#all the better to dissociate through i suppose but man. i love money
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Nothing and Everything - Part 2
Summary: Certain times of the year are harder than others. This is the first year where they have all been present to face the memories of all the trauma. How can they come together when they each have their own traumas to face?
Pairings: Gen fic (they love Layla and she loves them)
Warnings: Heavy dissociation, Mentions of child abuse, some mentions of violence, Depression, mentions of self harm, PTSD.
Word Count: 4182
Part two: Sometimes bad days escalate. Steven is having a bad day. How do you cope with the loss of your dreams?
Part one HERE.
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“I’m better off.” Steven muttered to himself as he walked past the building.
He ignored the banners on the light poles along the street. Banners that boasted incorrect information.
He moved past the familiar steps he had stumbled up and down so often in a state of near sleep.
He didn’t turn left at the fountain and he didn’t push past security to be misnamed at the door by a bloke he worked with for a solid year at least.
He glanced up once to take in the familiar columns and looming windows. He could remember the slick tile floors, the staff room with the lockers where he would put his bag, the smell of the coffee brewing at the cafe, and the sound of the beep of his inventory gun.
He hated the gift shop. He hated pushing candy and badly designed toys on the children. He hated that they learned incorrect things at a place that they trusted. He hated the stolen artifacts and the guilt of knowing they were there for his viewing pleasure when a culture cried out to curate their own history. A fact that Layla had instantly taken the time to imbue on him right away.
Yet… There had been something sacred about knowing he could see it all. Of knowing he could turn left at the hall of ancient history and find himself looking at the Rosetta Stone.
How long had he wanted to be involved in it all? Those first Natural Geographic magazines they had handed out in school had delighted him. Steve Martin’s ridiculous song about King Tut had enchanted him when they had shown it in art class in some misguided attempt to get the kids excited about hieroglyphics.
Steven’s hand tightened on the strap at his shoulder, pulling down on the bag as if it might hold him in place.
He recalled taking a career placement test in school and being told he should be a museum curator. He remembered how baffled he had been, not understanding what that was at the time.
Life had taken him on a different path. Or so he had thought. College? Well, it just hadn’t really been his cup of tea, so he told himself. He was more of a home school self taught sort, wasn’t he?
It explained why he couldn’t remember graduating high school or applying for colleges. Perhaps money had been a factor? College wasn’t cheap, after all, and his family had… He wasn’t sure?
You had to have degrees to curate a museum. You had to have work experience to be on a dig site. A man of his age… How old was he again?
A tour guide position had appealed to him. Walking through the museum on a path he picked and teaching his passion to them. Correcting the wall cards and dropping knowledge bombs on everyone…
Steven applied despite his lack of schooling. He remembered the interview. The look on their face as he babbled and smiled and fidgeted. He didn’t understand a few of the questions. How could he? They hadn’t been fair.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t feel it would be a good match for you at this time. It’s quite a demanding position. But… We do have openings elsewhere…” Pity laced the suggestion and then he was in the gift shop.
With Donna.
Steven looked up at the sky. It was very blue. A hot summer with an unforgiving sun that beat down on them much like it had in Egypt.
A sun that tanned his skin that had gotten pale in the English light. Coming home, he was almost as dark as he used to be as a kid running around outside in the streets of…Chicago, he supposed was the right answer.
Another memory that didn’t line up with the story he had told himself. Who was he really? Where had he come from?
Questions in interviews that he couldn’t answer. What school did he have? What background? What was the source of his knowledge?
All hopes and dreams of the museum were gone.
He had re-applied. Of course he had. The second he was back from Egypt, adventure and first hand knowledge fresh in his mind.
Not to the gift shop. He would never set foot in that place again if he had anything to do with it.
He didn’t even get a call back. He gave it a month.
Applying again, this time he called and spoke to HR directly.
“No, but I’m better now. It’s all sorted. It was all just a terrible misunderstanding.” He promised and smiled, pleading silently to get back in. Maybe not as a tour guide… But he could work up to it. If they’d just give him a chance.
“With your history, we just can’t allow it. You are, of course, welcome to visit and use the friends and family discount.” They had offered. They might as well have spit in his face and called it a blessing.
And now? Well… Now here he stood. Looking up at the peak museum that he couldn’t bring himself to set foot in again. Not now and maybe not ever. Seeing them look at him with pity. Like he was crazy. Like he was an idiot.
“Better off…” He turned and continued down the street.
It was hot. Muggy, really. It wasn’t the dry heat of Egypt. This one got into his pores and made him sweat and feel the heaviness of his eyelids.
There was no AC in his flat and it was hard to sleep in this heat.
Harder to sleep when someone kept waking them up in a panic.
Marc perhaps? Maybe Jake? Maybe himself. He really wasn’t sure. Dreams of being buried alive left them waking in heavy sweat and gasping for air. The real kicker was that all three of them could sympathize thanks to their various experiences of death.
One man should not have that many deaths to point to.
Steven approached a familiar group of fountains and joined a small group of people to watch a man painted head to toe in gold strike statuesque poses.
Once the people grew bored of him and moved on, Steven stepped up and placed a well wrapped sandwich in the offering bowl.
“Slim pickings today, eh?” He smiled and took his old seat. “Tourist season is pretty much over. They hate this heat, you know. Utterly dreadful. I don’t know how you put up with it in all that.”
The man didn’t move, but he listened. It was all Steven could ask for. All he ever asked for.
“I had an interview today. I don’t think it went well. I think I’m aiming too high. I’m probably on some sort of watch list.” He chuckled to himself till he realized that Marc probably WAS on some sort of watch list. Probably more than one.
“Marc says I don’t have to work. He’s got enough money to handle things.” He talked about the others openly now. Though sometimes he left out little details, like the fact that the others shared a body with him. “Jake works. Why shouldn’t I also help out? I’m the only one not making my own way…”
The man in gold adjusted his pose slowly till he was sitting in a new pose. He really did look like the sort of statue you might find in Venice.
“I miss the museum.” Steven sighed softly. “Don’t miss Donna. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely do not miss her.”
Her look of disgust when he walked into her gift shop the first time came back to him now. Her judging glare as he stumbled into a display that had no business being in the middle of a walking path. Her eye-roll when he reorganized the keychains from small to large because it made more sense that way. Her pursed lips when he corrected the pronunciation of the names of different gods and goddesses.
Steven was quiet as he looked up at the sun, wishing it would go down faster. The night only helped a little. Once the sun was down, the heat that had baked the city now was free to rise back up, like opening an oven door. It was somehow almost worse. Stale and stagnant as it lingered in his home that quickly became hotter inside than it was outside.
“You’re doing alright, aren’t you?” He looked up at his golden friend. “Tough crowds out these days.”
The statue looked hopeful, even a little contemplative. Steven took it as a good sign.
He nodded then glanced at his watch. “I gotta run. I’m meeting Layla for dinner. Let her know how dismal the interview went. Next time I’m up in this area I’ll be sure to stop by for a real chat, though.”
Steven smiled as his golden friend gave the smallest of nods before adjusting his gaze further towards the plaza, hands reaching for some imagined something or someone that the statues always seemed to need.
Hurrying back past the museum, Steven didn’t bother to look this time. It hurt too much.
He was only part way to the restaurant when his phone chimed. Glancing down, he stopped in his place to read the message from the last place he had interviewed.
“Thank you for your interest and application, but unfortunately we are looking for someone a bit more qualified.” Steven deleted the text then slipped his phone back into his pocket.
He didn’t need to reply. Couldn’t even bring himself to check his phone when it chimed again. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the people walk by and cars zip around.
There went the bus he used to take every day going home from work. This was about the time he’d catch it. It was usually less busy late at night if he got stuck doing inventory. He could easily sit in his favorite seat, partway in the back over the wheel. He liked that he could curl his legs up a bit and that the seat was a little higher than the others. It made looking out the window easier.
He had perfected the fine art of dozing on the bus just enough to not miss his stop. Shutting his eyes, he’d listen to the cars and feel the sway as the bus curved and turned down the streets.
Left turn at the light, three stops, right at the corner store, four more stops and a light that they always seemed to get stuck at for ages. Another left then a meandering street that went on for ages. On the final right, he would sit up and watch for the old building that used to be a pharmacy and was now under construction.
If he felt up for it, he might get off a few stops early and pop into the shop with all the novelty items. He’d used to call his Mum in that shop and laugh about all the bobbleheads and weird tea jokes on the post cards.
Steven was dimly aware of his phone chiming again and then finally it started to sing a jaunty tune.
His hand moved and fished it out on its own accord. “Hm?” Was all he could get out as he answered it.
“Steven? I’m at the restaurant. Are you nearby? I can snag a table for us.” Layla’s voice called to him and Steven closed his eyes for a moment.
“Yeah. Uh huh.” He fished for the ability to speak. “Okay.”
There was a pause and Steven ran a hand through his hair, tossling it as he realized his fingers were trembling.
He had no business being this disappointed. He knew it went poorly. He knew he wasn’t going to get it. He had no business applying for anything other than bag boy.
“Are you alright?” She felt across the divide, sensing the deep silence that was lingering over her normally chatty boyfriend.
“Mmm Hmm.” He at last found a few words. “I’ll be there in a bit. I’m just down the street.”
He fumbled with the phone then hung up, wincing as he did so. He never cut the conversation so short normally. He didn’t even remember to tell her that he loved her or thought the world of her or was so happy… So happy to…to have her…
He rubbed his eyes and started to walk towards the restaurant. His toe caught the side of a bit of uneven sidewalk and he stumbled forward, trying to catch himself.
His shoe landed wrong and he ended up rolling his ankle, but at least he hadn’t ended up on his ass.
By the time he made it to the restaurant, Layla sat waiting for him at a table near the back. It would be a bit quieter there with less traffic and chances of people bumping into him. A table she knew he would appreciate.
Steven hobbled over and sat down, forcing a smile that felt more painful than it should have been as smiling was the last thing he wanted to do.
He couldn’t focus. Layla was talking but her voice was faded into the background and so was he.
He blinked and felt a familiar shift and spin. He was aware of the sensation of time passing and suddenly he was no longer at the restaurant, but in his own apartment standing before the fish tank in his pajamas with fish food in hand.
He looked into the tank for signs of having fed the fish already before he sprinkled some flakes into the tank, watching as the fish happily gulped them up.
He assumed he was doing his bedtime routine and glanced around to try to figure out how far along they had come. The door was locked, the kitchen looked clean, his mouth tasted minty fresh, and the lights were off in the living room.
He set the food down and switched off the fish tank lights. “Good night, Gus and Gus.” He yawned and took a step towards his room. The ache in his ankle made him limp and the day slowly came back to him.
Glancing to the bedroom, he found Layla already in bed and on her side, facing away. Was she mad at him? He was supposed to have dinner with her and tell her about his interview and plans for a job. Plans that now felt meaningless.
Who had been left at the table? Had Jake been forced to sit there and socialize or had Marc taken the time to enjoy a meal with his wife? Marc hadn’t been out in a day or two.
In fact, Marc hadn’t even so much as spoken to him in the past three days. Jake was even being quiet and Steven had never felt so alone.
The lost time was upsetting too. It had been ages since he’d felt a solid amnesic barrier and simply been deposited back in his flat as if it had all been a bad dream. Just like in the start. Ignore it all and feed the fish. Let the adults handle things.
He felt angry. He wanted to yell about the unfairness of it all. He wanted to throw things and demand that he be given a chance. Just one chance.
Standing silently in the dark, looking at the shape of Layla sleeping soundly, Steven started to cry.
The tears fell, large and slowly at first.
He was a child again, standing in his dark room and looking out the window. Why didn’t he have any friends? Why did no one want to play with him? Why did they call him names and run away?
Of all his missing memories and secrets that had been kept from him, why was this the one that he had been allowed to keep?
His father that didn’t want to hear him speak. You talk too much sometimes. If you would just speak normally then maybe the others would want to play with you.
Was this what it was like? Was this why Marc never let him do anything? Marc had spent so much time trying to protect Steven from his own traumas that he had failed to see that Steven had his own form of suffering.
“I’m alone.” Steven’s voice wavered. He remembered eating steak alone at the restaurant. He remembered the routine of sand and tape and shackles. He remembered the ridicule and outright bullying from Donna. He remembered being left out of work get togethers and parties. Of not being invited to birthday parties at school. Of sitting alone at his own birthday before a cake and wondering why no one else was there.
“I don’t want to be alone!” Steven sobbed, unable to contain it anymore.
There was a shuffle and he heard Layla sit up then jump out of bed and scramble to him.
“Steven!” She gripped his shoulders, looking him over as if looking for the source of injury or pain. “Steven, what’s wrong? What is it?”
Steven could only sob louder as he pulled away and sank down to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them tightly as he rocked.
Layla took a moment before she slowly sat down next to him. She watched him for a moment, trying to work out what to do. She had seen Steven break down like this only once before and that had been shortly after she first met him when he had been overwhelmed.
She started with a hand on his arm, gentle and light to see if he would tolerate being touched. When Marc had his moments, he would push her away and block himself off. Steven had always been the opposite of Marc, open and honest.
When Steven didn’t pull away, she wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close. He resisted for a moment, mumbling something.
It took her a moment to make out what it was he was saying.
“Sorry… I didn’t mean it… I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. Please…” He sniffled and buried his face into his arms, clinging to his knees tightly.
“I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?”
“I didn’t go to dinner. I didn’t… Didn’t get the job. They hated me.” He wiped his eyes angrily and looked away. “Not good enough. No one wants me!”
“No, sweetie! That’s not true! Of course people want you! Those people are just idiots to pass you over. They don’t know you and what a wonderful and amazingly smart person you are!” She stroked his back and tried to get him to look at her. To see what he was indeed loved and wanted.
“No one wants me.” Steven stubbornly refused to look at her. He was lost in memories that he used to just brush aside. Memories that he had forgotten.
“I wish you would stop playing that game.” His father looked at him with frustration and concern. “There is no Steven. People are starting to talk and the school says it’s becoming a problem. You aren’t this Steven Grant person, okay? You’re Marc. You can’t keep doing this.”
“I am.” Steven muttered angrily. “You’re wrong.” He argued with the voices of the past. “You’re wrong.”
“Hey… Steven…” Layla brushed his hair back and looked at him sternly. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here with me in your flat.”
It was something she had learned with Marc when he had his flashbacks. Give him something to cling to. Make him safe. Make him present.
She didn’t know what Steven was seeing, but he was lost. She got up and turned on the lights, trying to guide him back.
Steven gave a slow blink then wiped the tear from his cheeks. He glanced around then sat back, sniffling. She had never seen him look so lost before. Normally one of the others would have stepped in by now.
That was how it worked, right? If one felt bad then another would come in and set things right? Steven kept them happy and peaceful and Jake kept them safe and Marc kept them going.
She watched as Steven looked down at his hand then moved to rub his sore ankle. He looked puzzled for a moment as if trying to figure something out.
Jake had said very little about their day to her over dinner. He had mentioned about Steven tripping and about the poor interview. He had said that Steven wasn’t taking it well, but that they would handle it.
Had Jake lied to her? Did Jake really not know how badly Steven was taking it?
Doubt crossed her mind and for the first time, she wondered if maybe things weren’t the way she thought they were. She had let them tell her how their system worked. How they had their own jobs and aspects to keep it going smoothly. How things would be fine.
Maybe they didn’t know.
Steven took a deep breath and looked up at her. “Sorry. M’alright. Right mess I am, huh? I should ice this. I don’t think it got iced yet. Last thing we need is for us to be hobbling around tomorrow. Do you know if we’ve had any aspirin or anything?”
“Jake took something when we got home.” Layla crossed her arms over her chest tightly as she realized Steven didn’t know who had taken them home and there had been zero communication.
Steven nodded and slowly got to his feet. “I didn’t think I’d get the job. I’m such a nut… Crying over something I didn’t even want.”
Layla moved to help him and sat him down on the bed. “It is perfectly reasonable to be upset over things like this. Just remember that you aren’t a failure or unwanted. You are amazing and I love you so much.” She kissed his forehead lightly. “Wait here. I’ll get you some ice.”
She moved to the kitchen to sort some ice into a bag and to give Steven a moment. When she returned, Steven was right where she’d left him, looking sad and dejected.
“Marc and Jake aren’t talking to me.” He sighed.
“It is late. Maybe they uh.. Are asleep?” She had no idea how that worked. Did they fall asleep on their own? Where did they go when they weren’t up front watching or talking?
Steven shrugged noncommittally and accepted the ice, putting it on his ankle gingerly.
“I suppose. It just feels like… Like I’m alone.” He shook his head and she got the feeling he was leaving something out.
“No one’s mad at you. Especially not me.” She sat next to him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.
He leaned in but still seemed so far away.
“Yeah.” He at last said. “Has Marc been out at all?”
“Not today as far as I’m aware. I did see him a bit yesterday morning. We had some coffee and he watched part of a baseball game.” She thought back to yesterday.
Marc had gone through the motions. Kissing her good morning, making the coffee and toast. He had watched the game, clapping and heckling the players accordingly, but it had seemed like more of a script than a real reaction.
Marc had gotten quiet halfway into the game and Jake had come out for a bit before letting Steven slide in. Did Steven now know that Marc had been out?
Jake had assured her that Marc was just feeling down and needed some time. Jake had looked tired.
Come to think of it, that had been the first time she had seen Marc in over a day.
Layla frowned and gave Steven another squeeze. “Feeling better? Do you need any tea or some water?”
Steven shook his head. “I’m fine. I think I just want to sleep it off. Tomorrow I can put it all behind me. Just needed a little cry, huh? Let the feelings out so they don’t get bottled up like certain someones.” He gave a little jab and smile but it faded instantly.
Steven set the ice aside then crawled to his spot on the bed and settled between the covers. He bundled himself up tightly in the blanket and lay still.
Layla got up and switched off the lights before sliding into the bed. She gave it a moment then slowly reached out and slid a hand over him. Steven made a small sound and slowly scooted over to let her curl up around him protectively.
“Shhh…” She stroked his hair as he breathed deeply, his breath hitching slightly now and then as he struggled through an emotion that she didn’t understand.
Eventually his breathing evened out as he fell asleep. She peeled back the blankets just enough to get a look at his face, calm and relaxed, but still carrying the lines of stress.
She kissed his hair, breathing in deeply before allowing herself to relax at last.
Layla was going to have words with Jake the next time she saw him.
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Next Chapter HERE
#Moon Knight#Moon Knight Fic#Marc Spector#Steven Grant#Jake Lockley#layla el faouly#Jake's gonna get it is what's gonna happen#It's hard to go back to old jobs sometimes#Ever had one of those days where you just argue with the past?
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👑 — our muses in a royalty au
He knew better than to sneak out of the palace walls, but he had done it anyways. He was tired of being under his parents' dictatorship, and being told that he was too 'precious' to go out and be amongst 'commoners'. When Steve heard this bullshit, he thought of only two things - one, he was only precious because he was the only remaining heir to the throne and the Kingdom would crumble if something were to happen to him. Two, his parents were literally just judgmental fucks that thought everyone was below them if they didn't have wealth and riches, which most people didn't.
His father had gone to have a council meeting in a different part of the land, attempting to exchange money for warfare, or something like that. Steve was supposed to be listening, knowing this would be important stuff when he took over as King, but all he heard was 'blah blah blah' and he often would dissociate and tune it out. Blame the past brain damage if he had to. All he knew was it was a perfect opportunity for him to get out and past the guards, especially as his mother was often not one to pay much attention to him either, even if she was the better of the two. It hadn't been difficult to find some 'peasant' clothes; a simple buttoned vest that seemed to be made of some sort of leather, some baggy pants, and a shawl that he had wrapped around his head in a way that would hopefully hide his appearance. Mostly.
He had made his way down to the main market street, which appeared to be bustling with civilians. People shouting about selling eggs and loaves of bread, little kids chasing each other through the streets, business owners peddling their goods. It was all so different here, and Steve loved it. He was tired of being viewed as someone who was just labeled with royalty. The future King Steven. He just wanted to be able to be himself. He had jumped as a little old man had appeared in front of him, offering him to step in to the library and check out the books, Steve blushing a bit and shaking his head. "I.....I'm not good at reading." He had mumbled, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and apologizing, ducking his head to find something else to do.
The bakery had seemed like a safe place to start, smells wafting out. All the food in the palace was ridiculously overrated, a meal to 'fit a king' as the saying went, and Steve wanted to know more about the basic goods like muffins and cinnamon rolls. Stepping in, he was immediately hit with the warm smell of fresh baked goods, pressing up close and looking at the display items, not knowing what half of them even were.
@hawkinshellraiser
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Eat the Rich: Chapter 2
Eat the Rich Masterlist
The Avengers are tasked with tracking down an elusive thief, and retrieving the grand amounts of money she has stolen. Even after capture, she turns out to be impossible to break, save for a mystifying interest in Bucky.
Written for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s #jamiesmadwritingbash, under the Robin Hood AU prompt.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: mentions of Bucky’s Hydra days, and a short mention of dissociation. Disaster Avengers having breakfast.
A/N: I really really really love that people are saying they like the reader bc that’s the character people envision themselves as when they insert themselves into this kind of fanfic. I hope you enjoy what more we get to see of the reader here. So enjoy, and please continue to reblog and comment -- it makes this so much fun!
I’m not doing taglists, but you can follow and turn on notifications for @ayeshaupdates to be notified when I post.
Divider by the fantastically talented @whimsicalrogers!
The dispute that had ensued after Bucky had voiced his wish to Steve had turned to resigned acceptance by the time the first slivers of dawn had started to creep across pristine floors, and Bucky found himself victorious. It's a grim glory that accompanies him down the hall and into the cell you had been moved into for the night. There's no mode of observation for this room, save for the presently closed viewing panel in the door. It's really early, and even though he doubts that you're asleep, given the stressful circumstances, his hand pauses where it's about to knock on the door.
With Steve having left for his run with Sam, and the others asleep or inactive in some way, shape or form, he's alone in the silver hallways of this portion of the Compound. Hand still in the air, tight fist, white knuckles and lip bitten red, and then he composes himself. Stepping away, he sits down on the floor, back against the wall and knees pulled up.
While he waits, he listens, even if all he can hear is his own heartbeat and the faint, collective chorus of the birds chirping. The sturdy walls and doors between your bed and his floor prevent any speculation on your activities, since the only monitoring permitted is that of vital signs so an alert can be raised if there is danger. He could open the panel, but that might wake you and he doesn't want that. Whether this disruption, and how it is sure to initiate the crucial dialogue he’s here for, is undesired for his sake or yours is unclear.
His head meets the metal behind him, and the cold stings at his scalp, but Bucky stays that way. Likes the cold bite of it, on occasions such as these, when he needs the ice-crystal clarity of mind, and he knows it'll warm up soon, under his touch. Likes knowing that Hydra doesn't control him all the time, that he can feel the prickle of freezing skin without having a debilitating flashback to cryostasis is indicative of how far he's come. He's no longer the man Steve flew to New Zealand for a month after he had a hellish dissociative episode courtesy of New York's first snowfall.
