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evilphrog · 2 years

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Watching Wheel of Time without reading the books: Episode 5

Wow. Damn. That was a powerful episode. I needed some time to recover before I could write this up. This one hit home for several reasons. Advance warning, this is 4 entire pages long on my google doc, and much less funny than previous ones.

So we start off with the burial scene, which for some reason these people bury their dead about 2 inches below ground level? Why???? Is there an in-universe reason for leaving corpses completely accessible to the local wildlife? Is this some sort of eco-friendly thing? Is the ground too frozen to dig further, even with magic? Are they afraid of digging too deep and accidentally awakening the Dark One? Is that why the Dark One had followers in the mining town? Is his power stronger in places closer to the core of the planet? Did the set designer just think it would look cool on camera? This really broke my immersion, but then I was brought right back in when the guys actually had visibly longer hair after a month of travel. Yes, thank you! But also, this bit of world building confirms that Rand isn’t capable of growing facial hair. Don’t worry, Rand. You’ll get there in time.

The way they could introduce a character halfway through last episode and then dedicate the majority of this episode to his emotional battle, and have me actually care and then be devastated when he died? What fucking brilliant acting, brilliant scriptwriting, brilliant direction, just wow wow wow. Kudos to everyone involved, because I think this is a super rare thing for any TV show. You could see Stepin’s pain reflected in Lan and Moiraine, who we already cared about. But that wasn’t the only reason I cared. He gave such a realistic portrayal of grief in the early days. Just the absolute, shell-shocked numbness, the monotone recitations of his memories that conveyed so much emotion. The way all the other warders came together to support him because he was currently living their worst fear. He was so lost and scared and hopeless. And on the outside, his friends see him start to reach out for support, and think “Hey, he’s getting better.” But it’s just an illusion because the reason he feels better is that he has made his decision.

“Love is usually a bad idea. Still, we allow it to happen, or this life would be intolerable.” And then he kills himself. That isn’t someone who thinks he will never be happy again. That is someone who understands his capacity for healing and moving on, and makes a deliberate choice not to, because he never wants to feel further away from the person he loves. He isn’t scared of losing someone again. He is scared of finding peace and comfort, and that doing so would be a base betrayal. He is choosing not to let himself love again, knowing that it will mean his life is no longer worth living. Grief and loss are done so badly so often in media, but this show really gets what it means to everyone left behind.

Moiraine got a lot more depth in this one. I said to my husband “Oh wow, so Moiraine has a sense of humor. Is that new, or is it just because this is the first time I’ve seen her not actively dying?” He said that was actually the part of the show that had been bothering him most. He thought Moiraine was too serious, and is now relieved to see that was an intentional choice to drive home how badly hurt she was. As a nonreader, that didn’t really translate for me. I just thought she was a doom and gloom type person until now. It’s good to see her a bit more comfortable, even in a setting where she says she is least comfortable. I loved her interactions with Nynaeve juxtaposed with the other Aes Sedai. She may act like she doesn’t pick up on subtext or human emotions at all, but that’s not true. She is just way better at one-on-one interactions than in groups. No wonder she ran away. Her scenes with JK Rowling were so hilarious because JK is just trying her best to give backhanded compliments and keep everything as subtextual threats, and then Moiraine just drops a lead brick through the entire conversation like “You hate men, and my new bff thinks you’re a loser.”

She told the green Aes Sedai who I’m deciding to call Polly (genuinely, Moiraine is the only one I’ve met so far with a unique name. The rest of them were named by someone filling a bag with Scrabble tiles that only contain vowels and the letters N, L, D, and R, and then just drawing at random. I swear at least 4 of them are named Allana.) that she read about a way to break a bond between an Aes Sedai and her warder. That seems like foreshadowing. She and Lan really care about each other. I think that, as much as she wants to spare Lan the pain of potentially losing her, she also wants to spare herself the pain of losing him. Bad news for you though, Moiraine. Breaking your psychic bond won’t break your love for each other. You are going to be devastated either way. As a side note, everyone is saying it’s rare for an Aes Sedai to die before her warder. How long is their life expectancy? Because I have not seen a single woman over 50 here. Do they age more slowly? Are all these ladies actually like a hundred years old? Is this conversation hinting that Moiraine is actually dying? Or is it just that she’s the reckless one of the group, and therefore voted Most Likely to Die Violently in the Aes Sedai yearbook? She and Lan are in tears at the end, and I am wondering if they know something about each other’s fate/health status.

Seeing Lan express his emotions more openly was fantastic. I don’t just mean the screaming at the end. I am not sure whether that was part of the ritual or not, so I’m not counting it. I mean him talking about how he feels, hugging his friends, crying in front of others, etc. He isn’t Mr. Stoic all the time. He just focuses on the task at hand when there is one.

Perrin and Egwene’s arc:

Damn, lots going on there. When Aram led Egwene and Perrin off to run I was scratching my head at how they could possibly not be noticed running through such sparse woods dressed in bright rainbows. Then they were immediately intercepted and I was like "ah, yep. Not a plot hole after all."

Perrin is finally starting to share his thoughts, rather than just asking more questions to get more data/context. And all it took was literal torture. I knew it was coming, but Perrin begging to die because he thinks he deserves it was so sad and hard to watch. I adore Egwene’s ability to absorb all that information in .05 seconds before coming to the response of “No, it wasn’t your fault, and I’m going to make sure you live long enough to believe that.” And Perrin thought she meant she was going to sacrifice herself, but she had a Plan.

I can really see now why Nynaeve thought Egwene would make a good Wisdom. She too gets absolutely feral when she needs to, but has the self-control to turn it on and off as the situation demands. Props to her for learning the lesson of strategic non-truthing right out of the gate.

Egwene: Look at me trying my best to channel this tiny little fireball. I’m so helpless and pathetic. Oh, and I also freed my very pissed off best friend who could easily kill you. Oh, but I am also going to go ahead and be the one to kill you because I know his conscience couldn't handle having to make that decision. And now I have successfully taken care of the problem and am going to take this moment to fall back into panic mode.

And then the Wolf Friends came to the rescue, and I may have scared my husband a bit by gleefully laughing and cheering every time a Whitecloak got brutally torn to shreds. "Haha that's what you fucking get! Go wolf friends!" I typically cry when anyone dies, including villains, so that can tell you a bit about my opinion on the Whitecloaks.

Perrin has clearly been observing and thinking about this mysterious connection to his wolf friends for quite some time, without communicating it. He ran from the wolves with Egwene earlier, but only because she wanted to run. He was still processing and thinking about what it all meant. When he first had his hidden leg wound and the wolves were being so friendly to him, I was a bit worried he was slowly turning into a trolloc. They seem like they could be the type of species that propagates similar to zombies. Get bitten by a trolloc, the trolloc poison turns you slowly into one unless you get treated. But this appears to be a wrong conclusion. The cut was maybe a red herring, and Wolf Friends are just a coincidence? Is he like Aquaman but for wolves? His eyes glow gold when he’s in distress, but it doesn’t seem to unlock any superhuman strength. He’s strong, but just regular “My day job is blacksmith” strong. Is that how he channels the One Power? By psychically shouting for help from all nearby wolves? Does this work on other animals also? Are wolves the only ones we see because he has a special connection to them specifically, or are they just in a place where wolves are the most common species?

Mat and Rand: Dumb and Dumber but with more gay subtext.

Mat may say he has been stealing to try and get home to his family, but I’m now 90% sure he is actually just starting a Cursed Objects collection. Items in the collection so far: demon knife, magic crystal, dog figurine, doll that definitely isn’t possessed. Hard to say which one is affecting him the most right now, but my money is on the knife. He pushed the little kid, and my initial reaction was “Hey, no, Mat would NEVER” but then I realized he is terrified of himself because he thinks he will black out and commit murders. Rand is the only one allowed near him, and I do not think it’s because he trusts himself to not hurt Rand. It’s because he trusts Rand to beat the shit out of him if he tries. His broken little voice as he asks Rand to tell him he wasn’t the murderer, and Rand emphatically assuring him that he saw the Fade kill the family when he in fact did NOT see any such thing just drives home how strong Rand’s loyalty and faith in his friends goes. He knows full well it could have been Mat, but just like Egwene and Perrin, he knows the only possible way Mat would have done it would be if he wasn’t in control of his own body.

When Mat makes Rand promise to kill him if he goes mad, I get the feeling Rand did not realize what he was agreeing to. I think Rand interpreted it as “Keep me sane and protect me from being caught” instead of “Murder me so I don’t end up as a sad caricature of all my worst traits.”

Rand meeting the ogier person, fantastic bit of levity that was desperately needed. Loial reminds me of my grandparents explaining American culture to us. He’s very passionate and excited about learning a new culture, but he’s also a bit condescending, and that leads to gaps in knowledge that have hilarious results. “Oh, you are missing a girl from the Two Rivers? I saw this girl with a braid, she is obviously who you’re looking for!” This is now the second hint at Rand being an Aiel, so I’m wondering about some things. We don’t know too much about his parents at this point.

The reunion with Nynaeve and the boys was so beautiful. Rand is so overjoyed and relieved, and I think a large part of that is “Oh thank the Light, finally there’s an adultier adult. Nynaeve can handle this!” He is not someone who is used to keeping secrets, or being the responsible one in the friend group. Props to him for doing the best he could, and even more props to him for asking for help the second he found someone he could trust.

Watching Nynaeve interact with these kids she grew up with versus the Aes Sedai and the warders is really beautiful. She slips right into Mom Friend mode and provides comfort and support. I am wondering how old she was when Egwene was sick. She tells the story as though she was an adult at the time, but she was 15 tops, maybe younger if she or someone else was lying about her actual age like I suspect. Must have been horrifying for her to watch a close friend nearly die, and I wonder if she unconsciously used her healing super powers for the first time then. Or maybe even consciously. Maybe she knew all along she had that much capability, but either didn’t know how to access it, or was warned not to ever use it because of the risk of burning out or something. Rewatching the end of episode 4, her facial expressions look less like “Holy cow I can’t believe I did this” and more “Oh shit, now things are going to suck forever.”

I adore the way this show portrays healthy platonic relationships. This entire culture seems to be very tactile with displays of affection. Holding hands, hugging, etc. It’s all just the way people show they care. That makes a lot of sense for a world where bisexuality and polyamory are so common. There would be less rigid distinctions between types of affection. Lan and Moiraine aren’t necessarily oddballs for this. Nynaeve and Rand can hold hands. Egwene can hang off Perrin’s arm. Rand and Mat can snuggle at night. Sometimes these are romantic, sometimes they aren’t. It depends on the context. Everything is so structured around community bonds and mutual aid. Men express their feelings and nobody mocks them for it. People ask for help when they need it, and actually expect to receive it because they have consistently received help in the past. It’s basically a giant middle finger to self-sufficiency. I love to see it. I want to live in this world.

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#wheel of time #wot prime spoilers #nonreader #liveblog #meta #evilphrog reviews

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1111jenx · 3 years

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Could you please continue your lilith series with lilith in the 4th house? Your blog is really good, all your observations for my placements and were 100% correct 🎉

Hey cutie🥳

Ofcourse I'd be more than happy to help you out<3 It has been a while since I did a Lilith in the houses culture post hehe 🌞

Lilith in the 4th house🌌

For my full Lilith in the houses series, click here

TW: mention of s*lf harm and trauma.

The 4H - ruled by the Moon(Cancer) talks a lot about the same sex parent, reflects the home setting, family life and ultimately, the womb.

The 4H is the foundation of our personality operations, since without a place to stand emotionally, the personality does not function properly.

Lilith, having air as her element, combining with her fiery approach, is not as joyful here as she would be in other houses. The 4H, with waterty and maternal influences from Cancer, makes Lilith uncomfortable to a degree here as the house forces Lilith to look back to her origin, to recall the beginning of time.

In fact, many astrologers argued that having Lilith in the 4H is one of the hardest houses Lilith can be in. Personally I believe that trials and errors make a willful person, as long as 4H Lilith natives learn how to work with their darker sides, there shouldn't be any issues at all🖤

Lilith here will talks to you about trauma and repression relating to your ancestors and your capacity to dig into the past to uncover the origins of your being.

The natives mother/mother figure or parental figure in general could have been very much of a Lilith. She'd rather indulge in sex, lust, parties, alcohol or drugs or any additive patterns of behaviour rather than providing the native a stable home.

^ or 4H Lilith could have felt that this was the environment they grew up in. Their root or origin are not necessarily ideal, they grew up feeling alone and constrained yet also felt unseen and invisible.

4H Lilith usually don't like talking about their family, they consider it as a very sensitive topic for them and they keep a lot of painful memories about their childhood home to themselves.

These individuals felt that their childhood was ripped away. They had no choice but to grow up. They may have also become very numb in general, if badly aspected, this can even indicate self-harm tendencies and a hopeless search for their true "home" out in the world and in people.

Like I've said, traumatic experiences create the most vulnerable yet also create the strongest people. These native can be surprisingly business-oriented or very focus on their career, very much like the 10H Lilith, they use material as a way to fill the empty hole inside them.

I'm not going to lie. Harsh aspects can indicate extremely complicated relationship with parental figures. Would go even as far as indicating abusive patterns. Harder ones can suggest that the natives witnessed one of their parents in the act of abuse or they could have experienced it first hand.

They fall for either the fearless type of people, ones thats strong enough to protect them OR they'd take on the role of the nurturer (the moon) and seek for ones who they deem as damaged because they sense the familiarity between. they'd rather heal others than their own wounds.

may work pretty young, they just needed some kind of an escape away from their family/childhood home.

this placements indicate wounds regarding one's origins, could have been adopted or raised by someone else who are not their birth parents. if this is true, the native have a deep need to understand where they come from yet they felt as if they were rejected since the beginning of time.

lost souls. they just need something or someone that they feel safe with. but due to their natural detached nature and spectacular social abilities, they attract all kind of people, but they'll put people through tests to see if they're worthy of their time.

the kind of people that will leave you before you could leave them. they fear abandonment and rejection to their core.

4H Lilith suggests loss of a family member, this contributes to their younger self during the development phase. Complex relationships with deaths. might even suggest an early birth or issues while during their mother's pregnancy.

Lilith 4H gives off very similar energy like Lilith 7H, but they're more fixated on the idea of the fallen angel who was left behind.

Issues with intimacy. Crave it but fear it. They're simply not used to it and if no one has yet teach them compassions and utmost loyalty they would not understand the concept well. Can become very generous with their partners in term of materials to "make up" for their lack of attention, air of detachment and carelessness.

Their partners are drawn to their authentic energy, these people go out to the world and show their more stable and harmonious aspects yet kept their chaotic, suppressive pain very deep down.

Issues showing their nurturing side if badly aspected, they may not be able to tap into their more maternal side if they have hard aspects.

Aloof. if there are no socialable aspects can have a harder time understanding deeper connections, feel as if it's hard to confide in people.

Power issues. Might get very annoyed when people try to go on a power trip to make a point. It's like kinda triggering for them some times.

Vague sense of belonging. Never rly feel "at home"(~very similar to 10H Lilith) but they also are more prone to moving constantly too. Might even want to emigrate to another country.

they really get scared of by intimacy. its like sometimes when people open up to them all of the sudden (somehow this happens often), they get freaked out with this new dynamic.

^ this probably happens because people can sense that they've been through a lot, as if nothing can surprise them anymore, hence they don't feel judged sharing their feelings with these 4H Lilith

sometimes they trust their instincts and randomly overshare their personal trauma and issues to a complete stranger. they enjoy being able to freely open up without any baggage.

Believe it or not, they have the ability to detach during sex. This can even be explained by the complexity of their early childhood. if their lilith square the native sun, they can strongly reject their assertive side and chose to be very secretive with their sex life.

Lilith is in a water house at the end of the day. These natives are naturally intuitive, but they can even go as far as finding the reasons behind others actions. They understand why people react the way they do.

Mysterious and moody sometimes. Sex with them feels as if you're embracing the moon, their energy is so lustful yet they seem so numb? It's like their will always be one side of them that you can't see, and the more that you try to figure them out without their permission, the more they pull away.

Lots and lots of emotional baggage, ones that you probably can't handle or imagine. Yet they carry this with them til the very end and it is this that made them stronger.

They are that type of people that may cut off every family member the second they turn legal. When younger it seems like they were always renewing themselves and finding a new, temporary home.

They act like they simply grow out of people. But in reality they never truly did. They just cut them off and put the memories away in a small safe, one that sometimes when they're alone, they will take these memories out and look at them.

Personally I think 4H natives need someone who they can show their more playful, childish and innocent side. The side in which they have buried so deep down that they forgot they once were, their partners have to be understanding of their polarizing nature and bad habits of retreating when problems surfaced. The child in them never left and they need someone to create enough stability and intimacy as well as trust so they can be vulnerable.

Plutonians/Mars dominant or Aries/Scorpio dominant people have this effect on them like no others. They may strongly dislike them or find themselves gravitate towards these individuals subconsciously.

They care about their reputation. So they'd work hard for it. Would also keep themselves busy all the time too!

Here are a few lines I drafted up for Lilith in 4H, I have a lot of friends with this placement as I'm a cancer sun with Lilith 7H haha, but while they experience a lot of hardships, I have to acknowledge how they're one of the most well-rounded people i know:) Lemme know if you have any more qs boo!

Hope this helps🥳

love,

saint jenx🥀

#astrology observations #astro notes #astrojenx #lilith in the 4th house #lilith 4h #4h lilith #lilith in the fourth house #lilith in 4th house #lilith #lilith aspects #astrology

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mermaidxatxheart · 3 years

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Better Together Chapter Seven

Chapter 7 already? I must really love you guys. I hope you enjoy. If you'd like to be added to my tag list, send me an ask. My work is not to be reposted under any name or anywhere else. Reblogs and comments, however, are always welcome.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Warnings: trauma, probably language, descriptions of violence, torture, blood.

Word Count: 2k

Series Master List

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

The sunlight is bright and you twist your face into Poe’s chest, trying to hide from it. You feel him chuckle under you and it’s only then that you realize he’s awake already.

“Morning.” He says softly.

“What time is it?” You mumble.

“Early, about six.”

“How can you sleep with the sun shining in your eyes like that?”

“I like getting up early.” His fingers trail lightly over your arm and he pulls you tight against his side.

You’re quiet for a long time, but it’s not because he’s lulled you back to sleep. You feel bad for waking him up so late last night. “I’m sorry I woke you up.” You say finally.

“It’s okay. I’d rather you wake me up if you need me than suffer by yourself.” He brushes your hair back behind your ear. “I don’t sleep much anyway.” He admits.

“Because of dreams?” You ask, twisting your head back to look up at him.

“Among other things, yeah.”

You squint and he smiles softly. If you had to pick which is brighter, the sun or Poe’s smile? Poe’s smile wins by a landslide.

“Here, roll over.” He urges, guiding you onto your other side. He turns behind you, wrapping his arm around your waist.

“This isn’t any better.” You huff. His chest shakes behind you as he laughs. You lift his arm and roll back over so you’re facing him. His soft brown eyes are watching you, amusement sparkling in them as you shift.

“Now you’re facing the window again.” He points out. So, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck and take a big, satisfying breath. “G-good now?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah.” You whisper, eyes already drooping shut again.

***

“I can talk to Leia, you don’t have to do the report.” Poe says.

“I told her I would. She said I could take time but I was petty and angry at the time and said I would have it for her by today.” You tell him, pushing yourself up from the bed.

“So that means you can still take your time.” He says, catching your wrist gently. “Stay.” He whispers and you turn back to him. “Please?”

“Come with me. You can get some food. I know you need caf. I kept you from doing your usual stuff all morning.” You say, kneeling on the bed. This feels dangerous. It feels like flirting, like crossing a line. But you meant it when you said that Poe is the easiest person to be around.

“You should get food, too.” He says, pushing himself up closer to you. One little inch and you’d be almost touching. You could kiss him. You could feel his lips on yours, tell him how much you…

Your eyes close and he pulls back. You should have expected it. But that doesn’t stop you from feeling like the floor is falling out from under you. Suddenly, you don’t want him to go with you. You straighten up, feeling dizzy and unbalanced. You feel numb, you can’t feel your pulse, can’t hear the way you’re breathing too quickly.

“I just remembered. It’s been a while since I’ve showered. I should do that first.” You mutter, already turning for the door.

“Y/N,” he calls, but the door is already shutting behind you and you squeeze your eyes shut. You deserved that. Why would you think he would want to kiss you again?

Poe can only be your friend. Nothing more. He doesn’t want anything more from you. And honestly, count yourself lucky that he even wants that much.

You hurry off to your room, locking the door behind you. You just want to be alone. That’s what’s best for everyone. Painfully, you peel off your clothes, wincing as every move causes you pain.

You shower quickly, blindly, taking no more time than is absolutely necessary. It would be so easy to just let yourself cry, pretend it’s the water dripping down your face instead of salty tears, but you can’t go there. You can’t let yourself feel sorry anymore. You made this mess, ruined a perfectly good friendship, cheated on your boyfriend and now you have to deal with the consequences of that. You’re in your comfiest clothes, settled at your desk to start your report. You wish you had thought to ask how much detail Poe had put in his. He clearly exaggerated about your part in what happened.

Your hands hover over the keyboard, waiting for your brain to tell them what to type. The longer you wait, the more they start to shake. You yank them back against your chest, squeezing them painfully to get them to stop. You welcome the pain, it somehow serves as your penance for what you’ve done.

Your door tries to open and there’s a muffled curse outside, startling you. You quickly unlock it and outside is Bryce. He holds out a caf silently and your eyes widen and you realize you promised him you’d be in the med bay after his shift.

“How was it?” You ask, taking the cup and backing up to let him in.

“Boring as always. I hate post work. Nothing ever happens.” He grumbles, following you and flopping on your bed. “What happened?” He asks, balling up your pillow and stuffing it under his chest to rest on.

“Um,” you clear your throat, scrambling for an answer that wouldn’t start a fight. I went to sleep with the guy you hate would definitely start a fight. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept waking up. Then I just said screw it. Been trying to work on this stupid report of what happened.” You gesture and he nods, understanding. At least, understanding your words. You know he doesn’t understand what you’re feeling. Nothing bad has ever happened to Bryce.

“What did happen?” He asks, tilting his head to look at you.

The blood drains out of your face and your hands start to shake. Your stomach falls to your feet and your knees get weak. “I-I don’t… I don’t really wanna talk about it.” You mutter, sitting back down before you fall down. You take a sip of the caf and try not to blanch. He never makes it how you like it and every time you forget.

