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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR SIXTEEN

in which you and eddie take some time to figure each other out in the afterglow of honesty.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 2.7k+

masterlist.

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◁ previous part, next part▷

16:00 ──────────ㅇ───── 24:00

HOUR SIXTEEN - 7:00 AM

Eddie’s favorite color is red. He likes his coffee with an obscene amount of sugar and creamer, which always leads to a regrettable stomach ache. He learned to play guitar on an acoustic six string handed down to him by his uncle, and he’s completely self taught beyond what his uncle taught him about basic notes. And his uncle’s name is Wayne. He refers to the man that raised him as Uncle Wayne.

Honesty turns out to be quite the beautiful thing in the morning light, and for the first time, you feel as though you’re truly getting to know Eddie.

It’s a give and take, an even exchange of bits and pieces of each other that are handed over without much thought. You finally have a clearer picture of the man you’ve spent the last fifteen hours straight with. A full photograph in time of who he is, who he really is, in a way that you wouldn’t have been able to fathom a week before. And it’s ironic, looking back on your relationship’s progression with him, the way you two keep skipping over steps before retracing to what was missed. How ironic you’ve let him see you at your most primal and vulnerable, but you’ve just learned his favorite color.

Eddie Munson isn’t a dick. He’s kind, he’s a huge goddamn nerd, he can be funny sometimes, his favorite color is red, but he isn’t a dick as you’ve been led to believe he was this last year.

Well, maybe led isn’t the right word. Everyone told you he wasn’t a dick. You just never listened.

Eddie’s just revealed his favorite movie genre as horror when you’re leaning forward, elbows pressing into your thighs as you ask him with a grin, “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“Very funny reference,” he deadpans, barely keeping his face straight as he jokingly narrows his eyes, “Especially considering it’s the Scream franchise.”

You still haven’t brought up that question of why exactly he fought for your honor after that fight. His grand reveal left you with more confusion than you ever could have anticipated, and more than this fragile friendship could handle this early in the morning. So you’d buried it down, somewhere deep inside, for the sake of the friendship.

“You can’t just say an entire franchise. Pick a favorite one, idiot.”

Friendship. Was that what this was? When was the last time one of your friends had seen you naked, or ate you out atop a kitchen counter?

“The first one. You can’t beat the classic.”

You fight your smile in a similar fashion that he is. Mirroring joy, mirroring surprise, “You’re definitely only saying that for the whole homoerotic friendship between Stu and Billy.”

“Oh, I definitely am,” he doesn’t even try to deny it as he cracks and laughs softly, “What about you?”

Even after nearly an hour of doing this, going back and forth and learning about each other, the novelty of Eddie genuinely asking you things about yourself hasn’t worn off. The curiosity that lights in his eyes, the way he leans into you to hear each word clearly – it makes you question if this was the same man who had once been so cruel.

“My favorite scary movie? I… don’t have one,” you lean back into your chair, a small huff of air escaping you from impact.

There’s two mugs of coffee on the small garden table between your chairs, having gone cold long since Eddie retrieved them for the two of you. That had been when he’d earnestly told you about his coffee preference – he’d been sweetly shy about the ordeal, bashful as he looked down at the mugs and informed you he’d tried to only put a normal amount of cream in yours, only a little bit of sugar. It had been so endearing, the way that when you asked what he meant by normal and he’d only murmured his confession of how he took his morning caffeine over the mug’s lip, you nearly caved into yourself.

“That’s impossible. No way. Absolutely not,” Eddie is animated as he waves his hands around wildly in front of him, shaking his head furiously at your answer, “I refuse to believe you don’t have a favorite scary movie, especially considering you quoted an iconic franchise. If you can quote Scream, you can tell me what your favorite is-”

You interrupt him with laughter, scrunching up your face, “Okay, first of all- Eddie, hey,” he’s still rambling, still being terribly dramatic in the flailing of his arms, so you reach over to grip the forearm closest to you. All his movements immediately cease as his eyes widen, staring directly at you in an oddity of shock, “First of all, it’s just common knowledge of pop culture. I’ve never even seen those movies,” you’re not sure if Eddie is breathing as your hand remains still tightly clasped against his forearm, and you’re not sure why he wouldn’t be, “Second of all, I’m a wimp. Scary movies might be my least favorite kind of movie, right behind apocalyptic action movies.”

When he takes a sudden deep breath, you realize he had been holding his breath, “Apocalyptic action movies?”

You begin to explain, to list examples, and you never once take your hand off his arms. You rattle off a list – 2012, The Day After Tomorrow, San Andrea’s Fault, etc. – all the while feeling his pulse race beneath his warm skin. All the while selfishly enjoying the contact, wondering how long it might take staying like this before your fingertips would mold to him. Maybe they’d eventually melt into his arm, skin molten together so that where he ends and where you begin is impossible to distinguish. A closeness with him that you had never craved so ardently before tonight, before today.

“So, doomsday movies,” he hums after you give your examples. If you were smart, you’d let go of him. It’s been too long for the contact to be brushed off as normal, “Does that mean you also hate zombie movies?”

“Nope. Those are an entirely different thing.”

“I wouldn’t say they’re entirely different.”

“They are. They’re completely unrealistic! San Andrea’s Fault… sort of… well, it could happen.”

“They’re not completely unrealistic. Some of them almost have, like, legit science behind them.”

You hadn’t even noticed that he scooted his chair closer. Or the slip of his arm in your loosening grasp, leading your hand until it rests against his wrist, so close to holding onto his own hand that rests palm up against his thigh in wait.

