#i love how he includes knives in that anger too. its not just youre angry or im angry. its that We've been angry. Ever since that day.

[lemongogo]

[stargazer-balladeer]

Them reacting to walking in on their s/o self-harming [Genshin Impact]

Characters Included: Diluc Ragnvindr & Childe

Notes: i cried while making this- 😢 sorry if some makes no sense- hshsh- hope ya’ll like this.

Reader’s Gender: Neutral

Warning: trigger warning for self-harm and depressing stuff.

“... [Y/N]..?”

he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do, whether or not to comfort you. Seeing you pressing a blade on your wrist, right where your vein is made Diluc freeze. His eyes were wide and blank, staring at the sight of blood pouring out of the freshly-made cuts on your arm and on the pristine white floor. How was he supposed to react to that?

When he finally caught up with his mind, his first instinct is to remove the blade in your hands. He won’t say anything as he gently tries to comfort you by placing his other hand on your cheeks and rubbing it with his thumb. When you stare at his ruby-red eyes, you can see all of the emotions inside them, afterall the eyes are the windows to the soul, right? You can see sadness, shock, disappointment, anger and confusion all jumbled together. It was a mess, he was a mess and so are you.

You couldn’t help but cry in front of him, spouting out apologies after apologies. You couldn’t even understand what you’re trying to say, all you know is that you’re talking nonsense. Diluc stares at you sadly as he shush you gently, he doesn’t need your apologies, he just needs to bandage your wounds.

As he starts to treat your wounds, he notices some old ones as well, scars from your previous attempts. The mere thought of you suffering way before he met you made him wished he met you sooner to prevent this, but alas, even now when both of you are dating, he couldn’t tell you were aching inside. A failure of a boyfriend, he thinks. He didn’t realize how broken you are, despite all of your smiles and laughs, he should’ve seen the hint of sadness behind your smiles. He didn’t realize how you wore thick and long clothing, even on hottest days. Mentally cursing himself as frustrated tears began building up in his eyes.

“Why...? Why didn’t you tell me about this..? Don’t... don’t you trust me..?” Diluc’s voice soft yet so broken, his voice breaking up a few times with how much emotions he’s feeling in the moment. He was lost again, what can he do to make you feel better? Why didn’t you tell him that you’re going through so much pain? Don’t you trust him at all? Tears began leaking out of his eyes at the thought, you also crying at his question, mouth spewing out more apologies. But Diluc doesn’t want your apologies, he’s just wondering why would you do that to yourself?

When you explain to him the reason, Diluc wouldn’t utter another word as he just hugs you after dressing your wounds and bandaging it. His face on the crook of your neck as he sniffles, tears long dried. His hold around you is tight yet not so much, as if afraid that he’ll break you if he holds you too tight. In his eyes, you were fragile like a glass wine. He takes a deep breath, pulling away, putting your foreheads together and staring straight into your eyes filled with love-

“First of, I’m sorry for not being able to see through your smiles and see the pain behind them. I’m sorry for not being there when you’re at your lowest. I’m really sorry that you went through all that. I-.. I can’t erase all your pain and worry. But I can try. Lean on me, trust me, I’ll take care of you, your heart, your soul and your trust. Let me feel your pain and worries, let me in your heart. I promise I’ll try my best to ease the voices of your mind. Because I love you, and I’ll prove it to you over and over again. Don’t ever question my love for you.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You can feel it, his eyes bore through your skull as you held the blade close to your chest, about to plunge it inside you. You can feel the heat his eyes are giving you, silently commanding you to put down the blade. Near the doorway, there he stood with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. The mirror reflecting his figure perfectly behind you, your hands started to shake, the blade slipping out of your grasp and onto the tiled floor.

Childe stares at the blade before turning his attention to you, his gaze sharp and his usual coy smile-smirk in a frown, almost a scowl. His bangs covering his eyes slightly, making his blue eyes glow and effectively making him look scary. You can tell that he’s angry, not at you but at what you did.

Mentally, he wished he didn’t witness what he just saw. He wished he could turn back time. But nothing can change what he saw. Why? When? How? Who? So many questions filled his head. Childe knew, a long time ago before he started dating you, that you have scars, scars from your previous self-harming. He thought you stopped. But it seems like his own judgement failed him, he now sees his mistake. He didn’t confront you about it. Now, he suffers the consequence on almost losing you.

He sighed as he starts to walk towards you, his hand reaching out to you. Instinctively, you flinched. His hand stopped before slowly wrapping around your neck, the other wrapping around your waist, hugging you from behind as he kisses your temples. If you look closely, his eyes are glassy. His heart thumping widely in his chest, you could almost hear and feel it, but this thumping isn’t what he wanted to feel. The pit of worry and fear deep in his guts made him anxious and even more scared. His hands began visibly shaking a little, as he chokes back a sob. Since when did he let his guard down? Doesn’t matter as he cries. His thumb rubbing your shoulder part and the other thumb rubbing your waist.

Hearing him struggle to contain his tears, you slowly started to cry as you spew out apologies after apologies. Your hands covering your eyes as you sob your eyes out. He could feel his heart break at the sound of your cries, his arms around you tightened as he squeezed his eyes shut. He shushes you gently as he lets out words that are incoherent and almost random. His mind jumbled so he couldn’t really think straight as he just spews out whatever comes out of his mouth- “hey, you’re okay, right?” “dont cry shhh” “zhongli would kill me if he sees you crying” “he might make me eat with chopsticks for the rest of my life” “I’m a fatui harbinger, the eleventh of the ranks, so why am I crying so pitifully here-“ (yeah,, even i couldn’t understand what he’s trying to say here-)

Childe would stay like that before letting you go and picking you up, bridal-style and bringing you to the bedroom. He lets you sit on edge of the bed before going back to the bathroom. After throwing the blade away (mentally taking note to hide all the knives from your sight-), he came back with a first-aid kit and started cleaning the wounds you inflict on the arms. Yes, you have wounds in your arms, which honestly scared him a little.

He doesn’t speak, neither did you. Silence surrounded you two as he continued to dress your wounds, eyes eyeing the previous scars. He can feel his heart dropping even more when he sees more scars in your thighs and such. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he bandages your arms. After he did all that, you were about to explain to him and apologize when he pulled you in a tight hug. His left hand behind your head and the other around your back, squeezing you slightly.

“I won’t ask why you did that, but I want to know who. Who did this to you? Was it your parents? Was it the people around you? Was it.. me? or... was it... yourself..?” Childe shakily lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry for not helping you through it when its my responsibility as your partner. I’m sorry for not talking you through it when I already knew it from the start and when I see the signs. I won’t promise that I’ll be able to take away all of your pain. But you can lean on me right? I might be a Fatui Harbinger, might’ve killed plenty of people and might’ve started a couple of fights, but I am your lover first and foremost. Above all else, your happiness and safety is what I cater the most. Well, you know, except for my family because well.. their my family. Anyways the point is, lean on me, believe me when I say that I’ll love and take care of you. Through the rest of our years, I’ll be your stone, I’ll be your shield, I’ll be your everything. Tell me all your worries and woes, I’ll listen to every thing. I do love and adore you, my [Y/N].”

[x] Main Page

[gentrychild]

Suspected Traitor Izuku Ideas

Note: Sorry this ended up being super long! I just really love the idea and wanted to put in some ideas of what I think could happen. It was all too long to fit into a couple asks, and I figured you would prefer a submission than 7+ asks in a row. These are also just some fun ideas I was thinking of for the au I thought you might enjoy lol

- - - -

Izuku gets interrogated and at first goes along with the questions. He doesn’t realize why he is there at first, until they ask more and more questions showing they suspect him for something. After the second or third question about his relation to the LOV he pieces it together. They think he’s a villain.

And instead of having a confused smile or nervous laugh, his eyes widen and he whispers “you think I’m the traitor.” It wasn’t hard for him to figure it out, after all he spent so much time analyzing and trying to deduct things quickly from situations where he barely was given any information, and they practically threw the answer in his face. He was probably one of the few students who was fully aware that there was a traitor from looking at the previous attacks.

He starts to shut down after realizing this, and when people start yelling or slamming things out of anger (because no one was actually going to get physical, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the room was off limits) he unconsciously reverts back to his old habits from when he was quirkless.

This can include, but is not limited to:

- A smaller frame to protect vitals and give less room to be hit

- A quite and passive voice to try appeasing their anger

- Distracting himself from the emotional pain by focusing on the physical stuff. Mentally keeping track over where everyone is, what they are doing, and how much of a threat they are to him

- Looking for any and all possible exits, even the ones that would result in him being hurt on his way out, just in case things get worse (and he fears that they may hurt him worse than before. In a world full of quirks, it’s easy for someone worked up to forget how easily they can kill someone, and Izuku probably has experienced more than once a situation that became life or death because a middle schooler was too worked up to process how much damage they were about to do)

- Eyes downcast due to fearing that eye contact would seem like he’s defying them or trying to irritate them in purpose (thanks Bakugou for that one)

- Holding back sudden movements or flinching, when going to the point of possibly hurting himself on purpose to prevent him from acting out.

- Holding his breath every time someone moves, but forcing his body to relax/tense up in case they attack him. When your body tenses up, it can absorb him impact, but can also cause other things like knives or needles to hurt more when they cut/go through the skin. So when there is someone who has a weapon visible (probably a means of intimidation) he quickly figures out which way will hurt less and forces himself to go through with that because of the constant thought of ‘just in case’

- Forcing himself not to cry or break down. That’s what some bullies want, but sometimes it also makes them even more upset. It gives them fuel, and always ends bad for the victim.

The teachers and others accusing him of being the traitor takes these signs as him lying or trying to hide the truth, those who don’t think it’s because he’s lying see the 'experience with interrogations’ aka trauma reactions and think he was trained by the villains to act this way. No one thinks about the fact that some of the reactions are clearly not helpful with interrogations and that the villains would train him to do the opposite (ex: stay calm and keep eye contact. You don’t have anything to hide and looking away makes it seem like you do).

The only two people who know his past refuse to acknowledge or bring it up.

All might doesn’t because he can’t risk the consequences of OFA getting out, but also because he only has a vague idea because of when he was shoeless himself.

Bakugou refuses to acknowledge the signs and the relapsing to his habits from middle school.

No one else realizes the cause, and as a result they accidentally reopen the trauma that Izuku hadn’t healed from. No, he had taken it and stuffed it into a box to avoid acknowledging that he was hurt. So he never talked to anyone about it, and as a result it just festered in his mind. His intrusive thoughts from all the victim-blaming he went through never went away (because let’s be honest, gaslighting and victim-blaming are things he probably went through as a result of the bullying. He couldn’t help being quirkless, but the bullies will latch onto anything and everything they can. And because they wanted to prevent themselves from having anything marked, if they made him think it was his fault then they felt it lowered the chances of them being reported)

During the pause of interrogation when they are having Tsukachi enter and he’s about to come in, he almost send himself into a dissociative/depressive episode because of his thoughts. He forces it back when the doors click open, thinking 'no, it’s just like before. No matter how much it hurts, wait until you’re safe. You’re not safe here, they will use it against you, so you have to wait until you’re alone and safe to finally break down.’

As a result, none of the adults fully realize how broken he is after the trap/interrogation is over. But its only a glimpse that they see, and nothing more. Because Izuku’s learned that weakness = vulnerable = targeted and hurt.

And now that he knows almost all his friends- no, his classmates were involved he knows he can’t break down anywhere near them. He can’t go over and let them know how broken he is or he thinks they’ll turn against him even more.

Someone brings up the 'logical’ aespect of the interrogation and their suspicions before he leaves and Izuku’s thoughts use that and forces it against him. 'It was only logical. Everyone was convinced you were going to hurt them, that you were evil. Of course they had to do it.’ He repeats it like a mantra in his head. 'It’s only logical, they did what they had to, and it’s almost over. You’re almost done, it was just the logical thing to do.’

And why is it this that he repeats this, instead of being angry or upset?

The victim-blaming.

His own intrusive thoughts were fuelled by the victim-blaming, and because it was what hurt the most, it was also what he was most accustomed to.

But when he finally gets back to the dorms, to the 'safety’ of his room, he knows he can’t break down. Not yet. After all, if they went through all that trouble because they thought he was the traitor, who’s to say they didn’t do more? His resurfaced paranoia/anxiety from the trauma makes him search his room for hidden cameras and microphones, desperate for at least one safe-space.

He finds nothing, thank god, but then he keeps pushing back his breakdown in search of exits, ways to avoid the most dangerous people or most likely to turn on him, ways to get by unseen and to avoid any situations that would be like Middle school. He stays up making notes and maps of the school and how to best protect himself because 'You’re already used to this. Shouldn’t have expected anything different. Stupid, idiotic, Deku. You put off finding the saferoutes because you thought it would be better to try playing nice. Look where that got you, now you have to stay up and make up the months of ignoring the inevitable.’

He doesn’t sleep that night, and when it becomes time for class he still hadn’t given himself time to break down. So he returns, but doesn’t pretend to be friends with any of his classmates anymore. He uses the ways he maps, brings out old tactics, just with the hope of making it through the day without being hurt or breaking down.

Lunch comes, but he doesn’t eat. He goes to the roof, finds an elevated area with no cameras and where people are unlikely to see him and sits down. It takes a moment, just a mere second of sitting there alone before he breaks.

He cries and let’s his regret and anger wash over him. All the feelings he had been pushing back finally breaking free and coming loose. He doesn’t eat, he never got the time, and right as he is starting to realize how badly hurt he really is, the bell rings signalling he needed to get to class. So he forces himself up, pushed all his emotions away, and tries to clean himself up in the bathroom.

He ends up in a dissociative state the rest of the way back to class, and when the others ask why he’s acting different or 'weird’, he doesn’t respond. He barely registers anything the rest of the day and when teachers try calling on him, hoping for some kind of reaction, they get nothing. He doesn’t process that he’s being talked to and just sits there dissociating in a desperate attempt of forcing himself not to break down again.

When classes end, the others try talking to him but eventually give up. He slowly realizes after everyone left that he was alone and he picks up his stuff and walks to the dorms on autopilot. He gets to his room and shut the door, and finally let’s himself finish the breakdown from on the roof. This time, though, he finally lets himself cry over everything. The entire past of abuse and neglect from his peers and adult figures in his life (minus his mom), the suicide-baiting, the victim-blaming, the bullying, accusations and mistrust, all of it. And he finally fully, truly breaks.

