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fleet-of-fiction · 5 months

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Sativa

Jake Kiszka // Female Reader

An evening with Jake ends with a sensual massage. But the way he positions himself inspires you to movements neither of you expected. He wants you to let go of all your inhibitions, weaving confidence into you like a sorcerer. Armed only with his charisma and a roll of Sativa. (Blurb)

Explicit sexual content. Mild drug use/ Dom to Sub Jake / Ass play / Anal / Scratching / Edging / Sex Toys / Spitting / Spanking / Rimming / Praise

He pulled the joint away from his mouth, letting plumes of smoke dance up his lip. He inhaled it back through his nose, savouring every last drop of the delicious vapour. Courting you to join him with a promise that it would make you feel good.

You already felt good. Being in Jakes sphere was insouciant, stepping into any room where he dwelled was like casting off the shackles of any predisposition to shyness. He peeled away your layers with subtle formality, which had soon given way to absolute hedonism.

"My back hurts." He complained, propped up on his side between ruined sheets. "Why don't you put those hands to good use?"

You were sitting with your legs crossed, nursing the joint between your middle and index finger in a little white cardigan and thong. Hair in disarray, your mascara smudged beyond all rectifying. Still in the reverb of his previous touch.

"What do you want, Jake?" You asked, always treading on the fringes of his intent.

He was smirking valiantly. Already rolling onto his stomach and tucking his arms up beneath an array of pillows. His hair spilled down his back, long and dark tendrils against pink, flushed skin. A pleased little hum escaping that expectant mouth.

"I want you to figure that one out for yourself tonight, my shy little peach." He said, turning his head to the side to reveal that strict jawline in all it's flexed glory. "Why don't you tell me what I want?"

The self effacing aspect of your personality often meant that Jake would lead you into your pleasure. His dominance and assurance consumed your timid little body until it shook with unrelenting effervescence. Leaving you covered in all manner of fluid and a sense of satisfaction you simply couldn't find elsewhere.

"I think Jakey wants a back rub." You surmised perfectly, gathering his hair in your hands and sweeping it onto the pillows to reveal the smooth textures of his flesh.

He was wearing a pair of black boxer shorts, tight fitting and hugging his ass like a sweet fabric kiss. You were always drawn to the curve of it, your eyes moving south whenever he walked away from you. Your attention wholly diverted, no matter the occasion.

You took a deep hit, pulling back on the joint until the embers glowed and the paper began to sizzle. Leaning it casually on the edge of the glass ashtray on the nightstand as your head began to swim. The Sativa always made you euphoric. It made you step out of your own head and Jake knew this. Feeling like you were entirely untethered to your own insecurities as you parted your legs and straddled them over his waist.

"You're in charge now, peachy girl."

A sly little smile made it's way to the corner of your mouth. Leaning your palms into the ridges of his spine. Running them up the length of his back, fingers reaching out to coil around his shoulders. The feel of his skin smooth and soft, the sound of his breathing shallowing with each blessed stroke.

You felt the weight of his pleasure in your hands. The way he closed his eyes and let you glide a tender, arousing touch across his flesh had you feeling a power which couldn't have been handed to you from anyone who didn't possess Jake's ability to know exactly what you needed. What he needed.

"What if I'm not as shy as you perceive me to be?" You asked, winding your hips so that your thong delicately rubbed against the small of his back.

That irrepressible smirk returned to his beautiful lips.

"It's remarkable to me that you haven't taken control before." He replied casually, opening one eye to catch you lingering above him with your cardigan wide open. "I see the way you desire to see me submit."

The corresponding throb was a compelling revelation. It radiated out from the tip of your clitoris and sent pulses through the rest of your nerve endings. The mere sight of him beneath you was tantalising enough to rouse you to action. The Sativa coursing through your veins now diluted by the audacity of this man and his absolute confidence that you could ruin him.

"You're the peach, now." You whispered, pressing your front flush to his back. "I'm going to use your body any way I please."

He let out a veritable hiss as you slid back up, painting lines of red across his pale skin as your nails sunk into the flesh and left their mark. You slid the cardigan off, determined to take full advantage of his gift wrapped vulnerability. Writhing against him, running pebbled nipples down the tracks your fingers had made.

"Are you hard for me, yet?" You enquired, his body pressed into the soft mattress.

He mumbled into the pillow. His voice a low, instinctual sound that could only murmur his responses. Full coherence was suppressed, and your visceral reaction to it was to slide your moistening pussy over the peak of his ass and drag the waistband of his boxer shorts along with it.

His cock caught against the pull as you tugged them down his thighs.

"Oh, you are hard..." You realised, feeling his body shudder as you let it naturally sit between his stomach and the bed.

You marvelled at him. Picking up the joint to inhale another rush of Sativa, blowing smoke across the valley of his spine. You couldn't help but commit to memory every little sinful thing he'd ever done to you under his spell, conjuring something equally as binding that would leave him quaking into the sheets.

A wicked grin began to form as you placed the joint back down, pleased with yourself as the voices began to whisper filthy encouragement. Subtle little echoes in your mind that usually spouted doubt. You let them win this time.

"You should know how much I love this ass." You began, kneading his cheeks like fresh dough and biting your lip at the sight of how perfectly pliant the flesh was. "It deserves some worship, don't you agree?"

Jake nodded. His shoulder blades flexing to reveal a ripple of muscle that made the drip between your thighs just a little more intense. You inhaled deeply, slipping your thong to the side before sliding your legs open a little wider. Hitching yourself up onto the peak of his ass cheeks, holding your balance with a firm grip of his hair.

You held it out of his face. Intent on looking at his mounting expressions as you began to wind your hips back and forth. Sweeping your salaciously wet cunt across the curve of him. Riding him, forcing him into the mattress with your ministrations.

"You like the way my pussy feels on your ass?" You asked the question knowing he couldn't speak. "You really are a fucking peach..."

You grinded down on it. Letting the softness of each cheek press against your swollen clit. Leaving a glistening sheen of your own wetness on his skin, painting him in your arousal. Dragging your lips down between the valley of his generous rump, you could feel his body start to shudder beneath you.

"Not yet, sweet boy...not yet." You crooned, curling more of his knotted hair into your fist, pulling his head back slightly. "You just keep rutting into those sheets for me..."

With every swift motion, his body jerked. His moans coming thicker and deeper, his cock rubbing unforgivingly against the bed as you shook him with your rise and fall. Gyrating your desire all over him, slipping over the swell of his ass with your undulating open and widely spread pussy.

"Does Jakey want to get fucked?"

You stilled long enough to watch his eyes widen. Holding his hair back, his face flush with a rosy hue and sweat drenching his jawline. You watched him swallow slowly. Letting his throat flex as he drew his gaze back to where you held him down.

"I'll fuck you so good, baby. Just let me get a taste." You almost begged, reversing the roles you'd so graciously stepped into.

He considered it. His face almost unreadable as you continued to slowly writhe against him. Leaning down so that your breasts were pushed up against his back. Your teeth nibbled at his ear lobe. Warm breath inhaling and exhaling in succession against the curve of his neck.

"Worship it, then..." He uttered, his words drawing your mouth around to his.

You placed a soft, placid kiss on his waiting lips. His consent feathered out in the way his tongue grazed against yours, inviting you in. Reminding you that he had handed over the reigns. That you were consuming him that night.

You gathered all your slick onto your fingers, running them down your slit and inching them inside yourself. Letting him feel your hand on yourself while kissing him into sweet oblivion. A moment of clarity before you would steal it from him.

"Breathe in." You instructed, feeling his body rise beneath you.

On his exhale, you slipped wet fingers between his cheeks. Searching for the sweetest of the gifts he had to give up to you. There you felt it, rippled and tight for the taking. At first you teased a little, prizing him open gently and slowly with delicate finger tips that just wanted to explore.

His face was a picture. Eyes closed and lips parted. Breathing shallow and barely audible moans seeping out from behind his teeth. His brow was furrowed, like it was the sweetest agony.

"More."

You were beholden to that word. His whisper setting off within you a tidal of want. You gently allowed your middle finger to slide within him. Initially, he clenched hard against it. The sensation new and raw, but not unpleasant. You felt it on the pull back, the way he wanted so much to let himself completely go.

"Relax." You whispered into his ear, "You feel so fucking good, I swear."

Leaning up, you were able to gauge the tension in his body. When you released your grip in his hair, he sighed. Letting his face turn into the sheets, groaning into them as you slid your pussy down his thigh. The sight of your hand there on him like that, fingers splayed inside him, you'd never felt more alive.

"This ass is mine now, I claim it." You said, easing another finger inside. "Every sweet peachy rounded inch of it."

He was nodding into the pillow. Moaning pitifully. His hips moving up and down in vain attempts to release the tension in his cock. You opened him up with your free hand, spitting onto his little cherry as you pumped your middle and index in and out of him.

"I can't..." He cried, his voice breaking, his knuckles white from gripping the sheets. "Oh God... I can't hold on..."

He needed something else. Something deeper, something that would bring him to completion in a way that he'd never arrived at before. You wanted him to recall this night in the depths of his dreams in years to come. To think of it and grow hard no matter the occasion. You wanted to own a part of his soul. The way he so unbearably owned yours.

"Simmer down." You hushed, pulling out your fingers at the moment he would have succumbed. "I want you on your knees for me. Can you do that?"

He was weakened. But eager to comply. His solid cock driving your throb into desperation to be penetrated as he positioned himself on his knees, palms flat on all fours, his hair fanned down his back like dark wings. The power you felt kneeling behind him flowed freely, realising that he trusted you completely.

The joint was almost spent, but you managed to reignite it and get it burning once more. Rubbing your line of pussy hair up against his crack, taking a languid drag and exhaling it down into the space between you. You leaned forward and placed it at his lips, letting him take a puff before you would pound him into absolute submission.

You almost wished that he knew what was about to come. As you made him wait, cock twitching and leaking, returning the joint to the ash tray and rifling around in your nightstand drawer.

"I can't take much more of this." He complained, raising his head to meet the fire in your gaze.

He was met with an almighty slap. It made the most pleasing sound as the flat of your palm met his bouncy little cheek. You could see the redness raised already, his body tensed as you admonished him.

"My reverence is not for you to complain about." You said, punishing him with a hard squeeze that made him flinch. "You'll take it however I see fit to give it. Won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He replied, coyly smirking as you fished out the thing you were searching for.

"And besides..." You added, pulling out a phallic device that was pink and veiny, "You're going to cum so hard I'll never be able to wash these sheets. And you don't want to miss out on that, do you?"

Jakes eyes scanned the thing in your hand. Your vibrator. Perfectly shaped like a pretty cock, down to the girthy shaft and the intimidating shape of the head.

"You're going to fuck me, with that?" He swallowed hard, watching you playfully slide it across your mouth.

"It's always intimidating the first time." You mused. "When you don't know if it'll hurt. You don't know how something so big can feel so fucking good. You're afraid. And even though you know, on some subconscious level, that it'll satisfy you... You're still left wondering how."

You placated him with another sweet kiss. Running the tip down his back and rounding it through his ass cheeks, brushing it against his ripe hole.

"Tell me to stop and I will." You allowed, bringing it down even further, stroking the length of his aching cock with it.

His curiosity would always best him. You could see the way he weighed up the proposition. The way he wanted it but would stand on the periphery of the decision until he could scarcely stop himself from forcing it. The belly of the beast was rumbling. He wanted to get fucked and he wanted it nasty. But he'd never known how to ask for it.

"No, no..." He protested, licking his lips in anticipation. "Fuck me with it. Hard."

There didn't need to be any more stimulation. He was already vibrating on the highest level. The salt of the sweat on his lips was there for you to taste as you left him trembling. You could feel him sanctify himself in the sin of it, his body was yours for the taking. Sweet Jacob. Giving himself so freely was turning you on so absolutely that you almost abandoned the idea of it just to crawl beneath him and have him fill you up with that burgeoning cum.

How could you do that to him, though? To leave him wanting like that? Even as you parted his cheeks, you could feel how badly he ached for it. Needed it. And the sight was enough to lay waste to your own pangs of desire. You got down on your knees for him, too.

He bucked at the sensation of your saliva coating him. How needy it looked, a perfect tightness as you watched it twitch. You leaned in, railing your tongue over it, making him moan so loudly it was like angels descended from heaven. You spat on it and licked it around, sucked on it and made him quiver under your mouth. Lapping his asshole like a cherry dessert.

His pre-cum was dripping down his shaft. You gathered it up, using it to your advantage. Your juice and his, your mouth moving it around his little cleft. Emboldened by the sounds he was making. Masculine moans. Perfectly pitched. Fuelling you.

"Oh fuck, Jake..." You chimed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You make me want to ruin your ass, you sound so fucking good..."

He couldn't do anything else but beg. "Fuck me, little peach. Go on...I want you to."

You gripped the vibrator at the base. Careful to inch it slowly. His ass was positively saturated, you gave the pretty pink tip an errant lick before pushing it against his waiting door.

"There you go, Jakey." You soothed, letting it slide inside him. "How does that feel?"

A low, gut wrenching sound escaped his lips. Like an animal baring it's teeth. He reached up and took his cock in his hand as you bottomed out. All of it making you tantalising closer to your own orgasm. Rooted to the spot as you pulled it back out, watching the drag of his ass hole, keeping it lubricated with spit as you shoved it back in, just a little bit harder.

"Feels fucking amazing." He growled, jerking himself off to the beat of your thrusts. "Damn, you know how to fuck me so good with that."

You couldn't help yourself. Nor did you want to stop it from happening precisely the way you'd imagined it. Your hand moving viciously. Fucking him so hard the bed shook, and he lilted down onto his forearm as he worked himself up into a frenzy. Taking his pounding so well you couldn't help but verbally praise him.

"Fucking take it..." You ordered, smoothing down his hair with your free hand so that you could see the adoration of you on his face. "Look at you, taking it so fucking well..."

He was close. The way he looked at you, that sweet agony intensifying, you punched the vibrator inside him so hard he wailed a battle cry that was pleasure personified. He came so hard, so meticulously. Spurting into the sheet, his hand wrapped around his cock until it was pumped to completion. Breathing so hard it was like he'd rutted himself into a state so heightened he could barely breathe.

You held him close as he calmed. "Hold still."

You flicked the vibrator to life. The whirring buzz filling the silence where Jakes laboured breath lingered. He shuddered at the feeling of it. His cum still dripping off the tip of his softening cock. You pulled it out a little slowly, letting the tip remain inside him while you straddled the part of it that was hanging out. Clenching it between your thighs, letting it sit against your begging clit.