The metal thaws behind him, sunlight through the thin sliver of window at the top of the wall slides higher on the door. Opalescent solar glare on silver steel, half a rainbow in his exhausted eyes, and the weight of evaporating dew in the air is what precedes a conversation that has his stomach in knots and crosses.
The digital, holographic clock strikes nine above the cell door.
Rising to his feet, Bucky can feel every single one of his 103 years in his back, the avoirdupois of a century's lamentable events on his weary shoulders. So he does a breathing exercise before he tries the door again.
Allowing his lungs to expand to their full capacity, and then holding that breath there until his alveoli scream, before exhaling in a rush of sweet-cereal scented breath, makes him feel less stone-like. More muscle than metal, soft and pliable and open. Steve would argue that that's perilous, here, in front of a woman who's so touch-and-go, all breakneck smiles, but he's not an Avenger when he enters that room -- he's Bucky Barnes, looking for more pieces of himself, pieces that he'll never find if his eyes are shut tight against the impact.
You answer upon the second knock. "Come in." Your voice lilts to a light taunt, but it’s effect is minimized by the drowsy scratch of your voice. Opening the door after letting it recognize his irises, Bucky thinks that the same can be said about the Christmas-just-came-early spark in your eyes, when they're underlined by dark bags. You're still wearing the green hoodie.
" 'Morning," he says softly, pausing in the doorway. The cell contains a metal chair of the same style as those in the interrogation rooms, and the cot you're sitting up in, back against the wall behind you. There's a small door in one corner that he knows leads to a toilet cubicle.
"To what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure, Mr. Barnes?"
"Bucky," he blurts unthinkingly, and your eyes widen in surprise and amusement. His guard is down, and he needs to be cautious. "And you can thank yourself for being so goddamn persistent and getting on everybody’s nerves."
The smirk brought to your face is aimed at your hands, bound loosely in front of you. A more tender expression than most seen before. The long, fretful night seems to be taking its toll on you. Perhaps you’re slipping. Or perhaps you’re pretending to, his instincts warn. He sighs, clenches his hands into fists, lets his nails dig into his palm. Metal whirs, purrs, and he releases when you move both bound hands towards the chair in front of you.
Bucky sits down, rubs his palms back and forth over his thighs, lets the grainy feel of the denim under scratch at his hands. "You know me,” he begins.
"Not nearly as well as I'd like,” you say with a grin, looking up from your hands. He glowers.
"I'm serious."
Your smile widens. "So am I. Come a little closer. I don't bite,” you tease, and he decides to take you up on it. Gets up and sits on the cot a couple of feet away from you, folding one leg up so his foot is under his thigh and keeping the other on the floor. You’re unfazed at having your bluff called. "...Unless you want me to,” you finish, and he ignores it.
"You kept asking for me while you were being questioned.”
“You were watching? Did you like what you see?”
The temptation to roll his eyes is strong, but he manages to hold it in check, and fixes a strong focus on you. This is important. It’s about his life. “You wanted to talk to me, so here I am. Now let’s talk.”
“Where would you like to start?”
“How about your name?”
“Oh, you’ll have to get to know me a little better if you want me to give up that secret. Try again," you urge, and he huffs. Like drawing blood from a rock.
Every question he could ask, every query he needs an answer to is being whirled around in the chaotic storm in his head, and it's so difficult to pick out just one. “Have we met?” He decides upon, momentarily forgoing the alternatives: Who are you? Why do I feel like I know you? Why do I feel like you're important? What part of me do you hold in those bound hands of yours?
Head tilted upwards, you consider the ceiling while searching for an answer. “Briefly.” And then you pause. Bite your lip, look down, make a so-so motion with your head. “Well, I wouldn’t say met, exactly. I wreaked some havoc and you watched.” That tells me jack-shit, sweetheart.
“When?”
“February of 2013," you respond instantaneously. Good memory. That's useful.
“So I was with Hydra," he assumes, instantly going down all the roads he might know you by. A mission, a murder, more violence, another apology. Were you partners in crime, or his target? Or were you just in the way?
“I don’t agree with that phrasing, but yes, I suppose so."
“Did we work together?” He dares to question.
There's a change: a tangible shift in the atmosphere, like the scent of ozone in the air before a thunderstorm. The stiffening of your posture, how you sit up straighter but hunch your shoulders against some invisible attack tells him he's touching a nerve, nearing cyclone waters. It takes a moment for the mask to fall back into place over your face, before you're able to answer, with venom, repulsed. “God, no. I would never work for them.” It's the most sincere emotion he's heard from you, this disgust. It eases him to know how strongly you feel about Hydra, but he’s wary of your raw response to it.
So, he treads more kindly. Softly. On eggshells sharp and off-white, feeling his way around the balance of your temper. “Then how did we meet?”
“I was on a heist,” you say, matter-of-factly. In your tone of voice, now even and professional, it sounds like the most natural thing in the world. As though stealing from megalomaniac neo-Nazis is just another day at work.
“What kind of heist? Who sent you?” Bucky observes the way you're pulling the edges of your sleeves over your hands as much as you can with your restraints. At this question, your smile returns, and he relaxes. Can now feel his leg falling asleep under him now that he's not so tense.
“Nobody sent me. I’m a free agent. I work for myself,” you announce, chin up.
“What were you going to steal from Hydra?” He asks, and your head turns slowly towards him, firework sparkle meeting level, cool, sky-blue, a hurricane simmering behind his irises.
“You.”
“We did not sign up for this,” Barton grumbles from his second cup of coffee -- addicts, the lot of them -- adjusting his hearing aid with a frown on his face at the turn of events.
Sam clears his throat, setting down a half-empty glass of orange juice next to Natasha’s espresso on the table and speaks next, “That’s messed up, man, that’s really, really messed up.” This is said with a shake of his head, and Bucky, having no response to either Barton or Sam, addresses Steve.
“There’s something she’s not telling me, Rogers.” He uses the last name to revert to the days of talking shop in green tents with the gravity of impending shelling in the air. Life or death, and though the circumstances aren’t quite so acute right now, this is a grave matter, too. Steve's standing hunched over the kitchen island, arms outstretched and hands flat on the granite surface, studying the pattern like it holds all the answers.
Bucky watches him think, but Stark, in Spider-Man PJs and the bed-head of the century, strolls into the kitchen at a leisurely pace and interrupts. “There are a lot of things she’s not telling you. Who she is, where the money is, wh--”
“She’s not telling me why," Bucky interrupts a tirade that he knows could continue forever, given the chance. “People don’t go around stealing super soldier assassins for the hell of it.”
“Maybe she’s working for someone who wanted you to work for them instead of Hydra," Peter suggests over a ridiculously large bowl of ridiculously colorful cereal at the breakfast nook.
“She doesn’t work for anyone. Says she’s a free agent."
“And you believe her?” Sam wonders. It's a genuine question, curious but not dismissive or doubtful.
“Barnes has quite the built-in lie detector," Nat tells Sam from next to him, her yoga-pant clad legs splayed across another chair. Yeah, he’s good at telling when people are being dishonest, but there’s also the fact this woman is way too fearless, fucking crazy to be made to do anyone's bidding. No chance in Hell does she takes orders.
Tony slumps in an orange loveseat. “Must be a Russian thing," he quips, and then breaks out into a yawn.
Bucky puts his hands on his hips and glares at all of them, by turn, sharply. "Would you let me finish?" He demands. "She couldn't tell me why she was going to steal me from Hydra, but she said she'd show me." One could hear a pin drop in this room, now, the bustle of Avengers replaced by the obviously preposterous proposition Bucky's relaying. "Just me," he adds.
"Me?" He asks, voice rising in pitch and volume, and he fights to control both, rising to his feet. "Why would you steal me?"
"Have you seen you?" You ask back, eyes scintillating, glowing with mirth. "Gorgeous hair, those eyes, and hands that I'm sure know how to treat a girl right.”
Bucky looks daggers at you, and you look back. "I'm serious."
"I thought you were Bucky,” you say innocently, and he thinks he could scream in frustration, but he drops down, kneels just beside where you sit, and holds onto the edge of the cot like it’s the end of the world he’s falling off of.
"I don't think you understand how important this is to me. You know something about me you won't say. I've been trying to put together my past so I can understand myself better and you have a piece of my history. I need to know,” he enunciates each word as if it’s his last. Needs to convey the severity of the situation, how he has been trying to rebuild himself into a new life from the scraps of the old ones. He’s aware that he’s complete as he is but he also makes choices for himself now, and he chooses to know.
You look down, and although it’s your hands that are bound, you offer a golden prayer. "Let me show you." A lifeline, something he doesn’t want to believe and doesn’t know if he can trust. Hence, the question:
"What?"
A sad shrug of your shoulders is the first answer, and it all starts to unravel from there. "I can't tell you, I really can't. It's complicated and a really long story--"
Bucky elevates himself on his knees, his fingers dig in a little tighter, and the metal of the bed begins to creak ever so slightly. "The way I see it, we have all the time in the world, darlin'," he says in a thick voice, emotion simmering at the corners of his lips.
"Darlin'?" You can’t help but ask, without any flirt this time, any teasing, just a question in a tone as surprised as he is at the slip of tongue.
Bucky decides to ignore the interruption. "So let's start at the beginning.”
Fervently, you shake your head. "I can't." At his wide-eyed disbelief, "I mean it, I can't."
"No, you can, you just won't,” he insists.
"We could have a grammar lesson if you want, or I could show you why I was going to steal the Winter Soldier."
"What do you mean show me?" Bucky asks, moving to sit on the chair again. Leaning forward, he places his hands on his thighs, looks into your eyes to pull forth the words you won’t give him.
You blink, unbudgingly. "I have to take you somewhere. It's the only way to explain."
A sharp bark of a laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head as it recedes into chuckles. Your face is now blank and expressionless, gauging how to handle this, and he gives you the first response that comes to mind. "You're full of shit."
"What happened to darlin' ?"
Meeting your eyes, he says, “You want me to let you out so you can escape. A five-year-old could see through that.” Then, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses one ankle over the other as well his arms. His hooded gaze is at a stalemate with yours, and it’s a hopeless tug of war. So this is how it ends. A night spent sleepless in vain, a few battle bruises and the tug of disappointment in his belly.
A dismal, and last-ditch sigh ripples through the air, from lips dark and worried bloody. Your eyes look overcast and you open and close your mouth repeatedly to say something, but do not voice your thoughts. Giving you the time to formulate whatever perfect sentence you’re trying to utter is torturous, but he waits. Until you stop, speechless, and he gets to his feet. Turns to the door, and then you speak from behind him, while his hand hovers over the handle.
"Let me take you, and only you, to the place you need to see, and I'll cooperate. I'll give you what I have left of the money, and I'll plead guilty in court and serve my time.” Bucky freezes. "Just come with me,” and you’re the one making requests, making pleas now. It’s inexplicable, he knows he should be looking this particular gift horse in the mouth, and he convinces himself that he will, in time, but right now, he accepts.
"Was that an innuendo?" He asks, still facing away, the question indicating a truce.
"If you want it to be," you say, and he turns around to look at you. "What do you say, Barnes, are we going on a road trip?
Hope swells somewhere in him he thought had been long abandoned for darker days and arduous nights. The same intuition that taught him to ask for this piece of himself tells him something is coming. Something that’s going to make a difference.
"Bucky. It's Bucky. And yeah, I guess we are.”
#ayesha writes#jamiesmadwritingbash#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes fanfiction#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n
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Trou Normand
1x09
Hannibal Lecter x reader x Will Graham
Hannibal Re-Write Series Masterlist
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: spoilers for hannibal, murder, dead bodies, mental health problems
Author’s Note: Dude I am lovign just getting rid of the scenes with Alana that annoyed me to wits end. And it’s getting to the point where I’m like ‘will baby get help i love you’ and it shows.
I took lines directly from the script so some may seem familiar. Those sentences are not mine.
Official Episode Summary : The team hunts a killer who makes a totem pole out of his victims' corpses; Jack and Alana question Abigail about Nick Boyle's death; when Abigail agrees to write a book with Freddy Lounds, she reveals a secret to Hannibal.
I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director
Tag List: @llperfectsymmetryll
(not my gif)
Will walked into Hannibal's patient office. You looked up at him as he walked forward to where you were standing, ready to leave. It was late and you had told Will you would meet him back home. He knew you would be here but if he needed you he would simply call.
“Will?”
He looked into your eyes and gave you a dead look. The door to the office opened and Hannibal was just as surprised to see Will.
“Are you here to pick up Y/N?” Hannibal asked. Will turned to Hannibal and then his breathing was different, like he had been running in and needed to catch his breath despite the fact he hadn’t been running at all.
“I don’t know how I got here,” Will muttered. You furrowed your brows.
“Huh?”
“Where-what-” Will muttered, walking into the office. Hannibal gave you a look and you followed him closely into the office as well. Hannibal shut the door behind you swiftly.
“I noticed your car outside the window so we know you drove. Safely it would seem,” Hannibal said. You walked in and sat on the desk as Will ran quickly around the room, trying to make sense of something that was confusing the hell out of him.
“I was on a beach in Grafton, West Virginia...I blinked and then I was waking up in your waiting room. Except I wasn’t asleep,” he swore, head moving wildly as he continued to pace.
“Grafton is three and a half hours away Will,” you said simply and worried about walking up to him in case he was unstable enough to snap at you. You stayed at the desk and Hannibal stood beside you, both of you following Will with your eyes.
“You lost time,” Hannibal said simply.
“Something is wrong with me,” Will said.
“No,” you said instinctively.
“You’re dissociating, Will. It’s a desperate survival mechanism for a psyche that endures repeated abuse,” Hannibal explained further.
“I’m not abused,” Will countered. He looked unstable. He looked scared. Your heart ached in your chest.
“You have an empathy disorder. What you feel is overwhelming you,” Hannibal siad.
“I know.”
“Yet you chose to ignore it and that is the abuse I’m referring to,” Hannibal said. You realized suddenly how much you aligned with Hannibal sometimes.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” you muttered. Will gave you a look.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he said.
“I am on your side, I’m always on your side. But I want you to be safe love,” you said simply.
“I know she wants me to quit but what about you?” Will asked, shaking as he gestured to Hannibal.
“Jack Crawford gave you a chance to quit and you didn’t take it. Why?”
“I save lives,” Will stated.
“And that feels good,” Hannibal analyzed.
“Generally speaking, yes.”
“What about your life?” Hannibal asked. You glanced between the two of them and nodded simply, moving your cardigan so that it was tighter around you in the chilly office.
“Amen,” you muttered.
“We’re your friends Will. We don’t care about the lives you save, speaking for myself in particular. We care about your life and your life is separating from reality,” Hannibal said.
“I agree. I know it makes you feel good but it doesn’t outway the bad,” you said.
“I’m sleepwalking. I’m experiencing hallucinations. Maybe I should get a brain scan,” he suggested. The idea didn’t seem too bad to you honestly. You thought, maybe that was a good idea.
“Damnit Will. Stop looking in the wrong corner for an answer to this,” Hannibal said.
“I don’t think it’s a bad suggestion,” you said. “Something to look into at least.” You and Will’s eyes met and he nodded at you. You gave him a small smile. “I’m worried about your Will,” you said honestly.
“I am as well,” Hannibal concurred. “You empathize so completely with the killers Jack Crawford has your mind wrapped around that you lose yourself to them. What if you lose time and hurt yourself or someone else? I don’t want you to wake up and see a totem of your own making.” You nodded and Will walked over to Hannibal, nodding a bit.
“That wouldn’t be ideal,” you whispered breathily.
-
You walked into the hospital, mind everywhere. You were there to visit Abigail, who you hadn’t seen in a few days. You wanted to make sure she was alright firstly but honestly you just wanted a distraction from your boyfriend who was losing his mind and your friend (?) who seemed to be helping or maybe hurting.
You walked into the room and Abigail was inside, sitting by the window alone. You knocked on the door and she turned her head, a light smile on her face.
“I was wondering where you had gone,” she said. You walked all the way inside of the room and over to where she sat on the window sill. You sat across from her, looking down at the bad view of a parking lot.
“Sorry it’s been a few days,” you said. She shook her head.
“I’ve had my visitors. Hannibal, Alana, Freddie Lounds.” You scoffed.
“Freddie Lounds still harping on that book?” you asked. She nodded, shrugging.
“I told her I would take it. I don’t have any money,” she muttered. You shook your head.
“I can help with that. Will can help with that. I don’t know anymore but I just hate Freddie Lounds,” you muttered.
“What do you think about Alana Bloom?” she asked.
“She’s a friend. Not super close but a friend.”
“I don’t trust her. I know she’s supposed to be my therapist but I don't trust her.” Abigail liked having you around. You made her feel lighter, like she was thought of as a human being still. You liked her because she reminded you of light, despite it all.
“How are the guys?” she asked. You scoffed.
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” she confirmed.
“Will isn’t doing great. Hannibal killed a man in his office while I was just outside. Self defense but still, a man died.” Something flashed over her face and you were able to catch it. “What?” She shook her head.
“Nothing. I’m sorry that happened.” She looked out the window. She was reserved now, a wall had gone up. You figured at first it was the murder aspect but you thought about it for a second and wondered if it was something else.
“Abigail?” She looked in your eyes and there was something vulnerable there. Something that can only be shown on the eyes of a teen going through something. You put your hand on her hand that was on her knees she had folded in front of her. “You know you can talk to me,” you whispered. She nodded, swallowing hard.
“I know,” she muttered.
“In it’s own time I suppose,” you whispered. She nodded, happy for the out but you knew something was there if you dug hard enough. You were no Jack Crawford though and you would let her tell you when she was ready.
-
You stood in the door of Will’s classroom. You leaned against the wall as you looked at him. Will was talking about the totem pole murders to his class and you could tell he was still shaking. You wondered if he was wondering if he would remember this.
“Joel Summers - killed by a single stab to the heart. Presented with great ostentation atop a display of all the previous victims. This killer’s design was to never be discovered. A ghost. That is what excited him. Until now... Why is he coming into the light?” Will stopped talking when he saw you and seemed to notice there was no one in the classroom.
“I don’t want to interrupt if you’re rehearsing,” you said. “I just thought I would drop by.”
“No. No...it's okay,” he said. You looked around the dark space. No lights were on. The projector off.
“Very moody,” you whispered.
“That’s me all over,” he muttered. There was a tension you hadn’t anticipated. You hadn't spoken about his loss of time yet and you knew he was avoiding it. You walked up closer to him and let out a small sigh.
“You remember when you told me Alana wouldn’t date you because she said you were too unstable?” you asked, voice quiet. He nodded slowly. You took a deep breath in. “Do you feel unstable?”
He thought about it for a moment and you stared through his glasses lenses. He nodded after a second. You walked forward wordlessly and put your arms around him tightly. He buried his face in your neck like he would never touch you again and you wondered if he was crying because you were about to. His pain hurt you like no other.
“I love you,” you whispered. He hummed in agreement but didn't answer you audibly, hsi mouth too far in your neck.
-
“I’m trying hard to understand when I say this is a bad idea,” Will said.
“Freddie Lounds is dangerous,” Hannibal conquered.
“Y/N said no too,” Abigail asid.
“Listen Abigail, all of this will change. Whatever you’re feeling won’t last. Things change.” Will paused for a moment, thinking. “Things are changing for me, too. Doing some accounting for what's important in my life and what isn’t. You’re important Abigail and I can’t help but feel some responsibility for you.”
“Just because you killed my dad doesn't’ mean you get to be him,” she snapped.
“Abigail,” you chastised. “We’re all trying to help but when you write this it’s about Will and Hannibal too.”
“And you as well,” Hannibal suggested.
“I’m a miniscule part. I have no career right now. Freddie Lounds has called Will insane one too many times for me to trust her not to do it again and she could ruin Hannibals’ career for a few twisted truths,” you said.
“I don’t need your permission,” Abigail said weakly. She wanted it. She wanted permission.
“And you don’t need our approval. But I hope it would mean something,” Hannibal said. You stood beside Will and grabbed his hand. He was still shaking.
-
You were with Will in the building, driving him when he told you Hannibal was in as well. That was an invitation to stay and you did. You walked with him up to Jack’s office. Jack let out a sigh at the sight of you.
“You don’t work here,” Jack said.
“Neither does my boyfriend,” you snapped back. Alana and Hannibal stood at opposite ends of the room.
“Abigail trusts her and she was there that night” Alana says. “She can stay.” Jack, despite wanting to throw you out, continued with the conversation.
“Nicholas Boyle turned up in Minnesota. Dead. He was found in the woods. Frozen. And then he thawed out pretty fast. They couldn’t say if he died this week or six weeks go or the night he disappeared,” Jack said.
You mind snapped into place.
That was what Abigail wanted to but also didn't want to tell you. She had killed Ncholas Boyle. Probably with Hannibal’s help. You glanced at him and he looked at you and he knew you knew. He let out a small, barely noticeable sigh.
“How did he die?” Alana asked.
“Knife wound. He’d been gutted. Had the body flown down here. I want Abigail Hobbs to identify it,” Jack said.
“What?” you asked. “You have absolutely zero regard for mental health do you?”
“Get out.”
“No,” Hannibal said. You stayed put.
“You can’t put her in a room with Nick Boyle’s body. She already has nightmares about him,” Alana reasoned.
“I’m curious why,” Jack said. Your blood boiled. Will grabbed your arm and held it loosely to hold you back.
“You can’t seriously think she had anything to do with this?” Will asked.
“I think she’s the common denominator. Her father, Marissa Schuur, Nick Boyle, they all come back to her. My instinct is she’s still got answers I haven’t heard,” Jack said.
“What are the questions?!” Will asked.
Everyone looked annoyed, tense, angry.
“I want to be on record as saying this is a very bad idea. Hannibal?” Alana said.
“Jack has the look of a man with no interest in any opinion but his own,” Hannibal said. You felt like you were boring holes into Jack’s skull. You half wished you were.
-
Will sat in bed beside you.
“Do you remember when you promised Abigail to help her with her nightmares?” Will whispered as you laid down facing each other. Your eyes fluttered open. You hadn’t quite fallen asleep yet.
“Yes,” you mumbled.
“I think I’m going to have a nightmare tonight,” he whispered. You scooted forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him. He put his head on your chest.
“You’ll be safe if you do,” you whispered. His breathing evened out and he fell asleep quickly after.
-
At work you knocked on the office door when you knew no one was inside.
“Your boyfriend paid me a visit,” Hannibal said. He probably had done it earlier when you were at lunch.
“He knows,” you muttered.
“You both figured it out. I suppose I’m not the best at hiding this,” he muttered from his desk where he sat. You shook your head.
“You’re good at it but I know Abigail and by default, know enough about you,” you said.
“What did Will say?”
“He was more shaken up than you,” Hannibal admitted. You walked over to the desk and leaned against it.
“I think I always knew. That night. I think I knew,” you whispered.
“Will said he wouldn’t take us to the authorities. Do I need to worry about you doing so?” You shook your head.
“I won’t. I care about Abigail too.”