An offering.

“There is no logical way that one day, our world is going to turn into a real-life Walking Dead situation,” you say, trying to steady your breathing.

You won’t make the first move.

He’s leading this moment. If he wants to hold your hand, then he can take that final leap of faith.

“Have you actually seen The Walking Dead, or are you just blindly making pop culture references again?”

You can feel the thrill of his heartbeat pick up in the center of his wrist before he does it. With subtle movements, his wrist slips between your fingertips.

Only for them to be recaptured by his own knuckles. The dust settles. The warmth spreads. Your palm is pressed to his palm, your fingers interlocked between his fingers.

“I have seen that one,” you tell him quietly, looking down at your conjoined hands. His eyes are also downcast to them. The tendon in his wrist flexes as he tightens his grip on your hand, the small squeeze becoming more sure. It’s not an accident; this was never an accident.

It’s in the hair you notice on his forearm, wispy and blonde and almost comical in contrast to the dark curls that grow from his scalp. A layer of fuzz that covers alabaster skin dotted in rare and faded freckles, nearly invisible unless you look closely enough. You can see the tan line across his wrist from where he would normally wear a watch. If you follow the details further up his arm, away from the wrist now awkwardly pressed against yours in a twist, you can see the faded blue-black ink of his tattoos. That flock of bats, the most faded of his numerous additions to his skin, taunts you. You’ve already known him up close and personal in the last few hours, felt him flush against you and memorized the way his body was capable of pressing into yours, but it’s in these details that the ache arises. The sadness that you’ve never known him quite this personally before this moment, and the fear that you never will again.

An ache all because he’s let you close enough to learn the details of his skin – what a marvelous thing.

“That’s a miracle,” he mutters, fully entranced as he rubs the pad of his thumb across the top of your fingers. You’re quick to return the motion; his knuckles are far more rough than yours, and you try to count the groves in them, from long weeks no doubt, all in that brief swipe, “Or else I would have had to have insisted upon ending this lovely honesty hour, and subjecting you to a marathon.”

“We can still have a marathon.”

You’d do just about anything to remain in this position, to stay this impossibly close to him. You’re selfish and you’re clingy, squeezing his hand a little bit tighter as he had done to you, as if the grip on it reflects your grip on the moment. You can’t let it go – you can’t let him go.

No matter how you have had him, no matter how long he sits in this golden hour with his hand in yours, it will never be enough. This sudden and abruptly-arriving ache is incurable.

You want him, you need him, you bloom for him.

There’s something in his smirk as he awkwardly uses his freehand to bring his mug of too-sweet coffee to his lips that almost whispers that there’s a chance: he also wants you, he also needs you, he also blooms for you.

And so you tell him about yourself in turn. You don’t just stop at your distaste for horror or your fear of doomsday movies. You tell him how you don’t have a favorite color, how you switch it up too often and all he can do is chuckle at your indecisiveness. Once, an insecurity – now something silly to find amusement in at his side. You reveal to him your coffee preference; you take it with a normal amount of cream and just a little bit of sugar. You don’t reveal to him that before today, you’d always turned your nose up to hot coffee, an iced coffee connoisseur. Something in the sparkle of his eyes warns that he might already know. You don’t play any instruments, but you have a list of songs for him to learn, insisting that someday he’d have to play them for you on that guitar his Uncle Wayne gave him. (You can’t think too much on the way you’re once more speaking in some days with him. Your heart might burst if you do.)

You try to bare your soul, to stare down the barrel of honesty, just as he had. It’s scarier than you could have imagined. Finally, after fifteen hours, you get it.

You get it, and it only makes you squeeze his hand tighter.

At some point, he notices the way the sun is warming both of you with each passing minute, palms now sweaty against each other as he asks, “Do you want to go back inside?”

No. I want to live in this moment for the rest of my days. “We can if you want to.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Tell me what you want. You constantly do that with everyone else, you know. Let them make the decisions,” he’s smiling softly, eyes squinted against the sun now rising high in the sky, “I can’t even count the amount of times you’ve said that to Nancy on both hands. Which, I mean, awesome – Nance fuckin’ loves being the decision-maker. But we’re talking about me. You’ve never been shy about butting heads with me.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Quite the sudden high horse, Mr. Honesty.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “Well, it’s honesty hour. So, here’s more honesty – I love when you give me a run for my money. Who else is going to tell me to shut the fuck up when I’m on track to ramble for hours about Lord of the Rings?”

“You want to talk honesty? I would only tell you to shut up because I might have blown my cover and you’d realize I actually enjoyed your company.”

The soft smile widens, more shameless and more radiant, “Coulda fooled me.”

“I did fool you,” you tease, and your hand slips from his, but the warmth left behind doesn’t. It’s buried deep in your bones now.

Things will never return to normal, not for you. It isn’t a bad thing – it’s only a sure thing.

“For what it’s worth…” he pauses, that smile faltering. “I enjoyed your company far more than I ever let on, too.”

Is that why you fought for me, after fighting against me?

He doesn’t let you reply, instead smacking both of his now free palms against his thighs as he moves to stand, “Anyways, I actually do happen to want to go inside,” he gestures to those faded swirls of tattoos across his biceps and forearms, “I don’t expose myself to too much sun for obvious reasons.”

“Reasons being you’re a vampire?” you tease.

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, “Yes, it’s definitely because I’m a vampire and not because of these sick tatties.”

“Calling those abominations sick is pushing it,” you playfully counter as you scoot to the edge of the seat of the chair, unsticking your thighs from plastic, “And I knew it. Your skin is practically glittering like diamonds, Edward.”