You rubbed yourself against it, letting him hold it there for you. Moving yourself against the part of the shaft that you could feel. Your body against his, hands on his hips as if you were fucking him doggystyle.

You let him know when you were about to cum. Signalling it with a grip so tight you left bruises. The orgasm lashing you in a wave so abundantly high it crashed down with a force so mighty it made you fall back, giggling as he removed the vibrator himself.

All his submission gone, you could see him smugly return to the dominating man you had come to know. He tossed the vibrator onto the nightstand and picked up the now dead joint. Laying there naked and satisfied, a newly formed secret between the two of you planting seeds that existed in subtle looks you exchanged from either side of the bed.

"Dare I ask where that smutty little finish came from?" He asked, picking up his rolling papers to create a fresh smoke.

You shrugged. Inhaling the scent of sex, letting your thong drift back over your core. Nuzzling into the curve of his arm as you watched him roll.

"I told you." You sighed, looking up at him through hooded eyes. "I'm not as shy as you perceive me to be."

The End.

@thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @katuschka @its-interesting-van-kleep @lvnterninthenight @writingcold @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @edgingthedarkness

#greta van fleet #jake kiszka #fanfic #greta van fleet fan fiction #fanfiction #gvf fanfiction #gvf #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka smut #greta van smut #gvf smut #greta van fic

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naivegh0ul · 6 months

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ABSOLUTELY SPLENDID (also omg hiii! Pain buddies ♡♡♡)

If its ok could you do Gn!Reader at least? Since im just a gay lil lad. (I'm a guy but I feel a lil rude to ask for masc!Reader 👉👈)

Anyway! Reader with a cane and chronic pain and EDS related issues (like hypermobile joints) and ghost being so kind about it especially since reader is young and "looks healthy"

Always anxious about using their cane because of certain people making comments like that. Like they can walk without it a bit but will be so sad and achy cause their legs and back hurts and so many places just do NOT have enough seating. (Often ends up sitting on the floor even to rest even though its such a hassle to sit down or push themselves up)

Scary dog privilege ghost being such a good emotional support, being so gentle with reader to use their mobility aid while also being so scary to someone if they try to say something or give a look.

Ghost being like a human reminder to take breaks, fix posture (you know with hypermobility and 'knee locking'), take your cane, pain killers for more busy days etc. Cause he just cares so fucking much and wants to make sure reader is in the least amount of pain possible.

Probably would carry reader if they asked

Just!! Need soft ghost comforts cause im such a sad achy boy rn.

(Also a lil unrelated to chronic pain but I need him to lay his full body weight on my small body cause I am the autistic and I crave that pressure and also feel like it would do WONDERS for my back)

how and why are you so relatable!!!! also don't ever feel rude or awkward ab requesting masc reader, pls request whatever you want <333

Ghost understands your chronic pain, after all, he's getting shot at on the daily so he's pretty achey all over. He's always reassuring you whenever you're having one of your bad days, cuddling you close to him when you sniffle and sob into his chest from the pain :(

He's such a sweetheart about it and always carries a spare cane with him wherever he goes. People don't question an older veteran carrying around a cane so you don't have to worry about people giving you weird looks about it.

And if it's one of those days where you're really feeling anxious about using your mobility aids in public, Ghost will just carry you. He doesn't want you sitting on the hard, dirty floor so he'll have you on his back or holding you bridal-style.

He calls you his little backpack when he's carrying you on his back. Sometimes people look at him weird because why is Ghost carrying a full grown man on his back? Ghost just glares at them, gives them a 'don't say anything bad about my partner or I'll kill you' type of look.

He is like a human alarm clock sometimes, pops up behind you and whispers "Have you taken your meds?" in your ear before magically producing them, pulling them out of his pocket. (and an entire water bottle??)

I need him to lay me too, dude. After a long day of you using your cane, he'll feed you and make you take your medication before laying you in bed and putting his entire body weight on top of you.

This man will become a heated, weighted blanket in an instant. He'll have you lay your head on your wedge pillow and will flop on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck and praising you for how well you did today and how you took all of your meds and used your mobility aid when you needed it instead of trying to push through the pain.

#masc reader #boyfriend!ghost #ghost cod #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x male reader #simon riley x male reader #ghost fluff

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ideas-4-stories · 9 days

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One piece story idea where Buggy has had medical issues since he was a baby, but most of them went unknown, undiagnosed, or not caught early enough to "make a difference".

Buggy with an autoimmune disorder of some kind (leaning to fibromayalgia bc I love projecting on my baby blue blorbo, but also the overactive nerves would tie in nicely with his devil fruit)

Buggy with hypermobility at the very least, possible Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, but it's damn near impossible to properly diagnose due to his DF and the tech available by and large.

On the Oro Jackson, few genuinely believed when Buggy would say something hurt or felt wrong or when he was more foggy headed than usual. Shanks could always read him like an open book. Roger could hear the changes in his youngest's Voice. Crocus did the best he could, but his options were limited and his attention was split. It was Roger, Rayleigh and Shanks who were Buggy's main support system.

Roger absolutely cried the first time Buggy got injured in a big fight and casually relocated a joint with just a soft hiss. That alone had been jarring, but Buggy's response to Shanks' worried question of "are you okay, does it hurt-," left the captain biting back tears. How else is a father supposed to feel when his little boy simply rolls hod eyes and says "not much more than normal"

When Roger disbanded the crew, the plan was to leave the boys on Drum. It had good doctors, Buggy would get more support, and it was rarely an island under siege due to the medical renown it had. They of course did not tell the boys as such, and it was only through a series of wacky events that lead Kureha to meeting them and taking a liking to their sparks. Shanks wasn't the most interested in medicine but he learned some things, specifically first aid and some things to help Buggy. He actually found psychology pretty interesting when he had the patience and attention span to spare. Buggy on the other hand took to it all like a fish to water.

They were there for almost two years when the newspaper was delivered and both boys lost their SHIT when the headline announced the execution of their captain, their father. Kureha sent them off, arguably with more supplies than they needed, and gave them her Denden number to reach her if they needed anything at all. She couldn't go with them, but she refused to send them truly alone.

They have their fight in the plaza, but it doesn't end with a monumental break up. They meet back up the next day, and they bite the bullet together and talk.

They take some time to come to a decision moving forward.

They ultimately decide to go with the co-captain avenue but with careful misdirection and smoke and mirrors. To the world at large, they will seem completely independent and unrelated. In truth, they will be leveraging their independent skills to further themselves and each other. The brains and brawn, as it were.

It works out in their favor for a good deal of time until the cluster fuck that is marineford. Secrets are out, identities revealed, and Buggy is having 6395716 panic attacks stacked up like Legos.

He and Shanks roll with it as best they can, trying to salvage what they feasibly could.

Two years later, Cross Guild is formed and begins rolling. Buggy's crew knows of his illnesses/disabilities, but he has a strict set up to address them. It's on a need to know basis.

Crocodile and Mihawk just so happened to swirl in like a hurricane and never got the memo until there was an attack on the island.

Somehow, someway, Buggy got absolutely soaked in sea water, but he's still fighting, knives in hand, bobbing and weaving with a trail of blood in his wake. It's as he pivots to lunge that Mihawk catches sight of him suddenly paling, a minute flinch, but beyond that, Buggy doesn't react, instead throwing the knife, reaching down and making a strange move at his knee before he cringed, took a sharp inhale, and dove back into the fray.

Upon asking why, hours later in the meeting tent, the swordsman and mafioso present blink when Buggy shrugs and says "oh, my knee cap tried to dislocate. Couldn't disconnect with the sea water so I had to push it back by hand."

"Pardon?"

"Hm?" Buggy glances up from where he's brushing some dried remnants of the battle from his locks, one eye shut against the debris. "What?"

"What caused the injury? I did not see any attacks to your legs in the chaos."

"Oh, it just happens sometimes," Buggy says casually, as if this were knowledge the other two ought to know. "I'm used to it."

They are not sure what to do, nor how to respond. They let it rest for the time being but they do keep a closer eye on their chairman following this.

They learn Buggy is rather adept at working with and around his unusual burdens, either disconnecting a joint or alleviating pressure on it until it can be addressed, even chop-chopping the offending area back to the proper place. They catch sight, now that they know to look, of hints of braces, wraps, the way Buggy occasionally presses his iced drink to a knee, a wrist, on an ankle in movements familiar but exceedingly casual, never belying their true purpose.

It is then that the two dark haired men realize there is much more to their clown than they first assumed.

I agree that overactive nerves would tie nicely with his Devil Fruit. Buggy having medical issues that went unknown, undiagnosed, or wasn’t caught early enough would make sense after all if the HC that Buggy was with the Roger Pirates as a baby or even if he wasn’t with them during his infant stage. These are pirates, how are they supposed to know that they need to look for things that could be wrong with the two babies they now have?

I’m sure some of them have things that have went unknown and undiagnosed. Anyway, back to Buggy, I had to look up Ehlers Danlos Syndrome because I didn't know what it was. I agree that it would be nearly impossible to diagnose properly because of no good tech around, as well as the fact he is on a pirate crew, I assume for the most pirate crews they don't stick around island for very long. I HC that Buggy swallowed the Bara Bara Fruit when he was nine.

Poor Buggy, I want to think that more people on the crew understood that Buggy has problems but didn’t how they could help him. Because acting like Buggy was fragile would make Buggy become angry because kid doesn’t want to be treated like that.

Poor Roger, having to watch that without saying anything, with all the other times it happened. Then after he disbanded the crew. Leaving them on Drum Island is a good choice and it makes sense that they didn’t tell the boys (I feel like they don’t tell the boys many things that should of been talked about, but this might be a good thing they didn’t say anything about. But who knows)

I wonder what the series of wacky events were to the meeting between them and Kureha? To me, they seemed like it there in this AU.

I think anyone would lose their shit if they see someone, they really love is getting murdered in front of so many people. I feel that Kureha only let them go because she knew they would go anyway, and this way let’s her give Buggy and Shanks the supplies they need.

I believe that with all the stress and pain of losing someone they hold dear in their hearts. I think Buggy wasn’t in the right mind set nor was Shanks in a way. Anyway, Love that they came back around to talk about it. I think the smoke & mirrors co-captain route they have… or is it more like Buggy and Shanks are allies? They have their own crews, but they still have each.

Then Marineford happened, poor Buggy and Shanks. I hope in this AU that Ace lives, but it was never stated so I don't know.

The idea that Buggy's crew knows about his illnesses/disabilities makes me feel that his followers would say he so strong to overcome them or we just talking about Buggy's crew from East Blue. Then yeah, those folks definitely know about his illnesses/disabilities.

Mihawk and Crocodile coming in without any knowledge and it took a battle to find out. I can see Buggy is nonchalantly about it as Mihawk did a doubletake when he said ‘Pardon?’ Crocodile did a doubletake too, because with those two didn’t know.

Once Crocodile and Mihawk know about what’s going on with Buggy, they see that the signs were always there. It’s just they didn’t paid attention to those signs, but they are.

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guyfieriii · 1 year

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New Person, Same Old Mistakes (Part III)

It’s my birthday.

Just say it.

“—Your fingers. Are you even listening to me?”

“Uh huh. Radish slices on the mandoline. They need to be even. Watch out for my fingers. Yes sir, Chef sir.” You punctuate your words with a mock salute.

And it’s my birthday today, Carmy.

Part I, Part II and Part IV

Trigger Warnings: Explicit Sexual Scenes

“Slice the watermelon radishes, next. Use a mandoline—”

It’s my birthday.

Just say it.

“—Your fingers. Are you even listening to me?”

“Uh-huh. Radish slices on the mandoline. They need to be even. Watch out for my fingers. Yes sir, Chef sir.” You punctuate your words with a mock salute.

And it’s my birthday today, Carmy.

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious. You love it.”

You love—

“Just fucking watch what you’re doing, please.”

“Now when you ask me like that—”

It’s my birthday. I want you to wish me a happy birthday. That’s all I want. Just the two words. And a smile.

Just say it out loud.

Maybe even a kiss. Like the one on New Year’s Eve.

He meant to aim for your cheek and got the edge of your mouth instead. All you remember is the smell of his last cigarette on his breath and how chapped his lips felt against the commissure of yours.

It happened so quick. Too quick. You want another one so you can commit it to memory. Another trophy for a mantle that’s already too crowded with moments just as fleeting as that one. The only way they hold their relevance is when you sift through them. Over and over. Every time he gives you a piece of himself, but not all.

It’s something. Just enough to sustain you, not enough to make you thrive. You’ll come back, not because you expect anything different. Your relationship with Carmy is nothing if not consistent. You offer him too much and he reciprocates with just enough. It’s imbalanced, but it works because you hold on to everything he offers with an unrelenting grip. You store it away for the proverbial winter when he’s empty and you’re starved.

Despite the consistency, a part of you hopes, still. It’s an unfortunate chimera — cruel and unmerciful, but you can’t help yourself.

You want them to be outward recollections — A joint memory rather than the sequestered, yet often visited grasps for comfort they’ve become. Just to utter the words hey, Carm. Remember when you—

—Told me how you really felt about me.

But you can’t.

It’s just you.

“Oh, shit.” You stare down the open slit by the bed of your nail, crimson spilling from it onto the stainless steel blade of the mandoline. Your finger throbs with an ache as you press your thumb onto it, trying to stop the bleeding. “Hey, Carm?”

“Yeah?”

“Cut m’self.”

“Wha— Fuck! Told you to fucking watch the blade!” He rips off a paper towel from the roll and wraps it around the cut, holding it in a tight grip. “Hold it over your head.” Still keeping your finger nestled in his fist, he lifts your arm above.

“Sorry, Carmy. I-”

It’s my birthday.

“The fuck’s your head at tonight?” He doesn’t let go.

It’s my—

“Birthday.” He still hasn’t let go.

“What?” His face is inches from yours. It would be so easy to just—

“Itsm’birthday.” You push the words out through clenched teeth.

“It’s your birthday.” He lets go of your hand and steps back.

“Yes.” You let your arm fall back down.

“Today is your birthday.” Perplexity floods his eyes. His brows tense inwards. His lips part, just the slightest. He doesn’t smile.

“Yes.”

This is not how this was supposed to go.

“Why didn’t you — Why are you…you never said.”

“You never asked.”

“I—“ You know he’s going to apologize. But that’s not what you want.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s—“ He looks so guilty.

“Carm.”

“We just never—“ You don’t want his guilt. You have no use for it.

“Carmy.”

“I didn’t think to—“ He’s steeped in guilt and you’re filled with regret.

Par for the fucking course.

“It’s really okay, Carmy.” You have to look away. His face is contorted in such repentance and shame, it fucking hurts.