- - - -

[ellitx]

Its funny how I went from flustered embarassed fan girl to venti angst mantra chant go brrr the next few minutes after I sent a reply to the 4NEMO scenario 🤣 But all that T-Drama (Turkish love drama) is at fault; 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 to invoke the slumbering tormenter in me so *straps rubbery laboratory gloves while she eyes Venti* Guess Barsibatos is my guinea pig for now :D

(i am sorry in advance-- also 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒, 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄, 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆)

You hold your Dear close to your heart; sure, he can be possessive with you and a time bomb of jealousy manifests instantly by just a mere man daring to breathe and look at you, but you know him well; he's just afraid to lose you to another man and you understand, and you'd perhaps do the same. Youre just as wholesome and flawed as many couples are, you just need to be patient with him.

But that angry fire in his eyes was even fiercer and almost untameable. You've tried your best to explain and even apologize and own up to your actions, but its as if his anger could not be contained and has been waiting too long to be unleashed; and so it set itself free and struck at anything within its sight; you were included. And then words were exchanged and spat out to each other, knives thrown through harsh words and tears flew from misunderstandings, until he finally said it: "YOU AND YOUR INSATIABLE LUST FOR MEN! YOURE THE REASON THIS REKATIONSHIP IS FAILING! FINE THEN! YOU SEEM MORE INTERESTED IN THAT BARD ANYWAY! DONT YOU DARE SEE ME EVER AGAIN!"

Then your knees were knocked to the cold, torn floor. The shattered glass vases that were victims in such a petty argument scarred your flesh, and blood seeped your hands and knees. And unbeknownst to you, some nearby alcohol was spilled in the fight. And with the candles sent to the ground from the harsh bang of the door that indicated your lover's final goodbye, the next thing you knew, flames were engulfing everything it can swallow and smoke clouded your senses, until your vision went blank.

He never liked your lover, but if it meant your happiness he would not interfere for your sakes.

But the alarming smoke rising in the sky with the voice of your cries carried by the winds, he found himself sprinting, lungs running out of air as his pupils shook in great fear. 𝑁𝑜, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑜. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

(I seem to have a kink for making Venti run for the hills when Reader is in danger)

This is ✨ mwah ✨

Drama drama angst drama drama im living for it 😌 ahhh really makes me want to start writing for illusory sense as well, my ideas have been piling up already ajjsjs

[panda-noosh]

on the ocean {Leo Valdez x Reader}

Words: 9.8k

Summary: Living on a boat has let you see plenty of weird things in your life. Leo Valdez might be the weirdest, so you don’t really understand why you decide to help him when he comes running onto the boat you call home, crying out for help.

Genre: fluff, angst

Warnings: nothing

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - so this is a thing now.

----

The sea is nice this time of day.

  You've docked, thank goodness. The constant sway of the ocean can take it's toll on anyone – including someone who has lived on a boat their entire lives. It's nice to take a break from it every once in a while.

  Now, with the sun slowly dipping behind the skyscrapers of New York, you lean against the railing and watch the people clatter onto the boat you call home. They struggle with suitcases and fussy children. A woman drops her ticket and starts crying, clearly exhausted from hours of travelling. You watch the process with a fond little smile on your face, enamoured by the people who will soon be sharing your space, the people you may soon come to know as close friends if all works well.

  There's tons of them getting on at this stop, but it's always the same with New York; considering how beautiful the city is, you're always shocked to find so many people wanting to flee from it, so many people wanting to spend their time on the ocean rather than amongst the skyscrapers and hot dog carts that you've heard litter the streets of New York. You, personally, would love to have a look. Just once. Just a single day where you can clamber off this cruise ship and take a dander through the streets, seeing what all the fuss is about.

  But you like it here. You like the rock of the ocean sometimes. You like the swish of the wind as it catches in your hair on nights where you can't seem to drag yourself away from the decks railing, too enamoured by the oceans sway to move.

  The commotion down below does not faze you. It never does; you've been here long enough to have seen almost everything by now – children threatening to throw themselves into the harbour, people genuinely falling into the harbour, tickets getting lost, suitcases being tipped the wrong way so the poor passengers clothes go sprawling into the ocean. After so many years of unpredictability, you've become immune to surprises.

  Until you see him.

  You don't recognise him – not at all. His dark curls, his short demeanour, the oil stained overalls hanging from his lanky body; you would surely remember him if you were to have seen him anywhere else, but his face doesn't ring a bell. Neither does his voice, which reaches even your ears despite how high up you are in comparison to him.

  He sprints through the centre of the crowd, nudging shoulders with everyone as he yells apologies left, right and centre. He's grinning, despite the startled tone in his voice. He pushes right to the front of the line, where he is stopped abruptly by a hand slamming into his chest, very nearly knocking him backwards.

  You have to crane your neck to see what is going on. The strange boy stands panting in front of Arnold, one of the ships dock workers.

  “Look, man,” the boy says, jumping from one foot to the other. “You have to let me through. You have to.”

  “Ticket,” is Arnold's only response.

  The boy groans, glancing over his shoulder in desperation. You don't even know what he's looking at, but it's clearly something terrifying. Even without knowing what it is, your stomach does a nervous flip.

  “I need a ticket,” Arnold repeats. “Or else I can't let you on. I'm sorry, son.”

  “Oh, come on!” The boy throws his hands up. “Why are you so boring? You ever broken the rules in your life?”

  Shit.

  You're moving before you even know why – you don't know this boy, have never seen him before in your life, but there's something about the way he's stumbling over his words, something about the suspicious red scrape on his cheek that tells you he shouldn't be out in the open like that; something is wrong.

  You clamber down the steps until you reach the entrance. You shove past the new passengers until you slam into Arnold's back, nearly stumbling over your own two feet in your haste. Arnold spins, catching you before you can fall face-first into the angry queue of passengers still waiting outside, clearly angered by the disruption.

  “You made it!” you exclaim, looking directly at the startled boy in front of you. “You're a bit late, aren't you? I cleaned my room for you, and this is how you repay me?”

  “Y/N?” Arnold asks, tugging you back protectively. “You know this boy?”

  You raise a brow as if confused that Arnold does not know who this boy is. “Of course I do. He's my friend. Mum and Dad said I could meet up with him once we docked in New York.” You frown. “Did they not tell you?”

   Arnold's face goes red. “No, they did not.”

  “Weird.” You turn back to the boy, putting your angry expression back on again. “Come on. You've held up the line long enough.”

  The boy looks between you and Arnold, eyebrows high on his forehead; you grab his hand and drag him through the door before he can expose your act as the lie it is. He stumbles in after you, shooting a “Sorry, man!” at Arnold before you pick up the pace and trail him upstairs.

  This is so bizarre; you've just lied to Arnold for seemingly no reason. If he goes to your parents and asks about who this strange boy is, you're going to be in so much trouble.

  But too late now.

  And call it scandalous, but the only place you can think to take him is your bedroom, so that's exactly where you go. You push him through the door, slamming it closed before you spin and say, “What's your name?” because that seems like an important piece of information to have from someone who you have just dragged into your bedroom.

  “Leo.” He says it like he's in a daze. His brown eyes dart back and forth, inspecting your room. His fingers don't stop moving, fiddling with a piece of scrap metal you hadn't even noticed he was holding. “Uh. . . Pretty sick place you've got here.”

  “It's my bedroom.”

  “Your cabin, you mean.”

  You level your eyes at him. “My bedroom.”

  He stares back at you. His face is mischievous. Does that make any sense? He just has the expression of someone who could potentially burn the entire world to the ground, a smile sharp as knives, eyes bright and glittering.

  Finally, he hums and says, “Okay. Well, thank you very much for saving my backside out there; I don't usually like my first impressions to consist of screaming, but here we are.”

  “Why were you screaming?”

  He raises a hand as if to silence you and starts pacing back and forth for absolutely no reason. “That is a secret. Top secret. I'd have to kill you if I told you.”

   “Or I'd have to kill you.”

  He pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “I suppose. But less talk about murder, please, and more talk about why you just did that.”

  Your stomach curls. “You looked. . . in trouble.”

  Leo blinks. “I mean, good observation, but half the people with toddlers out there looked like they were in trouble, too, and you didn't shove them to the front of the line and give them a free ticket to. . .” He pauses, looking round your room like he expects to find a map of your route hung on the wall. “Where is this thing going, anyway?”

   “Northern Ireland,” you reply. “You didn't know that?”

  “I just saw a big transportation device and hopped right on it.”

  This conversation just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

  And this boy is weird, too, but in an endearing type of way. You watch from the door as he walks back and forth, picking up tiny ornaments, examining them with a slight frown on his face. At one point, he picks up your laptop and closes his eyes, before shaking his head and saying, “It's on its last legs,” and you're too stunned to even respond.

  Finally, it gets too much. You dart forward and snatch a pair of socks out of his surprisingly strong hands, tossing them on your bed. His eyes snap up, wide and startled.

  “Tell me what you were running from,” you demand.

  Leo frowns, slowly letting his hands drop back to his sides. “I already told you-”

  “Top secret, yes, I heard, but we both know that's bullshit-”

  “You do curse like a sailor!”

  You slap his shoulder. He laughs, pulling away. “I'm serious! I'm freaking out right now, alright? If my parents find out I let you on this boat, they're going to throw me overboard!”

  Leo rolls his eyes. “They're not going to find out. I'll stay super extra hidden, how does that sound?”

  “How are you gonna do that? You need a place to sleep-”

  “I can sleep in the engine room if you just show me where that is.”

 You raise a brow. “No one can sleep in the engine room; it gets very hot in there. You'll probably die from the heat.”

  Leo's eyes sparkle with what you can only recognise as amusement. “Well, lucky for me, I'm also very hot. I'll balance it out.”

  “I'm serious.”

  Leo groans. “Listen – you've done enough. You got me on the boat in the first place, so you can forget about me now, alright? I'll take matters into my own hands.”

   “You realise this is my house, right? I'm not just going to let you walk around; god knows what you'll get up to.”

  “The gods set me up in the first place.”

  You blink. “What?”

  Leo shakes his head, curls bouncing. “Nothing. My point is, I will be fine. I'll go play some table tennis with the retired ones out on the games deck, yeah? What harm could I possibly be doing?”

  You stare at him; it would be so stupid of you to just let him do whatever, but it was stupid dragging him on this boat in the first place – what's one more mistake going to do?

  You sigh and nod. “Fine. But please pretend you know me; if my parents ask-”

  “I'll say you fancy me and you wanted to impress me, it's fine. I've got this!”

  “No, that's not-”

  Leo walks towards the door, not once looking back. “I've got this-” He pauses, hand hovering over the door handle as he turns his neck to look at you. “What's your name again?”

  “Y/N. Y/N L/N.”

  Leo grins. “I've got this, Y/N L/N. You can trust me.”

  ----

  You should never have trusted him.

  Arnold doesn't always come banging on your door at nine in the morning, but when he does, you can safely assume the ship is going down. You've hit an ice berg. All hell is breaking loose and there is a ninety percent chance you are going to die.

  So when you are awoken this morning by the sound of him yelling your name, his fists slamming against the mahogany door, you're fairly certain this is it; you are going to die.

  You bolt upright, blinking rapidly. “What? What is it?”

  He stumbles into the room, wrinkled face bright red, sweat dripping down his temples. Slowly waking up lets you realise the ship isn't rocking quite as bad as it should be if you were going down.

  You rub your eyes. “What the hell, Arnold? What's going on?”

  He speaks through gritted teeth, spittle spraying everywhere. “That friend of yours, Leo Valdez; get him under control before I throw him overboard.”

   You blink, certain you've heard him wrong. For just a moment, you've completely forgotten who Leo Valdez actually is, but the moment of peace is shattered when the realisation dawns on you. Yesterday. Bringing that strange boy onto the ship, claiming he was your friend.

  Fuck.

  You stumble out of bed and follow Arnold all the way to the bridge.

  “Why are we here?” you demand, even though you already know the answer, even though you can already hear Leo yelling up above.

  Arnold doesn't respond; he simply shoves you forward and lets you take control of the situation, which is overall just a bad decision on his part. Still dressed in your pyjamas, you stumble through the door, your stomach dropping once you see Leo standing beside Anna, the ships captain, his head bent over the controls, his voice loud.

  “The alignment is way off,” he says. “If you'd just let me have a touch of the wheel, I could-”

   Anna shoves her shoulder into Leo's chest. “Would you fuck off? Who even let you in here?”

  “I found my way here,” Leo replies. “Because I couldn't help but notice that the alignment on your ship is shit, and-”

  You rush forward and grab his arm, pulling him away from Anna before the tall ginger girl can backhand him overboard. Leo stumbles into your grip, whirling around with a frown that quickly morphs into a big, cheeky grin once he sees you.

  “Y/N L/N! My friend! You'll tell your captain here that she should let me have a look at the wheel so I can-”

  “Leo, what the hell are you doing in here? Passengers aren't allowed on the bridge!”

  Leo frowns.

  “You are a passenger, remember?” you hiss. “Now, let's go before-”

  He shakes his head, slowly turning back to the wheel. Your grip tightens on his arm, ready to pull him back if need be. “I'm sorry, Y/N, but do you know how dangerous it is driving a ship with wonky wheel alignment?”

  “We'll call the mechanic in.” You tug his arm. “Let's go, Leo, seriously-”

  “Why would you waste time doing all that when I could just-”

  “Y/N, get him out of here.”

  You groan, finally putting all of your strength behind the next pull on his arm. It's enough to have him stumbling out of the bridge behind you, and you kick the door closed before he can even think of turning back and continuing with his havoc.

  He whirls on you as soon as the door is shut, Anna rushing to lock it. “I just wanted to help!”

  “Leo, do you know how dangerous it is for someone to be distracting the captain whilst she's driving?” You shake your head, running your hands through your hair. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Oh, many hours. Many, many hours. It's hard to sleep when-”

  “When a ship's wheel alignment is off, yes, we all heard you!”

  Leo huffs, folding his arms over his chest; he looks like a toddler, lower lip jutted out, eyes lowered as he kicks  the toe of his boot into the floor. His curls dip into his eyes. He looks kind of cute like this.

  You look away. “What happened to you just staying on the games deck with the retired old people?”

  “Mildred beat me at ping pong last night and told me not to come back.”

  “Leo...”

  He sighs, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Okay, I get it. I stepped out of line. I do that when I'm on edge.”

