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tacticaldiary · 3 years

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Not Jealous

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort; Fluff

He’s not jealous. He’s not. Impossible...so what was this horrible feeling clawing at his chest, urging him to do something about Denki getting a little too friendly? Why does he feel the need to punch something. Jealousy is an ugly thing as Bakugou finds out.

Masterlist

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He hated this. He didn't care, but at the same time he hated it.

The way Y/N threw her head back to laugh or, god forbid, giggle at something Dunce Face over there had said made his blood boil for some reason. The way he had his arm thrown around her made him want to punch something, and the obvious, lazy flirting made him want to yell at someone.

The whole class was lounging in the living room, Bakugou sitting on one of the couches next to Y/N and Denki. He was in full hearing range of the terrible jokes and laughs. Every now and then he chances a glance to them.

It doesn’t help his rising temper

Why was Dunce Face the one who got to be near Y/N? Why the hell was he allowed to touch her? Obviously it’s not like he cared or anything. He didn’t care that he wanted to be the one sitting next to Y/N, no that was just stupid.

It’s not like his heart fucking fluttered everytime she shot him a smile, or offered to spar with him. Nope. Not like he admired how she was one of the only people who didn’t take his bullshit, or how headstrong and confident and powerful she was, how she practically radiated every time she walked in the room, or even how he went out of his way to be around her.

It wasn’t his fault she needed obvious tutoring to get her 95% up to a 100%. Not his fault their quirks were compatible and they were usually assigned to train together. She obviously needed to be walked to recovery girl every time she got hurt, who knows what stupid shit she’d pull if no one accompanied her, (granted he was always the one who insisted on taking her, fuck off Deku.).

Any extra time they spent together was purely coincidental, and...fuck he was in love-

The day Bakugou had realised it was when he was walking her to her dorm. The grateful smile she’d given him accompanied with a “Thank you, Katsuki.” had quite literally knocked the breath out of him. He loved the way his name sounded on her lips.

“What the hell, Denki!?” Y/N’s laugh rings through the room. That most definitely was not his name. He turns to them, his scowl deepening as he sees Y/N grab his arm to keep herself upright. Denki laughs with her, looking highly amused. Bakugou's eyes linger on them and something claws at his chest, a horrible emotion that makes him want to snatch you away, as far away from Dunce Face as possible.

The loud bang the echoes through the room startles everyone into silence. Bakugou rises to his feet and swears, grabbing onto his left hand, which he had accidentally ignited. One of the pillows behind him was scorched black, the smell of burnt cotton filling the room. He rarely every loses control of his quirk like that, regardless of how small the explosion was.

“Kacchan-?”

“Bakugo, you-”

“Holy shit! You okay?” Y/N is the first to react, cutting Izuku and Kirishima off and standing, walking over to Bakugou.She grabs his hand and brings it up to examine it for any damage. If it were anyone else they would have had their face blown off by now “Why’d you-”

“Shut up.” he says lowly, glaring at her, before harshly ripping his hand away and turning on heel, stalking up into the hallway, to his room presumably. He was still fuming, now the added anger of having lost control like that adding to the frustration.

Shutting the door, he looks down at his hands and sighs. In the confinements of his own personal space, he allows himself to think properly. Fuck, he hated this, he hated feeling like this.

He ignores the knock on the door, plopping down on his desk chair. He knew full well who it was, and he really didn’t want to deal with this right now. The knocking continues and is this time accompanied by a familiar voice.

“Don’t be an asshole, I know you’re in there! Open the door.”

Ignoring seems to work, he thinks...he thinks wrong. Before he can react, he hears the doorknob turn and the sound of the door creaking open tells him that he foolishly forgot to lock the door. He spins the chair to glare at Y/N

“The fuck do you want?”

“I want to know why you’ve been acting more pissy than usual today.” She states closing the door behind her with a click.

“Keep wondering then.”

“It would be much easier if you just told me.” She crosses her arms.

Bakugou shrugs with a scowl. “Shouldn’t you be out there? Wouldn’t wanna waste your precious quality time with Dunce Face now would you?” His scowl becomes harsher at the thought. Y/N pauses, silence filling the space between them for a few seconds.

“You’re...oh my god, Katsuki, are you...jealous or something?” She asks, snickering a little.

“What the hell? I’m not jealous.” He gets to his feet and yells, fists clenched. He wasn't jealous.

“You are! You’re jealous! Katsuki Bakugou is jealous!” Y/N laughs, ignoring the murderous look on the others face. Before she knows it, she’s yanked forward by her collar, close to a very much seething Bakugou.

“I’m not jealous, you little shit.” He growls lowly, his fist bunching the front of Y/N’s shirt.

“Your actions tell me otherwise.” Her eyes flicker down to his hold, before going back up to meet his fiery ones. She suddenly realizes how close they are, she can practically feel his breath fanning over her face. She goes quiet at the thought, a flush creeping up her face. Bakugou notices the lack of retort, and a slow smirk spreads across his face as he sees how red the other is.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Where’s the witty retorts now, shithead?” he yanks her closer, almost tauntingly.

“I left them with Kaminari, I guess.” Y/N says quietly after recovering from the initial shock. SHe grins as she’s released and shoved away almost immediately.

“So it’s Kaminari now?” he cocks his head to the side.

“That bothers you?”

“Obviously not. Do what you want, idiot.” He scoffs, looking away with a scowl. Y/N contemplates her options. She could push the point and risk Bakugou completely pushing her away...or she could leave and address the problem later.

Later. A word she’s all too familiar with. She’s been putting off doing something as trivial as confessing till ‘later’ for the past few months. She can’t exactly pinpoint how or why she fell for this hotheaded, stubborn, asshole of an unfairly attractive idiot, but she knows that she’ll have to tell him sometime, even if he rejects her and doesn’t feel the same. After a few seconds of thought she makes up her mind and shrugs.

“All right. Guess I’ll go spend some more time with Kaminari then. Since you don’t mind.” She turns and pulls the door open. Before it can open more than a few inches, however, it’s forcibly slammed shut by a hand next to her head. She turns around in surprise and is met with Bakugou glaring down at her.

“...What?” She prompts when he doesn’t speak.

He continues glaring down at her in silence, seemingly fighting a mental battle over something. It seems like the debate is settled however, when he sighs in annoyance and leans down, crashing their mouths together harshly.

It only lasts a few seconds, a few fiery, explosive, wonderful seconds, before Y/N is left shell-shocked, as Bakugou pulls away, still scowling. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t move away.

“Uh...I- that was-...” Y/N stutters, before gathering herself and meeting his gaze with a small smile. “I should take that as a sign that you like me back?” She relishes the way he’s caught off guard since it doesn’t happen often. His eyes widen slightly in surprise and the hand on the door next to her head slips down just a fraction.

“Figured it out already, dumbass?” he grumbles, still keeping her fixed to her place with his eyes.

“Sorry...guess I short-circuited for a second.” She can’t help it. When Bakugou scowls and pulls away harshly, she reaches out and grabs his waist, attempting to keep him in place. “Kidding! I’m kidding, Katsuki!” She chuckles and hearing her laugh is the only thing that stops Bakugou from not prying her hands off him.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Denki, if you were curious. I’ve liked you for a while now and he knows that.” The tips of her ears turn red at the confession. Bakugou stares at her for a second, not seeing any hints of a lie. He relaxes a little and scoffs.

“Never said I was curious.” he rolls his eyes and Y/N shakes her head with a breathy laugh.

“Sure, Katsuki. Sure.”

When they return to the common area together, they’re sent questioning glances, but everyone knows better than to ask. Y/N sits next to Bakugou and Bakugou’s the one who has his arm around her and Bakugou’s the guy who gets to hear her laugh and he’s the one who gets to spend time with her.

He obviously wasn’t jealous before.

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Author’s Note: My first Bnha fic! Honestly, I’m so excited to start writing for this fandom, so send your requests in! They really get my creativity flowing!

Requests Are Open And Welcome

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captainsimagines · 3 years

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To Topple A Giant || Chapter One

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 1 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Trope: ‘Enemies to Lovers’; mainly angst, mutual pining, fluff, and eventual smut

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. All trigger warnings will be listed before the chapter. This is purely fanfiction.

Word Count: 4000+

A/N: Ooo, let’s hope this does numbers! I love myself some ‘enemies to lovers’ tropes. It’s been a while since I’ve written Steve fanfics. :)

Wakanda, 2018, 4:04 pm.

The flash of bright white light temporarily blinded you, sending you back to the ground and cupping your face in self-defense. But as quickly as the initial crack, it was over. Eerily silent and loud at the same time. The birds whistled their same tune, some higher-pitched than others. The wind seemed to blow louder, rustling the leaves from the trees and landing all around you and your teammates.

“Thor?”

You lifted your head at the sound of Steve’s voice and checked if the coast was clear. All that remained of the evil was a new blood-stained hammer - a hammer that Thor was watching intensely, as if the answer lay hidden there. It was the only remnant left and your mind was already wondering how to use it to bring that evil back to finish a fair fight.

“Where’d he go?”

The birds stopped singing.

“Steve?”

You whipped your head around at the sound of Bucky’s confused voice, watching as one of your best friends dropped his gun and looked up at Steve as his hands began to disappear. In a matter of seconds, Bucky - or what became of him - fell to the dirt below. No one spoke, and you watched as Steve tried to control his breathing as he took a knee to place his shaking hand over his best friend’s ashes. A life and mind brought out of the darkness to finally amend those knots he had twisted, now ceasing to exist. In the distance you could hear Okoye shout in turmoil and Rocket begin begging.

“What’s happening?” you finally choked out, turning just in time to see Wanda lift her head to the sky, defeated and out of will, and succumb to the same fate. “No!”

You ran and fell beside Vision’s now gray and decaying body, reaching over and palming through Wanda’s ashes. You rubbed them between your fingers, inspecting them, and brought your hand to your chest. The pit of your stomach churned as you sat there, immobile and numb.

“Sam!”

So many names were being called but soon everyone who remained fell silent. The trees were still guiding the wind, leaves falling into the ashes of your friends, a sign of a new and unwanted chapter. You felt Steve drop beside you, turning Vision around to see the damage to his body. You winced when you saw the gaping hole in his forehead.

“What is this? What’s happening?”

Natasha ran to where you were seated, hand over her stomach as if she was ready to vomit. And once she took one look at Vision, that’s exactly what she did.

You removed your hands from your chest to look at them, the ashes still there and practically mocking you into finally believing this as reality. “Did we just lose?”

Steve was moments away from a full-blown panic attack. He simply looked up at the trees, watching the way the sunlight still burst through with no disruption. “Oh god.”

You caught Steve as he tipped his upper body toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding onto something real. He had to believe you were real. Anyone. And you were the closest person to him. You shut your eyes and held him, running your hands through his hair, wincing when you realized Wanda’s ashes were now on him.

You held him tight, praying to any God you chose to believe in at that moment, that Steve wouldn’t disappear too.

Unknown Location, 2025, 1:07 pm.

The air was incredibly musty, as if each person who struggled for breath in this room at one point or another left a piece of their soul floating in search of last minute penance for their sins. And the man in front of you was no different, choking on the purple blood that dripped down his neck and onto his now unbuttoned, white dress shirt. His chest was rising and falling, his breathing becoming less labored with each blink of the eye. His hands were tied behind his back and to the chair he sat on, a flickering light in the corner of the dark, concrete room somehow mocking this man’s last remaining seconds of life.

“I’m not an evil person,” you started, kicking one of the legs of the chair to startle the poor man. But your guilt was minimal - it’s not like you wanted to do this - but knowing this man did exactly what everyone said he did, hands red and dripping with young blood, you selfishly took pleasure knowing this man would look at you when he died. “It’s just my job as third in command.”

You gave the man a small smile as you bent down to his level, head hanging in shame, slow breaths now pausing in between each intake. You looked to the other party in the room, handing them the gun in your holster, and walked out the room as the sound of two gunshots rang out.

Left twist. Sting. Breathe.

You washed away any smell from that godforsaken room, giving extra attention to the roots of your hair and under your fingertips.

Scrub. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

The crack of your neck frightened even you, and you stood under the burning shower for a few more minutes before deciding the sting was enough. You changed into the most comfortable sweats you owned, surprisingly calm for such a gruesome morning you had, and took your time with your skin care routine.

Circle. Wash. Dry.

Soft music played in the overhead speakers, the classical sounds vibrating from one wall to another and surrounding you with something tranquil - something still. There was nothing to expect from such a sound, only the next repeated chorus, no words or drops - just tranquility. You could barely hear yourself breathe but you were at peace - or mostly - and ready to sooth your growing headache behind the eyeballs with more than just music. You slipped on a pair of comfy, forest green socks and bent them at the ankle to achieve an even fluffier look. You applied your favorite perfume, lotioned up your hands, and donned your tacky friendship bracelet.

One for you. One for Bucky. One for Peter. And one for Wanda.

You hummed the whole way to the common room, waving at the morning staff as they fixed lightbulbs, covered holes in the walls, and swept the floors. One muffin and a cup of coffee later, you were resting with your head in Wanda’s lap as she filled your thoughts with your chosen sceneries.

“I can make you see anything you have already seen, so yes.”

“A miniature golf course, Peter’s high school graduation, a field of all kinds of flowers, and Natasha.”

Wanda stilled her floating hand, smile faltering for a moment before she nodded. “Okay… okay, I can do that.”

They were images well-drawn out, slow and steady to make the atmosphere similar to when you were actually there. They seemed to float across your vision, comfortable in their positions and radiating the same warmth you had felt the first time around. A moving picture. Wanda really had excellent control of this.

“I won!” Sam leapt into the air, pointing at a disgruntled Bucky, who stepped off to the side to not throw Sam over his own head. “I won!”

“How is it possible for you to get a hole-in-one each fucking turn?” Bucky groaned, moping in Wanda’s shoulder as she held him and struggled to keep herself standing from her own intense laughs.

“I think we got a cheater on the loose,” Steve grinned, pointing at the ring Sam was trying to discreetly tuck back into his pocket. A friendly gift from T’Challa, no doubt.

“Nuh-uh, give me the fucking proof, Wilson!” Bucky roared, wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck and tugging him forward. “I will not admit defeat if there was foul play involved!”

Sam escaped the hold, climbing onto the rock located to the side of the flag and a sign that read ‘do not climb on rocks’.

“It just helped me calculate all things geometry, Barnes. We’re good.”

Bucky looked as if he was going to leap on him again, but before he could even finish that thought, Sam slipped on the wet surface and plummeted into the rushing little river.

Laughter erupted and did not cease until you were escorted out of the fairgrounds by four security guards.

A flick of Wanda’s wrist and a new memory began forming, colors blending like an oil painting, dried and covered with a glossy varnish, ready to hang.

“Don’t trip on your way up, kid.”

Peter swatted Steve in the side as the super soldier left the room, leaving Peter alone in front of the full-length mirror. He adjusted his tie and tried to lay that pesky dangling strand of hair over the top of his head.

You got up from the couch and made your way over, wrapping your arms around Peter and resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’ll do great. We’re all so proud.”

“It’s just high school…”

You frowned and turned him to face you. “No, you should already be in your second year of college. This is seven years in the making. We are all so proud.”

Peter could feel the slight burn at the corner of his eyes but he swallowed it down, giving you a small smile and a hug.

“And can you trip? Don’t you stick to all surfaces?”

Peter scoffed and pushed you away, his tiny smile never faltering.

You could feel Wanda shift her legs underneath you, searching for the most comfortable position as she continued her work. You sighed, already feeling the therapeutic effects.

“They’re all so pretty!” you yelled cheerfully, running through the field with your arms extended to the sky. Bucky and Steve followed close behind, leaning down every so often to pluck the flower of their choosing and adding to the bouquet in their hand.

“Which did Tony prefer?” Steve asked, snapping you from your pollen-filled, ecstatic state.

“Aesthetic beauty, Rogers! Natasha was a sucker for anything pink and sunflowers.”

Bucky nodded, seeming to take that information into consideration as he plucked the yellow and pink flowers only. Steve chose the most healthy looking flowers, his hand struggling to hold them together as he reached the two dozen mark.

“I think we’re good. These are good.”

You smiled at both super soldiers and admired their bouquets, leaning over to sniff their masterpieces. “Awesome.”

Wanda sighed as she neared your last vision, debating on showing you your chosen moment instead of another one. This moment always hurt Wanda as she wasn’t there to witness it, but it was special to you. There were so many others to choose from, but you insisted this was the one you always wanted to see. And Wanda was always hesitant at first - but when she lifted her hand slowly and dropped the memory back into the front of your brain, she couldn’t help but smile.

“Are we ready?”

Everyone was practically bouncing on their heels, both excited and terrified. Time travel was new to humanity and you were to be one of the first to experience such a thrill. You were going to get everyone back.

You squeezed Natasha’s hand once more before you walked back over to Thor and Rocket. You all nodded to each other, saying ‘goodbye’ and ‘good luck’ with your childlike expressions.

“See you in a minute,” Natasha grinned, her cheeks reddening with a friendly blush as she looked over at Steve. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, a braid you had helped her make, and she was carrying an extra pair of socks in case of a long hike.

Then a blast of color surrounded your body and the smell of peaches as you landed on Asgard filled your overstimulated senses.

You opened your eyes and smiled up at Wanda. You didn’t want to see old memories with your friend, but the most recent. It was like you were grasping onto that last memory of her, not wanting to change anything about her last smile, her last laugh, her last shred of existence. It was oddly calming, and so you hoped Wanda would understand.

You thanked her again and proceeded to the kitchen. It was bigger than the one before, the soft forest green color of the walls a nice contrast from the blue ones before. You laughed to yourself and your conscience as you silently thanked the explosion that obliterated the horrid blue walls, quickly backtracking at your dumb thoughts. Still, you chose to joke about everything that happened before to avoid falling deeper into yourself. The kettle started howling, smoke circling around the tip. You poured your tea, dropped two cubes of sugar in, and added a little milk.

It was quite bizarre how quickly you could bounce back from the morning you had. A very bloody, order-filled morning. When one order was given, you had to come up with a plan on how to not disregard the other. You had to listen to Fury and your father, gaining a few feet on each side without toppling the other. Still, it took a physical toll on you. But with Wanda’s help in easing your mind and the very sweet tea you nursed, your emotional baggage was pretty minimal. It sometimes scared you how easy it all was.

Your morning carried on quietly as you sat on the concrete curb, happily sipping your tea in your sweatpants. You could hear Sam and Scott arguing about something a few feet away from you and Bucky taking his afternoon jog around the track. Quite distracted, the sudden ‘thwip’ and superhero landing of a certain teenager scared you enough to spill a little of your tea.

“Goddamn, dude!” you whined, looking up at Peter as he tried to control his laughter.

“I’m sorry, I thought you saw me!”

“Excuse me for being distracted by the hot super soldier just over there,” you joked, pointing over at Bucky.

Peter rolled his eyes and sat next to you, immediately reaching over to take the tea from you and take a sip himself. You let him, as you had no other choice, rolling your eyes anyway.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had classes today?”

Peter handed back your cup, “Nah, I’ve only got classes every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Ugh, that sounds great. I remember I scheduled my classes for every day of the week just to have more units,” you sighed, taking another sip of tea.

“Stupid.”

You pushed Peter’s shoulder playfully, both your laughter catching the attention of Sam and Scott. But as quickly as you had distracted them, they ignored you and went back to bickering.