All you wanted was a smile. Not a full one — Carmy rarely gives you those. You could count on one hand when you’ve seen him truly bare his teeth and smile. The ones you see are the muted ‘I liked this more than I thought I would’ kind of smile — almost rueful in a way that he thinks he’s undeserving of it. The corners of his mouth would tilt upwards just the slightest, his forehead would crease against the raise of his brows and his eyes would still. They’d deepen to the shade of the Aegean Sea. He’d blink repeatedly, almost in a conciliatory kind of way because he simply isn’t the kind of man to trust any moment of relief.

“Can we just deal with the fact that I’m bleeding all over your kitchen floor? And then you can make it up to me.” You watch the incarnadine droplets stain the linoleum.

“You’re bleeding all over my floor because you didn’t mind the blade, fucko.” He reaches past you to grab more paper towels and kneels down to wipe the floor. “Why’d you drop your hand?”

“Because you let go.” You say it without thinking.

“Y—” He pauses, still on his knees in front of you. His hand stills over the stained floor beneath you.

His gaze meets yours. Searching. Questioning. His expression is shielded behind a veil of hesitance, but his eyes — coruscating kaleidoscopes of a slew of emotions that flash by so quickly, you can only focus on the final one.

Shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have said it.

Your finger bleeds, still. Now, over the back of his hand.

“Keep it over your head, please.” He taps the back of your wrist with his palm and turns his attention back onto the floor.

“Carmy.” You nudge his knee with the side of your foot.

Look at me.

“Yeah?” He wipes the floor clean and rises to his feet without meeting your eyes. Without sparing a single glance your way, he turns towards his sink and rinses his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just blood, don’t —” Dish soap. Lather. Steaming hot water, always. He said it felt good on his callouses and cuts.

You’d laughed before you realized he liked the pain. He thrives under the discomfort of it all. It keeps him alert. It keeps him alive.

“I’m not apologizing for the blood.”

His hands pause under the running faucet. His shoulders tense. This could go one of two ways—

You’ve managed to slip through the torpor he swathes himself with these days. Just once or twice. He’s all reaction no forethought when you do. He’ll scream at you and apologize all in one breath.

It’s what you prefer.

Or he’ll inspissate his carefully cultivated apathy and avoid you altogether. It’s what he’s more likely to do.

But you can hope. You hold your breath and wait for that flip in him to switch. Any reaction over the—

“How do you want to celebrate?”

Avoidance it is, then.

“I want to get drunk.”

He finally turns around, arms crossed at his chest. “Rum okay with you?”

“Rum’s great.” Your roll your shoulder inwards and look to your hand. The cut is still bleeding.

He steps forward and finally takes your hand back in his. Carefully lifting the paper towel that is now soaked and adhered to your skin, he examines the wound. “You’ll need stitches.”

“I’m not spending my birthday in the ER..”

“I don’t have any—”

“You do. Bottom shelf in the bathroom. I bought you a first aid kit after the burn from last month.” You trace the scar that remains on his forearm with your good hand. A long triangular patch of darkened skin nestled beneath the trout with an hourglass.

You’d sat with him when he got that tattoo.

“Thought you wanted one, too.”

“Eventually, yeah. When I find the thing that means enough to me.”

As if you already hadn’t found it.

“You didn’t have to do that.” His grip on finger tightens and you flinch.

Maybe—

“I know I didn’t have to. But it’s working out for us now, isn’t it?” You’ll say anything to get a reaction out of him.

Tight. Tight. Tight.

The cut throbs in sync with your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage.

“Why are you—” He stops himself, but you already know what he meant to say.

Why are you like this?

Say it. React.

“What?” You urge, in a harsh whisper.

His squeezes tighter, and your finger tingles under the pressure. The two of you stand in a headlock of emotions. Incertitude on his part, frantic cacoethes on yours. Your breath quickens. So does his. You can see a vein throb on the side of his neck. The air is thick with the stench of your blood and desperation.

Say it, Carmy. Please. Give me something. It’s my birthday.

“Nothing.” He lets go and the ache is gone but replaced with another. “Hold onto that. I’ll be right back.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill, willing yourself to not let your devastation show. He’d notice, which would be fine. But he wouldn’t say anything.

And that would ruin you. He’d ruin you.

You fell in love with him, anyway.

He says nothing when he returns with the first aid kit. You lean against the counter in silence, eyes focused on anything but him as he cleans and bandages your cut. You think back to all those months prior when you found him in the alleyway with his bloodied hand, barely wrapped together in gauze and masking tape. You look at him now, taking the time to meticulously clean out the cut, murmuring a soft apology when you wince at the water he has running that's too warm. He’s gentle and feather-light in his touches, precise in the way he wraps the gauze around your finger over twice to make sure it’s secure.

You know he cares. You just wish he’d say it.

Why are you like this?

“Hey.” The repentance that drips from the one word he utters makes you finally look back at him.

“Yeah?” Your breath stills in anticipation.

“Happy Birthday.” Two words. No smile.

And it’s enough.

“Thank you, Carmy.”

“Carm?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna ask y’somethin’.” You slurred.

The two of you were laying on his bed, half-empty bottle of rum and two glasses in between. Dinner had long been abandoned.

“I’ll finish up and—”

“Just sit down, Carmy.”

“But—”

“Drink with me, Carm.”

“Okay.”

For the first time in all the while you’ve known him, he spoke of Chicago. Actually spoke of it. Not the generic taglines he’d circulate whenever you asked. You see it for what it is — A placative gift to make up for his mistakes.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke, keeping his eyes trained on the glass in his hands as he recounted tales of his youth. Not a lot of it came to you as a surprise. Carmy was quiet and withdrawn even then. Except for when it came to—

“Am I your first real friend, then?”

“Y— yes.” He hesitated

Except for when it came to Michael. His name remained unspoken, and yet you knew. His expression changed the moment he thought of him but didn’t mention him aloud. Nostalgic at first, then regretful, and finally angry. It’s quick. His jaw clenches and his body is rigid. He swallows the rest of his drink and pours another which he knocks back instantly. The burn of the alcohol replaces the one left by remembering his brother. Something he blames himself for, and Michael as well. Whatever it is, he’s not ready to face it.

So you changed the subject.

“Y’ever go on another date after the one you had with me?” You know the answer already. At least you hope you do.

“Not really built for that kinda shit. I’m not like you.” He chuckles at what you can assume is the memory of your failed first date. Not that you’d ever call it that, now.

“Think we’re more alike than you realize, Carm.” You hide your hurt behind the depths of your glass, polishing off the rest of your drink.

“Y’ever—?” He pours you another.

“No.”

I have you.

“It’s a stupid question to ask, really. We spend all our spare time with each other. I’d genuinely be surprised if you—”

“So why’d you ask?”

“Just making sure.”

“I’d tell you, if I was.”

Tell me how you really feel about me, then.

You say nothing in response. He doesn’t press any further.

The two of you drink in silence, the sounds of the TV filling the air. Neither of you is really watching what’s on, it‘s just so the quiet isn’t uncomfortable. You take shot after shot and eventually the taste of the rum, molasses sweet and rich, covers the disconsolation that lingers every time you think of what you and Carmy could have been and what you are. It numbs the ache, the disappointment of settling for the next best thing.

So you drink some more.

The room begins to spin and you close your eyes to steady yourself, but it doesn’t help. Even with your eyes closed, you see him. A motley of blues cascade upon you, prismatic. Beautiful. For the first time, it’s not a comfort.

“Oh god.” You tilt your head backwards against the arm of the couch as you slink down to settle your dizziness.

“You good?”

“Mm. Yeah. Jus’ a lil’ spinny—”

“Bed’ll be better, probably.”

“You kicking me out, Carm?” You hope you don’t sound as dejected as you feel.

“I meant mine.” Your breath catches in your throat, you’re certain you misheard him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You stumble towards his bed and fall flat on your back with a grunt.

He follows you soon after.

Maybe it’s the invitation to his bed. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s your need to get a rise out of him. Maybe it’s all three. It makes you bold. So you finally ask him.

“Why d’you keep that there?”

“What—?” He follows the direction in which you point and finds the hidden photo

“The photo of y’ an’ Mike— Michael. Why d’you keep it there?” You raise yourself up by your elbows and turn to lie on your side and face him. He does the same.

“I don’t—“ His eyes pinch shut. “I can’t—”

“Tell me, Carmy.” You reach out to trace the side of his cheek right over the scar beneath his eye. He opens his eyes at your touch, pools of azure indigent of any emotion. Blank. Hollow. You stare into them, hoping for a break in a clouds, hoping for a reaction.

Moments pass. There’s nothing.

“Please, Carmy. Just tell—” Your senses are so blurred by the alcohol, you don’t register when his hand reaches over and settles around your waist until he pulls you in closer.

“Carm, wha—” He silences you by pressing his lips to yours. You breathe out a gasp of surprise and your lips part just enough for his tongue to pass through. It’s rough and hot and tastes like burnt cigarettes and rum. As if on autopilot, you meet him halfway. The hand on his cheek pushes through his hair, your knee bumps against his before his legs part and you nudge your thigh in between his, moving even closer.

It’s messy, the kiss. It’s all spit and tongue and teeth. Your arm that’s nestled in between the two of you starts to fall asleep, your head is angled upward, making your neck strain. You finally pull away to catch your breath and he latches on to your bottom lip, teeth digging in painfully.

“Carm.” You mumble, your fist closing around his hair and you tug to get his attention.

“Wha— wha—?” He hisses as he pulls away, concerned.

“You jus’ kiss me t’shut me up?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t even look apologetic. Just hungry. It makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. “That okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” You push against his shoulder so he falls back onto his back and you drape yourself over him, pressing your lips back to his. It’s a bit better with you taking the reigns. Slower. More reserved. You’re able to appreciate the feel of his lips against yours. They’re dry and just a tad chapped, but still feel softer than they look. His arms close around you, one hand, warm and calloused, reaching under your t-shirt and pressing down on your back.

“Wanna take it off?” You whisper against his lips, before peppering open-mouthed kisses down his jaw to his neck.

“Mm?” He groans as your teeth latch on to the side of his pulse.

“My shirt, Carm. Take it off.” You pant against his skin, licking a stripe up the light bruise that began to form before closing your lips to another spot beneath his chin.

“Y-yeah. Heard.“ He grasps the hem of your t-shirt and yanks it upwards. “Fuck. Hold on— I can’t—”

You lift up to straddle him and pull your shirt off over your head. “S’better, yeah?”

“Yeah. Better.” He mumbles, eyes widening, his hands twisting in his sheets.

“Wanna touch me, Carmy?”

“I— Yeah. I do.” He wipes his hands across his sweater, once, twice, before tracing your navel with his fingertips, slowly rising up your abdomen. His hands close around your sides, kneading into you as they go higher, higher.

“More, Carm. Please.” You keen under the warmth of his touch, fighting the urge to take his hands in yours and place them right where you want him.

“Just wanna—.” He pauses right under the swell of your breasts, biting onto his lower lip before sticking his tongue out just the slightest.

“Wanna what?” You cradle in hands in yours as he sits up, pressing kisses down your sternum.

“Taste y’” He rasps against your skin.

“Fuck. Carm.” You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes at the sensation. You’ve imagined him this way for so fucking long. To have him kiss you and taste you and fuck you. Even if you have to walk him through it. Even if it’s all in avoidance of his brother. Even if he’s using you to forget.

He rests his forehead in the valley between your breasts and takes in a deep breath. “Good? This is good?”

“Just keep goin’ Carmy.” You rake your fingernails across his scalp and he practically mewls into you.

“Yeah. Gon’ keep goin’.” He mumbles and flicks his tongue over your nipple. You let out a pained gasp as he closes his lips around it and sucks, hard.

“This okay?” He eases up a little, mouth still adhered to your breast, his eyes tilt up to look at you in question.

“Hurts a lil’— fuck. Gentle, Carmy.”

“Heard.” He turns his head and latches on to the other, softer this time, his tongue swirling around the tip. He follows the same pattern, switching sides every few minutes. You cling to him, fingers weaved through his hair with your cheek resting against the crown of his head, panting whispers of praise.

When he does move away, you take the opportunity to pull his sweater off and fling it to the side. What you uncover are more tattoos. The words ‘Mise En Place’ across his right pec, a Scorpio with the knife at the end of its stinger right below it, two baguettes in the shape of a Latin cross to the left, and a skull on fire further bellow on his abdomen.

You brace your hands against his chest and push him to lie back down on the bed. You trace each tattoo across his body, starting at his chest, down his stomach, and back up his arms.

“What’re you—“ He questions when you start back at the tattoos on his chest, circling each stain of dark ink with the tip of your finger.

“Jus’ rememberin’.” You place a finger against his lips and he quiets. Eventually, your fingers are replaced by your tongue. You gently lap over each tattoo, sucking on the neighbouring patches of empty skin. “Y’taste good, Carm.”

“Yeah?” He grunts as you slide lower and slower, your hand now resting at the top of his jeans.

“Mm yeah.” You unbutton them and pull the zipper down. “More?”

“Fuck. Wait. Y-you don’t have to—“ He stills your descent by taking your hands in one of his. “I don’ expect y’to—”

“I want to, Carmy.” You smile, reassuringly. “Can I?”

“Y-yeah. Okay. Yeah.” His words escape him in a breathless gasp and your smile widens.

“Gon’ make you feel so good, Bear.” You say that name without even thinking. You’ve called him that before since you heard Sugar say it and he flinched. You wanted to know why, but you knew he wouldn’t say. It would be another thing added to the countless ones that have been simply brushed under the rug. If you had to guess, the name simply reminds him of home. The same home he’s spent years trying to leave behind. So you never called him that again. And now, it was on pure fucking instinct that you did.

A colossal mistake.

His body tenses almost immediately and his breathing stills. You glance up at him and his eyes are shut, tight, his face pulled into a painful grimace.

“Carm?” You whisper with abject hesitation.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Carmy?” You ease off of him and he sits up immediately. He’s shaking, his hands are closed into fists.

“M’sorry. M’sorry. M’sorry.” He whispers over and over, kneading his fist into his chest as he breathes in deep through his nose.

“No, I’m— I didn’t think—” The haze of the alcohol dissipates, stone-cold sobriety setting in fast.

You fucked up.

“Jus’ gimme a minute.” He grunts. Minutes pass and you watch him get his breathing under control.

You kneel beside him, hands raised in surrender when he finally opens his eyes and looks at you. It breaks your heart to see the unspilt tears shining at the brim, pooling at his lashes before cascading down his cheeks. He lets out a slight watery chuckle when your own lips tremble at the sight.

