: no, I wanna see who wins

(tommy wins)

tommy: *vibing and trying to be all tough and intimidating*

thestral: *comes up to him and gently headbutts him and demands pats*

tommy, crying: I would die for you

Tommy gets a feral af great gray owl that has been returned to the shop many times bc she is simply untamable and he names her Clara and he is the only one that she tolerates

the ghosts are like “bruh you’re supposed to be dead” and tommys just vibing like “lmao yeah ik”

he has white streaks in his hair

the purplish white streaks are from the lightning strike, and the white bangs are from, well, he’d rather not say

he sees a niffler and he’s just like “finally someone who understands!!”

literally anything: *happens*

tommy: that’s weirdchamp but pog on

*when Phil gets summoned*

Phil, in an echoey and booming voice: WHOMST

tommy, in the distance: FUCK YOU PHIL

Phil, going back to normal voice: tommy?? didn’t you fuckin die???

labinnit canon pog?? tommy literally made in a lab and the staff finding out about it and going what the actual fuck???

okay but consider this: tommyinnit in hufflepuff, ranboo in gryffindor, purpled in ravenclaw, and tubbo in slytherin. tommy is loyal and kind, ranboo deserves to bond with neville over being anxious memory boys tm in gryffindor, from what I’ve seen purpled is pretty intelligent, and tubbo literally has nukes

harpy/phoenix hybrid tommyinnit pog?? he eats anything and everything he can get his hands on??? he squawk

~mooch

Holy shit. Okay. This is all amazing though. This is all amazing. I love all of your ideas.

Also about the house things, that's true. That's very true. That does make sense and that's why they are so hard to put them in houses. I do like the current ones though but it does make sense for that.

Anyways ouch on the boggart thing. Ouch.

#dream smp #dream smp au #gremlins in hogwarts au #harry potter #tommyinnit #ranboo #purpled #tubbo #ask #mooch #long post

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bookofjudith · 4 years

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hello! as you might have noticed I orphaned all of my works!

this was entirely an accident. I am still very much active on AO3 and tumblr, and did not mean to dissociate myself from ANY of my ATLA works, if you’re coming from those! All of my ATLA works have been reposted onto my AO3 account and can be found below, as well! This sucks, but there isn’t anything I can do about it, unfortunately! So, I just ask that if you’re reccing any of my works, to double check that you’re sending people to the version that says “aeoleus”, instead of “orphan_account”. Thank you so much, and I’m so sorry for the inconvenience!

A Hundred Golden Suns

Ch 14/14 - COMPLETE

Zuko does not survive that first fateful Agni Kai.

But no matter how much Ozai strives to pretend otherwise, the Old Gods are not dead.

And the Old Gods are angry.

a cardinal hits the window

COMPLETE

The beginning of the end, though Sokka doesn't recognize it at the time, comes in the form of a text message.

Yue 🌙 at 2:41 PM i need u to help me dye my hair

what is that song you sing for the dead?

COMPLETE

(“You know,” Sokka starts. “Your dad told me I should talk to you. I feel like such a fucking asshole. Your dad- he lost your mom, and then he lost you, and he’s still giving me advice on how to deal with it.”

The moon doesn’t respond.)

Or: the beginnings of recovery.

how to disappear completely

COMPLETE

(And Zuko wants to laugh, he does, because he’s twenty-one, and he's the guardian of a five-year-old sister he didn’t even know existed until his mother died in a car crash, and he's legally responsible for his nineteen-year-old sister who’s been admitted for almost a year of her short life, and rent is due, and his temp job doesn’t pay nearly enough, and he wishes he had someone to help, but he has no clue where Uncle is, and no other adult has ever cared enough to help, and he’s tired.

He’s just so, so, tired.)

here, at the end of all things

COMPLETE

There are two options here, Sokka thinks, hanging half off the airship with a broken leg, firebenders surrounding them, Toph slipping through his hands.

To allow Toph to feel what his mother felt in her last moments, or to let his grip slide, and allow her to fall.

In the end, it’s not even a choice.

turn your face towards the sun

COMPLETE

Not for the first time, Suki desperately wished she had Aang’s ability to talk to the past Avatars. What would Kyoshi think of her? Would she see the weariness that settled deep into her bones, the static that crested over her brain, and scoff? Think she was weak, childish?

Or would she understand the guilt that settled like a rock in her stomach and remained there; the way sleeping on a soft mattress, eating a homecooked meal, laughing, feeling safe, felt like betrayal?)

An Ember Island interlude, featuring the beach, a bottle of sake, and three teenagers with the world on their shoulders and terrible decision-making skills.

(some day, I pray,) I’ll be more than my father’s son

COMPLETE

Zuko is seventeen years old when he stares at himself in the mirror and sees his father staring back at him.

Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry

COMPLETE

(“You’re not sleeping,” Mai says softly. “How’d you know?” Zuko asks.

To be honest, he’s kind of gotten to the point where he’s surprised that anyone can perceive him outside of his necessary functions- he exists solely to sit in council meetings and shoulder the blame for genocides and famines and the suffering of one-hundred years. Doesn’t he?)

The war is over, but the fallout is just beginning. And where lightning strikes, thunder is bound to follow.

what did you sing to that lonely child?

COMPLETE

“So, to put this together,” Toph says to Aang in a highly-measured tone that she didn’t know she even had the capacity for. “You were sparring, you had Zuko on the ground, and you held flames close to his, you know, scarred face?”

put the weight on me

COMPLETE

“I think he’s sick.” Bato says flatly. “So unless you want the next meeting to include the Fire Lord puking all over the budget scrolls, maybe see if he's okay?”

Hakoda glances up the hallway, like perhaps Katara will appear and take over dealing with the prickly teenager. Of course, his daughter is off treating injured refugees with the Avatar, and Bato is still staring at him expectantly, arms crossed.

“Fine,” He sighs, and he claps Bato on the cheek before heading into the room.

Or: Zuko falls ill not long after Ozai's defeat. Hakoda sits with him and learns some unpleasant truths about his childhood.

the sins of the father

COMPLETE

Iroh often wonders how a child raised as Zuko was- in pain and rage and cold indifference- could turn out the way he did- kind and gentle and just.

Iroh often discounts himself.

Or: how Zuko came to realize that a father’s love shouldn’t need to be earned.

brave little soldier boy

COMPLETE

“Let the children sleep,” Iroh says softly to Hakoda. “And let us carry the weight of the world for a while.”

Or: the night after Ozai’s defeat

#my writing #if you're able to #please reblog! i feel terrible that not all my subscribers will see what happened!

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youngster-monster · 5 years

Text

rumor has it (the dead don’t die)

“I know you.”

The surgeon looks up from Koltira’s arm, currently detached from his body, to Koltira himself. He holds Koltira’s inquisitive stare for a moment then clicks his tongue and goes back to the deep gash he’s currently sewing shut. He tore his wrist trying to wrench free of his restraints, again. The surgeon’s current irritation is as likely to be about having to fix it once more as it is to be about the small talk.

“I swear I do,” he insists when the man doesn’t offer any insight. His memories of this place tend to be… blurry, confused, but he’s sure he knows this face. He just can’t place it.

“Of course you do,” the surgeon says, with an air of trying to be placating while maintaining his completely deadpan tone of voice. “I’ve been stitching you back together since day one. I’m familiar. Stand up straight, please.”

Koltira does so even as he shakes his head in denial. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

He makes a knot in the thread, pulling it with his teeth to make sure it’s tight, and starts sewing Koltira’s arm back to his shoulder. “I’m not,” he mutters. “But I know how to sew.”

That’s not reassuring. But neither is distracting the guy currently in charge of the orientation of your arm compared to your body, so Koltira falls silent and lets him work. The thought lingers, though, nagging him. This face, this voice… Could they have known each other, before? A fellow Farstrider, maybe? No, he can still name every Farstrider he served with. But it feels too important to have been just a passing recognition, the way you see someone in the street and know you saw them before, somewhere different.

The surgeon finishes his work with a quiet hum of satisfaction, tie the thread tightly and cuts the excess. Finally he moves away. “You’re all set. Someone should be here any moment to take you back to your… cage.”

Koltira can’t muster up the energy to be angry about it. He’s gotten too used to it, the routine of halfhearted torture, sometimes interrupted by Sylvanas dragging him out to throw him at her enemies like a forgotten sword picked up from a dusty corner of the armory. He throws the surgeon a vacant look, even though he has his back to him as he’s cleaning his tools and putting them back where they belong. Koltira is surprised to see the tension in the surgeon’s shoulders, a mixture of frustration and rage. He opens his mouth to ask —

There, in the distance, the sound of… fighting. His head snaps toward the door. He sees the surgeon do the same in the corner of his eye. They remain still, staring at the door, as the sound comes closer, accompanied by voices. Is this an attack by the Alliance? At this point, Koltira would welcome it, if only as a distraction that could allow his own escape. He dares a look at the surgeon. He’s not paying any attention to his charge, watching the door with an unreadable expression on his face. It would be easy to cross the distance between them, grab a scalpel—

The door bursts open. Behind it stands a death knight, and next to him…

“Thassarian,” Koltira whispers, more out of reflex than thought. He blinks, frowns when the man doesn’t disappear as an hallucination should. “You-”

His friend strikes through the room, ignoring the surgeon entirely, and doesn’t give Koltira the time to jump off the observation table he’s sitting on before he’s… hugging him.

Koltira freezes at the touch for too many reasons to count — discomfort, fear, surprise, others he doesn’t care to name. But Thassarian is there, real and solid against him, and though he doesn’t go as far as to reciprocate the embrace he does relax in his hold. He looks over Thassarian’s shoulder and sees the other Deathknight with their runeblade at the surgeon’s throat. He doesn’t seem particularly moved by the threat, staring back at them with his head tilted to the side like a curious bird.

Thassarian steps away but his hands remain at Koltira’s sides, hovering.

“We’re here to free you,” he says, giving him an uncharacteristically anxious look.

“It’s been such a long time,” Koltira whispers.

Something hardens in Thassarian’s face and he nods, once, as if the gesture pains him. “Indeed, it has.” He straightens up, his hand falling back to his sides. “We must hurry before the guards come.”