“Well, you’re gonna have to talk about it. People are gonna wanna know.” He says, his voice gentle like he’s trying to be kind. But it feels like a punch to the gut. Why would people need to know what happened to you? Before you can protest, there’s a knock on your door. Bryce glares at it before looking at you. “Expecting someone?” He asks pointedly.

“No. I wasn’t even expecting you.” You stand up and press the release, even more surprised to see Snap on the other side.

He looks nervous as shit, holding out a bag of food from the commissary, and a caf. He has never ever brought you food before. “P…” he cuts off and glances down the hall. “Pando in the lab wanted me to remind you that he needs your help analyzing those plants you brought back.” He says, rolling his eyes at the name.

You frown in confusion, taking the bag. “Pando?” You repeat.

He narrows his eyes and slides them to the right, back down the hallway where he looked the first time. “Yeah. Pando. That’s what he told me. He needs your help.”

The name is entirely unfamiliar. As far as you know, it’s not even a name at all. “Alright… well, if you see… Pando, then let him know I’ll be there in a while. I have something to finish.” You say and he nods. Abruptly he turns and walks down the hall to your right and you blink. Maybe Snap is losing it? Too many missions? Flying too close to the sun? Maybe his ox-mask isn’t operating at full capacity. You poke your head out to watch him, wondering if he’s okay, and a figure darts from view before you can catch a good glimpse.

“That guy.” Bryce shakes his head.

“He’s a good dude. Just under a lot of pressure.”

“Who’s Pando?” He asks, taking the bag of food from you and rolling over onto his back.

You have a feeling you know who Snap was talking about, but why would he lie? Do you keep up the lie? Something in your gut tells you that telling the truth would be a bad idea. “Just one of the guys from the science division.” You shrug.

Bryce digs into your food and you frown. “I thought I knew all the freaks you work with.” He tilts his head, biting into a yacba fruit.

“They’re not freaks.” You snatch your food back. “And you don’t know everything about me. I have work to do.” You say and he rolls his eyes.

“So? Do it. I’m not stopping you.” He sighs, stretching out and laying back.

You want to hit him with something, that rage burning through your veins again. To save your holopad, you grab it, the bag of food, and the caf from Snap and march out of your room. You’ll find somewhere to eat in peace and then go to the lab and find this Pando.

There’s an observation tower on the outskirts of the compound that isn’t used anymore. You climb to the top, leaning against the stone post overlooking the woods. Finally, peace and quiet.

While you eat, you try to get as much of the report done as you can. You decide to be vague on the method of interrogation, instead focusing on what they wanted to know.

The lack of horrific details in your report doesn’t stop you from remembering them.

Hours. He has been asking you questions for hours. For every one unanswered, he slices at your best friend, nicking his skin all over. His face, his hands, his arms, his chest, his legs. There isn’t a body part left unscathed.

For his credit, he never wavers, never gives any sign of weakness, never cries out. He just clenches his jaw, and squeezes his eyes shut.

You, on the other hand, can’t stop crying. You’ll keep your promise, but seeing your best friend in so much pain hurts more than anything you’ve ever experienced.

In the back of your mind, you wonder how he knows about being tortured. As far as you know, he’s never been captured. He’s an excellent soldier, always on guard, always alert. He knows his shit, he’s good at this.

Until he goes on a solo mission with you.

And then you kiss him. And he drops his guard. Now he’s being hurt.

The trooper grunts in dissatisfaction and sets his blade down. “Seems like you rebel scum like pain.” He says, starting to take off his gauntlets and gloves.

Your stomach tightens, nerves spiking as you watch his movements warily. Is he going to give Poe a break, and turn on you?

“Nothing’s as painful as living in the world of the First Order.” Poe replies calmly.

Before you can see it coming, the trooper throws his fist, slamming it into Poe’s solar plexus. Poe doubles over as much as he can, coughing hard and gasping for air. You press your lips together to keep from crying out as your tears spill over. The trooper rains down blow after blow all over his body. His lip splits against his teeth, blood dripping down his chin. Around his eye, his cheekbone, along his jaw; you can hear his ribs shifting, maybe cracking.

Your heart breaks for him. You want to do something to help him, but you’re useless against your restraints.

“Ready to give up your precious General?” The trooper sneers, grabbing Poe’s thick hair and pulling up on it to see his face.

“Who?”

The trooper drops his head unceremoniously and turns to you for the first time. “You can stop his pain.” He taunts. “Just give us the location of your base.”

You straighten yourself as much as you can in defiance. “What base?” You ask coldly.

He grumbles and grabs his gloves, stalking from the room. Poe lets his head sag, breathing hard. You don’t dare speak. Blood drips from his mouth slowly, pooling on the floor.

You twist your face away so you don’t have to see your handiwork, crying silently. You can only hope that for the next session, they turn their attention to you instead of Poe.

He deserves so much better.

Chapter 8

Everything Tag List

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nectarous · 3 years

Text

TOOTHSOME ⇋ OJIRO ARAN X F!READER.

TAGS: strangers to soulmates. suggestive themes [no smut]. constant changes of pov. slowburn fluff with angst ending.

W/C: 3.3K

SUMMARY: a simple study of intimate bonds and tasting love.

⇦ SEWER SOULMATE SYNDROME COLLAB MASTERLIST ♡

there’s something about the world that’s absolutely and wholly dull. waking up to blistering rays glaring through open windows, working at a lackluster club, coming home to your barebones apartment that you’ve never bothered decorating. you only look forward to collapsing into a steaming bath, dreading the fact you’ll have to repeat this all over again once the sun starts to peek up from the horizon.

it’s what’s deserving of such an uninspiring, miserable personality. you’re not interested in much outside of the bubble you crafted. you’re indifferent to the fickle things; love, bonds, and that mouthful of flavor when you meet your soulmate for the first time. it doesn’t interest you in any capacity.

you know that there’s a lot to be desired with you. your people skills need tinkering and while your work ethics are respectable enough, all you can think to describe yourself is boring.

you’re interested in surviving and supporting yourself. living long enough to enjoy yourself, but short enough to not have to work hard—you’ve never been interested in the company and passing affections of others.

the idea of a soulmate is a delicate one to some, daft to others. you’re more indifferent on the topic, leaning closer to disdain, about the idea of a fated second half.

how naïve you are for thinking that you’re lucky enough to escape it, unaware that in a short twelve months, it’ll only take one stranger to ruin your perception of love, of the world, of yourself.

just like everyone else, you’ve been taught about soulmates, raised around the idea that finding them would finally open you up. from an outsider's perspective, you understand how they work, how they feel. you’ve spotted that glazed over look in their eyes more times than you care to count. you’ve witnessed soulmates bumping into each other for the first time, seen how eyes light up, and heard the crashing of heart beats from across rooms. you swore you could hear them salivate at the taste of each other’s presence.

you’re certain that’s something you’ll never experience. you hope you’ll never meet them, hope that they're dead or far away in some other continent, or that they’re as much as a homebody as you are. you covet to be in the majority that never meet their soulmate, and have to settle for yourself and

you’ve made it this far alone. why bother searching for your other half now?

• • •

even at 27, aran’s still hopeful he’ll find the person he’s supposed to spend his life with. it’s a silly little fantasy, one that has settled deep in his core, meeting the love of his life and instinctively knowing. all through his teenage years, he’s been teased for being a hopeless romantic. but who could blame him? what’s more serene, more absolute than the idea of finding the person who will love you for who you are, for the rest of your life?

his romanticism has mellowed out over the years, and he’s become a reasonable man with a successful career and lifelong friends and a dog he spends a fortune on every month. he’ll let life take its course, pray for the best, and continue on.

everyone has a soulmate. he hopes it’s only a matter of time before he meets his. but it’s not a necessity for him.

• • •

the first time you see him, your soulmate, is outside some onigiri shop, bathed in the purple shadows of sunset. you instantly turn the other way, stumbling into some random convenience store and ignoring that lightheadedness, and the urge to gag at the rich flavor soaking into your mouth, hoping he doesn’t feel your proximity.

all of a sudden, you’re not that hungry anymore.

• • •

aran feels it. his knees grow weak, his heart swells twice as big, there’s a pressure in his sinuses that almost has him stumbling back. and then that feeling’s gone. when he looks around, no ones there, but the residual feelings still linger.

this is the taste of aran’s soulmate. he always expected love to taste like bubblegum or the strawberry mochi he used to split with his sister. he expected to savor the color pink, or red, delicate colors that remind him of spring and joy.

instead, there’s a bitter, heavy metallic soaking into his mouth; like antimony and lemon rinds. it clashes against his taste buds causing his face to scrunch up in distaste.

it tastes like gray.

• • •

the overwhelming taste in your mouth is pastel green, tooth-decaying sweet, and tart. it drips down your throat, makes your gums and your heart ache and throb. it feels like you’re going to choke right here, in the snack section of a convenience store.

granny smiths, heavy molasses and acerbic echoes of sumac sticks to the insides of your cheeks. the emotions so saturated it starts to burrow deep in your teeth.

you hate how warm it makes you feel.

• • •

you recognize him immediately when you’re flicking through the channels waiting for your dinner to reheat. of course the universe decides to pair you up with a fucking olympic volleyball player with amazing things going for him. you can’t change the channel, can’t ignore that he looks a little too good panting and covered in sweat. his voice rumbles smooth, his eyes glimmer, his quiet chuckle makes you throb.

you’ve been laying in bed and trying to push out the sneaking thoughts of him, trying to erase the green flavor that creeps back in ever since.

it’s been two weeks since you’ve been anywhere near that shop. the fear that you’ll bump into him again is… overwhelming. but you’re exhausted, working through the day for the second time this week. and of course, you forgot your umbrella at home, forcing you to run through the muggy rain in a ratty shirt and soggy sneakers.

you told yourself you’d take the long way home, but now that cutting through this block will get you out of the rain faster, knowing it’ll get you back home in time to catch that cooking show while you take a bath, tempts you too much.

but of course, nothing that life hands you seems to go your way.

and of course he’s out there again. out of all days. you hope he’s not some mindless sap that waits outside of the shop everyday, aching for the chance to bump into his soulmate and live happily ever after. that might be the only thing that would make this soulmate bond even more painful.

you really should’ve just gone the long way home.

he looks happy and, you begrudgingly admit to yourself as you wait for the crosswalk to turn green, even more handsome than on your tv. big. he’s on the phone, protected from the rain under the shop’s awning. the taste of green’s already oozing it’s way back in.

apparently, that perspective ability you admired while watching one of his first matches bleeds outside the court too, because he immediately makes eye contact with you. eyes widen, he hangs up immediately, and his hand raises in a wave.

and the first thing you can do is run.

• • •

he can sense that his soulmate’s near, that sharp tinny taste overpowering the onigiri osamu forced him to finish. it has his nose crinkling up before he whips his head up, staring at a girl. his heart soars a bit, finally he gets to meet you, before crashing down upon seeing that expression of horror on your dripping face, before you trip your way into some alley. he doesn’t second guess running into the sheets of rain, not hesitating at the sudden chill of rain.

he can tell that you’re scared, terrified, disgusted at the idea of having a soulmate. is it because of him?

the taste of each other is overwhelming, gunmetal grating and foiled and loud crashing into his. can barely swallow it down, eyes rolling back.

you can’t handle the onslaught of pungent syrupy sour, it’s soaking into your head more than the rain. it makes you hunched over and soaked, retching bile and the remnants of breakfast, you want to die.

you want to tell him to fuck off, let you drown in apples, in the vomit and the rain, but he’s insistent. he keeps a polite distance, a safe distance, from you. arms flex in his soaking pale t-shirt while he looks at you like some kind of wounded, rabid animal.

“let’s get you warmed up, ok?”

that tart taste eats away at the rancid bile in your mouth, and you hate to admit that his charcoal eyes start to slowly thaw you.

you’re a mess of chattering teeth, goose pimpled skin. your nipples are poking stiff peaks into your shirt and your fingers are shaking, but he politely ignores both, stepping over the puddle of vomit to pick up your dropped bag, hot hand on the small of your back as he leads you in through the back entrance of the onigiri shop.

two identical faces, the only thing separating them is the shock of pale blond hair, are watching you from a distance as aran presses soft cotton into your arms and leads you into the locker room. they both feign boredom as you shuffle by them, but even in your bleak state, you can’t ignore that interested glimmer in their eyes from behind the register.

the sound of slopping clothes dropping against the cold tile makes your skin crawl, your eyes sting, and your head ache like it was just banged into the concrete. you don’t know whether to be humiliated or thankful, unsettled or grateful that ojiro aran’s actually nice. such a simple word. just these last 10 minutes has proved his heart of gold and, as you tread back into the main room, you think you’re going to cry.

no one talks as you collapse and curl up on one of the farthest seats, as you start to lose yourself in the sounds of thunder and the stifled radio, the cold bleeding it’s way into your brain. you can start to feel yourself dissociating, vision starting to blur, losing yourself in the numb.

the delicate placing of six onigiri snaps you out of it, aran’s look of concern makes you curve over your knees as you drag the plate closer. his eyes tickle at your soul, baring deep into your bones, as if he can see how much you're hurting, how much you don’t care. compared to him, you look like a drenched rat, hair still damp and feet bare.

you really might cry.

because it hurts. the thought that he’d treat you good like this, every day, for the rest of his life. you can tell he’s kind, the way he sets down a cup of tea and brings you some food. the way he offers you a change of clothes. he’s a gentleman, and you feel pity for him, that he’s attached to you.

the tilt of your lips in gratitude probably translates more as a grimace than a smile.

he waits until after you finish eating to start talking, “i’m ojiro aran.”

“i know,” you respond back. “that volleyball player.”

your droning voice doesn’t make him flinch back as you hope.

“i hope i’m not overstepping, but i can tell that you’re not the happiest with — ” finally he hesitates, flicking the sugar packets, eyes tracing over your face. you make it a point to not return the eye contact.

“look. i’m not sure if it’s because of me, or you’re not happy with the idea of soulmates in general.” he overlooks the way your fingers twitch around your mug. “and i’m not going to force you to do anything, because i can tell that you’re on edge right now.”

he lowers himself so he’s not towering over you, balancing on his toes, still toying with the condiments on your table.

“to tell you the truth, i’m a bit of a romantic,” something sweet starts slipping into his voice. “i can tell that you aren’t. we don’t have to rush into anything, say the word and we can forget we ever met. but i think this can work out. we just need to pace to our comfort levels.”

and as you stare into his eyes, him squatting in front of you and holding your still shaking hands, the utter care, eyes almost pleading, and a soft smile that he’s emitting, it makes you feel peace for the first time. the stains of melancholy in your bones start to fade, and pastel green leaks from the sides of your cheeks making the corners of your lips involuntarily twitch up.

maybe, just maybe this’ll work out.

• • •

it’s been months, and aran’s learnt more about you than you know. he’s picked up that you despise physical affection just as much as the rain, but that you crave the heat from his body.

he thinks about you constantly. he replays your ‘dates that aren’t dates’ on repeat at practice, printing your face in his head on his morning runs, and he welcomes that metallic bitter that comes with you before he goes to sleep.

you’re standoffishness is soft and appealing at first glance, like antimony you taste like. the more time he’s in your presence, the more that lack of intimacy burns at his eyes, and his lungs. his hands sting with rejection every time you inch and shrug away from his touch or grimace when he laughs at your half-jokes. he knows there’s a separate woman bedded underneath. he saw her at the restaurant, he sees it whenever you watch the sunset. he notices it most behind the closed doors of his apartment.

he’s come to appreciate your hands. your hands convey the things you’re too nervous to say. he can feel the adoration pulsing underneath the fragile skin in your fingers and your wrists, whispering the things you can’t always say out loud. they speak to your sense of comfort with him, the vulnerability you only show with him. the way they sneak under his shirt to run down his smooth back when you're cold, only to pull back and hope he didn’t catch your slip up.

he notices the chipped polish that you pick at when you're stressed over deadlines. how your hands shrink in comparison to every part of him, tracing the callouses and scars from decades worth of volleyball. he loves how you bring his hands up to kiss on his knuckles after hours in bed, before you make up excuses as to why you can’t spend the night.

much to your annoyance, it makes him want to try that much harder.

• • •

love. a complicated, sinister, four letter word you never thought you were built for. you think about it a lot, in tandem with aran. probably too much to be healthy. he’s the first thing you think of when you wake up, plaguing your mind as you work, and leaving you always wondering what time he goes to sleep.

it's embarrassing. the three hours you spend with him every weekend has turned you into some sort of sap, haunted with his musky scent, that soft smile and that embarrassing craving for him to pat your head again. like your some fucking puppy. and you swear, that syrupy green apple taste is stained into your taste buds, it’s seeped into your bones and ruined you.

the last thing he deserves is you. you know that. but he doesn’t think that, he’s letting that metallic taste run him around lovesick. he makes you feel blistered; every touch and adoring glance burns into your flesh in permanent, achy reminders. he has your number, knows where you live. but he respects you and the distance you’ve placed.

he’s getting too comfortable too quickly, and he keeps surprising you with how patient he is. he’s adaptive, tenderhearted, almost philanthropic with the way he took in the charity case of you.

it didn’t pan out the way you expected the first few months. you expected failure, for him to snap at your constant rejections and complaints. apparently, experiences with his childhood friends prepared him for you.

he's too helpful of a person, wanting to talk about feelings and cooking you food when you didn’t ask for it. it scared you, how fast he accepted this soulmate thing, how fast he was able to care. his hugs lasted too long. he's suffocating you in adoration and care, and you can tell he’s almost to the point of being in love with you.

poor aran. you’ve been destined to be with this man, who’s been destined to be alone since birth, all because the universe promised you to him.

you know you’re going to destroy this beautiful bond that the universe crafted. you’re bitter and mean and unable to open yourself up to him; he almost knows nothing about you, and you know almost everything about him. you know how his younger sister wants to become a physical therapist, how the owner of that little onigiri shop has been one of his best friends for almost two decades. and you know his favorite food’s ritz crackers, that he’s a morning person. he loves dogs and hates horror films, and his two greatest joys are his family and volleyball.

there’s an unspoken hint that he wants you to join the former.

and it’s unfair; who wouldn’t fall in love with that scar on his neck. you try to focus on his bad parts, of which he only has one. his stupid dog, adzuki. that mammoth of a german sheperd that follows you around, places it’s paws on your lap when you come over for dinner.

he laughs every time you grimace at him, looks like we both have a weak spot for you.

• • •

you shatter his heart on the first year anniversary since you’ve been bonded. you were already dangling by a heart string, and that little band of gold and red he gifts you is where you force yourself to draw the line.

all you can think about is how you need to abandon him before either of you get too attached. you’re teetering on the edge of ignoring your gut instincts, of collapsing into him, wanting to let him see the shattered pieces inside you. but then he’ll do something as mundane as calling you over for dinner, and you remember.

he terrifies you.

there’s a reason you haven’t spent the night again. the intimacy of you and him, and his ugly dog, and that picture frame of your date at the beach hung right next to one of his family portraits.

he loves too much and too hard, he’s too intense. he makes your skin prickle in hot fireworks, the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight with unease. he’s beautifully passionate about everything he lays his eyes on. he lives life to the fullest and all of a sudden, you want that too. he makes you crave domesticity, waking up next to warm umber hands tracing patterns in your skin, cooking breakfast together, a house in tokyo. a wedding band on your finger.

this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you remember the dulling of gray eyes, and his hunched over figure bathed in the ashy violet rays of the sun setting. you try to hold onto that flavor of green before you swallow it for the last time, saliva and tears welling up, before you press one last kiss on his cheek before stepping out. pastel green fades to emerald fades to black. you can’t taste apples or sumac anymore.

no, as much as you wanted to be, you weren’t built for love.

#aran x reader #aran fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu!! x reader #soulmate collab #aran #collabee <3 #this is my 1000th post... im leaving #ty sm to lee + emi for editing my 3am ramblings :*#and 2 annie for hosting the collab wooo

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badapricot · 3 years

Text

Lovely Writer: Count 29, 30, & 31

These are the chapter summaries for the last three chapters of Lovely Writer which should cover the entirety of Episode 12. Keep in mind that my Thai is elementary and they’re diverging from the book canon so we might just see a version of these events and not every single thing.

Count 29

Gene moves out of Nubsib’s condo and back into his own.

They decide that they shouldn’t be seen going in and out of each other’s condos (because they’re known to the public).

Gene feels like bad emotions are bubbling up inside him the more he thinks about the day prior, and how he made Nubsib angry enough to yell at him.

Gene’s condo is a mess but he’s too tired and lazy to move.

He hears someone knocking on the door and goes to open it. It’s Tum.

Gene feels awkward because he doesn’t want to see anyone and Tum is Nubsib’s manager, but he can’t deny that it feels good to see a friendly face.

Tum is worried about Gene’s condition. He forces Gene to take medicine and tells him to take that medicine with rice every meal.

Gene asks why Tum is there when he has work and Tum says that there’s an event at a department store and there’s a red carpet fashion show. He was sent to invite Gene.

Tum tells Gene that he doesn’t agree with what his sister did and Gene tells him that it’s normal and he understands. Tum says that still, he shouldn’t have stood by and allowed it because Gene is his friend.

Tum asks if Gene and Nubsib are okay and Gene says he doesn’t know. Gene says he doesn’t know if Nubsib wants to talk with him. Tum assures Gene that Nubsib loves him very much and he did everything to get close to him including being cast in his series and moving in next door. Talking might be frustrating, but not talking to Nubsib is even more frustrating.

Tum says he wants Gene to talk to Nubsib but if he won’t then Tum will take care of him. He offers to take Gene out for lunch and to pay. But Tum says he needs to take care of something first so Gene will have to wait for him at the event he mentioned, alone.

Gene says he isn’t allowed to be in Nubsib’s vicinity without a good excuse (like Tum’s presence) and Tum says it’s fine as long as he sticks with others. Gene is the writer and the TV station invited them in that capacity.

Gene says he’ll go to to event because he wants to apologize to Nubsib.

Tum tells him he’ll leave to buy the food and come back to pick him up. For now, Gene should shower.

Gene thanks Tum for being his friend and Tum says you’re welcome. Gene realizes that Tum is the first person to make him smile in days.

Gene showers and dresses and then goes on Twitter. He sees tweets about how SibGene was just a rumour and clips of SibAey doing fanservice. It doesn’t bother him as much anymore, knowing that Aey really likes him.

Tum arrives with food and they eat lunch. Tum then drives them to the event.

Gene is set on apologizing to Nubsib for not consulting him about their breakup.

