#black bile - psyche

[get-more-bald]

ok is it just me but aren't the skills groups in Disco Elysium just yellow bile, blood, black bile and phlegm???

[peachesofteal]

how’s clover going to manage that conversation next time she goes into his office..

or will she even go again?

also i think dr riley is so interesting as a character already.. i need to take a little look in your brain for a bit bc whatever’s cooking up there is good shit

psych au - 18+ - tw for mental health, ptsd, extreme suicidal ideation, Clover is a mess. Dr Riley crosses a line. Part One / Part Two / Part Three

You're kind of stuck to the floor, surrounded by beige walls, and beige carpet, the waiting room's obnoxious brown beige clock ticking on the wall.

All of it feels very loud.

You took the train again today, and stepped closer to the yellow line. You stepped over it, even, too aware of the man to your left's gaze, his beady, nervous unblinking eyes, calculating what exactly were you trying to do.

Yeah, kid. What exactly are you trying to do?

It crosses your mind again, for more than a split second this time. Throwing yourself onto the tracks. Closing your eyes. Letting your head go quiet, finally. No one talks about how easy it is. How they just come and scrape you up, load what’s left into a black bag, and clean up the scene. One second, one decision, and you’d be gone, eyes closed, mind empty.

No one would blame you. Another service member with PTSD. What a surprise.

"And did you hear what happened? I wouldn't be able to live with myself after that, either."

It's bad now. It's gotten worse. Therapy was supposed to help but you're not made for civilian life. You're not supposed to be here, and you've tried saying it over and over until you're blue in the face, but Dr. Riley doesn't budge. He asks you trust him, but you don’t know how. You can't think here. Can't sleep here. You close your eyes and feel fire, hear screams. The best you can do is go to the gym for hours and try to work yourself into exhaustion.

You sit in the chair with your feet flat on the floor, and try to breathe.

The shame, the stupidity of the other night is pressing against you, boxing you into a corner, burning you alive from the inside out. You’ve tried to blot it clean, black it out, but the single second of his lips on your lingers like an infection in your blood.

You didn't want him. You don't. He just... understands you. Makes you feel seen. It's his job. You're getting it mixed up.

Or-

You do want him. You do so badly it’s heavy, sticky in the air like summer heat.

Each time the second hand ticks, your skin itches. It burns. Something prickles. You're not trying to breathe, you're holding your breath.

You can't do this.

You're up and beelining for the door before you can talk yourself out of it. You can't do this.

"Clover." A firm voice calls from across the lobby, and you freeze. Stomach knotted in dread, you find him holding the office’s hallway door open. "My office."

It's first time you've heard him issue a command, and you can't help your response.

You snap to.

He settles in the chair across from the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs. He’s wearing dark khakis of some kind, and they stretch over his quads, long sleeve navy blue shirt tight across his chest. It’s… distracting.

You look away. Pointedly.

"I-"

"You will never put yourself in danger like that again." He grits, and you slowly blink. "You wandered off from a bar, in the middle of the night, nearly too plastered to stand. I asked you to stay put, and you-"

“Disobeyed a direct order?” You volunteer cheekily, his eyes narrowing.

“This isn’t a fuckin’ joke.” The curse straightens your spine into a steel rod.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… do any of that.” Your head hangs in shame, tears fighting their way through your control, your efforts to smother them, tamp down your emotions.

“I know,” his voice is soft, a blanket, a balm, and you close your eyes. “You’re going through something very difficult Clover. I don’t fault you for anything you’ve done.” The forgiveness doesn’t settle like you want it to, acrid in your throat, bile churning in your stomach as you try to digest it. Why? What did you want in its place?

Something else.

Even now, with him across from you, your heart trills like a hummingbird’s. It’s confusing, it hurts. You think of the yellow line, the one meant to forbid you from stepping to closer to the tracks.

The couch dips on your left, weight compressing the cushion, a large, heavy thigh just an inch from yours.“Can you tell me what you’re thinking about?”

Can you?

“I want to go home.” You whisper it away, trying to lessen the strain on your heart. “I don’t… I’m sorry, I should have cancelled. I’m not feeling very good.” Fingertips graze your shoulder. You rocket to your feet.

He stands and latches onto your wrist before you can step away. “Sit down.”

“I-“

“It’s not a request. Sit. Down.” He’s turned towards you now, crack in the cushions between your bodies, but he still holds your wrist. “I want to help you.” He says softly, holding your gaze without wilting. “But you have to let me, I can’t do it unless you meet me halfway.”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you? How long have you been drinking like that?” Shit. You turn your face away from him, blinking at an empty spot on the wall.

A palm presses to the back of your neck, his signature heat bleeding through cell and bone, shooting straight to your heart. The sliver of a wolf, a predator, gleams in his eyes again, for the first time since your first session, but this time it’s tempered with silk, easy calm, vibrating from him to you.

You stare at him. Dissect the scars, the fault lines, the weathered tissue, torn open and healed anew.

Healed. A novel concept. A foreign idea, so far away you don’t know what it looks like.

The hand at your neck slips away with a sigh. “Clover, listen. Normally in this situation… we’d assign you a new provider. We’ve crossed a serious professional boundary, and the appropriate thing would be for me to remove myself from your care team.”

“Wait… no. I mean, you didn’t do anything. It w-was me, it was my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m your doctor, I’m the one in a position of power here. What happened-“

“I’m sorry.” Your vision goes blurry with tears. “I’m sorry, I was just d-drunk and I didn’t know what I was doing,” you’re gasping, lungs soaked with salt, despair, panic rife and cleaving through your chest, “I didn’t mean to, I messed up, I didn’t- I didn’t mean- captain, I-“ the height of your hysteria is turning dark, dredging up the things you tried to buried, the images you’ve tucked inside a black box and dropped to the bottom of an ocean. Suddenly, you can’t breathe. He’s talking to you, you can hear it, but the words don’t make sense, the scrape of your breathing too loud.

“You’re in my office Clover. You’re with me.” You shake your head, but it does nothing to calm you. “Try to breathe.”

“C-can’t.”