Koltira jumps off the table while Thassarian opens a deathgate. He glances to the surgeon, still watching them with a placid look of disinterest on his face.

“You’re not going to stop us.”

“What is it with you and stating the obvious?” He muses. “I’m no more loyal to the Banshee Queen than any of you are. Stay or go, for all I care.” Then, muttering to himself, “At least I won’t have to stitch you back together again.”

None of them ask him if he wants to come along. He’s not a death knight, not one of them, and they forgot how to feel sympathy for those outside the Ebon Blade. They walk through the deathgate, Thassarian first, then Koltira, then the third death knight, just in case the surgeon had the sudden urge to drag Koltira out of the portal at the last possible second.

He does no such thing. Only watches them go, and sighs tiredly as the rip in space closes itself and disappears.

“You could have done anything, anything! To stop them.”

He rolls his eyes behind the Banshee Queen’s back and, when she turns around to point an accusing finger at him, raise his two wrists with a meaningful look toward the rune-engraved manacles weighing them down.

“You,” she hisses, “Are not reliant on your magic to fight.”

“Aren’t I?”

“You know how to use a sword!”

“Oh, yes, of course. A sword. Which I absolutely possess,” he deadpans, gesturing to the empty spaces at his hips where a sword would be — if he had one.

She sneers but doesn’t retort anything, too frustrated to find words sufficiently cutting. She turns around and goes back to her pacing, her collected Queen persona falling piece by piece under his placid stare. He’s rather sure there is no one left alive in the world who Sylvanas lets see her this way. Unmasked. Entirely herself. No one left who knew her before who could recognize the changes now.

No one but him.

Her pacing stops suddenly in the middle of the room. He braces himself. She flexes her fingers then, in the matter of a second, whirls around and has him pin to the wall by the throat, baring her sharp teeth to his face.

“I should destroy you where you stand and feed you to the ghouls,” she hisses.

“You won’t,” he replies, with a hint of regret.

Instead of the scowl he expected after proving her wrong, she smiles her sharp, mocking smile, and lets him drop. “You’re right. You’d like it too much.”

He doesn’t grace that with a reply, only walks out of the room. He has the annoying feeling this is what she wanted him to do, but he doesn’t hate himself enough to go back just to be contrary.

The Legion is on the move. He hasn’t seen it of his own eyes, but he can hear it — the news echoes through the Undercity, metal clanging as Forsaken soldiers prepare for war. There are outsiders, too, moving in and out, carrying messages and orders. Each passage leaves Sylvanas in a darker mood than the last, and he has taken to avoiding whatever part of the Undercity she is currently haunting. Unfortunately she knows where he likes to linger the most and escaping her means being chased away from his usual dark corners, closer to the surface.

He gets to see more people. He’s not a fan of that development.

Currently he sits high enough above the foot traffic to be left alone, shrouded in the shadows that permeate the city. He wants to say he’s bored, but he has been bored for so long, tired for so long, that it’s hard to dissociate it from his neutral mood.

“Hi.”

He blinks out of his thoughts, too used to the silent creeping of the Forsaken to be spooked by the sudden appearance of a demon hunter at his right side. She’s perched precariously, her wings making the space an even tighter fit than it is for him, and her blind felfire eyes are staring at, or through, him. He doesn’t question her presence: they tend to appear everywhere you don’t expect or want them to.

“Hello,” he greets, then, because it’s usually the question that follows, “Sylvanas is in the labs.”

People seems to think that, because he’s also an undead blood elf, he’ll know where she is at all times. With time it became easier to keep tabs on her at all time than to tell every passing stranger that no, he did not have a sixth sense for Sylvanas’ geographical position.

“Cool,” the demon hunter says, easily broadcasting the fact that she did not, actually, care about this. “And what are you doing here?”

“As you can see, I’m sitting.”

She makes an irritated sound. “No, what are you doing here,” she repeats, emphasizing the words as if it would help him understand her meaning.

“I’m a Forsaken,” he replies, somewhat bitterly. “This is the Undercity. I’m the one that should be asking. Actually, I am. What are you doing here?”

She ignores his question and only presses closer into his personal space, almost hitting him with her horns as she forces him to look her in the eyes by putting her face an inch from his.

“You’re Kael’thas,” she says, like it’s obvious. Like it means something. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Fear sparks through his body like lightning, like fire. “Haven’t you heard?” He leans back, plasters bravado on his face. “Kael’thas is dead.”

The way she scoffs tell him she doesn’t buy it, but she leans back and then forward, balancing over the edge as she prepares to fly off. But she’s still looking at him over her shoulder, bright green peeking from behind inky strands of hair.

“Every Illidari has been called to the front.” she says, enunciating the words carefully around her sharp teeth. “You shouldn’t be here.”

And then she drops off the ledge, leaving him to stare at the space she just vacated. It only just hits him now that she has no reason to be here, either. The demon hunters were all sealed away when their master died. Who freed them? Maiev, most likely. She’s the only one with the power to do so. The situation must be more dire than he thought if the Warden had to seek the help of the Illidaris.

But they’re notoriously difficult to lead, likely to disperse as soon as they’re free to each follow their own hunt. There’s only one person in the world capable to call them to the front and be listened to, and—

Haven’t you heard? Illidan’s dead.

It haunts him as the war rages on. Sylvanas drags him with her when she leaves the Undercity to lead the Forsaken against the Legion, hands him a sword and tells him to make himself useful. He’d refuse just to antagonize her, but— the air is too sweet on the surface, the opportunity to wield a blade and finally do something with himself too good to throw away out of sheer spite. Though it is tempting to turn the sword on Sylvanas, he doesn’t. They were… not friends, but allies, once, and she is not alone in blaming him for her curse. He’s failed her, failed their people; maybe this is the least he deserves.

He comes to regret it. Stabbing her would have felt quite satisfying, and if he were well and truly dead he wouldn’t be in his present situation.

She threw him at a squad of Forsaken and told him to make himself useful before disappearing to do whatever politicking the Horde-Alliance ceasefire is requiring. There’s still a part of him that urges him to fight the Legion until there’s nothing of it left and it has proven to be a surer warden than her presence: where would he go, when all the fighting is here?

He abandoned the other Forsaken behind some time ago, leaving them to their own device. They should be smart enough to survive without him and, if they’re not, then he doesn’t care. He needs to be alone, needs to be in the middle of the fight, with nothing but demons around him. There’s a satisfaction to hacking away at them. It settles something restless in him, dispels some of the wrongness born of his undeath.

And then his piece of shit sword breaks.

This wouldn’t be a problem if he carried a spare one, like he used to before Sylvanas decided to lay claim on him. This wouldn’t be a problem if he hadn’t isolated himself from the Forsaken soldiers supposed to keep an eye on him.

This wouldn’t be a problem if he still had his magic.

He stabs what’s left of the blade into the head of a demon coming at him and doesn’t manage to wrench it free before he has to step out of the way of another attack. Unarmed, he can only dodge the claws swiping toward his face, stumble out of the way of a blow that would have decapitated his head straight off his shoulders — it’s not a hard feat, it’s sewn on — and, out of option, block snapping jaws with his arm.

Light, he’s dead, but it hurts.

A kick dislodges the felhound long enough for him to back away out of its direct range, but he can’t fool himself in thinking he has any chance of making it out alive. Or, well, undead. There are too many demons, he wanted there to be too many, it was fun until his sword broke.

It’s not a death wish if you’re already dead, right? It’s just… your body trying to right itself. It’s fine. It’s natural. He wanted it. Still a bit pissed off that he’s going to die because Sylvanas was stingy though.

A shadow falls over him and he drops to the ground out of habit. Whatever flying shit the Legion has around is always trying to sweep people out of the battlefield and with claws that big he doesn’t have high expectations towards his stitches’ sturdiness. Better impaled by a felguard than ripped apart mid-air by some giant bat.

Giant, torn wings fill his vision. A flash of felfire, too quick to follow. A splatter of blood — not his, though, not the way the ground hisses and smokes at the contact. Demon blood.

This isn’t one of the Legion’s beasts.

When he lifts his head again, they are surrounded by a wide circle of dead demons. He is careful to keep his hair in his face as he rises, careful not to look Illidan in the eyes, careful not too think about it too hard, so careful as he steps between demon corpses and takes his broken sword out of the corpse he abandoned it into.

“Thank you for the help,” he says, his back to Illidan.

The answering silence makes him wonder if the man already too flight, but, no. He can feel his presence like a flame on the back of his neck, painful and comforting all at once. He debates just walking off. A Forsaken would have no reason to linger.

He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. He doesn’t get to care.

“So it is true then,” Illidan rumbles. “You’re back.”

Ah. Oh course. Illidan never learned how to leave anything well alone.

“If that’s what you want to call it.” He still doesn’t turn around. He stares at the jagged point of the sword, ignores how his fingers have reflexively tightened around the pommel. He doesn’t need to breathe but he does it anyway, grappling for normalcy in a situation that lost every hope for it a long time ago.

“How?”

Illidan gives nothing away in his tone, doesn’t move towards or away from him. He’s not used to seeing him so restrained, and wonders if death finally hammered some caution into his stubborn brain.

“Got decapitated in Outlands. Blood elves brought back the rest of my body. Sylvanas got her hands on the two parts, stitched them together, and voila.” He tilts the blade until it reflects his face, pale and lifeless, the hint of stitches wrapping around his neck and mostly covered by his high collar. “I’m here. Whatever that means.”

Only silence answers him. The air is heavy like the hour before a storm, stifling, electric. He has the sudden irrational urge to swallow, the weird feeling that he can’t breathe. Of course he can’t. But usually it only bothers him on a psychological level, not… not like that. Not like Illidan’s presence is weighing on him, stealing the breath out of his lungs. He whirls around, opening his arms as if to say, there I am. As if to say, that’s it, that’s all it’s ever going to be.

“Don’t just stand there,” he begs, half a laugh caught in his throat, more manic than amused. “Say something.”

Illidan is staring at him, expression unreadable. Silent. Unmoving. Death-like. He needs him to be angry, to be sad, to hate him or to leave or to do something, anything. But he doesn’t. He just… looks at him.

