#I have a lot of thoughts and they would be better off occupying a journal | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

devourers-of-god · 3 months

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Hey! I'm new here, so I'm sorry if something's wrong. I really like the way you write, it's just wonderful!

Can I ask you for a little fanfiction/headcount where Sally first saw the traces of selfharma on a femme reader? They can be both in a relationship or just friends... I would like something cozy, soothing and fluffy

Thank you in advance

Hi!! Welcome on Tumblr !! Thank you for your compliments, it’s super sweet T-T<3 I will make you a little oneshot with headcanons at the end <3 I think I will do friends but they crush on eachother!

And happy Valentine’s Day for those who celebrate !!

SAL X FEMME!READER THAT S3LFH@RMS

Warnings: self harm mentions, nothing graphic. Fluff !

Character: Sal Fisher

Oneshot - Worried

« Have you noticed y/n haven’t been looking like herself lately? » Todd said, looking up at Sal. Todd had noticed a shift in your behaviour. He’s not great at expressing concern but he thought that telling Sal would be a great idea, since Todd suspect that Sal’s crush is actually you.

« Mmm.. I mean I guess..? She doesn’t hang out with us a lot these days. » Sal replied, looking in the distance. In reality, Sal did notice something, you’ve been avoiding talking to the group. Almost isolating yourself. Which isn’t usual since you’re usually bubbly and full of life, always wanting to hang out and occupy yourself, but these past few weeks it was like you just became.. empty.

« You’re the only one that knows her better than anyone. I think you should say something Sal. We never know. You know there’s 53,2% of women suicide per ye-»

« Alright I’ll talk to her. » Sal cut off Todd, the blue haired boy didn’t want to stress himself out about such a tragic situation that might happen..? Sal slammed his locker door, waved at Todd and thanked him, and now he needed to find you.

In reality, Sal was crazy worried about you. He’s always had a crush on you, since you moved in Nockfell a few years ago. He loved the way you laugh, how you smile downwards, how your cheeks becomes a tinted pink when you’re flustered..and- « Watch where you’re going freak! » Travis said angrily. Sal was lost in thought and his luck made him bump into the one and only, Travis Phelps. Sal didn’t want trouble today, he was already in such stress that he didn’t need another anxiety inducing situation. The masked boy quickly escaped his bully and went on with his goal.

After a few minutes of intense research, he caught a glimpse of you making your way out of school. « She’s ditching class now? » Sal thought to himself, trying to walk as fast as he can, but with his small legs it was harder than other people. You were going behind the bleachers, notebook in hand. You’ve been writing everything that’s been going wrong in your life. You found comfort in writing, it felt great to know that the only one viewing the journal was you. It made you feel safe. The notebook was like therapy to you, writing edgy poems in code to hide your embarrassment. You would say to yourself that it was like your private little garden.

After finding your usual spot, you noticed Sal coming. Your face became red, and it was not because of the cold.

« ..Hi. » Sal said panting, he just noticed that you walk so fast. You quickly put your notebook underneath you. You were wearing ripped pants with a zip up jacket, that was too short for you.

« Hey Sal. » you replied, you sniffled quietly. What Sal doesn’t know is that you’ve been crying since the day started, you couldn’t go to class, you just couldn’t. It was too demanding. Too hard for you, you preferred isolating yourself until the end of the day. Sals visit was unexpected.

« Have you been… crying y/n? It’s okay if you were and if you don’t want to talk about it I completely understand-» Sal stopped quickly after noticing he was rambling and talking fast.

You sighed. Wiping your nose with your hand, making your sleeve fall off your arm.

A heavy silence was heard.

Your scars were showing. You noticed they were in plain sight after you noticed Sals eye widening. « Oh fuck off » you thought to yourself. Your heart rate fastened as you rolled your sleeve down.

« Say something say something say something say-» Sals thoughts were racing, just like your heartbeat. He had to say something. He had to. Why couldn’t he speak up? He went through the same thing you’re going through. Sals supposed to know what to say right ? Only seconds had passed but it felt like long, long minutes before Sal eventually took his courage and spoke up.

« … I’ve been worried about you. And this confirms my concerns. Y/n.. I’m sorry you’ve been going through this… God I’m sorry y/n I wish I could’ve there to help you. You mean so much to me I- I just can’t watch someone so important to me in a state like this » Wow, it was maybe one of the only times that Sal would say something so heartfelt. Sal noticed your hands were shaking and your eyes slowly watering. His first instinct was to hold your hand. Your face got flustered as he did that.

« Sal- I’m the one who’s sorry. I should’ve communicated this with you earlier.. things has been bad but nothing is your fault. » You said as Sal hugged you tight, he didn’t want to let you go. As in the hug in just in general.

« I really like you y/n, let me help you.. please.. »

Annnddd that’s it HAHAHA SORRY😭 this might not be as good because I have an important exam in like 30 minutes and I’m stressing the fuck out. Anyways, here’s some hcs to compensate :P

HEADCANONS

- when Sal first noticed, he made sure you felt safe venting to him.

- carries a first aid kit.. just in case something happens.

-he make sure to clean your wounds when you relapse, he doesn’t want you to get an infection.

- he makes sure to always be there for you, you guys hang out more than usual after this.

- caresses your scars with his fingertips, humming, to help you fall asleep.

- makes sure to hide anything that you use to hurt yourself without you knowing.

- keeps the secret to himself.

- is way more affectionate than before, he eventually got way better with words of affirmation so he can help you even more.

Okep! Thank you for reading and I really hope you guys enjoyed ;( I love you all !!!

REQUESTS: ALWAYS OPEN!!!

DMS: OPEN:3

#sallyface #sally face #todd morrison #larry johnson #ashley campbell #sal fisher #travisphelps #sf #sally face hcs #sal fisher x y/n #help #sally face headcanons #sal fisher oneshot #sal fisher x reader #sally face art #sal fisher hcs #writers on tumblr

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nightingale-ghost-writer · 2 months

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By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Three

Summary: Rogier tries (and fails) to occupy his mind and time, alone in the Hold. With a little help, he’s about to have lots to think about.

Author’s Notes: Another measly 800 words! Setting the scene for what I hope to be the last chunk of game dialogue for a bit.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: none? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Rogier spent an indeterminate, but too long time, staring, again, where the Tarnished had been standing.

What just happened?

He couldn’t seem to process that kiss. It had been so long since he’d been touched, let alone kindly. Dare he say affectionately.

A door somewhere in the Hold slammed shut and he shook himself out of his stupor. He needed to get his mind off of-

He didn’t even know her name.

By Marika, he didn’t even know her name.

He drew himself up, such as it was, and lifted his chin in defiance of himself.

No need to pine for the touch of a woman he didn’t know, with whose presence he might never be graced again.

He didn’t pine. He needed no one.

That settled, he nodded to himself and then looked around the balcony, wistfully eyeing the rail he so often launched himself over. Never again.

He shook his head again. Not the kind of distraction he needed.

He looked toward the doorway. Surely, someone would be near enough to…

No. He didn’t want their pity. Their smug, vindicated disappointment. As it stood, he was outcast enough. And not without his own share of fault in the matter.

He resolved to keep himself occupied by his own devices.

He would list all of the spells he knew. He tilted his head back against the wall and let his eyes shut, taking a deep breath.

Lavender eyes bored through him.

He opened his eyes, shifting. Perhaps he could categorize them. By the order in which he learned them?

He tried that, and found himself getting hung up on the details surrounding each discovery.

He heard the Tarnished’s voice. Indistinct and lyrical.

He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. Was he going mad? Was Death rotting his mind?

A step at the doorway. He dropped his hands, affecting his signature easy air, smile and all. He didn’t let himself think about how quickly it came to him, how effortless it had become to hide behind this mask.

The Tarnished rounded the corner, mouth set in a wide smile. Her arms were laden with an assortment of items- scrolls and tomes; quills and ink; a pillow, a blanket; a small brown sack. She dumped the lot at Rogier’s feet, planting her hands firmly on her hips and looking quite pleased with herself.

“Congratulations, on this motley of… items,” he said dryly. She huffed, dropping to lean against the bench by his legs. If he could have recoiled, could have moved his wretched afflicted legs away from her, he would have. He couldn’t. And so he only sat, at once longing to flee, and longing to reach forward and tuck her dark hair behind her delicate ear.

What?

“You might be a bit more grateful once you see what I’ve brought,” she said blithely. She tossed a tome at him, which he fumbled before grasping. He turned it over. Before he could read the cover, she was tossing more tomes over her shoulder and into his lap.

“Well, then!” he sputtered. He looked down, ready to offer a good natured, if iindignant pout. But she was beaming up at him and he found his own lips curling up to match.

“Good, I thought you might give me an earful. The smile’s better.”

Rogier’s face flushed. She had the decency to look down, at least attempting to hide her smirk. Rogier cleared his throat, grasping for what shreds of decorum he could gather.

“What’s all this, then?” he finally asked.

She shrugged, shuffling papers at her feet. “Mostly journals, I think. Just things I’ve collected along the way.” She nodded to the brown sack. “Some bread and dried fruit. Not much, but it’ll keep you.

“Anyway, I just thought you might appreciate them more than me. And,” she looked up again, shy this time. “You seem to be quite well-learned. I thought you might like some place to put down your thoughts.” She held out another book- plain and leather bound. He took it gently from her hands. Loose papers fluttered out, and the Tarnished scrambled to collect them.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to put those, but I thought you might find some use. I certainly won’t.”

Rogier blinked. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Time can move rather slowly, stuck here, you know.” She looked up at him, holding the papers out. She seemed transfixed by his confession. He couldn’t quite believe he’d said the words aloud, himself. He forced himself to hold her gaze. “A little conversation goes a long way.”

She smiled, a bit of mischief and a bit of regret rolled into one.

“Well, in that case…”

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

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hiyabhat11 · 2 months

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Mastering the Art of Letting Go

I used to often ponder upon how to let go of things that are sometimes very dear to us. The question is rather how to let go when it feels impossible but at the same time not letting go is equally disrupting. I personally believe that the first step is realising that it is about time and as painful and daunting as it may seem, we’ve to step in the daylight and let it go. As humans, it is our tendency to seek comfort and pleasure even in pain and melancholy or gloomy tales and sad sonnets. We often try to adjust ourselves to that pain of staying in that situation rather than mustering up courage to let go. Undeniably, letting go is not easy. This is often related with the fear of being abandoned by the ones who occupy the most space in our hearts. I figured out a process that one can practise to make it easy.

Take a piece of sheet and note down how are the current circumstances coming in your way of becoming the version of yourself which you so want to be. Then take another sheet of paper and write how different your life would be if you find a way out of this draining situation. The analogy between the two sheets will help you create a holistic path that would eventually lead towards your end goals. In the overall scheme of things these small changes may be worth it. I hope all of you can reflect and appreciate the contradictions between these two sheets and how with some effort and conviction will take you closer to the person you aspire to become or the goals that you have been aspiring to achieve. The purpose of this small activity was to help you accept the fact that letting go would not hurt you, but on the contrary would turn around your life for the better.

So, I believe, that you’ve to some extent accept that moving on is for your greater good. Once you’ve accepted the situation you are in and trust that your life is worth living despite the odds of getting comfort in someone who would support you via the thick and thin. But is accepting this enough? Certainly not. Listening to some healing podcasts or audio books will make you feel a lot better about challenging situation. A lot of people tend to ignore this and do not believe in the gigantic power they hold. I have tried it and it does make a difference. Journalling your thoughts daily is an extremely potent tool too. We always do not have someone who will listen to us yap, so journalling has always been the best resort.

But do not go through all of this as some rigid process, take your time to heal and embrace the tiny changes that you are making. I also believe in the mechanism of rewarding ourselves over every small victory that you achieved, be it going a week without talking about your problems, letting go of the toxic relationship/household or even learning to let go off that job. Treating yourself for it, helps your mind believe that you have achieved something and this would generate a lot of positive energy around you. Healing is never a linear process with a positive slope; some days will be tougher than others and it is at those times when a person goes back into the same loop.

So, the question is how to avoid it? One way could be to start yoga and meditation daily, this would help you when it gets a little heavy in there. Another way is to start connecting with your loved ones. Go for that family dinner that you have been postponing, call your grandparents and tell them that you love them. It is always about the little things, and we may not see it, but these tiny habits practised day in and out will eventually transform us into who we have always wanted to be. Picking up a new hobby and sticking it to it is also a great practice. This way we are spending time on ourselves and by staying occupied with our work, leaves us less time to think about all of those things we’re trying to let go.

Another pivotal step here is to realise and understand that we are worthy of love, not the kind of love that is given to us in pieces but a healthy kind of love, the kind of love which would encourage us to love back. It is not worth it otherwise. So, embrace yourself, love yourself even on days when you do not feel so loved or happy. Those feelings of not being good enough someday will fade away as we continue to give ourselves the love that we give to others. Letting go also at some level is a test of the strength of our character. Can we muster up the courage when everything is against our favour? Also think of how free and better would you feel after you have learned how to become stronger and better. Instead of being stuck in that loophole, you are now free. I am sure this thought made you smile and now perceive the changes you’ve to make to achieve that.

Unquestionably, we are our best judge, we know what we must do to let go, be it cutting off a person or filing in for that divorce, take that step and make the move. Initially it would be tough, but worth it? Definitely. When all these small tasks would be practised on a regular basis then months later you would realise that it was not that tough after all. You would look back and see the magic that we can do only when we try to accept things, rather than trying to change what we simply cannot. You would realise that the real joy was not in holding on, but that feeling of liberation that you get. Let’s all embrace this journey of life with an open heart. Give life a chance!

#self improvement #healing #letting go #acceptance

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fiction-box · 2 years

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Hello there, I am the anon who asked the question about platonic request! Can I request platonic hcs on friendship between FE3H pre-time skip Dimitri x younger (around 15-16 years old) chaotic good Fem!Reader who's student at Officers Academy too? Like what kind of relationship they will have? What kind of first meeting they have?

Well, it's very nice to meet you! I tend to be quite busy during the week, so I hope you don't mind the long wait. I try to brainstorm and write things down in my journal while I am occupied in my days, then I type it all up over the weekend and send it out.

This is actually my first request for HC's. It definitely gets done a lot quicker, since I don't have to think as hard about context and its easier for me to reread and check for errors. Hopefully I did a good job, in your eyes! I evaluated how this relationship would go about as honestly as I could, so just know that this is my opinion. If you don't like it, you can always request a specific type of relationship and scenario, and I can give you that.

Feel free to let me know what you think. Requests are open to everybody!

The HC's will be continued below the cut.

If you’re going to be friends with Dimitri and meet him at the monastery, you’re definitely going to need to be a part of the Blue Lions. He would be more focused on those within his kingdom than those outside of it, as a future king.

In regards to your age, 15 is going to be quite a bit more noticeable than 16. Since Ashe and Annette are young as well, you’d still fit right in with a few others in your class.

On that note, Dimitri is generally friendly to everyone, so he wouldn’t be any different toward you at your first meeting.

But he would definitely be intrigued by you. You’re spunky, like Annette, but it’s different. He feels like he knows Annette a bit better from the stories he’s heard from Gilbert.

You’re much more mysterious to him in the way that Ashe would be, mainly because he doesn’t know you at all, yet.

So he’d probably want to get to know you based on his curiosity. After all, as the house leader, Dimitri would think of it as his responsibility to be familiar with his house members. That way, he could truly optimize his team based on who worked best together.

He would definitely take the time to ascertain your fighting abilities through training. That might lead to the two of you having periodic chats about your interests during your breaks, which you’d continue to discuss whenever you met outside of the training grounds.

Once he gets to know you, though, I could see him coming to hang out with you whenever he wants to destress.

On the battlefield, I don’t think he would be “overprotective”, per say. He wouldn’t see you as his little sister or anything, but he would certainly have your back if you were ever off your game on the battlefield.

Basically, he knows he can trust you to handle yourself in a fight.

In truth, since you just met him at the officer’s academy, he’s not going to be comfortable letting you into his head, so to speak.

Among many other factors, your age is definitely going to play into that decision. His thoughts can get pretty dark, after all. The last thing he wants is for anyone to figure that out and get scared or judge him unfairly. The same goes for you; Dimitri would hate for you to suffer anything out of sympathy or empathy for him.

So, when he eventually does shut you out like everyone else, don’t take it personally. You can see that he isn’t letting the people he’s known all his life in, either. Even Dedue could barely get him to see reason, after all.

Overall, between the age barrier and the fact that he only met you for the first time at the monastery, your friendship isn’t realistically going to be anything too deep. You’re there for each other in battle and to get one another’s mind off things. You tend to associate each other with a good time.