  You raise a brow. “Why are you on edge?”

  He doesn't respond, which just irks you even more. Trying to get a straight answer out of him is seemingly impossible, so you don't even know why you're bothering – but you are. He just confuses you. There's so much you want to ask, but very little he's willing to share, and you suppose that's fair. It's up to him who he shares his secrets with.

  You decide to start small. “How could you tell the ships alignment was off?”

  A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, like it's a funny story. “I just know. It's kind of a special skill of mine.”

  “Oh? You spend a lot of time on boats?”

  “No.” He pauses. “Well, not technically, but I built a boat once.”

  You blink, certain you heard him wrong. “Sorry?”

  “The Argo II it was called,” he continues. “I loved that thing.”

  You look at him; he can't be much older than you, surely, and that is much too young to be creating entire ships. You've barely finished school.

  “You built a ship?” you parrot.

  Leo nods, distractedly looking at the soft play area on the games deck. Even at this time of morning, children are running and screaming as they dive from the top of it, landing in the soft blocks at the bottom.

  You, however, turn all your attention on Leo. “You're insane, you know.”

   “I've had my suspicions.”

  “I'm serious; you've just told me you built a ship. Like, an entire vessel, and you're acting like it's no big deal.”

  “It isn't a big deal.” Leo smirks, nudging you with his arm. “Unless, you know, you want it to be a big deal, then I will gladly take the praise.”

  “It is incredible.” You catch yourself and frown. “But you're still insane.”

   Leo laughs. It's a pleasant noise, a little high pitched, a little maniacal, but you find yourself smiling at the sound of it. It ends in a happy little “aaaah,” before Leo turns to you and says, “I really am sorry, by the way. I'll try and stay out of trouble from now on.”

  “Thank you, Leo,” you reply. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

  Just at that moment, his stomach awakens, growling loudly. He claps his hands against his abdomen and frowns, before turning to you and saying, “Apparently not.”

  “Come on.” You grab his hand and start towards the canteen. “I'll get Esmerelda to make us some breakfast.”

  ----

  Leo can actually be a lot of fun when he isn't trying to rip the controls of the ship from the captain's hands.

  He's funny, which is one thing you didn't expect; he just seemed too jittery in the beginning, forever fiddling with that piece of scrap metal, eyes darting back and forth, like his brain was never working at anything less than one hundred miles an hour.

  He's also very polite, with the occasional sarcastic comment thrown in the direction of someone who looked at him weirdly, which there seems to be a lot of. As the two of you stroll through the ship together, you can't help noticing the eyes that follow you, and honestly, you don't really blame them. Leo certainly is a bit different; he walks with this skip in his step, and his voice is always really loud, even when there's nothing to be loud about. He's still dressed in his oil stained overalls, his curls bouncing around his head with little to no care.

  You don't know why you find it so endearing.

  The two of you spent the day doing everything, and that is no exaggeration. You played ping pong, despite Mildred's protestations that the gaming deck wasn't big enough for both her and Leo. You ate ice cream. In fact, you ate everything, until Arnold was telling you to slow down and make room for dinner later.

  Dinner which you missed as you decided to spend the evening with Leo.

  He took you down to the engine room, claiming to have put some AC in there that wouldn't affect the mechanisms of the boat, but would simply cool the room down enough for him to sleep there.

  “Not like I need it,” he says, flicking on the lights in the corridor leading to the engine room. “I can handle heat.”

  “There's no way you installed an AC system into the engine room in a night,” you reply. “You're not that good.”

   Leo smiles playfully. “See, that's where everyone goes wrong – they underestimate me.” With that, he pushes open the engine room door, revealing everything beyond – the whirring machines, the chugging engines, the steam billowing from contraptions you don't even know the name of, which is a little bit shameful considering you've lived amongst this stuff your entire life.

  Where there should be smouldering heat, there is no such thing. Leo steps into the room and sighs in bliss, closing his eyes. You watch the curls blow away from his forehead. You reach forward, testing the air with your hand.

  Your eyes widen at the feel of cold air brushing against your fingertips.

  “How did you. . . Is this real?”

  Leo opens his eyes and grins, grabbing your outstretched hand and pulling you in after him. “I told you I was good.”

  “Leo, this is . . . You did this in a night?”

  “I did this in. . .” He frowns, glancing at his invisible wrist watch. “About three hours. It was easy enough once I figured out where you keep all your tools.”

   You can't even begin to form words; it's such a simple thing, an AC, but this boy is the same age as you, and he has been here not even a full twenty four hours, and yet he's improving the ship in more ways than you would have dreamed of.

  You turn to him. He looks right back at you. “You're quite good with tools, aren't you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Where did you learn all of this?”

  “My dad.”

  You raise a brow. “Is he a mechanic?”

  Leo smiles; he does that a lot, though you're yet to learn why. “No. He's in the – uh – higher up's, I guess you could say. My mum was the mechanic.”

  “Was?”

  Leo's smile fades. He coughs and turns away. “Yeah. Was. Now, how about I show you where I slept last night?”

  Without any elaboration, Leo starts towards the back of the room, the hottest part of the entire ship. You remember your dad warning you, time and time again, never to step foot in the engine room at all, but especially not this part of it. You smell the smoke billowing from the coal shafts, hidden behind insulation. You feel the heat, even through the AC, pressing against your skin.

  Once you've walked far enough into the room for the heat to be prominent again, Leo reaches back to stop you going any further. Without looking at you, he says, “Don't think you can go much further than that, I'm afraid; I'll take it from here. I need to grab a few things.”

  You grab his hand. “Wait, you can't-”

  He shakes you off him and steps deeper into the engine room. Your chest constricts, panic seizing you; only professionals have ever wandered this deep into the ships depths, because they know what they're doing. They wear the protective gear. They've trained for years.

  Leo hasn't even been on the ship an entire day.

  “Leo!” you call out, stepping forward as much as you dare. “Leo, this isn't funny! Come back here!”

  “I'm fine.”

  The sound of his voice, unharmed and unwavering, makes the breath leave you. You slouch against the wall, craning your neck in any attempt to see where he is, but you only catch glimpses of his dark curls as he parades back and forth, the sound of metal on metal being heard with absolutely no context.

  You don't understand how anyone can walk so deep into what is essentially a pit of flames and come out unscathed; what's even weirder is the fact that Leo slept in there last night.

  “Please keep talking to me,” you call. “If my dad finds out I let you in here-”

  Leo pops his head around the corner, grinning from ear to ear. Black soot stains his nose, but besides that, he looks unharmed. Around his waist is a velvet tool belt that he definitely was not wearing before. You frown, gesturing towards it vaguely.

  Leo looks down as if only just noticing he'd put the thing on. “Oh, this. It's my tool belt.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But. . . why?”

  Leo shrugs and walks past you. “It's special. Shall we go? Now that you've seen I'm not actually lying when I say I put an AC in-”

 “Which is still insane, by the way.”

  “You've said.”

  Together, the two of you clamber out of the engine room and walk back to the deck. The dinner crowds are just starting to disperse now, people heading out onto the main outdoor deck for a few after dinner drinks with the family. Toddlers are perched on parents shoulders, falling asleep after such a feast. Around you, the lamps are being turned on to illuminate the impending darkness that will soon ensue.

  Leo hums thoughtfully, gazing up at one of the lamps; it's flickering.

  “That one's always been like that,” you say. “Nobody's come to fix it. Nobody really minds it.”

   “It puts the aesthetic off a little bit, doesn't it?” He shakes his head, stopping right in front of it. “No, we can't let that continue.”

   “What are you-”

  He reaches into his tool belt and pulls out a light bulb – just one, the perfect size and shape for the lamps lining the deck. You narrow your eyes, jaw dropping open as Leo starts climbing onto the railing, reaching his small arms above his head to get to work on the lamp in question.

  “Hold my legs, will you?” he calls down to you.

  And even though you're in a daze, growing only more and more confused by this strange man, you lurch forward and wrap your arms around his knees, keeping him from slipping off the edge of the deck and into the murky waters below.

  In seconds, the bulb has been changed and the lamp is working just fine. Leo hops back down beside you, grinning brightly as he tucks his screw driver back into his tool belt.

  You hook a finger through the pocket, tugging him closer so you can peak inside; at first glance, it looks empty, but you're certain that can't be right – he's just put his screw driver inside it. He's just pulled a light bulb out of it. How can it be empty?

  Leo laughs, gently prying your fingers off. “I told you it's special.”

  “Where did the screw driver go?”

  He presses his index finger to his lips. You scowl, swatting his arm until he throws his head back in laughter.

  “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself,” you grumble.

  Leo nudges you, his laughter slowly descending into a simple chuckle. “Oh, lighten up. The screwdriver is in there.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Who are you, Leo Valdez? Where the hell have you come from?”

  He swipes his tongue along the inside of his cheek, deep in thought for a moment. Finally, he turns to you and says, “I'd have to kill you if I told you.”

   “Or I'd have to kill you.”

  His eyes sparkle. “Or that, yes.”

  ----

  “We don't even know what they are. We've never had a warning signal like this before.”

  “Let me see.”

  Your dad shoves to the front and ducks his head down to see into the flashing screen in the control room; an emergency alarm had gone off in your room only moments before, startling you from a peaceful sleep. Another night spent traipsing through the ship with Leo had left you utterly exhausted, but hearing that high pitched beep woke you into full alert. You joined both your parents and the rest of the crew in the control room in seconds.

  “It's in the shape of a trident,” Arthur, one of the control experts, says, pointing at the glowing trident flashing on screen. “What could that even mean? Who's sending that?”

  Your dad frowns. “I have no idea. Is it some kind of prank?”

  “There are no other boats around for miles, sir. None are even showing up on the radar.”

  You fiddle with your fingers. You hate this unpredictability, especially when you're so far out to sea. There is nobody here to help you if all goes wrong, and anyone who can help is miles away; the ship will surely be in tatters by the time anyone can reach you.

  Your dad sighs, raking his nimble fingers through his slowly greying hair. “It's okay. It's okay. We'll figure it out.” He turns and catches your eye, stopping midway. “Y/N, go back to bed.”

  “What's happening?” you ask.

  “Nothing terrible.” He places a hand on your shoulder, gazing into your eyes lovingly, but it doesn't matter how he wants to play it off – you can recognise fear in your fathers eyes, and it's there now. He hates the unpredictability just as much as you do. “Go back to bed and get some sleep; if anything happens, I'll come wake you in plenty of time.”

   “What about the passengers?”

  He raises a brow. “Is this about your little friend Leo? Arnold was telling me all about him.”

  Your cheeks heat up, and you flick your eyes to the floor.

  Your dad sighs, squeezing your shoulder. “The passengers will be safe, too, Y/N. I wouldn't have kept my family on this ship if we didn't have the most state of the art safety precautions put in place. It's going to be fine. Don't stress about it.”

   Don't stress.

  That's so easy for him to say having been trained in the art of keeping a straight face for other people. You, not so much.

  Nonetheless, you leave the control room and head back out onto the deck. Your exhaustion is finally starting to creep up on you, but you know you won't be able to sleep. You'll sit in bed, tossing and turning with the waves, and your night will be made into hell; you don't really fancy that right now.

  And so, you walk along the outside deck, hair blowing around, the lanterns up above illuminating the path you have memorised by now; in fact, you truly think you would be able to walk through this very area in pitch darkness without a care in the world. The metal beneath your feet is so familiar, holding stories from your childhood, bringing you back to a time when you would walk across here, holding your parents hands, wondering why on earth anyone would want to live life on land over the sea.

  “I thought you'd gone to bed.”

  Your eyes snap up. You have to narrow them to see clearly, but you can make out the shape of Leo Valdez sitting on the edge of the railing, his feet dangling over the water, his knuckles white with his grip. His curls are windswept, brushed over his forehead. His cheeky smile is on full show, his glittering eyes running up and down your form before finally meeting your own.

  He frowns when he sees your expression.

  Quickly you avert your gaze, tucking your hands into the pockets of your massive hoodie; you don't even know where you got it from, just that you found it laying on the floor and threw it on before barrelling through the halls to see what all the commotion was about.

  “Is that my hoodie?”

  Your cheeks heat up despite the cold night chill. “No.”

  “Pretty sure it is.”

  “So what?”

  “Looks good on you.”

  You mumble a thank you.

  “You gonna tell me what's got you so glum?”

  You hollow out your cheeks, kicking a pretend stone. You imagine it flicking beneath the railing, landing in the water to make those mini waves you were once so fond of.

  The railing creaks as Leo turns his body to face you. “Hey. You alright?”

  “I'm okay,” you mumble. “Can I sit up there with you?”

  Leo holds out his arms. You waddle over, letting him pull you onto the railing beside him. Once you're seated, he keeps one arm around your waist, holding you close to ensure you don't fall head first into the water; you should probably let him know that you used to sit on this very railing every single night, that you know how to keep yourself up, but you don't. You instead move a little closer to him.

  “What's on your mind, champ?” he asks, jokingly ruffling your hair.

  You scrunch up your nose, swatting his hand away. “Just worried, that's all.”

  “Worried about what?”

  “The ship. The journey. We got a warning signal sent through to us, but no one on the crew knows what it means; they've never seen it before.”

  Leo's eyebrows knit together. “How have they never seen it before?”

  You shrug. “I've been asking myself that, too. My only guess is that someone's hacked the system from another boat and is sending random symbols through to mess with us, but Arthur said there's not another boat for miles.”

  “What did this warning signal look like?”

  “It was like that. . . that thing.”

  Leo leans forward, meeting your eyes; he looks almost desperate, his tan skin suddenly pale. “What thing?”

  “You know.” You click your fingers, trying desperately to remember the name. “That thing that god used to hold all the time. The . . . The big water stick.”

  Leo's eyes flash. He jerks back, arm falling from your waist so fast you nearly tumble into the water. “A trident?”

  “That's the word.”

  “Oh, gods.”

  Before you can say or do anything, Leo spins around and hops off the railing. He reaches up and grabs you, pulling you back into his chest, setting you on the floor despite your squeal of shocked protest.

  “Leo, what the-”

  “Go back to your cabin and don't leave,” he demands. “I mean it, Y/N. Lock the doors if you have to. Only come out when I say.”

  You blink, completely lost by now. Part of you wants to burst out laughing, certain all of this is some big joke, but Leo's eyes are wide, and he's breathing heavily, and you've never seen him act like this. Ever.