He scowls. “So Twilight is off the marathon line up.”

He sticks out a hand, the same one you had clung to for most of your conversation with each other. You don’t take it immediately.

“There’s going to be a marathon?”

“You’ve got something better to do?”

The thought of cuddling up with him on the couch has your heart pounding. Honestly, the couch would now remain tainted for the rest of your days. You might even continue to avoid showing up to his apartment just to avoid flushing red any time you see one of your friends take a seat on the spot he once took you on, had pressed into you as your knees had dug into those cushions, as you had moaned his na-

You had to stop thinking about it before he noticed your thighs pressing together tightly.

“For the record,” he says, hand still extended, unwavering as the sun forms an aura of gold around his outline, “Honesty hour doesn’t have to end when we go inside. From here on out, I actually insist that it be on the table. One of the perks of being my friend, I suppose.”

Those are the magic words. You don’t need to immediately know why he fought for you, or why he really led you to believe he hated you for so long. You don’t need to know why he kissed you and you don’t need to know why he’d changed his tune so suddenly the first night you two met. All you needed to know was that if you wanted to know, if you ever find the guts to ask him about these things, he would tell you.

You reach out and take his hand.

Immediately, he pulls you comically hard out of your chair. When you fumble directly into his chest, he’s already chuckling and wrapping his arms around your waist to steady you.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, pulling back and glaring up at him without any true venom, “Eager much?”

“Very,” he boyishly grins down at you and your heart skips a beat.

Eagerly, wildly, suddenly, comfortingly – he now occupies a space in your brain you weren’t aware existed. It almost whispers I was always here, always waiting for him.

The two of you don’t waste any time as he tugs you inside, the promise of a movie marathon awaiting the two of you.

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

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#twenty four hours #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #sorry if it sucks #please be kind and if you're disappointed... do not tell me for the sake of my mental health haha

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cinnamontoastcrunch-15 · 2 months

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Today's @wolfstarmicrofic prompt is lovesick!

(331 words.)

Euphemia knows her boys.

James has always been easy to read. The boy takes after his father, with the way he can't hide the emotions on his face. Not only that, but he's not one for secrets. He'll talk to Effie about anything, and she's pretty sure she knows him better than she knows herself.

Sirius is a little more difficult, but she thinks she's getting there. He spent years of his life forced to conceal every real aspect of himself, so he reveals his emotions through miniscule glances, a hand twitch, pressing his lips into a thin line.

She's beginning to learn his language, doing little things to make sure he knows how welcome he is in the house. She'll ask him to clear the table, or help her in the garden, his face brightening ever so slightly every time. Everyone watches him relax into their family and slowly begin to open up. He won't become an open book overnight, but she thinks she's getting pretty good at reading him.

It's the four of them over the summer that prove her right.

Remus and Peter are over for the week, sitting out in the garden on the second day. Effie's washing dishes the muggle way, unwinding, watching the four from the window. The sky's darkening as James and Peter get up and walk away, leaving Remus and Sirius alone.

Remus says something, and, well, the boy is funny, but not funny enough to warrant the laughter that overcomes her son. His whole face turns red, a grin on his face. It throws her for a moment, until Remus rolls his eyes and gives Sirius a playful shove. Sirius turns back to face him with a look that Euphemia can place with ease. It's the look on James' face every time he mentions Lily, on her own the day Fleamont proposed to her. One that Effie can only describe as lovesick.

Oh.

Sirius is in love. That much she's sure of.

#i missed effie #i needed to write her again #for the sake of my mental health #also more teenage wolfstar xoxo #wolfstar #sirius black #wolfstar oneshot #marauders #remus lupin #remus x sirius #young marauders #moony x padfoot #atyd marauders #marauders oneshot

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ceramicteapot · 1 year

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Somedays, it’s easy to be full of energy. It’s easy to leave your sheets, brush your teeth, pick out an outfit, call your mother. You’d switch your laptop on, open a document for school or work, and boom, time dilutes and dissolves. Hours go by and even if you did not get too much done, you know you tried.

But what about the days when it doesn’t happen? What about when you cancel plans with a friend to check out that cafe they were interested in just because you’re bone tired? You didn’t do much physically, you just are.

And how do you explain that to your friend?

What about the days you mindlessly scroll down your social media even when the lines on your forehead spell out deadlines? How do you feel?

Personally, I am consumed by guilt on such days. Feelings of being insufficient, of “wasting away” my days settle in my gut and refuse to leave. I’d like to know if you feel that way too.

If you do, you’re not alone. We always talk about our accolades, the merit we made for ourselves, the hilltop we conquered, the fort we acquired. Let’s talk a bit about the steps we missed, the peaks we couldn’t see, the time we let slip from in between our fingers, just because it could slip. Just because we wouldn’t stop it. Just because it wouldn’t stop for us either.

Pause with me for a bit. Fill up your lungs with a long breath that I know you haven’t taken in a while. Listen to me.

You are worthy, even if all you did today was get out of bed.