“She has quite the parents looking out for her,” he mumbled.
“Lose two, gain three I always say.”
-
Will, Freddie, you and Hannibal had dinner that night. Freddie had to excuse herself early after asking all her questions which left you and Will in the dining room.
“You know,” he whispered.
“And you know,” you muttered. You looked at him in his chair beside you.
“How long?”
“I figured in Jack’s office. Day before you did.” He nodded.
“Great minds think alike,” he said weakly. You grabbed his hand and he squeezed it tightly.
“Don’t worry about her,” you whispered. “She has people looking out for her.” he nodded and looked at you.
“I think you know I can’t control that.”
“It was worth a shot,” you muttered and brought his hand up to your lips. You kissed it.
-
In the kitchen Abigail had just confessed to Hannibal she had been the person to lure the victims for her father. He hugged her close and comforted her as she cried.
“I’m a monster,” she sobbed. Hannibal shook his head.
“No. I know what monsters are...you’re a victim.” A beat between his sentences as he made a promise. “Will, Y/N and I, we’re going to protect you.”
1x10
#hannibal lecter x reader#hannnibal lecter imagines#will graham x reader#will graham imagines#hannibal lecter x reader x will graham#will graham x reader x hannibal lecter
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The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader
Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”
If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.
- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -
Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse
It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.
As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.
There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.
Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.
The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.
The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.
It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.
But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.
“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”
The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”
The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.
There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.
At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.
Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.
He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.
Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.
It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.
All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?
As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.
But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.
Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.
Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.
Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.
He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.
He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.
The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.
He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.
All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.
Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.
He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”
Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.
Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.
This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.
The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.
More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,
Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.
“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.
She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.
“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”
No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.
“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”
Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.
At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.
“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”
Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.
“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”
However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.
Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”
In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.
“Ti amo, Mamma.”
You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.
As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.
Or maybe, just a cigarette.
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“Ladies, Gentlemen, Enbies...HER--I mean Him? Or them?-- whatever, anyways here's the first part of my daydream paracosm, Humble Pie. I was really happy I was able to come up with the first part in a somewhat cohort manner. Part 2 is also going to follow this sometime soon, but after that its probably just gonna be short shorts, text exchanges, and or drabbles, but that first part’s finally a thing! And that’s cool”
“Also just reminder that this paracosm is set in a mix timeline, like people have flip phones, cassette tapes, but still also have stuff like gamer chairs, and slang like sus/lit exist, so I hope that doesn’t bother you..oof”
“Also I wrote this from my Remarkable, then convert it to text, and did some proof reading, but my handwriting is still can only be read by chickens and my dyslexia ninja has sneak 100 accuracy so..yeah
Word count: 6,115
TW: mention of Bullying, DeadBeat dad, Smoking, Drinking, Swearing (only for comedy’s sake tho’), Dissociation, Guilt (but don’t worry there’s still A LOT of fluff in this piece, tho)
Link to Alternate version on my off-site daydream blog: Humble pie part 1
=================================================================
"Okay, here we go" Beau said, taking one last drag of his cigarette, and taking in one last look at the panoramic view of the town below, Newbury, his hometown, he was away for a year because of college which he dropped out of. Well, "dropout" made it seemed like he had a choice, more like he flunked out, there were' 'reasons that 'made college impossible for Beau, reasons that he couldn't get into or more like reasons he didn't want to get into, these were the some reasons that turned what was suppose to be a 5 hour drive into an 8 hour one, making him stop ever so often to the nearest park, overlook, or clearing to get out, smoke and or take a short walk. These stops were so frequent by the time he reached his hometown’s overlook he was on his last stick, hard to believe he started the trip w/ a full box.
He dropped the last of the remains of the cig on the ground and stomped out the glow ember with his dark brown rounded toed boot, watching the embers glow go out made him feel similar in a way.
Beau took one more last look at the small town below blanketed by the dark, light sky. He looked around. the overlook, bring back memories of. late night make outs, sneak outs and general teenaged shenanigans.
Beau remembers once on a night he was really buzzed, a rare event for him, drinking with his buddies, rather it was the buzz from the beer, or he was just 'riding the 'high off scoring the winning goal for the team, or general teen hormones. He felt invincible, so invincible he stood up on the ledge and proclaimed himself as king of the world
A moment Beau looks back at and shakes his head as if to try to erase the memory from his mind like an etch n’ sketch, suddenly he got a bad taste in his mouth or maybe that's just the cigarettes "King of world….yeah, right" Beau said pulling up the collar of his jacket and shrugging his hands into his pockets, and headed back into the car.
It was getting late and there was no use in stalling any longer, might as well continue to the inevitable. Stalling may be that’s the feeling that's been following him the whole time, stalling the fact that he would have to return to his hometown a failure after being touted and praised for being a star athlete , and getting into a ivy league school, a feat his mom was really proud since she herself couldn't go to college because of having Beau at such a young age, and having to deal with a bunch of other “BS” as Beau would put it.
Beau really wanted to make her proud by becoming a famous football player and make tons of money so she wouldn't ever have to worry about bills n 'stuff and live in the malibu dream house she dreamed of living in since she was a kid, a dream she would talk about to her children like it was fairytale during when time got real tough.Even though she sounded upbeat over the phone about the news, Beau knew his mom was an expert when it came to masking her disappointment and skill that was pretty integral with dealing Beau's birth father. He just hopes she's not too disappointed
As the twilight sky grew more dark the street lights flickered on. Familiar and nostalgic landmarks and structures rolled by as Beau drove by with one hand gripping the wheel while the other hand hung casually out of the rolled down window. the nighttime breeze gentle, tossing his cart dirty blond hair mullet. The 'murmur of punk music lighty playing from the car's speaker, that was playing louder earlier but the volume's quickly depleted because blasting punk 'music at night in a small town is pretty serious offensive a risk, a younger Beau would play around with, but now being older he knows better.
Driving into his old neighborhood, seemingly not much has changed, but what do you expect from a small town? The old neighborhood consisted of typical signatures of most middle upper class .. neighborhoods, Christmas ' decorations long over due to be taken down, manicured lawns, next to slightly less manicured lawns. Some lawns adored w/ gnomes and flamingos, a step up from the lawns of homes in his childhood neighborhood whose homes had what one could consider a lawn but just barely, Beau and his brother were lucky enough to have a sizable back yard and a tree house.
His family's lawn had a bunch of outdoor toys laid about on their lawn: a nerf gun, a pink tricycle, a tiled dyed color bouncy ball and an empty container of mega bubble wand. Beau drove up in the driveway being careful to not accidentally run over any of the toys in the yard.
He eject the mixtape from the player and put it into his jacket chest pocket. Beau leaned over and rummaged through the glove compartment fishing out a small travel can of axe's body spray and another small spray can of mouthwash, he used both to cover the scent of cigarette smoke, a smell his mother was highly sensitive to. He popped in a stick of spearmint for extra measure before getting out of the car and going to the trunk to retrieve his suitcase. Beau only had one suitcase since all the stuff really needed and cared about conveniently fitted in one suitcase.
Beau propped up his suitcase as he closed the trunk, the car beeped and blinked as he pressed the lock button. He headed up the pathway to the front door, his heart beating louder and louder with each step leading up to the front door.
Beau took a deep breath, Pulling himself together. "Okay" He said under his breath as his hand slowly reach for the knob but before he could even get a good grip, the door swung open, Beau's eyes raced up to see the thinning hair of a middle aged man, Beau eyes lowered a bit more to see the mustached clad face of the man the hair belonged to. "Hey, Big Boss! '' the mustache man said with a grin. The man was Beau's stepfather, David.
"Hello, David, I-I mean Dad." Beau awkwardly greeted his stepdad, trying his best not to show discomfort at his step dad's “nickname" for him.
"Ha, ha that's okay, son!”David laughed, giving Beau a hefty pat on the back.
"Here, let me get your bags." David said, reaching for Beau's suitcase, looking behind Beau expecting more bags
“You only brought one bag?" he questioned, looking curiously.
'--I like to be efficient" Beau muttered with a shrug and a side glance. "HAHA you and me both, Big B" David chuckled playful elbowing Beau, who gave a half-smile and a small chuckle--well, more like a slight nose huff
"Hey, honey Big B is home!" David shouted as Beau closed the front door.
His mother came rushing from the bedroom in her rose pink robe w/a barbie in insignia on the front with matching fuzzy slippers, her sandy blond hair still damp from the shower.
"My little boy, oh!" she said, warping Beau in a tight motherly embrace. "Welcome home!" Beau's mother pulled back for a second, cupping her son's face in her hands “you’re still so handsome"
"Wait..." Beau gently removed his mom's hands from his face "Are you okay, mom?" He asked his considerate brown eyes searching his mother's teal eyes for any sign of distress.
"Of course, sweetie," his mom beamed. "I have all of my loved ones under one roof. What's more to ask?"
it's just that I didn't- Y-you know." Beau said with downcast eyes
"Oh, that" his mom said wide eyes and then shaking her head in dismissed
"Don't worry about not finishing college, I mean just look at me"
“But You just seemed so proud that I got in, I just didn't want to let you down"
“Sweetie, it's fine," his mom said, gently guiding his head up with her hand to look at him "I was not proud that-You were becoming the smart, sweet kind young man, I always knew you were, but now. I'm just happy that you’re here and I get to see you go. on the journey myself!" Beau chuckled tightly and blushed at his mom's admiration.
"Plus, Your mom's not the only one who is happy to have You home!” David said, gesturing towards the hallway. Beau looked to see a small figure peeking from the corner, the figure quickly disappeared followed by an overflow of giggles.
A smile slowly creeped across Beau's face, he slowly kneeled down. " "Gasp * Is that my little care bear?"
From the shadows totted out, a little girl dressed in a blue care bear patterned nightgown, her blonde hair tied up in pigtails, she grasped a love-a-lot bear in one arm while her other arm was open as she raced towards Beau, also with arms wide open for a hug "Bo-Bo"
"Hey, care bear!" Beau cooed as he picked up his little sister "Wow, You've gotten so big since the last time I saw you!
"Carrie's been asking when you were coming since you told us you were coming home "David stated
"Really?"
"Yep!'' Carrie nodded proudly "You still have the love-a lot bear I won at grad night". Beau vividly remembers winning Love A Lot and his friends making fun of him, but Carrie really appreciated it more than he thought.
"Yeah, she takes it with her everywhere!" mom emphasized “Thank god, the kindergarten has a security blanket policy!
"Aww..." Beau said fondly looking at Carrie, who had her head resting on his shoulder, still grasping love a lot.
Beau thought for a moment and looked around "wait, where Dev?"
"Oh" mom said putting her hand on her head with a semi sigh "He's been going through... things"
"Teenager things: David specified "He's the big one three now.. "
“Don't worry, I can talk to him!”Beau said, confidently, slowly nodding his head
. Carrie lets out a small yawn "Aw, you sleepy, care bear?" Beau asked as Carrie rubbed her eyes
"It's past her bedtime, but she really wanted to see you," Mom said, stroking Carrie's hair. "Is someone ready for the sleep shuttle'?" Beau asked Carrie, looking at her in her sleepy hazel eyes, she nodded in response
"Alright, Here we go!" Beau held Carrie in both hands placing his arms out in front of him, he kneeled down and started counting down. "3…..2...1. Blast off!"
Beau shot Carrie in the as he stood back up. As he moved towards Carrie's bedroom, he moved all around side to side, up and down while making spaceship sounds, Carrie was giggling all the way through.
"Incoming! "Beau shouted as he swooshed Carrie round a few more times before landing her swiftly on the bed.
"Huston, the eagle. has landed!." Beau said, holding his ear as if he had an earpiece "Not eagle! Bear!" Carrie stated holding up her care bear "correction, the "BEAR" has landed!" Beau correcting himself, bringing a huge smile to her face as she nuzzled her care bear
"Okay, night, right, care bear" Beau said patting carries head
"Wait!" Carrie said holding on to her brother's arm "Is Bo-Bo still gonna be here in the Morning?""Of course, I'm not going anywhere at least for a while.." "Beau said, kneeling down to Carrie's eye level.
"Okay, I like having Bo-Bo around:'' Carrie said "and I like being around" Beau said, "see you in the morning, care bear" Beau gives Carrie a good night kiss on the forehead.
She settles into bed as Beau closes the door. Beau grinned to himself, feeling lucky to have such a cute sister. He remembers when Devin was that little, speaking of Dev. Beau apphoraced Dev's bedroom door. The door was caution tape, Don't enter signs, with a please knock before entering sign.
At first Beau did think about knocking but then thought "I could be a respectful older brother respect the sign or I could have fun and be a little shit. He pondered about it for a minute then-"yeah, I'm gonna be a little shit.”
Beau took a card out his wallet and wedged it in between the door to jimmied the lock. He peeked through the door to see Dev playing a video game on the tv. "you little..." Beau said under his breath, before bombastically opening the door "Hey there, squirt!" Beau said, shoving the door open
"Didn't you read the sign?!" Dev said as he turned around in his gamer chair in both shock-and annoyance
"Wow, that's a pretty warm welcome to give your older brother you haven't seen in a year!" Beau snarked, pretending to look hurt'' "Nice to see you too!"
"Oh my god!" Dev said, rolling his eyes and turning his chair back to tv, bringing his attention back to the game.
"and here I thought you were working on a project or homework or some school shit!" Beau continued "but no, you're just sitting here playing one of your little nerd games"
"Oh my god, can't you just leave!" Dev groaned as he hunching closer to the tv.
"You couldn't at least say "Hi" " Beau said now standing right behind Dev gamer chair
Dev raised and waved his hand half-heartedly and flatly said "hi"
"Well, damn I feel loved," Beau said sarcastically. "aren't you at least gonna look at me?" shaking the gaming chair a bit to gain an ounce of his little brother’s attention.
“ I saw you "Kool aid man" into my room. Is that enough?" Dev said still focusing on the game Beau sighed, then got an idea "Dev! Dev! I think there's something wrong with my heart I think I gonna-ugh!" He said staggering forward a bit before falling in Dev's lap, knocking out the game controller out of Dev's hands.
"Come on! I was in the middle of battle!" Dev whined looking at his brother playing dead
"Get off of me!" Dev go armed as he tried to push beau off with no luck
"Come on, Beau!" He gored in frustration “I know you're not dead! I can still feel your heartbeat..."
Get up!" Beau remained still, Dev rolled his eyes; he knew the exact words to get his brother off his back or in this case lap.
"Big brother, can you please get off of me n Dev utter begrudgingly "Aw, you haven't call me ‘Big brother’ in years" Beau chimed with a smile, finally getting up "I'm still kind of hurt, that you cared about your gaming progress than the well being for your one and only big brother"
"You were still breathing, I could literally see you inhaling and exhaling." Dev clarified rubbing his forehead
"Touche, I guess" Beau said he then directed Dev's chair in front his bed," now that I have your attention"
"Okay, I guess I should say sorry since you couldn't and say "hi" to me because you were too busy saving some elf princess, or some anime chick with huge melons"
"I-H-Hey I don't even play those types of games!" Dev argued blushing
" .-sure you "don't'." Beau taunted with a wink, Dev goanned "Anyways, Anyways you don't have to say "hi",; but you could at least not talk to me"
Beau suggested, shrugging. "I guess" Dev mumbled kind of sinking into his chair "cool, so how's life?" Beau started, trying to start a diagoul "okay"
"How's school?"
"Okay"
"How’re your friends?"
"Okay"
"Got a girlfriend?"'
"NO”
"Got a boyfriend?"
N-NO"
"Got any crushes"
“….NO…..."
"joined any clubs or any other after school junk?"
" ..... NO..."
"Are you just gonna answer all my questions in one word?"
Dev fell quiet, and shifted his gaze from his brother
“Okay, that's it!" Beau huffed, he picked up Dev and hoasted him over his shoulder "Hey! put me down!" Dev-shouted , beating his fists on Beau's back "Not until you talk to me like an actual person, and one worded answers aren't gonna cut it, squirt!"
"MOM! Dad!"
"Mom and Dav-Dad are fast asleep, and you know they both sleep like rocks!" Beau stated'' the only person you'll wake up is Carrie, and You don't want to wake little care bear, now do YOU?"
Dev fell Quiet again, "You know I can hold you like this for hours, you aren't really that heavy, or you can just end this and talk to me" Beau suggested ending the suggestion with a sigh and started to stomp his foot impatiently..
Dev continued the silent treatment for a bit until letting out a meek "Okay...I'll try" .
Hey, three words, that's a start!" Beau cheekly commented,He sat Dev back down in his green gamer chair.
"Okay, do over!" Beau said casually sitting across from Dev and his bed. "so, how's school going?" "F-fine” Beau gave Dev a intense look, reminding Dev of his word count “N-no, I mean it's just weird" Dev stuttered choosing his words carefully, Dev fiddled with his hoodie sleeves.
"and it's weird because..." Beau initiated, gesturing his hand toward encouraging Dev to continue "It's weird because.... I don't know, Middle school is way different than 'elementary school, I mean I knew that from tv, but middle school isn't like tv."
"It's okay, nothing like tv, that thing lies” Beau softly chuckled to himself and continued “I remember thinking Pogo sticks were the SHIT-cuz 'of people and cartoons on tv made it look so easy"
"I finally got enough money for one-- you were like little you probably don’t remember this-- but I was SO HYPED, I wanted mom to watch me. I took one hop, fell on my ass, and never hopped on that bitch again. I was pissed, I think mom was trying to her best not to laugh but I was so pissed I think I didn’t notice until now. I chucked the pogo stick in the garage, and I never looked at that bitch again”
Dev let out a stiff laugh, the defensive wall Dev put was slowly breaking
"Oh WAIT WAIT!” Beau said taking a moment to correct himself “ That WASN’T the last time the last time I looked that bitch, I fished it out of garage years later, only cuz’ I need some money for Madden. So, I did look at that bitch one more time, but only to sell that bitch.”
Dev let out a more audible laugh, but quickly caught himself and recollected, returned to his disillusioned teenage state.
"Anyway, The teacher's are kind of weird, like a lot of them hate my guts already, except for the coaches who are super nice to me." Dev explained, kind of looking away from his brother
"Weird, why do you think that is?" Beau asked whole hearty
"Because I'm related to you, Numb skull!" Dev blunted , groaning putting his hand on his forehead
"Oh damn, I guess that's my fault." Beau realized, rubbing the back of his neck "My bad. that my awesomeness is just lengardy"
Dev shook his head and rolled his eyes "It's not awesome to live in YOUR shadow!" Dev sulked, sinking back into his chair, his hands covering his face.
"You don't have to follow in my awesomeness, I know I'm a hard act to follow." Beau boasted teastingly so"You just gotta make your own awesomeness."
"What does that even mean?" Dev questioned, moving his hands down, allowing his eyes to peek through his fingers, trying not to given the urge to roll his eyes
"It's like my awesomeness comes from my boyish charm and good looks..." Beau claimed, striking an award winning smile, The urge not to roll his eyes was becoming even hard for Dev, but he still had to try and respect Beau "But your awesomeness could come from being good at games, or computers shit or math or robots or something--I don't know something real nerdy"
"I guess, you're right" Dev mumbled and shrugged,lifting himself up back into a sitting position rather than almost spilling out of his chair.
"Its not a guess, its science!" Beau declared proudly, tapping his temple with his index finger
"No,that's not science!" Dev arguing his brother's stupidity, flatly shaking his head in disagreement
"See, there you go using your nerd awesomeness" Beau pointed out with a wink "Keep that up and you'll go from Beau's lil bro, to just ‘Dev’ in no time." Beau playful tousled Devs mop dirty blonde hair
"I mean.." Dev continued batting his brother's hand away, "I was also thinking of joining the video game club or the robotics club at school."
"There you go another nerdy thing that to add to your own awesomeness" Beau said
"Yeah...." Dev continued ignoring his brother's comment' “Some of my friends are thinking about joining, and it would be a nice place to go away from mom and dad."
"I had sick memories of hanging out with the team, we got into some wild shit." Beau said laughing to himself, fondly reminiscing "But I'm sure you and you geek squad could have "wild" times too, like making an anime robot 'weify." or whatever those called or finding a new math formula or something"
Dev fell quiet for another moment, Beau always seems like he’s in between being supportive and subtly roasting him, Dev then uttered "um... I think I kind of have a crush... on a girl..."
"AYE, let's go! "Beau exclaimed, clapping and shaking Dev's chair for a bit before bouncing back on the bed'' Come on, don't leave me hanging, what's her name? "Have you talked to her vet? Have you asked her out? Have-"
"Calm down!" Dev demanded "I said I had a crush, I didn't say we’re going out.'"
"Oh, so you haven’t talked to her, huh?”
"No, I-I don't even know her name" Dev huffed, he let his arms slip into his oversize sleeves and covered his sleeves with his face in frustration.
"You know you could just ask, not the chick, like just ask around"
"I can't do that because if I do, people will find out I like her and if she finds out, I would just have to stop going to school!”
"Okay, let’s just pretend you DO have the balls to talk to this girl, what's the worst that could happen?" Beau suggested
"She finds out that I like her, thinks I'm weird and never wants to talk to me again or even look at me!” Dev muffled through his sleeved covered face
"You really think she can sus that out all in one go!" Beau said "I mean she is a middle Schooler unless she's like a young nancy drew, she is not going to chew you up and spit out like that." Beau explained "speaking of which''
Beau paused for a moment to spit out his gum into the trash can "Score!"
"Anyways, have you done anything weird to her or around her?"
"No, I mean I look at her in the hallways before and in between class, but I don't like-- stalk her or anything too weird." Dev mumbled, moving his sleeves from his face, but his head was still targeted down at his fingers fiddling with a tag on his black shorts
"So, then what's the fear?" Beau inquired, resting his chin on the heel of his palm
Dev thought for a moment, his eyes shifting looking for an answer." I-I guess I just don't know how to talk to her."
"Well, fuck, that's easy" Beau chuckled “Just talk about school shit, or just say "hi"
"Is it really that easy?"
"Yeah, if you have the balls for it" Beau reiterated "Think about it like this, the dudes you play in your little nerd games have to fight a dragon, a demon or some anime witch with huge melons to talk to the girl they like and they er brave enough to do all of that wacky shit. But you’re lucky, you don't have a dragon for real in your way to keep you talking from your crush. The dragon's just in your head! If those hero dudes can fight dragons they actually can see, doesn't that mean you can fight a dragon you don't even see."
"That was a really lame and kind of confusing metaphor" Dev sassed " But I guess understand what your trying to say"
"Exactly" Beau said nodding confidentiality
"Can we talk about mom and dad?" Dev asked sheepishly, looking up at his brother, (well as much as he could with his shaggy bangs in the way), his fingers now toying with his hoodie strings
"Did something happen?"
"No, I mean yeah, I mean it's just weird" Dev said "Mom and dad are starting to get more annoying but I don't know if they were always like that or they like charged"
"No, parents don't really change-usually” Beau explained “It's just that being a teenager makes you hypersensitive to a bunch of shit and makes you wanna be alone more. Parents, the good ones like spending time with their kids and they actually want quality time n' shit and that's where they start to get annoying".
