#not sure if scratching until leaving scars counts as self harm but there we go

[heartfluttered]

wanna cosplay so badly. too bad every inch of my skin is disgusting LOL guess i’ll die

[rayofsunas]

otherworldly! s/o

A/n: happy monday! I woke up at 7am and since then I've been grinding out assignments/classes and now this, so I actually feel productive even though I've been staring at my computer for a while. but thank you for requesting anon! I enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it! <33 also to understand this more, I'd like to point out that this connects to the speculation Genshin and Honkai are alternate universes of one another. so for example, Scaramouche is a harbinger from his time, but he may have been a warlord in a different, with a completely different name (keeping his appearance ofc) hope that makes sense. so if you've paid attention to what I've been saying about Scara and his mini-series, etc. you'll understand what I mean in Scara's lol. his reader insert is fem for the same reason as above btw!

Summary: otherworldly! s/o who arrived as a fallen meteor, that can bring back plants to life/heal deep wounds/scars and resurrect people.

Parings: Albedo/Gn! Reader, Xiao/Gn! Reader, Scaramouche/Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, fluff, alternate realities/time traveler au! (reader is not the traveler), death/resurrection

Word count: 1.7k

Albedo

you don't have a vision like some people in Teyvat, because you're not from there; you're from a whole different world itself. instead, you have healing abilities that allow you to any energy you absorb in the form of food/sunlight, and you can use that energy to heal others. though, the healing can only go as far as healing minor injuries such as shallow cuts, scratches, or smoothing out scars. the same can work if you were to heal yourself.

Albedo is so intrigued when he finds you passed out in the pit of a meteor, half of your body hanging out while the other is awkwardly still in it

one, because who is this stranger in a meteor for crying out loud

and two, he notices your wounds on your arms are healing by themselves, slowly though

as someone who studies alchemy, life forms, and such, he's very intrigued that you're able to heal yourself without medicine, and he wonders if you can do the same to others

so he takes you to his lab, and runs a few tests

yes, you're still passed out when this happens, but he's just so curious and couldn't hold back

don't worry though, he's just drawing some blood and testing to see what you can do, because who knows, you may not even speak his language and won't be able to communicate with him (doesn't make a difference Albedo, you need COnSENT-)

so, just for science, he cuts the palm of his hand a little and decides to see if you can heal him

it doesn't take him long to notice the way the tips of your fingers are glowing a light greenish-yellow, so he immediately assumes that's the source of your powers and places a finger on his palm

it takes a second before anything happens, but eventually his cut starts to slowly close

once again he's even more shocked and intrigued

you have the natural ability and he's never come across someone with so much raw strength being able to do that

so you're right up his alley

when you wake up you're confused as hell (obviously) but thankfully, you can speak his language and are able to share your story

Albedo decides to make a deal with you

he'll help you get home if you can educate him more about your ability and your homeland. you agree

it works out perfectly, because you both have something the other needs/can do for the other (you have your power that he's interested in, and he's found a way for you to return home)

it's also easy to work together because of those same common interests, and it helps that he studies alchemy cause he's way more knowledgeable about you and the process can go a tiny bit quicker for you if you wish to return home sooner

at first you're merely friends, co-workers if you wish

but then he starts falling for you and vice versa

you both genuinely enjoy each others company, so you decide to stay in Teyvat a little while longer, even after he finds a way for you to go home

I wouldn't put it past Albedo to want to return to your world if you allow it

he'd be interested in this new or not so new world ;)

Xiao

you're like the traveler in a sense, where as soon as you climbed out of the meteor, you felt this connection to Teyvat and your vision randomly appeared. you have a dendro vision, something you learned was a rarity within liyue and mondstadt. along with that vision, you had the previous ability to grow/heal plants. you can bring back dead plants, though if they've been dead for a very long time, that's beyond your ability. they also can't be brought back if they've been badly burned.

Xiao may not be interested at first about what vision you have or even where you came from + why the hell you climbed out of a meteor

he's more interested in getting you home so you can stop asking questions about his own abilities/vision and odd, unfamiliar, but beautiful world

but boy when he catches you bringing back a wilted Glaze Lily?!? shook

he secretly thinks you're so cool and it piques his interest

he's never seen anyone do this before, and though his eyes were deceiving him when he first saw the lily spring to life again

but then when he catches you healing more plants, on your way to Liyue to hopefully find Zhongli for answers, he's so interested

he doesn't ask a crapload of questions, BUT he's going to ask at least one or two

"how're you doing that?"

"what are you?

the questions are kind of vague and require more in-depth explanations than he'd originally hoped, but he's surprisingly willing to listen to your story on the way to the harbor

after he learns your story and calls for Zhongli, he'll immediately leave and claim he has no further interests in you

but he's obviously lying

he finds as he's sitting on top of one the smaller mountains one night, looking down at the glowing Liyue town, he has more questions

way more questions

surprising Zhongli, Xiao shows appears when he's showing you around and getting you accustomed to the people/culture

he finds himself hoving behind you, shyly almost, never asking questions (at least not in Zhongli's presence

his reason for standing behind you is to protect you from any harm, so that way, when he decides to ask you more questions, you'll be there for him to do so and not dead or lost

when you tell Zhongli you'd wish to stay in Teyvat, specifically Liyue, Xiao is happy ngl

he can ask you questions and now that you're somewhat used to Liyue, having been here for four months already and planning to stay forever, he can catch you alone and ask questions without Zhongli hovering or acting as your tour guide lol

slowly, and I mean sluggishly slow, he's going to ask you more questions and he may, emphasis on may, tell you his own story

Scaramouche

you're from an alternate reality of Teyvat, a former doctor in your world. basically, Teyvat hundreds of years in the future. you've studied the human body to become a doctor obviously and you used to be able to bring back the dead using your bare hands. it didn't matter how far back ago they've died, as long as their full-body was still intact (full skeleton needed). though, the further back they died, the more energy you'd use, and if you run out of energy too soon, you couldn't bring them back. but now in this strange land, you can't. in exchange for your powers being lost, you're given an electro vision.

Scaramouche is tasked with finding out more about these odd meteors that keep appearing in various corners of Teyvat

and one very large one

he doesn't care who you are, what you are, what your excuse for being in Teyvat is, but he's been ordered to explore the fallen meteor and since you happened to be passed out inside it upon further exploration, you're part of the mystery he's been told to check out

and, it doesn't further help your situation that you landed in Snezhnaya, in the weirdest, not-so-warm clothing AND he finds you attractive (yes, you heard it here folks), plus you're going to catch hypothermia out here dressed like that

it would suck for a pretty girl such as yourself to be frozen to death

so Scaramouche decides to take you to the Tsaritsa, who leaves you in Scaramouche's care since he found you

she says he can do whatever he wants you, dispose of you, etc.

when you finally come too in an odd room on a couch in front of a fireplace, you're confused, cold as hell despite the flames, and when you see his face, you're immediately angered, which he finds odd

it's almost as if you recognize him... but he doesn't recognize you so he's confused as well

"what're you doing here?"

bold of you, he thinks. to question him with that tone as if you have authority here, over him

"watch yourself. I was going to ask you the same."

you don't seem too pleased with him though

"we agreed to never speak again, or so I thought..."

"are you stupid or are you just playing the stupid card to be released?" he'd say

though as soon as you burst and yell at him about a situation he's not familiar with, he's starting to understand a bit more

you're not from here, not anywhere in Teyvat at least, and by the way you're talking to him as if you know him, he assumed correctly that you're from an alternate reality, where he's also present

though despite his correct assumption, he demands answers and you cannot be allowed any kind of freedom until he gets them

you tell him your story and how in your world, a version of himself exists and that you were briefly married, though split because he was too much of a control/power freak for you and your daughter

he disagrees with the last part about him being a control/power freak ofc but

he decides he'll keep you around, against your wishes

one, because you can become useful if your resurrection abilities are awoken; you'd be able to save many fallen Fatui soldiers, with more training so you don't run out of energy ofc

and two, he doesn't think his other self would miss you very much if you're both on bad terms, he sure would miss such a pretty face if you were to leave though, that's for sure...

so, he's going to keep you around, so he can help train/get used to your electro vision. it works best that way since he has the same vision and can train you more efficiently (I think Scara has electro powers, just an assumption!)

he will also hopefully be able to awaken your resurrection abilities and if you can't, well then sorry you're disposable

overtime, all the Harbingers tease him about his little crush and he either denies it or strongly provokes it cause his ego is through his fucking hat

exhibit a. literally doesn't care that he's caught by childe staring at you train and will say something like, "and? you're just jealous she's not interested in you like she is me."

exhibit b. will throw a fit if someone accuses him and says he has, "no room for crushes or love." even if he was somewhat capable of it in your world...

3.22.21, rayofsunas

[slasherbastard]

May I ask for 31, 41, and 52 from the prompts for either Vincent or Brahms, whoever you want to choose. I hope you're doing well:))

(gif credit: stabhappyslashers)

Warning: Self Harm, Angst, Swearing,  Word count: 2120 Notes: Trigger warning,, this work is mostly about self harm so if you’re uncomfortable please don’t read it. Also “Y/N” is gender neutral in this

A string of curses fell from Vincent’s mouth as the shower water hit his thighs, stinging as the water fell in a light shade of an orangey-red. He tried to ignore the pain as he grabbed some shampoo and massaged it through his hair, trying to promise himself that this would be the last time - but that’s what he’d said last time. Vincent doesn’t fully know what caused his relapse but here he was assuming it was stress. The stress of expanding the wax museum to the whole town, although it’s a team effort it was still hard when he was the one making sure the figures looked human enough. It was also hard when Bo criticised everything Vince did, especially when he was still learning.

“What the hell is that? They’re supposed to look real, not like whatever that is. Do it again.”

There were times when Vincent wished he could talk back to his brother but even if he could he knew Bo wouldn’t have it and the scars would be worse. Vincent bit his cheek and groaned in pain as a sharp sting came from his leg again, moving himself so that only his head was hitting the water, a few drops trickling down his body and narrowly avoiding the scars. He had his eye tightly shut so he could also avoid seeing the scars that littered his upper thighs, they repulsed him but it was too late and they didn’t look like scratches that would fade in a few weeks or a few days if he was lucky.

Half an hour later he was out of the shower and trying to avoid staring at his legs as he slipped on a pair of sweatpants. Looking up and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror made him freeze for a few seconds, he stared at the chunks of hair sticking to the scarred side of his face and pushed it behind his ear. He felt nothing but pure disgust as he stared into that foggy mirror at himself, how could someone ever love someone as disgusting as me? It scared him to think like that but he couldn't help it. He really couldn't see what you saw in him, he's a cold hearted killer and you're possibly the nicest person he's ever met - although the bar is pretty low, Vincent's definition of a nice person is someone who doesn't treat him the way his brother treats him, like shit. The only person’s company that Vincent enjoyed was yours. Ever since his parent's passing and being stuck in a town where the only person who could tolerate him was his abusive twin brother, Vincent felt so alone - that was until he met you. He really couldn't believe that someone like you existed, but what would you think if you found out about his secret?

A sudden knock on the bathroom door interrupted Vincent’s thoughts. He stepped out and grabbed a towel and quickly wrapped it around his waist as he waited for his brother to bang on the door and yell at him for not answering straight away but instead, he heard your voice. “Vincent?”

He opened the bathroom door and smiled as your face came into view. “Hey Vince, are you coming to bed soon?"

"S-Soon." He managed to get out, Y/N smiled at Vincent and leaned in, kissing him through the space in the door before leaving him to finish getting ready for bed. Vincent closed the door and his smile faded out. He took one last look in the mirror before and left, catching up to you as you finished descending the stairs.

---

You fell beside Vincent and he melted into your chest as you stroked his hair, he pulled the blankets over the two of you and snuggled up closer to you. "Hey Vincent?" Vincent looked up at you and made a 'mhmm' noise. "I don't want to seem like I'm rushing things but are we ever going to- you know, do it?"

Vincent widened his eyes and you quickly began apologising until he held up a hand and let out a mumbled laugh. "Okay. It's okay." He paused and tried to collect his words but he struggled. He didn't want to say yes because he knew you'd be disgusted by him and his scars, but if he said no then you'd be hurt and possibly leave him. Either way, one of you was gonna hurt. Vincent let go of you. "Tired."

"Oh. Uh, goodnight." You fisted the blanket and pulled it close for warmth before almost instantly falling asleep while Vincent laid there, questioning the choice he made and the things you said. Did you really want to have sex with him? No, that can't be. Vincent watched you sleep beside him as he moved a hand down to his leg and pressed down on his left upper thigh through his sweatpants and winced, quickly glancing up at you to make sure you were still asleep. He removed his hand and continued to watch you as his eyes began to drop and he fell asleep beside you.

The next morning Vincent woke up alone. He pulled himself out of bed and slipped on one a sweater that was lying on the floor and headed upstairs to the kitchen where you were making breakfast. "Vince! I'm making bacon and eggs, come on!" Vincent joined you in the kitchen and got out enough plates and utensils for three and set everything up on counter. "Oh, Bo isn't here. He's out looking for trouble." You let out a laugh and brought the pan over to the counter and dropped the food onto two of the plates before putting the pan in the sink and dousing it in water.

The two of you ate mostly in silence except for the occasional crunch from the bacon. "About last night-" You both looked up at as the front door opened and Bo walked in. "Hey Bo, I didn't realise you'd be back this early. Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"

"Nope, I'm just here to grab some supplies n' then I'm gone again."

You waited until Bo had disappeared upstairs before turning back to Vincent. "I-I can wait if you're not ready, it really doesn't bother me." Vincent just nodded in response and continued eating, thinking about the interaction between you and Bo. He just knew that you liked Bo more than him, it was so fucking obvious. Vincent finished his breakfast before you and dumped his plate and utensils in the sink just as Bo was coming downstairs holding a duffle bag. Vincent stepped out in front of Bo and stared at him. "What'cha want, freak?" Bo chuckled to himself and stepped to the side but Vincent followed him.

"D-D-D-"

"D-D-D- What? What the fuck do you want?" Bo started growing more aggressive, that's when Vincent shoved him into the ground and pounced on him, repeatedly punching and kneeing him. Bo threw him off and quickly stood up, Vincent following his actions. Bo reached up to his face and touched his cheek, he wiped the blood that coated his fingertips on his coveralls and picked the bag up again and slung it over his shoulder. "I'll be back late, don't wait up for me, asshole." He muttered the last part under his breath just loud enough for Vincent to hear, as soon as Bo left you turned to Vincent with a disappointed and shocked expression on your face.  

"What the hell, Vince? He didn't do anything." Vincent ignored you and ran upstairs, hoping you wouldn't follow him as he locked himself in the bathroom and grabbed the second best thing to a knife, his razor. He knew it couldn't do as much damage as the knife but a razor sure still hurt like a bitch. He did what he felt like he had to do, small trickles of blood forming over the cuts from last night. He wished he stop, he wanted to, but he couldn't. All he did was disappoint everyone around him, this was for the best. Vincent slid down and sat on the cool tiles and watched the blood pool and drip off his leg onto the floor, he knew what nobody liked him but this wasn't one of those situations where he could run away to a new town and restart his life. Vincent was cursed with the face he has and no mask could ever make him feel human or deserving of anything. "Vincent?"

History repeated itself. A knock on the door interrupted Vincent. "Vince it's me, open the door." Bo's voice was quiet, it was a side of him that Vincent thought died with his innocence. "Please. I want to talk. I promise I ain't gonna hurt 'ya."

Vincent watched the door as he backed up into the furthest wall which wasn't that far since the bathroom was pretty small. "N-No!" Vincent reached for the towel above him and tried to cover up his legs but it was too late. Bo had broken down the door and the sight made him freeze and even worse, you were standing behind him with wide glassy eyes. Vincent tried to open his mouth but he couldn't, he tried to speak but he couldn't. Bo took a step back and tried to process what was happening before him, he was fine with blood but seeing Vincent partially covered in it made him feel weird. You pushed past him and ran to Vincent's side, Vincent looked like he was going to faint either from shock or blood loss. "Vince? Vince? Hey, stay with me."

"Please."

"What is it? Anything-"

"Please don't l-look at me." Vincent's eyes closed, you looked back at Bo and started ordering him to get Vincent into the basement while you looked for whatever could help Vincent, since Ambrose doesn't have a hospital - and even if it did, it would still be completely useless. You tried not to cry as you gathered your equipment, painkillers, bandages, medical tape, towels, alcohol, all that good stuff. How did you not see this? How did Vincent get away with this? How long has he been doing this? You threw everything onto the table and watched as Bo placed Vincent on the bed, you quickly wiped away your tears and started tending to the wounds while Bo watched.

After playing medic for a good 15 minutes the surgery was a success - it wasn't too bad, Vincent thankfully didn't need stitches - you threw the bloody towels aside and threw the blanket over Vincent and turned to Bo. "Did you know about this?"

Bo was silent. You rolled your eyes and turned back to Vincent and stroked his forehead, moving the hair out of his face. "He used to, but I didn't realise he started again or that it was this bad."

You bit your lip and got up from the bed, rubbing your head and looking at Bo. "How long has he been doing this?"

"Since mom died, I think."

"I'll talk to him when he wakes up." Bo nodded and left you alone to wait for Vincent to wake up. You didn't have to wait long, he ended up shooting up and scaring the crap out of you about an hour or so later. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Vincent looked at you confused. "What?"

"The- where did all these scars come from?"

Vincent's expression faded and he looked down. "I don't-" Vincent grew quiet for a few seconds. "I don't want to be like this."

"Be like what, Vince?"

"Me." It was just one word but it caused you so much pain. You loved Vincent more than anything in this world and the thought of losing him hurt - you never had to think about losing him, just the realisation threw you back. "I am disgusting." He mumbled.

"Vincent. No. You're not disgusting." You felt useless just saying that but you were lost. "Vincent. I can't lose you. I know that I can't say anything that'll make you stop and this won't stop overnight, is there anything I can do right now?" you swore Vincent could hear your heart through your chest as it felt like it was going to burst out like it does in Looney Tunes, Vincent took your hand and looked at you.

"I w-will try." You smiled and he pulled you in, careful not to touch his legs.

"I'm here for you, Vince. I swear I'm never going to leave you - especially for Bo." you jokingly made a disgusted face at the mention of Bo causing the two of you to quietly laugh. "You're way too important."

[im-definitely-not-trash]

Here’s day three, thankfully on time. :) I tried to do less dialogue because my stories usually rely on dialogue a lot and I wanted to try something different.

Prompt #3: “Who did this to you?”

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

TW: referenced self-harm, infected injuries

Word count: 1536

Lance and Pidge were chilling playing video games. As they laughed at a characters death, Lance elbowed Pidge’s left arm playfully. She winced, quietly enough no one would hear, but Lance saw her face scrunch up in pain. He dropped the controller and pulled up her sleeve to her shoulder, Pidge protesting the whole time, trying to wiggle away. There were three long scratches on her upper arm, scabbed over and starting to scar, but Lance could see that they had been deep.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

Pidge went quiet, shuffling away and pulling her sleeve down. Then she just stood up and walked out of the closet. Lance called after her, but she didn’t listen.

~~~

Over the next few days, Lance noticed that Pidge was treating him differently. She was fine around literally everyone else, but she hung out with Kosmo more than him. It was as if he’d done something to offend her, not worrying about her and what happened to her arm.

He tried several times to confront her again, wanting to find out why she was treating him like a disease and also to figure out what had happened and who had done it. But every time, she just ignored him and locked herself in her room so he couldn’t get to her.

Lance considered talking to Shiro about it, but ultimately decided against that. He wouldn’t have a clue what was going on. So he decided to leave her alone until she came back to be friends again.

~~~

His waiting time was cut short after about a week when Pidge showed up to breakfast looking exhausted and kind of green. She left her arm hanging by her side while she ate breakfast goo with her right hand. Her hand shook as she ate and Lance had to bite his tongue to not mention it in front of everyone. But after she excused herself without eating even half of her bowl, he knew something was way worse than it was before and he couldn’t just leave her to her own devices anymore.

He followed her out of the kitchen and snuck into her room with her (what a mess). She went into her bathroom, and Lance tried to watch through the crack in the door and the mirror what she was doing.

Pidge pulled her arm out of her sleeve, biting her lip to avoid making noise as tears spilled over. The three cuts in her arm had seemingly grown bigger, and they were discolored and oozing. Lance couldn’t take it anymore. He threw the door open, making Pidge jump.

“Come on, Pidge, who in the quiznak did this to you?? I’m going to kill who did this, I can’t believe anyone would hurt you! And why didn’t you ask for help at all?! It’s been at least a week that you’ve been hurt, and I know you haven’t said anything to anyone, and it’s pissing me off!”

Pidge was sobbing now, lightly grabbing her arm to curl up in a ball.

“Pidgey, I want to help you! Everyone does! Who did this?! We can’t just let someone like this to roam free to hurt anyone else. Just tell m—”

Pidge cried. “It was me!”

Lance shut up very quickly.

“You?” he asked in a whisper.

The tears wouldn’t stop streaming. “It distracts me, and I didn’t mean for it to get this bad, but I can’t stop thinking about Matt and my dad and my mom whenever Zarkon is going to make his way to Earth to hurt her and anyone else, and I can’t keep pretending that I’m not worried because I am but if I was worried, it would distract me from being a Paladin and so I needed to distract myself from getting distracted and when I distracted myself by my own terms it made it easier to fulfill my tasks as a Paladin, but it got bad and now I don’t know what to do because I can’t let anyone know and I’m still upset that you know and—”

“Pidge.”

She shook while looking at Lance. “What?”

The way her voice sounded, crackly and tired, made Lance want to cry too.

“We can help you. You don’t have to keep anything a secret from us. We can find other ways to distract you to focus, if that’s what you really need. But please, please, don’t hurt yourself as a distraction.”

Pidge sat stiff for a second, then just broke down crying again. Lance gathered her into a hug, carefully avoiding her arm.

“Can I tell the others, please?”

Pidge shook her head.

“Then can you tell them?”

She shook her head more frantically.

“They need to know, Pidgey.”

Her voice was muffled in Lance’s shirt. “They’ll think I’m not a real Paladin. I’m not worthy for it.”

“Shut the quiznak up, Pidge, you just told me you were doing this to be able to focus in the first place! And apparently it worked, at least until recently because of the infection. Now, call me a psychopath, but I’m glad the cuts got infected.”

Pidge went quiet again, stifling her sobs, but still shaking against Lance.

“Pidge, can we at least tell Coran? We need to treat the cuts.”

She was silent for a minute, then finally said, “Okay.”

“Okay. Good.”

Lance felt her grab onto him. “Can we stay here for a minute though?” she asked.