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thedickgraysons · 16 days

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i dont have all of the words for it right now but there's something so gross about the way sjm chose to handle tamlin's trauma and his responses to being triggered post acotar. and it's not the fact that she writes it at all, but the way the narrative beats you over the head with the fact that tamlin was Wrong for being harassed by amarantha and not giving her what she wanted, Wrong for being affected by it, and then he was Wrong for not pushing feyre's clear boundaries (her insistence to not speak about what happen UTM) when that is a trigger for the both of them.

tamlin's not sleeping in the bed as a beast as he is also incredibly traumatized after being utm, its framed as him being possessive. he doesn't insist feyre keep her powers secret and not come with him to hunt beasts because he had just watched her die, its because he's controlling. there's no addressing of how feyre was using him sexually as much as he was indulging in her, because the fact of the matter is they were on a path of mutual self-destruction.

then there is his and nesta's fandom and canon vilification and over-criticism because their responses to their trauma are "ugly." the lack of empathy their characters in particular draw. the narrative (rhysand's) insistence that nesta needs to get on her knees and spend the foreseeable future Atoning while tamlin can never make up for his actions.

the justification of the ic forcing themselves onto nesta. the fandom insistence that its rehab when they need to assert control over her, but she can leave at any time when someone points out that rehab centers dont let the therapists sleep with their patients. the gross fandom theory about amarantha being tamlin's mate and how he went "crazy" after the mountain because of it.

all of it reeks of both the 'perfect victim' theory and victim blaming

#acotar critical #pro tamlin #pro nesta archeron #sjm critical #rhysand critical #so apparently i do have the words for it #but also im going to want to rant about this later so im leaving it open ended #the fact of the matter is my god sjm can NOT write mental health without demonizing what she cant romanticize #and the fandom feeds into it #its genuinely so concerning

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mediumgayitalian · 1 month

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At around half past one, Nico gets a Feeling.

He gets feelings a lot. Nothing he can quantify, just something telling him that something is up, somethings wrong. Or something’s about to be. At this point, he’s learned to trust his intuition, based purely on the number of times it has saved his life; a number he’s long since given up counting. (He’s only ignored his gut feelings three times in his life: when Bianca went on her quest, when his father promised not to hurt Percy before the Titan War, and when he went looking for the Doors. He has learned his lesson.)

So when something at the bottom of his stomach tells him to get up, to check things out — he does.

He knows it could be nothing. (The last time he had a Feeling, it turned out that he had placed a book precariously on the edge of his desk, and it had been about to fall. Not exactly world-saving stuff.) But regardless, he steps out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and creeps out of his cabin.

Camp is kind of beautiful at night.

There’s an eerie calmness to it without so many human disasters running about, and the quiet reflects that. All Nico can really hear is the hooting of owls in the distance, the chittering of nocturnal animals and monsters alike, the distant screeches of curfew harpies, and the pleasant crashing of the waves. The air is clean, when he inhales, and he takes the time to hold it in his lungs for a bit, imagining the sweet breath is healing his burned lungs, turning the scar tissue back to something flexible and normal. Whether or not it actually works, he doesn’t know, but it feels nice.

Under the light of the brightly shining new moon and billions of stars, he starts his patrol. Around his own cabin first — there’s nothing, as he expected, the warning doesn’t seem overwhelming like threats tend to be — and then he makes his way around the circuit, checking behind gardens and shrines and inside braziers. He hums quietly as he walks, something preppy and bright the Apollo kids have been hollering for days, and waves to Lady Hestia, sword heavy at his waist.

“Come sit,” she calls, patting the seat next to her.

Nico does.

“Haven’t seen you out at night in a while.”

He hums, toneless this time, leaning back on his hands and mirroring her gaze at the sky.

“Been sleeping, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiles, knowing that she means it. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she picks up his sword, sliding it from his belt loop, and uses it to stoke the flames. She doesn’t seem afraid of it, or wary. To her it’s just a stick of metal. It’s nice.

“You have you been, my Lady?”

She pokes at the embers a few more times, scooping a few to balance at the tip of the blade for a while. It glows with the heat, and he knows he’ll have to sharpen it tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind. Maybe he can do it while Will is in the archery range. It’ll give him an excuse to be at the armoury at the same time, anyway.

“I’ve been well.” She breathes deeply, small smile pulling at her face. “It’s calmer, and more people wave to me. I like it.”

“Good.”

She dismisses him a few minutes later, sending him off with a promise to chat again soon. She doesn’t need to worry about him promising — he makes a point to sit with her at least once a week — but it’s nice to know someone wants his company, so he appreciates it. He leaves with a wave, walking towards the eastern half of the cabins.

Nothing’s amiss. He can hear campers snoring, and see the odd reading light. Malcolm catches his eye as he walks past the Athena cabin and winks, sending a cheeky salute when he sees the sword held loosely in his hands. So far, everything seems fine. He’s beginning to think the Feeling might have simply been about Lady Hestia, so he decides to do one last check around the Big House and then head back.

Of course, that’s where the issue is.

The infirmary lights are always on. They’re dimmer in the night, more of a glow than anything, but there’s an extra brightness streaming out from the windows, and when Nico peeks inside, he sees Will, standing with his back turned at the nurse’s station.

He takes a moment to check his strength, making sure he has the energy for it — dinner last night was pho and he had three bowls, he most definitely does — and sinks into the shadows by the door. He materializes back in the little alcove by the bandage & wraps cabinet, lurking silently while he blinks the dizziness away.

The first thing he registers is soft singing.

He’s facing Will, now, and can see the glow coming from his hands, enveloping a bowl of some kind. He has both hands coated in some dusky pink substance, massaging and gently pounding it against the sides of the bowl, working it through with great care. As his voice gets higher, the glow gets brighter, fading as he dips lower. He sings something about hills and meadows and the breeze, about wing-song, about the sound of flower stems bending in the wind. For a while Nico stands, listening to the melodious ancient Greek, swaying with every pitch and hold. It’s captivating.

Will is almost haunting when he heals.

