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solaneceae · 5 months

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my battery is low, and it's getting dark.

a codebreakers fanfic about étoiles losing his sight. read on Ao3

It starts off with light blurriness — the kind you get when you forget to remove your contacts before bed, dryness and irritation welcoming you back to the waking world. Étoiles doesn’t wear contacts, although he does don a pair of sturdy, cheap rectangular glasses on occasion, whenever reports have to be read or written in thin leather-bound books for the Résistance’s upper echelon.

(Upper echelon he’s never caught a whiff off, by the way. Étoiles understands the need for secrecy, for compartmentalization — but damn, it does get lonely here in headquarters, with nothing but his own voice and long-dried ink speaking of codes going rogue and islander alignments to entertain himself with.)

He blinks, once, twice, rubbing at his eyeballs through the skin of his lids. No amelioration. He shrugs it off, readjusts the straps of his slime armor. It’s a shit one, not even the good enchants on it. But he’s been restless lately, antsy. Not quite worried, but something else, something in the negative shape of a beloved, beret-wearing egg. Ants under his greenish skin, a fire only the cold bite of enemy blades and a close brush with Lady Death can fix.

He likes Kristin. She’s funny, with her large brimmed hat and gentle smile and gentler words still. Philza’s a lucky man.

“You are sad,” she would say, in the space-between-spaces he would drift to when downed, just before the ‘doom-doom’ of revival. The crimson bud of her smile would twist into a scowl, as she watched him give her a two-fingered salute. “Is that why I see you so often, starling?”

“I’m not sad,” he would answer without fail — the ache inside his chest wasn’t sadness. Étoiles didn’t do sad. He killed, he destroyed, his body grown in a weapon meant to hurt and maim and be hurt in return. Meant to be wielded by someone worthy. (He thinks of pitch-black feathers and a wheezy laugh, the tingle of wither-decay dancing on his skin, the smell of bone. Claws digging into his bony hips, a litany of trills speaking of ownership-claim, great shadows trapping him in so effectively. His knee guards stained by fresh soil where potatoes are endlessly grown in honor of a great warrior he once crossed blades with. Worship, devotion.)

“I’m not sad,” he mumbles, jumping down the well and into the darkness of the dungeon below. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a shit one, and he could scratch that itch in the back of his mind that demanded blood be spilled, be it his or otherwise. “Maybe I die for real today, let’s goooo.”

He never does. He’s too good at dungeoning, too good at placing blocks and throwing splash potions at his feet, golden apples now a rare last resort because he knows what happens when he eats too many. Aaaah, what a pity, he thinks, as he loses himself in the clash of metal on metal and the grunt of mobs falling at his feet. What a pity, I feel nothing. Bad day for me, bad day.

***

The blurriness stays. Days go by, sluggish and quiet, too quiet on this shit island, and no amount of sleep or healing potions make it any better. His arm stings with static-burn where the black and green binary tar has spread, higher, creeping up his neck. But it does nothing to hinder his movements, doesn’t dull the sharpness of his mind. So he ignores it. “Maybe you should get that checked out or something,” Foolish pokes at it once, as they sit and talk atop the Titan’s head using the blue and green plush chairs the TazerCraft have sneaked in. Pac e Mike, wow wow, sings a little voice in Étoiles’ mind whenever he sees splashes of blue and green, because those two live rent-free in everyone’s builds and brains.

“It’s okay,” he smiles at the shark-totem, easy and casual and Étoiles. “It doesn’t hurt.” It doesn’t. “It’s not changing me.” He is changing, that softness that Pomme had made bloom inside him eroding away with every day she’s gone. It’s harder to stay still, harder to stop and talk to the others, because half of them are depressed and the other half are going insane. But none of that is the code’s doing. “Look, I’ll prove it! 1v1 stick?” he jumps to his feet, throwing a wooden stick at his friend with a fiendish grin. “1v1, right now, let’s go.”

Foolish chuckles, even though his smile doesn’t reach his emerald-carved eyes. (His features are hazy, fuzziness getting worse every time Étoiles wakes. Doesn’t matter.)

They fight, Étoiles takes it home with six hearts to spare. And he still feels empty.

***

Lilacs. Sunflowers. Cornflowers. Poppies.

Flower biomes were Pomme’s favorites. They’re hard to find, but Étoiles is one patient, stubborn cucumber. “T’aurais adoré ça, légende,” he hums, picking another poppy by the stem and stuffing it into his inventory, the frozen subspace keeping it suspended in time and fresh. He can almost hear the pitter-patter of her little cheeto legs in the grass, the rustle of the blades against her shell. The bomp of a red sign being placed, asking for more red, more blue, more of every color to make her siblings flower crowns and dye her trusty scythe like a rainbow.

He can barely make out their shape anymore, only differentiating roses from poppies by tracing their petals with gold-scarred fingers. He sees a blue blur somewhere at his right, oh, cornflower probably. Her secret code.

He lets out a deep, guttural groan and lets his body fall backwards, hitting the plush grass with a thump. A few butterflies flutter out of the way, one of them settling back on the bridge of the warrior’s nose. He glares at it, faded golden stars comically crossed. He only sees the yellow of its wings, stark against sky blue. “Hey, hey. Tu vas rien trouver ici, tu sais. J’ai pas fleuri depuis des plombes.”

The critter’s wings flap once, unbothered. Étoiles blows on it to make it go away, fails. (He’s a failure, at everything. Fails to keep his kid safe, fails to win a 1v1 against an insect.) Soon enough, there is enough butterflies on him to pin him to the ground under the would-be guilt of disturbing them. Étoiles whines, childish and unserious. “Vas-y, j’peux plus bouger. Pas juste. Même la nature me déteste, c’est bon.”

He’s missed this. The warmth of a sunbeam, the scent of fertile soil, the brush of grass blades, the call of the earth below pulling at him. Part of him wants to sink into it, curl up in Her embrace like a child would in their mother’s womb, forget about the world and the Federation and the Codes and all this shit. Maybe he could fall asleep right here. Let his body soak up the sun, let himself bloom again. Let that softness grow out of his skin for all to see, like he used to. Or, he thinks he used to. The memories of Before are static-fuzz between his ears, unreachable unless he looks at them at the corner of his eye, so to speak.

(The freezing cold, then heat as air exploded around him, an impact. Physicality, sudden and unexpected, the song of the stars loud in his ears as he opened his eyes for the first time in front of a bewildered human in a frayed straw hat. He was happy, wasn’t it? He thinks he used to be happy. What happened?)

But Étoiles is a warrior, a weapon, and weapons dull and rust and grow weak if left to rest. So he takes a deep breath, pushes himself up. “Désolé,” he hums to the butterflies as they scatter away. They are but bright, colorful blobs in his dulling eyes. “Désolé,” he says as he warps back home to forge yet another axe.

His inventory is full of flowers that he’ll forget about, wrapping him in a constant mix of herbal scents that has Cellbit recoiling next time they cross paths. Étoiles doesn’t notice it, the Brazilian’s bothered expression lost on his rapidly-decaying vision.

***

By the time the Code challenges him to what Étoiles knows will be their last duel for the foreseeable future, his sight is all but gone, everyone and their dog has taken notice, and he has brushed off their concern. “I don’t need to see to click good,” he boasts, slamming down deepslate to launch himself fast and run circles around a disgruntled Pac. “See, see! I’m strafing, I’m doing it, playing the game.” Pac makes a strange sound, one he struggles to guess the emotion behind without body language. “It’s okay, Pac. It’s easy. There’s no problem, at all.”

Phil isn’t here yet, can’t see any names on his comlink but Tubbo told him he wasn’t. Shame, shame he won’t be there to see him die, Étoiles thinks as the rain soaks through his shirt, the boom of lightning bothering him more than he lets show. His ears are ringing as he jumps, ducks, tugs at the string of his bow and sends an arrow flying where he knows the Code is, he can feel it, the only spot that doesn’t smell like anything but void. But there’s no feedback, no satisfying sound of health being chipped at, nothing.

This Code is too strong, his sword winging an off-tune melody as it goes through the binary without ripping or tearing. No damage. Ah, he thinks, so they have finally stopped playing. I see now.

The back of his chestplate shatters into a blast of broken enchant magic and diamond shards, some of them lodging themselves into his flesh. Something cold sinks between his ribs, brushing against his spine in a white-hot flash of pain that irradiates through his whole body, and oh, yeah, it’s over. It’s joever, as Tubbo would say. “GGs,” he gasps through a mouthful of dark green blood. He coughs it up, lets it splash down his neck and paint his shirt. Tubbo’s screaming somewhere, too far away for Étoiles to discern the words. “You- eugh, you slash-kill’ed me, good job you cheater. Easy win.”

The entity growls, a hum-buzz that makes his brain (or whatever he has for brains, maybe lettuce?) rattle inside his skull. The blade slides out, cutting away at him further on its way out, and his body falls into a puddle of rainwater and mud with a wet thud. It hurts, blackered arm buzzing, pain creeping up his neck and the right side of his face, extinguishing the last of his remaining sight.