“Okay. Try to ground yourself. Tell me your name.” You spit it out, first and last, but it doesn’t help. Everything feels like too much. His fists clench, flexing open and shut, cords of muscle flexing before he grits something sharp under his breath and reaches.

He hooks you into his body, guiding you forward by the back of your head until your nose is in his neck and all you can feel, all you can see, or smell is him. It takes its toll, slowing your heart rate, breaths settling into a shaky pace in time with his, and you register the thumb stroking small circles against your neck, his nose in your hair.

“Just breathe.”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?

Harvest Storms

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.

A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasn’t only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.

His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned. 

He’d known having that one-night stand wasn’t right—he should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream. 

And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment. 

“She’s yours.” His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter. 

It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panic—bone-deep worry and hatred. He couldn’t be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasn’t a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didn’t feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didn’t want. 

But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.

Yes, it could have been easy. 

Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories he’d heard…

Simon’s gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holster—slipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal. 

These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb. 

It’s one hour later that he’s done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before he’s exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the base’s hallway.

All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.

“Lt.” The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, “off to go hide in back-alleys, then?”

“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.” Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated. 

“Copy and check, Sir!” Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.

The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pockets—finding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition. 

Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it loosely—his opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.

There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.

It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive home—a tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simon’s initial purchase of it. But it wasn’t his only properly, not by a long shot. 

Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.

He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder. 

Veins tighten under his flesh.

“Kid!” Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty. 

He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floor—no groan or sly comment.

You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester man’s lips thin.

“Christ, don’t go and tell me she’s fuckin’ gone again…” Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when he’s gone was sitting with its delicate font.

Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.

“She got into a fight out of school again—black eye and bruised knuckles. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldn’t get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, I’ll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. I’m sorry. I’ll be at my home if you need me.”

Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.

This would make the fifth fight this year. 

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for you—some of which he would never be able to properly express. 

He’s not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. He’s in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair. 

Simon was never meant for this.

The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

But wasn’t he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you in—provided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong? 

Simon’s brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.

Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack. 

Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadn’t had the kind of childhood people would want—was never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights? 

He’d heard some things about teenagers. 

Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you don’t want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly. 

Simon wasn’t letting you catch a bug.

He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen. 

You hear him coming when he’s three-fourths of the way there. 

Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father. 

The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap. 

“Put it on,” he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours. 

You turn away with a growl. “Don’t want to.”

“Bloody ‘ell, just put it on,” there’s no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. “Asking to get fuckin’ sick at this rate, are you? I’m not cleanin’ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.” 

Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periods—right eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers. 

You’re acutely aware of your father’s presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy he’s back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all. 

The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else. 

“What did I tell you when I went away, eh?” The man asks you lowly when you’ve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. “Kid.”

“Don’t get into any more fights.” Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts. 

“Affirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?”

“Got into another fight.” An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s not an excuse.” Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. “When I tell you something, you listen, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. “Sure.” 

A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.

“No more fighting,” Simon grits out, “now show me.” 

“It’s not that bad—”

“Show me it.” Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your father’s gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head. 

“Happy?” You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket. 

It’s a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.

“Why?” The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.

“Why?” You glare at him, “Why the hell do you care?” 

Simon’s eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and you’re suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.

“You’re never fucking here, what’s the point in telling you anything about me?” Your father’s face is covered, but the mask is more than just physical—it’s a part of him in every sense. You don’t know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. “It wouldn’t even make a difference if you never came back! Even when you’re here it barely even matters beyond who’s dishes are in the sink.”

Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you don’t care enough right now to think about what you’re saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. “You don’t even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?” 

Simon watches and listens, stone still. It’s as if he doesn’t even breathe; his pulse doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. If you would have been able to see it, you’d have noticed the way the large man’s lips were slightly parted. 

He wasn’t averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his father—it was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way. 

What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didn’t know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals. 

He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didn’t know what you bought. 

Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, but…he didn’t know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

How could he be a father to you?

Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard. 

With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door. 

Simon doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. He’d never felt like this before.

Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time he’s standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. It’s the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise. 

Give Simon a gun and he’d be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and he’d have it sharp in seconds. 

Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and he’s suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He can’t end up like his own father.

The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.

Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand. 

Just as he’s about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.

Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.

Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didn’t know what to say…but…

God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.

Simon’s knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. There’s a shuffling of sheets and a dull, “God, just go away!” 

Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands. 

“Open up for me, yeah?” He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. “Need ‘ta talk to you.”

A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. “You? Talk?”

Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly. 

“Please.” A pin could drop. 

It’s a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before it’s twisted back with a firm hand. 

Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your father’s bare visage—only the black face paint stuck to his skin—but even more so at his plea. There were only a few times you’d actually seen him and even fewer when you’d hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver. 

He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properly—what to do and what not to do. 

It had been the first time that Simon could really say he’d been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldn’t do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadn’t cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should have…you’d done something worse.

You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simon’s gaze never left you for hours after you’d done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else. 

Tiny. Weak. Innocent.

How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when you’d begin crying for a bottle. 

In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from. 

“What?” Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries. 

“Can I come in?” 

“I don’t know—are you going to give a lecture?” You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.

“Negative, Moppet, no lecture.” He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. “Jus’ need ‘ta…” Words fail him. What did he need to do? 

Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.

“You land a hit, then?” You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.

“I…” your feet shuffle, face burning, “what?”

One of your father’s large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing. 

But…he was trying.

“A hit,” he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. “Did you get ‘em back?” 

It’s a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.

“More than one person,” you admit hesitantly. Your father’s gaze darkens but you quickly continue. “T-they look worse than me right now.”

Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. “That’ll do,” a pause, “...‘cause I can’t beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckin’ heap ‘o shit.” 

Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made him…content, you could say.

“Who said they were teenagers?” you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in. 

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No, it isn’t. Shut your bloody trap.” The air lightens to a degree you hadn’t experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears. 

“...How long are you staying?” The man hums, licking his lips. 

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

“I’m off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?” Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle. 

“Change of heart?” You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins. 

Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing up—letting your father’s large frame enter. 

