#the metaphor has long since spiraled out of hand. i’m fine with it

[forever-rogue]

let me just say i am obsessed with your work and i have a small concept with pre-outbreak!joel that i’d like to share. you’re welcome to develop this as a full fic, a headcanon or even just discuss it.

joel has been dating you for a while, it’s his first serious relationship since sarah’s mom left and needless to say he’s very much in love. but being with you comes with a lot of pressure. as i said, it’s his first real relationship and he tries to be the absolute best partner for you. in the beginning you don’t pay attention to it because what you have is new and of course you do a lot to make it work but as time passes, you realize it’s a bit more serious than that.

he literally drives himself crazy trying to be the perfect partner. to the point where he’s stressing himself out or feeling guilty about things that are either normal or out of his control. for example, let’s say it’s your birthday and he wants to take you to a nice restaurant. you happen to be late (maybe an issue with his car or traffic) and lose the reservation. it’s okay, you assure him it’s fine but he feels terrible and just trying to fix it. in a similar way, if you ever have an argument and you decide to leave to clear your mind, it will bring the worst anxiety out of him. it’s all small things that pile up until you realize that he’s actually terrified he isn’t enough because if he wasn’t enough to make the mother of their child stay, why would you?

you can choose how you work it out so he feels more secure in the relationship or tell me what you think of this, i’d love to hear your opinion 🙂

AN | Okay but this is so soft and heartbreaking at the same time. But there is a happy ending! Enjoy ❤️

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Language

Word Count | 2.7k

Masterlist | Joel, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Joel was standing on your doorstep, clutching a bouquet in his hand. He felt like he was shaking and sweating and going to throw up all at once. Needless to say he was nervous. It had been so long since he’d been on a date, let alone a first date. And not just any first date, but a first date with you. 

You, that had almost knocked him over, literally and metaphorically, in the grocery store and left him feeling like a scared teenager. You’d been the one to ask him out, in fact, but he was still somehow convinced that you’d made some kind of mistake or were going to change your mind.

He rocked back and forth on his heels for a few moments as he listened for your footsteps. When he heard you unlock the door and slowly open it, his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

“Joel,” your pretty lips pulled in a big smile as you looked him over, “you’re here!”

“Of course I am,” he replied sweetly, a soft twang to his warm drawl, “did you think I wouldn’t show up?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted sheepishly, your face growing warm, “men are weird sometimes…even more so when it’s a woman asking a man out. But I’m so glad you’re here.”

“You look beautiful,” he couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten or how pretty you were. You were wearing a pretty little sundress and that alone was enough to cause his mind to practically spiral; he was just a mere mortal man and even he was not immune to the effect of a sundress. He pulled himself together to hand you the flowers that were still tightly clutched in his hand, “these are for you.”

“They’re lovely,” you took them gently, your fingers brushing against his, “thank you so much. No one’s given me flowers in so long, this is so kind.”

“They reminded me of you, bright and pretty,” maybe he wasn’t totally terrible at this after all.

“Come on in for a moment while I put these in some water,” you moved back inside and motioned for him to follow you. He slowly followed you inside, looking around your humble abode to try and get a good feel for you, “so, have you decided what we’re going to do this evening?”

“I have a few things in mind,” he grinned, a little half smile that made your heart speed up a little bit as you quickly moved to set the flowers into a vase with fresh water, “I can tell you or you can be surprised.”

“Surprise me,” you set the flowers on the counter and looked at him sweetly.

“Surprise it is.”

“I have a feeling you’re going to surprise me a lot, Joel Miller,” you grabbed your purse and he shot you a cheeky little wink, “I look forward to it.”

“Me too, sweetheart, me too.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Joel Miller couldn’t believe his luck. It had been a year, a whole ass year, since the two of you had gone on your first date. That might have been one of the best days of his life, topped only by the birth of his daughter. He knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, and knew that he wanted to ask you to marry him.

But there was still some remaining doubt that kept nagging at the back of his mind.

A part of him was always waiting for you to realize that he didn’t deserve you and to leave. Not that you’d done anything to ever suggest that was going to happen but still. He thought about it…a lot. He’d felt like a complete failure when his wife had left him and their daughter when she was only a few months old without so much as a proper explanation. If the woman he’d loved and married, the mother of his daughter, didn't want anything to do with him, why would anyone else? And what did he have to offer anyway? Nothing. Not in his mind anyway. 

And he loved you, so much. He would do anything to keep you in his life. So he threw himself into everything he did; he wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you, even if it all but killed him. 

You appreciated everything he did for you, so much and all the things he did were definitely not lost on you. At first it didn’t really hit you just how much he was driven to perfection until you started to see some of the cracks in the facade. 

It happened one night when you were over at Joel’s house for dinner with him, Sarah, and Tommy that you noticed something was off. Joel had seemed so tense and distracted since you’d arrived. You’d made it to the Miller household a little earlier than you had initially told them in order to help finish up dinner and get everything set up. 

Sarah had answered the door and let you in with a big hug before you made your way into the kitchen. You adored the girl, and her father, and you were happy that she seemed to like you too. You weren’t trying to force your way into her life, but let her welcome you at her own pace. It had only been her and Joel for pretty much her entire life so you were sure that this was a whole new world for her too. 

“Hi baby,” you grinned as you walked into the kitchen, setting down the desserts you’d brought. Joel turned around and his entire face dropped when he realized it was you. Ouch. That managed to sting a little bit, “everything alright?”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he looked at his watch and ran a hand through his messy hair, “for almost another hour!”

“I finished earlier than I thought at work,” you shrugged lightly, “and thought I’d come over to help. I didn’t think it was a big deal…I can go if that’s better?”

“No - no,” he insisted softly, “no, I’m glad you’re here, it’s just that nothing’s ready. It’s not set for you yet.”

“You don’t have to do all the work silly man,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek, “let me help. I’m more than happy to - I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you whispered as you decided to hug him; he looked like he could use a hug. He wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you tightly to his broad frame, “just let me know what I can do to help, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, allowing himself a moment to bury his face in your neck and to breathe your warm scent in. When he pulled back, you kissed him sweetly, “okay.”

Once you had everything squared away and ready, Joel ran upstairs to shower and change, leaving you and Sarah to set the table. She looked at you for a moment before quietly saying, “he really likes you, you know?”

“I do,” you smiled softly, “I really like him too.” 

“He’s never been with anyone since I was born,” she scooted over to you so there wasn’t a chance for Joel to overhear, “I don’t even remember my mom; she just up and left when I was a baby. But I’ve always had my dad. And it’s nice to see him happy ‘cause he deserves it.”

“Oh,” your expression softened, “he told me it’s been the two of you but never went into what happened.”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “it’s fine. I never had the chance to know my mom so it never really bothered me. But I know my dad really likes you, he’s been so happy lately it’s kinda gross. He’s trying really hard. He just wants you to be happy too.”

“I am really happy, Sarah,” you promised, “and I want your dad to be as well. I love him a lot and you both mean a lot to me.”

“This is too sappy,” she snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes playfully, “but…you mean a lot to me too. Just so you know.”

“Don’t worry kiddo, we’ll keep it between us,” you shot her a wink, causing her to giggle softly, “you mean a lot to me too.”

“What are you whispering about, huh?” Joel came back downstairs and into the kitchen, his eyes flitting between the two of you, “planning a mutiny?”

“Duh, old man,” Sarah pushed past him, and Joel raised an eyebrow. 

He was just joking around, mostly, but he was also panicking internally - just mildly but still. It was there. His first thought was that somehow the two of you were talking about him…but not in a flattering way. What if you were telling Sarah you were tired of him? What if you were telling her that you were planning on breaking up with him? What if you told her that -

“Joel?” you put your hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. He blinked a few times as he snapped back into reality before looking at you, “where’d you go, space cadet?”

“Just zoned out,” he offered you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you insisted, “it’s been a long day, I’m sure tired as well. We’ll call it an early night tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, heart constricting at your gentle nature. You were always so sweet and kind but he still found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop, “sounds good, sweetheart.”

“I love you,” you reached for his hand and squeezed it, “a lot.”

“I love you too,” he hoped you never stopped saying that. He wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. He was going to try his damndest to keep you in his life forever. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I can’t believe it,” Joel shook his head as he looked at the maitre’d, “it’s only fifteen minutes! You can’t tell me that you don’t have a table available anymore.”

“I’m sorry sir, the reservation was for 6:30 and we have a ten minute policy for being tardy,” he remained calm but you could see that Joel was only growing more annoyed, “as you can see we’re very busy.”

“I made these reservations three months ago-”

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s our policy,” you put your hand on Joel’s arm and squeezed it gently. He looked at you with a deep frown on his face. 

“It’s alright,” you promised him, voice gentle and soft, “we can go somewhere else, it’s no big deal.”

“Fine,” he huffed after a moment and turned on his heel to leave. You offered the man a small smile as you followed your boyfriend out the door. He immediately started walking to the truck, leaving you to trail after him in his wake, “this is fucking ridiculous.”

You flinched as he slammed his door against the side of the truck, “Joel. I need you to calm down. It’s really not a big deal - I don’t care where we go, I just want to spend time with you.”

“But it’s your birthday,” he hissed, “it should be nice. I had this all planned out and I fucked up and made us lose the reservation.”

“Hey,” you slowly took a step closer to him, “do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“I just wanted everything to be perfect for you,” his shoulders slumped as he looked at you with misty eyes. Clearly there was a lot more going on underneath the surface, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“W-what?” you looked at him in confusion, wondering where that train of thought had suddenly come from. You reached up and out your hand on his cheek, gently brushing away the tears that had rolled down his cheeks, “why on earth would I leave you? That has never crossed my mind.”

“I want to give you everything, you deserve it but I feel like I can’t give it to you,” he pressed his hand gently onto yours, “sometimes I wonder why you’re with a loser like me.”

“Joel,” he hated, and loved, how gently you always managed to say his name. You always had such a tender way about you, “I have never once thought you were a loser. Never. I love you, silly man, so much. You’re perfect to me - for me. Why would you even think that I would feel like that?”

“I couldn’t even get the mother of my kid to hang around. She up and left and sent divorce papers and left us,” he sighed softly, “sometimes I wonder how long it’ll be before you get tired of me as well.”

“I’m not her. I’m me,” you reminded him gently, “I’m never going to get tired of you. Oh my gosh, you don’t know how much I adore you, do you? Joel, no one has ever been as good and kind to me as you have. I look forward to spending time with you even if its just at home watching a movie. When we’re apart I look forward to seeing you. Not because of things like fancy dinners or grand gestures or whatever - not that I don’t love those - but because I love being around you. It’s because of you, not anything else. We could have nothing but as long I have you, and Sarah, it’s more than enough. It’s everything.”

Joel looked at you, trying to make sure he’d heard everything you’d said correctly and you weren’t about to laugh at him. When he saw the soft smile on your face, the tender way you were looking at him, he knew that you weren’t joking. He nodded slowly, sniffling before whispering, “I love you.”

“I know you do,” you promised, “you’ve never once given me a reason to doubt that. I love you too, Joel.”

“I know,” he reached for your hand, hesitantly and gently, lacing his fingers through yours, “you’ve never given me a reason to doubt that either.”

“Good,” you squeezed his hand gently, “I think we’re on the same page, right?”

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, “we are.”

“If you ever have any doubt, just let me know and I’ll remind you just how much I love you. But…does that mean we can go and get dinner? Some McDonalds fries sound amazing right now.”

“You want to go to McDonalds? On your birthday?” That was one of the many things he loved about you - you weren’t pretentious or picky or anything. You were just you. 

“Are you going to go with me?”

“Obviously,” he snorted in amusement, shaking his head fondly at you. 

“Then hell yeah,” you teased, “let’s go and get tons of McDonalds and go home and watch a movie. That sounds perfect.”

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do,” he agreed as he opened the car door for you. He buckled your seatbelt for you before leaning in to kiss you gently, “happy birthday baby.”

“Thank you,” you made sure to steal another kiss from him, “I love you, Joel Miller.”

“I love you. So much.”

[dirtbra1n]

it’s about running away and being chased and knowing when to surrender but maybe not how to surrender. it’s about chasing and chasing and chasing until you blink and realize that you went from being the hunter to being the huntee, like a looney tunes bit. except there is no laughing happening, and no punchline, and the anvil and grand piano and cruise ship landing on your head one after the other are simply metaphors. still painful, though. more than enough to send you spinning, or knock you flat, or weigh you down.

—

that is to say, on the topic of weird love:

love that is unconventional, bizarre, lacking rhyme or reason. perhaps off putting, though it isn’t really, or beyond any one name or title.

hanzawa masato hadn’t been expecting any love whatsoever. that it is unconventional (or bizarre, or off putting, or so on) is salt in the wound.

(not that it doesn’t suit him, he knows himself to be someone who is, in more than one manner of speaking, fairly weird. acknowledging this is further salt in an exacerbated wound.)

tangentially: hanzawa masato doesn’t ordinarily have any particular desire to die, but recent circumstances have pushed him to reconsider.

who made you feel like you have to handle things alone? did we teach you shame? do you think we don’t want to look after you anymore?

well, fine, “to die” is something of an extreme. he doesn’t think he actually wishes to die, doesn’t want his heart to stop beating or his neurons to stop firing. it just has to be a violent enough reset, send him back to a youth where he’d wake up every morning and choose to be busy as a fun pastime rather than a survival tactic.

not a snapped neck, but, well. whatever.

—

he’s back at the river. he never has his pant legs rolled up. it’s getting on his nerves.

the current is mild today. he can almost make out his face in the water, not that he wants to spend any time admiring his reflection. the sun’s beating down on him, too-warm on his skin. he inhales heat and regrets it.

his eyes reflected are wide open as they stare up at him. the reflection looks like it’s getting clearer.

masato doesn’t like that.

submerging his head, he figures that it couldn’t be any harder to breathe with water in his lungs than it is without.

—

sometimes, very rarely, when he has time alone with his thoughts, masato forgets how to breathe. becomes over-conscious of it and does it wrong, inhaling without feeling like enough oxygen is getting to his brain. his entire chest will move up and down but it feels like he’s dying.

to be frank, masato feels like he’s dying a lot. running on autopilot, it seems, is better for him in the long run.

but, well. that’s boring.

inhale for elastic muscle activation, exhale for large muscle contraction. draw your arm back, hit the ball.

breathe, won’t you?

leaving tashiro after club is easy. walking to the station to wait for the train is easy. clouds are gathering overhead. he rests his eyes awhile. rookie mistake.

his rib cage is rickety and the joints in his fingers have gone stiff. his neck has hardly any mobility to speak of. images like shadow puppetry are playing on the backs of his eyelids. weird love. mapping intimacy, tashiro drums his fingers on masato’s chest, where the bones of his rib cage jut out. presses down on the joints of each of his fingers until they pop.

stands behind him with his head in his hands and guides it just so until his neck cracks—

masato feels the train’s arrival in his bones. he opens his eyes. he feels geriatric. something about the barometric pressure.

tashiro-kun, do you know any chiropractors?

he squints at his phone, bleary.

with a license, he clarifies, unnecessarily.

—

masato is a little worried that he might have strange tastes.

—

it’s like this: being with tashiro gonzaburou is terribly easy for hanzawa masato when he’s not in love with him and wonderfully difficult when he is. this is an on-off situation. this makes everything worse. riddled with impossibilities—frankly masato’s convinced it’s a sickness. or a curse.

standing against the violent current with his feet planted firmly in the silt, masato ponders the symbolism at play. rivers representing cleansing, rebirth, the beginning of things. he, symbolically, watches a coffin bob apathetically downstream to his right. he, symbolically, wades with great difficulty to catch up with and lie in it. cleansing, rebirth, the beginning of things. destruction, also.

masato’s good with literature—the basis is that you cannot build upon what’s already been built. what existed must be razed to be remade. something must die to facilitate a rebirth. religious undertones abound, though flood myths are universal.

definitely a sickness; he wonders if there was ever any basis for this, before. he doesn’t really want to believe that tashiro was the first. selfishness. sickness. the sort of thing the river’s supposed to cleanse him of. what he should do is get out of the coffin, maybe swim around a little.

he doesn’t.

masato stares up at the sky above him, listens to the wood creaking around him. imagines he’s in a boat instead. a flood so great it threatens even the heavens—the rocking of his “boat” is making him a little, well, sick.

he jolts awake. riddled with impossibilities. weird dreams shouldn’t count.

they do, though.

he has reason to believe that the creaking of the “boat” was actually the creaking of his bones. he feels brittle enough to have earned the spot in that coffin. it might’ve been his all along.

he really doesn’t like that.

—

ah.

masato wants to live.

[what-the-witch-stuff]

Landings Through the Grapevine

Chapter 2: Unfulfilled Expectations

Masterpost: here Go to:  Ch.1   |   Ch.2  |

_________________________

"I have news for you. One good, one bad" Shane said hours after the dance, when everyone was busy cleaning the place up. "Wait! Help me with that table first...Allright. Shoot". Shane grabbed the other side of the table and together they heaved it off the ground to carry it back to Marnie's farm. The path that led to the narrow bridge which divided the forest clearing from the rest of the village, was not large enough for them to carry the table side by side. So Shane volunteered to walk backwards while Riley gave directions. For a few moments Shane didn't say anything but occasionally looked at something over her shoulder. Then he lowered his voice:

"Ok, so...Mr. Darcy" – that was code for Elliott – "has been mingling with my aunt for almost the entire festival and now they both keep looking over at you".

"What?"

"Don't look! I didn't want to say it earlier, because I wasn't sure. But given how Marnie has been really chatty today, I bet she's playing matchmaker again"

"Oh for fuck's sake! What about Elliott?"

"Don't know, maybe he finally figured out that you don't understand his poems, or something"

"Shane!"

„I'm kidding. Don't act so horrified. Also, it's true!"

„No! It's not."

„Okay. Remember the poem he 'gifted' you at the Feast of the Winter Star? What was that about?"

Riley was preparing to answer him in a know-it-all manner but soon realised that she had actually no idea what to say. She hoped her death glare would shut him up for good. Alas, it didn't.

„You can give me the evil eye all you want. I already cringed to death when he started performing it in front of the goddam tree."

„Maybe a few metaphors and references go over my head sometimes, but that's because I never read much poetry before.

„Or maybe his writing is as inflated as his ego"

„Stop! For Yoba's sake, just tell me what's up with him!

„How should I know?"

„Then why tell me?"

"I thought you would want to know these things"

"Well, what does he look like? Does he look upset or anything?"

"Ehm",– at that Shane peeked back over her shoulder, looking rather pained as he tried to awaken his interpersonal skills: "Well he looks like a schmock, so nothing new there. Maybe that's just his –oh shit!"

"What?!"

"He's coming"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Stop! Jesus, Riley have you never been to highschool? You don't look at people you're talking shit about."

"Ok! ok, act natural !"

"You're the only one acting like a headless chicken", he hissed under his breath.

"Well, maybe I would be calmer if you –"

Shane dropped his side of the table. It came to the ground with a soft thud and Riley almost lost her footing from the sudden yank it caused on her side, forcing them to an immediate stop shortly before the bridge. This interrupted Riley's tirade and in hindsight saved her some embarrassment, as Elliott appeared by her side soon after, brushing a strain of hair behind his ear : "Good day, you two. I am so very sorry I didn't get to chat with you sooner. Can I help you with that?", he asked, having seen them struggle but obviously mistaking the situation at hand. Before Riley could even say anything, Shane intervened again : "Glad that you ask!" he said in an overly friendly manner while stretching theatrically and making a face: "My back is killing me! If you don't mind, I'd rather go see if I can help with something else" and with the blink of an eye, Shane and Elliott had switched places.

"You're welcome!", Shane murmured while brushing past her and he was gone. Meanwhile Elliott was getting into position and testing the table's weight while Riley could do nothing but watch him dumbfounded. When he noticed her staring, Elliot winked: "Shall we then?"

"YES! I mean, sure. Thanks for the help", If Riley's face looked as flushed as it felt right then and there, Elliott was gentleman enough to pretend not to notice. "Please, don't thank me! I should have been more involved with the preparations to begin with. I was just so caught up with my newest draft, that I had forgotten all about the dance until a few days ago. Oh, also, I hope I wasn't interrupting anything between you and Shane?", he added, leaning slightly towards her in mock-conspiracy.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it did look like you've been arguing, before I came over. I hope it was nothing serious"

"Ehm... I was just worried. His, eh... his 'back pain' is quite bad, but he didn't want to bother Harvey during a holiday", Riley lied between her teeth, as they made their way over the narrow bridge.

"Poor fellow, no wonder he seemed rather miffed today. But he danced like a champ!", Elliott stated sympathetically.

"Yes, he knows how much it means to Emily and didn't want to let her down"

"See, I was wondering about that a little. I did expect the two of you to be dancing today"

At that, Riley tripped over nothing, looking at Elliott with such astonishment that she almost forgot to warn him about the slight slope the path would be taking, shortly after the bridge.

"Sorry, who?"

"Well, you and Shane….?"

"Huh?"

Elliott then must have come to some sort of realisation, for it was now his turn to look flushed and embarrassed.

"Oh, Let the greater part of the news thou hearest be the least part of what thou believest." he exclaimed ruefully and smiled at her apologetically: " I should have known better than to make assumptions. I am sorry, Riley. It was something I overheard, please pay no mind to it!"

Riley suppressed the urge to ask him if he had been quoting Shakespeare again, as in 5 times out of 7 she had already been wrong. And by now, she had the nagging suspicion that Elliott chose anything but Shakespeare, just to mess with her. Instead, she stammered: "N-No, it's fine! Shane and I are close, but we are just friends...'', and almost Riley would have given into the temptation of adding something like: '...just as you and Leah, if I am not mistaken?'. But she discarded that idea as soon as it came to her. Too obvious. Though Riley was dying to get her hands on any piece of information about what kind of relationship he and the artist were cultivating, she had to be careful. The last thing she needed was the awkwardness of unrequited feelings or the loss of a friendship because of it. However, remembering Shane's assumption regarding Marnie, she continued : "...Though I do believe Marnie wouldn't mind me as her niece-in-law. But neither Shane or I see that ever happening,". She then laughed. But, following her gut instinct, she kept an eye out for Elliott's reaction, who, still dealing with his own embarrassment, couldn't help but wince slightly.

Bingo.

Shane's words were practically echoing in the back of her mind: I bet she's playing matchmaker again.

– ‘Yes she is and you won't like to find out with whom exactly', Riley thought grimly.

To say this was news to her would be a lie, sadly. Last year it had been just a few questions, if Riley was seeing someone, or if she fancied someone from the village already. Before long, Marnie had gotten more obvious about her actual motivation: "Have you met my nephew, yet? Shane. He is from Zuzu-City too. Oh, I need to introduce you to each other, next time you visit."

But said introduction flopped big-time. It had been difficult. Well, Shane had been. But Riley now knew that this wasn't anything personal. She had involuntarily witnessed his downward spiral until the fateful day at the cliffs, where Shane had finally hit rock bottom. Since then he was getting the help he needed and they could manage having a conversation that wasn't ending in a disaster. Nevertheless, as she and Shane clearly never hit it off, Riley thought that Marnie had moved on and was satisfied with talking her up to some other bachelor instead. Apparently, she had been wrong. "Please, do not believe that I usually engage in petty gossip." Elliott exclaimed and Riley knew, if his hands were free, he would probably underline his words with some dramatic gesture: " This is not why I wanted to talk to you. I would never bother you with such shallow conversation!". They finally reached Marnie's farmhouse and were greeted by Gunther and Clint, who were busy sorting Marnie's belongings back to where they belonged. Soon Elliott and Riley were relieved of their task and hurriedly shooed away. "Riley, you did enough! You've been here all day and surely your farm does not run itself", Gunther called over his shoulder as he and Clint disappeared into the house, leaving Elliott and Riley to themselves. „Well, I don't want to keep you from your duties..." Elliott eventually said rather deflated, after some seconds of them just standing there.