Gene is so out of it, he accidentally walks onto the red carpet and hits his head. Tum keeps him walking straight and makes them take a selfie together so they can post it online and prove that they were together (and Gene wasn’t with Nubsib).

Gene waits backstage and is very nervous about what he’ll finally say to Sib. So nervous that he doesn’t notice Aey is next to him until he grabs his face.

Aey asks if Gene is okay because he hasn’t been answering his LINEs. He asks if Gene is fighting with Nubsib and if he wants to talk to him, and Gene confirms that he is there to talk to Nubsib.

Aey tells Gene that he told him to just break up with Nubsib and date him instead. When he sees Gene’s expression he says that he’s joking. But he admits that he did ask Nubsib about Gene at university and his reaction was so scary, he hasn’t dared to ask again. He said that Nubsib’s recent cold aura is known on their campus.

Gene gets even more worried because that means Nubsib is still angry at him, and to that extent.

Aey tells Gene that him and Nubsib were recently offered a lot of couple contracts and even a movie project deal but Nubsib turned them all down because he’s looking for a new contract. Aey turned them down too. When Gene looks worried about it (because those jobs are high paying) Aey admits that he turned them down because he didn’t want to sell couple moments either.

Aey and Gene are interrupted by the staff so Aey can go on stage.

Gene waits twenty minutes and Nubsib doesn’t appear, so he’s ready to leave. But then he sees him.

I thought that he would smile like usual when he saw me. Instead, I saw his dark brows furrow.

"Khun Gene."

I was too late to respond because of his reaction. So I just kept quiet. "Uh ..."

"Why did you come?"

The words I had prepared to speak stopped abruptly. "I ..."

Nubsib took another step. But probably because I stood in his way, he turned around. He pulled the black curtains completely shut. The coldness I felt the day he told me to move my things back into the room made my heart feel like a big hammer had smashed it. My body was numb and my eyes were blurry.

I was helpless. But I was afraid it would be like the last time again, so I spoke.

"I came to talk to you."

"To talk?"

"…"

“There are a lot of journalists and even other staff members here. Khun Gene should have known this.” Nubsib swept his gaze around the backstage. In the end, he spoke in a calm voice. "Khun Gene, I’ll follow. There are other models at this event, so let’s go back first. "

"…"

Seeing this kind of expression, my hands and feet felt numb.

This was something I didn’t want to see.

Sib, angry at me?

He seemed annoyed and like he blamed me for coming here. But from his words, I couldn't deny it was true.

My mouth closed tightly. My feet stepped back. I had to try my best not to show the face that matched my mind, only nodding lightly while trembling. "Okay."

"If you want to talk, then let’s talk in my room."

"...yeah, I understand."

I bowed my head. My ears were ringing with a sound that couldn’t be heard as I turned and left. I hoped to hear Nubsib’s voice calling for me, and holding me back. But I took almost ten steps and I heard nothing.

My feet moved faster.

Forget calling. I felt so unstable, I couldn’t even call a taxi back to my room.

Count 30 (Nubsib POV)

Nubsib didn’t expect to meet Gene backstage.

When he saw the staff looking at them with interest he purposefully smoothed out his expression.

He knew he was being selfish in the past, for not considering how he was causing trouble for Gene. He doesn’t want to cause more trouble for them by having new rumours about them.

After Gene leaves, Nubsib calls Tum and asks him, “Did you bring Khun Gene here?”

Tum says Gene came with him and Nubsib again asks why? He only told Tum to check on Gene, not bring him to work.

Nubsib goes to change into his normal clothes and meets Tum outside the venue.

Tum asks if he’s going to talk to Gene and Nubsib asks him if he thinks it’s a bad idea. Tum says it should be fine since they’re alone but he asks if Nubsib is still mad at Gene. Nubsib says he isn’t.

At first, he was angry and hurt because it felt like Gene cared more about other people over their relationship. But after, he understood Gene was worried about him and other’s jobs. Nubsib understands, but he wants Gene to understand that Gene is more important than any work, and Nubsib doesn’t care about work that much. That’s why he’s been negotiating a new contract.

Tum asks about it and Nubsib says he’s going to tell Gene about the new contract immediately.

Nubsib speeds back to the condo and rushes upstairs to see Gene.

I walked down the hall, and turned the corner where I spotted a familiar figure in the same clothes, leaning against the wall next to my door.

At that moment, my feet stopped.

He was still in the same outfit he wore at the event an hour ago. His small head was bowed low. He was breathing in and out slowly, and the sound was quiet, but I could hear it.

The sound of my shoes hitting the ground was the only other noise heard.

The loneliness radiating off of him made me feel lonely too.

I walked closer and stood in front of him. "Why are you standing ..."

"..."

Enlarged eyes. At that moment, it was like everything stopped as soon as Gene looked up.

The words that I was going to say suddenly changed.

"Why are you crying?"

"I..."

Like he had just realized while looking up at me, his eyes widened even more. At first, I only saw a pair of red eyes. But when we met each other's eyes, it seemed like he couldn’t even stand. "You told me to come back here? I...have something to talk to you about. Right here, right? "

Something in my chest tightened.

I didn’t answer his question. I didn’t know what my face was showing. But I was in so much pain, I had to clench my fists.

"Why are you crying?"

“...”

At first I didn't see the tears. But when I asked this question, Gene really started to cry.

His head shook slowly. My hand lifted without me thinking.

I couldn’t bear to see it. I pulled him in to hold him tightly.

"Gene, stop crying."

"..."

Even if I couldn’t hear much, his body shook with the stress of trying to contain all of his emotions. That was worse than Gene just crying. It was the first time that I felt like I couldn’t control my expression. My voice trembled when I spoke. "Stop crying ..."

I didn't think I would come back and see Gene standing in front of my room crying, red cheeks and eyes full of tears. It made me feel even more angry. Not angry with Gene, but angry with myself.

"You want to break up with me for real, right? When you said we had to just break up...”

My eyebrows furrowed tightly. I quickly said, "There's no way. How could I break up with Gene?"

"You told me to come back to sleep in my own room." He cried and softly shuddered, trying to mute his voice, and I felt more sorry than I’d ever been for anything. "You act like you don’t even want to see my face. You're angry that I said that to you, right? Or after our conversation, you decided that it was better if we break up.”

I hugged the person in front of me tightly. I moved my hand to the back of his head to press his tear-stained cheek against my cheek, and closed my eyes. “No way. I would never break up with Gene. "

"..."

"No matter what happens, I’d never leave you."

"..."

"I love Gene this much. How could I stop?” My arms loosened slightly when I felt that my words made Gene gradually calm down. I used both hands to hold his soft cheeks, pulling him up to look and meet my eyes. "So stop crying first."

His eyes were wet and his nose was red. I moved my hand to wipe away his little tears.

Right now, this was the thing I didn’t want to see the most.

"I'm so sorry," said Gene repeatedly.

"No, I was at fault or doing that. I was wrong."

"..."

I shook my head and kept eye contact with Gene’s round eyes, not hiding my face, even though I knew how I looked bad. Too bad. I usually wouldn’t want to show this face to my lover, but now, I didn’t mind at all.

Gene looked at me. But when I moved forward and hugged him tightly, he buried his face in my neck. The tiny circumference of his waist made my chest feel even more constricted.

I brought Gene into my condo, turned on the hot water, washed my face, and then washed his face, while Gene clung to me like the previous bad feeling hadn’t disappeared. When I saw how upset he was, I wanted to take all of those feelings and move them to myself instead.

My thumb moved slowly, brushing over his red eyelids.

Seeing Gene’s expression, I couldn't help but demand. "Don't cry again."

"Well, when I thought you were angry and annoyed, I couldn’t help but cry," he mumbled.

I knew that Gene was already crying over heartbreak. It's not that men couldn’t cry. I’d seen Gene cry while watching TV. Or cry when adjusting his mood while writing a sad scene in a novel. But Gene crying because of me set every nerve in my chest on fire.

I didn’t want him to cry because of me ever again.

Gene asks if Nubsib is angry with him. Nubsib admits he was at first because he didn’t want Gene to feel bad while thinking of others over himself.

Gene quickly starts listing excuses and Nubsib says it’s fine because Gene was right, Nubsib was being selfish. But if he has to choose between making fans feel bad and making his lover feel bad, he’ll be selfish every time.

“Our love story is selfish, Gene, and that’s okay. Don’t worry. I never intended to renew the contract.”

Nubsib tells Gene that he agreed to two big projects without a romantic partner in exchange for reducing the amount of time on his contract.

Nubsib says that they just need to be responsible for the remaining time on his contract. They don’t have to breakup. He asks Gene what he wants to do and Gene admits that he doesn’t want to break up with Nubsib.

Nubsib apologizes for making Gene cry.

Gene hugs Nubsib and apologizes too, because he didn’t listen to Nubsib or consult with him.

They go to sleep. When Nubsib wakes up Gene is sweating and delirious because he hasn’t been eating or sleeping correctly.

Nubsib wipes him down and tries to feed him as he best he can.

Gene never gets sick like this and it makes Nubsib’s chest tight. He feels like this is his fault.

He spoons Gene while he sleeps and wants him to get better. He’d rather see Gene’s cute cheeks cursing at him, than red and ill like this.

Nubsib keeps watch all night, and calls a nurse to inject Gene and treat him.

Tum comes over to discuss the new contract and Nubsib tells him to soften his voice and not make any unnecessary noise.

Nubsib is annoyed and wants to leave the entire time and when Tum is finally done he says, “Okay, you can go take care of your wife now.”

Nubsib gets porridge and goes into Gene’s room. He’s awake now and sitting up. He looks cute and soft, and much more awake.

Now that he’s more conscious, Gene tries to eat by himself but Nubsib won’t let him. Gene wants to bathe himself, but Nubsib says he’ll wipe Gene himself.

Gene says, “But you haven’t even slept?” and Nubsib says, “If Khun Gene isn’t okay, I can’t sleep.”

Nubsib undresses Gene and bathes him. Gene is still embarrassed and Nubsib asks, “Why? I’ve seen it all, and often.”

Gene admits that he’s glad he has Nubsib there to take care of him.

Nubsib wants to keep this moment frozen in time.

Count 31

It’s late so Gene tells Nubsib he has to leave.

He gets his laptop and tries to go but Nubsib grabs his hand and begs Gene to stay. Gene has gone back to his condo four nights in a row (to avoid fans seeing him leave Nubsib’s condo in the morning) but Nubsib wants to hold and squeeze Gene just for one night.

Gene says Nubsib knows they can’t and Nubsib says fine, then he’ll call a construction worker to come and destroy the wall between their condos. Gene can’t tell if he’s joking until he laughs.

Then he says that he’s being serious because he can’t deal with this anymore. Gene is shocked until Nubsib says, “Gene do you realize I’m messing with you?”

Gene kisses Nubsib and runs back to his condo before he can do anymore.

Gene admits to himself that he did indulge the first few nights when he was sick. He played up his illness more so he could stay in Nubsib’s room longer than necessary. But now he doesn’t want to be weak. He has to endure the rest of the contract and be good.

Gene didn’t even realize he was that distraught over their separation until he cried in front of Nubsib. He remembers Nubsib’s upset expression, and he knows that it’s equally hard for both of them.

Gene receives LINE messages from Tum who asks him if he’s going to the last event of the series. Gene wants to show he’s a good sport so he says yes.

Gene received a LINE from Nubsib telling him: Don’t just message people on LINE. Go to sleep. He wonders how Nubsib even knew.

Gene wakes up and dresses before going to the event at the university.

He sees Nubsib but can’t approach him because of the public setting, so he sits with Tum.

Aey comes up to Gene and asks if he’s watched the series yet and if he thinks Aey is cute. He tries to touch Gene’s cheeks but Nubsib interrupts and tells Aey to sit next to him instead of bothering Gene.

Gene sits with Tum and watches them wrap up their work until it’s the end of the day and all that’s left is the closing party. Gene goes to the bathroom and fixes his hair with some hair gel.

"You’re dressing up like this?”

Listening to his fierce voice, I raised my eyebrows, confused.

"Why? Is my hair so ugly?"

"Not ugly. But it’s like you’re trying to provoke somebody."

I almost choked on my saliva. “No, I’m just going to a party so I have to look good. I want my pictures to be cool. "

"Just looking good at home is enough."

"If I just look good at home, who will see it?"

"I’m jealous."

"..." My hand stopped, my gaze immediately looking at Nubsib.

Nubsib asks if Gene has time to do him too. Gene says Nubsib looks good enough but he does his hair and wipes him down with cold water as best he can in the bathroom.

Nubsib says Gene can’t pass because he looks too cute and Gene says he’s the only one that would think such a thing.

Tum is waiting for them outside once they finish getting ready.

He drives them to the restaurant where the party is. Gene tells Nubsib that he can drink since his exams are done and Nubsib tells Gene that Gene shouldn’t drink, or Nubsib won’t sleep tonight.

Gene is confused about what he means until Nubsib reminds him of what he did to him last time.

They’re forced to sit separately because Gene is a writer and Nubsib is an actor. The whole team is there, sitting at four long tables with a stage at the front of the restaurant where a big TV is mounted and showing their show.

Gene gets jealous when he sees a woman taking a selfie with Nubsib cheek to cheek, and Tum reminds him to stop looking at him in public.

Tum takes them back to their condo, but when Gene goes into his unit Nubsib slips inside. He asks Gene if he’s jealous, and Gene denies it. Nubsib says that if Gene is jealous of others, then he’s happy.

Gene begrudgingly admits that he is jealous and Nubsib laughs. He says that when the series is over he’ll take a thousand selfies with Gene.

Gene hates that he can’t help how he feels. Today was a big milestone for Nubsib, and he wanted to celebrate with him by taking a lot of selfies together, but he couldn’t.

Nubsib says that in the mean time, they can take pictures that people won’t see.

He pulls Gene closer for a selfie, but surprises him by kissing him deeply and with tongue. Nubsib keeps the camera in focus the entire time, which embarrasses Gene.

Nubsib pushes Gene to lie down and says that this is just right, if Gene is going to dress like that.

#lovely writer #lovely writer the series #lovely writer spoilers #gene x nubsib #text

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witchbitchheadedtoaditch · 3 years

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Shadow Work Prompts

Objectively, I'm really bad at using shadow work prompts. I kind of hate them. That being said, I find I really get a lot of good introspection and such done when I respond to quotes or lyrics (likely because I'm a literature student), so I thought I'd share some of the ones I've got written down to work with!

From The Midnight Gospel

People really try to avoid the consideration that they're going to die and that people they love are going to die.

It opens your heart, it breaks your heart open. (Speaking about death)

Our hearts have been closed, because we've closed them. We've defended ourselves against pain. And this [death] opens them.

Opening your heart hurts.

If you inquire into the hurt, you know what you're experiencing is love.

[Death] is an incredible teacher.

The closer to physical death I get, the more real I get.

Love is supportive. It holds us. It has a quality of benevolence that we might have never noticed.

What is it that has the quality of benevolence? .... reality.

This experience of love energy is so powerful, that to combat against it, we build an entire life, an entire ego, to try not to feel it.

Ego death is a transfiguration.

Love isn't going anywhere.

The time of death is uncertain, but death is certain.

We suffer more if we resist the flow of the river.

There's no way to stop a heartbreak. How do you do that? You cry.

No matter where you go, things are always gonna be the same if you don't change.

Through love, all pain will turn to medicine.

From Steven Universe

Love takes time and love takes work.

If there's a chance I could make it better... shouldn't I try?

Are you insecure about your relationships and how you're perceived by other people?

Is it weird I'm getting numb to this?

If you're the one protecting me... then who's the one protecting you?

There are millions of possibilities for the future! But it's up to you to choose which becomes reality.

You are an experience. Make sure you're a good experience.

I never asked for it to be this way. I never asked to be made.

I am made of love, and it's stronger than you.

I struggle to stay strong because I know the impact I have on everyone.

Humans lead short, boring, insignificant lives, so we make up stories to feel like we're a part of something bigger.

Comedy is derived from fear.

You are going to be something extraordinary; you're going to be a human being.

Sylvia Plath Quotes

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.

If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery--air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy."

Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.

Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.

Is there no way out of the mind?

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo

How we need another soul to cling to.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me

How frail the human heart must be--a mirrored pool of thoughts

People or stars regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

Margaret Atwood Quotes

War is what happens when language fails.

Ignoring isn't the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.

Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth.

Better never means better for everyone... it always means worse, for some.

You are your own voyeur

I read for pleasure and that is the moment I learn the most.

A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.

You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have yourself.

A truth should exist, it should not be used like this. If I love you, is that a fact or a weapon?

If we were all on trial for our thoughts, we would all be hanged.

Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.

The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one.

I am not your justification for existence.

Hatred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.

But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.

What am I living for and what I am dying for are the same question.

Sylvester McNutt III Quotes

The pain that came to you is not always a choice, but keeping it on you is. Stop the obsessive thinking related to it, and allow the pain to fade away.

The practice of staying present will heal you. Obsessing about how the future will turn out creates anxiety. Replaying broken scenarios from the past causes anger or sadness. Stay here, in the moment.

Remove yourself from people who treat you like your time doesn't matter, like your feelings are worthless, or like your soul is replaceable.

Everyone doesn't need access to you. Some people are draining and they don't even know it. You're allowed to say no, you're allowed to not answer calls, you're allowed to break plans, and if you need to save yourself do it.

Knowing me, I'll probably post more of this kind of stuff at some point :)

#shadow work #shadow work prompts #prompts #quotes

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angeli-marco-writes · 4 years

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∘◦ ♥ ◦∘ Peter Parker - Everything Happens for a Reason ∘◦ ♥ ◦∘

A/N - I only wrote it a couple of months ago and due to the close nature of it, I haven’t uploaded it anywhere. I hope you like my first (10k) Peter Parker fic. I know that the timeline doesn’t make sense, but in all honesty, Endgame and FFH messed it up plenty so I just kinda placed this in no-mans-time. And I know the compound was destroyed during Endgame, so just bear with the fact that I’ve made it so that Strange and his wizards rebuilt it for survivors :)

Warnings - making out and shadows to sex, SWEARING, bad parenting, mentions of grief, mentions of injury and disability, angst, death of parents etc. Also, don’t read if you haven’t seen endgame because it’ll be spoiled in the first paragraph of this.

Summary - Stark!reader x Peter Parker, post endgame. Months after the death of your father, your aunt, and the retirement of your uncle, you find yourself in a sticky situation, and to make it even worse, your childhood crush doesn’t even recognise you now. Then again, doing most of your growing up while half of the population is dead doesn’t exactly bode well for your love life nor your commitment issues. When things finally start to turn around while learning to live with a disability, will you still be taken away to live with your step-mother, or will love pan out at last? After all, everything happens for a reason.

IT'S BEEN JUST OVER THREE MONTHS since the final battle, and therefore just over three months since you said goodbye to the only three role models you had for the most important five years of your life. Well, the three are debatable.

Your dad had died, still holding your hand, after saving humanity like he always did, allowing the burden of the Stark name to fall onto you at long last. Your uncle Steve - tutor extraordinaire - had officially retired and moved away, and you haven’t seen him since the final goodbye, leaving you more and more doubtful every day you’ll ever see him again. And your aunty Nat let herself go, she pushed herself away from that cliff, and let uncle Clint live, to help give you a better life, but what Nat didn’t realise was that you lost them both that day, because Clint hasn’t been back since. He’s never coming back now from the trauma, the man who was more of a father than your dad ever was.

It was quite possibly the worst period of your whole life, but then again, when half of the world is destroyed before you’ve even hit puberty, you don’t really have much to hold it against.

But here you are again, stuck in your room in the semi-rebuilt compound, grounded by FRIDAY while the step monster and child are at the lake house, living happily ever after. What the issue is, you don’t know. All you did was get a piercing... and be rude to Peter. And Sam. And everyone in the building- ok maybe she has a point, but hey, you’re grieving the loss of everyone major in your life, and you can barely do anything for yourself.

It’s like five years ago all over again. Everyone you’d grown accustomed to, your friends, your mom, your idols - even if they weren’t dead, they were lost for a long time - and your crush. The one and only Peter Parker. Much to your surprise, you got over most of the deaths pretty quickly. There wasn’t much to understand - they were gone and they wouldn’t come back no matter what, so what good would worrying and crying do? Obviously, as a young girl, this was the wrong response, so this is when Pepper got her name. “Don’t be so insensitive! Those were your dad's best friends, people he worked with for years. Those people were his family, and mine, and yours.”

You scoffed at her, the way you always seemed to do. “Yeah, ok. But my mum died, and am I making a fuss? No. She died for a reason, they all did,” and under your breath, you added “I still just need to figure that reason out.”

You held back from the obvious “they were my family too” bullshit, because your dad never believed that, even when you spent most of your time at his house with the Avengers instead of him. It wasn’t that you hated your mom or your dad, you loved them both equally and spent time with them both, but when one dies and one goes missing and spirals into lord knows what after going missing in space with a blue alienoid, everything gets a little complicated and stops making sense. Spending more time with your dad was scary too, seeing the intricacies of Avengers life in a capacity which you didn’t understand for a long time growing up. That only lasted for a year before he took off and made you be a tennis ball in a flawed game between him and Rhodey. Every weekend for five years you drove from the compound to the lake house. You lost out on a lot from that, and your dad didn’t even seem phased, because he had Morgan.

But beneath all of the hatred that had made you so rebellious since you turned fifteen, there was something deeper.

Considering how stone faced and resolute you are and always have been, considering how harsh you are about the realities and never getting caught up in mindless emotions, no matter how much you claim that your grieving time was over the second that you pushed your dad's heart away, mere weeks after feeling his pulse drop as you laced your fingers with his, no one would believe that it was all a lie.

Every night since that snap more than five years ago, you’ve done the same thing. Make a cup of hot chocolate (an iced decaf latte if it was summer), and you’d take it to bed and just cry until you could no more and simply fell asleep. You weren’t even sure why you cried, because after all there wasn’t really any reason to. The world was moving on, albeit slower than before, and your life was about as much locked into place as it could be with Tony Stark as your father, but the crying just felt obligatory. After ten, FRIDAY always turned off in your room, that was the agreement your mom had with your dad whenever you stayed there, although you weren’t sure why it made a difference, and it just stuck, so no one saw the pointless tears, no one heard, and no one cared. The only one who ever did care enough whenever you cried had been snapped away, and now he was back, you were just another repugnant face in the crowds, or so you’d guess with the way he looked down upon you.