#fe3h #fire emblem #fe x reader #fe3h x reader #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem x reader #fe3h dimitri #dimitri x reader #dimitri fe3h

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cascowriteswords · 2 years

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[Cryptidally Yours, Part Two - read Part One here]

In this snippet Lexa is realizing that Clarke might not actually be that bad and that she’s smoking hot maybe even pretty tolerable. But she’s still grumpy and annoyed. We introduce some ancient Bigfoot mythology which is basically just an excuse for me to write about Clarke touching Lexa’s face and hair and Lexa getting flustered by it.

Thanks to @dreamsaremywords for the entertaining Bigfoot discussion and for encouraging the continuation of this weird little story 😆

Here’s a reference to the braids Clexa reference in this snippet.

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

Lexa wakes with the rising sun, dappled sunlight falling across her face as it filters through the leaves and branches sprawling overhead. It’s a cool morning and a gentle breeze rolls across her face, the rest of her body still snugly tucked inside her sleeping bag. Birds sing around her. She takes a deep breath in and catches the last traces of smoke from her fire the previous evening. It’s all pretty idyllic.

She doesn’t get up immediately - she’s not in a rush. Her plans for the day are to explore the area and gather the information she needs to develop a game plan for the rest of her time here. She wants to scout alternative water sources aside from the river, see what sorts of prey are abundant in the area, and, of course, keep an eye out for any signs of Bigfoot activity. By learning the lay of the land she can get a better idea of what life for a Bigfoot out here looks like and, subsequently, a better idea of where she might find one.

The weather is already beautiful even this early in the morning and there’s not a lot that sounds better to Lexa than hiking around untouched Alaskan wilderness for the day before falling back to sleep in her tent after scrawling notes about her day in her journal, feeling tired and accomplished. At peace.

In her still only half-awake state, she manages to forget the actual circumstances of her trip. Until she hears stirring from across the campsite, the synthetic fabric of a sleeping bag rustling and then a zipper opening. “First full day in Alaska,” she hears Clarke’s voice, still a little raspy with sleep. For a second she wonders if her unexpected partner is talking to herself - then she lifts her head and peers out the mesh screen of her tent and sees Clarke, sitting in the opening of her tent, a camera panning around in front of her. “Got a lot on the agenda today, guys. I have 16 different trail cams to set up. I’m hoping to get half of them up today and the other tomorrow. It will take me a while because I want to cover as much ground as possible. Then once they’re up, they’ll send data straight to my laptop whenever we get a hit.”

Lexa recalls the excessive amount of luggage Clarke had hauled in with her. It was kind of impressive, actually, even if Lexa would never admit it. Where Lexa had packed as lightly as possible, Clarke had brought an abundance of electronics and gadgets that filled a duffle bag in addition to the pack on her back. As soon as she had seen the way Clarke sagged under the weight of her bags when they got off the plane she’d been waiting for her to complain as they bushwhacked their way to their campsite, but she never had. And she’d kept mostly to herself once they’d set up their tents and got a fire going, occupying herself with organizing her equipment and making sure she could establish a network connection. She hadn’t even been much of a nuisance while she live-streamed, staying mostly out of Lexa’s way.

It had given Lexa hope that maybe things would go more smoothly than she initially thought, but the idea of having all those cameras scattered around is really harshing her peaceful morning vibe.

“And for anyone who wasn’t in my live last night, I have some unexpected company in the form of Lexa Woods, a fellow Bigfoot hunter. Turns out wild Alaska was double booked this month.” Clarke laughs whimsically, because of course she isn’t as encumbered or bothered by Lexa’s presence as Lexa is by hers. “Say hi, Lexa, I know you’re awake.”

Lexa obstinately does not say hi. She’s not sure how Clarke knows she’s awake seeing as she’s hardly moved, so she pretends that she isn’t. Until she hears footsteps approaching. She glowers when she sits up and is faced with Clarke only a few feet away from her tent, camera in hand and pointed right at her. Lexa had brought her tent that’s made entirely of mesh screen, no canvas aside from the optional rainfly, so she could enjoy the weather and sleep under the stars and be as close to nature as possible. Now, staring at Clarke, she’s beginning to regret that decision.

“She’s not really a morning person,” Clarke says, to the camera and not to her. Lexa isn’t sure if she’s live streaming again or recording a video for her YouTube channel or TikTok. “Or an afternoon or evening person,” she adds, whispering as if even though she’s speaking loud enough for the camera to hear her Lexa can’t also hear her. “What are your plans for the day, Lex?” The casual use of a nickname almost no one calls Lexa except for Anya just grates on her nerves even more. “Are you a buddy system kind of person or would you prefer -”

Clarke stops mid-sentence, mouth frozen partly open in a gape, and stares at something just to the left of Lexa’s face. Lexa glances over her shoulder after a second, wondering if there’s a bear behind her, or maybe some kind of spider dangling down from the top of her tent, but she sees nothing. “What are you looking at?” she asks, uncomfortable and annoyed.

“Lexa - your hair,” Clarke says unhelpfully, only increasing Lexa’s agitation. She raises her hands to her head and attempts to smooth back her bedhead, annoyed as to why Clarke would be pointing it out. It can’t be that bad, and they’re in the middle of nowhere, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like she has access to a hot shower and a blow dryer.

“What about it?” she snaps. “This isn’t a beauty contest, Clarke. We have real work to do here. I couldn’t care less how I look for the camera.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Clarke says. To Lexa’s surprise, she sets down the camera, clicking what is presumably the power button as she does so. “You have a - that’s a braid, Lexa. Are you trying to fuck with me? Did you do it yourself?”

“What?” Lexa asks, looking at Clarke as if she may have lost her marbles. She pats the side of her head where Clarke had been staring and her fingers find a tangled section just by her ear. “It’s just a knot, Clarke.”

“No, it’s not just a knot. It’s a braid. Here, let me show you.” Clarke lets herself into the tent, unzipping the door without even asking, invading Lexa’s personal space as she takes out her phone to snap a picture. The sudden proximity surprises Lexa, and that’s the only explanation she has for the flash of buzzing electricity that courses through her when Clarke takes her chin between her fingers and tilts her head slightly so she can get her picture. Her fingers are cold, and Lexa still feels the imprint of them even after Clarke lets go, leaning back so she can turn the screen around to show Lexa. “That’s a braid, Lex. Exactly like the ones in all of the books and Reddit threads. It’s a Bigfoot braid.”

Lexa scrutinizes the picture, squinting against the glare on the screen from the sun rising around them. “It still just looks like a knot to me. Probably from the sheer fabric of my pillowcase,” Lexa rationalizes. She’s heard of it before, the ‘Bigfoot braid’, typically in reference to horses whose owners notice unexplained braids in their manes after a night out in the pasture. Some people say that it’s a sign that the horse was used by a Bigfoot overnight, or simply chosen as a favorite of Bigfoots in the area. She’s a skeptic herself, and she’s never heard of a human receiving a braid. Clarke is implying that a Bigfoot literally came into her tent and braided her hair while she was asleep and as much as she respects the creature's ability to remain hidden so well for so long, she just doesn’t think that would be possible. “You really believe in that folktale?”

“I just think that it would be a pretty big coincidence that you’d end up with a knot that looks exactly like a Bigfoot braid when we’re in an area known for Bigfoot activity looking for Bigfoot,” Clarke says, answering Lexa’s question. It presents an interesting dichotomy in Clarke’s guiding philosophies, a reliance on new-age tech mingling with some of the oldest beliefs in Bigfoot hunting history.

Clarke reaches up to touch the braid, gently as if she’s afraid to disturb it too much. And she’s close - it’s a small tent, after all, only meant for one person. Close enough that Lexa can smell her breath and tell that she’s brushed her teeth already or at least has chewed some gum, close enough that Lexa can see all of the little specks of darker shades of blue in her eyes amidst bright cerulean, even some gold flecks here and there that she hadn’t noticed before.

Clarke is staring at the braid as she rolls it between her fingers, and Lexa realizes she’s staring at Clarke. She looks away quickly and leans back, clearing her throat before swallowing thickly. “I guess we’ll never know,” Lexa says, shifting to slide her legs out of the sleeping bag. They’re going to need to have a talk about personal space.

Clarke helpfully gets out of her tent, giving her more room, and picks her camera back up. “This is why we need the trail cams. I knew I should have set one up last night.” She sighs wistfully at the missed opportunity. Then changes the subject while Lexa stands up outside of her tent, stretching out with her hands over her head. “Do you mind if I post this picture on Instagram?”

Lexa agrees only because she’s caught off guard by the question. “Uh, sure I guess.”

“Cool, thanks,” she says, sounding a little surprised by the quick consent. “So, will you tell me off-camera what your plans are for the day?”

Lexa supposes she has to. Especially after hearing what Clarke’s are, and knowing that her best bet is keeping tabs on her so she knows where the cameras are located. So she can extend her own searching ranges outside of the range of the trail cams to avoid interference. “Just scouting, mostly,” she says. “Maybe set a few traps, a little hunting if I see anything.” She pauses. “We might as well stick together. If we’re both using today to get a lay of the land anyways.”

“Sure,” Clarke agrees, amenable like she has been the entire time so far. She’s actually chipper and friendly enough that Lexa almost feels bad for having such a bad attitude towards her and about her. Almost. She’s still not happy about the cameras, and she suspects Clarke’s wilderness skills are going to be lacking. “You know how to hunt?” she asks, confirming Lexa’s suspicions with the raise of her eyebrows.

“Since I was little.”

Clarke looks impressed, nodding her head. She holds Lexa’s gaze for a few seconds, then looks away and surveys the campsite, observing the location of the sun in the sky. “We should probably get going, pardner,” she says, grinning. “I just need a few minutes to get packed and situated.”

“Sounds good,” Lexa tells her. She’ll have time to get changed and refill her water canteen in the meantime.

She tries not to set her expectations too high - hope can be a dangerous thing - but she thinks that maybe spending the day with Clarke won’t be as bad as she expected.

Maybe.

#clexa fic #new clexa fanfic #cryptidally yours #clexa #clexa bigfoot au

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justafleck · 1 year

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— His weekly therapy appointment used to be something he would dread all week long . Sitting in front of a therapist who never truly listens to him ; none of them ever seem to care . He could pull his bleeding heart from his chest and offer it to them in his palm and not a single one of them would bat an eye . Though he still goes , if only because he’s trying to get better . If anything ; he tries for his mother’s sake Medication hardly dents his problems , and yet , an act of desperation leads him to sit in these very offices . Budget cuts wiped the board of free therapy ; his former therapist delivered the news and sent him off with a half assed ‘ good luck ’ and he was certain that he’d wind up dead . Suicide is a reoccurring thought for the struggling clown for hire and the lack of medication only worsened things . Call it fate if you will , but he eventually stumbled across someone who handed him a business card to the office of Katherine Prince . A therapist in the area who fully embraced people like him who couldn’t afford such luxury of paying for therapy . Albeit , he was hesitant to schedule a first appointment , he managed to and quickly found that he would actually enjoy his visits with Kit . She’s friendly , engaged . He feels seen for the first time in his life . And he decides to keep going back for more ; a few appointments later and here he sits on his weekly Tuesday afternoon appointment . Across from her , he occupies the seat . His jacket is hung on the back of the chair and he yields his usual posture . Anxious , strung tight .

— It’s been a terrible week already ; just yesterday , he was jumped at work . Beaten in an alleyway by a group of kids . His side is riddled with bruises of various shades . Most seeped their way down to the bone and his pain is apparent with the way he quietly winces if he moves to fast . His ribcage throbs . And to make things worse , this morning his boss , Hoyt , informed him that he was on the edge of being fired . That his paycheck were to be cut because he ‘stole’ a shop owners sign and Hoyt furthur lectured Arthur that he’s creeping out his coworkers . It was only twenty minutes ago he stood outside of his work place , violently kicking at the mounds of trash bags spilling from the dumpster outside until he sunk down to sit in defeat . The only reason he didn’t remain there to rot was because he was determined to make it here on time to his appointment . He probably wont bring it up and he’s trying ( to hard ) to hide his pain from her so that she wouldn’t ask . “ I’ve kept up with my journal . ” he begins . He halfway doesn’t expect her to look within the pages ; the last therapist would but she’d only glance at it and hand it back uncaringly most of the time . His most personal thoughts are inked sloppily within the book ; dark things that only picture hopelessness and despair . The only reason why he’s brought it up was because Kit mentioned it to him last time that he should keep utilizing it . Perhaps he’s taken initiative to inform her of his good habits are because he’s seeking some sort of affirmation from her . That she’d tell him he’s doing a good job . It’s the only way he manages to find validation , after all .

— “ A- and I’ve started going out more . ” Something else he was encouraged to do . “ I tried the library ... but they kicked me out . ” he admitted . No surprise ; people aren’t accepting of his disability and he’s sure that they never will be�� . “ B- but I did try to go to the botanical garden . It’s really nice there . ” he said , a soft hint of a smile toying his thin lips as he recalled the scenery . “ I liked it a lot . Have you ever been ? ” He’s partially trying to steer the conversation in hopes to pull wool over her eyes and keep his pain under wraps but also because he’s genuinely curious if he kept going back , he’d bump into her outside of work . Would she give him the time of day if she saw him outside these walls ? Or would she scurry away from him as if he were one of the many diseased rats that inhabit the city .

@kit-just-kit

#kit-just-kit #c :: katherine prince #one sad clown boi for u and kit #at ur service #akwardly ofc

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abishekmuses · 20 days

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Dear Nastya,

I've been on this streak of writing something everyday - I intended for this to be a forcing function for me to start putting words down and kickstarting a writing habit.

I've been at it for a while now- close to a month I think. It's been good. But I also realise how I don't have as much to say as I thought I did. Sometimes I do and I write them down. but most of the time, I'm thinking about optimising my own life - I'm trying to make sense of what I want - what I don't want. I am trying to get myself out of some mindfuck or some emotional tangle.

Not that those posts from like a month ago were actually literary gold but I at least managed to find something that could be put up on a blog post. Now, it feels like I'm running dry - but I guess that's where this exercise of writing every day no matter what is going to pay off.

I hope so anyway.

Today, as I sat down to write, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write about - just didn't feel like there was anything I wanted to say to myself. Also wasn't feeling like writing for ONiO (which would satisfy the conditions to mark today as done, writing wise.

So i figured I'd write to you. See if that makes it easier for the words to flow out - and here they are - the words do seem to be flowing out.

So, what do I want to say to you? First of all, I really hope your kidneys are doing fine and you're doing fine as a whole. I thought of something happening to you a couple of days ago and the thought was so scary it made me cry. I miss you a lot sometimes.

In the beginning, I was super occupied - very "highway to the danger zone", "eye of the tiger" kinda vibe - was in a go getter flow. Just doing things all the time and wondering why i don't have more time to do more things.

And then slowly but surely, the emotions came. In the beginning I was still rolling and thought "meh this is easy; I just lean into these feelings and i'm releasing a ton of stuff" - turns out i was stupid. the shit really started after MSR and velliangiri trek - some of those days were fucking hectic nastyush.

I was thinking the other day - funnily enough, in the beginning, when i was in a monastic zone and then later when i was in a properly "suffering" kinda state, I didn't think of you or miss you much. But when I got into the zone where I was filled with a lust for life and wanted to do this and that, I suddenly started missing you a lot and wanted to hang out really bad.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell we're doing with our lives if we can't even hang out with our favourite people - it's something i've been thinking about recently. Community is super important - we both know it - why not double down and invest in keeping it together?

Easier said than done I know - where would we do it blab blah I know - BUT IT SUCKS THOUGH!!!!!!!

Just checked on FB to make sure you're alive.

right now, i'm filled with a lot of emotions for some reason. Don't know why. I feel lost sometimes and cry a lot. But then I remind myself that this is me coming out of the mess - not getting into a new one.

I"ve been thinking a lot about the past. About Ukraine. About all those years. I still can't stop crying when I think about that time. But slowly I'm getting to a place where I am finding myself better oriented in the present.

Journaling is a good thing apparently - i can see why. I'm glad I started journaling again.

I fucked up my back Nastyush. Hate to complain but at this point I'm just writing this to myself so what the hell. So no getting hot for now. Has to wait. it's been really frustrating but I hope it gets better soon. I'm forcing myself to rest and not do anything for now. today, i thought i did "rehab" and even that was too much by the looks of it. Need to lay totally low again for a few days.

I wonder what you're upto with life these days. It feels so long ago that I spoke to you although it was only 7 weeks ago. 5 more weeks to go.

At various points in this period, there's a part of me that wants to just carry on like thise for a good while - like 3 years. Maybe that's not realistic or practical i don't know. Definitely in the early days, I felt like this was it - like all this time in life was just to come to this stage where you realise "oh fuck I need to do sadhana and get out of this" lol something like that.