“I’m just here to see my friends, sue me!”

“Nope, you’re always welcome,” you smiled, holding out your wrist and bumping your bracelet with his. “How was your week otherwise?”

“Eh, nothing major. Just trying to navigate the world now that they know who's behind the mask.”

You gave Peter a look of sympathy, still mad at the sudden manipulation of the kid after such traumatic events. You had promised him you would protect him by any means possible, as did the rest of the team, but he seemed to be navigating the situation just fine. Staying away from reporters, scheduling his classes during the most isolated gaps of the day, and signing dozens of forms that promised to protect him, give him royalties, etc. After you had brought everyone back, it seemed the least the new management/orders could provide for you all.

“We all have our days,” you muttered, handing your tea back to Peter. You two sat there for a while longer, enjoying the slight breeze and taste of sugar.

An agent rounded the corner and spotted you, jogging up and handing you a yellow folder that was sealed in plastic. “For you, from Fury, from whoever before that.”

“Um, thank you?” you said as the agent walked away. You inspected the folder, turning it over in your hands and playing with the thin plastic.

You lifted it up to Peter’s face, “Here, smell it and tell me if there’s poison.”

Peter scoffed, “I can’t do that!”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

Peter muttered to himself as he took the folder from you, sniffing it awkwardly. “Smells like paper, dude.”

“Cool, thanks.”

You ripped the plastic off and unhooked the folder, dropping the single item onto your lap. Peter just sipped your tea and watched you open it.

It was another envelope, but this one was white with custom-printed indents that swirled across the front and a big, red blob of wax smushed- with your initials- sealing it. You ripped it open and pulled the invitation from inside. You must have read it a thousand times, eyes rapidly scanning the small page with secret meanings.

“You got invited to a wedding?” Peter asked, taking it from you and reading it himself.

“Yeah, but this is so much more than that,” you said, snatching it back and standing up from the curb. You quickly went back into the compound, searching for the one person who needed to read it also.

You seemed to find everyone before you found the super soldier who wasn’t out for a jog, a line of somewhat concerned superheroes following behind you from room to room. Eager minds and yet, inflexible rib cages full of anxiety and worry, all ready (and quite not) to tackle the new evils of this new world. And whether they followed you blindly or with functioning minds, they were prepared.

With the rest of the team behind you, you burst through the second floor with the invitation held over your head. Steve stopped mid-bite, milk dripping from his bottom lip as he stared at everyone in confusion. “Um…”

“It’s time-” you started, pulling the stool from next to him and sitting down.

“Time for what?” Steve interrupted, his mouth still full of cereal.

“Time for this,” you motioned to the envelope you were handing him. “-to finally end.”

Steve read the invitation word for word, the wrinkles in his forehead becoming deeper as his mind worked. You couldn’t quite discern the feeling in the pit of your stomach, twisting and spinning into a tight coil, seeming to spread to the others as it grew in pressure within you.

“All three?”

“All three,” you confirmed.

Peter pushed through Bruce and Rhodey, “What’s happening? What’s gonna end?”

You looked over at Steve, his bowl of cereal now forgotten and soggy.

His eyes were distant and rather cold, hands extended on his knees as if he was drying the accumulating sweat, shoulders building tension.

“Steve, we can finally end this. We have to tell everyone. It won’t be enough if it’s just you and me.”

He wanted to explode, in both anger and anguish, to stumble over his intact persona and leave it behind - someone he hasn’t known for a long time. It ate away at him each day since Fury notified him of your selfish choice, burrowing into his now tarnished soul in the most sadistic way. But the prospect of finishing this chapter - a chapter that was unexpectedly halted when half the world disappeared - was considerably euphoric. A chance to move on.

“Okay.”

Rhodey already had knowledge of your background, recruitment, and family but Steve’s initial involvement - the start of it - was still a mystery. You sat everyone down in the living room, making room for the others who arrived later, and clapped your hands together. “Story time!”

Steve groaned, face already pressed against a throw pillow. “Just tell them.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“You know whose spawn I’m from,” you began, snickers from your amused friends encouraging you. “To better transport their product, they sent me over to the states to attend college like the good little girl they think I am.”

Sam cracked open a beer and lifted his legs up onto the couch, sitting back with a massive smile on his face as he got comfortable for your story. He handed another beer to Scott.

“Wait, product?” Scott asked, taking a sip from his drink.

You smirked at him and tapped your nose twice, amused by his ‘O’ reaction. “Anyway, by then I already knew that I wanted out of the game. I didn’t like that life, I didn’t like the violence, I didn’t like my family.”

Steve knew that was an understatement, a cruel and restrained statement from your part, and he wanted to tell everyone just how justified you were in your words, how real you were being, and how much help you would certainly need for this. But like always, he remained silent.

“But Fury got to me before I could leave. So, we made a deal. I would train as a field agent and he would promote me every other year to lessen suspicion on this whole ordeal. The deal being I would play both teams.”

By now, your whole team was intrigued.

“I would do what I could for my father and still have my family’s trust, while feeding the information to SHIELD and our lovely star-spangled man over here,” you pointed over at Steve. He gave you a tiny but forced smile.

“But after the collapse of SHIELD, my father only became more violent, more hard-headed, more suspicious. He- uh-” you stuttered, flashbacks suddenly filling your head. Wanda watched your eyes dart rapidly, sensing the rush of blood to your legs and tips of your fingers.

“He was power hungry,” Wanda said, immediately feeling your heart rate lower. Although you never actually said it, she could tell you were grateful for her intrusion.

“Yeah, exactly,” you cleared your throat. “But Steve’s involvement all started when Fury asked me who would be the best front - the most reliable front.”

“So, with only Fury and the bad guys knowing - Y/N named me as her partner in crime,” Steve explained, head hanging low as if it was such a disgrace to do what you openly did. You knew his troubles with coming to terms with such an offensive role were multiplying daily, but you were now this close to stopping every bad force involved.

“So, Captain America is the ultimate drug smuggler,” Scott spoke, somehow trying to comprehend the information all at once. You and Steve both nodded in confirmation and avoided the wide and questioning eyes looking back at you.

“Yeah, he’s essentially the top boss.”

“Y/N-,” Steve interjected, but you beat him to it.

“And here we are! Him and I both invited to the wedding.”

Wanda stretched out her words, “The wedding?”

“Yes, the wedding - where three of the most famous and powerful drug lords south of the border will be attending and ready for our taking - including my father.”

Steve stood from his seat, posture straightening as he spoke to the group. “The invitation reads like a threat. No cameras, no plus-ones besides those listed specifically on the card, no speaking to reporters before or after. The trust Y/N has gained would unknowingly make us the contraband of the party.”

After going through more specifics about the whole situation, Bucky finally raised the question eating away at his mind this whole time. “Whose wedding is it, anyway?”

You grinned that stupid little grin Steve always prepared himself for. It was the grin you would display whenever you were going to make a serious matter a joke, or brush something serious off your shoulder as if it didn’t bother you. The sarcastic grin he always wanted to wipe off your face as you defied orders.

“My lovely little sister’s.”

Rhodey stepped forward to take the invitation for personal inspection, “When is it?”

“A week from tomorrow,” you beamed. “Which means I got to get shopping for a wonderful little, red number!”

“Please, be more excited about this,” Steve groaned, sarcasm dripping off each syllable.

You flicked your right hand up and in position to flash your charming little middle finger at him, a river of fluffed ego and delight flowing to your cheeks as he huffed and left the room in a stumbled march.

“So…” Scott’s voice ripped through the awkward silence. “We’ve been secret drug smugglers this whole time?”

Please let me know what you think! I listened “The Archer” by Taylor Swift and I was like... yes, I see this, lmao. Tell me if you would like to be tagged in later updates! xxMoni

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passivenovember · 3 years

Text

Walking Home (v)., the Tourniquet

For you @thursday-knight. Lysm

They’re going to let Billy out of that horrible, gray padded room on Tuesday, which Steve snorts at over the phone.

“What, you think that’s fuckin’ funny or something?”

“No, It’s just.” It’s kind of funny. Steve wraps the phone chord around his hand. Nice and tight, like a tourniquet. “Tuesday’s weird.”

“Tuesday’s...weird?”

“Yeah.”

Steve can hear something, like. The clack of a pen. It’s a common nervous tick, a way to cope, but. Steve’s never seen any one hold a bic the way Billy does.

Barrel in his palm. Clicking the register with his pointer finger, like. He’s pressing Reagan’s Big Red Button. The one to blow up the world.

“What’s so weird about a Tuesday release, man?”

“Ruining the start of a week by spending it in the hospital and then having to use the rest of it adjusting to life outside?” Steve shrugs, remembering that Billy can’t see him. “They could at least give you a Friday. Then you’d have the weekend, right?”

Billy’s grin is somehow manifested in the honey drip of his voice. “Been locked up for six months, Harrington, what’s two more days?”

And that could be true.

Steve doesn’t feel like so much time has passed. The rise and fall of the moon, the turn of the seasons, the way Billy has to wear fuzzy socks with those little grips on them to stay warm in beige corridors, have been lost on Steve.

Tainted. Wrapped in paper the exact shade of survival. Surgeries and afternoons carpooling the kids to Hawkins general, paying Barry Mildred to do Billy’s algebra homework for him, and.

Convincing everyone.

Himself, too.

That Billy would be alright. Steve had to do everything he could to get Billy ready for the world, or.

The world ready for him.

“Has it really been that long?” Steve wonders.

And Billy laughs. “Maybe not for you, King Steve. Some of us had to spend the whole of it in one room.” It doesn’t sound as painful as it usually does.

Steve just nods again. To himself.

He remembers the leaves changing around the time Billy learned to walk again. Halloween. Bringing left-over contraband to spoil Billy’s strict diet of organic bullshit while his body healed itself. Amber leaves complimenting blue eyes as they made unsteady laps around the courtyard together.

Steve holding his arm out time and time again, and. Billy taking it.

Christmas. Snowball fights with the kids, crystals on long blonde eyelashes while that stubborn mouth fought to return every smile Max threw his way. Those very same lashes, wet with tears, when Billy opened a vintage copy of Cider House Rules, on Christmas Eve.

All, you really shouldn’t be spending the holiday in a psych ward, Harrington.

But they held hands for the first time that night. Steve said, where else would I want to be?

And Billy, just. Took what he could get--nothing more.

Steve remembers a lot of things. Happiness. Rocky, at first, unearned, a slide into friendship which turned into peachy cheeks that rivaled the setting sun.

Summer, Fall, Winter, and.

February.

Steve must have missed it. All of it, while he was busy being grateful that Billy was alive.

He checks the calendar.

“You’ll be out in time for Valentines,” He says. Because that’s important, somehow. “Got any big plans?”

“Oh, for sure.” Billy clicks his pen. One-two-three. “Got a girl waiting for me on the outside, thought we could catch a movie.”

Steve knows.

He knows it isn’t true, that Billy’s just yanking his ridiculously short chain, but. Steve’s heart beats in time with the click of a pen. Advancing and overtaking the tempo to orchestrate a symphony of worry.

Of fear.

It used to taste like copper. Black slime and dirty snow, but now it tastes like mashed potatoes served on a hospital lunch tray. Contraband sweets. Change and forced endings and--

Steve chokes on something. A laugh that falls wrong halfway through, like a sob colored to fit summer days. “What are you doing after?”

The clacking stops. “Just fucking with you, Harrington.”

“I know.”

“Was a joke, I’m not.” Billy clears his throat. “Everyone who matters came to see me while I was here.”

Steve just nods. Frantically, because he hears words that aren’t there. Meaning that couldn’t possibly color his life in broad strokes. He thinks about what Billy’s saying, what he really means.

Everyone who matters.

“Where are you staying? Like, when you get out,.” Steve mutters. The chord is wrapped around his hand again. He leans against the wall, wincing as the pins from his bulletin board pinch his shoulder blades. “You got a place to crash?”

Billy doesn’t say anything.

Steve clears his throat. “You aren’t going back, right? You’re not going. Home?”

“To Neil’s?”

And Steve gets the distinction. Feels it settle like an axe between his first three ribs. “Yeah.”

Billy sighs. “No, fuck that. Figured I’d ask around. See if there are any beds open at RCA.” Recovery Centers of America, that’s.

“That’s in Indianapolis.”

“Yeah,” Billy says flatly. Steve thinks, distantly, that he sounds almost. Annoyed. “Owens says there’s a car. It’ll take me wherever I want, long as I stay in State.”

“You want to go away?”

“Sure,” Billy says bluntly. “Wouldn’t hurt to leave this place behind, you know. Maybe go somewhere new--”

“Stay with me.”

Steve’s heart is beating in his eyeballs.

The world falls silent. Only for a moment, for as long as it takes for Billy to drop something on the ground and then swear under his breath. His voice shakes, like strands in the wind. “What?”

“At my apartment,” Steve clarifies. He untangles the phone chord which has somehow worked its way to his elbow. “It’s small and shitty, and the couch only has three legs, but.”

Steve closes his eyes and hopes against hope, praying to every god who has ever existed since the beginning of time and everyone who will come after, that Billy can hear every meaning, every hidden word.

“You could.” Steve says softly. “If you wanted to.”

The clacking starts up again, slow and measured. Steve can hear Billy’s breath. The ragged intake of air that sounds painful, like a boy clinging to life in smoke filled memories. Holding on to his hand, saying, I don’t want to die, Steve, please.

It plants Steve’s feet in an ambulance. It tips the string of a tourniquet, bloody and wet with slime in his hands. It makes him remember.

Pull it tighter, kid, come on.

And.

He’s losing a lot of blood.

And.

Steve, we’re losing him.

And.

Kid, step away from the body.

Billy clears his throat. “You mean it?” He asks, and.

Steve lets go of a breath. “Of course I do.”

“You’ll get tired of me.” Billy’s voice, it sounds like shattering windows. Steve doesn’t say anything. Can’t respond, because. Nothing in life is more impossible.

The world falls silent.

Only for a moment, as long as it takes for Steve to close his eyes. “I can’t watch you get in that car and walk away, Billy.”

It’s nothing. Only a part of how he feels. Only a drop of what he wants, but. It sets things in motion again.

Billy clears his throat. “Alright,” He says. “Give me the address.”

Steve wants it to be something other than what it is.

He buys new sheets. Fern green satin, five-hundred thread count and worth a third of what he has in savings.

They aren’t what he’d usually go for, color or texture, but. The lady at the department store says muted colors are good for preventing overstimulation after trauma and satin is gentle on the skin. Warm, too, which is always a good thing.

Billy says it feels like winter, now. All, I’m a goddamn human snow globe.

Buying sheets on Valentines, it.

Makes Steve hope that this is something else.

That Billy will insist on putting his new sheets on Steve’s bed instead of the couch in the living room. That they’ll sleep together here, just how they always did in Billy’s hospital bed.

Chest to chest.

Billy’s head tucked under Steve’s chin, but.

Mostly Steve being eaten alive by the guilt.

For feeling like this is the start of their lives. That everything before now--living with his parents, fighting monsters, feeling useless in every sense of the word...

All of it was a dream.

Preparation for the day he would open the front door and find Billy there, waiting.

Steve takes the sheets back to his apartment. He makes up the living room, rearranging the furniture so Billy can have his own space. The couch as a bed and the coffee table as a book shelf.

Billy has a lot of books.

More than anyone Steve’s ever met, more than Robin and Nancy Wheeler combined and Steve doesn’t own any books himself, or. A place to put them. His apartment is the size of a shoebox.

He’ll get rid of the stuff he doesn’t use anymore.

He’ll make room.

In his apartment, in his miniscule life, so that Billy has something of his own.

And maybe after they’re settled in and the bills are paid for the month, Steve will pick up extra shifts at the video store until he can afford buy one.

A nice, big oak bookshelf for Billy to house his favorites.

He locks himself in the bathroom an hour after moving in.

Which, you know. Throws the evening for a loop.

He seems happy when Steve opens the front door, dropping his box of books by the shoe rack and toeing his boots off with a grin.

His body is loose, and. Open, Like he’s comfortable. Billy pokes around the apartment, making fun of the weird shit hanging up on the walls while Steve cooks dinner.

“You gotta get some real art in here, man.” Billy says. It sounds like he’s by the record player, digging through the stack of vinyl's Steve keeps in a shoe box by the T.V. “And some real music, holy shit. How have you been living like this?”

“I’ve been living just fine, fuck you very much.”

“You have three copies of Waterloo,” Billy snorts. As if that proves something.

He’s crouched by the mosaic of finger paintings left by Holly Wheeler, studying a particularly abstract piece when Steve hands him a glass of sparkling cider.

“Everyone’s gotta have their backup copies of Waterloo, you know, extra in case you gotta dole them out to strangers.” Steve clinks their glasses together. “Cheers.”

Billy swishes the drink around with a lift of his eyebrow. “You trying to get in my pants, Harrington?”

“It’s not alcohol.”

“Why is it bubbly?” Billy accuses, lifting the glass to sniff at it suspiciously. His nose wrinkles, like a bunny rabbit.

Steve laughs. “It’s sparkling cider. Cherry flavored.”

“Cherry?” Billy snorts, his cheeks glowing pink like little love hearts. “That’s definitely a sex flavor.”

“It’s a celebration flavor, you dick.” Steve chuckles again. He files through the records he does have, selecting one he thinks Billy can tolerate. “What do you think of Rumours?”

Billy’s wandered to the kitchen. “Hate the activity, dig the album.” He calls.

The sound of cabinets opening and slamming shut echo through the space while Steve figures out the settings for this vinyl, fiddling with the tiny knobs until Songbird filters through at a pace that seems right.

“Ice is in the freezer,” Steve announces, and.

Billy rounds the corner with a bag of chips, happy little smirk on his face. Steve frowns.

“I’m fixing dinner--”

“I haven’t had Doritos in almost a year, Harrington.” Billy says roughly. He rips open the bag, collapsing next to Steve on the floor by the music stand. Billy takes one and licks the cheese dust off the chip, holding the bag out, like. “Want one?”

Steve face hurts from smiling so much. “Nah, I’m good.”

Billy leans back against the wall, rolling his eyes. “What, don’t eat carbs after four p.m. or something?”

And Steve filters through a million answers, all of which make it sound like he’s trying to get laid, so. He settles in next to Billy, letting his eyes fall closed with the sway of the music.

“No, just. Don’t wanna ruin my dinner.”

Billy snorts, bag crinkling loudly as he dives in for another handful. “I could eat twelve bags of this shit and still go ape on whatever rich boy thing you whipped up.” Billy asses him, head cocked to the side. “Bet the cheese makes you fart.” He concludes.

Steve blinks at him. “You’re disgusting--”

“Processed cheese makes everyone shit their pants, man, that’s like.” Billy wipes his hands on Steve’s leg. “Common knowledge.”

Steve makes a noise like a runover chicken, wiping frantically at the trousers he bought at the Goodwill, just for tonight.

He wets his fingers with spit, wincing and scrubbing at the bright line of orange nacho cheese that stains his corduroy flares.

The shape of Billy’s fingers is unmistakable. “I’m starting to regret asking you to move in.”

“Thought I was just crashing here until--”

“Now that you’re here I’m no letting you leave,” Steve smiles at him, the weight of it softening when Billy’s cheeks glow pink again. He knocks their shoulders together. “You’re stuck with me.”

Billy falls silent after that.

Shoveling in handful after handful of Doritos and crunching so loudly that Steve can’t get wrapped up in the bass line on the Chain.