“"Oh okay,” Dev nodded.'' It's just weird because sometimes I feel like I hate them, but I don't want to. I think I just really want to be alone more like you said but I don't want to shut them out, I just want them to get that." Dev-fiddles with the strings of his green hoodie
"Yeah, I think they do in a weird old people kind of way. Believe it or not they were teenagers to even if that was back in the stone age n' shit" Beau joke"
Dev let out an actual laugh, a sign to Beau that he's little bro was being less of a moody teenager
"Anyway, even with that said mom and david-I mean dad aren't mind readers, it would be cool if you give them a heads up, you don't have to tell them all about what's going on in your little teen nerd brain but at least something simple like something weird or funny that happened at school, or asking for help on homework or a project for class or some shit like that, I'm pretty sure Dav-dad would love that.."
"I guess I could try". Dev said slightly nodding his head "But Carrie is kind of weird too!
"How can Carrie be weird, she's 5.” Beau scoffed "she doesn't do anything weird really"
Dev added" it's just sometimes she's regular cute and other times she's annoyingly cute if that makes sense"
"I mean like kind of get what you're saying but "Beau shrugged gesturing his hand toward prompting Dev to continue
"Like I still look out for her because she little, but because she's little that means I have to do dumb stuff like look for monsters under her bed or do that sleep shuttle thing you do, but I can't really do it because my arms give out halfway through and she's heavier than she looks."
"Well, little brothers and sisters are annoying, it's kind of their job, trust me I know from experience" Beau: put his hand on Dev's knee, Dev tried to Swat at it but Beau quickly put his hand back with a smirk.
"But like with mom and da-David just cuz she's annoying doesn't mean You can’t look out for her n stuff"
"I guess, its because lately, it seems like'' Dev paused 'for a beat, his hands hard gripping the strings of his hoodie, before continuing" I don't know mom and dad have been paying more attention to her than me"
A mischievous smile creeps across his face. "AW does someone miss being the baby?"'
"Oh, fuck! I knew you 'er gonna say that!" Dev blurted out, feeling really exposed, he pulled his hoodie strings allowing his head to be consumed by his hoodie, all but his nose.
"Hey! language,” Beau said, surprised at his little brother's reaction those harsh words coming out of the mouth of small boy sporting a Yoshi hoodie
"You cuss' all the time!" Dev huffed pulling his hoodie back down, then crossing his arm definitely
"Yeah, but I'm older than you, and if mom and David--DAD hear you curse they’er gonna know you got it from me and won't get off my ass about it!"
Dev stared at his brother, simmering in frustration in failing to coming up w/a good come back or a flaw in his brother's logic, He let out a heavy sigh and resumed "Anyways, it's NOT like I miss being the baby, I just miss being able to hold their attention without Carrie coming in and stealing them anyway, I don't know its weird"
"Wait, did you just say that you wanted to be alone and away from mom and David-fuck. I'm not even gonna try more-he's asleep anyways." giving up any attempt to make the word "Dad" same with the name "David"
"Yeah, I know that's what makes it weird!" Dev admitted, he sulked back deeper into his chair and let out a groan.
"You know Carrie's not awake all the time, maybe you can talk to mom and David, when she goes down for her nap, hell, I could just take her to the park for a day." Beau offered
"You'd really do that for me?" Dev peeped, quickly lifting himself up in a sitting position, surprised at his brother kind offer
"Yeah, anything to make you less of a weird angsty shut in, with a bunch of cringy keep out signs and keep out tape!" Beau gestured towards the door
"Actually, I got that caution tape from a real crime scene" Dev clarified, with a smug smile
"Really?" Beau taking a longer closer look at the door
"No, thick head, I found it in a dumpster next to party city!"
"You go dumpster diving?" Beau said, raising an eyebrow
"I have a life outside of YOU!" Dev stated proudly
"Okay, and on that... Weird garbage goblin flex, sibling bonding time is over." Beau said getting up from the bed and heading for the door
"Actually, one more thing..." Beau said quickly, turning around, rushing towards Dev, putting him into a headlock.
"Did ya miss me? Come on, tell me that you missed me!" Beau taunted as he gave his brother a long and through noogie "Ouch, Ow, Ow, Okay, okay, I missed You. Geez:" Dev pleaded trying to struggle out of his brother's grip
"That's what I wanted to hear!" Beau said with a smirk, letting 'Dev go.
"Ugh! my hair" Dev fumed , gawking at his even more messy mop of hair.
"Like you care about appearances" Beau chuckled" mop top nerd!"
"Mullet-hair metal meathead!"
"Ouch, that was pretty good" Beau teased pretending to look hurt "Garbage Goblin"
"You already-"Dev started but was cut off by Beau closing the door
"Too late, the door is closed, I can't hear you, which means I win!" Beau said through the door, laughing at his brother's muffled fury of frustration.
Beau grinned relishing in the absolute confusion of his younger brother, but that good vibe quickly faded once he arrived at the door to his old bedroom. He just stood there and stared at the door for a bit, he could feel the icky stew of the emotions from bubbling back up again.
He flexed his hand a few times as if this was the first time he's ever pored a door, Beau's hand reached for the door handle before retracted as if the knob was red hot.
Beau sheepishly looked around as if somebody was watching him, no one was but it sure did feel like it. He considered sleeping on the couch, but that would be weird, since it seemed like his step dad put his luggage in his room. so, eventually he would have to go into his room anyway.
Beau took a deep breath. "Come on, it's just a door, dude!" He told himself Beau's hand rested on the door knob, he took another deep, his hand gained a stronger grip, and he slowly pushed the door open, Beau carefully entered the room as he closed the door behind him. Looking around the room was plaster with posters of football players and a few pinups of doe-eye, sensual women in swimsuits and other scantily clad outfits.
Athletic medals, trophies and awards displayed proudly on his bookshelf that lacked any actual books, those trophies stood next to pictures of Beau with his teammates, all illuminated by the moon's dull pale blue light. These relics of what felt like a bygone era used to fill Beau with so much pride and joy but looking at them now just leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
He could barely even recognize himself in those photos. This whole room felt like a shrine or more like a tomb to someone who no longer exists.
Looking at all this stuff just made the icky feelings from before rise up to the back of his throat making the bad taste linger even longer.
Beau couldn't really pin what-these feelings were, so he shifted his focus on just getting some sleep
As he thought, Beau's step dad put his luggage on his bed. He opened his bag and quickly changed into a white tank top and some grey sweatpants. He fished out the mix tape from his jean jacket and put into the gray clucky music player on his nightstand. Beau turns the music up loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough for disturb anyone else. Heavy metal music (ironally) helped him sleep on hard nights.
Beau laid in bed focusing on the one spot in his room that wasn't decorated with high school memorabilia. Focusing on that spot was way better than focusing on the icky feelings from earlier. All he needed to was focus on sleep just sleep, Beau closed his eyes and tried to focus on just sleep.
The next time Beau opened his eyes, he was back in the hallway of his highschool. Beau looked around confused why he was back here but before he could really sus out the situation, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud. He followed the sound of the thud that led to a scene of a bespectacled student being shoved up against the lockers. The student's face contorted by fear.
"P-please, d-don't hurt me. "the student uttered, the words quivering as it left his lips.
"Aww, look at him, guys." a familiar voice said, Beau couldn't see whom the voice belonged to. There was a strange mist in the hallway that obscured the person's face.-
"He's scared." the voice said mockly, the person nodded towards a group of people whose faces were also obscured by the mist, they laughed in response
“Don't worry, little buddy, I'm not gonna hurt ya:" the person taunted as he tightened his grip on the student and shoved his body up against the failing student. "As long as you don't squeal" .
"You squeal, and I'll fry you like the pig you are, got it. Swine?"
"I-I p-promise I W-won't. J-just please let me go!" the student begged
Beau was disturbed by scene happening before him, but along with the feel of disgust came a feeling of familiarity, like he's been there before
Just then the fog lift to reveal the face of a younger version of Beau dawned in his red “New Burny High school” letterman jacket. He was smirking relish in the fear he was inflicting on the poor student.
Older Beau slowly back up, almost stumbling as he was coming to the realization of the origin of all those icky feelings from before
"I don't know, do we trust him, guys?" Younger beau asked cocking his head back to his teammates, who shook their head in disagreement "The Boys and I don't seem very sure of that, I think I'm gonna have to test your loyalty !" Younger Beau winded up his arm for a punch, But before his fist could make an impact.
Beau found himself back in his room in a cold sweat, hyperventilating as quickly rose from his bed. His room, still illuminated by the moonlight, with the metal mix tape softly playing in the background. He looked at his hand as if they were lethal weapons. How could I do such a thing?
#daydream blog#daydream blogging#daydream dairy#paraportal#paracosm: humble pie#para: beau#para: devin#para: carrie#immersive daydreaming#paracosm
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Atsumu Miya || Unravelling
[Uhn•rav•uhl] verb, informal. to take apart; undo; destroy
Warnings: implied sex, mentions of sex, quick depiction of self harming behaviors (not explicit.) Inspired by SZA’s Supermodel
It must be considered deviant and demonic how the constant the thud thud THUD! Rings out with an even pace in the hallway of Tokyo’s finest apartment complexes. If it weren’t for the fact that calling the police would no doubt result in a press field day none of the residents of Park Mansion Akasaka wanted, someone would have filed a noise complaint. It’s a shame they did not—perhaps there might be a certain clout that comes with exposing MSBY setter Miya Atsumu’s intimate life, but it would also have saved time, money, and tears in the long run.
But, the residents of the 9th floor could not see into the future. They were instead, attempting to mind their business and not be bothered by Miya trying to make back beats by fucking someone into a mattress.
That little comparison was Osamu’s first scathing critique, until he froze completely. The disgust melted into horror as he turned his head to his companion.
“Hey-,” he starts, but as he catches the expression, the words dry up.
Yes, it would have been nicer—no, merciful—if the residents of the 9th floor had called the police when this happened, if only to spare you from witnessing it yourself.
Your hands get so clammy, the plastic bag in your hand nearly slips out. You catch yourself before the beer bottles can shatter on the marble floor that costs more than your entire block. It’s an easy clean up, but it would probably be very sticky, and disastrous, you think. Almost as disastrous as—
It starts up again, rhythmic and constant like an orchestrated performance. You and Osamu are mere steps outside the apartment, and you can hear the manic, frayed screams coming from the walls. It sounds like they’re in pain; just the way Atsumu likes it.
“Y/N,” Osamu tries once again to get your attention. The pity in his voice is unmistakable, and you hate that of all the emotions the usually stoic twin shows you, this is the one he’s chosen. Pity. Sympathy.
“Guess that’s why he didn’t pick up the phone,” you remark casually, refusing to look Osamu in the eye. “I’ll just leave it by his door with a note.”
Osamu says your name, this time with a firm edge that demands attention. You don’t give it to him. You’re too busy trying not to actively throw the takeout and beer you bought out of your measly paycheck to help your friend (attachment, entanglement, dick appointment, are all better words than friend) feel better after a crushing defeat at the hands of the Saitama Spears. (Crushing, like his hands must be around her neck for the moans to sound so strangled.) No matter, you say to yourself, hands shaking as you send him a text. Something cute and sweet with a properly sickening amount of heart emojis, like any good (not quite) girlfriend would do. Whatever it takes.
Ignoring how the click of your heels mesh with the steady thrum of Atsumu’s two thousand yen headboard against his 100 million yen walls, you march back the exact way you came; down the white, sterile hallway and passed the doors that housed the rest of the 9th floor, who would, unknowingly, pay for the mistake of not asking the shameless Atsumu Miya to please, please keep his fucking at a tolerable volume. Fame and infamy come with perks, one supposes, but they also come with karma.
You’re not thinking of revenge, though. You’re wondering how you’ll make it to the elevator without completely coming apart at the seams. Something in you unravels, much like it might if Atsumu were playing you like the fool you were; perfectly manicured setter hands curling, scratching, plucking at all the right places. No, this unravelling is much slower, much more painful, as if the single thread that creates your existence is being snipped in half. When you push the call button for the elevator, you think the thread is severed completely, because you have to lean your head on the cold steel to steady yourself.
Osamu’s approaching footsteps really only register in the very depths of your mind. The heavy breathing doesn’t really sound like yours—how could it be anyways, when you were miles away from your body, floating in the ether like a ghost; forgotten, discarded, alone. Untethered.
You lift your head up only to bang it against the wall. The soft thud is reminiscent of the moment that just transpired, and you—subconsciously, like you were possessed—start bashing your forehead to the same piledriver waltz Atsumu had played.
“Y/N!” Pity. Bang! Worry. Bang! Sympathy. Bang! Could you crush your skull this way? The mystery woman’s screams tangle in your brain like an earworm, the salacious sounds on repeat. Bang!
When Osamu’s hand lands on your shoulders, it feels like he’s tethered your soul back into your body. You wrench yourself out of his grip.
“Don’t!-” you begin to scream, but you catch the look he gives you. His grey-brown eyes are wet with concern, darting between the growing red spot on your forehead to the watery snarl on your lips. You take a shuddering breath to keep the hysteria from bubbling into your tone. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”
Osamu doesn’t even raise an eyebrow in pretence. His mask of neutrality and sarcasm is completely gone, replaced with anger. “You were banging your head into the wall like a patient in a psych ward.”
“That’s unnecessarily stereotypical, Osamu. I thought you were better than that.”
Crossed arms. He’s seconds away from blowing his lid. “Yer not funny.”
You wonder what would happen if Osamu blanked on you in here. Would these good-for-nothing neighbors actually call the police then? What a headline: Miya twins apprehended in two separate noise complaints. Kita would probably stop sending Osamu rice out of embarrassment.
You don’t want to fight Osamu anyways. It’s not his fault that the bearer of his face is fucking another girl as you speak.
The elevator dings, and you step inside. It’s fortunately empty. Osamu stands right next to you, hovering like an overprotective parent. The chrome doors of the elevator slide shut and you’re face to face with your own reflection: hollow, sunken eyes the most expensive concealer can’t fix; posture hunched from years of slaving over work and school; nails short and busted from part time jobs that barely pay the bills. Nails that have been raked down the chiseled, marble back of a man who didn’t belong to you, and never did.
Her nails were probably nicer. Probably manicured. Maybe he paid for it. You can’t even see your nails anymore, because your head is in your hands, shielding your ugly cries from Osamu, who bears the face of the man who doesn’t love you.
“I should have just taken the fucking hint,” you sniffle, wiping the running eyeliner from the corner of your eye. “Shoulda left him alone.”
Osamu just hums. You wished it was anyone else but him. Osamu isn’t bad at a lot of things, but comfort was one of them. He just stares vacantly at the doors, a grimace replacing his usual thin lipped look, but other than that he appears unbothered.
And then, like he’s reading condolences off a list, he says: “I’m sorry.”
The words in their sincerity sound foreign on his tongue. With one big sniff you pull the thread keeping you together tightly, gathering yourself. “What’re you apologising for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sorry my brother is a complete piece of shit.”
“Well, we both knew that, didn’t we.”
Osamu can’t place what he dislikes about that phrase, but the elevator interrupts his thought process. The doors open to reveal one of the security guards eying you two up and down. His eyes narrow for a moment on Osamu’s face, and then dip down to yours.
“There a problem here, Miya-san?”
On any other day he might have pulled a fast one on this guard, but you promptly walk out of the elevator, leaving Osamu to follow your lead wordlessly. The world outside the Park Mansion Akasaka is still turning, still bustling with people catching trains home from work, their patent leather shoes from office jobs clicking on the sidewalk to a rhythm you can’t match. The thud of the salarymen’s briefcases hitting their legs echo like the headboard off Atsumu’s walls. It’s everywhere, everywhere, and your insides churn sickeningly.
You stop, one hand leaning against the glass. Osamu catches up, hands halting just before they reach your back. “Stop running away from me, name,” he says softly, exasperated. “I’m trying to help.”
“How long.”
Osamu blinks. “What?”
You’re nearly doubled over with nausea, your free hand pressed flat against your chest to keep your lungs compressing. “How long has he been with her?”
“I don’t know.”
“I swear to god, if you’re lying to me-“
“(Name) I would never do that to you.”
The promise doesn’t reassure you. Osamu runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in right now. And I’m not going to say anything—“
“Like what?” You look at him over your shoulder, eyes squinted in malice. “Like I told you so?”
Your insolence is wearing out Osamu’s sliver of empathy. You’re unbearable like this, you know that, and Osamu is less tolerable than most. “Your words, not mine.”
“Your brother is cheating on me.”
“You’re not together.”
“There it is!” You let your head fall back in rumbling, humorless laughter. “I was waiting for that.”
“I don’t want to be a dick right now.”
“Too late, ‘Samu.” You haul yourself up, buttoning the front of your coat. “Go home, work on your winter menu. I’ll be fine.”
The statement is met with rightful skepticism, but when you start to walk away, Osamu doesn’t follow. You can’t decide whether or not this hurts, because the all encompassing pain finally registers to the rest of your body. You try to numb yourself, dissociating as every step towards home becomes a blur. Akasaka’s beautiful lights and towers fade into lesser Tokyo’s decrepit neighborhoods, with sketchy alleys and dimly lit streets. Your apartment complex is a shoebox to Atsumu’s tower residence, and it feels just as claustrophobic when you step into your crowded, tiny apartment.
It’s nicer than what your friends can afford, but that doesn’t make it any better. Your couch is also your bed, and your desk faces the window even though you can’t properly study this way. The kitchen is perpetually clean because you can’t cook anything in it. You’re sure the fridge is empty, but it’s fine, because you simply peel off your clothing and curl into a ball on your bed.
It’s not even late. You have work and assignments to do, but as you check the time on your phone, you’re immediately taken to your camera roll, where a picture from several days ago stares back at you mockingly.
It’s from his bathroom, the one that has a television screen by the bathtub, the one with hotel lighting that makes you look glowy and ethereal no matter what. You’re half dressed, in the middle of putting on your morning skincare when Atsumu comes up behind you, arms around your waist. Your face is obscured, but you remember how happy and loved you felt to have his lips pressed against your temple, the heat of his body in your side. How surrounded and safe and warm you felt.
But moments are as fleeting and fragile as glass. The illusion has been shattered, and you’re left in a cocoon of blankets nowhere near as satisfactory as his body heat, in a dark and dingy apartment you will probably stay in for the rest of your life.
Just as you’re about to set your alarm for the morning, a notification pops up. The sparkles around his name indicate that Atsumu has finally, finally texted you back.
✨T’sumu✨: sorry I missed you babe I was not in a good place
✨T’sumu✨: you got work tmrrw? You always know how to cheer me up
It’s as if your heart has been snatched out of your rib cage; your chest hollows and collapses as a sob hiccups in your throat. Something wet slides across your temple. It’s not Atsumu’s lips, not even close. You wipe the tears with the back of your hand, and throw your phone across the room.
It shatters.
#atsumu miya#miya atsumu#this makes him seem shitty and hes not#This was hoing to be a very long and spiralling fic where the reader slowly descends into hysteria over being cast aside#i wanted to illustrate how compleltly devastating and upending this is#and i love the word unravelling#haikyuu!!#hq!!#atsumu miya x reader#miya atsumu x reader#reader x miya atsumu#reader x atsumu miya
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Yesterday I had my main refugee interview in Home Office. I’m panically afraid of all that migration stuff after an awful refugee experience in Russia and Israel.
So I have to prepare.
Maybe some of my tips would be relevant to you if you are multiple or just have PTSD/anexiety and you are going to have some important event.
1. Make some notes for yourself. For example in our system only Lil have a proper memory for date. Most of us don’t have a clue what was the year when something important in our life happened. So I have special notes with datas. And some special notes with my alter’s name and what questions could case switch just to be ready.
2. Make some notes for other people in case you would need some help. I in case if I got lost, and the note “sorry I’m dissociating” and “Sorry I couldn’t speak” for an interviewer.
3. It would be especially cool if you could take a sedative pill. Of course you need to knew your reaction for that medicine/doctor permission. But I have no idea how I could survive that f*cking day without three clonazepam tablets that I eat duaring that day.
4. Support your Littles. They need to be treated very gently if they had to hear that you would be speaking about their traumas. They doesn’t deserve it. So explain the situation for them. And make it beneficial. You could use some simple reward system. For example our Littles were supposed to open kinders after the small tasks like “came for the train” or “go through the begging of interview - opening kinder during the first break”. And in the home we have bigger reward - that jiine toy.
5. Also one of my Littles, Lisa, really loves Frozen and felt calmer when she could coloring. So we bought special crayon for her that she used in the train and during the break.
6. Water, snacks, stimming toys (especially if you are Autistic/ADHD), painkillers if you could have some pain problems, headphones - it’s all important. And yep, don’t forget to check your documents and money!
7. It’s better to wear something that make you look “respectable” enough but comfortable for you. I’m a trans* person so for example I’m really felt better and less dysphored in a big man shirt.
8. Not fully “normal” is normal. Be ready that something could be not according to plan. That some rules could be changed (especially duaring the COVID lockdown). That you could said something funny or ridiculous. That something could went a little bit wrong. It could be difficult but it’s extremely important to accept that stuff like that would never be perfect.
9. Don’t be afraid to speak about your fear and/or ask for help your friends/supportive organizations.
And good luck 🍀 with your big day.
#did #autism #refugees #ptsd #osdd #osddsystem #selfcare #anxiety
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About Love - Yona x F!Reader
About Love [Akatsuki no Yona oneshot]
Ship: Yona/F!Reader
Word count: 1,801
Warnings: Near death ?
Darkness. That was all that permeated your vision, and you tried to move your limbs in confusion. At once, a bright light flashed in your eyes, and you blinked a couple times as you took in your surroundings.
You were back at Castle Hiryuu. What was this? A dream? The last thing you remembered was being on one of the pirate ships with Yona. You were fighting to free the captured maidens. And then... And then...
Eyes widening at the memory, you quickly checked your stomach in panic, expecting to see a gaping hole where the sword had slashed you, to see the red staining your clothes. Instead, you saw nothing, your outfit being normal. Oh dear Hiryuu, you weren't dead, right? Right?!
Hearing shouting, you looked up, clear confusion written all over your face. You were safe and dry underneath one of the castle hangar's, but it was night time, and pouring out to boot. However, you recognized the one voice that cried out so painfully, and you ran down the hall in panic, coming to a sliding stop as you peered in the room the noise came from. Your stomach turned at the sight, sorrow gripping your heart painful.
This wasn't a dream. It was a memory.
Collapsed on the ground in shock was a woman you were all-too-familiar with, Princess Yona and former heir to the throne. Staring ahead in shock, you could see why she had cried out. On the ground, deceased, was her father, King Il. And the perpetrator?
None other than the man you had sworn your life to serve, Soo-won. Even as his lady-in-waiting were you shocked, and your throat seized up as his eyes went from Yona to you, his face hard.
"[Y/n]... Yona... Neither of you should be out."
You rushed forward to shield Yona from the grisly sight before her. You wanted to curse him into oblivion. To cry and scream and ask why. You had no control of your voice though, for you could not change the past.