“Of course.”

~~~

When she told other Paladins as a group, they refrained from smothering Pidge because they could see how ashamed she was. But that didn’t stop them from individually going to talk to her.

Hunk was the first who showed up. He knocked on her door and came in when invited. They talked for a long time, Hunk telling her he somewhat knew how she felt but he wasn’t invalidating her experience. He asked if making foods from home would help, or make it worse, and she laughed, saying it would help and be delicious. His helpful distraction was food.

Allura showed up next. Once invited in, she simply asked if she could give Pidge a hug, and they sat together for a while. They talked about random things while always touching, and made plans for just the two girls to follow through with, no boys allowed. Allura’s helpful distraction was physical comfort.

Coran came in without permission, but he thought it was okay because it’s technically his castle. He joked with Pidge about anything he could think of, and sincerely asked where milkshakes came from if not from Kaltenecker herself. Pidge laughed at almost anything he said, and tried her hardest to explain how cows (and mammals in general) work. Coran’s helpful distraction was his natural humor.

Lance had already gone in several times, in between everyone, trying to not leave Pidge alone. If she wasn’t alone, she’d be distracted. Pidge understood the real reason why he was spending so much time with her, to prevent her from going back to her unhealthy distraction, but she appreciated it anyway. They played card and video games, talked, had spa nights, and did basically anything at anytime. His helpful distraction was quality time.

Keith came in and just sat on her desk while she sat on her bed. Pidge occupied herself messing with some gadget, and Keith awkwardly sat, waiting for the right moment. When he finally started talking, Pidge almost jumped. He explained how after he was left alone, sometimes his mind would run wild and he wasn’t able to focus on surviving. Even in the space cadet program at the Garrison, he had to distract himself so he could focus on being a pilot. He had chosen the same way, and he thought for sure that it was helping. Keith showed her his scars on the back of his wrists and the inside of his elbow. He told her how he lost sleep over it because his arms always hurt and his attitude got worse until he got kicked out. He had to distract himself more to avoid thinking about how disappointed Shiro would be and how he would live by himself. It wasn’t until he had gotten invested in finding what turned out to be the Blue Lion that he had stopped. He offered his help in the way that she could ask for literally anything, help cleaning her room, someone to talk to, anything that he didn’t have in that period. Keith’s helpful distraction was himself.

Shiro was the last to confront Pidge about anything. And confront her he did. He didn’t offer any distraction, only a listening ear so she could face what was always on her mind. Shiro understood more than anyone, because he was with Matt and her dad, and he left someone on Earth. And because of how he knew that, he knew that she needed to face it as well as distract when it was appropriate. He was helpful by not offering her a distraction.

And with all of these people around her, so willing to help, Pidge knew she’d be okay and she’d be able to work harder and in turn, defeat the Galra.

She can do it.

[winter-soldier-vibes]

I swear, I’m fine

I swear, I’m fine

Bucky x reader 

Word count: 1604 

Warnings: Self harm, depression, anxiety, fluff, brief mention of suicide attempt at the start

Summary: Reader struggles mentally and has a hard time opening up to Bucky.

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

You never thought it’d get this far. One night, you were just having a lot of overwhelming emotions. You had been for a few months. You were watching a movie with your family and someone tried to kill themselves by slitting their wrists. You were young, and the idea of cutting yourself had never crossed your mind, but this intrigued you. Later on that night you waited until everyone fell asleep and then wandered into the kitchen. You held the knife in your hands for a few minutes, going back and forth in your mind with whether or not you really wanted to try this. When you decided your answer was yes, you brought the knife to your arm and pressed lightly, dragging the blade across your skin. Sure, it hurt, and your first thought was “well what was the point in that?” but after the bleeding stopped you felt a pang in your stomach telling you to do it again. You thought it’d be a one time thing

That was 5 years ago. And boy...were you wrong.

Your family found out after a few days. You never were good at keeping a secret. They forced you into therapy, and you stopped. Cutting, that is. You found new ways. Different ways. Fail a test? Just hit your head a few times. Feeling on edge about whatever? Just scratch yourself until it subsides. It always made you feel better. But people just didn’t understand. The people you did tell would either judge you or use it to torment you. So you learned to keep it hidden. 

When you moved out into your own place, the cutting started again. You could find excuses for scratches and scrapes and bruises, but now you didn’t have to. This was 2 years ago. Now, your body was adorned with scars that kept you bound to long sleeves and pants. No exceptions. When you were recruited by the avengers around 6 months ago, you thought it would help. It did, but you still couldn’t help but feel...empty. You had mastered the art of faking a smile years ago, so it was nothing new to you. But little did you know that someone could see right through you

Bucky had quite the dark past himself. And he kept to himself as much as he could. He didn’t want to hurt people, or have people judging him. He did enough of that himself. But something about you peaked his curiosity. He never really felt the need to hide around you. Something about you made him feel like you understood. What, he didn’t know, but he did know that he felt more relaxed around you

You two became friends pretty quickly. And he would open up to you slowly, just because he felt safe enough to do so. He even told you more than he told Steve, which was a shock to all three of you. But you never really began to open up to him. He tried to get you to open up, but you would put up these walls almost instantly. 

He doesn't really care

He’s just being nice

If he knew, he’d just run away

That was what you told yourself all the time, regardless of who you were talking to. You trusted Bucky, just not with this. And so you would just play it off like you were fine. Laugh it off, or play dumb. He’d look at you with a concerned expression “Are you sure you’re okay? You know you don’t have to hide around me.” He’d say. You’d stare right back, smile on your face and reassure him, “Bucky, I’m fine, I swear.” He’d look at you a little longer and then drop it. Sometimes even you believed you were fine

But you weren’t

You were cutting almost every night, and if you wanted to during the day then you would just absentmindedly scratch or pick at your skin. You don’t remember the last time you smiled genuinely, and you spent most nights staring at the ceiling. It had gotten to the point where you had marks on your stomach, thighs, shins, arms, shoulders, and even some on your back. You thought you couldn’t tell anyone. You wanted to tell someone so badly though. But you knew if you told anyone they would leave. And you couldn’t take that risk. And so, you hid it. And you did a pretty good job

But Bucky still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on with you. And one night he couldn’t stop thinking about it. So he decided to go to your room to check on you. He stood in front of your doorway about to knock when he paused. He could’ve sworn he heard something. 

He heard crying

He heard you crying

And you never cry

He knocked softly on your door and immediately the crying stopped and he heard something drop. You were terrified and prayed you hadn’t heard a knock on your door. Which was answered with Bucky knocking again and his voice asking “(Y/N), are you alright?”

You looked at the scene in front of you. Your arm was bleeding and the knife you were using was bloody and a few inches in front of where you sat. You had dropped it when you heard a knock. 

“Yeah Bucky, I’m fine. Why are you up so late?” you asked, praying you could talk your way out of this conversation for the thousandth time, and that he couldn’t hear the waiver in your voice.

“I could ask you the same thing (Y/N). I heard you crying...Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Buck, I swear, I’m fine.”

He sighed, knowing full well that you weren’t. He tried again. “Fine, but I need you to come out here and say it to my face.” All the color drained from your face. The bleeding wasn’t stopping anytime soon and you were just wearing a tank top and shorts. You weren’t expecting company.

The silence told Bucky that he was right. He spoke again “(Y/N), please, can we just talk? I know something is eating away at you. I know what a fake smile looks like. You tense up every time I ask if you’re okay. (Y/N), I don’t know what’s wrong, but I know that something is bothering you. I swear, I just want to help you the same way you help me.”

At some point you had started to cry again. You whispered to yourself, “Please, just not tonight.”

Little did you know that his enhanced senses caused him to hear you. “(Y/N), please. Just tell me what’s wrong. Nothing you could possibly say would change anything.”

You started to nod your head. “Y-Yeah..okay...just give me a minute.” you say, trying to find a clean long sleeve and pair of pants so you could open the door and not completely freak him out. I’ll tell him about the sadness you thought. Not the self harm just yet

True to your word you open the door about a minute later to see Bucky standing there, looking as sleep deprived as you. It was something you both bonded over early on. He gave you a small smile and you stepped to the side, silently inviting him in. 

It took all of two seconds for him to stop dead in his tracks. He pointed to the ground and asked hesitantly “W-what’s that for?”

You followed his finger straight to the bloody knife you completely forgot about. 

“Shit…”

Bucky turned around with a confused and pained expression on his face. “Is this what’s wrong? Is this what’s been bothering you?”

You looked away and went to cross your arms. That told him what he needed to know. He stepped closer. “(Y/N)...”

You looked at him and started tearing up. “I’m fine, i swear”

His face saddened a little more. He brushed a piece of hair out of your face. He looked into your eyes. “It’s okay”

And you broke. 

He caught you before you fell to the ground, sobs wracking your body. He hugged you tightly, and you clung to his T-shirt like he was about to disappear. “I’m sorry” you kept saying over and over. “I’m so sorry….I’m sorry”

“What could you possibly be sorry for doll? You didn’t do anything” Bucky asked you.

You started fumbling with the buttons of your black button down shirt, and pulled back long enough to take it off. You couldn’t see his face, but you heard a sharp intake of breath as he took in the hundreds of scars on your arms from over the years. 

“I’m so sorry…”

He just wrapped his arms around you again, tighter than before which you didn’t think possible, like he was fearing you would disappear. You started to cry even harder

“Please, Bucky please...please don’t leave”

Bucky’s heart just about broke. Tears were streaming down his face too. “(Y/N), why on earth would I leave? Nothing could possibly ever make me want to leave. Not even HYDRA could force me to leave you, okay? I’m sorry doll, but you’re stuck with me.” he added with a small chuckle. “How long has this been going on?” he asked

“For the last 5 years. No one else knows. Please don’t tell anyone, please Bucky…”

He kissed the top of your head. “Not if you don’t want me to doll. Will you please at least talk to me about this?”

You let out a strained laugh. “What part?”

“All of it, (Y/N). I want to hear everything. We’ll get through this. You and me.”

[whentommymetalfie]

Breathe Again -Chapter twenty-one 

-Track of time- 

prologue//one//two//three//four//five//six//seven//eight//nine//ten//eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen//sixteen//seventeen//eighteen//nineteen//twenty

Chapter Summary: Tommy continues to struggle with the news from Birmingham. And finally admits something to Alfie 

Wordcount: 3,9 K 

Warnings: suicidal ideation, disordered eating, discussions of mental illness, suicide and self harm, 

”Go on, the weather’s lovely. No snow yet, but it could happen any day now,” Esther says cheerily as she helps Tommy sit up on the bed. It’s one of those days when he needs it. Alfie has left the room, and he can hear him pacing in the hallway. Heavy, impatient steps.

“Come on, get your scrawny arse out of bed, Tommy, or I’m coming in there to fucking drag you out by the hair. Don’t think I won’t.”

Esther huffs and rolls her eyes, but chooses not to comment. He sits there on the bed with her arm still around his shoulders, held by the secure weight. She’s not very tall, Esther, but she’s strong and sturdy. Perhaps it’s out of pity, this embrace, but he can’t reject the touch. Starved, craves it.

Tommy rubs a hand over his stomach. He tried to eat breakfast but the mud was in the way-

Esther squeezes his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s too difficult answering questions like that, Esther knows and rephrases it. “Are you feeling sick?”

“He was sick, for a long time,” Michael Gray tells us when we meet him at his new office, “We’ve of course decided to keep it private, for the sake of the family. I took over more of the day to day work-“

Michael’s voice has become clear in his mind, an as real and solid presence as any of the others these past few days. It’s his own fault for reading the article so many times. Compulsively scratching a wound and refusing to let it scab over.

Esther asked a question.

He swallows thickly and manages, “No.”

Esther keeps rubbing his arm but he barely feels it.

Rumours have spread of Shelby’s deteriorating mental health, something Michael Gray only briefly touches upon-

“Are you sure? You’re looking quite pale.” She touches his forehead gently. The lines on her furrowed brow are blurred, everything around him seems to be enveloped in fog.

Michael’s voice continues to recite the article without missing a beat, “Unfortunately, the war left him with damages not even time could repair. And it began catching up with him. Which is how one can explain some of his less… rational decisions as of late.” One of these less than rational decision might be the choice to ally himself with Oswald Mosely, which-

He shakes his head, trying to erase the words, wishes they’d blur and fade like so many of the memories. They’re lodged like sharp pieces in his head. The worst parts he’s managed to wrap in enough fog to soften the edges. But bits and pieces still slip through.

“One has to remember they started with nothing, from an unfortunate background, so it’s no small feat, what Thomas has managed to do. Even if it’s been through questionable methods. Which of course is not something I can stand behind nor endorse, but it was before my time. Things are changing, now.”

Esther gently moves his hand away from his scar and places it in his lap instead.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling unwell?”  

He shakes his head. Tries to say something reassuring, something that will make her happy, but the dirt is in the way and all he manages is a croaked ‘tired’.  

Esther holds him closer. “I know, love. But it’ll do you good, getting some air.”

“We’ll go look at that tree you like so much, if you can manage it that far,” Alfie calls from the hallway. Heavy footsteps approach and soon he pops his head in through the doorway. Raises both eyebrows expectantly. His gaze softens when it takes in the sight.  

“Just a short walk, to get some air. You’ll feel better,” he says and comes to stand before the bed, towering above him in his large black coat. “One step at a time, eh?”

Why is it so fucking hard? it’s never going to be better, it’s too hard, all of it-

“Alright, up you go then. And let’s see if we can put some more clothing on you because pyjamas are entirely inappropriate attire in this weather.”  

When he’s pulled upright, he stumbles on unsteady feet. But Alfie doesn’t let him fall.

It does help, going outside. There’s no snow yet but the air is crisp and a layer of frost has encased the branches and the grass, making the world glimmer in the sunlight. It feels strange and nice, noticing it. And after smoking two cigarettes in quick succession, he can finally breathe. The mud has almost cleared away from his chest, his stomach, and instead there’s just frosty air with a smattering of salt. As usual, Alfie talks enough to drown out the sound of Michael reciting the article over and over again.

The sun is shining. And it’s daylight, many, many hours until nightfall when he has to lie there in the darkness and the voices become so much louder.

Alfie has a pleased smile on his face, as if this whole thing is a personal victory. Tommy likes it when he smiles. The realisation puzzles him. He glances at Alfie again, to make sure he isn’t mistaken. Watches as he scratches his beard absentmindedly, the rings glinting in the sunlight. His one good eye glints in the light too. Like this, he radiates peace and safety and Tommy wishes he could huddle into his coat, wants to be so close that his body melts together with Alfie’s.

When they get as far as the chestnut tree he’s so exhausted he has to rest. The past days inability to stomach anything at all hasn’t made him any stronger.

He promises himself to try harder with dinner.

“There you go, nice and easy, did so well, didn’t ya´? Didn’t faint or even swoon the tiniest bit,” Alfie mutters as he leans against the trunk of the tree.  

He steps back to give him a onceover and Tommy’s hand instinctively shoots out grasp his coat sleeve. The moment his fingers close around the fabric he’s flooded with regret, but Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. That pleased smile is back on his face.

“Look at that, quite nice innit?” he says and nods upwards, where the sun is shining down between the branches. he closes his eyes and focuses on the rays warming his face.

When he opens them again, Alfie is watching him.

Alfie has a way of looking at him that makes something flutter in his chest. The scrutiny can become uncomfortably intense sometimes. Especially on those days when he’s all too aware of what he’s been reduced to, when he looks down at his awful hands and the ugliness seems to cling to his skin- But not when Alfie’s eyes are soft, like this. When he looks at him as if he’s-  

“The same way you’d look at an abandoned fawn you found in the woods, with a broken leg,” Grace muses. “And you’re considering whether to shoot it or not, to end its suffering-“

Alfie’s hand comes up to cup his face. His rings feel cool against his cheek, but his skin is warm.

“You alright? Seems like something crossed your mind just then.”

“I’m fine.”  

He wishes he could be more for Alfie. That he could do something to earn the affection he desperately craves. He’s not enough.

“You’ve never been enough for anyone. Never been able to offer anything-“

He closes his eyes, like a child trying to hide. As if he could disappear.  

“Why do you think they never came to see you?”

“Tommy, hey,” Alfie holds his head a little firmer. “Eyes on me. Go on.”

He obeys, clings harder to his coat and tries to focus on the warmth of his hands.

“Whatever they’re saying, I suggest you try and listen to me instead. Yeah?”

Alfie accepts the tiny nod he manages as the only answer. Rubs his thumb up and down his jaw. Frowns. Tommy tries to count the creases on his forehead in search of distractions. They smooth out a little when Alfie makes up his mind and says, “Think that’ll have to be enough for today. Let’s get you home.”

He wraps an arm around his waist (“Just to keep you steady, eh, Tommy?”) and sets off down the path towards the house.  

The sun still shines. Alfie lights another cigarette for him and then he tells him the intricate details of how swallows build their nests. Tommy leans in, ducks his head until it’s almost resting against Alfie’s shoulder. His coat smells like pipe tobacco and salty air. Alfie squeezes his waist.

Right then he wishes he could freeze the moment and stay in it forever.

…

He still takes refuge in the living room at night, when the nightmares wake him up. The past few days it’s happened too often.

Alfie tells him to wake him up instead, but he can’t. Reaching across the mattress and shaking him feels impossible, asking, demanding too much. He’s promised he won’t get angry but people lie, don’t they? We’re only trying to help, Tommy, we won’t hurt you, we’ll take care of you, you just need to rest, Tommy, rest, sleep, and it’ll get better, there’s no bullet there, all healed, see, look for yourself, nothing there, you just need to rest-

“This is why you need to listen to me.” Grace’s soft voice is clear among all the others. “You can trust me.”

It’s childish and naïve, thinking he’d be able to hide from her, from any of them, simply by leaving the bedroom. They follow, always know where he is. Grace is stood in the corner, by the bookshelves. The crow is behind her, on its perch on the shelf, still now, staring at him with glassy eyes,

still and dead.

“It’s not real,” Alfie reminds him. “Or well, it’s real, innit, but it’s not alive. Alright?”

And Grace is not real, he knows, he knows and still it doesn’t help because in the dark it’s hard to know for sure- and does it matter, when he knows she’s telling the truth? Real or not.

The darkness makes everything worse.

The darkness, knowing everyone else in the world is asleep, the sheer loneliness of it all. Even if Alfie is only seconds away. Esther too. He could be the only one left in the entire world and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Please come wake me up if you need to, Tommy,” Esther keeps saying. A bit like Alfie, but gentler in her insistences. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep better knowing you feel safe.”

He usually nods, yes, he’ll come wake her up, even if he has no intention to. He wishes he could.

“I’m trying to care for him, but nothing seems to help,” Lizzie’s voice comes from the corridor, through a tiny gap between the door and the frame that casts a thin strip of light onto the dark bedroom floor. “I only seem to make things worse.”

“Not to worry, mrs Shelby, this is why I’m here. To help. Your husband is very sick, and it’s difficult, caring for someone in that position.”

“I can’t get him to eat. At all. Barely get him to drink either.”

“That is concerning, of course, but there are measures we could take-“

“And it seems like he never sleeps. He just lies there, staring at nothing and-”

He can’t wake Esther up either.

He’s already a burden, doesn’t want to make it worse. Knows because of their tired eyes, each time they have to lead him back to bed, the same tired eyes Lizzie had, they

“-don’t understand, don’t know how to help you, Tommy-“

That’s why they were sending him away, to that place the voices spoke about behind the door, where they don’t have to see, don’t have to be bothered, they can safely forget and move on. Build their lives back up, bricks upon bricks, it’ll be easy to fill the hole until it’s as if he were never there they’ll be happy to be rid of it

The pain is fresh and raw, torn up again by the words in the paper, the glimpse into a life he doesn’t have anymore, perhaps never had, just clung to with a white knuckled grip

“For how long can you keep doing this?”

How long? Imagining the rest of his life stretched out in an endless string of days has installed nothing but terror in him for so long.

The pain makes his body seize up and his fingers close around something smooth. He looks down to find the chestnut there in his palm.

And he thinks of Alfie. Of falling asleep curled up in his arms as he reads, walking in the snow, sitting outside when spring comes, the way Alfie talked about. That would be nice.

Maybe he still wants things that feel nice.

The thought sparks a tiny, flickering light that warms the empty cavity in his chest.

“What do you think he gets out of this? Having to care for someone like you, without getting anything in return. You don’t deserve any of this.”

The answer comes instinctively, “I know-“

But he wants it-

“Haven’t you gotten enough of the things you’ve wanted?”

“But-“

“Stop questioning me.” A twinge of cold steel creeps into Grace’s voice.

When the urge to dig his nails into his skin comes over him he squeezes the chestnut harder. Tries to focus on the smooth surface.

“I want to stay.”

Wants to stay, wants to be here with Alfie. It feels so strange to want anything at all, he’s not allowed to. For so long there’s just been this void inside of him. How could he want anything, then?

But he wants to be here with Alfie.

Grace’s eyes glint with ice in the dark.

“He’s going to hurt you. How can you not see that? When he finally realises how much it’s cost him, all of this”

He nods, hopes to appease her, can’t stand that voice. Even if the tiniest part of him wants to protest. Alfie wouldn’t hurt him.

“You know you deserve to be hurt.”

The chestnut lands on the floor with a soft thump. Instead, his hand grips a green vase that glimmers on the mantlepiece. The glass is cool underneath his fingers and it rests heavily in his hand. Shimmers blue in the faint moonlight from the window.

“It’s so easy, Tommy,” Grace’s voice is soft again. “So easy. With me you’ll get to rest.”  

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, fingers convulsively tight around the vase. Tries to will himself to put it back on the mantle.

“You can’t stay here.”

“I want to.” His voice cracks pitifully and the hand holding the vase is shaking, shaking wonders if his bones will crack before the glass does

“Evening Thomas. Thought we’d gotten an unannounced visit, but it’s just one of your ghosts again. Suppose they might classify as one, still.”  

Alfie is standing in the doorway, seems to fill it entirely with his broad frame and Tommy wants to fling himself into his arms and cling to him but he’s lost control of his own body, gaze flickering back to Grace who is still watching him with cold eyes. Alfie walks up to him without another word, takes the vase away from him and puts it out of reach on the mantle.

He was so angry, that time when he broke the vase, even if it was an accident. Yelled and looked at him with hard eyes full of accusation. Now, Alfie just strokes his cheek. His fingers are rough and warm against his skin and he leans into the touch.