“Dude, you gotta chew so loud?” Steve asks, shoving Billy’s hand away when he reaches to smear nacho dust down the length of Steve’s neck. “My god, you’re a menace.”

“You love it,” Billy giggles, and.

They stare at each other for a moment. Sort of watching the brush of eyelashes against cheekbones while the music plays.

A backdrop to the start of something Steve doesn’t have a name for.

Night falls and Billy doesn’t come out of the bathroom.

The food has been stored, the dishes put away, but the light which escapes like neon strips of gold to kiss the mouth of the hall carpet never flicks off. Never giving way to rest.

Steve thinks about waiting for him.

He thinks about going to bed, jiggling the handle to make sure Billy’s okay, breaking the door down when two hours turns to three but that seems intrusive.

If Billy wanted company he would ask. And if he wanted to come out he would, right?

Steve feels like an idiot.

Pacing back and forth between the living room and the hallway, trying not to make it obvious that he’s right in the thick of gut-wrenching worry. Violent, intrusive images of brain splattered tile fill his mind.

Billy could be hurt, or. Asleep in the bathtub. Maybe he slipped out the bathroom window while Steve was turning down the couch for him, making the space comfortable.

Maybe he was never here to begin with. Maybe Steve dreamt him up.

Steve paces back and forth, back and forth, wrestling with the urge to call Dr. Owens and ask what he should do, until the clock above the stove reads 11:34 pm and he has no choice but to call it a night.

His knuckles sound like a machine gun when he taps on the door.

From behind the oak barrier, Billy makes a noise like he was startled out of sleep. Steve can hear him moving around, when he asks, “You okay? Been in there for a few hours.”

Billy opens the door.

His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks a little flushed, like.

“Have you been crying?” Steve doesn’t want him to cry. Tears and hallow feelings, they have no place in the stretch of nightfall that Steve has built for them.

He feels himself reaching for Billy on impulse, trying to pull their bodies together, but Billy steps back.

Away.

To make room for Steve in the bathroom or to make a run for it, Steve isn’t sure. He knots his fingers together for safe keeping.

“Of course not, don’t be fucking.” Billy’s voice cracks right down the middle, like. A loaf of bread that has been in the oven for far too long. His eyes are glassy when he looks up, and.

Distant.

Steve feels like an asshole. He leans against the door jam. “I can call Dr. Owens, if you want.”

Billy stares at him. “Why would I want that?”

“You just seem--”

“I seem like what, Steve?” Billy spits. “You gonna psychoanalyze me too, huh?”

Steve grits his teeth against the urge to. Fight back. “It’s just when I started getting the couch ready, you seemed.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, choosing his next words carefully. “Nervous? Afraid, maybe, just a little. Which is alright. It can be scary sleeping alone in a new place, and--”

“I’m not five years old, Harrington, I can handle a sleepover at my friends house.” Billy snarls. He pushes against Steve’s chest until there are rivers between them. Mountains and oceans.

It’s the first time since Starcourt that Billy seems.

Like himself.

The old self, the one that used his fists to keep wandering eyes from getting too close. Figuring him out. If Steve were a younger man he’d fall for it, hook and line, but.

He knows better.

Six months and a lifetime with Billy Hargrove have taught him a thing or two. He nods, stepping back down the hallway.

Billy’s eyes track him. Wide and nervous and so, so blue.

“‘M going to sleep, dude.” Steve waves a thumb over his shoulder, taking a deep, needed breath. He calls over his shoulder to give Billy some space. “Come to bed when you’re ready. I’ll leave the light on.”

Billy’s footsteps don’t pass his bedroom door until Steve is settled under the covers.

He’s starting to think Billy won’t show.

The t.v. is on in the living room, tinny sounds of Yogi Bear filtering through the wall and Steve wonders if he made a mistake in assuming, that.

Look.

Just because they slept together, like, actually slept together while Billy was in the hospital doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe Billy is just scraping the bottom of his energy reserves. Maybe he’s getting to the end of the rope when it comes to his friendship with Steve, and didn’t want to move in but had to.

For lack of better options, and like.

Income and shit--

“Scoot over.” Billy says.

Steve jumps, poking his head out from under the covers to glare wildly at him. “When did you--”

“Move over.” Billy insists, eyes burning like flame in the darkness.

Steve does, all, “Jesus Christ, you’re just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t ya?” But there are butterflies in his tummy. Gently flapping wings that turn into stinging wasps when Billy manhandles his way into the bed, yanking one of the extra pillows out from under Steve’s legs to punch into shape on his side of the bed.

Steve squawks. “I was using that.”

“It was under your knee caps, dork.” Billy mutters, bullying his way into Steve’s space like he did so many times on warm summer nights at Hawkins General, stiff as a board on his government issued mattress.

Steve’s bed isn’t anything like that, it’s like. A marshmallow. Swallowing the two of them whole when Billy presses his face into the length of Steve’s neck, legs coming up to pin him in place.

“I got weak ankles.” Steve pouts.

Billy doesn’t say anything as he goes limp and heavy on top of his human pillow. Steve instantly feels like he’s over heating; the guy’s a fucking furnace, but.

Billy’s eyelashes are tickling his collar bones.

His breath fans out over Steve’s skin, like cool breezes on summer nights, and. When he starts crying Steve is there.

Like always, Steve sings him to sleep.

#harringrove #valentines day #billy Hargrove #Steve Harrington #please enjoy my trash

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myherohcs · 4 years

Text

Single Dad Present Mic scenario/headcanons

Gave him a daughter in this one! I named her Kaya because I got bored using “the child” or “his daughter” the whole time lol. #Kaya In The Skya

warnings: angst, loss of a spouse (no gender), eventual EraserMic, fluff because my boy deserves it, and kinda long!

🎙Present Mic would have loved his S/O so much for years and years and years if he was given the chance. They would probably be a hero too, but he's the kind of guy who would love just about anyone. Hero, civilian, quirk, quirkless, Mic believes in love above all else.

🎙But Mic is around heroes so much, he'd probably meet his S/O in the line of duty. They would hit it off quick and everyone would remember the two for having such an easy and passionate love for one another from the beginning.

🎙They were that couple that moved in with each other after only a few months dating, got engaged after six months, and married a year after meeting each other. They would adopt their daughter not long after that.

🎙Everything moved so naturally fast for them and Hizashi would thank his lucky stars for that later on.

🎙He would remember how normal the day had been when he found out he lost his spouse. They died as many heroes do; saving others. The news came to him after a long day of teaching followed by a visit to the radio station to plan an upcoming segment before going home to take over babysitting for his S/O. The tradeoff was short and Hizashi was barely awake when he kissed them goodbye for the night. He would rest and watch over the mostly sleeping 4-year-old, Kaya, while they went out for a patrol through their hero agency.

He would get the call in the early hours of the morning. He needed to go to the hospital quickly. It was bad. He didn’t want to bring Kaya, so he called the first person he thought of.

Shouta had been awake grading papers and almost didn’t answer his phone. It was the perfect time for Hizashi to need help home from the bar and he didn’t know if have the energy for that tonight. But he did answer. Like he always does. He knew immediately by the mere tone of his friend’s voice that something terrible was wrong. Hizashi sounded terrified and he needed Aizawa to watch his daughter for him. He had to go to the hospital. Hizashi didn’t have to explain much after that statement. It was every hero’s nightmare to have a loved one beyond their realm of saving, but unfortunately a common thing in their line of business. Aizawa agreed and Mic was at his apartment in no time and gone again in a flash. Shouta's goddaughter slept soundly through it all.

🎙Hizashi loss that night would destroy him. He’d need a lot of support from his friends and coworkers in the weeks following the incident.

🎙It was one of the few times anyone could really remember Hizashi going silent. He is usually so vocal about his feelings, but in this time of great emotion, words failed him.

When he could speak again, when he could function again, he found himself emotionlessly arranging the funeral and taking care of all the duties one must take care of when they lose a spouse. He took care of his daughter too, but it was done more upon instinct than anything really conscious. A hero’s funeral is one of the worst to deal with. It’s hard to deal with the rampage of emotions being projected onto you. You should honor the hero for their sacrifice, but you must deal with the fact that it was such an avoidable death. The media can swarm depending on the popularity of the hero. Present Mic got it bad. The couple had been very open about their marriage and always in the public eye, and the story of a hero becoming a widowed father was not one to pass up. Hizashi barely batted an eye at the attention. In fact, he barely reacted at all. How could he when he just lost everything? Nemuri and Aizawa stayed with him that night. Surprisingly, it was Aizawa who confronted him about his lack of emotion after the funeral. In a weird, alternate-dimension-type moment, it was Eraser’s turn for once to break Mic out of his shell.

“You know, it’s illogical to not feel something after this Yamada.“

Hizashi broke down and admitted he was hurting to his friends. He was terrified at raising Kaya alone. He was afraid of going back to work and having to deal with others again. His friends helped him through it all.

Nemuri and Aizawa took shifts being with Hizashi and helping him take care of Kaya after that. Aizawa took his role as a Godfather seriously. He had accepted years ago that he would never have children. This would be the closest he’d ever come to being a parent and a small part of him wanted to prove that he could be good at that.

Kaya was old enough to recognize the change in the household and had some trouble accepting her caretaker wasn’t retuning. Hizashi and her both attended therapy to get through this new shift in their life.

🎙 Hizashi took some time off, but went back to work quicker than most expected. Mic thrives when he’s with others and knew the only way he was going to find some semblance of normality again was by getting out there and talking again.

The main difference now was that he usually had his favorite listener with him. UA has an early education center and Kaya started coming to work with him. They would show up early everyday and Kaya would usually stick with Mic until he had to drop her off and go teach his classes. This meant she was a familiar face in the teacher’s lounge.

🎙Kaya liked to color during staff meetings. She liked to bring cookies for all the teachers. She would sometimes be tired in the earlier mornings and sleep in Aizawa's sleeping bag while everyone worked and planned for the day.

🎙She hung around Aizawa all the time. She was enamored with the quiet, dark-haired man who would take care of her and teach her things. She would sometimes nap with Eraser or be allowed to visit his class with her dad. She loved getting to see him and it became obvious to everyone that she saw him as a parent as much as she did her own father.

🎙One day Kaya woke up sick. She had a fever and Hizashi has to drag her through their morning routine as she feels so tired. Hizashi told her they would go see Recovery Girl when they got to school.

🎙Aizawa knew something was wrong the moment Hizashi walked into the teacher’s lounge.

Mic hadn’t gelled up his hair that morning. He only ever did that when either he was sick or Kaya was sick. Mic could never be bothered to do extra work like style his hair when he was sick. And when Kaya was under the weather, she liked to hide behind his curtain of hair.

“What’s wrong?”

The other teachers looked up in surprise at Aizawa’s question and Mic smiled at his coworkers.

“Kaya is feeling a little under the weather today.”

He went over to his work desk and carefully sat down with the child. Shouta reached over to check her temperature and found her too warm for comfort. Kaya had fallen asleep and blinked lazily at Aizawa before yawning and snuggling back into her father.

"Recovery girl will be in soon. Maybe we should go down to her office and wait for her," said Aizawa.

Hizashi would smile at his friend and thank his lucky stars he had someone like Eraser in his life who cared so much for his daughter.

🎙Aizawa was around a lot, but happened to miss the first time Kaya used her quirk.

Teleportation.

Hizashi and Kaya had been walking back from visiting Aizawa's class and one moment his daughter was there, the next she was gone.

It scared the living daylights out of Hizashi. He had an inkling it had to do with her quirk as Kaya's preschool teacher had warned him she was at the right age to start any day now. However, nothing could have prepared him.

He raced back to the training grounds to get Aizawa and burst in on his lesson to announce Kaya's disappearance. He had already been shouting from a good distance away and it wasn't until he was almost directly upon Aizawa did he realize his friend was already holding his daughter.

Aizawa stood there stoic as ever as the four-year-old beamed at her father, so excited to see him.

Hizashi dramatically fell over in relief and the students got in a quick laugh before Eraser shooed them off.

"You should keep better track of your daughter, Yamada."

Hizashi laughed, "Yeah, I guess I really should now."

🎙Kaya's quirk was hard to control. She would think about Aizawa or Midnight or someone else she liked being around and would often (without intention) teleport to their side.

One time she spent an afternoon with Principal Nedzu this way. She adored the fluffy, white creature and hung onto every word he said during his long, drawn out conversations. He was unbothered by her sudden appearance in his office and kept her around to give her some pointers about her quirk as apposed to sending her back to the preschool. He would prove to teach Kaya all kinds of things about her quirk and the potential behind it.

Another time she popped in on Toshinori as he was teaching class 1-A. They were in the middle of a training simulation and Toshi had to jump into action to save her from the crossfire between his students. He hadn't moved that quick in weeks and held his All Might form for a good 30 seconds after rescuing the girl as he had gotten terriblly worked up thinking about how much she could have hurt herself. His students stopped their antics to find out what had suddenly brought All Might's hero form out and sent someone to let Present Mic know Kaya was on the training grounds.

🎙Kaya had to wear a special bracelet to alert others of her quirk and had her father's agency's phone number on it for emergencies or in case she teleported somewhere and got lost.

🎙Kaya would learn to better control her teleportation quirk faster than most kids as she had some of the best teachers in the world giving her tips and watching over her.

🎙Aizawa was a big help. He rarely had to erase Kaya's quirk, but it did come in handy on the occasions Kaya couldn't concentrate enough to stay in one place.

🎙Kaya spent all her time with the teachers of UA. They all took it upon themselves to teach her valuable lessons and give her memorable experiences.

🎙People would ask Hizashi if he would ever start dating again, but he would just tell people he already had everything he needed.

He had his daughter and an amazing support system behind him. He was happy.

It wasn't until USJ that he remembered how quick happiness can be taken away.

🎙It felt like losing his spouse all over again. He almost lost Shouta. The one person he can rely on no matter what.

It reminds him that there's no time like the present to live your life and take chances.

🎙He confesses in that hospital room. In a moment of quiet tenderness he tells Shouta he's in love with him and he wants him to move in with him and Kaya. This life could end at any moment, so he wanted Aizawa close to cherish every bit of it.

Aizawa was going to need the extra help anyway, but that's not why he agrees.

He loved Hizashi too.

🎙And together they raise Kaya. And Eri. And Shinsou.

And they both get the big family they always wanted.

And they both enjoy every last day with eachother.

#bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #yamada hizashi #single dad present mic #present mic #headcannons #kaya from z nation boi

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anthropwashere · 5 years

Text

phango19: we go around, one foot nailed down

\o/ 30th DP fic and it’s the infamous dissection trope \o/

(you know I had to do it to ‘em)

Legit though, I’ve been wanting to write a DP dissection fic since, jeez, since I joined the fandom in '13 probably. It's practically a rite of passage to have one of these under your belt, isn't it? So here's me, giving you the gift of Danny Having a Bad Time.

There'll be some notes about the research I did for this one for the curious at the end, but apologies to anyone with an ounce of scientific know-how. I almost failed high school chemistry and that was something like 12 years ago. I am but a simple idiot with Internet access. Please call me out if there's something egregious in need of correction; otherwise... blame it on ghostly handwavium?

Title comes from TOOL’s “Pneuma.”

AO3 | FFN

It had been agony, at first. But like anything he’s ever set his mind to, it’s gotten easier with practice.

He’s had plenty of opportunities to practice.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish he could quit the whole ugly business right this moment. Burn every file, lock the lab up for good, and pray for no more nightmares. But this ugly business needs doing and he’s the only one for it. He can’t allow Maddie to shoulder any more of this burden than she’s already insisted on. He won’t let those white-suited bastards lay so much as a finger on his family either, not while he’s got any say in it. There'll be hell to pay for going toe-to-toe with the GIW, but that's fine. He doesn’t care what happens to him anymore, so long as Maddie and Jazz are kept clean of all consequences.

If his luck holds out the courts will be hashing it all out for a while yet anyway. He’s never had a head for fine print or subtlety, nor doing anything so morally gray as—well. Everything lately. What should be done is clear as day to him, but if the courts agreed that easily with the GIW he wouldn't have a chance to make up for what he’s done.

He needs to do that much.

The courts and those bastards will eventually agree he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of blood relation or his wealth of experience in an incredibly niche field. Sooner than later those bastards will come, and when they do there's only so much protest and fighting spirit they'll indulge in. That's a fight he'll lose once it comes, but in the meantime those bastards and all their clever little monitoring devices can’t come within 300 feet of Fenton Works without causing an uproar.

He has to take advantage of the time they have left.

This evening the house is empty, just him and—

Well.

Maddie’s out there fighting the good fight, Jazz and Sam and Tucker at her side. The three of them have got more experience than Maddie and him ever realized. They’ll be just fine. They’ll handle whatever toothy specter is out there terrorizing the good people of Amity Park and make sure nothing gets in the way of his work. He needs the peace and quiet. No distractions. He needs to do this by the book.

Working by the book isn't a habit he’s ever had to cultivate, not with Maddie there to shore up his madcap inventions with reams of reproducible data and neatly labeled blueprints, all hard copies done in triplicate and the digital files regularly updated to a secure server off-site. You can’t ever be too cautious when you’re putting pseudoscience to the test and winning, Maddie always said with a grin, and he’d kissed her every time for being so much more brilliant and beautiful than he deserved. What would he do without her? How far could he have gotten without her? Would Danny still be—

He swallows.

Best to banish that train of thought before it can run him down. No distractions. No what-ifs, no maybes. Not if he wants to make up for what’s happened. What they’ve done. What he's done. This one’s all on him, no matter how Maddie tries to tell him otherwise. Either he fixes this or—

Well.

There is no ‘or,’ is there?

He presses the record button on the Jack Fenton-improved observation rig. Blinking red lights and a momentary whine of feedback means he’s good to go. “Nov—”

Too hoarse. Clarity and enunciation are key here. Slow and steady. He’s got to do this right, each and every time. He clears his throat and begins again.

“November 24th, 2006. 9:43 p.m. This is the ninth full examination of the ectobiological aberration self-identified as ‘Phantom,’ legal name Daniel Fenton. General details of the aberration's previously accepted physical characteristics can be found in the recording and transcript of the first examination. General details of the aberration's current physical characteristics can be found in the first, second, and third examinations. Detailed characteristics that have remained unchanged between forms—the wholly living, the selectively living, and the wholly deceased are also recorded in the first and second examinations."

“For the record, I still don't think I qualify as an 'aberration,'" the body says.

He breathes. Swallows. Chooses to ignore the interruption.

“This examination will consist of further study of Phantom's physical deterioration, to include the taking of samples of hair, skin, bone, and various fluids and tissues as necessary. Additionally I—"

He hadn't identified himself, despite the GIW's explicitly written protocols on ghost examinations. He curses inwardly, decides not to bother. He's the only examiner on any of the recordings, after all.

The body takes advantage of his pause to add, “Oddity maybe. Hell, anomaly sounds pretty cool. But aberration? That makes me sound like I'm on the verge of a villainous origin story or something."

He presses on through gritted teeth. "I'll be conducting several tests as outlined separately—exact location in the Phantom file will be added to this examination's transcript—to see if it's feasible to separate the Phantom aberration from Daniel Fenton's remains."

"How many times do I have to tell you that Phantom has always been—"

"Danny."

The body sighs. Well. Its inhabitant does anyway. "Sorry, sorry."

He resists the urge to thank the body. He resists the urge to pat its mottled green hand. He doesn't trust his voice to remain steady if he does either.