"Soo-won... How could you?"
A few guards came into the room, but you knew they would not help you as they pointed their swords at you. No, they needed to get rid of the evidence - evidence being you and Yona.
Forcing the younger princess to her feet, you had rushed out, in search of a weapon you could protect yourselves with. The princess was stumbling behind you, clearly dissociating from the scene before her. If it had been any other time, you'd be attentive and try to calm her down, but you didn't have the luxury or time to stall for even a moment. A moment of hesitation would lead to your downfall.
Feeling tears prick your eyes, soon enough you and Yona were cornered in the courtyard, and Yona collapsed onto the muddy ground, clearly giving up. You tried to go back to her, but you were seized in an instant, a sword threateningly held up to your neck to prevent any movement.
Yona...
You felt rage well in you. How could they do this to somebody so sweet? How could Soo-won, the man you thought you knew best, do this?! A scream ripped through your entire being, and you bashed your head back, hitting the soldier who had you in his grasp square in the face. It was with enough force to cause him to fall back, his nose a bloody mess, and you grabbed the sword from him, spinning it around once before going to save Yona.
"[Y/n], get her out of here!"
A new voice joined the fray, and you spared Hak a glance and nodded, rushing to Yona and gently bringing her to a stand. For a moment, she tried to pull away, clear distrust of you and confusion, and you made an attempt to calm her down.
"I'm here for you, princess. I'll keep you safe, even if it means laying my life down for your own."
Slowly, your surroundings began to fade into blackness, but not before your eyes met her purple ones, sad and defeated, but still trusting of you.
And you only had one thought.
I'll always fight for you.
She was crying. Hovering over the battered and injured body of [Y/n], her most trusted friend, Yona couldn't help the tears and worry that racked her body, even with Yoon's reassurance that you would be okay. After all, wasn't it her fault in the first place that this happened? Her fault that you were injured? Her fault that you were even here? By all intents and purposes, you weren't even supposed to leave Castle Hiryuu with her. You had been Soo-won's lady-in-waiting, after all. Would he had spared you if you had stayed?
"Please... Please, [Y/n]... Wake up..."
You stirred lightly, feeling something wet drop down onto your face, and you winced as a sharp pain reverberated throughout your entire body. Somebody was crying for you, a voice that sounded familiar, but who?
"Mm..."
You tried to speak but your throat felt drier than cotton. The small noise was enough to grab the person's attention, though, and they quickly left, presumably to go get somebody else. Moments later, a cool compress was pressed to your forehead, and you found the strength to flutter your eyes open. Standing over you was Yona and Yoon, Ao perched comfortably on the former's head.
"How are you feeling?"
You blinked once at Yoon, slowly processing his words. ". . . I've been better," you rasped, wincing at the way your voice sounded. How long had you been out?
As if reading your mind, Yoon helped prop your head up, giving you a sip of water from his flask. "You've been out for 3 days. You worried us all, you idiot!"
While his words were brash, you could tell they were sincere, and you offered a wobbly smile, grateful for the water. "It's fine. I would do it all over again if it meant the princess made it out unscathed."
On cue, Yona started to sniffle again, taking your hands earnestly. "No! You can't put yourself into danger like that again! Let the other's fight, but you and Hak... I can't lose either of you."
You felt a pang in your heart, and bitterly smiled. "I cannot just stand aside while our allies fight, princess."
Clearing his throat, Yoon stood up, going to exit the tent. You could easily tell he didn't want to be present for the fight that was brewing between the two of you, and he quickly made a half-hearted excuse about how he had to go see to the cooking so the "exotic beasts" would stop complaining. Ao scurried after him, leaving you and Yona completely alone.
She started to cry again, and you felt your heart drop at causing her so much pain. Struggling to sit up, and ignoring the pain in your abdomen, you cupped her face. "Princess Yona," you started, causing her to cry more. "I'm fine, aren't I? Just let me protect you. Please."
She shook her head, her hand going up to hold your own. "But why? Why do you want to protect me so much?"
You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled past your lips at her own obliviousness. "Why did I leave Soo-won to protect you in the first place?" You retorted, before sighing. Now was as good a time as any, right? "I want to protect you because I love you, you big dummy. I'm already at a disadvantage considering I'm a girl, and I don't care if it's taboo, but I love you and will lay down my life for you if I have to."
Your confession had stopped the flow of tears, and she blinked in shock at you. You could already feel disheartened. Who were you, after all, compared to Hak, or Jae-ha, or even Ki-ja?
Averting your eyes, you let your hand drop down to your lap. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, princess. I won't speak of it again if it bothers you."
"No."
The word came out so defiantly that you reeled for a moment, eyes going back to meet her purple ones. "Wh... 'No'?"
"No," Yona repeated, a newfound fire taking place of the sorrow she had previously been feeling. Your heart sunk. Oh dear Hiryuu, she was going to ridicule you for your feelings, wasn't she? After all, a woman loving another woman? If only society was that progressive. She pressed on, seeing your heartbroken face. "It's not... You didn't make me uncomfortable."
Wait, what?
She fumbled for her words for another moment, her face slowly growing into a shade of red that rivaled her infamous hair. "I... I mean, it's just. I don't want to lose you." Her words came out in a rush. "I just... Agh!" Growing frustrated, she grabbed both of your hands and tugged you forward, nearly causing you to topple as you winced from the movement. "Sorry, [Y/n]!" She hastily apologized. "It's just, I love you too, which is why when I see you behave so recklessly it hurts me! Especially when you say it's for me!"
For a moment, the world stopped moving. You looked at her with wide eyes, a light pink blooming over your face too. Were you hallucinating? Was it possible you were still passed out and this was a dream? Perhaps, maybe, you really had died and this was heaven.
"You... Love me?"
Yona nodded sharply, and you leaned forward hesitantly to place a short and sweet kiss on her lips, just to confirm that this was real. While the action took her by surprise, she had only just started to respond before you pulled away, a goofy smile on your face.
"Does this mean you're going to be my own personal nurse as I recover, princess?"
Yona immediately pulled away and smacked you on the head, blushing profusely. "Y-you're just as bad as Hak!"
You giggled, clearly lovestruck and happy with the change in events as you pulled her down again. "That's only one of the reasons why you love me though, right?"
The two of you started to kiss again, soft and gentle, before the tent flap opened.
"[Y/n], Yoon told me you had recovered and that the Princess was seeing to your - AH!"
Ki-ja, the unfortunate sap, jerked away violently and hit the ground as you and Yona pulled away slightly. Curiosity clearly had hold of the others, and soon Jae-ha and Hak were both peeking in, a smirk on the former's face.
"And what do we have here? I do believe, Thunder Beast, that you owe me money."
"Wait, you bet on us?!"
#yona of the dawn#akatsuki no yona#yona x reader#yona#akayona#fanfic#fanfiction#reader insert#x reader#purely self-indulgent bc im a gay bitch
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Words to The Void #1
A Bird (Trigger Warning : Cutting)
A girl, young and depressed, stares through her kitchen window. Past it is a bird staring back, its eyes black as its feathers. Its gaze is unshifting, focused. She wonders what brought it to the long-dead tree in the yard. What possesses it to stare into the kitchen with unflinching fervor. Its head tilts; eyes blink.
“Alyssa, are you going to do your homework or are you going to stare outside all day?” When had her mother slipped into the kitchen to berate her? Her mother hated her--the girl’s therapist had discussed this with her before, it was her paranoia plucking at her that brought up such thoughts. Her family doesn’t hate her; her mother just wants her to move at a reasonable pace; her newly-online classes have been pushing Lys down and pushing the girl hard is the only way she knows how to help, it’s what her mother did to her and today she’s a district manager., so her daughter could be more.
“I’m trying, it’s just slow going right now.” The bird’s wings flap in a sudden display as it alights itself on a lower branch; it shifts under the new weight. Perhaps the bird announces its intentions to move with wild flapping. Is that the way with all birds, or is it specific to the one outside the girl’s kitchen window? She doesn’t know enough about birds to wager.
“If you keep going this slow you’ll be in college forever.” Twenty-four and she is still in college; a girl living with her parents, a girl because “Women don’t live with their parents.” All her friends had graduated--one with a masters.The bird let out a call, and its wings beat the air; it blinks once and tilts its head twice. “I understand that the way things have worked out you’re going to be in college for another two years, do you really want to add more time to that?” The girl knows full-well that she needs to get out of school. She wants to live like her friends, making money and living, instead of stockpiling debt and failing. She’s a failure--pluck. She’s pathetic--pluck, pluck. She makes note of the negative thoughts, but does nothing to stop or refute them.
She’s been falling, falling, falling for ages. The bird, it drops itself another branch; its wings fluttering. The thought of the bird knowing her flits across her mind. Birds don’t know people--one never knows, it might. It could know her, know her thoughts--it’s just paranoia she reminds herself, pluck-plucking at the edges of her mind. “-a! Alyssa! Are you even listening to me?” Her mother’s voice cuts through her dissociation--being aware of your problems is the first step, she’s never goes beyond that. Her mother’s voice is raised, she’s angry, she hates the girl--pluck, pluck, pluck. Her mother knows how she feels about raised voices.
“I’ll get on it, I just gotta find the motivation…” She could feel what little energy she had falling off the end of the sentence. The bird wails beyond the window.
“Why don’t you write about the god-damned raven or whatever it is you’ve been staring at?” It is an idea for a better writer. She lacks the skill to form a story around a raven; that’s what she tells herself. Everything she writes is trash--pluck.
The window shook as the bird flew into it, and its sudden screech rakes across the two’s ears. Perhaps it wants the world to stop like Lys did; just for a moment, or altogether--suicide, another non-option according to her therapist. The bird squawks angrily and takes up the lowest branch on the tree. Lys had killed the thing years ago. That’s all she does, damage everything and everyone she touches--a maladaptive thought plucking at her psyche.
“I’m going out there to chase the damned thing off, maybe you’ll get some work done then. And, I want to hear about what assignments you’ve completed before dinner.” What assignment could she do? They all feel like they’re too much, each one looming up off the screen until they tower over her as a crippling cold fills her veins. She selects a task at random and begins the painful process of her assignments, turning them in late or not at all--pluck, pluck, pluck. The anxiety is a physical pain, tracing its way through her body. Outside the bird is suddenly ariot, screaming from the air at her broom-wielding mother.
A thought presents itself to her: can birds feel powerful? It seems to Lys to be a powerful being. It defies the will of her well-meaning, heavy-handed mother; it teases her with lazy motions. Could she be like the bird--out of the question.
“What’s your mother up to out there, Boss?” She hates the terminology, she was no one’s boss, not even her own. Her father had slipped into the kitchen at some point, and now leans against the counter, coffee in hand, watching the scene past the pane.
“She thinks the bird is distracting me.” He gives a knowing look; she doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s obvious. She always looks for distractions, anything to keep her mind from truly settling down to think.
“Let’s make a deal, I’ll bring Deena in and keep her off your back while you do what you can, okay? We love you, and want the best for you, we just have different ideas of what we need to do to help.” He winks and heads for the foyer, coffee left on the counter, still steaming. Soon enough he’s outside, exchanging muddled and heated words. They must be talking about her, how disappointing she is--pluck. The bird finds itself on the highest branch amidst the argument, forgotten and victorious.
The night was unproductive: Lys hadn’t completed a single task. She’d done half of one and a quarter of another--a failure through and through. Her dreams had been the peak of the night and early morning: she’d spent a night cuddled with her favorite person, and incomparable feeling of comfort and safety; she’d spent the day out in a mist, fog rolling through the neighborhood until she was soaked to the core; she’d spent a morning drawing the things in her head, each wilder than the last--now she’s awake and all of it was just a memory. All the good behind each dream was nearly lost, faint as the ink of the dying pen in her hand--she has to write something down.
Her therapist, a charming and blunt man, told her to write. Write out her feelings--numb, depression, anger, anxious, paranoid, repeat. Write out her days--she barely remembers them. Her time isn’t important enough to become lasting memory. She thinks about the bird.
‘The Bird’
It was only two words on a random page of her notebook, but she’d written them. It was the one thing she remembers from the day before; the raven and its defiance, its power. She only feels powerful when in the throes of self-harm. Her goto ritual: cutting.
It’s the sight of blood swelling up from the slits in her arm, then watching as it trickles away like a tributary to some other imaginary state on her skin. The sting as the blade passes over her arm, then again as she puts cloth to the wound; watching the red spread through the fabric. She is the one in control of the process, the cycle. She controls the affliction and healing of each wound. She controls the scars and how nicely they heal. She is at the helm of her boat in those moments, adrift in a sea of delirious euphoria. She has branched out into other forms of punishment, but none of them gives near the same rush.
Her window to the shadowed wood shutters with a sudden tap, tap, tapping--pluck, pluck, pluck; who is watching?
The raven sits, its wings tucked, on her sill. Its head tilts; its maw filling the air with a shrill shriek. She asks herself again if the bird knows her; knows what she does; knows what she thinks--pluck. It is an absurd concept, one her therapist would say to not entertain. But, what if?
What could she write about a bird? The bird, she corrects herself. One that thinks and knows a person. Her therapist has recommended fictional writing as an exercise, a productive way to dissociate and retreat from the world. It shrieks again.
“Do you need something?” She’s talking to a bird, she must be mad. The bird replies with two tilts and a blink. She decides to ignore the raven for the moment and write about it instead.
The Bird
A girl, young and depressed, stares through her kitchen window. Past it is a bird staring back, its eyes black as its feathers. Its gaze is unshifting, focused. She wonders what brought it to the long-dead tree in the yard. What possesses it to stare into the kitchen with unflinching fervor. Its head tilts; eyes blink.
“What now Lys?” The bird shrieks again, slapping its wings against the window. “Are you not satisfied with the direction I’m taking it already? Is it wrong to insert yourself into a story? How do you even know where I’m taking it anyway?” Knock, knock, knocking.
“Alyssa, you were supposed to be up and ready for breakfast an hour ago, or did you forget our plans? You’re under my roof, and you know I expect you to follow my schedule.” Not everyone lives in a constant rush, and not everyone finds the rush useful. Her mother doesn’t know another way of living, she has to keep moving, keep doing; and anyone around her has to conform to that standard or be yelled at. Lys’ therapist has told her that some people are just like that, “It’s out of your control, you can try and deal with it or go with the flow. I know you tend to crumble to pressure, but you can say no. You can always say no.” She never says ‘no’ and fawns instead--it’s her goto coping mechanism; giving in and letting people have their way with her when she doesn’t know how to handle a situation or wants one to end.
“I’ll see you later, bird.” It dips its head before bringing it back up. Did it nod? Its head dips against, this time accompanied by a soft call. Does the bird know her? Know her secrets? Her shames? Pluck, pluck, pluck.
It was going to upset her mother further, but Lys decides to take a long, hot shower anyway. Her parents could wait another hour for breakfast. She picks out her self-dubbed washed-outfit; a pastel pink shirt, faded-faded jeans, and a washed out jacket. It’s her favorite. One of the few remnants from the best times of her life. She has a bag somewhere to go with it, maybe she would grab that too. She has nowhere to go, but that isn’t the point. It provides her a sense of joy; on top of the outfit, it could be a good day.
She grabs her phone and slips into the hallway, making her way to the bathroom on the balls of her feet. All things quiet; her music stood in stark contrast. Suddenly the back half of the house fills with sound. The pouring water does little to stifle Glass Animals’ “Waterfalls Coming Out Your Mouth,”
Drip drop
Gimme what you got
Your talk
Is incredible
So, so, so unusual,
You taste like surfing videos
It was all so incredibly loud. She relishes it.
She never knows how much time passes in the shower. She was only ever aware of a few things: how each song feels and sounds, how the water feels against her skin, and how the heat wraps around her. The bird’s screech comes from above; a shadow settling above the skylight. She feels a drop of its power, nothing can touch her in the embrace of her playlists.The rest of her morning routine passes in a daze. Finally, she waits, staring at the door to reality, and the door stares back.
Reality is outside the bathroom door, and the whole world waits to crush her, to destroy her--pluck, pluck. But, she has to go about existing; her mother would chastise her until she did. The door opens and she steps back into the usual oppressiveness of her day to day life; ice already creeping into her blood. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to experience the comments her mother was waiting to unleash.
“There’s the girl of the hour. Do you have any idea how much money you cost us with your showers?” Her mother is right, she was a waste of a time and money--pluck. Just another maladaptive thought she does nothing about. “Maybe we should start making you pay rent. You do plenty to drive up the bills.” It’s not Lys’ fault she’s depressed, that she suffers from a personality disorder; Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s crippling. Dissociating in the shower, getting lost in videos and shows, chewing through data when she’s not at home; coping mechanism on coping mechanism to distract and balance her wild emotions. Each one annoys her mother, making the woman hate her, resent her--pluck, pluck, pluck. Her father was opening his mouth to speak when, past the window pane, the bird wails as it roosts on its dead tree. When did it become the bird’s? “Sometimes I wish you believed in guns, James. Maybe it’s death would spur the girl.” The bird screeches in response.
“It’s a bird, mom.” She never knows whether her mother is being serious or sarcastic, she uses the same voice regardless. Lys wouldn’t put it past her mother to do something so drastic, however, she’s resorted to violence to enforce her rules before.
“Did you actually do anything last night?” She had tried, she was always trying. It’s so hard. It shouldn’t be so hard to function, she’s a middle class white girl. But, everything feels like a monumental task of late.
“I got about half of my Systems program done.”
“Wonderful, a whole half. And it only took you a whole day.” Her father relegates himself to silence. Being contrary wouldn’t do any good. Instead he saves his comments for a private sit down with his daughter--if he remembers to try and calm her down. Lys’ self-hatred swells, paralyzing her while anxiety sinks its claws into her chest. She’s panicking, the world tipping--the bird interjects the moment, slamming talons first into the window as it screams. Lys wants its power. She wants to scream at her mother, scream that she’s doing her best, that most people with BPD have trouble with schooling, that she’s doing good by even continuing her education in the first place. She hates her mother.
She doesn’t hate her mother, it’s just a momentary thought. A flitting emotion.
“I’m tired of this bird. James, take care of the dishes. I’m heading out. And you, Alyssa, should have an assignment done before I get home, because I’m tired of this mopey shit. It’s been weeks since that boy dropped you out of his life. You need to get over it.”
She couldn’t focus. Her mother hates her--pluck. She has to hate her--pluck, pluck. Why else would she be so hurtful--pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck. Her book slams into the wall opposite her. She’s standing from her desk, chair on the floor. When had she done all that? Her breathing is hard, labored. She needs to do something, anything.
“Power.” The raven screeches from above.
Power is what she wants, and what she needs to feel it. Power requires a blade and a bathroom. She slips down the hall for a second time, taking a razor in hand and preps herself. She takes a few deep breaths and braces for it. She was suddenly so incredibly powerful, the world before her tilting wildly. There was a lot of blood, more blood than she’s used to. What had she done?
The bird screams above her. Its form blocking the afternoon light from above. The world seems hazy. The bird wails, its form shuddering as its wings flitter in the night. How long had she been out. Looking around, the bathroom is the same except for the red tiling. Her arm is open, wider than usual. The wound twinges around the edges. Screaming came from above, followed by a thrashing of wings and beaks.
“I’m down here… I’m… I’m here.” The thing seems to calm. Standing from the floor, she watches as the world swims in front of her. “I think I overdid it.” A squawk answers from above, ‘no’ it said. She was beginning to understand the bird. Were you meant to understand a bird? “Are you really the only one who checked in on me?”
‘Yes’
“Let’s go to my room. I just need… I just need to clean up a little.” The more she moves, the straighter the world gets. She feels a lot stronger than she thought she would, considering the bloodloss. She doesn’t even feel cold, the power still pulsing through her. The clean up ends up being more of laying towels over the ground that she’d come back for. Her parents never go into her bathroom, they’d never know.
Back in her room the bird waits on her sill.
‘Feel good?’ Its head tilts and dips.
“Am I really talking to a bird?”
‘No,’ it calls.
“That’s good. I haven’t had psychotic symptoms in a while. I’m sure my therapist will love this.” She’s smiling, a moment from giggling to herself. When was the last time she’d laughed? Something must be wrong--poke, poke. She was still powerful, a strange feeling. Music fills the bedroom; she is untouchable.
‘Come?’ The bird flies off to a tree across the back yard, a soft croak coming from its beak.
“Come? Come where?” Does it want her to follow it into the forest? It isn’t smart to follow talking avians. The thought reminds her of Wonderland. White Rabbits and Black Ravens. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
‘Come?’
“I can’t come along. I have colleging to do. Maybe on the weekend we can do a daytrip.” The bird seems to agree with that. “Saturday then.” The bird fades from her mind as she falls into a steady rhythm of work. Some things were frustrating, but the sight of the blade on her desk and the encouraging croaks of the raven kept her going.
‘Home’ broke her reverie. Suddenly she’s aware of the world around her, she still feels powerful. In her fervor she’d forgotten her wound; it’s stinging again. The carpet beneath her features several red pools, her jeans were wet and warm, and the front of her desk has streaks of crimson. What did ‘Home’ mean? The answer comes a moment later as the front door opens and slams shut. Her mother’s footsteps pound down the hall. There are no knocks, instead the footsteps disappear into the office opposite her room. A moment later they approach her door.
“Be ready to leave in ten minutes, we’re going to Chili’s with or without you.” Anger spills into her as the raven wails outside her window. The bird’s call seemed to justify her anger. She has a right to hate her mother; “Why can’t you just get your shit together?” “You’re just overreacting.” “Your medication is a crutch.” Words, old and new, are flowing through her head. “You should be living alone by now, happy with a husband or wife and working like a capable person.” She glances at the object of power on her desk. Taking it up, the blade feels good; reassuring her anger, reinforcing it, stoking it to true fury.
‘Hurt?’ Asks the raven.
‘Hurt.’ Whispers the girl.
The girl stands at the end of the hallway, a razor in hand. Her mother is staring at her phone. Her father is getting ready in the master bedroom. The girl glides across the floor. Does she hate her mother? Poke, poke, poke. There’s a gentle push against the idea, it weakly protests ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t.’ Her anger is blinding; blood boiling.
‘Kill!’ Screams the raven, its body slamming into the glass porch-door. Her mother startles and the girl slips up behind her. The blade slides across her mother’s throat, the woman doesn’t even get to scream; left gargling on the couch as she grasps for anything to help her. The power is unlike anything she’s ever felt. She’s a murderer. Alyssa Queen is a murderer. And, her mother would never say another hateful or hurtful word. Lys looks to the window for the bird.
-- 30 --
Word Count : 3449
#writing#writers on tumblr#fiction#potentially triggering#forfun#critique this#female protagonist#modern day#cutting#murder
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𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚢𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚝. 𝟹
⎬𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: NCT Hybrid!AU
⎬𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: ??? x OC
⎬𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2,812
⎬𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: dissociation, beginnings of panic attack, lots of angst
⎬𝚊/𝚗: All parts dealing with dissociation were run through my friend who deals with it. I’m sorry if it’s not 100% accurate, but she said it was pretty close to what happens to her.