He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didn’t know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.

He’d really fucked up.

“C’mere,” Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, “lemme take a proper look at it.” His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly. 

Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns. 

Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.

“Won’t die,” is all he can say, voice hard and strained. “Lucky you, eh?” You scoff and his hands leave—there wasn’t much he could do. “Moppet.”

Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. You’re momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence. 

“Give me your word.” Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. “No more of this. You’re gonna end up gettin’ hurt—badly—you got that?” 

“They were calling soldiers cannon fodder.” You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. “That they weren’t even good enough for bullets.” 

Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles. 

Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calm—the side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly. 

It was you. His daughter. Innocent.

The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen. 

Simon can’t even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did know—it was that he didn’t want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. You’re placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.

You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, “Go to sleep. It’s late out,” and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.

Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lips—genuine and warm like a weighted blanket. 

“How long are you gonna be there?” You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.

He doesn’t turn around. 

“All night. Need ‘ta get this shite done for my boss.” You don’t know why, but you feel like he’s lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. “Sleep, Kid. We’ll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.” 

Of course, he’d noticed that, too. 

“Dad?” You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. It’s a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest you’ve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely. 

“What is it?” 

“Goodnight.” Simon’s hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesn’t say anything until you’re fast asleep behind him—when he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin. 

Into your skin, he whispers, “...Goodnight, my little Moppet.”

Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.

TAGS:

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[izvmimi]

cw: violence and serious injury. fem!reader is a pro hero with a vague quirk, but including the ability to fly. izuku and reader are newly married, reader is referred to as wife. a/n: a rewrite of something posted previously so if parts are familiar that's why.

Hundreds of feet in the air, away from the rubble and carnage of the active surface where a few dozens of civilians hurriedly evacuate, you hover over Tokyo, facing what you realize may be your last ever opponent.

By this time, your vision is starting to blur, and it’s a miracle that you can still focus on the gloating, hulking form in front of you. The humans below you are like ants in a loose file, thankfully making use of the valuable time you’ve allotted them to escape to safety by dragging your opponent into the skies. Something monstrous and yet something human enough to laugh does so in a raucous cackle as it takes in your already slackening body, still floating yet shakily so in the skies. You waver with every strong gust, the loose and torn bits of your Hero costume flapping in the wind; you’ve nearly run out of charge to your jet boots, and it won’t be long until you either take this fight to the ground or gravity overtakes you.

“Is it really worth it?” the villain asks in mockery. You tremble like a leaf, and you can’t think of a part of your body that doesn’t feel shattered. And yet the answer is yes. It always will be yes.

Today is a bad day. The Symbol of Peace, your Deku, is nowhere to be found. Overseas, in fact. Other Heroes have heard your call to action, you’re sure, but no one is coming to your immediate rescue as of now. It’s just you, alone, for the first time since UA, since ever.

You don’t muster up the courage to answer, instead clenching your fists, steeling yourself for one final bout against an enemy you cannot beat. There’s not much more you can do in the way of winning, except buy time for someone stronger than you to eliminate this threat and keep the premises safe. 

Bile rises in your throat and you spit, then grin, widening your eyes fiercely. Perhaps it’s a mockery of some sort that the villain takes particular offense to. That may or may not have been your intention.

“I’ve had enough time wasted toying with you!” it snarls, and charges in your direction. It’s too fast to evade, and the first blow you manage to block is agonizing, weighing heavily on your tensed forearms. You grit your teeth as you feel the limbs strain to nearly breaking. 

You are no stranger to fear nor are you unfamiliar to pain but you feel both right now, more than you’ve ever felt in your entire life - a type of terrifying agony that mixes together and amplifies, sinking deep into your broken bones, one that settles far into your psyche and weighs heavy on your chest. 

Another blow is delivered, then another, until there is a barrage that breaks through your defenses. It occurs to you yet again that you’ll die here as a punch lands on your right cheek and clearly fractures your jaw, along with another right in the solar plexus that knocks the wind and any remaining vitality out of you. 

A noble death, of course; in the line of duty. A Hero’s death. 

A smile spreads on your lips. You are doing the best you can, and something in that should be comforting. The screams from down below are barely audible from the ringing in your ears and time seems to slow.

Things are starting to fade to black and the next few times you are struck barely register, passing the threshold of pain into numbness. Perhaps your Quirk has gone into effect, shutting down your nerves, so that you can no longer feel anything more than the plethora of emotions welling up in your fractured chest.

You’ve failed. You haven’t failed.

Perhaps your family will be proud of you. Your friends. Him, for risking your life as he would, if he were here, even if it meant he would lose it in the process.

You hurtle back to Earth like a meteor. Someone is calling your name. 

Someone is calling your name.

—

Thousands of miles away, Izuku Midoriya picks up his phone to find more missed calls than he’s ever had in his life in the span of three hours. As he leaves his conference, he fumbles with his phone, scrolling faster and faster through every notification. Bakugou, your friends, his mother… but none of them are from you. 

There’s a pit in his stomach as he realizes Bakugou is the only one brave enough to leave a text.

Call me ASAP. ___ is in the hospital.

__

“Your wife has a tendency to bite a little bit more than she can chew, but she’s alive.”

Izuku can hear the not yet uttered ‘for now’ that Bakugou is holding back, and he’s somewhere between grateful and dreadfully angry. There’s an incessant tap in his foot that he can’t help himself enough to stop and he knows he is giving off tiny little sparks of OFA the longer he sits and waits for the gate to open to allow boarding. It’s a good thing there’s nothing nearby that can catch fire, and if it weren’t for the fact that his childhood friend is on the line calming him down the only way he can, he’d have a word to say to the attendant who is staring him down.

“You didn’t catch her,” Izuku says suddenly in a cool voice. 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, long enough to betray Katsuki’s guilt at being able to make it to the scene to subdue the enemy but not fast enough to intercept your crash towards the earth. That part of the fight was on video clear as day, captured by a civilian who immediately posted it on the internet, displaying your battered body for the world to see. 

Izuku watched it five times in a row, clenching his phone tightly until a long crack formed along the screen and his stomach churned enough to vomit. 