He faintly realises that almost nobody knows about his respaw mechanic. Ah, et merde. He hopes they’ll have the presence of mind to ask Antoine, when they realise he wouldn’t just re-pop into existence seconds after his death… or when they noticed his body starting to wilt and decay, if they stuck around for long enough.

(Tallulah knows, he remembers. He told her. But had she told Philza, before she disappeared along with all the other eggs?)

Through his fading senses, his comm buzzes with what he knows is his first death message in a really long time. He can make out the sound of rapid footsteps, clickety hooves and heavy, leather work boots. Tubbo and Pierre. He closes his eyes, not that he needs to anymore for darkness to cradle him. He lets go.

He doesn’t see Kristin this time, only hears a faint sigh and a gentle breath sending him off into the void. He hopes they find his seed soon. He doesn’t wanna stay missing for too long, after all.

***

His personal death-void is not so bad of a place. Boring, obviously, but there’s a familiarity to it, to the way the darkness shrouds him like a heavy blanket, pushing against him from all sides. Not oppressive but comforting. Cradling, instead of crushing.

It reminds him of the dirt patch he was born in — he had been asleep and new, just ripe for the picking, dirt-stained hands pulling at his stem with the roughness of a long-repeated gesture. He had screamed, he thinks, not in pain, but to show the world he was here and alive, hello, hello sun, hello dirt, hello person! Had given poor old Théo a heart attack too.

Ah. He could remember, now. Théo, his leathered face and kind eyes with crow feet, wary at first before this walking, talking little legume with the night sky in his eyes, flower-covered vine-tail like some sort of umbilical cord trailing behind him as he follows the old farmer around, asking him endless questions in barely-legible French. But… yes, he’d been kind to him, Étoiles thinks. The first face his face saw. Makes sense it would be one of the first things that came back to him. Maybe remembering was easier in the void? Maybe he should die more often.

…Nah. Dying wasn’t his style. And having to regrow a whole new body over a week was annoying. He had things to do in the island! Like talking with people (eurgh), and giving them things (yes) and fighting with Philza (yes! yes! yes!) and have fun!

So he waits, oblivion pulling at him like gravity. The void is a quiet place, sometimes, but more often it’s not, with the song of supernovas and wailing stars far away keeping him aware, listening. He hums along to it with no mouth or vocal chords (not yet, still growing, still so small, unripe), and sometimes he swears he can hear another voice singing with him. Off-key, awful really, almost crow-like, but it sounds like someone he cares about, so he’s happy to listen to its drone.

Other times, he sleeps. And he dreams of tiny hands and quiet chirps and clicks, of the yesyes uncle Phil taught her, of the chrr-chrr-peep that means him, when she calls Étoiles’ name in her own little language. And he curls around the memory, softness, and lets it carry him up into the stars glittering behind still-forming eyelids.

***

“Étoiles.”

He hums — warmth, the slow beating heart of the earth. The choir of stars constantly burning far, far away. He could listen to it forever, because he had been listening to it since the birth of the first star, he knew.

“Mate. You with me? C’mon, s’been a week already. Come up here, you can do it.”

The voice scratches pleasantly at the back of his brain. But the earth is so warm, so comfy, a cocoon of peace and respite he’s not sure he wants to leave. He sighs with no lungs to breathe, no need for them, when all he could ever need is right there — perfect temp, perfect moisture, glucose, carbon dioxide, rich nutrients all around. Who needs gapples, really. Or thoughts. Or responsibilities. This is the best.

“...Mh. Alright then.”

The voice grates on his ears, ears that try to flick but are stopped by the soil packed around them. He groans in drowsy irritation, curls in on himself in an attempt to shield himself from it and from the world. It seems to work, the noises fading into nothing, and Étoiles feels his thoughts scatter as a faint scratching sound seeps through the earth and into his mind like white noise. Sleep pulls at him again, and he lets it.

He’s startled back into wakefulness by something pulling harshly, somewhere that feels a bit away but is still part of him. His eyes fly open in pained surprise because ow, ow, that’s my— “Come here, you lazy fuck!” That voice — high-pitched, that heavy accent he’s come to love, amusement and exasperation combined, Phil, his Phil, his GOAT, his brother in arms, his Death-touched angel.

Étoiles blinks, unseeing. Étoiles remembers. And with awareness comes something else, something that shimmers and calls his name in gentle whisper-echoes, as he feels himself being pulled up, and up, dirt parting to let him ascend back to the surface. Aah. Goodbye mama. Hello problems. “Get harvested, idiot!” Philza Minecraft grunts with effort somewhere above him, and the tug gets stronger, prompting a pained ow out of him as the ground crackles and breaks above him, and he feels air-sun-outside on his back as he’s forcefully pulled from the ground like the fresh crop he is. He flails a little bit, kicking off dirt and soil (it’s everywhere, in his hair and between his toes and a little in his mouth and nose, bleh!), then rolls onto his back with a groan, frowning up at the sky he knows is there, blue and clear, because it doesn’t smell like rain and the surface soil is dry and warm.

He’s back. And he sees nothing at all. Welp, better close his eyes again then. He feels a shadow fall on him, feels a sandaled foot nudge his side. “Helloooooo. Hello Phil,” he greets the other leaning hard on the deadpan because he knows it makes his friend laugh when he does that. It lands. “What, that’s it?” the elytrian caws, kneeling beside him and poking at his face, talons dulled to a gentle roundness. Étoiles wishes he didn’t trim them, but Phil is too nice, too careful, too eager to smooth himself down for others, for the eggs. Docile.

Étoiles despises it, but he keeps quiet because he knows Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things. “You get yourself killed by a fucking Code of all things,” Phil keeps going, “make everyone freak the fuck out because you won’t respawn like a normal fucking person, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Antoine knows. And I’m here now, so it’s okay.”

“Antoine barely logs on, you absolute dumbass. You’re lucky Lullah told me about the seed thing, because you would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

He opens his eyes, if only to shoot Phil a halfhearted glare. And then immediately forgets about it, blinks owlishly. Sits up to get closer to the other man. “Phil. Why are you stars?”

“What.”

He sees stars. (And not in the sex way, because he doesn't do that.) It’s not night, but there are stars in his vision, where pitch blackness used to be, and the constellation is Phil-shaped.

Philza is a cosmic cluster, a nebula shining bright in the darkness that has become his world. He can see nothing beyond him, not the plants surrounding him, not the long vine attached to his lower back Phil used to pull him out. He can tell it’s there, though, lightly thumping at the ground in agitation. “You, are stars. That’s how I see you now.”

“Wait. Can you, like, see again?” Phil asks, uncharacteristically soft. “I know it was getting… bad. And your eyes are like, all greyed out. Did the code stuff on your arm do that?” Étoiles sees a cluster of stars approaching his face — hand — and feels fingers brushing just under his right eye. He’s a bit startled by the contact, the area usually covered by his trust bandana (he needs it back, needs his stuff back, hopefully someone held onto it for him). Phil draws away, an apology ready from the way his constellation-body shifts, but Étoiles doesn’t let him. “I can’t,” he answers, tilting his head, ear flicking in focus — the stars that make up Phil sharpen, and he can almost make out the shape of the wings bound behind his back. “But I can See. I think.” He also wouldn’t mind Phil’s hand on his face again. It feels nice. Scratches at something long-buried, and denied.

Philza makes a confused sound. “Okay, I heard that capital S there. What’s that mean? Are you pulling a Daredevil?”

Étoiles grins, sharp-toothed and playful. “Oh, oh! He thinks I’m a superhero? He thinks I’m cool, Felipe Minecraft? Big win for me.” Phil rolls his eyes, which Étoiles can tell because the crow always makes that low warble when he does. “But no, it’s not like that. I still need my eyes to see like this, and I don’t hear or smell better than before.” Although his status as a hybrid means his baseline is still higher than the average person’s, but that’s irrelevant. “FF.”

“So no cool blindfold for you, ey?”

“No cool blindfold. I will just do a Pomme and drown myself later, to make up for how uncool I am.” (He cannot drown. No lungs. But he can pretend.)

He squints. There’s a little cluster, right there at the side of Phil’s head. He can connect the dots, identify the shape of the elytrian’s bucket hat, but there’s something else there too. “What’s that on your head, Phil? I can’t make it out well.”

“Oh— here,” the other takes his hand and guides it towards his hair, and Étoiles feels a familiar texture under his pads. He makes a noise of surprise. “That’s. Mine.”

“Do you want it back?” Phil hums, brushing at the large cucumber flower tucked in the band of his hat. “It bloomed this morning, on top of the plant you were growing under. Took it as a sign you were, uh, done cooking.” Étoiles snorts. Good guess. “But uh, I guess the plant was also you, cuz it’s at the end of your tail now. Dragging.” Ah. Yeah. He really ought to cut it. “Is it weird? That I’m wearing a piece of you? I don’t know what… fuckin’... cucumber etiquette is.”

“It’s not weird,” Étoiles says, because he doesn’t think it is. “You can keep it.” He kind of likes it. That Phil’s wearing a piece of him. It makes him, happy? “You know, that I am your weapon. Yes? So it makes sense, that you show it.”

“You’re my friend. Don’t call yourself a weapon, man.”

“Same thing for me.”