“It’s ok dad,” you said with a completely straight face, your hard eyes locked onto his, your entire being completely void of emotion, “you can go to sleep.”

He squeezed your hand with his forefinger and middle finger, very lightly, and he just croaked out his final words to you, “my beautiful Sloane, so brave.” So quiet that they were only decipherable to you.

“Life functions critical,” the Irish accent rang in your ears.

Pete had already said his goodbyes, but now it was Pepper’s turn as she wiped your dad's tears away. This time you should’ve been there for each other, a support for one another, after all, they were losing him together and were in the same boat, but sometimes even grief can’t bring people together.

“Tony, look at me. We’re going to be ok..” she pleaded.

Your dad's eyes moved from yours to hers, a sluggish movement that took the remaining life from him. He moved his lips to form two words that broke your heart, because you knew that they were directed at all of you, and they meant so much more than anyone else could understand. Those words were his attempt at making up for being such a shit dad. ‘I’m sorry.’

Pepper kissed him. “You can rest now.”

You didn’t even look around to see anyone else’s face , especially not Peters or Peppers, because as soon as his pulse stopped and his skin slipped from your grip, his body cold, you knew that the chapter of your life with your father in it was over, so you pulled your mask back over your face, and strutted away, as far as possible. You ignored your limp completely, because with all of the numbness, it was like you couldn’t even feel the pain. Except you didn’t disappear, no way, you couldn’t. You watched as they all knelt for him, for the man who missed all of your firsts in life, who was absent when you needed a father and a friend and a leader, and even though you were chronically broken within, every terrible emotion gnawing at you, screaming at you to just feel something and express it; you didn’t. You suppressed it all, and walked away. And of no surprise to you at all, no one followed, or even noticed you were gone.

After all, Tony Stark died for a reason, and at least this time you knew what that reason was.

“Miss?” Someone’s snapping their fingers beside your ear, driving you mental but also snapping you awake from whatever dream that was, reliving the scariest day of your life. “Miss, you fell asleep at the table. We’re clearing it for dinner, please.”

You roll your eyes up at him, instantly recognising Pete’s voice, but you just don’t care. He doesn’t even know who you are. So you scoff, the way you did at Pepper so long ago, and you leave without a second glance.

“Are you a relative of Nat’s? I- I heard someone was coming over to stay...” his voice yells down the corridor.

“You can’t be serious Peter. You don’t recognise me at all?”

And with that, you snatch your water bottle from the edge of the counter with your spare hand and resolutely stamp off down the corridor, your feet loosely wading in your docs with your crutch assisting you along the way.

You’re leaving soon, so you won’t have to deal with him. But you still have another year or two of high school to compete with, and with your tutor gone - your dad refused to send you back to school after the snap, so it was left up to whoever wanted the job, and Cap wanted it a lot more than he did, so you spent your weeks driving from the city to the lake house after finishing the weeks tutoring, to spend time with your ‘family’ - and now, you seriously doubted that anyone else would want the job. Bucky is too hormonal and grieving the loss of his best friend, Banner is freaking you out, Clint is off the grid from another breakdown and it’s like he’s not even human anymore, Wilson is too busy with his new training regime and fighting Buck, and Scott doesn’t know the first thing about what you need to learn thanks to his ditsy persona. Which only leaves Pepper and Rhodey, and which forces you to go back and live in the lake house, away from the shambles of the rebuilt compound, all thanks to Strange and his wizards.

Maybe this is what you need, because now you don’t have to see Pete and get offended every single time he forgets your name and doesn’t have a clue who you are.

That night, you skipped your crying routine, and felt no better nor worse off for doing so. You simply dosed up on your painkillers and drifted off to sleep, filled with irritation and dreams of a mousey hero.

For the next couple of days, you’d just gone about your business and avoided the funny looks from all of the other Avengers at your foul demeanour. None of them that were in and out of the rebuilt compound ever really took notice of you anymore, and you weren’t sure that any of them recognised you anymore, not with all of the piercings and hair dye and the crutches. After all, the last time most of them knew you, you were an annoying child who watched them work and ate dinners with them, and your dinners consisted of smiley face waffles and chicken nuggets. And besides, you were perfectly able back then, and you often had little friends over, or your mom would pop in to say hi on your way home. There’s no chance of that happening anymore. Bucky had recognised you, smiled at you, and occasionally made jokes about you being crippled together, so with any issues you could just turn to him, but this Peter thing annoyed you too much to talk about it, and you didn’t know why.

Speak of the devil-

“Hey, can I sit?” He asks, standing just behind the sofa and hovering awkwardly.

“I don’t care,” you say, all of your words merging and slurring. You signal to the seat beside you yet far enough away for him not to be a bother, and he takes it.

“So h-how are you?”

You watch him suspiciously out of the corner of your eye, because you can just feel his eyes on you, namely on your tits that had suddenly appeared in the last few years.

“I’m fine thank you, Peter. It’s not like no one knows who the fuck I am and I’m living in a literal post war, dystopian, apocalyptic world all alone. How are you, Spider-Man?”

He blanches before your eyes, and you can physically see any words die in the back of his throat.

“I-I’m good.”

Everything stills for a little while, and the only sounds are what's playing on TV and Peter’s occasional swallows, making his Adams apple Bob in your peripheral view. He doesn’t dare look at you, and you can just sense his agitation, mainly from the way he fidgets and weighs the sofa cushions down weirdly with his weird spider legs.

It only takes half an hour for you to wear down and ask him the burning question, his presence beside you enough to make your skin tingle in anticipation and anger bubble within, not to mention the girlish sense that overwhelms you, so contrasting to your dark clothes and self-given bridge piercing.

“Why don’t you speak to me anymore, Peter? Do you seriously not recognise me?”

His eyes fall and his face turns sallow, and he stammers over a few consonants, unable to form any real words.

“I’m Tony’s daughter.” You announce, facing him head on. “Y/N Stark.”

Only after you’ve said that do you realise that he’ll have absolutely no clue what you’re saying, but you can see the cogs whirring in his head as everything is pieced together. His eyes lock onto yours, and they’re the one feature you haven’t changed about yourself in the years that he was gone.

“I changed my name last year, I used to be-”

“-Sloane Stark.” he finishes with you.

He doesn’t take his eyes off yours, too lost in them after he’s been without them for so long. Something’s clicked inside, but scepticism overtakes him. You grasp your hair into a makeshift ponytail at the base of your neck, all the loose ringlets in different shades tickling your neck, but it reveals a thin, pale, bumpy scar on your skin; a thin and jagged line that runs from the base of your ear to the start of your clavicle. You’ve had it since you were 11, when Peter first became a regular at the compound and you began to play together, but then an accident happened, and Peter stayed by your side as you got the stitches, holding your hand.

Finally, he cottons on, and you can see the tears welling up in his chocolate brown orbs.

“Sloane…”

He virtually leaps from his seat and throws his arms around you, completely overcome with all kinds of inexplicable feelings. Love seeps from his body into yours, he clings to you, and even buries his nose into your hair, taking a deep inhalation before sighing in contentment. Even when the average hug time has passed, he doesn’t release you, and keeps his arms wrapped like a koala around your shoulders, his body slowly getting closer and closer towards you and for some reason making you blush. Your arms remain limp around him, and your forefinger traces figures on his lower back, but you don’t squeeze him as much as you did when the surprise of his cuddle attack first hit you.

He eases himself away, but still keeps his hand on your arm, a gentle and warm presence.

It doesn’t hit you for a while that it’s the first hug you’ve received in months, and the first one from Peter in five and a half years.

“I’m guessing that you didn’t snap away like the rest of us then…?” he asks shyly.

His spare hand immediately retracts and rubs the back of his neck anxiously, just the way he used to, but only now do you understand why.

“Nah, I didn’t,” you say, “Sadly I was stuck here in this shambles of an earth, dealing with everyone else's depression and having a little sister forced upon me. I couldn’t even go to school, it was awful.”

His face falls into a deep frown and he searches your face for any sign of your words being cynical, but he finds nothing.

“W-why did you change your name then?”

You shrug, for what feels like the hundredth time in his presence, “Sloane is an awful name, it means ‘raider’ in bloody Irish. None of my family is Irish, my dad suggested the name when he was drunk, and my mum couldn’t think of anything better. Y/N makes me feel like me.”

He nods understandingly and doesn’t push the matter, so you offer a half smile and move your attention back to the TV.

“Why did you change you?” he asks all of a sudden.

The question instantly ingrains itself into your brain, and makes your heart ache. Why would he ask such a thing? Doesn’t he understand what's happened? Why does he even care? But the last thought makes you sick to your stomach, because you know that he always has cared and he always will, he promised you that the first time he was babysitting you and you got all het up over something on the TV. Maybe a part of him knew that it was you all along but he just couldn’t broach the subject, or maybe he didn’t and he thought you’d been snapped away and you simply hadn’t returned. No matter what it was,you knew that you couldn’t blame him, but as his question bounced around your brain and repeated, you had no idea what happened, but you felt any compassion shrivel up, your heart grew cold, your demeanour turned harsh, and your kind response died in your throat. You look him dead in the face and straighten yourself up, your eyes devoid of all feeling.

“My mom died, all of my idols and my family and school friends died - Scott, Buck, Sam, you - and my dad was never the same again. I was left with him and the step monster who, who for the record doesn't even like me because of my mom, and Morgan came along, so they forgot about me, and I only stayed three days a week because the rest of the time I was stuck here with a depressed Nat and counsellor Steve, and the latter had to teach me everything I needed for the finish of middle school and my freshman and sophomore years, which was hard in itself. Dad was so depressed, he wouldn’t listen to the words I said about the other Avengers, so apart from Steve tutoring me, I basically raised myself for two years, without friends or anything, and they were two of the most important years of my life . Everyone forgot about me. I was just turned fifteen and more adept at coping in this world than any adult I’ve known. I hated my name and what came with it, and I never really liked myself, that's always been the case. I hated my appearance and I had no one to make me feel nice when you died, because you always told me that I was pretty, just like a princess, and you kept me sane. Fuck, Pete, you held me together, and all of that faded when you died, because as soon as you were gone, everything else around me crumbled.” You inhale a sharp intake of breath, and move to stand, snatching your crutches from the floor. “Long story short, while all of you were gone, I grew up. I’m 17 now, I may be different to how you remember but at least I feel comfortable now. I really did grow up peter, and you need to start doing the same. My dad is never coming back.”

And just like the days before, you scurry off back to your room and bury any inhibitions beneath your pillow, leaving Peter in the living room, completely crushed and left to mull your words over alone while he waits for May to get home.

Five days later, and you can’t take the silence anymore. Peter practically hides and runs for shelter each time he hears you approach, you saw the footage on FRIDAY’s cams. It really upset you for the first two days, but with each shy, rushed smile and fleeting glance he takes at you, each one that makes your stomach do little flips, they just remind you how cruel you were to him, how brutally honest, when Peter needs more time to heal than you do most likely, as your dad meant more to Pete than he did to you, and if anything then that's a reflection on Tony. He wanted a son. Maybe Peter feels guilty, mabe he’s sad, maybe he just straight up doesn’t like you, but whatever it is, you don’t fucking like it, so you’re preparing for the move in two days time. Far earlier than planned.

With each piece of clothing you fold, with each piece of metal shrapnel you toss into your jewellery box, with each eyeliner you tuck away in a bag, you run everything that's happened in the past week through your head. You called Scott up to see how he’s getting on with Hope and Cassie, you spoke to Laura - no longer a secret - who just told you that Barton is in almost as bad a place as before, just without the machetes and with a lot more crying and whiskey, you spoke to Rhodey for an update on the lake house/new home situation and put all of the plans in place, but you did shut down his heartfelt offer to be another father figure, starting with a controversial suggestion to send you to therapy or rehab for your ‘lashing outs’, and you’d made amends with Sam who was surprisingly okay with your whole new thing going on, and he said he loved your vibe and gave hair dye suggestions, making you rethink your decision to leave all over again. Bucky had taken you shopping, hoping for retail to cure both of your depressive episodes, but it didn't really help even if the long, deep conversation over milkshakes at a nearby diner did help, and he cradled your head in his lap as you told him you’d miss him more than the others. He told you that you were being stupid about Peter and that the kid really likes you, but you retorted with a scoff, saying he’d never fancy you the way you fancy him.

Ah, yeah, that revelation, the one which makes you throw a sweater full force into your open trunk, sitting at the base of your bed. With a loud groan, you throw yourself dramatically down onto the bed and savour the soft comforter for one of the last times; after all, the place will probably be gone, along with the remnants of FRIDAY by the time you return, if you ever go.

“Where are you off to?” Peter asks from the doorway, his voice inquisitive and startling you from your angered daze.

He must’ve seen your bags half packed in your room, lying out on your bed beside you. You turn your head to look at him, your eyes thin and bullet-like.

“I’m leaving.” You snap rather viciously, and prop yourself up on your elbows. “The Cap’n has gone, and I’ve been out of school too long to go back. The Step-Monster needs to ‘tutor me’, and I need to teach the little brat.” You’re referring to Morgan, but Peter doesn’t seem to pick that up by the looks of his furrowed brows. He certainly looks relaxed though, leaning against your doorframe.

“Why can’t you stay here?” Peter asks and You shrug, unsure how to respond. “I- I’m sure Mr Falcon would help teach you, or- or Wanda?”

Shit, Wanda. You’d practically forgotten she existed from how much of a recluse she was now. You should probably go and check on her or at the very least have a chat with her. She was dead for five years, just like Vis, but when she comes back she’s still not over him after months? Sounds fake but ok...

“Wanda has even less of an education than I do.” You retaliate with a foul attitude and an even fouler taste in your mouth, turning your back on him when you stand, and going back to your packing. You try your best to ignore his presence, but you can just feel him hovering metres away, itching to do or say something to you.

“Well then you can stay living here and enrol in Midtown High with me. We’d be the same year now and I could show you the ropes.”

Ok now you know he’s fucking with you.

“Peter, I can’t go to midtown.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been out of co-ed for too long, let alone education, as I haven’t had any since like fucking February, and I’m too traumatised and crippled for them. How would that look eh? Y/N Stark enrolling for junior year after the death of The Tony Stark?” Peter goes quiet. “And anyway, it’s not like I have the brains, at all. I’m not smart like you, Peter. I’m as thick as two short planks. I got my mom’s brains and some of my dad's abilities. I can chuck on suits all I like, I can build shit all day, and I can play sports like no one's business; or at least I could.” Having your one ankle completely useless is a complete bummer, maybe even more so than losing everyone, because now you actually have to live with being this way. They don’t have to live. “But the second you give me a math equation, I’m gone.”

“Couldn’t you live with your mom then? Mr Stark said she doesn’t live too far out of state, nowhere near as far as the lake house.”

“My dads fucking dead Peter, he doesn’t control shit anymore” You find yourself shouting, your eyes burning into his with a fire of fury behind them. “My mom came back after the snap but she hasn’t answered any of my calls, and she fled the house when I turned up on her goddamn doorstep. She ain’t no option anymore, my authority is Potts.”

He gives you a sad smile but slinks away. No surprise there, last time he saw you, you were twelve years old and tugging on his trouser leg to get him to play basketball with you. You didn’t have anywhere near this level of anger, and you’d never have dared scream at him, let alone repeating the words that hit him like daggers mere days ago.

The next day comes too soon, and you’re just chilling , finishing up the last of your packing, and trying to ignore anything pushing you to stay. Why did your chat with Peter compel you to want to stay here instead? What is it about him that always brings you full circle, and makes you feel like that love struck child again?

From your mirror, as you’re adjusting your blouse and switching out your nose stud, you see Peter approaching, steadily advancing down the corridor. Twice he stops, and takes a step back, as well as turning and looking the other way as though doubting his decision to come into your room, but when you see his knuckles come in contact with the wood of your door, as he knocks gently, and the sound floats into your ears, making you turn around to see his meek smile with his head hung low.

“You can come in Pete,” you exhale, “I won’t bite your head off.”

He chuckles lowly and advances towards the bed. He gestures, and you nod, giving him permission and hobbling over to join him moments later. He seems flustered, you can tell me by the way he’s struggling to maintain eye contact and the manner in which his hands are convulsing in his lap. Seeing him like this makes you uncomfortable, and you can even feel bile rising in your throat.

“Peter, I-”

“No, Y/N, please let me, I mean, I wanna talk.”

You smile and bow out, allowing him space to align his thoughts with his words, after all, you’ve known that it takes him a while to do that, but it’s necessary in any kind of emotional situation with someone as awkward as Petter; just the thought causes butterflies to flutter around in your stomach and windpipe.

“I’m sorry for yesterday, for nagging you and insisting, and for asking you those questions and trying to make you stay. I just, I really just don’t want you to leave. I was insensitive, and I should’ve recognised you beforehand.” You can feel tears pooling behind your eyes, and it takes all of your willpower to not let them fall. “I just want you to do as well as you can, and I wish you all the best, I just wish I could’ve gotten to know you better before it was too late; ok Stark?”

His lips quirk into a smile, yet his voice breaks as he calls you Stark. It physically hurts to hear him say that, and you want to tell him that it’s okay, and he has every right to be upset and grieving, and you know you shouldn’t have shouted at him and gotten so defensive because after all he’s one of the only people you can let your guard down around. You just want to say that it’s not his fault, except you can’t find the words.

“Why can’t you stay?” He asks sincerely, even a touch of desperation there.

Your heart drops to your feet at his expression, and your next words come out as a hushed, pained whisper, your words slow and detached. “I have no reason to stay.”

He nods dejectedly, almost like he’s giving up on something, and he even moves to stand up while your eyes are glued to the way his muscles ripple with each movement, but halfway to being upright, he changes his mind and turns towards you.

The next thing you know, you feel the soft pressure of his thumb on your chin, followed by the pads of his fingers on the soft skin underneath, tilting your head up to look him in his gorgeous eyes, like molten honey in the soft sunlight of your bedroom. Just the sight of his lips slightly parted causes your mouth to go dry, but you don’t have too long to think about that, because all of your thoughts dissipate with the featherlight pressure and sweet, intoxicating taste of his lips on yours. His nose nudges your cheek ever so gently. It’s barely there, and over far too soon, it still makes your head spin. Christ, you’ve been waiting for that to happen for upwards of five years, and it was just as beautiful as you hoped it would be.

“How about now?” He inquires, a stark contrast of shyness and courage written all over his face.

“Why don’t you kiss me again and we’ll find out?”

You fist the fabric of his t-shirt and pull him towards you, leaving Peter shocked by the strength in just one hand, seeing as he finds his body hovering above yours just seconds later. He looks hungry, already ravishing you with his eyes as you kiss and kitten lick just below his ear. He holds his weight up but leaves no time to press his lips against yours, urgently, passionately. You moan a little at how desperate he is to get his hands on you, the way he knots one hand in your hair, splayed out on the pillow beside you, the way he’s senselessly grinding his crotch onto you. You don’t mind at all, especially not the breathy calls of your name he lets out when you knot your legs around his lower back to pull him closer. It's a primal desire that keeps you moving. His tongue glides across your lower lip, prying its way in, and you just let it happen, too caught up in the moment to do anything else.

“Pete, fuck…”

Your one hand slides under his shirt and runs across the ripples of his abs, you savour the way he tenses beneath your touch, the way the scars feel tenders beneath your hungry touch. You other hand threads into his soft brown locks. You pull gently and elicit the most perfect guttural groan from him.

“Y/N,” he almost pleads, and his lips move to gently suck on your jawline.

You’re surprised that he isn't calling you Sloane, but you certainly aren't complaining. Your name from his tongue does things to you that you can’t even explain.

You dance your fingers from his hair across to his face, and push his cheek gently. Your eyes are thin, focussed on him, but Peter’s pupils are heavily blown with lust, leaving only a faint rim of golden brown around the edge.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps out, and your stomach coils in desire. Your face must look so pouty, so wanton, but you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“Fuck me, Peter.”

He looks like a deer in headlights momentarily, but gets over it quickly, attaching his lips back on yours and allowing his tongue to roam your mouth, savuring and swallowing every whimper and moan that escapes your pretty lips.You let your hand, the one still beneath his shirt, skim over his muscles to where his heart is, beating at a double pace, thrumming gently beneath your hand. It makes your ego inflate tenfold, knowing that you’ve gotten this flustered and needy.

Just as you’re really getting lost in the pleasure, Peter’s hand cupping and massaging your breast as his mouth works wonders on intoxicating you, you hear a rather loud cough from your doorway, and everything stops. You and Peter both freeze at the same moment, and you drop any stance, fully detaching yourselves to glance at who’s there.

“You kids should be careful, and next time, close the door.”

And with that, Bucky’s gone from view as quickly as he appeared, leaving you both with a mere glimpse at him in his sweats with a coffee cup in his hands, no doubt filled with earl grey tea being the old lady he is.

In the heat of the moment, you’d both forgotten to close the door and turn FRIDAY off. And Rhodey can access all of the footage. Fuck. Oh well, you’ve already been caught once, why stop now?

You wrap an arm around Peter's shoulders and pull yourself up until you’re straddling his lap and upper thighs, eagerly rubbing yourself against the material of his jeans to try and get some kind of friction. He slides an arm around your waist, and you move in to kiss him, only for him to turn his head the other way.

The moment couldn’t have been lost from Bucky’s playfully snarky comment, could it? You want nothing more than for him to kiss you again, earnestly, fervently, but he doesn’t even spare you a glance, not even when he pushes you from his lip and stands up with his head in his hands.

Apparently he doesn’t feel the same.

“Crap, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Why did I do that? Y/N…”

He even begins to pace, that’s when you know that he thinks he’s fucked up.

“You know why I shouldn’t have done that right, don’t you?” he asks, stuttering random syllables in no specific order, but you do notice that with each pace, he paces his way closer to your open door.

“Yeah,” you lie, but you’ll work that out tonight, “I get it. But it’s fine. And I need to pack…”

He smiles nervously, and with a few careless gestures and no words, he stalks into the corridor and closes your door behind him. You can hear him lettering a long-held breath out.

All of a sudden, you feel completely sick to your stomach. Why would he do that? It was so God damn cryptic. One second he’s apologising, asking you to stay, pashing you senseless, and the next he’s keeping as much distance from you as possible, apologising, and treating you like a child.

That’s when it hits you.

He feels like he’s kissing the old you. You grew up without him there, and in the space of what was merely a nap to him, you grew five years older, grew tits, matured, changed every aspect about yourself, and developed a sex drive; whereas he didn’t change one bit, he’s still the same peter that he was when you were an aggravating child, crushing on him from afar and trying to be like him. He feels predatory at kissing you, because all he’s ever known you as is a child, and this is all new territory, a territory he’s too scared to broach because he can’t get permission from the man himself.