“ ‘s alright, hm? Yeah, you’re alright,” he says. “Look, I brought your blanket. There we go- c’mere” He wraps the blanket tightly around his shoulders, pulls Tommy into his arms, into folds of sleep-warm fabric, solid muscle anf softness that he can bury his face in. He’s been holding his breath for so long it starts coming out in harsh hiccups against Alfie’s chest as he rocks him back and forth. Slowly slowly, until he eventually says, “A’ight, let’s get you back to bed and away from the ghosts, eh?”

When Alfie tries to move him, Tommy finds himself frozen on the spot.

“No? Not ready to go back to the bedroom? Do you want to stay here for a bit?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t know- what does he want? Wants to be close to Alfie. But in the dark bedroom, there’s the expectation of sleep. Sleeping feels impossible, his heart is still thrumming so hard in his chest. Hammers against his ribcage, sending vibrations through his whole body. He looks at the floor, searches for the chestnut he dropped. Alfie’s gaze follows his and he soon finds it, picks it up and presses it into Tommy’s hand

“There you go. Now, you just sit right here-“ He leads him over to the sofa and plops him down onto the soft cushions. “And hold onto that, while I light a fire. Think you can do that?”

The surface is smooth and familiar under his fingers. He nods and pulls his feet off the cold floor.

Alfie lights a fire that chases the shadows into the corners of the room, bathes the room and his face in warm light that breathes life into everything. Then he seats himself next to Tommy on the sofa and pulls him into his arms again. Tucks his head under his chin.    

“There we go. Suppose we’ll just sit here for a while, then. Can’t read anything I’m afraid, seeing as I left my glasses in the bedroom, but we can, yeah, we can just sit here and relax.”

He never realizes just how cold he is until he’s close to Alfie. Alfie is so warm. Warm and strong. Safe. Like this, he doesn’t have to believe the voices. Not any of them. Like this, he feels safe. The fire crackles softly and melts together with Alfie’s breaths into a soothing hum.

“Who is it that you see, hm, Tommy?” Alfie asks once he’s stopped shaking.  

It’s not the first time he asks. They all ask. The answer is always lodged in his chest and too hard to get out. But now it floats dangerously close to the surface. His breaths tremble as he pulls them into his lungs. He worries the fabric of the blanket under his fingers, rubs the pad of his other thumb over the chestnut. It’s warm now from resting in his palm. He buries his face deep in the fabric of Alfie’s nightshirt. Until he can pretend he won’t hear him.

“Grace.” It’s surreal, saying it out loud. Even if he whispers it so quietly it might as well have been the wind. As if it’s not his voice, as if the reply is separate from himself.

“And she speaks to you? When you see her.”

A hum is all he can manage.  

“And what does she say?”

He shakes his head. No no he can’t, he’s not allowed-

“Go on, you’re doing so well.” Alfie mutters into his hair. “Yeah? What does she say?”

“Bad things.”

“Like suggesting you put a gun to your head, or break my glassware to potentially do harm to yourself? Or walk into the bloody ocean.”

Perhaps Alfie can sense that he’s sinking with every word because he holds him tighter.

“See that’s important, innit? Granted I don’t fucking know your wife, but it seems highly unlikely she’d be so fucking adamant that you hurt yourself. So I think we can safely say whoever keeps pestering you isn’t really her. Does that seem like a reasonable theory?”  

He doesn’t have an answer. Grace, the real Grace, has gotten oddly blurred, the warm, rosy memories faded at the edges. It seems so long ago. And he was different then. Maybe a bit more deserving of her love. No, he never deserved it but at least he wasn’t… this.

The good memories hurt too much. He locked them away, tried to forget. And now it seems like he has.

“It’s my fault. My fault that- that she’s dead“

Alfie’s fingers wind into his hair and tugs it backward until he’s forced to meet his gaze.

“Did you hold the fuckin’ gun, eh? Logic like that is useless once you get into a business like ours. How many times do I have to fuckin tell you?”

“I might as well-“

“Don’t argue with me. See I’m a wise, wise old man, not to mention, a quite recently instated God. I’d be deeply hurt and offended if you decided to not treat my advice and wisdom with the utmost respect.”

“There are others,” Tommy says, still having to tear the words from throat to get them out. Alfie hums. Allows him to hide in his shirt again.  

“Suppose it’s hard, having so many people in your head all the time But, I’d say that all things considered, you probably shouldn’t pay too much attention to what they are saying either.”

“Why?”

“Well, to put it simply, if they tell you to hurt yourself, you shouldn’t fucking listen. Or if they tell you- fucking hell, whatever it is that make you wander off in the middle of the night, or stare into the distance with that horrified look on your face.” Alfie pauses his increasingly agitated monologue and huffs out a harsh breath through his nose. He combs his fingers rhythmically through his hair in the way that always makes Tommy feel as if he could melt. Now, it at least soothes his wracked nerves. Alfie sighs. “Whatever they’re saying it’s not worth listening to.”

“They’re right.”

Grace might’ve loved him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Maybe Lizzie did too. For short while, at least. Before he destroyed that too. There’s something wrong with him, something ugly and black and broken that makes it impossible to love him. Even Ada said so, everything he touches-

Alfie’s eyes glint in the light of the fire as he grasps his chin and nudges his head up. He focuses on the clear one, the one that isn’t a reminder of-

“They don’t fucking matter,” he says, voice sharp. “Fuckin’ ghosts and spectres. They’re not real and they don’t matter, you hear me?”

“It’s hard. Knowing what’s real.”

Alfie nods and guides his head back against his chest, his touch gentle again. His head is cradled in his palm, warm breaths in his hair as he whispers, “This, this is real.”

And with the sound of Alfie’s heartbeat and the crackling fire in his ears, Tommy closes his eyes.

…

The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s floating. At least it feels like that at first. But he’s anchored in a set of two strong arms, head still propped against a familiar chest. Floorboards creak underneath heavy steps. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re too heavy. Shifts the tiniest bit to bury his face in soft fabric.

“Shh, shh, settle down. Settle down, I’ve got you.”

Alfie hushes him and rocks him ever so slightly, pulling him slowly back into sleep as he’s carried through the house.

The voices and the mud can’t reach him here, in Alfie’s arms.

[thewriterisalwayswrite]

One More

Summary:  Janus finds himself helping several idiots with their problems, and possibly accidentally falling for them as well.

Pairings: DLAMP

TW: Self-harm, EDs

Word count: 3264

AO3

A/N: I’ve never posted a fic to tumblr before, so let me know if I did something wrong. This is my @sanderssides-secretsanta gift to @count-woelaf. Hope you like it!

The quiet smack that came from the other side of the room as he whipped the script into the wall seemed to reverberate in his ears. Roman sunk slowly down against the wall, allowing his face to fall into his hands. 

This was the part of the theater he didn’t like. The part where he sat alone in the silent auditorium hours after the rest of the cast had left, crushing self-loathing taking over as he slipped out of character. 

Ah, if only his boyfriends were here. They were particularly good at helping him up, which usually involved spoiling him in ways he was confident he didn’t deserve. A smile graced his features at the pleasant memories, but it didn’t really help him now. Virgil, Patton and Logan had long since gone home, and here he was, likely the last person in the building, acting pathetic over nothing. 

He scrubbed at his face as he felt hot tears starting to leak out of his eyes, black makeup coming off on the sleeves of his white shirt. He sighed. Who knew if that would be coming out. 

He reached his arms up in the air, stretching out and letting out a little groan but quickly put them back down upon hearing one of the many doors creak open. He felt blood rush to his face, he was Roman Prince for goodness sake. He wasn’t supposed to be seen like this, crying in an empty theater. 

If it was possible for him to feel even worse, that was achieved when he saw who had opened the door. 

Head of hair and makeup crews for the production, half covered in burn scars, and painfully sarcastic. Roman had never been fond of the kid, and now even less so to have such a vulnerable moment intruded on. 

Roman swiped at his face one more time before donning his persona- Roman Prince. Lead of the show. Confident. Had every right to be sitting alone in the school auditorium at 10:46 PM if he so pleased. The only thing hinting that anything might have been out of the ordinary would be the dark streaks dripping down his face. “Can I help you?”

Janus’s only reaction was to raise one eyebrow. Roman scowled at him. 

Janus had to admit, this was an interaction he had never expected to be having. Roman Prince, so insistent on maintaining his clearly fabricated persona, vulnerable and crying on the ground after school. 

Not that Janus had any room to speak poorly of fabricated personas. 

He looked back at Roman, who was getting to his feet, seemingly a little wobbly. On instinct, Janus took his hand, helping him up. 

His eyes were grey. And they were much lovelier than Janus thought grey eyes had any right to be. Janus was fairly confident that the realization would have turned his face pink if not for the scarring. 

The ugly scarring, not that that was important right now. It did have its uses, though.

Roman shook his head out a little, shaking off the lingering heavy emotion and looking into Janus’s face. 

His eyes were still sad.

Janus sighed, unknowingly accepting responsibility for this boy tonight. “Did you drive here today?”

“Yes.”

Janus frowned. “Let me take you to your boyfriend’s house. You look like maybe you could use it, and you probably shouldn't be driving. You look wiped.”

Roman puffed up his chest, opening his mouth to argue before he deflated and nodded. 

Janus gave a soft smile. “Excellent. Which house did you want me to take you to?”

“Virgil?”

Janus cringed. He had… history with that boy, but he nodded. This was about Roman. He put a hand around the other’s shoulders, taking him out to the car.

When they’d arrived, Roman offered a quiet thank you, which rather surprised Janus. He felt he could count the number of times Roman had said thank you or apologized on one hand, but maybe he just… hadn’t been listening. Hadn’t been looking. 

Maybe he’d never really seen Roman before.

But then Roman closed the door, offering a little wave, and the illusion was shattered.

---

“Any particular reason our resident nerd is skipping lunch for the fourth time this week?”

Logan sighed as he turned his head away from his laptop and towards the boy who’d just slid into a seat next to him. “I have to finish this project. I would appreciate it if you could refrain from bothering me.”

Janus let out a faux-offended gasp, cementing in Logan the knowledge that his request would go unfulfilled. He sighed in annoyance as Janus tugged lightly at a few of his long braids, before spinning to face him. 

His hair is pretty.

Janus quickly banished the unwelcome thought, confused as to why he’d think something like that in the first place, but was quickly pulled back into reality by Logan’s smooth, deep voice. 

“Can I do something for you?”

“Yes. You can eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Besides, I am extremely busy.”

“That’s what you told your boys, huh? And they believed you?”

“Naturally. In our relationship, we share something called respect for boundaries. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Most would have been put off by Logan’s icy tone, but Janus just ignored it and continued. Though if you asked him, he hardly could have said why. He had no reason to care whether Logan Sanders ate lunch, whether his jeans continued to get loose or if his boyfriends knew and were helping. But for some odd reason, his brain was insisting he step in. 

Logan didn’t seem to be in the stage of even realizing that a problem existed yet, but fortunately Janus had a solution. He reached into his bag, producing a plastic water bottle, which he handed off to Logan. 

Logan took it, eyed it for a moment, considering, then removed the cap and downed over half before setting it back down, raking his fingernails over the smooth plastic. 

Ah. That made sense. 

“Bad sensory day?”

There was a moment of silence, and he wondered if he’d lost Logan before he heard a soft, “It’s hard.”

Janus sighed in relief. At least he had somewhere to go if he knew the cause of the issue. “And what are your safe foods?”

Logan looked surprised for a moment that Janus knew to ask such a question, before giving a hesitant answer. “Plain noodles. Bread.” 

“Excellent.”

He opened his phone, finding the nearest place to get plain noodles and placing an order. “There, so I did that, I’m gonna go get it for you. Sit tight.”

Logan froze. “That’s… hardly necessary, Janus. I don’t expect that of you.”

“I know,” he answered, standing and leaving before Logan could try to persuade him not to. 

When he returned, noodles in hand, Logan was looking back at his computer, if not with the same intensity as before. Janus looked over his shoulder, making sure everything was saved before shutting the laptop. 

“There. Food,” he informed him, setting the hot container in Logan’s lap. Logan looked at it. 

“How much?”

“You’re not paying me back. You’re not even thinking about it. Because you’re going to put that down your throat right the fuck now.”

Logan didn’t need to be told twice, and Janus soon had a satisfied smirk on his face from how quickly Logan was eating. It barely took a few minutes for him to finish, and Janus took the plastic box, tossing it in the nearest trash. 

“And that was your first meal in how long?”

“Three days.”

“Let me rephrase. That was your first real meal in how long?”

Logan looked down, uncomfortable, before mumbling, “Nearly two weeks.”

“Mhm.”

He placed the water bottle back into Logan’s hand, who looked surprised to see it before finishing the rest and setting it down. 

Satisfied, Janus watched as Logan spun the ring on his finger, looking a little out of it. He supposed that was fine. Logan spent far too much time doing far too many things, it would be good for the guy to zone out once or twice. 

They sat in a comfortable silence until the bell rang, and Janus offered a hand, walking Logan to his next class. 

So what if that made him late for his?

---

Patton let out a quiet sigh as he poked at his left wrist, swollen red lines protesting the motion. He pulled his sleeve a bit farther up, baring more marks and noting and appreciating how the bright color looked in contrast to his pale skin. 

He smiled softly as he scratched at the scabs, opening them up a bit and getting his hands just a little sticky. He let out a gentle sigh as he leaned against the wall, once again lazily checking if there were any people nearby. He didn’t notice anyone, so he took the clear to reach into his pocket for the blade he’d stowed there. 

He couldn’t press too hard, after all, he was just standing in the cool morning air before going into the school building for class, leaning against the cold, rough brick. But he did slowly move it over his wrist, tracing patterns that just barely broke the skin, only the barest amount of blood beading up. They would still scab up, which was all he really needed. 

All he really needed was to see the red lines, put there by himself. Because he controlled what happened to his body. It was his. At least it should have been, and this was him taking it back. 

He allowed his thoughts to wander as he carved in the haphazard swirls. This was a temporary habit. Soon, his body would do what he wanted it to, it would be up to him, and he wouldn’t have to take back autonomy with blades and lighters anymore. Someday, he’d get hormones and even surgery, and he’d just live his life without thinking about throwing himself off a high place every time his binder shifted. 

Speak of the devil. He shrugged his shoulders, adjusting the restrictive fabric. It was good enough, he supposed. Kept him off the edge of suicide. 

He banished the thought from his mind, humming a calming tune as he continued to slice up his forearm. 

He should have told his boyfriends, he knew. They knew he self-harmed, and they knew he was trans, but he had a hard time telling them when he had an episode. The way Virgil would panic and demand to see, the way Logan would go cold and lecture him, the way Roman would tear up, lose his big, comforting presence and just look scared. 

He didn’t like seeing them like that, and he especially didn’t like when it was his fault. So he didn’t tell them when he did it. 

He was zoning out most of his surroundings, focusing on the sting, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder that made him jump. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” came a familiar buttery-smooth voice whose tone said that he didn’t care if he startled him or not. Patton sighed, dropping the blade into his pocket and dragging his sleeves down to his wrists. 

He used to be scared of Janus, a fact he wasn’t proud of. He was so aloof, like Virgil but… more so. And horrible as he knew it was, the scarring had put him off in the past. 

Fortunately, he knew better now. He no longer did a double take upon seeing his face, and once, he’d even stared at him and noted that he was- he was really lovely. 

But that didn’t matter right now.

One of Janus’s hands, clad in fingerless gloves, carefully took Patton’s hand in his, pulling the sleeve back once again. 

Patton thought briefly about stopping him, but honestly, why bother? Janus already knew, and besides, his touch was so gentle. 

Patton barely knew what was happening before something wet, cold and painful was being dragged across his arm. He let out a pitiful whimper as he pulled it back and looked up at Janus, who rolled his eyes and grabbed his arm a little more roughly. 

“It’s just an alcohol wipe. You didn’t cut too deep, but infections are never fun.”

“Oh.” Patton felt his face heat up a little from embarrassment, of what he wasn’t certain. Janus was quickly finished, though, tossing the wipe and pulling his sleeve back down over the evidence. He glanced at his phone, noting that they still had nearly fifteen minutes before the bell. 

Janus allowed a moment of silence before asking, “Do your boys know?”

Patton shrugged. “I mean, they technically know that it’s a thing that happens, but…” He trailed off, but Janus understood. 

“I see. And why don’t they?”

“Makes me uncomfortable.”

“Ah.”

Janus allowed them to fall into silence once more, before placing his hand on Patton’s shoulder again. “All they want is to help you.”

For a second he wasn’t sure Patton was going to respond at all, before he heard a faint, “I know.” He was staring intently at the ground. 

Janus had always been good at gauging situations, and this was no exception. He slowly snaked an arm around Patton’s shoulders, who let out a soft sigh. 

Janus carefully adjusted his voice to sound softer. More comforting. “Would it help if I told them for you?”

Patton didn’t look up, but he nodded. 

“Good. That’s very good, Patton. I’m proud of you.” 

Ugh. He cringed at his own words. When had he become so soft for these four? Wasn’t he supposed to be ‘cool’, or something along those lines? Hardened, at least. 

He discreetly pulled out his phone, shooting a message to the other three boys, the ones he’d grown too fond of for his own good. 

The responses were immediate, and upon being informed of their location, he carefully led Patton away. It was early in the morning, but Patton looked so, so drained.

It wasn’t long before he reached them. Roman and Logan, and thank goodness, no Virgil. Virgil was not fond of him. The two that were there looked really concerned. 

Janus, surprisingly enough, found himself reluctant to hand off Patton. 

Damn it. I’ve grown protective. 

Then again, it was practically impossible to see Patton vulnerable and not become attached and fiercely protective. No wonder he was dating three amazing guys. 

Janus assured himself that Patton had what he needed, and in an amazing show of self-control, gave Patton a gentle push towards the other two. 

He quickly latched onto Roman, already crying softly. Janus watched as Roman rubbed Patton’s back and stroked his fingers through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t be watching, that he should go, but Roman lifted his head and mouthed, “Thank you.”

Janus felt heat creeping into his cheeks, so he offered a signature finger-wave and turned on his heel, only to realize after he was out of their sight that his class was on the other side of the school. 

---

Virgil sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he finally exited the school building, blinking in confusion upon finding it dark. He hadn’t been that long, had he? Only had to retake an exam he’d done poorly on, and though algebra wasn’t his best subject, he’d thought he shouldn’t need more than an hour or two. 

He opened up his phone, obviously the first people he messaged were his boyfriends. He didn’t have a ride, and his father wouldn’t come for him this late.

Unfortunately, they weren’t available. Any of them. Unfortunate, but not the end of the world. He could always try Remy. 

Who was busy. 

Or Emile.

Who didn’t reply. 

He didn’t like Roman’s brother, but he was running out of options. Unfortunately, Remus couldn’t come either. 

Virgil glared angrily at his screen as he realized who he needed to ask. 

Slowly, he managed to convince himself to send a concise text. He had an answer not two minutes later.

“I’ll be there.”

He sighed, whether in relief or in fear he wasn’t certain.

The car pulled up shortly after, and Virgil let himself in. Janus drove away quickly, seemingly as ready as Virgil was for this drive to be over. 

They sat in a painful silence for a few minutes, Janus breaking it before immediately cringing at himself. 

“I like the purple.”

Virgil’s hand automatically moved to his hair, as he touched the newly dyed locks. “Thanks.”

The two lapsed back into silence. 

“Left here, right?”

“Yep.”

Virgil was a little surprised that Janus still remembered the drive. It had been awhile. 

They waited again, the quiet deafening. Janus finally pulled up to Virgil’s driveway, waiting for him to get out.

Virgil hesitated. 

“I missed you.”

Janus’s head snapped towards, Virgil, confusion and terrified hope. 

“It was a long time ago. I don’t hate you. Thanks for the ride.” he quickly got out, the breath of cold air assaulting Janus, but he ignored it as the door clicked shut.

Janus did not drive away for a very long time. 

---

It was Logan who reached out to him first. 

It had been a few days since his last interaction with any of the four, but oddly enough, Logan invited him to lunch.

He had half a mind to decline. Show them how much he cared. He didn’t want to sit through an awkward lunch, fifth-wheeling to boys he didn’t want to admit he cared for. 

Of course, his fingers did not listen and he ended up replying with an acceptance. 

Damn his fingers. Always knowing his true intentions. 

He frowned at the building, the restaurant he was meant to be meeting them in. 

His hands had never been this clammy before. Even when shamelessly flirting, he was usually able to keep his composure. But something about Logan, Roman, Patton and Virgil had him nervous. 

He finally managed to exit his car, entering the building and finding them, sliding into a seat. They were all already there. He gave a little wave. His face was burning, but at least they couldn’t see it. 

Roman gave him a big smile, one that looked more nervous than Janus had ever seen it, and Logan and Patton both offered a greeting. Then Logan asked some superficial question, and they fell into small talk. Which, oddly enough, Janus didn’t feel excluded from. This, oddly enough, didn’t at all feel like intruding on a relationship. Confusing.

His confusion was resolved several minutes later when Patton coughed and nudged Logan expectantly, who turned to Janus. 

Janus didn’t think he’d ever seen Logan look anxious before, but he did. They all did, and it was scaring him. 

“We, um- we had something to ask you.”

Janus nodded. 

“You wanna date us?”

The slightly more brash question came from Roman. Of course. 

Janus froze. “I, um, I…” His hand flew up to the scarred side of his face, almost on reflex. Patton gave a soft smile, placing his hand over Janus’s. 

“We like you, J. A lot. Every part of you. So what do you say?”

“I…” This had to be the first time he’d lost his perfectly constructed composure.

The answer was on the tip of his tongue. He glanced over at Virgil.

Virgil gave a tiny nod, and that was it. 

Janus frantically wiped at the tears that seemed to be coming without his permission as he nodded his head. 

“Yes, I...yes.”

When he looked back up at them, they were all smiling at him like he’d hung the stars.

[laceymorganwrites]

Is it snake of snack (14)

Word count: 2,217

Pairing: Daishou x fem!reader

Warnings: child abuse, self harm, childhood trauma, anxiety/panic attack, swearing, hurt and comfort, Bokuto is a good friend

A/N: this is basically just an angsty dragged out chapter of the last one, please read the warnings and skip this if you´re triggered by any of this. 

Listen to: Dying in a hot tub - Palaye Royale

Taglist: @samuthots @doggonudez @pepperful-qt @sandwitchsthings

Daishou didn´t mean to send that last text… he really didn´t. He always kept his feelings to himself. And for a good reason, he didn´t want to bother anyone else with it.

Besides, from his experience, nobody even cared. And you only told people what they wanted to hear. That was what he got taught.

Or rather punched into him by his father, the same man who yelled at him that he should disappear, that he couldn´t do anything right, that he was a waste of breath and that he should shut up at all times or next time he wouldn´t make it out alive.

His mind was a dark place, he knew this and tried to avoid it at all costs, he found healthy coping mechanisms with you, you were also the only person he trusted with his inner thoughts.

After your break up however, he reverted back to his old self, closing off and falling into the oh so familiar path of self deprecation and destruction.

He hasn´t cut himself in a while, not even scratched, but he could feel the itch in his skin, right underneath those ugly scars, which were signs of weakness. Daishou knew that it was unhealthy and bad, he knew that he shouldn´t do it, that he was truly fucked up to do so.