Can't relate to that now. I'm in a totally different mindspace. I feel like hugging you and crying nastyush. I didn't realise it until I started writing this to you. Even writing this makes me feel cared for and loved in some way. I don't know if that makes sense.

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nicklloydnow · 7 months

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“If any of us thought we could do our fellow creatures good by committing or, more probably, condoning an evil act, would we do so? Would we even recognize the moment when it happened, or accept that it was evil? Most of us are wonderfully good at persuading ourselves that our actions are pure. Does treason actually exist or, as Talleyrand quipped, is it just a matter of dates? Worse, is it a process of human sacrifice, in which exposed individuals are singled out to pay for the sins of thousands—who escape punishment? Switch allegiance at the right moment, or die opportunely, and you may be spared centuries of shame. Live too long, or cling to the wrong raft and your name will be a byword and a hissing. I suspect that Talleyrand, living in a wittier and less dogmatic age, might have reflected that Marshal Philippe Pétain was just unfortunate in his timing.

From this perspective, Pétain’s mistake was to carry on living after the fall of his Vichy State during the last grisly months of the Third Reich. If he had managed to die (he was after all 88) then he would have escaped much humiliation. If he had been shot out of hand by French resisters, a lot of scores would have been neatly settled. (Winston Churchill thought this would have been a much better way of dealing with the actual Nazi leadership than the dubious Nuremberg trials with their Soviet prosecutor). But, as Julian Jackson recounts in his book about Pétain’s surrender, trial, condemnation, and lifelong imprisonment, the old soldier more or less sought out his fate. The Germans had carried him off to the Reich. But Pétain found his way back to France, so compelling De Gaulle and his provisional government to put him on trial for treason. To do so, it had to reopen the whole bitter period, in which many apart from Pétain had behaved weakly, or dishonorably, or just mistakenly. As the title of this book reminds us, France was on trial alongside Pétain.

(…)

The shepherd, the argument runs, is supposed to stay and tend his sheep when the danger is at its worst, not to flee abroad—even if he eventually returns triumphant. Did Pétain perhaps stand between the French people and the full wrath of their conquerors? He may have thought so, at least to begin with. And when he spoke of “collaboration” with Hitler, the word did not seem to mean what it later came to mean.

But, as it happened, Pétain did not stand between the French people and their Nazi occupiers. He became their all-too-willing servant. We now know beyond doubt that Marshal Pétain’s Vichy state enthusiastically offered collaboration to the Nazis, so much so that the Germans actually rebuffed it. It had even suggested its own persecution of the Jews, rather than reluctantly given in to German pressure. In 1972 an American historian, Robert Paxton, obtained German documents on the Occupation which left no doubt about this. Pétain’s supposed “National Revolution” closely collaborated with the fiends and demons of the Third Reich and vigorously urged on one of its ugliest policies. Anybody who has any serious interest in Pétain now knows all this.

But they did not know it when it mattered most, when Pétain and France were on trial in 1945, or for some time afterwards. In fact, Pétain died in custody in 1951 before the facts were wholly known. Jackson’s book on the French state’s 1945 prosecution of Pétain contains a lengthy passage on Paxton’s discoveries. But it rightly leaves them until long after this extraordinary process was over and the Marshal slept with his fathers. So Jackson is able to treat seriously several French citizens, lay jurors, journalists, politicians—and Pétain’s brilliant, dangerous and inconvenient lawyer, Jacques Isorni. All these were determined to give the old man some semblance of fairness, at a time when violent hysteria would have been quite possible instead. Remember, it was not long since the repellent and chaotic epuration (purge) of actual and alleged collaborators after the German defeat in which wild, violent street “justice” was imposed on some of those believed to have been too helpful or friendly to the occupying power, especially the public shaving of women’s heads, not a brave action whatever else it was. France’s Communists, in particular, were keen to condemn the conservative Catholic Pétain as a national traitor comparable to the reviled Marshal Bazaine of the Franco-Prussian war. They published propaganda showing him dangling at the end of a hangman’s rope and urged the imposition of the death penalty.

(…)

It was not just Denmark where this sort of thing happened. British sneering at the weakness and cowardice of continentals under the jackboot is also badly shown up by the curious, embarrassing and largely-forgotten German occupation of the British Channel Islands in 1940. “But what would you have done?” the islanders ask their mainland critics, to this day. The islands’ local authorities were cut off from the British constitution and government when Churchill brusquely abandoned them as indefensible after Dunkirk. Suddenly these largely conservative gentlemen, some nearly as elderly as Pétain, found themselves implementing the decrees of the Third Reich rather than those of His Majesty the King. They felt they had little choice but to work with the German occupiers. Where can a resistance movement hide on a tiny island?

But compromise leads to compromise and to worse compromise. Some of their leading officials ended up cooperating in terrible acts, such as the deportation of local Jews to Auschwitz. Those who survived this distressing period are understandably angry about criticism from safe mainlanders who never saw a German soldier on their streets. When the author Madeleine Bunting wrote a severe account of the islands’ subjugation, The Model Occupation, she met much resentment from those who had experienced it. But I wish this story was better known so that boastful and ignorant British people would stop mocking the supposedly cowardly French for their collaboration in the Vichy period. The fate of the islanders suggests that it would have been the same for the British, if Hitler had ever got ashore.

(…)

Despite the French Communists’ righteous wrath at Pétain, they had their own highly embarrassing secrets from the era. This is hugely significant because of the undoubted (and gravely mistaken) attraction of the Pétain regime for French conservatives and Catholics. His national motto of Travail, Famille, Patrie, replacing the Republican Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite, made it plain that this was not just a necessary co-operation with a new master, but an attempt to overturn many of the principles of the French Revolution. To this day, some figures on the political right in France seek to defend Pétain, the most recent being the failed presidential candidate Eric Zemmour, who most unwisely and inaccurately sought to defend Vichy’s policy, for supposedly saving French Jews by sacrificing recently arrived Jewish refugees to the Nazis. Why would anyone bother to do this? Could it be because of an actual lingering sympathy with Pétain’s social policies?

The Communist attempts at collaboration with the Germans were (like Vichy’s active anti-Jewish behavior) not widely known at the time of Pétain’s trial. Julian Jackson discussed the Communist approach to the German occupation authorities in another work on France’s occupation period France: The Dark Years 1940-44. For many years after the war the episode was little more than a bitter Trotskyist rumour, but it has now taken solid form in serious research. To even begin to comprehend it you must recall that in May 1940, as France’s democratic government collapsed and Nazi power swept into Paris, the Nazis and the Communists were allies against the democracies, thanks to the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of August 1939, which would endure until June 1941 and was far more than a brief flirtation. The previous September, there had been a joint Wehrmacht and Red Army victory parade over Poland in the city of Brest-Litovsk (pictures still exist of German and Soviet officers happily communing as they take the salute). Not long afterward the two worst secret police forces in the world, Hitler’s Gestapo and Stalin’s NKVD, exchanged prisoners, as each wanted to get their hands on persons the other had arrested. Much of the fuel and material used in the German Blitzkrieg against the European democracies in May 1940 had come from or through the USSR.

The French Communist Party was therefore considered a pro-enemy body by the French state. It was banned and its daily newspaper L’Humanite shut down. The French Communists brushed aside rumors of their behavior for long after the war, and their considerable power and popularity in Gaullist France allowed them to get away with doing so. But scholarship has now caught up with them. Beyond doubt, French Communists went voluntarily to the Nazis and sought permission for the re-issue of their newspaper. Apparently the Comintern, then the central headquarters of all Communist Parties, was taken by surprise by the French defeat in 1940. It did not know how to respond. The leaders of French Communism had been dispersed by the proscription of their Party, and were in hiding or abroad. But some heavyweight commissars, Jacques Duclos, Jean Catelas, and Maurice Treand, wondered if the fall of the French state might be a chance to recover their organization’s lost influence. This was in the Leninist tradition of ruthlessness and of scorn for patriotism and other such bourgeois notions.

The negotiations involved the subtle French-speaking Otto Abetz, Germany’s future ambassador to Vichy France. Treand and Catelas promised, Jackson writes, that if allowed to reappear, the Communist daily would “pursue a policy of European pacification” and “denounce the activities of the agents of British imperialism.” Underground editions of the paper (secretly printed since September 1939) published three articles in the summer of 1940 praising fraternization between French workers and the Germans. Perhaps these were aimed at persuading the Germans to allow open publication. Who can now say?

As so often in history with things that nearly happened, it is like watching a ghost begin to appear, and then disappear again. There was surprising sympathy for collaboration on both sides in France. Some conservatives loathed England, hoped for a British surrender, and thought Hitler was better than socialism. Some Communists suspected that Hitler might be kinder to them than democracy had been. Only as the occupation hardened, and as the French Communist leader in exile, Maurice Thorez, reasserted control, did the Communists end the talks. They did so very shortly before the Germans also went off the idea, though it was a close-run thing. One Communist, Robert Foissin, was made an internal scapegoat by the Party—which belatedly realized how embarrassing the talks would one day become. But Duclos was too important for such treatment. He would live to be the Communist candidate for the Presidency of France in 1969. No wonder that in 1945 the Communists—now covered in glory because of their post-1941 Resistance role—wanted to draw eyes away from their own behavior in 1940, and concentrate instead on the wickedness of the Catholic, conservative Pétain.

(…)

In truth, France was on trial in 1945 more than Pétain. And France emerges from the trial with perhaps a little more credit than we give it. This at least was not a howling enraged tribunal, as the Communists might have desired, but a genuine attempt to apply due process and so to restore some sort of legitimate stability. De Gaulle’s view of the old man was that he was a living corpse who had died to all intents and purposes in 1924. Probably those in French politics who (perhaps too willingly) let him take responsibility for making peace with Germany had a similar view. He was a cypher, not a person. Those who seriously imagined that he was the head of a conservative national revolution were deluded at the time, and those in modern French politics who suggest the same are equally deceived, though it now seems fairly certain that the Marshal was, more often than not, conscious of what was going on around him and aware of what was done in his name. His reprieve from execution was not only a recognition that he was too old to face a firing squad. It was a humane compromise between the De Gaulle and Pétain factions which still haunt French public life in surprising ways. After all, the Socialist President Francois Mitterrand served and was honored by the Vichy regime, yet lived to prosper. The far more brutal fate of Pétain’s colleague Pierre Laval, shot after a brief and undignified hearing and a botched suicide, probably satisfied the general desire to erase the shame and discomfort of the collaboration years which Mauriac had identified. How pleased any reader of this book must be that he and his country did not undergo such misery. Do not be defeated in war. Defeat corrupts the defeated, and it is far harder than we think to stand above the grim process. Pray that it never happens to you.”

“One of the greatest challenges human beings face is how to tease apart a bad act from a good character — or, conversely, a toxic personality from the good and worthy things he created. How do we separate the long-time childhood friend from his insane Facebook polemics? The good neighbour from his bad politics?

“People are thoughtless all the time,” writes Alexandra Hudson in her new book, The Soul of Civility, while arguing that the best way to depolarise our society is to recognise that good people can have bad ideas. This idea is classically Christian, but also fundamentally American: even after the Civil War, a central tenet of Reconstruction was that those who fought for the Confederacy should be given grace for having chosen the wrong side. But that’s a principle it’s easier to hold to in the wake of victory than in the fog of war — or, as this past week’s events have reminded us, War Discourse.

The response from certain corners of the progressive Left to the stories coming out of Israel has been extraordinary. The silhouette of a paragliding Hamas militant has been adopted by groups ranging from Black Lives Matter to the Democratic Socialists of America — a graphic successor to that Che Guevara block print that used to hang on every dorm room wall. A crowd on the steps of the Sydney Opera House in Australia chanted “gas the Jews”. A cheer went up in Times Square at the news that 700 Israelis had been killed. And among the academic and media classes, a series of statements ran the gamut from half-hearted condemnations of the terrorist attacks to triumphant and bloodthirsty snarling.

“What did y’all think decolonization meant? vibes? papers? essays? losers,” wrote Najma Sharif, a writer for Soho House magazine and Teen Vogue. “Today should be a day of celebration for supporters of democracy and human rights worldwide,” tweeted Rivkah Brown of Novara Media. The language varied, but the sentiment was the same: this is good, actually, and seeing it should fill you with the same cathartic glee as any underdog story. Don’t you see? This isn’t terrorism; it is justice.

(…)

The war in Israel, and the one in Ukraine: it’s not hard to see how our distance from these events, combined with the immediacy of so much coverage and conversation about them, lends itself to the most grotesque kind of rubbernecking. It’s war as spectator sport; people haggle over the reports of Hamas beheading babies with the same energy as a group of armchair referees debating an off-side call.

Some people, anyway. The term “luxury beliefs” was coined to describe how privileged progressives like to traffic in this sort of unhinged extremist rhetoric. Partly, it’s a hazard of their utter insulation from ever having to experience the practical impact of the policies they advocate. Violence and chaos have a way of breaking through the barriers that separate the ivory tower-dwellers from the masses they condescend; one imagines the occupants of Versailles looked out their windows at the guillotine being constructed in the public square and, not understanding what lay in store, pronouncing the structure adorable.

But it’s also what happens when you succumb to the Manichean worldview that every conflict, every issue, boils down to a simple question of who is the more oppressed party. Whichever guy has more privilege, more power: this is your villain. In trying to topple him from his unearned position of influence, his victim can do no wrong. Hamas, composed as it is of Muslim people of colour, is merely punching (and raping, and kidnapping) up.

While the attacks on Israel have given rise to a particularly stomach-turning iteration of this rhetoric, we have seen it before. In 2020, as the US protests against police violence spiralled out of control, members of the laptop class could reliably be found posting that Martin Luther King Jr quote about riots being “the voice of the unheard” — always from the safety of their homes, in nice neighbourhoods, in coastal cities, where things were conspicuously not on fire. The people looting, rioting, and wreaking havoc were members of an oppressed class, and hence above reproach.

But the most absurd example of how true-life horrors become grist for the mill of perverse progressive fantasy popped up downstream of the “decolonisation” discourse. Every now and then, someone announces on the internet that they would begrudgingly allow themselves to be murdered if Native Americans decided to violently re-exert ownership over their ancestral lands. The authenticity of such sentiments is obviously belied by the fact that these same people could, if they wanted to, voluntarily renounce their power instead of waiting for some noble savage to take it by force. If you truly believed yourself to be a colonist, illegitimately squatting on someone else’s property, why would you waste time tweeting about it? Wouldn’t you just leave?

(…)

If civility demands that we hold people to account for the hatred they spew, it also rejects the notion that a person of an “oppressed” identity category should get a free pass to spew hatred. The bar for human decency, surely, does not shift depending on the colour of your skin or the arrangement of your genitals — and to insist on this, on one standard for all people, creates a clear path forward, which may be the best thing about civility as an ethos. It works on the assumption that, as bleak as things are now, there will be an “after” in which we forgive, even if we don’t forget.

(…)

As I left Hudson’s event on Tuesday night, I found the street closed off. Instead of cars, the pavement was occupied by hundreds of people holding signs and banners and flags: the remnants of what had been a massive rally in support of Israel. I would later learn that some people present were captured on camera wishing for the annihilation of Palestine; no one side, as it turns out, has a monopoly on hatred.

As I weaved through the crowd, Leonard Cohen’s “You Want it Darker” was playing through my headphones, a fitting meditation on war, death, and the cruelty we inflict on each other in the name of a just cause.

They’re lining up the prisoners

And the guards are taking aim

I struggle with some demons

They were middle-class and tame

I didn’t know I had permission

To murder and to maim

The chorus to this song is a Hebrew word, a line from the Torah. It’s what Abraham says, in response to God’s request that he sacrifice his son; it is also what we might say to each other, eventually, when civility or decency or whatever deity you believe in asks us to confront and forgive each other’s failings in this moment, the better to thrive in the moments we have left.

Hineni, hineni. I’m ready, I’m ready.”

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kessielrg · 1 year

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[MMX] Future Me Hates Me: Part 2

Summary: After stumbling upon a Light Capsule, and having it erroneously refer to her as Kalinka, Aero seeks to figure out just what her family connection is to Doctor Light. Meanwhile, after the death of Iris, Zero vows to absolve himself of his past. However, as Aero becomes the target of a Maverick, Zero is forced into finding that not all bridges can easily be burned…

Rating: K+

word Count: 1,644 words

Part: 1, [2], 3, 4, 5

. . . .

Doctor Cain had given Aero a lot of his research journals. Many were from before she was born, documenting his archaeological digs and what he’d find (or not find) there. There was just one small caveat to them though: Doctor’s Cain handwriting was notoriously hard to decipher. It was why there were so few copies or recreations of the journal that documented the day he found X- no one was able to read them. Aero had only the faintest idea of what each chicken scratch meant, and that was only because she practically grew up with it.