Maybe that’s why your dad had to die, so that you’d never end up with Peter, and that’s Earth punishing you for some godforsaken reason.

So you just lie there, far salty tears involuntarily dripping down your cheeks as you sit there and think. Will you ever just be fucking happy?

Happy’s set to pick you up at noon today, and after a night of scarcely five hours of sleep, you are not in the mood for anyone and their funny business, especially not Peter, and you aren’t exactly peppy for the hour long drive to arrive there with the Bimbo and the Brat. Well, at least everyone has low expectations of you, so it shouldn’t be that much of an issue when you simply scowl at them and flip them off until you chuck yourself into the car and wave them goodbye for the last time. You’re not sure if the gravity of the situation has hit you yet, maybe you’re repressing it, or maybe it simply just does not bother you, the same way that most things don’t.

You don’t even bother with your appearance, and stick to black trackies and a cropped tank top, with a mildly colourful button-down open over the top. Seeing as your docs are packed in the ‘hide from Pepper’ box, you toss on your worn down black converse and begrudgingly throw your hair up in what you hoped would be a messy bun but ends up looking more like a lopsided half-up ponytail, so you snap the hair tie and throw it away. Hey, that’s an easy way to deal with the Peter issue. Snap him in half and chuck him in the trash where he rightfully belongs after yesterday.

All you have for breakfast is an iced coffee, and justly so, no one dares even make eye contact with you. By ten, all of your bags are out in the hallway, and not a single personal affect is left in your room. You say a quick goodbye to FRIDAY, and hobble out into the living room, where you spend the next almost two hours either staring blankly ahead of you and ignoring what’s on the screen, or picking at your crutches while you analyse the previous day with Peter. No matter how much you want to hate him, you can't refute the way he made you feel, completely under his control, so willing and malleable, so eager and hungry and loved.

Happy pulls up at 11.55, and you begin to help him load everything into the car, but get refused after two bags and therefore two trips downstairs after you nearly fall face first and your crutches slip from your arms. The rest is down within seconds by Sam and Bucky.

You said goodbye to Wanda a couple of days ago when you popped in for a chat, but she’d still made her way out here, so you give her a quick hug and wish her well, and you see that May has made her way out to see you off, but Peter is nowhere to be found which makes your cheeks burn with anger.

“I’m so sorry for now knowing who you were my love,” she tells you, running a hand through your hair, “Peter told me all about you before it all happened, he said you were such a cutie, and I know that he would’ve made more of an effort had he recognised you.”

You chuckle softly, hug her, and simply don’t reply. What are you supposed to say to something like that? Bucky and Sam appear back at the top of the stairs and advance towards you, knocking each other out of the way in a playful battle to hug you first. Sam wins by tickling Bucky just beneath his ribs, and bear hugs you, making you feel like a baby koala.

“Use protection next time, and please, God, shut the door.” He whispers in your ear, making you jump away, your jaw slack, utterly aghast, but he just laughs at your expense.

“You told him about that?” you accuse Bucky, shoving a finger at his chest.

He raises his hands in surrender and even lets out a chuckle before cuddling you, his metal arm somehow a comforting presence around you.

“Of course I did, Doll. It was too good not to tell.”

You swat him gently on his chest, but instead of pulling away just yet, you bury your face in his t-shirt for possibly the last time.

“You two kids get along, or I might have to come here and whip your asses.” you glance between Bucky and Sam, making them laugh, but they nod nonetheless and step backwards to join May, allowing you to leave. You grasp your crutches and let your arms fall through the rests, your hands slipping around the handles like second nature, and you start to make your way out. Something that resembles hope begins to blossom in your stomach, so you muster all of your courage and take a fleeting glimpse over your shoulder, but much to your disappointment yet not very much surprise, he isn’t there. You feel something within your chest physically break, and with the pain all over your body, emotional above all else, stemming from betrayal, you wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t your heart strings. Oh well, you tell yourself, and in recovery from bowing your head down in embarrassment, you hold your shoulders high with any remaining pride as you take the few steps to the door, ignoring the tears that begin to fall. Your tears are possibly the most confusing thing about this ordeal, you never cried before, not from emotion at least.

“Stop- Y/N, wait, please Sloane…” you hear breathless shouts, followed by hurried footsteps on the linoleum. Instantly, you recognise his voice. “Please stop, I’m begging you.”

You halt your steps, and prop your crutches against the wall, but are slow to turn around, and even when you do, it takes you a moment to actually meet his gaze. His eyes hold all of the hurt he’s feeling. He hardly slept, you can tell by the red rims and deep, sallow bags. The warm chocolate colour is slightly murky, something of an anger in them, maybe even a sense of loss.

You can’t track anything more, because you take one step forwards, and he begins to virtually sprint towards you, his hair bouncing as he dashes across the floor and entwines his arms around you like vines, relentlessly squeezing you and ceasing to let go. He simply just stands there, glued to the spot, holding onto you, and once more you feel the tears well in your eyes. You’ve never been hugged this way, not by anyone, so you make the most of it and gently grasp his t-shirt to draw him impossibly closer, his scent enveloping you in a blanket of warmth and adoration. He moves one hand up to knot in your matted hair, and buries your head closer into his shoulder, which you welcome, even if you’re wetting the shoulder of his shirt with your tears. You lose count of the time until you let go, just savouring the way he holds you so lovingly, and you don’t particularly ever want to let go. All of the rest of the world has disappeared. But still, you both detach yourselves just a little, and you find your lips mere inches away from his perfect lips. Without another thought, something otherworldly takes over, and you find your lips planted together in the most intimate way possible. The tip of his tongue barely has to swipe your lower lip before you grant him access, and as you do, your mind and soul proclaim thanks to the gods. He tastes like heaven and cherry pie - his favourite - and he feels even better. The way his tongue dances with yours is like a massage, second nature, and God, you never want it to stop with how crazy he’s making your mind go, let alone the flock of butterflies fluttering around your stomach. His one hand shifts to the small or your back, and you find yourself wrapping your arms even tighter around Peter until your hands touch, and you have him held in place, in the most perfect position, the one where you know he belongs.

You separate, gasping for air and gulping as much down as you can in such a short amount of time before his hands are in your hair again and he’s kissing you just as sweetly, yet hotly, as before. The sensual way he gazes at you makes your insides turn to mush in seconds, and you have to look away even before he kisses you again because you fear you shan’t be able to keep his gaze if you ever want to leave this place with your heart intact. This kiss isn’t as long, you realise that as your hands drop to his waist and stay there lightly, feeling the skin above his hips rippling beneath his tensing muscles. His body shifts, as does his grip on you, and he starts to pepper kisses on your lips and cheeks, just small, precious pecks that keep your heart beating with joy and longing. Just the feeling of his lips kissing away your tears as he hovers above you makes you feel alive at long last, and he makes you feel more cherished than you ever imagined you could.

“You need to go, Happy’ll start honking for you any second.” he breathes, the softness of his breath running your eyelashes and allowing your eyes to flutter clothes, his freckles disappearing from your view for a second. Then, as if on cue, Happy's horn resounds. “I’ll walk you down.”

He looks so crestfallen as he pulls away from your and passes you your crutches, keeping a safe distance. And although you both know that everyone saw, it doesn’t matter, and no one says a word, they all just observe quietly, but you can tell that they’re smiling down on you both. You can still taste your salty tears mingled together pressing on your lips, the taste of just indescribably, distinctly Peter stuck in your mouth, a taste you never want to stop tasting.

When Peter crushes, you oblige and scramble onto his back as he carries your crutches, and the walk down the stairwell to where Happy’s parked on the sidewalk is a silent one, but it’s still comfortable. There are so many things the two of you want to say to each other, but it’s too hard to express them given that you’re about to be shipped off somewhere that he’ll probably never make your acquaintance again, no matter how much he wants to spend all of his time with you. You’re more conflicted than you’ve ever felt, so stressed, so hurt, but at the same time you’re so happy that you got to make those memories with Peter before you leave, elated that you made up with him, pleased that you got to feel him kiss you one last time.

When you reach the concrete, Peter gently places you down on your feet, and he puts your crutches into the open door at the back of the car and proceeds to stand nervously beside you, his hands behind his back as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. You have your head down, anxious beyond comparison, just staring at the gravel, until one of Peter's hands comes out from where it was and takes your trembling hand into his palm, his fingers slowly tangling around yours and giving you a gentle squeeze. He switches his gaze over to you and catches your eye. He smiles briefly before bringing your knuckles up to his lips.

“I’ve fancied you since I was eleven,” you tell him, “That’s almost six years, that’s a long ass time.” a brief hint of humour creeps into your pained, quiet voice.

He just chuckles and rubs his thumb over your knuckles, making you smile, despite the pain of the situation. He speaks to you real soft. “I know.”

Your hand feels like it was meant to fit in his and sends a new sort of warmth shooting through your body, but it doesn’t last long before he’s helping you into the backseat of the car and reluctantly removing his nimble fingers from their grip around yours, and placing a gentle, chaste kiss to your forehead for good measure, a kiss you’ll always treasure.

“Don’t,” you plead, feeling a sob suddenly choke your throat when all that’s left are his fingertips grazing yours. “Don’t let go, Peter, please.”

It’s difficult to remain stoic around Peter now, it’s like everything just completely pivoted the day he kissed you, and if you’re honest, you don’t want to go back. You don’t want to be the hateful girl you once were, just longing for him to come back. Now he is back, you don’t have to wait anymore, and he can help you be your old self again. If only he’d just hold your hand forever, and you could actually be together.

And then it hits you. You need Peter almost as much as you need air to breathe, and if he lets go, you’ll be lost, and it’ll feel like it did for five whole years, you’ll be lonely and isolated, and even in the few days that you’ve had him back in your life, that feeling has completely dissipated and been replaced with an albeit confused elation and a warmth of love.

“I have to,” he whispers back his eyes already red, “I have to let you go. It’s what Mr Stark would want.”

He pulls away and closes the door in one swift movement, turning his back on you. You see his mop of brunette curls slip down from view when you peer out the window, hot tears burning your cheeks. You know he’s sitting on the side, his head in his hands, but you can’t look that far, so instead you listen to the soft purr of the car as it comes to live, and you let your laboured breath steam up the glass that your hands are placed on. As you begin to pull away, your final glimpse at your old home escaping you, you see Peter waving frantically and beginning to job alongside you, only stopping once you exit the driveway. Thanks to the tinted windows, you know he can’t see you, but you see him anyway and wave back before your pain overwhelms you. That happens the second he’s gone from your peripheral vision, and your chest caves in loud, wrenching sobs that’ll leave you in pain for days.

Is this what it feels like to have your heartbroken?

Of course it is, you know this, but all of the times you’ve felt it before, it still hasn’t felt this bad. You know that it’s happening for a reason, that God is punishing you this way for a reason, but no matter how hard you try, it just seems endlessly painful, and all for nothing. What could possibly be the reason for this?

You’re so locked in your thoughts that you barely realise that Happy has slowed the car down, and is looking over his shoulder at you, trying to bring you back down by asking how you are and how you feel. Did he not just see that display?

“If I was allowed to stay,” you slightly pant, your teeth gripping and your first clenching of their own accord, “then it could’ve been me and Peter. Just the two of us, the way it was supposed to be as I was growing up. But everything happens for a fucking reason, right?”

Happy just swallows and mumbles something incoherent before sliding the glass back over and starting up at another steady speed. You don’t know why you’re so... angry all of a sudden; you shouldn’t be angry, you should be upset and almost grieving, crying for the loss of an old home but excited for a new one. But yet, what’s the point in all of that? You’ve felt those emotions plenty of times in your short life, and you always thought you felt them for a reason, but where the ever loving fuck is that reasoning right now when you actually need it?

Grieving has lost its effect on you by now, and your mind feels hostile from all of the thoughts whirring around. You’ve had the same thoughts every time someone died - every time you thought your dad died, when your mom died, when Peter died, when everyone else just turned to dust. Then you felt them all over again when your dad died, for real this time, but what was the point? Nothing good ever came of it… nothing except grieving for Peter. You felt the same way you do now, only now it's somehow worse, yet he isn’t dead. You grieved for him more than you did your own mother, because he cared, because he actually paid attention, because he told you that you were pretty for the first time in your life. He always treated you like a person, like an equal, even when you were just a clingy child, vying for someone's attention when neglected by both of your parents because they had better things to do. But even now, now he recognises you again, he’s treated you like an equal, maybe even put you on a pedestal after you were extremely terse and treated him horribly. He still kissed you and cared for you and loved you-

SHIT.

You love Peter. Surely that must’ve been obvious for a long time, but now you’re finally admitting it. You really, genuinely, wholeheartedly love the little shit. Your stomach churns with nerves, and your mind tells you that you’re insane, but your heart… your heart has known all along, despite how much you fought it, and it’s now telling you to go along with it. You’re so… overcome with emotions that you don’t even know where to start or how to react or even try to begin to suss them out to deal with them so you do what feels like second nature the past few days, and you begin to cry, unable to choke it down any longer.

“Turn back happy,” you plead, “Shit! I said turn back now Goddammit!”

“I can’t, Sloane, you know I can’t, bosses orders.”

His words just hurt you more, if that was even possible, and pile something new onto the burning pile of emotions battling for territory within your exhausted brain.

“Happy, turn back right the fuck now, or I will scream until the glass breaks.”

When he does nothing, your sobs become harsher, and something in your throat snaps, forcing you to become hysterical. It’s something primal that takes over your body, a demon's force, because God knows you wouldn’t usually have this in you. You scream. It’s just a shrill sound to begin with, until your heaving chest and tears break through, and make it into a full hysterics game.

“HAPPY! TAKE ME HOME, TAKE ME TO PETER!” you screech, and you repeat the same words until you can’t breathe any longer, but even when your lungs fail you, your hands don’t.

You clip your seatbelt undone and begin punching the glass. It starts off just to be the dark tinted window separating you from happy and the wheel that would allow you to drive home, but even though the glass begins to wobble, it isn’t enough, so you move to the windows, your knuckles and palms coming in contact with the night shaded glass again and again until they’re rattling and even beginning to crack, but the second you feel you can, you release the most bestial, guttural scream that you can muster, and punctuate it with a rough shove to Happy’s chair.

You want to stop, but with all of the loss you’ve been through, you just need this one thing, this one person, this one place to feel complete, and none of it’s happening. It’s unspeakable, indescribable the way you feel, the turf war that’s occurring all over your body driving you insane.

“Just take me to Peter,” you finally beg after what seems like an eternity, collapsing completely into your seat, “I need him, Happy. I need Peter, please… please.”

You’re drained, dehydrated, hurt, and it doesn’t seem like that’s going to change any time soon. You’re driving away from the only happiness you’ve ever known to live in the arse end of nowhere with two people you hate, and so a void just takes over everything that previously embodied you, and you succumb to the emptiness, your last thought being of all the tears you’ve cried over one boy, the only one you’ve ever loved, and now you can’t even tell him that.

It was hard to grieve for someone, only for them to come back, the same way it was hard to grieve for someone who never gave a toss about you. That's what you’re finding so hard about all of this. But now, none of that matters, because he’s gone.

Two months later

The doorbell to the house rings for the third time today, driving you utterly up the wall. First it was the postie with some kind of oversized parcel for Morgan, then it was Happy, here again to help outside and be a ‘watchful eye’ while Pepper is out grocery shopping, apparently since they still don’t trust you rough to take decent care of your own sister.

“MORGAN!” You yell from your place at the back of the house, knowing that from her spot on the sofa in front of paw patrol or whatever shit she’s watching, she’ll hear, “Get the fucking door!”

“Mummy told you not to say bad words, Y/N.” She shouts back, and you can practically hear the signature Stark smirk in her words, although it should be far too early for her to actually be making that face.

That’s one thing they got right with Morgan, though, at least she calls you by your actual name instead of fucking Sloane, even if Pepper does ‘accidentally’ slip up and call you by that awful legacy name from time to time when you really annoy her, say by breaking a vase or some china, or screaming at her using all of the profanities you can think of. She’s really regretting taking you in, now, because you’re simply that much of a handful that she had Happy and Rhodey actually build a quiet room for some respite. You’re still in the rebellious phase, and you don’t seem to be leaving it any time soon, although you have let the dye in your hair grow out and you haven't bleached it… yet, and some of your piercings have naturally closed over, although that was more so that Morgan wouldn’t continually take a metal detector to your face.

Abrupt, your thoughts escape you, and you can’t catch the thread, because after multiple attempts of Morgan’s to click open the reinforced vibranium locks on the doors (Rhodey’s suggestion), and the shifting of a stool to allow her to climb to it, you hear a shriek and some mess of words that sound like ‘Peter’. But no, that's simply impossible. You’re imagining things in your annoyed state, knowing it would’ve been a lot faster and quieter if you just made your way over there yourself.

“It’s for you!”

Now this peaks your attention. No one has been to see you in the whole time you’ve been here, nor have you ever gotten mail. No one comes to see you, so maybe your ears didn’t deceive you.

You leap up from your seat and begin charging to the door, running as quickly and carefully as you can over Morgan's toys, but you’re also careful to not aggravate your injury. One good thing that came from your time there - the only good thing - is that you were able to work with your dad's remaining technology and do intensive physio, resulting in your mobility improving tenfold, also meaning that now you can not only walk but kind of run without assistance. But that doesn’t matter as soon as you see the man standing in the doorway, a bunch of flowers in his hand, and an expression of pure delight on his puppy-like features.

“Y-you can walk?” he blubs, his cheeks red with joy.

The flowers fall from his hands onto the deck, and your eyes fill with tears as your hands fly up to your mouth, only just containing your sobs. Your whole being is overcome with happiness like you’ve never felt before, and it seems like all of your depression since you left him has melted away, and a new you is born.

“You came back for me…” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, and in response, he draws his lips into a tight line to contain his smile, and nods his head at you, soft brown curls falling into his soft eyes.

“Why are you sad, Y/N?” Morgan asks, and tugs at your shirt, but you don’t even realise, because the sight of Peter coming towards you is all that you can see and feel, and you begin advancing towards him too, until you collide in a heated kiss. Everything just seems like a tangle of limbs, a clash of teeth, and a battle of tongues. You’re too wrapped up in the feel of him, the passion of the moment, the intimacy of the kiss, that you don’t notice that Peter’s already got you picked up with your whole body tied around him. He tastes utterly delectable, the same as before, and his tongue feels incredible as it sweeps your mouth.

“Morgan-” you pant, “Go find Uncle Happy in the yard, now.” When she doesn’t move, you open your eyes to glare at her, stunned and traumatised into silence with her mouth slightly agape. You can’t bear detaching from Peter’s lips for even a second, so your words are all rushed. “Morgan get out now, I can see him there, in the yard, go!”

The little squirt smiles wryly up at you, but does as she’s told, and scurries off into the mass of flowers and perfectly cut grass. Seeing her gone, you let out a long held breath and smile into Peter’s passionate kiss. All of the love floods back to you, and you feel whole once again. But before you can get too caught up in the sappiness, Peter is already blindly stumbling through the house and kicking the front door closed behind him. Your fingers in his hair, you guide him to the couch.

As he kisses you so tenderly, even in the heated moment, you finally understand what everything was for. Every trial and tribulation in your life was teaching you, helping build you up for this very moment, where it all makes sense.

Everything in life has been for a reason, and that reason is this very moment. The thought makes you smile, but nowhere near as much as Peter’s own smile does.