Katsuki mulls the words in his mouth before he replies.

“You’re right, I didn’t.”

Izuku decides to leave it at that. Anger won’t do him much good, and a part of him blames himself. 

There’s another silence on the phone and Izuku can hear his pulse racing in his ears.

“I’m sorry.” Bakugou says, and Izuku realizes the situation is truly dire. He doesn’t want the apology, not from someone who rarely does so. He doesn’t say anything in response.

—

“It’ll only be a week,” Izuku says, smiling. You give him a pout, even though you’ve been over this already for the past three weeks.

“A week is a long time, Izuku,” you sigh, but you forgive him anyway, rubbing his back gently and interlacing the fingers of your other hand with his. The airport is busy, but less so than you expect for this time of day, the early afternoon on a weekend. You don’t want him to go, you think, but anyone can get through a week and even if you’ve just recently tied the knot, he doesn’t only belong to you.

“It’ll fly by,” he insists. “I’ll call you every morning, okay?” 

You smile at him, your eyes nearly closing with the action. He smiles back, pulling your hand to his lips to kiss the back.

“Be safe,” you offer him as he moves past the waiting area, where you can no longer follow him.

“I will,” he promises. “You be safe too. I love you.”

—

“You can’t go from the airport straight to the hospital. Sleep first. Breathe. She’s not going anywhere.”

Bakugou’s voice is steady, the very opposite of what Izuku is feeling right now, having just touched down on Japanese soil and already calling right out of the gate.

“Which hospital?” Izuku repeats, completely disregarding his friend’s advice. Even breathing deeply doesn’t seem right somehow, right now - the air smells wrong to him, too salty and too dry, and the migraine that started on the plane 12 hours ago shows no sign of abating. 

Bakugou sighs and answers the question. Izuku is stubborn to a fault, he knows that better than everyone, and he can clearly sympathize with him.

“Just don’t harass the staff when you get there. They’re doing the best they can.”

—

“Who did it?”

Izuku’s voice comes out low and the fatigue in it is evident. The random beeps and whistles of the machines in the intensive care unit have worn him down over time, especially in the last hour, not to mention the drip, drip, drip of the bag of intravenous fluids that hooks up to your wrist.

The man in front of him balks at the interruption, then clears his throat. It’s clear that Izuku does not want to hear the same recapitulation for the fifth time today, but unfortunately this is all he has to offer.

“Unfortunately sir, we have no idea who that-”

Izuku snorts derisively, an action that has the nurse freeze and the words die in his throat. His eyes are narrowed and he is clearly upset, but he remains perfectly still, save for rolling his aching broad shoulders back. He’s been sitting in this exact spot for too long, watching, waiting.

Hoping you will wake up.

“Who did it?” he repeats.

The nurse furrows his eyebrows and pulls his stethoscope off of his neck, playing with it in his hands. It’s a simple nervous gesture, but it drives Izuku slightly mad.

“The important thing is that-”

Izuku closes his eyes and lets out a quick sigh, then claps his hands onto his thighs loudly enough that it echoes throughout the room. When he reopens his eyes and focuses them at the useless individual in front of him, his tongue is sharper than the edge of a blade.

“I’m going to be quite honest with you right now. I don’t care about the chronology of what happened once she made it here anymore. You’ve given me every painstaking detail and I’ve sat here quietly and listened to it. Really, I appreciate all you have done to make sure that she stays alive. However, my wife is here with staples on one side of her head and hasn’t opened her eyes since I got here... I’ve wanted to hit something desperately for the past twelve hours and if you don’t start giving me useful information - as in something I can act on - in the next minute, it may regrettably be you. So start talking.” 

The nurse’s face grows ashen.

“T-There’s no way for me to know that sir.”

There’s a pause in the air that nearly fills with the sound of the nurse’s heart beating out of his chest, and the beep, beep, beep of the overhead vitals monitor. Izuku smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m aware now,” he says, finally. “So please leave and let us rest.”

The nurse doesn’t have to be told twice, knowing that Midoriya has given him an abundance of mercy by not taking out his anger on him. He scrambles out so fast he trips on the way out.

As soon as he leaves, Izuku acknowledges to himself that he was far too harsh, and the fact that, if you were awake, you would have given him an earful for being so unkind. He’s barely acting like himself. He is kind. He is a kind man.

Izuku lets out a sigh and runs his hands through his hair five or six times, a seventh for comfort. Your own head is partially shaved and wrapped in gauze, and while you were extubated before he made it across the country to this very hospital, there’s still a myriad of wires and tubes that sprout from your body like weeds in an untended garden. He’s been having trouble looking at you, not because you’re too beat up to gaze upon, but because your face is actually miraculously spared from swelling (or at least appears so due to the wiring of your jaw shut) and you look so peaceful in your slumber that you might as well be dead.

He wasn’t there to protect you. Constantly traveling these days, having been dispatched to other parts of the country where a second wave of insurgency against the Hero-favoring status quo had again resurfaced, and then most recently overseas, he regrets the fact that he couldn’t possibly be there for you. Yet, you always insisted and proved you could handle yourself well. You’d said repeatedly that despite being better on the field when you were together, you were still pretty damn good on your own.

And it was true, even if Izuku didn’t particularly like you going on missions separately initially at first. Even if you weren’t ranked as high as him, you were still ranked among many capable Heroes which meant you were at least competent.

But this time you truly had bitten off more than you could chew.

Deku steels himself to glance at you again and intertwines his fingers with your slightly cool ones. He flinches at first - the fearless Symbol of Peace actually flinches - but then grips them tightly, remembering that you’re still breathing. He watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath the slight covers that the hospital provides you, and makes a mental note to bring your favorite blanket from home.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he prays quietly that it’s not work related because he truly believes that this will push him over the edge, but it’s a text from Bakugou.

We made dinner for when they eventually kick you out. You can stay with us for tonight.

Izuku’s eyes start to burn. 

His friend thinks of everything. Katsuki understands, having been in the same position with his own partner just months ago. It had been so easy for Izuku to open up his home then, and now his friend has the opportunity to return the favor. It’s bittersweet. 