"External examination.” He describes the body from toe to tip, his voice measured, unhurried, detached. Dark green skin, healed as flawlessly as it had seven times before. Untamed black hair that shines a glossy green in the harsh overhead lights. Eyes red as holly berries that shine with the predatory gleam so common among true ghosts when the overhead light hits them. The skin is firm, and firmly attached to the lean muscles beneath, and those too still conform to the bones as if the body hasn’t been dead for months. The body is as limp-limbed as a ragdoll in his hands as he goes through the checklist. He confirms that it’s continuing to lose weight incrementally despite no outward signs of decay or starvation—

(Can a dead thing still starve? God, but what were those two years like for Danny? All those worries, those fears, all those questions without answers, and now….)

Nothing untoward or abnormal—in shape, if not in color—can be noted. A normal male distribution of body hair. Teeth in fair repair. Gums, tongue, and oral cavity all normal, albeit pale green. Symmetrical and normal in appearance are checked off wherever they need to be checked off. On, and on, and on. An exhaustive process that embarrassed the body’s inhabitant horribly the first few times. Now it’s borne in silence, with only an occasional gruff sigh.

No deformities. No injuries, except for the postmortem thread that’s bunched up at weird angles as the body stubbornly insisted on healing practically overnight. He makes a note of it as he takes a small pair of shears to the tangles, snipping and pulling as needed. The small holes trace out a capital letter Y that’s gone a bit hunchbacked and knock-kneed. Another day or two and that scar will be gone, replaced by a new one that will stretch stark and symmetrical, for a little while. The small holes left behind don’t bleed. There isn't any blood or ectoplasm pooled or pulsing through the body. The heart is still, a fist-sized lump of dark green muscle. He'd drained the clay-colored fluid that had operated as blood out into a jar marked DP Specimen #58 - 3.85ltr ecto found w/in complex circ sys(!) w/ unk contaminant(s?). It hasn't clotted, and the body hasn't produced more.

They don't know why. They still don’t know why the body continues to heal. There’s not enough energy in the remaining ectoplasm to generate such a speedy recovery, but neither does it heal enough. Danny’s ghost—the aberration—is still bound to this inanimate, impossible corpse. Danny is still trapped.

Not to mention that the healing seems to be failing incrementally as the days pass. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know if they’re running out of time or not. He doesn’t know what will happen to Danny if—

There’s no ‘if.’ He’s fixing this.

He has to.

“You’re staring,” the body says quietly.

He swallows, shaking himself out of it. “I—I will now begin the internal examination to compare the body’s current state to that of the eighth examination conducted on November 16th. Additionally, with the data gathered from the previous examinations and tests conducted upon various tissue samples and the body itself it’s believed that optimal results might be achieved with as little biological interference as possible.”

“You said full examination,” the body interrupts. “Brain included?”

“Brain included,” he confirms. He can’t quite keep the apology out of his voice. Not as if those bastards would notice an ounce of kindness if it—

Focus.

The body doesn’t breathe. It can’t. Those lungs gasped their last 36 seconds after Maddie landed a neat hit on Phantom with a full 450 milliliters of their experimental paralytic.

(He’d said it himself, not 24 hours before that day. Enough to lay out a ghost ten times his size! What a damn stupid, blind idiot he was.)

The inhabitant inside the body makes the sound of a slow, steadying breath. It shouldn’t shake. It shakes anyway. “Just. Don’t keep my face c-covered any longer than you have to.”

Danny’s made this request each time. As if he’d forget to give Danny what mean comforts he can through—through this. Danny had screamed all throughout that first examination. Not out of pain—he insisted he couldn’t feel anything anymore—but out of sheer, visceral horror. He doesn’t blame Danny one bit for that.

(He’d hoped removing the brain would do the trick, that it would free Danny’s ghost, put him out of his misery. But it just grew back. There are three of them resting in glass jars of glowing formalin now. At the rate he’s going the entire lab will soon be nothing but bits of Danny in jars.)

“Sure thing,” he whispers, and picks up the scalpel.

He narrates as he works, making small notes on the diagram at his elbow with a gloved hand that grows damp over time with green fluids. He makes the initial incision, running over it repeatedly where necessary, and inch by inch peels the anterior thoracic musculature and subcutaneous layers away.

(He’s almost gotten used to making these incisions, to applying the necessary force as pulls the layers apart. The motions have almost become habit. It’s all the sounds of peeling the body open that continue to haunt him.)

The flesh folds like a thick blanket, draping over the body’s elbows out of the way. There’s no need at this time to study the neck musculature or organs. He leaves that stretch of skin where it’s meant to stay. He focuses on cutting away the pale bits of fatty tissue that might interfere, fully exposing the deep black bones of the body’s rib cage.

(That had been a hard shock, the first time. He’s almost used to the sight now.)

As with the body’s hair and eyes, the bones have a faint green gleam to them. The same iridescence of a raven’s feathers. They yield to a rib cutter the same as any human’s would. He makes the cuts close to the sides rather than near the breastbone; he wants to get a good look at the heart and lungs in situ today.

The inhabitant begins to breathe rapidly.

He pauses, the front of the body’s rib cage gripped carefully in both hands, pulled halfway out. “Do… do you want me to move the mirror?”

Oh, but he had put his foot down about the mirror. There was no way, no way, he would force Danny to observe as his own father cut him open—did this to him. Danny had asked first that his eyes not to be taped shut, because laying there paralyzed and feeling nothing in the dark was so much worse and anyway his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, right? The third examination is when Danny had asked for a way to watch him work, and he’d protested and blubbered and even shouted, enough that Maddie had called down the stairs in a voice thick with tears if everything was—if everything was—did he need help?

Yes, he needed help. But he didn’t tell her that. He told her everything was—was—that she needn’t worry, that he had everything handled.

Danny had asked again. Again and again and again, and every time he said no, told Danny all the reasons why he wouldn’t, couldn’t, would never—

But Danny kept asking.

I want to understand, Dad. Please. I’m gonna go crazy if I all I do is just lay here until you and Mom fix me. I—this is all I can do. I want to see what you’re doing to me, instead of trying to imagine. Please. Please, Dad.

He’d relented for the seventh examination. He’d attached an arm to the observation rig above the table, attached a mirror to the arm, and messed with the angle of it until Danny said he could see himself perfectly.

It had been such a terrible thing to do to Danny, but Danny had thanked him all the same.

The body sighs, chuckles weakly. “N-no. No. I just—hate that sound. That—cracking. Gets—gets me every time.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. He tries to be as gentle as he can, separating the breastbone from the clavicle, but some sounds are unavoidable. After setting the rib cage aside he swallows, and swallows again. His voice betrays him anyway. “M-mediastinum intact again as well. Comparable in color to previous examinations. The residual fatty thymic tissue present….”

And on. And on. Cutting and pulling and weighing, comparing weights and textures and colors to the eight other times he’s already done this.

How many more times will this be necessary?

Danny breathes, sometimes, hitching like he means to say something, or like he's trying not to cry.

Danny doesn’t do either, but he hates himself anyway.

“Decellularization continues apace,” he murmurs near the microphone, tracing a careful finger across one lung in the scale. It and its twin had been a vivid lime green in the beginning, but like nearly every other organ it’s begun to shed its inhabiting cells, leaving a colorless scaffolding in the same rough shape of itself behind.

Ghost organs. He’s never heard of such a thing happening outside of a microbiology lab. It’d almost be funny.

He doesn’t know what it means.

He doesn’t know what any of this means.

The accident should have killed Danny completely, left a well-cooked corpse and an entirely separate ghost behind. Not hybridized him. Not at the risk of this. Their paralytic is what killed him—

(his son, his boy, little Dann-o, gone gone gone and it’s all his fault)

—but if he’d died another way would this have been the same result? This powerlessness, this fading? There’s no knowing, and that most of all is what keeps him up at night.

He finishes comparing all the numbers to those previously recorded. Then samples are taken and the cell debris drained, all the vials and containers marked appropriately. Lastly he bags the organs he intends to keep for study to minimize leakage, leaving the rest in their individual trays. If he were to place them all back in the body the bags would—somehow—vanish within a few days, all the organs reorganized and reattached exactly as they should be. If he doesn’t, new ones will take their place.

Maddie suspects this to be the cause of the decellularization. The body is drawing on its own limited materials to regenerate because the ectoplasmic core once sustaining it has been snuffed out. None of their instruments can even pick up that Danny’s still in there, but there he is all the same. No one knows what to make of that.

All in all, it’s been over an hour by the time he carefully suctions out the last of the fluids pooled within the emptied cavities, filling and marking one more container to join the collection on the stainless steel counter. He’d lined the interior of the body with cotton, the first time. It had gone the same way as the bags, vanished or vaporized or who even knows. He doesn’t bother this time, returning the unbagged organs to rough approximations of where they should be. He gives the small intestine up as a bad job, grimacing apologetically. In the space where the right lung sat he places an oblong monitoring device small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Something clever Maddie cooked up to measure all sorts of things, all potential avenues to make sense of the body’s physiology and shake the ghost clean of it. It shouldn’t be too intrusive once the lung grows back. Not that it matters.

It’s far too late to save their son. They know that. That doesn’t make this any easier.

“Brain next?” The body asks once he’s finished up the new Y incision.

“Brain next,” he confirms wearily, setting aside needle and thread. “Your moth—”

He bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but that’s not enough to take back the slip. No familiarity. No acknowledgement of their relationship. No divulging more details than strictly necessary. That had been part of the agreement.

He wiggles the rubber block out from under the body’s back, moves it to support the head, cards his fingers—a fresh pair of gloves on—through its thick dark hair. Danny can’t feel it but hums a wordless thanks anyway, watching in the mirror. There’s the faintest shiver of motion at his eyes; not the eyeballs themselves but of a fey light within. It’s the only sign anyone’s still in there.

He makes the incision across the crown, sloping from behind one ear to the other. The scrape of the scalpel against bare bone makes Danny suck in a breath. He peels, he cuts, he peels. He whispers an apology as the anterior flap covers the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin. The inhabit’s imagined breaths come faster than ever, but it’s only the dark that upsets him. It is. The dark, the numbness, the helplessness. A hell that can’t be imagined, only experienced.

He moves quicker now, his narration stuttering in favor of action. The posterior flap peeled and cut and folded out of the way, then both of the temporal muscles severed. The scalpel traded for a blade like a bread knife to etch out a rough guideline around the crown of the exposed skull. Then the hammer and chisel.

Danny whimpers all throughout.

As soon as the brain—the same gray-green color of mold—has been removed, he gently pulls the anterior flap back, lets it dangle over empty space as he wipes the body’s face clean of a few green drips. “Keeping this one for testing, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Okay,” the body whispers.

“Nearly finished now.”

“I know. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. He can’t afford to. The brain—what a brilliant kid, a professional ghost hunter, reaching for the stars since he first realized they were up there, the sum of his son cradled in his hands and this isn’t ever going to get any easier, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not—

He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. Sets the brain carefully aside to be dealt with shortly. Soft as Jell-O, brains are, but unfathomably powerful. Science has only scratched the surface of what goes on in that three-pound mass. Danny might still be—somehow—tied to the body, but maybe the answer lies in the brain.

Nearly finished. He can do this.

The skullcap is held awkwardly in place as he sews the scalp closed. It’ll be good as new in no time, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still take care to make the stitches tidy. He uses the back of his hand, the cleanest part of his glove, to smooth the dark hair over the seam.

“This concludes the ninth examination of Daniel Fenton, AKA Phantom,” he croaks into the microphone, and at last, at last, he can kill the recording. As soon as he has he reaches up to nudge the mirror askew so Danny doesn’t have to stare at himself a second longer.

“Done,” he says, his voice gone hoarse again.

“Yeah,” the body says.

He stands there a long, long minute, braced on the examination table staring down at the twisted corpse of his son, both splashed with any number of ghostly-bodily fluids. Arms shaking, his knees rubbery, breathing through a throat of sand. He’s tired. He’s tired. He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

As long as he has to. As long as it takes to help Danny. That’s how much longer he has to. No ifs, ands, or buts.

“Are you okay?” Danny asks.

He laughs. It comes out wetter than he meant it to, but it’s fine. All of the recording equipment is off. The only person who’ll see him cry now is Danny. “Sh—shouldn’t I be asking that?”

“Maybe,” Danny says, “But it’s not easy on anybody. Is it?”

“...No. No, it’s not.”

He’s made such a mess of this corner of the lab. Maddie’d be furious with him if she saw. Not that she will. He’s cordoned it off with tall curtains and begged her on bended knee to leave this whole ugly mess to him. She hasn’t looked yet. He’d know if she had. He's seen the way her eyes linger on the curtains while they're working in another part of the lab, how her hands fumble, how her mouth thins. She's not slept more than four hours at a time since—

Since.

"Quit staring," the body orders. "Mom'll blow a gasket if you leave the lab like this. So c’mon now. Hop to it."

He laughs again, sniffling thickly as he pats the mottled green hand nearest him. Danny can't feel or see him do it, but it feels right to do it all the same. "You're a good boy, keeping your old man on task."

Danny hums. "Somebody's got to."

Well. That’s true enough, isn’t it? He’s always needed a firm hand to keep him focused. It’s been Maddie since the day they met in college, his rock in all things. All things but this. He won’t let her carry this burden. Not the messiest parts he can protect her from anyway.

So. Another checklist.

Juggling trays full of specimens off the second examination table to the counter so he can wipe the table clean. Then cleaning the body. Then moving the body to the second table so he can clean and sterilize the first.

(Like a twisted game of musical chairs, Danny had joked once. Neither of them had laughed.)

But before that comes organizing and storing all the specimens for Maddie to study tomorrow with that eagle eye and incredible patience of hers. She’s doing the real work, laying out all the pieces of Danny to see what makes him tick, working on a way to free him even as she tries to understand him. They’ve dedicated another corner of the lab to this; nearly an entire wall, really. All their other work has gone by the wayside, shelved apart from the necessity of dealing with any ghosts that slip out to wreck a little havoc.

Funny, how few times that’s happened—since. They’d worried, once Jazz and Sam and Tucker had told them the whole terrible truth, that the ghosts might celebrate Phantom’s condition. Take advantage of his helplessness to get revenge or at least run amok in Amity Park. They know news got out; the ghost Phantom had been after the day Maddie got her lucky shot in had gotten away.

But there’s been nothing. Almost nothing, apart from a few non-sapient threats. Mean and cunning things, but nothing half so dangerous as they’d feared would come. Danny doesn’t seem surprised, or worried for that matter. If he knows something though, he’s staying quiet.

Once he’s passed back through the curtains the body says, “Jazz visited me again last night.”

The curse slips out him before he can help it, anger and worry and shame and grief a hot migrainous mess hammering away at his skull, matching the pace he’d chiseled at Danny’s. “She knows better—!”

“Yeah, and I told her to get out too.” Danny chuckles. “She never listens though.”

“I….” He sighs and shakes his head, exasperated. “...Yeah. She gets that from your mother. How is she?”

“Figured that’d be obvious.”

“She won’t talk to either of us,” he replies, and goes to clean and disinfect the table and floor. Easiest to get that done with before he spends 20 minutes hunched over the sink and autoclave. His back’s already clamoring for a hot shower and a handful of ibuprofen after—

Well.

“She’s not as angry as she was,” Danny says in a pause between clangs. “She hardly cried at all this time.”

“Good. That’s—good.”

“Hey, Dad? Do me a favor?”

He’s at Danny’s side at once, taking one hand in his and leaning enough to be in more than Danny’s frozen peripheral. “What is it?”

“She’s gonna try to sneak Sam and Tucker down here this week—”

“What?”

“—so can you make sure the security system will let them in?”

His knee-jerk reaction is to put his foot down, to remind Danny and then Jazz of how tenuous a position they’re in with the GIW, of how they can’t afford the littlest slip or look for loopholes or do anything to risk Danny—

But.

Danny’s been down here so long now. Alone apart from him, from Maddie’s voice on the other side of the curtains, Jazz’s midnight visits. Just his family and the ceiling and hours of silence and a hundred experiments and failures and—

And that’s no way to live. That’s no way to live at all.

“Is that what you want?” He asks.

“I… I really don’t want them to see me like this,” There’s nothing but revulsion in Danny’s voice, self-loathing and guilt and horror. “But they’ll do it no matter what I tell Jazz, and I don’t want them to get caught either.”

“Okay. Okay then. I think I can finagle three days before anyone might notice. Make sure she knows.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

He goes back to cleaning, finishes the area and moves to the instruments and trays. Ectoplasm is notoriously difficult to scrub out. It takes time. The smell of bleach burns his eyes and nose, eventually overpowering the citrus sting of ectoplasm. Once the autoclave is set to run he tosses the latex gloves into the hazardous waste bin and takes a moment to let his hands breathe. Never did like the feel of latex, but his usual pair don’t allow him the finesse he needs for—well, this kind of work. His fingertips have gone pale and wrinkled. His fingers ache. His wrists are on fire, to say nothing of his shoulders and back.

How many more times is he going to do this?

“How do you feel?” He asks.

“I’m fine,” Danny says. Too quickly.

“Be honest, kiddo. Please.”

“I… Cold. Heavy. Like I got stuck phasing through the ground, and any second I’m gonna slip up and go solid and it’ll—” Danny makes a small, miserable noise and falls silent.

He rubs his aching eyes, gritting his teeth against every stupid, useless thing he wants to say. He’d asked, hadn’t he?

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been months.”

“I know.”

Danny’s voice breaks. “I have to get out of here.”

“I know,” he repeats. It’s the only thing to say. He’s exhausted all apologies. “We’re trying, son. We’re working on this day and night. We’ll get you sorted, you know we will.”

“...Yeah. I know.”

He forces his aching legs to the cabinet to pull out a fresh sheet to drape over the body, then Danny’s comforter over that, pulling them both up to the body’s chin to hide the edges of the incision. “Eyes open or shut tonight?”

“Um. What time is it?”

He glances at the wall as he carefully swaps the rubber block under the body’s neck for a plastic-wrapped pillow. “Just after midnight.”

“When will Mom be down?”

“Six sharp, same as always.”

“Right. Um. Shut’s fine.”

He gently tugs the medical tape off the body’s face, smoothes the eyebrows flat and brushes the bangs aside. The green skin feels even colder on his bare fingers.

This is the part where he bids his dead son good night and retreats upstairs. This is the part where he passes by Jazz and Maddie with his eyes firmly on his feet. This is the part where he near boils himself in the shower until he feels almost clean again, scrubbing his skin raw to wash the smell of ectoplasm away. This is the part where there’s only nightmares followed by silent hours spent staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, trying to imagine how helpless and terrified Danny is down here.

He stays where he is, hands braced on the table again. He asks the question that's festered in his gut ever since Jazz threw herself over Phantom's prone shape and spat the truth out through a stream of furious tears. "...Why didn't you tell us?"

Danny is quiet for a long, long time. Then, "I was always gonna end up on this table."

He shudders, pulling away. "We— you don’t really think that. Do you? We love you, Danny. We wouldn't. If we'd known, we wouldn't have."

Another long silence. Then, "Good night, Dad."

“I….” He shuts his eyes, weary in a way he’ll never find the words to express. “Good night, Danny-boy.”

He shuts the lights off on his way up the stairs.