It’s not like anyone asked her to transcribe them. But she probably would have refused anyway; for both her privacy and Cain’s. These journals were still holders to some of Cain’s more frustrated thoughts when it came to his life’s ambition.

‘Still nothing. For the last month, I have been sifting through the dirt trying to find a fossil record which would verify my findings on Mesozoic plant life, but so far I have come up empty. Tomorrow I'll move my archaeological dig to a new site. Maybe I'll have better luck.’

The start of Cain’s discovery to X. Aero had been looking for this journal since she got home. And, just as she feared, the place where Cain found X was nowhere near where she found the odd capsule. Still, she continued to read on. Aero hadn’t got to see X right after he came out of his hibernation station. The two had their first meeting almost a month after, and they tried to stay in touch up until X formally joined the Maverick Hunters. It was so weird to think it’s been that long…

‘How did Doctor Light have the time to make armors for a project he didn’t even know would see the light of day after he passed?’ Aero thought to herself as she went over Doctor Cain’s journals more. Surely there would have been other sightings of capsules beforehand too? Some mention of them at Doctor Light’s ruined and abandoned lab? ‘Wasn’t he ill for a really long time before he died?’

Aero absently bit the tip of her thumb in thought. A few moments more and she was digging around for her phone. By (rather embarrassing) instinct, she almost called X instead of her grandmother. X didn’t know any more about his creator than Doctor Cain did.

“Well, hello my darling.” Aero’s grandmother said once she picked up the line. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Gran.” Aero replied, a small grin teasing her lips. “I’ve just been wondering about something recently and wanted to know if you could help.”

“Of course, dear. What do you need?”

Aero hesitated for a moment, biting her lip.

“I wanted to know if you knew anything about your mom’s dad. I want to know how close Doctor Cossack was to Doctor Light.”

. . .

After yesterday’s assignment -a mission that did lead to any good answers- Zero had wanted to take on something more relaxed. He refused to take a day off, despite the suggestion of the Navigator, and so he shouldn’t have been surprised that he was given something he considered child’s play.

“We suspect that a Maverick has hacked into a human residence as of 500 hours and ongoing.” the Navigator told Zero. “Most of the data can be traced to a single street; Poplar Court. We know this to be from a Maverick instead of a human due to the manipulation of the cyber data directly. Further investigations show that it is a single residence that is being targeted, due to the abnormal levels of ping time between clients. The residence in question has the number 101-25 and is currently occupied by a single woman in her mid 20s.”

“1010-25…?” Zero started to wonder, knowing that the street name was familiar. When he realized how, he then hissed with disgust, “Aero.”

“Indeed.” the Navigator agreed. “While odd that a potential Maverick could be gathering intel from a human, it is still a cause for concern and needs to be investigated immediately.”

“Understood,” Zero nodded. “I’ll connect through our servers and navigate to those on Poplar Court from there. Also, has X been informed of this?”

“No. Maverick Hunter X has been placed on a multi day assignment that bars most communication from being accessible. Any and all calls are to be made in an emergency or otherwise dire situation.”

“Good.”

The Navigator gave a nod of confirmation of her own before going to type something at her computer.

“We have Data Room 5 ready for your transfer. Remember that any and all injuries you sustain in Cyberspace could prove fatal. Should you die in Cyberspace, your body will fail outside of it and R-DNA data retrieval will not be possible. Do you understand and respect these terms, Zero?”

When the Navigator looked up, Zero was already gone.

Entering Cyberspace was nothing new for Zero. He knew the risks and had seen many of the repercussions first hand- even the permanent ones. All he really needed to hear was which room was open. Dealing with an in-mainframe hacker was exactly the light work he needed today anyway. If he was clever, he might even convince them to disconnect peacefully. Zero snorted at the thought. X was the better peace negotiator between them- it was the Mavericks that decided they didn’t want to listen and, in doing so, signed their own death warrants. Hopefully, if this one was smart enough to get into a human’s communication system, then they'd have the common sense to back down too.

Navigating Cyberspace was not dissimilar to simply walking down the street. Especially when most traffic lights or billboards were connected to the interconnecting data transfer of Cyberspace to begin with. And, much to his wish to forget it, Zero knew the general path to Aero’s street like the back of his hand. Before X became a Hunter, Aero’s place was where Zero could usually find him. The two used to be quite close before then- Zero could remember Doctor Cain once telling Sigma that he hoped Aero and X would be the first Reploid and human union. The thought of it still made Zero sick to his stomach. X was destined to become a Maverick Hunter. It gave him purpose. Far more purpose than pretending to be human with another-

Zero had been so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn’t see the bug. In Cyberspace, what would have easily been a webcam or computer set became a small pocket of red data. It would collect information from anywhere its range could reach. Right now, its only reach seemed to be right above Aero’s home. A less experienced Maverick Hunter would have said it was inactive. Zero knew far better.

After some careful manipulating, Zero could get a feedback loop of what Aero had said, to what the hacker would also be mumbling. Aero took up the left screen from the loop, the hacker (whose appearance was obscured due to purposely cutting off any potential video feed) occupied the right screen. He hadn’t been an easy fix. Whoever this hacker was knew what they were doing.

“I believe my grandfather left behind some of his research work with Doctor Light in Russia.” the voice of Aero’s grandmother said. A recent phone call must have triggered the bug’s recording abilities. “A family vault with a code that you would be able to figure out, my dear.”

“Lemme guess, a very important date?” Aero snarked. The grin on her face was knowing, and almost mischievous.

“There was no doubting my grandfather’s love of Kalinka.” Aero’s grandmother laughed. Even Aero joined in. Zero had only a vague idea of the joke, but kept that thought pushed away for now.

“I might catch the next plane over, then.” Aero decided. “It’s a weird in-between with work now, you know? And I’ve got the zenny stored up that’s not going anywhere.”

“Would you like my card, darling? Exchange rates are so high these days…”

“No, I think I can handle it, Gran. I’ll send you a message when I get there though.”

“That would be wonderful. Be safe darling, I love you.”

“I love you too, Gran.”

The feed of Aero’s call ended, leaving only the audio from the hacker.

“Russia, huh?” the hacker mused. Their voice was also synthesized to all hell and back, making the vocal pattern unrecognizable. “I should have known. Finally, all the secrets to the ultimate Reploid will be mine.”

After that, the feed disappeared as well, leaving behind the hibernating bug. The vagueness of it all immediately hit the alarm bells in Zero’s mind.

‘Why is Aero suddenly interested in Doctor Light? She can’t even handle being related to Doctor Cain. And Russia? Who in her family could have had ties with Russia? It must have been someone important if this was the information the hacker was waiting for. Why would the hacker be listening in anyway? Aero wouldn’t know anything about the ultimate Reploid. Only Doctor Cain would, or even Doctor Light who made X- who in and of himself could be called the ultimate Reploid. Someone in Russia, family of Aero’s, who could potentially have the knowledge to make…’

“Shit.” Zero cursed. He immediately withdrew his data and woke up at Maverick Hunter HQ.

“Zero,” the Navigator said from over his headset, “Is everything alright? The threat hasn’t been-”

“The hacker wasn’t there. It was a bug.” Zero told her, rather harshly. “They already have the information they need. A Maverick is planning on harming a human for information. Our next course of action is to track down that Maverick because they are on the move. We also need to contact Aero -over a secure connection- now. She is in danger.”

#megaman #Mega Man #rockman #mega man x #megaman x #rockman x #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #fan fic #zero #mmx zero #mega man oc #megaman oc #megaman fanfiction #mega man fanfiction

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zzzaaafffaaarrr · 2 years

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I’m good at making my own fun when I’m alone. I’ve always seen the value in having an inner world, a vivid imagination, to keep the brain occupied, when all I can feel is bad, my brain just goes in, it’s the best medicine, but it causes a lot of demotivation because once I’ve made the thing in my head, and remade it over and over, it feels aimless to make it in reality.

I’ve had scrapbooks and journals since kindergarten. Unfortunately they got thrown away whenever we moved basements. I loved drawing. I drew so much that my family started rationing my papers and pencils. I collected scraps wherever I went. When I nearly failed French class in grade 5, my family saw my French booklet full of drawings and got angry. I understood their point and felt guilty.

Drawing felt like an addiction at that time, I would often spaz out on my worksheets when I couldn’t hold back the urge. I drew the most disgusting and ugly scenes just to cool off. Sometimes I forgot to erase or scribble over my spaz drawings. Some teachers probably thought I was a terrorist kid or super-predator. That was always the concern. I knew better than to tell anyone I’m Muslim, even in Canada. At school most of the brown kids were either Sikh or Hindu. Some teachers treated us well, some of them were eager to discipline.

In my childhood, I really only felt safe when I spent days alone at the mosque. Just me, forgotten but peaceful, in a big building with some random administrators, too busy to notice me. I still remember the saturdays that I spent at the mosque. This was around age 6-10 and 12-15. (Between 10-12 yo, we lived in Ontario, it was one of the worst points of my life, but I didn’t have to go to religious classes and my parents were too busy to supervise me, so I had lots of fun when I was alone or with my siblings.) I would get dropped off in the morning, class was around 30 minutes to 2 hours. And often when class ended everyone would go home except for me and some administrators. At around 11pm someone would take pity on me and drop me home. I remember using pity often to get things. I had a weird relationship to pity. It felt like a good thing. I can’t really blame anyone, I knew the situation at home was bad. I accepted that the mosque was the best place for me. At least I had some peace and quiet when I slept on the janamaz in the evening. It felt like a little haven when everyone left. At home I could never fall asleep at night, but those evenings at the mosque were the best sleep I ever had. When I sleep in the sunlight, I sometimes get a heavenly feeling, especially when it’s quiet, when u can barely hear things in the distance.

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sningo-prompts · 2 years

Note

A prompt for you, dear prompter!

“Ingo sleeps a lot. Sure, Emmett could understand that when he was still recovering from his injuries- but now, he’s almost fully healed. All that remains is some fading bruises and aches. The Ingo he knew was far more active (and the Ingo he didn’t know was as well, much more so than the Ingo that hadn’t yet disappeared.)

He hasn’t tried bringing it up, yet. He’s not sure if his brother could even answer the question, without a good way to verbally communicate.

Although perhaps that was the issue. He hadn’t given it much thought, really, but… perhaps his brother was. Upset? Ingo was always the better talker between the two, always knew just what to say (in his memories of it, at least, it had been… a few years, now, since he’d heard his brother’s voice last), and now he simply couldn’t talk the way he used to. Or was it more than that? He’d noticed Ingo struggling quite often with things like opening jars, picking things up… going from four fingers and a thumb to two clumsy claws seemed difficult. Did he feel like he couldn’t do simple things anymore? Did he feel like a burden, having to rely on Emmett for so many things he had done with ease in the past?

Emmett stays up late at night quite often, long after Ingo goes to sleep, writing in his little theory book that had slowly turned into more of a journal. He thinks too much, and he’s sure his brother would have told him as much if he’d been able to. And he thinks too much about that, too.

(Really, the reason Ingo sleeps so much is because he keeps trying to stay awake, waiting for Emmett to fall asleep too. He doesn’t really have access to things like coffee or energy drinks anymore (not for Sneasels, it wasn’t good for him), which leaves him quite exhausted.

But Emmett wouldn’t know this.

Because Ingo can’t speak.)”

Been looking forward to this since i got it tbh but work ughh. Its under the cut it got rather long and for a mobile user thats a bit to scroll past.

Emmet noticed how much Ingo slept and figured it was from fatigue because of his injuries and the meds. So he tried to remain calm about but it worried him. It wasnt really at the front of him mind though, considering all the other worries he had over his brother so he didnt think much of it. After all Ingo had a slew of injuries for Emmet to fret over. It was when Ingo was mostly healed up that Emmet was finally reminded of the problem. Ingo was sleeping quite a lot. Not most of the day sure but anytime Emmet was distracted for long he would find Ingo asleep. For a little while, right after he stopped having to take pain medicine, it seemed Ingo was more active. For some reason though it seems like hes just always napping when set to his own devices, which really wasnt that often. Now with Ingo off to bed and Emmets mind not occupied with his brothers injuries it wandered to this. Why did his brother sleep so much. It couldnt be a good sign. With a sign Emmet knew what was about to happen. His mind just wouldnt let it go so he set out to make a list. More like write down all his theories till his mind accept that he covered all bases but calling it a list made him feel better about it.

His first idea was because of his sneasel body. Maybe the breed requires more sleep? Though looking into sneasel habits he got to an article about living with one. Which spoke of them being very active and rather hyper pokemon. It also stated that if the sneasel was sleeping a lot then it doesnt have enough enrichment. So sneasels who are bored sleep more. Emmet didnt really buy into this idea since Ingo still had everything in the apartment just like before and he didnt nap 3 times a day then.

Then the idea struck him ‘Ingo is still a human by mind right?’ So he started looking for reasons why humans sleep more than usual. He didnt like what he found. Mild problems from a change in sleep schedule to insomnia or what Emmet would think is the worst depression. Sure Ingo probably did have a different sleep schedule. He hasnt been showing signs of insomnia, since his brother is asleep by the time Emmet goes to return. So that leaves the worst option. It doesnt take long for Emmet to come up with reaosns for his brother to be depressed. Hell Emmet is feeling down about the whole situation himself. He can only imagine what its like for his brother. Now his mind is wandering idea to idea. Ingo struggling with basic things. From opening a jar to using a phone. Let alone all the difficult things he used to do with ease. Emmet knows Ingo lived to cook for them both. Theres no way he can do that now. Ingo cant even go out on his own anymore. Even if he wanted to he cant reach the door handle, or use it. Worst of it all is he cant voice these problems to Emmet. It has been driving Emmet mad not being able to banter with his brother. Long conversations gone for both of them. Though if Emmet misses them deeply at least he can still talk to people Ingo cant. Oh no wonder Ingo sleeps all the time. Emmet probably would to if he had been so reduced as Ingo has. Every waking moment a reminder of what you can no longer do. Emmet can tell its a new change for Ingo just from watching his brother fumble to hold things. He was worried Ingo had been transformed he whole time he was gone but its clear he just got this new form. Which Emmet was relieved to realise. At least he hasnt suffered in silence the whole time he was gone.

How was Emmet going to fix this. Sure making the house more convenient for his brother was already on the list but how to make him feel less dependent on Emmet. Emmet didnt know. First things first he has to figure something out about the language barrier. He cant keep letting Ingo suffer in silence. He needs some way to voice himself. Emmets first thought was writing but after trying to hold any without moving his fingers he knew that would be out. Next was typing. Which wasnt easy but was way easier. It was slow but after a while he was about to get used to it. Ok thats something. At least then he could communicate with him. There was a small “sne” from behind Emmet. Nearly fell out of his chair from the jump. “Ingo why are you up? I did not wake you did i?” A shake of the head and a point to a clock. Its rather late 3:22am. Another but firmer, “SNE” It didnt take a genius to know what Ingo was trying to say. “Ah yes it has gotten rather late hasnt it. Maybe its time i retire.” Ingo trying to stifle a yawn but fails causing Emmet to yawn as well. As Emmet follows Ingo out and turns off the office light he has another though ‘has Ingo been up this whole time waiting on me?’

~liz sorry i know its not much i just lost the flow halfway in smh. It is 4:25 for me so maybe i should go to sleep xD the creator of the au @rosebloodcat actually also talked about Ingo sleeping a lot heres the post! I like to think its emmets second bit take on it. After all i sleep now when i cant do what i used to before the move. Simple things like going to walk to block or just cooking myself dinner. Cant do those where i live so instead i just get sad about it and nap it off. Luckily Ingo has a brother who lives him and makes sure he at least eats dinner xD thanks for the prompt btw i have been wanting to play with it sense you sent it but i got it right as i was walking out the door for work. Smh

#sneasel ingo #transfer error au #sneasel ingo au #liz answers #liz writes #idk i like the angst #ingo cant do much on his own #typing probably hard too but i type with mostly one figure so im sure Ingo can get it #i wrote emmet as a crazy conspiracy person lmao #he probably is #no i dont reread these posts before posting #though i might skim them the next day

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bakubabes-tatakae · 3 years

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For The Love Of Humanities Strongest (Part One)

A/N: This is a rerelease of the series that I’ve been doing for a little while now. I’ve made some changes and changed up the wording to make it more of an x reader piece for you all, so I really hope that this new version of it will be a lot better for you guys. I’ve been saying that I’m going to revamp all of my series for a while now, so I’m finally getting to that for you all. I’ll be starting my series up again and will be releasing a schedule for a weekly piece to them very shortly. ☺♥

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Yeager!Reader

Summary: When all seems lost Y/N knows that she can count on one person to always be there for her brother, Eren Jaeger, and herself. Can humanity’s strongest not only keep Eren in line, but keep his relationship alive as well?