Izuku chokes down a sob.

Thanks, Kacchan. 

He doesn’t want to leave but visiting hours will be over in a couple of hours, and he’ll be inevitably separated from you again. 

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can no longer be by your side.

[renlyslittlerose]

Kinktober Day 21 - Hurt/Comfort

For @himilce-persephoniea who asked for "gentledom Obi-Wan that can calm down feral Anakin"🫂

Give Me That Peace and Joy - 1,189 Rating: M Content: Established Relationship / Implied Sexual Content / Angst / Hurt/Comfort / Self-Hatred / Demigod Anakin Skywalker / Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug / Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi / Character Study / Relationship Study / Mental Breakdown / Mental Health Issues

---

Anakin was spiralling, falling, colliding into the abyss, the currents of his fractured psyche dragging him down. Putrid black bile tore through his insides while acrid smoke filled his lungs, hollowing him out until nothing was left but the maddening call of the void below. Self loathing and doubt coated his mouth, lips pulled tight, spit frothing from the corners like a mad dog as he pulled at the chains that bound and howled back at the void.

How long had he stood at this precipice but never stepped over? How many times had he almost slipped but never quite fell? How many times had he heard the braying of the choir that told him to jump - to soar - but never once fallen?

Too many times, it seemed. Eventually something would snap deep inside - the chain would break and chaos would ensue. It was inevitable, really. Anakin had heard the hushed whispers in the halls and behind partially shut doors, hurried looks of curiosity mixed with fear from his fellows, of a boy gilded in prophecy but with a tear in his mind that made him broken; fractured; incomplete.

It was frightening (he was frightening).

It was dangerous (he was dangerous).

It was destiny.

Tearing at his chest with bloodied knuckles Anakin pressed into his sternum, choking on a sob as he curled in further and further, trying to make himself as small as he could - as unnoticed as he could.

Perhaps if he cried enough, screamed enough, destroyed himself enough he could be free of this magnitude. Perhaps if he broke into a million pieces he couldn’t be put back together. Perhaps if no one noticed, the Force and all its beauty and horror would look the other way - find another to favour, to cherish, to love.

But Obi-Wan wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t let Anakin hollow himself out, pour his messes across the floor and let the dogs lap it up. He wouldn’t allow Anakin to turn in on himself, to become small and pitiful and weak. He wouldn’t allow the pieces to go unmade, wouldn’t allow the fractures to break apart, wouldn’t allow Anakin to be anything other than—

“My darling boy.”

Strong hands gripped his own, pulling them away from his chest. Angry welts from his nails were touched by these same hands, his palms both warm and cool as they ran across Anakin’s neck and down his chest, soothing the ache for just a moment. Another sob broke past Anakin’s lips but was swallowed by a gentle kiss, Obi-Wan pressing his warm lips to Anakin’s chapped and broken ones, pressure firm and solid. Anakin tried to push, to lash out, to get away from the dignity and the kindness but Obi-Wan remained firm, his grip solid behind his neck, the taste of him washing away the sick, the smell of him familiar.

Breaking the kiss Anakin closed his eyes, and like a child seeking warmth curled up against Obi-Wan. He could still hear the howling of the abyss behind him, each tug of it unravelling him further, the allure of sinking into his own insanity still tempting. Gritting his teeth he pushed against Obi-Wan further, desperate to be a part of him, locked within his ribs and curled around his heart, protected from the agony of his existence.

With trembling hands he pulled and tore at Obi-Wan’s robes, breath stuttering as he stripped him of his layers until marred skin was exposed to him. Obi-Wan murmured soft words that Anakin couldn’t hear, his body taught, muscles firm beneath Anakin’s desperate touch as he continued to rip at his Jedi trappings until all that was left was the man beneath it all.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin pleased, desperate for something though he knew not what.

Solace? Penance? Affirmation?

He caught Obi-Wan in a fierce kiss, his own robes pushed and pulled at, his bruised body exposed to the outside air that stung and nipped his overheated flesh. Climbing on to his lap he grabbed Obi-Wan’s hand and brought it between them, pushing his aching length against his palm, begging Obi-Wan to touch him, cherish him, wash away the filth and the hurt until he was whole again. Until he was who Obi-Wan always said he was.

Keeping his hand on Obi-Wan’s wrist he moaned softly as the flex of Obi-Wan’s wrist coupled with the press of his hand, fingers wrapping tight as he stroked him with a steady grip. Obi-Wan continued to speak to Anakin though his words made little sense, wrapped up and coursing with the flow of blood through Anakin’s head and chest, thunderous and overwhelming.

But Anakin felt it. Felt the adoration, the steadiness - the truth - of Obi-Wan’s words. He believed them as he spoke them against Anakin’s jaw and along his neck, breath hot and sticking to Anakin’s flesh, bumps spread out across his quaking form as he ground down harder. Thighs trembling and body humming, Anakin fell further into Obi-Wan’s embrace, his hands trailing along his body, memorising and admiring every folly and perfection.

Obi-Wan was real and solid; a reminder of Anakin’s existence in this world. He wasn’t just a creation of the Force, swallowed up in its magnificence, bound by its orders. He was a child of flesh and blood, loved by someone so achingly human it sometimes hurt Anakin to think about. Obi-Wan was perfect despite the imperfection of his creation, unlike Anakin.

But maybe if Anakin swallowed enough of his sweat, his tears, his come - his humanity - then it’d soak into him. It’d lay down seeds that would grow and spread like vines through his body, beating back the slow creep of death and destiny, making Anakin into someone who could inspire rather than revolt, love rather than fear, fulfil rather than hunger.

Grinding down Anakin could feel Obi-Wan’s own eagerness, thick and hard beneath him. It was this reminder - that Obi-Wan wanted him, desired him, craved him - that sent Anakin down into his release.

Obi-Wan loved Anakin.