There’s a divinity in him — in all of them — but he glows when he sings. Not just his hands, and sometimes his head if he puts enough power in his words, but there’s an almost shimmer to the air around him, a shining warp. His skin gets clearer, and his hair goes more metallic, almost, like spun gold rather than blonde. His freckles make his skin into an inverse replica of the night sky, dark specks surrounded by bright empty between them. His long fingers pluck through bright strands of light like a harpist strums their chords; lightly, carefully, skillfully; like a braider weaves their hair. There’s an undeniable age to his magic, a practice that’s visibly replicated millions of times over thousands of years, as if every healer who has come before him links their arms with his, breathes their strength in his lungs. Sometimes, when he does something truly unbelievable, amazingly beyond reason, he flickers — his orange camp shirt fades into a white chiton, or long robes, or a white coat, or a blue tunic. Watching him heal is like watching the sunrise — breathtaking and unique, every time, but powerful in its cyclic archaism.

It takes Nico a long time to realise Will is swaying.

Snapped out of his trance, he begins to notice Will’s long, slow blinks, the unsteady way he stands, the weight he has leaned on the counter. Even his face looks plainly exhausted under the glow, face pillow-creased and eyes bruised, hair mussed, limbs leaden. Footsteps as silent as he can manage, Nico creeps over to the schedule posted by the door, scanning through the scrawled pen ink.

He curses quietly. Will is not supposed to be awake.

There are really only three people who can work the infirmary to its fully capacity, barring Chiron. Kayla, Austin, and Will are the only ones who can magically heal, as much as the volunteers are imperative, so when the camp is in full swing one of them must be stationed at all times. That’s how Will sets it up. A bit of a waste of time, he acknowledges, but Nico knows he has memorized every time a camper who should have been saved. He carries far too much guilt to ever let it happen again, as inconvenient as his rules may be.

Night shift, though, is a need-be basis. If the infirmary is as empty as it is right now, then there truly is no need to keep one of the three of them awake outside their circadian rhythm, staring at nothing. Instead, they take shifts in the on-call room — asleep, but prepared should anything go wrong, should a monster chase a new camper at an odd hour. It’s Will’s turn for on-call. It’s two in the morning. He should be asleep.

And, yet.

Nico recognizes the look in his eyes. There’s a — frailty, to them, a deep-seated, animalistic fear, one he recognises from the hours after his own night terrors. A single-minded panic that cannot be unseated in any logical way, cannot be comforted with any gentle hands.

Nico handles his fear with slashing swords and bruised knuckles. Will, he knows, handles his fear with obsessive, endless preparation.

Knowing full well nothing is going to drag him away from his focus bar actual cardiac arrest, Nico walks right by him. Will doesn’t move. He settles behind him in the old, creaky leather office chair, curling his legs under him and resting his head on the soft arm. He watches Will, watches the almost machine-like movement to his kneading arms, and falls back asleep to his humming.

———

“…Nico?”

He wakes up warm and a little cramped, in the same position he fell asleep. Sun is streaming on from the many issues, blocked from burning his eyes by Will’s hunched frame, facing towards him now, hands and shoulders shaking with equal violence.

“What time is it?”

His voice is croaky and wrecked from hours of singing. Nico is willing to bet his throat is burned as badly as his hands, cooked from non-stop, sun-borne glowing. The divinity that had emanated from him before has abandoned him and he looks young, lost.

“Early,” Nico says softly. He unfolds himself from the chair, stretching slightly — gods, he is going to ache today — and wraps a slow, careful hand around Will’s wrists. “Probably around six, if I have to guess.”

“I don’t remember waking up.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s okay.”

His breathing is heavy, laboured.

“I don’t —”

Nico squeezes gently. “It’s okay, Will.”

Will swallows and says nothing.

“Come on.”

Carefully, letting Will’s stiff joints set the pace, Nico guides him out of the infirmary. The sun shines brighter as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice bar a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch at the change in lighting. Nico switches from holding his wrists to laying a hand on the small of his back, half-worried he’s going to fall over.

Luckily, he makes it to the Apollo Cabin upright, although the stairs take them a while. The hinges of the old screen door creak as Nico pushes it open, and he sees both Kayla and Austin, up and dressed, jump.

“…Will?” Kayla asks softly, eyebrows creased in concern. She walks over to him when he doesn’t answer, frozen still, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Will leans — almost hesitantly — into the touch. The same blankness from before clouds his eyes, although this time there’s less of the fear.

“Hey.” Nico walks over to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. In the minutes it takes, he hears Austin pad over, standing opposite to Kayla, hands clenching and unclenching like he can’t decide what to do with them. “You think you can sleep?”

Will doesn’t answer verbally, but drifts after a moment to his bed. Nico follows, helping him out of his shoes and shirt. After a beat of hesitation, Austin hurries over, turning down Will’s sheets and helping him crawl in. Soft guitar music begins to play, and when Nico looks over Kayla is fiddling with the CD player, turning the dials carefully. Without much fanfare, Will’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows to something deep and even. His twitching fingers still.

“I don’t think today’s an activity day,” Nico murmurs. “I checked up on him a while after midnight; he’d been at it for hours. He didn’t stop ‘til sunrise.”

Kayla rubs harshly at her eyes. “Fuck.”

“He’ll be okay,” Austin whispers. He runs a gentle knuckle over Will’s forehead, then turns his careful, imploring gaze to Nico. “You kept an eye on him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Nico inclines his head. “Had a feeling.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kayla admits. “He was —” She trails off, staring at something in the left half of the cabin — the empty half. “He was like this after the Titan War, too. I think he spoke maybe two words for the entirety of September.”