Undead can’t cry, what with the whole ‘no bodily fluid’ thing, but his eyes sting like he’s about to and he’s smiling, so much that it hurts, but everything hurts when Illidan is looking at him like that. Like he doesn’t even know him, like he doesn’t care enough to be angry. He grits his teeth around the sob trying to wrench its way out of his chest, wraps his arms around him, feels his manic grin twist into something he wouldn’t recognize, either.

A shadow falls over him. Illidan, walking closer. Still with that look on his face, like he’s faced with something he doesn’t understand, like he wants to pick him apart to see what makes him tick. Soon enough he’s in his space, surrounding him, his wings curled around him, careful not to touch him. Illidan’s hands hover on either sides of his face, the tip of his claws a hair’s breadth from brushing his skin. Terrifyingly, maddeningly close.

“It really is you,” he whispers with something like wonder in his voice, something like fear in the shaking of his hands. “And I thought I had lost you.”

Kael’thas—

Breaks.

He collapses against Illidan, clinging to his shoulders as if he’d fall without the support, as if he’d crumble to dust and ashes without him. Illidan bend to his height, bring his arms around him, holding him so carefully, like he’s about to shatter to pieces.

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, pressing his cheek against Illidan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I missed you so much.”

A hand comes to cradle the side of his neck, thumb pressing lightly against the never-healed line bisecting his neck.

“The Legion and death itself haven’t managed to keep me away from you,” he whispers against the crown of Kael’thas’ head, fierce like a wounded animal, “But I’ll never give them the opportunity to try ever again.”

#writing #World of Warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #koltira deathweaver #thassarian #illidan stormrage #Sylvanas Windrunner #BEEN A WHILE HUH

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valdomarx · 7 years

Text

maybe in another life

Steve/Tony, MCU, post-Infinity War, major angst. Warnings for character death and mental illness.

When Steve thought back to that day, he memories felt unreal, as if he were watching a movie about someone else’s life.

He’d seen Thanos grab Tony by the neck. He heard the tortured wrenching of the armor even over the sounds of the battle. Thanos had looked down at Tony with a distasteful grimace and tossed him aside with no more consideration than if he were swatting a fly.

Steve had seen Tony flying through the air, impacting a concrete wall hard enough to smash it, heard the sickening screech as rubble and debris rained down on top of him.

He vaguely remembered sprinting towards the pile, throwing chunks of concrete and metal aside, digging until his knuckles bled and stuck to the inside of his gloves.

But mostly he remembered that when he found Tony, his armor was split by deep, ugly gashes and the ground beneath his body was stained crimson.

The arc reactor had sputtered and gone dim, and when he ripped the faceplate off the suit, Tony’s eyes were blank and vacant, staring at nothing. He wasn’t breathing.

He’d heard someone yelling, then realized it was him. The sounds of battle faded into the background as he stared in horror at the crushed shell of Tony’s armor lying in a pool of blood.

It might have been hours later that he felt a hand on his shoulder. The streets around them were quiet and it was dark. “Steve,” Natasha said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “He’s gone, Steve.”

No, Steve decided. No, he would not accept this. Not when they had finally managed to mend the rift between them, to start trusting each other and working together again. Not when they had only just found their way back to each other.

He was going to save Tony. He was Captain America, and saving people was what he did.

Since then, he’d dreamed of Tony every night. Sometimes he was watching Tony fall, reaching out to catch him but feeling the suit’s metal fingers slip through his own. But most nights he dreamed of ordinary days in the tower. The two of them cooking dinner or watching a movie. Steve standing in Tony’s workshop and admiring the creative chaos.

In his dreams, Tony would smile and rag him for being so concerned. “I’m doing just fine,” he’d say with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t worry about me. And don’t worry about you either. You won’t be alone for long.”

“Tell me what to do,” Steve begged. “I’ll do anything. Please. Just tell me how to bring you back.”

Tony shrugged one shoulder. “Wish I knew, Cap.”

There had been a memorial service. Some big event in New York, where most of the superheroes on the planet had turned out to pay their respects to Tony.

Rhodes had given a speech. It had probably been very moving.

Steve didn’t go. What was the point in memorializing Tony? He’d be back soon. As if the minor issue of death could ever keep a man like Tony Stark down.

Tony was coming back, Steve knew. He wasn’t going to mourn him.

Steve had heard it first. The team had been fighting off an army of Doombots who were marching on Central Park for god only knew what reason.

Thor was in the air, firing down lightning strikes which ignited the robots while Sam circled below him and picked off any stragglers.

Nat and Clint were making their way to Doom’s underground bunker to take him out at the source. Steve and Bucky were on the ground, protecting civilians and herding the Doombots into the range of Thor’s attacks.

A stray blast flew past his ear, and suddenly pained blossomed in his shoulder as an energy beam clipped him. He staggered, pain whiting out his vision for a second.

“Steve!” He could hear Bucky yelling. But there was something else too, just on the verge of his hearing: the high pitched whine of repulsors.

Steve smiled to himself as he dropped to his knees. That sound was so familiar, it felt like he had been waiting for it to be back in his life. Everything was going to be okay.

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t see a streak of red and gold armor, didn’t hear a teasing voice over the comms. There was only Bucky, running towards him and grabbing up the shield to cover him from the Doombots.

There was no sign of Tony, but Steve had heard him. He knew what that meant. It meant that Tony was alive, and that he was coming back.

The next time had been late at night. Steve had been working through a thick stack of reports, trying to finish them before the team meeting tomorrow. The team needed him to lead. They needed him to be strong. He had to protect them now.

His left eye was twitching again, like it always did when he was tired. The words of the report he was reading swum and dissolved into incomprehensible scribbles.

He stared at the paper, wondering why it seemed so far away. Why everything felt liquid and illusory, like the edges of the room were dissolving around him.

Suddenly, he felt a presence behind him. Someone ran a hand soothingly across his shoulders.

“Hey, Cap,” a familiar voice said warmly. “Miss me?”

“It’s called dissociation,” Sam had told him. “It’s a coping mechanism for trauma. You’re not bad or weak for experiencing this.”

Steve nodded along. He wanted to humor Sam, even though Sam clearly didn’t understand.

“But Steve, this isn’t healthy. To do what you do, you need to be able to distinguish fantasy from reality. You need professional help.”

“I can still do my job,” Steve snapped.

“I don’t care about your job, I care about you. If you don’t deal with this, you could hurt someone.” Sam looked grave, but his words were meaningless. The people around Steve always ended up hurt in any case. There was nothing he could do about that.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Sam said, worry etched around his eyes.

Good, thought Steve. At least that way he could see Tony again.

Another day, another mission, each one blending into the next in an endless parade of drab violence. Identify the target, take down the target, rinse, repeat.

It was like walking underwater. Everything was distant and unimportant.

They were fighting off a gang of demons summoned from some hell dimension or other, filthy creatures which spat flames and had sharp, venomous claws. Steve kicked one away from him, bringing his shield down hard onto the head of another.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw a warm blue glow reflected off bright shiny red metal. Steve’s heart raced as he scanned the area and saw Tony pinned down by a group of demons.

The beasts were converging on him fast, piling atop one another to get to him. Steve didn’t stop to think, throwing himself out of cover and towards the center of the fighting.

“Steve!” Natasha’s voice carried sharply across the battlefield. “Steve, get back here! It’s not safe!”

He ignored her. He had to get to Tony. Why couldn’t she see that Tony needed their help?

As he raced toward the pile of demons, slinging his shield ahead of him, he glanced round and caught sight of Natasha. She didn’t look angry anymore. Now she just looked sad.

Steve needed to know more. He needed to know how to help Tony; whether he should be building a portal to transport him or casting a spell to guide him or merely waiting for him to find his way home. He had to see Stephen Strange.

His trip to the New York Sanctum took longer than he would have liked. Being poked and prodded by Strange and being run through a battery of tests reminded him unpleasantly of being a lab rat. It was odd that Strange spent more time scanning him with medical equipment than he did testing him with magical implements.

“You must listen to me,” Strange said in a firm tone once the testing was done. “These visions are not mystical in nature. They are psychological.”

“Did your magic tell you that?” Steve asked sarcastically, the disdain showing clearly in his voice. As if he needed a sorcerer to explain the world to him. He should have know that Strange wouldn’t understand.

“No, Captain, this is not magic, this is neurobiology. You have aberrant activity in your primary visual cortex. It is causing you to see things that are not there. These hallucinations lead you to believe that Tony is alive and with you, but he is not. You need to accept this.”

That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? Steve didn’t believe that Tony was alive. The evidence against it was overwhelming. But when he saw Tony, he knew that he was here with him. This knowledge was more certain that anything else in his life. How could he ignore it? How could he abandon Tony again?

It had been a long day, and it felt good to unwind. They’d trained hard this morning; they had earned a break.

Tony was telling a silly anecdote about the time he’d been chased from a fancy hotel by a pack of tabloid reporters who thought he was romancing the Chilean president’s wife. Steve laughed as Tony described hiding out in a cleaning closet and trying to make his escape.

Tony always had such good stories. Steve loved the way he told them, so energetic and self-effacing and full of life.

Steve was still giggling when he heard the door open behind him. He tried to hide his annoyance at the interruption and turned to see who it was.

Bucky walked in, his face pinched. “Steve,” he said very gently. “Steve, you’re doing it again.”

Steve woke up feeling, for once, warm. No dreams of the ice or of falling, at least none that he remembered. The bed was snug and comfortable.

He rolled over to see Tony, his hair mussed and his eyes still half asleep. “Morning, Cap,” he mumbled with a soft smile.

Something nagged at the back of Steve’s mind. There had been something that he was supposed to do today.

“Morning, Tony,” he said and reached over to brush the hair from Tony’s forehead. Tony turned his face and nuzzled against Steve’s hand.

Ah well. Whatever he was supposed to do probably wasn’t important. He would stay here, with Tony, where it was safe and cosy.

Someone was hammering on his door. Steve tuned it out. It was probably just Fury come to lecture him some more. Or one of his teammates, trying to smile but failing to hide their pity when they looked at him.

Steve didn’t need anyone’s pity.

What time was it? The blinds were drawn, but a dull, sickly light leaked into the room.

Eventually, the banging on the door stopped and Steve let out a breath.

He turned to look at Tony. “They don’t understand,” he said flatly.