“Gon’ touch you. Okay?” You inch closer to him, hands still raised before he gives you a permissive nod and you finally lower them to his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Carmen.” You press a kiss just below the corner of his eye, tasting the salty remnants of tears. “Wasn’t thinking.” A kiss on his other cheek. “M’ a fuckin’ idiot.” Another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Forgive me, please.” You press your lips to his.

“I forgive you.” He mutters, wet, against your lips.

He cries some more and you continue showering him with kisses, to his lips, his cheeks, his nose, and his eyelids. Every tear that falls, you collect on your tongue.

When he finally settles, you pull back and wipe his face with the heel of your palm. “Your eyes have no business looking this pretty when you cry.”

That earns you a proper laugh and you finally take a breath of relief.

“You okay?” He asks, voice hoarse and rough.

“You’re asking me if I’m—“ You laugh in disbelief. “I’m okay, Carmy.”

“This isn’t how I wanted t—” You shush him with another kiss.

“I want to fix it. Lemme make it better, Carmy.” Your hand travels back down to his undone jeans and you pause. “Can I?”

“You still want to—”

“I do. Wanna make you feel good…Carm.” You reach beneath the fabric and take him in your hand.

“Y-yeah. Fuck.” You ease onto the floor between his legs.

“Lay back down.” You murmur, pulling his jeans down his legs as he does. “Just relax.”

You spit into your palm and take his cock in one hand, stroking it lazily while you press the other onto his stomach, bracing him as he twitches beneath you. You lean down and slick a stripe up the underside of his shaft before closing your lips around the head of his cock.

“God fuckin'— fuck.” He babbles breathlessly, as you ease him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking while your tongue presses flat against his cock.

You lift off with a pop and give him a smile. “Like that, Carm?”

He clenches onto his sheets and he nods, panting open-mouthed as you sink back onto him. You bob your head up and down, slurping around his cock with your hand clasped around the base. You reach underneath and graze your nails against his balls, swallowing his cock whole.

The noise that escapes him is nothing short of needy as his hips jut upwards and the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. Your eyes widen in surprise and you gag, pulling off of him with a cough.

“Shit. Fuck. M’sorry— I didn’t- Did I hurt you?” He’s sitting up in an instant, expression laden with worry.

“I’m good, Carm.” You laugh over a fit of coughs. “Y’just caught me by surprise.”

“I just— it felt—” He continues his apology.

“It felt good, yeah?” You smile at him, knowingly. “Felt good fucking my throat like that?”

He whines as his cheeks redden in embarrassment. “Y-yeah, but—”

You close your fist back around his cock, silencing him. “Wanna fuck my throat, Carmy?”

“Don’ wanna hurt—” He grits out, closing his eyes and tilting his head backward in pleasure.

“M’ a big girl. I can take it.” You make him unclench his fists and place both his hands at the back of your head. “Just hold on and fuck me, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.” With a light pressure, he pushes you back down onto his cock and you take him in deep and all the way. You widen your jaw further as he pulls you up just halfway before thrusting upwards into your throat.

“Gotta tell me—” He husks. “Gotta tell me if it’s too much—”

You reach behind and place a hand on his as a way of acknowledgment.

His pace quickens at that. His grip on your hair tightens as he ruts into the cavern of your throat. Your saliva pools messily as he pulls you down closer to him, your nose pressing into the thicket of hair as the base of his cock. His cock pulses and throbs against your tongue and you know he’s close to coming.

“Can I— I’m gonna— Jus’ tell me if I—” His words are incoherent and incomplete stutters of desperation as he gets closer and closer to his peak.

You simply hum, giving him permission to fill you up.

And he does. With a prolonged groan he tenses beneath you before releasing thick ropes of his cum with punctuated grunts and oh fucks.

He holds you down, still, until his cock softens in your mouth and his grip finally eases. You draw away and fall back onto your haunches as you swallow the remaining tang of his spend on your tongue. He reaches out with a thumb and wipes the corner of your mouth and you promptly close your lips around it and lick it clean.

“You’re—uh—really good at—” He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, slick and shiny.

“Taking cock down my throat?”

“Fuck. Yeah.” He laughs. “You are.”

“Not all of us can be Food And Wine’s Best New Chef, Carm. Gotta seek talent elsewhere, y’kn—”

“I wanna return the favour.” He blurts out.

“Carmy—this was about you.” You insist. As badly as you want to take this further, he��s only just calmed down and you can’t fuck it up.

“It’s…your birthday.” He states, plainly.

“Don’t need you to eat me out as a birthday gift, Carm.”

Need something else, but you won’t give me that.

“But you just—“ He’s so insistent, you almost want to give in.

“Some other day—“ You suggest it without even thinking, without even considering why this started to begin with. The only reason he kissed you was to stop you from asking about Michael. It only just escalated from there. He didn’t mean for this to happen again.

“You— You want to do this again?” He almost looks hopeful and your heart soars.

“If— uh— if you want to.” You feel surprisingly shy, all of a sudden.

“Yeah. I do. I just—“ His expression is now burdened and you know what’s coming next. “Don’t want to fuck this up— our friendship.”

Friendship. Nothing more. Just enough to keep you going, not enough to—

Your heart breaks — it shatters into countless fragments you’ll put back together with your mantle of memories. You’ll do that when it’s just you, when you can fall apart for a moment’s relief before slipping under your guise of content you keep on for him. For now, you only smile. You’ve had enough practice, you can make it convincing.

“You won’t, Berzatto. You’re stuck with me.”

Tag list: @soapskneebrace @frenzycrazy @pansinspace @marrianena @gaysludge @tulipsbymybed @eddiemunsonreader @pearlstiare

(If I missed anyone in the tag list, my apologies!! Pls DM me!)

#carmy x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto smut #the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the bear fic #the bear smut

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fatal-blow · 1 year

Text

Self-Massage and Myofascial Pain: Do You Have Low Back Pain?

"Doesn't everyone?" you say. No, actually. Yeah, I find the concept baffling too. However, you too could not have back pain for the low, low price of skimming this post.

The short story of all this is that I've been learning about trigger points, myofascial pain syndrome, and the science of good posture, and I've become so absolutely furious that this stuff isn't common knowledge--

(I have encountered ONE healthcare professional who knows SOME of what I know. FUCKING ONE. And myofascial pain is something that Every Single Human Person has experienced.)

--that I'm making little self-diagnosing guides for common pain patterns based on my own experience as well as The Trigger Point Therapy Workbook, which is now my fucking bible.

Common concerns:

"I'm pretty sure it's just my fibromyalgia." Fibromyalgia and myofascial pain have tons of overlap, so I recommend looking into this regardless!

"I do have pain, but it's carpal tunnel/stomach ulcer/tendonitis/arthritis." Myofascial pain is frequently misdiagnosed, and the treatment for it is easy and unintrusive. Even if the problem isn't myofascial, practicing myofascial release can help relieve muscles associated with these conditions.

"Will I hurt myself?" Probably not*. Self-massage can cause bruising if you're a little enthusiastic, like myself, but you won't cause long term damage. Maintaining focus and avoiding pulses are your only concerns, and they are mild.

*Some health conditions can make self-massage a bit dicey. I recommend a little research beforehand if youre worried.

"What does myofascial pain feel like?" A lot of things, to put it simply. Some signs of myofascial pain that I've come across are: areas that feel like bruises with no actual bruising, skin sensitivity (if you get pain from, say, running your hand over it in the shower), an assortment of symptoms from various things that seem unrelated, pain that doesn't go away with rest, pain with no clear cause, and more.

"Do I need massage though? Shouldn't I rest?" You also should rest, yeah, but here's the thing. Myofascial pain can be Instantly Relieved with self-massage. So why wait?

Furthermore, trigger points, the cause of these pains, don't always go away with rest. They can create positive feedback loops. If untreated, more trigger points can crop up, and the pain gets worse and spreads. Targetted massage can break that loop.

"Dude, I'm concerned by how much of a conspiracy theory this sounds like." Brother me too. Miracle cures aren't a thing, but stumbling across this information sure has felt like one, given I feel better than I have in years. Just...hear me out on this one. It won't harm you to try these techniques.

"What even ARE trigger points? What's myofascial pain syndrome??"

That's a long answer that I'll need to save for another post. You don't need to know what it is or how it works, though. Just how to treat it.

For more in depth info on self-massage, check out this post.

Disclaimer: I'm not a professional at anything except for being in pain, and constantly weaseling out ways to not be in pain. All this information can, more or less, be found in The Trigger Point Therapy Workbook by Claire and Amber Davies. I'm just organizing it into a more accessible guide for myself and others.

I have low back pain, and my feet, knees, and hips also hurt. I might also have widespread pain in general.

This combination of symptoms is often tied to postural issues, and usually it's Morton's Foot (not to be confused with Morton's Neuroma).

One in four people have this quirk in their anatomy. The short of it is that the foot distributes your body weight across two points instead of three--which can leave you feeling off balance.

Mortons Foot can cause widespread pain. If you have other conditions such as hypermobile joints or anxiety, watch out!

Go to www.mortonsfoot.com. They'll explain it better than I can. I can also tell you they're legit; I bought insoles from them and boy do they Work.

Other symptoms: sensitive feet, frequent sprains/rolling of ankle, bad posture, unusual worn spots in footwear.

The pain is in a horizontal band across my back.

The nature of trigger points is that referred pain patterns can seem nonsensical. A horizontal band of pain ANYWHERE in the back, not just the low back, can be caused by the abdominal muscles.

Can be caused by slouching, improper lifting, and overworking abs with exercises like sit ups.

Associated with the pain in your back after a hard day of work. This is the source of the "back breaking" in back breaking labour.

Massage Tips:

Do this lying down. Prop your head and shoulders on a couple pillows. Make sure you're warm, cozy, and comfy.

Lower abs should be massaged with fingertips, using your other hand to support them. Use your middle three fingers and begin by searching for tender points. Focus on the central muscle. Raise your head or legs to feel them contract.

If you find a tender point (and I do mean tender. If you're not familiar with pain, you might become concerned. Don't be--your body and mind are made so that you won't hurt yourself doing this) hang out and get to know that muscle. Seek out the spot that hurts the most.

Abdominal muscles go lower than you think. Get your fingers right down in the pelvis. Root around in there like a boar roots around for truffles.

Once you've got your guy, use short strokes from one end of the point to the other. Pain is subjective, but your goal is not to be in agony. Each stroke should cause a sensation right before you would classify it as pain. If you're grimacing, or tensing your muscles, ease off.

You only need 10-12 of these strokes. Search around for other tender points, do the same until you can't find anymore.

Your pain should have eased by now. If some, but not all, has disappeared, or you didn't find any success, try the other techniques in this post.

For more in depth info on self-massage, check out this post.

Your goal: To relax and soften the muscles as much as possible. Heat and other relaxation techniques will help. One session should be enough to bring some relief, but you should repeat this until you stop finding tender spots.

After massage, stand up and gently stretch out your abdominals three times.

The pain is on one side, possibly both, and I sit a lot.

The section above can also help chronic sitters, but this section is the meat of the issue for us. My experience with this pain is that it's sharper and more debilitating than typical low back pain. It can make it hard to walk.

Caused by...sitting a lot. Wheelchair users take note, I wouldn't be surprised if this one could help y'all out.

This one is more likely to cause limping. Do you sit with your knees up a lot? This muscle doesn't take kindly to that. You also might have trouble getting up from low seats

Be careful with this one. If it's active, it's gonna hurt like a bitch to poke around.

Massage Tips:

Like the previous massage, lie down with your shoulders and head slightly propped up. Have an extra pillow on hand.

Pick which side you're working on. Prop your knees up, and lay your knees AWAY from your chosen side. Use the pillow to lay them on.

Use the tips of your fingers, using the opposite hand to support them, for massage. You can also put your fingers back to back (make a T) to dig deeper.

Find the hip bone. You can easily start by poking around the inside of it, top to bottom. When you find tender spots, massage with short strokes. Look for the sensation that precedes pain.

You can go deeper by pressing down into the area between the hip bone and belly button. If you feel a pulse, move closer to the hip bone. If you can't get away from the pulse, or if you've found a pulsing mass, go to the hospital. Not joking on that one.

If you're have trouble finding the muscle, bring your knee towards you. It helps if you do this with resistance against the knee. You should feel the psoas muscles flex.

For more in depth info on self-massage, check out this post.

Your goal: Relax, again try not to elicit so much pain that you're tense or grimacing. If these muscles aren't the cause of your pain, you might not even be able to feel it. Sometimes, the psoas muscles are so sensitive that you can barely touch them. Even the lightest massage can help, though, and over time you'll be able to put more pressure.

After massage, gently stretch the leg on that side behind you three times. This is best done while standing. Be careful not to strain it if you are lying down.

Feels like, or has been diagnosed as, sciatica.

Sounds like you've got butt problems. Yup, you've got a pain in the ass. Different from Morton's Foot because the pain comes from the hips, and rarely refers all the way down to the feet.

Appropriately, your butt might be tender. Pain tends to extend across the hips, both above and below the belt line

We qualify this as low back pain, but if you put your hand overtop of the painful area it's more like back, upper hip, though that's not always the case.

Usually only one side, but can be both.

Massage tips:

Get yourself a tennis ball. If you're short enough, a doorknob will do in a pinch. If you have access to a Theracane, that's great too.

Brace against your tool of choice using a wall. Start on the outside of your hip, beneath the hip bone. Keep your knee bent and put your weight on the opposite foot. Look for tender areas and massage them out--look for the sensation that precedes pain.

You can also sit to get at your butt muscles easier.

Work all across the outside hip and all across the butt. Hell, get other areas of the lower back while you're here too. This will kill so many birds with one tennis ball.

For more in depth info on self-massage, check out this post.

Your goals: This massage is a bit tougher to control the pressure on, but fortunately the tool you're using is broad enough that it won't elicit the intense sensations that other trigger points can. The back of your hip should feel looser and more relaxed.

After massage, guide the hip through its range of motion. Don't force movement if it feels like the joint is "catching" or if pain intensifies--at worst the area should only be a bit sore afterwards.

Pain is a deep ache that feels like it's in the spine itself.

This pain is actually from your spine! Well, generally. A lot of muscle pain gets referred away from the problem point, but these guys are right where you expect them.

Admittedly I have less experience with this back pain, but typically pain is also accompanied by your back feeling stiff as a board. It's the pain typically associated with throwing out your back.

This pain often gets blamed on osteoarthritis, but even if you have signs of damage on xrays, sometimes it's muscular.