But then again, he was fucked up enough already before, so why stop when it helped? Even if only for an instance?

Current pain inflicted by himself was much better than reappearing suppressed memories that cut deeper than any blade ever could.

The good thing was that he could control the depth of the wound, he felt oddly safe when cutting, hyper fixating was always the thing that helped most, yet it was also the most dangerous thing to him.

Especially when he got so deep into his mind that he couldn´t possibly get out of it alone.

“Alright, I´m going to the bar with you!” he announced after hurriedly throwing on something to make him look presentable and leaving his room to join the others.

Kuroo was nervous, Daishou could tell, he also knew that he tried to hide his crush on their neighbor and bartender, but never pressed the matter.

“You look good” he stated, nodding at him approvingly.

It felt weird being complimented like that, Daishou never believed he looked alright, not even close to it, he was a mere insect unworthy of any attention.

But still his heart leaped in ecstasy as soon as those words left Kuroo´s mouth.

He didn´t style his hair today as the decision to go out came rather spontaneous.

You always thought he looked incredibly cute like this, he missed the way you´d look at him, the way your eyes sparked when you caressed his cheek. He swore he could still feel your warm hand.

His heart ached for you, he missed you terribly.

Sure, you were friends now, but Daishou was greedy, he wanted more.

Now that he has had a taste of what love could feel like, he didn´t ever want to feel anything else, he felt so safe with you, but more than that he needed you like the air he breathed.

Daishou simply didn´t function without you.

“I think you should stay home, Daishou” Bokuto said, looking at him with a worried expression.

Soon after moving in and being at a state of not hating each other, Daishou forced himself to open up a bit, if only to avoid his major trigger: alcohol.

Luckily his roommates were very supportive and respectful and so alcohol became a prohibited good in their apartment.

When Bokuto or Kuroo went out, they made sure not too drink too much and when they arrived home, they went straight to bed while being as silent as possible.

It worked well too, but Bokuto was always more perceptive than Kuroo in regards to mental health, he just picked up on the small things that Kuroo wouldn´t usually think about.

Not because he didn´t care, but just because the two had a very different way of thinking, Kuroo being more logical and Bokuto emotional.

“I´m fine, it´s okay. We´re not gonna stay long anyways. I just need some fresh air” Daishou said, his voice not even convincing himself, but he wasn´t ready to unpack the baggage that he carried currently.

And so the three of them walked out of their apartment, Bokuto already made up a plan in his head to let Daishou stay outside while he quickly delivered Kuroo.

He tried to minimize the time he had to spend in the company of drunk people as well as thinking about what to get for take out later.

But things never went as planned, did they?

As soon as they arrived at the bar, Daishou´s eyes diverted to the floor, he stayed frozen in place next to the entrance, trying his best to blend in with the wall, making himself as small as possible.

Others wouldn´t realize that something was wrong, they didn´t even spare a glance at him, which didn´t make the situation worse, but still, Bokuto could feel his heart clench in empathy.

Kuroo dragged him inside with him and when Yuuji saw them, he found himself in a conversation that felt like it would drag on forever.

He needed to get back to Daishou before he did something stupid, he knew that look in his eyes.

Also he felt like he was third wheeling and it made him very uncomfortable.

When things got too intimate for him, he just slipped away and hurried outside.

Daishou was still in the same spot, but he looked aghast.

Bokuto´s alarm bells rang all at the same time, he scratched the idea of getting take out for dinner and approached Daishou, apologizing loudly for being so late not to scare him.

He once tapped him on the shoulder in such a state before he knew how it made him feel and Daishou almost jumped out of his skin.

He kept quiet the whole walk home, sternly looking at the ground while Bokuto made conversation to distract him as best as he could.

As soon as they arrived at the apartment Daishou retreated to his room, sitting down on the floor, crouching down and resting his head on his knees.

Bokuto was quick to follow with a glass of water and whatever snack he could grab the fastest.

He sat down next to Daishou who was shaking and sobbing, clearly trying his best to keep quiet.

Just as he was taught.

Every time Daishou cried as a child, which was often, his father would tell him to shut up, hitting him hard across the face, most of the times leaving bruises.

To this day, Daishou still got jumpy when someone touched him without him seeing it, even something simple as just tapping his shoulder.

It made him cower in fear.

If he obeyed, he wouldn´t get hurt, it has always been this way and even after the divorce, even when he knew that he´d never have to see this horrible man again, he still saw his image in people he passed on the street.

Just like he did earlier.

His father was an alcoholic, making sure to tell Daishou what a mistake he was every time he got the chance to, his words left deep scars in Daishou´s mind and to this day he still felt unworthy.

His inferiority complex showed most in the way he played volleyball, not trusting his skills enough until he played for the uni team.

Kuroo and Bokuto helped more than he liked to admit, they were able to calm and silent his mind when he couldn´t and they became precious friends to him, a truly unlikely friendship.

He wanted to believe in himself like they did just one time.

Daishou had told Bokuto about his father in depth before, Kuroo only knew the gist of it all.

So Bokuto could only imagine what he must be going through right now.

“Let it all out, man. Don´t hold it in” he said and promptly Daishou´s crying got louder, but also more controlled.

He remembered when he had hyperventilated once before and how scared he was for him, how helpless he felt.

Ever since that incident Bokuto made sure to read into the topic of mental health and how to help properly.

He waited patiently until Daishou was done crying and then offered him the water and the snacks.

Daishou was grateful for his presence, Bokuto made him feel like it was okay that he wasn´t, like he had nothing to be ashamed of, like he was free.

“Thanks...” he said, his voice hoarse, finishing the glass and putting it next to him.

“That´s what friends are for. You´re not alone in this, we´re always here for you and if you want to talk about anything, you can unload it on me. I´m here to listen and to help” Bokuto told him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder and this time Daishou didn´t flinch, he only looked up at him with swollen eyes and a grateful smile.

“Can I tell you something stupid?” Daishou asked, sniffling to which Bokuto nodded.

“I don´t want to be just friends with (Y/N). I´m too dependent on her, I miss her too much… I don´t think I ever loved someone as much as I love her and I don´t think I will ever love anyone else…” he admitted out loud for the first time. It was something that he always knew to be true and yet it sounded so unhealthy, so toxic that he didn´t want it to be.

“It´s not stupid. Feelings are never stupid.” Bokuto said sternly and in such an earnest voice, it made Daishou chuckle.

He felt at peace until someone knocked on their door.

Bokuto got up and opened it, finding your distressed face.

“Kuroo told me what happened, is he alright?” you asked out of breath. Just a few minutes ago, Kuroo and Yuuji entered your apartment, lips locked and limbs entangled.

They only had to mention that Daishou came with them to the bar to make you hyper aware of the consequences. You acted on instinct as you did so many times before, no matter your relationship status right now.

Bokuto couldn´t really react in time and just stepped aside to let you in, pointing to Daishou´s room.

It was strange. In Daishou´s mind you hated him, from his perspective you wanted nothing to do with him, you were just with him out of pity.

He held you in such high regards that he never once thought about your feelings from a realistic point of view.

Bokuto had to smile, it was so clear to him that you loved Daishou just as much as he loved you.

“Sugu? It´s me… I´m coming in” you announced your presence, refraining to knock because you knew loud and sudden noises scared him.

Slowly you opened the door and found him sitting on the floor, in the same miserable position as before, looking up at you with pleading eyes, eyes that said ´I´m sorry I´m a mess, a failure´, ´I´m sorry that I can´t ever be good enough´.

You sat down next to him, just close enough for him to know that you were there but not too close to make him uncomfortable.

“Code red?” you softly asked, it was your secret code to make sure he didn´t cut.

He shook his head, reaching out his arms for you so you could check, it was routine, it made him feel safe rather than ashamed and embarrassed.

You slowly rolled up his sleeves to inspect his scars, the freshest were about a few months old.

Nothing changed. Your heart still ached when you saw them, you felt somewhat responsible for them and guilty as well.

Daishou didn´t deserve to suffer like this…

“You know you´re not alone, right?” you softly asked.

He nodded.

“Bokuto and Kuroo… they help a lot” he said, making you relax your worried expression a bit.

“Don´t let them win, the voices in your head. They´re not real, always remember that. Something that isn´t real doesn´t have any control over you, but you have all the control over it. Use it. You´re stronger than you think, Sugu” you still held onto his arms without realizing it, softly tracing your fingers over them.

“I miss you…” he quietly said, averting his eyes, before speaking again.

“I don´t wanna be just friends” as soon as those words left his mouth you pulled him into a tight hug, your hands caressing his back.

Daishou immediately relaxed into your touch, hugging you back desperately.

“Good, because I could never see you as just a friend. I love you too much for that” you told him, your hands wandering through his hair as he let himself be calmed down by your touch.

“I love you too…” he mumbled into your chest and slowly loosened the hug.

You two looked at each other for a while, warm and gentle smiles plastered on your faces as you slowly leaned in to kiss him.

Daishou kissed back eagerly since he´s been waiting so long and when your lips connected it felt like coming home.

[neerasrealm]

Distrust

A story about Toby waking up after the events of his origin story. Trigger warning for some talk about trauma, blood, murder, self harm, panic attacks and some cursing.

Word count: 1941

The world seemed blurry as he opened his eyes. His body felt tired. He blinked in the dim light. The ceiling looked unfamiliar. It wasn’t his cramped, dusty attic room, nor was it his mom’s room or his sister’s. He shifted on the bed. It felt soft- too soft for it to be something they could afford. His first thought, as he rolled over and looked at the drawn curtains, was that he was in a hotel. The room had orange walls, and the curtains were a light grey. Light poured in through them, meaning it was still day, or maybe evening. 

Rolling onto his back again he groaned softly. His throat felt dry. Sitting up, he looked around. The room was empty, and way bigger than any room in his own house. He looked to the side, brushing messy brown hair out of his eyes. There was a table next to the bed with a glass of water on it. He reached over quickly and grabbed the glass, taking a couple long sips. He looked around some more. There wasn’t much of anything in the room. A wardrobe, two bedside tables and a mirror. That was all. He frowned. How had he even gotten here?

He- didn’t remember much. He hadn’t been able to remember much of anything since...the crash...involuntarily, he shuddered. He curled up, remembering flashes of the past few weeks. Voices in his head, the faceless monster that had been terrorising him, his- his own dead sister, wailing and walking towards him- her voice still echoed in his head even now. Calling his name, coughing on her own blood, her breathing raspy from her chest being crushed in on itself-

He buried his head in his hands, shaking. His shoulders jerked wildly, his panicked tics kicking in quickly. His nails dug into his scalp. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He pulled his hands down, his bloody fingers going to his mouth. He chewed on them with little care for how badly he hurt them. Why should he? He couldn’t feel pain. None at all. He laughed horsley. He couldn’t feel pain but he could still feel the weight of his traumas, the weight of his grief, the weight of-

His crimes.

He’d- oh- oh god- he remembered now. His father. Below him, dead. The horrified look on his mom’s face. The fire-

He bit down on his fingers, hard, and whimpered. Tears rolled down his face and he sobbed. Loud, ugly sobs full of agony. He coughed and wheezed. This happened every time he cried. He’d find it difficult to breathe and he’d be reduced to wheezing and coughing. His sobs only got louder and his breathing got worse. Mixed with tears blurring his vision and the taste of blood filling his mouth, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He stayed there. Shaking. Sobbing. 

When he finally finished crying he pulled his fingers out of his mouth. He took deep, wheezy breaths. He looked down at the blood trickling down his hands and sniffled. He hugged his knees and buried his face in them. He could only whimper softly to himself and twitch as he waited to calm down.

‘’Toby?’’

The very last thing he needed right now was a deep, unfamiliar voice calling out his name. His head shot up and he stared at the door, shaking in fear and twitching from his tourettes. He sniffled. 

‘’H-’’ his body shivered involuntarily. ‘’Hello…?’’

The door creaked open. Toby froze. His blood ran cold and his breathing quickened. He crawled back on the bed, frozen against the wall. Staring back at him was the white, faceless creature that had been tormenting him. It stepped into the room and approached him slowly.

‘’Calm down, Toby, I’m not going to hurt you.’’ It said in the same deep, unfamiliar voice from before. He was panicking too much to look at the second person entering the room after the creature. His body was shaking, his heart pounding as adrenalin filled him. The creature reached out to him, and Toby darted off the bed. He stumbled across the room to the window. He whirled around, staring at the creature as it watched his movements. ‘’Don’t worry I-’’

‘’How the fuck does it speak without a mouth?!’’ was all Toby could think. He looked behind him at the window. As fast as he could with shaking hands, he shoved it open and put his foot up on the sill. He heard two voices yell behind him but he didn’t care. He took a deep breath then leapt out the window. He screwed his eyes shut, bracing for the fall that would no doubt injure him badly.

But it never came. Instead, something gripped his waist and slowly pulled him up. He stared down at the ground that was getting further and further away. He stared at the forest in front of him as he was lifted up and away from freedom. He was ever so gently placed back on his bed and he realised, to his horror, that the thing lifting him had been a-a tendril- that had somehow appeared from behind the faceless creature. It disappeared again and Toby could only stare at the faceless thing and whimper to himself. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and crawled back to the edge of the bed.

‘’Please calm down- I-I mean you no harm I promise-’’ The faceless monster said again in a tone too concerned and caring to belong to- well, a faceless monster. Toby whined feebly. God he sounded pathetic and he felt it. Escape was impossible and he was probably going to die here. Eaten or torn apart or driven insane until he couldn’t take it anymo-

‘’E’s scared ‘ve ya, Slen.’’

Toby was pulled out of his horrified thoughts by the thickest fucking cockney accent he had ever heard. Definitely the second scariest thing he’d experienced today. He looked to the voice’s owner for the first time and looked them over. They were incredibly tall, with messy black hair, feathers on their shoulders, suspenders, striped socks that matched their cone-shaped nose and- oh yes, they were incredibly skinny and had pure white skin. The bandages around their- his? Hands and torso didn’t help either. It implied this...clown? Mime? Had been injured at some point. And that allowed Toby’s brain to suggest it was the faceless creature’s doing. Which made him more freaked out.

The faceless creature- Slen, apparently, looked at the mime-clown man. ‘’I mean- I’ve told him I don’t mean any harm,’’ somehow this monster sounded genuinely upset and worried. He looked at Toby. ‘’I just want to-’’

‘’Slen,’’ the mime- clown? Clown, he’s guessing clown, interrupted. ‘’Le’ me ‘andle i’. Ye’ll only freak th’ bin lid ou’ more.’’

Slen looked away from Toby and at his- companion? For a few moments, fiddling with his hands. ‘’Fine.’’ he finally said defeatedly. He looked at Toby as he grabbed the door handle. ‘’I’m sorry little one, I-’’

‘’Ye don’ call teens li’le un, Slen.’’ The clown interrupted. ‘’Now go. ‘Ll make sure e’s awrigh’.’’

Slen sighed and left the room, leaving Toby and the slightly less horrifying monster alone. Toby looked over at the clown. Was he supposed to be scared? Relaxed? Intimidated? He didn’t know, and he wanted to go home. 

"Calm down, kiddo. I ain' g'nna 'urt ya." The clown said calmly. "Take deep brea'hs fer me, alrigh'?" 

Toby closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. He counted to seven then exhaled, counting to eleven as he did so. He repeated the process until he felt calm enough to not want to try the window escape again. He opened his eyes and looked at the clown, still very much afraid. His neck twitched wildly, making his head jerk awkwardly.

"Y'okay?" The clown asked. Toby nodded. "Good." The clown approached the bed slowly and sat on the edge, still looking at him. "Ye prob'bly 'ave a lo' 'f questions, yeh?" He asked. Toby gave a nod. "Go ahead then. I'll answer 'em fer ya."

Toby fiddled with his bloody hands. Occasionally his fingers would curl up wildly, making him accidentally scratch himself. "Wh- where am I…?" He asked softly. 

"Ye're in our gaf, big 'ol mansion in th' woods. Ye live in one a th' 'ouses on th' edge 'f th' fores', dontcha?" 

Toby was quiet for a few moments, trying to translate the cockney into English. "Uh- yeah, yeah I do." 

"Ah. We live in th' fores', away from ye 'umans fer ah- obvious reas'ns." 

"So you're not human?" Toby blurted. The clown laughed, a noise that was hearty but rough and raspy, like his speaking voice.

"Nah, 'm no'. Ta pu' i' simply, I'm a livin' toy. Full a stuffin' an all tha' barry whi'e."

A- a living...toy? Barry White? Who- what- 

"What's um- what's your name then?" Toby asked cautiously. Every answer the clown gave seemed to bring up even more questions. The poor boy was getting more confused and unnerved by the second.

"Jack." The clown replied. "Ye're Toby, yeh?" 

"T-Toby Rogers." He mumbled. "Why- why am I here?" He asked softly.

"Well Slen found ya when 'e was comin' back wiv th' shoppin'. 'E saw th' fores' burnin' an' you in th' middle of i' all, so 'e pulled ya from th' fire an' brough' ya 'ere ta patch ye up." Jack pointed at the boy's arm. Toby hadn't even noticed it, but there were some bandages on his arms. "Ye didn' ge' burned too much bu' ye still looked pre'y bashed. 'E also found a lo' a- bruises an' scars- did wha' 'e could fer em." Jack looked at him, like he was hoping Toby would explain his other injuries. 

"He-" Toby gulped. "That thing took me here?"

"Yeh. Slen- 'e's always been one fer 'elpin' others…" Jack smiled a bit. "E'll bring ya 'ome, don' worry."

"No he won't!" Toby yelped. Jack jumped, seemingly caught off guard by the yelling. "He- that thing has been terrorising me for weeks! Standing outside my window and shit!" Toby's fear began to turn to anger. He'd been kidnapped, forced to kill his own flesh and blood, driven to the brink of his very sanity and this toy was telling him the creature meant him no harm?! "He's been in my head for weeks! I couldn't sleep because of the voices he put in my head and he- it made me kill my own fucking dad!" There were tears in his eyes again. He shook from all the pent up anger he'd been shutting out for weeks- no, months, maybe even years by now!

"Kiddo, I know Slen, 'e wouldn' do tha'." Jack looked concerned. 

Toby glared at the clown. "Well how the fuck am I supposed to trust you? You're on its side." He spat. Jack sighed.

"Ye don' 'ave any reasons ta trus' me, bu' neither me or Slen wanna 'urt ya." He said softly. "Wha' ye saw, wha'ever's been tormen'in' ya, i' wasn' Slen. I've known 'im fer over a century now. 'E doesn' do tha', 'specially no' ta kids." 

Toby didn't say a word. He just glared at Jack. Eventually the clown sighed. "Alrigh'. I'll leave ya be." He stood up and looked over at Toby. "Ye wan' lunch?" 

Toby hugged his knees and shook his head. He definitely wasn't going to eat anything that came from the monster or the clown. Jack sighed and left the room without a word, leaving Toby alone with just his anger, fear and bloody fingers.

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: A Resolution

Summary: Jon and Martin leave the Desolation behind and talk about what the hell just happened - and where to go from here.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

[Spoilers for MAG 169.]

CW: mild self-harm (scratching/hair pulling as a stim); brief dissociation/drdp; discussion of canon-typical trauma.

______________________________________________________

Jon waits until they’re safely beyond the Desolation’s borders, when the cinders no longer fall like snow and the whiff of smoke has faded, before he stops.

 When he does, it’s so abrupt that Martin nearly walks right into him. Jon doesn’t notice. His thoughts feel disjointed and cluttered; his body feels alien to him. Eyes unfocused, he scans the area and gravitates to the first thing that calls out to him – a dead and gnarled tree, its bark charred and charcoal-black. There’s a little hollow, just the perfect size for two people to hide away. He drops his bag unceremoniously to the ground, sending up a little puff of dust and ash, and tucks himself away in the alcove, pulling his knees to his chest and locking his arms around them. The tree is a sturdy presence, tangible and grounding, and he presses himself against it at every point of contact he can manage.

 After a moment, Martin follows. He has the presence of mind to remove his own pack, grab Jon’s bag from the ground, and lean them both neatly against the tree before clambering after Jon. It’s a tight fit for Martin; he has to keep his head ducked, and squeezing in next to Jon has him pressed against the tree on one side and Jon’s body on the other.

 “Sorry,” Martin mumbles, sounding a bit self-conscious. “It’s – I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

 “I like the pressure,” Jon says, leaning into Martin’s side. A full minute passes before he spares a thought for Martin’s comfort and a little pang of shame ripples through him. “Is it uncomfortable for you? We can –”

 “It’s fine,” Martin says. “For the moment, anyway. I’ll let you know when my arm starts falling asleep.”

 Jon nods, but his thoughts are already drifting again. He bites the inside of his cheek, wiggles his toes, and tries to focus on the safe, solid warmth of Martin’s body next to him.

 “Are we going to talk about what just happened, Jon?”

 “I…” Jon shuts his eyes tight and tries to shuffle his thoughts into some semblance of order.

 He isn’t sure how much time passes before he hears Martin’s voice again. It sounds distant and muffled. Unable to process the garbled noise into meaningful words, his attention begins to slide away again, leaving him adrift in his own fuzzy thoughts.  

 Then, Martin makes a grab for his hand and one word comes into focus: “Jon.”

 Jon startles and draws his hands back, hiding them in the folds of his jacket and hugging his sides. It takes a moment for him to register the hurt in Martin’s eyes, but when he does, he feels a twinge of regret.

 “I’m sorry, I don’t know why –” Jon begins, just as Martin says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

 They both stop simultaneously and Jon nods for Martin to speak.

 “I just wanted to – you were scratching? Your hands.”

 Jon pulls his hands out of hiding and looks. The back of his burned hand does seem a bit irritated, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s not surprising that he didn’t notice the scratching – the scar tissue there never registers much sensation at all.

 As soon as Jon notices Martin looking, he flashes back to their discussion just before entering the Desolation.

  I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it just makes me sick; I hate it. Hate it.

 Jon wishes he couldn’t remember it with such clarity, but the Archive in him catalogs everything. These days, he can recall most things verbatim – and even when he doesn’t intend to, the Archive does it for him. 

 He pulls his sleeve down to cover his burn and folds his arms against his chest again. 

 “Jon.” Martin, observant as ever, can apparently see right through him. “Give me your hand.”

 Jon can feel the stinging threat of tears in his eyes. He begrudgingly holds out his burned hand and looks away before Martin can notice him tearing up – and so he doesn’t have to watch Martin’s face as he takes in the shiny, gnarled whorls of scar tissue. 

 Martin’s hand is warm and gentle as he laces their fingers together, and without hesitation, he brings Jon’s hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to each knuckle. Jon can’t help but steal a glance at Martin, and the sheer tenderness written all over his face –

 Jon can’t help it: the dam breaks, the tears overflow, and soon his breath is coming in short, gasping hiccups.

 “You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?” Martin says quietly, his lips brushing against Jon's fingers.

 How did you know what I was thinking? Jon wants to ask, but he can’t form the words. Instead, he just shudders as he tries to stifle his sobs.

 “I love every part of you, and that includes the scars. They’re reminders that you’ve survived.” Martin rubs his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand in a slow, soothing motion. “It’s just – I wish you didn’t have to go through any of it in the first place. I hate what’s been done to you. But you’re more than that, and – and the scars are proof of that. Despite everything, you’re still alive. You’re still you.”