He spasmed and shook, a blissful sigh slipping past his chapped lips, the assurances of Obi-Wan’s belief in him coursing through him. He kissed Obi-Wan then, tasting the tea on his lips, feeling the wisps of his beard that tickled, hearing the soft sigh of his own release. He held Obi-Wan close until his hands ached, his arms ached, his chest ached, still desperate to be inside of him - to be anywhere but in his own body, his own mind.

When they were done he dropped his head down to the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck. Obi-Wan stroked his back, palms hot and rough, fingers pressing into the bruises on Anakin’s body, feeling the dips of his ribs and the bumps of his curled spine. With another sob Anakin curled in as close as he could, cradled in the arms of the only person that knew, that understood, that loved despite it all.

[ange1sang]

a little to the left

2.6k words, gallavich + brief appearance from liam

; canon compliant/post season 11, domestic gallavich, hurt/comfort, trauma, dissociation, vomiting, gentle mickey milkovich

Most days Ian doesn't notice them. The blanks, the disconnect in his mind, the gaps in his memory like potholes in a road filled with oil slick and rainwater. They've been there since his late adolescence, weaving their way into his consciousness and embedding themselves into the membranes that separate his brain from his skull, so that he's used to them. He doesn't have to notice them, not when he can get by just fine without acknowledging them. But that's only on most days. 

Some days the blanks are deep and pitch black, tripping him up or even swallowing him whole. His mind becomes a black hole, everything in disarray and stretched, twisted, deformed until it's all unrecognisable. His childhood is a jumble of scenes from a movie watched on a drunken night, parts of it covered with lumpy, expired Wite-Out and others blotted with blood, smeared and dirty. The confusion makes his head pound and bile rise in his throat. For the longest time he didn't connect the two things. He's been having depressive episodes since he was seventeen, always accompanied by aches and nausea, and it was easy to lump the blanks and gaps in with everything else the depression brought on.

But he's older now, taking medication and watching his routine so that the depression rarely rears its ugly head anymore, yet the days of darkness, confusion and agony persist. They come when he least expects them, when he has a day full of errands to run with his brother or a day he's promised to spend babysitting his niece or nephew. He goes through the motions the way he's taught himself to do on even the hardest days, but it feels like wading through raw sewage in nothing but his boxers, grime and filth splattered against his thighs and clinging to the inside of his nose. He barely survives it, throwing up everything he eats, sometimes before he can reach a toilet bowl, and crawling into his bed deaf to the worried murmurs of his husband. 

It takes him years of survival, white-knuckled and tense-jawed, before it begins to make even a little sense to him. 

"Hey, Ian."

Liam's voice pulls Ian's attention from the comedy rerun he and a sleepy Mickey are watching on the TV. He looks to where his youngest brother is sitting at their kitchen table, school laptop illuminating his face and an old, chewed-up pen in his hand. 

"What's up?" Ian asks, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Mickey's hair. His husband grunts softly, pressing his face down against Ian's shoulder. Liam takes a breath, hesitating before he speaks again.

"You know the club you worked at?" he asks. Ian feels Mickey tense against him, and has to stroke his thumb against his forehead to keep him from cussing at the kid.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ian asks, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. "You aren't thinking of getting a job there, are you?"

"No," Liam says quickly, grimacing at the suggestion. Ian feels something in his chest relax. "I'm writing a paper on CSA for my psych class - you think it'd be okay if I interview you? Interviews get us extra points."

"CSA?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow. Liam hesitates again, looking sheepish and guilty all of a sudden. 

"Childhood sexual assault," he clarifies after mulling it over for a long minute. The second the words leave his mouth Mickey lifts his head from Ian's shoulder and glares at the teen.

"Write a paper on those fuckin' drooling dogs or something, man," he says, which would be funny if it weren't for how his jaw clenches once the words have left his mouth. "Leave your family outta that shit, we got enough people lookin' at us like social experiments already."

"Right," Liam mumbles, but his eyes don't move from Ian, who feels his face stiffening like concrete. "Okay, sorry."

"Nah, it's fine," Ian whispers, his voice barely audible even though he tried to speak normally. He turns his head away from his brother, back to the TV. The blue light of the screen suddenly takes on a purple tinge, spotlights moving against the inside of Ian's eyelids and illuminating dark, dirty floors soiled with bodily fluids and pills that had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. His veins throb in his arms, skin suddenly too tight for his flesh, like he's waking up with a bad hangover, dry-mouthed and disoriented.

"Ian."

He feels his lips forming a frown on his face but they don't belong to him, invisible fingers pulling down the corners of his lips to turn him into a sad mime. Mickey's hand, warm and rough cups his cheek. He blinks and the dirty floor disappears, replaced with worried blue eyes and dark, furrowed brows.

"Hey. Baby."

"I'm fine," his reply comes, automatic and without thought, before he even thinks the words. Clearly, this does nothing to soothe Mickey, eyes darting around Ian's face. His thumb rubs Ian's temple, stroking the vein that feels like it's about to burst. "I'm... I'm fine."

Mickey draws in a sharp breath, looking like he's ready to scold him, but he doesn't say anything. He shoots Liam a brief but withering look, before leaning in to kiss Ian's forehead. 

"Okay," he mumbles, and slumps back against the sofa, but not without guiding Ian's head to rest against his shoulder. 

Ian's chest is tight and aching, but he's fine. He's totally fine.

When he wakes up the next morning it's to Mickey yelling from the kitchen.

"Ian! You want coffee?"

He stiffens in their bed, his husband's voice sounding foreign. 

"Ian?"

No, it isn't his husband's voice. It's the name. Ian. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the last time he heard that name, but all his mind can offer are broken, fragmented memories of strangers whispering Curtis or Clayton or Benjamin in his ear, their breath hot against his skin. The familiarity of the names is soothing and torturous all at once, and before he knows what's happening his stomach is squeezing, pushing. He sits up but barely manages to lift his head from his pillow before a stream of weak, beige-green liquid pours from his mouth, puddling on the sheets and dripping down his chin. He stares at the pool of vomit, gears moving in his head like he's looking at an old friend. 