Fun fact: these muscles, which run along the spine and interconnect the vertebrae, are only relaxed in two positions: lying on your back, and standing up straight. So if they're tensed up when doing either, something is going on.

Massage Tips

Tennis balls and objects of similar size can help, but sometimes don't penetrate through the muscles well enough. For an extra boost of gravity, you can also lie on a bed, with your tool of choice on top of a paperback book.

Follow the pain, massage it until it feels better. Don't be afraid to dig in if you aren't getting results. The muscle here is thick.

Best practice is getting the tennis ball into the groove of your spine and just going to fucking town.

Theracane can also be used.

For more in depth info on self-massage, check out this post.

Your goal: Your hope is to see a release of tension in the back. Before and after massage, lie down with a heat pack and relax to help soften the muscles.

Don't worry too much about stretching out these muscles until you have more confidence in your body again. It's easy to overstretch and undo all the progress you've made.

And that's about it for lower back. I'm happy to add any clarification on these points if necessary, but please don't come into my inbox expecting me to diagnose you.

If you're a friend/mutual, though, feel free to hmu for more specific advice.

Final note: expect to need to work on these more than once, and don't be surprised if you only get relief once you've tried some or all of these. Experimentation is your best friend with myofascial pain, and even if it's not the source of your problems, it's good to gain familiarity with your body and the pain you experience.

#i hope this helps at least one person. that's all i ask.#chronic pain #disability #myofascial pain #fatals physio corner

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bugeater101 · 1 year

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So I know we're all recovering from Dwaekki Gym and I'm here to worsen your already horny and insatiable states.

Okay, so I KNOW I am a chan stan through and through and I want him so mf badly... but WHEN I SAW CHANGBIN DURING THE BENCH PRESS SESSIONS

Oh. my. god.

(smut below)

The way he was yelling the rep numbers while on top of Jeongin did something to me. He was so encouraging yet commanding. In the (literal and metaphorical) position of power he had, he was unrelenting and strict. God, he just wanted them to keep going and going and going.

Can you just imagine how he would be with you below him, hopelessly trying to please him but still being given that same look? That look of "please, just give me one more! I know you can do it!"

You would be on your knees, Changbin would be standing over you. The hard flooring would shoot pain up your joints and slobber would trickle from your swollen lips. His length was huge, unconsciously twitching and flexing in your mouth. Your jaw was aching from taming it, hands desperately holding it still as they worked him. Each pump of his fat cock into your wet mouth made you gag a bit, but you suppressed each gag with moans. The vibrations, in turn, would make Changbin shiver. Still, he stood steadfast, the only indication of his weakness being the staggering breaths he was taking.

You would swirl his red-hot, cum-leaking tip with your tongue as both hands rubbed his cock eagerly, hoping to taste his sweet juices down your throat. You would even be such a good girl and tongue his balls just a bit while one of your hands would play with his cock head. There was no lube needed: your slobber and his precum made him slick, but his girth still made it hard to fit all of him in your mouth. Yet, the spit and the cum combined with your eagerness to satisfy Changbin created filthy sounds that filled the room. The whole scene was obscene.

It would be messy. Cum and spit and tears would leak onto the floor, joining the wetness that pooled from your sopping cunt. And Changbin wouldn't care.

He would just be standing proudly the whole time. Just as he did in the video, with his hands either guiding you or planted on his hips. His flushed ears almost matched the blushing tip of his heavy erection. Deep breaths would flow air into his lungs and moans would escape him. Though he would encourage you, tell you how good your form was, how you were doing everything just right, there was still that domineering air to him. After all, he is a trainer. He would offer you no mercy. Changbin would keep pushing you, telling you how good you were doing, but never letting you catch your breath.

He would just want you to finish the job. Finish letting him fuck your mouth, play with him a bit longer, and swallow him whole.

Who knows? Maybe if you are good and finish him well, he might give you more instructions on how to take his cock in other ways. He would stand over your limp body and guide your form to take him well. He wouldn't want you getting hurt, after all. I mean, he is such a good trainer, and he never goes easy when training you.

#changbin smut #seo changbin smut #stray kids smut #skz smut #skz hard thoughts #changbin hard thoughts

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suffersinfandom · 6 months

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This is a somewhat-hingeless rant about disability and OFMD/Izzy takes.

Tumblr handed me a "recommended" post that made me so mad I ended up deleting a moderately unhinged reply and walking away for a bit. It's still eating at me, so I'm just gonna reply to it indirectly.

(I know this is cowardly, but anything I say will just lead to fighting and I'm tired. If anyone wants to discourse about whatever I post, please do me a favor and don't rant at me directly. Take caps and scream into the void like a gentleperson.)

First: I am physically disabled and I often use visible disability aids (just establishing my credentials so I'm allowed to not support this take uncritically). I also have mental health issues and less visible physical issues that honestly cripple me more.

Second: the title alone, man. My main issue with this whole thing is the disability gatekeeping, but that interpretation... hngh. I don't think OFMD was trying to meet a disability quota, you know? It's not "we have three disabled people so we can kill one off."

"Izzy shouldn't have died because he's the most clearly, visibly disabled" is a weird take because it conflates two unrelated things: Izzy's disability and Izzy's death. It's okay to be upset that Izzy died because his specific disability was something you related to. It hurts to have representation taken away! But his death had a narrative purpose. It had nothing to do with his status as an amputee.

And yeah, people are disabled in different ways, but is acknowledging that really an invitation to dismiss some disabilities as invalid? Sure, let's gatekeep disability. Let's decide that some people aren't disabled, actually. Lucius, Black Pete, Wee John, Spanish Jackie, and Ed aren't disabled in a way that's huge and traumatic and life-changing, so throw them out.

Except Ed is one of our protagonists, and I'd argue that his issues are way more important to the narrative than Izzy's. Ed's bad knee is technically fanon (fanon that I love because I too have bad joints and a shit knee), but I would argue that Ed is absolutely canonically disabled. Are we really supposed to disregard his crippling mental health issues because they're not visible? We're just going to shrug off the suicidal despair that drove a huge chunk of the plot? Wild that something so central to the story just doesn't matter because it's not the right kind of disabled.

That was a tangent, sorry. Back to Izzy and the injury that was "thrust upon him."

Yes, his injury is life-changing and traumatic. I'm sympathetic -- but not as sympathetic as I would be if he hadn't played a significant part in the events that led to the loss of his leg.

"That's victim blaming!"

It's a statement of fact. As Izzy himself admitted, he drove the darkness in Ed. He dangled his leg over the side of the ship and a shark bit it off. The injury wasn't thrust upon him so much as actively courted.

Izzy tried to shoot himself in the head at his lowest moment. If I may misquote OP: if you cannot see that there is a WORLD of difference between Ed's multi-episode suicidal arc and Izzy impulsively seeking an out, I honestly do not know what to say to you.

But the big thing about Izzy is that he is a secondary character in a story. If you take off the Izzy blinders, you can see that it's not all about him. His go at suicide killed the symbol of toxic masculinity that he had been up to that point so his story could progress. When he crawled along the floor whining pathetically, his sheer levels of wet cat-ness brought the crew together. The crew rallying around him and giving him the love and forgiveness that he did not ask for? That was about the crew and their growth, not Izzy.

Izzy did not have some deep-seated care for the crew before he was shot. He didn't throw himself in front of a bullet for them. He was not the crew's protector. Izzy's growth began when Ed essentially fired him, and the real changes happened post leg removal.

But here's something super important: Izzy was not suicidal when he told Ed he was ready to go.

Because yeah, I agree, it'd suck if a character who attempted suicide spent a few episodes being rehabilitated and accepting love and who he is turned around and decided that he wanted to die. It's a good thing that's not what happened.

This is what made me decide not to reply directly. Yeah, clearly a lot of disabled queer people are upset. And you know what? That's fine! I always support feeling what you're feeling, even if that feeling is negative. I'm sorry that other queer disabled people are hurting, and I don't want to add to that hurt by being directly confrontational.

Then OP said the last part and I was riled all over again. I was prepared to reblog since I meet their criteria (or maybe I don't -- I might not be the right kind of disabled), but what's the point? How miserable do I want to be? How much do I want to make them miserable?

I know I ranted a lot here, but what I'm getting at is this: Izzy DID NOT "go from wanting to die after a hugely traumatic disabling life event" to "wanting to die after finding acceptance and happiness." If he had, I'd totally understand why OP is upset and I'd think, yeah, maybe they should've run that by a few more people.

Izzy didn't want to die. He accepted his death as the inevitability it was -- inevitable not just because the wound was fatal, but because his death was important to the larger story and, importantly, Ed's story.

Izzy is piracy. Izzy is toxic masculinity personified. Izzy is anchoring Ed to Blackbeard. Izzy is not a character who overcame great obstacles and found acceptance just to decide that, actually, he'd like to be dead instead. He's not David Jenkins and company telling people who relate to Izzy that they should just die. He's not proof that recovery and joy are impossible for broken people.

Look at Ed. He went from wanting to die to wanting to live and do better. He's still working for his acceptance and happiness, and Izzy's last words are insistence to him that he'll get there.

Lucius said that some people are just broken, and this season does everything it can to refute that. One of the clearest themes is no one is broken beyond repair. People can change and they can heal and they can be forgiven by the people they hurt. This theme is so clear that I don't understand how anyone can overlook it.

I've been typing for ages and I'm honestly so sorry to anyone who takes me seriously enough to read this. It's a lot of negativity, and we have more than enough of that.

(And if you're disabled, hurt by Izzy's death, and also somehow still here, I sincerely hope that you feel better about it soon. I hope you'll come across meta that puts things into perspective in a way that lets you appreciate OFMD's positive messages and make peace with or move past season two. Barring that, I hope you find a new show to latch onto that gives you everything you want.)

#ofmd #ofmd fandom #izzy hands #edward teach #fandom critical #izzy critical #(not really but hopefully anyone who wants to brawl has that blacklisted)#disability talk #me treating tumblr like a personal journal #i have a headache joint pain and a lot of feelings #read with caution #oh shit i forgot #ofmd s2 spoilers #cw suicide #tw suicide #me typing things

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were--ralph · 4 months

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I realise this is not the point of this blog but you got the right audience so maybe someone can help. I have a big belly and sometimes I feel like it hurts my back to carry it around. If I sleep on my back all my joints and vertebrae are misaligned and it takes some work to readjust it all so it all doesn't hurt all day. Do you happen to know of any exercise routines or whatever that can help a male who's heavy and sedentary? Preferably with minimum knee impact bc I'm injured in both. I suppose I should lose some weight, but currently I'm dealing with some unrelated stress and I'd rather deal with one issue at a time.

I cant help you but im sure one of my followers can

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brightlotusmoon · 3 months

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My FB post right now is being so useful:

Me: Okay, someone with TMJ, trigeminal nerve pain, and sinus pain help walk me through the differences so I can figure out what's happening in my face.

My microbiologist friend: "OMG SOMEONE FINALLY NEEDS ME!!!!

TMJ is an achy, muscular pain. If you press on the hinge of your jaw and/or the back of your skull where it meets your neck, you will feel intense pain followed by release. Causes headaches on one side, usually in the back. Opening your mouth wide while touching your jaw will produce a “pop�� on one side and a feeling of sliding sideways on the other. Helped by: NSAIDS, muscle relaxants, heat. Hurt by: crunchy food, chewy food, jaw clenching.

Trigeminal neuralgia feels like random electrical shocks at the base of your teeth, radiating up into your cheek. One side. No headache. Pain can also be sharp or burning (when mine was at its worst it felt like someone put a flaming fireplace poker between my teeth and slammed my jaw shut), but the hallmark is that “shocky” pain. Helped by: medication that is specifically for nerve pain (like gabapentin). Absolutely nothing else helps. Hurt by: ??? (Mine is kind of related to the cold but…???)

Sinus pain is usually heavy pressure and an ache or occasional sharp pain in the jaw. Headaches bilateral and in the front of the head, in a “mask” around the eyes. Trigger points are at the inside corner of the eyebrow and the outer corner of the nostrils, applying firm pressure there will cause SEVERE pain that will lessen over time. Cheeks and forehead may also be sensitive to touch. Also might present as a sore throat. Helped by: sudafed, antihistamines, NSAIDS, cold. Hurt by: that depends on the person. If it’s unrelenting and doesn’t respond well to meds you should see a doctor to check for infection.

Oh my goodness I feel so useful 🖤"

My reply: "I love you. I also feel like all of that happened at the same time. But I'm going to call it TMJ, because the thoracic pain and upper shoulder stiffness is specific to the palsy spasticity, which means it'll hit the jaw muscles on both sides in slightly different ways."

Other friends also weighed in!

A. said "TMJ feels like you have the bottom jaw and the jaw joint hit with a hammer. Sinus pain in face feels like you could stick something into your eye or up your nose and it would pop the balloon that growing in your skull. Trigeminal nerve is one of the worst pains you have ever experienced and you would be at the hospital. It usually only affects one side of the face and it feels as thought someone is slicing your face open. (I don’t have it but a friend does but I experienced mild symptoms after a surgery that temporarily inflamed that nerve and even minor pain it was horrid and gave me a much much less accurate idea of how much pain my dear friend deals with cause mine was like 20% compared to her 100%)"

K. said: "TN can be bilateral and can be triggered or exacerbated by the same range of meds prescribed to relieve it.

Sinus pain may respond to pseudoephedrine, but phenylephrine ain't shit, so check your Sudafed formulation before you decide that decongestant doesn't work.

TMJ, you might notice that you're clenching or grinding at night... or other people might notice more than you do.

Also consider for differential diagnosis, these things that can cause REALLY fucking bizarre referred-pain:

Ear infection (look for fever or pain spiking at weird times when you can't identify a trigger, also maybe nausea)

Dental/oral nerve impingement or infection, try swishing with an analgesic like a chloraseptic spray or lozenge, or oragel. See if pan resolves.

Try tapping on teeth and gums. See if any of them feel 'weird.'

Brush/floss/waterpik/whatever very thoroughly and then gargle and swish as aggressively as you can.

I had a poppy seed making me think I was getting shingles one time. Once it was out, I was fine. Weirdest fucking shit... anyway..."

#how to identify face pain #ow my everything #i realize i can endure pain that might cause screaming

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ofmoonlitmagic · 2 months

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Give up my way and lose myself | March 4, 2034.

Wolfsbane weakened him, the taste bitter and vile, even diluted. It burned, his stomach churning, even after days of preparation. As if he started early, this would all hurt less, but that was a thought for a fool's comfort.