Nico almost can’t imagine it. The very thought of it makes something twinge in his chest, clench in his stomach.

“We’ll figure it out.” He nods, to convince himself as much as Kayla and Austin, who look to him with way more trust than he deserves. “We won’t let it — it won’t get that bad. We’ll help, and if we can’t figure it out we’ll get help. It won’t be as hard as last time.”

It won’t be as hard as last time because there won’t be twelve shrouds, Nico doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Both Kayla and Austin nod, looking at their sleeping brother with firm resolution.

“This time, we’ll be there.”

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thingswedontunbox · 10 days

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iwritenarrativesandstuff · 15 days

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On Kurapika's Self-Imposed Isolation

While I recognize that probably everything I'm about to say is going to be super obvious, I just wanted to briefly touch on Kurapika's self-isolation, and the reason behind his not picking up his phone or exchanging anything more than clipped words and business after Yorknew.

I think the obvious answer is that Kurapika doesn't want his friends in harms way, or to be used as a bargaining tool against him. This is an understandable and probably accurate conclusion. After all, Gon and Killua did get taken hostage, and Kurapika was forced to negotiate an exchange. Chrollo picked up on Kurapika's "weakness" right away - that he values his friends' safety before his revenge. Fortunately for Kurapika in this situation, Pakunoda was a whole lot more similar to him than he would've cared to admit, as she placed a value on Chrollo's life even though everyone in the Spider was intended to be replaceable. So, now that he's been through Gon and Killua having potentially gotten killed or seriously hurt, and Chrollo knows that he has a soft spot for them, it does make sense that he would try to push them away for their safety and for the sake of not having an exploitable "weakness" in future. He may also not want to burden them more when they have their own lives to live - he does slip off without telling Gon and Killua for the sake of not distracting them from Nen training, after all.

Except that he already tried all this earlier in Yorknew arc. He tried to tell them they shouldn't get involved, and they all agreed that the risks were massive - but his friends agreed to undergo the risks anyways to help him. Kurapika was even grateful for it - "I have been blessed with good friends."

So, for him to push them away solely for this reason after the fact, knowing that this was very much a likely situation to happen, is a little odd to me. Kurapika knows full well that Leorio would be frustrated, Killua would be offended and Gon would worry. So, I think there's a little more to it than that, and I actually would venture to say that "keeping his friends out of danger" is more a secondary reason for his actions - one that would come across as more of a reasonable excuse to others.

The primary reason is likely a lot more selfish than that. Kurapika has to ensure his mission comes first. And unfortunately, he is fully aware that his path and choice in abilities is deeply self-destructive.

Kurapika needs to make sure that he doesn't have exploitable weaknesses, sure, but he also just as much needs to purposefully worsen his headspace - and he can't do that with those three around.

Think back, what are the happiest moments we see from Kurapika in the series? The one that comes to mind first, and the one I'm sure most of us will think of immediately, is this:

[ID: A screenshot from the 2011 anime adaptation. Kurapika smiles - he looks at ease. End ID.]

It's one of the sweetest scenes of the series imo, right before the whole group is reunited for the first time since the Zoldyck Family arc, and it's even more notable because it comes immediately on the tail end of this...

[ID: Three panels from HxH Chapter 101. Kurapika removes his contacts over the sink. His expression is distant. End ID.]

...and this...

[ID: A panel from HxH Chapter 101. A close up of Kurapika's vacant and furious expression, his eyes wide and dangerous as he says "It might as well be you." Though the art is in black and white, it's apparent his eyes have gone scarlet. End ID.]

...and this.

[ID: A panel from HxH Chapter 101. A distant Kurapika speaks on the phone on a rooftop at night, the cityscape of Yorknew around him dark, but speckled with lights and stars. He says "The Spiders are dead." His face is not visible to the reader. End ID.]

This is, up to this point in the series, Kurapika at his lowest. In contrast to Gon, who is happy to hear that the Spiders are dead already because now Kurapika can focus solely on finding his peoples' eyes, Kurapika... is clearly not happy - and that's because killing the Spiders himself isn't just revenge. It's penance. It's survivor's guilt. Kurapika's powers, which Izunavi even comments sound much like he is chaining himself in the process of chaining his enemies, are oh-so-beautifully prophecied to destroy him - and Kurapika was aware of this from the moment he set off down this path of revenge.

(As a side note, this is why I'm really hoping we see Gon and Kurapika interact again after the Chimera Ant arc - while Gon has always been pretty attentive to Kurapika's emotional state, in Yorknew, he lacks a true understanding of why Kurapika would go so far... but as of now, he understands rage fueled by guilt and grief all too well. I know we're all rooting for Leorio to reach Kurapika, but barring that, I really think Gon could get through to him - after all, they are similar in several ways, and I find it fairly apparent that Gon reminds Kurapika of Pairo.)

But back to the main point here - I do suspect Kurapika expects (if not wants) his revenge mission to destroy him. I think a lot of times, we forget just how young Kurapika is, and how much his character is dictated by honour, and the abandonment of it.

Certainly, he can and will go against his principles for the sake of his mission... yet, almost paradoxically, he's bound to his promise to his fallen clan; a promise to avenge them made in anger.

But Kurapika... doesn't come across as a naturally angry person to me at all.

He seems like the stoic, vengeful type on his initial introduction... and then we get his panic at Gon's recklessness

[ID: A panel from HxH Chapter 2. Kurapika and Leorio wear matching expressions of panic in front of Gon, calling him out for his recklessness. End ID.]