 “Am I, though?” It comes out as a croak, and only then does Jon realize just how raw his throat is. There won’t be any lasting damage from walking through a blazing building, but it’s certainly taking its time fading away.

 He feels another wave of guilt overtake him at the thought of how frightened Martin was. Jon had been so absorbed in recording the fear permeating the Desolation, and then so wrapped up in his own petty revenge fantasy, that he shut Martin out, left him choking on the blistering heat and shrinking away from the flames, stranded with only his abject terror to keep him company – 

 “Jon –”

 “You see what I am, what I can do –”

 “She deserved it, Jon. So did that – that thing that killed Sasha.”

 “Yes, they did. But I used the same power that destroyed the world in order to do it, and I liked it, and – and I dragged you along with me, all for an empty, fleeting moment of vengeance. I promised I wouldn’t let the Eye hurt you, and then I subjected you to –” Jon swallows hard, his sore throat protesting. “And now it’s over, I just feel sick. Jude was right – I’m no better than her.”

 “That’s not –”

 “Did you know, before the change – when I still slept – one of the nightmares I invaded belonged to Jordan Kennedy? The exterminator, the one who was called to deal with Jane Prentiss’ wasp nest?” Once he starts, he can’t stop – the words pour forth in a frenetic rush, and he lets them carry him away. “He would look at me, and look at Prentiss, and he – he never knew who to fear more. Even after years, Prentiss was – she was always the part of the dream that terrified me more than any of the others, and – and in his eyes, we were the same –”

 “Jon –”

 “Prentiss was so frightened in her statement, so human. I thought the hive had hollowed her out against her will, turned her into a monster – but now, I wonder if she chose to let it have her –”

  “Jon –”

 “I talked to Helen about it once, you know. About choice. It seems like the avatars – we all have something about us that draws the powers to us in the first place. The only difference between us and any other victim is that we – we embrace it, to some extent, whether we realize it or not. We have a choice, and we choose to abandon our humanity, and whatever happens after that –”

 “Jon, stop.”

 Jon shuts his mouth so quickly there is an audible click as his teeth collide.  

 “This isn’t healthy –” Martin holds up his free hand as Jon opens his mouth again. “No, let me talk.” He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re equating yourself with the ones who hurt you. You’re… you’re looking back at all the things that traumatized you and putting yourself in the same category.”

 “Jude said –”

 “I don’t care what Jude said!”

 “But she was right!” Jon says viciously, tearing his hand from Martin’s grasp and burying it in his hair, pulling until his scalp starts to ache.

 “What about me, Jon? Am I no better than Peter Lukas?”

 “That’s not the same thing –”

 “Really? The Lonely was drawn to me for a reason. I made a choice to let it in, and then I made a choice to embrace it. I liked it, in my own way.” Martin places one hand under Jon’s chin and guides him to meet his eyes. “What if things had gone just a bit differently? What if you never woke up? I might have actually committed myself to the Lonely. Would that have twisted me, driven me to seek out the isolated and feed them to it in the same way that Peter does?”

 “It’s different –”

 “No, it’s not. You think the Beholding was drawn to you because you’re curious. Fine. You are curious. It’s infuriating and charming all at once, and sometimes you take it to - to careless extremes. That still doesn’t make any of this your fault. It makes you a victim, Jon – you were manipulated, tormented, used, and thrown away. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

 Jon has sunken into a sullen silence, and Martin groans in frustration.

 “Look, let’s – okay,” Martin says, counting on his fingers, “Mike Crew was struck by lightning. Jane Prentiss stumbled upon a wasps’ nest. All Helen did was open a door. Whether they were targeted or just had bad luck, they were coerced into choosing between equally terrible options and twisted into people they probably never expected to be. Even Daisy – all she did was trespass on some childhood dare, right? Look where that led her.”

 Jon chews his lip and says nothing.

 “I’m just saying, from where I’m sitting, the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the transgression. If you can even call half those things transgressions. Helen’s curiosity led her to open a door, but that hardly seems like a crime to me. You’ve never once believed that Helen deserved what happened to her. So why are you holding yourself to different standards?”

 “It’s just… different. I – I had a clear choice, and I chose to be a monster instead of having the decency to –” Jon cuts himself off, but it’s too late.

 “To what? To die?”

 “Well, if I had, it would have freed the rest of you –”

 “And if you died, I would have given in to the Lonely, and Daisy would still be in the coffin, and Melanie would have been taken by the Slaughter, and Elias would have found a new pawn –”

 “I just –”

 “I’m not done,” Martin says forcefully. “It’s still victim blaming even if you’re the victim, Jon. Do you really not see why it’s upsetting for me to hear you compare yourself to people who tortured you? To have you listen to Jude Perry over me?”

 “I…”

 “You know what?” Martin laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, let’s – let’s talk about Jude, shall we? Because as far as I can tell, she’s an example of someone who did choose this. I listened to parts of the tapes while you were in hospital, and she said as much herself. She was always cruel. She enjoyed destroying people long before the Desolation took an interest in her. Who knows, maybe there was something in her life that could explain why she was the way she was, and she just didn’t tell you. But based on what we know? She just liked hurting people. She was never conflicted about it, and she never apologized for it. Hell, she gloated about it. Even at the very end, all she wanted was to scare me and hurt you.”  

 When Martin finishes, he’s slightly out of breath. Jon reaches out tentatively, letting his fingers brush against Martin’s wrist, and Martin grasps his hand and interlocks their fingers again.

 “I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly. “I’m just… I’m sorry.”

 “It’s… well, it’s not fine. But we had to talk about it.” Martin sniffles a bit, then clears his throat. “I guess maybe the Kill Bill thing isn’t working for us, though.”

 “Maybe not. I think… I think it’s not as simple as we want it to be. It would be – nice, to be able to just draw up a hit list, burn through it on our way to Jonah, but… I don’t like what it does to me. I don’t like what it does to you.”

 “Right,” Martin sighs.  

 “And I’m still – I’m still worried about Annabelle. We could be playing right into her hands, and we still don’t even know what she’s after, and…” Jon makes an aggravated noise. “And just like that, I’m back to the free will question.”

 It’s a question that always, always leads him to a dead end. Sometimes he passes hours with Annabelle’s statement playing on a loop in his head until he feels paralyzed with indecision, and nothing good ever comes of it.  

 “Okay, no,” Martin says. “No more self-harm disguised as philosophizing.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “The rumination, Jon – it’s self-destructive. It’s the same as when you’d seek out Helen whenever you were feeling inhuman. You’d let the ‘throat of delusion’ reinforce your fears, and then you’d use that as a justification for risking your life.”

 Jon is struck speechless. He just stares at Martin, mouth opening and closing minutely, trying and failing to compose any coherent response.

 “I was keeping an eye on you, Jon. Even when I was working for Peter.” He pauses, and then, almost under his breath, he adds: “You find such roundabout ways to hurt yourself, sometimes.”

 “I…”

 “You never thought of it that way, did you?” Martin’s smile is half-indulgent, half-sad. “Well, if you’re going to keep getting tripped up by the free will thing, let’s just… address it. Lay it all out, all those little what-ifs and if/thens.”  

 “That seems like… quite an undertaking,” Jon says, uncertain.

 “Yeah, well. Time doesn’t really work anymore.”

 “But people are still suffering with every moment we sit here –”

 “The longer we go without sitting down and talking this out, the more we’ll stumble. We’ll probably reach the Panopticon sooner if we can agree on a strategy, and this… this seems like a good first step. Here, let me –”

 Martin extricates himself from their hiding place with a small grunt of effort. Standing and dusting himself off, he reaches down to help Jon up. “Over here,” he says, leading Jon by the hand to their bags and gesturing for him to sit down.

 Jon complies, Martin settles in beside him, but then – Jon has a sudden thought, and his attention swivels back to Martin.

 “Wait. Before we move on, I… how are you –” He stops himself with an agitated little shake of his head, then restructures the statement. “I would like to know how you’re feeling. If – if you want to say.”

 “Jon,” Martin says, his voice stern, “you are not redirecting this into a conversation about me just because you don’t want to talk about your feelings –”

 “No,” Jon says quickly, “we can come back to this, I just - it’s not fair, me venting to you and expecting you to soak up my – my nonsense –”

 “Not nonsense –” Martin says crossly.

 “Okay, okay, fine – my – my feelings.”

 “The word isn’t going to bite your tongue off if you say it,” Martin says, shaking his head with an exasperated smirk as Jon rolls his eyes.

 “All the same, I…” Jon reaches over and cups one side of Martin’s face. He didn’t realize until now how caked in soot and ash they both are, as he rubs his thumb over Martin’s cheekbone. “I was being self-centered before we went after Jude, and I was being self-centered just now. I’d like to know where you are right now, in all this.”

 Martin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans into Jon’s touch. “I’m… scared. Obviously. I think the Desolation is one of the fears that gets to me the most. Not just the pain aspect, though I – I was being serious when I said that burning is my least favorite pain ever.”

 Jon lets his hand drift to Martin’s hairline and brushes a stray curl away from his forehead, shaking loose a sprinkle of ashes.

 “But it’s also… it’s the loss aspect, I think?” Martin continues. “How easily you can lose everything, how quickly the people you love can – can disappear from your life.”

 Jon reaches out with his free hand – the burned one – and places it on top of one of Martin’s. Martin takes it gratefully, intertwines their fingers, and rests his head on Jon’s shoulder.

 “I’m… I’m not used to people caring about me, but being abandoned still hurts, even when it’s people who never cared for you. And now – now I have someone who does care for me. When you tell me you love me, I believe you, which is… I never thought I’d have that. If I lost you, I don’t know… I don’t know what I would do.”

 As the tears start to trickle down Martin’s cheeks, leaving trails in the soot clinging to his skin, Jon’s breath hitches and his heart clenches in his chest. A sudden, jarring memory returns to him, of Jude describing how she could reach in and burn his heart right out of him, and he pushes the thought away.

 “I’m sorry, Martin. I… I didn’t think about that.” He squeezes Martin’s hand in his, hoping it comes off as reassuring. “Honestly, I think I’m also still getting used to the concept of someone actually… caring what happens to me. It doesn’t always occur to me naturally – the thought of someone missing me, or – or grieving for me.”

 “It’s alright –”

 “No, it’s not,” Jon interrupts. It comes off more sharply than he had intended, and he softens his voice before he continues. “Don’t let me off the hook. I… I knew I wouldn’t lose you, I knew I could keep us both alive, but I also knew it we wouldn’t pass through unscathed, and I dragged you in there anyway. I’m…” He frowns. “It's not an excuse, but I - I think I’m somewhat desensitized to physical pain, at this point?”

 Martin opens his mouth and Jon cuts him off.

 “No, I – I still feel it, it’s just... I've come to expect it? And then I heal so quickly, it - it doesn't feel consequential.” It’s more that his body doesn’t always feel like it belongs to him. There’s a sense of detachment that grew up over time, layer upon layer; he can’t quite pinpoint when exactly he started to think, Well, what’s another scar?

 “That’s worse. You get how that’s worse, right?”

 “Yes, I – I suppose,” Jon admits reluctantly. “But that’s not the point. You told me, explicitly, how you felt, and I subjected you to it anyway. I rationalized it by saying there would be no lasting physical damage, but that - that isn't the only kind of harm there is, and it's no consolation in the moment, when all you can think about is how much it hurts." Jon closes his eyes. "It was wrong of me to take you in there.”

 “Maybe.” Martin bites his lip. “I am the one who wanted to go Kill Bill, though.”

 “But I went along with it, and for the wrong reasons.”

 “I don’t think revenge is a bad reason. You have every right to feel angry –”

 “Probably. But I’m… I’m also the most powerful thing in this wasteland. I could cut a path of destruction from here to the Panopticon, and nothing could stop me. But I’d burn you in the process, and – and probably lose myself, too.” Jon pauses, grappling with how to phrase it. “The Eye already forces me to feel what it feels. To See what it Sees. And I worry that - that I'll reach a point where I'm so numb to it all that I'll forget what it was ever like to be human. To care about people suffering. And using these powers for no reason other than taking revenge, I think it feeds the Beholding, strengthens its hold on me. I can see myself rationalizing it, but when I look at some of the other avatars… making those kinds of justifications led them down a path that I would very much like to avoid. Whether Jude deserved it is a moot point.”

 “I think she did, though,” Martin says. “So did the... the Sasha thing." 

 “Honestly? I think so, too. Forcing them to experience the suffering they’ve caused, it was what they deserved. But Jude was right, when she said I was enjoying it. Using my powers to hurt people, knowing that they can’t hurt me now… it feels good. It feels right in the same way that – that taking live statements used to, and that scares me. And I think… I think it scares you, too.”

 “I’m not afraid of you, Jon.”

 “And I don’t want to reach a point where you are.”

 “That won’t happen.”

 “You don’t know that.” Martin opens his mouth to argue, and Jon holds up a hand to stay him.  “Even if you’re not afraid of me, you’re afraid you might lose me to this. I’m not – I didn’t read your mind,” Jon hastens to add, “I just… I saw how you looked at me, when I was dealing with Jude. When your voice couldn’t reach me. I’m still unsure how much of it is the Beholding and how much of it is just me, but I do know that I don’t like it, and that it isn’t worth the cost. It doesn’t change anything, and it hurts you, and it – it isn’t healthy for me, either.”

 I see you, he thinks, staring into Martin’s eyes, I see you.

 “I meant it when I said that you are my reason. I lost sight of that for a moment, and I don’t want that to happen again.”

 “Okay,” Martin sighs, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand and forcing a tight smile. “No more Kill Bill. At least – at least not recklessly.”

 Jon nods. “From now on… unless something poses an imminent danger, and I have to defend us on the spur of the moment, we talk. We explore all the options, all the potential consequences. I don’t smite unless we both agree on it – for the right reasons. No more feeding the Beholding on a whim.” He looks into Martin’s eyes again. “Does that seem… I would like to know if that feels fair, to you.” Martin nods, and Jon lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “And if one of us starts feeling differently, we revisit this conversation. I don’t want you to feel as if you can’t… renegotiate, or add more conditions.”

 “I’d like that,” Martin says, and plants soft kiss on Jon’s lips.

 They sit in silence for a few minutes, Martin’s head on Jon’s shoulder and his arm wrapped firmly around Jon’s waist. Eventually, Martin clears his throat.

 “So. Back to the free will thing,” he says, lifting his head. When Jon starts to make a noise of protest, Martin shoots him a stern look. “You promised.”

 “Fine,” Jon says through a heavy exhale, sitting up straight as Martin leans away and resenting the loss of the comforting weight of Martin’s body against his. “So, how do you want to do this?”

 “Well, you always liked visuals.”

 “What?”

 “You had a conspiracy corkboard in your office, Jon.”

 Jon flushes in indignation. “Don’t call it that –”

 “I’m joking. Mostly.” Martin laughs and kisses Jon’s cheek, which Jon receives with an only somewhat petulant huff. “Seriously, though, I think a visual will help you keep track of your own thoughts, and it’ll help me follow along.”

 Jon isn’t quite sure where Martin is going with this, but at least it’s a starting point, which is already more than Jon could come up with.

 “Okay,” Jon says quizzically. “How should I…?”

 “Well, I figured you could just…” Martin scribbles in the dust with one finger.

 When Jon leans closer to see what he’s written, he can clearly make out the words:

  GET FUCKED, JONAH.  

 Jon chokes on a laugh. His sore throat twinges again, but when Martin starts laughing, it creates a feedback loop, and soon both of them are left wheezing as they try to catch their breath.

 “He – he can probably See that, you know,” Jon manages to get out.

 “That’s rather the point, love,” Martin replies with a grin, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Jon’s ear.

 “Okay.” Jon takes a few shaky breaths, fighting back a smile and trying to school himself back into seriousness. “Okay. Let’s… let’s give this a try, I suppose," he says, and sets to dragging an index finger through the dirt.   

 It takes Jon a few minutes to acclimate to it, but soon he’s mapping out his tangled, racing thoughts on the ground, funneling his anxiety into flow charts and network diagrams. He’s always had a highly associative mind, prone to tangents and distraction. He finds himself adding parentheticals, footnotes, asterisks, arrows, all of it blurring together as the loose dirt gets pushed around. It doesn’t take long before Martin has to move back to give him more room to work. At some point, he breaks a branch off the charred tree for Jon to use as a pointer, and Jon accepts it absentmindedly without even the slightest pause in his dissertation, barely noticing the shower of ashes that rains down from the jostled tree.

 It’s absurd, taking an intermission during the apocalypse to navel gaze about the nature of free will, but… miraculously, it’s helping. Martin stops Jon frequently to ask questions, redirect his focus, provide feedback, and expand on certain points. Jon is struck by how much effort Martin seems to be putting into following each of Jon’s convoluted trains of thought to their many branching, disparate destinations, and he thinks, not for the first time, What did I do to deserve him?  

 “When I think about it,” Jon says feverishly, pacing and gesturing with his hands the way he does when he’s absorbed in a debate, “the Web may have been pulling strings my whole life. I – I was marked by it when I was eight, and that was partly why Jonah chose me. He said I might have even been a gift from the Web, that I was drawn to the Institute, and that makes me wonder how many of my choices have been… influenced, without me ever noticing.”

 “Okay, let’s take that as a premise,” Martin says patiently, placing one hand on the stick Jon is waving around and guiding the point down until it’s less of an accident waiting to happen. “Not saying it’s true, mind you – we shouldn’t trust anything Jonah says – but let’s just… follow that to its conclusion, see where it leads. What would it mean?”

 “It would mean…” Jon wets his lips, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “It would mean that, like Gertrude, I was always going to end up here. But – but then again… Annabelle’s statement. She suggested that the Web is just the fear of manipulation, and maybe it’s actually hands-off, just feeding on the paranoia we create for ourselves. But she also said that maybe it doesn’t matter, because either way, the Web always gets the results it wants.”

 “And Annabelle also said she might just be telling you all that to make sure you do what the Web wants you to do.”

 “Yes.” Jon groans in frustration. “I wish I knew what the Web wants. Does it even have a goal, or does it just look like it does to our pattern-seeking minds? Like – like some sort of metaphysical pareidolia.”

 “Hmm. I think we need to look at this a different way.”

 “Go on?”

 “If we can identify one instance of free will, that proves its existence.” Martin shrugs. “It doesn’t say anything about the extent or nature of it, but it at least eliminates the possibility that everything is out of our control.”

 “That… sounds reasonable," Jon says, just a little doubtfully. "But the problem is – how can we know whether something was fully our choice?”

 “Well, choices don’t occur in a vacuum anyway – they’re products of our past experiences, right? So there’s always going to be something influencing us. The question we need to focus on now is whether there’s another consciousness pulling the strings.”

 “Okay.” It’s far too tempting for Jon to veer off topic and into this new potential avenue of discussion, but it helps having Martin to guide him back on track. “So, can you think of anything, any time when, looking back, you can say with confidence that you made a choice without being manipulated by something for its own gain?”

 “Yes.”

 “Oh?” Jon feels a little bewildered by how immediate Martin’s response is. “Do tell.”

 “Loving you,” Martin says without hesitation.

 “I – what?” Jon sputters. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He knows Martin loves him, of course – that comes as no surprise – but he’s still taken aback whenever Martin says it so directly. He’s so casual about it, so sincere, so confident, as if there could be no reality in which it isn’t true.

 “It’s true,” Martin says, a faint blush beginning to blossom on his cheeks. “I mean – it’s not that I actively decided to have a crush on you or anything, attraction just kind of happens unconsciously, but – but deciding to pursue it? That was a choice I made. Even if I have a hard time imagining a scenario where I wouldn’t want to take care of you – I still could have decided not to act on it.”

 “I… certainly made it difficult for you, I suppose.”

 “Yeah, you weren’t exactly receptive to…” Martin snorts. “Well, any kindness at all, really.”

 “So then why didn’t you give up? Why did you keep putting the effort in, when all I did was push you away? What if –”

 Martin shakes his head with a fond little smile. “Jon, what possible reason could the Web have to make you happy?”

 “What?”

 “Why would one of the fears choose to manipulate you in a way that didn’t make you miserable, when there are so many options to do it in a way that hurts you? Since when would they care about you feeling safe, or cared for, or – or supported? If anything, you being isolated would make you easier to manipulate.”

 “Not necessarily – you can control someone by threatening someone they love. That’s why you kept working with Peter, isn’t it? You knew he was using you, sure, but – but I listened to the tapes. I know I wasn’t the only reason you went along with him, but it did factor in. You were distracting him, keeping him occupied so he didn’t come after me.”

 “True,” Martin concedes. “But can the fears even comprehend love?”

 “I’m still not convinced the fears are conscious at all, or if they just... exist." Jon frowns in concentration as he tries to find the right words. “Like – like gravity. Forces with no sentience, no minds of their own, except for what we project onto them.”

 “That only bolsters my argument.”

 “I suppose.”

 “Either way, I don’t think the fears could force me to love you, and even if they could, I don’t think they’d bother – not when there are more straightforward ways to terrorize us. I don’t think they particularly care about our feelings.”

 “Helen said something similar once,” Jon recalls. “I wanted to know when the Eye would make me monstrous. When I would stop feeling guilty. She said that the Eye wouldn’t have a reason to do that, when I was already doing what it wanted regardless of my own feelings on the matter. She said… she said that Helen made a choice to just stop feeling guilty, because she was going to feed whether or not she felt guilty about it, and it was pointless to agonize over it when the outcome would be the same either way. And now… well, you see what she’s like.”

 “See? I doubt any of the fears would take an interest in our slow burn love life," Martin says with a wry smile, "and if they did, it would only be to sabotage it.”

 Thinking about it, recalling all the moments leading up to this…

 “I think you might be onto something.”

 “Oh?” Martin perks up, clearly delighted. “You’re saying I was right?”  

 “Yes, Martin, you were right,” Jon sighs, amusement creeping into his voice despite himself. “I don’t think my feelings for you were being controlled. Even if the situations we were thrown into were orchestrated, I… I can’t think of a single moment when loving you felt coerced. Even following you into the Lonely – it may have been part of Jonah’s plan, maybe even part of the Web’s machinations, but looking back at all the choices I’ve made, I think… no, I know that one was all me. You ending up in there was a result of manipulation, but my choice to go after you – I didn’t hesitate. That – that isn’t like me, I second-guess everything, but… I didn’t, then. In my mind, there was no other option – and that wasn’t because someone removed all the other options, it was because I decided that no other option was worth considering.”

 “Oh.” Martin's voice sounds very, very small. Then: “I do think sometimes, though, about how… if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been marked by the Lonely. It was the last mark Jonah needed to use you for the Ritual, and I –”

 “He would have found another way.” Jon shrugs. “The outcome – being marked by the Lonely – that may have been inevitable. But the way it happened – that was me. I didn’t follow you because I felt guilty, or because I had no one else, or because the Eye wanted me to experience the Lonely. It was because I care about you, and because you deserve better than to be Forsaken.”  

 When Jon looks up, he sees that Martin is crying, and draws him into a tight embrace.