Phil’s response is wordless, a simple, noncommittal mmh. But Étoiles can hear the hidden fondness in it. He pushes a little further, crudely imitates that one bird sound Philza makes when he’s happy. Whoops internally when Phil puffs out his feathers and trills out a yesyes in return. Héhé. “Yes yes, Philza? Fight me, right now?” he slips into his usual stance, just a bit offset by the lack of armor weighing him down. “1v1, no weapons, no armor? Fistfight, let’s go.”

Phil cackles, crow-like. “I am not fighting you right now, you little shit. You menace. What’s wrong with you?”

“Aww, Phil hates me,” the warrior whines. “He hates me. He won’t 1v1 me, he must hate me. Sad.”

“Oh my god, stop being a baby.”

“I was literally born five minutes ago. I am baby, and Felipe Minecraft hates me,” he sasses back, and Phil throws his arms towards the sky in exasperation. “Oh come on. I spent a week protecting your green ass! Making sure you got enough sun and water and shit, it was like doing egg tasks all over again. Antoine even talked me into fucking singing, pretty sure he was pranking me with that one by the way, and still you think I hate you?”

“Nice caulk, Phil.”

He can’t see it, but Étoiles knows Phil’s eyelid is twitching. “Mate. I got a faceful of ass pulling you out of here, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The cucumber snorts. “Héhé, got mooned by the stars.” That was kinda funny. “You were pulling me by the tail, I do not know what you expected. You’re lucky I’m a plant, or there would have been full cock and balls there.”

“Bruh. I thought it would be connected to your… plant belly button, or whatever, like an umbilical cord.”

“It’s an ass button, GGs.”

“Jesus Christ, please don’t call it that. I didn’t even know you had a tail. You didn’t before.”

“That’s because I always cut it,” the warrior huffs, said tail lashing behind him from the restless energy that always accompanies a new body. Its leaves drag around the loose dirt in little swish-y sounds. “Give me a sword, Phil, it’s already annoying me.”

The crow peers down at the vine, then back at him. “I dunno, man. You look kinda fun with it.” Étoiles squints. He can’t quite make out Phil’s expression like this, all stars and nothing between them, but he can hear the hidden laughter in his voice. “...I will cut it with my teeth then.”

“Won’t that hurt more than with a blade?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Only the base. Like when you pulled on it.”

“Why not keep it? It’s a part of you.”

Because it speaks for me, he considers replying. Because it says and shows things that I don’t want people to see. Even now, it wags, because Phil is here and now brushing stray dirt out of his hair and it’s very nice. (Is he touch-starved? He might be. Pomme is gone, and he doesn’t trust people to touch him, other than with blunt force and sharp diamond blades.) But Étoiles hasn’t kept his tail since he was a child, still wide-eyed and showing his innermost self to the whole world without any shield. He feels weird. Exposed. And it’s okay with Phil, because Phil is Phil, but it’s not okay because they’re out in the open and anyone could come and see. He doesn’t like that. “Because people can grab it, and it gets stuck in things, and it’s annoying. I cut it, now.” He tugs at the appendage, bringing it up to his mouth. “Nope,” Phil snatches it away, and Étoiles hisses at him. “Calm down, dude. At least let’s do it cleanly.”

“Eeeeuugh. Okay.”

”Then we’re getting your stuff back from Antoine’s, good god. You’re still butt-naked and I won’t have you strut around like that.”

“He has my things? Comms, armor, my backpacks?”

“All of it, yeah,” the older man huffs, and Étoiles can hear the telltale sound of an item being summoned of an inventory. Enchanted axe, he parses, recognizing the ozone-y smell of the sharpness enchant and the sound of the air being sliced downward. He doesn’t feel anything when the vine is severed, frowns when he realises Phil left a good… fifty centimeters of it, still attached to his body. “Phil. You misclick? You aim like shit today?”

“You said it hurts near the base,” the elytrian huffs, finality lacing his every word. “Keep it or cut the rest later, your pick, but I’m not hurting you.”

Étoiles’ ear flicks in confusion, and so does his tail. It moves faster, easier now without the rest of the plant weighing it down. “...We fight each other all the time, that hurts more. I don’t care.”

Phil stays silent for a few seconds. Nebula-Phil shifts before him. “It’s. Different.”

Étoiles hums. Philza has the Tone™ again, the one that means he’s thinking of things that hurt. He thinks of clipped feathers, of matted down that he wishes he could run his fingers through and fix, fix, let me fix it, let me do this for you. But he says nothing. Maybe another time, when they’re both ready for that conversation. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I keep it this time. Maybe.”

He can hear Phil’s smile in the next word he speaks. “Attaboy.” And he tries to ignore the way his tail wags with renewed enthusiasm at that.

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flashbackonyourbehalf · 5 months

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I’M BEAUTIFUL BITCH

#I am choosing to love myself #self esteem #self-esteem issues #trans-masc #selfies #goth #me #love me #hypomanic

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evanbuckleyrecs · 8 months

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Title: Words Unsaid

Written by: Pline

Rated: G

Catagories: gen, m/m

Relationships: Buck & Bobby, Buck & Hen, Buck/Eddie, Hen & Athena

Warnings: none

Tags: Bobby Nash Being a Dad, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Team as Family, Humor, Hen Wilson being a good friend, Self-Esteem Issues, Pre-relationship

Words: 2,265

Summary:

“What’s going on?” Bobby and Buck say in unison.

“You two,” Athena announces, “are going to talk things out.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Buck says, like a liar. “Everything is fine.”

Buck overhears Bobby say that he's not his kid. He doesn't take it very well.

My notes: A cute small fic for if you don't have a lot of time or energy but still want to read something good.

#2 3k #rated g #buck and bobby #buck and hen #hen and athena #buddie #911 #911 on abc #hurt/comfort #misunderstanding #team as family #bobby being a dad #self-esteem issues #pre relationship buddie #humor #hen is a good friend

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iriswords · 1 year

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Febuwhump day 1 - Touchstarved

You can also read this on ao3 and read the rest of my febuwhump fics here

tw: Ivy’s pollen and its effects, self-esteem issues

Tim has been hit with Ivy’s pollen and doesn’t tell anyone. He thinks it will go away on its own. It doesn’t.

Fandom: Batman

Number of words: 1442

The unpleasant itch under his skin starts in the Batmobile. Tim is sitting in the backseat, squished against the door by Jason’s broad frame. The contact, at least, brings some comfort to him.

No one else got sprayed with Ivy’s pollen. Tim, being Tim—useless Tim, failure Tim—got hit full force with it. Of course, he did. He has not told anyone. He does not want them to know he failed at something yet again. His relationship with everyone has changed since he brought Bruce back from where he was lost in time. Ironically enough, it is with Jason he interacts the easiest. They fall into light banter often enough, both of them pretending to have forgotten about the Tower episode. Jason apologized when Tim came back with Bruce. It was an awkward conversation for both, but it did ease the tension between them.

Dick apologized, too. For not trusting Tim and for taking Robin away from him. Tim lied and said he accepted the apology. But their relationship still hasn’t recovered. Tim distances himself from his older brother. Every time they interact, his treacherous mind throws at him all the hurtful words Dick said to him.

Tim knows they would be better off without him in their lives. He knows this, but he is selfishly hanging onto what he has until they tell him to leave. Still, he does not want to burden them with his failure. He does not want to have to face their disappointment.

His skin is crawling by the time they arrive in the Cave, the primal need inside him barely soothed by the faint contact of Jason’s arm against his. Tim breathes in deeply, opens the door of the Batmobile, and tears himself away from his brother. His breath goes shaky as the itch suddenly increases but he forces his face into his trademark poker face and submits himself to the decontamination protocol as though nothing is wrong with him.

His hands tremble as he washes the pollen off his body, distractedly listening to Dick’s and Jason’s chatter. He wants to curl up in a tight ball and hug himself and bury in blankets. He wants his dad and his warm embrace, wants his brothers around him, their affection sincere and everlasting.

Tim pushes these thoughts away. He has made a resolution of not wishing for what he cannot have.

Once they have all gone through the decontamination protocol, Bruce insists on a quick debriefing. Tim stands as far away from anyone as he can without raising suspicion, not trusting his body and the pollen affecting it if he gets too close. He rattles off his report, his voice steady in a way his hands aren’t. As his brothers leave the Cave and Bruce takes place in front of the Batcomputer, Tim fades into the background. No one notices him slipping away and taking his motorcycle.

Since he got back, he has had trouble sleeping at the Manor. Once a place of comfort, it has become a burden. He has become a burden. If he stays there for too long, he will inevitably feel out of place, his instincts screaming at him that he should not overstay his welcome lest they throw him away for good. Tonight, he cannot even bear sleeping there, in his old room.

He manages to keep his composure up until he arrives at the Nest. He crumbles as soon as the apartment’s door closes behind him. Violent tremors wrack his lithe frame, and his skin prickles from thousands of invisible needles, begging for him to get touch, affection, warmth. Tim keens softly.

Bruce said, once, that the pollen affected touchstarved people worse than it did others. Tim is nothing if not touchstarved. He curls up on his couch, blankets draped over him. They don’t appease the bone-deep cold that has settled inside him.