➤ 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷 || 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸
➤ 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝
Eunmi wasn’t sure she was hearing Ten correctly.
“They want us to model?”
Ten nods, flipping through a magazine. “The companies will do this from time to time. They’ll invite a model’s hybrid to pose with the for a spread to make their model seem, I don’t know, more approachable? More real? Whatever it is.”
“But I don’t belong to Taeyong. Surely that’s an issue.”
“Not really. They don’t check papers and tags and backgrounds. We probably won’t even be wearing our collars so no one else will know. You’ve been here for over a month so no one will question whether Taeyong owns you or not.” Ten sets the magazine back on the coffee table. “Honestly, it’s just because we’re Taeyong’s hybrids that we’re posing. If he didn’t have any, they’d rent him one for a couple weeks.”
Eunmi frowns. “That sounds terrible.”
“Yeah. It is. The “renters” get all the money. The hybrids get nothing. It’s honestly pretty disgusting. The hybrids don’t even get to keep things that the models or companies give them. The “renters” take it all.”
“And that’s legal? Like renting human beings is legal?”
Ten shrugs. “The hybrids are supposedly there willingly so it’s similar to an escort service. And I suppose it isn’t the worst life to live. They always have food and a roof over their head. Sometimes that roof is luxurious, other times it’s not. They’re kept healthy so they look nice for photos.”
Shaking her head, Eunmi pulls her knees to her chest. “I couldn’t do it. Not knowing what type of human I’d be rented to. Being rented to humans at all, actually.”
“I couldn’t either. Taeyong is the only human that I trust, even after all these years.”
Eunmi hums. “So what all does this posing involve?”
“They’ll do our hair, our makeup, give us clothes and jewelry to wear, take some photos and that’s it. It’s a lot of chaos, but our part is relatively simple.”
“Me being in the middle of chaos doesn’t seem like the best idea.”
Nodding, Ten slides over to sit next to her, his hand finding her ears and rubbing. “You don’t have to do it. It will be a lot and I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I want to do it. I’ve been feeling good lately. I want to try and see what happens.”
“Okay. You can leave the moment that you’re uncomfortable.”
Eunmi nods. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”
That’s how Eunmi finds herself being dolled up by a makeup artist and hairstylist. A stylist was off to the side picking out an outfit for Eunmi to wear out of a rack of clothes that looked more expensive than her life.
Eunmi fidgets as the makeup artist steps away to grab something.
“Please stop moving,” the hairstylist says, a glare on her face. “This is already hard enough.”
“Sorry,” Eunmi murmurs, sitting as still as possible.
“Go easy on her, Somin. It’s her first photoshoot,” the makeup artist says.
Somin scoffs. “She shouldn’t be here. Neither of these hybrids should.”
“Somin!”
“I’m saying what everyone is thinking. It’s disgusting that the company wants us to deal with these creatures.”
“Speak for yourself! Hybrids are beautiful creatures and deserve just as much attention as human models.”
Somin shoves her brush and hairspray into the makeup artist’s hands. “You do her hair then. I can’t even do anything good because of those stupid ears.”
Eunmi shrinks down in her seat, covering her ears, her cat ones, with her hands. Somin was the type of human she usually avoided but she couldn’t this time because of this stupid photoshoot.
Seeing movement somewhere above her, Eunmi looks up. The makeup artist is speaking and gesturing to her, but Eunmi can’t hear her. She’s so lost in her own head that the real world has lost all meaning.
She watches, blankly, as the woman steps away, a panicked look her face.
When she returns, she has Taeyong and Ten in tow along with an annoyed looking older man. Ten immediately kneels in front of her, speaking to her, but hse can’t make out anything that he’s saying.
The next thing Eunmi remembers is sitting on the couch in Taeyong and Ten’s apartment.
Looking around, her brows furrow in confusion. How did she get home? And where was-
“Ten!” she exclaims, running up to the other hybrid as he enters the room.
“Eunmi!” He immediately envelops her in a hug. “You’re okay! Taeyong and I were so worried! You weren’t responding and you just looked so blank and Kun said it was okay and that you would come back but it didn’t seem like it and-”
“Kun?” Eunmi questions. “Dr. Qian was here?”
Ten nods. “He said something about disassociating or something?”
“How did I get home, Ten? I don’t remember.”
Ten steps back, looking concerned now with a frown on his face. “Taeyong and I brought you home, Eunmi. You don’t remember?”
Eunmi whines, shaking her head. “I don’t remember any of it, Ten. What’s wrong with me?”
Ten’s arms back around her immediately. “Shh. Relax for me, please. Kun said that you might not remember certain things and that it was normal for what was happening to you.”
“I’m broken,” Eunmi whispers.
Ten lifts her chin. “You’re not broken, Mi. You’ve dealt with a lot and this sort of stuff is a natural response to the amount of trauma you’ve been through.”
“Did you go through any of this?”
“The disassociating? No. But I had many panic attacks in the beginning.”
Eunmi looks up at him. “How did you overcome it?”
“I still deal with it,” Ten tells her. “I go to a psychiatrist whenever things start to spiral. It’s a lifelong process. You can get better at dealing with it, but it never truly disappears.”
Frowning, Eumni asks, “How do you trust a human with, like, everything?”
Ten smiles. “It was hard. Especially since I couldn’t keep an eye on him at all times. But he’s really nice and he didn’t push. He let me reveal things at my own pace.”
“Do you-” Eunmi considers her question for a moment. “Do you think something like that would be good for me?”
“Yes. I would say so. But when you feel comfortable. Don’t push yourself too much. You have to get outside your comfort zone, but don’t throw yourself into the deep end with no way back to safety.”
Nodding, Eunmi steps back. “Thank you. Not just for that, but for everything. You’ve helped me so much over the past month.”
“It’s what any being with a heart would do.”
“Still. Thank you.”
“You can thank me by getting better.”
Eunmi’s smile is bright. “Definitely.”
Eunmi’s first therapy session was nothing like what she thought it would be. She expected to lay down on a couch as some old man analyzed every word that came out of her mouth.
Instead, she sat in an extremely comfortable chair across from the psychiatrist named Dr. Kim, though he had told her to call him Dongyoung.
The first question out of his mouth wasn’t some weird push into her subconscious.
It was simply, “How has your day been?”
From there, things were even weirder.
There were no in-depth questions pushing her to reveal everything. The questions were soft like what her favorite hobbies were, where her favorite places to nap were. Things most people didn’t care about.
It felt good to talk about mundane things with someone that wasn’t with her every moment of the day. She had ranted about Ten taking arguably the best spot to nap, which was under the window in Taeyong’s room, and Dongyoung had simply chuckled. He didn’t scold her for acting like a child or sneer at her.
“Um,” Eunmi pauses at the door as she’s about to leave the session. “What exactly was… this?”
Dongyoung smiles. “Trust is important, Eunmi. If I force you to open up, it’ll send you back ten steps. You need to reveal what is troubling you in your own time. Until then, we will talk about the things Ten does to annoy you.”
Her face scrunches. “I thought therapists were supposed to try to get to the root of things quickly.”
“Sometimes. Other times, we have a notion of what’s wrong and simply have to let our patient tell us.”
Eunmi nods. “Okay. So, next week?”
“Next week,” Dongyoung agrees. “Try to have a good week, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
In the month she had been seeing Dongyoung, she had had 2 dissociation episodes, each caused by a rude human in some sort of setting. The latest one had actually been on her way into Dongyoung’s office for her weekly session. She had bumped into a businessman and spilled his coffee which he yelled and ranted about until she just shut down. She didn’t remember going up to Dongyoung’s office or even the first half of the session. When she came to, Dongyoung was scribbling something down in his notes as she cuddled with a stuffed animal.
“Welcome back,” he had said and smiled. “You were just telling me that you loved soft things a lot.”
He hadn’t treated her like she was insane. He had been worried and expressed his concern then talked through the encounter with her, but not once had he made it seem like there was something wrong with her.
Ten and Taeyong tried to be calm about everything, but when she had shut down during a shopping trip, they had immediately called Dongyoung to figure out how to fix her. It had hurt after she came back to hear it being called “fixing” like there was something broken inside her. She didn’t feel broken. She felt happy.
They had apologized when she had mentioned it and had assured her that that wasn’t what they meant, but there was still a little nugget in the back of her mind saying that that was exactly what they meant.
Apart from all of that, Jisung and Donghyuk had come to visit again. As promised, Eunmi plays hide and attack with Donghyuk with Jisung and Ten joining in. It was chaotic, to say the least.
“Okay so Jisung will be it first,” Donghyuk states, with a grin.
“Why me?” Jisung whines. “I’m always first.”
“Because you’re the youngest,” Ten offers.
Donghyuk scoffs. “We all know it’s because he’s the only dog.”
Rolling his eyes, Ten shoves the younger boy. “You could at least try to be nice.”
“Nice? What is that?”
Eunmi giggles. “I can go first if you want, Jisung-ah.”
Jisung immediately shakes his head. “No. I’ll go first, noona. It’s okay.”
“Suck-up,” Donghyuk says. “Oh well. Let’s shift!”
Within moments, there are three cats and a dog all sitting in the middle of the living room.
“You know,” Johnny says as he comes to sit on the couch. “It’s kind of funny how tiny you cats are.”
Even in cat form, Donghyuk manages a deadly glare.
While he’s distracted, Ten nudges her and motions to a box on it’s side that Donghyuk had brought with him specifically for the game. It was in shambles, certain parts barely holding on, but that was apparently what made it so good to use.
She and Ten dash over to it and hide inside, peering out the hole on the bottom.
Donghyuk, noticing them in his box, lets out a loud complaining meow.
“Should have been quicker, Hyuk-ah,” Johnny teases.
Donghyuk hisses then jumps when Jisung pounces down behind him. Turning abruptly, he swipes at Jisung’s muzzle making the dog back up.
Donghyuk’s tail whipping angrily catches Eunmi’s attention and her eyes zero in on it. Quietly stepping out of the box and around it, Eunmi lowers her body to the ground and prepares to pounce on the wiggling appendage.
She’s in the air, halfway to the tail, when Donghyuk whips around. He smacks at her with his paw then pounces on her, sending her tumbling backwards. The two begin play fighting, Eunmi getting distracted by Donghyuk’s tail every few moments.
In a moment where Donghyuk has her pinned, he’s pounced on and lets out a ‘mrow’ sound as he’s taken down.
Ten holds him down and bites at his ears and neck.
Sitting up, Eunmi watches as Donghyuk wiggles around before finally turning on his side and knocking Ten off his back. The two then roll around pawing and biting at one another for a while.
Eunmi, bored, stretches out on her stomach and lays her head on her paws.
Jisung plops down beside her and flops his head onto her back. His body curls around her and she ends up wrapped in a very warmth puppy shaped blanket.
Eunmi doesn’t even notice her eyes drooping as she dozes off.
She’s nudged awake what feels like moments later by a cold, wet nose which must be Donghyuk since Ten’s is usually dry.
Opening her eyes, Eunmi is confused at seeing Donghyuk laying on top of her curled up form, staring at her. He meows then snuggles into her, eyes slipping closed as he starts purring.
“You’re lucky that we’re here until Taeyong gets back later,” Eunmi hears Johnny says.
There’s another meow from somewhere around the pile she’s in that sounds like Ten, but she really doesn’t have the space to look up to check. That dilemma is solved when Ten wriggles his way underneath her head and curls up with the majority of his body laying on Jisung’s flank and back legs.
A camera clicks above them and Eunmi internally huffs but can’t be bothered to express her dislike of the photography.
“Taeyong will love that one,” is the last thing Eunmi hears before she dozes off again.
It’s that weekend that everything implodes.
It was a calm Sunday with all three inhabitants lazing around the apartment. Taeyong was actually relaxing for once, flipping mindlessly through channels on the TV with Ten’s head in his lap. Eunmi, restless, was walking around, straightening things up.
She was dusting off some glass objects on the shelf underneath the TV when it happened.
She sneezed, knocking one of the knick-knacks off the shelf. She watches in horror as it drops onto the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.
Tears gather in her eyes as she hears shouts. This was it. This was when Taeyong finally stopped pretending. She knew it was too good to be true.
Unable to sit and wait for the inevitable punishment, Eunmi jumps up and rushes to her room, locking the door before dashing into the closet and hiding in the back of it.
Rocking back and forth, Eunmi tries to stave off the oncoming panic, nearly succeeding before she just goes blank.
Staring at the blackness around her, she can vaguely hear someone banging on her bedroom door, but feels nothing about it.
When she comes back up, she’s sitting on her bed, swaddled in a blanket with her arm in the grip of Dr. Qian who is cleaning a wound on her hand.
“What happened?” she murmurs.
Dr. Qian looks up at her and smiles. “Just a little accident.”
“Please.”
He sighs, looking back down at her hand as he continues gently cleaning it off. “You tried picking up the glass from the knick-knack and sliced up your hand. Nothing major, just looks bad because there’s so many cuts.”
Eunmi buries her head in her blanket. “When am I leaving?”
Dr. Qian’s head snaps up. “You’re not leaving, Eunmi. It was an accident. Taeyong knows that. Hell, Ten has broken more of those knick-knacks than I can count.”
“But Ten belongs to him. I don’t. I’m just a stray that they feel sorry for.”
Dr. Qian leans forward and, with his voice almost a whisper, says, “That’s not true, Eunmi-yah. They love you. You are no different from Ten in Taeyong’s eyes.”
Eunmi sniffles. “Those words sound nice, but I know they’re not true.”
“They are very true.”
Eunmi looks over towards the door and sees Taeyong standing there.
“Ten and I planned to do this in a much more special way, but I guess now is good enough,” Taeyong says, walking over. He sits on the bed beside Eunmi and rests a hand on her back. “I want to adopt you, Eunmi. I want you to have a permanent home here with Ten and I.”
Eunmi’s eyes water. “But I-”
“Ten has purposefully broken hundreds of those. It was an accident. An accident that even I could have had.”
“So you’re not mad?”
Taeyong shakes his head. “Not in the slightest.”
Eunmi looks unsure for a moment, her face scrunched up. “You want to keep me?”
“As long as you want to stay.”
A smile blooms on Eunmi’s face as tears roll down her cheeks.
“I want to stay forever.”
⎬𝚊/𝚗: All that’s left is the epilogue! I may play around with this universe a bit more and involve some other NCT members, but I don’t know yet.
#lovely-sanie#s: halcyon#180knet#nct#nct au#nct hybrid au#nct imagines#nct scenarios#kpop#kpop au#kpop imagines#kpop scenarios
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We’ll Carry On - Chapter Twenty Three
We’ll Carry On Tag
General Content Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Substance Abuse, Abandonment, Minor Character Death, Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation, Bullying, Homophobia
September 23rd, 2017
He thought he might get sick. He was looking at the mangled wreck in front of him. She had been there one moment, and the next...a brief flash of light, the frantic spin of tail lights as the car tried to correct itself, and it just...kept going into the night. The driver who must have known that he had hit a person getting out of a car just disappeared into the night.
She was just supposed to be changing their flat tire, why did this have to happen? Why did the car swerve, hit both her and their car, and drive away? Why was he still alive when she wasn’t? He thought he might get sick. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her body, from the blood on the metal, from the flashing blue and red lights of the police cars as strangers asked him questions.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight and sobbed. He just wanted his mother, but she was dead.
May 5th, 2019
Roman woke up with an aborted scream for his mother, shaking like a leaf. He kept a hand clamped over his mouth as he started to sob. He hoped he hadn’t been too loud, he didn’t want to wake the others up, they all needed their sleep--and then there was the knock at his door and light from the bathroom across the hall streamed into his room. Dad was there, but he couldn’t fix this. No one could fix this. “Roman? Are you okay?”
He couldn’t bring himself to look at Dad’s concerned face for more than a second. He shook his head as he looked away, hand still clamped over his mouth as he cried.
Dad slowly came over and sat on the edge of Roman’s bed. “It’s okay to cry, Roman. You need to let the emotions out. It’s okay if other people hear you, no one will blame you for needing to cry.”
Roman coughed and tried his hardest not to puke. Dad worried his lip and walked back to the doorway. “Rem? Could you get a trash can?” he softly called.
Instantly, there were two sets of footsteps in the hallway. The steady gait of Ami, and Dee’s frantic footsteps attempting to keep up. There were two shadows moving through the light, before Ami came over with a trash can and passed it to Dad, who put it by Roman’s feet on the bed. “Do you need anything, Roman?”
Roman shook his head as more tears fell. All he wanted was his mom, but he couldn’t have her.
Dee was standing in the doorway, holding onto Ami’s hand with a vice grip. When Roman looked over, he let go of Ami’s hand and disappeared into his room, before coming back with his giant snake stuffed animal. He walked into the room slowly, and keeping his eyes fixed on Roman, he reverently put the stuffed animal in Roman’s lap. Roman nearly choked on his laughter at such a small but meaningful gesture. He took the snake in his hands and rubbed his fingers over the short “fur” the animal had been given.
Dad started rubbing Roman’s back and Roman’s tears burned his cheeks as they fell. Roman took a deep breath, then another, then turned to Dad. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“It’s not a problem, Roman. Are you all right?” Dad asked.
Roman sniffled and rubbed his nose. “Yeah, I’m okay now. It was just a bad dream,” he whispered.
“About?” Dad pressed gently. “Roman, you know Ami and I don’t want to pry, but you showed up here one day, saying you were abandoned. You were surprised when we offered you food when you were hungry, and about the amount of chores you would do, and that we would help you with your homework. Logan, Patton, and Virgil all worry that you were abused. Did your mom...?”
“No!” Roman exclaimed. “Never. She would never hurt me. Not...not like that. She...she just left. When I needed her. And I got put into foster care when the police found out, and that’s where I had to do a lot of work, and didn’t get a lot to eat. And the horrible woman and her husband would make me take care of the younger kids, and the man would drink a lot, spending most of their money on beer. But my mother never, ever hurt me!”
“How did she leave?” Logan asked from the doorway.
Roman turned pink as he noticed Patton and Virgil standing there too, watching him like he was a ticking time bomb. He shrugged. “Does it matter? No matter why she left, or how, she’s gone now.”
Logan gently moved into the room, ushering Dee away from the side of the bed. “But how did she leave? Why? Don’t you ever wonder? Clearly, it still left an impact on you somehow. Did she leave in the middle of the night? Did she leave you behind in search of something else in life? Did you ever think you were holding her back?”
“Logan,” Dad warned, as Roman’s face turned red.
“Go to hell, Logan!” Roman exclaimed, and Patton pulled Virgil closer to him as Virgil gasped. “My mother loved me! She loved me like I was her entire world!”
“Then why would she leave you?” Logan asked.
“Because she died!” Roman exclaimed, jumping out of his bed and getting in Logan’s face. “We were coming home from shopping, and we got a flat tire! She was getting out to fix it when a drunk driver came by and hit her and the car on its way down the road! So no, I don’t question whether she loved me, you asshole, I just question why it had to be her, and not me who died that night!”
Logan stared at him cooly, face showing no emotion. Then, slowly, his eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t realize...”
“You didn’t realize what, huh?” Roman asked. “That the abuse came from someone other than my mother? That I could say she abandoned me without her having a say in the matter? What didn’t you realize?”
“Had I known that she had died, Roman...I would have...”
“Been gentler about it?” Roman scoffed, “You’re never gentle about things when you want to satisfy your own curiosity. And my mom dying shouldn’t be the only reason that you didn’t ask that! That would cross a line for anyone, Logan, not just someone whose mother died because of a drunk driver! You shouldn’t...you can’t make those assumptions. You can’t ask those questions. You never know who you’ll push away because of it.”
Logan opened his mouth to say something, but Roman just glared at him and Logan closed his mouth with a click. “I don’t want to talk to you,” Roman dismissed. “Go ahead and sleep in your own room. We both know you actually consider people’s emotions better when you’ve gotten a full night’s rest, anyway.”
With a stiff nod, Logan left the room, slamming the door to his room next door. In an instant, Roman’s legs buckled, and Dad rushed forward to catch him just before he hit the floor. Roman could feel tears falling down again, but he was detached from it. Was he sure it was him that was crying? “Roman? Roman, I need you to look at me,” Dad requested.
Roman forced himself to look over towards Dad, even though he kinda wanted to curl up in a ball on the floor and never move again. “Okay, that’s not good. Roman? You’re dissociating. Do you understand what that means?”
Well, he knew what dissociation meant, more or less, but he didn’t understand why anyone would think he was dissociating right now. He tried to stand up, but the body he was using was...not working. He giggled manically and muttered, “I think this body needs a tune-up, can I get a trade-in?”
Dad gently pulled him to a standing position and led him over to his bed. “Okay, I think you just need some more sleep for now, Roman. If you’re feeling bad in the morning we’ll see if anything needs to be done, sound good?”
Roman hummed his understanding and got back in bed. Dee came over and gently moved the snake closer to Roman’s chest. “You can have them for the night,” Dee signed.
“Thanks,” Roman signed back. His eyelids felt like lead and soon enough, he couldn’t be bothered to keep them open.
When Roman returned to consciousness again, he sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily and yawning. He saw Dee’s stuffed snake in his lap and briefly wondered what had happened last night to prompt the stuffed animal being here instead of with its rightful owner. He picked it up and went to Dee’s room to return it, but Dee wasn’t there.
That was a little weird, because Dee never got up early. He checked the time on Dee’s clock, and his eyes bugged out when he saw it was ten in the morning. Even Logan would be awake by now!
Forgetting about returning the snake plush, he headed downstairs immediately, asking, “Guys, why didn’t anyone wake me up this morning?! It’s already ten!”
Everyone turned to look at him from wherever they were in the house. Patton and Virgil were watching cartoons, but quickly turned back to the show. Dee looked up from the book he was staring at, before averting his gaze when Roman looked at him. Logan was staring at his breakfast, resolutely not looking at him after first glance. Only Dad and Ami were bold enough to meet his gaze. “What happened? I didn’t contract the plague, did I?” Roman huffed.
“Roman, do you remember what happened early this morning?” Dad asked.
Roman frowned. “Uh...no? Why?”
“Well, you dissociated pretty badly, so I’m not really surprised about that,” Dad said. “But...”
“But?” Roman prompted.
Ami cleared his throat. “Roman, we know. About your mother.”
The forgotten snake fell to the ground. Roman’s eyes widened, and his blood roared through his ears. He took an involuntary step back. It all came crashing around him. The smells, the sound, the flashing lights and the sight of blood and his tears burning his face like fire, crying, so much crying and he could only barely remember what the car looked like because in a flash it was gone, and he couldn’t help his mother. Shouldn’t someone try and help his mother?
Dad had his hands on Roman’s shoulders and the world snapped back into place. He wrenched himself free. “Don’t touch me!” he exclaimed.
Not only had his flashbacks crashed around him, but this new home he had started to build for himself was crumbling as well. They knew. They knew what had happened, he had too much baggage, he couldn’t keep up the mask well enough. And they’d send him away, back to that terrible place where he couldn’t go to school, couldn’t have friends, where he was only good for cleaning and the occasional meal.