  “Leo...”

  “Go, Y/N!” He scrapes one hand through his hair, the other dipped into his tool belt. He mutters to himself as he pulls out the most random of things; bubble wrap, a pack of Tik Taks, a Stephen King book, multiple wrenches, one of which he throws overboard as his frustration grows.

  You grab his wrist. “Please explain what's going on.”

  His eyes shoot up. “I don't. . . . I can't really explain it without sounding crazy.”

  “You sound crazy all the time.”

  “Fair.” He pauses, glancing around nervously, before he leans in and says, “You ever heard about the Greek gods?”

  You pull away, frowning. “Leo, I'm being serious. You looked really scared-”

  “Have you ever heard about the Greek gods, Y/N? I'm asking a serious question.”

  “Of course I have, but-”

  “Heard of Hephaestus?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “Well, I call him dad.”

  You blink. Leo doesn't stop moving, continuing the search for whatever he's looking for inside his never ending tool belt. Under his breath, he mutters, “Please, please, please don't let it be them. Please, please, please.”

  Your silence must span an awful long time, though it only feels like seconds before Leo is flicking his eyes up, frowning and saying, “Why are you still standing there?”

  “What the hell does Hephaestus – the Greek guy – have to do with the warning signal we got?”

  “Oh, yeah, I could explain that, I guess.” He tugs another wrench out of his pocket and rolls his eyes, tossing it into the ocean. “That makes me a demigod; my mum's a mortal, my dad's. . . . Hephaestus. That means loads of monsters are constantly on my ass literally all the time.” He sends a pointed glare at the ocean. “I must have done something to tick off the sea nymphs-”

  “Sea nymphs?”

  “Because they've all been trying to kill me for weeks!”

  You shake your head. “Is that what you were running away from-”

  “When you saved me? Yes, it was, and thank you for that, really. Means a lot.” He grabs your arm, swirling you towards the exit. “Now, please let me return the favour by staying in your cabin.”

  He pushes you forward. You stumble, catching yourself on the door before spinning back to face him. “So you think these. . . these sea nymphs have found you? That's what the warning signal was?”

  “It makes the most sense,” Leo replies. “Rookie mistake on their part; they're giving me a lovely head start on-”

  Something slams into the underside of the ship.

  You're thrown into Leo, chest smashing against chest, chins smashing against chins. You're a tangle of limbs when you land on the floor, Leo on his back with you on top of him. Neither of you have a chance to even be embarrassed, though, before a melodic voice is drifting up from the waves, so appealing that it nearly drives you directly over the edge just to go and find it. It lifts your spirits. Everything is right in the world so long as you continue to hear this lovely, lovely voice. . .

  “Snap out of it!” Leo grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet. “Okay, so they have definitely found me.”

  “Come to us, son of Hephaestus, and we shall spare the innocent mortals on this ship.”

  Leo groans. “Always with the bargaining! Can't you guys just die already?”

  Your eyes widen. Your hands are trembling. This is too much for you to handle. “Leo, please don't make them angry.” You glance over the railing, seeing nothing but the swirling waters below. “Uh, hello, friendly sea nymphs; he doesn't mean that. He's a little bit cranky right now because he hasn't slept much, but I promise-”

  Leo hisses, tugging you away from the edge. “Would you just-”

  Another wave crashes against the ship, knocking you and Leo to the side. Your shoulder slams into the glass, and this time, the sirens go off. The entire ship is notified of danger. Soon, every deck on the ship will be flooded with innocent people, people who have no idea that any of this is going on, people who could potentially be in danger if these mystical sea nymphs don't get exactly what they're asking for.

  Leo curses, scrambling upright. “Okay, maybe we don't have as much of a head start as I thought we did.”

  “You think?”

  Another wave. Your feet slip from beneath you, sending you sprawling. Leo cries out your name, scrambling for your hand, but he's just as drenched as you are. He slips, crashing to his knees as you slide down the length of the deck, scrambling for anything to hold onto. Eventually, your feet crash against a barrel lodged against the wall, stopping your impending doom for a few moments longer. Below, passengers are screaming, and you can't even bring yourself to think about what is happening to them, what they must be seeing right now.

  “Leo!” you cry out, choking on water. “Leo, where are you?”

  “Leo Valdez is ours,” the melodic voice chimes in. “He has taken our existence as a joke for far too long; it's about time our people show him some respect.”

  “Okay, okay!” You gag, fighting to keep your head above the waves splashing into your face. “I get it! He's a little shit, but please, give him one more chance. I'll – I'll keep him in check as best I can. I'll-”

  “We don't want to hear it.”

  The ship rocks again. People scream. One more hit, and you're certain they're gonna go through the hull. One more hit, and this entire ship is going to go down, taking thousands of innocent passengers – and Leo – down with it.

  You can't let that happen.

  With difficulty, you lift yourself from the grip of the waves coursing along the deck. You do one final check for Leo, but he is nowhere to be seen – you can't even hear him, which really just confirms the severity of this situation. You need to do something quick.

  You say a silent prayer to Hephaestus, and you feel stupid for it, but you're willing to do anything right now just to make sure you get to see Leo's face again, that stupid grin of his, those bouncing curls you never got to touch because you were always so afraid it would seem too intimate.

  “Please save your son. Please let him be okay.”

  You spin on your heel and dart towards the exit.

  Throwing yourself into a crowd of screaming people is jarring, but you push through. Shoving your shoulder into anyone who gets in the way, you sprint for the bridge. You throw open the door, grab Anna's shoulders and push her out of the way. She stumbles, but she doesn't even have the energy to say anything to you; when you glance at her, you can see her pale face and wide eyes, her hands trembling as she utters, “I don't know what's happening,” over and over, a woman traumatised before she's even seen the severity of the danger.

  You turn back to the wheel and inhale deeply. You've done this before. You know what these controls mean. You have gripped this wheel plenty of times, steered this boat enough times to know what to do. Your hands tremble. Your mind is blank, but maybe that's for the best.

  You grip the wheel. As soon as your hands make contact, that voice drifts back into your consciousness, startling you to reality.

  “Son of Hephaestus is ours. In a battle, water always wins over fire.”

  You grit your teeth and yank the steering wheel. Passengers scream, but it's not their screams you're focused on. In the back of your mind, like the sea nymphs are right behind you, you can hear them squealing as the ship is yanked from whatever grip they have on it; you like to imagine you broke their arms or something.

  “Curse you!” they screech. “Mind your own business, mortal!”

  You yank the wheel again. Anna flies across the room, crashing against the window, screaming your name, but you have to keep going. You have to dislodge the ship from their magic before they take over entirely.

  You yank the wheel one last time, and finally the ship lurches forward. Passengers scream. Anna starts sobbing desperately, begging you for mercy, and the sound is heart-breaking; you don't understand why she can't hear the sea nymphs herself, because when they speak, they are clear as day in your head.

  “I'm sorry,” you grit out. “I'll explain later.”

  And then you slam your hand into that big red button on the dashboard. The propellers erupt, jumping into high gear. In your head, the sea nymphs scream. Outside, an explosion rocks the ocean, shaking the ship just a little bit before you press the engine button and send the ship forward.

  For a second, the world is quiet. Your headache fades away. The passengers are all silent, waiting for the next heart wrenching move to be made.

  You pry your hands off the wheel, spin on your heel and sprint out of the bridge.

  On deck, people cower on the floor. There are head wounds, and unconscious individuals, and you promise you'll apologise to all of them individually when you next see them, but for now, you need to see Leo. You need to make sure he's okay. You need to know that none of that was in vain.

  You sprint back to the outdoor deck, slipping only briefly on the water still crowded upon it. The ship rocks back and forth gently now, sloshing the water over the edge, making it easier to wade through it in search of the Valdez boy.

  “Leo!” you cry out. “Leo, where are you?”

  For just a moment, nothing happens. You are convinced the deck is empty. The tears erupt to the surface, spilling over your eyelids before you can stop them, because you're certain you've failed. You got rid of the sea nymphs – only by the grace of god – but you were too late to save Leo.

  And then something flickers in the far corner, just behind an overturned barrel.

  You squint, heart stopping in your chest. Part of you thinks you imagined it. That is until the flames flicker again, followed shortly by a groan of protest.

  You gasp and dart forward. You slip to your knees in the water, grabbing the barrel and rolling it out the way. Laying on his side beneath it is Leo, blood pooling from his side, a tiny flame dancing in the palm of his hand.

  You don't even question the fire right now – you can't. You press your trembling palms to the wound in his hip, biting your bottom lip in any attempt to look tough, but it's really no use – you're terrified. You don't know what you just did, how much damage you just caused, but you know for a fact it's going to take a lot of explaining to get you out of this one. You can already hear Arnold scolding you for letting Leo onto the boat, into your life. Someone like him is such a bad influence.

  But then his soft brown eyes flicker open, and you don't really care.

  A sob slips from your lips. Tears slip down your cheeks. When you speak, your voice wobbles, on the verge of cracking.

  “I thought you were dead. I thought I was too late, Leo.”

  He groans, more like a man getting out of bed than a man who's just had a piece of timber sliced through his hip. “I will be if you don't get me some nectar right now.”

  You pull back. “What?”

  “Nectar.” He clicks his fingers and points at his tool belt. “In there. Grab it for me, will you?”

  You dip your trembling hands into his belt, plucking out a gold bar about the size of your index finger. As soon as Leo sees it's unwrapped, he snatches it from your hand and pops the entire thing in his mouth, sighing in bliss once he's swallowed it.

  “You can let go of me now,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  He chuckles weakly, before wrapping his soft, gentle fingers around your wrists and pulling your hands away from his hip. Instead of letting you go, however, he holds them close to his chest, leaning his chin on your knuckles so the two of you can watch as the wound stitches itself up in slow motion.

  Your heart thunders. “So you weren't lying when you said you were the son of Hephaestus.”

  “I wish I had been lying.”

  “I think it's pretty cool.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” You swallow thickly. “Just don't be bringing that sort of trouble to my door again, or I'll throw you overboard.”

  ----

  Leo got his own cabin once your parents saw the damage he took.

  You were able to play it off as him having no part in the havoc. To your parents, and everybody else concerned, Leo was nothing more than a victim in the entire ordeal. Your parents lodged him in one of the spare cabins, giving him the medical treatment he needed, despite the nectar doing most of the job for him. All he was really suffering with was a bit of muscle pain, but for the size of wound he suffered with, you feel like he got away lucky in the end.

  You've been visiting him most nights, just because. His company is nice, and he seems to enjoy yours, and the two of you get on really well. You kind of dread the day you're going to dock in Northern Ireland, the day he's going to clamber off the boat and never look back. He'll probably forget about you.

  That thought really, really hurts, so you try not to think about it.

  Today, you decide to bring him some croissants Anna made. The plate balanced in your hand, you raise your other one to knock on his cabin door, only to freeze when you hear someone else's voice ringing through the dimly lit corridor.

  “So they just. . . killed the sirens on their own? Where the hell were you, Valdez?”

  “I already told you, Jason, I was completely out of it. I got hit with a wave and went flying backwards, right into a piece of broken wood. It went through me.”

  “Still. It's not everyday a mortal takes on a mythological monster on their own; how did they even see them?”

  Leo sighs. His bed springs creak. “I have no idea, but it was incredible. They're incredible.”

  Your heart flutters, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

  “Sounds like you've lost the battle, Valdez,” the unfamiliar voice says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. It sounds like you really like them.”

  Leo pauses. Your heart thunders; you shouldn't be so anxious to hear his response, but you'd be lying to claim otherwise.

  “I do.”

  You close your eyes, biting your lower lip.

  “Gods, Jason, I think I do. I don't even want to get off this boat.”

  “Man, you can't just go travelling through the sea your entire life.”

  “I know. I know.” Leo sighs again. “Maybe they'll agree to come with me; you guys are still sending that chariot to come pick me up from Northern Ireland, right?”

  “That's still the plan, yes.”

  “Do you think Y/N will come with me?”

  This Jason fellow pauses. Part of you wants to burst in the room and cry out “OF COURSE I'LL GO WITH YOU” but you hold yourself back, because would you really ever leave?

  Yes. Yes, you would.

  “Ask them,” Jason finally says. “But Leo, you realise long distance could work, right?”

  Leo scoffs. “Slow down there, pal. I don't even know if they like me back.”

  “You just told me you saw them crying over you when you came to.”

  “Emotions were high. They'd just killed some sea nymphs for the first time.”

  “Take it from me, Leo – they like you. All evidence points towards it.”

  Leo grumbles something beneath his breath before finally saying, “They'll probably be here soon, man, so I should go.”

  “Oh yes. The nightly visit. Have fun. Be safe.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bye.”

  Jason laughs. “Bye.”

  You take a few moments just to breathe; you're overjoyed, which is a weird feeling for you to have. The days following the sea nymph attack, you spent the majority of your time either in Leo's cabin or your own, struggling to come to terms with everything you did, all the people you hurt, the truth that was brought to your attention. It was such a struggle getting your head around it, and trying to certainly put you in a slump.

  But hearing this piece of good news has lifted your spirits, if just a little bit.

  Once you believe you've gathered your wits, you knock on Leo's door. He says, “Hellooooo?” and you enter, giving him the most subtle smile you can muster whilst showing off the plate of croissants.

  He sits up in his bed, the quilt falling from his chest; he's wearing a pair of cloud patterned pyjamas, provided by the laundry department of the crew. He rubs his eyes, trying to pretend he's just woken up, even though you know better than to believe him.

  You place the croissants on the table beside him before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He smiles at you, warm and a little bit awkward, so unlike the smiles he usually gives you. You can only assume it has something to do with the conversation you accidentally eavesdropped on.

  “What's wrong?”

  His smile falters. “What?”

  “You look a little weird.” You lean back against the footboard, folding your arms over your chest. “Something you want to tell me, Leonardo Valdez?”

  “That's really not my name.”

   You raise a brow, waiting for him to answer the question.

  He stares back at you, an eyebrow arched. “I really have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “Who's Jason?”

  Leo isn't even smiling any more – his expression is one of complete dread. “Are you kidding?”

  You giggle, nudging his foot. “Who is he? A friend of yours? He seems nice. Can I talk to him?”

  Leo throws his head back, crinkling his eyes shut as his cheeks burn a bright red colour. “Don't start. Did you actually hear all that?”

  “I was outside the door with my croissants. Heard every word.”