„It's fine! Really. I have time to chat."

„Are you sure? I would hate to inconvenience you", though Riley could easily tell that Elliott was just saying that to stay polite.

„You aren't, believe me. What did you want to talk about originally?"

Elliott immediately straightened his posture, his demeanour getting more relaxed as Riley's question offered him the chance to return their conversation back towards familiar territory.

He suspensefully cleared his throat.

"I wanted to thank you, for you have played a significant role regarding my latest draft. Well, draft is a bit much. It's more of an outline, actually."

"Really?!", Riley could not believe her ears. This was like the beginning of some obscure fever dream, where Elliott would finally announce her as his muse and declare his undying love for her…. Totally hypothetically of course, because Riley would never fantasize about such a corny situation! Ever.

"Yes! For as much as I frequent the library, I just recently noticed the marvellous collection of exhibits you have been providing to the museum. I would've never thought for our tiny valley to be such a place of wonder and history! I must be honest, my latest works were getting nowhere and I dreaded starting a new manuscript. I had gotten quite far with my latest piece. But all these treasures have ignited a new spark within me. Now I can hardly put my pen to rest. But I need more inspiration!". Elliott got more excited the more he talked. It was no longer just polite enthusiasm but an almost childlike delight that made his eyes sparkle in a way she rarely got to see on him.

"Oh that's wonderful! But how can I help you with that?" Riley was getting somewhat confused. If Elliott needed more information on the artifacts, he would be better off talking to Guntehr instead. And following that line of thought, Riley couldn't really fathom what Elliott needed of her, to fuel his newfound inspiration.

"It's about this Adventurer's Guild..."

The answer was: absolutely nothing.

"Oh", Riley tried not to sound or even look unhappy about this revelation and Elliott seemed too fixated on his own issues to notice anything, for he continued talking: "I have seen you standing next to that older gentleman, today. What was his name again?"

"Marlon?"

"Yes! He is the guild's leader, I suppose ?"

"Eh, yes, you could call him that."

"I would like to ask him a few questions. I would love to hear some of his adventures. He looks like a man who has many stories to tell. However, I struggle to get a hold of him!

Surely, I tried asking around. But before today, I didn't even know whose company he keeps. I have never seen him in town either, other than during holidays, which is why I had hoped to talk to him today. But shortly after the dance I lost sight of him and he was gone! I could tear my hair out, Riley! That man is like a ghost. How am I supposed to write about fantastic tales of danger, when I have no authentic experience to write from?!" Elliott had talked himself into such a frenzy, that he ended up being short of breath. While he needed a moment to collect himself, Riley used this pause to talk some sense into him.

"Well, you will be happy to hear that the guild building is actually very easy to find. It's right next to the entrance to the mines.", she informed him, trying to push away the feeling of disappointment. "Office hours are between 2 pm to 10 pm. Normally, entrance is only allowed for adventurers only, but technically you would be considered a potential client. And If you really cannot get in, then Clint, Willy and I see Marlon often enough that we can relay a message to him." "Is that so? Thank you so much, I knew I could count on you! I will seek him out first thing tomorrow!". With that he made his goodbyes and hurried back towards the meadow, presumably to find Leah and share his progress with her. She looked after him until his silhouette disappeared from her sight and with a groan Riley decided that it was indeed time to head back to her farm. The gleeful excitement she had felt at the prospect of being alone with Elliott, had vanished to sober disillusion. She wasn't even in the mood to get worked up over the whole Marnie-situation. Therefore, she decided to no longer think about whatever had transpired today. That would be future-her's issue to deal with. When Riley entered the premises to her own farm, the sight of the seemingly endless plot of land filled her with awe, like it did everytime. Proudly, she watched her cows, chicken and ducks peacefully napping in the sun and listened to the faint rustling of leaves above her head, as she finally made her way towards home.

[queerlyraging]

I am affected.

“being aromantic doesn’t affect you”

I’m in elementary school. I’m an avid reader, always have been and always will be. My favorite books are the ones with lots of action, and fantasy, and different worlds full of different lives and different people. Whenever the characters fall in love I roll my eyes and turn the page. I don’t understand how they have time to fall in love when there’s a war going on.

I only like the historical and realistic fiction books without any romantic based plot. I love the Little House on the Prairie books, even if Laura does get married later. I care more about the lifestyle than anything, about learning how the prairie children live.

I finally get permission to read teenager books. They seem so mature and amazing and developed compared to the children books, but they have so much romance in them. What happened to preserving family bonds and forging strong friendships? I roll my eyes through slow kisses and huff at the silent pining for someone they can’t have. It seems so ridiculous.

My favorite pairs are shipped, but I never see how they could be in love. I never really have an OTP, but I treasure my BROTP’s and collect their friendships and sibling bonds quietly. I try and explain how I feel about the shipping to my friends, but they don’t seem to understand, so I give up and quietly listen to their talk of how much the characters love one another, defeated by the overpowering majority who scream about romantic love.

I don’t hate the ships, I just like the friendships better. I seem to be the only one who feels this way. I am isolated. 

“being aromantic doesn’t affect you”

I’m in elementary school. I really want to be friends with this boy. He is smart, he is funny, he plays sports, and we seem like we would be good friends. Most of all, he reminds me of my last best friend, before I had to move. But I am awkward, and easily influenced. My friends tell me I must like him. I don’t know how to deny it, so I agree and follow their advice.

I think it’s stupid, but maybe I do like him. Maybe that’s how all this works.

Our friendship is ruined. He doesn’t like me anymore, friend or otherwise.

“being aromantic doesn’t affect you”

I’m in middle school. Everyone around me talks about who they like, and why they like them. I think that I also like people - surely, liking someone means you really want to be friends, right? I ask. I’m laughed at. I choose a boy in my grade to like.

When I get older, I’ll like people, I decide. I’m just not old enough. For now, I’ll hide behind being unable to date until I’m older, and for now I’ll choose someone who checks all the boxes my friends seem to talk about. To me, it just sounds like what people want in a best friend, except they’re supposed to be cute.

I make a list of qualities, find a new boy every year in my classes. I choose someone I probably won’t see the next year, and am never very disappointed when I don’t have a class with them the next school year. I wonder if everyone does this.

The ‘crush’ of the year tells me he’s moving states after I tell him I like him. I’m relieved, instead of sad. All my friends comfort me, but I don’t really care. They find this odd, so I don’t talk too much about it. I hate feeling isolated.

“being aromantic doesn’t affect you”

I’m in high school. I’ve been a silent observer of the LGBTQ+ community since elementary school. For a long time, I wonder if I’m anything besides what society considers ‘normal’, if any of the identities apply to me. I wonder if how I feel is how everyone feels. No matter what I do, I feel different than everyone else about love, because I’m so indifferent to it.

I discover the asexual community first, and then I find the aromantic community. I’m surprised by how much I relate to it, but I’m also scared. This can’t be me, because then I wouldn’t be able to have the life I’ve always wanted.

Perfect family. Perfect husband. Perfect job. Perfect life.

I deny it. I tell myself I don’t actually relate, I just want to be different. I’m just caught up in a trend. I can’t aromantic, no matter how much I relate. I hate how I feel. I just want to be like everyone else. Why can’t I be like everyone else?

“being aromantic doesn’t affect you”

I’m in high school. All my friends are in relationships. I don’t really understand, but I try my best to be supportive. At the beginning of my sophomore year, my best friend tells me he likes me, and has liked me for awhile. I ask my big sister what I should do. Do I like him back? For the first time, I ask what romance feels like.

She tells me it’s like being best friends, but there’s just a little more. I wonder what that little more feels like.

We begin to date, and I’m uncomfortable. He’s my best friend. Nothing is different, except we hold hands, yet the concept of dating someone… it feels wrong.

I finally accept it. I’m aromantic, and that’s okay. We break up. We’re still best friends, and he still likes me. I am okay.

“being aromantic doesn’t affect you”

I’m in high school. I tell my friends that I’m aromantic. Each time I come out, it’s a new vocabulary lesson. It’s exhausting to find metaphors and explanations and definitions that they understand.

One of my friends told me she thinks it’s sad that I don’t feel romantic love. I’m too shocked to respond. She doesn’t even try to understand, and I’m hurt by her words. I am perfectly fine without romance - why can’t she see that?

I can’t tell one of my friends. I think he likes me and I don’t think he would understand, because he says things that feel wrong. I find out he’s a Trump supporter and quietly break off our friendship. I can never be too careful.

One of my friends says that I’ll find someone who makes me love. He thinks it’s just a joke, but I am hurt. None of my friends understand why I am mad. He means well, but it’s like he’s forgotten who I am.

I can’t tell my family, except for my big sister, but she’s far away right now. They wouldn’t understand, they would tell me I don’t know what I’m feeling. My little sister would try and remind me of every fake crush I had. My parents would tell me I haven’t found the right person yet.

"BEING AROMANTIC DOESN’T AFFECT YOU”

I’m in high school. I finally get to tell my big sister that I’m aromantic. I wanted to do it in person, and I’m not worried that she won’t accept me. After all, she’s LGBTQ+ too and the only ally I can have in my house, because I can’t trust anyone else not to shame me.

I tell her everything. She’s pokerfaced. Later that night, I hear her laughing through my bedroom walls. When I pass her door I hear what she is saying to her friend on call. She is making fun of me. 

She doesn’t think I can be aromantic, since I’m so young.

She thinks it’s an excuse, since I don’t want to date my best friend.

She says she felt the same way, and that I’ll find someone like her.

She’s laughing at my identity.

I’m heartbroken, betrayed, anguished. In my bedroom that night, I sob for an hour, spiraling, hating myself more and more. She was supposed to be my ally in the house, she was supposed to support me, but instead she laughed behind my back.

The next day, I can’t look her in the eye.

“BEING AROMANTIC DOESN’T AFFECT YOU”

I’m in high school. My best friend still likes me, and we’re still only best friends, because he knows that we can never be together. Sometimes it can be awkward, but mostly we avoid the topic. A month after we break up, he tells me we can’t be best friends anymore, because he needs to get over his feelings for me.

I go to my queer friend group and cry for ten minutes before my two hardest finals, because they’re the only ones who might understand. This is worse than when we broke up, because then it was mutual and now it is another rug swept from under my feet, another friend lost because of my identity.

He doesn’t understand why I am hurt, and I am too exhausted to put it into words. My friendships matter so much to me, but my friends don’t seem to always understand. 

I tell him to leave me alone. I need to process this by myself. He tells me that we can still be friends. I tell him to leave me alone. He finally understands how much I’m hurt, after I try to explain. I tell him to leave me alone. He tries to comfort me, and I ignore him. After all, he isn’t my best friend anymore, because he likes me and I can’t like him back, and this is just another friendship ruined.

I am affected.

I was in elementary school. I was a kid. I didn’t understand. I felt isolated and different because because nobody understood I didn’t have a crush. 

I was in middle school. I was a tween. I didn’t understand. I felt isolated and lost and confused because nobody seemed to feel the same way as I did.

I’m in high school. I’m a teenager. I don’t understand. I feel isolated and different and lost and confused and angry and hurt because nobody gives me representation and I’ve lost so many friendships because I finally have an identity I’m at peace with.

I’m going to be in college. I’m going to be an adult. I don’t think I will understand. I don’t know how I will feel because the future is uncertain and maybe one day nobody will need a vocabulary lesson every time I say I’m aromantic.

I hate the world for erasing who I am, for enforcing a narrative where I don’t exist. I hate that people tell me that since I can pass for straight, being aromantic doesn’t matter. I hate that people tell me they pity me because I can’t feel romantic love. I hate that I’m never represented. I hate that my potential representation only becomes discourse.

I hope for a future where romantic love is not the only narrative. I hope for a future where my affection with my friends is not seen as inherently romantic. I hope for a future where society acknowledges I exist and doesn’t ridicule my feelings and identity. I hope for a future where I can find canon representation and not have to guess. I hope for a future where I am accepted by those not exactly like me.

I hope I don’t hope for too much.

[calpalirwin]

Tough Act

Summary: Lip may have finally met his match.

A/N: A season 4/season 5 AU of sorts. My first Shameless/Lip Gallagher fic too, so fuck off if it sucks.

Content: Swearing, fighting, fucked up-ness.

Word Count: 4.3k

And away, and away we go!

__

The door to the lecture room slammed open, averting everyone’s attention to the teenager rushing into the closest empty seat. Underneath the sea of unruly brown curls was a face red from the exertion of his run across campus in a blind hurry. There was a wild look in his crystal blue eyes as he tore his backpack apart, digging around for a notebook and pen, and a flash of agitation as he came up empty-handed. The adrenaline of his bad morning made all his movements swift as he frantically scanned around to figure out who to ask to help him out of his predicament. 

“Psst,” he whispered, his rushing about coming to a standstill as he stopped on the girl seated to his left. “Psst… hey!”

“What?” she whispered back in annoyance, her lips barely moving, her attention still fully on the professor who continued with their lecture.

“You got a spare scrap of paper. And, uh… a pen? I seemed to uh…”

“Forgot to charge your precious laptop?” she questioned with the same note of annoyance.

“Oh, you think I’m one of these snobs?” he smirked, gaze flickering about the room. “Nah. Rough morning.”

Her eyes rolled as she reached wordlessly into her bag at her feet, producing a notebook with a pen tucked into the spirals. “Here,” she hissed, handing it over.

“Oh, I don’t need the whole th-”

“Don’t care. Now, shut the fuck up.”

“Thanks.”

“The fuck did I just say?”

The boy smirked again, but didn’t say another word, turning his attention to catch the rest of the lecture.

When the class was over, he ripped the pages free from the notebook, tucking the pen back in the spirals and handing it over. “Thanks again.”

“Keep it,” she said, pushing the notebook into his chest as she rose to her feet. “You clearly need it more than I do.”

Confused irritation flashed across his face as he followed her out of the classroom. “I was just trying to be nice. Fuck.”

She paused, turning on her heel to face him. Now that they were literally standing toe to toe, she got a good idea of just how tall he was as she found herself eye level with his chest. Or what would be his chest if it wasn’t covered in a white t-shirt sporting the words “Fuck you you fucking fuck” in blue block letters. The same color blue of the simple zip up hoodie he was also wearing. The kind of blue that really made his eyes pop as her chin tilted upwards to find his own gaze staring down at her, unchecked attitude in every sharp feature of his face. She crossed her arms, scoffing. “Are you saying I wasn’t nice back?”

“Look, if you’re gonna be a cold bitch, that’s fine. But why bother helping in the first place?”

“Right. Next time I’ll just let you keep pestering me, then.”

“I just said ‘thank you.’ What the fuck more do you want?! Jesus…”

“You’re welcome!” she snapped back. “Better?”

His temper gave way to cockiness as he flashed a grin. “See? Was that so hard? Can I buy you a coffee? Or like a new notebook?”

“Ugh, I don’t get you. One minute you’re pissed I helped you. The next you’re trying to flirt with me? Pick a side, loser.”

“It’s Lip, actually.”

Familiarity flashed in her eyes. “As in Gallagher?”

He chuckled lightly. “Yeah. How many Lips do you know? Wait… you know me? How?”

“Think you’re the only one from the South Side with a brain? I’m Mickey and Mandy’s cousin.”

“Oh shit! You’re a Milkovich?”

“A Y/L/N, actually. But yeah, I guess.”

“No shit, huh?”

“Yeah, what gave it away? The attitude, or the fact that I’m the only one in this place taking notes by hand?”

“Well, not the only one,” Lip chuckled, waving the notebook he had tucked under his arm.

“Right…” she said before walking off. After a few steps, she turned to look over her shoulder at him still standing there. “Well?” she demanded. “You buying me that coffee, or not?”

That trademark smirk graced his lips before he adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and jogged after her. 

“So, how’d you end up here?” Lip asked as they pushed their way out of the building. He rubbed his hands together, blowing into them before digging into his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Lip shook the box at her in a silent question as he placed one between his lips and lit it.

She took one, and when she moved to take the lighter from him, he gave a small shake of his head. One of Lip’s hands cupped around the cigarette in her mouth, the other lighting it for her, before he took a long drag from his own cigarette. “You gonna answer my question?” he asked, pocketing the cigarettes and lighter.

“You didn’t really give me time before you asked a new one,” she responded, blowing a ring of smoke.

“Well?” Lip prompted, twisting his left wrist in a gesture to indicate for her to go ahead and answer.

“Like I said. You think you’re the only one from the South Side with a brain?”

“I mean… statistically no. But to get into a place like this? And afford it? What’s your secret? The Milkovichs fuckin’ got some dirt on someone? Can you get them to threaten them for me too?”

She rolled her eyes. “One, I got in here on my own. Two, I’m not a Milkovich. I may share a little blood, but I don’t share the name. Not that I’d want to anyway. Fuckin’ Terry trying to fuck the gay out of Mickey by having him fuck that Russian broad? Like he has several dipshit sons to pass on those disphit genes. Who gives a fuck if one of ‘em’s a raging homo?”

“Hey, that raging homo is fucking my brother. Watch it.”

She raised her hands in defense. “Like I give a shit who’s fucking whom. None of my damn business.”

“Whom, huh? Jesus, you are smart.”

“Yeah, and for a brainiac you’re fuckin’ slow. Smart isn’t a special Lip trait made just for you. Other people can have it too. Probably hard to see that though with your ego. Does that ever get heavy?”

“Ooo, she bites.”

“She happens to have a name. And I swear if you call me a Milkovich one more time, I’ll show you exactly how I’m not one by not pulling my punches for a Gallagher like some white trash version of Romeo and Juliet.”

It was his turn to hold up his hands in defense. “Shit, okay. Let’s see… a Y/L/N… My age, give or take a year in either direction… that makes you Y/N? Which makes you a junior. Impressive.”

“Is that an ‘impressive’ in regards to your stellar deduction skills? Or an ‘impressive’ in regards to me being a junior.”

“The latter. I’ve already almost dropped out like 6 times.”

“Mmm, then maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are, Lip. Spewing bullshit to illiterates is easy. Actually being smart though requires a little more work.”

“Alright, fuck me for being curious, but I don’t exactly see our kind around campus, do you?”

“That’s probably because we don’t go around flaunting that part of ourselves. We had our chance to get out, we took it, and then we didn’t bother looking back.”

“What like some take the kid out of the hood metaphorical shit? Wouldn’t the follow up to that mean that you can’t take the hood out of the kid?”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m constantly busting my ass to keep up with these silver spoon trust fund brats. It was easy in high school. Pay attention every now and again, and you don’t have to bother with cracking a book to be labeled a genius. Big fish, small pond. Here? These kids have had nannies and tutors since before they could string two words together. Suddenly I’m just an average sized fish in a bigger pond. And out there in that ‘real world’ everyone keeps harping about? Do you see how as the pond gets bigger, you get smaller? But you think I’m gonna let that slow me down? Play into that self-fulling prophecy that I won’t amount to shit because of where I grew up? No. I’m gonna keep my mouth shut, and work my ass off because that’s what got me out in the first place, and that’s what’s gonna keep me from backsliding.”

“Did you just call me a small fish?”

“I’m saying you better get your shit together, Gallagher. This ain’t fuckin’ t-ball, it’s the big leagues. Back home, we might be the big shots. But here? We ain’t shit unless we do something about it. And showing up late to class without a fuckin’ notebook and pen isn’t how you make that happen.”

“Fuck, alright. If I wanted a lecture, I’d just call Fiona.”

“Just trying to warn you. One hood kid to another. But by all means, you could also contemplate dropping out for the 7th time.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you need to fuckin’ relax?”

“If they think that, they’re not stupid enough to say it to my face.” She took a last drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke up in Lip’s face, before dropping the butt on the ground and grinding it out with the toe of her boot.

“Oh, yeah cuz I bet you’re real tough,” he deadpanned with an eye roll, stomping out his own smoked up cigarette, and pulling open the door to the school’s coffee shop.

Y/N scoffed. “Start putting those pretty eyes of yours to good use Gallagher, and you might just realize that in addition to being smarter than you, I can also do anything else better than you. That includes being tougher. And partying harder.”

“Pretty eyes, hmm?”

Her eyes rolled, but the way her cheeks flushed didn’t go unnoticed either. “That would be the only thing you heard… Friday night. 8 o’ clock. And if you have to ask… well… guess you better put that brain of yours to work.” The smirk on her face could rival his any day as one of her hands patted affectionately at his chest. “Bye, Lip.” And with that, she walked backwards from him out of the coffee shop, leaving him wondering what the fuck had just happened, and more intrigued than he’d ever been by any girl before.

~~~

Lip understood what Y/N had meant about not needing to bother with an address for the party. All he had to do was follow the sounds of loud music and drunk laughter.

He could feel the music vibrating in his bones the second he stepped inside, the room dark with the exception of the strobe lights bouncing triadic colors all across the party-goers, one of which was Y/N.

“Hey!” Lip said when he got closer to her.

“Hey!” she greeted with a grin. “Looks like you figured it out. C’mon, let’s get you a drink.”

He followed her deeper into the house, into a brightly lit kitchen that had him squinting. “Pick your poison,” she said, tossing him a red cup.

“So, I still owe you that coffee,” he commented after a beat, while they made their drinks.

“Oh, do you now?” she asked, looking up at him over the rim of her cup.

“I mean… I don’t do well with debts.”

“Who said you were in my debt to begin with?”

“You helped me out when you didn’t have to. What would you call that?”

“I’d call it being nice.”

“Yeah, well you know as well as I do that being nice comes with a price tag attached where we’re from.”

“That may be so. But look around Lip. Sometimes people do things for others without there being a catch. And it was a fuckin’ notebook and pen, not bail money. I don’t need anything from you, because I don’t want anything from you. Crazy concept, I’m aware.”

He took a pause to take a long drink from his cup. “I don’t get you, you know that? Like you’re nice, but you’re such a fuckin’ bitch about it too.”

“The duality of woman,” she smirked, bowing dramatically. “Some people aren’t so easy to pin down, Lip. God forbid you might actually have to get to know them. Or let them get to know you. Which one scares you more, Lip?”

Again, as a chance to get his thoughts together, he took a drink. He decided to take a page from her book. “Bye Y/N,” he called out over his shoulder as he walked away.

She watched him go in proud amusement, knowing that she’d be seeing Lip sooner rather than later.

It took about an hour for Y/N to be proven right.

“So less say you n me get outta here,” the drunk nameless college boy slurred, one hand propping himself up against the wall, the other getting dangerously close to her face.

“Let’s not, and say we did,” she replied, grabbing his hand and dropping it to his side.

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” he crooned, breath smelling like cheap booze and shit weed.

“The fun is that you walk away with the only part of you bruised being your ego,” Lip growled from behind.

Frat boy turned to face Lip, his movements sluggish. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Nobody,” Y/N hissed at the same time Lip responded with “Her boyfriend.” “Nobody,” Y/N repeated in a firmer tone. “Lip, leave. I got this handled.”

“Yeah, leave,” the other boy said earnestly. “Probably be best if you didn’t watch me fuck your pretty little girlfriend.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” she spat while the muscle in Lip’s jaw ticked. “You can follow Lip in getting the fuck out of my face.”

“Mmm, feisty. Good. Just the way I like ‘em.”

Y/N’s hand cracked against his face, and then Lip was shoving him backwards. “The fuck did you just say to her?! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Oh, yeah? And who’s gonna make me?”

A snarl ripped itself out of Lip’s throat, before he was throwing a punch, his fist connecting solidly with the other guy’s jaw. “Lip!” Y/N scolded in disbelief as Lip took the next hit square in the face. “Hey!” she yelled, wedging herself in between both young men, each prepared to keep exchanging blows. “Leave! Both of you!”

The drunk frat boy stumbled off, but not before throwing Lip the dirtiest look he could muster. Lip huffed in disdain, but stayed rooted in place. “You alright?” he checked, the lights bouncing off the room showing the area around his mouth already starting the transition from red to purple. With a thumb, he wiped at the trickle of blood spilling from his nose, smearing it with the blood coming from his busted lip.

With both hands, she shoved him as hard as she could. “I had that fuckin’ handled!”

“Well fuck me for being nice, then!” he shot back, matching her anger. He turned on his heel, away from her.

“Where the fuck are you going?!”

“Away! Like you wanted!”

She grabbed his arm, whipping him back around and dragging him to the nearest bathroom. “Sit!” she instructed, as she locked the door and grabbed a washcloth.

“I’m fine,” he protested, but sitting on the ledge of the tub anyway. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

She slammed one of her hands on the counter as she turned on the faucet to wet the washcloth. “See?” she said, cupping his face and cleaning away the blood. “It’s exactly that type of thickheaded stubbornness that’s gonna keep you stuck exactly where you are.”

“Thickheaded stubbornness?”

“Yes. That chip on your shoulder that says the world is always gonna be against you, and that everything comes with a price tag. That fighter’s instinct you disguise as reckless bravery, but is really just a stupid desire to hit the world as hard as it hits you. The world isn’t as black and white as you were made to believe. If this was some piss poor attempt at saying we’re even for giving you a fuckin’ notebook the other day, congrats. We’re even. Thank you. Are you satisfied now, Lip?” She chucked the washcloth in the sink.

“I’m never satisfied. And wasn’t it you who told me that sometimes people can do nice things for others just because? I wasn’t evening a score between us, Y/N. I was just being nice.”

“Well, way to be a bitch about it…” she snorted.

“Oh, you liked it,” he taunted, rising to his feet. “Didn’t you?”

She rolled her eyes in disgust. “No.”

“Aw, not so tough when it’s me confronting you with the truth now are you?”

“Fuck you, Lip.”

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” He closed the distance between them in one step, lifting her up onto the counter, his lips finding that niche where her neck met the collarbone. When her fingers flew to tangle in his hair, he took that as his cue that he wasn’t pushing limits that shouldn’t be pushed. But erring on the side of caution, he pulled back to peel his shirt off, giving her ample time to stop him. When he got a throaty whine of protest instead of her slapping him senseless, he chuckled darkly. “Aw, look who doesn’t want me to leave now.”

Y/N pulled her own shirt up and over her head, tossing it to join his on the tiled floor. She hooked a finger in his belt loop, pulling him back to her. “Fuck me, Lip,” she breathed before their lips collided, heat radiating in every touch.