Tony sighed and took Steve’s face in his hand, running a thumb across his cheek. “They don’t,” he agreed.

“It’s not fair,” Steve said, and it wasn’t like him to be petulant but he was so sick of losing everything. “We deserve to be happy. When do we get to be happy?”

Sadness flickered across Tony’s face for a second before it was hidden behind a too-casual shrug. “Maybe in the next life,” he said.

#stevetony #stony #marvel #my writing #oh dear this is depressing #... sorry about that

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hoverbun · 7 years

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corrupted save file

fandom: persona 4 character(s): yu narukami, teddie, rise kujikawa, yosuke hanamura synopsis: Something burned in the back of his throat the minute he stepped off the train into Inaba, and breathed that countryside air. When he entered the television, he felt something foul, like this was not supposed to truly exist--as if humans were not meant to walk on these grounds. Yu Narukami sees his fingers move, but does not feel the flesh bend--he sees his friends talk, but he's not sure if they are truly there.He is here, and he is not. warnings: mild violence, dissociation/depersonalization, and manipulation. word count: 7510

It starts early on. Once you press your skull to the glass of your television, and you collapse in a world you don’t know the name of—it begins there. It’s small, but it’s there.

You’re with Yosuke and Chie, and you find a room where someone may have ended their life—and then you find a walking animal, and the air you were breathing hardened your stomach like firm caramels, but the creature makes you want to throw up. Anxiety creeps up on you at times you’d rather it not—but, but, the thing calls itself ‘Teddie’ and it’s friendly enough to push you out.

That was the first time. The first time you felt that. “That” is the thing you feel when reality melts, like wax down the length of itself—the sweat down your brow and the blood off your first injury sustained in the television. You’re not sure what that is, what it could be. Because the world isn’t fiction, it can’t do this. You’re a superstitious person at times, but you know the worst comes in dreams and not reality.

But the feeling passes, for the moment. It drifts down the river, getting caught on a stone. You learn how to use a sword, you find out Yosuke took a knife throwing class once, and Chie should go into judo, professionally. The television keeps hardening your stomach, you can’t look Teddie in the eye, but when you put a blade through that prince’s throat and pull Yukiko off the ground, you have enough time to forget about your insecurities, the improbabilities. You learn how to stop chewing on your cheek and finally swallow the terror, and the next time you go in to show Yukiko the ropes, your insides don’t tie up.

When practise isn’t going on, and you don’t have music that day, you go into the television. Even with Yosuke thrusting ‘leadership’ on you, you take the reins and never let go. So, when June rolls around, Kanji feels like routine. You sweat when you go into the bath house and it’s hard to drag Kanji out, but you’re alive, most of all, and for once passing through the threshold of foggy wasteland and real life feels exhilarating. When Yosuke parts way to walk Kanji home, Yukiko asks how you feel. You look her in the eye and you say you’ve never felt more alive.

The square shaped hypnosis trance burns into your eyes. You hear music, and your friends sound quiet. Their mouths move, but music drowns them out. You figure it’s the television suffocating them, drowning out human voices, some manic repetition roaring in your ears. You start to show Kanji what fighting means and what it does, how it lifts the atmosphere and makes your shoulders relax more. He decapitates one of the Shadows with a single sweep of his folding desk. You all cheer for him.

Yosuke grins at you the next time you crack the mask of one of those smaller creatures. Let’s go, partner!

But when it becomes late June, and you come back from your school trip, your stomach begins to harden once more. You wake up, and get dressed.

( you don’t remember standing up or getting out of bed, you don’t remember the calm lull of reality from sleep, you just found yourself standing in uniform, hand in pocket, looking out the window )

You’re at the flood plain, and you’re walking to school. The sun is swallowed whole by the clouds, but the summer wild flowers nod in the surprisingly pleasant breeze. Students walk behind you.

( it’s cloudy because the news cast said so, but you don’t remember watching television, you never watch it except when it’s sunday, and last time you did you felt strange, because you were putting on the president tanaka show and you know you didn’t leave the channel on it last time )

Yosuke calls for you. He greets you, casually.

( no, you’re still thinking about that—how did you know it was going to be cloudy? you think about your dreams, and you remember a number, a giant 06, and a slider, and you assume that was cotton clouds confined in a small box )

Classes have ended for today. It’s a Monday.

It’s Monday, June 20th, and you stand in your classroom for a period of time. You stare at the wall behind you, and your hands are locked in your pockets, and you don’t know why you can’t move until you suddenly lurch forward—your legs aren’t your own, you walk with a mission in mind—but you don’t know the mission, you storm up to the roof and Chie is there, she’s always there—

Why can’t you remember what you learned today? Mr. Morooka asked a question, you know this, but other than that, what did you see, what was whispered to you, Naoki Konishi looked at you in the hallway during lunch but that’s it—

( schedules. you are plagued by schedules. that’s all. )

When June 24th rolls around, Rise Kujikawa goes missing. When Teddie picks up her presence, you enter a club, music pulsating, getting into your bones and shifting through your veins. You don’t know if the pounding in your ears is the music or blood, because it lingers even after Yukiko picks you up with a Diarama spell—you strike twice as hard the next swing and the two interlocked dancers are split in two..

You feel something building in you. It’s not in your stomach—it’s spilling over your stomach now. You feel acid burn your insides, and it builds, and builds. Your lungs sear with each gasp in. Chie says they should go back, because that big one back there took a lot out of her and Yosuke—but Kanji is yelling they’re almost there, and Teddie nervously nods, saying that Rise is but a floor away. You swallow your vomit and you walk towards the steps.

It’s a parasite. You feel like it’s spreading through your nerves, weaving through the bars of your ribcage, and pulls down on you. It’s like a tight jacket, or a full body uniform too small—you’re cringing as you open the doors to Rise. Yosuke thinks you’re sickened by the naked creature on the stage, spreading its legs and grinning a soulless smile in a crude, sexual desperation. He wouldn’t be wrong, but you’re not plagued by Rise’s horrors.

Until Teddie gives his vessel for them, and she says five words that break him.

“There is no real me!”

( quietly, quietly, without anyone else hearing, because the shrill tone of the bear overlaps your own voice, you mutter, because you feel your insides go hollow, your bones empty out and your blood go cold, the colour leaving your face and something dropping in your stomach, )

no real me.

“Ted,” Yosuke tries to laugh, his handsome laugh that he puts on to diffuse Chie’s temper or his father’s exasperated rants, holding up a hand as his others clutch both kunai, “C’mon—don’t freak out, alright? We’ll figure out who you are—”

“There’s no real me?”

“That’s not true,” it’s Yukiko’s turn, and she’s kneeling down to give her maternal smile unto the soft boy, ragged and filthy and comically ruined, and she realizes how pathetic he looks, and how pathetic he feels. “No… Teddie, look, Rise-chan didn’t mean you weren’t anything!”

“I… I should have… realized…”

Chie looks to Rise, who stands foolishly in her storefront uniform, and doesn’t realize the magnitude of her words.

Teddie begins to scream. Out comes a beast none of you have ever seen before, cracked like porcelain and filthy like a corpse. It has claws that have cut the flesh of its paws, and it boasts of the pointlessness of the world, the void that exists beneath all matters of flesh and bone. How your existence is provided by organs and nothing else, and how life… life is but a pathway to nothing. There is a cliff, and you leap off.

You can’t move. Kanji makes the first strike, and his skull cracks against the wall, wrapped in an indigo felt that does not cushion his fall. Yukiko runs to his side to scream for him to stand, and Chie has to scream your name to get you to move. Yosuke’s voice joins the choir.

( there is no me there is no me i do not exist )

You still can’t move. Yosuke screams something, and you don’t hear what he says, because it sounds—it sounds like nothing human. It is the sound of metal crunching beneath steel plated, the language of radio static, white noise from a broken television. He is music corrupted and emergency broadcast systems, screeching across television sets when the next earthquake is striking the country. The club’s music distorts in those seconds, too, and your heart nearly bursts before Rise touches your shoulders. You can finally hear again—and she’s begging you to help your friends. They need you, senpai.

So you think about what you hold. You look to Tomoe burst from behind Chie, and violently slash into the monstrosity, fur and flesh tearing to reveal soft pink and red that does not bleed. You hear that charming voice, Chariot, and you could pass out.

You give these—these people, some support, by lifting your sword and running towards the beast. You call out Izanagi, but you forgot it wasn’t Izanagi at the front of your mind—it was King Frost. The spirit spits lightning at the bear shaped beast, and Kanji, even with a concussion swelling his thoughts, manages to cast Zionga with you. In the same roar, he screams that now’s our chance, and all of you begin your rush. Rise screams praise behind you all, saying it’s time you buried this thing.

( but i’m not real i’m not real who are you )

Burnt fur sticks to your clothing. Yosuke supports you, and tries to assume your behaviour—took a nasty blow back there, huh partner? He tries to laugh but there’s no humour, there’s anguish and there’s pain. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with you, but why would he know? Your breakdown wasn’t a part of the script.

Rise holds Chie’s arm as she walks back home. Yosuke follows you home, instead, keeping you supported against him, and he’s making idle chatter, trying to fill the void, the void around you and the void within you, and he’s got such a nice voice but you think you’re six out of ten interactions done with him at this point, so you want him to be quiet. You’re thinking in numbers. You hear Margaret’s laughter, but maybe it’s the wind chimes.

Yosuke squeezes your shoulder before he starts to walk away. You watch him walk off, and expect him to disappear into smoke, like the characters always do after their cutscenes are done. You assume Nanako is going to be in front of the kotatsu tonight, rather than the side closest to the curtains, and you won’t be able to talk to her.

She’s watching her quiz show. You were right.

You go upstairs and vomit in the bathroom. You don’t remember walking up the stairs, only walking near it, hearing Nanako say ‘welcome home’, and then you were upstairs, with a the toilet seat ring around your face. You swear you hear Nanako call up to you, but your lurching movements and disgusting vomit drowns her out. You aren’t sure what brought it on, but then you laugh, because you know what it is. Nerves, right?

You fall asleep shaking, trembling. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at your television, even if it was tradition to ensure the survival of another. Why do you look there? You know Rise was alive, the only one in there, it’s scheduled into you—no, that makes no sense. It’s scripted into you.