  “I'm gonna throw myself overboard.”

  “You can't do that.”

  Leo cracks open an eye, glaring at you like you've done something wrong. “I'll do whatever I damn well find necessary.”

  “If you throw yourself overboard, I'll never get to go to Northern Ireland with you.”

  Leo's head snaps up. “Wait-”

  But you push on. “If you throw yourself overboard, I'll never get to tell you that I like you, too.”

  “Y/N-”

  “If you throw yourself overboard, I'll never get to kiss you.”

  Leo swallows, eyes dipping to your lips. “Okay. You've got me convinced.”

  You kiss him.

  His hands travel to your jaw, calloused fingertips like butterfly kisses against your jaw bone. Your own hands find their way into his curls, a place they've wanted to be from the very day you met him. The kiss is small, timid, testing the waters more than anything else, but it's perfect just the way it is. Leo grins against your lips like he's won some award, the cat who got the cream. You're half tempted to pull away and tell him to stop being so cocky, but you decide against it when the feel of his lips drags you back to the moment.

  You pull away. “You should have told me you liked me.”

  “It works both ways.”

  “Fair.”

  Leo scoots over, patting the free space next to him. You bundle yourself beneath the covers, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, facing the cabin window; together, you watch the sea rise and fall, rise and fall, sending the mildly damaged boat to it's final destination.

  “I can fix the hull, you know,” he says. “It'll take me an hour at most.”

  “I know you can.” You tilt your head against his, inhaling deeply. “But I think I like you here a bit better.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mm.”

  He wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. “Guess I'm bedridden for a bit longer, then.”

  ----

  Northern Ireland is really pretty.

  Leo Valdez is even prettier.

  He holds your hand as the two of you get off the boat. An emotional goodbye to your parents (and Arnold) has left your eyes puffy and your mood a little dipped, but your spirits are slowly beginning to rise with the realisation that a brand new chapter in your life has finally opened, and Leo is there to help you navigate through it.

  He squeezes your fingers as the two of you stand on the harbour, watching your home drift back to New York. The stars sprinkle the sky, little rips in the night sky, slightly dulled by the street lights dotting the Belfast docks.

  “You'll be back there soon,” Leo says. “I promise. I haven't kidnapped you.”

  You laugh. You're always laughing with Leo. “I know. It's just different.”

  “Yeah. I can imagine.”

  You swipe a hand beneath your eyes. Your home is now a mere dot in the distance. “Are your friends here yet?”

  “Probably.” Leo glances at his non existent wristwatch. “I can imagine they'll be making a pretty bold entrance right. . . about. . . now.”

  On queue, a golden ball of light emerges from the night sky. You flick your eyes around desperately, but the harbour is completely clear besides you, Leo and the dock worker who is too busy tapping away on his iPad to pay much attention to the spiralling ball of gold currently impending upon the dock.

  The chariot crashes to the floor, shaking the trees and the wood beneath it. Leo is grinning, his hand squeezing your own a little tighter in his excitement; it's been weeks since he last saw his friends, and from the stories he's so keen on telling you, his friends are more like his family.

  “That's them,” he needlessly points out.

  Together, you walk to the golden chariot. Six other demigods spill out of it, two of them slapping each other's arms, bickering about something.

  “-landed a little more gracefully.”

  “Oh okay, Percy, how about next time, you try controlling the wind with Frank snoring behind you!”

  “Maybe I will! I'd probably do a better job than-”

  Leo raises his hand. “Hey guys!”

   All six of the demigods spin around, their arguments now ceasing to exist as they catch sight of you and Leo. A girl with choppy, braided hair takes one look at your joined hands and immediately covers her cheeks, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Oh, I thought Jason was lying!” She throws herself into Leo's arms. “I'm so proud of you!”

  “Thanks, Pipes,” Leo grunts. “Good to see you, too.”

  “And you!” 'Pipes' squeals, throwing herself into your arms next. “You're so pretty! How on the gods green earth did Leo catch your eye?”

  “Woah, okay!” Leo pushes Piper away, scowling. “Leave them alone for a bit, alright? We're both tired.”

  “I'm sure you are,” the blonde haired boy in the purple shirt chuckles. “Come on. How about we go get some McDonalds?”

  The big dude with the baby face narrows his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at the golden chariot. “Can we get that through a drive through?”

  “We can if I drive!” Percy exclaims, snatching the keys off the blonde boy and darting to the front seat.

  The other demigods grumble their horrors, clearly not pleased with the idea of Percy driving, but they follow him anyway.

  Leo and you hang back a little bit. Leo squeezes your hand. When you look over, he gives you a wary smile.

  “Welcome to the family, I guess.”

[comfy-whumpee]

Polycule 1

I don’t know what else to call this arc. Polyamory comf makes me happy.

Taglist: @lonesome--hunter, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektricwhump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @rosesareviolentlyread, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog

“Oh shit! Oh shit, yeah, I’m right there.”

Addison grabbed her jacket and her keys and jogged from the house to her bike. A kick and a twist, and she was roaring off down the road. It was a ten-minute ride to Nic’s – and – Nic and Ellis’s place. For the first time, Ellis was there.

She pulled up and dismounted. She was almost nervous. Nic had told her a lot about Ellis since they’d met four months ago, and because of the whole situation with the guilt-tripping parents, she’d kind of become their confidante. Nic was ninety-five-percent sunshine, and Iz had no problem being there when it rained. Nic needed to vent, and that wasn’t hard to listen to. They needed hugs, and those were a pleasure to give.

And now, Iz was being invited to meet the man himself, and be a friend he sorely needed.

She knocked on the door. Nic opened it with a smile, and made Iz wait a second before stepping back. “He’s already met Felicity, and it went okay. He agreed to meet someone else.”

Iz nodded, resolving not to screw this up.

Nic then turned back to the house, “Hey, honey. My friend is here. You ready?”

There was no audible answer, but Nic smiled and tilted their head, inviting her in. Addison stepped into the room, and looked immediately to the right, where the living room proper was half-screened by a coat rack. Visible through the gaps were pale folded hands and knees.

Nic went over first. Iz followed more slowly, sensing the tension in the air despite Nic’s casual attitude.

She sat down on the floor by the stairs, taking off her boots and jacket. She smiled at Ellis, and fuck, he was even prettier in person, but she didn’t hold his gaze. Instead, she leaned back to look at the room as if she hadn’t seen it before. “Oh, the succulent,” she remarked, seeing the little plant on the desk with its flower.

“Yeah, it bloomed!” Nic agreed, picking up the pot to show her. They were on the sofa, still acting casual. “Its name is Colin, I decided.”

“Isn’t that your brother’s name?”

In the edge of her vision, she saw Ellis shake his head, even as Nic said, “No, that’s Calvin. I wouldn’t name something this cute after that lil shit.”

Iz laughed quietly. “Do you have siblings, Ellis?”

Maybe the question was too sudden, because he looked up at her in alarm. He hadn’t expected to be included. Light brown eyes went wide, but she noticed that he didn’t open his mouth to speak. He shook his head.

“Ah, lucky. I have twin baby sisters. I love them a lot, don’t get me wrong, but Daisy especially is a drama queen. She’s always got beef with someone at her college and I’m so done with it. Last time I spoke to her she was up in arms about this presentation they’re doing, and how she was totally doing all the work because her group mates are too busy partying, and I know she’s exaggerating because she’s out almost every night.”

Ellis was still paying attention, but he looked nonplussed.

“Nothing compared to Calvin, though. Have you met him? I’m guessing so.”

Yes and no questions seemed to land easily enough. Ellis nodded.

“Like him?”

He glanced at Nic, who covered their eyes with a hand and gave him a thumbs up with the other. The ghost of something resembling a smile crossed his face, and he shook his head.

Iz grinned. “You get me. I’m glad they have someone else who stands up for them.”

“Um,” Nic interjected, “I stand up for myself, thank you very much.”

“Sure, whatever. Do y’all want to watch a film? I brought Captain Marvel, you seen it?”

This time, her gaze was on Ellis. Nic smiled, impressed, but of course Iz remembered learning about his love of space and superheroes. And he’d been gone while it came out, so...

She smiled in triumph when he shook his head. “I think you’ll like it. You too, Nic.” She got up, noticing but not reacting to the way Ellis tensed, and crossed to the sofa to put the disc into the computer. Nic sat down, and waved her to their other side, by the window, as the loading screen came up.

“Do you wanna join us up here, Ellis?” they asked. “You’re allowed.”

A cold chill passed over Iz at the words. Nic had explained a little bit of the way Ellis had been held captive, and the degrading shit he was forced to do, but hearing Nic gently, achingly counteract it, for something so simple, made her heart clench.

She stayed very still as Ellis slowly unfolded himself and his weight settled on the other end of the sofa.

“You can have touch or no touch, if you have a preference today.”

Another pause, and then the shuffling of someone snuggling close. Iz glanced over to see Nic’s arms around his shoulders, his around their waist, face half-buried in their shoulder. The way he must have hugged the bastard who kept him. Nic’s expression was a smile, with sadness buried deep in their eyes. This hurt. It hurt them, and it wasn’t right, and there weren’t enough knives in the world for that guy and what he’d done to them both.

Don’t get angry. Ellis would be terrified of anger. She had to be safe. She would be safe.

Iz took a quick calming breath, and set the movie to play.

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Mourning at Midnight

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

Word Count: 7480

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

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

Logan sinks out.

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

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

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

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

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

Anger management/temperament issues

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

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

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

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

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

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

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

Sympathetic “dark” sides

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I–”

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

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

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

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

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

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

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

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

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

He flinches. Because of Logan.

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

Is he really that bad?

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

Maybe he shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan sinks out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does.

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

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

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

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

[quinzelade]

Making One’s Bones (chpt 13)

Chapter List

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Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park's throne? Well...at least she'll have experience.

--

Hello, everyone! Welcome to my newest fanfic! While this is technically a ‘sequel’ of By No Constraint, you don’t need to read BNC to read this. It can be read as standalone.

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Explosive Personalities

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The world was a warm, comfortable haze of black. Sarah shifted under the heavy blankets, savouring every moment before she had to open her eyes. Even her aches and pains couldn’t take away the peace she felt. Oswald must have found her. Or she’d died. That wasn’t so bad either. Her body wasn’t hurting as much anymore at least, though she couldn’t say why.

A loud clatter across the room made Sarah jump. Her eyes snapped open of their own accord, and she lay in the bed, staring up at the dingy ceiling. The panels were all loose, revealing a dark hidden world above. A sharp, hissing sizzle cut through the sound of pots and pans being moved around, and a delicious smell slowly wafted over. Her stomach rumbled. Deciding she wasn’t in any danger, Sarah sat up.

The room was bright and airy, the tops of the dead trees just visible at the bottom of the wide, broken windows. The walls were a vibrant red, with pictures of cola bottles hanging in crooked, shabby frames. Sarah glanced around to see various bits of battered old furniture, including a creepy mannequin, an old coffee table, and a yellow metal frame with wires hanging off it. Next to the bed was a wooden wall, blocking off her view of the rest of the apartment, but a big, pretty light fixture with lots of bulbs hung over the bed. Sarah admired it for a moment and then got to her feet.

As soon as she stood up, she saw him. Sitting on a sofa, just across from the bedroom nook, was the dirty one-eyed raider with the greasy mohawk and yellow-painted armour.

Gage.

He glared at her as he chewed on something, his arms folded tight across his chest, looking as if he’d love nothing better than to hit her. Sarah’s stomach tightened and she shrank back. But then the images of the other raiders beating her until she couldn’t walk flashed across her mind, and a hot fury prickled across her skin. So what if he hit her? She’d been hit before and she was still alive.

Sarah stepped out from behind the wall, folded her arms, and glared back.

Gage blinked, his expression faltering. The corners of his mouth twitched, his eye lingering on her, before he turned his head and called, “Boss? It’s awake.”

“Don’t call her an ‘it,’” snapped an oddly familiar voice.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. She’s awake then.”

Sarah followed Gage’s line of view and saw Mrs. Bossanova wandering over, balancing two plates on one arm and holding a cup in the other. She couldn’t say whether she was pleased to see the older ghoul, as their last meeting had been...strange. But Mrs. Bossanova was a more welcome sight than Gage by far. She set down the two plates and the cup on the coffee table, beckoning Sarah over.

Sarah obeyed, biting back a laugh as Mrs. Bossanova slapped Gage’s hand away when he reached out for the food.

“The fuck?”

Mrs. Bossanova ignored him, pushed the cup and one of the plates towards Sarah as she sat in the closest chair. “There you are, honey. Brahmin bacon and beans, and some warm milk. How are you feeling?”

Both Gage and Sarah gawked at her. Gage recovered first. “The hell are you doing?”

Mrs. Bossanova rolled her eyes and sighed. “Do you have to act like I’ve kicked a puppy every time I make breakfast?”

It was his turn to roll his eye. “Like that’s a big deal.”

“Boy, if I ever catch you kicking a—”

“What, that’s where you draw the line?”

Sarah wasn’t too sure what a puppy was, so she left them to argue and ate her beans. They were very good. Almost as good as her dad’s cooking. The fight became background noise as she slowly made her way through her meal, fear melting away the more Mrs. Bossanova snapped and snarled at Gage. Whatever he thought of Sarah, she wasn’t in any danger while the boss lady was here. As she ate, she noticed a grenade belt on the floor next to Gage’s feet.

Finally, Mrs. Bossanova turned away from him and settled herself down with the other plate, tucking in.

“Where’s mine?” Gage said, sounding wounded.

Mrs. Bossanova tilted her head and smiled. “What did I say to you the other week?” She gestured to an old, broken plate on the floor, surrounded by moldy food. “Clean up your plate and I’ll make you some more.”

His mouth fell open. He looked from the plate to Mrs. Bossanova, his face slowly turning red, and then spat, “I ain’t picking that shit up.”

“Then you can stay hungry,” Mrs. Bossanova replied primly, cutting her brahmin bacon. “Or make your own food for a change instead of scavenging. You’re a grown man.” She turned away from him and looked at Sarah. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. How are you feeling, honey?”

Sarah blinked. “Um...fine, I guess?” And she did feel fine. That was weird. “Do you know how I got better? I remember hurting a lot, but that’s it.”

“We had some stimpaks to spare.”