~~~

Lip’s chest heaved as he tugged his jeans back on. “Here,” he said, digging out his phone and handing it over. “So next time we can cut right to the chase.”

She scoffed but started to put in her number anyway, a warning about how he better call on the tip of her tongue, but the screen changed as the name “Fiona” flashed and his phone started to ring. “Uh…” Y/N said slowly.

He swore under his breath, taking the phone back and answering. “Yeah, Fi? Whoa, slow down. Ian did what? Okay, we’ll keep him there. I’m on my way now. I dunno, Fi, as soon as I can. I’m coming from campus. But I’m coming. Just… sit tight or something.”

“What was that?” Y/N asked as Lip hung up the phone, pulling on the rest of his clothes in a hurry.

“Family emergency. D-do you have a car? Can I borrow it? It’s faster than taking the L.”

“Yeah,” she said, redressing with the same hurry and dangling her car keys. “C’mon, I’ll drive.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he rushed. “Come with me, I mean.”

“I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.”

Figuring that arguing with her would only only result in him leaving later, he nodded his head before letting them out of the bathroom.

The drive to his house was filled with tense silence as Lip bounced his leg and smoked the whole trip. As a quiet act of comforting the young man, Y/N rested a hand on his leg, and while he flinched at the contact, he allowed her hand to stay, the touch soothing even if it didn’t fully quit the storm raging in his head.

She hadn’t even put the car in park before Lip was bounding out, his boots racing against the pavement as he rushed towards the house. Y/N followed as quickly as she could, nearly colliding into his back as Lip froze in the small entryway of the house. “Where is he?” Lip barked, his brief hesitation breaking at the sight of his family huddled together in the middle of the living room while pounding and screaming sounded from upstairs.

“Up there,” a woman a couple years older than Lip directed, her voice cracking with fear and worry. “Mickey’s trying to break down the door to get to him. He’s been locked in there for like 2 hours, Lip. He stopped answering us. I- I-” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pushed shaky hands through her hair. Behind her was a man and woman who looked to be even older than the woman talking, a teenage girl and boy of similar age, and a small toddler, all of them bearing the same terrified confusion.

Lip nodded once, understanding what the woman was saying without her needing to finish the thought. “Are all the knives accounted for?”

“Yeah, I think so. But… Fuck, Lip, I dunno what to do. Like I can’t just call the cops. I- I guess I could call Tony?”

“No, it’s fine, Fi,” Lip told her. “I’m gonna go help Mickey. You guys stay here. Actually, Kev, come with me. Carl, you too.”

As the men sprung into action and headed upstairs, the attention averted to Y/N who was still standing in the entryway. “Who are you?” the woman asked.

“Uh, I’m Y/N. I drove Lip. You must be Fiona?”

Fiona nodded numbly. “Yeah. This is V, Debbie, and Liam. Thanks for driving Lip. Uh…” She dug around in her pockets, pulling out a few crumpled bills. “Sorry,” she said, placing them in Y/N’s hand. “That’s all I got right now.”

“Oh, no,” Y/N responded, pushing the money back. “I- I go to school with Lip.”

Any chance for more small talk was interrupted by a loud splinting crack and an “Ian! What the fuck?!” before Lip, Kev, and Carl all came stomping downstairs, along with Mickey and Ian. “Y/N?” Mickey blinked, as he helped Ian onto the couch.

“Mickey,” Y/N deadpanned.

Mickey looked back and forth between Lip and his cousin, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ hell, Gallagher. You gonna fuck all my female relatives, or what?”

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey,” Lip and Y/N told him.

“Ian, are you okay?” Fiona asked, as Debbie went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water.

“Yeah, I’m fine…” Ian muttered, gulping down the water, whatever that had transpired upstairs apparently long over in the red head’s mind.

Fiona’s gaze flickered over to the other boy’s for a more detailed answer. When Kev answered with a small whistle and twirl of his finger to indicate that Ian was off his rocker, V shoved him. “Kev!”

“What?” the man asked, holding up his hands in defense. “It’s true. Oh, and Fi… we’ll uh… fix the door tomorrow.”

“Don’t care,” Fiona responded, all her attention on Ian.

“I’m tired,” Ian declared.

“Okay, get some rest right here. I’m gonna talk to Lip real quick.” Her voice was soft, motherly even. A drastic change from the scared person she’d been 10 minutes ago.

“Okay. Hey, Lip. You home for the weekend?”

“Something like that,” Lip told him before following Fiona into the kitchen to talk out of earshot.

“What are you still doing here?” Mickey asked Y/N, not caring for the answer as he stalked after the eldest Gallagher siblings.

“Yeah, who are you?” Carl asked.

“She’s friends with Lip,” Debbie explained.

“Oh,” was the knowing reply.

V rolled her eyes. “Alright, Debbie, Carl, take Liam upstairs and go to bed. Kev, c’mon, let’s go home.”

There were some grumbles before the group dispersed, leaving Y/N alone with Ian. “So, you’re friends with Lip, huh? And related to Mickey somehow?”

“We’re cousins on his mom’s side. And I wouldn’t say Lip and I are friends, necessarily.”

“Mmm, right. Yeah, Lip doesn’t really do friends. Or relationships.”

“Good to know.”

“Hey, thanks again for driving Lip over,” Fiona’s voice sounded from behind as her and Mickey came back into the room. “We got it from here if you got somewhere to be.”

“Lover boy’s outside,” Mickey smirked.

“Not a problem. And thanks, jackass,” Y/N said, then headed in search of Lip, finding him on the back porch smoking yet another cigarette. “Hey,” she said softly, sitting down next to him.

“You’re still here?”

“Was I supposed to leave?”

He shrugged. “Everyone else does.”

“Ooo, dark…”

“Wasn’t saying it to seek sympathy points.”

“Does this tough act of yours ever get tiring?”

“Who said it was an act?”

“It’s not gonna kill you to let someone in, Lip.”

“Yeah, maybe. But it sure beats the hell out of watching them leave. Because in the end, they all do. I learned a long time ago that the only person I can count on is myself.”

“What a lonely way to live your life.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I was tougher than you? That shit,” she said, jerking her thumb back at the house, “is a fuckin’ Tuesday. If anyone is gonna get the fucked up parts of you, it’s me, Lip.”

“Why?”

“Why do I get it?”

“No, why do you want to?”

“Because you get me back. Look, I know I’m abrasive. I know I piss people off. Because like you, if I push them away from the start, then when they eventually leave it hurts less. But here’s the stupid thing about that, Lip. It still hurts. Maybe this time it doesn’t have to.”

“You know that this is like a complete 180 from you berating me three days ago, right? Or even earlier this evening. Or right now.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when you were fucking me in that bathroom.”

“How do I know you won’t leave?”

“How do I know you won’t?” she countered. “I’m not saying you gotta fuckin’ marry me, Lip. Just loosen up on the tough guy act. Not everything has to be a fight.”

“But what if I like fighting with you?”

“I’m sure we can find ways of making sure that still happens.”

“Wanna stay the night then? Maybe have a fight or two?”

__

Tag List

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[luzial]

I recently commissioned @salesart to do a portrait of Solas (aka “Song”) and Lavellan (aka “Ink”) from my fic, In And Out Of Time Again. I’m so thrilled with how it came out, especially all the little details that reference their codenames. Thank you SO MUCH to Sales for all your work on this piece, and for asking me all the hard-hitting questions like “what’s their height difference.” I had so much fun collaborating with you!

The first chapter of In And Out of Time Again is below the cut, and you can read the completed work on AO3.

Song has had many names. The latest suits him no better nor worse than the others. If he has one complaint, it is that this name lacks specificity. Fen’Harel was a name that was a lie, and a lie that has long since become irrelevant, but he cannot argue that it painted a clear and awful portrait. His other name, the one that came both before and after, he is only too glad to be rid of. He rarely thinks of it now.

Song is in his element in Strands like these, when he can submit to the demands of his teeth and claws and blessedly forget the version of himself that is not like this. It is simple here in the verdant expanse of his home, his first love. When a mountain stands in his way he moves it with a thought. When a beating heart must be silenced, he rips into it and tastes warm blood on his tongue.

His assignment today is a wonderfully simple one: a death. The target is ancient and powerful, though only in comparison to the other things of its world. Beside an agent of Music, it is nothing. He longs for a crush of strength against his own and for the moment when uncertainty asks him whether he can snap his target’s neck before it breaks him in two. The answer, of course, is that he will hear the crack of bone and hold its dying form within his jaws too quickly to satisfy the hunger that burns within him.

Still, he will try to afford it a fair fight.

When he finds the edges of its lair, Song realizes something is wrong. Demons should swarm around him, challenging his right to intrude on their master’s territory even as he cuts them down. There should be whispers here, a choir of disembodied voices singing the Melody’s secrets for those who know how to listen. Yet all that greets him are emptiness and silence.

The raw Fade has begun to reclaim this place, the green waters of its currents rising up to erode the poisoned ground that has been here for three thousand years. Song wanders farther in, his paws sinking deep into the muck, until finally he finds the corpse.

The fear demon that claimed this part of the Fade is gone, reduced to a husk of tangled limbs and fangs that still drip with venom. Song has arrived too late. The death has already been administered, but this means that the timing is all wrong, and for Music, timing is everything.

Whatever killed the demon has done so before it had a chance to strike a bargain with a young mage girl in Kirkwall. Now she will not murder her family and dozens of others; she will not leave alive one angry, orphaned sister. Thanks to this single fault in the rhythm, the entire Strand is lost.

Song is so annoyed by all the absences that at first he does not notice the addition. It is so impossibly out of place that for a moment he simply stares at it. Stuck to the venom on the dead demon’s fangs is a piece of finely-made paper that smells of sugar and flowers, its perfume somehow drowning the stench of the rotting carcass. He reaches out for it with a hand and fingers; it is a thing too delicate to be held by claws. The venom stings but he pays it no mind, for he has seen the single line written on the page in a delicate script: Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.  

It must be a trap. Not the venom, of course. Whoever left this certainly knows it will take much more than that to wound him. It would be best to leave the note here and let it rot along with the rest of this discordant Strand. But this is a challenge and an invitation - words that hint at more words.  

Song ignites the paper between his fingers and it is as if he has turned the first page in a book. He reads, and when he is done he has become the wolf again, mouth twisted to a snarl. When he has committed the words to memory, he shreds what’s left of the sweet-smelling paper between his claws and grinds it into the mud.

When Song is gone, a shade steps into the pawprints he left and searches until it finds every piece of the burned, shredded, filthy paper.

--------

Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

I’ve always been fond of the Canticle of Transfigurations, or at least of the versions that I’ve penned. Hopefully you have more than a passing familiarity with it as well, or the cosmic cleverness of what I’ve just done will be totally wasted on you. (But I suspect your familiarity is more than passing. If you are who I think you are, you’ve probably written versions of it yourself. If so, how do you deal with the bit in 10:1 about the moth and the flame? I feel like I can never get it quite ominous enough, you know?)

I’ve barely just begun and already I’ve distracted myself with all the questions I wish to ask you. But that just speaks to my point (that I’m about to make).

Is there anything in this world more insidious than words? It took me eight of them to grab your attention. Honestly, I could have managed it in fewer if I didn’t want to make a dramatic entrance. But I did.

I’ve been curious about you for a while now. It’s not like there are many things left to be curious about when you have all of time to catch up on anything you might have missed, so I should thank you for that novelty. I think the first time I saw you was during that bad business in the Deep Roads in Strand 398. I was the hurlock, you were the Grey Warden recruit. Our eyes met as I bit into your commander’s neck and tore out his windpipe. (Sorry about the mess, by the way - I really enjoy getting into character.)

You were definitely meant to lose that fight. I know - I’ve gone back and checked a lot of other Strands and that recruit always dies, the darkspawn always swarm, and the Third Blight always begins. But then you single-handedly cut down the horde after everyone else in your party had died. (I know because I stuck around after you chopped off my head with that broadsword - I just had to see what would happen!) You killed enough of them to prevent the swarm, even though you died for it in the end. (And of course you died for it - you’re good but no one’s that good.)

My point is: do you remember how it felt when that shriek bit into your arm and the Blight burned into your veins? Do you remember the way it spiraled into you, burrowing in your lungs and your heart and your gut until it felt like your body had always been its home? (I’ve been Blighted a lot so I’ve got some pretty good descriptors for it.)

Anyway, let me spell it out in case my metaphors are getting too convoluted: In this letter, I’m the shriek and my words are the Blight. I’ve bitten you and poured my words into you. Your memory will pump them through your mind just as surely as your heart pumped the Blight to the tips of your fingers and toes. Want a cure? Too bad, there isn’t one.

I’m not only writing to gloat. I meant what I said above - I appreciate the novelty you’ve brought to the battlefield. Things are dreadfully dull most of the time. Mainly the Story sends me off to retcon the occasional plot holes your Music introduces to the narrative. There’s very little chance for improvisation, so I have to find amusement where I can.

And this has been very amusing.

Sincerely, Ink

(Keep reading on AO3)

[stillebesat]

Scales (5/7)

Sanders Sides: Logan, Deceit, Virgil, Roman, Patton Blurb: Deceit hadn’t expected his absence from the Mindscape to be noticed by the others…until Logic knocked on his door. Fic Type: General Warnings: Shedding (snake style), Minor Injuries, Minor Pain, Touch Starvation, Death Talk Taglist in Reblog.

To Catch Up: Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2  Chapter 3

His scales?

But...but HOW?! 

Deceit shot to his feet before Logan could stop him, growling under his breath as his vision briefly blurred, but he couldn’t just sit still for this! “That’s impossible. HOW?!” He stumbled away from the others as Logic reached for him, instead heading to the window, wishing the sun was up so he could at least feel its heat through the glass.

“Kiddo,” Patton had also moved to his feet, hands outstretched. “Perhaps you should sit back dow--”

“But it doesn’t make sense! Nothing’s changed!” Deceit ignored Morality’s advice, continuing to shakily pace the floor. “My scales have never changed like that before! They should still be snake scales! They’ve always been--” 

He flinched at the electric touch lightly wrapping around his left wrist, forcing him to stop before he antagonized the scales there. He jerked his head up, wobbling as he struggled to breathe, his human eye focusing on Anxiety. 

“It’s obvious what’s going on isn’t it?” Virgil said, the shadows under his eyes pitch black. “It’s because you’ve been--”

Deceit hissed, going stiff. “Don’t you dare say accepted.” Just because they considered him to be Fa--Family didn’t mean that--that Thomas--He was a DARK SIDE for crying out loud! A BAD GUY. You don’t get accepted for being that after a simple name reveal!

...Right? 

Virgil huffed, letting go. “When did you last shed? Before or after you told us we could call you Lyal?” 

Deceit gritted his teeth lightly brushing his wrist to ensure the shed there was alright. It wasn’t like he could lie though, Logan already knew the answer. “...Before.” 

“And what changed afterwards?” Roman asked, a small smile playing on his lips, his eyes nearly glowing like they did whenever his Creativity was sparked. 

Deceit looked away. “You...invited me--”

“To dinner!” Patton said, clapping his hands together. “We started including you more.” 

“And you said yourself that you experience changes in your shed when Thomas is experiencing a period of growth himself and we are all a part of Thomas are we not?” Logan asked, resting a hand on Deceit’s non-scaled shoulder.  “Ergo, Thomas is growing to accept you because we are including you. It is a major change, Lyal.” 

“But...dragon scales?” He whispered, allowing his shaky legs to collapse him to the floor. He half curled in a ball as Logan knelt with him. “I--I---” It was too much. It couldn’t---he couldn’t! 

“They’re not all bad you know. I mean…It probably doesn’t mean much coming from me since I...well...fight them.” Roman said, carefully brushing Deceit’s scaled cheek with his fingers, leaving burning fire in their wake. “But she--the Dragon Witch--she does have her moments of...of being okay on occasion and you’re-” He gently rubbed his thumb under Deceit’s unblinking eye. “Probably more like Toothless than Smaug.” 

Logan raised his eyebrows. “Toothless? But Lyal obviously still has all his tee--”

“He means Dee’s like the Dragon named Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon, L.” Virgil interrupted. “With how he appears all dangerous at first...but turns out to be--”

No, no no! Deceit did not like where this metaphor was going. He bared his teeth, raising his human hand, ready to grab at the air though that hand had never been as good as his scaled one in silencing the others. “Call me soft and or cute Annie, and you’ll--”

“Not be making threats right now, LyLy.” Patton scolded, shaking a bright yellow finger in front of his scaled eye. “We need to solve one problem, not cause more.” 

“Agreed.” Logan said, adjusting his glasses. “Which means, we need to listen to Roman in order to help you. If your scales have changed to dragon scales then by all means he would know best on how to have us help you.” 

“Us.” Deceit echoed faintly, dropping his hand “But--”

“We’re family.” Logan said, his eyes glittering with careful humor as Deceit made a face. 

They really needed to stop using that word in relation to him. He wasn’t--

“And FamILY sticks together!” Patton declared. “Ro, how do you help the Dragon Witch? What do we need to do for Ly?” 

“But what if this is wrong?! What if it--” Deceit drew in a shuddering breath, ducking his head. “It could go wrong.” He whispered, leaning into Logan. “You don’t know--I’m not a Dragon Witch, I can’t--” 

“Lyal.” 

Despite himself, the tone of Roman’s voice had Deceit looking to the Creative Side as he placed a hand on his heart, holding his other one out to him.

“On my honor as a Prince and as Thomas’s Creativity, I promise, you won’t be harmed.” Roman offered him a smile that was softer, somehow more vulnerable than he’d seen on the Creative Side before. “I know what I’m doing.” 

How could he promise that?! They were going off the assumption that Deceit’s scales worked in the same way as a figment in the Imagination! It wasn’t going to--

“After all…” Roman pulled back his hand to run his fingers through his hair, messing up the princey styling as he fidgeted in place. “I did...I did base her off you--you know--since--well you are--were? A bad guy.” 

Patton gasped, eyes going wide. “You did?!” 

Roman flushed, “I was twelve okay? I was mad at Fibber on the Roof here for something I can’t even remember now so I--I created--her based off of you, but I didn’t know that you had snake scales and dragons were so much cooler! So--so there has to be some truth to your scales working the same way as hers.” Roman offered him a shaky smile. “Right?” 

Deceit opened his mouth to deny it, but he didn’t know what to say. Hadn’t his own words confirmed his scales were no longer snake ones? Hadn’t his room had betrayed him in the humidity not helping him? And Creativity--Roman was confident about this...this dragon process.

But what if it all went WRONG?! What if he lost his hand because of this! Or his eye?! He was already a freak among them. He was already--

“How about a small test.” Logan offered into the silence as Deceit continued to hesitate. “Perhaps a small spot on your shoul--”

“NO.” Deceit drew in a shuddering breath as the others stiffened. “I--I mean--yes.” He had to get the shed off somehow. “To the test. But not there. Not my arm.” 

He needed his arm and if this didn’t work he didn’t want to chance losing any mobility there that he hadn’t already possibly lost. “Ro--” He swallowed over the lump of terror stuck in his throat. “Roman can--try it here.” He pushed away from Logan, though the Logical Side refused to fully release him, and gestured to his side, holding his arm out and away to give Creativity access to the area. No one ever saw him shirtless anyways, so if--if this didn’t work, it wouldn’t be a big deal to have the scales be malformed there. 

“I can work with that.” Roman offered him a more confident smile as he snapped his fingers and held out his hand, a pile of opalescent dust appearing in his palm. “Usually the Dragon Witch just buries herself first and I help out later, but overall it’s a simple process for a little test.” He said. “I just press this against your side--”

“This being?” Virgil asked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. 

“Volcanic ash.” Roman said. “It draws out the moisture from the shed. Once it’s dry and flaky, we use some brushes to remove it and then a cloth with some mineral oil to shine the new scales right up. Easy.” 

Easy enough. Deceit drew in a shaky breath, closing his human eye though his snake one remained fixed on Roman’s brightly burning hand as it neared his side. He really hoped this would work. “Do it.”

“Gently.” Logan cautioned, shifting his position so he was fully behind Deceit. A slight pressure on his shoulders urging him to lean back against his chest.

Patton took Deceit’s human hand squeezing it. “You’re gonna be okay, LyLy.” He whispered.

Still. Deceit couldn’t help but flinch as Roman pressed the dust against his side, near his navel, his breath hitching at the warmth emanating from the spot. Much warmer than he expected it to feel. 

Virgil’s vibrant heat signature leaned forward. “How long does it take to know if it’s working?” 

“Not long.” Roman reassured him. “Give it a minute.”

A minute. Deceit opened his human eye staring down at the spot, trying to ignore how hard his heart was pounding, how tightly he was squeezing Patton’s hand. A minute to know when it had taken him six days to realize something was wrong. A minute to discover if this volcanic ash would help him or--he didn’t want to think of the or. 