 “I’ve never once regretted coming after you,” he promises, wiping Martin’s tears away with his thumb, “and I would do it again. It might be the only decision I’ve made where I've never doubted whether I made the right choice.”  

 “Thank you,” Martin whispers after a few minutes, as his sniffling subsides. 

 “I love you,” Jon replies, voice rough from his own unshed tears.  

 “That was… quite eloquent.” Martin lets out a tearful chuckle, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “So – did this help at all? Did you have any – any epiphanies?”

 “I think I did, yes.” Jon releases Martin and picks up the stick again, drawing a rough illustration of a set of scales in the dirt. “One side is 'being controlled.' The other side is 'having free will.' I’ll never know how the scale is balanced, and that’s… I’ll just have to accept that. As long as there’s some free will in the equation, that’s... that's going to have to be enough to move forward.”

 “Are you okay with that?”

 “I think I have to be. I feel it’s a question that will never be answered to my satisfaction, and no amount of obsessing is going to change that. Even if I could seek an answer, I don’t think it would be worth –”

 A sharp, electric pain courses through Jon’s head just then, leaving him gasping in its wake. The vertigo that floods him brings him back to his encounter with Mike Crew, and when he comes back to himself, he finds himself on his knees, trembling in Martin’s arms.

 “Jon! Jon, are you alright?” Martin’s concerned face comes into view as Jon’s blurry vision clears, and he nods wordlessly. “What was – what was that about?”

 “I – I don’t think the Ceaseless Watcher liked that very much,” Jon says, wincing at the lingering ache. “The prospect of – of letting a question go unanswered.”

 Martin holds him, rocking gently, stroking his hair, until the throbbing begins to wane. Jon clenches his fist in Martin’s jumper and breathes deeply.

 “I’m alright,” he says eventually, sitting up again.

 “So… where do we go from here?”

 “What I was going to say, before – before the Eye threw a tantrum,” he hisses, glowering up at the sky.

 “Don’t provoke it, Jon –”

 “What I was going to say is that I think the best way to tolerate the ambiguity is through action.” Jon holds his breath and steels himself before he continues, half expecting another bout of disapproval from the Beholding. “Any amount of free will means that change is possible. That means it’s worth trying, even if the outcome is uncertain, or – or hopeless. If that means taking it on faith that I can make my own choices, then… it’s a fair tradeoff, I think. The only way to determine how much control we really have is to experiment.”

 “Some practical research, then?”

 “I suppose so. Discovery through praxis. At least real-world evidence of cause and effect gives me something tangible to observe. It’s better than… what did you call it –”

 “Rumination as a roundabout method of self-harm,” Martin supplies helpfully.  

 “Yes,” Jon says sheepishly, “that.”

 “Well, at least we have a way forward now.”

 Martin stands and pulls Jon to his feet and right into a strong embrace before picking up a bag in each hand.

 “So, where to next?”

 “Something horrifying, I’m sure.” Jon takes a moment to glare at the Panopticon, still so far off in the distance, before taking his pack from Martin and sliding the straps over his shoulders.

 “Well, come on, then,” Martin sighs, linking their hands together. “Onward.”

 “Onward,” Jon says with a resolute nod, gripping Martin’s hand tightly as they resume their journey.  

[twinkbouttapounce]

@geraltwhumpweek

TITLE: Think Happy Thoughts

PROMPT DAY: Day 2: Potions

MEDIUM (Netflix, Books, Games, Hexer): Netflix

WARNINGS: Recreational drug use, self harm, bad trip as viewed by a sober onlooker

SUMMARY: Geralt takes some White Gull in the woods while Jaskier supervises. His high is ruined before it even really begins.

WORD COUNT: 1,987

AUTHOR’S NOTES: researching does tend to be my favorite part of writing so I had a lot of fun with this one :) It can be read pre-relationship geraskier if you so choose.

Geralt was an anxious person, Jaskier had come to find, and as such it did not shock him in the slightest when Geralt expressed his habit of using certain perception-altering substances recreationally.

While they had done a number of said substances together, Jaskier had yet to see Geralt on White Gull. It was intriguing to learn that there were witcher-specific hallucinogens, and Jaskier had jumped at the opportunity to assist Geralt through his high.

He’s had a vague idea of what to expect. Geralt had given a brief overview of the standard effects, namely describing the warm floaty feeling he took the unfinished potion for. He would likely hallucinate, and he would be overly emotional, but he would be calm. The calm seemed to be Geralt’s favorite part, a stilling to the endless buzz in his head. Jaskier could definitely appreciate that, having tried a number of herbs and elixirs to still his own thoughts.

Geralt had taken the potion when they set up camp for the night, just before the sun had started to set. An hour later the effects began to take hold.

It started with a softening in Geralt’s eyes. Jaskier knew he took care to keep his pupils a relatively human size but seeing them expand wider, wider, until only a thin ring of gold surrounded the dewy black was a gorgeous experience. The giggling was the next most apparent. Geralt had a delightful way of wrinkling his nose when he giggled, though he never did it sober, and the sluggish way he paused before Jaskier’s jokes seemed to click made it all the better.

It was around when Geralt began contentedly staring off into space for lengthening periods of time that things started going downhill.

A couple passing through approached them, amicable as any until they saw Geralt. Even with his posture loose, armor shed, and expression soft it was clear who Geralt was. If his inhuman eyes were not enough, then his hair and nearby swords were, especially with how his reputation as the White Wolf had been gaining traction.

“Witcher,” they had hissed, and Geralt’s smile had faltered.

Seeing as he could hardly let passing strangers ruin his friend’s good mood Jaskier stood to intervene.

“How might I help you this evening?” He greeted, shifting their attention from Geralt to himself.

“We don’t need help from anyone who associates with that Butcher,” the husband had replied.

Jaskier would have had half a mind to fight the couple for that, however, he didn’t think Geralt would appreciate the effort even in his heightened state. He tried for diplomacy but the insults continued. Murderer, freak, demon, the words piled until Jaskier could tolerate no more.

“It’s getting rather late, if you don’t need anything I think it might be best for you to move along and find a nice place to camp, yeah?”

The couple seemed to deliberately miss the point, moving closer instead. It was only when Jaskier made casual mention of needing to help Geralt sharpen his swords that the pair took the hint and scurried off into the deepening night.

Jaskier sat back next to Geralt with a huff, some sarcastic comment on his tongue. The witcher tensed. Frowning, Jaskier followed the other’s gaze into the forest and found not so much as a falling leaf. Geralt started to shake and nervousness stirred in Jaskier’s belly. Geralt was supposed to be calm, not look minutes away from bursting into tears. He waved a hand in front of the witcher’s face and called his name in the hopes of inspiring a reaction.

Rather than turning to the bard or swatting at his hand Geralt shrunk in on himself, muttering a sheepish “I’m sorry.” Alarm reared its head in Jaskier’s chest. Geralt looked smaller than the bard had ever seen him as his large, unfocused eyes stared through something in the distance. The way the growing moonlight pooled in his eyes made Geralt look entirely too vulnerable.

Jaskier’s nerves multiplied. He knelt before Geralt and put his hands on the witcher’s knees. Geralt flinched back from the touch, near falling over the log he had been sitting on. Jaskier hesitantly called for him again, only for Geralt to scramble back, more apologies falling from his lips.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he begged. “I tried not to, I tried—”

Geralt cut off suddenly and his head whipped to one side.

“Geralt, you’re scaring me. I need you to talk to me.” Jaskier ignored the shake in his voice as he tried again.

The witcher gave no sign of acknowledgment. His hands dug into the ground, a hurt expression morphing features that had been so relaxed less than an hour ago. Geralt flinched away from nothing. A whimper built in his throat until it became a sob.

When the first tears ran down Geralt’s face Jaskier began panicking in earnest. Geralt reached for his swords with desperate hands and Jaskierer lunged to get to them first. Nothing good could come of Geralt having a weapon at the moment. He ignored Geralt’s sob, threw the swords as far as he could, and rushed into their tent for a blanket. Jaskier wrapped Geralt in the fabric before half dragging him onto a bedroll.

In need of some release for his nervous energy, Jaskier talked. He couldn’t be sure what Geralt was seeing, only that it scared him, made the witcher look young and afraid. His hands ran over Geralt’s back as the man rocked. For every apology from Geralt, there was a reassurance that he had done his best from Jaskier.

Geralt’s crying subsided eventually, replaced by an uneasy silence. Jaskier laid an arm over the man’s shoulders and pulled him close. The witcher shook where he was pressed into Jaskier’s side, and, unsure what else to do, he began humming a lullaby. For a bit, it seemed Geralt might have gotten through the worst of it.

When Jaskier was close to nodding off Geralt suddenly began thrashing. He cried out as if struck, fought to rid himself of the blanket and make it out the tent. The witcher stumbled to find his swords again. The nearest blade happened to be Jaskier’s knife, on the ground near where they had been sitting earlier. Geralt unsheathed the dagger and brought it to his arm. Blood welled over the skin before Jaskier could intervene, and Geralt raised the knife to slash at his arm once more.

At his best, Jaskier may not have stood a chance against the witcher, but Geralt wasn’t at his best. The bard tackled him from behind and Geralt howled. He bucked, an uncoordinated wildness to his actions, but Jaskier held on. He wrestled the knife from Geralt’s white knuckles, threw it away, and managed to pin Geralt’s wrists beneath his knees with the use of his full weight.

The broken cries that fell from Geralt’s mouth made Jaskier’s chest ache but he held steady. He had seen the scars on Geralt’s thighs and knew no monster or person could be responsible for the sheer number except Geralt himself. With his judgment impaired Jaskier couldn’t dare to hope Geralt would hold any care for his own safety. It was only after the witcher fell into another crying spell that Jaskier moved. Slowly, the bard let Geralt go bit by bit. When he was fully disentangled Jaskier stood.

With frantic motions, Jaskier gathered anything his panicked brain recognized as dangerous and threw it into Roach’s saddlebag. He fastened the bag to Roach, forgoing any of her riding gear in favor of getting back to Geralt sooner. He petted her nose in thanks before rushing back to the tent, assured that should Geralt try to hurt himself he would need to hunt Roach down first.

When Jaskier returned to Geralt the witcher was scratching angry red marks into his arms as he hugged himself. A litany of pleads, apologies and disconnected words fell from Geralt’s mouth, a match to the tears falling from his eyes

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed.

He pulled Geralt’s hands away from the bloody lines and held them to his own chest. Geralt looked at him and Jaskier let himself hope it was with recognition. The witcher’s eyes locked onto Jaskier’s throat.

“I’m sorry, Jask,” he said.

It was in no way the recognition Jaskier had wanted. He tried to assure Geralt he was fine, that he had long forgiven him for his misspoken wish, but Geralt’s eyes were still unfocused and he had no way to be sure his words were coming through.

The rest of the night proceeded in similar bouts of activity and stillness. Jaskier alternated between pinning Geralt’s hands and stroking his back. Geralt fell asleep sometime in the early morning before dawn, clutching Jaskier to his chest. When the sun rose and Geralt opened his tear-puffy eyes again the bard felt the tension of the night finally leave him.

“Back with me Dearheart?” Jaskier asked sleepily.

Geralt nodded, eyes still unguarded but aware.

“I… I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

Jaskier hummed and pulled Geralt closer. Of course it wasn’t supposed to go like that, he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “Are you ok?”

Geralt seemed shocked by Jaskier’s question but nodded hesitantly. Memories of Geralt shouting with terrified eyes, of pulling the witcher’s hands from bloody tears in his skin, plagued Jaskier’s mind despite the exhaustion weighing on his body.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he started. “But it might do some good to talk about what you saw. You were yelling a lot but I couldn’t figure out what at.”

Geralt looked away and a shudder ran through him. He was quiet for a long time, long enough Jaskier thought he might be stubborn and refuse to talk. When Geralt finally spoke his voice was faint and heavy with emotion.

“Just… people. People I let down. You, Vesemir, Visenna, Ren—” he cut himself off and restarted. “People that died because of me and… the Trials. A lot of boys died during the Trials.”

Jaskier was hardly awake enough to process the enormity of Geralt’s near ninety years of cumulative guilt but he knew Geralt needed him, so he gave it his best.

“You haven’t let me down. And I’m not dead. The one time you almost killed me you didn’t, and every other time I’ve nearly died you’ve kept it from happening. I’ve met Vesemir, and I don’t think he would say you’ve let him down either. Also your mother is a thistle worth less than the ground she grows in. Fuck her and her opinions.”

It wasn’t his most eloquent, but it was enough for Geralt to look at him again. Fear seeped from the witcher’s shoulders in little measures until he looked himself again, no longer scared and young, but with hints of vulnerability still clinging.

“Right, let’s get you cleaned up,” Jaskier said after a moment. “You hurt yourself a couple times, got me all in a huff and covered in blood.”

Geralt looked down and made a face as if he were only just realizing how his arms ached. Jaskier gathered a cloth and one of their water skins then wiped away the flaking blood. He could feel Geralt watching him as he worked but paid him no mind. He needed a nap. When the cloth stopped coming away red Jaskier spread salve over the wounds, careful of the uneven redness around Geralt’s biceps where he had scratched himself. The bard pressed a kiss to each cut when he finished.

“matter to me,” Jaskier muttered between kisses, “You’re good and strong and beautiful and so brave. There is no shame in doing your best to help people.”

Geralt stared incredulously until the last of his injuries were cared for.

“Sometimes when I’m with you, you make me feel like a real person,” he said.

[writemywaytoyourheart]

He sees your self-harm scars | Hoseok

Requested: kind of,,, @tangledsparkles gave me the idea, so thanks love, ILY ❤️

a/n: mothertrucker dude, I love Hobi so much, I can't :')....I wrote his first and couldn't keep it short, so the other members reactions will be out soon! If you struggle with this topic, I'm so sorry, and you can message me anytime to talk. Ily all ❤️

pairing: Hoseok x reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Word count: 872

Warnings: nothing too bad honestly; self harm scars but no details on how or why.

Trigger Warning- if you're easily triggered by this topic, pls don't read and if you ever need to talk, pls send an ask or dm me. They're always open.

“Baby why don’t you change? It’s really hot today and I don’t want you to get heatstroke.”

You nod absentmindedly at Hobi’s suggestion and scratch your head, “I- I think I’m alright. Thanks though.” Hobi frowns at you and scans your outfit; you’re wearing a short-sleeved exercise shirt but long black leggings. You two have been dancing in the studio for a few hours now as your boyfriend teaches you the dance routine that he made up, and it was getting extremely hot in there.

Hobi walks over to you as you start to wipe sweat off your forehead and steady your breathing. It would definitely be a lot more comfortable if you could change into a pair of shorts like your boyfriend was currently wearing…but you shake your head again and go to take a drink of water from your water bottle. You feel him come up next to you and he sighs.

“Y/n?”

“…yeah?”

“I have an extra pair of shorts, it’s got strings, so you don’t have to worry about it fitting…Please change into them? You can change back before we leave if you want.”

You laugh at how sweet he is and nod, unable to say no to him now. “Alright, thanks baby.”

-

Hobi laughs in delight when you come back into the studio wearing his shorts, “oh my gosh y/n! You look so cute!” You blush and pull the legs down a little, being careful not to let them slip off but at the same time being sure to cover your thighs as much as you can. Since you two have been dating you’ve only worn shorts that reach down to your knees. These were shorter than you always wore, and you are having a difficult time keeping the scars on your legs covered.

Hobi smiles at you and gestures at your legs, “alright! Feel better now?” You nod sheepishly and walk over to your spot awkwardly.

The music starts again and pretty soon you’re lost in the dance, not paying any attention to the shorts- only to the moves you’re trying so hard to get right. Hobi smiles at you in the mirror, wanting to coo because of how cute you are, then he sees something on your thighs and slows down. He looks confused but you don’t notice until he stops dancing and walks over to you, to which you stop immediately after and look at him, “what’s wrong Hobi?” He comes closer and gestures at your legs.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, what do you mean?” You pull the shorts leg down more and step away from him automatically. Hobi frowns and speaks again but slower this time, “I mean, you’re not hurt-”

“No.”

Hobi’s eyebrows raise at your blunt and quick answer, he rubs the back of his neck and looks closely at you, “y/n, can we talk?” You hang your head but nod slightly and walk over to the couch on the side of the dance studio. You plop down on the farthest spot on the couch and you unconsciously pull your legs in when your boyfriend sits down next to you. He keeps his distance but looks into your eyes, he looks serious and sad but not like he’s pitying you; which you’re grateful for. You take a deep breath and speak since Hobi seems to be looking for the right words.

“What did you want to talk about? Am I butchering your dance?” You try to make him smile but your laugh cuts off when you see his face. You look down and try not to let your eyes water, “Hobi, please say something.” He reaches out suddenly to take your hand, the shorts had ridden up a bit and some of your scars are exposed but you don’t even cover them up, it’s too late now anyway. Hobi stares at you until you finally look up at him and then he whispers, “how long? Y/n, please tell me what’s going on and how I can help you…I- I want to help you.”

His voice breaks and that’s when your own heart shatters and the tears finally overflow. You take his face gently and look into his eyes, “Hobi, they’re old. They’re just scars, I promise.”  He looks doubtful, so you lean forward and kiss him softly before pulling away, “Hobi, I promise. I haven’t done it for a while now. I was just ashamed of the scars, I_ I just don’t like them. They’re a part of my past that I hate to think about and they’re ug-“ He cuts you off abruptly by pressing his lips to yours then speaking lowly, “don’t finish that sentence. I won’t let you say that.”

You shrug helplessly and look away from him. Hobi pulls you into a hug, “I wish you had told me before, but thank you for explaining it now. I love you. Every single part of you, scars and all. It was a horrible time, I know, but it happened and it’s over now.” You start to cry silently from his genuine words, and he holds you tighter,

“I love you. I love you so much y/n. It’s over baby, I’m here now. It’s going to be okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n 2.0: so, I know I lied, but yesterday was crazy busy and I couldn't get anything done. So all the members reactions will be out today, and Daisies in the Dark out either tonight or tomorrow....sorry ;-; remember, your body is beautiful and precious, pls be kind to it.

[wulfrann]

As you watch the snow fall, ch 3 (Andreil Jack Frost AU part 3)

All for the game

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Andrew Minyard & Nicky Hemmick

Additional Tags: Jack Frost!Neil, Writer!Andrew, Succession of vignettes, Non-Chronological, Family, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff

[Part 3 of the When the frost is in bloom series - Chapter 3/? - 7640 words - Updated 2020-06-05]

Summary:

Nicky (finally) gets to meet his cousin's mysterious boyfriend. It doesn't go exactly as he'd expect.

(Set after Frost Bite, somewhere in the same winter)

(TW: Self-harm scars)

[Read on Ao3]

Chapter 3: Ice Rabbit

Pale sunlight bounces off the snow piled up on the balcony and inundates the room. Neil has left the window clear of frost today, content to absorb the unfiltered morning rays with his eyes closed.

“If you were a cat, you would purr,” comes Andrew’s voice from just below his neck.

Neil trails lazy fingers through the layers of Andrew’s curls and smiles. “So would you.”

A noncommittal grunt answers him. Neil lowers his fingers to scratch at the back of Andrew’s neck, and turns it into a sigh. Andrew’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into Neil’s chest, and the hand that was holding up his book drops upon the couch.

He’s sitting curled up in Neil’s lap, with his feet up on the cushion and his back to the armrest, Neil’s right arm draped across his middle. They’ve been dozing in the living room since the scent of warm coffee coaxed Andrew out of bed. Finding a good position took a few minutes, but Neil would be lying if he said it wasn’t worth it.

He presses his fingertips to the sides of Andrew’s nape, and massages a low hum out of him. “You’re tense,” he notes. He lifts his free hand up to pick the glasses off Andrew’s nose as he keeps massaging the knots out of his neck, startling Andrew’s eyes open.

A sigh. “People have been asking about you.”

“Oh,” Neil says, and puts the glasses down by Andrew’s feet. There’s a smile dancing on his lips. “You told them about me?”

The idea sparks tiny fireworks in his chest. Somehow, it never occurred to him that he’d get to be a part of Andrew’s life even when he’s away. 

“They think you work abroad,” Andrew says matter-of-factly, dismissing the implications of people knowing about Neil with a wave of his hand, like it’s nothing.

He knows better than that, though. The steady weight of his gaze holds Neil for long seconds, unwavering. And Neil watches back. He sees the carefully guarded hope cradled in the crook of a palm, and so he holds Andrew’s hand in his own and smiles.

I’m real, he thinks, meaning to speak.

Real, real, real, his magic sings beneath his skin.

“What did you tell them we were?” he asks, grinning wildly now.

“Involved,” Andrew answers.

Neil thinks his ribcage might explode. He kind of wants it to. Instead he hums, and squeezes Andrew’s hand in his. “Is that what we are?”

Andrew lifts an unimpressed eyebrow.

Neil doesn’t think he’s ever felt this stupidly happy in his life. He starts massaging the back of Andrew’s neck again, amazed as he always is to feel the dense mass of Andrew’s body slowly mellow under his touch. There is another hum, and then the sound of a book falling shut.

“When you say people…” Neil trails off.

Andrew opens his eyes with a sigh. “Mostly Nicky. He’s been - nagging.”

“I thought that was his default?” he asks, a little distracted as he works his way up the occipital bone, extending the massage to Andrew’s scalp.

He feels a slight dip in the couch cushions as Sir joins them, snuggling her round little body between them, half on Neil’s lap and half on Andrew’s stomach. She starts purring almost immediately. The rumble only intensifies as Andrew starts scratching slowly behind her ears.

“He wants to meet you,” he tells the cat.

Neil’s hand freezes in Andrew’s hair.

If he had a heartbeat, it would have stuttered in his chest. It’s the magic, instead, that trips - a wild, electrifying surge of ice. It courses quickly through his veins, seeking an outlet, so he directs it at the window by reflex. The whole pane frosts over, and then some.

Andrew raises both eyebrows at him.

Neil just smiles.

He huffs, a little aggravated laugh, and drops his gaze upon the cat. Neil goes back to rubbing tiny circles into his scalp, but his ribcage feels tight.

“How would I meet him?”

Andrew looks up, then down again as Sir headbutts his hand for more petting. “You don’t have to decide now.”

“I know,” Neil assures him. “But I’m curious.”

Another small huff. He leans back against the armrest, so Neil lets his hand drop. “People see you when they believe in you. We’d just have to give him proof.”

“You want me to magic him into believing in me,” Neil guesses.

“Something like that.” Andrew shrugs.

Neil blows a magic-infused breath at the window from just over Andrew’s head, and the frost withdraws its petals from the glass in one swift motion. He contemplates the snow-covered city beyond and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Neil looks away from the window and nods. “Sure,” he says, smiling. “I’m not the one who’s going to look stupid if it doesn’t work.”

He earns a poke in the ribs for that. It only makes him grin wider.

*

Convincing Nicky to come over is the easiest part. He’s surprised, at first, that Andrew would be the one to invite him, instead of having to ask (and ask, and ask, until Andrew is finally in the adequate disposition to say yes), but elation quickly takes over.

“You didn’t tell him why he’s coming over,” Neil remarks when Andrew’s hung up.

“I’m not leaving him a whole week to come up with annoying questions,” he says.

Neil just laughs.

*

It happens a week later.

It’s a Sunday, which means Nicky’s not working. On the phone, Andrew agreed to lunch. Nicky would buy the groceries, and he’d cook.