In the morning hours of the night, just as the black sky is about to leave way to dawn, Tim grabs his phone, his nerves on fire. His finger hovers over Bruce’s contact for several minutes as he debates whether or not to call the man. Eventually, he throws the phone on the armchair on the other side of the coffee table and resigns himself to shivering his way through the pollen.

Tim wants to have words with Ivy. He wants to know why she makes that forsaken pollen, and why it hurts so much, and why it lasts so fucking long. The day came and went, and all Tim can do to stop himself from screaming is clench his teeth very hard and remind himself he has neighbors. Non-vigilante neighbors.

Tears stream down his face as he cries silently in his blankets. Why is the pollen still affecting him? He has been doused in it before, and it never lasted this long. He has dealt with it himself and—

Tim’s eyes widen at the realization. He has not actually dealt with it himself before. All the times he was hit with it were when he was Robin and Batman doted on him in a way he does not anymore. He never did manage to hide being doused in pollen. Until today.

Tim bites down a sob. He does not want to call his family. He is too vulnerable already; he won’t be able to face their disappointment and disdain. He can imagine the pointed expression on Damian’s face already, so out of place on his tiny face, and Bruce’s pursed lips, can hear Jason’s taunting words and see the silent guilt written all over Dick. All of this scream ‘failure’. Because Tim should know better, should be better. No one else than him was hit last night.

He realizes, eventually, as night gradually bleeds into the evening sky, that not going to patrol will give away his situation. That if he wants to keep it a secret, he has to drag himself off this couch and to the Cave.

He does it. Out of sheer willpower, he makes it to the Cave, whole and only barely on the verge of tears. He does not know how long his composure will last. If he had actually made a habit of having a somewhat decent sleep schedule, he could pretend to be exhausted and stay in for the night. But as it is, this excuse would only bring more suspicion onto him.

He tells himself his situation could be worse. He could have to spend the night in his mausoleum of a house, instead of basking in the comfort of the Nest. As comfortable as it can be when his nerves beg for a touch of any kind, at least.

Everyone else is already in the Cave and dressed up when he arrives, reunited against the large table they use for debriefing. Tim approaches them and tries to keep his distance as inconspicuously as he can.

It works for a time. And then Bruce looks up from the notes scattered on the table, and his gaze bores into Tim. Tim knows, then, that Bruce notices all that is wrong with Tim. From the tremors running through his body to the way he cannot help but hunch on himself, as though to preserve any warmth.

“Are you alright, Tim?” he asks, his voice softer than Tim deserves, and everyone turns to Tim.

Tim stumbles back a step, panic growing in him. His reaction gives him away. Jason puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder, and Tim crumbles.

His knees give out beneath him, and he pitches forward, a sob caught in his throat. Then the touch is gone, and fire flares in Tim’s body. He grabs onto the hand before it can leave entirely. Only then does he realize what he has done. He freezes and lets go of the hand, ignoring how much it hurts. He tries to scramble backward, but now his body has tasted touch, it wants more.

Garbled apologies fall from Tim’s lips as he breaks down and curls on himself. He failed. Again. He ruined everything, and now they will feel obligated to provide comfort, even though he does not deserve it. Bruce crouches down in front of him.

“What is wrong, Tim?” he asks in that same too-soft voice.

“Ivy’s pollen,” answers Tim, even though he meant to say ‘nothing’.

Immediately, Bruce’s warm hands swipe him into his dad’s arms, and Tim burrows against him. He wants to say many things as his dad carries him out of the Cave, his siblings following like obedient ducklings. But he is exhausted, and the pain alighting his nerves has finally soothed. It can wait for tomorrow.

@febuwhump

#writing #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #batman #batfamily #febuwhump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday1 #whump #self-esteem issues #ivy's pollen #tim drake #tim drake whump

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bioplast-hero · 4 months

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your blue

1k • teen • DekuShin

“You’re back early.” Izuku startles a little at the hushed voice. Here he thought he’d just slip in from the balcony with all his luggage, trying his best not to wake Hitoshi in the middle of the night. He really should know his insomniac boyfriend better than that.

Izuku arrives home after a couple weeks abroad and finds his boyfriend not sleeping.

[Read the fic on AO3]

#DekuShin #ShinDeku #bnha fic #my fic #fic promo #deku #midoriya izuku #shinsou hitoshi #new relationship #self-esteem issues #soft hc #songfics

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tgcf-fic · 1 year

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 天官赐福 | Heaven Official's Blessing (Cartoon), 天官赐福 - 墨香铜臭 | Tiān Guān Cì Fú - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huā Chéng/Xiè Lián (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), Jūn Wú & Xiè Lián (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), Huā Chéng & Jūn Wú & Xiè Lián (Tiān Guān Cì Fú) Characters: Huā Chéng (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), Xiè Lián (Tiān Guān Cì Fú) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Protectiveness, No Smut, Huā Chéng and Xiè Lián are in Love (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), POV Xiè Lián, Soft Huā Chéng, Jun Wu being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Self-Esteem Issues, Hurt Xiè Lián (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), Wing Grooming, friends to something more intimate but profoundly undefined, Non-Sexual Intimacy Summary:

He’s seen Xie Lian’s wings, has seen him, in his most fundamental way. In the part of him that should be elegant and majestic and full of spirit and energy. The part of him that is instead mangled and ugly and pathetic.

And still, he stays.

Xie Lian doesn’t understand why. Why does he stay? Why is he here, when no one else is? Why does he care, in such a devastating, aching way?

/// Gods receive wings upon ascension. After exile, they are restrained. Xie Lian deals with the consequences of neglecting himself for eight hundred years.

#tian guan ci fu #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #hualian #canon divergence #wings au #hurt comfort #angst with happy ending #fluff #falling in love #xie lian pov #self-esteem issues #hurt xie lian #Non-sexual Intimacy

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mikauzoran · 1 year

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Lukadrien June 2022: Arrangement

Read it on AO3: Arrangement

Summary: Adrien struggles with composing. Luka lends a hand.

Pairing: Adrien Agreste/Luka Couffaine

Rating: T

@lukadrien-june

#Lukadrien #Lukadrien June 2022 #Miraculous Ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Luka Couffaine #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Fluff #Hurt/Comfort #Roommates #gabriel agreste's a+ parenting #emilie agreste's a+ parenting #Self-Esteem Issues #Supportive Luka #Happy Ending #Aged-Up (18 and 20)#Writing Prompts #Mikau's Writings #Yours in Every Universe

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grosslyoversimplifiedpolitics · 2 years

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[ID: Self-Esteem Issues, maybe some, Self-Hatred]

#ao3 #ao3 tags #maybe some #Self-Esteem Issues #Self-Hatred

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flowersarefreetherapy · 1 year

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You Are My Sunshine: pt. 9

CW: Self-hatred, implied past violence, negative internal dialogue, past conditioning

(takes place a few days after this piece)

They had already talked it out. Robin said it was fine, Thad assured them it wouldn’t happen again, and they went to talk with the young man. Star. That is his name. Robin went to talk to him and everything was supposed to be fine. That’s how it’s supposed to work out.

But as Thad sits there, staring at his students as they laugh about something, he can’t stop thinking about the kid. And not just him, but the others they have taken in over the years. All Romantics, all pretty faces and perfect voices and calculating movements. He loves them, he really does, and he wants to help them, want them to get out of the training and the walls that have been placed around their lives, but there's always something when he looks at them. Their beauty which has kept them alive this far is a glaringly obvious difference to his scarred skin and missing hand.

“Mr. Castillo?” Philipp runs up to him, holding up his worksheet. “Lilia drawed on mine!”

Thad forces himself back into the moment and kneels down so he is on the same level as the young boy. “I’m sorry, Philipp.”

“I looked away and then she drawed on mine!”

Thad takes a deep breath and lets Philip lead him to where the other kids are sitting. The rest of the day is spent with reading and addition and no time to think. Normally he enjoys the time, but he can’t do that now. He can’t have his brain spiraling.

When he gets home, there is a pot of rice on the table, the air thick with the smell of curry. He smiles and hangs up his jacket and keys.

“I’m home, sunshine!”

“Hey,” Robin walks into the hallway. Their hair is up in a messy half bun, a few strands falling around their face. Thad recognizes the button up they’re wearing as his own; a light blue plaid. “Dinner is ready.”

“Thanks.”

His smile doesn’t last. It drops and Robin’s follows. They step forwards, gaze darting between his eyes.

“Thad? What happened?”

“Is Star here?”

Robin frowns. “He’s in his room. Why? Thad, what happened? You’re scaring me.”

“It’s nothing,” Thad says. “Well, nothing important. It’s just stupid.”

Robin reaches out and takes his forearms. Their thumbs rub across his skin, passing over scars long devoid of feeling. Thad rests his forehead against theirs, letting out a long sigh. He closes his eyes and rests in safety, allowing his muscles to relax. Whatever he is struggling with means nothing when he’s with his partner, when they can take it on together.

“Thad, honey, what’s wrong?”

“I–I’m not them.” Their question is all it takes for his barriers to come crashing down. His voice cracks on the words, his hand starting to shake. “I’m not pretty and I’m not desirable and the only thing I’m good for is fighting and killing and I don’t know how to make you happy and–”

“Thad, what-what are you talking about?”