Warnings: angst, character death, titan attack, family arguments

Word Count: 3.1k

Masterlist (only part one is rereleased so far)

Five Years Ago

As the Scout Regiment walked back through the gates of Shiganshina you were all greeted by many worried faces. You stuck as close to Erwin as you could, you knew that everyone was disappointed in the Scouts. Another failure in the books was how the citizens behind the wall would see this. And you knew that your little brother would be out there watching. He would smile on as the remaining Scouts made their way through the gates. He would be filled with happiness as he watched his favorite group of people return.

The mumbling started as soon as they saw your faces. You walked next to Erwin’s horse, trying to hide your shame as you tried to ignore the words and whispers that circled you.

Erwin had always been like a brother to you, he was your best friend, your shoulder to cry on. He had been the main reason why you had even joined the Scout Regiment.

You looked over to your right shoulder and saw his smiling face. This boy had no idea what was really happening outside those walls. Keeping his innocence was going to be your number one priority. You and Erwin both looked over at him and upon seeing his smile you couldn’t help but hang your heads.

So many of your comrades had lost their lives. So many people that you had spent so much time with were gone in a blink of an eye. You could never unsee the things that you had seen… and this was only your second time outside the walls. You were officially scared, to say the least.

As you listened to the chaos around you, you couldn’t help but let tears slide down your face. “They’ve sure taken a hit, haven’t they?” “The rest of them got eaten.” “That’s what happens when pride takes you outside the walls.”

None of that was why you did it. Pride had absolutely nothing to do with it. You wanted to make a better world for the people that we still around after the titans appeared. Emotions flooded you as you tried to ignore the whispers once again.

You felt a hand grasp your wrist and you looked up, a startled expression filling your features. You met the blue eyes of the one that had your affections. He put his hand on your face and wiped away the tears while looking back at the crowd around you. You hadn’t even noticed that you had let them slip.

He looked over and saw your brother as well, but his face was different this time. There was no smile spread across it, just worry.

An older woman came out of the crowd and stopped the whole regiment from walking. She was shouting, shouting out someone’s name. You braced yourself again. You knew exactly what was about to happen. “Moses! I beg your pardon, where is my son? He should be with you all. Oh please, tell me he made it.” The woman reached forward and grabbed the front of Commander Shadis’s cloak. You turned and buried yourself in your lover’s arms. You couldn’t bear to watch the heartache again.

The Commander had no emotion on his face as he spoke to her. You had all seen too much, you were all exhausted. “I wish I had better news… Give it to her.”

Another man next to him handed her an object wrapped up in a blanket. Her cries broke your heart more than it was already breaking. “I’m sorry. That’s all there is left of him.”

The woman dropped to her knees and you pulled away from your boyfriend’s grip, running to her. If it had been you in the situation you had hope that someone else would do that same.

Erwin tried to grab the back of your clock as you run by, but he was unsuccessful.

You knelt down with her and wrapped her into your arms. You didn’t even know this woman, but you just couldn’t help yourself, and she held you without even thinking twice. You had to help as much as you could. She hugged what was left of her son to her and leaned against you.

The Commander knelt down and she spoke to him once again. “He did good, yes? He was brave? Tell me my son stood his ground until the bitter end.” You had to turn your face from you, you could feel the tears coming again. “Tell me that his death meant something! Tell me his sacrifice gave us a better chance!”

None of you knew what to say to her. You all sat there in shock. You could now feel your brother’s piercing eyes on you. This was one of the last things that you wanted him to see. The Commander stood back up and his emotions got the best of him. “He was brave… But his sacrifice meant nothing.”

The woman went stiff in your arms.

“As it is with all our losses, it’s all the same.” His screaming could probably have been heard all the way to Wall Sina. “The day was lost! We have nothing! Your son died because of me! I sent him to his death!” The Commander was losing himself, you had never seen him this emotional before. “I sent them all to their deaths and there’s nothing to show for it.” It was now that you wished you had covered your ears. “ALL OF IT AMOUNTS TO NOTHING!”

Another group of men from the scouts grabbed our Commander and pulled him away from the woman. And with that the Scouts began to walk again, clearing the way of the road.

As they reached you, Erwin jumped off his horse. “Y/n, let’s go. We have things to attend to. You had a family to get home to that’s worried.”

The woman looked over at you and with a weak voice that tore your heart in two. “Thank you for your kindness.”

* * * * * *

You walked through the doors of your parent’s home to find your mother doing dishes and your father sitting at the table, looking through his medical journals. As they heard the door open both of them stopped, worried about whether it would be you walking through the door, or your other half there to tell them the bad news.

When she saw it was you, your mother dropped the plate she was washing and ran to you, Carla Yeager had always been a huge family woman. “Oh Y/n, I’m so glad you’re okay.” Her hug was crushing, but you welcomed it, being outside the walls always reminded you of how much you loved your family. “There were rumors going around that a majority of the Scouts had been wiped out. I prayed that the two of you weren’t part of that.”

You gave her a weak smile. “I’m fine, mom.” You walked to your father and wrapped him in a hug. “Hey daddy,” He kissed the side of your head and sat back down, getting back to his work, the Grisha thing to do. You sat at the table and barely thirty seconds later after you sat down the door opened again.

Your little brother stood before you with a huge smile across his face. He ran to you and jumped into his arms. “Y/N!”

You smiled the same weak smile you had given your mother again. “Hey, Eren.”

A little girl stood behind him and walked slowly over to give you a hug as well. “I’m glad you’re okay, Y/n.”

“You guys aren’t getting rid of me that easily, Mikasa.” You ruffled her hair as she stepped back from your hug.

Eren jumped into the chair next to your father, the one that you had just occupied. Carla set bowls down in front of all of you and dinner commenced. Eren questioned your father about where he was headed next and the conversation went on as normal. That was until Mikasa spoke again, causing your mother to completely lose it. “So... Uhm, Eren’s thinking about joining the scouts.”

Everyone froze and Carla whipped herself around faster than she had when you had walked through the door. Eren’s face? He was pissed. “Way to keep a secret, you mouthpiece!”

Carla ran to him and scolded him. “You get that thought out of your head right now, young man.” You hadn’t seen your mother this irate since you had told her Erwin had gotten you into the Scout Regiment. “No son of mine is going to be fodder, do I make myself clear?” She looked over at you and her eyes welled with tears. “It’s bad enough that that Erwin character roped your sister into it.” Carla took the towel from her hand and tossed it to the ground. “If she had told us she was going to do it before she did, I would never have let her leave the house.”

“Stop yelling at me!” Eren had always had a temper, and he had no fear of hollering back at his parents.

Carla looked over at you again, you knew that she had never meant the words that she said, but it didn’t make them hurt any less. “This is your fault. If you had never joined that stupid regiment we wouldn’t have this issue.” Her eyes welled up even more as she reached to grab the towel she had thrown. “You never listen to me, just like your brother isn’t now.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Grisha interrupted. “It’s a nightmare, Eren. The outside… you really have no idea.”

“Yea, I get it, okay?” Eren put his head in his hands and tugged at his hair. “But it’s gotta be better than this life. I’m not stupid. I know it’s ugly out there. I know there’s death around every corner, but I just can’t give up on it.” Eren looked up at your parents and the emotions behind his eyes made you proud in a sense, despite not agreeing with his actions. “Otherwise this nightmare is never gonna end.”

Grisha stood from the table, not wanting to argue about this anymore. “Excuse me, I’ll be late for the ferry.”

Your mother ran after him as he walked away. “Darling wait,” She reached for his arm and tried to stop him. “Scold the boy for heaven's sake.”

“Scold him? Dear, please, think this through. Mere words won’t hold back the boy's curiosity.” Grisha chuckled slightly but stopped as he watched her face. He turned to Eren and tried to reason with him. “Eren, behave while I’m gone and I'll let you in on what I’ve been doing in the cellar.” Grisha pulled at the key that was always hanging around his neck and showed you all. “Agreed?”

Eren was smiling again as he jumped from his chair. “Yes sir, you got it.” As Grisha made his exit you all followed him, watching him as he left. Eren hollered after him, still writhing with excitement. “Have a good trip!”

Once your father was out of earshot, Carla spoke to Eren again. “I meant what I said.”

Eren was confused. “What?”

“This whole idea is just irresponsible.”

“Huh? Irresponsible? So what? It’s more responsible to live in fear and hide behind some wall your whole pointless life?” And with that, Eren turned around and ran.

“Eren!” Carla turned to you and Mikasa, grabbing each of your arms and forcing you to look at her. “The boy needs to be protected from himself. Promise me that whatever happens, I can count on the two of you to have his back.”

Mikasa nodded and you gave Carla a hopeful look. “Of course mom. I’ll always be there for him.” She let you both go and Mikasa ran for Eren.

“Can you please go after your brother for me?” She pulled you into a hug. “Tell him to come home, please.”

You nodded to her in an attempt to calm her. “I have to go back to my place anyway, so I’ll go find him.”

And with that, you left your parent’s house for what you had no idea would be the last time.

* * * * * *

As you stood in your apartment you gazed around. It felt like it had been so long since you had seen your stuff. He wasn’t home yet, probably still at the office with Erwin, that wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. As you reached to pick something up from the floor a huge bang that sounded like a shot from the cannons rang through the air. The force shook the entire apartment, sending you to the floor. You put your arms out to catch yourself as you hit the floor and nearly regretted it, twisting your wrist on the way down. You stood up and looked around you as chaos ensued.

You grabbed your ODM gear and ran from your apartment as fast as your legs could carry you. People were starting to build up in one area as they all stared into the distance. You turned around to look behind you and couldn’t believe what you were seeing. A hand was holding onto the wall that stood before you. Wall Maria is fifty meters high, there’s no way a titan could just be holding onto it. A second later it stood, the titan was taller than the wall and was staring straight at everyone below. You were frozen in fear.

With one fierce blow, the titan kicked. Debris flew everywhere as that spot of the wall crumbled before you. Houses were being smashed, people were screaming. Flashbacks from your mission ran through your head. Boulders were crushing people everywhere you turned. Eren flashed through your head and your legs were moving before you had even realized it.

You knew your brother, he would be headed back to the house and you lived farther than where he had probably gotten. You had to move fast. Titans were flooding the streets.

You ran through Shiganshina looking at everything around you, your heart pounding out of your chest. You hollered his name as you ran, not worried about the titans hearing you searching for him. There was already so much going on around them.

As you got closer to your parent’s house, you heard a scream. You knew who it was the second you heard it. Eren.

You turned the corner of the building to your left and stopped dead in your tracks. Eren and Mikasa were trying to lift some a wooden beam, that’s when you realized who was underneath it. Your mother screamed at the two of them. It had been their house that had fallen on her. When she saw you she focused on you. “Y/n, you have to get them out of here. Now!”

You couldn’t even think straight, so many things were running through your head. You ran to her and started to pull on the beam that the kids were pulling on, hoping that maybe your strength would be enough. Carla continued to scream at you. “You three need to run, even if you get me out I can’t walk. We’ll never get away from here.”

A titan was coming toward you, those footsteps were something you were fine-tuned to listen for now. Soon it would be at your group.

Eren shouted at her. “Y/n and I can carry you.”

“I’m not leaving you behind mom!” You pulled with all your might, this board had come loose.

Carla lost her temper, trying as hard as she could to save her children’s lives. “Will you two just shut up and listen to me for once in your lives. One thing I’m asking you to do, just one thing! Mikasa, make them, be strong.” She calmed a little, trying to get you to listen to her. “Do you want all four of us to die?”

You could hear ODM gear behind you and you hoped and prayed that it would be Erwin and your other half. Maybe the extra strength would be enough to lift it.

“Hannes!” You turned to look at him as your mother said his name. “Take the three of them and get them out of here.”

With Hannes there, you knew what you had to do. “Hannes, help Eren and Mikasa, get out of there. I’ll take care of this ugly bastard.” Your anger was starting to get the best of you. Through your tears, you could barely see, but you grabbed your blades from your canisters and got your ODM gear ready.

Hannes tried to talk you out of it. “Y/n, don’t be insane. You can’t take that thing down by yourself. It’s huge compared to the others.”

You ignored him and started to walk forward. Carla started to panic. “Y/n, don’t do this! Your brother and Mikasa need you!”

You had to focus. You saw Hannes talking to your mother more before following behind you. “I’m going with you. We’ll take this thing down together.”

You nodded to him and as you started to move forward he didn’t follow. Hannes froze. You hit the button for your grappling hooks and shot them toward the building next to the titan.

As you got into the air and almost to the titan you felt yourself get snatched. You closed your eyes and panicked, it had to be its fist, there was nothing else that could have grabbed you. Your entire body said not to open them again.

When you finally realized you weren’t in the first of a titan, you slowly opened your eyes. The sound of ODM gear had brought you back to the world. You were in the arms of none other than Levi Ackerman. Levi landed on a building a good distance away from the action and hollered to Hannes, holding you back from going after the titan again. “Take the kids and run!”

You could see Eren fighting and screaming as Hannes picked him and Mikasa up from the ground. Levi held you back and your mother began yelling again. “I love you three, stay alive.”

As you saw the titan bend down and start moving debris around you shouted at Levi, punching him in the chest. “The two of us can take him down! I know we can! Levi, we have to do something!” The titan picked up your mother and before you could even blink, he dropped her into his mouth.

You buried yourself into Levi’s arms and screamed as the sound of teeth on bones filled the area. “NOOO!”

And just like that, everything changed.

Taglist: @monic00l @strangeinternetwasteland @rowley-with-ackerman @kyu-pine @ellechanwrites @bonnisimpparker @impinthecloset @nikiniki743

©bakubabes-hatake’s original content, please do not repost/modify without my permission

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

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Hallucination

Prompts: i love your fics insanity and real or not real!! can i request another fic where a side is struggling to tell what's real and what's a hallucination? can be in the same like universe (carrying on with one of the stories) or a completely different universe/person, idm - anon

*crashes into ur asks*

Hey if you’re still taking requests could you do just Janus comforting someone on the verge of a meltdown? Like lots of soft words and caring Janus? He’s my comfort character and I love him - anon

Thanks for the prompt!

Read on Ao3 Part 1 (ish)

Warnings: talk of hallucinations, uncertainty

Pairings: focus on creativitwins, intrulogical, dukeceit, background LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic, you decide

Word Count: 3864

Sometimes Thomas watches things and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

Sometimes Thomas decides to watch something late at night, when it’s dark outside, even though Virgil tells him it’s a bad idea, and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

Sometimes when Virgil has gone to his room and he’s fine, but Thomas’s mind can’t stop playing it over and over and over and over, he starts to expand on it and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

He can’t remember the name of the video. Something to do with being stuck on a misty island in the middle of nowhere with a monster and villagers that wait to sacrifice tourists to the monster to sate its hunger. Something about a daring rescue or an escape plan doomed to fail.

Something like…

“Do not go outside. Do not turn on the lights. Don’t make sounds.” The old man draws the curtains sharply across the window. “And whatever you do, do not look out the window.”

It’s late now. Patton’s asleep. Virgil’s in his room, probably asleep. The rest of them are still awake in the Imagination. It’s slumber party night for the twins, having created a big sprawling mansion in the Imagination for them to run around in. Logan is here, Janus is here, Roman is here.

Villagers?

They’re talking about what Thomas watched.

Logan straightens his legs out. “It’s not a bad practice, staying quiet.”

Janus rolls his eyes. “Come on, what is this, some haunted island?”

“You saw the people in the video.” Logan rests his weight on his elbows. “Something was amiss.”

“The only thing amiss was how awfully boring you lot are being.” Janus sighs and stands, stretching. “Well, I think a night of entertainment sounds wonderful.”

“The old man said to be quiet,” Roman points out. Wait, is the old man real?

“Do you know how prone to flights of fancy old people are?” Janus smiles. “Incredibly.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh don’t start that.” Janus rolls his eyes and his gaze lands on Remus. A smirk crawls across his face. “Well,” he drawls, sauntering across the room, “someone’s being awfully quiet.”

Remus just shrugs. Janus crouches down.

“What do you think about this monster,” he asks, tapping his fingers on his chin, “about the thing that sneaks around this island, peering into windows, through the keyholes of locked doors?”

“Janus,” Logan warns.

“What? I just want to hear what our other little scientist thinks about this.” He raises his eyebrows when Remus won’t hold his gaze. “No? Nothing? Need more data? Well, I’m sure you could ask around if you wanted to.”

“We’re not supposed to leave,” he says softly.