...and his near-immediate forgiveness of Leorio after getting the first inkling of his character - of someone who cares just as fiercely as he does.

And after that point? Almost all through the Hunter Exam? Kurapika smiles so readily at them. He's sharp and funny. He mediates at times, but is stubbornly prideful in others. He's very amused by his friends' antics, and it really does seem like he starts to enjoy himself, with them. And, more than that, he counters Leorio's initial impression of him as an independent loner - on several occasions. He decides to follow Gon because Gon intrigues him. Asides from Gon, it is Kurapika who is the most unwilling to fight each other at the bottom of Trick Tower. Kurapika who makes the first move to team up with Leorio, even though that arrangement benefits Leorio much more than it does him. Kurapika who refuses to abandon Leorio to his fate in the cave, and who checks on Gon after noticing his bad mood. Who was furious enough watching him get beat down by Hanzo that his eyes went scarlet for the first and only instance outside of Spider mentions and Emperor Time. Who quite readily detoured to help rescue Killua.

[ID: Three screenshots from the 2011 adaptation Hunter Exam arc. In the first, Kurapika smiles at a sleeping Leorio. In the second, Kurapika stifles laughter as he pretends he's asleep. In the third, Kurapika has an open-mouthed smile as he acquires the airship tickets for them, Leorio and Gon standing behind him. End ID.]

Look at him! He's so bright! So happy!

...too happy. Too happy to do what he promised himself he would do. And that's his biggest fear, isn't it. Without his rage... what is he left with?

[ID: A panel from HxH chapter 2. A close up of Kurapika's eye as he says "I do not fear death. What I fear is that my rage will one day fade away." End ID.]

Kurapika is far, far less mired in anger when he's with his friends. I actually dare to say that at certain points, he was able to go for lengths of time without thinking much about it - alternating between almost forgetting in one instance and being hit like a sledgehammer on exposure to a reminder in the next. This violent swing is... actually the beginnings of the natural process of healing from loss and trauma. But to Kurapika, who's made a promise to his people's memories, this is not a relief. This is betrayal.

I think that actually scares him, that he can almost picture it. A life beyond his guilt. That he, too, could learn to be happy, even after unimaginable loss.

And so, as Kurapika continues his mission offscreen, finding more and more gruesome reminders of the cruelty inflicted on his people and losing more and more pieces of himself in the process (in his own words, no less), he prioritizes his responsibility to them, and pushes away his distractions. He cannot be a soul at peace until his work is done; he must be in turmoil. He pushes people away who he cares for, and binds himself, and keeps his people's eyes on him, quite literally, because respite, for him, is unacceptable. Perhaps that guilty part of him even hopes, by the end of this, that his soul will be so unrecognizable as to be fundamentally unsalvageable. But the truth of the matter is, or at least what comes across to me, is that Kurapika cares much more fiercely than he hates. He knows what matters most. And for as long as he does, he still hasn't truly lost himself.

[ID: A panel from HxH chapter 350. Kurapika looks down at baby Woble with a gentle, yet complicated expression. The inking is somewhat softer. End ID.]

Kurapika's soul is kind, really. And it wants to heal - but for the sake of his mission, he needs it damaged and bleeding. And so, he forces himself to exist in that pain. All alone.

[ID: A panel from HxH Chapter 344. Kurapika, dressed in a black suit, sits with his back to the reader, looking down at a photo in his hand. He is slumped a little before the church vigil he has prepared, all his clan's eyes lined up in their jars and honoured with flowers and candles. He thinks to himself "There is no home for me to return to... and nobody to welcome me back. I have nothing left." End ID.]

#thank you for coming to my ted talk on how kurapika is worsening his own mental health as well as physical health on purpose have a good day #oh my god this took me so long but it was worth it!!!#actual analysis!!! it's been so long!!!#anyways i'm far shakier on my hxh knowledge than other fandoms i've written meta for #so i hope this makes sense. i appreciate additions to it just please be polite!#i also believe that togashi's writing lends itself to multiple interpretations that are equally valid. so much of this #may be my own takeaway. but i do think there's enough evidence to support it #well. i hope you guys suffer... i mean enjoy.#storyrambles #hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh meta #kurapika #call me ace detective the way i am ace. and also a detective #<-analysis tag i missed you

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stil-lindigo · 1 year

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the dredger.

a comic about closure.

(buy the digital copy of the comic anthology here)

creative notes:

#i wrote my best stuff when i was at my very worst mentally #both RED and Patchwork Canary were written during an emotional pit #i struggled for a while. thinking about that #especially since those two came so easily to me back then and its so difficult to write anything like it these days #but i think id trade being happy over writing Only Bangers any day #closure #i made this comic series about the worst period of my mental health ever and now its over #its 10pm #and i dont know who i am #and thats fine. ill figure it out as i go.#thank you for reading #and thank you for your support #i promise my next project wont be as sad #stillindigo art #comic art #stillindigo comics

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realbeefman · 7 months

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stacy is sooo interesting because she's in love with house but knows that they will never ever be able to have a healthy, stable, sane relationship because they're too similar so. she finds house-lite instead and marries him and. essentially moves on with her life! and is successful in this because she's a moderately well-adjusted person!

wilson, in contrast, never manages to escape the inevitable, in spite of his best efforts to find a house-lite of his very own, because he's an absolute fucking freak and ends up glued to house to the bitter. bitter end