“And--” Roman relaxed his hand, allowing the ash to fall away from the shed and onto the carpet. 

Deceit made a soft sound in the back of his throat as he released Patton’s hand to gingerly touch the spot, warm now from the pressure Roman had placed on it, but no longer was the same shade of sickly green as the rest of his shed. Instead it had blackened like burned timber. 

Was that good? Was it bad? While it did feel unnaturally warmer, the spot wasn’t itching like past shed periods to indicate that it was ready. So this had to be bad. The scales had o be ruined there now! It hadn’t worked! IT HADN--”

“Dee.” Virgil’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts, causing him to look up.

Anxiety’s eyeshadow had darkened again, to the same shade as the spot as he pulled Deceit’s hand away from his side. “Breathe.”

BREATHE? Deceit inhaled raggedly, clutching at Annie as Roman quickly brought a small currying brush up to his burning side, gently massaging the spot in small circles. 

“That’s normal, Lion King. I promise. The skin always gets darker, the Ash--it makes it darker. It’s fine. It’s fine. I promise. It’s normal.” Creativity said as flakes of skin fell away under his careful movements. 

Deceit tensed, pressing against Logan, a soft hiss escaping him as he watched Roman work. This hardly felt normal. It felt all WRONG! Normally the shed just...peeled off. It didn’t flake like this! 

“Nothing’s gone wrong, Lyal. It’s working exactly like it does for the Dragon Witch.” Roman continued to reassure him, flashing him a smile as the brush changed to a cloth that he carefully rubbed along the spot. “See?” He pulled away, revealing a set of brand new scales gleaming under the light.

To Be Continued Chapter 5

[jingabitch]

a concept (but also a request) --- a saesang discovers yn and tries to harm/blackmail her, and is almost successful. i'd love to see how the boys react and how they protect her

It has been a while !! since I wrote anything for this and I always worry that I’ve lost the AU. Let me know what you think as always, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get to this!

Word count: 5k

series index

Spa days are fun. They’d always been something you enjoyed, but didn’t have the money or time to indulge in before the boys. Since you’ve come to live with them, however, it’s become a group activity for you, which is all the better. Needless to say, pampering yourself is now a regular hobby, one they’re all too willing to encourage. It’s a nice compromise for when you feel like going out – they drop you off at the spa on their way to work and pick you up on the way back, and the spa employees know to text Namjoon frequently about what you’re getting up to.

Today’s spa session, however, is even more exciting than usual for you, because you’re preparing to attend an award show. Not as their date, of course – kpop idols don’t get dates – but as a member of the audience. They’d managed to wrangle you a ticket to the best seat in the house, after your persistent begging for weeks, and definitely way too much flaunting of your new engagement ring because all of them grew soft when they saw it.

It was all worth it in the end, because they eventually caved and let you go for the show. Not without a bunch of rules like ‘don’t talk to anyone’ and ‘come straight home’, or hiring what amounted to an armoured vehicle to ferry you to and from the event, but you’re excited nonetheless.

The show is tomorrow, and you’re going to be alone for most of the day because the boys have to rehearse for their performance, go early and all that, but for today, you’re with the seven of them being massaged and waxed and scrubbed together, and it’s amazing.

“Joonie-oppa?” you say into the dark silence of the room where you’re all lying as you get facials.

“Hmm?” he mumbles back, clearly half-asleep. You bite back a smile of fondness, not wanting to disturb the layer of goop on your face.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, knowing that he’s the one who made all the arrangements for you to go. It can’t have been easy, since you’re a secret they’re determinedly keeping.

“You’re welcome,” he responds, his words still slightly slurred.

“Why didn’t you say thank you to the rest of us?” Jimin, ever the needy one, whines.

“I’ll thank you when we get home,” you respond, biting your lip against the smile that threatens to emerge. They’re all so cute, you just want to pinch their cheeks and show them love. And now you get to do just that for the rest of your life. What a lucky girl you are.

Getting ready for the show isn’t nearly as glamorous as one might imagine. For one thing, you’re alone in the apartment, doing your own hair and makeup. For another, you’re hardly able to focus on anything because the boys are constantly texting you. It’s like every second they aren’t actively rehearsing or doing sound check or whatever it is, they want pictures of you, updates on how you’re feeling, and, of course, it wouldn’t be Yoongi without repeated questions about whether you’re sure you really want to go for the show.

You love it, of course. After being alone for so many years, you’re hardly in a position to complain about too much attention. There isn’t such a thing, as far as you’re concerned, so you happily pose for pictures with half-done makeup, in the expensive silk robe they’d bought you.

When it comes time to get dressed, the boys insist on Facetiming you so they can see your reaction to the dress they’d bought for you. You know it’s expensive because it comes in a giant Dior box, but the boys had insisted on it remaining a secret for you until it was time to put it on.

With the boys eagerly watching from your phone propped up with some pillows, you lift the lid off the box and promptly gasp in shock. The gown is white, with silk chiffon buds sewn into it. As you lift it out of the box, you note that it’s a gorgeous A-line cut with a flared skirt that will leave only your ankles exposed, and that while the bodice is white, the skirt fades into deep blue and violet, with tiny yellow flowers adorning the hem.

“Oh, my God…” you marvel, speechless as you hold the dress up.

“Do you like it?” Hoseok asks eagerly, unable to stay quiet. He and Taehyung fought for almost a week over the dress before settling on this one, and he, for one, is rather proud of their selection. From afar it looks simple enough, with a classic cut and colour that you, with your more conservative fashion sense would feel comfortable wearing, but still unique, with intricate detailing that satisfied the boys. After all, even if no one at the show knows that you’re theirs, they should still admire you.

“It’s beautiful.” Your voice wobbles slightly, and Jimin immediately crowds closer to the phone, blocking most of the other boys.

“Y/n-ie, are you okay? Are you upset?” His voice is slightly panicked, and you sniffle as you blink away the tears.

“I’m fine, Chim. It’s just… this is so pretty; you guys are always too good to me,” you choke out.

“Stop it,” Yoongi says, knocking Jimin’s head away so he can take his turn peering at you. “You’re perfect; we’re the ones who don’t deserve you,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. You know he isn’t the most vocal about his feelings, so you just smile at him.

“Okay, oppa,” you accept. “Thank you boys for this.”

Jimin returns enthusiastically, pressing his face so close to Yoongi’s that their cheeks are practically touching. You stifle a giggle at how cute they look together. “Y/n-ie! We’re not done! Look in my closet!”

“Uh… okay.” You pick up the phone and leave Yoongi’s room to go down the hall to the bigger one that Jimin and Hoseok share. Sitting on top of the drawers in Jimin’s section of their walk-in closet is a distinct blue box. “You didn’t,” you gasp, setting down the phone to open the box.

“Do you like it? It matches your ring, doesn’t it?” Hoseok yells from somewhere in the background. You stare reverently at the necklace and earrings set, a diamanté chain with a massive teardrop-shaped pendant dangling from it, and matching dangly earrings.

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous.” Ridiculously, you’re on the brink of tears again.

“Well, stop staring at it and go get ready, Y/n,” Seokjin frowns at you. His good-natured nagging is welcome now more than ever, and you nod obediently.

“Okay… I’ll see you later?” The statement comes out as a question against your will. Stupid, of course. The whole point of going to the show is to see the boys accept a whole slew of awards.

Yoongi smiles softly at you, though. “Yeah, baby, we’ll see you later,” he confirms before hanging up, and for the rest of the time that you’re getting ready, you can’t stop grinning.

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

The show is spectacular. From where you’re seated, you have a perfect view of the celebrities in their own section, seated around tables – although you’ve really never understood why, since it’s not like this is a banquet. You ooh and ahh at the appropriate moments, applaud (smugly) when your boys sweep the awards, and in general have a grand old time. You’re alone, of course, but that doesn’t really bother you when you’d had so much time to get used to it in the past.

Besides, it’s somewhat different today. Even though the boys can’t text you given that all eyes – and cameras – are on them and they need to look like they’re engaged with the happenings of the event, their eyes are constantly drifting over to the audience, where they know you’re seated. The urge to wave at them is overwhelming, but you know how imperative it is that you not show any sign of knowing them in public. It was something that Namjoon had emphasized to you repeatedly last night, even though you’re not that sure why that’s the case. He’d said something about hate and crazy fans…?

Truth be told, though, you think his concern is just a tiny bit overblown. Sure, there are overzealous fans out there, but these days it really does seem like fans are becoming more mature. Even Chen from EXO had gotten married recently, and when they announced their engagement most of the reactions had been fairly positive. You hate doubting your boys, but it feels a little like they’re ashamed of you.

Once the seed takes root in your mind, it becomes almost impossible to shake. Years of coping with your insecurities and loneliness have primed you to think the worst, although the boys have always been so attentive that it’s impossible for even you to feel like they don’t care about you. Now, though, with the short distance between you that feels like an insurmountable barrier, it occurs to you that this is a metaphor for your lives. You’ll always be on the outside, looking in. They own you, but the inverse will never be the same.

Thinking about it threatens to send you into a spiral, and you know that you can’t have a full-blown panic attack here, so you leap out of your seat and bolt for the exit. Some fresh air will do you good, you think slightly hysterically, trying to put off the inevitable.

The cool spring air feels good on your overheated cheeks, and you pace up and down the alley next to the building, your arms folded across your chest. It feels like your ribs are constricting your lungs, and you suck in deep breaths of air, trying to calm yourself. Before you can get too caught up in your own mind, however, you hear footsteps behind you and whip around to see who it is.

“Hey,” Yoongi says simply, his hands in his pockets. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you lie, not wanting him to worry, but your voice wobbles slightly before you can catch it. You clear your throat loudly, hoping he’ll think it was just something stuck, but he just raises a brow at you.

Your shoulders slump defeatedly. You know you’ll never be able to hide anything from Yoongi. He’s the one who knows you the best, who saw you at your worst, back when you’d been alone and before he saved you.

“What happened?” he asks, holding his arms out for you, and you dive into them gratefully. You’re careful not to press your face against him, knowing that he can’t go back in with makeup smeared on his clothes, but you rest your chin on his shoulder and let him wrap you up in a hug.

“Are you embarrassed for people to know you’re with me?” you ask in a small voice.

Yoongi’s reaction is almost comedic. The normally lackadaisical man lets go of you to take a step back in shock, one hand on your shoulder as the other tilts your chin so that you have no choice to look at him, despite your best efforts. “Of course not,” he says emphatically, almost shaking you in his eagerness to make sure you understand just now serious he is. “Why? Who told you that?” His voice starts to rise and he starts turning away from you, almost like he’s going rush right back in to yell at his brothers.

You grab his hand so he doesn’t do anything ridiculous and drastic. “No one, it’s just… I don’t know, I feel like a dirty little secret sometimes, you know?”

“Baby…” he sighs. “You know why we can’t go public. It’s not safe for you.”

“I know… but Taeyang got married and it was fine, and Chen’s pregnancy reveal went all right too. I don’t know, I just feel like things might be changing, y’know?”

Yoongi frowns. “Chen’s wife’s identity isn’t revealed to the public, and he’s terrified to let her go out alone these days because of all the backlash from the fans.”

You pout a little. “I never go outside anyway; what does it matter?” you complain a little petulantly.

Yoongi sighs, sensing that this is something you’re going to dig your heels in over. “All right, I’ll talk to the others about it,” he says. “We can test the waters tonight, but promise me that you’ll let us prioritize your own safety over going public, okay?”

You nod obediently, smiling up at Yoongi. “Okay,” you agree. He drops a kiss on your forehead, then sends you back in, waiting a couple of minutes before he re-enters through the back entrance that celebrities use so no one suspects anything.

Little does he know, it’s already too late for such measures.

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

Returning to your seat for the last part of the awards ceremony, you honestly feel a lot better. You don’t know how Yoongi knew you needed him, but he did, and he was there for you, no questions asked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get you out of your own head. Unconsciously you start stroking the edge of the ring adorning your finger. It was something you’d started doing for the boys, but along the way you realized how much the action comforted you as well, reminding you of the commitment they’d made to you.

You’re already seated when you see Yoongi returning to his, winding through the tables spread across the floor to get to the one the boys are at. They look at him inquiringly, but he just shakes his head and explains quietly, looking up at the audience for a second. If you weren’t looking out for it, you wouldn’t have noticed that he was talking about you.

Unfortunately, someone other than you is also looking out.

At the end of the event, the idols start standing up to leave and when your phone buzzes in your clutch, your eyes fly to the boys. Jungkook is casually adjusting his clothing and you can see him slip his phone back into his pocket. You smile to yourself. What a cute boy. He’s not that much younger than you, but you always feel the need to baby him.

You open up your clutch to check your phone, slowly standing to leave. The message you find causes you to glance back at the boys, who are now in a sea of idols all crowding towards the exit points. Taehyung sees you, though, and winks at you. Stifling a giggle, you wink back and follow the crowds out of the auditorium, heading towards the restrooms.

There’s a long line (of course) but you don’t mind, smiling to yourself as you text the boys, letting them know how proud you are of them, and how happy you are to be able to see it this close. The girl standing in line behind you taps you on the shoulder, and you look up at her, confused. “Yes?” you ask, politely, you hope. Your social skills have really deteriorated since moving in with the boys, not that they were necessarily excellent before.

“Your dress is so pretty!” she compliments you, and you giggle in response, flushing.

“Thank you so much!” you accept with grace. You know the dress is amazing – the boys have impeccable taste, after all, and the expensive accessories only highlight your whole outfit. You’re probably overdressed, but you don’t much care. You so rarely get to go out as it is, and you have to admit, you love playing dress up with the boys. It’s like Hobi and Taehyung think of you as a doll sometimes, and you don’t mind it at all.

“No problem! I think BTS liked it too,” the girl giggled. “They kept looking over at you just now.”

“Oh…” you laughed awkwardly, not sure how to respond. “I don’t think so; they just look over at the audience a lot because they care about their fans, I think.” Your excuse was weak, but without any warning, it was all you could come up with.

“No way! They were definitely looking at you. I bet you might even get some numbers tonight,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Wow, that would really be something…” you trailed off, letting the conversation die. Thankfully, your phone pinged again and you excused yourself to continue texting the boys. You thought nothing more of the strange interaction you’d had, assuming it was just some overzealous fan who’d wanted to gush about the boys.

You took your time in the restroom, then hung around the entrance for a bit, watching people leave for the subway or get into cars. When it seemed like most people had left, you slipped back into the building, heading for the backstage area. You slipped in and someone with a clipboard and headset came to chase you away, but before he could, Namjoon came to get you. He brought you to the dressing room where the boys were hanging out, most of the stylists having left already.

“Baby!” Hoseok sprang up and ran to greet you in a way that honestly reminded you of Yeontan. You laughed and opened your arms to hug him, which he accepted happily. He took a step back a second later to take a good look at you, dripping in diamonds and adorned in the dress he’d chosen. You were always prettiest when you wore the clothes he picked, and it was a good thing you tended to agree with him.

He tugged you over to the couch where you sat, squished between him and the other boys. Spending time with them truly was the balm to your soul, you thought. With them around, you could definitely take on anything – overzealous fans, paparazzi, even strange personal encounters like the one you’d had earlier.

You had Yoongi’s jacket over your shoulders as you half-leaned on Taehyung, Jin standing behind you on the couch when you heard a commotion outside the dressing room. Before you could react, there was a scuffling sound and then someone burst through the curtains that were being used to give the rooms some semblance of privacy.

All of you turned, shocked, as the girl you’d been talking to earlier half-fell into the room. “You!” she gasps, just as surprised to see you. The boys immediately stand up, putting their bodies between you and the girl, so you can’t see each other anymore.

“What’s going on?” you wonder, your voice not working well enough to enunciate your words clearly.

Namjoon steps forward, Hoseok right behind him. “Get her out of here,” he directs security sharply, and they make to follow his orders, going to grab her to drag her out of there.

“Wait!” she gasps, lurching forward out of their grasp. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Well, you’ve said it, now please leave. You’re not supposed to be back here.” Jimin, always the most polite one, says.

“Who is that girl?” the girl ignores Jimin to crane her neck so she can see around the boys.

“None of your business,” Jin snaps in response. While she looks up at him, hurt, the security guards take the opportunity to drag her out of the room.

Immediately, the boys turn back to you, rushing over to make sure you’re okay. Taehyung is so concerned he almost launches himself back onto the couch next to you, and Yoongi admonishes him to be more careful in case he actually hurt you. You smile up at Yoongi, accepting his gentle kisses and concern, but tell him that you’re not that fragile, that Taehyung would never actually hurt you.

When all the boys have made sure that you’re okay and gotten their share of hugs and fussing in, all of you make your way back home.

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

For the next couple of days, it seems like everything’s gone back to normal. You hang the gorgeous dress up next to all the others you now on, and return to your usual attire of loungewear, hanging out on the couch with Yeontan most of the time. The boys, of course, still have to work, so you end up ordering a lot of takeout when Jin isn’t free to cook for you.

Then you start getting sick. At first, you think it’s probably just an upset tummy and review your takeout places, cutting out those that might have caused the issue. But it doesn’t stop, and you keep getting sicker. It gets to the point where you can’t hide it from the boys anymore, after running to the bathroom to throw up right as you’re getting comfortable to watch a movie together on one of the rare free nights they have.

“Baby? You okay?” It mortifies you to note that all the boys are standing right outside the bathroom door, watching you worship the porcelain god.

You give them a weak thumbs up, feeling like you’ve gotten it all out of your system, but then another wave hits and you’re forced to turn back to the toilet. A fresh wave of alarm runs through the boys. Jimin, Taehyung and Yoongi try to burst through the door at the same time, getting stuck before Yoongi, the most determined, pushes past the others and runs to you, rubbing your back gently. The others hover back, concerned but also kind of grossed out by what’s happening.

Eventually you stop and reach up weakly to flush the toilet. Yoongi helps you to the sink where Jimin’s already gotten your toothbrush loaded up to brush your teeth. As you snuggle up in bed – at Yoongi’s insistence, despite your insistence that you feel better already – the boys all take care of you in their own special ways. Namjoon, wondering if you’ve developed a sudden food aversion, starts Googling potential causes and making a table of all the things you’ve eaten in the past couple of days, separated by ingredient. Jimin, who’s curled up next to you, tells Namjoon that you should rest, but you shush him, letting Namjoon fret about you in his own way. Jin is in the kitchen, making porridge and mild soups for you to eat for the next few days, while Yeontan lies on the bed, mostly oblivious but pleased to be around everyone anyway.

Over the next few days, you seem to get better, and all of them are relieved to see that you’ve returned to your usual self. Of course, with how busy the boys are, Jin can’t keep cooking for you, and you go back to the takeout food once you’ve finished the last of his porridge.

Immediately you deteriorate again, even though you changed all the places you were getting takeout from. It’s infuriating and confusing, and truth be told, you’re getting a little scared. Not wanting to worry the boys, you try to hide it from them, but your cover was blown when you had to run out of the bedroom to throw up in the middle of the night, probably trampling over a couple of them in your hurry.

After that, you’re forced to confess that ever since you finished Jin’s home-cooked meals, all the food you’ve ordered is making you sick, which makes no sense because you aren’t even ordering from the same place more than once anymore. When you explain that, Namjoon’s jaw does that ticking thing and he kisses your forehead, telling you that everything will be okay, that he’ll take care of it.

The next morning, he’s gone before the rest of you really wake up, to talk to the security staff and check out the camera footage. When he comes back, you’re still in bed, but the others are in various stages of getting ready to go to the studio. He enters the apartment dramatically, slamming the door open and stomping into the bedroom, although the way he trips over the step to get past the entryway undercuts the effect of his rage slightly.

Yoongi is getting dressed when Namjoon barges into the room, but he’s so used to the other members seeing him in various states of undress that he doesn’t even react as he finishes taking his pajamas off. “What is it?” Yoongi asks, deadpan as always.

“That person at the award show has been intercepting all her meals,” Namjoon explained tightly, his jaw clenching.

You and Yoongi looked at each other as the dots connected in your mind. A second later, Yoongi had all but exploded with rage, pacing up and down while muttering about killing her. The others came to see what the commotion was about, Jimin still fastening his earrings and Taehyung buttoning his shirt as he stood in the hallway, and Namjoon had to explain all over again, and then calm everyone down because even if they all felt like it, murder wasn’t really an option for them.

“Guys…” you called from inside the room, since all of them seemed to have forgotten that you were even here. “It’s fine, I’ll just stop ordering delivery and the problem will be solved.”

The boys blinked at you, incredulous at your lack of anger and basic self-preservation. Then again, it was what had led you to them, so maybe they shouldn’t be quite that surprised…

“Well, yes, of course you should stop ordering delivery until we catch this person, but that can’t be all…” Even Hoseok was shocked at your carefree attitude towards someone literally trying to poison you.

“Sweetie, don’t you want that person to be put behind bars or something?” Jimin asked tentatively.

You shrugged. “Sure, but karma will take care of all of that.”

Karma…? Before any of them could question it, Namjoon cleared his throat, bringing everyone’s attention back to him, to explain the plan. Hoseok and Jin interjected once in a while to ask questions and add their suggestions, but the rest listened. Yoongi was still far too furious to think rationally, aggressively cuddling you and wrinkling his clothes, although he brushed that aside when you pointed it out. The younger ones listened with wide eyes, somehow shocked that something like this could happen, even though all of them had experienced crazy stalker fans before.

It was impossible for all of them to stay home, of course. Not only was this completely infeasible from a practical perspective, but there were various phases of the plan that were required to fully ensnare the stalker – not to mention, punish her for her actions. It was the only way that any of them could convince Yoongi to go along with the plan instead of going off by himself to commit murder or something.

First, they realized that since they didn’t actually have video footage of her messing with the food, they didn’t have enough evidence to hold up in court, so additional cameras were installed around the building, in the elevators and even a little one right outside their front door that was hidden in one of those silly “Welcome” signs people liked to put up on their doors. It was obvious that the case going to court would be impossible – they were in the public eye so often that everyone knew none of the boys were sick, and they didn’t want you to have to testify, which would reveal to the world that you were living in their dorm with the rest of them.

Then they had to figure out how she knew which deliveries were theirs. It wasn’t like she was hanging around their apartment complex all day, since that would definitely have aroused suspicion among the security guards. After trying out a few different experiments, they realized she’d somehow managed to tap the landline and intercepted every delivery that was ordered by you with one portion. It was genius, but they weren’t in much of a mood to appreciate it.

It took a couple more weeks, but eventually they managed to get enough footage of her taking their deliveries, sprinkling some sort of powder over it and then delivering it to your apartment. Since she always just knocked and then dropped the food off at your door, you never realized that all the deliveries were being brought to you by the same person.

Meanwhile, to prime the public to rain hate down on her when she was arrested, the boys had been taking turn releasing cryptic messages on vlives and weverse alluding to someone who was harming them and the precious people in their lives. Taehyung even teared up on vlive, which had fans ready to wield pitchforks and torches to hunt down whoever it was.

In the end, instead of taking their evidence to the police, a clip compilation showing the girl poisoning the food and delivering it to the boys’ apartment was ‘leaked’ online, prompting a police investigation without the boys even initiating it with a report. The public outrage was so intense that in a strange turn of events, police protection had to be deployed for her safety, and she quickly pled guilty without trial to avoid the drawn-out agony of a public trial.

In the end, fans all around the world were made aware that there were some lines that the boys wouldn’t tolerate being crossed without serious retaliation. Through the whole debacle, none of the boys made any open statements, but their vlives and weverse messages made so much more sense now that everything was out in the open. It was honestly chilling, how far they were willing to go when boundaries were overstepped.