“I know you’re a goody-two-shoes, Remus, but you’ll never get anything done that way.”

“Leave him alone, Janus,” Roman says with a wink, “he’s just mad at how pathetic the monster design was.”

Long limbs. Dark eyes. Moved like shadow.

“And the Boy Scout, coming to the rescue.” Janus rolls his eyes as he stands. “Aren’t you tired of being so boring?”

Roman holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m all for exploring!”

Janus sighs. “Ever the dashing prince, are we?”

“Ask nicely and I may sweep you off your feet too.”

The banter continues. Logan just sighs and pulls out a journal, the pen emerging from god-knows-where as he writes. Remus swallows and glances toward the window.

In. Out. In. Out.

Roman and Janus are still tossing barbs and jests back and forth. Remus cannot help but notice how loud they are being.

The old man said to be quiet.

Logan looks up when he begins to crouch down and shuffle behind the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing.” He gives a half-hearted smile. “Texture spoons ran out.”

He nods and goes back to his writing. Remus glances at the nightstand. Only 8:00. The conversation gets progressively louder. Logan joins in eventually, rolling his eyes at Roman’s increasingly elaborate proposals to bring in jukeboxes, disco lights, and speakers.

“Let’s think about this logically. If the ghosts or whatever the hell the monster is sensitive to sound, why not pump everything to like, 300 decibels and blast their eardrums out?”

“Or it could be that they just hear things like we hear things,” Logan remarks.

“Mm.”

“Why do I have to be quiet?” Roman spreads his arms. “I should not have to deal with that!”

“Actually, you know what,” Janus says gleefully, “I agree. We shouldn’t have to be quiet. If this place doesn’t have adequate monster protection, that’s on them.”

This place…didn’t they make it safe? Roman said they made it safe. Is it not safe anymore? Are the shadows—is the monster here?

“Always the entitlement,” Logan sighs, seemingly resigning himself to the voice of reason as he settles his journal to the side, “assuming that everyone should cater to your needs.”

“Oh come on, Logan. You have to admit that having a hotel that isn’t secure makes little to no sense.”

Hotel? Isn’t this still the mansion?

The low buzz of an LED sign comes from outside. Remus blinks. Has…has that always been there?

“Not respecting the rules of wherever you choose to go makes little to no sense.”

“That’s gotta hold up in court though.” Roman glances at Janus. “You get me?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Janus says, drawing himself up like a lawyer, “I would like to sue on the grounds that my intestines were devoured horrifically by a terrifying, savage beast that the hotel owners neglected to inform me of. How am I standing here, you ask, if my intestines have been devoured? Simple. Spite.”

Roman’s off, cackling to his heart’s content. Logan bites back his own smile.

“And how, may I ask, is this not the fault of yourself?”

“May I say, Your Honor, that victim-blaming is not cute—“

“Here here,” comes Roman’s voice.

“—and also, the information about aforementioned monster came from someone who was not an employee of the hotel,” Janus finishes grandly, “therefore they can suck my—“

Logan hits his hand against the nightstand, still fighting down laughter. “Defendant is charged with contempt of court.”

“Do not pass go,” Roman chortles as Janus swoons dramatically, “do not collect 200 dollars.”

“Remus,” Janus cries out, “avenge me!”

Remus does not respond. He is too busy trying to figure out when the mansion became the hotel.

“Remus,” Janus cries again, crawling dramatically across the floor, “save me from this indignity.”

“No, thank you,” he mumbles instead.

Janus huffs, pushing himself off the floor. “Then by all means, please tell us your ingenious solution to this monster problem that we find ourselves in.”

Remus looks up, his face carefully blank except for a small smile. “I’m going to hide underneath the sheets,” he says in a soft, small voice, “because everybody knows monsters can’t get you when you’re under your sheets.”

“That is adorable,” Roman chuckles.

Janus’s eyebrows raise slowly until another fiendish smirk crawls across his face. “Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“Aww,” he coos, “hiding under the sheets to get away from the monsters, how adorable.”

Remus doesn’t respond.

“If only the others could see you now,” Janus crows, “they’d know how intimidating you really are.”

Logan takes his glasses off, polishing them with the handkerchief from his pocket. “As if you’re any better, crying over a torn seam in your cape.”

“That bastard took two weeks to get right!”

Remus ignores them once more, glancing at the clock. 9:45. An acceptable time to try and go to sleep. He moves slowly and quietly as he tries to get into the bed. The monster could be here. The banter continues behind him as he pulls the sheets tight around him.

He does not see Logan glance over. He does not see that Logan frowns and glances at the clock, thinking perhaps Remus is more tired than he appeared, but…still. He does not see Logan look back at the others still talking, they’re probably not going to go to sleep for a long while.

He does not see Logan look over at him as Janus leaves the room, claiming he’s going to go find somewhere more fun to sleep. He does not see Logan frown, looking to see Remus still on his side, huddled under the sheets. He does not see when Logan starts to count.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

He does not see Logan beckon Roman closer.

He does not see Roman frown as he comes closer, sighing at the notebook in Logan’s hands.

“Logan, why the hell can’t you take a break for…” he trails off when he sees Logan’s face. “What?”

“Perhaps I like to keep myself occupied,” Logan says smoothly, even as he nods insistently to the notebook, “even in times where the circumstances might be less than ideal.”

Roman raises an eyebrow. Subtle, Logan.

“You are chronically incapable of taking a break, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you know any words other than ‘perhaps?’”

“Perhaps.”

Roman hides a smirk as squints at the text.

I think Remus is actually afraid. Don’t tease. - L

Remus does hear Roman exhale sharply. He does not see him glance up at the bed before he looks back at Logan and nods.

“Well,” he sighs, stretching and yawning exaggeratedly, “on that note, it’s probably a good idea to try and sleep.”

Logan snorts. “And here I thought you were supposed to be an actor.”

He swats at him halfheartedly as he starts getting ready to go to sleep. What that means is just a matter of snapping his fingers to change out of the prince costume. He packs his other clothes away and crosses the room, keeping his footsteps loud but not too loud.

Now that he’s paying attention, he can see how scared poor Remus is. He’s frozen under the sheets, barely moving. As Logan starts talking quietly to himself, he sets his bag down next to Remus’s and sighs, moving around to make a bit more noise.

Remus still doesn’t move.

When he’s made all the noise he can reasonably make, he walks a little closer to the bed and reaches to fix the curtains, unable to stop the soft noise when his shadow falls over the bed.

“Hey, Re,” he whispers, leaning down and brushing the sheet a little further from his face, “it’s just me, it’s just Roman. Can you open your eyes for me?”

It takes him a moment but his eyes do open. He smiles down at him and cups his face for a moment.

“Hey, there, Re,” he murmurs, “can I come join you?”

He barely nods.

“Thank you.” He frowns when he doesn’t move over. “You gonna let me in?”

He can tell by the way his eyes glass over that’s not a good idea unless he can convince him otherwise.

“Come on,” he whispers again, “scoot to the other side for me.” He nudges his shoulder gently. “Logan misses you.”

Loren doesn’t let his mumuring falter but he does reach across the small space between their beds to lightly pat the side closest to him.

Remus moves, as skittish as the new dragon pups, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest, his pillow gripped in his other hand. Roman swiftly takes the warm spot he’s vacated, wincing in sympathy as he shivers on the cold sheets.

“Thank you,” he sighs, making a show of getting comfortable before reaching out for him, smacking his lips together in sleep, “now come here.”

At his quickly stifled questioning noise, he drops the act and opens his arm wide.

“It’s okay, Re,” he whispers, far too quiet for Logan to hear, “I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay.”

He stares at him a moment longer before he realizes that shit, he’s not going to be able to move on his own right now.

“Can I come get you, Re?” Roman smiles when he gives him another one of those jerky nods. “Thank you, I’m gonna pull you over to me, okay?”

He takes him into his arms slowly and carefully, wrapping him up in the sheets until just the very tops of their heads poke out. He relaxes just enough so that he can maneuver him to where he likes, but he’s far from the sleepy pile he expected.

“Hey,” he whispers, tucking his hair behind his ear, “you want to stay here with me, Re?”

He blinks sluggishly. Roman bites back a curse and leans down to rub his nose against his.

“Hey, hey, Re, you just focus on me, okay? Stay with me here—“ he tightens his grip— “right here…I’ve got you.”

He frowns when he makes a small little noise that sounds like it could be his name.

“Yeah, Re? You calling for me?”

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He kisses Remus’s forehead.

“Nonverbal,” he whispers, “or just scared? Or both?”

A moment passes.

“Both it is then.” Roman tucks his head under his chin. “Why don’t you go ahead and close your eyes, Re, I’m right here.”

They stay there, wrapped in the blankets, Remus warm and snug up against Roman’s chest. He plays with his hair, one of his legs slung over his to hold him close, working to lull him out of his frozen state. After a while, Logan stands from the other side of the room and pats Roman’s shoulder.

“Your turn, Roman.”

Roman rolls over. “Huh?”

Logan nods his head toward the bathroom. “Shower.”

Roman sighs dramatically and presses another kiss to Remus’s forehead, leaving his brother dazed, blinking up at Logan. Logan watches Roman leave before he turns his gaze downwards. Remus tries to pretend the shiver that goes through him at the way Logan softens his gaze is just the cold.

“Remus,” he calls softly, voice barely louder than a whisper, “Remus, may I join you?”

A pause.

“Tap the bed twice if yes, once if no.”

A pause, then Remus hesitantly reaches out to make two little taps.

“Thank you.”

He slides smoothly into the bed, reaching out to carefully slip an arm under his and pull him off of the sweat-soaked sheets—when did that happen?—and into his arms. Remus moves pliantly, tucking his chin into the space left between his chin and the pillow.

“Hey,” he whispers, gentling his voice as he tucks his head closer to Remus’s, “hey.”

Logan is warm. Is Logan—Logan said it made sense to be quiet. Logan knows. Logan understands. Logan always understands.

“What’s the matter,” Logan calls gently, “can I help?”

Remus swallows. “Monster.”

“Are you afraid of the monster, Remus?”

Remus nods. “Black eyes. Shadow. Kill you and Roman and Janus and then go find Patton and Virgil and Thomas. Bad.”

“The monster isn’t real, Remus,” Logan says softly, running his hand through his hair, “it doesn’t exist.”

Remus shakes his head. “We’re in the hotel on the island. It’s real. Roman left and the monster will kill him.”

“Roman is just in the bathroom,” Logan corrects, moving his head to indicate the running water sound, “he’s alright. We’re not in a hotel, we’re in the mansion you two created.”

“But the LED sign is buzzing outside.”

“Would you like to look and see?”

“No!” Remus wraps his arms tightly around Logan’s waist. “We’re not supposed to look out the window, the old man said not to.”

“The old man isn’t here,” Logan says patiently, “I’m here. I have you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“He said—he—he’s not real?”

“No, Remus, he’s not real.” Logan gives him a gentle squeeze. “This is real. This is real, Remus, I’ve got you.”

“You’re real.”

“I am.”

“You said it’s safe to look out the window?”

“It is.” Logan squeezes again. “Would you like me to show you?”

Remus nods. Logan leans up and pulls back the curtain, peeking outside. There’s no bright red light from the hotel LED sign. Just soft moonlight.

“There’s no sign, Remus,” he murmurs, “you’re not in a hotel.”

Oh.

“The scar,” he blurts, his hand flying to his chest, “from the stab, what if it’s already got us?”

“I don’t have a scar,” Logan says, lying back down and taking Remus’s hand, “here…feel.”

Logan presses his palm to his bare chest, pulling his shirt out of the way so Remus can see. There’s no scar.

“You don’t have one either…may I?”

When he presses his palms against Remus’s chest, there’s no scar.

“We’re…not there?”

“No, Remus, we’re not there,” Logan says gently, “we’re here, in the mansion, safe, there’s no monster.”

The water stops. A moment later and Roman emerges, tossing a towel over his shoulder. He sees the two of them in the bed and pouts.

“You stole my spot!”

“I had Remus to comfort,” Logan says smoothly, waving him over, “though you are welcome to help.”

Roman ruffles Remus’s hair. Remus leans into it.

“Ro, are you real?”

“Yes, of course, I’m real, Re, what…” Roman trails off and his eyes go wide. “Oh, Re, did we—did I push you into hallucination territory? I’m so sorry, yes, we’re real, we’re here, we’re in our mansion, we’re safe, Re.”

“Safe?”

“Yeah, Re,” Roman murmurs, getting in to cuddle his brother properly, “we’re safe.”

“Real?”

“This is real.”

Remus buries his nose in his brother’s real neck and holds him close. Logan stays by his side, stroking his hair and murmuring that Remus is here, they’re real, they’re safe.

After a moment, Remus takes a deep breath and pulls apart.

“You know the rules, Ro-Bro.”

Roman grimaces, his head dropping to rest against Remus’s sternum for a moment before he nods. Logan looks back and forth between the two of them.

“What are the rules?”

“When Remus gets pushed into hallucination territory,” Roman says softly, “he sleeps alone.”

Logan frowns. “But surely it would help to have us reassure you and help ground you?”

“Wouldn’t help for the intrusive thoughts and hallucinations to include you too.”

Logan winces. “I suppose not, but—“

“Lolo we’ve tried,” Remus mumbles, “we—this works. It sucks and I hate it and so does Ro but this is what works.”

“I trust you,” Logan says, squeezing Remus’s hand, “and I trust you to know what works for you.”

“We’re just overprotective.”

“I’ll say.”

Roman gives him one last hug before standing and pulling Logan to his feet. “You know we’ll come as soon as you call.”

Remus nods. “I know.”

The room feels empty when they leave.

The night passes.

During the witching hour, he startles awake.

The sheets are soaked in sweat directly under him. His eyes are wide. His breathing is too controlled.

The monster is not here but the shadows are.

Somewhere in this house, he knows, something is here. He can hear the voice in the movement of the curtains, hear the step in the way the floorboard settles. Hands never meet his tender flesh, a mouth never bites his fragile throat, but something is here.

Step. Step. Step.

The fear clouds his eyes as it drips into his ears. The light flickers. Something brushes a knuckle up and over his cheek. Something pauses outside his doorway.

Through the depths of the fear filling his ears, something knocks.

The chill rips its fingers out of his mouth and smears them over his throat. Something knocks again. There’s something outside. There’s something outside.

“Sweetie,” he calls as he opens the door, “Sweetie?”

Janus steps inside.

“You’re awake,” he says, shutting the door and sitting on the edge of the bed, “it’s quite late.”

“I know,” Remus says as he sits up, wary, “sorry.”

Janus hums, reaching out to idly brush his hair off his forehead. The chill curls and lingers around his fingers, the shadows diving to hide in the lea of him, greedily drinking the fear from Remus. Janus goes to pull his hand away only to notice the prickles on Remus’s skin.

“Are you cold, my dear?” He frowns and lightly dusts his forearm with his fingertips. “You look it.”

Remus shakes his head. Janus raises an eyebrow, pressing his thumb hard against his arm to reveal a white imprint. It takes long seconds for the chill to let blood color the flesh again.

“Let’s not lie,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back up to catch Remus’s, “shall we, sweetie?”

Janus reaches up to trace the air around the curve of his cheek, one finger lightly tracing his jaw. The electrifying tingle clenches his hands in the sheet. He tilts his head and hums softly.

“What’s keeping you awake, sweetie?”

The chill snarls, refusing to let go of his throat.

“You can speak,” he encourages, lightly knuckling the underside of his chin, “it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head a little.

“None of that, now, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He closes his hand around his. “To be afraid is nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie, you know that.”

The shadows move slowly, wary of him, eager to taste his fear. The chill huddles around it, icing it in place, refusing to let him breathe without reaching its fingers into the pit of his throat.

“Oh, my dear,” Janus murmurs, running his fingers along the side of Remus’s neck, “can I do anything for you?”

He shakes his head quickly. Too quickly.

“Sweetie…”

“You’ll be annoyed.”

“I’m concerned,” Janus corrects gently, “that’s all.”

Remus risks a glance at the shadows.

“And you know, Remus,” he continues, lifting his hand to press a chaste kiss to its back, “taking care of you is never annoying.”

A different type of fear tingles along his fingers as they brush the curve of his jaw. This one reaches deep, deep along his fingers, up his arm, down to the curve of his shoulder, wriggling in between the cold knots to pulse against him. The shadows bloom in the corners of the room, shying away from the light flickering over his face, his shirt, his hand.

Through the mouthful of fear, his tongue wets his lips. “You’ll find it stupid.”

“Never, sweetie.”

“The dark,” blurts shamefully from his mouth, “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“The dark, sweetie? Is this about…”

“I got pushed into hallucination territory earlier.”