The chains dragged across the ground as he moved. The cellar was damp and dark, not the woods where he'd have preferred to take this. However, safety was of utmost importance tonight. Even that comfort was missing from his first turn. He knew he had to find a state of calm, to accept it, but he paced anxiously instead. "When I say go, I need you to go," he reminded her, "stay in the compound, you'll be safe."

This was between him and his father. A battle still raging long after the embers of the home they shared were dimmed to dormant ash. The last of his father's power over him was realized: they were the same monster. They would break the same, twist and contort the same, scream the same. Look at me and trust me when I tell you, that you are not the same. The last pain his father would cause...this is the last pain his father would cause.

"I know violence..." His body shifted, shoulders rolled as if to battle the tension or to ready itself. His temperature felt too high, like he was burning from inside out. Let it in, he reminded himself, let it swallow you.

His fathers' fist collided against his jaw, his chest, his arm extended in self-protection, the assault continued unrelenting.

His body held on, a living memory, the imprint on his skin. Scars told their stories, and what healed left invisible marks.

"I know violence..."

A grab of a collar, a swing...hands around his throat, squeezing until oxygen no longer flowed.

The body remembered.

"I know violence..."

Jabs from more delicate fingers, the way it radiated through him. He'd been beaten so many times, and yet, that had caused the most pain.

"I know violence..."

A sensation in his jaw, a crack perhaps, something else broken. The cycle returning to his family.

"I know pain." He gazed up, unable to see the moon from here, but he could feel her. "So come on," he breathed, begging for it to begin. To be over.

"It doesn't stop, does it?" He finally asked for confirmation he didn't need. There would be no blacking out, no escaping somewhere else, he would feel every second of it.

Without warning, his arm twisted, snapping in multiple places at once, and he screamed. Crumbling to the ground, feeling everything begin to shift inside, he braced himself with his other hand as he gagged on the feeling his organs were rearranging. "Billie--" he begged, choking out between groans of agony, "go get her...Riley, please. I--I need..." As chain scraped against the concrete, he reached for the shirt instead, the one she made sure he had, the one with her scent, collapsing with neither arm to hold him up. "I'm sorry," he mumbled as his lip trembled as violently as the pull of the moon on his body, "I'm sorry...but it--it hurts."

---

He finally became quieter again, convulsing on the ground. "My girls," he mumbled, as the closeness of Riley filled his senses in combination with the shirt he held firm in his grip. He did it all for them, the best of him. Shifting his weight across the floor, he laid his head in Riley's lap, trying to get a good breath but he couldn't fully. The breaths were short, labored, quick. The urge to fight was too strong, to not let it take him. "Is it ironic that I feel like I'm on fire? That's ironic, right? Is it funny? A little...?" He couldn't stop shaking, tears making track after track down his cheeks as he blathered away in near incoherence.

His breathing became a hyperventilation, and he could feel more coming. "No...no...no," he pleaded, jerking away from her as the bones cracked, joints popped out of sockets, an unspeakable pain all the way down his back. From somewhere visceral, the power of his own screams seemed almost raised him off the earth. "Stop! Make it stop," he cried, "it hurts, it hurts, it hurts..."

They were too far gone now, and there was no return. The time had felt like half a dozen eternities. "Go," he finally demanded, looking up to meet the eyes of his best friend. The other half of his soul. He fought to hold it back as long as he could, but he knew. His uncle was right. He knew what he had to do, and though his mother had been speaking of her ring in the moment, he heard her still: accepting this won’t mean you’re being beaten.

"It's time." With a sense of unusual calm as if they lingered briefly in the eye of the storm, he could only mouth the words, "I love you." Eyes closing, he felt the moon and in the same way he'd learned to let magic flow through him, he allowed it to take him. He let it in. His body thrown back like it was going to be folded in half, ankles twisting, wrists snapping, spine contorting and reforming, the sounds of breaking created a cacophony paired his own piercing cry as it filled the room. When his eyes reopened, they had found their shift to glowing golden.

That's how you got here, how you escaped him because you're too full of life for darkness to take you.

From deep within, he pulled from all his strength and released a final guttural cry until it transitioned into a growl, wordless and untamed. All that was Briggs Mikaelson became something else. He clamored on the chains, fighting his own captivity. The moon at its apex in the sky had at last swallowed him whole.

But he had learned something that night: he hadn't known pain at all. Nor had he known his own strength.

This could not break him.

#( thread | self-para. )#( the only thing i ever did right was be your best friend | briggs & riley. )#( i think our love can do anything | briggs & billie. )#exitium.fm001 #child abuse tw #violence tw #intense suffering tw #gore tw

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nerice · 5 months

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holding out hands. do you want to talk about any oc couples you have. or polycules or situationships or anything of that ilk.

ask answer time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! at long last. linking my oc page at the top bc i will throw out some names w/ varying context :3

also prefacing this by saying that the ultimate oc ship of all time is qs (queenshipping) aka jumie/reina alas i talk abt them all the fkcin time so let's gearshift and do smth else for once ! let me introduce you 2

[the polycule] tm. relationship for the ages, mostly bc it takes an age to reach its final form lol. details under the cut >>>

noah/garvith

dragon god x serpent deity in all their beastly glory (this is before noah acquires a human form) during the war, they spend most of their off-duty time curled into ridiculous shapes having deep talks abt nothing and everything. goes bad when garvith flees a crucial battle, leaving reina to die & noah swears 2 put him 2 death over this act of cowardice. garvith spends the next century in hiding until he meets avery nd takes refuge in her body; which is all good and well until noah runs into avery during an unrelated mission and can't keep his eyes off her for. some reason >:) enter:

noah(avery?)garvith, messy tag here!

avery is ur average angry teen caught up in the middle of the fallout of whatever fucking romance those two had going on. esp bc noah+garvith, now both in human bodies (noah's held together by duct tape nd garvith thru avery) ARE NOT IMMUNE TO PHYSICAL DESIRE AS IT TURNS OUT nd avery (aro) sits in the crossfire like????? What!! Is Going On when she starts blushing like a schoolgirl over noah lmfao. sorry prince. usually she nd garvith are amiable w/ their body sharing but garvith does sleepwalk pilot her a few times to steal kisses from noah who is victim 2 his bad vein of hypocrisy regarding duty vs. desire lol. all of this ends winningly ofc when he stabs avery/garvith mid-kiss. amazing, everybody was hurt in the process of making this joint. let's take a detour

devon

local wolf guy who has fuckall 2 do with anyones god business. simply falls in love at first bite (bitten) with avery, who has so many other problems at that point, including inheriting a thousand years worth of memories from garvith & going thru a little ego death bc she cannot cope with the grief of it all. might selfishly have kissed devon at one point in an attempt to be someone she's not which cements his crush & dooms them all to drag out this stupid little charade into another book, where we get to >

noah/devon

who start out on the worst terms (romantic rivals for avery/garvith. who is simply Done With It on both ends f) but in the little space of reefair where avery has dropped off the map completely, noah+devon end up living in the same house & get pretty buddy buddy. devon is the first person noah trusts with the secret that he is a god, and devon has a phd in being a whore instead of going 2 therapy so they have a good time, as we say on this main blog where content restrictions apply. :)

anwy let's bring this baby home. ive talked abt court of the dragon before but the tldr is; noah dukes it out with his vengeful other ex that until now ive omitted. which is a shame bc damia is my fav oc, but the endgame is this:

noah+damia end up in a dual body consciousness situation a la pandora hearts, with one body stuck at the bottom of the ocean in dead world space & the other able to move freely, with the two of them having 2 play real nicey with each other taking turns who controls which body. by then avery has sort of rejoined the polycule (when she's not out adventuring across verses w/ lucie) but in an all members present scenario u get:

the polycule [tm]

avery, more or less serpent at times, trading affection & bite marks w noah/devon except like. sometimes noah is damia and damia doesn't rly fuck with the polycule situation bc he hates everyone involved but also loves to fuck with the polycule bc he is a goddamn bastard. i don't know what's going on here either but it's extremely funny send tweet

((((((bonus. ask jumie how she feels about her son sometimes giving damia head by association LOL)))))))))9 revolutionary vectors of psychological dmg here

#[i was born to meet you] but instead it's [this verse was born 2 own jumie in this very specific way] sorry lmao #ngl with u i touched procreate in the first time in months to draw those lines and cried a lil #anwy this entire mess takes place over like.. 5 books???#noah/garvith are roa territory and go bad by lhnh #the n/v/g mess happens prior to shadow revenge which is where devon+avery meet #the noah/devon roommate situation is due 2 devon moving out to the countryside with his sister nd noah being homeless at the time #(spiritually homeless anwy. palace is.... difficult territory during reefair nd he's trying to escape it)#court of the dragon finale is late dream game & then FINALLY. in long lost flame we get the resolution which is literally the final book w #THANK UUUU for asking this was so fun ive been gunning 2 spell out their situation for a while but it's SO COMPLICATED lmao #askbox #corvus-rose #oc asks

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gotyouanyway · 7 months

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and she contradicts herself all the time she keeps telling me how insignificant and mild my arthritis is and how it doesn't account for my pain then she's like "but pain is unrelated to xrays and is subjective so even though xrays look good it can still hurt, also your hip is probably impinged because all the problems i'm seeing come from the joint not the muscles" like pick one before i start fucking crying i'm serious

#she's also like 'walk less and take transit more'#'get a job where you're not standing all the time'#then is like 'if you use crutches instead of your walking muscles it's gonna get worse. idiot.'#what could you possibly want from me #p

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sandersgrey · 2 years

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A Study in Greys

Eventual Kit/Ty Endgame, Mutual Pining, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Trauma, Kit Rook Has ADHD, Kit Rook has C-PTSD.

First / Second / Third / Fourth / Prev. / Next. Fic also available on ao3.

Wordcount: 5k.

A/N: Shout out to my beta and partner in life, @jynxlovesluck, as well as my friend @thechangeling. Also thanks to everyone commenting. I'm taking a break after this due to national college exams, but dont worry about me abandoning this fic. I'm finishing it or dying trying. TW for a mental breakdown in the latter part of the chapter.

Sixth Chapter: Carrying Water

Ty doesn’t even try to fall asleep.

Every last shred of experience earned over his years here tells him he should. Demon patrols await for no one’s sleep deprivation, and he’s been pushed to the forefront of fights more than enough times to know his colleagues won’t either.

Sleep is simply beyond his reach today. Electricity buzzes underneath his skin. A rush of giddiness bubbles up in his chest like champagne, his rib cage an unsuitable container for the sheer volume of it.

Livy watches him flap his hands, wrist joints crackling with the force of his joy, and her entire face softens; doesn’t even complain when his elbow goes through her, a little out of control.

“You seem happy.”

Ty rocks himself back and forth on the balls of his feet, a squeak high in his throat. His mouth opens, a syllable or two dropping out before he swallows them back down, violently wiggles in place, tries again:

“Kit’s��here, I was right, and we’re so close to cracking the case. I can feel it, Livy. We’re going to solve this soon. And then-”

Then things can be good again.

And, who knows, maybe the Death’s Scales aren’t the only powerful relic that has been tucked away; maybe there’s something that’ll bring Livy all the way back, too. It’s not too out of the realm of possibility. Everything could just… fall into place.

Ty wants it all, suddenly and fiercely. There was a grain of truth when Kit said he was selfish, back then; still it’s not quite right, really. Hungry is the closest word he has for the deep pit in his stomach, wide and unrelenting, an open maw. He wants very few things, but the things he wants…

He just doesn’t know how to let go of them.

“I think we’re close, too”, Livy says, leaning forward to look around a corner before Ty turns. “We just need one last piece of evidence.”

“That’ll be much easier now.”

She looks at him from the corner of her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve always had a lot of faith in him.”

“He’s had Heather Ashworth letting him do whatever he wants after two days. I don’t think she’s ever smiled at us once.”

“That’s true. Do you think we can get him to help us kill her?”

“ Livy.” The door of his room closes behind him with a satisfying thump. “ ... Probably.”

Half of the room is empty, shelves and closet still left the way Anush left them; but, for once, the reminder doesn’t make him want to look away. If Kit can come back after being a much more unreachable dream for years, so will Anush.

It’s only reasonable to not get used to the extra storage space.

Besides, he’s not the only one living here.

Irene sniffs around his leg, rising onto her hindpaws to bump her wet nose against his arm, and only returns to her favorite spot under the bed once given a sufficiently good scritch behind her ears.

Shedding his jacket, he hangs it up. It’s not the one Kit has let him borrow: that’s tucked under his pillow, since no one’s asked him for it back. Ty has been meaning to wash it.

He probably will. At some point.

Right now, though, he sits on his bed and sticks a hand under the pillow. His fingers trail over the worn material. “He cut off the tag before letting me borrow it”, Ty says.

“I know.”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

Livy gracefully floats down until she’s sitting on the bed next to him. The mattress doesn’t shift under her weight. Her hair cascades down her shoulder, the deep brown color muted by its transparency.

“After this is done…” Livy bites her lip. “Do you think he’ll…”

“He’ll what?”

“... Nevermind.”

Ty looks up, frowning. The look on her face is unfamiliar. “Livy.”

“When he goes back home”, she says, slowly, “do you think it’ll go back to how it was?”

Kit isn’t a centurion or a student. His time in the castle has always been limited. Ty knows this , and yet. He chews on the inside of his cheek, pensive, the open maw of his wants a new Charybdis. It could swallow the entire sea.

“It’s different now, we’re talking again. I’m sure we can just… write to each other, or even visit, now. It’ll be better.”

“Do you think,” Livy hesitates, picking at a loose thread in her dress. “Do you think you’ll stay here? Once it’s done?”

Ty frowns.

Rubbing at one of the seams of Kit’s jacket, his fingertips find it’s rougher than the rest.

Ty turns it over, spreading it over his lap, and finds himself smiling a little at the places where it has obviously been mended. Threads of different colors crisscross everywhere, reinforcing everywhere where it could have fallen apart.

“Kit ties his loose threads a lot of times over," he comments. “it’s like he’s afraid it’ll all come apart if he only ties it once.”

“Ty.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Why wouldn’t I stay?”

“You just… You’ve never looked happy here.”

Ty pinches one of the knots, bright blue thread a stark contrast with the duller color of the denim. A part of him expects it to fall apart on his lap. It doesn’t. The whole thing is a little messy. But the multiple knots do their job well; it had all felt very sturdy when he wore it.

It isn’t pretty. Ty would have done a neater job, if he cared to pick up a needle often enough to develop the skill.

But he wouldn’t have thought to reinforce the seams. He would have just assumed it would be fine.

“Ty?”

“We should focus on figuring this out first.”

“Okay”, she says softly. “Okay.”