“Them,” Thad whispers. “The others.”

Robin’s eyes widen. They’ve drawn the connections and he can see the wheels of their mind start to turn, picking apart whatever arguments he is about to throw at them.

“They were wanted,” Thad breathes, holding onto Robin’s hand to keep from drowning. His eyes burn. “They were wanted.”

He remembers seeing them through the bars he can never forget, in that dark room where the smell of blood and urine burned his nose and eyes. Grinding his teeth behind the tight muzzle they clamped around his face, watching with hatred as the pretty, clean Pets fawned over their owners, got to have fresh water in little cups, ate bright food that wasn’t mush. He hated them, hated when he looked up, standing in the middle of the ring, covered in blood and sweat with a body at his feet, and there they were, sitting there in laps, kneeling with smiles on their faces. They were loved, they got to go home to soft beds and warm blankets and a master who loved them, not threw them away at the first sign of weakness.

Then there were the ones he saw even further back, the ones he doesn’t like to think about. Surrounded by white walls and white floors and white uniforms. They were the ones all the handlers wanted to have. He remembers them standing over his body, warm blood running down his face as they talk about one of them. Words he doesn’t like, describing things he doesn’t want, all while he struggles to breathe through cracked ribs. They were the ones who got candy and gifts and their training was always better, always leaving them breathless and smiling, not screaming for mercy he will never receive.

“They are always wanted,” Thad chokes out. Blinding pain stabs into his temples. Phantom pain lances up his arm from where his hand once was. “Always! No one wants the ugly ones, the stupid ones, the dumb mutts.”

Once a dumb mutt, always a dumb mutt. You know that. Stupid, thinking you could be anything else.

“Thad, you are none of those things. You are brave and smart and funny and handsome, you are so handsome.”

Robin’s hand cups his face and Thad leans into it. He can’t remember the last time he has spiraled this far. He meets his partner's gaze, holding it as he tries to match Robin’s steady breathing.

They would make a beautiful Romantic.

Thad recoils. Where the hell did that thought come from? Bile burns the back of his throat as he struggles to recover, but he knows the truth. Their auburn hair and hazel eyes would have been enough on their own, but once their easy grace is factored in . . . Thad shakes his head, pulling his mind away from that very dangerous path. His palm sweats, his skin crawling with the sensation that he has been defiled.

“Thad, look at me. What happened?”

Thad shakes his head. It’s the most he can manage. How can he explain that to Robin? How could he ever explain the full darkness coiled inside of him to the person who loves him the most? Robin, for all their beauty and love and kindness, could never know. They know how horrible the world is, but they can never understand all he has done, all that he is capable of doing.

He looks at them and sometimes, instead of seeing his partner, he sees the fifty ways he can kill them without a weapon. He looks at them and sometimes he knows he can take whatever he wants without asking and they won’t be able to stop him. He looks at them and sees a beauty who never deserved a beast.

“Come on.” Robin leads him to the couch and they pull him close. Thad presses his head in the crook between their jaw and shoulder, tears burning his eyes. “Shh, love, I have you. You’re home, you’re safe, you’re loved. You aren’t there. You’re with me. Do you remember your name?”

He nods. He hasn’t forgotten, he just remembers more than he wants. It isn’t the answer Robin is looking for, so he forces himself to swallow back a sob and whisper, “My name is Thad Castillo. Your name is Robin. You’re my partner. I love you.”

Good mutts speak when asked questions.

“I love you too,” Robin responds. “You’re safe, Thad. And whatever is going on, whatever lies they told you, they’re just that. Lies. You have value and you are not the lies they told you.” They rub circles across his back, forcing his tensed muscles to relax. “You are not a mutt. You are a man and you are my husband.”

Good mutts have owners. Good mutts belong to their masters.

Thad clenches his hand into a fist, sharply exhaling. His wedding ring digs into his finger, pinching the skin. The moment of pain brings clarity. Robin shakily exhales, their breath ghosting across his face.

“I love you,” they whisper in his ear. “Nothing will change that. I love you, I chose you, I want you by my side for the rest of my life.”

Good mutts stay with their masters. They protect their masters.

Thad nods. It’s easier than trying to combat the lies. He nods and can feel the tension training from Robin’s body. Good. They aren’t panicking. He hates when they panic and he doesn’t know what to do.

Stupid mutt. They don’t want you. They’re smart. Why would they want a stupid creature like you?

Tagging: @pigeonwhumps @blood-is-compulsory (let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

#implied past violence #angst #conditioning #negative internal dialogue #self-esteem issues #bbu universe #self-hatred #bbu #pet whump #Thad #Robin #sunshine house #amputee character

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wangxianficrecs · 1 year

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light and sound by Anonymous

light and sound

by Anonymous

E, 37k, series, wangxain

Summary (Part One): “Baba,” A-Yuan is saying, tugging happily on his father’s hand. “Wei-laoshi is here!” “Yes, I see.” Lan Wangji dips his head in Wei Ying’s direction, then begins to gently steer A-Yuan back into the house. “Let’s step aside so that he may come in. Wei Ying, thank you for making time in your schedule.” “Oh, it was no trouble,” Wei Ying says, waving a hand. It was: he had to rearrange two lessons with other students. “Really, I’m happy to do it.” He realizes he’s still kneeling on the porch, and clambers to his feet. “Besides, money is exchanged for goods and services, right? It’s your money! There’s no need to thank me.” Lan Wangji blinks. “I suppose… Yes. That is one way of phrasing it.” (Or: Wei Ying gets a commission, a tutoring job, and a crush.)

Summary (Part Two): Lan Zhan had known, right from the start, that he was fucked. Wei Ying had blown into his life like a hurricane. He was messy and loud and opinionated, too much and all at once. He was talented and smart and witty and beautiful, and Lan Zhan wanted to drown in it. (Was it possible to drown in a person?) (Or: food as a metaphor for love, five times Wei Ying cooks for Lan Zhan, and one time Lan Zhan cooks for him.)

Mojo's comments: This was sweet, with the timeless and well-loved Harlequin plot of the young art tutor and the wealthy, remote, single parent. It goes just as you would hope!

modern setting, single parent lan wangji, kid fic, mutual pining, misunderstandings, light angst, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, strangers to lovers, getting together, happy ending, blow jobs, musician lan wangji, artist wei wuxian, self-esteem issues, class differences, first kiss, first time, self-worth issues, love confessions

part two: food as a metaphor for love, 5+1 things, soft, fluff, marriage proposal, harlequin, the wei wuxian can cook agenda

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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dkniade · 1 year

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…

School has been incredibly stressful, to say the least.

Note: self-esteem issues, memory issues, burnout, implied eating issues and sleeping issues

Almost all of my courses have to do with media analysis. This is where stuff like “I liked it” or “it was cool” or even more specific “this element of film/instrument/writing technique is used” is not specific enough. It’s not enough to describe the techniques used. One must understand the aim of using them, or what effect the author achieves, or how it connects to the historical context.

I look at a piece of art, I feel something, yet can’t put it into words because at the back of my mind there’s the idea of “look into it deeper, beyond your own feelings”. Paralyzed, even. I simply want to enjoy art for the sake of art.

Even things I once thought I liked, I grow tired of examining it in a standard above and different than my own. I look at something, I’ve no interest, I cannot connect points together… Quality, clarity, explaining things in a very literal A is X and B is Y thus XY way. Time management, focus, memory… Burnout.

Nonetheless, every step is a step forward towards completion, no matter how small. It’s a constant fight between making sense and hitting the word/page count and finishing things. And a fight between academic stuff and self-care.

Since spring is here, I won’t say “nothing matters”. Even amidst all this, I still find joy in things I like, where I feel happy in the moment. And I’m still eating, sleeping, standing, and breathing…!

This, I will not fail in doing.

I will seize every moment of happiness I get.

#dusk personal writing #a personal ramble.#self-esteem issues #memory issues #burnout #implied eating issues #sleeping issues

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stargreen-fan · 9 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera Characters: Christine Daaé, Erik | Phantom of the Opera Additional Tags: problematic faves, Angst, One Shot, Self-Esteem Issues, Flash Fic Series: Part 3 of Phantomasc's PhanPhiction Summary:

Erik evaluates his love for the legend of Don Juan

#phantom of the opera #fan fic #phan phic #: problematic faves #angst #one shot #self-esteem issues #flash fic

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actress4him · 2 years

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Querencia 12 - Shopping Trip

Whoooo it’s been forever since I updated this story, but amidst a ton of writer’s block, I finally did it! And it’s actually mostly fluff! (with a little bit of angst, because it’s Liliana and it’s me)

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch (I can’t remember if you wanted on this one, too, or just the BBU one, sorry!)

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: past trauma, references to past homelessness, self-deprecating thoughts

“It’s Nari!” a cheerful voice calls through Liliana’s bedroom door. She hurries over, flicking the lock quickly and easing the door open. A brief rush of embarrassment floods her cheeks, thinking about Nari being able to hear the lock turn, knowing that the fact she still locks the door every single time she’s in the room is ridiculous and probably makes the others think she’s paranoid and doesn’t trust them.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust them. It’s…it’s that she doesn’t trust anyone. And she’s been so long without even a door, and so much longer without a lock, that having one now is like a dream.