Janus makes a noise of sympathy, murmuring an apology for teasing earlier.

“I can’t see anything but the shadows,” Remus whispers, squeezing his eyes shut, “and the noises, and how empty it is because I know it’s not empty.”

“And what helps this go away,” he asks, still cupping his hand, “what makes the shadows leave my sweetie alone?”

“S-stay? Please, with—with me?” Remus’s breath starts to catch again. “Don’t—don’t let them hurt me.”

“Oh, sweetie, of course,” Janus murmurs, “of course I’ll stay.”

The poor thing chokes out a sob. Janus reaches forward to lie him back down when his hand brushes the edge of the sheet. He frowns. Picking the sheet up between two fingers, he winces. He can feel his fingertips rubbing together, it’s barely warm enough.

Remus’s breath still hasn’t caught when he returns with a thick quilt, spreading it over him to banish the last of the chill.

“Hush now,” he soothes, smoothing the corners of the quilt, “hush, sweetie, it’s over, you did so well, shh…”

Janus climbs into bed, pulling the shaking Remus to his chest, his arms wrapping tightly, tightly around the poor thing as he cradles Remus protectively.

“Come here, my sweet,” he whispers, “come here, now, shh, shh, you’re alright now, sweetie, shh, shh…”

His cries soften, gentled into mewls against his chest as he warms him against his skin. The poor thing is still clenched tighter than a fist. He croons, taking his wrist in his hand and pulling him flush against him.

“It’s alright, sweetie, you did so well, it’s gone now, you did it, there you are, here you are, right here, sweetie.”

The poor thing whines.

“Oh, sweet one, shh, shh, shh, my dear, you’re alright…” He makes a noise of sympathy when he doesn’t stop. “What’s the matter, sweetie, tell me, say it, come now…”

He brings his hand up to stroke gently under Remus’s chin.

“Say it, sweetie, tell me what’s troubling you so, let me help, I’m right here, I’m right here.”

“The shadows,” he whimpers, “the shadows, I can—I can hear them, they—they’re everywhere—I—they’re looking at me, they’re touching me, I can—I can feel them—I—“

“I’ve got you, sweetie,” Janus murmurs, pressing a kiss to Remus’s cheek, “I’m right here, nothing can touch you, here—“

He pulls the blankets up and over their heads, creating a little bubble of intimacy in the dark room.

“I’m here, sweetie, it’s just me, I won’t hurt you, you know I won’t. Shh, shh, hush now, sweetie, it’s alright.”

They stay like that for a little longer, Remus sobbing out the rest of the fear as Janus hushes him softly, pulls him close, soothes away the last of the tremors with gentle hands and tender words.

After a while, Remus pulls away.

“…thanks, Jan.”

“I promised,” Janus murmurs, “I promised that I’d do it when you need me to.”

“I know.” Remus sniffles. “I just…wish you didn’t have to.”

“Don’t ever feel bad about needing something,” Janus chides softly, chucking him lightly under the chin, “especially not when you really need it.”

“Already sent Lolo and Ro away for hallucinations, you—“

“They’re fine, sweetie, a little worried, but they came and told me what was happening.” Janus kisses his forehead again. “They’re not angry, they don’t begrudge you needing things, and they’ll be here for you. They always are.”

“I know.”

Exhaustion begins to seep into his eyes. He blinks sluggishly.

“This is real, right?”

Janus gives him a squeeze. “It’s real.”

“Can I sleep now?”

“Oh, of course, sweetie,” he murmurs, leaning back up to rest his head on the pillow next to Remus, “you go right ahead. I’ll be right here. I’ll keep the shadows away.”

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#sanders sides #fic #dragonbabbles #remus sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #deceit sanders #janus sanders #sympathetic remus #sympathetic deceit #hallucination

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nastybuckybarnes · 4 years

Text

Monsters - Three

Pairing: Dark!Bucky X Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes is a man who just wants to do better. But he can’t stop the monster from coming out every now and then. As a last and hopeless attempt at calming The Winter Soldier, SHIELD finds him something they figured would help. An innocent young woman with not a lot going for her. Or, The Winter Soldiers newest victim.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Language, Injuries, INTENSE SMUT (NONCON), GUNPLAY, HUMILIATION, DEGRADATION, NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART, Major MENTAL HEALTH TRIGGER,

Word Count: 3.5K

A/n: Oof sorry. This is dark as fuck. it’s really triggering. If you complain I will block you because I have many warnings in place. This is a very triggering chapter that involves very sensitive and triggering topics so read at your own damn risk!

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!!

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER!! READ AT OWN RISK!!

~*~

He doesn’t look at you the next morning.

You’re thankful for that because you don’t think you’d be able to withstand seeing him without crying.

Your neck is dark and covered in bruises, and your wrists look no better, the skin discoloured to a near-black colour. It hurts to breathe, to walk. Your lower regions burning with each step you take. You’re part glad he doesn’t look at you, but you’re also frustrated.

He said he wasn’t a monster and yet look what he’s done to you. Your body is broken and bruised and beat badly, and he doesn’t even have the stomach to look at the damage he’s caused.

You stay in your room for most of the day anyway, in far too much pain to venture anywhere except the kitchen for a glass of water which does little to soothe the burn in your throat.

As you sit there, alone on the mattress that holds disgusting memories, you ponder what Fury said yesterday about the fine print in the email. Surely you would have seen any more writing. You wouldn’t have just accepted the position without being properly informed of everything that you were going to have to do.

But it seems to be too late. If last night was any indication of your fate, you almost understand why they gave you little to no warning.

He was barbaric. Brutally taking advantage of your body, and thwarting your attempts to get him to be gentler.

A knock on your door startles you from your thoughts. It opens quietly and the man who’s been occupying your thoughts walks in with his head down.

“I uh... I brought you some soup. You haven’t eaten all day.” You stare at the steaming bowl held in his metal hand. The same hand that crushed your wrists.

“I’m not hungry,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at you and swallows hard, eyes zeroing in on the dark marks on your neck. He lets out a shuddering breath and nods.

He opens his mouth to speak but snaps it closed again, setting the bowl down on the dresser then leaving the room.

The soldier doesn’t come to you that night.

Or the night after.

On the fourth day, three nights of him not coming to you, you finally venture out of your room. You nearly run right into his chest as he opens the door to talk to you. He grabs your waist to stop you from toppling over then pulls back as if you’ve scalded him.

“I’ve got a mission briefing to go to. I’ll be gone for most of the day,” he informs you, voice hard and emotionless. You simply nod and watch as he leaves the house in a hurry. When you’re sure he’s gone, you creep down the stairs and into the kitchen, stomach cramping for food.

You find a few pieces of bread and some crackers on the counter, along with a note that says ‘Dinner will be ready shortly after I get home.” You take the crackers and shovel them into your mouth, not caring about how much they dry your throat. They go down like sandpaper, and you wash them down with a glass of water, finally silencing your growling stomach.

With the house to yourself, you explore, your feet taking you to another bedroom upstairs.

It must be his, you realize, eyes finding a small, leather-bound notebook. You look around the room quickly then snatch the book up and sit down on his bed, eyes devouring the words scrawled carelessly on the pages.

Horror fills you as you read, each page giving detailed descriptions of the horrible things this man has done.

You find yourself terrified for your life once more as you realize just how quickly he could end it. It would simply be another life to him, nothing he cares about considering how many he’s taken already.

You put the book back and leave the room, running to the front door and banging on it mercilessly, hoping to catch the attention of someone passing by.

~*~

“Tincan!” Bucky groans and looks up as Tony walks to him. “Relax. I’ve got a gift for you.” He hands over a tablet and Bucky furrows his brows in confusion.

“So you can watch your little pet. I hooked it up to all the cameras in your house, so you can keep tabs on her. Before you ask, Fury’s not all that good at keeping secrets.” Bucky makes a mental note to talk to Fury about keeping this off the radar, but for now, he’s curious to see what you’re doing.

He accepts the tablet with a soft ‘thank you’ then quickly turns it on, flipping through the different camera feeds until he finds you.

You’re banging a lamp from your bedside table against a window in your room, tears on your cheeks. You look hopeless.

He toys around with the tablet for a while until he finds a rewind button, wanting to know what has you so desperately wanting to escape.

He stops it from rewinding when he sees you sitting on his bed, his journal in your lap.

The pieces click into place and he shakes his head, angry that you would invade his privacy like that and pissed at himself for not putting it away.

“Listen Stark, I’ll come back later to be briefed. I’ve gotta go... deal with something.” Tony nods and watches as Bucky walks away, his heart aching for you but he knows that there’s nothing he can do to help you.

Bucky pulls up to the house and throws the front door open, the ride over giving him plenty of time to stew in his anger.

He slams the door shut behind himself and stomps up the stairs to your room, kicking the door open and staring at you. You hold the lamp tightly in your grasp and turn to him slowly, terrified at the dark look in his eyes.

“You need to learn some respect!” He spits the word and marches over to you, grabbing the lamp with his left hand when you swing it at him. He throws it to the ground and grabs you by the jaw, tossing you onto the bed. You crawl backwards, shaking your head at him desperately.

He grabs your ankle and yanks you down the bed, then flips you onto your stomach. He tears your pants and panties down your legs and starts slapping your ass. Hard.

You scream in pain as he punishes you, slapping again and again and again, each one being harder than the last.

By the time he finally lets up, your ass is on fire, skin bruised and burning. He grabs you by the hair and tugs, forcing you up onto your hands and knees.

You’re trembling on the bed, terrified of what he’s going to do to you.

“You’ve been bad,” he whispers, dragging something cool across the skin of your ass. You subconsciously lean into the soothing touch and he chuckles.

“You read something you weren’t supposed to. You went snooping into my business.” He rips you up by your hair so that you’re right beside him, head leaning back on his shoulder. “Don't you ever fucking touch my stuff again.” The words are whispered but the threat is shouted, and you find yourself nodding quickly. He shoves you back down onto the bed but keeps your hips raised.

Something cool and blunt is pressing against your entrance and you jolt away, yelping when he smacks your ass again.

“You’re gonna fuck yourself on my gun, or I’m gonna make you wish you were dead, understood?” You feel absolutely humiliated, blood running cold as he presses the gun into your cunt, your warm walls clinging to the metal as he slowly pumps it in and out of you. He stops for a moment and you hear the weapon click.

“Safety’s off. Now fuck yourself on it. And then maybe I won’t hurt you.” You jump on the opportunity of not getting hurt anymore and start slowly thrusting your hips backwards. You hate it. You hate how good it feels. You hate how he’s humiliating you and you’re enjoying it. Your body betrays you with each thrust of your hips. Slick gathers between your thighs and drips down onto the mattress while you fuck yourself on his gun.

“Such a fucking whore. Fucking yourself of my Glock. Gettin’ all messy and wet. So fucking desperate for something to fill that cunt of yours that you’ll fuck anything.” His words crack your pride, tears stinging your eyes as you continue to rock your hips.

“Fuck yourself faster, slut. I wanna watch you cum.” That’s what makes you start to sob. The fact that not only is he watching you fuck yourself on his weapon of choice, but he’s going to force you to make yourself cum while doing so.

You rock your hips faster, squeezing your eyes shut as broken sobs leave your lips, the mortification nearly too much to bear. You just want to cum and have this all be over with.

Your clit brushes against the trigger guard and you jolt away from it before repeating the action. “Look at that. Such a stupid mindless slut, fucking yourself on a gun. You’re such a pathetic whore.” You hate it. You hate the names, the fact that he’s saying it out loud, bringing light to what you’re doing.

You risk a glance over your shoulder and feel the blood leave your face. If you weren’t appalled before, you certainly are now. He’s got his phone camera pointing at your most intimate area, filming you fucking yourself on his gun.

You hiccup a sob and press your face into the pillow, rocking your hips faster, hoping to get this over with.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, his hand already covered in your slick. You ignore him, rubbing your clit on the metal hard, toes curling as your orgasm approaches fast.

With a sound that’s half a moan and half a sob, you cum, cunt clenching hard on the metal.

He groans, watching as you lose your dignity on camera.

When your cunt stops pulsing, he pulls the gun out and slaps your ass.

“Face me,” he orders. You comply, eyes red and puffy, snot dripping from your nose and tears falling down your cheeks.

“You’re gonna suck this gun clean. If you leave one drop on here I’ll make you regret it.” You open your mouth and suck on it, licking off the taste of metal and your essence, trying not to cringe at how embarrassing it is.

Bucky holds the camera up to your face, and what little dignity you had left is crushed.

“Look at how worthless you are. Such a pathetic slut.” You suck harder, wanting to get the gun clean so you can end this torture. You’d rather have him physically hurt you. This... this mental abuse? It’s far worse.

He pulls the gun out of your mouth and nods, shedding himself of his pants and boxers then sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard. He motions with the gun to his cock and you sniffle, climbing onto his lap. You slowly lower yourself onto him and he moans, aiming the camera at where your abused pussy is taking every inch of him.

“You’re gonna fuck yourself on my cock just like you did on my gun. Understand?” he presses the barrel of the gun to your temple and your bottom lip wobbles.

“Cry all you want, skank. As long as you make me cum.” You squeeze your eyes shut tightly and raise yourself off of his cock, only to drop down on him again. He groans and watches through hooded eyes as you ride him, darkness filling his eyes as he presses the gun harder into your head, finger hovering over the trigger.

“Faster!” He shouts, grinning at the way you flinch. You start bouncing up and down on his lap, the squelching sound of his cock in your soaked pussy making you burn with shame.

Your legs ache, your injured thigh on fire as you continue to use it in a way that you really shouldn't. You fuck him hard and fast, praying to any and every god available that this ends soon.

He moans loudly, thrusting up to meet you, and you cry out in pain. The tears won't stop, they drip down your face and splatter onto his chest, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, it spurs him on. He brings the camera up and focuses on your face, watching the way you sob and cry, humiliation clear as day on your face.

“Oh fuck!” His thrusts stutter before he stills, and you follow, staying seated on his cock as loud sobs tear out of your chest.

“Get off and lay on your stomach, ass up. I wanna see how wrecked you look.” You do as he says, nearly choking on your own snot as you press your face into the bed again.

“Look at that,” he whispers, the camera zooming in to capture the way he’s abused you. Your cunt is swollen, all puffy and red, and cum oozes out and over your engorged clit. He tosses the gun aside and smacks you hard, right on your centre.

You jump away from the pain, but he doesn't stop. He slaps your pussy over and over again, catching your clit and sending you spiralling in pain. He doesn’t stop until your shrieking and your cunt looks as abused as your ass.

“Have you learned your lesson?” He asks, the camera staying on your pussy as it flutters and clenches, clit throbbing almost visibly.

“Yes,” you whisper. He slaps your cunt again and you scream.

“Yes what?” He demands. This is new. You’re not quite sure what to call him, but another harsh slap against your clit has you screaming the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yes sir!” He seems to like that.

“Good. Now fucking clean yourself before I make you dirtier.” You don’t wanna know what he means by that, and he doesn't give you a chance to think too hard on it before he’s leaving the room, stopping the gun off the ground and flicking the safety back on.

You hear him stomp out of the house, the door slamming hard enough to shake the whole house. Your heart races and your tears don’t stop. The humiliation and mental abuse that he just put you through has you trembling, anxiety skyrocketing.

You haul yourself off of the bed and stumble to the shower, turning the water on as hot as you can handle, then hotter still, determined to burn the feeling of his hands off of your skin.

You stand sobbing under the spray for a long time, long enough for his seed to drip down your leg and get washed down the drain. The thought of having any part of him in your body makes you feel sick, and you grab the showerhead. You switch the setting to a more powerful one then press it to your core, determined to wash him out of you.

The heat of the water scalds you, and it burns like a bitch, but you don’t care. You’ll endure any pain to get the feeling of him out of you.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of washing yourself out, you switch the setting back to normal and stand under the spray, shivering despite the hot water.

You feel hopeless. And absolutely terrified. He hurt you. Mentally and physically. There’s no escape. Nothing for you to do. You’re stuck here. Trapped. Just like Fury said. THere’s no way they’ll let you out now, not with the way he’s treated you. You’re sure of it.

An idea pops into your head and you slowly open your eyes.

Maybe you’re not as trapped as you thought.

You hobble out of the shower and into your bedroom, grabbing the glass of water off of your bedside table.

When you’re back in the bathroom, you smash the glass against the counter, tears continuing to fall silently, although you feel less overwhelmed now that you have a plan.

You grab a large shard of glass then get into the shower, sitting down in the corner under the warm spray of water.

With two deep breaths, you press the glass to the inside of your wrist, wincing as you push down against your bruises. You drag the sharp shard up towards your elbow, closing your eyes for a moment as blood spills out quickly. You slice another, cleaner line, up from your wrist to your elbow, then repeat the process on your other arm.