Notes: Decellularization is cool as hell. Check out the >Wiki page< for it, and if you don’t some close-up pictures of a pig heart >here< is a fascinating DIY to create your very own ghost organ as a Halloween decoration! (Scientists are amazing.) For the rest of the research I did for this, I’ll just say that boy! You sure can find some extremely specific How-Tos on the Internent, huh? I sure learned a lot this week!

Anyway, thanks for reading! You’re great. <3

#danny phantom #phango19 #my writing #body horror #gore #dissection #i went all out y'all and i am not sorry #the research rabbit hole was intense on this one #my search history is WILD

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thatweirdsideblog · 5 years

Text

Scenario/Story

(Bare with me cuz i know this is long af, i just have a really tough time writing things out in story format due to some past stuff so just let your imaginations run with this however you like!)

Imagine ragweed nymph/dryad

They've just made a new friend by finding a common interest. While usually a bit reserved with strangers, they've grown comfortable enough with the way the conversation has progressed that they've allowed themself to loosen up a bit and show their excitement at meeting a human who has this same interest as they do.

The thing is, this dryad resides over a ragweed field. Since dryad forms resemble their home, this dryad produces pollen during the late summer/early fall. Their pollen so small and so lightweight, that any sudden movement on the dryad's part is bound to send some of it into the air, not to mention any gust of wind will carry their pollen for miles.

Needless to say, their animated gestures are shaking that pollen loose in clouds. the

Yet, not being used to spending longer periods of time outside of nature/in the company of non-nymph individuals, our pollen proprietor, engrossed in the conversation, doesn't really notice the immediate effects of their actions.

The human, on the other hand, definitely does notice. They also notice how itchy their eyes have gotten and how their nose has begun to run.

Yes, they could say something to alert the dryad to this small (yet increasingly evident) issue, but they don't want to disrupt what they got going on here. They've never had such an engaging exchange with this individual before, and theyre really cute it's nice to see them so passionate about something.

The last thing the human wants to do is rain on their parade. So they try their best to keep their hands away from their face and focus instead on keeping the cute dryad talking- hopefully they won't notice the increasing intervals between the human's sniffling and throat clearing.

Now this human's will may be strong, but their allergies are stronger. Eventually the tickle becomes too much, and they sneeze. A polite "bless you!" from the dryad, a customary "thank you" from the human. The discussion continues with minimal interruption.

Seeing that will alone won't stop the escalation of what now looks to be a promising allergy attack, the human switches gears, vigorously scrubbing at their nose. They pray that this will abate the relentless tickle in their nose. They don't really know what the dryad's reaction to more outbursts might be. A lot of beings aren't used to some of the bodily mechanics/functions of humans. Do dryads even sneeze? The human's stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of possibly grossing out this prospective new friend. Maybe they can avoid sneezing any more if-

And then they sneeze again.

And then twice more.

The dryad offers a third, now slightly hesitant "bless you..." They pause, uncertain whether they're supposed to address this any further. It doesn't seem right. Humans don't usually sneeze this much, do they?

The human just waves off the blessing, dismissing any implied concern for their health. They ask the dryad a question pertaining to the dryad's statement prior to the interruption, which prompt the dryad back into their speculative discussion.

The human manages to discreetly stifle a few intermittent sneezes without calling attention to themself, but that just makes them so stuffed up that they have to resort to breathing through their mouth. The deep itch in their sinuses is persisting with a vengeance. If anything, stifling has made it even more intense. The human has tried everything in their power but they wont be able to-

Abandoning all attempts to holdback/stifle, the human just barely has time to bring their hands over their mouth as they fold in on themselves with the force of the expulsion. The dryad starts to bless them, but the human shakes their head, not even bothering to remove their steepled hands as they gear up for another wrenching sneeze. And another. And another...

The dryad, startled by this sudden barrage of sneezes, scrambles to pull a square of cloth they have saved for first aid from within one of their several pockets. Mimicking what they've seen other humans do, they offer the cloth to the human.

The human blindly reaches for the cloth with one hand, the other still covering their nose and mouth, grabbing it just in time to pitch forward with two more sneezes.

They blow their nose and wipe the allergic tears from their eyes (both of which they've desperately seeking to do this entire time) and then sneeze one more time into the cloth.

This entire time, the dryad is standing stock-still, genuinely afraid of what's happening to their acquaintance.

"This- this doesn't seem normal! We need to get you to a healer immediately!" They say with a shaky yet determined voice.

Sheepishly, the human just gives a small laugh in response and shakes their head. "No ah...i just simply forgot my allergy potion today. I didn't think I'd need it today, see? For the pollen..."

The dryad's eyes widen slowly as they take an involuntary step back, holding up their hands close to their chest. "The... oh..." They look down guiltily at their feet, blushing a dark green all the way to the tips of their ears. "my pollen..." they add quietly.

"No please don't think it's your fault, we didn't even know we'd meet each other today!" The human sniffs and massages their red nostrils with the cloth as they hold their other palm up in a placating manner. "Besides, if anyone is at fault here it's me! I should know to keep a spare potion on me just i-hh..." they take a shaky breath, looking off to the side with an unfocused gaze "hh-hiEtSHUUh!"

Holding up a finger to indicate theyre not done.

"H...HnNKT-"

Pinching off the second sneeze with the cloth, they shake their head and give another congested sniff, frowning slightly. "What was i... oh yeah! Please don't think this-" They gesture to their face. "-is because of you!"

The dryad purses their lips, grip on their hands tightening in front of their chest. "I just- you should've told me i was waving my arms around too much or... or that you couldn't be around pollen. I didn't know i would make you sick..."

The human laughs incredulously. "You didn't! I'm not sick, just a little sneezy. My body just doesn't really...take to pollen very well." They step forward and put their hands around the dryad's. "And that's nobody's fault, okay?" Their expression softens as their eyes meet the dryad's and hold their gaze. The human pointedly raises their eyebrows. "Okay? I'm glad I got to meet up with you today. I like how passionate you are, and I want to hear you talk more about this, yeah?"

Some of the tension eases from the dryad's shoulders and they nod. "I like speaking with you too..."

The human wrinkles their nose and smiles, about to respond, when their breath suddenly snags in their throat and a flash of alarm flits across their face. Without a second to spare, they only just manage to turn aside, bent double by 3 successive, barely covered sneezes, their hand, which did not make it up to their face in time, clutching the cloth.

A bit winded/dazed by the force of the harsh sneezes, the human straightens up, scrubbing their nose with the back of their wrist, fingers still curled around the cloth, as if in the heat of the moments its utility was temporarily forgotten.

"Whew!" The human chuckles, swiping the cloth under their nose again. They pinch the bridge of their nose, massaging it lightly up and down. "Sorry 'bout that-"

A shadow of that frown still lingers in the dryad's expression as they interject. "I think... i should probably go for today," they say, clearly still a bit troubled by the human's adverse reaction to their presence.

The human's eyes widen. "Wait no! You said you traveled so far to get here, and we haven't even seen the town yet."

"But I'm making you like this... it doesn't seem comfortable, even if you say you are not sick."

The human sniffs, then sneezes once into the crook of their arm , as if pointedly. "Well you're right, it's not. But all I'll need is one potion from one apothecary, and I'll be fit as a fiddle~"

"What's a fiddle?"

"Come to the town with me and I'll show you."

The dryad shifts from one foot to the other, considering.

"Fine. But apothecary first"

"Deal." Then, after a moment, "I'll need to reimburse you for that handkerchief though. You can pick out the pattern."

The dryad blushes, this time for a different reason. "I like floral..."

The human just chuckles and claps the dryad lightly on the back, before realising their mistake, breath hitching, as they pull out their 'handkerchief' and sneeze into it two more times. After a hasty recovery they simply nudge the dryad good-naturedly and nod their head towards the road into town.

"We should get going, I'll stay upwind."

#this is literally a full story i just #hate trying to write things in book format right off the bat cuz its a huge trigger for my anxiety #still i really do hope you guys like it!#i even threw in some sneeze spellings #its only 2 but hey at least i tried!#im pretty proud of myself for breaking through what was essentially a 1.5 year writers block tho ngl #either way yeah these arent ocs (yet) but ive kinda had the idea half brewed for a while #anywho uhhhh yeah so imma just #my writing #mine #yeehaw i guess?

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hot-wiings · 5 years

Text

Satisfied - Hamilton Musical

Helpless Part Two

Tip Jar

[Edited: 10-26-19]

Alright, alright. That's what I'm talkin' about! Now everyone, give it up for the maid of honour Angelica Schuyler! A toast to the groom! (To the groom! To the groom! To the groom!) To the bride! (To the bride! To the bride! To the bride!) From your sister. (Angelica! Angelica! Angelica!) Who is always by your side! (By your side! By your side!) To your union. (To the union! To the revolution!) And the hope that you provide. (Provide, to provide) And may you always (Always...) Be Satisfied. Rewind– Rewind– Rewind– Rewind– I remember that night, I just might regret that night for the rest of my days. I remember those soldier boys tripping over themselves to win our praise. I remember that dreamlike candlelight. Like a dream that you can't quite place. But Alexander, I'll never forget the first time I saw your face.

Touya put on the best fake smile he could conjure up. It wasn't a hard task. All his life he’d been putting up fake smiles. Around his fuck-chump of a father, who never gave a shit about him. Around his younger siblings, whom he wished he could protect from his father. He had to put up a fake smile when his father put his mother in a facility.

Touya imagined when his little brother got married he would be happy for him. But he couldn't be. Not when he was irrevocably in love with the very woman his brother was marrying.

Touya had to keep reminding himself that he just had to get through the night. Just one night. It was Shoto’s wedding night and he deserved to be happy. Touya could set aside his feelings for one night, then he could leave.

He had already gotten through the ceremony. Being the best man, he stood by his brother's side as you and Shoto said your I-Dos. He even did his job as the best man. He made sure that everything was perfect. If that meant keeping his mouth shut while the minister asked for any objections, then so be it, he would be quiet.

Now, he just needed to give his toast as the older brother. He just needed to eat one meal and have a few drinks. Then he would have no reason to stay. Then he could leave and go back to his apartment. Far away from the happy newlyweds.

Touya stepped up to the stage to give his toast. His eyes were cast down. He knew if he saw your eyes or Shoto’s eyes, he would feel sick. He would feel regretful for introducing you to each other. But he couldn't let himself do that.

“A toast to the bride! To the groom! From your brother, who is always by your side. To your union, and the hope you provide. May you always be satisfied.”

Touya looks into your eyes knowing this will be the last time he sees them. The flashbacks they brought pained his eyes.

I have never been the same. Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame. And when you said "Hi." I forgot my dang name. Set my heart aflame, every part aflame. This is not a game. "You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied." "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. You forget yourself." "You're like me. I'm never satisfied." "Is that right?" "I have never been satisfied." "My name is Angelica Schuyler." "Alexander Hamilton." "Where's your family from?" "Unimportant. There's. a million things I haven't done. Just you wait, just you wait..." So so so— So this is what it feels like to match wits with someone at your level! What the hell is the catch? It's the feeling of freedom, of seeing' the light. It's Ben Franklin with a key and a kite! You see it, right? The conversation lasted two minutes, maybe three minutes.

Touya was conversing with people from. It was his job as the eldest Todoroki sibling. He had to go talk to people and be social. Make the Todoroki family look like they were nice and happy.

He turned around breaking away from the person he was previously conversing with, only to knock into a girl.

“Sorry.”

You looked at him with a soft smile. When Touya's eyes met yours, he became putty in your hands. You were beautiful and he was speechless. But it wasn't just that. something about your eyes was mesmerizing. They drew him in. He wanted to know every detail about you.

“It's alright. Don’t take this the wrong way but you strike me as a man who has never been satisfied.”

He had never been satisfied. He never pursued the life if a hero due to a disapproving father. He never pursued college but rather stayed at home to take care of his siblings in the absence of his mother. Touya never did anything for himself.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“You're like me. I'm never satisfied.”

“Is that right?”

“I have never been satisfied.”

With every word, you drew him in.

“My name is Touya Todoroki.”

“[Y/N] [L/N].”

Despite drawing you in, Touya had common sense. He couldn't pursue something that his father would try to rip away.

“Where's your family from?”

“Unimportant. There are a million things I haven't done yet.”

You made Touya feel so satisfied. He wanted to be satisfied. He wanted you to make him feel satisfied. You were penniless and came from a family his father would never approve above. He didn't care. He wanted you anyway. You were the one thing he was willing to disobey his father over.

Everything we said in total agreement. It's a dream and it's a bit of a dance. A bit of a posture, it's a bit of a stance. He's a bit of a flirt, but I'm-ma give it a chance. I asked about his family, did you see his answer? His hands started fidgeting, he looked askance. He's penniless, he's flying by the seat of his pants. Handsome, boy, does he know it! Peach fuzz, and he can't even grow it! I wanna take him far away from this place then I turn and see my sister's face and she is. "Helpless..." And I know she is "Helpless..." And her eyes are just. "Helpless..." And I realize three fundamental truths at the exact same time. "Where are you taking me?" "I'm about to change your life." "Then, by all means, lead the way." Number one! I'm a girl in a world in which my only job is to marry rich. My father has no sons so I'm the one who has to social climb for one. So I'm the oldest and the wittiest and the gossip in New York City Is insidious.

Touya poured himself a glass of punch. He parted from you to get a drink, besides, it would look immoral to spend the entire evening with you. At least that's how his father and his coworkers would view it.

Shoto tugged on Touya's arm and Touya looked into his brother's eyes. They were bright and excited. He was happy for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Who’s that girl?”

Touya softly smiled in your direction. ‘My future wife,’ he wanted to say. But he couldn't just say that to his brother like that with dozens of people around them.

“[Y/N] [L/N]. She has a healing quirk. It’s better than Recovery Girl’s quirk.”

Touya wanted to say much more. He wanted to say the intimate things you just talked about. How you shared your hopes and dreams. But he didn't. He didn't talk about how he knew he was in love with you. Maybe that was his mistake.

“She’s beautiful. How do I talk to her?”

Touya bit his lip and lightly chuckled. The irony. His brother wanted the girl he wanted. What kind of twisted fate was this? He wanted to tell Shoto that he wanted you, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. One look into Shoto’s eyes and he saw the pure adoration and happiness.

Three things became obvious to Touya at that moment:

#1. He is the eldest Todoroki sibling. As the oldest, he is supposed to marry a rich woman who can birth many children to help success his father's name. [Y/N] [L/N] would not birth many children due to being a busy hero, nor was she rich.

#2. Enji would just move on from Touya to a different child. Even if Touya married for love, his younger siblings would be forced to marry for status.

#3. Shoto was a hero, who loved his siblings. If Touya told him about his love for [Y/N], Shoto would step aside. He would silently sit back and suffer while Touya married for status.

This is what pushed Touya to make his decision to walk over to you.

He lightly tapped your arm to catch your attention. Giving you a smile as you turn around to meet his eyes for the second time that night.

“Hey.”

“Hello again!”

Touya wanted to say fuck it and run away with you. But one look back at his brother stopped him in his tracks. His brother was helplessly in love.

Instead, Touya grabs your hand and brings you to his brother.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I’m about to change your life.”

“Then, by all means, lead the way.”

And Alexander is penniless. Ha! That doesn't mean I want him any less. "Elizabeth Schuyler. It's a pleasure to meet you." "Schuyler?" "My sister." Number two! He's after me cuz I'm a Schuyler sister. That elevates his status. I'd have to be naïve to set that aside. Maybe that is why. I introduce him to Eliza, now that's his bride. Nice going, Angelica, he was right. You will never be satisfied. "Thank you for all your service." "If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it." "I'll leave you to it." Number three! I know my sister like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. If I tell her that I love him she'd be silently resigned. He'd be mine. She would say, "I'm fine." She'd be lying. But when I fantasize at night it's Alexander's eyes. As I romanticize what might have been if I hadn't sized him up so quickly. At least my dear Eliza's his wife. At least I keep his eyes in my life.

“Shoto Todoroki, a pleasure to meet you.”

Shoto grabs your soft warm hand into his cold one and kisses it. Kisses it the way a gentleman would. He was wooing you. It took everything in Touya to not stop him. He wanted to be the one to woo you. To kiss you. To touch you.

“Todoroki?”

“My little brother, he’s fresh out of UA.”

“Unfortunately, I myself could not fight in the battle due to being in UA. But I would like to thank you and your fellow American’s for fighting. You fought greatly.”

A blush spread across your cheeks. He yearned to be the reason you blushed. This was the start of his envy. The start of his jealousy.

“Meeting you makes it worthwhile.”

Touya watched with a hard forced smile as you and Shoto got acquainted and flirted. It was the most he saw Shoto smile in his whole life. He had to let Shoto have you. He wanted Shoto to be happy. He wanted Shoto to be satisfied.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

To the Groom! (To the groom! To the groom! To the groom!) To the Bride! (To the bride! To the bride! To the bride!) From your sister. (Angelica! Angelica! Angelica!) Who is always by your side! (By your side! by your side!) To your union! (To the union! To the revolution!) And the hope that you provide! (Provide, to provide.) May you always. (Always.) Be Satisfied. (Be satisfied, be satisfied. Be satisfied.) And I know. She'll be happy as his bride. And I know. He will never be satisfied. I will never Be Satisfied.

Touya knocks back the remaining alcohol in his glass to the back of his throat. He didn't know what glass he was on. He stopped count after four.

His eyes glossed over you and Shoto dancing. Smiles embraced your stupid faces.

Be happy.

But he couldn't be. All he felt was sadness and anger. He resented Enji. If Enji had given Shoto a happy childhood, then maybe he would be marrying someone from his class, instead of you.

If Shoto and Touya had a happy childhood, then Touya wouldn’t feel the need to make sure his siblings were happy and satisfied before he got the chance to be.

He hated Enji and all he'd done to his siblings. The more alcohol he consumed the more he felt. Maybe there was someplace Touya could go to be away from his father. Away from his father, away from the newlyweds, away from the stress of being a Todoroki.

There was only one place like that. The villains. But he couldn’t betray his brother, his siblings, like that, could he?

Touya looked at the bottle of alcohol in his hand. He looked over to his brother, then to his siblings, then to Enji. He looked back to Shoto and then back to the bottle.

His thumb rubbed over the label. DAB.

Dabi.

“I'm sorry Shoto, but if I stay, I will never be satisfied.”

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aspoonofsugar · 4 years

Note

This is the writing anon from earlier (sorry for overstuffing your ask box). How do you balance introspection scenes with external action scenes? Any tips for integrating them? Especially since my character’s perspective is influenced by her bipolar moods and vivid imagination. How do you write introspection without stagnating the plot?

Hello anon!

Don’t worry, I enjoyed your asks and I am happy you shared your ideas with me! Sorry for the wait, I will try to answer as best as I can.

When it comes to mixing action-scenes with more introspective scenes I think much depends from the style you are adopting and also from the POV you are using.

In some books, it is given much space to introspection to the point that even reading of everyday and mundane things becomes interesting because they are filtered by the character’s point of view. This is similar to what happens in the following short:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9v5-Xtp8RZc

The techniques used may be different from the ones used in books because the media is different, but the point I am trying to highlight is that in the short the protagonist is actually trying to do a very mundane thing. She is simply trying to leave work early on in order to have her hair cut. However, the way her actions are framed convey the feeling she is in danger and she is doing something incredibly dangerous. Basically, the short conveys the emotions of the character and how she feels and in this way such a simple thing as having a hair-cut ends up changing in a spy-story.