( you dream of a long limousine pulling up to you. you break character and run. The fog is thick and you can hear the engine of a car behind you, but you don’t look back. )

Morooka was not supposed to die. Mitsuo Kubo was not supposed to drive your insecurities home, nor were you supposed see your slowly decomposing husk in his own empty eyes. His eyes remind you of stained glass, windows you can get lost in, windows that tell you a story—but windows you can’t look out of. Trapped within, like a labyrinth beneath a castle.

“I am nothing. I have nothing.”

You repeat those words back, under your breath. Rise is the only one to hear, and she mutters “Senpai?” anxiously.

I art thou, thou art I, thou art foolish in thine belief thou exists beyond numbered days.

You’re growing used to the sound of music. There’s music, and it’s always around you. This time, there weak sounds of radios dying, old notes dug from the graves filled with sand, and the armoured creature reveals its abominable abortion within a steel chest soon enough. It writhes on the ground, and Yosuke, Kanji and Yukiko tell you to stay back because it could be dangerous, but you raise your sword high and plunge it into the soft, meaty flesh, the sobbing of an infant suffocating on blood and dying at your feet.

Mitsuo is laughing when they pull him from the television like a disgusting caesarean. Nobody walks him home, because Kanji is on the phone with the police. You sit next to him, because Yosuke told you that Kanji’s job as muscle was being occupied, so it was up to you. He tries to joke, saying you can match Kubo, with your dead expression you’ve been wearing recently. You offer a haunting, open mouthed smile. You haven’t brushed your teeth today.

When you sit next to Mitsuo he tells you to stay away from him. Because you’re here to tell him he’s wrong, and that he’s a monster for killing those girls, and the teacher. He can’t move far or else Yukiko or someone will notice. So he folds his arms and looks away from you. When you look at him, you see a boy uncomfortable in his skin, who has goose flesh covering him as he curls his shoulders and retreats into his flesh prison. You think he’s pathetic.

"You look like you want to say something," he says.

You ask Kubo, if he knew everything, would he tell everyone about what he knew, or would he take it to the grave?”

"Nobody listens to me," Mitsuo responds, "the best shot I have is talking to the wall. Talking to you, right now."

Then you ask him what it’d be like to die.

He’s probably thankful the police cars roll up outside of Junes and your uncle comes into the electronic department, interrupting your nihilism and despair.

You sit in the car, when you once stood at the corner of a bookstore and began watching the void. You ask Igor if you’re breaking character. He smiles, and says welcome to the Velvet Room.

Everything is so disgustingly in place. Yosuke is on the second floor of the school. Kanji is in the practise building, down the hall from Ayane. Daisuke throws an arm around you and ushers you off to practise.

Fourth time talking to Kanji. Then you go home. Why can’t you manage time better? Why do you stay around Kanji when the conversation is dry and so are his eyes, anguished once more over his mother’s state? Kanji’s voice distorts, and it turns into whines, agonizing groans like failing machines, and them his charming lilt returns once more. You’re growing accustomed to your friends breaking around you. Machines only go for so long. You wonder how many times you must have lived this existence.

You get a part time job at a hospital. You hear a choir of saints as a sweet young nurse opens her mouth and words don’t come out, her introduction muted by the demands for spiritual sacrifice, another mask to wear, another part of your heart to carve into. You’re going to put Sayoko Uehara next to Daisuke Nagase, and you’re going to call her the Devil, because the voice in your head told you to.

"Welcome home!" Nanako says. You don’t remember walking home. You don’t remember walking up the stairs, either. Now you’re in your room, and you look from your wall, to the couch, to the desk.

This is a work desk. You could probably work here… What will you do?

Paper cranes. Envelope making. Translating. All of your talents are filed into separate skills, numbered for convenience and organization. You hear words in your mind, dictating you can’t do that due to a lack of Knowledge, Dilligence, Courage. Courage is what you own, it’s not courage, it’s Courage, a proper noun, proper emphasis, because you at least have enough Knowledge to Understand what that means, because your Knowledge satisfies Margaret so she speaks to you, and you got some Courage the day before when you asked Mitsuo Kubo how he wanted to die.

What determines these points? Why do you earn ‘Courage’ talking to your uncle? ‘Understanding’ when you walk with Naoki Konishi? ‘Diligence’ when you brush your hair? Why do you exist with numbers and scripts? What is determining your ability to do something, your capabilities? Why are you a number? Why are you following their rules? Why, why? Why?

>… >Scream at the wall >>”Am I real?”

You don’t have enough Understanding…

>… >>Scream at the wall >”Am I real?”

You don’t have enough Despair…

>>… >Scream at the wall >”Am I real?”

You can’t answer your own thoughts. You decide to leave it until morning.

Sleep early? >>Yes >No

You have a dream where you are being chased by Yosuke... You reach a cliff, and Yosuke runs into you, pushing you both off.

It was exhilarating, but you feel like you cannot look Yosuke in the eye anymore.

These individuals are not your friends. Your friends do not live in the same designated spot, expressions shifting after seconds of delay. Your friends do not cheer constantly or smile with no laughter.

Teddie walks around Junes as a worker now. He smiles, and you watch him from one table in the food court. You’re trying to remember if you ever interacted with him outside the television. The script says you aren’t supposed to do this, aren’t supposed to see him outside of the televisions in these off-screen moments, because at the Junes food court you’re supposed to be with the group and going into the—

"Sensei? It’s great to see you! What can I do for you?" Teddie’s voice is a sunbeam on a smooth rock. You are one in the same, and the hard layer of rock and fused organs inside you seems to crumble in this off-kilter tone. Teddie is the only one whose voice doesn’t shatter and turn to broken static (you can’t—can’t talk to ebihara anymore. her voice turned into shrapnel scraping down steel and you were afraid of the noises she was making, she wasn’t going back to normal like the rest tend to do, and when you spoke one wrong word a voice told you something was reversed, the cord was snapped and the body was hanging. you went to chagall cafe nearby and threw up once more in their washrooms).

You ask if he’s free right now. Teddie throws blue eyes over his shoulder, and with a pensive pout, he says, “Yosuke isn’t around to yell at me, so it’s A-Okay with me, Sensei!”

When you sit down at the table usually occupied by five other bodies, Teddie drops down across from you. He keeps his smile, those early summer flowers nodding in the abyss that was his thoughts, and you nearly lose it right then and there. How can you be so pleased when you are a cavern of plastic flesh and viscera hanging from the walls?

"What do you want to talk about, Sensei?"

Something is wrong with me, Teddie.

"Something… wrong? Is there anything this bear can do for you, Sensei?!"

He’s in his human form, muted orange and dull brown uniform apron spilling down his front. His hands, short and round with fat little fingers, leap up from his lap and to the table, and even Teddie’s face looks round, ursine—his nose is small and his hair looks it’d feel like pelt. Teddie could make himself. He made himself. You’re about to be sick again.

I can’t… sleep, I can’t talk to people, I…. I talk to Yosuke, but it’s not him…

Teddie looks confused, concerned, perturbed. He stands and rounds the table, dropping to your right side. It’s been a long time since you felt the warmth of another person sitting close to you—when Chie sits next to you on the roof it’s as if she’s not there, and Nanako’s hands feel cold, clammy, dead. Teddie feels…

Teddie feels real.

"Can you see him, Sensei? When you talk to him, can you see him?"

You nod.

"Then… then he’s there, silly, Yosuke is there, and Yosuke is real. He’s as real as Chie-chan, and Yuki-chan, and Kanji and Rise-chan…"

Your fingers curl around your slacks, pressing nails to fabric. You see Teddie lift his hand, but he doesn’t touch you. I don’t… know what’s real anymore, Teddie.

"Are you… not sure if you’re real, either?"

You nod again.

"… Are you like me, Sensei?"

I don’t know.

You keep your head lowered, exhaustion colouring your eyes a thick charcoal, pressed against you like black and blue rings around your eyes. You are ill, physically so, with thin skin and thin hair. Teddie finally touches you, and you want to scream and cry and hit something all at once because Teddie’s hand is the most real thing on your shoulder.

But you swallow vomit and tears and start talking, in your hollowed voice, shelled out long ago. How you think in numbers and choices, how conversations can never grow more, because every little thing feels like it was written in a candied script. How you hear their voices break and how some of them don’t sound human anymore, and—what really is human? Is it being able to change yourself freely? Alter your person? Your Persona?

You turn to look at him, and maybe your eyes are red—but you tell him you see the same being come out of Teddie whenever he uses his Persona, and the same thing from Yukiko, and Yosuke, and even Rise—but they fought something, they acquired something, they weren’t given the opportunity before engaging in a fight. And is Izanagi really you? If you can turn him into Pixie, into Forneus, into Gurr, into so many different creatures and being, all with different meaning—who am I if I can change at the drop of a hat or the swipe of a card?

You grab Teddie’s hand, feeling his bones crunch and shift within his fingers, cartilage cracking, and you ask again—who am I? Who am I?

Teddie wraps his arms around you as you feel yourself begin to cry. He’s warm, he’s real, and you might not sob but you cry silently, hot tears staining your face and Teddie’s apron.

"We’ll figure this out together, Sensei."

While your bond with Teddie was very young, you feel it reborn anew… You feel your relationship with Teddie has changes drastically.

I am thou, and thou are I… Thou hast seen how bonds may change…

The bond that hath changed, it is thy first step in learning the truth…

Thou must bear thine inner power of “The Star” becoming “The World”…

Teddie’s smile is real. If there is one thing you have found to be real, it is the curved slit upon the boy’s face.

You sit in the car with those fake people again and Margaret tells you the newest Persona she wants. You see no dialogue option in your programmed thoughts, but you interrupt her to tell her you feel your thoughts disturbed at the prospect of embracing White Rider.

She smiles, and tells you she expects you, of all people, to be able to show her this power. You see the car is moving slowly—leaping out would not kill you.

Unfortunately.

You meet Naoto Shirogane at the front of your school and he introduces himself with an eldritch roar and a choir of bones breaking. Yosuke grins and hisses broken glass and oil catching fire. You’re learning how to speak their languages—and you go another day retaining no information, hearing a low hum in place of teachers and lessons. You learn one bit of information, brought on by a teacher’s tangent.