Nari doesn’t seem bothered by being locked out, though, beaming at her as soon as they make eye contact. “Hey! So I’m going out to do some shopping, and I was hoping you’d come along with me.”

Liliana’s mind blanks out for a moment. “Sh-shopping?” Like, at a store? With…money? Oh. Maybe…maybe Nari doesn’t realize…how is she supposed to…? “I-I don’t…I…can’t…”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want, I was just hoping for some company! I need to pick up a few groceries, and was thinking of looking at some clothes while I’m out, too.” She shrugs, voice quieting. “I was also thinking it would be good for you to get out of the warehouse for a bit. You’ve been cooped up in here forever.”

Has she? It’s so hard for her to tell anymore what is a normal amount of inside versus outside. After being cooped up inside the facility for three years with very little allotted outdoor time, always in the same few rooms in the same building, she then did a one-eighty to hardly spending any time inside or in the same place. And while she certainly doesn’t want to go back to the former, being here, inside the warehouse, feels safe after the streets. There’s a kitchen that’s always stocked with food, and there’s a bed that she’s slowly getting used to sleeping in, and there’s a shower, and doors with locks on them. There’s a tiny, ridiculous part of her that’s afraid of losing all of that if she steps out the front door.

But Nari’s probably right. She might as well conquer the fear now, make it clear to herself that the warehouse and all of its safety will still be here when she returns, and actually get a change of scenery for the first time in days. Maybe the outside world will seem less intimidating with a friend by her side and a place to come back to.

Hopefully she won’t mind her not actually buying anything. She seems to just want some company, though why she thinks Liliana is a good choice for that is uncertain.

She nods, and smiles a little, and Nari takes that as the agreement it’s meant to be. “Great! Cool! Okay, uh…do whatever you need to do to get ready, I’m not in a rush…I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a bit?”

“O-okay.”

Nari leaves, and she closes the door and locks it again. Whatever you need to do to get ready… She has no clue what that should be. But she goes to the mirror on the wall, and studies her reflection, which is a strange experience in and of itself. She barely looks like the girl she used to know anymore. This girl is older, of course, but also stick-thin where there used to be curves, with hollowed-out cheeks and grey eyes that don’t have the same shine that their teenage counterparts once had.

Still, as a human being she looks…decent enough, she supposes. Nari’s jeans and hoodie aren’t a style she’s accustomed to, but they fit fine. Her curls are…a bit untamed. They’ve certainly improved with regular washes and a whole lot of detangling over the past couple of weeks, but she doesn’t have any styling products for them so they tend to do whatever they want. Maybe pulling her hair back is in order before going out. Nari did give her some hairbands along with the clothing she let her borrow.

A few minutes of attempting a braid later, Liliana gives up, dropping her hands by her sides and huffing in frustration. Braids used to be her go-to style. Now, though, it’s a rare occasion that her right hand will allow her that luxury. She massages the aching knuckles with a wince, unable to help remembering that day when she’d accidentally healed the neighbor’s arthritis and outed herself to her parents all at once. Sometimes it’s difficult, carrying around the constant reminder of that moment.

Shaking away the memories, she settles for a ponytail and powers her way through the pain and stiffness to make it work. All that’s left then, she supposes, is to put on her ratty shoes and meet Nari in the kitchen.

It’s actually refreshing, stepping outside the warehouse for the first time. The sun is shining, the air is chilly and crisp and carries with it the smell of fallen leaves. Fall has always been one of her favorite seasons. She lost her appreciation of it when she had to sleep outside on the cold nights it brought, but now that she has a home…

Suddenly it registers with her exactly what she just thought, and she freezes in her tracks. She…she called the warehouse home. She can’t do that. Yes, she’s living there for now. Yes, everyone has been so kind to her and treated her like…like the family that they are.

But she can’t let herself get too comfortable. She can’t let herself believe that it will actually last, that she won’t eventually, for whatever reason, have to move on.

She’s not meant to have a home. Thinking that she’s safe somewhere will only get her hurt in the end.

Nari says she usually takes public transportation wherever she goes, but since they’ll be coming back with multiple bags she’s commandeered Quinn’s car keys for the day. It’s been so long since Liliana has been in a car, she spends the whole trip leaning back into the seat and marveling at the warm air blowing on her feet and the world flying past.

Nari chatters amiably about this and that, not seeming to be bothered by the silence from the other side of the car. She parks in front of a big superstore, and Liliana stares at the familiar sign with a feeling of melancholy in her chest.

She and her mom used to shop here all the time. It had always been a fun, mother daughter excursion, with lots of laughter and lots of impulse purchases.

It isn’t the first time she’s been since she was taken from her home, though. One time, last winter when it was bitterly cold, she’d slipped inside just to warm up for a bit. Wandered the aisles, lost in her memories and in amazement at all the…stuff that there was in the world, just sitting there, available for anyone who could afford it to take home with them. And there were so many new things, things that everyone else seemed to know and understand, but she had never seen before.

It was the first time she’d truly realized just how much she must have missed, locked away for those three years.

“Okay, let’s start with clothes, ‘cause I need to get milk and stuff, so groceries need to be last.” Nari strides confidently back toward the clothing section, Liliana struggling a little to keep up despite only lacking two inches on her. It’s been ages since she’s shopped for clothes - and many of her old clothes were bought at thrift stores - so she hopes Nari isn’t hoping for any advice on what to buy.

“Ooh, what do you think of this?” Nari asked almost immediately, whipping a lilac sweater off the rack and holding it up for Liliana to see.

So much for not being asked for advice. “Um…yes, that’s…that’s nice.”

“Ugh, these jeans are really cute, too. Do you like jeans?”

Jeans were another of those things that had changed drastically in the last few years. “Yes, they’re cute.”

Nari checks the tags on a few pairs before pulling one out to drape over her arm with the sweater. “I probably should have gotten a cart. Oh, well. Okay, uh…t-shirts! How do you feel about graphic tees?”

Why does she care so much about Liliana’s opinion on clothing? Or maybe she doesn’t care, and she’s just trying to include her. That’s more likely. “Um…those are nice.” Not for herself, of course, she doesn’t normally wear short sleeves. But she’s fairly certain Nari would look fantastic in most anything she put on.

“Okay this one has a dog on it. Personally I’m more of a cat person myself, but I dunno, what’s your opinion on dogs? He’s kinda cute, right?”

“I-I like dogs.” She’d always wanted one as a kid, but the only pets they’d ever been allowed were fish. “But, um…maybe…they have a cat? You could, could look.”

“I can if you want me to!” Nari hangs onto the dog shirt while continuing to flip through the remainder on the rack. “But if you like this one, then…” She stops suddenly, as if just realizing something. Her fingers fiddle idly with a yellow sleeve. “These…are for you. Sorry, um…probably should have said that at the beginning, I just…didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it or anything. Because I really don’t mind, I know you don’t have anything, and I wanna get you your own stuff.”

Liliana freezes in place, thoughts grinding to a halt. For…her? No, no no no no. That’s not…she’s not…she can’t…

She has to say something. She opens her mouth, but it simply hangs open for far too long before she can get words to start coming out. Nari’s watching her carefully, all while pretending to not watch her.

“I-I…y-…I’m sorry. I-I, I mean, thank you, it’s, it’s kind of you, but…but I can’t, I…no, I can’t, I’m sorry, thank you.”

“Why not?” It’s a genuine question, quiet, and kind. Nari still isn’t fully looking at her, fingers quietly stroking over the pile of clothes across her arm.

“B-because…I-I can’t, can’t pay.” The admission is shameful, despite the fact that it was probably obvious. “I don’t, I don’t have any money. And you…I can’t let you pay, it’s…clothes are expensive. It’s too much, I…I can’t.”

The corners of Nari’s mouth turn up a little. “I understand. That’s why I was reluctant to tell you. But listen, Lili…you deserve this, okay? You’ve been through…a lot, and you deserve to have something for yourself. Something to help you feel more you, more comfortable and at home. You don’t wanna keep wearing my clothes forever, do you?”

Oh. She’s so stupid, she hadn’t even thought of that. Of course, Nari would want her clothes back at some point, and the only way she knows to do that is to get Liliana new ones. “R-right, no, I…you can have your clothes back, of course. But, but I can…I can just wear my old ones, it’s fine. I’m used to them.”

“The clothes you were wearing when we found you?” There’s a note of incredulity in her voice. “Jagiya, no, those…first of all, that’s just one outfit, you’d need more. Second…those barely fit you, and they had holes, and were so worn that they were practically see-through. I threw those away the first night.”

She’s never asked her what ‘jagiya’ means. It’s always said in a gentle, affectionate voice, but for all she knows she’s calling her ‘stupid’. Liliana wouldn’t blame her if she was.