At the same time, there are other stories in which the characters’ interiority is completely conveyed through their actions. They show their feelings by acting in a certain way. Of course in this case dialogues with other characters can help convey what they think and how they feel, but you never properly enter the character’s head how you would in a stream of consciousness. This last approach is often used in movies since the media uses visuals to convey meaning instead of only words.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZS5cgybKcI

For example, in this short the two characters’ emotions are conveyed only through visuals and through their actions, not even their words because they are both animals. Of course, one of the advantages of animations and movies is that the visuals can convey something in a much clearer way than with words. If someone were to write a short story about the kitty and the pit-bull they may need to use more words and to enter in the head of the kitty. In this case, the scene where he is in his box with the plushie is perfect to explore a little the kitty interiority. It doesn’t need to be long, but we can have a scene where the kitty thinks how much he loves this crampled box and how much he feels safe with the plushie to the point he doesn’t need anyone else. His reflections can very well be interrupted by the arrival of the dog which moves the plot.

Of course between the two extremes where everything is conveyed through a filtered stream of consciousness and everything is conveyed through a character’s actions there are many middle solutions where “show don’t tell” and stream-of-consciousness-like introspection are combined.

I would also highlight that sometimes you can use visuals to convey introspection as well. For example, in Psycho Pass Akane’s evolution is conveyed through a very long scene where she basically remembers important interactions she has had with other characters (her two friends, Kagari, Makishima). In all those interactions she had been questioned about herself and who she was and what she truly thought of the world. At the time she was made these questions she had no idea what to answer, but in her own mind she reaches the answers and so she answers her interlocutors. In this way we are basically shown an interior evolution of the character thanks to visuals and dialogues.

Apart from the specific example, one can convey a person’s interiority through flashbacks and dreams as well.

Generally speaking, I think that a good way to approach the balance between introspection and action may be to think structurally. Many stories can be divided in three major parts aka the beginning, the central part and the finale. The beginning must present the situation, hook the reader and explain the character’s objective. The beginning of a story often presents an equilibrium which changes after an accident, being it an external factor or the character’s own actions. The central part is the part where the conflict keeps growing until the climax is reached and after the climax there is a finale which is slower and presents a new equilibrium aka how things have changed after the main conflict.

Intuitively, it is common that many of the action scenes will be concentrated in the central parts, while the beginning and the conclusion might be slower and with more introspection to get to know the character and to tie things together thematically. That said, this doesn’t mean that you have to concentrate all the introspection at the beginning and at the end and all the action in the middle. After all, in the middle part the character has to change either internally or they have to change their approach to the problem in order to solve it. For example, a detective may have an introspective scene just before solving the mystery, so he can realize he has been going at things in a completely wrong way up until that moment. In this case, he doesn’t really change as a person, but his method to face the murder changes and this leads to the solution. The same can happen for a character who realizes they need to change as a person. For example, a selfish character might have an introspective scene where they realize their actions are damaging their loved ones and this will lead to their final change which will be conveyed through the final conflict and the final choice they make. For example, the selfish character, after having their realization, will choose to sacrifice themselves for their loved ones by confessing a crime they made and their loved one has been accused of. In this case the introspective scene is right before the resolutive scene of the plot.

What is important of the three part structure is that it can be used not only to divide a story into three parts, but also to divide a scene in three parts. As a matter of fact ideally a scene should be a conflictual unit meaning that it must have its own conflict which is introduced, reaches a climax and is solved in a way which makes the story progress and which links the scene to the one which comes after.

Let’s make an example using your OC and her intention of triggering her grandmother to see her reaction. I will be quoting from one of your other asks:

Similarly, she wonders the same about her grandmother, who hurt my OC’s father during a breakdown. My OC purposely triggers her grandmother to see if the latter would revert to violence.

As you said your OC at one point chooses to trigger her grandmother to see if she will answer with violence or not. Now, let’s focus on the scene she does it. I imagine she will have her reasons to make such an attempt. For example, let’s say in the scene before she has fought an opponent who taunted her and told her she will always be violent because of her mental illness and that recovery is impossible. Because of this, the scene might open with the character thinking back about this confrontation. The opponent reminded her of her own worst fears and so she wants to see if their words are true or not. Now, she might have to go to her grandmother’s house for a reason or another (she goes there weekly, she needs to borrow a book for plot reasons etc.) and she is thinking while she walks there. When she meets her grandmother she might feel anger even if she herself might not realize why (the readers would understand that it is because the grandmother reminds her of herself) and she decides to trigger her even if she had not planned it beforehand. Hence her manipulating her grandmother and her grandmother’s reaction. The interaction might solve in different ways. She could leave her granmother’s house both scared and angry or she might stay until the grandmother calms down and they can have a heartfelt discussion. As you can see these two different endings give different spins to the story and push it in different directions. In the first ending the character might be shocked of having her worst fears confimred and might spiral for a bit, while in the second case her dialogue with her grandmother might help her overcome her opponent’s words in the long run.

What I wanted to show is that in a single scene you managed to convey the character’s interiority and her feelings and to make the plot progress.

Let’s now briefly focus on the POV you are using.

For example, are you using a first person POV or a third person POV? A first person can be difficult to handle especially when the POV of your character is original and not objective in some instances. That said, the fact what your character says might not represent the truth could be used to create interesting effects. For example, Georgy Porgy is a short story by Roald Dahl which is told by a vicar’s point of view. The things narrated by the vicar becomes stranger and stranger until he says that he has been eaten by a woman. However, later details like a man in a white coat coming to visit him in the woman’s stomach make people understand he is in a psychiatric hospital. Another example is given by a novel by Natsuo Kirino where the story is told through letters and a manuscript. Thanks to this, the readers have a specific story told by the book written by a character and letters written by other characters which contradict and criticize the book. Because of this, in the end the reader is not sure about who is telling the truth and who is lying.

Generally speaking, a third person can be easier to handle because you can decide how much to focus it, so that it can perfectly overlap with your POV character, but also offer some kind of commentary to some of the character’s more contradictive actions. At the same time, a third person can make the use of more lyrical and poetic images justified, while it can be difficult to make them believable with a first person.

Another thing to consider is how many POV you are using.

A single POV can let you avoid too much fragmentation of the story and of the subplots, but of course it makes so that the readers’ knowledge is limited to the character’s perspective. This can actually help in the construction of interesting twists which are revealed to the character and to the reader at the same time.

More POVs can let the readers know more characters at the same time and they can in this way acquire more information, but the story might be slowed down by this and it can become confusing.

I think that it is better to have a limited number of POV characters and to choose them according to the plot. For example, if in the end the main POV character gets to know everything the reader needs to know you might just have one POV, while if the POV won’t discover everything and you need the reader to realize this and to know more you may have more POV characters or also change the POV just at the end to show that things did not end like the character thought.

All in all, the choice of more POV characters might also be about the themes of the story like in Baccano! where the fact of having a huge cast and not a proper MC is used to convey the themes about life and narrative the series explores.

Finally I think that when choosing a POV character one should consider that two different effects can be obtained according to the attributes of the character.

Either the character has very average attributes or the character has very specific and strange attributes.

In the first case, the POV will be as close as objective as it is, but the character will lose in characterization.

In the second case, the POV might not be much objective and a part of the story’s charm will be to convey the point of view of the character which is not common. In this case, the POV of the character might twist events, but also the perception of other characters and so it might be difficult to describe in an objective way characters as complex and as peculiar as the one of your POV character.

A solution might very well be to differentiate between POV character and main character. In this case the POV will tell the story of the MC (for example this is the idea behind Sherlock Holmes and Watson). The MC will be the character living the most important conflict and driving the story, while the POV will be the person through whom we will experience the story and will have a more passive role.

For example, in both Psycho Pass and Madoka respectively Akane and Madoka have for the first part of the series the role of POV characters. They are more passive than other characters and they know less about the worldbuilding than other characters. Because of this, they are the characters things are explained to and in this way things are explained to the readers as well. In Akane and Madoka’s case, their role of POV characters is handled very well imo because they both have an important development at the end of their respective series to the point that they take important parts of the plot in their own hands after having been passive for the majority of the story. Basically they do not remain passive until the end and they are given a proper arc.

I would also like to highlight how not being given the POV of a character since the beginning, but discovering that character little by little as the POV’s character gets to know them more and more doesn’t necessarily make the character less interesting or sympathetic, but can actually be very satisfying. For example, this is exactly what happens with Homura in Madoka since we discover more and more about her as the story progresses and we are shown different aspects of her character.

These are my thoughts on your question and I hope they were useful. I will answer to your other asks soon. Hopefully either tomorrow or on Tuesday.

Thank you for the ask!

#writing #writing anon #asksfullofsugar #anonymous

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thedistantstorm · 5 years

Text

Keep On Rising (Until The Sky Knows Your Name) 14

A story about how an orphaned Amanda Holliday comes to belong in the Last Safe City and the family she finds along the way.

(Or, the story of how Commander Zavala finds himself responsible for one Amanda Holliday.)

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

This time: Eva and Hideo and Holliday. A chain reaction.

It doesn't take much to get the faction rep's attention. A few key words, some very pointed, hushed phrases.

"I know it is not a common occurrence," She tells the Speaker, who though she cannot see his face, she is sure he looks on with something akin to compassion and maybe amusement. He is a very intelligent man. Frighteningly so to most, but incredibly benevolent all the same. "But I cannot believe the orphanage would deny him without at least looking at his application. He might not be a member of the faction but I would think he does enough for them - and this City," She tuts. "I just feel so awful for him."

All of it is true, and yet she packages up that truth and tries to sell it like Tess does. The younger woman would be proud.

Hideo himself comes over. "Excuse me," He says politely enough, pressing his palms together like a prayer, "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. The Commander is trying to bring home a child?"

"I could not believe it either, dear," Eva gushes in her best impression of borderline senile. She isn't that old, she thinks with an internalized sigh, but it does the trick. "He told me he'd just gotten the application filled out and was going to tell her the good news, but they transferred her out of nowhere. The new facility won't listen to the old one, and you know how Zavala is. Wants to do everything the right way, even if it tears him up inside."

"That's horrible," Hideo agrees. "You said they denied him, though."

"Oh! I did," Eva agrees. The Speaker casually moves back to his observatory, his work done. "Did you know they require you to be a faction backer to adopt a handicapped child?"

"Well, I'm sure it's to make sure they have the financial well-being…"

"It's just so sad, Executor. This is Zavala we're talking about. The Commander always plays fair, and yet he's beating himself up inside because his position does not allow him to play favorites, even if he wanted to." She sighs, wistfully, watching as the man's hand came up to stroke his chin in consideration. "And the poor girl must be inconsolable. The bond between them is just… Those refugee children are so tough, and then this one…" See shakes her head.

"Let…" Hideo looks up to her, his dark eyes soft yet calculating. "Let me see what I can do. You said this child was handicapped? We support the most vulnerable members of our population. If this child is at one of New Monarchy's facilities, perhaps I can intervene."

Eva smiles a teary smile. "Oh, that would just be the most wonderful thing, dear." He calls over one of his men, who takes the information from her. After, she pats his hand, thanking him profusely for his kindness.

"I'll see to this myself," He promises.

He returns to his nook, already issuing instructions. Eva hides her grin behind her hand, returning to her stall. For now, all she can do is wait. She can't imagine it will take very long for the Executor to set things to rights for his 'dear friend.'

It takes the better part of a week. She knows because there are Consensus meetings that call away the majority of the Tower's top players, and when she checks in on Zavala, he still has that sad glimmer in his eye, but clearly others have started to notice.

Ikora is standing across from his desk, looking down at him with something Eva takes a moment to realize is concern. She retracts her hand from the doorframe, intending to return later, by nothing escapes Ikora's notice.

"Come in," The Warlock Vanguard says, not unkind and yet brisk om her delivery.

Eva knows better than to say no, and Zavala waves to an unoccupied chair in a non-verbal invitation of his own.

"Zavala informed me of the situation," Ikora tells her. "And that you've offered to assist."

"I have." She looks to Zavala. He looks older like this. "You need to take care of yourself. What if things happen quickly?"

"They won't."

"They might. This one put on quite a scene the other day." Ikora looks so sarcastic. Eva thinks it's a shame. She's such a beautiful woman, and so powerful too. Then, her eyes soften a touch. "My Hidden reported a rather interesting conversation, with the Speaker, no less."

Zavala looks to Ikora, but her gaze is trained on Eva's face. The youngest of them shrugs.

"Whatever was said," Ikora finally turns to Zavala, amusement lighting her golden eyes, "It certainly motivated the Executor. He was watching you throughout our meetings, and was clearly working on something besides that plasteel contract, considering he didn't even try to block the infrastructure proposal."

"Eva." His intense stare is intimidating, but Eva will have none of it.

"You underestimate my concern for you, my friend." She smiles warmly at Zavala's look of tired exasperation. "What was I supposed to do, let you mope for the next few months? The poor girl wouldn't hold out that long. Besides, all I did was give him some information. I didn't force him to do anything. For all I know, he hasn't."

"That's very shrewd of you," Ikora says levelly. "That explains why Tess is afraid to buy you out."

Eva shrugs. From the Warlock, she suspects that's a compliment. "Thank you."

Turning back to Zavala, Ikora tilts her head to the side. "I can't imagine this not going in your favor. Even if I don't think it's the best of ideas."

"I think you might be surprised, Ikora," Eva chimes.

"The Speaker certainly isn't against it," She supposes aloud. "And you are miserable, so there's no doubt you're attached." She gives him a smirk that seems like more of a sad smile, the longer it stays on her face. "And above all, you are my teammate. My friend," She revises. The emotion seems to make her uncomfortable, Eva thinks. "I'll talk to Hideo myself, if need be."

"I can't imagine that ending well," Zavala deadpans. Ikora's lips curl into a predatory smile. The severity of Zavala's gaze lessens. "But I do appreciate the sentiment."

A man comes to see her. He is wearing a color red just a little bit darker than her blanket, she can see it out of the corner of her eye. He didn't look like a doctor, but Amanda doen't trust anyone these days. The last time she answered questions for a doctor he'd told these people to come get her.

"You're Amanda, yes?" He pauses. "Amanda Holliday?"

She blinks to him listlessly and then turns her head back to the window.

The man sighs. She hears the sound of footsteps, the annoyed huff of the new matron, her sworn enemy. "She's been like this since we brought her in. The only thing we've gotten out of her is that she wants to go back to her old orphanage."

He tilts his head toward the matron, asking quietly, "The one just outside the Rich District, right?"

"Yes," The matron answers, not that Amanda would have spoke to him anyway.

Silently, she pulls her blanket up and around her like armor, still refusing to make eye contact.

The man steps a little closer. He can see the bulge of her stump, the small, swollen limb wrapped beneath the blanket. "Did he make that for you?"

Her fingers curl through the stitches, wary, but she tips her head, listening.

"For the Dawning last year, he gave me a scarf that’s nearly the same color. It's warm and cozy, much like that blanket."

She looks at him, then. Her eyes are dull, it's clear she thinks this is some game, because she all but looks right through him before looking back toward the window.

"I've known Commander Zavala for a long time," He continues. "We work together on many things. I heard from another friend of ours that he is very worried about you."

That certainly draws a reaction. She gasps as though she's come up for air, her seaglass eyes glossy with unshed tears, but focused. "H-" She clears her throat. "He is?"

"What? Executor-"

The child's stare narrows angrily on the matron for her intrusion. He can feel the force of her tiny wrath.

"Leave us," He says to the matron, who sputters but complies.

The man pulls up a chair to her bedside. She scooches back, clearly unsure of the newcomer, regardless of who he claims to know, pulling her blanket up to her chin. "Can he come visit me? I-if he'd wanna?" She looks at him in concern, balling her fists to keep them from shaking.

"Did he come visit you often, before?" The man's eyes are not unkind. It's clear, if nothing else, he feels sympathy for her.

"He sat with me at night,' She murmurs, sniffling.

"I see." The man crosses his right leg over his left, slouching comfortably. "I don't think he knew you were moved," He tells her. It's a safer line of explanation than the truth, considering what the matron had told him when he arrived about her meltdown. "I'm going to see him shortly, and I'll make sure he knows he can come to see you any time he wishes."

She doesn't answer him, hugging the blanket to her tightly. Her closed off posture and behavior are not going to wavier, he can tell. Thus, he does not linger, rising without another word.

When he gets to the doorway, she drawls after him, "Ya promise?"

Hideo turns back. "Absolutely."

#destiny fanfic #shipwright september #commander zavala #amanda holliday #eva levante #executor hideo #new monarchy

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lovemesomesurveys · 5 years

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Nickname; Just Steph, really. Oh, and “Sis” by my family. How many piercings do you have, and where? 2: 1 in each earlobe. What color are your eyes? Brown. And hair? Naturally dark brown, but I dye it red. Does orange look good on you? Can you pull it off? I don’t think any color looks good on me, but anyway I do have a couple orange shirts.