You meet Teddie at lunch—you don’t want to see anyone but him anymore. Teddie speaks your words, and you look at the sky together.

"I wonder if we’re in a snow globe," Teddie says, staring at the clouds above you two. The sky is blue and the summer heat lingers. The sky whites out for you, because it doesn’t render. "and we live in this one little world. It makes me wonder what’s out there. The sky can’t really be the limit, can it, Sensei?"

You don’t answer, but you keep your head up. The bell rings in the distance.

You don’t remember anything but this town that you’re sure doesn’t exist. You don’t know anything beyond Inaba anymore. Teddie is of your kin, so it seems, and you suffer with him. He can smile and not dwell on it, but you fester in your anxieties.

Naoto is put into the television and he ██████to *!*$~|] &2██!;8 while ever88ne spe████SPEA██SPEAKS SP█AKS SPEAKS you’re not real you gotta help the kid gotta █████████████████████████partnerareyouthere

You are incapable of killing the mechanical beast, the Shadow a manifest of all the mechanical terror you've felt, the robotic script you've been forced to recite--seeing the world in text boxes, quick answers, void of meaning. Yosuke is trying to lift you up and Yukiko says you’re unconscious. That’s not true—if you know something, you’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re not dead yet. The world is breaking around you.

But they can’t lift you up and help you swing a sword, so Yosuke summons the scrapped subplot inside him and yells for Kanji to keep using a charge attack, and Chie, prepare your Bufula skills. Teddie, get into position!

Rise cradles your head. You find out she can still kneel and observe the battle, calling out what Naoto’s Shadow is weak to, what you shouldn’t use. She pets your hair and looks over your numbed body, muttering ‘senpai, senpai’ over and over again, praying you’re still with them. Your eyes are clouded and you stare at the roof of the laboratory, the ceiling covered in pipelines crusted with mould around the seams, and you move your fingers in time with that godforsaken music, to make sure you’re still going, still breathing, still moving. You hear Chie begin to yell, and her words are silenced with a loud gunshot, and Kanji is screaming—you hear metal crunch together, the delicate chime from above—

The world keeps breaking. You see flickers of video tape in your vision, of a broken glass screen. Time seems to pass, because you’re being carried by Yosuke and Kanji out of the dungeon, Chie supporting Naoto. Apparently you won. Yosuke’s face is torn open, from his cheekbone to his chin. You try to say his name, but your words slur and turn to static. You begin to panic, understanding overcoming you, but Teddie repeats something Yosuke says—“Sensei, Yosuke says you have a concussion, don’t talk!”

Teddie is the only one who can break the sound barrier between you and this fake world, translating their corrupted tongues into your common tongue. You don’t want this—you’d rather die in a grave of bolts and broken television antenna.

You went to the hospital for your concussion, and now you're recovering. You've been told to take it easy, and with Naoto out of the television, you've been told there's no reason to go back there for now. Don't worry, partner, Yosuke starts, putting an arm around your shoulders. Leave it to us for a bit. You've been under a ton of stress recently. But in his voice, the rare times you hear anything but the whistling of white noise and the screams of something inhuman, you hear disappointment. Why wouldn't he be disappointed? Naoto's Shadow hit you once and the anxiety and despair spilled out of you like blood--you were out of commission for the entire battle.

You consider telling Yosuke to leave you behind for good. Leave you in the television, let the Shadows swallow you whole. You think you'd feel at peace. Yes--as the Shadows tore into you, lapping up your blood like wine and gnawing on your bones, you'd be at peace. Something, anything, to prove you're alive, that you're real, that something about you is usable. You have no real person, if the Wild Card means anything. If dying meant proving you exist, you would let the next Shadow take your head off.

You finally started to break the system--you spoke to Kanji for the second to last time, telling him that the police are terrible and irredeemable, and before Kanji could say your uncle's name, you say you wouldn't mind of all of them jumped in front of a car, with Dojima and Adachi leading the club. You left Kanji in stunned silence, and it had only been an hour into your time after school. You walk away from Kanji, and hear words carve into your head.

Your Despair level has increased! Your Apathy level has increased! You have now gone from 'Distanced' to 'Isolated' ! Your Self-Destruction level has increased!

You see Teddie outside of Junes, and he smiles at you. The winds are getting colder, and he's wearing a winter coat bought with Nanako in mind. Your delirium briefly makes you believe no cloud of air passes his lips when he calls your name. You feel nothing when you realize you were wrong.

"Sensei! Sensei, Yosuke told me I'm almost on fire! His dad say I'm so fired up, I might no longer have to work at Junes! But then, Yosuke said that was a bad thing when I said I was excited!"

You never understood how Teddie didn't fall with you. You're at Rank Thirteen with him now. You broke the system--everyone else stunted themselves at Rank Ten with you. Why does Naoki smile at you in the halls but stays still when you invite him to walk home? Why won't Daisuke look at you when you say it's time for practise? Ayane blushes and giggles when you offer to walk her to class--and then steps off, carried on her short legs. You don't get it, why interactions seem to go stale with everyone around you.

Except Teddie.

Teddie is real.

Teddie seems to be in high spirits. And with the right amount of Despair, you realize you can crush that. Will you spend the afternoon with Teddie?

Rank Twenty. December is right around the corner. Naoto is in the middle of an investigation with the Phantom Thief, but you stand with Teddie on the roof of the school, disrupting the code of Chie until she's a flicker of shrill noises and decaying light sources and look at him in the eye.

I am a Shadow. I am a Shadow. I am a Shadow.

Teddie has his back to the protective fence that keeps students from standing too close to the edge. He stares at both of your feet, hands behind his back and cheeks rosy from the cold. The world is bending around you. It wasn't scheduled to start snowing until the fifth day of December, after Nanako and Namatame were found in the television, but you're so hollow and you're so cold this snow globe is blossoming from within you.

"Sensei... you shouldn't say that stuff..."

You had stopped Teddie's disappearance. He's slowly becoming the husk you yourself are. During Rank Thirteen, you had screamed at him. At Rank Fifteen, he took you to the hill overlooking town and asked what would happen if you two jumped off. At Rank Seventeen, you watched him beg Yosuke's father to let him keep his job at Junes, coincidentally after you lost your tutoring job. You had maxed out your Apathy, and stood there listening to Teddie cry and Yosuke demand Teddie keep the job. You said "that's how the world works" and earned a Disdain level up, going from Disgusting to Repulsive. You have enough skill to complete the Aiya's Rainy Day Staring Into The Endless Void Challenge.

"You're not a Shadow... and... and neither am I. We're... people."

You want to push Teddie off the roof.

He looks behind him, between the chain link barrier to the ground below. Frost is on the grass--covering patches of green and dying orange in a cyan hue, and it reminds you of Teddie's eyes. At Rank Eighteen, he took you to the hill again, and took out some lighter fluid, a barbecue lighter, and lit his bear suit on fire. You scared him into refusing to ever look at the television again. Not after what happened to Nanako.

Even after all that's happened, all that you two talk about, all that you theorize--he can still hope that he's anything than what he's killed. You gave up a long time ago.

"I--Sensei, listen to me. We're real. You and I are real. We are people, just like Yosuke, Chie-chan, Kanji... and Nana-chan." He looks up, back at you, and you see the sclera is red. "If... If dying means you're alive, doesn't that mean Nana-chan is real?"

It's the first time you have paused, in your mechanical thinking, cogs and gears grinding to a halt. Nanako is real. You share blood--real blood, not the 'kinship' you spoke about between you and Teddie--with Nanako.

"And she... we nearly lost her, S-Sensei... but she came back! Because she's strong, and she's alive! So d-doesn't that mean..." he wears gloves that wrap over his fingers like mittens, but attach blue felt together with velcro. His short fingers grip your coat, and yank on you. "There are people out there who are real?! D-Do we have to let Yosuke and the others end up like Nana-chan for you to believe me?!"

Somewhere, Teddie's words would have moved you. You would have felt magmatic shock course through your veins, breaking the rime over your nerves and brought forth a cherished light to you, volcanic warmth stirring inside and erupting like fireworks overhead. You'd have thrown your arms around him and screamed in his ear that he did it, he did it, oh my God, you did it! You found the loophole and you solved the true mystery! Choirs would chime, and thou would hath established a genuine bond! This genuine bond would have shown you the truth! You would be able to then summon Izanagi-no-Okami, the true form of the World arcana!

But the world does not flourish in epiphanies and moments of thought.

You stay hollow, you stay burnt, you stay drained. You still hold Teddie--you wrap your arms around him, tightly around his arms, and you lean into him, cold face against warm shoulder. Nothing is said, not even the exasperated sigh of 'Sensei'--Teddie stands in your hold, and you think again of going off the roof, wondering if you could apologize before you two hit the ground. But you hold this husk, because in your desperation to find one alike you, you drained Teddie of what made him real, stealing the warmth in him and destroying it--

and you feel nothing at all.

Rank up.

When you all stare down Adachi, you stand just in front of Rise, with Yosuke at the front of the group. Teddie is to the right of the ground, wearing one of Yosuke's old school uniforms, having said his bear suit was 'ill fitting' now, and he--he moved better in human clothes now. He said human strangely, enough for Naoto to watch him for a little longer than necessary, but it doesn't matter. Teddie has joined you as a husk ravaged with despair. The most ursine thing about him is the claw he wears over his hand as a weapon.

You no longer lose consciousness in here. You can stare at the melting figures, the distorted beasts, the apparitions summoned by Adachi, and know that there is no kin here. Adachi's own demons are not yours--these are not wild beasts that you would find roaming the television, the ones you would want to die by. You don't want Adachi to kill you. So you find your strength, and you fight.

Adachi mocks Yosuke the most, shocked that the group took a toll, losing a better leader to some delirium brought on from a few headaches. Yosuke snarls some half-hearted defence in your name, but you feel Rise's eyes bore into you, because everyone knows Yosuke is disappointed in you. You don't care. The code, the numbers, they all say you and Yosuke have forged a genuine bond that cannot be broken, even by cheating and hacking and dissecting it, attempting to bleed Yosuke dry of hope and happiness like you have. Yosuke can lead, if he's so dead set on solving the fucking mystery.