They wake up late. They set up an alarm around 11am just in case, and barely emerge just in time to avoid the blaring ringtone. Last winter, they’d had no use for alarms. Neil was always awake bright and early with the first rays of sun. But this year, sleep has a better hold over him; not that he really has a need for it, but - he likes the warmth. He’s still always the first one to wake up, but it happens slowly now. The blanket draped over them is heavier, the pillows inviting, and Andrew’s presence a comfort he’s loath to leave. Getting out of bed before him is starting to feel more and more like stepping away from a fire, each step colder than the last.

Which is why on Sunday, when Neil wakes up, he isn’t really surprised to see that it’s already a few minutes past 10. Light slants through the shutters and pools at their feet. Andrew is turned towards him, face slack and soft in the dimness and crowned with his usual morning mess of curls. His left hand has disappeared under Neil’s pillow, but the other one lies slightly curled between them.

Something vast washes over Neil as he stares. It feels important, this moment. Everything about it.

The curve of Andrew’s fingers. The orientation of the hairs in his eyebrows. The slight bump of his collarbone peeking out of the oversized shirt.

It says something. Not in of itself, but in the resonance it finds in Neil’s chest.

It’s important. It might be the most important thing in the world.

Neil threads his fingers with the ones lying lax underneath his pillow. A sigh seeps out of somewhere deep within him, and the air brushes against a few stray strands of blond hair.

When Andrew opens his eyes, the movement of his eyelashes is slow. Neil follows every single one and he would count them, too, if his ribcage didn’t feel so tight. He could freeze over the whole wide world right now, if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. He drags their intertwined hands to his mouth instead, and brushes a kiss over the back of Andrew’s.

Andrew brings his other hand to the back of Neil’s neck and shifts closer, pulls Neil in with eyes like molten gold.

It’s a lazy kiss, sleep-soft and lingering, all sluggish lips and morning breaths.

When they emerge from it, Neil’s hair is well and truly mussed. In-between them lie their hands and Andrew’s bare forearm, the flesh grooved and carved by wounds deeper than their scars.

“Can I?”

Andrew nods. Neil carefully pulls his fingers free and drags them down the curve of Andrew’s palm. He brushes along the faint lines of the veins tucked on the inside of the wrist, follows a slight dip between two tendons, and reaches the first ridge. It feels different against his fingertips, the skin smooth and stretched out of its usual elasticity. Strange, that it should not feel jagged. Strange, that the edge of the blade should not leave sharper marks upon the flesh. The skin rises and drops like valleys, like a secret language born out of pain and healing, control and the will to go on, even then. It’s a testament to both Andrew’s weakness and his strength.

Neil goes on past the scars to the elbow, covering Andrew’s forearm with his own. The hand at the back of his neck clenches lightly. Neil leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of Andrew’s brow - the center of the cheek - the edge of the jaw. Andrew hums and steers him in the direction of his mouth, and they both sigh into the kiss.

By the time they get out of bed, they only have a couple minutes left before the alarm is set to ring. Andrew turns it off before it has a chance.

*

Nicky shows up right on time.

He’s holding two bags full of groceries, and he’s got snowflakes clinging to his knitted cap. His smile is blinding.

“Hello Andrew! How’s my favorite cousin in all the world?”

Andrew rolls his eyes and steps aside to let Nicky in, taking the bags from him to carry them into the kitchen. “Take off your shoes.”

“What do you think I am, an animal?” Nicky calls after him.

Andrew doesn’t answer. He puts the bags on the counter and starts unloading them. He’s pleased to see the two tubs of brownie ice cream, which he quickly puts into the freezer before they start melting. Not that the temperature outside would have endangered the goods, but one can never be too careful.

A gust of ice, and Neil’s voice comes tickling his ear.

“Isn’t it a little cold for ice cream?”

“Not in here,” Andrew says, and pushes the fridge’s door shut. Neil is sitting on top of the counter, mouth curved in an easy smile and white hair crowned with silver light. 

Behind Neil, Andrew can hear Nicky making his way into the living room. He busies himself with serving the coffee he readied earlier, then brings a cup to his cousin. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Neil swivel in his seat to face them.

“Thank you!” Nicky beams, curling his hands around the cup. “It’s so fucking cold outside. I swear winter lasts longer every year. Anyway, how have you been?”

“Good,” Andrew answers, already bored of the small talk. “Do you know what my last two books have been about?”

“Sure. They’re your best ones,” Nicky says as he pretends not to snoop around the bookcases.

“You read them.”

“Well, of course. I’ve read all your books,” Nicky says offhandedly, then crouches to pet King.

Andrew very carefully does not react.

Nicky doesn’t read much. He’ll pick up a few queer romances, non-fictions about whatever subject has caught his fancy, psychology material for his work. But that’s it. He doesn’t like fantasy, and he’s far older than the target demographics of Andrew’s books.

Strange, how it’s the little things that still surprise him the most.

Strange, how Andrew knows that Nicky taught him everything he knows about love, and yet he can still be caught unaware when his cousin shows him exactly that. Perhaps it’s the noise and the stubbornness that makes him forget, sometimes, the image Nicky bent over parenting books at night, pushing all three of them through therapy with what money he could save, the hours upon hours spent helping them learn the specificities of a whole new language and a whole new country.

Without him, neither Andrew nor Aaron would have made it past 20 - let alone college.

He snaps out of his thoughts as Nicky brushes past him towards the couch. His eyes follow, and then automatically land on Neil, who’s still balanced on the counter. He’s looking at him with one of those aggravating smirks etched upon his face.

“Is that a new mug?” Nicky’s voice calls. He’s pointing at one of the two empty mugs that they forgot to put away yesterday. It has a bright orange fox on the front, and tiny pawprints curling all around it.

“No.” It isn’t. Andrew’s just never used it himself.

Nicky is looking at him like he expects an explanation, so Andrew just stares until he gets the message. Somewhere to his left, Neil snickers.

Andrew grabs both mugs off his desk and takes them to the sink, making sure to bump into Neil’s leg on his way to the kitchen. While he’s there, he fills the cats’ water bowls to the brim and puts a few stray items away where they belong. Neil’s gaze doesn’t leave him the entire time.

“Staring,” he mutters, and closes a cabinet.

“You’re stalling,” Neil retorts.

“Did you say something?” Nicky asks from where he’s sitting upon the couch.

“Just talking to the cats.”

He lets out a breath, and glares at Neil. He gets a grin in return, but there’s a tension in the way Neil holds himself that mirrors the one Andrew’s been feeling since Nicky rang, so Andrew flicks his forehead. Neil retaliates by pinching his arm, and Andrew’s about to poke him in the ribs when Nicky walks into the kitchen.

“Andrew? Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Andrew huffs. Neil’s grinning like he’s just won the fight, and Andrew wants nothing more than to eat the smugness directly off his face.

But Nicky’s looking at him quizzically, so he opts for going back into the living room instead. Nicky looks like he might want to ask if Andrew’s okay again but he follows, and when Andrew gestures at him to sit on the couch he complies without question.

“I called you for a reason.”

“Aw, and here I thought you just wanted some quality family time,” Nicky jokes.

“Isa Holle is real,” Andrew says.

As predicted, Nicky’s mouth falls shut. Then a grin takes over his face. “I knew it!” he crowds. Andrew very much doubts that he does. “He’s inspired by that mysterious boyfriend of yours, isn’t he?” he goes on, then gasps. “Is he here right now? Am I going to meet him?”

“Nicky.”

“You weren’t lying when you said he’d be excited,” Neil comments.

Andrew ignores him. “Yes,” he tells Nicky, and immediately raises a hand to shut him up. “He’s in the room right now.”

Nicky’s smile falters. “What?”

“He’s here,” Andrew repeats, and points at Neil. “Right by the desk. And he’s going to frost my window.”

Neil does. Nicky gasps.

Then Neil presses his hand flat against the glass, and the whole sheet of ice comes to life.

Flowers bloom. Cats run wild among them, morphing into mice mid-jump and then growing into trees, a whole forest of them, realistic at first then abstract, shapes and patterns without sense. They come together slowly, merging into a single round shape with two long ears.

The rabbit jumps out of the window. A spatter of snowflakes trail after it as it bounces in the air, then floats down to the floor and trots up to a gaping Nicky. The rabbit presses its head against Nicky’ shin and instantly dissolves out of existence, leaving only a breath of fluttering snow in its place.

Neil’s hand hasn’t left the window. He’s grinning.

“Show off,” Andrew says.

Neil flips him the bird.

Nicky looks at Andrew, and then back to the window where Neil’s hand is. He squeezes his eyes shut then opens them again, several times in a row.

And then his eyes snap right upon Neil’s face.

Neil flinches.

“Holy shit,” Nicky breathes. “Holy fucking shit.”

Neil turns towards Andrew with his grin back in place. “See? This is how normal people react.”

“You weren’t as flashy when we met. And I had time to wrap my head around it.”

“True,” Neil concedes. “But this is way more fun.”

“Not for him.”

Neil’s attention drifts back to Nicky, who’s still too shell-shocked to move. He’s gaping at Neil like - well, like Andrew just pulled him out of a book, which isn’t that far from the truth.

“Hi,” Neil says. He steps away from the window, and the frost melts away in the blink of an eye. “I’m Neil. Andrew’s boyfriend.” He extends his hand. Nicky stares at it like it might bite him. “Also a winter spirit.”

Nicky reaches forward slowly, eyes fixed where his and Neil’s hands meet. Neil’s smile is blinding at the contact.

“This is real,” Nicky mutters, looking up at Neil’s face. “You are really real.”

“I am.”

“Did you come out of Andrew’s book?” Nicky blurts out.

Neil’s eyes widen for a split second, and then he’s laughing, head back and free, loud gasps of cold air popping out of his throat. The day Andrew gets used to the sight, he’ll probably be dead. Neil’s laughter quietens down too quickly, but his face is still radiant when he exchanges a look with Andrew.

“Other way around. I came out of a lake, actually.”

Nicky gapes. “Wh - a lake?”

“Long story.” The tone is light, but subtly dismissive. Nicky’s mouth shuts close with an audible click, but it’s only a matter of time before the questions start pouring out. Andrew, reluctantly, steps in.

“Nicky.” His cousin’s attention fixes on him, more out of reflex than anything else. He looks stunned - understandably so. “Come help me make Spätzle,” Andrew orders.

Nicky steals a glance in Neil’s direction, then nods.

The key, Andrew assumes, is to keep his cousin too busy to talk. Let the questions simmer down. Let him process the crack in his reality. Nicky has always had a tendency to spill his thoughts before they’re fully formed, but he’s grown past the overly cheery teenager with too many shame-drenched blades in his own flanks to notice where others might hide theirs. A small nod in Neil’s direction is enough to keep him out of the kitchen - Nicky doesn’t need a physical reminder of what’s already wreaking havoc in his mind.

There is no thinking needed to make Spätzle dough. It’s an activity they have practiced many times before, just like this - a whisk, eggs, flour, milk and salt, and the automatisms of two people used to operate in the same space. Andrew had intended to take care of the meal all by himself, originally, but Nicky needs the familiar, mindless gestures more than he does right now. There’s the chicken to take care of, anyway - leftovers from a past meal to reheat while he sautés mushrooms with onions, some garlic and a generous splash of cream. 

There’s no need for Nicky to keep whisking for as long as it takes Andrew to be done with the sauce, but he doesn’t comment on it. He pulls the Spätzle maker out of a drawer and slams it down on the counter once the pot of water is boiling. Nicky startles, and smiles, settling the tool over the pot and pouring in the dough slowly, with the kind of pointed focus he really doesn’t need for the task.

The cats choose this moment to rub against Andrew’s leg and whine for their reserved pieces of chicken. Andrew pushes them away with his foot and a grunt.

“Watch the sauce,” he tells Nicky, then grabs the tupperware where he left a couple pieces of meat and walks over to the cats’ bowls, over on the other side of the L-shaped counter that separates the living room from the kitchen.

Neil is sitting cross-legged on his desk, and he raises a tentative look when he notices Andrew stepping out. He’s smiling, but he looks unsure, one hand playing with the hem of his hoodie in that lost kid way of his.

“Come set the table.” Andrew gestures towards the kitchen with his chin. “It’s almost ready.”

Neil’s face lights up. He jumps off the table gracefully, propping his staff against a bookshelf on his way to the kitchen.

Andrew wants desperately to follow, to supervise - to make sure that Nicky won’t freak out, or that neither one of them will say something stupid - but he forces himself to remain in the living room instead. Pulls his desk away from the window and into the center of the room. Removes his laptop to make room for the plates and the cutlery. Brings over the two additional chairs he keeps folded by the balcony door.

By the time he’s done, Neil is emerging from the kitchen with plates, cutlery and glasses (magically) balanced in his arms, and Nicky follows carrying the pan, where the Spätzle joined the chicken in its sauce.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” Nicky comments as he sets the pan down in the middle of the table. “Last time you invited me over, I think it was last Spring. I made asparagus.”

The last sentence is directed at Neil. Andrew grabs the big wooden spoon and helps himself to a portion of Spätzle, handing the spoon over to Neil when he’s done.

“I haven’t had asparagus in forever,” Neil tells Nicky, a flutter of hesitation in his eyes as he passes him the spoon. The next sentence he says too casually, carefully eyeing Nicky as he speaks.  “They don’t grow well in the snow.”

The Spätzle are good. The chicken’s a little dry, but that’s what happens when you reheat leftovers.

Nicky swallows his first bite of food and sets his gaze upon Neil.

“About that,” he starts, quickly glancing at Andrew before going back to Neil, “I have a few questions.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” Neil shrugs. He doesn’t look uncomfortable - just slightly apprehensive.

“What else can you do? Besides ice rabbits?”

Neil grins, that little bit of tension simmering down as he lists the extent of his powers. Satisfied, Andrew shits his focus back to his meal.

As it turns out, Nicky has a fair bit more than ‘a few’ questions. Whether by intent or not, however, he leaves the more personal parts of Neil’s story untouched. Neil answers everything dutifully, most of the time amused, if not puzzled, by the things Nicky’s curious about.

(What does he do in the summer? Sleep. Like a reverse hibernation? Kind of. What does he think of Isa Holle? They’re good books. Not very truthful, though. Can other people see him? Yes, but only those who already believe that he exists. Does he pull tricks on people? Sometimes. Was he there when Nicky visited before? A few times. Does he need to eat? No, but he likes it. Are there others like him? Yes. Has he met them? No. When did he meet Andrew? Three years ago.)

And so on, until their plates are empty and one and a half tubs of brownie ice cream have been consumed. (Neil only had one spoonful. He’s not interested in sweet things, let alone cold ones. Blasphemous, but Andrew isn’t about to complain.)

In the end, Andrew doesn’t have to kick his own cousin out. Nicky gets a text from his husband and makes his excuses all on his own, leaving with sweetness on his breath and the promise of another time tucked close to his chest. The flat is eerily quiet in his wake.

Neil stares at the door for a while, lost in thoughts as Sir purrs from his lap. He looks frazzled, and tired, the movement of his hand in Sir’s fur slow and absentminded. 

“That was a lot,” he says eventually. Andrew levels a careful gaze on him, but Neil just smiles. “I can see how he’d be the person who raised you.”

Andrew quirks an eyebrow. It is a well-known fact that he is nothing like his cousin, physically or otherwise. Neil leans back into the couch, dropping his head sideway so he’s looking at Andrew instead of the door. His hair falls like wild threads of silver around his face and his eyes are blue, blue, blue.

“He’s a good person.”

Andrew doesn’t dignify that with a response, lest he be tempted to say something stupid. He pushes Neil’s face away and stalks towards the balcony instead, snowflakes making knots of his guts as he inhales his first cloud of smoke today.

If only feelings were as easily burnt as lungs.

Andrew has a feeling there wouldn’t be much left of him if he tried.

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Little Seer

[Whumpee is called “boy” but is not underage, simply lacks a name... for now. Maybe if he didn’t choose such a hard to explain name he could get it in his introduction but I have no control over my disaster children.]

CW: Knives, captivity, manhandling, duct tape restraints, multiple whumpers, brief eye whump/drugging (unwanted eye drops), mind invasion, cutting on arms (not self-harm related but I’m tagging it regardless). 

Word count: 3,192

[Masterlist] [Next?]

The space was cramped and musty. The boy tried to stretch his legs, to stave off the constant cramps and spasms from staying curled. Hard to do when you wake up in the closet of a second-rate hotel by the highway. The cuff on his ankle rattled against the side of the cheap cabinet. His wrists were taped behind his back, keeping him from taking the tap off his mouth. Not that he would again, not after last time.

He leaned back his head and tried to make himself comfortable. His mouth was dry and ashen, but he would just have to wait until they came back to give him water. He craved the water, but mostly the precious moments that they took the tape off his mouth. Just a few blessed times a day, in the morning to get ready, mealtime, and if they gave him water. Other than that, the duct tape over his lips was part of him.

He drifted, not really sleeping but not fully aware. He used to daydream, creating stories and other lives that he could live, but Victoria had only laughed at him when she found them. After that, they weren’t as comforting anymore, and he didn’t want to share them.

Voices. Voices muffled by the particle board. Talking loudly, but not enough for him to catch the words. Footsteps shake the ground as he wished he could squirm so far into the darkness that no one would ever see him again. No one would ever find him. No one would ever grab him and wrench him back into those rooms. Those chairs.

“Hi little Seer,” she coos as she opens the door and reaches in to grab the front of his shirt. He wishes she wouldn’t call him that. It’s not his name, but his name was stolen from him long ago, so the nickname was the closest thing he had. She uncuffs his ankle and pulls him to his feet. Blood rushes back to his legs, sending stabs of pins and needles through them. He’s unsteady, but she holds his arms and guides him to where she wants him. The room is too bright with the cheap florescent lamps. With a pull then a shove, he thuds into the wooden armchair. Adrenalin starts to rush his head, making his nose flare as he tried to control his breathing. Victoria grins and pinches his nose.

“Good, get all worked up for us. It goes quicker that way.” He twists and struggles uselessly to get away from her grip. His lungs burn and he can feel heat pushing behind the skin of his face. After a brief moment, she lets go and he wishes he could gasp for breath instead of having to scramble to get air through his nose. Tyler comes out of the bathroom and leans against the door frame.

“How many orders today?” he asked absent mindedly as he dries his hands. Victoria cuts the tape around his writs and pulls them down to tape them to the armrests, palms up. He groans internally, more and more layers of tape that will get ripped away later. Heaven forbid they get actual cuffs for his wrists. How many hotel chairs had they left sticky residue on?

“Five,” she responds as she finishes his other hand. A shudder ripples down his spine and digs into his bones. Three was his hard limit for one session, which meant this would happen multiple time today.

“Any specials?” asks Tyler as he pulls his bag from the floor and starts to gather his tools. The boy squeezes his eyes shut and hopes none are a special order. Maybe if he focuses, he can manifest it…

“Two.”

Shit. Uninvited tears well in his eyes and threaten to spill over. A hand strokes through his curly hair as he tries to shake his head. He can’t do five today, he doesn’t have the strength, they never let him truly rest.

“You’re getting popular, honey! Isn’t that great? And you’re getting fans, both our specials are from the Southwest Syndicate.” Victoria plays with his hair, scratching lightly with her acrylic nails. It would feel nice, but she already plays with his head too much; it’s all too much. “Do good with these, and they said they’ll set us up in one of their places. Wouldn’t that be nice? Not moving around from hotel to hotel?” Her voice is sweet and condescending, like she’s comforting a child that dropped their ice cream cone, not a shuddering boy that she tied to a chair.

“Where’s Vince?” Tyler asks as he sets out his tools on the side of the bed. A knife, a taser, a short length of strong rope, an eyedropper bottle, two small canisters. The tears overflow and fall from the boy’s eyes as he desperately wishes they weren’t there.

“Hell if I know. Probably buying lotto tickets somewhere.” Victoria is somewhere behind him, although she’d taken her hand off his head at this point.

“We’ll do two regular ones and the last one a special. We can finish the other ones in a second round later.” Tyler’s voice is as smooth and bored as if he was simply planning the meals for the week, not the torture of the shaking form in front of him. He moves to sit on the bed across from the boy, arranging his tools within reach. Victoria pulls out the headphones and slips them over the boy’s ears. Before they turn on, Tyler snaps his fingers in front of the boy’s face, forcing his attention to the photo he holds.

“Now, little Seer, you’re not going to look away again, are you? Gonna keep those little eyes open?” The boy nods desperately, begging with his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he begs, nevertheless. The headphones are turned on, startling him. A low, masculine voice starts to speak, so loud in his ears it’s all he can hear. The rumble fills his head and digs into his mind.

It’s the man in the picture that’s only inches from his face. Details for him to focus on, find this man out of all the strangers. Pick this man out of space and time instead of himself, as he accidentally does sometimes. It’s not his fault; they’re twisting his ability to something that it’s not supposed to be. It’s not for other’s gain, but instead to protect himself when he’s in danger. Just a quick vision of his future to show him what to do when he’s threatened. The boy knows this, but it seems like it’s about the only thing that he knows for sure. He knows this is wrong. He also knows it will be so much worse if he doesn’t comply.

He locks his eyes on the picture and tries to focus on the sound of the voice as it rattles useless information. Most of the time they say insignificant things; their name, their address, work title, parent’s names, any identifying information. Sometimes they just list numbers that mean nothing to him. He studies the glossy photo of an older man in a boring black suit. He begs and pleads with his brain, Please, please just do it. Don’t make this hard on me this time. Please.

Movement in his periphery, but he doesn’t dare move his eyes from the photo. He doesn’t look at the knife, but he can feel it when it cuts into the skin of his arm. A whimper fights its way out from behind the tape, but he still doesn’t look away. Panic creeps around his mind as he stares intensely at the thinning hair, the suitcase, anything to trigger the vision. He can feel the blood circling its way around the curve of his arm, bumping along the other scars. Another slice, centimetres away from the first. His heart pounds in his chest, beating as if its going to try and escape through his throat.

Another and another, crossing over each other adding to the latticework etched into both his arms. Each slice gets deeper as Tyler starts to lose his patience. Tears stream down the boy’s face as he can feel sweat build on his forehead and his back. Desperation digs its’ claws deep, and he frantically searches the details. It was getting to be too long; Tyler was getting impatient. Danger! Danger! This is danger, goddamn it. Do it! A bead of sweat drips into the cuts, pushing his over the edge.

Like a hit to the gut, the air gets knocked out of his lungs. The world fizzles out and he’s floating. Listing, tumbling through a void with no sense of up or down. He’s lost, grappling onto something, anything to ground him. Threads slip through his fingers, fleeting and ethereal. He doesn’t have a body. He doesn’t have borders. He can feel his consciousness ooze away and stretch thin.

Sight crashes back into focus jarringly. The man eating at the large table of a fancy estate alone. The man driving a golf cart around, chatting with another man of equal age holding onto the handle attached to the roof. The man in a nursing home alone.

The real-world crashes back into vision just as sharply, as if he was slammed full force back into his body. He slumps against the back of the chair, too disoriented to even sit up straight. The room spins as the vibrant, saturated, inhuman colors shift back into normal hues, swirling and bubbling around in a way only he can see. Uneven breath catching as he tries to breath through his nose.

He can see the room around him, but it doesn’t register. All that registers is the pain in his arm and the hand that slides through his hair. The tears in his eyes feel foreign. Like he shouldn’t have a physical form but was forced into one anyway.