They didn’t know what exactly had set them off, but you knew. It was you.

[vintagedaydreams]

True Love Never Runs Smoothly Part FIVE (Carlisle)

What? Two updates in a week? I’m actually sure I’ve been replaced with an alien. Hope she gets my laundry done while she’s here.

Warnings: suicidal/depressed thoughts, anxiety attack, language, bit of blood, same ol’ same ol’ really.

Enjoy!!

@kettnerjanea​ @jelly-fishy-babie​ @the-graceful-ace @amwolowicz​ @batsdothings​ @waxingmoonstone​ @littlebabybatthings @mauvette268​ @sagittarius-flowerchild​ @katsav17​ @batsuperflashmartianwonderman​ @imyourapocalypse​

The next morning found you wandering the castle corridors, looking for any member of the Volturi. You needed to go home. You had a life you’d very much like to get back to and a job that you’d very much like to keep.

You had only come here because you were Carlisle’s Mate and you and Bella were still human.

You stumbled a bit. Shit. There hadn’t been any discussion about you and Bella being human. And hopefully staying human. At least for a bit longer.

Or maybe there had and you missed it. You had been sequestered in your room an awful lot the past few days. And for good bloody reason.

You really needed to find one of the Kings – Aro preferably. Marcus you didn’t really want to bother – he seemed like he was always miles away. And Caius… well he still scared the crap out of you. While the rest of the Volturi had been ridiculously nice, he hadn’t given you much attention. Which was absolutely fine with you, but you also hadn’t had any chance to get to know him. Again, absolutely fine with you, but not knowing him made you wary around him.

Yes, Aro would be the preferred option.

If only this castle wasn’t so confusing!

You wandered around for who knows how long before you stumbled across yet another hallway that didn’t look the least bit familiar to you. Well, it looked like every other hallway, but other than that, completely unknown to you.

But it was darker than other hallways in the castle and you felt your skin prickle in awareness. Okay, so in hindsight, a human wandering through a castle that housed creatures that ate humans wasn’t like…the brightest idea you’d ever had.

Though, in your defense, you had been greeted, and quite quickly too, any other time you’d ventured out of your rooms. Except for today.

Just your luck. You need to leave and then can’t find anybody.

At this point, you’d even be willing to meet up with a Cullen!

Well…maybe you weren’t quite that desperate yet.

Movement at the end of the hall had your ears metaphorically perked and goosebumps erupted on your arms. There were little to no lights in the halls as you wandered deeper into the castle – guess vampires didn’t need lights to see in the dark.

You did though. And right now, the one feebly glowing torch, (an actual fire torch!), was giving off a very small halo of light that you’d stopped in.

You couldn’t see much further down the hall.

But you could hear the noise of something moving again.

You couldn’t help the shiver that raced through you. It would be very…inconvenient if you were to die here, today. After all the shit you’d been through recently…it… it would actually be just your luck, come to think of it.

Of course you’d die when you finally made up your mind to leave all of this, all of them, behind.

But, if a vampire was trying to stalk you, wouldn’t they move silently so you couldn’t hear them?

A nasty voice in your head shot back, Why would they move silently when there is no one else around to hear?

…True. You hadn’t seen anyone since you left our room. The vampire trying to eat you would not need to move quietly. It’s not like you could do anything against them and with no one else in hearing range…

Shit.

There was a scrape on the stone ahead of you in the dark and then a gust of wind and suddenly, the lit torch was out and you were thrown into total darkness.

You broke out in a cold sweat and desperately turned your head this way and that to try to see something. Anything.

But it was too dark. You couldn’t even see your hand in front of your face.

Another gust of wind blew past you and then, you felt the chill of a nearby vampire seeping into your skin.

Whoever it was, they were standing close. Very close.

A soft whimper escaped without your permission when you were suddenly pushed to the wall behind you and a cold hard body was pressed against you.

“You and the other human have been guarded quite carefully,” an unknown male voice breathed out, sweet smelling breath wafting across your face and turning your stomach. “The other human’s mate has not left her side, but you…your mate has not been seen by your side since you first arrived. And now that the Volturi Guards are no longer protecting you, you are…free for the taking.”

Another whimper made it past your lips and you clenched your eyes shut as a long fingered hand ran through your hair in a mock expression of tenderness.

“Hush,” came the purred command. “I won’t hurt you. Much.”

You bit your lip hard to stifle another sound.

“You should be thanking me,” the male vampire continued, voice pitched low and soothing. “Your mate doesn’t want you and no vampire wants an Unwanted Bond Mate. You’re too entangled with the Vampire world to be set free now. You’ll likely either be changed or killed. But…no one will want you as a vampire.”

You flinched at that and the vampire in front of you moved even closer to you.

“A Bond Mate is a sacred thing,” he continued, voice near a purr. “If you are Unwanted, there is something wrong with you that no vampire will want to touch. But I…I can help you.”

The hand in your hair suddenly tangled deep and your head was jerked back to bounce against the stone behind you and bare your neck.

“I can save you from an eternity of loneliness by killing you now. And, as you have no guards and no Mate here to say otherwise, why shouldn’t I?”

You couldn’t quite keep the half sob from escaping this time but you froze as you felt a hand around your throat.

“I said to hush,” the vampire growled, fingers tightening around your neck threateningly. “I do not want to rush this, Unwanted Mate. I would like to enjoy this. But if you keep making sounds, I won’t be quite so nice to you.”

Dutifully, you swallowed your cries, though you were unable to keep yourself from trembling.

You had never been scared of vampires before – not like this. The Cullens and Hales had been rude, angry and completely destroyed your self esteem, but they had never actively tried to kill you before. Neither had the Volturi.

But this one—

A sharp pain on the side of your face startled a gasp out of you and your eyes flew open, even though you couldn’t see.

“That’s better,” the vampire purred, the sound of sucking reaching your ears. Something wet ran down the side of your face and you realized with a full body shudder that the vampire had cut your cheek and was licking the blood off his finger.

His fingers were no longer locked around your throat, but they were still tangled deep in your hair, keeping your head up and your neck exposed.

“I want your attention solely on me when I feed from you,” your assailant purred, “not lost up in your head.”

You clenched your eyes shut again as you felt the vampire lean in, a lone tear snaking it’s way down your face.

“Crying will not help you now,” he whispered, breath fanning your neck against your jugular. There was the barest hint of a fang scraping your skin and then suddenly, a loud cracking was heard by your face and the presence in front of you was gone.

Something gently hit the side of your head and with a rolling stomach, you realized the unknown vampire’s hand was still in your hair and hanging limply, detached from the rest of his body that was now no longer near you.

What sounded like metal being torn apart, and loud feral growls, alerted you to the fact that a bit farther down the hall, your attacker was being attacked.

By who, you didn’t know.

A cold hand gripped your elbow and you screamed, startled.

“Easy, Cara,” came Aro’s low voice, “you are safe now.”

Gentle hands began to untangle the vampire’s fingers still buried in your hair and you felt your trembling worsen. This was the most terrifying thing you had ever experienced.

The pressure eased off your head, but you felt your chest tighten as it got harder to breathe. You’d almost died. You’d been attacked and toyed with by a vampire that was about to drain you. Kill you. You had almost been murdered!

“Cara,” Aro’s voice sounded from far away, “Cara, you are safe now. That vampire will not be able to touch you again. Your mate has taken care of him. Come, cara, breathe for me.”

You tried, you really did, but you couldn’t get your mind to stop spinning in circles around the fact that you had just been attacked and almost drained by a vampire a few moments ago!

Aro’s voice faded back to the background again as you tried to get air into your lungs, only to spiral down into a deeper panic when you couldn’t get enough air. You managed to survive being almost killed by a vampire only to suffocate yourself immediately after!

Cold arms were suddenly wrapped around you and you were lowered to sit in a cold lap. You struggled for a moment – you would not be almost drained again! – but then the scent registered. Woods and spice and home.

Carlisle.

Whatever reservations you had, whatever anger you were feeling towards the man who had shoved you aside to the mercy of his family, all disappeared as you felt a strong feeling of safety envelop you.

Burying yourself in his chest, you wrapped your arms around him in return and started giving off hiccoughing sobs in between your struggle for air.

You just wanted to go home!

The cold chest you were pressed against started vibrating with a low purr and a large hand started rubbing up and down your back.

“Y/N,” Carlisle murmured, voice calm and doctor-like, (though was that a hint of fear you detected?), “you are safe. I need you to listen to my breathing and try and match yours, okay? You need to calm down before you hurt yourself. Breathe in, hold it…and breathe out, hold it.”

It took a few tries, but you followed along to both his instructions and his exaggerated breathing as best you could.

“Good, Y/N, good. In, hold…and out, hold.”

You weren’t sure how long you sat there in a darkened corridor in Carlisle’s lap, but finally, finally, you felt your breathing coming more naturally and the pain in your chest started to ease, leaving a bone deep weariness in its place.

This was…not how you had envisioned you leaving Volterra to happen. You had been hoping you could just slip out and not think about the supernatural again.

Obviously that didn’t work out.

“Cara,” Aro’s voice spoke up suddenly from somewhere to your left, “what were you doing down here?”

“I was looking for you,” you murmured out, surprised at how hoarse and exhausted your voice sounded.

“Me?” Aro said in surprise and you nodded against Carlisle’s chest.

Right. Carlisle.

You needed to move, like now. But he felt so safe and so good, you were having a hard time reminding yourself of all the reasons why staying here with him was a bad idea.

And there were many.

“Yeah,” you said with a sigh, finally unlocking your arms from around the doctor and pushing away from him. “I wanted to talk to you about leaving. I need to get back home.”

There was silence in the corridor and then a gust of air that had you instinctively flinching back towards Carlisle.

A soft whoosh and the torch was relit and placed back on the wall from where it’d fallen.

You blinked at the sudden light, eyes trying to focus on Carlise and Aro who were both very close to you.

Neither one of them looked happy.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Carlisle asked Aro after a long moment and you looked at the blond vampire in confusion. First aid kit?

Your eyes flitted down to all the parts of Carlisle you could see. If he had taken care of your attacker, (and a fuzzy memory of Aro saying your mate had done so came to mind), he looked no worse for wear. Why would he need a first aid kit?

“There should be one in the human wing,” Aro murmured after a moment, blood red eyes narrowed at the side of your face.

You made a little sound. Right. Your assailant had scraped you.

“It’s really not that bad,” you muttered, starting to detangle yourself from Carlisle’s lap. Nope. No dutiful mate, no happily ever afters, no knight in shining armor, no doctor to save the day and patch you up like some Lifetime movie.

You just wanted to go home.

Besides, you were pretty sure it had stopped bleeding already. Probably already started to coagulate and close up with how long it took you to get your head on right.

He did not get to play the part of caring mate!

You were grateful he saved you from being drained or from suffocating yourself, but that was as far as your good will extended.

You had to be strong. You were not going to be someone’s second choice!

“If you insist,” Aro said after a moment and a cold hand left your arm. Good. Aro saw your reasoning and agreed with it. Or at least wasn’t going to fight you on it.

You didn’t need another fight right now. You were all done in from the last one.

“Carlisle, my friend,” Aro said suddenly, “why don’t you go and let the rest of your family know what is going on? I will take Y/N here and make sure she gets settled and taken care of.”

Carlisle looked like he was about to argue, but a faint buzzing told you that they were talking vampire speed, and then Carlisle took off down the hall after another long look at you.

You felt all the tension drain from you as soon as he was out of sight.

“Come, Cara,” Aro said from right next to you as he gently lifted you up and into his arms. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

“Home,” you murmured, eyes closing, “I want to go home.”

“And you will,” Aro promised lowly, “we’ll discuss it when you’re rested.”

[smallnico]

(Since you said you also struggle with it) Do you have any tips regarding not letting your anxiety-induced control issues making you a bad friend? Or being controlling of others?

sure! sorry for the late response btw, i’ve been swamped and haven’t felt really able to compose the long answer a question like this kind of deserves. as with all advice-based asks i receive, mind that i’m not a professional, i only speak from my own experience and from things i’ve learned during counseling sessions for my own mental health. ultimately, depending on how severely the issues you’re talking about affect your wellness and relationships, you should try to find a professional who can learn more about your personal experiences and guide you on a more personal journey of self-reflection and self-improvement. but i can definitely give some general tips, and will do so!

i think, in order to learn how to keep control issues in check, we all need to understand the nature of control. 

control is something the universe will never let us have in the abundance we need to feel safe. there are things in our lives we can control in certain situations, like what we have for dinner, or what colour our walls are, but there are situations where these things are out of our control too -- say you’re having dinner at a friend’s and they’re making the dinner, or you live in a rent-controlled apartment with a landlord who likes beige on tan. being able to control something in a messy situation gives us a sense of stability and certainty, because no matter what other unpredictable thing happens, at least we know what colour the walls are. at least we know what we’re having for dinner. it’s an anchor in a panic attack. when we feel like the world we know is crumbling around us, at least we have something to hold on to.

of course, with control issues inevitably comes the question of just how much needs to be under control in order for us to feel safe. severity varies. say someone has ocd, for instance, and absolutely needs to check their purse for their wallet and keys 20 times in order to feel control over whether or not they’ll be locked out of the house. say someone has long-developed abandonment issues and absolutely needs to know where their friends are at all times, so they know those friends are coming back. the hardest thing for anyone with control issues to accept, regardless of their severity, is that we cannot have control all the time. to a certain degree, we can’t always control even our own actions, our emotions, our successes and failures. we may gain control, but we will lose it at some point, and it’s scary when that happens, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. it’s just a fact of life, and it’s one that every single person in the world has to deal with, regardless of whether they have control issues. 

control is safety. control is sitting in a chair. losing control is the chair being yanked out from under you, whether by another person, by an earthquake, or by any means. suddenly we’re falling, we don’t know if it’ll hurt, and we’re just scrambling for anything to get us back in that chair, if it’s even still there, maybe injuring ourselves more in the process. but accepting that the chair, by whatever means, is gone, means we land on the ground. we get our bearings, we examine the ground, we examine our own pain -- are we hurt? is it bad? is it fine? -- we learn about where the chair went, and then, if the ground has stopped shaking, we stand up again and figure out where to go from here. losing control is scary, but letting go of the need for control frees us to adapt to new situations, examine new feelings, learn what’s really causing the problems in our lives. after all, if someone pulls a chair out from underneath us, the chair isn’t the problem, the problem is the person. they could’ve asked permission, but maybe they wanted to see us fall.

to wring this extended metaphor dry, say the person does ask for permission before taking the chair. they need it for something, but we’re using it. it’s comfortable. it’s our only chair. but this person is being considerate towards us, they’re asking us to make a sacrifice. remember, the chair is a feeling of control, of safety. how big of a sacrifice are they asking of us? really, it depends on how badly we need the chair. and when we think of control (this time more broadly, we’ve successfully escaped the metaphor) as something inherently temporary, something we don’t absolutely need to find happiness and safety, it becomes a lot less of an ask when our friends tell us to back off a bit. it also becomes easier to conceive of a world where we don’t need stability to make our own certainty. 

and speaking of which, there’s another part of your ask that’s catching me. i don’t know the term of art for it, but when you say “anxiety-induced control issues make you a bad friend”, you’re labelling. the more we call ourselves something, the more we start to identify with it -- the more we insist that a certain bad/flawed action makes us a bad person, the more we identify ourselves as a bad person, and the less agency we assign to that bad/flawed action. if control issues make us bad friends, then being bad friends means we have control issues, etc. etc., and ultimately it becomes harder to separate the bad habits from our self-perception, and those habits then become harder to unlearn because suddenly we’re carving something out of our identity. we won’t be the same person anymore. we don’t know this new person, and the unknown is scary. then, we blame ourselves for our inability to overcome our “””inherent flaws”””, and we’re a bad person, we’re a bad friend, we’re never going to get better, we’re trapped here alone while the world rushes past and forgets us.

i hope i don’t need to tell anyone that that’s a problematic mindset to work oneself into. if i do, it is. and it really may not seem like that slippery of a slope, but once we get used to the holistic paradigm that People Are What They Do, the harder it becomes to forgive and love them in spite of their flaws, and that includes ourselves. making mistakes does not make us mistakes -- it makes us human, and that’s just how it be. not to sound too much like a therapist, because again it isn’t my job and i have no training, but the process of self-reflection and self-improvement becomes a hell of a lot easier when we stop blaming our souls for our behaviour. when we give in to our control issues, we’re acting out of a desperate need to stop feeling afraid, vulnerable. but fear, like all emotions, is temporary. it’s also part of being human. we can’t stop feeling afraid -- and it isn’t our fault that we can’t stop feeling afraid -- but we can, through certain physical and mental actions, be there for ourselves while we wait for the fear to go away on its own. i recommend any material on mindfulness and self-compassion by a woman named Kristen Neff for more on that kind of thing. but i digress.

some more specific situational tips for not lashing out at friends that i’ve personally used in my life:

- accept and then embrace that losing control and lashing out is going to happen every now and again no matter what you do. the pressure to be perfect is so unhelpful in recovery situations that it frequently actively and remorselessly makes those situations worse. again -- making mistakes is okay. you’re still on the right track, and it’s better for the train to arrive slowly after a long and shitty journey than to never arrive at all. - ask your friends to tell you when you’re making them uncomfortable. pick a safeword, something uninflammatory -- mine is “buttercup” -- and the hardest but most necessary part: when your friends use the safeword, don’t punish them for it. it isn’t an attack, they don’t want to hurt you, it’s just your cue to step back and take a nice bath or make a sandwich or wrap yourself in a blanket and practice some deep breathing. trust that the fear will be over soon. - after a lot of practice, you may find yourself recognizing your own behaviour and stepping back automatically. my friends almost never “buttercup” me anymore, because i don’t find myself reaching for control when i’m anxious -- i find myself closing my computer and making some hot chocolate and running a bath. taking a break. exercise works really well here. - this one’s kind of risky because of the self-destructive coping mechanisms a lot of people turn to to solve this problem, so tread carefully and compassionately. if you really need control such that you have to wean yourself off of it, do it like you’re trying to quit smoking. find a nicotine patch -- a smaller thing to control, like cleaning your room, washing a dish by hand, baking a cake, organizing your bookshelves. whatever works for you, just make sure you aren’t hurting yourself. the intention here isn’t to create a new problem for you to solve to distract from the old one, or to test your self-control. it’s specifically to feel a progressively smaller sense of relief to teach yourself just how inconsequential control can be in the grand scheme of things. that it can just be one of many positive feelings. after all, when cleaning your room comes with the benefit of being in a clean room, it’s not all about control, is it? - talk to your friends about the problem. try to ask first if you need to vent -- sometimes people aren’t in a good place to be vented to, and they deserve to be able to say ‘not right now’ without it being a huge deal -- but more importantly than that is that you talk to your friends about control issues when you aren’t actively spiralling. talking about what’s wrong in a considerate, self-compassionate, reflective way is obstructively hard to do when you’re in the middle of it -- at least, until you’ve had practice. don’t be afraid to ask your friends for help practicing self-reflection when your need isn’t urgent and they’re available. - don’t teach yourself to put your head down and deal with a lack of control. if it’s something you hate but put up with, then a lack of control is still, emotionally, a problem that needs solving, only now its presence inspires misery. think of what i said way earlier in this response: we have control way less often than we have it, just naturally. what you do instead of learning to tolerate that, is you learn to appreciate surprises. unpredictability is one of the most fun things about getting to know the world -- you never know what it’s going to do next, which means there’s always something new to explore. by teaching yourself to look for things to love in surprises, mistakes, unforeseen circumstances, not only does it change the world you see into a kinder and more fun place by default, it also provides the contrast you need to recognize when a situation really, actually is that bad, and something needs to be done to fix it. sure a storm knocked the power out and i can’t finish that assignment by the due date, but i know my professor isn’t a total asshole, so i’ll just let them know what’s up and in the meantime, look for ways to pass the time. i don’t know when the power’s going to come back, but now i have lights and heat and a book, so i’m good. the problems i actually have are the food in the freezer and the possibility of flooding. ultimately, we do what we can and accept what we can’t. (plus, it’s a lot easier to find somewhere moderate when you aim high and are okay with not getting there. you’ll probably never go “yay! the inexorable forces of chaos are at it again!”, but you might learn to laugh off missing the bus, which is already pretty great.) - at the very least, appreciate that you’re not responsible for other people’s decisions. ultimately, that’s their call, and accepting their call as their call means you don’t have to feel like their bad decisions are your fault. there are literally no downsides to this. if someone else decides to blame you for their bad decisions, they’re wrong. the only thing you’re responsible for in that situation is how you decide to respond to it. (and again, it’s okay to make the wrong decision. really, it is. all that matters is you be compassionate to yourself, reflect on the damage caused, try to fix what you can, and resolve to learn from the situation.) - look up kristen neff. really, do it. she has a couple of pretty great ted talks on youtube. 

i, for one, find comfort in not knowing all the answers. paradoxically, embracing uncertainty and unpredictability makes me feel more secure, because i know that next to nothing is under my control, and if something unpredictable happens, i’m comfortable knowing i wasn’t responsible for it. i can’t know everything, and trying to know everything is a recipe for a panic attack, because it means i’m going out of my way to pile onto the list of things i have to keep track of or else it’s my fault if they go wrong, regardless of if there’s anything i could’ve actually done. i spend so much energy trying to stay in the goddamn chair that i completely lose track of everything in my surroundings that actually matters. grabbing for a sense of control at all costs completely blinds me to real problems and real contentment, which then makes me feel even less in control than before. it’s a no-win situation. better for us to embrace that control really isn’t worth all the fuss and go on with our lives.

i hope this could help, or at least offer some perspective!

[black-streak]

What about a fic where Tim has a perfect plan to propose but a lot of things go wrong/ don’t go as planned?

Okay anon, when I first read this, I completely misinterpreted it as every time he tries to propose, things go wrong. Went off on a spiral with that idea, so I hope you don't mind.

I'm getting a surprising amount (3) of marriage related prompting for this pair. Still taking any timari prompts for the moment if anyone else wanted to send them in btw!

~---~

At this point, things were getting out of hand.

He had been trying for well over a month to propose to Marinette and yet everything kept falling apart around him, no matter how many contingency plans he created.

...

The first time, Tim had been young and naive, setting up a beautifully quiet celebratory dinner for after a runway show. She had been stressed out and working herself to the bone for months now, setting up the drop of her new line and he knew whenever he closed a big deal, he loved nothing more than quietly settling in for a stress free night with his sweet little girlfriend, especially when he didn't have to have a hand in the planning of it. Logic dictated that having the same care and consideration for her would be just as well placed and a perfect time to ask her to allow him to take care of her on nights like these for the rest of their lives.

Logic could go choke on itself.

With the show over and the models undressing and everything being put away without her need to supervise or tweak anything, Mari had disappeared from view. Seeking her out for well over half an hour, he finally found her curled up asleep in a side room of strewn extra fabric, using the unneeded pieces as bed and blanket both. Stepping towards her with the intent to gently awaken her so they leave this mess, an arm slammed in front of him, her personal assistant glaring him down as though he were a particularly foul piece of trash stuck to her shoe.

"If you even think about waking her up, I will personally castrate you," she bit out, teeth flashing in a feral manner.

With that, he was promptly tossed out to go home alone. Marinette didn't return home until the next afternoon, looking dead on her feet. And so the plan was scraped.

...

The next time, he came more prepared. They both had the night off, it was a family dinner, and neither were scheduled for a patrol that evening. Even if something happened to set off the alarms, they weren't responsible for answering the call. Add on that all of his family would already be present for the proposal and it skipped the step of telling them the story of how it happened. Perfect.