"Hey, man, you want coffee or-"

Mickey's voice stops just as abruptly as his movements, the man standing in the bedroom doorway like a statue. Ian turns his head to look at him, the small movement dizzying, and feels that same squeeze in his stomach. This time he has the foresight to move his hands, catching the little mouthful of hot, caustic stomach acid in his palms. 

"Ian, c'mon, don't do that," Mickey whispers, approaching slowly and taking hold of Ian's wrists. He allows himself to be manoeuvred, watching as the vomit sloshes from his palms and lands on the bed sheets. The name on Mickey's lips makes Ian's skin prickle, and he curls into himself. He's too big for it to really work, but he must have been small enough once. Must have been small enough to fold into himself like an ashen baby bird, all skin and bone and ruffled feathers. He tries to curl into himself further, trying to remember where the instinct comes from, but all he sees is a bottomless pit. Panic curls around his throat like barbed wire. "Come on, you gotta wash your hands. I can help you."

"No, I..." Ian mumbles, his own voice startling him. He stares down at his palms, feeling fabric against his skin. Expensive fabric, yarn woven into fine cotton with 2% spandex, fabric he's never been able to afford, not even on his wedding day, but that he must have touched at some point. Blearily, he looks at Mickey, meets his worried gaze through thick tears that refuse to pour down his cheeks even as he blinks over and over. His breath catches in his throat. "I don't feel right."

"That's okay. I got you," Mickey reassures him. Lips press against his forehead in a sweet kiss. "Come on, babe. It's okay."

Mickey takes his hands, not recoiling or frowning when the still-warm vomit touches his skin. He smiles, soft, small, scared, and helps the redhead stand up. 

"You're fine. I got you," he repeats, and kisses the dense patch of freckles on Ian's shoulder. The touch is familiar, and this time the familiarity is comforting without also being nauseating. He holds on tight to Mickey until their hands are under the running water of their bathroom tap, and as soon as their palms are separated he finds himself leaning into the other man, curling up again, trying to make himself smaller. He can feel Mickey watching him, gauging his condition, taking in his expressions and reaction to every little touch. "You're okay, Ia- baby."

Ian looks up, looks at Mickey's wet lashes when he bites back the name on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't understand why or how, but Mickey always knows what to say and, more importantly, he always knows what not to say. He drags in a deep breath that doesn't really reach his lungs and drops his head so he can hide his face against Mickey's shoulder. Hiding. Even if he can't seem to think of much right now, he knows he's good at hiding.

"Sorry I threw up," he mumbles into Mickey's shoulder, which makes his husband chuckle.

"I've seen you puke before, man," Mickey says. "That fuckin' sushi Debbie made us all eat last year? Playing drinking games with Sandy?"

Ian recognises the memories like the face of a quiet classmate in a yearbook - he can place them in the right environment, but can't picture them doing anything, not even opening their mouth to say 'present' for attendance. He winces, the effort of  trying to pull forth images he knows are there making him dizzy.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, turning off the tap. "Let's get some breakfast in you. Pepto Bismol with your meds maybe."

"Wait," Ian pleads, not ready to open his eyes and face the world yet. Not when he can't remember his place in it. Again, Mickey takes it in his stride. He pulls Ian into a hug that's firm enough to ground him and gentle enough to remind him that Mickey loves him. The reminder is enough to ease the jelly feeling in his joints just a little, Mickey's thumb moving back and forth against his shoulder blade like it's all he's ever wanted to do, and Ian takes a deep breath. The just-woke-up smell on Mickey, a smell that he knows he's always loved, even if he's never been sure why.

"I love you, man," Mickey murmurs sincerely. Ian relaxes just a little more.

"I love you too."

The day goes by slowly, every bit of it like pulling teeth. He downs his medication and food Mickey gives him even though his stomach twists nervously with each swallow. They watch cartoons on the sofa and Mickey smokes through a pack of cigarettes before dinner, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ian and the TV so often that he must not be getting any of what's on the screen. The vigilance is comforting, a reminder that he really is sitting on their sofa and not just dreaming up the four walls around him, so he doesn't mention it to Mickey. 

By the late afternoon he's falling asleep, tired just from keeping his eyes open and his food down. He lays his head on Mickey's lap, nose pressed into his husband's thigh and shuts his eyes when fingers immediately find their way to his hair, running through his curls and brushing stray hairs from his forehead. 

"You wanna head to the clinic tomorrow, check your meds?" he asks.

"Maybe," is all Ian can muster the energy to say. Mickey hums, thumb rubbing his brow bone.

There's a long pause, long enough that Ian almost falls asleep, before Mickey speaks up again.

"You did good, Ian."

Ian. The name finally sounds familiar again. No bile rises at the sound of it and there's no ache in his chest as he tries to place it. Relief washes over him, icy and overwhelming, and pulls him under. 

The next day he wakes feeling disoriented but not nauseous. His head is on Mickey's chest, his heartbeat steady and reliable where it thumps against his cheek. He takes a deep breath in and lifts a hand to trace a fingertip along the tattoo of his name on his husband's skin, his heart fluttering the same way it used to when they were kids and Mickey would show up at the corner store looking for him. His body feels like his own again, every organ, capillary and freckle back in its rightful place. 

He makes coffee while Mickey sleeps in. He knows after a day like yesterday that Mickey must've been up half the night, watching him sleep as though his next breath might not come, and feels a little guilty at the thought. When he carries two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom and a pack of Oreos pinched between his teeth, Mickey is waiting for him, a smile on his lips.

"Morning, mister," he grumbles, voice sleep-rough in a way that makes Ian giddy. Ian drops the Oreos on the bed and leans in for a kiss, hungry for Mickey's touch more than anything else.

"Good morning," he replies, handing Mickey his mug and settling in next to him.

"You feelin' okay? Wanna hit the clinic after breakfast?" Mickey asks cautiously, watching Ian's expression for any telltale signs that he's hiding something.

"Nah, I'm... I'm okay," Ian mumbles, shrugging. "I don't know what was up yesterday, it was like everything was a few inches to the left or something. I couldn't remember shit."

He looks at Mickey and smiles at the crease between his worried brows. 

"I'm okay now, Mick. Seriously."