Ty folds the jacket again, tucking it back under his pillow. It should probably be hand washed. There’s a lot of tiny modifications that might come apart in a machine, so it’ll have to wait for a day he’s not busy.

Technically, he’s not busy right now. The fizzling just hasn’t disappeared yet. If anything, it’s grown: from a champagne buzz to an earthquake.

“I don’t think I can stand around doing nothing right now.”

“Ty-”

“I know. Nothing too harsh.” Ty carefully dodges the paw Irene sticks out from under the bed frame, draping his study bag over his shoulder as he gets up. “There’s probably something we can do. I’m going to take a look at the archives.”

“You’ve already spent a lot of time there.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know what to look for before,” he says. “That’s always the most important part.”

Her lips thin as they press together, but she offers no comeback. That’s a yes.

Ty takes back to the hallways.

So early in the morning, the archives are mostly empty. It tugs at something deep within Ty until tension unspools from his shoulders.

Mayhew should be on patrol right now; he’s heard, with some satisfaction, that her request for a break got lost on its way to her superior. It’s not the first time something like that has happened, but it’s the first time it has happened to someone other than Ty.

She must’ve shirked duty somehow, nevertheless, because there she is at one of the tables. Her eyes don’t leave the text she’s focusing on.

The tall bookshelves readily swallow him away from her sightline. Ty lingers, pondering how worth it would be to report her to Ashworth; it probably wouldn’t do anything, and is he petty enough to risk it? She carefully turns a page.

Livy peers at the book’s cover, half hidden behind the furniture, and raises a thin eyebrow. “Treatise on the Upkeep and Transmutation of Magical Relics”, she says. “Wow, that’s a heavy one. I guess at least someone is doing their research. Wouldn’t have expected it to be her, though.”

Ty nods, a hand curling around the edge of the bookshelf. He remembers when she’d stopped coming to the library. Wasn’t it around the time Mayhew had started ingratiating herself with Ashworth and the others?

The same way he had grown increasingly dedicated to his work after graduation, Mayhew had left any academic aspirations behind with her textbooks.

At least, it had seemed so.

“The Careful Balance Between the Courts”, Livy cranes her neck, looking at the pile beside Mayhew’s book. “Faerie Unity: An Impossible Dream. That’s… weird. The Scales are just Unseelie, aren’t they?”

That is weird. The silence is thick enough for Ty not to risk speaking; instead, he carefully opens his notebook and scrawls a message on a random page. Stay here and monitor her?

Livy pauses for a long moment; finally, she says: “Alright. You’re lucky I love you.”

Smiling, Ty nods. He tucks the notebook back in his bag, wincing at the resistance in the front zipper, and takes one last look at Mayhew.

In the few moments he was looking away, she had tied her long, shiny hair up in a bun and started taking notes. The glasses she hasn’t been seen wearing since her second year are folded on the table. It reminds him of a slightly younger Mayhew, back when they still had finals as their common enemy.

It’s not quite nostalgia, this feeling, but it’s… similar.

“She’s pretty”, Livy sighs.

Ty shrugs. He supposes so. Livvy leans against the bookshelf, her position more of an affectation than actual rest, and watches Mayhew with an expression he doesn’t know how to read.

Leaving all that behind is a relief more familiar than the walls of the castle.

Step after step, what he’s looking for is seventeen bookshelves in. Ty relaxes the further he is into the archives, right at the start of the collection, conserved by runes so strong that running his hand over the bookshelves makes his fingers tingle.

Here, the lights are dimmer. Dust motes float like ṕixies in the air. The pages are yellow, sometimes stained by unthinkable fluids, and the edges curl in on themselves.

This is the domain of battered spines. Ty does some of his best work here.

The dry pages feel like old friends, cracked paper a beautiful reflection of what his own skin will look like if he lives to see old age. A callused fingertip traces the words he brings back to his table.

Most information on faeries that the average 19th century centurion would have considered important enough to archive is, of course, not only outdated but filled with the type of bigotry that Ty is far too tired of in his daily life. For this reason, he’s always avoided this particular subject.

Maybe Ty was wrong about that. Maybe he should’ve been putting his time and energy towards correcting those books, much as he has been trying to do with others. It’s certainly tempting to take out the red pen now.

Interestingly enough, the tome in hands is filled less with misinformation than with detached disdain. It talks about faeries as though they’re just another species of demons to exterminate: in such cases, accuracy is, of course, of the utmost importance.

It’s slightly less blood-boiling than the rest.

Ty will take dispassionate bigotry over incorrect information any day, even if lately his days have been quite bleak.

He takes notes. Of course, he takes notes. Ty even uses his own personal code, digging into his bag for more pens as the first one runs out of ink. Dark blue and black ink eagerly stain the lines of his fingers. There’s a lot to write about.

Every so often, Livy floats by with a new piece of information.

“She’s working with the Seelie Queen’s biography now. Not reading it, just… A little like how we cross reference dictionaries. That’s weird, right?”

Fact one: The Scales of Death are not, in fact, purely Unseelie. They were a gift from the Seelie Queen during a very brief attempt at reconciliation between the Courts, and are therefore one of very few relics with both Seelie and Unseelie energy.

“Noah Jones? You know, the guy who was flirting with Kit the other day? Well, he just stopped by. She ducked under the table before he could see her.”

Fact: Due to that, it is claimed that the Scales are able to identify the First Heir when used.

Fact: Ty hadn’t known that, which means it’s not common knowledge.

“She has a magazine now instead of the books. Jones looks like he didn’t expect her to be here, which makes sense, but doesn’t explain why she hid her stuff?”

Inference: Whoever had both known about the Scales and been able to take them without raising any alarms, therefore, must have been competent.

“They’re complaining about Ashworth expecting them to help with the paperwork.”

Fact: The current members of the conspiracy are visibly not.

“Jones keeps saying something about the previous leadership, then interrupting himself.” Livy frowns. “He says he wishes Ashworth would hurry up and replace Zach already.”

Inference: Either the original competent member is no longer being listened to, or they are no longer around.

Fact: Someone died when the Scales were used.

Fact: The paperwork overload started directly after the death.

“He says: I volunteer for puppet consort.”

Fact: They had never, as far as Ty is aware of, given any useful information beyond the location of the office when it was clear they must have known more.

“Mayhew laughed kinda uncomfortably and said Ollie probably would have liked that. I don’t think Noah’s happy about it, but he smiled anyway. He says-”

Inference: Oliver Konman was their leader.

Reminder: Kit is currently carrying his dagger everywhere.

Conclusion:

“-Ty?”

He gets up and leaves.

Despite the alarm sirens blaring in his head, Ty hesitates at Zach’s door.

This is important information, Ty tells himself, the kind of information Kit needs��to know. His brain hisses back: and that’s the room where he sleeps with fucking Cross. Ty’s personal dislike of Zach aside, it’s…

There’s a few degrees of separation there that can’t be kept if he sees it. Where they sleep. Where Zach can throw an arm over Kit and pull him closer, mapping out the constellations of freckles with his lips, and Ty… can’t. He’ll never be allowed to.

His throat burns with bile.

It’s true that he’s been looking away all this time. He’ll keep looking away, for his own sanity, but. What if, when the door opens, he sees them ? Together? His entire being flinches.

“Do you want me to take a look inside?” Livy offers, kindly. “See if he’s even there?”

Without the words to express it, Ty nods. She nods back, eyebrows drawn together, and disappears.

There’s a thump and a muffled curse from the inside of the room (Ty’s breath catches with the same instinct of a prey animal hearing a growl), but, when Livy sticks her head back out, she’s laughing: “It’s safe.”

The door opens with a groan.

Kit leans against the doorway, looking as soft and malleable as a well-loved stuffed animal. (Reinforced seams and all).

His hair is a mess. There are clear tracks where he’d run his fingers through, attempting and failing to tame it, one side flatter than the other. Pillow marks are pressed from nose to jaw.

He’s changed, at least; swapped the pajama pants with the cute helmet pattern for jeans, pulled on a dark gray hoodie that looks worn and comfortable under his signature jacket, sleeves clearly bunched around his elbows under the denim layer.

(That’s where the dagger is stashed, Ty knows. Cold sweat pools at his nape.)

Tugging at the fabric with his free hand, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, he gives Livy a flat look.

“I could have been naked”, Kit tells her.

A vision of pale, smooth skin flashes in front of his eyes. Ty blinks.

“Oh, no," Livy says. “A naked male body. However shall I cope.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm”, sighs Kit. With a last tug, he frees the hoodie’s sleeve and pulls it down to his wrist, rotating his hand in a stretch. “What’s up?”

Tendons pull taut under the skin of Kit’s hand, pulling at the shape of his Voyance rune and down to his arm where Ty could apply his mouth, slick against Kit’s skin, and worry at the lines with the very edges of his teeth.

“Ty?”

“I figured it out," Ty blurts out.

Kit’s eyebrows fly up, wrist pausing its rotation. His freckles grow starker against a paler face. “You figured it out?”

“The case.”

Understanding crosses Kit’s expression as his eyebrows relax back down.

“Of course you did”, Kit says, almost fondly. “Do we have to do this at seven in the morning?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Livvy nods in support, even though he hasn’t explained anything to her yet. (Ty is lucky she loves him. He has always been.)

“We need to talk, huh”, Kit muses, nearly amused. “Still, probably shouldn’t do it here. Where do you propose we hold a meeting about this shit?”

“We’ll just go deeper into the castle. It’s safer.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard that. Fine. You better know the way, though, because I sure as hell don’t.”

“Have I ever led you astray?”

“Now that,” Kit says, “feels like a metaphor.” But he steps out anyway.

The hem of Kit’s hoodie is half tucked into his jeans at the back, meaning he was probably already wearing it when he’d pulled his pants on, thighs flexing under the denim. It wasn’t a very long hoodie. Would the hair on the top of his thighs be blond, too? Darkening the thicker it grew?

“Ty?”

He blinks. “Mm?”

“Hurry, c’mon”, Kit tugs Ty’s sleeve carefully, pinching the fabric between his thumb and pointer. He kind of wishes he’d pull harder.

“What, you have somewhere to be?”

Snark or not, Kit shakes his head. He lets go of Ty’s sleeve with a grimace and takes a look over his shoulder, facing the wrong direction entirely. The bedroom door gleams.

“I just really don’t want to have to explain this to-”

“Kit? Who are you talking to?”

“-him”, Kit sighs, turning on his heel.

Zach is much more put together. Kit looks like he just got out of bed, but Zach seems like he’s been out and about for a few hours, hair combed, uniform in place, and not a single shred of the exhaustion weighing on Kit’s shoulders. Eyebags have no place in Zach’s world.

“Just talking to a friend,” Kit tells him, and a part of Ty wants to scream. “Nothing to worry about.”

If Ty has to guess, Zach looks like he’s worrying about it. “Blackthorn.”

“Cross.”

“Of course it’s fucking you. No one else in this castle is this goddamn obsessed with my boyfriend-”

“ Zach," Kit interrupts. (Even though, technically, Zach is right). “I’m just gonna step out for a bit, we can have lunch together later, okay?”

It’s the exact same tone of voice Aline and Helen use to negotiate with Tavy.

Zach crosses his arms, biceps bulging like balloons about to pop, and scowls down at the both of them. Kit meets his gaze placidly.

(A part of Ty indulges in rubbing his pointer and thumb together, imagining he’s rolling a needle or a toothpick between them. Anything sharp but ultimately small. Not really dangerous. Balloon-popping.)

“People will think the wrong thing if you keep going off and gallivanting with Blackthorn, babe, c’mon!”

Is it really the wrong thing, a part of Ty wonders; except, of course, it is.

His hands close tightly around his headphones. Ty casts his eyes down. The stones in this part of the castle look darker to the eye, stained by the kind of grime centuries of footsteps will leave on you. It’s nothing new. He starts counting stones.

Kit shrugs, something a little too casual in the arc of his shoulders, arms, down to the hands in his pockets.

“People will think the wrong thing no matter what I do.”

The scowl in Zach’s face softens slightly, but doesn’t fade. There’s a brief moment where Ty is sure it will come down to a fight, and then Kit raises an eyebrow, mouth flattening into a line, and Zach sighs.

“Fine. I will see you at lunch.”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t," Kit says, cheerfully, and makes both of them scarce before Zach can gather himself enough to reply.

Kit’s fingers form a tight band around Ty’s wrist until they turn a corner, at which point Kit lets him go and tucks his hands back into his pocket, rolling his shoulders back, and allows Ty to take the lead.

It’s an easy route. He doesn’t have to think about it much, which is on purpose. Although his spatial sense is usually very reliable, right now, his concentration is not.

“Sorry about Zach," Kit says. “He's just jealous.”

Ty blinks, a sinking, cold feeling in his stomach akin to the first step off a roof.

“Of me?”

“Y’know, the… “ Kit gestures around his collar. “Necklace thing. Sorry if he’s bothered you about that, by the way.”

“He did,'' Livy says. She still hasn’t forgiven him for that, Ty thinks.

A muscle spasms in Kit’s jaw. “Good to know.”

“Do you… w ant it b-”

“ No . No. Even protection spells aside-” Kit shakes his head, hands bunching into fists inside his pockets, opening and closing with enough force to strain at the fabric. “No, keep the necklace. He’ll just have to get over it.”

Ty lowers his head, smiling at the floor. The pendant is warm against his skin. He hooks a finger around the chain and tugs, just a little, to feel the links bite at his nape. Wishes, briefly, that it were Kit pulling on it.

Stop that, he reminds himself. We literally just talked about Zach.

Zach doesn’t get to wear Kit’s family crest, though. Ty does. He’ll always be a Blackthorn, down to his core, but.

But.

He’s always preferred animal motifs to the black thorns on his own family crest, after all.

(It’s true: A part of his brain wants the heron engraved like a brand on his skin. Wants it to scar into grooves he could thumb at, indented into his flesh. A part of him.)

Ty stops before they’re too deep in the castle, the areas where the dust is so thick every breath is a struggle, and pulls Kit into one of the cleaner rooms. At least, he’s pretty sure it’s cleaner. He doesn’t come here very often. No one does, these days.

The grime here is lighter, somehow, almost purer than the one in the most visited areas. Ty doesn’t claim to understand it. Less ichor spilled, perhaps.

It sticks to his clothes nevertheless.

“Okay,” Kit says, “you look a little nervous. What’s up?”

Is he nervous? Is that what the electric buzz under his skin is all about? It’s probably justified, right now; he feels a little like a bomb squad, if bombs could hear you talking about them and detonate faster. He assumes someone would have mentioned it if Oliver were present, but-

Paper and pen will have to suffice for now. Just in case.