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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

Text

Just A Dream Away

Chapter 4/13 read here on ao3!

for @harringrovebigbang

~~~~

Steve doesn’t know why he does this to himself.

It’s been, god how long has it even been since the funeral? Almost a year now according to the calendar, though in his head it’s only been weeks.

Time doesn’t really have much to do with it though. Unless they found a way to go back, Billy would still be gone, and he’d still go back to the cemetery each morning just to pretend he wasn’t, leftover alcohol in his system from the night before melding each passing day into a jumble of numbness.

And Steve, as he falls deeper into this routine of self torture, he’s becoming exhausted. Where he was once optimistic, or at least trying to stay focused on looking for the positives and back on the good times, now he's just empty.

He can’t pretend he’s not depressed anymore, and he can’t pretend things are going to be okay either.

As much as he is still hurting, Robin doesn’t let him just mope. If she knew what was making his heart ache, he thinks she might let him have a little more room to grieve, but she doesn’t know, she doesn’t even know how bad he truly gets when she’s not around, so she had made him accept the video store’s job offer they’d left for when his time as representative was finished.

Work is something to do to take his mind off of things, sure, and it’s a way to get him out of the house, but the only reason he accepted was because halfway between his house and the family video is the cemetery, and every day, whether he drives it or walks it depending on if he’s sober enough to take the car, he stops to pay his boyfriend a visit.

Most often he brings flowers, maybe blows a tearful kiss to the ground and moves on, but some days, like today, he feels a heaviness in his heart that tells him to show up hours before he’s due at his shift, ready to talk it out until he absolutely has to leave.

Maybe it’s a habit from the hospital, starting when he used to be cheerful and sit in the grass to talk about happy stories and good things that happened in his day to make Billy feel better. But a year into talking to the dirt instead of his lover had left him bitter, and he was far past that optimistic point, all that’s left now is guilt, remorse, all the feelings about the loss he’d thus far kept bottled up.

This particular morning, he’d awoken from a nightmare, what happened at the mall never leaving his memory, the flashes of sorrow and pain and death lingering behind his eyes when he tries to get even a moment's peace; everyday is hard, but when he wakes up with tears in his eyes, he knows what kind of day it’s going to be.

So he comes out to Hawkins cemetery, no gift in hand today except his company, and kneels in the muddy grass, damp from an overnight storm that contributed to his plagued rest and left him running on an hour, maybe two, of good sleep, and he just starts talking.

He starts with the basics, the generic greetings and declarations of love that he promises each morning, but his emotions quickly rise to the surface. Reaching out to trace his fingers over the indentations in the upright stone, his voice wobbles slightly, and he shifts from venting to what he came here for:

“Billy. Baby, I’m so sorry. I’ve been pretending things will be okay, but I know they won’t. I failed you. I wasn’t there for you and it’s my fault what happened to you. I don’t even deserve to sit here and cry with you. I know Max has but, have you forgiven me? I don’t know where you are now, but I don’t want you to hate me. I love you so much.”

The silence in response is daunting. Makes him want to scream so loud he could tear the earth apart looking for his Billy, but instead he just repeats his apologies and promises again and again until his tears slow. Eventually, when he’s run out of things to say, he stands, stray tears dripping from the end of his nose and rewetting the soil, and leaves.

Drives away to his job like nothing happened, strolling in some thirty minutes late for his shift. Because today is the premiere of some mainstream pop culture film that’s gone way over Steve’s head on video, the Family Video is packed.

“Hey, dingus. Could’ve used you at the start of your shift.” Robin shouts over the shop noise as he strolls past to his post.

Steve shrugs, an over-exaggerated gesture in case she can’t hear him over the crowd, “Well I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You are, but I don’t see you working. I need help restocking once those shelves are cleared out.”

“Yes ma’am.” Steve does a mocking salute, the grimace on Robin's face making it clear she can see through his overdone gestures that he’s hiding something, overcompensating for the emptiness he feels.

She doesn’t have the chance to bring it up though, because the both of them get whisked off into separate duties working the over capacity video store. Only, while Robin handles it like she would any other day, with mild annoyance and enough spite to get through it alright, Steve is too fragile. All he can register is commotion, chaos: the buzzing neon lights in the ceiling, surging crowds bumping into him, chatter and bustle filling his ears, and he starts to break down.

But because he’s Steve, he tries at first to just power through. Tries to block it out and resume productivity, but he is already knee deep in a panic attack, so he pushes back through the customers, probably a little too roughly, to tell Robin with that lilt of fear and upset to his tone, “Robin, I can’t be out here.”

She barely looks up as she kindly responds, “I get it, Steve. Go take your break, I’ll handle the rush.”

That’s exactly what he does, is go straight to the back room, but instead of his standard fifteen allotted by the overheads, he stays in the back for an hour, and then another, leaving behind customers arguing over who should get the last copy of the new movie, people in line out the door, tapes knocked off of the shelves, all while people are in trying to do their normal returns and rentals. It’s again total chaos out there, only made worse by the fact that Robin is now alone at the counter.

She would also have to clean up once the rush died, and maybe even replace some tapes if people weren’t going to start watching where they’re walking, and as much as Steve wanted to feel bad for disappearing into the back room for the past hour and a half and leaving her with all of that, he can’t be bothered with coming back out, his morning at the cemetery having taken too much from his emotional threshold to be productive, or remorseful even, now.

There are two big plush chairs and a couch in the back, a much nicer room than the icebox that was the Scoops break area, but Steve sits on the floor instead, his back pressed to the door and his stained up knees drawn to his chest. From where he is, the endless noise and bustle drifts down the short hall to the break room, but he’s too in his head, thinking about nothing and everything to pay it any mind.

It takes probably another an hour and a half for all the crowd to die down, the line clearing out and Robin chasing away most of the stragglers after explaining for the hundredth time that until the already rented out copies were returned, they wouldn’t get any more in and that no, they weren’t hiding any in the back.

Steve can hear her cleaning up a little before she gets too behind, cardboard boxes being broken down and the irritating scrape of broom bristles against dusty tiled floors, followed quickly by loud boot steps toward the door that make his chest ache, pretending it was the echoes someone else instead of his best friend.

The break room is locked behind him, something that is forbidden by company policy, but Steve felt necessary, and Robin beats on it with the palm of her hand, startling him out of the half dazed, half alert state he’s been in all day, “Harrington, what are you doing in there? I just did a whole rush by myself, asshole.”

He can’t father the words to respond, tears welling up and choking anything he might say off in his throat. So Robin calls again, the door knob rattling like she’s trying to get in, her voice more concerned, “Steve? You alive in there?”

“Steve.” She tries again, more desperate, and Steve finally finds it in himself to say something, sniffling and responding weakly, “‘M’fine Rob.”

“Can you let me in?” Robin suggests, just on the side of hesitant, making Steve feel something like guilt for shutting her out, both emotionally and in the literal sense, so he stands, shaky and unbalanced, and unlocks the door for her.

He must look as bad as he feels, because Robin's pinched face of concern melts into one of sympathy as soon as she lays eyes on him.

She steps into the back room with him, after a moment of pause which Steve had come to hate, knowing that meant whoever was speaking was going to take pity on him, asking, “You doing okay in here, buddy?”

“What does it look like?” There’s sarcasm and bitterness in his tone, though it’s muffled by his tears. He doesn’t worry about offending Robin, she’s been dealing with his breakdowns for a long time now, and she knew how he could get.

Patiently, in spite of his snappiness, she asks, “Can you tell me what happened?”

Steve’s not sure how that’s even a question anymore.

What happened was fighting monsters at the Byers. Was getting tortured in the Starcourt mall. Was losing his Billy.

To say that those things had a huge impact on him was a gross understatement. Hell, even Robin was affected too, the both of them incredibly emotionally fragile these days with about a thousand things that could trigger them, both were plagued by nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks at random points in time. It shouldn’t be a mystery what was wrong now.

But having two hour long breakdowns in the employee lounge, Steve had to admit that was new, and Robin was obviously scared for him because of it.

So he lies, “It’s nothing, Robs. Just the same old stuf.” Steve isn’t a very good liar though, he can’t hold eye contact and his voice trails off, revealing him every time.

“Steve.” It was an attempt to appeal to him, maybe to ground him so he’d open up to her, “Please talk to me.”

An attempt, which he shuts down with, “We’re at work right now.”

Robin frowns, a crease in her eyebrow. He’s never seen her look more frustrated as she says, halfway between an insult and a joke, “No, I’m at work. You’re crying in the break room on the floor.”

But again, Steve is having it, “I’m serious, I don’t wanna talk about it here.”

He feels bad about being harsh with Robin, but his grief, this breakdown, it’s not for the general reasons she thinks, it’s specifically because of his visit to Billy’s grave this morning. The heavy realization of everything he’d vented to that cold stone that stood in place of the beaming face, the beautiful boy that always knew what to say, who he loved and still hadn’t told her about, that was what had pushed him over the emotional threshold.

“Alright, well, we’ve got like, an hour left before our shift is over, so you can just veg out back here or you can come and do some work.” Robing announces with a quick glance at her wrist watch, standing and patting the top of Steve’s head just to mess up his hair like he hated before walking out of the room.

At least she was trying.

It takes him a few minutes to find the will to follow her out, but eventually he does sidle up beside her at the front counter, his posture weak and his muddy shoes dragging on the ground, but he’s there, earning a taunting flash of Robins biggest and snarkiest grin as she slides him a stack of tapes that need rewinding.

They don’t get many customers after the initial rush of the early afternoon where he was out for, but he can tell Robin was still keeping her eye on him, just in case he needed a break, or in case he did break himself. Anymore, and much to his dismay, it doesn’t take much to get him overwhelmed, especially not if he was already upset, but he makes sure not to let that show now, putting on a mask like everything is okay, and he is managing it just fine.

Because the thing is, he isn’t managing anything, he’s still grief stricken and he’s drinking himself half to death and he has no future ahead but more sadness, but he’d be damned if he let anybody figure that out. Let anybody worry about him, when he was still living. In his eyes, it’s selfish to expect pity, when you’ve already survived the worst.

He thinks though, by the time their work is almost done, that Robin is starting to suspect something, because the second their shift is over, before the guys to cover the closing shift even show, she’s dragging him out of the store, snatching the keys for the BMW out of Steve's back pocket.

It goes without discussing anymore that on bad days, Robin doesn’t take Steve back home, which is to say, the two of them had been pretty much sharing her dinky little duplex apartment, the two of them living in the right side with a nosy older lady in the other. They both were afraid of what he could do when he was home alone, and, Robin didn’t really know this, but Steve was also afraid of what his father might say the day the dozens of rooms in that house weren’t enough to avoid him, when he realized how pathetic a state his son was in.

The living arrangement didn’t change much though. Steve still wasn’t very good at talking through his problems, and he still wouldn’t eat or shower or sleep regularly. He knew it scared Robin, because it scared him too, but he had other things to worry about.

Maybe it was true that he was so sensitive that it took practically nothing to send him over the edge, but it's not a big deal, he’ll be alright, how are you doing anyway? Robin always has to fight so hard just to get him to talk to her, his best friend who he all but lives with, because all he is worried about is other people. Something to do with losing the one person he was always caring for, trying to make up for not being able to save Billy’s life, or help him through his hardest moments. He knows that, but it doesn’t matter why he’s selfless, as long as he is, right?

Further, he reasons, so what if he’d had a concussion so bad that he still gets migraines that leave him bedridden at times? His friend is hurting and he needs to be there for her. Who cares if he has nightmares so intensely vivid he can’t sleep for weeks at a time? Robin has panic attacks in crowded places, and each time he has to fret about it for days.

It makes her worried sick all the time, knowing that Steve all but refuses to tell her if he needs something, but he doesn’t like feeling studied, can tell she is always looking for signs that something is wrong, watching him to make sure he didn’t do anything he shouldn’t. All she wants is for him to just stop bottling everything up, because she claims she had and it made everything easier for her to cope with, but he’s stubborn.

That just isn’t the way his brain works, and she’s probably sick of trying to get through to him. Somewhere in the back of Steve’s mind, he knows she’s not far from a breakthrough with him, his own coping mechanisms exhausting him to the point he might consider external help, but she doesn’t have to know that yet. For now, she sticks to what she always does in place of these tougher conversations, and that’s to make Steve tea and try to work him down to the point where he’ll talk to her. Today, it’s not going to take much convincing.

The second day he’d ever come over here, she tried to make a pot of coffee for a little chat like this, and Steve had started crying like a baby just from the way it smelled. It reminded him of his mother, of diner dates with Billy and nurses bringing him breakfast, so she had to switch to tea. He could tell it would always bother her when he wouldn’t tell her why something like that was making him so upset, but as Robin would have to come to realize the more he stayed with her, that was just the first of many things she didn’t understand about Steve Harrington.

There were endless triggers that set him off that she witnessed, and when she comforted him, he could tell she understood some of them, like when the lights would flicker when Dorothy ran her vacuum and he’d stop breathing, or when a siren would start up in the distance and he’d get so dizzy and his hands would shake so badly. But it was those overly specific things, like the smell of coffee, that she was sure had nothing to do with what they went through, and her confidence through those breakdowns would be noticeably a lot lower.

Pine tree air fresheners, the click of stilettos on tiled floors, leather car seats, the busy tone of the telephone, cigarette smoke, rose scented perfume, hairspray, crystalline ash trays. The list of things that reminded him of his parents and the utter helplessness of growing up alone and scared, and of his Billy, of everything he had lost when he died. To Robin, who didn’t have the context of his feelings, it just felt like every day there was something new that would set Steve back ten steps in the progress he’d made, and he knew it was making Robin feel so helpless and guilty.

She was getting better while he was still so thoroughly depressed, and she would take missteps on purpose to not get too far ahead of him. He was sabotaging his best friend with his own misery.

The thought draws stinging tears to his eyes, and Steve sits down at the table without saying a word to Robin, knows his composure will crack the moment he opens his mouth.

She finishes making their tea, specifically lemon flavored with two spoonfuls of honey and one of sugar, sliding him his tea in a tacky mug she’d bought him from a yard sale as a sort housewarming gift, an invitation to stay as long as he needed, and sits in the unbalanced chair across from him. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

Steve taps his fingers on the side of his mug, eyes trained on the paint stained and scratched surface of the table, “What do you want me to say? I freaked out at work, nothing new.”

Robin sighs shakily, and it makes Steve feel a pang of guilt in his chest. Despite her best efforts, he gets so defensive all the time anymore, the careless goof he was before Starcourt buried underneath all that was depressing him, and that he wouldn’t share with her. He was an awful friend, spending so much time with his past actions and losses, he’d forgotten how to live in the present.

“But there’s something you haven’t been telling me, Steve.” She bumps their knees together under the table to get him to look at her, “I’m not trying to be nosy or intrude, really, I just want to help you.”

“I don’t need help.” Steve raised his mug to his face, mumbling into it, “It’s supposed to get worse before it gets better, right?”

That same worried crease above her eyebrow appears, “Who told you that?”

He doesn’t answer, staring into the swirling mug before him. A sign for her that he still wasn’t ready to talk. She must decide that she would do most of the talking then, because she puts her mug down, takes a deep breath before saying, “Listen, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want you to get better and I don’t think you should do it on your own. I haven’t, and I think it’s time I try to be there for you live you’ve been for me.”

There’s a long stretch of silence where Steve didn’t know what to say, the plastic clock Robin had taken from her grandmother’s kitchen ticking away the seconds, the minutes that passed before Steve swallows hard and looks up from the spot he’d been focusing on, trying and failing to find the right words again before he explains himself, “I just think.. I feel like everyone moved on way too fast.”

“From Starcourt?” What she meant didn’t need to be said. She didn’t need to specify the torture, the battle with an interdimensional monster, the fall out afterwards, for him to understand, but that wasn’t it, and he shakes his head no.

Confused, Robin clarifies, “Then from what?”

“All those people that day, Robs, they died and life is just supposed to go on like normal. We still have holidays and we got jobs again, but all those people, they-“ There are tears in his eyes so he cuts himself off, hoping that Robin got the point anyways.

From the look of clarity on her face, she does understand now where this is coming from. Steve had been struggling with survivor's guilt, Robin knew that because he insisted upon attending each and every funeral he could with his schedule at the hospital, and she’d reluctantly driven him to them without question, no matter how unhealthy it was for him.

He had even told her once, when he was drunk off his ass and knocking on her bedroom door in the early hours of the morning, that he didn’t think it was fair that he didn’t die, but all those other people did. She had never gotten an answer out of him when she asked why he thought he deserved to die, and he hoped she’d have forgotten it by now, but now he was cracking, and she was going to figure it out, so he keeps going.

“It’s just, how are we supposed to go back to normal when there’s so many people who can’t? They died, a-and they left behind their families and friends and partners.” He sniffles, tears starting to roll down his colorless face for the second time that day, “How can we act like nothing ever happened when it’s our fault?”

That makes Robin pause, her eyes going wide, “What?”

Steve freezes, hadn’t meant to say that, and he stays quiet until she asks him a second time, “How is it our fault, Steve?”

“Because we were so caught up with that stupid transmission that we missed our chance to help them. And for what? I was just trying to play the hero for Dustin, but I could’ve stopped it if I wasn’t so stupid.”

“What could you have stopped?” Asking so many questions made her sound like a pushy therapist, and it’s making Steve increasingly frustrated, answering harshly, “The-The shadow, Robin! The Mind-Flayer!”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But Steve, I really don’t think there’s much we could have done.”

Steve just shakes his head, insists, “If I hadn’t been so-so focused on doing something I thought was important, I could’ve done something that actually mattered before it was too late. I wasted so much time in the mall. But they needed me and I-I failed them. You feeling bad for me and telling me it’s not my fault doesn’t change that.”

“Steve, if we hadn’t been down there, nobody would’ve known about the gate, and the mind flayer wouldn’t be dead now.” Robin comforts, a deep frown on her tear tracked face, “There wasn’t anything anybody could’ve done.”

It’s not what Steve needs to hear.

“Stop saying that.. I could’ve saved him, and then none of this would’ve happened.” A sob wracks through his body as soon he finishes, the gut wrenching sound echoing through Robin's tiny apartment kitchen.

“Who?” Robin asks, reaching across the table and taking his shaking hand in her own, “Steve, who could you have saved?”

Through his tears he’s able to stutter out the answer, accented with a pointed sob, “Billy. I could’ve saved Billy..”

She doesn’t say anything in turn, occupied with putting the pieces together, though she’s still missing the larger context, instead pushing her chair back on the scratched kitchen tiles, pulling Steve up out of his own chair into the tightest hug she’d probably ever given anybody. They stand like that for a long time, Steve crying into Robin’s hair and her trying to comfort him through her confusion until his tears slow, or at least the hyperventilating is under control.

When eventually he does pull away from her, he wipes at his eyes and whispers, “Can I tell you something else? It’s about him.”

“Of course.” Robin answers quickly, something like relief, an unfamiliar look on her face anymore, written behind her eyes, making Steve yet again feel a twinge of guilt for hiding so much from his best friend.

He speaks quickly, struggling to get the right words together again, “You know how I said that the only time I was ever in love was with Nancy Wheeler?”

“Yeah?” Robin frowns, and Steve can see it in her face that she’s trying to work through it, what his love life has anything to do with his grief, but it’s a lot harder for him to admit than it is even for her to understand.

“I lied.” He chews on his lip, the faint and bitter taste of blood on his tongue, “And you know how when Dustin asked if we were together, I told him that you weren’t my type and we laughed about it because I’m definitely not yours either?”

“Steve I told you-“ Contemplation is replaced with fear, but he quickly cuts her off, “No, no, it’s not like that. I-I’m not done.”

Steve takes a deep breath, “You sort of are my type, but it was always someone else with-with wavy blonde hair and blue eyes and freckles all over that I was in love with.”

“I don’t understand. Who?”

Steve’s realizing he’s come full circle in this conversation, almost identical to the one they had on the bathroom floor over a year ago now when Robin can out to him, his tone and the distress in his features softening, “Robin.”

The pieces click into place, a whole range of emotion from shock to confusion to finally, sympathy, crossing Robin's face, “Oh, Steve. I’m so sorry. When did you…”

“Christmas Eve last year. Night of the snowball he apologized for being an asshole, and a few weeks later he kissed me.” Six months. The time that they’d had together was now as long as he was in the hospital, and since then how long Steve had been grieving him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She sounds almost hurt by it, the realization that her best friend didn’t come to her with this, especially when she of all people would be understanding. But Steve doesn’t have an answer to that, he doesn’t really know why.

All he does is shrug in response, tired of talking it out anyways, so with a forced sigh Robin tells him, “Well anyways, I’m glad you told me now. You shouldn’t have been doing this on your own for so long.”

Steve smiles weakly and lies, just as he’s been lying for so long, “It’s okay Robin. I’ve been getting better.”

But it doesn’t have the effect on Robin he wants, because she insists, for the first time not just letting him stew in his guilt and bottle everything up, “I don’t think drinking your life away and breaking down more often than ever really counts as doing better.”

Of course he tries to defend himself, anyone would against that, “Come on, Rob-“

But Robin cuts him off, “No, Steve. I’m serious. You need to get help.”

“I’m not going to a therapist.”

“Okay, but you still need to come to me with this stuff.” Steve looks away, and Robin’s tobw gets more desperate, “Steve, please. You can’t do this by yourself. I understand, I’m your best friend. I just want to be there for you.”

“I’ll.. think about it.” Is the last thing he says before he turns to leave, stopping short when he hears Robin sniffle, even on her worst days almost never seeing her cry, “Shit.. Robs.”

“No, no. I’m done talking about it Steve.” Robin shakes her head, her face flushes red as she fights back tears she doesn’t want him to see, biting her knuckles, “Just.. go ahead. I won’t bother you anymore.”

Numbly, he does. He turns and goes up the stairs to the used to be closet Robin turned into a room for him when he comes over.

~~~~

Billy doesn’t know how long he’s been in this hell.

His hair is getting longer, almost down his back now. It’s a matted mess that’ll never brush out even if someday he gets back to water that runs clear and his Gee conditioner he used to slip Susan a few bucks to buy for him, but he can’t bring himself to cut it.

He does shave though. Takes a knife to his face and does his best to use broken and grimy windows and mirrors for accuracy. It seems pointless, and for the most part it is, but his dad used to grow a beard in the winter, and the very last thing he wants is to look like him. Seeing him again would be one thing, but becoming him? That’s something Billy's willing to take a few knicks from a rusty old blade to avoid.

He used to keep track of the days, measured by the patterns in the storms constantly churning overhead, with a notch in the dying bark of a tree he passed between the convenience store and his house, the two places he’d been able to call his safe haven since he found himself trapped.

But then the dogs, as he’d come to call them now, changed. They used to circle the woods, patrol the other side of town, blocking his access to the downtown areas, like the hospital, the police station, Steve’s house. Then suddenly, they started closing in on his side, and from the many encounters he’s had from strays and crossing their invisible boundaries, he knew he couldn’t stay in that place.

So he’d lost his home, the ghost of his family that had been keeping him grounded, gone as he salvages anything he can, and leaves.

For a while, it feels like relief almost. The burden of how long he’d been here and how alone he was lifted, but he knows that’s just a way of comforting himself. He’s actually devastated.

He wants to be able to sleep on his back porch and he wants to be able to look at all the damaged family photos inside the overtaken house, no matter how fake the smiles and poses are, and he just wants to be home. Not that the building means much, home is the feeling, being with the people who he cares about and who care about him. He’s not sure he ever had the sense of what that really meant, but he’d take any dysfunctional upbringing over this.

The best he had for a while was Steve’s place.

Steve is never there, in the physical sense or in that freaky, spiritual, can be heard but not seen way. Inside the mansion is somehow pristinely kept, even in all of this wreckage that destroyed the rest of Hawkins. Mrs. Harrington would be proud of the intact decor and the spotless floors. Whatever those white particles were, which were slowly making it harder and harder for Billy to breath, were the only blemish, everything coated in at least an inch of the stuff.

Outside is another story entirely. The lawn is ripped up, the chairs and lawn ornaments are mangled or missing, and the pool is completely drained, in the place of water gangly vines and more sticky decomposition than he’d seen in even the most remote areas.

He remembers Barbara Holland. He remembers Steve saying she drowned accidentally in his pool when she got brought up. He remembers the fear in his eyes when they were out at night, the way those honey browns would scan the treeline for danger, on his worst days drawing the curtains and refusing to go out back for anything.

He starts to wonder, if maybe the vines mark the victims. His house, Steve’s pool, both completely overtaken. Heather’s house is only a street over from Steve’s, but he can’t will himself to go in there and see if his theory is correct. Same goes for the steelworks, or the community pool.

But, nice as it was, Steve’s house didn't last long as a refuge. He only stays there for a couple of weeks before he again has to grab what he can and abandon it, the dogs having followed him and cut another chunk out of his territory. There was a pack of them wandering the yard, a couple breaking off to charge at the back doors, and Billy has to decide between holing himself up in that hideously wallpapered room that had come to be another definition of home, and running for his damn life.

He chose the latter, scaling the shed roof from the upstairs bathroom window just as the monsters break the glass double doors. Down the rattling drain pipes he prayed would hold his weight, and into the shed to regroup. He’d gotten out with almost nothing of Steve’s, not that polo shirts and nike shoes were great for apocalyptic survival gear, but he wished he could’ve nabbed anything more, a picture, a coat, a bag, at least something he could use.