Except, nothing in his life went perfect, so of course a mass breakout happened an hour before dinner and all hands were called on deck. By the time the city had settled down and most of the escapees had been caught, three days had passed and everyone clawed at each other's throats in exhausted irritation. He passed out in an office chair and forgot about his original plans entirely.

...

The third time he attempted, he became entirely jaded to the whole process. He also decided to be an idiot about it and just leave a message on her phone asking her if she could fit time in her busy schedule for a half hour with him so he could propose. Just like that. Straight up tried to book an appointment to ask her to marry him. 

Later in the evening, she shoved through the door with tears in her eyes, pitching a fit over how absolutely useless the Apple store was and that her entire system was wiped from her phone. Marinette swore she would never put her calender on a phone again and that written planners where obviously the superior method of organization. 

With the impeding panic attack on her horizon, he helped recover and write down what they could remember of her upcoming events, contacting her assistant to fill in the blanks. It took a few hours, conferring with his own schedule for shared events, but he eventually settled her down with the knowledge that they got everything she needed down. He offered to fix the phone himself, but at this point she no longer trusted the damned thing and just wanted to trash the thing.

It wasn't until a few hours after, with her asleep in his arms did he remember that his message was deleted before she could even look at it. That was fine with him. It was a horrible idea anyways.

…

In the end, he decided to toss the entire proposal out the metaphorical window. Marinette already stated her intention to marry him over a year ago, it's not like they weren't planning for the eventuality of it. 

Instead, one night he just slipped the engagement ring over her finger in her sleep and went back to bed. She wore Plagg's ring so often, he doubted she'd even realize it was different.

She wore the ring for well over a week without noticing the fact that Plagg's ring sat on her other hand.

Marinette refused for over three years to ever step into the watchtower, not wishing to become a known entity outside of the Bat family. Honestly, Gotham wasn't even sure of her existence, considering her to be the shadowed cryptid of their city, more so than Batman had been for years, because there were no eye witness accounts of her. To go to the watchtower was to allow the Justice League to know something else creeped through their terf, an unknown. Surely, they would try to investigate. Tim, however, begged her to come with, needing to get a few particularly rude heroes off his back about his girlfriend being fake. She didn't need to tell them anything, just show up with him, that's all he asked. Not to reveal her abilities or allow them to know anything about her, just let him show her off. Ironically enough, a week after his placing the ring on her finger, she caved.

Upon their arrival, the heroes stationed there at the time turned to greet him, only to stop upon seeing the hooded figure next to him.

"Red, who did you bring?"

With a growing smirk, he squeezed her hand, lifting it to kiss over where the ring sat, "I'm glad you asked. I would like to introduce you all to my Fiance."

Her eyes widened, taking in the ring his lips brushed over before blushing and ducking into his side, whispering, "how long has that been there?"

"Over a week, love."

"You are diabolical."

"No, you're a menace. I've been trying to propose for a month now," he ducked down to kiss her, ignoring their audience.

"God, I hate you."

"Is that a no?"

"Are you kidding, of course I'll marry you," she ducked her face into his shoulder to hide as Flash coughed in front of them, not having heard the conversation.

"Sorry, but since when do you have a fiance?"

"Since now."

Mari groaned into his shoulder as Tim laughed, "I'm getting you back for this."

[lloydskywalkers]

Ahhh thank you so much!! 💕sO the lack of season 5 aftermath is possibly one of my biggest issues with Ninjago because like...there was no way. There was no way Lloyd just walked all that off, Morro had him pretty much the whole season and we saw what five minutes did to Ronin. I think it took a fair amount of time for him to bounce back, and it likely left long-lasting effects, but because this is season 5 angst u get a fic explaining my thoughts instead :’’D

(Also answering this in it’s own post because guess who spiraled out of control again! It’s s5 angst u guys i’m weak)

The aftermath of the battle is, as it usually goes, incredibly underwhelming. And by that, Cole means incredibly slow, because the Preeminent ripped the motor off their steamboat, and even with Nya pitching in every now and then, their pace across the seawater is glacial. By the time the nearest Ninjago shore comes into view, everyone on the boat’s on their last legs of sanity — some for…slightly different reasons than others.

The thing about being stuck on a crammed steamboat for hours on end, is that you can’t really hide. There’s only so far you can get, unless you take a dip in the ocean, which is a hard pass for Cole — not that he was trying to hide, anyways.

No, the only one who looks like they’re actually considering jumping off the side of the boat is Lloyd, and that’s because instead of vanishing off to who-knows-where to have his inevitable breakdown, he’s stuck smack in the middle of his very protective family, who get an up close and personal view of the exact moment the color starts to leech from his face.

Lloyd’s making a valiant effort. He’s been making a valiant effort, ever since they pulled him from the Caves of Despair. He and Kai had cornered Sensei in what turned into a near-shouting match alone at letting him fight in the battle against Morro in the first place, because Lloyd had looked two degrees from dead when they’d gotten him back. He’d only looked moderately alive when he’d stepped out with them, hoodie hanging too loose from his shoulders as he’d handed off the green gi to Nya, and it had burned Cole to let him take the brunt of the fight as he did.

Not that Cole feels much heat now anyway, but — metaphorically.

Either way, Lloyd holds up valiantly until the combined toll of Morro’s possession and the battle with the Preeminent finally hits, at which point he goes a sickly shade of white and keels straight over into Kai with a migraine so bad Cole can’t even manage to pull his fingers free from where they dig into his skull.

“What happened?! Did Morro hurt him?”

“Did Morro hurt him, where have you been this last month—”

“I meant right now, don’t snap at me—”

“Would you keep your voices down, you’re only causing him more pain.”

This quiets the commotion that’s sprung up in their corner of the boat, all of them hovering anxiously over Lloyd, their salt-water hair and wind-swept clothes and already-forming bruises leaving the entire team a vivid mess. Kai’s left holding a lapful of whimpering brother, looking two seconds from crying himself as he tries to soothe Lloyd before he tears hair out, so Cole takes a shuddering breath, pulls himself together, and takes the lead.

It’s easier than he’d thought it would be, allowing himself to fall into the removed sort of autopilot. Shoulders back, emotions locked up tight, put on a brave face and make the calls. Leading has never been an easy position, but it teaches you to compartmentalize, to suppress, and to delay.

That delay is what Lloyd is paying for now, Cole thinks soberly, as Zane and Kai carry Lloyd up the steps of the Bounty, Sensei already darting inside to brew up whatever tea’s supposed to help this time. It’d be easier if Cole took him — he knows that. He’s the strongest of the team, even in this state.

But he can’t bring his ghostly fingers to touch him. Not with the flinch that had run through his younger brother earlier.

Cole swallows thickly. Lloyd hadn’t meant it, he knows that. He wouldn’t even hold it against him if he had.

The turnaround from regaining Lloyd to the battle with the Preeminent was terribly quick, and it only takes a look or two to gain an understanding of the damage wrought on their youngest brother. Lloyd is bruised and gaunt and horribly thin, and the normal shine in his eyes is hollowed-out and haunted. There’s an unspoken dread among them all, a heavy weight that sits on their shoulders, that Morro has actually managed to break Lloyd with his possession — that the longs weeks spent trapped in his own mind, beaten and neglected and alone — have snapped the unfathomably strong willpower Lloyd’s always had.

And Morro, for all that Cole hates him for that, was a ghost. Cole isn’t stupid enough to miss that. And he’s certainly not stupid enough to ignore what the repercussions of that might be on Lloyd, toward anyone else who might be a ghost.

Cole feels his chest tighten as he watches Nya run a hand through Lloyd’s tangled hair, her eyes a million miles away as she sits beside where he lies on their couch, tucked firmly into the layers of blankets he recognizes as Kai and Zane’s.

He bites his cheek. It’d be better if they used his. It’s not like Cole needs them anymore.

“He’s overtired,” Sensei Wu says quietly, his hand drifting briefly across his nephew’s forehead. “He pushed it too far in battle, and he has yet to fully recover from the toll both the possession and his injuries took on him. He will be fine, with rest.”

There’s a quiet exhale of relief at his words, but it’s a weary one. Kai doesn’t look at him, his stare only growing hot where he sits at Lloyd’s side, refusing to move even to change from his battle-stained gi.

Cole’s eyes flick to Sensei Wu, then back to Lloyd. There’s a bleeding kind of pain in Sensei’s words, his voice shot through with loss. There’s a crippling edge of guilt in it too, though. Cole knows Sensei is mourning Morro — he knows their relationship was different. But as much as Cole prides himself of being sympathetic, it’s really, really difficult to feel any sort of grief for Morro, when his baby brother’s curled in on himself in pain on the couch, eyebrows furrowed tightly in stress and exhaustion.

Lloyd murmurs something inaudible, shifting in his sleep before settling again, his expression still pinched in weariness. He somehow looks both years older and so very young at the same time, and it makes Cole’s heart hurt.

He’s yanked from his staring as Jay’s head suddenly presses against his shoulder. Cole starts, almost forgetting to remain solid before Jay yanks his head back up, eyelids fluttering from where they’d drifted off to sleep.

“Sorry,” he yawns, rubbing at a bloodshot eye. “Didn’ mean to fall asleep on you.”

Cole blinks at him, then glances at the rest of their team. Lloyd isn’t the only one succumbing to exhaustion — the entire team is barely hanging on, all dark-circled and hazy eyes. Beside Jay, Zane looks like he wants to shut down for a month, Nya looks like she’s close to tears for some reason, and Kai looks like he’s steadily burning through the last reserves of his energy just by staring at the floor.

Something weird shifts in Cole’s gut. He feels exhausted, stripped raw and worn, but he doesn’t feel tired, not like the others look. He just feels that same, cold kind of numbness that has yet to leave him since Yang’s temple.

He swallows again, and tries to ignore how useless the gesture is.

“You should head to bed,” he tells Jay gently instead. His lifts his head, addressing the others. “We all should.”

Kai opens his mouth to protest instantly, then shuts it. He glances at Nya, who’s practically asleep where she sits on the couch, seconds from tipping over. He looks at Lloyd. “I’m sleeping out here,” he finally says, firmly.

Cole guesses that’s the best he can ask for from him, right now. He nods to Zane, who gently helps Nya up, knocking Kai lightly on the shoulder as he does. “At least change,” he orders, and it’s a sign to how tired Kai is that he complies without arguing.

Cole tugs Jay up by his arm, patting him on the back. “C’mon, zaptrap,” he murmurs. “I’m not your pillow.”

Jay grumbles inaudibly at him, but he staggers to his feet, yawning as he plods toward the bedroom. Cole looks to Sensei Wu, who is still hovering by Lloyd, staring at his nephew with a look Cole can’t quite figure out.

“Sensei?” he finally dares, hesitantly. “It’s been a long day, so…”

“Ah, of course.” Sensei Wu blinks, shaking his head. “I would let him rest here for the night,” he says, nodding to Lloyd. His voice is quiet, and Cole can easily find the pain in it this time. “Better to let him rest.”

That doesn’t exactly settle well with Cole, because the idea of leaving any of his brothers apart for the night, even if it’s just in another room, turns his stomach. Especially when one of them is the brother they’d lost, and only just barely got back, so—

Well. Cole doesn’t need to sleep anymore, does he. He can keep an eye out.

“Of course,” he says instead, dipping his head as Sensei Wu heads off after the others. “Goodnight, Sensei.”

Cole moves to follow him, figuring he can at least change his clothes, but he hesitates over Lloyd, footsteps faltering. For a brief second, he lets his hand hovers over the top of his brother’s sleeping head, barely ghosting the pale blond strands. He swallows, then pulls his hand away.

Lloyd had told him once, when he was younger, that he was scared people would hate him for what he was. Never who — just what. Cole had never understood the phrasing, but now…

Now, Cole desperately, painfully hopes Lloyd doesn’t hate him for what he’s become.

***********

It’s the third nightmare that finally manages to pull Lloyd from sleep, because somehow the first two weren’t exciting enough to warrant waking up for.

At least he hasn’t woken up Kai with it, he thinks miserably, still trying to catch his breath, his heart racing from the nightmare. He exhales shakily, glancing over to where Kai’s sprawled out on the couch across from him, snoring quietly and dead to the world. Kai looks exhausted, even in sleep, and Lloyd feels guilt digging its claws into his chest again.

Your fault, a voice in the back of his head reminds him. You hurt him, you hurt them all, Green Ninja—

Lloyd swallows, wincing as he shifts, sitting up quietly. He won’t wake Kai up for this. His older brother has suffered enough for him already.

Besides, his throat feels like he’s been swallowing sandpaper, and he doesn’t; really trust his voice, anyway. Lloyd sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and tugging his blanket over his shoulders like a cape.

In all honesty, he’d like nothing more than to stay on this couch for the rest of his life, because Kai let him have his really warm blanket — which, granted, says a lot more about the state Lloyd’s in right now than he’d like, but still. Lloyd is comfortable, tucked in the corner of the couch like he is. And comfortable isn’t something he’s been in the last few weeks, at all.

But he’s not — he’s not supposed to be thinking about that, he reminds himself, furiously shoving the memories back into their little Do-Not-Touch box in the corner of his mind, as he gingerly tests his legs out. His right leg shudders precariously when he stands, and Lloyd bites his lip, frowning. He could’ve sworn it was his left that was hurt, since that was the one the Preeminent had nearly ripped off pulling him into the Cursed Realm, and Morr—

Aha, nope, Lloyd reminds himself. Back in the box. He can think about that — about him — later.

Much, much later. Right now, he just wants a glass of water, then he wants to go back to sleep for another twenty hours straight. He’d like to just go back to bed as it is, because his limbs feel as sluggish as melting butter, but the water’s important, because he’s ‘severely dehydrated’ or something. Whatever Zane had declared as Lloyd tried to stop his brain from imploding on him earlier.

So glass of water, then back to bed. Lloyd just has to make it to the kitchen, which should — should be easy. His leg isn’t shaking that badly, and it’s not like his ribs are actually broken. Just bruised, and Lloyd can walk off bruises, easy.

He just needs to remember how, he thinks, as he takes a shuddering breath where he stands frozen. He blows it out, closing his eyes to steady himself. He immediately snaps them back open, trying not to keel over to the side. Oh, mistake. Every time Lloyd closes his eyes he’s falling through realms again, the world spinning and leaving him loose and shaky, which is only moderately better than the alternative thing he’d see, which is…

Well, he left Lloyd with a lot of things he could see that would keep him up.

Back in the box! Lloyd scolds himself, frantically tearing his mind elsewhere before he can slip down that particular slope, one that he knows is only going to send him spiraling into icy fear and panic.

Lloyd shakes his head furiously, bare feet padding quietly as he makes his way to the kitchen. His skin crawls at the darkness that presses in from all sides, and he feels his power press against his fingertips, begging to light his way. Lloyd presses his lips together and shoves it down. His control over his powers is tentative at best right now — he’d learned that the hard way earlier, when he’d exploded all the police floodlights that were just trying to get them safely to shore.

The reminder causes his cheeks to heat, and Lloyd bites his lip. He doesn’t want to think about how much he’s lost, how far behind he’s fallen, because of…this. His powers feel wild and fragile now, like they did when he was just beginning to train, and Lloyd hates that. How is he supposed to make up everything to his team when he can barely even—

A cold chill of air suddenly licks against the back of his neck, rustling his clothes and blanket and tugging at his hair, and the chill that slides down his spine is all the warning he gets. The whistling sound from the broken kitchen window should have warned him, but Lloyd’s still unprepared.

It’s just — it’s the wind.

That’s all, just a little breeze, and Lloyd’s slammed so hard by a dizzying vertigo of terror that he falls right to his knees on the spot, his vision going hazy as a dull roaring echoes in his ears.

He’d scream, but his lungs have suddenly quit on him, sputtering uselessly in his chest as he wheezes, panic blotting out every other rational thought. The phantom fingers of the wind are still grasping at him, still pulling at his hair and wrapping around his neck, forcing into his mind and tearing him apart form the inside and no, no no no, he can’t do this again, he can’t—

Some part of Lloyd’s mind knows perfectly well what’s happening to him. It’s not like he hasn’t had panic attacks before. But the rest of his mind—

Lloyd’s teeth press together so hard his jaw aches, and his eyes burn as he forces shaky breaths to rattle from his chest. The hot shame of how pathetic he has to look right now is only drowned out the absolute sense of terror rooting him on his knees.

Kai, he thinks desperately, his hands shaking so violently that his fingernails clack against the floor. Kai is here, Kai will save him from Morro, he won’t leave him to spiral back into that darkness. His whole family is here, just in the other room, if he can only—

A muffled voice forces its way through the roaring in his ears, echoing oddly against his brain. Before Lloyd can place it, there’s a touch on his shoulder, gentle but cold, like a wisp of freezing air, just like his touch.

Lloyd looks up, and through blurring vision sees that same unearthly shade of green, flickering and translucent, and his entire being slams into panic.

All he’s able to get out is a rasping croak, but he’s still able to snap at the figure.

“Get away from me!”

He tears his arm from their grasp, stumbling back. He’s not going to be taken again, he’s not going back in the darkness, he’s never letting someone touch him like that again—

Lloyd wipes at his eyes, his vision clearing, and he freezes dead.

— oh. Lloyd’s eyes go wide in horror. Oh no, oh no, it’s not him. It’s not any of his ghosts.

It’s Cole, his hand pulled back to his chest, staring at him with the most heartbroken, hurt expression on his face Lloyd has ever seen in his life.

Lloyd’s heart drops all the through his stomach to his feet, and he goes cold.

“I-I—” Cole’s eyes are wide with hurt, but that hurt quickly melts into a horrified kind of despair. He pulls back further, swallowing thickly. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away. Shutting down. “I’m sorry, I should have realized—”

“No—” Lloyd croaks.

“Obviously you’d — I’m sorry, just being stupid Cole as always—”

“—no, no Cole—”

“—just making things worse, I’ll leave.”

“N-no, Cole, I didn’t mean — Cole, I’m so sorry—”

Cole isn’t even looking at him, his shoulders hitching tightly as he turns away. “I’ll get Kai. Or anyone else.”

He moves to his feet, leaving Lloyd where he’s still sprawled uselessly on the floor, and Lloyd’s stomach turns.

No, no, no! he thinks frantically, fumbling to find feeling where his legs have gone numb. Cole can’t leave, not with that look still on his face, not before Lloyd can fix this—

“Cole wait, stop—!”

Lloyd moves to rush after him, to grab him, to pull him back and apologize — but his ankle is still weak and his balance is still shaky and the panic’s left him wobbly, and he gets one step before his foot twists in his blanket, the ground’s yanked out from under him, and he slams front-first into the floor with a muffled grunt, knocking his chin against the floor and biting straight through his lip.

“Ow,” he manages into the floor, somewhat stunned, his voice muffled as his face throbs.

“Lloyd!”

Oh good, Lloyd thinks hazily, as his mouth fills with tangy, metallic blood. It worked. Cole came back.

Hands wrap around his shoulders, hauling him up and setting him upright before quickly pulling back. Before Lloyd can protest, Cole’s back, all up in his face where he’s now sitting on the floor next to him.

“Aw, Lloyd, why’d you do that,” Cole’s voice is pained as his hand ghosts over the blood dripping down his chin, thick eyebrows tense in worry.

Lloyd shakes his head, wiping a hand over his mouth and grimacing. His lip stings something horrible, and he’s appalled to find that his eyes are tearing up from the pain.

“I wan’ed to match the rest’a my face,” he manages out though his busted lip, before cringing.

Cole gives him a look. Lloyd doesn’t feel bad at all. It’s better than the look he’d had on a second ago.

Cole sighs, sounding weary. “I’ll get Zane. He can help you ice it, and I’ll—”

“No!” Lloyd yelps, grabbing for his arm. He latches around Cole’s wrist just before he manages to escape, and Cole snaps his eyes to him, looking panicked.

“Lloyd, I-I…I get it,” he says, gently prying at his fingers. “What you went through — it’s…it’s okay, just—”

Lloyd doesn’t let him get any further, because he finally gets past the giant chunk of completely irrational fear in his chest and manages to throw his arms around Cole’s middle, hugging him tightly until Cole’s forced back down with an oof.

For a second, Cole’s about as receptive as a rock, sitting all stiff and rigid. But he finally, finally relaxes, breath whooshing shakily out of his chest as he slowly, carefully returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around him.

Lloyd’s prepared for the unusually cold touch this time. He focuses instead on how gentle it is, how it feels like family and home and safety. He’s an idiot for mistaking Cole for anyone else, Lloyd thinks hotly to himself, his eyes stinging with tears.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “It’s not okay, you’re not— you’re not Morro, and I shouldn’t—”

Lloyd’s breath hitches. Oh no, he’s opened the box. He’s opened the box and now he’s thinking about it, his mind is reaching in and pulling out every memory of what Morro did to him, every action he took that Lloyd couldn’t stop, all the words he’d forced from his mouth, all the awful things—

A dizzying rush of fury smashes into him. How could he, how could he, it wasn’t enough that he took Lloyd’s body and his mind and his strength and left him a hollow shell, no, he had to dig his fingers far enough in his brain that Lloyd’s scared of his own family now—

“—hate him, I hate him, I hate him—”

“I know, buddy, I know—”

Though Cole’s holding him tight, he shifts him slightly to the side with a quiet hiss of breath, and Lloyd belatedly remembers — tears. Water and ghosts do not get along. And here Lloyd’s crying enough for a river on top of him.

He jerks back with a gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” he blabbers, wiping frantically at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”

It’s Cole’s turn to grab his arm before he pulls away, his gaze firm. “Don’t,” he says, sounding pained. “Don’t apologize for that. I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me.”

Lloyd shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry, you’re a ghost and it’s all my fault.”

Cole stills. “What?” he finally says, his voice incredulous.

Lloyd doesn’t reply, crying harder as he tries to absorb himself into his blanket, maybe to suffocate, because at least then he won’t be weeping all over the kitchen floor like a child, and — and—

“Lloyd,” Cole sounds agonized now. “Lloyd, this wasn’t your fault. None of this was. You can’t blame yourself for it, you can’t. Please don’t.”

Lloyd gives a keening whine in reply, burying his face in his blanket. Yes, he can. He can, just watch him. Lloyd can blame himself for the whole sorry thing, because he went to that museum alone when he knew full well he was still a mess, and now?

Cole’s a ghost, his family’s hurt, Lloyd’s a worse mess, and his dad is dead, for real dead now, and none of it would’ve happened if Lloyd could’ve just—could’ve just—

Lloyd feels a bit like he’s exploding, except it’s all coming out in the tidal wave of tears he’s been stockpiling somewhere, and darn it, he’s supposed to be dehydrated now, where’s it all coming from—

Cole gently lifts his blanket, folding it up as a barrier between him and Lloyd’s running eyes, and pulls him back in, holding him tightly. Lloyd unashamedly clings back, because he’s got no dignity left at this point anyways, and he’s lived with the idea that he’d never see his family again now, and it hurt so much worse than anything Morro could do to him.

“It’s not your fault,” Cole tells him again, his voice thick. “We’ll fix it. We’ll figure it out, Lloyd, we’ll work through it, all of us together this time. You’re going to be okay. I promise, I promise.”

Lloyd just folds in on himself further, burying his face against Cole as he tries to choke back sobs.

Going to be okay. He wants to laugh. His dad’s gone. Lloyd’s entire being feels like a bruise. He could get past that before, maybe. Probably. But—

Cole’s dead.  

How on earth are they supposed to fix that?