Fortunately, he’s got plenty of both. Ty flips his notebook to a blank page and writes down, as clearly and precisely as possible:

I think Oliver has been lying to you.

Over his shoulder, Kit takes in a sharp intake of breath.

His mouth, pale and bitten to shreds, opens- before Kit takes another look down and closes it, lips pressing together until they’re as white as the sheets of paper beneath. A muscle in his cheek twitches.

Finally, Kit reaches out and grabs the pen. Okay. Why? and relief washes over him.

Ty flips the pages back to his notes and tries to summarize them.

It’s not an easy task.

They were competent enough to get the Scales, and then, after his death, stupid enough not to keep things organized, he explains. He hasn’t told you anything at all except for the office. I’m surprised he didn’t let you touch the door with your bare hands and just let it kill you.

Kit makes a sound deep in his throat. Heat creeping up his neck, Ty watches him through the corner of his eyes.

Would it have killed me?

Yes. It's trapped.

“Mm”, Kit says. Livy, hovering over both of them, makes a corresponding strangled noise.

Why lie to me specifically, then? His hand is shaky. If Oliver was their leader, why would they have sent his dagger to the London Institute. It makes no sense if they didn’t know he’s a ghost now, and even less sense if they do.

Ty shakes his head, chewing on the cap of his pen. I’m not sure yet. Can I see yesterday’s pictures?

Wrinkling his nose, Kit tugs at one of the pockets in his jeans until his phone comes loose. He types in his password- an actual password, not fingerprint or face recognition, which Ty approves of- and taps on the gallery app before handing it over.

“Here you go," he says, voice weird. Kit’s face scrunches up and he buries his face in his elbow, a sneeze wracking his body. “You guys really should clean this place, fuck’s sake-”

The code on the photos is crystal clear once zoomed in. It’s not the easiest level of shadowhunter coding, which would have been surprising yesterday, but makes a little more sense now.

Ty sits on the floor, notebook and pen in hand, and gets to it.

“It’s really not worth it most of the time," he admits. “The castle is too big for that.”

“Still. I feel like I’m getting diseases that haven’t even been invented yet.”

Ty frowns down at the half finished sentence on the page, pen’s cap held between his teeth. “Diseases aren’t invented.” he says, muffled. “ At least, not most of them. You’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Livy adds.

“I’m sorry, have we met-”

The bickering fades into the background. His teeth close around the pen’s cap, digging into the plastic as he reorganizes letters: FH seems to be a common thread, having even been written uncoded on the margins once or twice, as is Puppet King . Kieran, maybe? Were they planning to accuse him of being manipulated?

Hard plastic cracks under pressure. Ty spits it out and keeps reading, a taste of copper on his tongue.

O.K, which he’d initially interpreted as the word, is now clearly a reference to Oliver Konman. It fits better now. O.K has given permission for the first phase of the plan, it reads, although he claims it’s against his better judgment. N.J [Noah Jones? Ty wonders] thinks we’re ready.

They hadn’t been. The next page is charred at the corner. Experiment failed. O.K is- and a large blot of ink, as though someone had held the pen tightly enough for it to explode.

New rumors of poltergeist movement in Devon, reads the next one, in a bubblier handwriting. It’s not the real thing, but it’s convincing. Just like our candidate. Z.C is as malleable as ever, and H.A doesn’t foresee any issues with using him as bait.

FH ready for harvest.

“Ty? Are you okay?”

Blinking down at the pages, he writes his own note. They wanted Kit.

For a long moment, all Ty can hear is the uneven tempo of his own heart.

Her eyes leaving the page, Livy turns to look at him with a pale hand over her mouth, half through a wall. Even though there are no windows and no wind, the skirt of her dress lashes out behind her like a computer glitch.

“What do you mean,” Kit says flatly.

Ty hesitates. He really doesn’t want to have to convey all this in writing. “Are we sure Oliver isn’t here right now?”

“That sounds like a bad start to a seance," Kit rubs a hand, hard, against the concave of his orbit. Hard enough that, for just a moment, Ty fears the pressure of his palm will pop the eye beneath. “Fuck. Okay. I mean, I can’t see him, so probably not?”

That is a very good indicator towards “no", if even Livy hasn’t been able to fully hide from Kit. He still doesn’t feel like risking it. “Can you hand me the dagger?”

Kit nods, his hand floating over the hilt of his own knife for a moment before digging into his jacket’s inner pocket. It takes a few seconds. The impression is of a very stuffed pocket, which Ty isn’t sure what to make of.

Their fingers brush in a shock of heat.

A part of Ty had expected the sheath to be colder than it should be. It’s not. The cube is, however; Ty’s grateful for the gloves he’d kept when he shoves the dagger inside its new prison. It just barely fits. The hilt is a little bit scratched, but it shouldn’t matter, not really.

“If it can keep the Scales contained even after the implosion," Ty explains, closing it with a soft click, “it will probably work fine as a temporary ghost container.”

Livy tilts her head. “Like a lead box.”

“Or those vacuum machines in Ghostbusters," Kit agrees, and nods at Ty. “ Very well done, Sherlock. Jail, jail for traitorous ghost. Now that we don’t have to have this conversation through text messages, go on.”

A little to his own surprise, and against his own better judgment, Ty finds that he’s smiling.

“The Scales are supposed to be able to tell who the true Heir is," he flips through the pages, ignoring Kit’s sharp intake of air. “We know it backfired, it killed their leader O.K-”

“Okay?”

“No, O.K , like the initials for-”

“Oliver Konman."

Ty nods up at him. “He thought they weren’t ready, and he was right. The backlash was too severe, that’s why so many ghosts acted up, it wasn’t meant to affect them. They had to run damage control, that’s why the dagger was sent to London. It was…”

“Bait," Kit mumbles.

“They must’ve known you were going to investigate.”

Back against the wall, Kit slowly slides down to the floor. His face is white.

“That’s why they sent Zach, of all people.” Kit puts his head in his hands. “They knew he was going to bother my friends. Heather has the ghost reports- she must have known I was helping there, that I wasn’t just going to stand by. What, did they think I’d forgive him if he was just handsome enough?”

“I mean," Livy says. “Didn’t you?”

Kit’s mouth opens and closes. “It’s… complicated.”

It’s probably not the time to ask for elaboration, but by the Angel, does Ty want to.

“The Scales were meant to find the true heir. But it didn’t work, so they had to work out a replacement. Someone they could put on the throne without a war breaking out. Someone they could control.”

“A puppet king.”

“Not the actual First Heir, that they couldn’t be sure of finding; but someone convincing. Someone whose ancestry had already been hiding unexpected blood.”

Livy chews on the skin of her thumb. “Kit.” Then: “Christopher Herondale.”

At first, Ty assumes it’s a sob.

He’s sent his notebook spinning across the floor, already half up on one knee, when he realizes that the reason why Kit’s shoulders are shaking so violently;

the reason why he keeps gasping for air, breaths almost painful to hear-

-is because he’s laughing.

Dropping back onto his heel, Ty stares. “... Kit?”

Still laughing, he bends forward until his forehead touches the ground between his knees, hands tugging hard at his hair. His knuckles are white.

“ FH," every syllable sounds like it could be his last gasp of air. “ First Heir. Of fucking course, it’s a compelling story! The lost heir, back in place! A fucking Aragorn-”

“ Kit, I need you to breathe.”

Ty itches to lean forward, breathe it into his lungs himself. Instead, he hovers; uniquely useless as Kit falls apart in front of him. The buzz is over. A weight sinks in his stomach instead.

“They just never thought. Zach as bait, right, that’s why they were so nice to me, they wanted me to…”

“Kit. Kit, please tell me how to help you.”

Shaking his head, Kit sinks deeper into a fetal position. “It’s not- it’s not worth it- I’m-," the word chokes him out, air too precious to waste, shoulders rising. His entire body is shaking, shaking, shaking, visible even through the layers of clothing.

Ty walks on his knees to him.

“Kit," he says carefully, “Please tell me how I can help you. Please.”

A heartbeat. Two. And then-

-Kit’s hand, outstretched.

Unsure, Ty grasps between his own. It seems to do the trick: Kit’s body relaxes, just slightly, as his hand squeezes Ty’s hard enough to grind the bones together. Ty looks up at Livy. She shrugs at him, her eyes still wide. Fingers shake underneath his own.

He squeezes Kit’s hand back.

“That’s good," Ty tries to gentle his tone. “Can you try and breathe with me?”

“I can’t- I don’t-”

Hesitantly, Ty pulls Kit’s hand up and presses it against his own chest. It rises and falls with the rhythm beneath. “Is this better?”

A minuscule nod. Ty exhales, relief deliberately drawn out:

“Thank you.”

The hand in his twitches, just a little, as Kit scoots over (head never quite raising enough for Ty to see his face-) and lays his forehead on Ty’s thigh. The warmth of his skin is scorching.

It feels precious, somehow, like a moment that should be caught in amber. The weight and shape of Kit’s skull against his flesh. Fingers wrapped tight around his own. The vulnerability of an exposed nape. Ty curls in on himself, too, bringing Kit’s hand up to his lips. The Voyance rune under his mouth.

“Is this better?” He asks, ever so gently.

With a long, shaky exhale of his own, Kit nods. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

Kit shakes his head, rubbing his forehead against the fabric of Ty’s pants. “I don’t know. For-For needing you to calm me down?”

“You’ve done this for me before. You still would, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then let me do the same for you”, Ty says.

A tiny huff. “I guess. It’s just-” Kit raises his head, sitting up. There are no tears tracks in his face, but his eyes are wide, the sunken bags underneath darker than ever. His lips spasm. “-I’m such a fucking idiot. Of course I did exactly what they wanted me to.”

Slowly, Ty squeezes his hand. Pink tints Kit’s face.“You didn’t.”

“I’m literally right where they want me.”

“Kit," Ty repeats, gently. “No, you’re not. Look around. Where are you?”

Nervous eyes dart around the room. Kit tugs at his own hair to move his head, holding it up instead of moving it naturally:

“The Scholomance?”

“The heart of the Scholomance, with Livy and I, surrounded by coded pages you figured out how to copy.”

“You’re the one who actually figured out the code.”

“Yes. I’m not saying you did this alone. I’m saying that I- that we could’ve only figured things out together.” Ty leans forward. “Even the Scales. I couldn’t have picked the lock. Kit, do you think they planned for you to know this? For you to help me figure them out?”

Slowly, Kit shakes his head. Ty nods.

“They never even thought it could happen, so you’re not where they want you. All we need is something to conclusively link them to these papers and they’re done. Thanks to you. ”

Kit blinks.

“They underestimated us, huh," he says weakly, rubbing at his face with a hand. Ty’s fingers twitch. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks, Ty. That really helped.”

“I’m glad," Ty says earnestly. A rush of color paints Kit’s ears.

(Pink, he knows now, looks prettier when framed by a constellation of freckles. He wonders how it would taste on the flat of his tongue.)

Kit shifts to stretch out his legs, leaning his head back against the wall. There are layers of dust on his sweatpants, turning the fabric covering his calves much darker and greyer than on his thighs, but he doesn’t seem very bothered by it.

The ungainly sprawl of his limbs is a picture Ty wishes he could capture.

“Do you think…” Livy interrupts herself. She twists her hands together, chewing on her lip.

They both jolt upward. Rolling his head against the wall, Kit looks at her:

“Fuck, I forgot you were- Yeah?”

“Do you think Zach knows about this?”

The cold thrill of excitement pokes its ugly head from underneath Ty’s ribs. Real life isn’t like that, he tells himself firmly, but hope unfurls still.

Pensive, Kit stretches one of his legs until the toe of his shoes poke Ty in the thigh. He captures it there, curling a hand around Kit’s ankle, keeps it safely tucked against his leg. Kit’s skin is warm. He could map out his bones by touch alone.

“No," Kit muses. “I don’t think so. He's not really good at lying. I think they just knew him well enough to know it would work.”

“Why are you dating him anyway? He’s an asshole.”

“Language," Kit says. Livy shows him the middle finger, which he laughs at. “I don’t know. Do I need a reason?”

Shifting in place, Ty traps Kit’s foot under his thigh. It struggles once, twice, until it’s in a more comfortable position; and then goes still and placid under his weight. The shadow of a smile graces Kit’s face.

Ty clears his throat, suddenly feeling a little hoarse:

“Livy is right. You deserve better than him.”

“Do I?” Kit wonders absentmindedly. “I guess. He’s nice to me.”

To his own surprise, Ty is already leaning forward again, the hand on Kit’s ankle sliding up his leg and curving over his knee. Kit blinks, eyes wide. He doesn’t pull away.

“Kit. You deserve better than nice," Ty tells him, so earnest it borders on anger. “You deserve to be happy. Every time I see you two together, it’s like… It’s like you’re not even there. There’s only this version of you that’s never… That’s never really you . It’s this you that just always says what he wants to hear. I hate that. You should be with someone who...” Ty makes a noise deep in his throat. “Who never wants you to feel like you need to be anything but yourself.”

“Aren’t I your Watson,” Kit mumbles.

Somewhere, Livy chokes. Ty squeezes his leg.

“That’s different. All you need to do for that is- be there. Listen to me. I don’t- I don’t want you to be anyone else. It’s a function, not a role. You are my…” You’re my Kit, he wants to say. “You are my best friend.”

The way Kit is looking at him now, a muscle jumping under his palm…

Ty doesn’t have the words for that. In a hundred years, braced over a thousand dictionaries, he wouldn’t be able to describe it.

He wishes he could. He wishes he could bottle it up and keep it close to his heart, cradled between his lungs, in that safest of places beneath his bones. They’d have to kill him to get it. They’d have to break him apart.

Finally, Kit lays his feverish hand over Ty’s. All their fingers overlap.

“Thank you,” he says. ““I think I have a plan.”

Notes: For anyone confused by the timeline: - The conspiracy begins. Mayhew, Ashworth, and Noah Jones are involved. Oliver is the leader. - Oliver finds and takes the Death's Scales, seemingly with the objective of using it to find the First Heir, which they aimed to use as a puppet king in Fairyland. A bloodless coup. - The Scales implode, therefore killing Oliver and affecting the ghosts, such that Livy could feel it in LA. - Poltergeist levels rise. - The remaining centurions decide that a fake First Heir will do, and that Kit is the prime candidate. - They send Zach with the official goal of dealing with a poltergeist, but actually there in order to serve as bait for Kit. Zach is seemingly unaware of this. - It works. - Except, as Ty says... it doesn't.

#alex wont shut up #kit herondale #tda #kit x ty #ty blackthorn #twp #zach au #alex's arty: writing

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