Susano-o doesn't--doesn't look right. None of their beasts look right. Suzuka Gongen's spear is blood red and her armour is broken, torn and bloody and feral. Amaterasu is pure white, not gold, and her face bleeds a cherry red down from where her eyes may have been, with broken wings and a blood-curdling cry. Rise creates Kanzeon, and her face is impaled upon the radio dish, with her face bloody and fingers wrung around the blinders for the young girl, which forms a helmet this time around--and Rise is in physical pain using her Persona. You think it's your influence, corrupting these corruptions even more, making them realize how disgusting they are, how unpleasant they are, how they've betrayed you and how you just want to destroy existence.

And Kamui is a sphere with hypnosis spirals over it, grinning something devious, something vulgar, shark teeth that seeks the jugular of Magatsu Izanagi. It claws down the faces of Shadows, as Teddie himself watches as he manages to carve through the Shadows, carnage disappearing into ash--not a mess left behind. Yosuke points to Kanji and yells for him to use Ziodyne--and for Chie to keep up Suzuka Gongen's charges. You smile, as you slit a humanoid Shadow's throat--at least your cowardice allowed Yosuke to learn about his natural leadership.

Yosuke is thrown to the ground by Magatsu Izanagi, and you respond with the creation of your own beast, some mythological spirit you can't remember the name of (because there's so many, so, so many, and it's always in your thoughts, always writing their names, taking up so much space) taking the hit for Yosuke, impaling the enemy on its sword. You grab Yosuke's hand, and even in your apathetic stupor, you call out let's get going, partner!--Yosuke's spirit returns.

( at least one of you can come back with a few cheerful words. teddie's at rank whatever now, and he can't say his speeches around you anymore. )

They made you help Kanji drag Adachi out of the television, his exhausted half-corpse as you all recover from the spherical beast to spew fog around you and speak of destruction. You recognize its voice as the thing from Teddie that cemented your inhumanity.

Adachi turns his head to you, and tells you that you look like a husk. You reply you want yellow eyes, and he laughs.

Rank infinity.

Teddie sits in your room. Ideally, it was you, him, and Yosuke--but Yosuke called and told you he couldn't make it, because his father needed him for something at the store. You recognized it as Yosuke's "I'd love to hang out with you but you're not the same guy from April, and really I'm scared about what you've done to Ted, so now that the case is over I want nothing to do with you anymore, see ya I guess" voice. Perhaps he's not reawakened by epiphanies either, after all.

Teddie sits on your couch and you stand in front of your futon--and he smiles, and says he's glad the case is over. He looks to you, and asks as well, "We don't have to go back to the TV, do we, Sensei?"

You shake your head. You like how he still calls you 'sensei'--you suppose you taught him a bit about self-depreciation and hating the world. He had to accept his Shadow some way.

Teddie smiles. It's his warm one, from fifteen thousand ranks before, when he could show you human warmth and prove the world wasn't ravaged with too much despair. His voice is not distorted, it's not corrupted like anyone else's, but it's mellowed. It's a tea candle in the winter snow. It refuses to go out, but it won't get any warmer.

"I'm glad, Sensei. I don't like being in there without my bear suit... but it's too late for that now, isn't it?"

He hugs his knees, and stares at your work table. Books are lying out, from the translation job you quit. You used your skills from that to translate a few poems on existence.

"I..." Teddie begins, and sighs. He looks tired, too, almost as much as you. "I don't like that look on your face, Sensei. The one that says you dislike what I'm saying. Believe me--I'm thinking about what you and I truly are, as much as you are.

I don't think about you, Teddie.

"I don't want to admit what I think we are. It means going back, and I never wanna go back. I wanna see Nana-chan get out of the hospital, and see what spring is like... I wanna eat all the ice pops I can this summer..."

Blue eyes are upon you, and Teddie lets go of his legs, sitting straight up. "I don't know what is going to come, now that we have that Adachi in jail... but I do know something, Sensei--you go back in the spring, too, right?"

You nod. He stands. The choir begins early.

"I... am going to be glad that you're gone. I don't ever wanna think about the stuff we talked about ever again."

Thou art I...

"You said a lot of awful things. You made me think about a lot of awful things. I'm going to go ask Yosuke if I can work at Junes again..."

And I am thou...

"... see if Yuki-chan wants to go out on a date..."

These genuine bonds... shall be the bonds that suffocate you.

"... and say goodbye to you when you leave. But after you're gone..." Teddie's head is low, and you hear something in his voice--a choke, a bitter note, as he grips the door handle to open it. "I... don't think anyone will call you."

We bestow upon thee the opportunity to end thy friend's life, the ultimate act of despair in your vicious thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Sensei. I don't wanna lie to you."

END IT. END HIS LIFE. RUN UP TO HIM AND WRAP YOUR HANDS AROUND HIS THROAT. YOU HAVE A TELEVISION IN YOUR ROOM, MAKE THAT HIS GRAVE!

"So... bye."

Teddie steps out of the open door, and closes it behind him. Listening closely, you can hear his footsteps down the steps, and to the door, which opens after a brief period of throwing on winter uniform, and then closes. You walk to the window in your room, pressing your face against the bitterly cold glass. You watch Teddie tread through the snow, head down and watching his feet, winter boots stepping through the thick packing snow. You breathe against the glass, and fog appears against it. With a numb face, you step back within your room, and sit down against the old wooden stand your television and textbooks sit upon.

Those fake people you had to call friends fear you. The only one that was human lost his humanity under your manipulation and volition. You couldn't take a step over the edge, after every opportunity, and see how far the world would go, until you were brought back to a period a week later. You smile, in your corrupt stupor, your hyperaware anguish, because you have enough Understanding to see that the world won't favour broken save points and buried plot lines.

Yu Narukami has forged a bond that can never be broken!!

#persona 4 #yu narukami #teddie

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princeofraspberries · 7 years

Text

it’s time for my annual “Spring is coming, time to start worrying about thunderstorms” post.

Spring is coming. I’m worried about thunderstorms. This has been a PSA.

I was gonna just leave the post at that but isn’t this what read mores are for?

I really really should have been doing therapy for that over the winter.

But as much as I am completely an advocate for therapy I haven’t found a single therapist of any of the ones I’ve tried (0/6 for those of you playing along at home) who has actually helped someone with a phobia before.

And I know that’s a bad excuse because I know the answer: try more therapists. But the only therapist that I actually felt was promising couldn’t figure out how to make exposure therapy work in her office for this specific phobia, and I ended up getting *more* worked up about it.

It’s also worth noting: exposure therapy sucks balls.

Like I’m not saying it doesn’t work, I believe that it works, but holy shit it’s miserable and it puts you on edge, and for something like thunderstorms where you only have to deal with it some of the time, it’s really hard to convince yourself independently to do things that scare the shit out of you. And like I know you need to do Hard Things outside of therapy to get therapy to work effectively but I feel like to some extent I was just phyching myself out about things that wouldn’t typically bother me quite so much. Like, I ended up crying in therapy when she made me watch a video of a lightning strike. That wouldn’t typically be my response to that. And I don’t have an answer about how to deal with that.

Part of me just wants to get a Xanax prescription (which I effortlessly got the first time I went to see a therapist about this issue because she had no idea what to do about it so she was like “here, have a prescription for Xanax” which at the time I was like “UM” and never picked it up but in retrospect...) because it’s not like I have this problem all the time, I’d just like to not flip the fuck out every time there’s stormy weather. That strikes me as a not-terrible solution to a problem that isn’t like an ongoing stress, more like points of high-stress in an otherwise pretty standard ok state of mind. Especially since therapy is so expensive and I’ve had so little luck with it for this specific problem, and money’s getting kind of tight for my family and VERY tight for me?

Like yes, long-term, therapy to just permanently (I hope) sort this the fuck out would be good. But if doggie downers work, I will absolutely go for that. My running joke for years is I would be totally ok with just sleeping through every thunderstorm. I’m much more interested in dealing with this than I am in overcoming it, and while yes, both would be ideal, I’d be ok with settling with dealing with it!

But I also feel like if I march into a doctor’s office and go “gimme Xanax” they’re definitely not going to do it, and I also recently found out that stuff is at least on some level addictive, which I didn’t know (thanks, random therapist who prescribed it to me), so that would bear more research.

The other weird thing about all of this is just that I feel like ever since this officially became A Thing Nina Needs Therapy For, people (including me) treat the whole thing much more seriously and I’m... not sure that’s a good thing? Like, I’ve literally always been scared of thunderstorms. It makes sense, loud noises scare the shit out of me. Not entirely a separate problem.

But while I of course greatly prefer being given permission by my family to literally sit in the cement bunker in our basement during thunderstorms, I feel like the social pressure to not act like a complete weenie during storms was kind of forcing me to do exposure therapy in ways I find it difficult to get myself to do otherwise? And may have on some level been keeping this slightly more at bay? But on the other hand irresponsible exposure therapy based on social pressure was what literally caused my first panic attack, so I don’t have a good answer for that either.

And also it’s just weird because like. I don’t know. No one else in my family has a Problem like this? Like don’t get me wrong, they’ve all got various unnamed issues, and I know there’s no shame in having a mental health thing, which is why I try to be relatively open about this. But being able to tell people that I have a severe phobia of thunderstorms is a whole different ball game than actually dealing with it when it rears its head, because it goes from 0-100 REAL quick, and I’ve never really been comfortable even crying in front of people, so it makes a lot of sense that I’m uncomfortable panicking in front of people, but thunderstorms aren’t always predictable, and neither are my reactions. I got caught out on a hike last summer during a storm and it sucked, but aside from being very obviously jumpy and crying some, I sort of kept it together (partly because my dad was there and I hate going Full Panic Attack around people so I fought it actually really hard, which is absolutely not what you’re supposed to do but there it is). But then later that same day we went out (we were on vacation) to look at the stars and there were flashes from heat lightning in the distance and I couldn’t stay out there. Like, there wasn’t even any sound and I just had to go inside because I was enormously on edge from earlier and I could just tell my dad was like, so unimpressed by that, like he didn’t say anything but I think he thought I dealt with the thing earlier pretty well but it was just

I don’t know

like him seeing me keep a panic attack in check seemed ok at the time because he’s seen me completely and utterly lose control and panic before and That. Sucked. So I was glad at this time that I had like made it through that storm without being a total weenie (I mean... I hid behind him when there was a flash of lightning nearby and when we found a porch I hid in the corner with earplugs, covered my ears, closed my eyes/covered them with a bandana, and faced the corner and cried but was able to put together coherent sentences so like.......... we’re considering that a success. for a sense of relative reference. I don’t panic attack very gracefully.)