Gage opened and closed his mouth a few times, glowering first at Mrs. Bossanova, and then Sarah. He seemed particularly angered by her presence, though Sarah couldn’t understand why. She met his eye and stuffed as much bacon into her mouth as possible. Gage’s stomach rumbled loudly.

“God, fine.” He got to his feet, making a big show of stomping around and cleaning up, flinging the broken plate and its rotting contents out of the window. Below there was a shriek and a splash.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Bossanova said pleasantly. “I’ll just finish up, and then I’ll get started on yours. How do you like your bacon?”

“Cooked,” grumbled Gage, dropping heavily back into his chair and wiping his hands on his pants. Mrs. Bossanova didn’t rush, but ate in her own time, which made Sarah smirk behind her mug of warm milk. Eventually though the boss cleared her plate, took Sarah’s with her, and set about at the stove once again.

Sarah and Gage returned to glaring at each other. She was feeling a little braver with a full stomach, and her collar was sticking uncomfortably to her neck. Tugging at the metal band, she said, “I remember you.”

Gage’s eye trailed lazily over her, his scowl making way for an expression of supreme disinterest. He shrugged. “Can’t say I remember you.”

Sarah’s cheeks burned. “You put the collar on me.”

“I put collars on lots of people.” There was a smile on his lips now, revealing his blackened teeth. He seemed to be enjoying her mounting frustration, the twisted grin telling her he knew who she was, but was pretending otherwise.

Sarah wriggled in her seat, unable to keep still. “You’re a nasty man.”

“Yup.”

She hadn’t been as angry as this in a long time. Now she came to think about it, had she ever been this mad? Sarah clenched her fists, staring into Gage’s hateful hazel eye, barely resisting the urge to jab her finger into it. She wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him mad too. “The big raider had to hit you first though. You were scared of him. I could tell.”

Gage straightened up, red slowly creeping up his neck. But to her surprise, he nodded. “Yeah well, kid, it was obey Colter or get my head blown off." He propped his feet on the coffee table, his eye fixed on her. "I would have given you to the Disciples myself to keep ‘em happy. They'd already threatened to skin me that morning. I didn't know ya, and I still don't know ya. So I don't give a fuck about you."

Sarah’s stomach plummeted at the thought of the Disciples and their long, bloody knives. A cold shiver passed over her body, and Gage smirked. Anger and embarrassment shoved fear aside, and Sarah leaped up from her chair and jumped onto the coffee table, kicking his feet aside. She glared down at the startled raider, her hands on her hips. "You're such a—a—" she paused, glanced around the room, and then leaned forward and whispered, "an asshole."

Gage burst out laughing. Raising one finger to her forehead, he pushed her away so she staggered and fell off the coffee table with a bump. He got to his feet. “Yeah, I am. Now fuck off.”

He walked towards Mrs. Bossanova, who had apparently not heard a word of their argument, and accepted a plate of food. Sarah winced, getting to her hands and knees. As she did, her hand brushed against something heavy. She looked down and a smile spread across her face.

Gage had left his grenade belt behind.

--

It took Gage a whole hour to realise his belt was missing. Sarah was in the bedroom nook, giggling as she listened to him rummaging around and cursing. When she heard his banging footsteps, though, she knew it was time to hide, but before she could get under the bed, Gage came into view.

“Where the fuck is it, you little freak?”

Sarah squeaked in terror despite herself, trying to push herself out of reach, but Gage grabbed her ankle and dragged her out, throwing her down the wooden ramp so she crashed into the coffee table. He advanced, his teeth bared, his fist raised. “Tell me where it is now, or I’ll wrap your legs around your fucking head.”

“Gage!” Mrs. Bossanova came running into the room, her eyes blazing. “What the hell is going on?”

“Teaching the girl some manners.” He turned his back on her, reaching out for Sarah’s head.

Mrs. Bossanova drew her sword and put it between them, the blade close to his body as she held it steady. “Lay one hand on her and I’ll cut it off, Gage.”

Gage rounded on her, batting the blade aside carelessly and stepping towards her. “That little bitch has taken my grenade belt! I put it down for five fucking seconds and it’s gone!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t just leave things lying around.”

He spluttered at this, but Mrs. Bossanova ignored him, turning to Sarah. “Sweetie, did you take Gage’s belt?”

Sarah shook her head dolefully, pushing herself as far back into the coffee table as she could manage. Gage was turning red as a tato.

Mrs. Bossanova returned her attention to him. “There you go.”

“You’re just going to believe her?”

“What use does a ten year old have with a grenade belt, for God’s sake?” She sheathed her sword. “Although at this moment, I’m having difficulty figuring out who the child is here. If it makes you feel better, I’ll buy you a new belt in the marketplace.”

Gage looked as if he was about to explode, but finally seemed beyond words. Or maybe he just didn’t want to argue with the boss. He shot Sarah a filthy scowl and stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard one of the framed pictures fell off the wall and shattered.

Mrs. Bossanova sighed. She crouched down and touched Sarah’s cheek. “Did he hurt you?”

Sarah shook her head.

“We’re going to be out of town for a day or two. Will you be okay here on your own?”

Sarah nodded, then feeling she should say something, cleared her throat. “I’ll be fine, thank you. No one else will come in, will they?”

“No. You’ll be safe.” Bossanova smiled at her. “Want me to bring you back some cola?”

“Yes please.” Sarah licked her lips, feeling awkward. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Mrs. Bossanova to stay or not. She seemed like a nice lady, but something was...off. Oswald wouldn’t have kept someone as mean as Gage around. Pansy and Petey were much better than Gage. Maybe she would be allowed to go visit him.

Mrs. Bossanova made a move as if she was going to do something, but thought better of it. Instead, she squeezed Sarah’s shoulder and stood up. “I’ll be back soon.”

Sarah waited until Mrs. Bossanova’s footsteps died away and then crawled over to a loose floorboard, pried it up, and took out Gage’s grenade belt. She didn’t know why she stole it, or why she lied. All Sarah knew was it felt good to take something from Gage, even if she wasn’t sure of the reasons.

The belt itself was very heavy, but Sarah liked the cold metal against her thin fingers. She ran it through her hands back and forth, an odd sense of power caught in her chest. If she wanted to, she could pluck each grenade like tarberries from the vine and toss them out of the window, killing whoever lurked below. The idea made Sarah shiver—with anticipation or revulsion, she wasn’t sure.

Sarah stood up and tried to put the belt on. It wrapped twice around her tiny waist, and even then she had to add another notch with a kitchen knife to fasten it. The grenades bunched together over each other as Sarah preened, imagining herself like a raider, tough and strong. No one would ever hurt her again.

“Watch what you’re fucking doing!”

A loud clunk followed by a string of swearwords made Sarah flinch. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought Gage and Mrs. Bossanova had returned, until she heard another voice say, “Haze, be more careful. Don’t want this to explode before we’ve set it all up.”

The raiders must have snuck in below. Sarah had seen the entrance to the Fizztop Grille when Mackenzie pointed it out to her during her first few days in Nuka Town. The boss’ lair, and the last place she should ever go. Now she was here, trapped inside, raiders just beyond the door. Without Mrs. Bossanova, she was easy prey.

Sarah gasped for breath, the hated terror gripping her throat. She glanced around the room, looking for a place to hide. The bed was the obvious choice, but might be the first place they checked. She’d also be stuck there until they left again. The panic was making her sick, and she retched silently, before straightening up. The voices were drawing near.

A thought suddenly struck her and she looked up. The ceiling panels she’d seen this morning—they were still loose! But would she be able to reach them?

Sarah made her mind up in an instant. Wiping her sweat-slicked hands on her shirt, she clambered on top of the rickety bedside table against the wall and reached up, taking hold of the wood trim and pulling herself up. The holes in the wall became footholds, and despite her body’s protests, Sarah managed to drag herself up to the ceiling and out of sight. She held her breath as seconds later the door banged open and several sets of heavy footsteps entered the room.

“Not a bad setup this,” said a rough-voiced woman.

“Who cares?” There was a heavy thud of something being placed on the ground.

“Haze, how many times? Be careful or you’ll blow us up, you fucking idiot.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Haze. “When that bitch and Gage get back, the whole place will be fucked.”

Sarah poked her head out from the gap in the ceiling. Below her were five raiders—two women and three men. The women looked much meaner than the men, even though all of them wore bright clothes and body paint. The one Sarah thought might be Haze—with purple hair and a blue vest—gave a large package on the floor a little kick. “Now let’s set this baby up—”

One of the raiders—a woman with a green mohawk—punched Haze in the face.

“How—many—times? Stop—manhandling—the—bomb!” She punctuated every word with a strike until Haze submitted, raising his hands in defeat. She snorted and kicked him away. “Get out. We’ll deal with this.”

“But—”

The woman punched him again and Haze scrambled to his feet and bailed. She watched him go, sneering. “Mason won’t give him the credit for this. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“To be fair, it was his idea,” cut in the other female raider.

“Not anymore. We can handle this without him.”

Sarah ducked out of sight again. She waited a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. In the far corner she could see a sliver of light that looked like it led to the outer corridor the raiders had come in from. If she was quick and quiet—and most importantly of all—lucky, she might escape without being spotted. But the raiders were clearly trying to kill Mrs. Bossanova and Gage. Sarah didn’t much care what happened to Gage, but Mrs. Bossanova had made her breakfast. She had been nice.

Sarah shifted in her spot, glancing down as the grenades at her waist gently clinked together. An idea blossomed, unhindered by the fact she only vaguely knew how grenades worked. Sarah tugged one free with difficulty and crawled over to where the voices below were loudest. Carefully she pried away one of the panels, paused to make sure no one had heard her, and then moved to observe.

The raiders were setting up their bomb. Even if they hadn’t been talking loudly about it for the past ten minutes, she knew what a bomb looked like. The comics Wiseman had given her contained everything she needed to know about bombs and how to disarm them. All you had to do was cut a wire...except she wasn’t too sure which wire to cut. Maybe instead…? Sarah glanced at the grenade in her hand and then to the light at the far end of the crawl space. She’d have to be fast.

Sarah shuffled back closer towards her escape route, as close as she dared. Then she took a deep breath, and with some difficulty, pulled the pin from the grenade.

Terror erupted through her as she froze. What was she doing?

Sense kicked in at the last second. With a squeak, Sarah flung the grenade away from herself, watching it bounce and disappear down through the ceiling, before whipping around and scurrying away.

“Did you hear that?”

Her sweaty hands slipped as she crawled, her breath escaping in panicked pants. The exit was just within reach.

“Is that a fucking grena—?”

There was a split second where Sarah realised she hadn’t made it. The panels ceiling rumbled as a deafening noise ripped through her eardrums. She felt the heat, saw the lights, and then the floor surged from beneath her, sending her flying forward. Her head hit something hard, and she knew no more.

--

A/N: So, gonna be totally honest with you. I have zero motivation to keep posting these chapters.

I am going to, because they're done and NOT posting them would feel like a massive waste of the two years it took to write them.

But yeah. My motivation comes from the enjoyment of my readers. And from what I can see, very few people are enjoying this, let alone actually reading it. It doesn't help I'm in the middle of a depressive episode right now, and mustering up the energy to format these chapters on Ao3, FFnet, and tumblr when I know I'm essentially throwing my words into the void is just...eh.What's the point?

I'll be making sure this story is updated to completion. After that though, I'm going to have a long think about whether or not I'm going to bother finishing writing the sequels. It seems like a pointless exercise at the moment, and I'm too tired and too sad to keep banging my head against a wall for nothing.

[i-growl-growl-growl]

Love your writing! Can you write a reaction of Nct arguing with their bf over telling their parents about their relationship? You can decide whether it's them or their bf who to wants to tell them. With Taeil, Yuta, Taeyong, Mark and Winwin.

Thank you. I’m glad you enjoy my writing. I hope I can continue writing things that interest you. :)

I intended Taeyong’s reaction to be Yuta’s but I couldn’t find a gif that fit the reaction for Yuta while I just so happened to have the perfect gif for it for Taeyong so that’s why his reaction might not fit him that well. 

~Savie

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Taeil: Taeil wouldn’t have thought that it’d be such a big deal since it was just their parents that were going to be told about their relationship but it seemed like his assumption had been wrong. When he brings up wanting to tell their parents to his partner everything seems to stop dead in its tracks and all goes silent as his partner looks up from the meal they are having together and gives him a deathly glare, “You did what?!” they ask with obvious anger building up in their voice “you told our parents?!” “No, No I was just suggesting that we tell them since we’re so far along in the relationship. I haven’t told anyone yet sweetie. I just thought it’d be a good idea.”

Forks and knives clattered onto his partner’s plate as they’re dropped, the hands once holding them balling up into fists. “NO!” his partner screams “how dare you think of doing that! Do you know exactly what you’d be risking by doing that?! Our relationship would be over the minute our parents find out, they’d never let us be together. How could you possibly think about doing this! I thought you loved me! Why would you ever want to do that?! I thought you loved me!” “I do love you” he tells them softly, trying to diffuse the problem that he just unintentionally started “I don’t understand, what is the big deal? Why do you think our parents wouldn’t let us be together?” 

After that everything goes downhill. Despite Taeil’s obvious attempts to calm down his upset partner it only escalates the problem until his partner begins shouting a plethora of assaults and curses at him, telling him how evil he was for thinking of doing such a thing, how he’s a horrible boyfriend for wanting to ruin this relationship, saying how stupid he was for thinking this relationship would be able to last if anyone found out— especially since he’s a celebrity— and many other things. By the end of it his partner storms out of the dorm without giving Taeil any chances to get a word in, leaving him standing at the doorway as he watches it slowly close as he listens to the fading sounds of his partner storming away. Tears rush to his eyes and his body feels so heavy yet so numb all at once as he continues to stare at the door his partner had just left from. “How had he been so foolish to think that bringing up a conversation of telling their parents would be ok?” He’ll just stand there with tears in his eyes thinking about what had happened and blaming himself for causing the problem in the first place, hoping that his partner might give him another chance if he just lets them cool down for a bit but still feeling a slight heartbreak from ruining this night with them and he promises he’ll never do it again if that second chance is given. 

Taeyong: he paced around the room, anger and irritation building up in him as his phone continued to go off with notifications about news sources and fans talking about the relationship that had been leaked by “anonymous insights.” His partner was there listening to the vibrations and “dings” of the notifications going off endlessly also watching as Taeyong’s temper seemed to escalate with each passing second. “F**k h’p/n, f**k!” he’d curse “this is exactly why I told you not to tell anyone!” He wouldn’t mean to yell indirectly at his partner but he was just so furious, even he couldn’t help it. “I thought they’d keep it a secret” his partner would retaliate back “how was I supposed to know that they’d sell us out for money from the paparazzi?!” 