All he made out with though was a red bandana, which, if he ever gets out of this hell, he has to ask Steve about that, no way his reformed prep was freaky enough to walk around Hawkins advertising his preference for taking it elbow deep, an empty notebook, a pair of scissors as a just in case weapon, and an old banged up Bic which was out of fluid anyways.

The bandanas alright, paisleys not his pattern of choice and he’s more of a navy blue and grey guy than red, but it’d do well enough to keep that nasty shit in the air out of his lungs. Everything else he grabbed is basically useless to him though, so he scours the shed instead, sneaking in through the back door with a sharp eye on where the dogs broke into Steve’s.

In there he gets a little better of a haul, most of it still just junk he can repurpose for tending injuries, but on the back wall, held up by a barely standing shelf, is the golden find, a machete the length of his arm. Brand new and sharpened, a little worn from the rot but clearly never used, the Harrington’s had a gardener to trim back the branches, and everything in here was just for show so Mr. Harrington wouldn’t feel emasculated by not doing any work but answering phone calls and yelling at underpaid workers anyways, so Billy grabs it, finally having more than an old mower blade and a collection of knives from decorative to army to kitchen, most of which were all too small and almost got his arm torn off.

It’s that machine he’d stumbled upon that bittersweet day that he carries now, dripping with the oozing blood of one of the dogs, slightly bent now because another got it between its teeth and more dull from cutting through rubbery skin. The damn thing has saved his life though, many times over as the territories shift again in quick, unpredictable cycles, this last time ending with him cornered in the hospital's courtyard.

He was over there raiding for bandaging and medicine, anything that might help in the long run, but of course, it would have to come in handy just a little sooner, silly Billy for thinking about the future, because the monsters find him.

Thankfully, none of them actually get him, though one is particularly disgusting, it’s head, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, basically explodes when he stabs through it, another damn pair of his jeans getting ruined by the sticky, reddish spatter. The only worry he has time for before he has to kill, or scare off in most cases, the rest of the dogs that step forward, is the damned stain.

There aren’t too many, and those whose brains aren’t dripping off of his weapon, or as annoying as it is, his clothes, run off quickly, leaving Billy himself to move on.

First Cherry Lane, then Steve’s, and now the hospital. Guess it’s time to fucking leave again.

Hawkins is deceptively big for a country bumpkins paradise. The town and its shops and the surrounding neighborhoods only make up some half of the city, even he used to live on the edges of the civilized part, the rest of town stretching on for miles and miles of rural farmland, a couple of houses here and there the deeper you get into the country.

He’d never been over that way except maybe once when Max flipped the map upside down and they got lost on the way to Cherry for the first. That wasn’t much help now, but he was otherwise out of options. It was getting lost in the woods trying to find the more hidden houses, or it was being dinner for the dogs, which he could still hear chittering somewhere nearby, regrouping for the next attack probably.

The decision isn’t hard for Billy. He grabs whatever he’s salvaged and just bolts, bandana mask around his neck, machete in the bag on his back so he doesn’t cut himself up and make all this surviving for nothing, just getting the hell out of there before they decide they want to fight him again.

Because frankly, after as long as it’s been, his energy is getting low. He doesn’t know what he’s surviving for anymore, let alone if he’s going to be able to for much longer. His lung capacity is getting lower by the day, he’s got old wounds that won’t heal. The dogs probably aren’t too far from finishing him off if he gets attacked too many more times, so he’s just not chancing it.

Billy runs and he runs, coughing up a little blood in the process, until he ends up in a neighborhood he’s never seen before. Right now, that’s good news, so he slows his pace and takes his machete back out, just in case he let his guard down too soon.

Over here it’s a little brighter, a little less destroyed maybe, but still not right. Houses still slump and there are still pulsing vines all over, the roads still dusted with toxins. But there are a lot of houses, and that’s usually good news for avoiding the monsters.

As nice an area as it is, there's still something bigger drawing Billy to this area. Immediately he thinks back to the cemetery, how he’d felt and heard Steve that day, an event he’d come to think, after so long without a repeat feeling, had been only in his head, and he panics, for just a moment.

He knows he can’t let him slip by this time. Closing his eyes, he tries to pinpoint the feeling in his chest, like an arrow that can guide him in the direction of this, a compass pointing straight to his love.

Trusting that this feeling isn’t a warning, and he’s not about to walk into a nest, he follows it, slowly at first but with more fervor when he hears two echoing voices at the same time his chest clenches. He recognizes one as a vague face in his memory, Steve’s best friend, the one Heather never had the guts to tell about the crush she had on her, Robin maybe was her name. The other voice, well, the other voice is Steve’s.

They’re coming from a rotten duplex with no doors or windows. It looks a lot like a marked house, and he wonders if Robin knows she got a discount because the owner of the house was dead, melted into a monster that has tried to kill her along with the rest.

Approaching the house, he doesn’t know what to expect, if maybe they’ll be inside, or if this is just some delusion from a lack of oxygen to his brain. It doesn’t really matter. He steps up, careful to avoid rickety spots in he steps, and goes inside.

First, he leans his machete against the mushroom wall. There’s two reasons he never brings the weapons all the way in, first being that any mess he made in the house always had to be cleaned up by his step mother, so outside of the deepest throws of teenage rebellion, he always did what he could to minimize dirt in he house, and that included bringing a machete dripping with brains inside, even if there wasn't anyone around to see it, it was a habit built by thankful glances and praise, albeit somewhat backhanded, from his parents, so it was one he continued to honor.

Second, he harbors a deep respect for the houses he’s stayed in, despite the lack of doors on this one, each and every home he’s entered, no matter if it was for five minutes to steal some food or upwards of weeks where he slept there, these buildings were his shelter, and he feels the need to respect them, so, weapons stay at the front door. So far, the dogs haven’t followed him inside.

Looking around, he can tell Steve isn’t here either. The house is definitely abandoned just like the rest, and his heart sinks just a little, until he hears it again. A vague whisper that’s just barely audible to his ear.

He knows he’s in the right place. Every inch of him aches for Steve, but he can’t see him. He tries again to call out for him, an echo of the cemetery, “Steve? Can you hear me?”

No response comes.

“I don’t understand, why can’t you hear me?”

Things have gone silent on the other side, and Billy feels hopeless. A bout of frustration turns him around, the urge to forget about his stupid rules and just tear this house apart until he finds his Steve, curbed by seeing the wall phone.

He’s not stupid. He’s been over here long enough to realize he’s not in Hawkins, not the real one anyhow, that they, Steve and his family and everyone else are instead. The how and the why are another story entirely, but he has the basic understanding that he is alone, and they are parallel to him. Coexisting in different planes.

And if that is the case and he’s not on the worst trip of his life or just completely off his rocker, him and the dogs he kills an Agave and Pentheus type situation, then he can contact the other plane, say, by telephone even.

Luckily for him, Robin is forgetful, and there’s a list of numbers taped to the wall by the phone, only slightly worn with black gooey rot. He picks up the phone and listens to the emptiness, no dial tone in his ear. His hands are shaky as he slowly, hesitantly punches in the numbers, the three and the eight buttons getting monster blood on them from his fingers.

He raises the phone to his ear, the sound of his own ragged breathing echoing back in his ear as he waits for someone to answer, the line ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

#harringrove big bang 2021 #harringrove #billy x steve #steve harrington #billy hargrove #robin buckley #tw blood #ej writer #story by ej!#more tags on ao3

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lailyn · 3 years

Note

Since you requested whump stuffs, may I suggest the skeletal system with frostwinter? (Bucky and Loki)

Ooh, Winterfrost is actually one of my fav pairings, I just have never written it before. Thank you for giving me the pleasure of writing my first!

Splinters of the Heart

Longyearbyen, Svalbard Archipelago, Norway

"Shooting them is only allowed in self-defence," Loki countered. "I wasn't in any mortal danger."

Flabbergasted, Bucky could only shake his head. "It was going to eat you, Odinson. I don't know any kind of danger more mortal than that."

"Aw, Wolf. I didn't know you cared," Loki teased.

"I don't," Bucky grumbled. "I just don't want your Brother to execute me for failing to keep all your pieces in one piece."

"Please," Loki sneered. "I did not ask you to join me on this hunt in the capacity of a shield brother or a hunter. Merely a companion." Almost as an afterthought, "Is that what you think we do? Execute people?"

Bucky decided now was as good a time as any to change the subject; the younger Asgardian prince tended to get a bit defensive whenever people talked shit about his big brother.

"We need to get off this island. I have no idea if polar bears track their prey by the scent of blood around these parts, but you're bleeding pretty bad."

Loki glanced askance at his leg, the dragging marks on the snow. "It's stopped."

"The bone's still showing though."

"Of course it is. Were you not a military man? Are you truly not aware of what happens when a bone breaks?"

"Thought you were a fast healer," Bucky returned the taunt, shifting the weight of Loki’s arm around his shoulders for the tenth time. It could just be a product of his imagination, but Loki seemed to be getting heavier and heavier by the minute. "You couldn't stop bragging about it when we first met."

Something in Loki's demeanour changed. The anxiety in the glassy green eyes was unmistakable. "It didn't break right."

"What?"

Loki suddenly dropped like a stone and Bucky almost slipped on the ice catching Loki’s waist on the way down.

"Odinson!"

"I can't go on," Loki gasped, his face pallid and slick with sweat. "It hurts."

"Don't be such a baby,” Bucky growled. “This can't be the first bone you've broken! What are you, a thousand years old?"

Loki's chuckle was full of humour, but his eyes were filling quickly with tears. Of sadness or of pain, only Loki knew. "I'm afraid my journey ends here."

"I'm not going to leave you here in the middle of nowhere!" Bucky balked.

"Wolf."

"That is not my name," Bucky snarled.

Loki turned his head away as if slapped. He quietly answered. "You never call me by mine."

"I am not leaving you," Bucky said furiously. "Didn't you say we're not allowed to die here?"

"Buried," Loki corrected. "We can die anywhere we choose. We just can't be buried here."

Bucky barked a laugh, "You're going to argue semantics with me? Right now?"

Something tugged at the back of his mind like an unpleasant memory.

It didn't break right, Loki had said.

What did Loki mean by that? Bucky wondered. Is that what's stopping Loki healing?

Intuition forced his hands soon enough and Bucky dropped onto his knees next to the fallen prince. He fumbled with the knots tying the plank of wood splinting Loki's broken leg as best as he could; his human fingers had long since gone numb from the cold.

Bucky's heart nearly stopped at the gory sight before him. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit - "

The gash had scabbed over where the shard of broken shin bone had punched through flesh and sinew, but Loki's entire lower leg was swollen to the point of cyanosis, the slim ankle Bucky had dotted with kisses just this morning an ugly shade of mottled blue.

"What is it?" Loki asked through chattering teeth.

Bucky did not answer. He had been unlucky enough to see this before on the battlefield all those years ago, but lucky enough to have never experienced it. His comrades who had survived it said it was the worst pain they had ever felt.

"Barnes, I can't feel my leg," Loki said in a wobbly voice. For all his years, Loki suddenly looked so young, and never sounded more scared.

"Shh. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay," Bucky chanted breathlessly, groping the side of his ankle for his knife, nearly dropping it into the snow in his panic. "I can fix this."

He uttered a silent prayer and sank the tip of his knife into the side of Loki's bulging shin. Starting from an inch under the bend of the knee, he slit the fascial compartment open lengthwise along the line of the muscle fibres, releasing the burgeoning pressure inside.

Blood and serous fluid seeped through the cut, splattering the snow.

Bucky could feel his stomach turn, but galvanised by the promise of relief judging by the sound of Loki’s sigh, Bucky did the same on the other side, and on the back, scoring Loki’s calf boldly.

Just like cutting the casing of a sausage, his army surgeon had once said.

“That’s enough, Wolf,” he heard Loki whisper.

The knife slipped out of Bucky’s hand and onto the snow.

He waited with bated breath for the bleeding to stop.

When it finally did, they both fell backward onto their backs, Bucky in exhaustion, Loki in sheer relief.

Bucky nudged Loki’s temple with his nose. "You should have just let the bear have me, Odinson."

"And have you lose your one remaining arm to that beast?" Loki shook his head firmly. "No."

"So you offered it your leg instead?"

When Loki did not answer, the anger Bucky had been suppressing since the incident earlier in the day boiled to the surface and he sprang to his knees. "What the hell is wrong with you? You could have lost your leg, you idiot!"

"It is only a leg," Loki said flatly. "It is nothing."

"It's not nothing, Loki! It's - "

"Nothing. Compared to the pain of losing you."

Bucky's knees wobbled and he dropped heavily onto his rear end on the blood-soaked snow.

"I can't lose you, James." Loki turned his face heavenward and looked Bucky in the eyes. "Not when I have just found you."

"Everyone else calls me Bucky."

Struggling to rise, Loki walked his elbows across the snow and pawed his way up Bucky’s rigid torso. "I'm not everyone else."

He rested his head against Bucky's shoulder, the metal of his human lover's arm blessedly cold against Loki's fevered skin. “Am I?”

The uncertainty in Loki’s voice jarred Bucky to the core.

"No. No, you're not."

With the hand he only still possessed because of Loki, Bucky seized the precious head and tucked it fiercely under his chin. "I love you, Loki."

"And I, you, James."

“But the next time you crave elk meat, we’re buying it.”

“Oh, fine.”

#winterfrost #Bucky barnes #loki #loki whump #fic #ask #Bucky barnes x loki #compartment syndrome #frostwinter

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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

Text

Hollow - Geralt/Jaskier [G]

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning: Injury Recovery

Word Count: 4769

Originally posted on my AO3

His lessons in Oxenfurt have become afterimages; faint pictures and muffled sounds, none of which is sturdy enough for him to recall. But he can remember one thing a lecturing poet had said to them. They had been learning about sonnets, about the boring compositions of them and all of that technical nonsense. And Jaskier’s mind was still groggy and addled from a night spent drinking and lounging in another student’s bed. He had just enough wherewithal to grab what clothes he needed for the day and stumble his way down to the lecturing halls, still numbed and stumbling and squinting against the midday sun that was just so damn bright.

‘Tis a Fearful Thing to love what death can touch.

And Jaskier still wishes that he had thought of it. It’s a line that has stayed with him throughout the years that have trudged by. He’s generous with his love – he’s loved a lot of people in all different capacities. He’s loved some for a night, others for years. And then there’s Geralt; luring the kind of love out of him that hurts his heart when he’s with the Witcher and hurts when he isn’t; when he wakes in the soft light of morning to a dozing wolf in his bed, hair askew and all form of his usual frown eased from his brow, his chest tightens and his breath catches, and he reaches out to gently dust the backs of his fingers along the Witcher’s cheek, smiling delighted at the soft snuffling sort of noise that comes out of Geralt.

He loves Geralt so much, his heart might just burst. Where it all changed, he isn’t quite sure. Maybe it was in the cave of Dol Blathanna, hearing the Witcher speak with such reverence to the elves. Maybe it was out on the road where he broke half of his bread loaf to give to a struggling mother and her children, displaced from their home by warring factions to the south. Maybe it just came gradually, like seasons blurring into each other.

Days and nights spent on the road would surely kill them both. Monsters or wayward human bandits could take his Witcher while Jaskier’s heart might just give out from worry. Winters at Kaer Morhen were when he could let his shoulders drop and his breathing steady. A keep of Witchers kept monsters out of the mountain and the forests that wrap around it like a shroud. In those short days and long nights, he keeps his Witcher to his bed and cards his fingers through his hair, murmuring soft praise underneath his breath.

But he’s not a fool – no matter how many times Geralt tells him that he is. He knows what a Witcher’s life is like.

He’s in Oxenfurt when it happens. When word reaches him about the extent of Geralt’s injuries, he just about manages to slump into a waiting chair, rather than collapse on to the floor. The student who brought him the news, a shy teaching aide he’s worked with for the spring, quietly slips out of the room, gently clicking the door shut behind her. Jaskier’s hand trembles as he reaches out for a nearby goblet, knocking back the rest of the wine left inside. It does nothing to dull the sour feeling of panic wringing his throat.

He can’t get the Brokilon Forest quick enough.

Listen, he knows. He knows that Geralt is a Witcher. He’s going to get injured, or even killed. Jaskier has been there to stitch him back together for most of his scars. If Jaskier had any say in it at all, he would want death to come to Geralt when it’s quiet and he’s lived his life as much as he can; when Geralt would be asleep, curled around him, with years of life behind him. And Jaskier would follow, because there’s no life without Geralt.

The dryads that meet him at the outskirts of the forest are kind to him. Either they scent the slight scent of elven blood on him or they understand the panic in his eyes as he scans the forest floor for his Witcher. Eithnė leads him to a pool. Jaskier struggles not to catch his foot and stumble over every tree root breaching the ground, stretching out and entangling with others. Eithnė moves through the forest easily, as if the vines and branches part for her.

By the time they reach the ponds in the inner-most part of the forest, Jaskier’s heart struggles to jump out of his throat. His breath catches at the sight of the Witcher, swaddled between thick, moss-cushioned roots, caught in a deep sleep, but with mumbled nonsense slipping out of numbed lips. Jaskier staggers over to his side.

Eithnė stays away, regarding the two of them with an unreadable expression. “He came to us screaming,” she says levelly. “I’ve never known a Witcher to be in so much pain.”

Jaskier’s chest tightens. He flattens a hand along Geralt’s cheek, gently brushing his thumb along the ridge of his cheekbone. His murmurings are slurred, nothing at all making sense. Even the words that Jaskier manages to catch mean nothing to him. Memories, maybe. Geralt mutters about towering walls and how they fall, at fire catching in the great hall and how there’s too many of them to hold back. He twitches underneath Jaskier’s touch. “Hush, my darling,” he whispers, “I’m here. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

It does nothing to quell the small frown knitting his eyebrows together. Geralt grunts and huffs out a breath. His eyes dart underneath his lids.

“The waters of our forest aren’t kind to a Witcher’s mind,” Eithnė says, her words managing to break through the rush of blood through Jaskier’s ears. “But they will heal what they can. Once he’s awake, you may go.”

He’s always been careful with how dryads phrase things. It’s a little known fact to be careful with how you speak to a creature of elven blood, and how it speaks to you. Physically, Geralt is healed. Deep injuries that shattered his knee and elbow welded back together again, as did the muscles and skin surrounding them. Apart from the scars that refuse to fade, one wouldn’t notice a thing. On that front, he can thank Eithnė that yes, the waters of her forest healed what they could.

But he’s not cured. The pain stayed. In the contracts taken after, travelling from town to town; in each battle faced because he just wants to protect Ciri from everything out to take her away from him; in the last few years where Geralt came into possession of a villa tucked away in the Toussaint valleys, the pain stayed and festered and crippled him.

When they settle in Toussaint, an estate gifted to Geralt for all he’s done for the kingdom and its people, Jaskier can at least think of somewhere safe he could corral the Witcher should the cramps come back.

On their travels, when they could wander past Nenneke’s temple, she gifted him glass vials and clay pots of all sorts of things; oils and salves to seep through the Witcher’s skin and try and work out the worst of the pain, should it flare up. With all the years that have drifted past, they’ve both learned what can set the pain off. Sometimes it’s random. Sometimes they’ll be strolling around the vineyards or through the streets of a neighbouring town, and it will flare up; a niggling pain at the back of his mind, poking and prodding at him to get his attention. The only thing Jaskier can do is get them both back to the villa as quickly as he can before bones groan and muscles seize.

Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of metal clattering to the ground. He pauses, his quill’s tip hovering over the page. Blots of ink fall, staining the paper, but he doesn’t care at all. The house is quiet, just for a moment, before Jaskier hears it. A grunt and a rumbling curse underneath the Witcher’s breath.

His quill and notebook are pushed to the side, entirely forgotten about, as soon as he stands from his desk. The villa itself is sprawling, with more land than they know what to do with. Grapevines occupy most of it, tended to by the staff living down in the main courtyard. The presence of staff, people who bow their heads slightly whenever he passes, and the paved cobblestones that wind through the estate, it all reminds him of home. But this place is nothing like Lettenhove. This place has love and warmth seeping out of the walls.

Jaskier’s office is upstairs, alongside his and Geralt’s bedroom, a guest’s room, and the Witcher’s own study. Jaskier doesn’t have to think about where the Witcher could be – he just follows the sound of grunting curses, all bitten off in an attempt to stay quiet.

He finds Geralt in his study, leaning against a dresser with his good arm braced on it. Two short swords sit sprawled on the ground, long forgotten about. Jaskier doesn’t bother with knocking on the wooden portal of the door. From how pinched the Witcher’s face is, how he’s curled in one himself and his weight is pressed down on one side, he knows exactly what’s wrong.

Winter can crawl in, even this far south. In a place scorched by the sun, where wine flows out of vineyards and the frosty, howling winds of Kaer Morhen are long forgotten about, the weather can still change. Nipping winds can tumble down from the mountains, chilling the valleys and those in them. And with the weather steadily changing in the past couple of weeks, Jaskier spent his days waiting for this to happen.

He clicks his tongue. “Come here,” he says, walking to the Witcher with one hand outstretched to set on his back.

Geralt can’t help the small flinch that darts through him, trying to get away from Jaskier’s touch. Some self-preservation that had been embedded into the Witcher’s bones; something Jaskier still can’t unravel even after decades spent together. He doesn’t think any badly of Geralt for it. He can only imagine the pain that scorches through him.

Geralt’s arm is bent at the elbow, curled in and nestled against his chest. It’s going to take a while to get it relaxed enough to pull away and straighten out. But they have all the time in the world now, nestled away in a place like Corvo Bianco. Jaskier glances down. Geralt’s knee fairs that bit better, though it’s still not great. Even though he can’t see anything, no kneecap swollen or muscles twitching, he can see how Geralt is loath to put any weight on the leg.

Jaskier gentles a hand on to the small of Geralt’s back. The muscle underneath his palm is taught and tight. “Geralt, my love,” he murmurs, “come with me. We’ll get you sorted.”

If he had more time, he might have moved them to their room. He could have peeled Geralt’s loose shirt off and discarded his boots and breeches and lain him down on their bed, and set about his work there. But Geralt’s study will have to do. A room with a desk and chair, bookcases lined with worn-leather tomes, and walls decorated with weapons long retired.

Geralt levels his breathing as much as he can. One golden eye meets his as he looks sideways. His jaw is tight, almost bulging, and he swallows and nods. Jaskier has spent years softening the edges of the Witcher, but being wrung through with pain will only bring back the wolf’s bite.