“Hey, listen. This isn’t about me and my clothes. I have plenty of clothes, just ask the boys. They’ll say I have way too many. You can keep those for as long as you like, in my mind they’re yours now, anyway. But that isn’t much, and it isn’t anything you’ve picked out for yourself.” She holds the bundle of clothing out from her body slightly. “This could be a lot of fun, picking these out together. If you want. If you can just…not worry about the money for a little bit, okay? We’ve all got jobs outside of superheroing. We can afford this, I promise.”

Jobs, right, of course they have jobs, she’d seen them leaving for them before. But it’s the first time she’s fully realized that they all have jobs, which means she should have one, too. She can’t just keep mooching off of them. They’ve been feeding her, and housing her, and now they’re trying to clothe her…she needs to look for a job, despite the fact that she has no idea where or how to start.

But she can tell now is not the time to bring that up. She’ll worry about that later, and once she gets a job and has some money, she can worry about paying them back for everything they’ve bought for her. She vows to start paying attention, and making a list, so she knows exactly what she owes them.

“Um…okay?” Agreeing is hard. The way Nari’s face lights up with a smile makes it almost worth the anxiety, though.

“Great! So…now that you know these are for you…do you actually like all of these things?”

Liliana nods. “Mhm. Sure.”

One of Nari’s eyebrows quirks upwards. “But…?”

“Oh.” She pulls her sleeves down over the palms of her hands. “I, um…I don’t really wear short sleeves.”

Nari gives the t-shirt in her hand a critical glance. “Even in the summer?”

The fact that she thinks Liliana will still be around in the summer registers enough to cause mild, background panic, but she shoves it aside to deal with later. “N-not, not really, no.” She cringes inwardly, half expecting to be forced to explain. How can she explain, though, that it’s not temperature that bothers her? It’s…feeling bare. Exposed. She needs that extra fabric covering her, and she has no idea why, herself.

“Okay.” The t-shirt goes back on the rack. “But the rest is good?”

She nods again.

“Alright, so…why don’t you pick something out?”

Now she’s frozen again, put on the spot in a sea of clothing. There’s too much, and it all blends together, she doesn’t know what’s what and suddenly can’t even recall what colors she prefers, so she just stands there, staring like an idiot.

Until Nari speaks, breaking through the static. And she isn’t calling her out for freezing, or continuing to insist she picks something, she’s holding out a blue, long-sleeve tee. “How about this? Simple, but it’s always nice to have basic staples. You could throw a jacket or scarf over it to dress it up if you wanted.”

“Mhm.”

It gets added to the pile, and they move on. Nari doesn’t ask her to pick anything again, just keeps suggesting items and commenting on their pros and cons. At one point she starts shoving the ones they keep into Liliana’s arms instead of her own. The pile has grown to an alarming size, and Liliana is debating whether she needs to speak up about it, when Nari announces that she should start trying things on in the fitting room.

It’s been so long since she’s had clothes that fit correctly, she’s honestly not sure what that looks like. She tries each item on and spends far too long staring at her reflection, trying to determine how baggy is too baggy and how long is too long. Nothing is too tight, at least, which she supposes she should have expected with her new body. It crosses her mind that she could step out and ask Nari her opinion on the fit, but in a mental battle between feeling awkward and embarrassed about that right now, and feeling awkward and embarrassed later when she’s seen with purchased clothes that don’t fit right, hiding away in the fitting room wins out.

She comes out with a still sizable pile. Nari is waiting on a nearby bench, having at some point found a shopping cart and thrown a few more small items inside.

“Um. I…think these all fit?”

“Great!” Nari gathers up the items in the bottom of the cart to make way for the clothes. “I picked up some of these, which are your preference?” She holds out packages of underwear, and Liliana flushes as she points to one of the styles. “Cool. Also got a pack of these, is that okay? And these?” She briefly waves socks and sports bras, getting quick agreements from Liliana and tossing them back in the cart.

“And a new pair of gloves, because those are just as worn as your old clothes.”

Again, there’s no judgment, no questions. If she wonders why Liliana always wears the gloves, she keeps it to herself and simply makes sure that she has what she needs. It’s…overwhelming, just like most everything else this group does for her.

“Alright, got that done! Now we just need to tackle groceries!”

Liliana’s brow creases. “But…wait, are…we’re not getting all of this…r-right?”

Glancing into the cart, Nari smiles softly at her. “Lili, this isn’t that much, I promise. It’s what…a couple of pairs of jeans, some sweatpants, a few shirts, a couple of sweaters, a jacket…that’s a pretty basic wardrobe. Not nearly as much as I have and most girls have, but a decent start, and you can always get more later. So yes, we’re getting all of this. Now…groceries?”

Buying groceries ends up being almost as overwhelming as clothes shopping. Nari continuously asks her about what food she likes, somehow draws two different stories from her about her childhood, and subsequently ends up buying multiple items that Liliana’s pretty sure were not on her original list, including a box of sugary cereal she used to love as a kid, and all the ingredients for Guatemalan chile rellenos so that she can introduce them all to the traditional dish.

After what feels like ages of shopping, they leave heavy-laden with bags. Liliana is completely exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but at the same time there’s a warmth pooling in her chest. It’s like a shadow of the feeling she remembers getting, long ago, when she got to get something for herself at the store, but mixed with another feeling that suspiciously reminds her of the times she felt loved by her family. She tries to ignore it, but the feeling is persistent and keeps her company on the ride back to the warehouse.

Later that night, in her room with the door securely locked and all of her new clothes stacked neatly on the bed, Liliana pulls out a notebook and pen that Quinn had given her. At the top of a clean page, she prints the names of each of the team members, then draws lines to create columns.

Underneath Nari’s name, she first writes the total she’d been keeping in her head ever since the grocery aisles, an approximation of what had been spent on things for her. Then she sits down next to the clothes and begins going through the tags one by one, carefully writing down the price for each.

#querencia #liliana the healer #nari the hero #past trauma #homelessness tw #self-esteem issues #Fluff and angst #whump series #found family #whump blog

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summersnow82 · 2 years

Text

Somethin' Bad - Part 12

Author's Note:

Thanks for sticking with me, y'all. All the kudos, likes, reblogs, bookmarks, etc. - they really mean a lot to me. I didn't plan on this being a slow burn, but here we are.

I'm not sad about it. I've finally figured out an ending, and we'll get there when we get there. I'm enjoying these two and their building chemistry.

Thanks for reading!

Part 12

Travis blinked. Did he hear her properly or was she just… saying it? Like it was so easy to say. It had taken his family months before they could even use the word “werewolf”, and here Annabelle was stating he had a supernatural problem like she dealt with them every day.

Maybe that’s what you see when you deal with inter-dimensional time travel.

He shook his head. Before the werewolf curse he would’ve found her a nice padded cell and some anti-psychotics, but now? Well, now he was inclined to believe her story, and tell her everything about Silas and the curse. He’d seen too much to start drawing lines in the sand, and he needed all the help he could get.

“Travis?” Annabelle tilted her head to the side, brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

“Hmm?” He blinked. “Oh. Yeah. I just… you talk about it so… easily.”

Annabelle shrugged. “It’s not necessarily easy, but I’m used to it by now. So will you tell me what you know about that beast out there?”

He took a deep breath, and met her eyes. “Werewolf. It’s a werewolf.”

Travis told her everything: about Eliza and Silas Vorez, the Harum Scarum fire, the good intentions of his niece and nephew, and the horrible, bloody result. It spilled out of him easier than he’d expected, but then, who else could he talk to about this? Annabelle was either certifiably crazy or she was very sane with potential knowledge he could use. Either way, it was weirdly comforting to share this with someone else who wasn’t his family. Someone who wasn’t asking why he hadn’t done a better job and taken care of the problem already. Someone who wasn’t looking at him with their entire life hanging in the balance.

Travis suddenly felt exhausted. Covering everything up for years, going through the same routine every full moon only to be chastised the morning after, barely sleeping because the nightmares were so vivid he’d wake up screaming, always covered in the foul smelling wolf blood.

… and there was always so much blood.

He closed his eyes, trying to push the onslaught of emotions and memories back, but they surged forward, overwhelming him completely.

“We know you’ll take care of it, Uncle T.”

“...sorry excuse for a son...”

“Next month, buddy.”

“Pathetic. Useless.”

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Uncle Travis.”

“If you really cared about this family...”

“TRAVIS!”

He was on his knees before her, clutching Annabelle’s shoulders so tightly he knew he had to be hurting her. Her eyes were wide with concern, and he let go immediately, clattering into his desk chair to get away from her. He stumbled backwards, and he heard her call his name, but he kept going, backing further away until his back hit the wall behind him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He held his hands out in front of him as if to prove he wasn’t a threat. Is this how Sean felt? He squeezed his eyes shut, apologies still falling from his lips.

“Travis? Travis!” He opened them to see Annabelle in front of him, her hands wrapped around his own. “It’s okay, all right? It’s okay. I’m okay, you’re okay. It’s all right.”

What is wrong with me? He struggled to breathe, shuddering in and out. Annabelle was still speaking – something about panic attacks, anxiety, how this was all completely normal. He wanted to believe her; more than anything he wanted to believe her because if she was right then he wasn’t as screwed up as he thought. But you know better, don’t you? His mother’s voice crawled from the back of his mind, and he shut his eyes trying to block her out along with the onslaught of abuse he knew would quickly follow.