[aliferous-ly]

gasp -- a fic?? on MY tumblr??? more likely than you think

/

this is from an art trade with the absolutely lovely bastard @buddh-art​. madlad

here’s a link to the art O.O it’s SO PRETTY. WHAT. (LOOK AT IT BEFORE READING IT WILL HELP INTRO VISUALIZATION I PROMISE)

ao3 link!!

warnings: blood, the girls are FIGHTINgGGG (okay but physical fights fr), swearing

fandom/pairings: haikyuu/gen

prompt: “I’m going to kill them for punching you before I ever got to.” ft kuroo and bokuto, dumbass duo extraordinaire, and akaashi (plus some cameos)

“I’m going to kill them for punching you before I ever got to.” Kuroo cracks his knuckles. 

“Oho?” Bokuto grins, teeth glinting in the fluorescent lighting. He’s pressing a wad of tissues against his cheekbone and nose, the edges of his lips hidden behind white. “Kill?” 

Bokuto’s joking, behind the pain pulsing against his skin, but there’s this look in Kuroo’s eye that he doesn’t quite trust. No, that’s not it. He’s just never seen it before. He trusts Kuroo with everything. 

Akaashi says he’s stupid for doing so but lots of people say he’s stupid anyway. Trusting Kuroo has only burned him like, a dozen times, and half of them Kuroo was burned too. Bros burn together. 

Anyway. Anyway. Bokuto’s laughing and Kuroo’s not, so there’s something wrong. 

Kuroo shoots him a look and Bokuto’s laughter dries up in his throat. The edges of his lips droop. “Bro, it’s fine.” 

Kuroo’s mouth upturns into a sneer and Bokuto takes a step back. He’s never had Kuroo’s full frontal disdain directed at him and it’s kindof… it’s not… it’s not nice? It’s really… 

Bokuto swallows.

 The discomfort must shine on his face because Kuroo’s gaze flickers, startled, as he realizes where his scorn is directed. 

“Shit, dude,” Kuroo says. A hand rubs against his face and he sighs, long and loud. “Fucking who punched you?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bokuto says. His voice is a little muffled. Next to him, Akaashi releases a quiet huff of breath. Akaashi’s slender, cool fingers brush against his cheek, pulling at his hand. 

Bokuto realizes how harshly he’s been pressing the tissues against his cheek, how there’s a numb scratch of pain, how the tissues stick to his face when he tries to pull them away. There’s a slight sludge of blood, since they caught his face, but he doesn’t -- it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. He’s fine. So why’s… “It doesn’t matter,” Bokuto says again, stubborn. He tries for another grin. “Sad you weren’t there to enjoy the party?”

Kuroo is a quiet energy. Bokuto’s known this, it’s why they fit so perfectly together. Why they make such good friends, why every moment is exhilarating and fun. Kuroo is quiet and sharp, the double edged sword to Bokuto’s war hammer. The shield with jagged edges. While Bokuto wears his emotions on the outer edges of his skin, Kuroo keeps it all tucked away behind his ribcage, gradually building a fire. Stoking embers. He has a quiet anger, a soft fury. 

Bokuto never thinks too much about it. Not really. Bokuto laughs but it’s not… because Kuroo turns towards him with his quiet anger boiling in his eyes and it doesn’t feel right. None of this feels right. 

Kuroo steps towards him, his testy expression juxtaposing his gentle touch against Bokuto’s face. Bokuto lets him trail fingers along his temple, eyebrows furrowing as Kuroo presses the softest of pressures against the wound. 

It doesn’t hurt. Well, maybe in theory. Bokuto’s too focused on Kuroo’s expression to feel anything. Akaashi seems to fade into the background, his administration a soothing backdrop to Kuroo’s soft blaze. 

“Who punched you?” Kuroo says. He looks like he’s about to punch Bokuto, too, and Bokuto doesn’t know if he would dodge it at this point. Whether for personal reasons or otherwise. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bokuto says. To Kuroo, this is the wrong thing to say, but Bokuto is immovable. 

Kuroo glares at him, and Bokuto glares right back. 

Kuroo swells up and Bokuto thinks, this is it, hunker down, prepare for a mean right hook. His eyes flicker shut instinctively, shoulders tensing. Bokuto is anything if not solid. He can take it. Throw it at me!

Well. That’s what you said before, too, and they certainly dished out what you could take. Maybe more… 

But it doesn’t matter, because it’s over, and Bokuto isn’t going to enact revenge or something. He fought, they fought, it’s over. 

Fear flutters against his throat. He can almost imagine the starburst of pain from Kuroo. He knows exactly what it might feel like, he’s seen it often enough. Even if he’s never personally experienced it, it was bound to happen eventually. 

Nothing happens. Bokuto’s eyes flick open, and Kuroo is three steps away. He’s staring at Bokuto with this devastatingly haunted expression. 

Bokuto frowns. “Bro. Chill out.” 

“I’m not actually going to punch you right now, what the fuck?” Kuroo spits. They’re equally startled at Kuroo’s outburst. “You’re wounded!” 

“Yeah, so?” Bokuto says. He touches his cheek absentmindedly. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“It is a fucking big deal! Akaashi, tell him it’s a big deal,” Kuroo swivels on their third party. 

Akaashi, to his credit, doesn’t flinch when faced with fire and ice all at once, Kuroo and Bokuto’s gazes cutting into his soul. In fact, he takes his time answering, seemingly unbothered. “Bokuto does downplay genuine trouble. But you’re not in your right mind, either, Kuroo.” 

“I’m perfectly calm,” Kuroo says, each word falling like a bullet. Akaashi stares at him and Kuroo shifts his gaze, lip jutting out. 

“Bokuto, sit down,” Akaashi says. Bokuto listens, dropping down on the couch. Akaashi is like water, he muses. If he’s going to make metaphors about all of his friends anyway. 

Kuroo’s lava, his heavy burn, settles on Bokuto’s skull. “Tell me so I can pay back the favor.” 

"No,” Bokuto says. He sticks his tongue out for emphasis and Akaashi flicks his temple. “Ouch! Akaashi, I’m mortally wounded, and you’re abusing me.” 

“Get over yourself,” Akaashi says. Bokuto blinks and knows there’s an undercurrent of worry, even if he can’t quiet hear it. He misses a lot of subtleties. Whatever. It’s fine. 

“Akaashi,” Kuroo stretches the name, leaning forward into Akaashi’s space. “You know, don’t you?” 

“Well, I did find him first,” Akaashi says. 

Bokuto and Akaashi alike quickly realize this is the wrong thing to say. 

“Find?” Kuroo repeats. “You found him?” 

Bokuto swallows and tries for a grin. “Man, you know me! Fight til I drop.” 

“Do you need to go to the hospital--?” 

“No!” 

The three of them fall silent and Bokuto swallows, trying to sooth his rapidly beating heart. “No. I’m fine. I’m serious, Kuroo, chill.” 

Telling lava to chill, understandably, is amusing. Kuroo laughs at him. Then he turns on his heel and leaves. 

It strikes a little deeper than Bokuto thinks it should. 

“He left,” Bokuto says. He knows it’s a dumb thing to say, he knows. Akaashi doesn’t make fun of him. 

But Kuroo… 

“Shirt,” Akaashi says. Bokuto jerks as Akaashi tugs at the fabric. Pain pricks as his shirt moves and Bokuto bites back a whine. He’s not weak. Eyes up here, he’d laughed, pointing at his face when they took a shot at his side. 

Stupid. Whatever. 

“I’m not your mom,” Akaashi says. His fingers are smooth as he directs Bokuto’s arms up, tugging his shirt off. 

“My mom hasn’t helped me change in forever,” Bokuto mumbles, like that means anything. Akaashi hums anyway. A short tsk drops from his lips when the plane of Bokuto’s chest is revealed, his spotted sides. 

It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all, Bokuto assures himself. He doesn’t bruise easily, so -- wait, no, that means it’s awful, so he must bruise really easily. That’s kinda lame, though, isn’t it--?

A sharp pain pricks from his side, squeezing a hiss from Bokuto’s lips. He avoids Akaashi’s stare, which is somehow harsher than a glare. “‘S fine.” 

Akaashi sighs. “Stay still.” 

Bokuto feels his mood slipping and grips at it. Akaashi has told him time and time again that his mood swings aren’t a sign of failure. That the spiral of depression is only pushed further when he thinks about how lame it is that he drops. How he can’t do anything. Immovable force in the worst way possible. 

Akaashi starts applying a bruise cream. It’s like Akaashi’s touch. Soothing. Comforting. 

“Kuroo hates me,” Bokuto says. It’s not what he means. Kuroo wouldn’t get angry if he hated Bokuto. 

There’s a beat, then: “Hates that someone else got a shot first, maybe.” 

Bokuto snorts, in spite of himself. “Scale of one to ten how jealous do you think Kuroo is that somebody punched me and got away with it?” 

“I wouldn’t say they got away with it,” Akaashi hums. “You hit them back.” 

“That I did,” Bokuto says. The coolness of pleasure buoys his depression, just for the time being. He leans back, smug confidence oozing from his pores. Then he shoots upright, dislodging Akaashi. “Oh my god! AKAASHI!” 

“Mm?”

“I didn’t say you should’ve seen the other guy! Call Kuroo back in here!” Bokuto stands. “I gotta grab him! I missed my chance!” 

“Do not,” Akaashi says. 

Bokuto doesn’t hear him, searching for his shoes so he can go find Kuroo right now. 

Flames dart up his back and he yelps. Akaashi jabbed him right on a bruise on his back. “Akaashi!” 

Akaashi has that look on his face, the one that says listen to me right now or you will regret it. 

Bokuto groans. “But Akaashi…” 

“Just call him.” 

“He won’t pick up--!” A second of silence. Then, “Okay, Akaashi.” 

Bokuto sighs. He sits back down. Let’s Akaashi continue taking care of him. 

He calls Kuroo, but he doesn’t pick up. 

---

Kuroo isn’t stupid. When he saw Bokuto’s wide grin, the smile from eye to eye, he knew something was wrong. 

Not from Bokuto. Bokuto has a freaky way of covering up his serious pains. Kuroo’s pretty sure the denial just runs so deep he manages to convince himself that everything’s fine, that he’s fine, so everyone else is convinced. 

No, Bokuto didn’t tip him off. 

Akaashi did. 

Akaashi doesn’t mean to, and someone who doesn’t know Akaashi might have missed it. But he read the sharp worry in the crease of Akaashi’s eyes, the wiry tension in his neck, the tightness of his lips. Kuroo knows that Bokuto wasn’t okay when Akaashi found him. 

Which is why it pisses him off how nonchalant Bokuto is about the entire situation. 

Kuroo ignores the missed call from Bokuto and calls Tsukishima. He doesn’t pick up the first time but does on the second. 

“What do you want.” 

“Aw, I’m doing great, thanks Tsukki!” 

“Do not call me that.” 

“Hey, you saw Bokuto today, right? Like, an hour ago?” 

There’s a static of silence. “Why?” 

“See anyone with him?” 

“Just Nakajima.” 

“Thanks,” Kuroo says. He hangs up, wincing. He’ll get Tsukishima’s full pissy mood the next time they meet because of that, but he’s on a mission. 

Nakajima. Kuroo frowns. Does he know anything about Nakajima? 

He gets another phone call and is about to cancel it when he sees second prettiest setter flash across the screen. 

He answers. 

“Kuroo,” Akaashi says amicably. There’s a quiet wail on the other side of the phone and Kuroo pulls the phone away for a second, staring at it in surprise. Then he sticks it back against his ear, catching the tail end of what Akaashi was saying. “--and you should probably come back.” 

“Hm? I have to hunt down Nakajima.” 

“You know his name,” Akaashi says. He says it not like oh thank god, let me help, but more like goddamn it, another problem for me to fix. Which offends Kuroo, but just a little bit. “Great. Do you know where he is?” 

It’s a challenge. “No, but--”

“Then you won’t find him.” 

“I’ll just search the city, it’s not that hard.” 

“Kuroo, I know your stubborn streak rivals Bokuto’s--” there’s a thump on the other end, then Akaashi’s voice returns, “--but it really would be in both of your best interests for you to return.” 

“I wasn’t joking when I said I would kill whoever got to punch him first,” Kuroo says. 

“I understand. But--” 

Whatever else Akaashi says is lost in the static of Kuroo’s mind, which whites out the moment he spots someone stumbling down the sidewalk, nursing a bloody nose. He doesn’t know Nakajima personally, but he has seen the little bitch before. 

“I’ll call you back,” Kuroo says, and shoves his phone in his pocket, barely remembering to end the call. He’s really getting on a lot of people’s bad side. He’s always on people’s bad side, though, so he doesn’t really care. 

Nakajima’s limping, which. In Bokuto’s defense, he does look worse for wear. 

Kuroo doesn’t give a shit. He stalks towards him, shoving his hands in his pockets. He stops directly in his path, staring at him down his nose, lip curled. “Nakajima.” 

Nakajima looks up at him, gaze flickering with recognition, then irritation. “You’re Koutarou’s friend.” 

The name flicks a switch in Kuroo and he loses it, the swing of his arm familiar as he cuts into Nakajima’s jaw. Nakajima jerks to the left, dropping and landing awkwardly on his arm. 

“What the hell, man…?” Nakajima raises a hand to adjust his jaw, eyebrows furrowed angrily. 

Kuroo doesn’t really know. He just knows that an unrighteous fury took over his soul the moment Nakajima dropped Bokuto’s first name. Bokuto’s first name is important, and only the right people are allowed to call him by name. Especially to other people. Who the fuck does Nakajima think he is? 

“Don’t call him that,” Kuroo says simply. The words are acid on his tongue, burning his throat. “If you know what’s good for you.” 

“Oh, so you’re threatening me, great.” Nakajima pushes to his feet. “Did he put you up to this? Upset he lost a little and decided to sick his dog on me?” 

Kuroo’s flaming anger flickers and recedes. He inhales, waits for Nakajima to put himself back together. Watches blandly as Nakajima wipes blood off of his lip. Kuroo’s ire is viscous and glowing, lava sludging through caverns. 

“Aw, little bud is angry he doesn’t have friends to back him up,” Kuroo says. He cools his voice off as much as he can, falling into easy disdain. “Frustrated, Jiji?” Kuroo leans into his space, peering at his eyes. 

Nakajima swallows, glaring. “The fuck is your problem?” 

“You are my problem,” Kuroo says. He looks Nakajima up and down, curling his lip. “Unfortunately.” 

“Koutarou got what was--” 

This time Kuroo aims for the base of his sternum. Nakajima drops like a box of rocks. He takes much longer to rise than before, air squeezing through his lungs in rasps. He lunges at Kuroo, who side steps easily. “Easy solution. Leave Bokuto’s name out of your filthy mouth and leave him alone, and we won’t have a problem.” 

“You realize he made the first swing?” Nakajima says, gasping. 

“I don’t give a shit,” Kuroo says. “If he made the first swing then you’re a real shit person. I should take you down right now.” 

Nakajima whirls, hand shooting out. It wraps around Kuroo’s neck and squeezes. 

Kuroo takes a shot at the inside of Nakajima’s elbow, ducking down and pressing his chin against Nakajima’s hand at the same moment. He swoops Nakajima’s foot too far to the right and drives his knee upwards. 

Kuroo winces despite himself as Nakajima groans, falling once again, hands falling lax. 

“Leave him alone,” Kuroo says. He thinks about pushing him over, grinding his heel into Nakajima’s throat. The thought passes. “You hear me?” 

“You’re fucking crazy.” Nakajima moans. 

“Do you understand what I am saying?” Kuroo says. He considers driving his knee against his back, pressing him against the ground. 

“Jesus christ, yes, I’ll leave him fucking alone.” 

It’s not enough. It’s never enough. 

But his phone is ringing again, so he turns on his heel and stalks away. 

---

“Kuuuuroooooooo,” Bokuto whines, throwing himself on Kuroo the moment he walks in. There’s a dull ache in his side as he nearly smothers Kuroo, but obviously greeting his best bud is more important. 

“Aw, miss me?” Kuroo snickers and detaches himself from Bokuto. 

Bokuto frowns. “Obviously. I want to go throw some volleyballs around. Akaashi can set!” 

“No I will not,” Akaashi says from the couch. 

“He will.” 

“Bo, you shouldn’t be practicing right now,” Kuroo laughs. He pokes Bokuto in the forehead. 

Bokuto stares at him, then lunges forward, knocking their foreheads together with a clack. 

“Ow, what the fuck,” Kuroo yelps. 

Bokuto grinds his teeth together and wraps his arms around Kuroo and clings like a limpet. “Block for me!” 

“No!” Kuroo wiggles in Bokuto’s arms, trying to break free. It’s like trying to move a tree trunk. 

Bokuto shoves his face in the juncture of Kuroo’s neck. “Pleasee.” His voice buzzes against Kuroo’s skin. Goosebumps rise along the back of Kuroo’s neck. 

“No,” Kuroo says. He groans in defeat. 

Bokuto beams, then realizes that Kuroo’s trying to shift in a different way than before, like he’s trying to hug him back. So he relinquishes Kuroo’s arms. 

Kuroo hugs him around the neck and shoulders. “‘S fine. Let’s just chill.” 

“Mmkay.” Bokuto melts into the hold. It’s so soft and warm. He nuzzles his nose into Kuroo’s neck and sighs. Bokuto’s always warm, but he loves physical contact anyway. It’s like a thousand soft blankets. 

“C’mon, bud.” Kuroo tugs him towards the couch, where Akaashi is reading a book. Somehow. Among their loud noises. 

“I don’t want to watch a movie,” Bokuto says. Even he can tell he’s being petulant, but he can’t help it. “I’ll get bored.” 

Kuroo brings out his phone, waving it in front of Bokuto as he plops them both on the couch. “Let’s play minecraft.” 

Bokuto’s frozen for half a second. Then he gasps, feeling a glow starting in his chest and gleaming outwards, shining through his eyes and teeth, glinting off his shoulders. “Yes! Bro, yes!” He scrambles for his phone, pressing his shoulder against Kuroo’s. 

Kuroo’s shoulders stiffen. Bokuto is about to move away because he’s not the kind of guy to consciously discomfort his bros, but then Kuroo relaxes, tension leaking from his body. 

“Do you want to make a new world?” Bokuto asks, booting his phone up and staring at the screen, already invested. He leans his head on Kuroo’s shoulder, humming. 

“Sure,” Kuroo says. He doesn’t move for a few long seconds, fingers lax around his phone. 

Bokuto glances up at him and catches Kuroo staring at his face, eyes roaming around. Bokuto swallows, knowing he’s staring at the white bandages. Kuroo’s gaze flicks to Bokuto’s shoulder, a bruise showing through the loose sweater he’s wearing. 

“Punch me later,” Bokuto says. 

Kuroo snorts in surprise, his vulnerable expression melting into one of ease. He shifts, jostling Bokuto’s head, settling against the back of the couch. “What should the seed be?” 

“Bitch,” Bokuto says instantly. “No! Ace. Wait, we did that one already. Middle blocker. Cross spike!” 

“Bitch it is,” Kuroo says. 

Bokuto laughs. Kuroo smiles, teeth showing. Akaashi turns a page, and everything feels just right. He can barely feel the burn of his scabs with the warmth of Kuroo against him and the quiet presence of Akaashi just a few feet away. 

And Bokuto smiles, the upturn of his lips quieter than his normal radiant beam. He knows, then; they’re good. 

He’s good. 

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

January 31/2021

Well, hello new journal! I look forward to our explorations together. Now, what shall we begin discussing this morning? Nothing feels important enough to mark your first pages [this is from before I switched from paper to digital journaling]. I guess that I could say that I’m starting to catch a glimpse of what I might like my life to be like once I graduate Uni. That’s long been a giant question mark for/with me. Due in large part, I’m sure, to the fact that the conventional path seems to be a sort of settling down. That is, graduates go out and find a job; make a home in some place or other; date/get married; essentially people seem to settle onto one path--at the expense of all other paths. Which is fine--for them. I think that there shall be no settling for me. I must keep moving. This seems to be a condition of my existence. Whether this movement is within or without seems to be irrelevant. Or, rather, I do seem to to particularly prize/regard the internal movement, but I have found external movement to be a great stimulator of internal movement.  And, alas, as long as I have books and you [that is, my journal] I seem to never stop moving within. So that helps that. 

Most of all though, I don’t want to chain myself to some job that stymies my movement. Especially my internal movement. If I’ve learned anything about myself in these 24 years, it’s that such is a death sentence for/to me. I must keep moving. Inertia is death. Because a self-imposed death is still very much a death. Perhaps an ever deader death (if that’s possible). Now, of course, this whole ‘not letting a job chain me down’ does get rather complicated by the fact that I do need money to maintain my survival. It’s not like everyone in the world enters into the contract (or bondage, depending on how you look at it) of a job because they’re just total masochists. No, I recognize that for the most part people consent to have a job for the simple fact that it is required for their continual survival. As it is for my continual survival. Plus I’ll have some student loans to pay off (I try not to stress too much about that one. Uni is absolutely imperative for/to my development. I’ll figure out how to pay for it later.), so it seems that I will definitely need to figure out some way of generating moneys. But, alas, I aim to keep my expenses such that I won’t have to chain myself to a full-time job. I aim to do this by living in my van when weather permits and then...figuring something out for winter. I’ll live frugally--my only indulgence being books. For it turns out that one really doesn’t need as much money to get by as one might think. You cut out all that useless shit that people buy, get back to just the basics and suddenly things become much more manageable.  

This, I hope, will be what the outward appearance of my life will look like after graduation. And inwardly, well, I can’t even imagine that--I’ll be moving, that’s all I know. Working towards Greatness, looking at perhaps getting myself published; learning, always learning. This is how I’ll fill my life. It makes me so full and content to consider that I could cry. Oh what a feeling it is to actually want; to crave to live one’s life. It’s not exactly a feeling that I’m familiar with. Usually I tend to attempt--by any means necessary--to avoid gazing too long into the/my future. For the wretched weight of it felt only like a jail cell beckoning me towards it confines. Time, at my back, preventing my retreat, the chains of life always an inevitability; I could see no way around it. Or, rather, I could imagine ways around it (my power of imagination being what it is paired with my insatiable need to read anything that I can get my hands on (that makes it sound like I’m not a discriminating reader, which is false: I might just be the most snobbish reader that I’ve ever encountered. I’m so intimately aware that I’ll never be able to read all the books that I want to, therefore I must be very careful to give my time and energy to only those books that I deem to be imperative to my development. God I sound like such a cocky asshole. But hopefully a cocky asshole that is tempered with the realization that I’m not shit yet and I never will be unless I really... strain myself. I’m not sure how this spiraled into a poop(ing) metaphor, but here we are nevertheless.)) but I never felt myself to be capable of the strength and individuality required to evade that jail cell that I’ve witnessed so many people around me imprisoned by. 

Alas though, I realize now that the only thing more terrifying than attempting such an evasion is to not. For, to not attempt such an evasion is to surrender myself; to fail to become myself: of which I agree with Kierkegaard is a fate worse than death. I have discovered that I can withstand a lot of pain and discomfort in life--but not that. To lose myself, especially like that, to (how did he put it?) “pawn” myself to the world is not something that I will ever be able to withstand. I know this. Any leanings in the past towards such have led--always--to a crushing compulsion to end it all. I seem to be so constituted that such a pawning is simply not an option to/for me. Which is something that I’ve only just now grasped in its entirety. I seem to have had some hunch of it for a few years here now (thus the talk of the conditions of my existence) but only now have I managed to grasp (or begun to grasp) the full weight of all this. I can truly do no other. I have never, nor will I ever, have any choice in the matter. Or, rather, since I don’t believe in determinism, I should say that my choice is to either live “myself” or to not live at all. This is the ultimate condition of my existence. All other conditions stem from this ultimate one. 