The desk is nearby, just a few short shuffling steps away. Jaskier nods to the chair. He doesn’t have to say anything, but the order is perched on the tip of his tongue. Sit.

Geralt sighs, knowing that trying to argue with the bard is pointless. Moving is slow and methodical. He drops with the chair with a pained huff, most of the groan swallowed back down as he tries to settle himself. Jaskier won’t touch him just yet, not until he’s relaxed somewhat. But with the ripple of pains tensing and straining through him, he isn’t quite sure how long the bard will wait until he sets his hands on him.

Jaskier leaves him for a moment, darting back to their room to gather a small leather-entombed box. Nenneke’s last gift to them before they dug roots into the estate. Everything they will ever need for Geralt’s pains is in here, alongside Nenneke’s own recipes for more should they run out. Everything is easily available; herbs that Jaskier has seen to growing in one of their gardens. Anything else, like extracts and oils, Yennefer had offered to fetch for them. Being only a portal’s call away, it’s handy. And though she’ll always have an air of being put out by the requests, asking her to halt whatever it is that she’s doing and go and fetch something for them, she’ll always do it.

When Jaskier steps back into the study, he’s met with the sight of Geralt trying, and failing, to pick apart the laces of his shirt. His bad arm is still curled against himself, and his other hand trembles with frustration and pain. The look spread across his face only shows his struggle.

Jaskier’s voice is nothing more than a gentle murmur. “Here,” he says, crossing the room in a matter of strides. He sets the box on the table and sets about deftly undoing the laces.

Geralt glances up. Jaskier stands close by him, with the bard standing in the gap of his spread legs. His fingers twitch. If his hand wasn’t doing such a wonderful job of bracing his own elbow to himself, he would reach out, curl an arm around Jaskier’s waist, and hold him close.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him, probably reading everything on the Witcher’s face. “Let’s get this off, hmm?” he rasps. Wrangling the shirt up and over himself takes longer than it should, and some small part of Geralt scoffs at how difficult something like disrobing himself has become. He snaps back at it, a low growl caught in his throat. With the shirt over his head, and his arm freed, Jaskier drops it on to the table. It’s forgotten about as soon as it’s out of sight.

Jaskier will deal with Geralt’s knee later. His elbow seems to be giving him the worst trouble. Nothing needs to be said. Sometimes they’ll talk – though it would be mostly Jaskier, rambling on like always about something or other. On other occasions, like now, silence will settle over them and stay.

Jaskier wets his hands with oil, eyeing where he’ll need to work first. Geralt’s arm is cradled against him, with his elbow and forearm already tight. He breathes for a moment, reaching up to dust his fingers over the round of Geralt’s shoulder. They’ve done this hundreds of times, out on the road and in their home. Geralt knows what to do. He still looks away, his interest caught by some small framed picture of Ciri perched on his desk.

When Jaskier smoothes his palms over Geralt’s muscle, he can feel the Witcher biting down on a groan of pain.

Nenneke gave them everything they could ever need. Pungent, sharp smelling lotions and oils and salves, all of them wrinkling Geralt’s nose. They sour the roof of Jaskier’s mouth, so he can only assume what an onslaught of scent it is to the Witcher. But they work, one way or another. He spends a few minutes slowly working the worst of the tension out of Geralt’s shoulder, just enough to try and pry his elbow away from his chest. Geralt focuses on his breathing, biting down on every whine of pain that threatens to slip out of his throat. It’s just the two of them here. If he wanted to show how cracked and vulnerable he’s become, he would. But the Witcher is a stubborn old bastard and will insist everything is absolutely fine.

Jaskier sets one hand to Geralt’s shoulder while his other catches his forearm, just underneath the point of his elbow. His muscles there are so tight already, trembling in Jaskier’s palm. He levels his breathing with Geralt’s, trying his best to ease the worst of the tension out of him. “I’m going to move it now,” he mumbles, “alright?”

Geralt’s jaw tightens. He nods.

It’s slow, and he doesn’t stretch Geralt’s arm further than it needs to go. But he needs it away from the Witcher’s chest to massage the pain out. Geralt’s breath hitches as Jaskier stretches his arm towards him. Geralt’s other hand, resting on the lacquered surface of his desk, curls into a white-knuckled fist.

Jaskier’s tongue sours. He hates his Witcher being in so much pain. He hates the fact that to ease it, he has to cause him pain. The sharp citrus scent of the oil doesn’t help, but he can already feel it warming underneath his palm. He’ll massage as much as he can out of Geralt’s arm before he brings him to bed.

When he’s pulled the arm away from Geralt’s chest, Jaskier’s hands move. One catches the back of Geralt’s upper arm while the other sets about spilling a sliver of more oil on to his forearm. He knows what to do. Nenneke took him aside and showed him everything she could about how muscles work. The bones themselves were shattered and beyond repair – until the dryads poured forest water on to him, at least. The bones knitted back together, as best as they knew how to, while muscles and skin tried to do the same. The dull ache always remained.

Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, like he always does whenever he’s about to touch the Witcher’s elbow. It’s painful and the sounds that wring out of Geralt’s throat are awful, but it needs to be done.

Geralt grunts, turning away again. Get on with it.

The worst of the tension sits along his upper forearm, where the muscle twitches and bulges in some attempt to keep the worst of the pressure away from his elbow. When Jaskier sets his oil-slickened fingers to the muscle, it tenses underneath him. Geralt’s breath hitches, but he bites down on whatever groan threatened to slip out of his lips. Jaskier glances up at him, frowning at how tightly the Witcher’s brows are pinched together. He hates this. He hates this so much.

Another apology mumbles out of him. It’s entirely lost on Geralt – the Witcher digs himself so far into his own mind, trying to distract himself and dull the pain. But Jaskier has made a habit of it. He apologises for every twinge of pain he causes Geralt in an effort to help him feel better.

His digs his fingers in.

Geralt grunts, sucking in a harsh breath.

Jaskier’s fingers smooth out where he dug in, working the muscles as firmly as he can in some effort to try and get them to relax. It used to take what seemed like hours. He would wince and almost cry at every sound of hurt that choked out of Geralt in those first few days at Nenneke’s tower. The priestess, normally so brash and brave with her words and quips with them both, only encouraged him to keep going. He can’t do this by himself, bard. He can still remember the warm tone she used with him; one that he probably would never hear again, and if he s much as mentioned her softness to him, she would cosh him silly.

Jaskier smoothes his palms up and down Geralt’s forearm. He’ll have to look at the Witcher’s knee at some point. Glancing down at it, he notes how Geralt hasn’t even bent the knee. His leg is splayed out straight in front of him. Jaskier clicks his tongue, but says nothing.

His work is quicker now. He knows what muscles and tendons cause the worst of the pain, and just how stubborn they can be. Pouring a trickle of more oil on to Geralt’s arm, Jaskier digs the heels of his hands into the muscle, working out the last irritating bit of tension.

Geralt’s breathing has levelled out. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye. The worst of his grunting and hitching breath has stopped, thank the gods. Tremors still rattle through him, but he’ll deal with them when he can.

Jaskier hums. “That’s most of it,” he mumbles, mindful of the quiet that has fallen over both of them. He grabs a dry strip of cloth and wipes most of the excess oil off of his hands.

A low rumbling sound slips out of Geralt’s chest. Before Jaskier can glance down, one good arm coils around his waist, drawing him close. Geralt’s head falls forward, his forehead pressed against the middle of Jaskier’s chest.

“Silly man,” the bard admonishes, a small smile tilting the corner of his lip. He bends down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head. He lingers, scenting the faint scent of himself on the Witcher. It’s hard to know where one of them ends and the other begins these days. They wake up and go to sleep entangled in each other, a mess of limbs that neither of them knows how to get out of. Even in the days, when they would pass each other out in the estate’s trails on walks or in their own home, shoulders brush and fingers hook together.

His chest tightens. One last kiss is pressed to Geralt’s head before the bard leans away, reaching to the desk to root through the box. He caps the vials, putting them away and taking a mental note of how much he has left. Maybe enough for two more bouts of pain, but that’s it. He’ll have to take a trip down to the gardens where he can gather more herbs.

He pats Geralt’s good shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “off to bed with you. For an hour, at least.”

Geralt peers up at him. The look the bard levels him with makes his point stand firm. I’m looking after you and you have no say in this whatsoever.

Not that Geralt would argue with the bard anyway. He gathers what he can of his breath.

When he’s ready to move, he nods, sluggish and letting Jaskier help him up from the chair. His knee still twinges and a whorl of pain digs deeper. Jaskier threads Geralt’s good arm over his shoulder, bracing Geralt’s weight on him. “Let’s go,” he mumbles, guiding his Witcher back to their room. It’s not much of a journey. Though the estate sprawls out in all directions, seemingly reaching for the horizon, their house is small. Perched on the biggest hill, it catches the morning and evening sunlight. Glancing outside, Jaskier spots the sun. Some thick, rain-heavy clouds have rolled in from the neighbouring hills, but for the most part, midday sunlight still streams through, desperate to reach the valleys underneath.

Geralt hates wasting daylight. Jaskier could argue with him; he wasn’t going to be much help around the estate anyway with his pain flaring up. And even then, he’s sure that Barnabas and the other tenants would have glowered at him if he tried to set one foot into the vineyard. Either way, Geralt is going to rest.

The Witcher perches at the edge of their bed, huffing out a sharp breath. He reaches out, catching the bottom of Jaskier’s shirt with his good hand. He tugs the bard over. “Stay,” he mumbles, pulling Jaskier until he’s gathered against Geralt again.

Jaskier huffs a short laugh, curling his arms around Geralt’s neck. He’s mindful of the man’s shoulder, giving it as wide of a berth as he can while he’s ensnared. Geralt hugs him to him for a short, quiet moment, letting their breathing and heartbeat match. The quieter moments are Jaskier’s favourites. He can recall most of the nights spent in rowdy taverns, luring smiles out of his Witcher while he leads a chorus of crowing singing, or lain out underneath the stars, huffing short laughs at Geralt’s stories about the constellations, stories he remembered Vesemir telling him when he was a boy. But he’ll take every quiet and still moment he can get with Geralt; swaddled away from the world, gentled in his arms and where Geralt can actually relax.

The Witcher’s stretched out leg catches his eye. “Do you want me to see to your leg?” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s hair, kissing where he can.

“Elbow was worse,” Geralt grunts. Sleep starts to tug at him, luring him further down. He’s growing heavy in Jaskier’s arms. He helps the Witcher down on to the pillows. A collection of them are bundled up by the headboard of their bed; Jaskier grabs what he can and makes a support of sorts for Geralt’s arm. Geralt lets him work, keeping his gaze on the rafters above them.

And Jaskier knows what’s swirling around in that head of his.

Before it can fester, Jaskier cuts in. “You were injured,” he says lowly, mindful of the way sleep seems to be stalking in from the shadows, ready to pounce. “A terrible thing happened to you. But your life isn’t over.”

Whispers brush the shell of his ear.

I feel useless.

I can’t do anything anymore.

What’s the point?

You shouldn't have to coddle me.

I'm not made of glass.

Geralt is a stubborn old bastard. Jaskier has watched him clench his jaw and go out on hunts while they were still trekking through the wilds; taking contract after contract while his muscles and joints screech at him to stop. Even when adjustments were made to his armours, metal supports bound to his thigh and arm to stop the strain of swinging a sword around too much. He adjusted everything around the fact that he was hurt. His fighting style had to change. He couldn’t turn and weave through opponents like he used to. But he kept going.

Jaskier thins his lips. The argument already festered between them. It was a long time ago. He couldn’t stand aside and let Geralt’s own mind rip him apart. And while he’s better now, still frustrated but not as angry, he can stumble.

All Jaskier can do is lend support to get him back on his feet.

Geralt watches him, a small smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you,” he mumbles, his eyelids slipping closed. It’s a struggle to try and open them again, but before he can, Jaskier leans over and pecks a kiss to his forehead.

“Get some rest,” he mumbles against Geralt’s skin, palming a gentle hand over Geralt’s chest. Within seconds, the Witcher is gone – lured under by sleep. It’s a strange feeling, being left alone in the room once sleep has claimed the other man. But Jaskier catches the blankets and draws them over Geralt, mindful of his arm. He covers what he can, staving off the worst of the chill that will ultimately try its best to slip through the cracks in the walls. He’ll get B.B to see to the last of the upkeeps before the winds grow too harsh. Too many nights spent in Kaer Morhen’s halls, huddled with a Witcher under the sheets for warmth, have left him with a not so favourable impression of winter. Though maybe, being as far south as they are, the weather might be kinder. He hopes so.

Glancing up at the slumbering Witcher swaddled in a sea of blankets and furs and sheets, Jaskier's chest tightens. He loves Geralt. He loves him so much it hurts. He pads back over to his side of the bed, parting with a gentle kiss to the Witcher's forehead. Geralt barely twitches. Trying to pull himself away is agony. He could call on the staff to pick up his last remaining duties. They would be glad to help the master Witcher and Jaskier in any way that they can - something they keep telling the pair of them. But his mouth sours at the thought. It's midday, leaning more into the afternoon. Geralt will sleep for an hour, or however long he wants to, and then they'll have dinner. The house will be warmed by the hearths and all remnants of pain wringing through the Witcher will hopefully have been wrung away.

Jaskier's chest lightens at the thought.

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healingchildhoodtrauma · 4 years

Text

Understanding and Working with the Window of Tolerance

As infants when we have healthy attachment interactions with attuned, consistently available, nurturing caregivers this lays the foundation for the optimal development of our brain and nervous system. Over time this co-regulation (assisted regulation) allows us to learn how to effectively auto-regulate (self-regulate independently).

"Window of Tolerance" a term coined by Dr. Dan Siegel is now commonly used to understand and describe normal brain/body reactions, especially following adversity. The concept suggests that we have an optimal arousal level when we are within the window of tolerance that allows for the ebb and flow (ups and downs of emotions) experienced by human beings. We may experience hurt, anxiety, pain, anger that brings us close to the edges of the window of tolerance but generally we are able to utilize strategies to keep us within this window. Similarly we may feel too exhausted, sad, or shut down but we generally shift out of this. Below is a diagram demonstrating the ebb and flow of an optimally regulated nervous system experiencing activation followed by a settling.

(Levine, Ogden, Siegel)

When we experience adversity through trauma and unmet attachment needs this can drastically disrupt our nervous system. Our senses are heightened and our experiences and reactions are typically intensified and strategies are less readily accessible to us. Adverse experiences also shrink our window of tolerance meaning we have less capacity to ebb and flow and a greater tendency to become overwhelmed more quickly. Learning how to track and shift our affect can be a powerful tool for promoting regulation and integration throughout the brains, body, and mind.

Regarding arousal states: hyperarousal, calm arousal, and hypoarousal.

Calm arousal is the ideal state and that most times during the day we fluctuate within various levels of calm arousal. However, when we become too over-stimulated (fear, pain, anger, trauma triggers etc) to the degree that it pushes us outside of our window of tolerance this is hyperarousal.

Hyperarousal is characterized by excessive activation/energy often in the form of anxiety, panic, fear, hypervigilence, emotional flooding etc. This keeps our system stuck on on and impacts our ability to relax, often making it difficult to sleep, eat and digest food, and optimally manage our emotions. At the most intensified level this may result in dissociative rage/hostility.

Hypoarousal may occur when we have too much hyperarousal, surpassing the pain/emotional overwhelm our brain/body is able to tolerate, causing us to plunge into a state of hypoarousal (shutting down or dissociating). In this state our system can become stuck on off characterized by exhaustion, depression, flat affect, numbness, disconnection, dissociation etc. This too impacts our sleep in that we may want to sleep all the time, this impacts our appetite and digestion as well and may make us feel emotionally deadened.

What I have observed however is that as human beings we only have capacity to stay in one state for so long before the brain and body shifts us. For example, we can only tolerate so much pain, anxiety, fear etc before the brain and body respond and numb us to this excessive energy. Similarly people will only stay in a shut down state feeling emotionally deadened inside before the brain/body shifts us out of this often by gravitating towards (often subconsciously) things that make us feel alive. This could mean that we gravitate towards high risk behaviours or activities uncharacteristic for us to bring about that sense of excitement, activation, and vitality. Essentially we are self-preserving as there is some part of the brain / body that is not ready to be dead yet.

Many people will share that they "don't feel right", "are crazy", "messed up" etc. The know that they don't feel okay but without having experienced regulation in infancy and childhood or following unresolved traumatic experiences that remain activated in the brain and body people may grow up in a manner that they don't know how to self-regulate. Instead, people often attempt to self-regulate and bring themselves into an optimal/calm arousal level any way that they can, without even knowing this is what they are trying to do. For example someone with excessive fear may gravitate towards a depressant to calm their brain and nervous system whereas someone feeling emotionally deadened may gravitate towards a stimulant to make them feel alive.

Understanding the function of how people are responding and what may be needed to effectively shift this emotional state is critical for finding effective strategies to shift arousal that don't lead to further harm to self or others or leave the individual with a sense of shame. This can be referred to as a false refuge in that it provides the "illusion" that it is helping but in the end the problem is still there and maybe even bigger and now we have layered on shame, guilt, a sense of failure etc., as we have responded in a way that we didn't want to. A "true refuge" is something we do for ourselves that effectively allows us to shift towards our optimal arousal zone while building competencies and taking care of ourselves in a manner that feels good.

Parents, loved ones, and teachers/staff can help by identifying and labelling (making observations based on how children are presenting) “It looks like you are feeling overwhelmed, why don’t we take a break” etc. Dan Siegel refers to this as "name it to tame it". Naming it allows for a sense of understanding and being seen as well as validation. When we stop to notice (within ourselves or others) this can be a powerful grounding tool. Children, youth, and adults should be encouraged to focus mindfully on noticing how they feel, how their body feels, and identifying what they need to feel right again. Our goal is to essentially broaden this window of tolerance increasing capacity for people to hold emotional experiences (even intense ones) without become dysregulated or going into a state of hyper or hypo arousal.

When we understand where people are within this window of tolerance it allows us to target treatment or teach them and their loved ones skills and strategies to effectively promote affect regulation. The function of the behaviour is important to understand with compassionate curiosity. For example, for the person who is self harming are they self harming because the pain they feel is so intense that the self-harming behaviour is the only thing that provides release, or are they doing so because they feel so emotionally deadened that they self-harm to feel alive. This can help to effectively target treatment. If we have too much, discharging the excess energy and intense emotions will often help to shift things, think about it...this is precisely what happens when intense emotions build then explode out of us through conflict or chaos. There is a release of the emotional build-up but it is messy and harmful for us and those around us. Instead learning how to effectively release these intense emotions can be helpful. Similarly if we are feeling shut down, using strategies to optimally stimulate our brain and nervous system in a healthy and empowering manner can shift us out of this state in a away that feels good for us.

I have included some sample interventions below, but again these are general strategies. Those unique to the individual will have the greatest efficacy. Often these can be discovered in therapy as well, at ATTCH we train therapists all over the world to learn how to deliver trauma-specific integrative treatment many other professionals are also providing training in these areas and as such the amount of therapist providing integrative trauma treatment is growing regularly.

Some examples for shifting arousal levels are included below.

The key is figuring out what works and when. At times some activities may be down regulating / grounding while at times the same activity may be stimulating. Try different things and find what works well for you. Practice strategies when you are calm and on a regular basis, this will build your capacity to access these when you start to become overwhelmed. If introducing activities to a client or loved one, it is important to monitor the affect of the individual you are working with and request feedback from them to notice how they are feeling.

Sample activities to decrease arousal include:

Diaphragmatic breathing (deep and slow tummy breathing)

Drinking from a straw

Throwing a therapy / yoga ball at a blank wall or outside wall

Jumping on a trampoline or mini trampoline

Weighted blanket

Warm water

shaking or stomping out excess energy

Therapy / yoga ball (rolling along back when child / youth is lying face down on mat – gentle but firm pressure)

Heavy work (lifting, pulling, pushups, wheelbarrow races, crab walk, leap frog etc.)

Music (soothing and calming music and sounds)

Comforting food (hot chocolate or something chewy but smooth such as a tootsie roll)

Sample activities to increase arousal include:

Anything that stimulates the senses!

Smelling essential oils (smell is the fastest way to the thinking brain - where our strategies are!)

Chewy crunchy food

Use of sensory shaker (ball pit) for tactile input

Movement

Jumping on a trampoline or mini trampoline

Gently sitting and bouncing on therapy ball (simulating rocking motion)

Rocking chair

Weighted blanket

Finger painting

Water play with a straw (blowing through the straw)

Dancing and music

Elevated arousal makes it more likely that an individual will be more reactive, startle more readily, have difficulty concentrating and focusing, feel unsafe in open or crowded spaces, and constantly be scanning for threat even when no threat is present (Scarer, 2013; van der Kolk, 2014; Steele, & Kuban, 2012). This is important information for schools to understand as well.

When providing support to others it is important to recall that trauma is marked by a loss of control, therefore the ability to establish control and experience a sense of safety and empowerment is of priority in the face of real or perceived threat. Dan Hughes provides a great visual for this (see below) demonstrating how warm touch, face, voice communicates with our amygdala to promote a sense of safety. I would suggest (based on Stephen Porges work) that this generalizes to all interactions when we are communicating with a soft voice, soft facial expression, gentle posturing, and gentle and welcomed touch this promotes a sense of safety and provides a calm attuned presence. You can increase empowerment and safety as follows:

Respond in a right-brain (sensory) rather than left-brain (cognitive) level. Adjust the tone, volume, cadence of your voice, proximity, body posturing, breathing etc., to a level that will present as calm helping to coregulate the individual you are interacting with

Validate their emotions and offer to help them regulate (it looks like you are feeling angry, would it be helpful if we..(insert strategy known to help here)

Allow for choice and control (when in an activated state threat is readily perceived and in fact assumed – this is why reactions are often so exaggerated. To reduce the arousal level provide opportunity for them to do what they perceive as necessary to return to calm (going for a walk, throwing a ball around etc)

Do not engage in behavioural and cause and effect approaches (i.e., if you do this then…). These are higher function, left-brain responses and not something they are capable in the moment, rather this is likely to result in increased escalation.

(Hughes, 2009)

In summary, learning how to shift your arousal level, the arousal level of your loved ones, or those you work with can be a powerful tool for promoting integration and building competencies. It can also lead to feeling more comfortable in ones own body and more confident in the ability to manage emotions and maintain relationships.

https://www.attachment-and-trauma-treatment-centre-for-healing.com/blogs/understanding-and-working-with-the-window-of-tolerance

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