“Travis.” Annabelle was cupping his face now as she knelt before him. Deep brown eyes focused solely on him. “Travis.” She leaned her forehead against his, her hair drifting around him like a silk curtain; she grounded him in her touch and scent: sugar, coffee, and his Irish Spring shampoo. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she kept repeating softly, still holding his hands. He was raw and open, like a fresh wound, but despite his vulnerability he still felt safe; it was an odd sensation.

He tilted his head back, and she pulled away just enough to study his face. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely a whisper.

“Shhhh,” she soothed, moving one of her hands to his wrist. She turned her eyes to the clock on the wall, and he followed her gaze.

“What are you-” he began, and she shushed him again. It was the boost he needed because his brow furrowed in frustration. “Don’t - ” he tried again, and this time she raised a finger to his lips, silencing him immediately.

“Travis Hackett,” she levied her gaze at him, speaking softly, but firmly, “I get you’re used to being in control all the time, but if you could just hush for a few minutes, and let me take care of you I sure would appreciate it.”

He blinked, stunned. Typically Travis was the one taking care of everyone else; when was the last time someone wanted to take care of him? Yet here she sat, this perfect stranger treating him like… like…

Like I matter.

For as long as he could remember, Travis had been the fixer in the family. He was the one who stood strong when everyone else was falling apart, the one who sacrificed his wants, desires, and needs for the good of the family, the “hero” and the “big brother”, and the “good boy.”

…and yet…

Here in front of him, monitoring his pulse, was a woman he barely knew who continually kept trying to make his life easier. Sure, she was feisty, and tended to push back half the time, but he enjoyed her assertiveness. It was refreshing for once to not have someone looking to him for all the answers, but instead challenging him, provoking him, intriguing him.

… and she could’ve left at any point.

“Why didn’t you run?” He asked, and she shot him an agitated look.

“And leave all this?” She said sarcastically. She sighed, rethinking her approach, and said, “Compared to some places this is a five star resort. Shelter, central air and heat, indoor plumbing, a bed, food, showers.” She paused. “Not having to worry about being raped or murdered in my sleep.”

His eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t acknowledge it, and he didn’t comment. Instead she changed the subject. “Favorite color?”

“Huh?”

“Color. Your favorite. What is it?” She looked him in the eye, arching a brow. “And no ‘green’ or ‘orange’ nonsense. I want to know the exact favorite color.”

He frowned. “Blue.”

Annabelle sighed, eyes flicking back to the clock. “Cobalt? Cerulean? Sky? C’mon, Travis. You had a box of Crayolas as a kid, right?”

He smirked. “Slate blue.”

She smiled, eyes still focused on the clock. “Very nice. Mine’s lilac, followed by sapphire, then sea foam. Favorite food?”

Travis’ brow furrowed again, but he didn’t argue. “Is that a doughnut joke?”

Annabelle chuckled softly, shaking her head. “No, but there’s no shame if that’s the answer.”

He gave her a small smile he was sure she missed. How long did she need to stare at that clock? “Waffles.”

Her eyes flickered shut for a moment, and she made the same sound she’d made sipping her coffee. “I love waffles. Pancakes. Muffins. Carbs in general. Favorite movie?”

“You have a lot of time to think about things like this?” He asked, and she smiled at the sass in his question.

“I sleep in a jail cell, Sheriff. I have a lot of time to think.” She said it with a smile, but he swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach returning. She pulled her hands away, staring at him hard. “When was the last time you went to the doctor?” The grimace on his face was answer enough. “Your pulse might as well be a freaking gazelle. How have you not had a heart attack?”

“Too much to do before I die,” he grumbled. She reached up, taking his chin, making him look at her.

“Dealing with the supernatural is hard enough. You’ve got to take care of yourself. How are you sleeping?”

“While laying down, typically,” he groused.

Her eyes narrowed. “Right. Diet?”

He glared at her. “Does rum count?”

Her mouth pulled into a tight line. “Are you a pirate? No, of course it doesn’t count. Good grief, Travis, has it been like this for six years?” He stared at her, and she sighed releasing his chin. “Okay, okay. Have you at least eaten today?”

“Does rum - ” she clapped her hand over his mouth.

“Let’s get you something to eat.”

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

The North Kill county jail didn’t have a lot to offer for sustenance, but Annabelle didn’t let that stop her. She’d moved around the break room with an air of confidence, a woman on a mission. Travis watched her prepare instant oatmeal and grits for the two of them and Sean, and then he followed her to the cell block.

Honestly, he had no idea why he was allowing her to take the lead, but in some ways it was… nice. He spent so much time clambering for control because the world was going to shit around him, or it was the only way to get respect, but this… this felt different.

“Eat that,” she ordered, pointing at the bowl she��d handed him. “It’ll be terrible cold.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing hard. “Is she always like this?” He complained to Sean. The blonde man still needed a shower, but looked remarkably better than the last time Travis had seen him.

Sean cracked a small smile, taking his own bowl from Annabelle through the bars. “Mother hen? You have no idea.”

“Hush, and eat,” she commanded once more. She sniffed her oatmeal with another happy little hum, and then attacked her food with vigor.

The meal was simple, but good nonetheless, and Travis did feel better afterwards. He ate quietly, keeping his distance from his prisoners, but he listened to their conversation in earnest.

Werewolf. Silver. Full moon. Curse. Cure.

They tackled each issue thoroughly, working through theories, ideas, and previous experiences for reference. Upon occasion one of them would ask Travis a question, and they’d both turn their eyes to him expectantly. If he had the answer, great, and if not, they’d theorize some more. No blame, no anger, just information to process. It became more and more obvious this was not their first rodeo with werewolves, but it was their first with this specific curse.

“So, you’re saying,” Travis began slowly, breaking their flow, “you’ve seen variations of this curse?”

Sean and Annabelle exchanged glances, both shrugging. “Kinda, yeah.”

“New world, new rules,” Annabelle said.

“This is actually one of the better ones, honestly,” Sean said. “One we saw you would actually transition to a real wolf. The werewolf aspect was more of a symptom.”

Annabelle nodded. “Another, you turn for the full moon, and the night before and after.”

“Another, you get infected, that’s it. No cure, but you have more control. It’s like the wolf if part of you. Depending on your strength and alpha status, you can even shift without the moon.”

Travis stared at them. “Exactly how many werewolves have you known?”

Again, the two exchanged glances, waffling for an answer. “Twenty?”

“Thirty?”

“A lot.”

Travis’ head was beginning to hurt. This was all a bit much. “How many wolves do you have in this area now?” Sean asked.

He sighed. “Three that I know of, but the night you two arrived there were two more.” Travis closed his eyes trying not to think about the woman he’d shot. He’d gone back the next day, and the body was gone. What remained… well, it seemed whatever wolf was in the area had cleaned up for him. “I shot one, but I don’t know about the other.”

“Four wolves,” Annabelle breathed.

“Five with him,” Travis gestured to Sean. Annabelle looked pained at the thought, and Sean refused to make eye contact with either of them. “Y’know,” Travis began, feeling guilty for the mood shift, “you know, I can take the cuffs off now. You’re not a threat in there. Even take a shower, if you like.” Sean looked uncertain, but Travis was focusing on Annabelle. She was smiling at him like he’d said the perfect thing - like he was her hero.

He hated how much he enjoyed that reaction.

“I guess… I guess that’d be okay,” Sean finally said, albeit very, very quietly.

Travis escorted Sean to the shower – cuffs still on in case they had any more surprise guests. When they returned, Annabelle was curled up on her cot, fast asleep. Travis paused, surprised, and Sean clocked his gaze.

“It’s a good sign she’s sleeping. She only does that when she feels safe. Otherwise, it’s a struggle,” Sean said.

Travis snorted. “She was just giving me a hard time about my sleeping habits.”

Sean looked over his shoulder at the older man. “Her issue is about survival, not trauma. You know what it’s like to sleep in your boots every night because you might have to run, Sheriff?”

Travis turned a steely glare to the other man, ready to snap back a quick retort, but the look in Sean’s eyes told him he wasn’t trying to pick a fight. He was trying to offer important insight into their situation. “You know I can’t let you out of the cell unsupervised until this is over, right? It’s too risky.”

Sean nodded. “But does she have to stay?” He inclined his head towards the sleeping woman. “I mean, she won’t complain, but…”

“She told my niece she was sleeping on the cot upstairs.”

Sean winced. “Ouch. Not the best look for you, man.”

Travis nodded, giving Sean a tap to let him know he could continue walking to his cell. “Not really sure what to do about that, honestly.” He uncuffed Sean before he opened the cell door, a silent sign to the other man he wanted to do right by them. Sean walked into the room without issue, and watched Travis lock the cell door. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Need anything before I go?”

Sean shook his head. “I’m good. Thanks for the shower and the clothes.” Travis nodded. Instinct told him to reach for the other man’s hand and shake it, but he kept his hands by his side. Gratitude and civil conversation was not what he expected, but it was a big relief. The knot in Travis’ stomach loosened ever so slightly as he turned, striding out of the cell block without locking Annabelle’s cell door.

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