He was crying, and his cheeks flared red in his embarrassment. They were definitely going to send him away now. He couldn’t even pretend like everything was okay.
“Roman,” Dad said slowly. “We’re not mad at you, okay? We’re not going to send you away, we’re not upset with you. This was something you didn’t want to share with us, and we’re not upset that you didn't tell us sooner. Do you understand?”
Breathing was incredibly difficult, and understanding what Dad was saying more so. But he tried, because he knew that he should at least make an attempt. Slowly, he nodded.
“Okay,” Dad said, in the soft voice he usually used on Patton, or Virgil, or Dee when one of them got worked up. “Roman, we want to make sure you’re not going to dissociate again. Would you be okay if I gave you a weighted toy to hold?”
Again, Roman nodded. Dad moved away and almost immediately came back with a small sparkly crab that was surprisingly heavy for its size. He held it in his hands, trying to keep his hands up so the crab didn’t fall to the floor. “Okay, Roman, let’s go through some grounding exercises,” Dad said. “Can you name five things you can see?”
Roman frowned, trying to focus. “Uh...the crab, you, the floor, the couch, and the twins.”
“Four things you can feel?” Dad prompted.
“The crab,” Roman said, feeling his breathing start to slow at having a task to complete. “The cold of the floor, my shirt, and my tears.”
Dad smiled despite the situation and said, “You’re doing great, Roman. Three things you can hear?”
“The TV, your voice, my breathing,” Roman said.
Dad gave him another encouraging smile. “You’re almost done, just two more questions. What are two things you can smell?”
Roman sniffled. “Uh...whatever remains of breakfast...eggs, maybe? And...I guess how the house normally smells.”
Dad nodded. “That one’s hard. Is there anything you can taste? It’s okay if you can’t.”
“I taste salt,” Roman said softly. His cheeks were on fire from embarrassment, but he at least felt like he was real. “Can I have something to eat?” he asked, voice almost too soft to hear.
Dad nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get you some eggs and you can watch cartoons in the living room while you eat, if you want.”
#we'll carry on#sanders sides fanfiction#roman sanders#logan sanders#emile picani#our creations#danger gays
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A “Murphy’s Law” of a Wedding
Disclosure: This is a rant post. Since the wedding has happened a couple weeks ago, with everything that happened, I just can’t get past all the bullshit. People keep telling me to look past it and appreciate the day for what it is; marrying my best friend. You’ll see how that’s noooooot exactly easy in my case. I should also note that my mental health background is that I’ve been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and dissociation disorder, so I actively attend therapy. Over the years, my therapist has recommended putting stuff down on paper or a word document, but I feel like I need to get it off my chest somewhat publicly in hopes maybe it can help someone else (i.g. wedding advice, first-hand mental health advice, just feeling better about yourself because you didn’t get fucked over many times trying to just have one day of happiness, etc). I get that some of this may seem like not even an issue and I need to suck it up, but married/engaged people should get it. Maybe you’ll get a kick out of this, I don’t know.
Now, let’s get into this.
The engagement: My husband was stationed at an Air Force base within the U.S. (I won’t say which, sorry), and I was still living in our home town 5 states away. We had met in high school, and definitely had crushes on each other, but we never officially dated. He literally slid into my Instagram DM’s, which couldn’t have been better timing because I had just left a rough relationship. I was immediately swept off my feet, and he bought me plane tickets for the New Year’s Eve after we started dating. The night I flew in, he made me a lovely steak dinner, took me to bed for our “first time” (if you know what I mean), and proposed in the middle of it with a beautiful silver plated lotus necklace. When I got home, I was so excited to tell my family and friends! I was ready to post all about it on Facebook, face judgement from everyone because we dated for not even a year, but just be happy-go-lucky. I got in my dad’s car at the airport, and he tells me...
“your mom and I are getting a divorce”.... Turns out my dad had left the night before I flew back home to pick up his girlfriend from jail, packed up whatever could fit in his car, and just.. Left. It couldn’t be worse timing, even if we tried. I had to keep the engagement a secret from a lot of people until my husband saved up for a ring, because I just wasn’t comfortable telling my mom I was getting married right when the love of her life was leaving her... When we went public with it a few months later, I got the criticisms that I expected, but overall people were happy for me. I thought, “ok, I can move forward with wedding plans and get excited about this now”. HAHA, nope!
The Bridesmaids: Throughout the wedding planning journey, one year and 4 months after the public engagement, I had a 100% turnover of my 5 bridesmaids and even the Maid of Honor (I’ll talk about them in a different section). I admit, I rushed my decision to make them bridesmaids, and in hindsight, they were TERRIBLE people to be in my party. Don’t rush picking your bridal party for the love of god. One girl assumed herself into the position and didn’t even make it to the wedding. She made every decision difficult for me to make in some way (being stubborn, wanting her way, tried to get other bridesmaids to go against me, etc). One girl I had to remove from my life completely because she stayed at my home for 4 days and shat all over the wedding. She made the wedding miserable to plan because I was being forced to make choices around her, and I still got criticisms as she got her way. One girl refused to talk to me anymore when I quit my job I had with her at the time, then told everyone I was the one who ended the friendship. The fifth girl dropped out of the party due to being uncomfortable standing up in front of people 4 months before the wedding (a whole year passed with 0 communication about this and no chance to convince her it’d be ok and so on). That’d normally be understandable (frustrating, but I understand it), except she then refused to come to the bridal shower, and ultimately, refused to at least show up to the wedding. I ended up having to block her from my life just like the last one mentioned. It was clear she didn’t want to be supportive in any way. In the end, I had 1 maid of honor, and 4 new bridesmaids.
The Maid of Honor: This was the most heart-breaking thing to happen. I like to think I was a laid back bride. I didn’t make any of my bridal party members do anything, I planned my own bridal shower and bachelorette party to take stress off of my maid of honor’s already stressful home-life, I wanted to make things as easy as I could for everyone involved. I planned the entire wedding myself, from budgeting to planning the ceremony to the details of the reception. I was stressed as fuck, and at times I was worried my anxiety was going to take a physical toll on me again (I’ve been hospitalized related to panic attacks and anxiety). Then, 2 months before the wedding, before the bridal shower, and before any other celebrations, my maid of honor drops out. This was someone I grew up with, someone who was there for me when my dad left, someone who stayed up until 4 a.m. on multiple occasions to make sure I was ok when I was having suicidal thoughts. She was the only person I had a special handshake with, we were “420 buddies for life”, and we’ve considered making a blood pact together because they were the closest thing I had to a sibling I could ever want. They left because the position was too stressful... Doing literally nothing was too much for them. A month before this, we went over everything that was going on with them, because they had been very absent in the wedding planning. They told me they were upset that all I’d talk about is wedding stuff and drama... Well, yes, you’re the maid of honor, I will be talking to you about wedding stuff a lot... Because you’re supposed to be my right hand man... And I thought we were close, I could tell you anything... Like that the fuck is that supposed to mean? We talked things through, everything seemed ok. All they had to do was show up to shit, give a Maid of Honor speech (they knew they didn’t have to), and that’s it. But that was too much?? Her mom was supposed to be our florist; she dropped out too, so we had to compromise with fake boutonnieres and bouquets. Her soon to be step dad was going to be our officiant; he dropped out. I thought I was part of her family (went to all the annual events and some birthday parties every year), but in the end, no one wanted to show up to the wedding. I got completely abandoned by the people I thought welcomed me with open arms when I needed it most...
The Officiant: Yes, shit happened with the officiant too. Since the ex-maid of honor’s step dad dropped out of the position, we got a new one. He was a new airman we had over for a Christmas dinner, and we became fast friends. He’s an ordained minister so he offered to wed us. It was going to be this lovely ceremony with a poem, a short story about how we came together, a lot of thought was put into it. What did this fucker decide to do? He missed his damn flight... Hire someone local and spend the money to have that security for fucks sake. How did he miss it? He thought it was a GREAT idea to show up to the airport 45 fucking minutes before the plane takes off, and the check in people basically told him “they just started boarding, there’s no way you’re getting through TSA before they close the gate”. Everyone knows to show up to an airport 2 hours before your flight takes off, and he was mad he wasn’t allowed to go through within an hour of takeoff?? And you know what’s worse? This was the MORNING. OF. THE. WEDDING. My girls and I showed up to the venue to get our hair done without an officiant. We had to scramble to have someone else run the ceremony. And to make things worse, the original officiant idiot that deliberately missed their flight was also in charge of music. So they had all of our songs saved in a text message and they knew our Bluetooth stereo situations. So we had to give a fast run-down to the new officiant, one of the groomsmen, the 3 special songs to play, when, and so on. It was pretty straightforward; one little one speaker downstairs for the ceremony, one big one upstairs with a mic for announcements/toasts.
It. Gets. Worse.
The officiant gets high before the ceremony... He’s a stoner, so we didn’t notice it for the ceremony. The ceremony was the best part of the entire wedding process. It wasn’t until after the ceremony that shit his the fan. He brings the tiny speaker upstairs, completely ignoring the big one, shouts our entrance announcement over everyone talking, which only maybe half of our guests heard, and people barely heard our song. It was just really awkward. He then starts drinking, and getting very out of control. The large speaker and mic was completely forgotten, and he kept forgetting about music. A lot of people left before we could even do toasts and cutting the cake; no one could hear what was going on. Toasts just didn’t happen because there was miscommunication between the wedding party and our officiant; everyone thought the mic wasn’t working, and I had to deal with people being upset they had to write a speech for nothing... It was heartbreaking because it wasn’t our fault... It was a Friday evening wedding, and everyone was gone by 7:30 p.m. because there wasn’t anything keeping them there... After the reception, and cleanup commenced, the officiant got pretty aggressively faded and tried to make everyone drink with him. It was so bad, our bartender, a friend of ours, had to kick him out of the building because he was just making messes and stumbling over himself. He kept getting in my face, uncomfortably close, pressuring me to drink champagne straight from the bottle with him. He got angry no one wanted to drink with him, so, I shit you not, he grabbed a bag of our leftover produce (carrots, celery, seasonings, onions, etc) and stormed off telling people he’s gonna go find a bar to drink at. With this bag. Of fucking veggies. Not even his bag of stuff, just... Our food... We were awake until 3 a.m. getting him safely somewhere to sleep, booking his Uber to the airport, and making sure he makes his flight that takes off at 6 a.m.. We had no special wedding night.
My Dad: Since my dad left, I was forced into a position as my mom’s emotional sponge. There were so many things that I didn’t need to hear as the child in all of this, like the legal shit, arguments, how much of an asshole my dad was, and so on. With that, mixed with feeling abandoned by my dad, I made the decision to have my grandpa (mom’s dad) walk me down the aisle. He never got to with my mom; they had a quick courthouse wedding, and he had a step son, so he never walked anyone down the aisle. I thought it’d not only be fucking cute, but I’d be fulfilling a milestone for him before he passes. Then my dad and I talked and we were cool again. Briefly. I was in a weird position where I couldn’t just take it back, my grandpa was in tears when I asked. It’d break his heart. So I thought I’d have them both walk me down the aisle. Well, drama happened with my birthday and the holidays, so I was on the fence with that idea. When I had my bridal shower, I was visiting my home state for a month before the shower, and he didn’t ever reach out to see me. He saw my “sister” half a dozen times, but whenever I reached out, he was always “busy with work”. I took it as he just didn’t want to see me and preferred my “sister” over me, so I stuck with just my grandpa walking me. Because fuck it. Fast forward to the wedding day; we had a father daughter dance song picked out, I texted him to be ready for it, I thought things were fine. After the ceremony, my photographer took the wedding party out to the park across the street for pictures. We get back, and he and my “sister” are waiting on the porch for us, where he informs me he’s not sticking around and he’s just leaving. I asked if he could at least take pictures with me, and he said no and walked off. In front of everyone... I spent 20 minutes crying in a bathroom, trying to collect myself to face the rest of the evening. My grandpa wasn’t physically able to dance, so, I just didn’t get any father/grandfather-daughter dance. No pictures with my dad. The only picture of him I have from that day is him, sitting in the back of the ceremony room, pouting and looking pissed. We talked later, and he knows he was a selfish asshole for leaving, and he knows he took part in ruining my big day. I know he wanted to walk to me down the aisle, but that’s no reason to just leave behind your kid entirely and with seemingly no remorse. He admitted that he should’ve just sucked it up and stayed there for me, and he regrets leaving because, yea, there’s no photo memory of my dad in our wedding album now. We’re working past it at the time of posting.
My “sister”: When I announced my engagement, I asked (let’s call her Dani) to be our flower girl. We spent several months looking at dresses, even my mom was trying to show her things. Now, Dani and I.. never got along. At all. You could say we’re polar opposite people, except she hates me and even straight up told me “I’m annoyed with your existence”. As much as I tried to hang out with her, make a sister relationship with her, turn things around; it was never enough. She turned everything into some dramatic, horrible experience (i.g. I took her out for smoothies and hot dogs, and things seemed fine. We got back and she cried to our mom saying I kidnapped her, I forced her to get something she didn’t want, and she was miserable. I merely asked if she wanted to go and she said yes, so where the fuck that is coming from I have no idea). I thought maybe having her part of my wedding party could bring us together. Fast forward to right before the bridal shower, it turns out she actually thought I was joking and said fuck no.. SO. We had to make one of the groomsmen our last minute flower “girl”. Dani left with our dad when he left, without a word. She keeps spreading bullshit to my mom, making it look like my dad never remembered us talking about the father daughter dance and that he didn’t want to stay because of our mom being at the wedding, when both were so false. At this moment, she has no place in my life. She is nothing but a ball of negativity, drama, hatred, anger, and, as far as I’m concerned, jealousy.
The Legal Wedding: One year before our wedding with family and friends, I moved in with my husband. In order for me to get health care and for my husbands pay to go up a little, we decided to get legally married. When the day happened, I took one photo of us in the car before we went inside. We confirmed our appointment that morning to have the Chaplain, basically a military priest/priestess who weds people and also doubles as a counselor, sign our papers in the on-base Christian church (we’re not religious, we were just recommended him by people in my husband’s office). We showed up with our two witnesses, found the Chaplain’s office, saw he had a marriage counselling appointment, so we waited outside. For an hour. My phone ended up frying in the summer heat, so we only got the one photo, and I had to buy a new one. We eventually were invited to wait in their cafeteria room while the Chaplain finished his thing. Another Chaplain came along and offered us water and juices from standing outside in the heat for so long. After another half hour of waiting, the Chaplain we made the appointment came in and told us we missed our appointment that was apparently supposed to be 10 minutes before the couples counselling we saw happened (we have email receipts confirming our appointment at 1530/3:30 p.m., and he tried telling us he told my husband 1520/3:20 p.m.). He couldn’t admit he double booked. On top of that, he told us “I don’t know if you believe in bad omens, but this is actually the date my first wife and I filed for divorce hahahaha”.... Um, WHAT? OK COOL THANKS DUDE. I’m not usually a superstitious person, but that was kind of uncalled for... Later, I found out the day we got married is the day my beloved great grandpa, who passed before seeing us get married, was born. So the date we got legally married became special again.
The Food: My husband was in charge of all the food while my girls and I got ready and made sure the reception area was ready to go. We should’ve just invested in some damn catering holy fuck. I texted all the recipes to my husband and his groomsmen, and they still fucked up the recipes. The macaroni was missing milk and butter, so it was very dry and almost a grainy texture. The breadsticks were like long versions of those cheese dip cracker stick things you get as a kid in your lunch boxes. Everything was cold (no one listened to me when I said there needed to be water in the bottom compartment of a chafing dish then the burners had to be ignited to keep food hot), lots of food were left uneaten on plates, and it just left me feeling guilty that we served sub-par stuff to everyone. I’m sure it’s not a big deal at all, like, who remembers the food when thinking back on a party or some celebration? But with all the work and planning put into it, I just feel really bad about it.
Rentals: I would have loved to have rentals. Being out of state, I asked my mom to meet with a rental company on our behalf, and we’d pay for all the deposits and so on. It took her 5 months of me bugging her about it to finally go do it, and every rental company in the area was booked on our date. Which made sense, since the wedding at that point was in 4 months and you need to book that shit at least 6 months in advanced, even 9 months if you’re having a “wedding season” wedding like us. So we had to buy every. Single. Thing. We were left with dozens of plates, glasses, forks/knives, even a handful of chafing dishes. We gave as much away as we could to friends and family who’d need it, then donated the rest. Thank you Dollar Tree for just existing. If we had to order through Amazon, we’d have to spend at least triple for the same thing. It didn’t help half of the guests invited refused to answer messages/RSVPs/phone calls/said they’d come but didn’t/etc, so many many things were left unused. Rentals would have been so fucking nice; one less thing to worry about.
The Cake: Yes, even the fucking CAKE had drama. We ordered a small cake for our cake cutting ceremony, and the rest were cupcakes. My mom felt bad about the rental situation, so she covered the cake order, which was a huge help! We were ready to just bake it ourselves (thank god we didn’t. Fuck. That.). On the day of the wedding, our delivery window was 2 p.m. to 4 p.m.. At 3:45 p.m., an hour and 15 before the ceremony starts, the cake is nowhere to be seen. The manager had to get involved, then the OWNERS had to be contacted. We were told “We’ll be there in 10 minutes”. Bitches almost forgot or something. It came barely on time, and everything tasted and looked good at least. Half our guests left before they could enjoy it, and some took cupcakes before the cake cutting happened (is this normal/ok? We felt like that shouldn’t be ok but we’re not sure lol). We ordered enough for 80 guests and by the time it was dessert time, there were maybe 30 people left. A lot of people left with cupcakes in wine glasses, which turned out to be super suiting (our centerpieces were upside down wine glasses with a candle resting on the base of the glasses).
Advice I’ve taken away that I’ll be giving all of my friends when they get married: 1) Hire people wherever possible. 2) Order rentals for the love of god. 3) Stay on top of the cake people, just in case. 4) Don’t totally rely on friends and family for things. Be prepared to have to do it yourself after all. 5) Take your time picking bridesmaids and a MOH (even though there was no one else I would’ve wanted as my Maid of Honor, the replacement Maid of Honor hooked us up with an amazing photographer who does payment plans, kept me organized and calm whenever possible, and helped set up the sound equipment. It was an upgrade). 6) Limit not only your guests on alcohol intake, but your wedding party too (we did a drink ticket system but let our wedding party drink more because they helped us out a lot on our wedding day. That was a mistake with the officiant/groomsman). 7) I have so many links to websites with wedding stuff for a very low price, which beat Amazon prices in a lot of ways, so I can low-key event plan for people.
TLDR version: The only good things about this wedding was the ceremony, the photographer, and the dessert. Everything else was a pain in the ass to make happen or bullshit to get through. Do I regret doing this? No. I can proudly say I single-handedly planned my own wedding and everything looked great. The photos don’t show any of the pain and frustrations of that day, which is a big plus. However, fuck this entire process. I asked for one day. Just one. And shit went wrong from the engagement all the way through the wedding night. I’d really like to hear some advice to get past this, maybe hear some other people’s stories around your wedding.
I left telling people the only thing that could be worse is if someone fucking died. Thanks for reading if you took the time to do so.
#wedding#wedding nightmare#murphy's law#hell#marriage#story#story time#true story#fuck people#rant#advice
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It's like everytime some shit goes bad or I feel wronged, my head starts spiraling, spinning like grandma's record player.
Thinking bout Jay, Ayunna, Terrell, Tatyana, My old jobs, sometimes in that exact order...
Just anything that pisses me off or feels similar and I'm ready to strike again, I'm ready to beat some ass for making my heart feel cold, feel numb like this.
The idea that people don't care about my well being, my mental health, just like these 4 idiots.
I want them executed from my life, burned like witches at the stake for causing me pain in my brain, my heart, the headaches....the tears I don't tell anybody about from remembering every single little thing about when they wronged me, they played me, Jay pushed me away, taty pushed me off of her and told me she didn't want me to touch her, Ayunna using me and Jay not caring cause they were doing it too....Its like I can't even yell at them anymore or tell them how it feels to be hurt a year or more after they hit me on my back. That spot Jay hit me at....
I'll always remember and that's what sucks. And these assholes don't even give a fuck because it's not their pain.
If they could take a walk in my shoes, with my enormous brain remembering everything and everything playing in my head like silly school children in my class, talking about my past, what I wanna be, where I wanna be, and then time is calling you but you don't even know if you're actually in the wrong class or distracted from what's the truth.
I hate looking through bad mirrors, they make you see that I chose to be with them all. All four of them and I did not like it. I dated Terrell to get over the fact that Jay didn't want a commitment with me but still wanted me to be the groupie, the friend, dragging me in, leading me on whenever I would try to actually get the relationship I deserved. A real life, hugging, loving, kissing boyfriend from which I thought was him, I thought it was Teddy and it wasn't right. He ended up revealing his true self that he tried to hide from me, and all I ever wanted to do with him was to forget Jay, stop liking Jay, and be treated to a date by somebody who actually wants to kiss me whenever we want to, hold my hand, walk me down the street, proud to claim me and make me feel special, like it was just him and me. And Teddy cuddled me all night long, he even hugged me. Sex felt so much nicer with him because he let me do whatever I wanted to with him and we even did public stuff. Like there was no rules and I was so happy to be finally treated and wanted that 1st couple of weeks with him. Jay never let me do any of that with them because of Ayunna, but real talk I think it was because of Jay's dysphoria and intimacy issues as the reason why we never made out, never held hands, and Jay only hugged me once out of 2yrs of us being friends and I've never met a person who had such a serious against, against approach to commitment, sex, kissing, or even just me asking them some personal questions about their past. It was like they were so scared for me to see them without the masks on masks they wear around Ayunna and especially other people's families.
Jay wasn't the right man I was looking for to have a family with, even though I got so close to them, but they weren't close to me. Only time Jay revealed something was when they figured I was gonna leave or date somebody else.
which also leads to my other rebound Taty, who I just blocked on insta cause I hate seeing her face now since she won't do the reciprocal courtesy of returning me my only hoodie from College. I want it back cause it's mine, and I alreadypaid $10 to get hers sent back. She's slow and petty. and it's already been a year since I broke up with her. At first I thought we could be friends after breakup, but I realized her being the nicest girl.....at first.....then switching up on me, blowing me off, not talking, ignoring texts for hrs just to play video games after I already waited to text her when she usually got up at 3pm or 5pm due to her lupus....that should have ended sooner because I wanted a gf to do gf stuff with, like yes, serious relationship with somebody who actually went out of their way to sow me a handmade pillow by herself and even wrote a beautiful love letter, like I always wanted to have from someone who means alot to me. Poetry included.
I really thought taty wouldn't let me down and was serious about me like she had meant in her gifts and attention in the beginning. I didn't like how after she told me her depression was making her disconnect from me, that she goes and hangs out with her friends more, not really making plans with me anymore, like I was the one planning quality time...