But the flip side of that, of this being (or at least looking like) a more normal fear rather than a Boy Howdy Get That Child To A Therapist kind of thing is that I think he thinks he gets it. Like I’m sure there are things he’s scared of, but by using that frame of reference, I don’t think he quite gets just how long it takes me to put my pieces back together after I’ve gone through a storm. So I think he saw the thing with the heat lightning as a cop-out, and maybe it was, but at the time it was just too much. Like, I wasn’t panicking, so maybe I should have stuck to it and used it as honestly probably the best kind of exposure therapy I can get: the weather phenomenon without the noise or close proximity. But I was still moving through that post-panic-attack sort of raw fog I get? and I just felt like I couldn’t do it. So like on the one hand I feel like my dad (although of course he’d never say it) feels like this is a mountain out of a molehill things (if I were to hazard a guess I’m imagining this is also the camp of my brother), and on the other hand I feel like my mom is taking my moderately-sized hill and looking at it like it’s a mountain.

My second-to-last therapist mentioned something about this, how when family members are too accommodating it actually makes the phobia worse because it’s like getting outside validation from a source you trust that yes, you SHOULD be scared of this, let me help you with that because of course you can’t do this on your own (when your focus should be overcoming it, rather than avoiding it, which is what this typically turns into). And that makes a lot of sense to me but also like what the hell is the middle ground? That therapist didn’t have great suggestions about alternatives. Like, since is my sole official mental health issue, I don’t have a great frame of reference for what it’s like to have people behaving ABOUT a mental health thing you’re trying to deal with.

Like, I’ve been on the other side of that, but it’s weird to have people behaving specifically because you’re having a problem, because people act weird and you’re already feeling weird and I’m super uncomfortable being the center of attention, so the whole thing just turns into a huge mess, and then with my panic attack thing, I get like, kind of dissociative/sensory overloadish afterwards? Which, I genuinely can’t tell if people are acting weird or not towards me at that point (I also typically don’t remember pretty much anything from this stage afterwards), but THAT’S when I’m probably in the most need of some kind of grounding but by then everyone’s moved on because nothing’s happening. Like, the heat lightning isn’t even making any sound, why are you going back inside? Why have you gotten out your laptop and started playing “Skinny Love” on repeat for the past 20 minutes when the rest of your family is stuck in this same room with you? Why aren’t you getting any work done?

And like obviously whatever I need during that stage (and honestly I don’t know WHAT I need specifically) is not that thing my mom does when there’s a storm inbound and she starts treating me like I’m made of glass. I mean maybe she does that, like I said, I actually can’t tell if people are acting weird around me after I’ve had a panic attack. But I’ve also gotten into extremely heated arguments with my mom after I’ve had a silent panic attack (these are fun, I discovered them last summer: apparently I can have a panic attack without doing the crying/shaking thing. None of the visual effects, same aftereffects) because the storm is over, I’m back to normal, right?

That argument was kind of fucked up actually because she was upset because I hadn’t gotten anything done during the storm, work-wise, and I was still kind of fucked up from the silent panic attack I’d had (yeah, shockingly hard to do work during these) so I couldn’t really articulate a justification for why I hadn’t gotten any work done. But like, during the storm itself she brought me tea and kept checking in to make sure I was ok, which I wasn’t, but was faking really really well because that was one of my first silent panic attacks (maybe they’re anxiety attacks? idk, they suck, although admittedly slightly less than the messier version) so I didn’t really understand how screwy my mental state was because I was used to the handy bodily cues like “congrats, you’ve achieved fetal position” and “the inability to breathe like a human.”

But afterwards I found myself in that same fog, and she turned out to be really angry at how inefficient I’d been during the storm, even though she’d been seemingly babying me about it at the time (which always kind of throws me off anyway for whatever reason). I’m not sure where I was going with this except that I think people treating me the way they expect me to be affected by storms kind of sucks because on the one hand managing to talk with my dad during that one storm was a wild success considering I was literally outside during a thunderstorm. And maybe my mom’s treating me like glass makes me feel more fragile and psychs me out like the therapist showing me that video of that lightning strike which totally freaked me out entirely out of proportion to what my normal reaction to that would be.

But on the other hand, afterwards always sucks, because of the “you’re done now!” mentality that makes a ton of sense, from the perspective of anyone who’s not me, but is 1000% inaccurate to the way I actually experience storms. Which of course is something I have a hell of a time articulating, as evidenced by the fact that I’ve seemingly written a term paper on the subject just now: this post is getting ridiculously long. Basically I guess my dad’s treating me normal during storms with an underlying current of “buck up” actually seems to work for me, although it does kind of suck for obvious reasons. But afterwards, when I feel like a freshly-eroded hillside or possibly like my head has been transplanted onto another body or that my entire brain has shrunk and is taking up two square inches just behind my forehead and the rest of my skull is filled with seedless grape jam... I’m not sure what I need at that point. Grounding exercises of some kind, probably, that seems like the kind of thing those would apply to.

And I think this might have been the problem I had with exposure therapy. Like, scaring yourself sucks, ergo exposure therapy sucks. But doing something that’s going to set you on edge for a day and a half is much less manageable/sustainable, especially if that whole other half of the thing isn’t getting addressed at all, which it wasn’t. And I’m sure there’s a way to deal with that, because exposure therapy is very much a Thing for overcoming avoidance based in trauma of any kind, not just phobias. And I suspect that the whole lingering stress-haze issue I have a) has a name and b) is a thing that there’s definitely a way to deal with in an exposure therapy context. I think phobias may actually be a “and also this” kind of addition to the exposure therapy repertoire, actually in terms of practice, because I think several of the therapists I met with had done exposure therapy, just not for phobias.

As a side note, I know there’s like a whole thing that it’s a panic disorder because phobia is an antiquated term, but on my sheet at the doctor’s office it says “specific phobia” so, whatever. It is annoying because apparently there’s a really structured way to work through phobias, there’s like a workbook that one therapist knew about and it’s super structured and very much supposed to be effective but I don’t know the name of the workbook and since everyone and their sister thinks they have a phobia of something I have no idea how to tell the self-help books by Dr. Quack from this workbook that’s apparently magical. Yay.

And finally (I hope finally, because holy hell has this gotten long), aside from the whole “but wait I can’t make a thunderstorm happen in my office in the dead of winter so idk how to do exposure therapy today let’s talk about your homework instead” thing, there’s the issue of loud noises.

I freaking hate loud noises. And I know this is related to why I’ve got the thunderstorm thing, because that just makes sense. But this is where things get complicated, because how much of this is a fear of loud noises (phonophobia, in case anyone was wondering, which I do fit the description of), and how much is just noise sensitivity? Because sensitivity to loud noises is also very much a thing that people can have, and I fit that description too! It makes sense that if I’m sensitive to loud noises, they cause me anxiety. And it makes sense that if loud noises cause me anxiety, situations (like, for example, thunderstorms) where loud noises represent actual danger and are also very unpredictable in timing and volume would scare the absolute shit out of me. Which, again, makes sense based on my reaction to storms: I’m totally ok with sleeping through them. It’s not the storm I’m afraid of, it’s experiencing it, with volume boing the main factor. And then my brain snowballed that in various ways (ex: no, nina, the storm is not actually out to get you, and can’t see you if you move), but the basis is... solid.

Like, sensitivity to stimulus > anxiety about stimulus > fear of situation where exposure to stimulus is unpredictable. That makes a ton of sense, and like, yes there are parts of my thunderstorm fear that are catastrophic thinking and get entirely out of hand and become illogical. But I have this nagging feeling that I’m only gonna be able to walk this thing back so far. Sensitivity to sound is less of a therapy thing and more of a neurological thing. And of course therapy can help you deal with a lot of things like that but dealing with =/= overcoming, and I think the focus in the therapy I’ve been to so far about this has been focused on overcoming the phobia, when I’m not actually certain about how feasible that is if I remain sensitive to loud noises. Which I’m fairly sure I will.

So while I remain a complete advocate of therapy, I feel like my progress on this will always be pretty limited: like, I can cut down on the catastrophic thinking and the lingering anxiety (I’m guessing) and probably get to a workable point if I find a good therapist and work at it hard for a while and keep up with healthy coping techniques, year after year. But at the same time it’s hard to kind of justify all that money and time and emotional energy towards limited progress on something that will always remain a problem when like, Xanax exists, and could potentially get me to the same point. I mean even if we’re calling that a cop-out, which, ok, it might be a cop-out, I can’t think of better exposure therapy than being faced with a situation that you find scary, but not getting a sharp fear response. Like, going too far on exposure therapy at any one point can set you backwards in progress because you get overwhelmed with fear. Wouldn’t Xanax... kind of bypass that? Like, suddenly, I wouldn’t have to sit in the closet in my apartment and open the door one more inch every time a storm came, and back it up slightly if the storm was particularly intense. I could potentially sit in my living room, where I can see four windows, and not end up frozen with my hands over my ears. I could potentially walk to class if there were one or two rumbles on my way. That all sounds like really good exposure therapy to me.

Anyway. I bring it up because summer’s coming, and I’m not looking forward to explaining to my mom that I made no progress whatsoever on this over the winter. She keeps going out of her way to accommodate me about this and while as I mentioned earlier in some ways I definitely appreciate that, it really does make the rest of my family controlled by whether or not I get a handle on this, and I *haven’t.* Which sucks. Like, our summer vacation last year was somewhat structured around me being able to avoid being outside during storms (too bad for everyone in my family who likes backpacking and camping), so the pressure’s kind of on for this, and I haven’t even been going to therapy about it. So that, at least, is on me.

Anyway. There are plenty of other things to be worried/stressed about at the moment, but it came to mind because there was supposed to be a thunderstorm tomorrow. It’s been moved to Saturday so I won’t even have to go outside that day, so we’ll see what that looks like when it comes.

#nina whining #Nina's ramblings #astraphobia

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