He’d be so infuriated at your parents and the situation they had caused, he’d pace around and around and around trying to think of ways he could diffuse the situation between the paparazzi and his fans but his mind wouldn’t be clear enough to come up with any solutions. “God Damn it!” He was also mad at his partner for telling their parents when he had explicitly told them not to until he thought the time was right and he’d have statements prepared, “WHY?! you knew not to do it! You knew! What was going through your mind that made you decide to not listen to me huh?! Look what this has caused! Look what your parents have done!” “I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking OK!” “No, no it’s not OK!”

His partner was in tears, they knew they had messed up, they knew they shouldn’t have done it but they did anyway and nothing could take back the results of their actions. As they continued to watch Taeyong struggle with stress and built up fury they knew they’d live the rest of their days wishing that they had just listened to him. Thoughts of how they could’ve ruined his career and of how fans wouldn’t only be attacking him with viscous threats but also them too only made matters worse and they burst out, yelling at Taeyong “I’m sorry, I know what I did was wrong but I just wanted someone to know!” they’d storm out, hoping they’d be able to get to their parents house and stay there for a while until things died down between them, the public, and most importantly between Taeyong and his stress. He wouldn’t even realize they had left until he was too exhausted to continue pacing around, wondering what to do, when he did notice he’d only worry and become angry once more. “Where did they go? What are they doing now? Stupid, why would they leave without anyone to protect them? Who knows who could be waiting out there for them!” he’d call his partner and text them until he got an answer that they were OK and at their parents house, only then could he calm down and let the exhaustion wash over him and he’d fall asleep on the couch while thinking of what he should do and how he’ll apologize to you tomorrow.

Yuta: He sat on the couch quietly staring at his phone, not giving you a single glance. You’d continue to apologize profusely for telling your parents about the relationship even though he’d told you not to but it didn’t seem like he was listening at all. Finally giving up on apologizing you threw your hands up in the air and said “fine, just act like a child and ignore me then but don’t say I didn’t apologize! and if this is how you’re going to be the entire day then I’m leaving, I’ll go and hang out with my friends or my parents since I don’t want to deal with your sissy fit! and to think you want to be considered the mature one in the relationship, ha, as if! Childish brat.” 

As you gathered you things and began heading towards the door you heard him speak for the first time since you’d told him about your parents knowing of the relationship, “If you hadn’t of told them then you wouldn’t have to apologize in the first place! Don’t call me the childish and immature one when you’re the one who doesn’t listen and goes and does whenever they want to and telling everyone things that aren’t their business as if there’s no consequences for their actions. Talk about being a childish brat!” The was enough to stop you in your place and cause you to turn around looking at him as if you’d couldn’t believe he’d just said that and you were going to give him a piece of your own mind.

 He’d look up at you at the moment that you put your hands on your hips and raised your head high, preparing to reply back but before you could say anything he’d continue on, “don’t look at me that way and don’t think about coming up with some snarky comeback because you and I both know that I’m right and that I’d win, this was a lost fight for you from the very start sweetheart, so why don’t you sit down and continue apologizing? You’ve got a lot of making up to do since this will cause an uprise if the fans and SM find out and lets face it, your parents aren’t the most trustworthy people so we can bet on someone finding out soon.” You wouldn’t want to admit it but Yuta was right so you sat down, however reluctantly with your arms crossed and an irritated frown on your face while huffing in annoyance. You’d sit there silently for a moment before mumbling sarcastically “Fine! I’M soooo sorry” “Good, now continue saying that, but say it like you mean it from now on” he’d growl back, back to staring at his phone while he listens to you.

WinWin: His reaction would be similar to Marks however, he’d be too soft to tell his partner to chill out on their own. Although his partner was upset at him for telling his parents about the relationship they’d let him wrap his arms around their frame and hug them tightly against his chest. “I’m sorry I did that” he’d say as he hugs them, “I’ll always include you in the conversations from now on and if you don’t want me to say something I won’t say it even if I want to.” The feeling of his hugs and the regret in his voice would be enough to nearly cause his partner to melt like better and forgive him but they’re too tough and stubborn to let it get to them that much, even if it is the adorable, lovable WinWin that they’d give it up for. 

WinWin doesn’t like conflict and the knowledge of knowing that he had upset you so much by informing anyone, even if it was just his parents, about his relationship with you really made him feel horrible. This sweet kid would apologize over and over again while he continues to hold you against his chest, sometimes rocking you back and forth. “Please don’t be mad at me y/n” he’d also say during his insistent apology, “I just wanted someone to know how much I love you, please forgive me for telling someone.” If you could find it in your stubborn nature not to forgive him immediately then it’s safe to say that you had a heart of pure, cold-hearted stone. 

Soon you’d get tired of standing in the same place but you wouldn’t be able to move because WinWin would be holding you for dear life as if if he let you go without being forgiven first then you’d vanish into thin air once he let go so you’d have to let out a “it’s ok WinWin I forgive you” before you could go anywhere. Once he released you you’d stretch and pop the muscles that had become stiff. He’d look at you with relief in his eyes and a small smile on his face all the while. “Thank you y/n for forgiving me” he’d say once you finally looked at him, “you’re welcome silly” you’d reply back, heading over to him for another hug, which you’d give to him this time, “you know that no one can stay mad at you right?” “no, I’m sure there’s people out there who could” “well those people are evil if they do exist because you’re an angel even if you’re one who makes mistakes.”

Mark: His eyebrows were raised as he watched his partner pace around the room, letting out frustrated grumbles as they pulled at their own hair. The moment he had sensed a fight coming on he told his partner to let it out somewhere else cause he wouldn’t deal with it, especially if it was over something that wasn’t so bad, and even more especially if it was over something that had only happened partially (he had only told his parents, not theirs). He thinks their reaction is a bit much but he won’t tell them that because he doesn’t want things to escalate any further, just the few words his partner had gotten in before he sent them into a sort of time-out/chill out was enough for him to know that he didn’t want to have anything to do with what they were intending to start. 

“You know h/p/n, we don’t have to tell your parents if you don’t want to” he’d tell them, finally speaking up after he realized that over an hour had passed by since he informed them about telling his parents and they still seemed to be fuming, “the only reason I told mine is because I knew I could trust them to keep our relationship a secret from everyone and because I knew they’d approve of you because you’re an awesome person and they know how much we love each other. If you think your parents won’t react the same way or if you just don’t want to tell them for no apparent reason then fine, we can keep this relationship a secret between the two of us and my parents, there’s no problem with that.”

His partner would stop in their tracks and look his way, still peeved with the situation. “You could’ve at least told me you were going to tell them before you did” They’d say, throwing their hands up in the air, “To be honest I think I’m more upset with you about that than anything else! All you had to do was say “hey h’p’n, I’m going to tell my parents that we’re dating” and I would’ve been fine but since you didn’t do that I’m irritated and it makes me feel like you don’t care about what I’d think or how I’d feel until now.” Mark would look at them with his eyebrows raised once again “I do care about how you feel, that’s part of the reason why I told them, because I though it’d make you happy.” “Well clearly it doesn’t.” He and his partner would stare each other down until Mark came back with a reply “fine, from now on I’ll tell you if I’m going to do something before I do it, OK?” “OK, fine.” “So, can I have a hug and this can all be over now?” he’d ask. His partner would take a deep breath in order to get themselves to think more clearly, they’d walk up to him and let him embrace them within his arms, the comfort of his hug helping them calm down and deflate their anger and the situation as a whole, “I’m sorry” he’d apologize “I’m sorry to” his partner would reply back.

[convndrums]

here the FAWK she ( the semi-finished masterlist of all my characters ) is ! took way too long but hopefully as you proceed to click on the linque below you’ll know why smh but yep ! i’ll be adding their pages on my account when i’m done with them soon i hope and maybe come back with a bunch of connections for each character but for now this is all i got & smash this like or im me for plots i’d love to get on those finally xx

reintroducing amanda wheeler;  intro & info page.

queen of irony. rich post- faux country gal who’s a loud homosexual and writes hetero fics/has an indie het smut for the absolute shits and giggles. dates a married woman she’s utterly in love with and will pull the life support cord for. said to be possessed by a possessed flapper. cute and knows it even though she looks like a republican. socially open & everywhere. morally grey.

reintroducing imogen yates; intro & info page. ( tw violence )

the grey area between your mom friend and your drunk aunt. happily vegan & owns a vegan restaurant called the fork, alt. the vegan cult’s lair. won’t kill you, but will convince you she really wants to. local brat tamer. minds her business via minding others. clashed head-first into nature’s very own reset button: amnesia. used to be satan and traumatized everyone. disgustingly active and accomplishing.

reintroducing ethan holland; intro & info page. ( tw suicide )

he is a sk8r boi, she said see ya later boy ( and meant it. they’re dating now. hey lourdes ! ) a nice person, so nice he doesn’t realize how fake he sounds/is. a certified headass. previously a bully/bully enabler, current guilty fuck. #torn. does the most for his loved ones. doesn’t remember his own birthday. googled foot fetishes once. trolls stan twitter with his fake selena gomez stan account when tumblr crashes. burned a sue of cide note with his name scribbled on it.

reintroducing sebastian miller; intro & info page ( tw violence )

kazimer sokolov whom. russian ex-cult member well-adjusted into a mundane life via lies, a fake canadian accent he’s ‘trying to get rid of’, being a twilight saga aficionado and a dickwad, a lame record store and a tumblr blog to keep himself sane by maintaining a general aesthetic and shitting on people and every discourse out there. knives/books sniffer. allegedly fucked a moose. probably kinkshames as a way to deal with his own “kinks” aka please keep the dead bodies away. ( im kidding i swear but [redacted] )

reintroducing prudence zima; intro & info page ( tw death )

parents died in a fire when she was two months old and it shows. idolizes avril lavigne & her favorite movie is lords of dogtown for aesthetics references. dude. social leech or effortless networker ? both. remains in her lane regardless. cry-types probably. here for a good time, not a long time. steals your stash and smokes you out with it. avid dick connoisseur. minimum effort lifestyle. either on her way to become a manager of some one hit wonder band that finds it’s demise in a freak accident, a drug dealer or god forbid, a guidance counselor; depends. mild cool girl syndrome. 

reintroducing jennifer meade; intro & info page ( tw death, violence and abuse )

bi/pussy muncher and proud misandrist, first and foremost. remembers killing her brother very fondly. the one girl in a room to call when you want to kill a bug and you’re relieved until she kills it with her bare hand. tops. unstable & chaotic evil, respectively. the ginger devil. biased and has her minion whom she invests a great deal of her time in brain washing and obsessing over. supposedly here to make amends but that’s not happening any time soon.

reintroducing margot williams; intro & info page ( tw mental illness )

deserves better. very gay. all her friends are heathens xtra, take it slow. corrects typos in the gc. a nerdy editorial assistant daydreaming about publishing houses instead of the magazine she works for. lowkey shy and she’s angry about it. goes off if she must. jacks off to #knowledge and yuri anime. helps with homework and essays and takes the kids out. deadpan because we’re original but she swears it’s just the face & unresolved trauma. stans her therapist. unofficial older sister.

reintroducing chandler accardi; intro ( re-written ) & info page

needs to do better. dropped out of college for culinary school then dropped out of that too. was engaged to an absolute goddess he ultimately wronged ( with her damn best friend, bitch disgostin* ) and got kicked out to the curb. currently residing in the couch of his sister until things are resolved. thot-by-default & annoying. has like three ( 3 ) redeeming qualities. has never been told to shut up and it shows. works at buzzfeed.

reintroducing abel gautier; intro & info page

french and “confused”. lives a minimalist n’ expensive life. if american psycho & french kiss were the same movie. wine sniffer. the devil bakes croissants. will watch you die. takes grudges to the afterlife. gets attached but either ruins it or ruins it to spare everyone, himself included. falls in love a lot but knows how to calm the fuck down. very giving, fortunately. manipulative but isn’t too wild about bending everything to his will. 

reintroducing simini gale; intro & info page ( tw abuse, violence & mental illness )

token white actress & character in rosie’s show. [ britney vc ] its me.... against dissociation. a loud mess with an intense mental state and anger issues dulled out by her prescribed meds and whatever pill she got in the bottom of her manager’s purse. dependent and distraught about it. grocery shopping for garbage food and attending comedy stand up shows half drunk as a hobby. stable ? where. very nice and super flighty. heels are hot. wishes she could fight someone without feeling the urge to actually fight someone. 

reintroducing calvin o’shea; intro & info page ( tw mental illness )

it’s not just the depression more than the incredible self hatred. walks into rooms with his bad energy, grumpy mood and cunty attitude. graduated college just to shut his dad up. wants to die harder than edward cullen. just doesn’t give a shit. has a baby named freddie mercury ( also known as the antichrist, with alanis, his mortal literal enemy whom he absolutely despises and will not hesitate to put his dick back in again lbr ) who will probably grow up to talk shit about his parents whom he also mentioned in his tell-all book on ellen. works at his family’s bookstore that sucks the life energy out of college students nearing a mental breakdown.

reintroducing isabel pavia; intro & info page ( tw drug use )

contemporary dances her feelings away. too ambitious for her own good but knows what she’s doing. in a goth ass secret society ( here ) a.k.a her new found purpose. knows everything eventually. oddly trustworthy. doesn’t know what speaking loudly is, let alone yelling. loves the moon & has that moon app. had to take painkillers when she twisted her ankle very badly and would take them for a while for stress and performance reasons, but has stopped. a quiet angel. 

reintroducing anastasia zeller; intro & info page

ambitious/multi-talented asshole. horror trash & an emotional/mental maze which translates well into her weird works on no sleep reddit and current horror comedy podcast. ( click here for info ). needs a therapist according to a friend, whom she dropped for saying that. will bite your head off. obsessed with her works to an unhealthy point. would love to establish a company and stuff out of it and is working on that. healthy relationships are a semi-foreign concept.

reintroducing morgan booker; intro & info page ( tw death )

vape-curious and takes photos of ghost towns and abandoned-everythings because #vision. had a roadtrip phase like the fake deep idiot he is. morally grey. genuinely here for a good laugh and spreading joy in the form of hover-friendships and taking lit candids of his friends. knows shit and comes off as a creep sometimes but does he really care. knows your mom’s name. lives in a disused hospital bc he’s marinating on that aesthetic. 