What do you do when it storms and the power’s out all night? That’s never happened, but I imagine I would just read on my phone or listen to Spotify until I fell asleep. What do you do with yourself when you’re at the beach? My mom, brother, and I like to go and just relax and chill. We don’t even really talk a whole lot, we just kinda zone out. She and my brother usually are lying down with headphones in or taking a nap while tanning, and I just get lost watching the ocean crash in and out and listening to the sound it makes. I just soak it all in. I love it. Are you shy, or no? Very. Have you ever been to St. Augustine? Nope. Have you ever been to Ocala? Nope. Have you ever just been to Florida? Nope. What about Indiana? Nope. Are you nosey? I mean, sometimes I want the “tea” as the kids say about certain things lol. I’ll see a vague status or tweet or something and want to know what it’s in reference to. I’m more nosey when it comes to celebrity gossip stuff, though. Do you “pry”? Well, like with my family I might ask about something in a general way and see what they offer up themselves. If I can tell they don’t want to talk about something then I don’t push it. If it’s someone I don’t know well then no, I don’t ask about it. I am guilty of trying to piece it together myself based on other tweets/statuses when possible, though... :x Why does everyone hate Justin Bieber so much? He did some stupid, douchey things in the past, but it seems he’s grown up now and living the married life. What’s your favorite commercial? I don’t care much for commercials. Do you find me annoying, yet? No. Who has the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen? Alexander Skarsgard. I’m also quite envious of Paris Jackson’s eyes. When’s the last time you pulled an all-nighter? I don’t recall. I don’t think I have at all this year thus far. They used to be pretty common for me, but now I can barely stay up until like 2. What were you doing? During my all nighters? Just watching TV and on Tumblr and/or doing surveys, mostly. Sometimes I played The Sims or colored. Purple on guys; Yes, or no? I don’t care. Do you like Boys Like Girls? I was really into them at one point. Hero/Heroine was my favorite of theirs. Do you actually try everything on before you buy it? I never do that. I rarely have an issue with something not fitting right anyway. Do you ever actually check the price? Always. I’m not rollin’ in the deep where I can just spend willy nilly. What’s your favorite candle scent? I really love autumnal scented ones like Bath & Body Works has. Have you ever known anyone with a dog blind in one eye? My dog, Brandie, became blind during the last 3 years of her life due to diabetes. You do, now. Sortof. Ah. Have you ever been friends with a forgein exchanged student? I don’t think I knew any. Was it sad when they went back to… wherever they came from? Have you ever been given any sort of ring? Yes, as gifts from my parents. The last one I received was a college class ring. Do you know anyone that works at a tattoo shop? Nope. If you HAD to get a tattoo, what would it be, and where? I’ve wanted ‘free bird’ tattooed on my inner wrist for several years. Do you own any lockets or charm bracelets? Yeah. The last dress you were in; What’d it look like? It’s white and teal. Do you watch Pretty Little Liars? I never got into it. What’s your favorite nickname of yours? Like I said, I only have 2. What’s one of yours that you HATE? I don’t hate any of them. Maple or hazelnut flavoring? I like both. What’s your favorite Coke product? Coke. What’s the brand of your cell-phone, and the color? A coral Apple iPhone XR. What’s your favorite body-part on the opposite sex? I find that hands can be pretty attractive. Are you now, or have you ever been, a cheerleader? Nope. Have you heard any of Eminem’s new Recovery songs? They’re not new now, but yeah. Favorite song lyrics; In general? I have too many. Watergun or water-balloon war? Water gun, I guess. I never enjoyed being hit with a water balloon. Have you ever watched Ugly Betty? I think I saw bits here and there. Would running into your ex right now be painful? It’d just be painfully awkward. What’s the most annoying sound, ever? * Anything loud and beeping and repetitive. I also get rlly aggravated when the television is turned up too loud <<< Same! And eating sounds, like smacking, sucking, slurping.... aljfklsflsdfljks Are you typo-proned? No, but it happens sometimes. How do you feel about Lady GaGa? I like some of her songs. Are the rumors about her true? What rumors? Are you friends with any “trolls”? No. What would you get a boyfriend for his 17th birthday? I’m 30 years old, I wouldn’t be dating a 17 year old or have any idea what to suggest as a gift for one for someone else. Does your hair have a mind of it’s own? It does seem that way. It’s very annoying. Is Dane Cook really all that funny? I don’t think he is. I’m not that familiar with his comedy. Do you watch Glee? Nope. Do you ever shop at Fredflare.com? Nope. I’ve never even heard of it. Do you happen to know anyone named Matty? (Matthew or Matt will suffice) No. What’s he like? Are you always hyper? I’m never hyper. Do you know anyone that’s afraid of elevators? Not severely, but I kind of am, which sucks because I have to use them. Do you like country music? Yeah, some. Y'know. Like, “my mule left me for my sheepdog”; that sorta thing Har har. Do you know any scenesters?!?? Is that still a thing? I wouldn’t know, I’m old and out of the loop. Has any guy ever forgotten your name so often and exclusively that he just started calling you “girl”? Wow, no. Did you have to have braces for awhile, too? :[ Yes, but not for my teeth. Kisses on your cheek, or forehead? I think forehead kisses are cute if they’re from a guy I’m interested in. When’s the last time you wore facepaint? What’d it look like? I don’t recall. Do you still have a teddy-bear lying around somewhere? Not a teddy bear, but several giraffe stuffed animals all around my room. Are you a good-speller? I think so. Do you over-analyze everything, like me? Yeppp. Have you ever rode on the back of a moped? No. Do like Frank Sinatra? I like a couple of his songs. What about Cap'n Jazz? I’m not familiar with them. Is there anything in your room that belongs to a boyfriend, or a friend of the opposite sex? Nope. What’s the brand of the computer or laptop that you’re on? Apple. Are you sitting on your bed? Or a spinny chair?? I’m on my bed. Anyone you can’t get off your mind? No. Have a “bone to pick” with anyone? Nah. What does love feel like? Warm and fuzzy. haha. Who’s your favorite Beatle? I don’t have one. I’m not a big Beatles fan. Like, I like some of their songs, but eh. Does it annoy the hell out of you when people smoke around you? Ugh, yes. Do you like guys with long-ish hair? I personally like short hair on guys. How do you talk when you’re drunk? I usually became quite chatty. Have you ever texted an ex whilst drunk? How’d that go? Yeah. I don’t really remember how the conversation went, that was several years ago now. What do you order at Starbucks? Usually a venti white chocolate mocha with soy, sometimes a caramel macchiato with soy. During the fall and winter I like to get some of the seasonal drinks. Except for pumpkin spice. I know, I know. Shocking, right? Penn Station or Subway? I’ve never been to Penn Station, so I’ll go with Subway. People with addictions are weak. Brutal truth, or “falsies”? I wouldn’t say that at all. Do you have a “gunkle”, like me? [: No. The underwear you’re wearing right now; Describe it. They’re blue. When’s the last time you were on a swing? Not since I was a kid sometime. Whose hand did you last squeeze? My doggo’s. Have you ever actually tied string around a finger? Yes. Wouldn’t that be difficult? It wasn’t that hard. Have you ever been in a cornfield with a boylyfriend? (: “Boylyfriend”... And no. Does baby talk annoy you? No. What’s the last thing you wrote (or drew) on yourself? *shrug* That would have been a long time ago. Can you walk straight in heels? I can’t do that at all. Do you like Eskimo kisses? Sure. When’s the last time you sat (or did anything, I guess) on a rooftop? Never. I’d be way too scared to ever do that. Have you ever heard anyone call kissing “swappin’ spit”? Yeah. Do you have to stand on your tip-toes to kiss your boyfriend? No boyfriend. If I had one, they’d have to bend down to kiss me. Or, have you had to before? Think about your ex. Just do it. How do you feel? I don’t really feel anything regarding them. When’s the last time you lied in bed with the opposite sex. Who was it? I’ve never done that, actually. Have you ever been tackle-hugged? (: Yeah. Have you ever been tackle-hugged into a pool with all your clothes on? Omg, no. That would be very shitty thing to do since I can’t swim and I’m in a wheelchair. Do you own any heart-shaped glasses? Nope. Do you have any photographs on your walls? Yes. Do you own an Ugly Doll? [: No. I’ve never heard of those... Do you overuse :)s, like me? Nah. I don’t go emoji crazy. Do you overuse the word “like”, or “amazing”? Probably “like.” Do you have any crowns? No. Brunette dudes with bleach blonde hair are utterly unattractive. Yes? They can be. Is there anyone that you “see yourself in”, so to speak? No. What’d you last use scissors for? I don’t remember. Have you ever rejected someone’s kiss before? Yes. How well’d that go over with him? (Or her, I’m not judging) They just kept asking for one. Are you really over him, or are you just a great liar? I’m over any guy I’ve had feelings for the past. Whose grave did you last visit? My family members who have passed away have been cremated. Do you have any polaroids? (pictures) Yeah, several. How many photo-albums do you have? A few. Do you scrapbook? Yes. Have you ever made a PostSecret book? Nope. Have you ever seen The Upside Down Show? No. Is it something children should really watch? I don’t know what it is. What about The Wiggles? I’ve seen parts of it before when my brother was little and yeah I recall it being fine for kids to watch.

“Fruit salad, yummy, yummy.” Name a song that gives you goosebumps. Hmm. Is it wrong to call things “gay”? I think it’s insulting. What’s the most terrifying thing you’ve ever been through? Almost dying. Is there really such thing as a “chemical imbalance”? Uh, yes. Is love really just a chemical reaction? Sure.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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rolypolywl · 5 years

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youtube

Welcome to day 16!

It is Monday, and so weigh in day!

So this week is themed, but in three parts. The theme is recovery. So not specific to injuries, but just to workouts in general.

So, if you are injured, the general advice is to follow RICE. Rest, Ice, Compress, and Elevate. If you twist your wrist or hurt your knee or, you know, break your toe, that’s what you should do.

But if you don’t have an acute injury, you still might be sore or worn out after a workout. As we covered before, a little bit of soreness is ok, even expected. But does that mean you just have to live with it? Or are there things, like the cool down, that you can do to minimize pain and damage, or encourage healing?

Yes and no. There are different opinions and methods, and we’re going to look at some.

VeryWillFit has a great explanation of why we need recovery.

“Recovery after exercise is essential to muscle and tissue repair and strength building. This is even more critical after a heavy weight training session. A muscle needs anywhere from 24 to 48 hours to repair and rebuild, and working it again too soon simply leads to tissue breakdown instead of building.”

The Telegraph goes into even more detail.

“Exercise hurts your body, prompting a reaction. When you go for a run, lift weights, or play football, any discomfort is like a clarion call to the body, telling it that it needs to be better equipped to deal with the situation. The response - it becomes stronger, bigger, or more efficient - is why we exercise. This process is natural and normal, but it's easy to disrupt it with too much exercise. We constantly walk a tight rope between adequate stimulation leading to progression, and a lack of recovery which can lead to overtraining.”

The Telegraph also expands on the side effects of overtraining. “The perils of overtraining are numerous. Not only can it undo all the hard work you put in down the gym, but it can also leave you a husk of the man you were: lethargic, unable to sleep, irritable and without sex drive. What's more, the disruption it causes to your body's systems can actually lead to weight gain.”

So, this is why recovery is important. But, what does recovery actually consist of? We already talked about cool down and stretching in a previous episode, but what else is there?

VeryWellFit notes that “There are as many methods of recovery as there are athletes.” But that said, there are some things that are pretty universal, and covered in both of these articles.

1. Rest/Sleep

These are technically seperate things, but I’m going to lump them together. So sleep just makes sense. We’ve talked about it before, and the detrimental effects that a sleep debt can have on your body. Plus, there are all the good things that sleep does for your body. Specific to recovery, VeryWellFit notes, “During sleep, your body produces Growth Hormone (GH) which is largely responsible for tissue growth and repair.”

Rest is similar, but it doesn’t have to happen in bed. Going back to that first quote, your muscles need time to rebuild. Resting - not immediately working them out again in the same 48 hours - is anywhere from helpful to essential for that repair.

VeryWellFit has a whole second article just on taking rest.

They note: “Rest days are critical to sports performance for a variety of reasons. Some are physiological and some are psychological. Rest is physically necessary so that the muscles can repair, rebuild, and strengthen. For recreational athletes, building in rest days can help maintain a better balance between home, work, and fitness goals. In the worst-case scenario, too few rest and recovery days can lead to overtraining syndrome—a difficult condition to recover from.”

Now, we’ve all heard the word “overtraining” but I didn’t realize it was an actual syndrome!

So, according to a study published in Sports Health, and archived in the National Library of Medicine, there are basically three stages. Overreaching, basically in a short-term setting. Overreaching regularly, which can take weeks to months to recover from. And finally Overtraining Syndrome.

Symptoms include fatigue, depression, loss of motivation, slow or irregular heartbeat, insomnia, irritability, hypertension, restlessness, anorexia, lack of mental concentration, anxiety, weight loss, and awakening feeling unrefreshed. Plus, heavy, sore, and stiff muscles.

And it can take months to recover!

This can also, colloquially, be known as burnout. Rady Children’s Hospital has a page in their Sports Medicine section with all the warning signs for teen athletes.

In addition to some of the symptoms above, they add chronic pain, decreased sports performance, prolonged recovery time, lack of enthusiasm, frequent illness, personality or mood changes, and difficulty completing usual routines.

The only real treatment they can offer is rest, again for 4-12 weeks. So again, months.

And when I was looking up this, I found something similar on the Mayo Clinic site. This one is “Chronic exertional compartment syndrome” which can be a result of overtraining.

It basically presents very similarly to shin splints, but doesn’t heal up as well. It is most common in people under 30, and particularly in runners or other impact exercisers. Symptoms are “recurring unusual pain, swelling, weakness, loss of sensation or soreness while exercising or practicing sports activities.”

And, if you just rest it a bit, but then go back to your overtraining, the pain will come right back. So, again, a super long recovery time. This one can even involve surgery!

And there are plenty of other injuries and conditions that can come from overtraining, like shin splints, stress fractures, and repetitive stress injuries. So this is seriously a big deal. This is why rest is so important.

And, it turns out, rest doesn’t just mean the day of a hard workout, or having a rest day once a week. There is also a long term need for a rest plan.

VeryWellFit explains, “Long-term recovery techniques refer to those that are built into a seasonal training program. Most well-designed training schedules will include recovery days and or weeks that are built into an annual training schedule. This is also the reason athletes and coaches change their training program throughout the year,”

The Telegraph agrees, suggesting “incorporating a 'down' week every 8-12 weeks of intense exercise to allow your body to properly recover. This could be an entire week away from exercise or a time to temporarily reduce weight, intensity or volume.”

So, that’s just number 1: sleep/rest. On to number 2!

2. Watch your Intake

So the most obvious component of this is hydration. When you workout, you can become dehydrated, and you should replenish those fluids. You should also reduce alcohol, as this exacerbates dehydration.

But intake is also nutrition. The Telegraph says, “Ensure that you are eating enough calories to recover and that you have your macronutrients balanced properly. For example, not enough protein in your diet can lead to loss of muscle mass, whilst too few carbohydrates can lead to poor performance and fatigue.”

And VeryWellFit adds, “Ideally, you should try to eat within 60 minutes of the end of your workout and make sure you include some high-quality protein and complex carbohydrate.”

3. Stay Positive.

The Telegraph notes that “Positive self talk can help stimulate your sub-conscious to aid in your performance and recovery.”

Meanwhile VeryWellFit suggests visualisations, mindfulness meditations, and also positive self-talk.

This goes back to what we were saying last time about finding the positive and to the idea of meditating as part of a daily or sleep routine. It’s like it’s all connected!

4. Get an Ice Bath

This one seems legit. After all, pro athletes do it, so it must help, right? And we are supposed to ice muscles we injure as part of RICE. But I just can’t imagine being that cold! Supposedly you go numb and so don’t feel it anymore, but I’m not jumping up to try it.

As an alternative, both VeryWellFit and the Telegraph note that water contrast therapy, which is basically jumping your shower between the hot and cold nozzles every minute can have some of the same effects. I’m still not racing to try it, though.

And finally, and much more appealingly…

5. Massage

Sometimes, at races or 10Ks or the like, you will see sports massage therapists actually set up to give out massages afterwards. I’ve had it before and it was indeed awesome. It was also a huge help after I overexerted on a trail 5K and was still sore the next day. My chiropractor recommended a massage and it made a huge difference!

But, if that’s a little out of your time or expense budgets, then VeryWellFit has an alternative suggestion. “You can also try self-massage and Foam Roller Exercises for easing tight muscles and avoid the heavy sports massage price tag.”

And those are the five suggestions from VeryWellFit and The Telegraph! Think about incorporating them into your routine as you become more active and workout more.

This has been Roly Poly Weight loss. As always, I am your host, Roly Poly. Please share your rest and recovery tips and tricks with the hashtag #RestandRecovery. And don’t let anyone tell you that you’re a wimp for resting, or that you shouldn’t need to recover!

And please join me next time!

#RolyPoly #WeightLoss #losing weight #Weigh In #Health #Healthy #health & fitness #Fitness #Workout

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rescueonefinancialnet · 3 years

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Why You Should Care About SLAPP Suits and Anti-SLAPP Laws

Hello, you're probably here because someone linked this thread in an attempt to educate people about SLAPP lawsuits, why they're bad, and why you should care. What is provided here is a summary of points making clear why SLAPP suits are a real issue and how you or people you know can be impacted by them.

1 - What is a SLAPP suit?

Also explained briefly in this thread, SLAPP stands for "Strategic Litigation Against Public Participation". It is a civil lawsuit designed to burden defendants with the the costs and stress of defending against a lawsuit, the lawsuit typically having been filed by someone with greater resources than the defendant. The intent is to force the defendant - and others like them - into silencing themselves at a minimum, with some being forced to publish retractions, thus "settling" the issue so the defendant can hopefully stop paying the exorbitant legal fees required to deal with the matter and get back to living their life.

SLAPP suits can come in different forms, but the most common is the defamation suit. These are common as SLAPP suits are often filed over negative reviews, allegations of criminal behavior, exposure of fraud, etc. and defamation as a legal concept provides a broad enough umbrella to cover many acts of speech and expression.

2 - Why does this matter to you?

The answer is simple - because anyone can be the victim of a SLAPP suit. Posted a negative review of your doctor after receiving poor treatment or service? SLAPPed. Exposing fraud or bad behavior by a business or other entity? SLAPPed. Tweeting something vaguely mean about someone, including public representatives? SLAPPed. Fairly criticized a video game? SLAPPed.

All of these lawsuits will require hiring a qualified attorney to properly defend against, and the average cost of such an attorney will be around $300 an hour. That $300 an hour fee for your attorney does not include court costs, discovery costs (cost of depositions, production of documents, etc.), and any other ancillary fees. All of these add up to a potential cost of defense well in excess of $10,000 just to reach dismissal (if you're lucky enough to win an early dismissal), with the cost to fully litigate some cases soaring into the hundreds of thousands or even millions in highly complex cases with well funded plaintiffs. Additionally, this is making several assumptions about the case and the SLAPP plaintiff - it may very well be that providing yourself with an adequate defense effort involves the participation of multiple attorneys or going to a "Big Law" firm where Partners commonly charge $475+ an hour.

Many Americans would have to dip into savings or pay off a small $1000 emergency expense over time. If your financial situation is "average" do not get any illusions about being able to pay the costs of defense without taking out large personal loans, selling property, or otherwise going into debt that can quickly become crippling.

That said, there is very little between you and a potentially devastating SLAPP suit. If you post online, talk about people or businesses, submit writings to your local newspaper, or otherwise publish any form of speech or expression that is at least tangentially about another entity then you are a potential SLAPP target. Your right to free speech and expression can be violated simply because you lack the necessary funds to protect your rights in court.

3 - What are anti-SLAPP laws?

Anti-SLAPP laws are currently the most viable remedy for SLAPP suits. Generally, anti-SLAPP laws place the burden on the plaintiff to demonstrate a likelihood of prevailing in the suit, meaning they often have to produce evidence to convince the court to deny a defendants motion to dismiss under any given states anti-SLAPP law. Should the plaintiff fail and the motion to dismiss be granted, the anti-SLAPP law may allow for fee shifting - in other words, the plaintiff then has to pay the defendants legal fees. This serves as an effective deterrent to bad faith plaintiffs, who should know quite well that they will be made to pay for their frivolous lawsuit should they not prevail.

In the United States, anti-SLAPP laws are currently a state matter and as such not all states have an anti-SLAPP law, and some state's anti-SLAPP laws are fairly weak. No Federal anti-SLAPP law currently exists, which means it may be possible for a plaintiff to dodge a defendants state based anti-SLAPP law through jurisdictional wrangling. The matter is even more complicated in Federal courts, where the status of state anti-SLAPP laws largely remains undecided.

Regardless, anti-SLAPP laws are - barring major reform to the civil justice system - the best defense available against SLAPP suits. They present a deterrent to bad faith plaintiffs and often provide for fee recovery, which is a massive boon to underfunded defendants who can't normally shoulder the burden of defense costs on their own.

4 - What can you do about SLAPP suits?

For one, join this sub, r/AntiSLAPP. This is a community driven effort to defeat SLAPP suits and pass anti-SLAPP laws, and we need all the help we can get. There is strength in numbers, and we can accomplish much more when working together as a united mass. Additionally, you can lobby your representatives to pass anti-SLAPP laws, contribute to or follow organizations that fight SLAPP suits like Protect the Protest, and most importantly you can be there to assist others when they become SLAPP targets by contributing to their defense funds and spreading the word about their plight. Sometimes all it takes for a SLAPP plaintiff to back off is for their attempt at suppressing someone's speech to blow up in their face, a la the Streisand Effect.

5 - Conclusion

If you've read all of this, thank you. I hope you will join us in attempting to defeat suppressive litigation everywhere, as one day you yourself might be the target of a SLAPP suit. For more information feel free to peruse the sub farther, or check out the other links in the sidebar.