Without giving him time to recover, he can feel Victoria invade his mind. He can’t see her, but he can feel that she’s there. He feels her move through his memories. He can feel the tracks that she leaves like footprints. She isn’t just browsing this time; she’s searching for that vision. He tries to focus on it, to keep it in the forefront of his mind. He learned not to fight her long ago, she’ll leave when she finds what she came for. He latches onto the details, knowing they’ll be upset with him if he forgets them.

A snap like a recoil in his mind and it’s gone. It’s all gone. An empty vacuum is left in place of the memory. His panic riddled brain scrambles to fill it, short circuiting and fumbling at the space that was a memory only mere seconds ago. It needs to restart and re-evaluate, fix the files, it’s too much, too quick. It shuts down and he blacks out.

Seconds later, his nose is assaulted with a painful sensation. A heatless burn that creeps down his throat. He jerks awake again, head and arm throbbing in unison. Tyler takes the smelling salts from underneath his nose and puts them back next to the knife on the bed.

The bed. The hotel room. Tyler. It comes back to him in pieces, where he is and what’s happening.

The boy closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. He knows that this is his time to try and recover, that they won’t give him much more. He only really has the time it takes Victoria to project the memory on the TV and record it with the cheap camcorder they use. Especially today if they have five orders to fill. God, he wishes it could go back to when it was only a few visions a week, not multiple a day.

“Meh, it’s not much but it doesn’t look like his life has much more in it. Poor dude. Imagine paying all this money just to learn you’ll die a lonely old man?” Victoria laughs. The boy doesn’t even try and put the pieces of the vision back together again. That vision is gone just like the hundreds of others, and trying to get it back will only hurt and confuse him more in the long run. It’s like his brain is screaming at him, I’m not made for this! You keep messing up my files! Just stop before I can’t function anymore!

His breathing evens out and he feels those hands on his shoulders, centering him in the chair.

The second time is worse. Tyler pours salt into the fresh cuts and grinds them into his flesh until it triggers the vision. Flashes of a woman’s life and a car crash that feels like it hits the boy himself. His chest heaves miserably when he comes back to his battered body. Even the hint of Victoria in his mind crashes the delicate web of synapses. Blackness.

Soft hands this time, rubbing circles with thumbs on his temples. He wakes in stages, slowly pulled from the inky darkness. His eyes close and he tries unsuccessfully to retreat into nothingness.

It’s a delicate balance for them. Do they push him every day and grab the most money they can? Or do they take care of their asset and ensure that he can function for another day? It doesn’t help that they never ask for his opinion, or how he’s doing. If they did, maybe they would slow down.

Or they wouldn’t.

He almost wishes his breathing doesn’t return to regular. Regular breathing seems to be their cue that he’s ready for the next round. Hands come from behind him again to set his shoulders back center. He’s not, he wants to scream that he’s not ready. He can’t do it. His eyes flutter open to see Tyler’s attention fully on him, so he meets Tyler’s cold brown eyes and begs. He knows he looks pitiful, sweat dripping from his brows, shaking and crying, dark circles permanently dug into his face. His eyes are all that he has, and he learned to use them years ago. They rarely do any good, but he tries every time.

“Oh, come on. One more then you get a break, m’kay?” Tyler chides as he thumbs some tears away. The boy nods, at least there was some sort of response this time. A loose promise of relief at some later time.  

The hand in his hair guides his head back until his looking up at the ceiling. The special requests are the worst, rivaling even when they try to push his limits to fill more orders in one session. Tears run down his temples, and he can start to feel his nose grow stuffy from crying. Victoria hears the sniff and her head bobs into his vision.

“Hey, hey, hey, none of that. You want to breathe, don’t you?” She smiles a sickly white smile to him, her red hair pooling around her face as she looks down on him. The florescent lights highlight her hair and allude to a false halo. He doesn’t respond. “Actually, on second thought, go ahead. It’ll go faster.”

A hand with an eyedropper appears in his vision, and he shut his eyes tight. It stings, it burns, please don’t. Please. Please don’t. A tsk. Fingers dig into the soft skin around his eye and force it open. He whines, but the drops fall anyways. Quickly, the hands shift and put that acid in the other eye. He knows its not actually acid, but it feels like it. They all know it’s not good for his eyes, hence the higher fee for special requests. More money, more danger, but also more detailed information. Whatever the liquid is, it focuses the vision and makes it stronger. Clearer.

He can feel it working as the light in the room starts to hurt his head. He blinks quickly, desperate for some sort of relief, but that only works to spread the burn more evenly around his eye. Headphones slip on again, another photo inches from his face. His vision is blurry, shapes and colors roll with the greasy film on his eyes. Even the tears that slide down his face seem to burn tracks into his skin.

Another male voice, listing locations, times, and names. This photo is not a person, but a place. An empty warehouse. He tries to focus, but his body is begging to cave into exhaustion. The lids of his eyes drift down slowly, so slowly. They close for just a moment, just of moment of reprieve from the overwhelming senses that drill into his mind.

Fingers dig into his brows and pull his eyes open once again. The world is bleary and dizzy, shifting and slanting like a ship rocked by waves. The voice echoes in his head, destroying whatever shred of himself he had left. Any shred of the person that he was before he was their Little Seer.

He can feel the hard plastic and cold metal dig into and almost under his ribs. His mind is too far gone, to panicked and desperate to even respond to the threat. All he can do is shake and accept whatever will come. Whatever will be done to him. Pray that it will be quick.

The taser needs only flick alive for a moment, seizing all control of his lungs and surging pure electricity through his veins. His eyes bulge out before they relax and a haze like silver storms clouds overtake his blown-wide pupils.

Falling, grasping, tumbling, lost.

This time, he might as well be standing in the warehouse with the men. Their stoic expressions, their rumpled and wrinkled suit jackets, their stiff posture. It’s a meeting, an exchange of some sort. The man closest to his perspective, the shortest one with standard black wire glasses has a black brief case by his side.

It’s 3:56 pm, three days in the future, far too warm for the season. The short man shifts, restless and uncomfortable. As he moves, the white button down he’s wearing shifts and a small black wire blinks into view. It’s a sting. It’s a trap.

Black cars, a mat black Jeep Wrangler with custom trim and G-140 rims and two black Lincoln Navigators with tinted window pull into view of the open cargo doors. The farthest Navigator has a dark scratch covering half of the wheel well of the back, left tire. A man in a tailored black suit steps out from the passenger side. He has long blond hair tied up in a low knot at the nape of his neck. The short, wired man’s breathing hitches slightly, only visible when seen from a specter’s perspective.

They meet in neutral ground and exchange words. Too late, the other notices the pucker of his shirt collar and the shadow of a wire. Guns are drawn, shots are fired. Neither man makes it out alive, others are wounded, only the driver of the jeep escapes. Sirens blare in the distance, but the scene is starting to slip away.

When he slams back into his body, his eyes don’t even open before blackness envelops him.

[brideofedoras]

Soulbound: Almost Human

Disclaimer: I do not own AH, the core characters or the image (Google is my friend!)  

The image is of Rudy Lom’s lab, which is based in a church.

Word Count: 2300+

Rating: 18 +

Warnings: Mentions of cutting and self-harm.  (If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read.  I do not want to upset or hurt anyone).

Chapter One Chapter Two

 “Good morning, Ms. Williams,” Rudy Lom called out from somewhere deep in the lab.

Emily finished descending the stairs.  “Good morning, Dr. Lom!”  She called back as she headed for her desk.  “Anything exciting on tap for today?”

“Detectives Stahl and Vogel are bringing their MXes in for routine maintenance,” the thin technician appeared from the back, wiping his hands on a greasy-looking rag.  “We will also be upgrading some of the datapads and computers for Delta.”

“Sounds good,” Emily set her backpack on the floor and nudged it under her desk.  “I should be able to take my usual lunch, then?”

He grinned.  “Yes, Ms. Williams,” he shook his head fondly.  “Who am I to keep you from visiting Detective Kennex?”

She ducked her head to hide the blush warming her neck and cheeks.  “He’s steadily showing more signs of activity,” she told her boss as she opened the drawer containing her safety glasses.  “The charge nurse told me last night she thinks he’ll wake up soon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Rudy sat down at his own desk to look over the work orders for the day.  “Wouldn’t it be something if he woke up during your lunch date?”

She snorted.  “Don’t call it a date, Dr. Lom!”

I could never be that lucky, she thought with a pang in her chest.  

“What else am I going to call it?  You take him flowers or cards for his birthday and holidays,” Rudy shrugged, sorting the work orders into two piles.  “John is a good man.”

“I know,” she nodded.  She reached out to turn on her laptop.  “Nothing will ever come of… this anyway.  He’ll wake up believing he’s still in a relationship and I’ll be friendzoned.”  She huffed out a quiet laugh as she dropped her right hand to the inside of her right thigh.  “I have a demented soulmate out there somewhere as it is.”

“Ms. Williams, you’ll meet your soulmate when it is time,” Rudy pushed away from his desk and walked over to her.  “John has a soulmate out there, too.  Perhaps… perhaps his soulmate is you.”

“That’s absurd!”  She scoffed at him.  “He’s fifteen years older than me, he can’t be…  I don’t believe it.”

Rudy awkwardly patted her shoulder.  “It’s not unheard of for soulmates to have differences in age.”

“He wouldn’t want me, anyway,” she shook her head.  “He probably never did.”  She reached over and took the celos from his hand.  “I take it these are my tasks?”  She changed the subject, hoping to take her mind off that familiar itch in the back of her mind, the itch that told her to cut.

No, Emily.  It’s been months since the last time.

Five months.

Five months since she’d taken an X-acto knife to her left arm and sliced shallow cuts into the fleshy part below her elbow.  Six months since she’d added to the growing collection of scars on her arm.  

I can do this.  I can fight this.  I can beat this, she told herself.  

The urge to cut was always there, it always would be.  But she hadn’t felt the urge this strong since the anniversary of her father’s death.

“Ms. Williams?”

She blinked her eyes as she realized Rudy had asked her a question.  She looked over at him.  When did he return to his desk?  She caught the worried look in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Dr. Lom, I must have zoned out.  What were you saying?”

“Are you okay?”

Her brow furrowed.  “I’m fine, Dr. Lom.”

“You looked like you were in pain,” he told her softly.  “Are you all right?”

Lying to her boss would be a very bad move, but Emily could not bring herself to admit her darkest secrets to him.  She did not want his sympathy.  She did not want him walking on eggshells around her.  But she had to tell him something.

“I’m feeling anxious,” she shrugged.  “I want John-- Detective Kennex to wake up from his coma just like you and Sandy and the entire staff on the fifth floor at County, I do want to officially meet him, but…”  She huffed out a humorless laugh.  “I’m afraid he’ll either not remember me at all or he’ll think I’m some nutcase stalker who decided to visit him every day for seventeen months.”

All of that was true, she just could not bring herself to admit to him that she was losing her battle with trying not to self-harm.

Or that she had, over the course of seventeen months, fallen in love with the comatose detective.

 “John would never think you’re a nutcase or a stalker, Emily,” Rudy gave her an encouraging, if awkward, smile.  “He looked up to and respected your father, we all did.  Even if he wakes up and doesn’t remember you, he’ll still know you’re Sam Williams’ daughter.  But, should he decide you’re a stalker, you’ve got Captain Maldonado and I on your side.”

She smiled a real smile at him.  “Thank you, Dr. Lom,” she murmured.

The itch began to fade.

 “Hey, John,” she set her takeout bag on the table next to the chair before she approached the bed.  As she did every day for seventeen months, Emily covered the detective’s left hand with hers before leaning over the bed to press a soft, fleeting kiss to his forehead.  She smiled when she felt his brow smooth out and his hand twitch under hers.  The nursing staff had told her he only reacted to her touch, her presence, no one else could elicit any response from him.  “Dr. Lom was generous to extend my lunch break today, you’ll get to suffer for forty-five minutes of my company,” she squeezed his hand before smoothing the blanket over his chest and brushing her fingers through his hair.  He twitched slightly.  “The CNAs have a betting pool on when you’re waking up.  They all think you’ll wake up before the weekend, Monday at the latest.  Dr. Lom thinks you might wake up today while I’m visiting.”  She sighed as she grabbed her food and sat down.  “I took advantage of the longer lunch break and swung by my favorite noodle joint.  I’m hoping the aroma of drunken noodles and egg rolls will entice you to wake up, but I’m not going to share.  This is my favorite dish and I’m afraid it’ll be too much for your stomach to handle after being fed nutrients through a tube for seventeen months.  You’re probably going to hate life for a while.  But once you’re able to eat regular food, I’ll gladly treat you to lunch sometime.  Or supper.”  

As she ate she talked about one of the datapads she was servicing.  “Some moron in the division thought it was a wise idea to look up android porn on his work tablet and now it has computer STDs,” she shook her head.  “I’m not even sure how that would work, I know there are sexbots but I’ve only ever heard of female bots.  Most masculine bots I’ve seen are the MXes and the DRNs.  MXes definitely aren’t equipped below the belt and aren’t programmed to express emotions anyway.  I know the DRNs are programmed to ‘have a soul’ but I don’t know about their physical structure,” she ate a little more before continuing.  “Dr. Lom has a DRN in storage, I could always take a peek when I duck back there to scavenge for parts,” she grinned at that.  “But I’m not a perv, I promise.  Anyway, Sandy was livid when I called to tell her what I’d found on this datapad.  Pretty sure the detective will be wishing he was fired and not riding a desk for the next month.  I reminded her he could’ve looked up worse stuff, but as she said, he was using division-owned tablet that had access to cases and files someone could easily hack.  And now I have the fun job of programming every device in Delta to restrict his usage.”  She finished off the noodles.  “Thankfully I can upload that program onto just one device and with everything being connected I can remotely upload it to every Delta-owned computer, laptop, tablet, watch, phone, and MX.  The best part is he has to wear a tracking bracelet in order to access any device.  If he’s not wearing it, he can’t even turn on a computer.  If he is wearing it, he will have very limited access to the interwebs.”  She picked up her egg roll.  “Between you and me, I think Rudy was a little upset that I wound up with that datapad to work on.”  She looked over at John.  “Don’t give him hell about possibly being into android porn, please?  I really like my job and I don’t want to get fired.”

She finished off her egg roll and eyed the second egg roll.  “I don’t know why I ordered two of these,” she moaned miserably.  “I’m already hating myself.  I’m stuffed, all that salt’s not doing me any good…”  She fished the plastic-wrapped fortune cookie out of the container and set it in front of the framed photograph Sandra had brought in all those months ago.  She traced her fingers over her father’s smiling face and wondered for the five-hundredth time who had taken the photo of John, Sam, Sandra and Marty at McQuaid’s the night they’d gathered to celebrate John’s 39th birthday.

Her smile slipped when she realized it was probably John’s missing girlfriend.

“I wouldn’t eat that fortune cookie,” she said after a moment.  “They will leave your stomach in knots.”

She busied herself with gathering up her stuff.  “I should be heading back to the lab,” she told him before turning to the bed.  “I’ll be back this evening after I get off work.  Hopefully nothing happens at the last minute to tie me up.  I’m…” she realized she was scratching at her left arm.  “I feel off today.  The… the urge to grab a small blade and cut is borderline overwhelming… worse than it was five months ago,” she busied her hands with straightening and smoothing his blanket.  “I don’t think I could handle the overtime today.”  She ran her fingers through his hair before taking his left hand in hers and leaning down to brush a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek.  “I’ll swing by after shift and sit with you until the nurses kick me out.  I really don’t need to be alone.  I’ll see you later, John,” she whispered before stepping back.  

She grabbed her food and her bag before heading toward the door.  With one last look over her shoulder she managed a smile.  “I’ll be here.”

 Emily logged off her computer and shut it down with a heavy sigh.  The program and the bracelet had taken a little longer than she’d expected, and she had finally finished working on Stahl’s MX twenty minutes ago.  

But now that her hands were idle and her brain not focused on something that itch was back ten times worse than it had been when she’d first noticed it that morning.  Maybe if I’m lucky Sarah will let me stay past visiting hours ends.  

She started gathering her stuff when her phone buzzed.  She frowned, slipping it out of her back pocket.  “Sandy, if you’re calling about a last minute work request, the answer is ‘no’.  I’m tired and just want to get out of here.”  She looked over her shoulder toward Rudy’s desk and frowned when she realized he wasn’t there.  “What time is it, anyway?”

“Nineteen hundred hours,” Sandra answered.  “John woke up this afternoon, shortly after you left.”

“That’s great!”  Emily smiled.  “I’m getting ready to head over there--”

“Emmie, he had a very bad reaction when he found out how long he’s been in a coma,” her godmother told her.  “He exploded when he discovered his right leg is gone.  John’s not in the right frame of mind right now.  He needs time to process everything before anyone other than me can visit.  I’m sorry, Sweetie, I know how much visiting him means to you.  I’m going to go see him, then I’ll come over and fill you in some more, okay?”

Emily squeezed her eyes shut to ward off the tears she could feel burning at the bridge of her nose.  “Is he…  Is he going to be okay?”

“I hope so,” Sandy admitted quietly.  “I don’t want you visiting him until he’s had the chance to come to terms with everything.  He doesn’t know about Marty or Sam, I was told he doesn’t remember much of the ambush.  I don’t want you getting hurt should he lash out if you’re there, Emily.”

She nodded even though Sandra couldn’t see her.  “Okay…  Thank you for calling me,” she whispered.

“I’ll see you later,” Sandra murmured before ending the call.

Emily numbly stuffed her phone in her pocket.

 She didn’t remember the drive home from the lab or even walking into the small apartment she’d been renting for the past year.  She didn’t remember checking the mail, yet she dropped her mail and her keys on the antique oak coffee table with it’s scratched and marker-stained surface.

She felt numb yet at the same time she felt that itch.  

She didn’t remember going to sleep on the bathroom floor.

She just knew she woke up to someone shaking her shoulders and crying her name.  

Emily blinked open her eyes and frowned when she saw Sandy hovering over her.

No, not hovering.  Patching her up.  

She frowned, looking from her godmother to her arm.

“I’m taking you to the ER after I get you patched up,” Sandy’s voice was firm.  “You should’ve told me, Emmie!  You should’ve told me you were feeling that urge!”

Emily didn’t answer.  

She didn’t know what to say, how to respond.

She was just… numb.

[contagiousiridescence]

You aren’t a monster, I don’t think. 

Everyone always talks about their demons like they’re a shared entity, like a shadow that sinks claws and teeth into their souls from behind the veil and leers from corners that their hosts can only see in passing glimpses. These demons are frightening, ruthless and incomprehensible; but you, I think, aren’t a monster. 

You don’t look very threatening for a monster, at least. 

And you’re here. Sometimes less than others-- but it’s a strange companionship, all the same. 

You don’t have monstrous claws and needling teeth and you don’t haunt me from the edges of my vision. You don’t plague me with grief and despair. You certainly don’t siphon the will from my soul like all the other monsters seem intent on doing to their people. (Maybe just a little at a time, so faint I hardly notice-- but usually you give it back if we encounter something good enough to satisfy your boredom.)

You’re just… there. Sometimes you scratch, or nip, or hiss when I least expect it, but I don’t think there is ever any lasting damage. Is there? I can’t see it. I don’t have the scars to count for proof. 

Some days you almost seem content. Curled up in your corner, in some dark little hole you’ve carved out for yourself. I know you’re there, but you stay put for the most part. I can forget on these days that I’m letting you take up space in the deeper recesses of myself. 

Other days you’re active. You come prowling around my legs, and I wonder if today will be the day you take a swipe at my ankles and make me bleed. But usually you just wander, and my soul feels all the heavier with you weighing it down with every step you take inside me. It’s those days that seem the hardest, because I can’t shake you off; you just jump back on, heavier and heavier, until I’m too tired to argue and try again. Those are the days I find myself lying on the floor where you’ve pushed me and it doesn’t really matter if I stay there for minutes or hours. I can forget you’re there during these times, too, under the shroud of exhaustion you tend to drape me with. 

Only sometimes do I really notice your presence. I think maybe these are the days you’re angry-- something has agitated you, provoked you, and it crawls under my skin like a snake coiled to strike. I don’t know what I did to make you angry. You can seem like a monster, sometimes, on these days-- but not for long. You lash out once, maybe twice, and half the time I can expect it. I can run interference, but not always. Then we’re back to waiting out the minutes and hours again until you’re ready to doze off in your corner. 

A lot of people say their demons hunt them; that the looming darkness dripping through their insides is consuming and insatiable, a devouring force that hollows them out and leaves nothing but an empty, broken vessel and the sticky residue of self-loathing. 

I don’t think you intend to harm me. Not really. 

But I also don’t really know why you’re here. 

Sometimes I think you don’t really know why, either. I haven’t suffered through anything worthwhile to justify your presence, though I’ve heard it’s not always a trauma that attracts your attention. (Maybe it attracts the real monsters-- the ones that shred the fabric of souls with ghostly talons, not little creatures like you that exist somewhere between fatigue and melancholy.) Even still, you chose me, I think. For some reason. I wish I knew. 

I’d like to think you’re a mischievous little devil in comparison to the real monsters, but you’re not malicious enough for that, either. 

Maybe you’re just lonely. And me, being a person that drowns herself in the quicksand of her own mind from time to time, had just enough space inside herself to give you a home. 

The real monsters don’t have the decency to stay hidden, to stay in their little corners like you do (most days). They ravage and pillage and generally make a mess of a person in all sorts of different, awful ways, and I watch it from afar both guilty and glad that you’re a more considerate housemate. You only take little parts of me-- just a small portion at a time-- so it’s bearable. I hardly even feel it. I hardly ever feel anything. 

I guess I’m relieved that you’re so good at hiding. That you’re a polite little monster. You stay a respectable distance away when we have company, and I forget then, too, that you live in here with me. You don’t leave the same traces as the other monsters, and I’m fairly sure most people visit and think I must be so lucky not to have a demon of my own to swell up through my insides and suffocate the soul already stuffed in there. 

I’m trying to be more truthful about it. “Look,” I say, “here’s a paw print it left behind. See how it lurks in there, just out of reach? Here’s evidence that I have monsters, too.” But they look and sometimes don’t see anything, and I wonder if I even saw it to begin with. 

My monsters don’t look like everyone else’s monsters, I think. Just the one. Just the small, little creature that lives inside me and nibbles away at the fibers that make me a person. 

Maybe everyone has one of these, and I just don’t notice. 

Maybe I don’t have one at all. 

Maybe I just have that empty space where you would be, and I need something to fill it. Maybe that’s why you don’t look like a monster or act like all the other demons. Maybe you’re just the ghost of what I think would go there, like some poor little puzzle piece I’ve conjured to fit into a hole that doesn’t seem to fit anything else. 

If you’re truly there, I suppose I’m grateful that someone, at least, is in there with me, and that you’re not worst thing to exist alongside. I can do it, I think. Maybe someday you’ll become a real monster. But for now, let’s just stay here. Let’s rest. I’m too tired to worry about it anymore.