Wow, okay, so this is why I love writing--why I absolutely need to write. Just as my physical body needs food and water to sustain itself, my soul needs to write. For through/by writing I come to be/tough ‘myself.’ Perhaps f I did not write I would become a pawn to the world. And I would never realize that although I might be physically alive; conventionally regarded as a living being; I never became anything more than a living death. For that’s what it feels like to pawn oneself to the world. I feels like one’s ‘self’ and one’s life is not one’s own; that one is merely a spectator to the unfolding of a dreary and rather impersonal drama.--Gross. That is, if I had it in me to even put up with any of that. I imagine that, being who/as I am, I wouldn’t live to see too many seasons of a life like this: the cape of despair eventually suffocating me. 

I wonder, what is it about me, my ‘self’ that makes it wholly impossible for me to ignore my ‘self.’I look around me and see the majority of people managing it just fine (or, rather, as fine as one can manage the pawning of oneself to the world.). Why is such a path/manner of Being one that is closed to me? I couldn’t attempt it even if I wanted to. Why/how is this??? What is it about me that makes this so? Because I realize now that my inability to do such a thing/live such a way, has defined my entire life thus far. It doesn’t seem to be something that I learned or picked up from anyone else. That is, I can think of no one who modelled anything like this in my early life. It was only later on, when the definition was making itself felt more and more that I managed to find others who also felt such a condition defining their existence. But those others didn’t birth it in me, they only (not only, for their friendship has been everything to me.) helped me recognize what was already there. 

My need to be/become my’self’ seems to be an inborn requirement of my Being. The condition of my existence. But how can this be?? For this condition doesn’t seem to be present, or at least, not nearly as stressed, in the people that I observe around me. It is this condition that has made me feel different--pathological--my whole life. Even when I couldn’t grasp it, it was always there, whispering to me from the darkness. It was never not there. Thus, I though that there was something wrong with me. 

It would seem that the entire trajectory of my life has been defined by the attempt to understand this whispering from the darkness. For I discovered early on that I couldn’t silence it without simultaneously doing away with myself. Because it is more me than I am... Whatever that means. And it is this whispering, this me, my ‘self’ that I am now engaged in consolidating; I am collecting from the darkness and attempting to explore and understand. This is what my life is about. Or, at least, it is the meaning of my life. My defining commitment as Hubert Dreyfus would say? And God is that which makes it all possible is what Kierkegaard what would say? God is the ground where all of this takes place; God is the sun which allows for the illumination of these dark places. It is only with/through God that the whispering can be understood? Is God that which whispers to me? That would indicate/imply that my ‘self’ is God; a fragment of God? My ‘self’ is atman? So many things to consider here...

Atman, my ‘self’, might this bear any relation to the concept of Nothingness that Sartre is acquainting me with? He does talk about how this Nothingness “haunts” Being. And I would certainly say that this whispering from the darkness of my Being has haunted me. Haunting is actually a perfect word for it. I seem to be more (profoundly?) haunted than others. Is this possible? I wonder, will Sartre ever discuss the possibility of some being more “haunted” or possessing more Nothingness than others? 

It has become apparent to me recently that this is my work. It is my play too actually, all woven into one. That is, when I sit here with you, when I lose myself in books, when I wander around and think/imagine, I am working. It may seem like such a minor distinction to focus on--such a trivial thing to notice and distinguish. But to/for me it is everything. I have always craved to be one of those people who is consumed by their work. I has always thought that there was something to important and noble about it. I bestows one’s life with an importance that isn’t there otherwise. That is, a life without this emphasis on one’s work is a life without a defining commitment. This seems to be an awareness that I apprehended before I was ever able to understand or articulate it. All I knew was that I was missing an importance/meaning to my life. I could see that others (though few) had it. But I never really believed that I would come to experience it myself. I had resigned myself to merely watching those others from the sidelines. Always to be aware of the game that I so desperately yearned to be a part of, yet never being chosen to participate. For, alas, it does seem to be a game that one must be chosen for. You can want to participate with your whole Being, but that means nothing unless one is animated from within. Otherwise one will simply be going through the movements; it will be purely mechanical. A true experience of/participation in the game requires that one lose oneself in/to it. And to lose oneself to something is never a choice made by oneself. That is, one can offer oneself up to this losing, but one can never control whether/if one will get swallowed up. I so wanted to be swallowed up by the game--by my work--and now it seems to be happening. I wonder, if one consistently offers oneself up to such a swallowing, is it inevitable that one will eventually get swallowed up? So many questions. And I’ve gotten so abstract and... mystical(?) in my thoughts now that I can hardly ask anyone else these questions. For, even the formulation of these questions requires such a lengthy and convoluted explanation that I’m unsure if I could even construct them, let alone hope that anyone might be able to follow my train of thought well enough for anything close to a satisfactory answer. It seems that I must wander the path of my questioning alone. And my writing is my mapping of the territory that I come across. This is my contribution to the literary community: to add my mappings to the mass of mappings that have been done before me. Because, after all, aren’t we all just trying to make sense of this crazy thing we call life? And isn’t life continuously evading our attempts to do so? 

The closer I get to Greatness the deeper I’ll be able to penetrate into (the mystery of) life. And, thus, the more precise/profound/meaningful my mapping will become. 

It seems to me that the only way for me to draw closer to this Greatness (my Greatness?) is by following the whispers of my ‘self.’ That is, I may learn from those around me, but I can never rely on them too fully lest I imitate them and lose the thread/path of my ’self.’ For Greatness seems to be... wholly individual, in a certain regard. By that I mean that... what do I mean? Every artist has their own particular flavor of Greatness. And it is only through/by this particular flavoring that Greatness appears. Because Greatness is... well, it’s not black and white; it’s vibrant and lively, it dances and lives. It is transcendent. It cannot be created/pursued mechanically. Sure it requires discipline and control, but it also requires personality and deviation. It requires that one break rules and forge new paths. These things can only be done by the individual. For it requires that one step outside the boundaries/limitations that had previously been set. This is a task that can only be done by the individual. It is not a collective activity, not something that any machine (mechanized something) might be able to do/engage in. The mechanized something is unable to do such because, as I understand it, these things necessarily require boundaries in order to operate in the first place. Or else these get swallowed up by possibility and are unable to function at all. Thus limitations must be set and can only be sidestepped by direction from some external tinkering/director. And, in the case of the collective... there seems to be a sort of inertia in the collective. As is a certain level of inertia is one of its defining features. For it is only by standing still that things (people) can collect after all. Yes, that seems right. Thus, only the individual, through their individuality, may pursue/tough Greatness. Although, of course, in saying that I also recognize that the individual is an amalgamation of everyone and everything that said individual has ever encountered (or will ever encounter?). So, in a sense, the individual is, in the individual self, a collection of Being. But, alas, a different sort of collective than what one conventionally thinks of when they consider a collective. 

Damn, I gotta say, I really covered some ground today. So odd too, I really had no idea that all of this was welling up within me. When I first sat down with you this morning I had absolutely no idea what we would be exploring together. Alas though, is it time to move onto some Being and Nothingness now? I’ve got to tell you, if I keep going at this pace, finishing it and The Second Sex by the end of the semester will be a piece of cake. I maybe should have set my aim even higher and also included Being and Time. But then, is it too late to make a change? Let’s just think about this for a minute... I’m at such a point in Being and Nothingness that I could reasonably leave it aside for a moment and return to it without too much confusion (I think). Being and Time only has 415 pages. And Dreyfus’ commentary on it is only 281 pages. Do I dare raise my aim? Doing so would mean adding another 700 pages to my goal, making it 2300 pages of dense philosophical treatise to complete in 3 months while simultaneously juggling 5 classes. Do I dare attempt it? I ask but I already know the answer. Now, the only question is, do I start Being and Time first or ought I take a bit of a wander through Dreyfus’ commentary first? 

[eldritch-araneae]

Angst prompt: Hat Kid goes missing in Subcon. Filled with worry, Snatcher goes to investigate. He finds her eventually...but something's definitely wrong with her. She isn't acting like herself (A.k.a- She's being possessed) Snatcher can hear Hat Kid crying for help through the possession, but he's at a dilemma because he doesn't want to hurt her in the process of saving her (Sorry if this is too long! ^^')

Hey, guess what? I finally wrote something again, here come the Dadcher ahahah! :D

Thank you for the promt and thanks to @abyssal-glory​ for beta reading and editing!

Ice Shard.

“She’s taking way too long…” you grumble as you pace back and forth inside your hollow tree.

It was supposed to be an easy job: find one lost alchemy journal that used to belong to the florist from the frozen village. You could not go into that place yourself: just one look at the land coated in snow and ice and feeling freezing air were enough to send you into a spiral of panic. Even this warm cloak of yours wouldn’t help much in this situation.

That’s why you asked your kid to do it. She doesn’t mind since it’s not near that cursed manor. And she was supposed to be BACK by now!

You sigh and focus on the nearby auras: you could sense your minions, a few living creatures that still lived in half-dead forest, and you can sense the kid. She is still there, alive and fine.

Still, it doesn’t sit right for some reason.

Alright, you’re just gonna go and take a quick look! The kid is probably fine, she’s probably taking too long because she’s looking in every house or something.

You fly fast, driven by worry and fear. It’s probably fine, you are worrying too much!

You reach the broken bridge. The icy sight is making your metaphorical stomach turn. It’s fine, this is fine! You look in the distance and see Hat Kid. She’s right there, but something is wrong. 

Hat Kid is walking around in circles, her shoulders slumped, almost stumbling with each step she takes, her eyes unfocused. 

You must check on her. Yes, that means going into this forsaken place! With a deep breath you dash forward, trying not to focus on the biting cold. 

“Hey, kiddo!” You try to mask your growing anxiety.”What’s taking you so long? I almost thought you decided to live here!”

No answer from her. You frown, she’s usually quick with witty remarks. You float in front of her.

“Kiddo? Hello, are you there?” you wave your hand in front of her unfocused eyes. Suddenly, they focus on you, and you don’t like this stare. Her gaze is full of icy anger; you know this gaze way too well!

“No…” You flinch back. It can’t be!

“Elias,” she says.  There is no way the kid would know your real name! It could only be Vanessa…but how?!

“You dirty TRAITOR!” she screams and attacks, throwing some ice shards in your direction. You try to dodge, but one shard impales your right shoulder. You hiss in pain, reaching up to pull it out. You hear something coming from below; in the next second, an ice spike shoots out the ground. You dash to the left, barely dodging it and damaging your cloak instead.

“WHAT DID YOU DO THE KID?!” you scream, glaring now at your possessed child. 

Vanessa laughs in the kid’s voice, making you feel sick.

”Oh, nothing much!” she sends another ice barrage at you. Several of the shards managed to scratch you this time. ”Just a little ice and she’s mine! Do you like it?”

Suddenly, something heavy hits you from the back with such force that it sends you flying across and hitting one of the buildings upon landing. 

The panic is getting worse. You start breathing hard, feeling like you’re suffocating despite the fact that you don’t need oxygen anymore. You feel the shackles on your arms, chains around your body, a sharp pain where your legs would be if you still had any. You tremble hard as the cold becomes unbearable, making your right shoulder hurt worse.

Suddenly, out of nowhere something draws your attention away from your panic-driven state. You feel like something is calling, begging for help, feel like crying and screaming. But those feelings aren’t yours, no, you recognize the aura - that’s the kid! Vanessa must have masked her presence within Hat Kid’s aura and made it seem like the child was okay, but now that she’s revealed herself, you can feel the kid is desperately crying for help!

You growl, and despite shaking like a leaf in the wind, you manage to get up. There is no way you will allow this. No one hurts your kid!

You move forward, focusing on the child. Vanessa shoots more ice shards at you but it doesn’t stop you. When you get close enough, you grab the kid’s hands as you try your best to inspect her, trying to find something that Vanessa could use to control her.

The task proves to be difficult as Vanessa keeps squirming, shooting more ice at you and slashing your face. But then you notice a small glint in her left eye. You look closely and see a tiny ice shard stuck in there! 

That’s it! But how are you supposed to get rid of it?! The shard is way too small! You can easily hurt her eye by accident! You could shapeshift into your kid form, but it wouldn’t make it easier, and anyway, you cannot become small. Your own core is preventing it. You cannot use magic as well, the risk of damaging the kid’s eye is even higher in this case!

No option sounds good, but you have to act now.

You coil around her tiny form, making sure she won’t be able to move, then grab her head with right hand. Holding it still, you use your fingers to gently keep the left eye open, using your free hand to try to remove the cursed shard.

“What you think you are doing?!” Vanessa screams through Hat Kid. “You think you can take my new toy away, just like that?!” Icy spikes burst from the ground underneath you, stabbing into your tail. Somehow, you ignore the pain as you pinch the tiny shard between very tips of your talons.

“Don’t you dare, Elias!” the icy witch screams as you carefully pull the shard out of Hat Kid’s eye. Suddenly, kid’s body goes limp.

Looks like it worked. You relax your tail and lift the child into your arms. She’s clearly unconscious, but alive. You bring her closer to your chest and wrap your cloak around her for extra warmth, then teleport to her spaceship, away from this cursed place.

You sit on the kid’s bedroom’s floor, cradling her close. Now that the danger has passed, you become aware of the severity of your injuries. You hiss in pain, but it’s not that bad, nothing that sleeping in warm blankets can’t fix. 

You feel tears rolling down your face as you realise you could have lost the kid for good! With a deep sigh, you wipe them away, feeling relieved that it didn’t happen.

You feel the child squirming in your hold. She opens her eyes and looks at you.

“Dad?” she asks softly, sounding like she’s just woken up from slumber. That’s a good sign, maybe, if you’re lucky, she won’t remember this whole mess.

“Hey, kiddo,” you say gently as you take her hat and set it on the floor, then start caressing her head. “How do you feel?”

“I’m okay…?” she sounds a bit confused at the odd question, but then she looks up at you and gasps. “What happened to you?!”

Crap, you forgot that Vanessa sliced up your face and shoulder. There is no way Hat Kid cannot see this.

“Ah, I had a little chit-chat with our favorite Miss Ice-To-Meet-You. Do you remember anything that happened in frozen village?”  Secretly, you really, really hope she doesn’t.

“I…well, no. I only remember stepping out of a house and then suddenly a gust of wind blew into my face and something…got into my eye?” she explains, unsure what else to say.”Did something bad happen? Did Vanessa come and…?” she trails off, afraid to assume the worst.

“Well she came, but I took care of her!” That actually makes you a bit proud of yourself. Normally you cannot do anything against her as fear paralyzes you completely, but seems like you can muster a spark of courage if someone close to you is in danger. “Don’t worry about it…and let’s never go near that frozen village again, okay?”

She hugs you tightly, burying her face into your mane. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find the journal…”

“Shhh…” you kiss the top of her head. ”It’s okay, it’s not that important anymore.”

You sit like this for a while, enjoying the positive contact and being glad that your child is safe.

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Overgrown Metal

Series Summary -  Almost two decades ago, the fae rose up from beyond the veil with technology far surpassing the human race, quickly taking over after laying waste to nearly everything in their wake. Now eight paths cross to right the wrongs on both ends, working to uncover secrets that would have rather stayed hidden.

Chapter 2 - Camping

Wrapping his cloak tighter around himself, the young man grumbled quietly to himself as he scooted closer to the small fire. Two cans of mini raviolis sat nearby, cracked open slightly and heating up just a foot away from the flames. He let out a quiet curse as his stomach grumbled loudly, making more noise in a couple seconds than he had in a week.

'What the hell is taking you so long?' he thought at his still absent companion. The water of the nearby river was freezing, it shouldn't be taking this long to clean. He would had heard if the other was attacked. Even if the attacker was silent Roman typically wasn't, their overly dramatic battle cries carrying over fields if they so chose them too. Maybe they fell in? Again, he would have heard the yell...unless the shock from the cold rendered them nonverbal. Or something had dragged them in. Maybe while cleaning off their weapons their hand had slipped and they had sliced themself open and was currently bleeding out and he wouldn't know because he was being too stubborn to leave the warmth of the fire. What if they fell and cracked their head open on a rock? What if-

Crunching footsteps interrupting his racing thoughts and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. While he was getting better at not having to check on Roman every few minutes to make sure they were still around, it didn't stop his thoughts from quickly spiraling when the thought of him being alone again filled his head. Roman plopped down beside him having deposited their pack with their other belongings nearby, leaning forward to carefully take the cans away from the fire and depositing one in front of each of them before procuring spoons from God-knows-where but he was hungry so it didn't matter.

He growled low as he snatched the utensil, ripping the lid the rest of the way off and shoveling the ravioli with essence of tin in his mouth regardless of the heat.

"Slow down, dark and stormy gremlin, you're gonna choke!" He didn't even spare a glance at the scandalized face as the last of the sauce was scraped up and eaten in less than a minute.

"Was hungry." He mumbled out, hands disappearing back into the cloak as he burrowed further into its warmth.

The other eyed him fondly. "Honestly, Virgil I can't take you anywhere. I get a spot at the nicest pasta joint in town and this is how you behave? I really can't take you anywhere."

They frowned as they only received a soft huff in response. "Are you alright? I'm sorry I was gone for so long, that oil takes a while to work out in cold water."

Virgil shook his head. "....that."

Catching only half the mumble, Roman set their own empty can down and scooted closer. "Can I ask you to repeat that or is it a signing day?"

Virgil squeezed himself tighter in the fabric and lifted his head up towards the other. Roman's eyes shone with concern even in the dim light of their small campfire, the effect only slightly ruined by the dark curls drying in the humid air making them puff out in a fluffy halo around their head. The image made him smile lightly and duck his head back down to suppress his giggles.

"Hairs messy."

He only giggled harder at the offended gasp. "I'm offering you a damn heart to heart here and I get insulted!" Roman grimaced as they felt what state their hair was in, ruing their days as a traveler if only for the fact that hairstyles were rendered useless on an adventure. They were still bitter over The Great Hairspray Debacle of 2015, having to give the space up in their pack for "actual necessary supplies, Roman".

Virgil's laughter died down as the nervous feeling began to creep back into his thoughts. Roman noticed the sobering mood and sat back slightly, willing to wait for the young nervous wreck to gather his thoughts.

"Town's coming up."

Roman nodded. They knew there was a town with an underground market a few days travel away from the last time they had come through this way. They hadn't had time to stop before, but this time around they needed to empty out their packs of the items that had been piling up for a few weeks now and their supplies were getting low enough that they would have needed to stop to stock up anyway. They gestured for Virgil to continue even though they knew what the source of anxiety was going to be.

"What if..." Virgil growled in frustration as the words stuck in his throat, the rolling anxiety in his stomach and mind making him struggle to not shut down. Long, pale fingers twisted and bunched the fabric around him until with a frustrated huff they darted out and flipped out a quick gesture.

"Recognized?"

Roman nodded in understanding and he sighed in relief. He knew not being able to speak most of the time had to be annoying for his companion but thankfully they never seemed to mind, only waiting patiently for either words to be forced out or hands to jerkedly spell out what little bit of sign language he knew. He made up a lot along the way and most of the time he was able to be understood. With no internet to look up the language, books being a Society privilege and a general distrust of people making it difficult to ask anyone for lessons, even though they never stayed in one place for long, official sign wasn't something either of them were good at.

"That's why we have the cloaks and hoods and even the masks if we feel like we need them. We're pretty far away though, I doubt anyone we would know would be around." Roman took up a stick and poked around the fire a bit, stirring it as the embers began to die down for the night. "Nothing has ever happened at any of the towns we've been in, and I've heard this one is particularly...underground, so to speak. No one who would recognize us would be caught dead near there. We'll go in, sell our parts, grab supplies and get out. Next stop after that will be that abandoned city-town-place wherever that we heard about a while back. It'll be fine, Anx."

Virgil smiled at the old nickname, something Roman had taken to calling him when he refused to reveal his name the first few months they began traveling together. His shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit as the name ironically released some of the pent up anxiety, fingers releasing the cloak and instead splaying on his ripped black jeans to try and wipe off the accumulated sweat.

They both sat in silence for a while after that, watching the fire die down completely as the late evening faded into complete darkness, the clear sky allowing the stars to be on full display with no threat of light pollution to obscure their giddy twinkling. Crickets chirped quietly in the long grass, fireflies answering back their call with lazy winks of light. Even the river was hushed, water seeming to lap quieter at the shore for fear of breaking the rare tranquility the nearby travelers were soaking in.

With the world this soft and still, Virgil could pretend for a moment that this was merely an extended camping trip. Maybe they were on their summer break and were hiking for the fun of it. Tomorrow they could trek through a forest like it was nothing, sunlight streaming through normal tree branches as untouched wildlife teemed around them. All of their gear and supplies could be innocent in nature, the heaviest thing in their packs could be a small camping stove rather than their extensive collection of foreign trading parts. Their supplies were running low, so they'd soon start heading back the way they came, finding their car and laughing at some dumb play argument they had on the way back while they reloaded everything and climbed in the front, laughter turning to more bickering as they fought over what music they'd listen to first. Roman would drive first since Virgil only had his permit and wouldn't feel comfortable taking the wheel until he recognized the roads they were on. They'd get to Virgil's house and it would be coming onto late evening so he'd let Roman stay the night, knowing his dad-

Virgil furiously scrubbed at his eyes, snapping back from his thoughts. His dad wouldn't care of a friend stayed over. He didn't care about anything. He didn't even care when - no. Nope, not tonight. Rubbing absentmindedly at his arms he scooted backwards away from the now dead fire and laid back to watch the sky, Roman following soon after. They didn't say anything as he turned and wrapped himself around the other tightly, for which he was grateful. He smiled as he felt lips touch the top of his head and careful arms lay themselves across his back. Surrounded by safety and warmth it wasn't hard for sleep to find him.

-------

".....an."

"Come on, Ro....."

"Princey, get up!"

Roman shot up, blinking rapidly to clear the lingering sleep from their eyes and shaking their head to try and whip the tangled curls away. Glaring in response to their brothers shit-eating grin, they settled for flipping him off while they rubbed at their eyes, getting a water bottle thrown at them in retaliation.

"Too early." They mumbled as they fumbled with the lid.

Virgil laughed. "Try again, Sleeping Ugly, it's almost noon. I've had camp packed up for hours now."

Offended at the nickname but grinning nonetheless, they downed half the bottle in one go and dragged their pack over lazily. Virgil was always the early riser in their party of two, despite the late nights he often kept as a sleeping schedule. Roman however, was happy to spend the day hitting the metaphorical snooze button unless they had actual plans. Which, unless another Mech Beast was spotted this close to a town, which was highly unlikely, this was supposed to be a day of resting.

Looking over at the other however, their irritation softened as the ball of anxious energy went from task to already done task trying to keep himself busy. Though it seemed he'd be more talkative today than he had been that didn't mean his nerves weren't soaring to the sky with how close they were to people again. They knew they should both take a break today, but if moving would help...

Mind made up they stood, swinging the pack around to rest on their shoulder and picking up another to carry first for the time being. Different pieces of metal and containers holding strange substances clanked together inside, securely wrapped in paper and fabric to prevent them from breaking or getting scratched. They'd make Virgil carry it later on but they figured since they got extra sleep it would only be fair to carry the heavier pack first.

Trying one last time to fix their hair back into a reasonable shape Roman turned towards Virgil with a smile.

"Ready?"

Hoisting up his own pack he nodded and kicked at the already severely scuffed dirt, rising up on his tip toes as he began to walk.

"As I'll ever be."

This work is also available on AO3!

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