#yeah im too sleepy to revise this. UNFILTERED posting wooahh #some may b shocked but i do actually read thru most of my posts several times to make sure i didnt accidentally write mein kampfe 2 #recently ive come to the realization that i am in fact not an incredibly chill person #and that the constant paranoia and fear in which i live my life is actually PROBABLY a symptom of severe anxiety #like damn. ive always known that im pretty prone to depression but ive preetty much always been aware of that #my mom is a chronic depressive so i know the symptoms i know the signs i have a pretty good arsenal of healthy coping mechanisms #UNFORTUNATELY mommy's mental health problems did not help her not abuse me as a child #so i ended up being a terribly anxious kid who was constantly being screamed at and told i was overreacting (because i was. because i had #a severe anxiety problem that was making me react irrationally.) to everything all the time #which is you know. it is VERY difficult to deal with a mental health problem when you arent aware you have a problem!#its incredible how much. better. my life has gotten since i figured this out and started actively trying to work out what triggers it #and being able to like. realize 'oookay. there is an Issue here and it needs to be overcome'#instead of just beating on myself constantly for not being able to do things without feeling sick or getting breathing problems!#anyways. trauma dumping in tags is over now!#house md #hilson #greg house #james wilson #stacy warner

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sophieeeikli · 8 months

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-The Act of Carcinization, by Sophie E. Eikli

[ID by domesticatedanimals:

a poem that goes:

No soft-shelled crab am I,

exo-skeleton petrified

around my spine like a funeral pyre.

All signs point toward crustacean

pink skin turned crisp and red,

hands curled into claws, half-hearts,

grains of sand lodged beneath each layer

of chitin, trying not to flinch

while white barnacles bury their mouths into inaccessible flesh.

You must use a knife

to open me.

End ID.]

#mental health #poetry #siobhan roy #sharp objects #spilled ink #shiv roy #succession hbo #my poetry #my words #my writing

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scaryinclusive · 5 months

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WORDS TO USE INSTEAD OF NARCISSIST.

by @scaryinclusive.

presently, narcissist is a word used to define individuals with narcissistic personality disorder. a narcissistic individual is someone exhibiting traits or symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder. due to its widespread use as a derogatory, dehumanising and stigmatising label, despite its original purpose, the use of 'narcissist, narcissism and narcissistic' as an adjective, especially in an insulting, derogatory way, is ableist, sanist and stigmatising.

why should you consider altering your vocabulary and stop using words like 'narcissist' as an adjective — especially a derogatory one? please read this informative post. help the npd community out by opting to utilise less harmful, stigmatising language in your speech and writing! please note: the following words listed are not synonyms with or indicative of npd symptoms or traits. but for the context 'narcissist' is typically socially applied to, they are a beneficial replacement. feel free to reblog.

arrogant. an exaggerated sense of one's own worth or importance. this can come across as overbearing, or socially inappropriate.

selfish. very concentrated on one's own personal profit or pleasure, typically lacking consideration for others.

self-absorbed. preoccupied with one's own interests, feelings or situations.

boastful. excessive pride and self-satisfaction in one's own achievements, possessions or abilities.

braggart. same as above, just a synonym. relating more to bragging than boasting.

conceited. alternative for vain, excessively proud of oneself.

egotistical. excessively conceited or absorbed in oneself. a synonym for self-centred.

haughty. acting superior in an arrogant, disdainful way.

insolent. rude, arrogant, showing a lack of respect.

ostentatious. a pretentious or showy display, an attempt to impress.

overconfident. excessively confident, an excessive certainty in one's abilities.

proud. a deep pleasure or satisfaction gained from one's own achievements, qualities or possessions.

self-confident. trusting in one's abilities, qualities, and judgement.

self-important. an exaggerated sense of one's own value or importance.

superior. an overly high opinion of oneself. synonym for conceited.

vain. excessive high opinion of one's appearance, abilities or worth.

egocentric. thinking only of yourself, without regard for others' feelings or desires.

self-centred. preoccupied with oneself and one's affairs.

self-involved. preoccupied with oneself, not paying attention to anyone else.

smug. an excessive pride in oneself or one's achievements.

pompous. grand, self-important or solemn in a way that is insincere or pretentious.

self-serving. having concern for oneself and oneself only.

sycophant. someone who is too eager to praise or obey someone in order to gain an advantage.

complacent. smug or uncritical satisfaction with oneself or one's achievements.

vainglorious. overlay vain, excessively proud of oneself.

obnoxious. extremely unpleasant.

egoistic. relating to egoism, preoccupied with oneself, synonymous with self-centred.

callous. showing or having an insensitive or cruel disregard for others.

cruel. wilfully or deliberately causing pain / suffering to others, potentially with no remorse.

abusive / emotionally abusive. extremely offensive or insulting. a form of interaction wherein the abuser is psychologically controlling, manipulating or harming you.

manipulative. exercising control or influence over another individual or situation. can be intentional but equally can be subconscious.

self-righteous. a certainty, especially an unfounded one, that one is totally correct or morally superior.

unsympathetic. not expressing, showing or feeling sympathy towards others or a situation.

toxic. poisonous, very harmful or unpleasant in a way that is pervasive or insidious.

insidious. the proceeding of something in a gradual, subtle way, but with extremely harmful effects.

malignant. very dangerous or harmful.

#mental health awareness #writing resources #actuallynpd #npd safe #rp resources #resources.#writing resources.#npd related.#will probably do one for like... aspd and psychotic or smth #as someone who has removed a bunch of words from my vocab #it's not impossible and if you really want to care about everyone you make the effort

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