You lean your head back against the tiled wall and let out a few shuddering breaths, basking in the warm water as your body slowly starts to get colder.

Bucky sits in the briefing room, feeling guilty about what he did to you. He had a point to prove, but he thinks he took it a tad too far.

If the dead look in your eyes is anything to go by, then he absolutely took it too far.

On the drive to the compound, he found it nearly impossible to keep his eyes off of the tablet, hungry to see what you would do and how you would react. He’s disappointed but not surprised at the fact that you tried to wash your body clean of him, inside and out.

But now in the briefing room, Steve drones on and on about a potential threat and yada yada ya. Bucky just wants to check on you, make sure you’re not hurt too bad. See how you’re reacting to his... extreme punishment.

With a glance down, he pulls the tablet out of his jacket and holds it under the table, eyes looking up to see if anyone’s noticed. They’re all focused on their captain, the same way he should be. But he’s not. He can’t help the gnawing feeling in his gut that he needs to check on you. He flicks through the cameras, stopping when he gets to the one in the shower.

He tries to be inconspicuous about it, but he struggles when he sees you sitting in the corner, not moving. After a closer look, he sees the puddle of red that’s slowly seeping down the drain.

Blood. And lot’s of it.

He stands up abruptly and all eyes turn to him.

“I’ve gotta go,” he mumbles, shoving the tablet back into his jacket then running out of the room. He drives fast. Fast and reckless, but he’s afraid. Why? Because if you die, it’s his fault.

He doesn’t know where the blood is coming from, but he hopes to god it’s not anything he physically inflicted.

He takes the stairs three at a time, shoving open the bathroom door in your room and ripping open the shower door. You’re sitting there, skin dull and eyes closed while red pumps from your arms.

“Fuck,” he whispers, grabbing your arms and pulling you out of the shower. You whimper, eyes moving slowly beneath closed lids.

He grabs a towel and presses it to your arms, then digs through the cabinets in search of a first aid kit.

His hands shake just the slightest bit as he wraps your arms tightly in gauze, slowing the blood flow. His heart clenches as he sees the bruises on your wrists, the ones he gave you.

Maybe he is a monster.

“Hmm... no...” you whisper, pushing against him weakly. He looks down and finds your eyes staring up at him, slightly glazed over.

“No,” you whisper again, this time stronger.

“No!” You shout, struggling out of his lap.

“How could you?! Why?! Why couldn't you just let me die?! Haven't you hurt me enough?!” He swallows hard and holds your arms tightly, stopping you from hurting yourself more.

“Calm down. Please. I’m gonna dry you off and put you to bed. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” You shake your head then instantly regret it, feeling dizzy and weak.

He scoops you up in his arms and carries you into your bedroom, stopping when he sees the wrecked sheets. He glances at you and your trembling body then brings you into his bedroom. He sets you down on the bed then runs and gets a towel, drying you off quickly. Your teeth continue to chatter even after he’s dressed you in a sweatshirt of his and a pair of sweatpants.

He tucks you under the blankets then scoots in bed next to you, hoping the high temperature of his body does something to warm you up.

You fall asleep rather quickly, body and mind exhausted from the traumatic events of the day, and Bucky feels himself being quickly overcome with guilt.

He did this to you. He let himself go, far too much. The monster within clawed it’s way out. He took out his aggression and anger on you when he should’ve just punished you lightly. He broke you, right down to your soul. And he’s not sure how or if he can fix you.

~*~

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ragingpancake · 3 years

Text

I Will Try (To Fix You) - Part 2

It’s ten days before Carson deems Rodney “well enough” to return to his quarters. To date, this has been the longest infirmary stay that Rodney’s ever had and truthfully, he should probably stay a bit longer. His kidneys still aren’t functioning as well as they should, which means Carson’s been closely monitoring his water intake and urine output and a whole host of other things that John knows Rodney is embarrassed about. He’s also not entirely steady on his feet, courtesy of the muscle spams that wrack his calves and his thighs, bad enough sometimes to nearly bring him to tears. It’s ten days before John, Carson and Elizabeth have a very real, very difficult conversation about what a prolonged stay in the infirmary will likely do Rodney mentally, left with nothing really to occupy his time except, well, time to think about just how close he’d come to death. Carson is reluctant to release him; they haven’t yet gotten him back to solid foods and of course his kidney function is still a concern, but John knows Rodney, knows that he needs to be anywhere but here and he argues his case: Rodney can come stay in his quarters. His team is grounded for the foreseeable future, courtesy of John who is unwilling to go off-world without his entire team and while he’s offered to temporarily reassign Teyla and Ronon to Lorne, they share his line of thinking. Rodney can come stay with John, but he has his whole team who’ll be watching out for him, who will bring him for twice daily check ins, if needed, who will monitor any time spent in the lab, who just want Rodney to have some semblance of normalcy during his recovery. It must be an impassioned speech, because by the time he’s done, Elizabeth nods her consent and John finds for the first time in ten days, it’s a little easier to breath.

--- Rodney, predictably, complains about the arrangement. He’s not keen on having a babysitter and that hurts John’s stunted feelings more than he’d ever admit out loud. But when Carson makes it clear that the only option is an extended stay in the infirmary, he relents pretty easily and all that’s left is to prepare John’s quarters. Easy peasy. Right? Wrong. It turns out that the room John’s claimed for himself isn’t quite meant for two people. It’s small and while it’s fine for just him, he knows that it’s going to be too cramped, too claustrophobic and so he spends the eleventh day scouting out some of the larger quarters near the East Pier with Teyla, pretending to understand when she makes suggestions based on where the light from the rising sun falls and which room has the best view of the ocean, which she believes will aid in Rodney’s recovery. He’s never been much into new age bullshit that seems to be pretty common across two galaxies, but he’s willing to shove a couple of crystals up his own ass if it means getting Rodney better.

He enlists Ronon, Lorne and a couple of marines to help move their things. John leaves his own quarters to Wallace, Gregory and Barnes despite how uncomfortable the thought of them seeing his own personal effects makes him, and he takes Rodney’s room with Ronon and Lorne. Rodney, for his part, has a lot of stuff. It takes the better part of the afternoon to get everything moved over, including Rodney’s deceptively heavy prescription mattress, his four laptops and the whiteboard that he’d swiped from the labs within the first week of their arrival. John’s stuff, save for his own bed, mostly fits in a couple bags. By the time they’re finished, he’s tired, shoulders and back aching, reminding him just how fucking old he’s getting, but still, he trudges down to the infirmary, plastering a smile on his face for Rodney as he steps in through the paneled doors. “Hey buddy,” he greets. “Got us all set up in some new digs. Wait until you see the tub in this one,” he says, nodding as Carson comes over, Rodney’s chart in hand. “He all good to go, Doc?” “I suppose he’ll have to be, now won’t he?” He asks and there’s a scowl there that John cheerfully ignores. “I expect him back here at 10 and 2, Colonel. A minute late for either appointment and he’s back here, d’you understand?” “10 and 2, just like a steering wheel. Got it, doc. How about the food situation?” “Yeah, what he said,” Rodney frowns and John knows from previous experience just how miserable a clear liquid diet can be. “I’m alright with him startin’ on solids, but take it easy,” Carson warns. “Nothin’ too heavy,” and Rodney waves him off, but despite his lackadaisical nature, John really is taking this seriously, committing everything to memory. “Got it. We good?” Carson pauses for a moment before he sighs. “Aye. But not a moment late, Colonel!” He warns as Marie and Simpson come, pushing a wheelchair that Rodney tries to vehemently refuse. John settles a hand on his shoulder gently. “Hey, hey. C’mon. Easy. It’s a pretty long walk to the pier, alright? Let’s not push it too much on your first day.” “Traitor,” Rodney mutters under his breath and John actually does smile because it feels a little like it used to before those God damned Carneans. John steadies the wheelchair while Marie and Simpson maneuver Rodney into it and after what feels like forever, they’re finally on their way. “You did get my laptops, right?” “Yes, Rodney.” “And what about the Athosian soaps from the bathroom? Those were made specially for me by Gita and, and, and the medicinal properties-- “We got ‘em.” “My mattress?” “Of course.” Rodney harrumphs like maybe he’s expecting John to have forgotten something, as if John would ever. “What about—” “Your favorite red pen that you use to mark up all those damn physics journals? Yep. Got that too. We grabbed everything, buddy. And if there’s somethin’ you need that we don’t have, just say the word and we’ll make it happen.” Rodney falls strangely quiet at that. --- It’s easy to live with Rodney. Lorne had very nearly pissed himself from laughter when John said so after the first few days and honestly, John took a little offense to that on Rodney’s behalf. Sure, he’s messy and he’s loud and the longer he’s out, the more of his biting sarcasm is returning, but John’s all for it, especially when he considers the alternative. (And he does consider it, frequently, usually in the dead of night when he wakes up from nightmares of vomit and grey skin, of an antidote recovered too late). But honestly, save for the fact that John now has to deal with Rodney’s dirty clothes strewn across the room and the stupid whiteboard that takes up the space that John’s surf board should be occupying, not much has changed at all, a testament to just how much time the two of them had spent together even before this. John follows Carson’s instructions to a T, and okay, maybe that’s a little different too because John’s always been the one to avoid the infirmary at all costs when it comes to his own health and

well-being, but he’s not taking a chance with Rodney’s. He takes him to his appointments and at nights, when the muscle spasms seem to be the worst, John sits with him on that stupidly comfortable bed, kneading the tight muscles in his legs as he tries to distract Rodney with shitty 80s movies and random banter about anything and everything that he thinks will goad Rodney into a tirade that’ll take his mind off of the pain. He even lets Rodney have four hours a day in the labs, split into two hour segments with an hour break in between. Normalcy. That’s the goal here and Rodney’s always at his best when he’s in his element, berating scientists and defying all laws of physics. That’s where Rodney is when everything goes to hell. --- It’s been twenty days since the Carneans. Ten days of the two of them cohabitating, ten days of Rodney slowly working his way back to normal. He’s been subsisting entirely of power bars and MREs, which, while not entirely healthy has been cleared by Carson if only for the fact that they provide sustenance without being too taxing on Rodney’s still delicate system and John’s just thinking about whether or not he can try to convince Rodney to try something a little more substantial from the mess later that evening when the call comes in over the radio. “Zelenka to Colonel Sheppard, please respond.” He sounds harried and John closes the latest mission report from Lorne’s team, already on his feet and moving when he taps his comm. “Sheppard here, go ahead Doc.” “I need you in Science Lab 3 please. There is a… situation.” “What do you mean by situation, Radek?” But when Radek keys up his comm again, John can hear the panicked wheezing in the background and he picks it up to a swift jog. “I believe Rodney is having a panic attack,” he says. “I have tried to bring him around but nothing is working and I--.” “I’m on my way. Sheppard out.” He meets Ronon in the corridor and he doesn’t even have to say a word before the Satedan is altering his own course, following after John. They can hear it before they even open the door. Rodney’s on the verge of hyperventilating, the sound of his ragged breaths interspersed with pained moans and Ronon is quick to clear the lab of well meaning scientists who are gaping at the scene while Radek tries to shield Rodney from view as much as possible. “Hey, hey,” John says soothingly, trying to keep his voice calm despite the way his heart is beating against his ribcage. “I’m here, buddy. Rodney, look at me. Hey, hey,” and he reaches out, finger under Rodney’s chin as he tips his head up, wild blue eyes meeting hazel. John wants to take Rodney’s hand, but his arms are wrapped around his middle, clutching his stomach so tightly and John glances over at the toppled plate on the floor, shards of glass now mixed with what looks like not-meatloaf. “Talk to me, Doc,” John calls over his shoulder at Zelenka. “What the hell happened?” “He was out of power bars, but hungry, so Miko thought perhaps he might be enticed to eat by something from the mess, knowing that this,” he gestures, “was Rodney’s favorite. He managed a couple of bites and everything was fine until… until it was not.” “Cramps,” Rodney rasps, reaching out to grip John’s wrist painfully. “Cramps. Poison, I—I can’t--.” “Get Carson down here,” John snarls, voice softening as he turns back to Rodney. “Hey. Listen to me, buddy. Carson told us this could happen, remember? The cramps. That’s why we started light. You’re okay though. I promise, Rodney. You’re okay, I’m right here and I need you to breathe.” It takes a bit of manhandling but John manages to get Rodney up enough that he can slide behind the other, drawing Rodney back against his chest, taking a couple of deep breaths. “C’mon, buddy. Breathe with me. You’re alright. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Rodney.” That’s how Carson finds them a few moments later, Rodney trembling against the other, but thankfully no longer hyperventilating. “He’s alright,” John says, glancing up at Beckett. “Panic attack when

he tried to eat and cramped up.” “I thought—I thought--.” John pets through Rodney’s hair gently. “I know. You thought it happened again, but it didn’t, right? We’re gonna go down to the infirmary with Carson though and let him check you over so you can see for yourself.” “Easy, lad,” Carson says as Ronon comes over to help Rodney to his feet with more care than he’s shown anyone else, guiding him over to the gurney before he tugs John to his feet as well. “John—” Rodney rasps, the name catching his throat as the cramps hit again and he curls on his side, swallowing hard against the panic beginning to rise again. “I’m here,” John reminds him again, moving to take Rodney’s hand. “You’re alright, I promise.” And he is. He will be. John will be sure of that. --- The panic attacks don’t last long. He still cramps painfully when he eats, but the team is always with him at meal time to help him through it, John always, alwayseating a third of his food before switching his tray with Rodney’s for him to finish it, confident that there’s no poison. The effects of what had been done to him still linger, still present often and painfully, and sometimes, John doesn’t think what he’s doing is enough. That he should be doing more, that he should’ve done more back on that fucking planet to have saved Rodney from this entire ordeal. But Rodney’s getting better. John can see that when he goes longer and longer without a muscle spasm, or the first time he pees on his own and calls John in to see how clear it is, proof that his kidneys are finally starting to function normally. “You know,” Rodney says one night after they’ve pushed their beds close enough together that if they each scoot over to the edge, their shoulders are touching, “it probably won’t be too much longer until we can go back to our own quarters.” There’s an uncomfortable knot that twists itself up in John’s stomach at that but he swallows against the lump in his throat and says casually, “oh yeah? That’ll be cool. I guess.” “Yeah,” Rodney says and then he falls silent for a moment, as if waiting for something. Apparently, his impatience has returned full force because he doesn’t even give it a half a second before he’s speaking again. “I mean, unless we just… don’t?” Okay. That’s unexpected. “I just… this has been incredibly difficult, Colonel. Uh, John,” he corrects, “and you’ve… I know that this is probably because of some weird, misplaced guilt you’re harboring, because that’s how you are, Lieutenant Colonel Martyr, but… this has been okay… hasn’t it?” “Rodney, I--.” “I know I’m difficult. I’m messy and I’ll be going back to keeping weird hours soon enough and, and, and I know I can be annoying, but you’ve put up with that remarkably well and so I just thought--.” “I don’t want to go back to being alone,” John blurts out and he can feel the tension leaving Rodney’s body beside him. “Good. Me neither.” They fall into a comfortable silence then for a moment, the only sounds being their quiet breathing and the sound of the ocean waves through the open window. (Teyla was definitely right about picking this room.) “It’s not guilt,” John says after a moment. “I mean, not that I don’t feel guilty, because I should’ve never--.” He clears his throat and stops himself before he goes down that road. “You’re… I dunno. You’re McKay. Rodney. And I… when I found you that day, I thought you were dead,” and he can feel Rodney flinch at that, but he needs to get this out, he thinks. “I thought you’d died and I just… realized that I would’ve gone out of my fucking mind if you had, Rodney. Like, legitimately crazy because you’re… You’re you and I’m--. I’m yours. However you want me. If that means we forget this conversation ever happened and go back to how it was before all of this, I’m okay with that, but I just… I had to tell you because I came really fucking close to never getting another chance to.” Rodney is quiet, doesn’t say anything but after a moment, John can feel the other’s hand brush against his own before he

squeezes two of John’s fingers. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time in all the time we’ve known each other.” And John laugh out loud at that, an actual laugh, and as he does, he feels that knot inside of him loosen just a bit. “Which is to say,” Rodney continues, “that I… would very much like to notforget this happened. I… suppose that I’m yours too. Maybe I always have been.” John doesn’t know where they’ll go from here. He’s under no delusions that this will be easy, any of it, but when has it ever been? All that matters though is that they have time now to work through it, to figure it out together. Maybe they’ll fix each other.

#mcshep #hurt/comfort #hurt rodney mckay #whumped rodney mcay #john sheppard #rodney mckay #sga #stargate atlantis #fandom: sga #angst #poisoning #panic attack

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