And she didn't care how that made me feel and I felt so alone about it. Like they went on a trip up in the great lakes and she didn't think to ask me if I wanted to come and other people bfs went....like wow
Slowly cutting me off, like if you were losing interest in me why not say so, so I could end it earlier?
And then she goes to tell me she's dating her married friend, whose wedding we were supposed to go to together. Like no wonder, you blew off quality time with me to go stay at her house after the bridal shower? And I took a 40 min ride all the way up there to come see you....like get your priorities straight.
Obviously I didn't matter that much to you, so yea I broke up with you.
There's only so many times I can tolerate being blown off or pushed away and then I go ghost, I go cold and numb, and yes the truth is revealed, and then I turn into a bitch. And I hate getting like that. Especially if I'm over on the other side, by myself, cause weren't communicating with me.
And I hate her for that shit too. Cause she thinks she did nothing wrong. As if she has every right to keep my Hoodie, my personal property, just because you don't feel like it. Your grandma practically still takes care of you. We ain't a good match either.
so now I'm alone....no new friends yet....still bitching.
cause I don't know if the next time I trust somebody, are they gonna use me, make fun of me like JA, take my money, hurt my soul, and showoff that they care in front of my face, but really out here doing shit behind your back for themselves...
I don't trust anybody right now, not even family so much too. And I don't wanna go down that road.
Maybe I just need to go in the gym like Hodgetwins and get so swollen and buffed up that it won't matter how exes used to treat you in your old body. They can't disrespect in my new one, cause Imma feel 10x better, and 10x stronger than before. Cause I don't want no immature, shallow fuckboats try to treat love like its a business or a silly little ass girl who don't even know the 1st thing about true, mature relationships like I've seen or had to deal with all by myself.
I've never had a partner who treated me like their future was present and that I was the only woman they needed in their life to really make my dream of real true love come true. And I'm disappointed in everybody who let me down and to believing that the right one for me is gonna treat me right, and not hurt me like the dumb bitches they all were. I hate them for that. They make me wanna give up my love for love and just work without even really going for anything because it's scary.
It's scary knowing that even when someone who asks you out, tells you they like you, hugs you and kisses you, can switch up on you and not think you're the one that whole experience you were with them.
I trusted everyone and they hurt me right back.
And they didn't care
And I can't make them see that, how unfair it was to be always waiting, being treated like I was so unwanted, but just want me to be there when they wanted me to.
It hurts that I can't call or see Jay face to face to actually get closure on why the fuck did you play with my head for so long and my heart for so many years, while you jeopardized every sexual relationship I'll ever have later on in life because I can't trust another man, another girl, who kisses me or even touches me because I'll always think I need to wait or runaway before they hurt me like you did me. Lying to me with a smile, a kiss meant nothing to you, but it did to me and you knew that. You steady manipulated and led me on, thinking that we could just move on from the damage because you didn't want to say sorry or treat me better, or do things right. You always acted like when I tried to call you out, I was too emotional, too sensitive when honestly the stuff that you said, the things you did, I could have sent you to jail for.
You're a dirty, low down thief, a tyrant, an opportunist. And I hate every single piece of shit who reminds me of you. The sociopathic, sadist, Narcissist with dissociative identity disorder that they probably need to see a psychiatrist for to get that checked every year. Jay abused me and used me, and I thought the power of love would have brought us together in peace, in good harmony, able to speak our minds freely and friendly, be on one accord with each other.
But Jay's too sick in the head to even care or even Apologize and own up to what they said. Felt like chutes and ladders, always going up and down and around my old self for them. Even bringing my child like self into the bedroom, the one I should have kept protected.
Jay is nothing but a coward, a weakling. Changing their name to escape the past they brought upon themselves or was inflicted on them by someone else. Never really showing who they truly are or who they care for, except Ayunna. Just like playing cards. They played themselves when they thought I could never change, I could never learn who they were, when they repeat the same moves in different stories.
Jay never thought that I could outgrow them and they not know where I am or who I'm bringing a baby home to, or who I am today. Jay needs help, medicine, therapy and a solid family home.
And I have to keep forgiving even on days like today when it's hard to not think about grandma and me not wanting to go to this interview because I don't need anymore pressure 🙃
..
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Evil Killervibe au 2/?
(Part 1)
It was a difficult day at Star Labs. Emotions were running high after Cisco’s kidnapping the night before. Caitlin had scarcely slept, and all of the coffee she’d had to keep her going served to put her even more on edge. Caitlin had snapped at Ralph so many times he told her he was starting to think Killer Frost was the nice one. In response, she had winced and left the room, at which point Cisco began yelling at Ralph for being a dick. Barry and Iris were getting tired of mediating.
The day wore to a close, but Caitlin’s work was far from done. She had a body to dispose of. She hoped she had chilled it enough that her apartment wouldn’t reek of death when she returned.
She waited for everyone else to leave, then went to retrieve the supplies she needed: fluoroantimonic acid, the largest teflon container she could find, and safety supplies. She quickly realized she hadn’t planned a way to get all of this stuff home, let alone do so inconspicuously. Caitlin set the gloves, face shield, folded hazmat suit, and container of acid down on the lid of the large teflon barrel, and sighed. What was she doing? How had her life become this? She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. She couldn’t fall apart now.
The sound of footsteps sounded outside. Caitlin’s head shot up. She didn’t have time to hide what she was doing. She didn’t even know she had the time to scrape up a semi-believable excuse. She stepped in front of the the teflon barrel. Her breathing was so shallow she thought she might faint.
Cisco entered the room speaking.
“Caitlin? Are you free for dinner tonigh–” He broke off and looked at Caitlin, who was trying in vain to hide a rather large, bright yellow teflon bin behind her. Her entire body was stiff; her face, red. “What are you doing?”
Caitlin let out a breath she’d been holding. At least it was Cisco, had it been Barry, or Joe, or Iris, this would have been a much more precarious situation.
“Killer Frost did some things that were… less than legal to rescue you last night. I’m taking care of it” It wasn’t a lie, just a partial omission. She hoped he wouldn’t press her. Cisco raised an eyebrow, but, to Caitlin’s great relief, didn’t push the issue.
“Need help getting home?” He asked instead, looking Caitlin with concern.
“Uh,” Caitlin said intelligently, glancing behind her. “Yeah, that would be really helpful.” She grabbed a second hazmat suit, and handed him a pair of rubber gloves . “Put these on.”
Cisco complied and opened a breach. Then he helped Caitlin lift the barrel and supplies through it. They exited into the hall by her apartment.
“I can handle it from here,” Caitlin said abruptly, her words came out more harshly than she’d intended. She put a hand on Cisco’s forearm. “But come back in a few hours, and once we dump this at the waste treatment plant, we can order Chinese. My treat.” Cisco gave her a faint smile, and left through another breach. Caitlin unlocked her apartment and moved everything inside. Her apartment didn’t smell great, but it could’ve been much worse considering she left a dead body there for a day. The scent could probably be masked with some air freshener.
She went back to her room to retrieve the body from her closet. Still cold. The dead weight would have been difficult for Caitlin to shoulder ordinarily, but with her powers finally under her control, at least for the moment, she lifted it with ease.
While her newfound control over her abilities was useful, Caitlin found it extremely disconcerting. Most likely, it meant that her dissociation from Killer Frost was psychosomatic, not a result of the powers themselves. Which meant everything Killer Frost did, was truly something she did. She couldn’t distance herself from Killer Frost or her actions anymore… But she had killed someone yesterday as Caitlin Snow, so perhaps it didn’t matter anyway.
Caitlin shuddered and tried to focus on the mechanics of the task at hand, hoping it would quiet her mind. She dropped Amunet’s body roughly into the barrel. It landed with a thud. She cut off one of the braids in Amunet’s ponytail in case she needed to prove Amunet’s death to her lackeys. Caitlin stashed it away where she hoped no one would ever find it. Then she tossed the clothes she was wearing at the time of the murder in next to the body. The metal with which Amunet had tried to defend herself went in next.
Caitlin put on her safety gear. Then lifted the superacid with great care. Maybe hydrofluoric acid was overkill, but she needed it to work quickly. After a brief moment of hesitation, she opened the acid and began pouring it over the corpse. The flesh fizzled and corroded as soon as the acid made contact. It was enough to make most people’s stomach’s churn. Not Caitlin’s. She would have liked to have said it was because of all she had seen as a doctor, and a doctor to metahumans at that. She knew that wasn’t the case. There was something so satisfying about seeing her enemy dead at her hands. When Caitlin saw Amunet’s flesh melting away it sent shivers of excitement, no, joy, down her spine. The greatest threat to her life and loved ones had been eliminated. Soon there would be nothing left of Amunet Black. It made Caitlin feel untouchable, godly.
Suddenly, she was ashamed of herself. What kind of monster was she? She dumped the rest of the acid into the barrel and carefully secured the lid.
Now for the cleaning, a much simpler task. Caitlin scoured the blood stains throughout her apartment with bleach. It also got rid of most of the odor. To be safe she also made sure to spray air freshener throughout the apartment and lit some candles.
Before she knew it, Cisco was there again. Caitlin didn’t waste any time. She tossed a hazmat suit at him.
“The waste treatment plant. We’ve got to be in and out fast. We can’t be seen.”
The dump had gone off without a hitch. They’d breached back to Caitlin’s apartment unnoticed. Cisco hadn’t asked any questions. Maybe he was too afraid of the answer he’d get. Caitlin was thankful for it regardless.
She’d ordered Chinese food for them. It had yet to be delivered. For the time being, they watched the evening news. Caitlin leaned against Cisco on the couch. She needed the strength. After last night, she also needed to be reassured that he was there, he was safe.
When she was sure he wasn’t looking, Caitlin stole a glance at Cisco. She wondered if he knew how much he meant to her. She wondered if he ever thought about her the way she thought about him. No, that wasn’t her place in his life. It was Gypsy’s. She shouldn’t let herself linger on it.
Caitlin turned her head back to the news. They were running a human interest story. It seemed like it had been all fluff pieces today. It made sense. Amunet had been smart enough to fly under the radar most of the time. Caitlin was glad that spared the stress of a high profile investigation of the murder she’d just committed. The story, a heartwarming piece about a local sports team, failed to capture her interest.
The knock at the door almost sent Caitlin out of her skin. What if one of Amunet’s henchmen knew? What if they were after her? She hadn’t thought about that until now. She was being paranoid, she realized as she noticed the concerned look Cisco was giving her. It was just the food. Get a grip, Caitlin.
“I’ll get it,” Caitlin said, springing up from the couch. She rushed to get her wallet and opened the door. She gave a rushed apology to the delivery man and exchanged the money for a few bags of Chinese food.
She took it to the dining table and removed the take out boxes from the bags, handing half of them to Cisco. He’d decided to use the chopsticks that came in the bag. Caitlin wasn’t in the mood to bother with them, so she had retrieved a fork from the kitchen.
Cisco ate as though he was famished. Though Caitlin’s powers speed up her metabolism– not nearly as much as Barry’s did his, but enough to be noticeable –she didn’t have an appetite. She ate some, but she spent much more time picking through her rice with her fork.
After some time Caitlin noticed Cisco staring at her. He was worried. Not surprisingly, given that she’d hardly spoken to him all evening and now wasn’t eating on top of that.
“Are you okay?” His eyes were kinder than she deserved.
Her eyes welled with tears. She manages to hold them back, looking down at her food. She almost lost him the day before. Of course she wasn’t okay.
“Why do I always have to be okay?” She asked coolly. Caitlin hadn’t been “okay” since before the particle accelerator explosion. She continued before he could answer. “You almost died yesterday, and I’m supposed to act like nothing happened? How are you okay?”
“I know things will get better,” Cisco answered simply.
“Like they got better for Dante?” It was a low blow and Caitlin knew it. Cisco recoiled as though she had slapped him. “Or Ronnie? Or H.R.?”
Cisco said nothing.
“Things get better for Barry.” He got his happy ending. Everyone else be damned. “His life gets better. But me? My life has been nothing but pain from the instant the particle accelerator exploded. My whole existence has become a series of losses. And they’ll never stop. Only heroes get fairy-tale endings.”
Cisco stared across the table at her. He was moments from tears.
“Caitlin,” He began pleadingly. Caitlin met his eyes.
“I’m no hero, Cisco,” Her voice wavered slightly. “and I’m starting to think that maybe I’m supposed to be the villain.”
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Why do you think that Saeran didn't have DID in the Original Story?
I apologize in advance if this isn’t exactly coherent; it’s late, and so my thoughts might be a bit all over the place.
I don’t think Saeran had DID in Original Story because there are absolutely no signs of it.
I’ve played the Original Story—and in specific, Saeyoung’s Route, into which I include the Secret Endings since they’re a continuation of his route—enough times that I have a good number of the chats memorized, and so that I don’t even have to read the guest e-mails before knowing what the correct answer choices are. I’ve gone through them non-linearly (as in, going into the history / Secret Endings out of order to look over things withotu actually playing through them) even more times. Saeyoung is my favorite character, but it’s because he’s my favorite character that I’ve spent a lot of time paying attention to and studying those that are important to him. Namely, this means both Saeran and Vanderwood.
As a result of this, I’m really familiar with who Saeran is in the Original Story, and I say with confidence that we never saw signs of DID in the Original Story. Due to the fact that we never saw signs of it, and also due to the fact that DID makes romancing him possible (more on that in a second), I feel confident in saying that Saeran was not originally conceptualized to have DID, but rather, this is something that Cheritz “retconned” (if you truly consider Another Story to be in the same universe as Original Story, rather than an AU, which I personally don’t but ymmv) onto him in order to make romancing him possible.
What I mean by that is … think back to the Saeran that we see in Original Story. Think about everything he does: How threatening he is, how he actually assaults and tortures in Bad Endings, how his grasp on emotional regulation is so poor that the slighest thing can make him grow violent in the Secret Endings (which is a defense mechanism, absolutely, but it still speaks to poor emotional regulation). How possible do you really think striking up a romantic relationship with someone in that state is, both from the standpoint of actually being able to build a healthy romantic relationship with them, and from the standpoint of wanting to? Yes, there are of course people who ate up things like the Bad Ending in the Christmas DLC where he takes MC away to dress her up like a doll, or those who liked the idea of Saeran whisking MC away in the prologue Bad Ending to make her his assistant, but for the most part Cheritz probably realized that the average player wouldn’t want to romance Saeran with the way he behaved in Original Story (and also, if they knew their own character, wouldn’t be able to romance him even if they did want to). The trauma-ridden young man that we see simply wasn’t attractive or available, from a personality standpoint, in the same way the other characters are. Which, again, isn’t to say that he didn’t have his fans, because he very clearly did, but they were far fewer in number before Another Story released.
So with that said, if Cheritz wanted to create a route for Saeran (and after seeing that there was at least some fan demand for it, they did, because they wanted that sweet dolla dolla), they knew they had to solve the problem of Saeran’s lack of attractiveness / lack of availability. There is simply no conceivable way to write him as a romance option in Original Story. It cannot be done. But in an alternate universe, they have a little more wiggle room, because they can change and alter things as they pleased. Since they were already going to do this for V (though I maintain this wasn’t necessary, and that V could have easily been a Deep Story option), they decided to do the same for Saeran. However, I think they recognized that this was still a risk. Thus, while they “retconned” DID onto him and created the much more attractive and available “Ray,” they didn’t release his route immediately. Instead, they tested the waters by seeing how fans would react to him in V’s Route. I do think that Saeran’s Route was still planned from the get-go (hence those magenta hearts), but Cheritz, being an indie company, likely didn’t want to spend the money until they were sure fans would buy it (which is a smart move). Hence, they tested the waters with “Ray,” and when they saw that the fanbase was foaming at the mouth over “Ray” to the point of virtually ignoring V despite the fact that it was his route, they gave Saeran’s Route the greenlight and moved forward with it.
So with that said, let’s look back at Original Story. As I said, there is nothing in Original Story to point toward the idea that he has DID. I mean, think about it: If there was an insinuation that he had DID in Original Story, don’t you think people would have brought it up? That people would have mentioned it? It’s one thing for people to look back on Original Story now and try to twist things to see his DID through the lens of “well, he had it in Another Story, so let’s try to find it in Original Story,” but it’s another thing altogether to take a fandom that had played this game fairly obsessively for over a year and have them completely miss any hints of multiple personalities residing within one of the more important characters to the central story before the idea is suddenly shoved to the forefront in an AU. The idea that “well, we just didn’t have enough focus on Saeran before!” is nonsense, because Secret Ending 02 is pretty much entirely from his point of view, and DID is never mentioned nor brought up. He never mentions having other personalities. The closest we get to any of this in the Secret Endings are the moments where he’s conflicted over whether Saeyoung abandoned him or not, and he’s “arguing” with himself, but fam, I argue with myself all the damn time, and I don’t have DID. Unlike in Another Story, where Saeran explicitly mentions one of his personalities “telling” him things, that’s not the case with the internal struggles he has over Saeyoung in the Secret Endings. Instead, it’s literally Saeran warring with himself over what he actually believes and what he wants to believe, both of which bleed together because he’s in a mental state where he doesn’t even know what he wants anymore. But the point I’m trying to make here is that his internal struggles are not a conclusive sign of DID. They’re not. If they were, far more people would have been talking about Saeran’s DID prior to the release of Another Story, and I never saw a single person mention it. Not even once.
Speaking of people not talking about it, there’s also the Free Talk that his voice actor had following Secret Ending 02 (which, again, was dedicated to Saeran and was largely from his point of view). Saeran’s voice actor does mention a mental illness when talking about how he voiced Saeran, but DID is not the mental illness mentioned. Instead:
As a brief side note before I continue: When I mentioned above that Saeran as we see him in the Original Story is not romanceable, I DID NOT AT ALL MEAN TO IMPLY that people with BPD are not romanceable. So please, please, do not think I was trying to say that. There are so many people with BPD who are in loving, healthy relationships, even if they have their hard days. One of my dearest friends has BPD, and she’s one of the sweetest people I have ever met, and is definitely deserving of love. So please, please don’t think that I was trying to say, “Well, he has BPD, so he’s not attractive or available,” because that isn’t at all what I meant. I was referring strictly to his behavior and his actions (which, yes, are a result of his trauma, but as he recovers he’ll get better, and much later on down the line, he might be in a place where he can healthily pursue a romance with someone).
That side note out of the way …
As you can see above, Saeran’s voice actor specifically says that he thinks Saeran has borderline personality disorder in Original Story. If Saeran was meant to have DID in Original Story, surely that is information that Cheritz would have conveyed to his voice actor. I mean, why wouldn’t they? It would inform how he acted, particularly when you consider those moments I mentioned above where Saeran wars with himself. If those instances were supposed to be demonstrations of two personalities battling it out, then that would be something that Saeran’s voice actor would mention in the free talk. He would mention Saeran having multiple personalities. But he doesn’t; not only does he mention BPD, as shown above, but he also consistently refers to Saeran as having one (1) personality:
He mentions Saeran developing a personality (i.e. developing a certain way as an individual) in Original Story, rather than Saeran creating multiple personalities as a result of his trauma. And you know, it makes sense; as I’ve written before, Saeran demonstrates symptoms of C-PTSD in Original Story, and the thing about C-PTSD is that it can often be confused with BPD because the two share a lot in common, to the point where C-PTSD is often classified as a personality disorder because of the way it shapes the way a person grows and learns to view and interact with the world (something I know from personal experience). In fact, as a bit of personal anecdotal evidence, I actually sought out my therapist because she specialized in BPD, and after reading a lot about BPD online, I thought I had it. When I went to see her, though, and she examined me, she concluded that I do not have BPD, but that I instead have C-PTSD, and was getting the two confused (which, again, is understandable because the two have a lot of symptoms in common). So it makes sense that Saeran’s voice actor would specifically refer to his trauma leading him to grow into the person that he has in Original Story, because that absolutely happens in real life, all the time. And while it’s true that trauma can also result in dissociation that results in DID (in fact, if the research I did provided me with correct information, most—if not all—cases of DID stem from trauma), I don’t believe that Saeran’s voice actor was trying to say that Saeran developed DID from his trauma. Rather, he was referring to the way that Saeran’s trauma shaped his personality as he grew, which is absolutely a descriptor of C-PTSD (again, coming from someone who has it as a result of childhood / adolescent trauma).
Lastly, as I mentioned (and talk about in the post I linked), what Saeran does demonstrate signs and symptoms of in Original Story is C-PTSD, not DID. (I know that his voice actor says BPD, but again, they share a lot in common, and C-PTSD isn’t very widely known, I don’t think.) And he actually displays these symptoms in such a real way that I found myself aching with empathy for him in the Secret Endings. As I’ve mentioned before, the way my C-PTSD has developed is far closer to Saeyoung’s, so I find Saeyoung to be a more relatable character; however, Saeran’s C-PTSD was still achingly real, particularly once we actually get to enter his point of view and we see that he’s actually terrified and vulnerable beneath the defensive aggression he throws up to push others away. We see flashbacks to his childhood, and his musings on his childhood, where he tells us (or thinks about in such a way that it feels like he’s telling us) how he was actually always pessimistic in childhood, and believed that there wasn’t really any hope of escaping their mother’s home, but that Saeyoung’s optimism gave him a few shreds of that hope anyway. We see how he thinks about how he has always loved staring at the sky, and how he just wishes that he could stare at clouds forever. We see him express fear over Saeyoung abandoning him, even as he at the same time wants Saeyoung to leave. We see him awkward, unsure, and vulnerable around the RFA, even as they accept him. We see him still visibly hurting from his trauma, because recovery is not an easy or painless process, but we also see that he is still the same Saeran he always was, ever since childhood, just very, very wounded, but not beyond healing.
What I’m trying to get at here is that I agree with his voice actor. Saeran was a fully realized character in Original Story, and was an extremely believable trauma survivor. Extremely. He’s one of the best written trauma survivors that I’ve seen in recent media. And to see Cheritz strip that away, retcon DID onto him so that he could be more appealing to their audience (because again, while Saeran had his fans before, that was nothing compared to the screeching over “Ray” that began as soon as Another Story released), and then say that he was magically all healed up in less than eleven days is … extremely disappointing to me. No offense to those who like it, but I’m not at all a fan, especially since it seems pretty obvious to me that it was done in order to make him more palatable to players, rather than because it was something that would actually benefit his character to include. (And honestly, Cheritz trying to wink-wink-nudge-nudge the audience by having Saeyoung mention how cliché it is in a chat isn’t cute. You don’t get to escape criticism for bad writing by acknowledging and laughing at the fact that it’s bad writing. It doesn’t work like that.)
So tl;dr, that is why I’m confident that DID was never part of Saeran’s character in Original Story. There were no signs of it, his voice actor clearly had no clue that it was supposed to be a thing (because as I said, if he did, he would have talked about that instead of BPD), and Saeran instead does show practically every single sign and symptom of C-PTSD. Another Story Saeran has DID, but Original Story Saeran doesn’t, and while everyone is entitled to have their own opinions on which portrayal of Saeran they prefer (and I won’t tell anyone otherwise, nor do I want to fight about it), I know which one I’m a fan of, and it’s not the one that Cheritz introduced in September of 2017.
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