reintroducing bowie harmon; intro & info page ( tw drug use & abuse )

part of a duo in a web series as the anxious n’ cackling mess. showcases her depressión & anxieté by her colorful wigs n’ new hair dyes. painful receptionist at a tattoo parlor. recovering addict who advocates for drug use. thinks tattooing a ruler on someone’s dick one day would be the peak of her accomplishments as a tattoo artist. daily bad decisions. “ it’s complicated. ” when asked about literally any relationship she has with anyone in her life. traumas include her failed singing career. an ex viner-by-association.

reintroducing shaheen bin baz; intro & info page ( tw violence & mental illness )

the physical deception of going through hell in a short amount of time with zero mental durability to begin with during midterms. trigger-anxious. will shoot your toes off your foot if caught off guard. aided in criminal operations with the brilliance of his mind in codes. would not mind dying. seasons your food. waters his crops in his balcony garden. the grey area between a super laidback dude and a crackhead with violent tendencies. nearing a mental breakdown probably. 

reintroducing minka abbott-santos; intro & info page ( tw abuse )

defeats the evil stepmom stereotype one breath at a time. the human embodiment of a deer. gothic angel. alarmingly gets black swan. type to wake up to her staring at you from an armchair across the room, but lovingly, with a book she was reading in hand and two hot cups of tea; she was waiting to start the day with you. spooky until you get to know her and even more spookier when she’s ( note: calmly ) pissed but that’s extremely rare. gentle voice, soul and everything.

reintroducing reuben faulkner; intro & info page ( tw abuse & violence  )

rekt hell prince. lived in an amish community with his family until he got kidnapped away from home when he was seven into an awful living situation. doesn’t remember if the gas leak that happened five years later and killed everyone was his doing or not. knows where his real family is after months of tracking them down but. blood kink under investigation. shady bouncer at a shady club. has issues he has no care or time to diminish. fights for the shits and giggles. leaves texts at read. leaves you alone for your own good and his own sanity. 

reintroducing alexandra turunen;  info page

wants to do everything and be everything and doesn’t know what to do with herself ( read: post-graduation identity crisis ) currently investing in a motorcycle for no reason. essentially jobless. a “retired” kathryn merteuil who “outgrew” her cunning ways since highschool but really only found new socially destructive interests. appears to be self-possessed but she’s #shaken. doesn’t care about how well she presents herself anymore after getting rejected by four universities and refusing to accept her father’s offer to pull some strings to get her in one. sleeps a lot. 

reintroducing giuseppe del vecchio;  info page ( tw death & drug use  )

goes by pepe because well. son of italian oil peeps & is extra. said to be in a cult when all he’s in is this extra ass dining club that does the most for initiation ceremonies. ready to fall in love with you. goes to the king’s college in london and studies business & changes his minor way too often for everyone’s liking. into everything and will be down to do whatever. faux deep. mischievous shit. incredibly unbiased. had his rawrk n’ roll phase that died along with someone in a club literally. still has it but he knows god now & less drugs.

reintroducing kelian scott;  info page ( tw death & drug use  )

a father/father figure who tries™. runs a mechanic shop/chop shop because bad decisions and dire needs ( had his son to send to school and his daughter who passed away due to a disease he couldn’t afford to treat even after turning his shop into a chop shop. his wife then left him ). stares into the distance. wants the best for the kids but one of them is a junkie ( he doesn’t know yet ) and the other -- his niece -- is an orphan he’s worried about. thinks ahead 24/7. needs to pull out of this dull n’ depressing daily routine he has fallen into like the basic ass divorced dad he is. 

reintroducing sal presley;  info page

smexy trace & fingerprint detective. talks. the perfect illusion to bring home to your parents and friends. gets shit done which is both a good thing and a bad thing. looks calm, collected n’ well-rested but isn’t. his actual name is salvatore but no. knows how to mix drinks and more; used to showcase his multi-talented ass to make his ( currently ex ) fiancée look good now just himself. was engaged three times; two of those times with the same person. obsessive; gets into his job a little too intensely for no reason but #justice and maybe something else whom knows. loses sleep at least two nights a week as a habit at this point. has an extended family back home he misses occasionally. wishes he could calm down truly. 

[mrbrownstonelove]

Not in My Name.

It Begins

March 22, 2017. There is an attack at Westminster with a van mercilessly mowing down victims on London Bridge.

April 27, 2017. A terror attack is thwarted in London and a man is arrested carrying knives near the Houses of Parliament.

May 22, 2017. Manchester. A suicide bomb goes off at an Ariana Grande concert in Manchester.

Manchester is when it all changed for me. I’ve only been there once about 20 years ago but an Ariana Grande concert is full of children, teenagers and families and it could’ve easily been my with my children or family. That someone would actively go out to hurt children is a new low, and it broke my heart. I stood with London after all the attacks above and with Manchester particularly because of the senseless violence that ruined many lives and targeted little kids.

June 3, 2017. London Bridge and Borough Market comes under attack as a vehicle runs over victims and murderers proceed on foot to carry out a relentless knife attack.

All these attacks are indiscriminate. The motive of the Manchester attack is still not known but all 4 of these carry the same traits of targeting anyone within a specific area at the time. It could have been my family eating out at 10am at Borough Market on June 3rd, me walking past the Houses of Parliament from work or on London Bridge.

The attacks were carried out by radicalized terrorists who had no idea if the people they were killing were Muslim or not because they probably didn’t look up how many young Muslims teens had gotten ready to attend Ariana’s concert, or were walking across London Bridge or even eating out after breaking their fast in Borough Market. They targeted innocent lives, irrespective of faith, creed or belief. They just wanted to hurt people. Then Muslims worked alongside all other Britons to save lives through the night at hospitals, help alongside their Sikh, Christian, Hindu, Jewish and non-religious fellow citizens to offer a place to stay, a ride home and do anything they could to help. They did so harbouring a disbelief that these terrorists could kill people in the name of Islam, angry that they were trying to divide us and even religious leaders came out to disown the bodies of the murderers who died committing their heinous evil crimes.

Muslim imams in an unprecedented move are refusing to carry out the funeral prayers for those who carried out the attacks, disowning these people and their beliefs.

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/jun/05/imams-refuse-funeral-prayers-to-indefensible-london-bridge-attackers

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/jun/06/more-muslim-leaders-refuse-funeral-prayers-london-attackers

 The attacks taking place during the Islamic holy month of Ramadan shows the evil intentions of the attackers. While most Muslims were fasting, praying in the mosque and worshipping God, these murderers were taking lives, something explicitly forbidden and considered a grave sin in Islam.

http://www.standard.co.uk/news/london/attack-during-ramadan-shows-they-respect-neither-life-nor-faith-a3556406.html

Condemnation after condemnation

The attacks are deplored by all, bar none of any community, religious or not, because we all value human life. Yet on social media and unfortunately now, also within my own local area, people jump on the Muslim community asking why they’re not doing more to condemn the attacks. Many tweets on my feed were asking where the Muslim rallies were against the London attacks, ignoring completely that this is not about a community being isolated and having their own rally or vigil because we all stand together as one, united and suffering the loss.

http://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/mosques-and-muslim-leaders-united-in-disgust-after-london-bridge-terror-attack-a3556676.html

 http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/muslim-women-stand-solidarity-london-terror-attack-victims-westminster-bridge-khalid-masood-a7651361.html

 https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/3730212/heartbreaking-scenes-at-emotional-vigil-for-london-bridge-terror-attack-victims-as-families-cops-and-faith-leaders-join-thousands-to-honour-those-killed/

 The Muslim community has condemned all the attacks repeatedly and I was asked recently if this was simply a community paying ‘lip service’. The questioner failed to understand that when a terrorist attack is perpetrated by a Muslim, the Islamic community faces the worst repercussions of the attack second to the victims of the attack and their families.

Firstly, yes I am a Muslim and follow the Islamic faith, which by default immediately makes me a part of the British Muslim community. As someone born and brought up in the UK, anything that affects this country and my fellow citizens affects my family and I too. This includes any cuts to our policing, political decisions about our education system, Brexit, the NHS and so on. Anything that affects any British person affects me the same way and that doesn’t change just because I’m a member of the Muslim community.

Where an attack is concerned, just like everyone else I feel the dread, the fear and experience the resilience that follows it. When it is an attack perpetrated by someone using my religion as a justification for it or seemingly inspired by an ideology that has been branded as something to do with Islam, it affects me more because immediately after an attack not only am I feeling what everyone else is feeling but I am angry that someone has attacked my beautiful religion and attempted to hijack it and use it for evil.

My religion does not justify any of these attacks in any way at all and any headlines, sound bites and quotes you’ll find pushed by anyone trying to point fingers or use the Quran to justify it are simply wrong. Pointing to a quote from the Quran without even understanding how to read it as a non-linear book, which is divided into sections that are context-dependent and context-independent, shows the ignorance of those quoting it for their own purpose.

 See: http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/comment/are-peaceful-muslims-in-denial-about-their-religion-10084960.html

 The Quran also clearly prohibits sectarianism so basing hatred on how any Muslim country or its people have behaved is futile, because like all humans, Muslims are not fallible. The religion commands ‘good’ and what is often the cultural practice of a land or a non-religious based struggle between communities is misinterpreted as Islam. This highlights that those who study the religion and the Quran are not the people carrying out these attacks and are often people with little religious knowledge which makes them easy prey for those seeking to radicalize them, because how do you radicalize someone with the intellect and understanding of a religion which preaches love for one another, understanding between all communities and a life dedicated to worshipping God and taking care of all His creation?

So these incidents affect me because I’m British and an attack on London or Manchester is an attack on all of us and secondly because if the attackers claim to be Muslim and using Islam as the reason then they’ve attacked and twisted my religion into something it’s no. Thirdly it affects me because after every attack, the police come to the mosques and tell us they’ve seen online forums, Facebook posts and chats that suggest the Muslim community will be targeted in general for revenge attacks. So not only are we dealing with the blow of the incident itself and that someone tried to pin it on our community, but a minority of the people will now in turn use this attack to justify terrorizing us and our families in a morbid act of revenge. The police will advise and provide a list of things we can do to be vigilant which in turn shows these terrorists have won. They’ve already divided us if people can’t see that not only can I be at a vigil one moment praying for and showing solidarity with the victims and the City but attacked on the way home from the same event for simply being a Muslim and sharing the faith of the attackers.

The incidents will then permeate to the workplace where discussions go quiet when a Muslim enters the room sometimes, or at school where now my children are at threat too. There are other children in the class and a small minority of their parents will say things to take out their anger that reflect a generalized negative connotation of the Muslim community which their children hear and sometimes inherit and then my children have to hear too and feel worried about their own safety all over again. I recently had to tell my child that I’d be dropping them to school and back and when asked why, I explained it was because of the recent incident at London Bridge. I didn’t elaborate that it was due to threats against our community and ‘any visible Muslim’ as an after effect of the attack.

Doing More

I was asked why “my community” weren’t doing more to stop terrorism (the only time someone refers to myself as not me but as part of a community is when they want me to either speak for all Muslims which is absurd or lump me in with everyone else and ask me why “my people” are doing this).

For some reason, it is assumed that when I go to the mosque to pray there is some secret inside intelligence being shared about terror, extremism or youth being radicalized. I’ve been going to the mosque since I was a child and have only heard sermons about what Islam says, how to respect your neighbours, be good citizens and improve ourselves from within. There was even one about Mo Farah in 2012 telling the children in the audience that if he could do it, so could they. They could go on and represent Britain and be the pride of the country. This is a far fetch from what some thing goes on inside mosques, or at least my local one.

Why aren’t these people being reported and stopped because if they’re Muslims well they surely should know other Muslims and someone in that circle should do something about it or speak up. This is another thing I am being told right now and I plea innocence to not knowing anything about any terror or extremist literature, talks or people within my local area or community, but even this is looked upon with suspicion. The question of reporting it and asking why Muslims don’t do more is also debatable given that it’s now clear the Westminster attempt was stopped thanks to a British Muslim’s tip off, that mosques and concerned Muslims all actually did report these people to the authorities. See below.

Are they being reported?

Yes. The Whitehall incident was foiled after a British Muslim reported concern about the man’s behavior to the police.

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/apr/27/man-arrested-over-incident-in-whitehall-near-parliament

 Yes. The Manchester attacker was known to authorities, had been reported to them a number of times and was even banned from the local Mosque for extremist views.

http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/greater-manchester-news/manchester-bomber-salman-abedi-banned-13092209

 and

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-40080646

 One of the London attackers was known to the police, appeared on a TV documentary about jihadists in the UK and was even reported by a Muslim friend to the anti terrorist hotline and authorities because of his radicalized views and behavior.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-40159360/they-didn-t-get-back-to-me

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-40167432

 Where do we go from here?

We do the British thing: keep calm and carry on.

 Any time there is an attack it will make us angry but we’ll unite, come together and let love overrule the hate. The Manchester One Love concert had an amazing healing effect and this was the day after the London attack. It showed that we can heal, we can celebrate our Britishness and we won’t let anyone stop us being who we are, doing what we do or let anything come between us.

 Let There Be Love

 I have purposely not mentioned the names of those who carried out any of the attacks because they don’t deserve their names to be remembered. I have instead named below the victims of each of the attacks because they should never be forgotten.

  Manchester (the 22 victims who died):

Megan Hurley

Elaine McIver

Courtney Boyle and Philip Tron

Wendy Fawell

Eilidh Macleod

Sorrell Leczkowski

Chloe Rutherford and Liam Curry

Michelle Kiss

Nell Jones

Jane Tweddle-Taylor

Martyn Hett

Olivia Campbell

Alison Howe and Lisa Lees

Kelly Brewster

Angelika and Marcin Klis

Georgina Callander

Saffie Rose Roussos

John Atkinson

 Westminster attack:

PC Keith Palmer

Aysha Frade

Kurt Cochran

Leslie Rhodes

Kurt Cochran

 London Bridge attack (victims named so far)

Kirsty Boden

James McMullan

Chrissy Archibald

Alexandre Pigeard

This post is dedicated to all the victims of terrorism worldwide, especially those in London and Manchester recently. God bless you all and let there be love. To those lives lost, you are not forgotten but will always Live Forever.