More debt relief tips at ROF review

#debt reliew

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mentalhealthsessionswithmarc · 6 years

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I love you! HATE YOU! Please Don’t Leave!

Today we are talking about one of the most negatively viewed mental illnesses in it’s spectrum. Borderline Personality Disorder. This topic alone brings me nothing but bad memories. People who have BPD are pretty much the redheaded stepchild of anyone who has a mental illness. What’s worse is most who have this illness know that. As you may be aware I was diagnosed with this disorder last year and it really crushed my world. I never really got over the fact that at the time, I thought I had a serious problem. Again, I remind you all that I have been recently re-evaluated and been dismissed of the illness. But while I was living with the symptoms, I did in fact lead the life of a true borderline. And within this time, I really did my homework and became proactive. It’s how I discovered mindfulness. And in a short period of time, I became somewhat of a walking textbook on the illness. And today I am going to shed some light on this widely misunderstood disease.

People with this illness usually have a history of trauma or abuse. It usually starts when they’re young and at adolescence manifests into more of what’s outwardly seen as BPD. As I previously mentioned in a prior blog, it is very similar to Bipolar Disorder. The main difference however is evident in behavior. Bipolar patients have a cycle where their moods may change from one end of the spectrum to another. In between these cycles, they actually have a break and can function like a person without the disorder. That alone is what makes living with someone with bipolar so challenging. Just when you get a break and everything is right, the cycle changes and equally damages both people in the relationship. Borderlines, however, don’t get this period of peace. It’s a battle without end. And the mood swings are more violent and can change multiple times in the course of a day...sometimes at it’s most severe, they can rotate multiple times in the course of hours. There is literally no peace or mental calmness. The mind is hyperactive with many trains of thought going on at the same time. Usually this mental barrage is racing and very conflicting. Conspiracy and paranoid thoughts are common. Any self-deprecating and demeaning trains of thought are mainstays. This mental overload does spill out and become either verbal or physical.

It is also to be said that people with this disorder have an extremely tainted view of reality. The victim mindset is a hallmark of the disease. They will truly believe everyone, especially the ones closest to them are judging them or conspiring against them. A simple glance or passing comment can be seen as an attack. Conflict is a mainstay. But after conflict, they want the love or attention of the offended party. They have no understanding of empathy. The biggest hallmark of someone with the disorder is attachment issues. The whole title of the blog is basically the mentality of someone with the disorder. That’s why it is hard to maintain a relationship with someone who is borderline. You do not know who this person is going to be on a daily basis. I remember at the height of my illness I described to my physician and my wife that I felt like Dr. Jeckyl & Mr. Hyde. There were actual days were I felt and acted like myself, then as with a flick of a switch everything changed. I was depressed, thinking something was going to happen, thinking I knew everything that was going on in everyone else’s head. I felt a constant need to defend myself. I was extremely defensive. I had no reason why at times. Sometimes a random thought entered my head and the scale tipped. Once the scale tips, there is no turning back. Not until it’s done with you anyway. Sometimes, I wasn’t wrong. I was being done wrong. I was being cheated on and was being spoken to in a very slanderous way. But the line was always blurred. I’m certain there were times where I unjustly had confrontation and hurt my significant other. I was never physically abusive. It was just arguing. Constantly. That is something at times I still have a hard time coming to terms with. I never really meant to do harm. This behavior and the type of relationships tend to be the same with everyone. Friends, family, and coworkers alike. All relationships with a borderline are challenged and volatile, which further isolates the person with the disease. They don’t really have anyone because they have pushed everyone away.

This, however, was not true of me. I maintained excellent relationships with friends and coworkers. I was a completely different person at work. And in all honesty, I had closer relationships with the people at work than I did with my spouse. I was honestly happier there than at home. It was the only place where I felt like me. It was my happy place. Once I told my doctor that, it cast a completely different light on my illness. A borderline is a borderline no matter where they are. It is truly black and white for them. I never had a fight with anyone at work. In fact all I did while working was constantly joke and carry on. I loved to be around people and they liked to be around me. Ultimately this was the deciding factor along with my symptoms disappearing completely withing ninety days of leaving my wife. It was all situational. A borderline doesn’t suddenly get better. If I were truly a borderline, I would be at all of my roommates’ throats and more than likely I would be homeless. Without help, a borderline really doesn’t have any other path than the one their illness sends them on.

That being said, there IS help for a borderline. There are borderlines who are happily married and are parents. I once saw an article where a therapist was pretty much black-balling people with this disease. Said therapist put it out in the open that people with this disease are destined to be alone. He encouraged the stigma. He went on record saying the best way to interact with them is to leave them alone and avoid them at all costs. The comments on this video were even more incendiary. People saying things such as they are overgrown children that have no emotional maturity and a lot worse. This guy was also an advocate for ex-spouses and partners who lived with a borderline. Now there is no doubt if a borderline goes undiagnosed and is in a non-supportive relationship, the other party may be in as much need of therapy as the one with the illness. There are places for someone afflicted with BPD to go. There is a line of therapy made especially for this disease. Marsha Linnehan created something called Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. The program speaks for itself. Most who go through this practice come out much better people. Some even gain so much control over their issues that they make what’s pretty much the equivalent of a full recovery. There are also drugs that can help treat this disorder. I am on a mood stabilizer called Seroquel. It’s a second generation anti-psychotic. What’s also interesting is the same medications are used on bipolar patients. Another stabilizer I was on was Lamictal. It did absolutely nothing for me. But others have made great strides while on it. There are more. It just depends on the severity of your mood disorder and what your doctor deems necessary to treat it. This also proves with the right medication and therapy, things even as bleak as this disease can be helped. Things aren’t as black, white, and ugly as one would sell. However, what’s equally as important is the support system. If you aren’t in a supportive environment, nothing will ever change or get better. So, if you know a borderline or are in a relationship with one, avoidance is not the answer. They need someone in their corner more than ever. And maybe with a little push, you can help them get the help they need. Never give up on someone who needs you, despite the obstacles you may see. Group therapy is also recommended for people with this disorder. Along with that so is relationship counselling. If you are a partner or someone living with a borderline, it is equally important for you to learn and understand what your person is going through. You can’t help someone if you don’t know what they’re dealing with. You need to have the courage and dedication to support and help them. They will appreciate it more than you will ever know.

I hope if any of you who read this has this illness, or someone you love does, please know or let them know there is help. It’s the first step in attaining the life they want and need. There is no need to remain hidden in the shadow of self shame and isolation. There are people just like you. And there are people who understand and care. I hope this reaches you and inspires you to get out there and seek the change you need. And if you are a partner or friend I hope this gives you the knowledge and inspiration you need to see your loved one through. It’s only through togetherness and resilience that we end the stigma and find our own peace.

Until next time,

Marc

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delicrieux · 7 years

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amortentia [young!tom riddle x reader] pt.6

premise: two students start developing feelings for one another despite having too many secrets to count.

tagging: @cheshirecatbyul @junieyes @whaledenwtf @xoxomioxoxo @cherryvblossom( if anyone else wants to be tagged, please let me know!)

warnings: angst, disturbing themes, fluff, blood

words: 2749

a/n: i always go overboard with harry potter stuff...’s because i love it so much <3

amortentia masterpost | MASTERLIST. 7K GIFT!

6. amortentia

“Oi, Tom…” The boys’ dormitories flooded with sixth years, Tom lagging behind his group of friends that so very insisted on always having him close by even if he was not taking part in conversation. The said boy’s thoughts drift in and out reality; most revolve around you and your hasty exit with barely a mumble of ‘I’ll catch you later’ before you trotted down the empty hallway and disappeared; you skipped all of your remaining classes and he did not catch you at dinner either. To say he is worried would be a lie – he is not. Curiosity is a better dub for this emotion, and so he thinks and thinks on what you might be doing at this hour as he trails whatever scenery is present. The Chavarone kid calls him; Tom is a bit ticked off for being so rudely interrupted admits doing absolutely nothing. As the boys slowly float to their beds, he notes Chavarone stand by his with a goofy smile on his lips. Their eyes meet and the kid snorts, “Have a secret lover you’re not tellin’ us about?”

“What?” Tom spits.

Chavarone points at the dark green sheets, “Look at this, yea? I see a box of chocolates with your name on it.”

~*~

A lonely cottage stands vacant of any live beings on the outside and seems so set in stone that not even magical might may move it. A tall, luscious and luminous forest with leaves the size of palms and branches as thick as sturdy legs sway to the gentle crisp breeze of northern wind. No town is in near sight, yet far away, if one was to listen closely he could hear the church bells ring from Diu Derar and catch the occasional whiff of baked goods from the one and only bakery in hundreds of miles. The cottage is thick with moss; the stones are glossy and shine like emeralds once sunlight bounces off of them. Wild flowers and orchids grow in pairs and mix and blend into a mass of colours that are hardly distinguishable. The grass nearly reaches ankles, yet it is so lush and green that it wold be a shame to cut it. A wooden shed with paint buckets inside lazily flaps its door open once the wind demands in a harsher tone.

It is a terribly hot day, one that rains with light and the wind does not dare to whisper. All windows are open, the glass reflects the insides of the house and all its small trinkets to prying eyes, yet frankly there are none in sight. Bees buzz near flowers. From the hose a few drops of water leak down into a messy puddle of mud. A bee falls astray when it’s coated in pollen, slipping inside rather than back into the forest to find its hive. She is met with many dazing scents, ones she can only hope to name and a sight that would remind her of a kitchen if she knew any better. Her attention is drawn to the sickeningly sweet melting chocolate on the side of a cluttered table and she forgets about her task completely and immediately, darting straight into the counter and getting stuck in the sugar. She buzzes and buzzes, but the only two people hardly bat an eyelash.

Pots brew and emit smoke. It is hard to breath enough already from the blasted heat and the boiling liquids do not help. They fill the room with white fumes that stick to the throat and collect dew on the cheeks. The older of the two – the mother, no doubt, with a knot of black hair on her head – holds a slick wooden spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn as white as her teeth. There is no smile on her face as she tries to catch the gaze of a child, her child, she so profoundly had asked to do the simplest of tasks yet the child has failed time and time again. A soft sob, one that grows in volume quicker than birds chirping in the morning, echoes in the kitchen and pierces the heart of whoever hears it. The child is crying. Big opalescent tears roll down chubby cheeks followed along by hiccups and raspy apologies. The mother doesn’t ease however, only yields the spoon higher in a threatening manner as the child claws at its fingers with delicate yet desperate care. The chair scrapes on the floor and the child straightens his back, just like mother had asked, feeling his bones settle and ache as he is not used to sitting this proper. Yet mother insists. Mother knows best, after all, and whilst Father is away there is little freedom to be had.

(Name) has a hard time making out her bloody and bruised fingers, clouded by the curtain of tears she can hardly make out anything at all. Emotions seem to mix and match and nothing is comprehensible. Except fear. Fear of the monsters lurking in the very depths of the forest, under the mattress of her bed and…the one monster that is starting right at her with unreadable (colour) eyes.

~*~

Cold. Finger numbing, brain freezing, breath seizing cold. And why, now of all times, do you recall your childhood of all things?

There is a small section in the dungeons that not many know of: if one walked straight ahead to the very end there is a secret passage way that leads to the baths, both men and women separated of course, and both having a specific password to enter. Mostly Slytherin students visit it, and any other house that dared to venture in this part of the castle would be met with their clothes set on fire and emerald sculptures of mermaids mocking their appearance until they cried. You have seen it happen a couple of times over the years, though as you grew older those rare occasions became so scares that they were nearly non-existent all together. The tiles here are a brilliant polished deep green that seep and glow from the lake water; here, just like in the Common Room, a big window opens up the depths of the Black Lake for girls to see. How…chilly and wet these tiles are, you realize so only when the white cloth of your socks soaked and your knees started to hurt from kneeling for so long.

At the very back - somewhat a walk from the actual baths filled with bubbles and cheerful laughter and even songs of some more talented girls - are the bathroom stalls and you hide in the very last one. You are unsure for how long have you sat here. Time seemed to either go fast or terribly slow; the toilet faded in and out your vision, your stomach churned and lips pressed tightly into a line. Pain, soaring pain up your throat and you threw up everything you had numerous times, until you had nothing.

Blood. Dark red blood glistering in the deep glow of the bathroom, sticking to the tip of your nose, coated all over your lips and teeth. The iron smell is sickening. The taste is even worse. Your knuckles ache as if they had been beaten again by your mother, as if that memory had caused them such pain that tears sprung in the corners of your eyes. Your head hurts. The shrieking laugher and splashes heard from seemingly so far away appear sharp and only agitate you more.

You have a colourful dictionary of words you would like to use to describe this never-ending day. First the crow, then the potion, then Katherine accidentally hexing your quill in Charms, then Dolly Sue spilling her ink all over your skirt in DADA, then the Great Hall fiasco, lastly you running away from Tom Riddle himself because you just felt so ill you could hardly take it. And the two of you were getting along so lovely, too. What a shame, what a shame… A spike of worry grows in your chest and pinches and pokes you from within. What is happening to me? You wonder, staring at the red dots on the back of your hand. This school year has been nothing but one bad accident after the other. Could this perhaps be early signs of a deadly sickness, or…is someone doing this to you on purpose?

You can hardly focus on any of those thoughts before a new wave of sickness crashes onto you and you spill more mouthfuls of blood. But magically, after that you feel better. So much better in fact that you stop hunching over the toilet, straighten your back, even blink a few times to make sure it’s no illusion. After another moment you pull the lever and your insides go down into the sewers, never to be seen again. Shakily you stand up, your knees wobble and losing balance you lean onto the stall. A bit dizzy. The world jumps too quick at places, but over all you feel much better. More minutes of composition and cleaning and you are free to go.

The mermaids wink at you as you pass them. The girls in the baths don’t bat an eyelash at the sway in your step, merely wave at you as you turn to leave. Before you can make it out, however, a harsh call of your name and a silent yelp echoes; you stop near the exit and tilt your head to the side, whatever happiness you held onto of your quick recovery crumbling once you recognize the hair, the figure, the eyes… Katherine rushes to you with a joyous grin that is completely oblivious to your suffering. Perhaps she simply does not care. She is fully clothed, yet her dark hair drips with warm water and you realize she has just changed.

You give her a weak smile and nod, “Hey…Kat.” She greets you with enthusiasm and the two of you finally leave the humidity. The dungeons are cold and quiet, fresh, you can’t even smell the mould you did this morning. Katherine jitters, talks about one thing or another but you don’t mind it. She looks eager, eager to say something and for a minute you wonder should you pry or not. Manners, you recall, and with another polite smile you cut her off, “-Sorry, but…We’ve been friends for long enough for me to know when you want to spill. So…spill.” Her face lights up with a beautiful smile.

“(Name), I…” She takes in a deep breath, “-did something.” She finishes with a sigh.

“What did you do?”

“Well, Velma and Dolly suggested this plan, they said it is perfect, but…You” Her smile falls, “might think different.”

Your face twists in confusion – you won’t like it? You don’t particularly mind anything Katherine does, sure she is a bully, but for the most part completely harmless. Did she hex someone? Did some forbidden magic in a closet or an abandoned classroom? You hardly care about that and she knows it. So this must be big, something big and bad and it makes your stomach churn again and a twinge of fear spike that you might throw up again. Katherine stops walking; already feeling a bit anxious, you do too. She looks at you with her chocolate irises that seem even darker in the dim dungeon lights. You note a dusty blush bloom on her cheeks.

“Listen, I—“Her voice cuts off as harsh footsteps start to echo in the hallway. The both of you snap your heads to the direction of the noise. For a moment the tension and curiosity is lost as you focus on the left turn from which someone will emerge at any given moment. You glance at Katherine, standing beside you and shivering, but you are sure not from the cold. She looks happy. Ecstatic, even. Her face lights up as the footsteps stop, “Tom!” She exclaims and your heart tumbles to the pit of your stomach.

Had you missed a clue? Have they always been friends, or worse, lovers in secret? Had she always danced behind your back?...You almost want to shake your head at such intrusive and impure thoughts. You and Riddle are nothing but friends, after all, and you should not feel entitled to his attention. But you do. So along with hurt anger mixes and mashes and you frown softly as you watch her, finally gathering the courage to look at him.

Once you do your heart stops. He does not look happy as he looks at Katherine, in fact he looks enraged but only the forest green of his eyes shows it – his face remains stone cold, like a marble statue. A sudden drop in temperature and you are unsure whether the cause is him or your bad health. Katherine seems oblivious to this, she takes a step to him and you hurriedly grasp her sleeve and softly tug her back. She snaps at you, “This! This is what I’ve been trying to tell you!” She grasps your hand, glancing at Tom before her attention falls onto you again, “(Name), we are in lo—“

“Don’t say it.” You are surprised when Tom speaks, no, spits venomously as if Katherine’s statement has been a personal attack on him. His brows knit together and eyes gleam dangerously; Katherine’s smile falls into confusion, “I figured it was the likes of you doing this. Slipping love potions into chocolates.” He explains, his gaze not once breaking with hers, “Pathetic.”

“I…” Katherine starts, “Don’t…understand…”

“Don’t understand what? That your idiotic attempts failed? That I’m not stupid enough to not recognize poisoned sweets when I see them?”

You jerk your hand away from her, “You tried to feed him a mock love potion?” You ask appalled, “Katherine, that can kill him—“

“Not mock.” Tom interrupts. “Amortentia. She put Amortentia.” He takes a step forward, “What did you think would happen? That I would not smell it? Taste it? That you had an unlimited supply of it?” His eyes narrow dangerously; he takes leisure steps, ones that echo and bounce off of the enclosed walls and make Katherine squirm, “To think…That I would ever be interested in someone like you—“

“Well why not?!” Katherine fires up, “How am I worse from the likes of others?” She turns to you, “From the likes of her?”

“Don’t even dare to compare yourself to (Name).”

“Just because I don’t have (colour) hair, and squinty (colour) eyes, and a mother that beat me senseless—“

“ENOUGH.”

It happened quickly. One moment Katherine was standing next to you and the next she was thrown to the wall and laid on the floor, unconscious, and not one spell word had escaped either you or Tom. Not even a wand was drawn, just a hand, in a swift motion directed straight at your best friend.

Tom releases a short breath; the dungeons are deadly quiet. You stand frozen, unable to put two and two together, feeling like the puzzle pieces had scattered themselves all over the castle and you can only hope to find them. He approaches you in hast steps, his cold hands cup your cheeks and the space you have been staring into fills with his familiar handsome features, “Are you hurt?” He asks, and if one was desperate enough one could even find a tint of worry in his voice.

“I…” A voiceless sound leaves your lips; your fingers come to wrap around his and you abruptly jerk his hand away from your face, with such immense fear and panic that you hurriedly turn on your heel and fall to check for Katherine’s well-being. Yes, the two of you have your major differences, and yes, you don’t fancy her all that much, but she is the only real friend you have and the horror of losing her too is just too much. Your shaky fingers touch her neck; a slow beat gradually reaches your fingertips and you release a pent up breath. Tom continues to watch you, once you look at him he seems almost alarmed, “What…how…?” Words fail to form.

“She is alive.” He reassures, not sounding all that caring.

“Was…” You rasp, “Was there a possibility she might not be?...” He doesn’t answer your question. He doesn’t have to. His power is enough of an answer for you. “Tom.” He perks up when you call his name, “Just…who are you?”

tbc

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