Mickey grunts, frowning in a way that lets Ian know he's sorting his thoughts into words that make sense. They're halfway through their coffee before he's ready to speak, but Ian doesn't mind the waiting. He doesn't mind much when it comes to Mickey these days, at least not as much as he claims to.

"Y'know, Svetlana had days like that," he says, slow and unsure. "She'd get pukey and shit, couldn't hold a conversation... It was weird, 'cause she was always so fuckin' headstrong y'know? Seein' you like that..."– Mickey pauses, reaches out to cup Ian's cheek for a moment and rubs his thumb over the freckles on his temple. –"Maybe you should see a shrink, talk about the stuff that happened at the club."

Something clicks in Ian's head at the mention of Svetlana, all of the blanks, disconnects and gaps in his mind making a little more sense now.

"Yeah. Maybe," he sighs, and turns his head to press a kiss to Mickey's palm. "Thanks for not freaking out."

"Anytime," Mickey says with a small, worried smile. Just a couple of years ago Ian would've felt guilty for being the cause of his worry, but he understands it now. They're husbands. They're always going to worry about each other. 

"I love you," he tells Mickey, which earns him one of those shiny-eyed smiles he adores with all his heart. 

"Love you too, Red."

Maybe tomorrow he'll book himself an appointment at the clinic. Today though, all he wants to do is make up for the time he lost yesterday.

[nakachuchu]

CHAPTER FIVE: GIVE AND TAKE

Black Swan series

SYNOPSIS: You had always been the support system on the field, so why would they change off the field?

WORDS: 1k

WRITTEN: 11/19/2023

Despite being revived, the death of Riko still hung heavily in the air for you and Suguru. While Satoru was mourning in his own way, the toll of her death took a lot from Suguru.

He was visibly getting worse. He couldn't stomach food. The Curses he was consuming was the only substance in his stomach most days.

Dark circles hung under his eyes, which had lost their usual determined glint. His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of his guilt was a physical burden.

You ached for him.

Riko had been a stabilizing force, keeping Suguru's dangerous impulses in check. Her death had unleashed something unhinged in him. You knew he blamed himself for failing to protect her.

"Suguru," you said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "This wasn't your fault. Riko wouldn't want you to tear yourself apart like this."

He didn't meet your eyes. "I should have been stronger. What good am I if I can't even save the people closest to me?" His voice was raw with pain.

"You can't save everyone," you replied sadly. "No one has that power."

You knew that now better than ever, having glimpsed the inevitability of Death firsthand.

Suguru's breath hitched, tears welling in his eyes. You pulled him into an embrace.

"But we can keep living for those we've lost. We can honor their memories."

At this, Suguru finally broke down. He clung to you, sobs wracking his frame. You held him tightly, your own tears falling.

You and him stayed in that position for a while until he was ready to let go.

"I think I'll take a shower," he murmured with a pained smile.

You smiled back and nodded, letting go of his weak body. "I'll see you later?"

He nodded and walked away from you. You watched him walk down the hallway, and once he rounded the corner and disappeared, you stood up from the bench and got ready to go back to your room.

As you took a step forward, a random wave of nausea hit and bile rose up. You covered your mouth and forced yourself to swallow the putrid liquid.

With trembling breaths as you uncovered your mouth, your head remained frozen as you looked to the end of the hallway with the corner of your eyes.

A dark shadow lingered there. As quick as it came, it disappeared into nothing.

A shudder wracked your body at the lingering memory. Death had sunk its claws into you, however briefly, and left its mark on your psyche.

You hurried back to your room, eager to be alone. You grabbed all the necessary supplies for your shower and ran to the female shower room.

Suguru's breakdown had shaken you, stirring up your own lingering trauma. Under the stream of hot water in the shower, you finally allowed yourself to break.

The tears came all at once, gut-wrenching sobs tearing from your throat. You slid down the shower wall, curling into yourself on the floor as water cascaded over you.

The water burned your eyes and blocked your nose, making it hard to breathe.

The shadow you saw in the hallway lingered in your mind. Death's grip on you had left wounds no one else could see. You hugged your knees to your chest, overwhelmed and afraid as you laid down on your side.

Even back among the living, you were irrevocably changed by your brief glimpse of the other side. Cold tendrils of dread still gripped your heart. You wondered if you'd ever feel warm again.

You jolted at the sudden feelings of hands on your body, getting glimpses of the cold, bony hands that once gripped your skin.

“Y/N.”

Soft brown eyes stared at you with sadness and pity. Shoko’s soft hands gently gripped your forearms to pull you back up onto your ass.

Your naked body didn't bother her. She had seen you naked when she was preparing your body in the mortuary.

Regardless of your death, she still wouldn't have been bothered, especially if you were in need of support.

“Shoko,” you cried, in fear and embarrassment.

She was fully clothed, but she was not shying away from the scalding water that marked your skin red.

You shuddered in Shoko's gentle grip, mortified that she was seeing you at your most vulnerable. But her eyes held no judgment, only compassion.

"It's okay," she soothed, brushing the wet hair back from your face. "You don't have to hide your pain from me."

You took a few gulping breaths, trying to rein in the sobs. “I'm useless,” you admitted.

Shoko's expression was filled with sorrow. She moved to turn off the shower and helped you stand on shaky legs, wrapping a towel around you.

Leading you back to your room, she sat you down and simply held you as you cried, stroking your hair soothingly.

No words needed to be said. She knew the horrors you had endured and accepted you wholly, trauma and all.

When the tears finally subsided, you clung to her, afraid to let go. "Please, don't leave me alone," you whispered hoarsely.

"Never," she promised.

Shoko stayed with you through the night, keeping the terrors at bay with her comforting presence.

In the morning, you felt strong enough to face the others again.

“Thank you,” you whispered to Shoko.

She smiled and shrugged. “We're friends, aren't we? I need to freshen up. I'll see you at breakfast?”

You nodded. “See you.”

You closed the door to your bedroom to get some alone time before breakfast. You couldn't let the others see you like this. They needed you to be strong as they grieved Riko.

You knew you would stumble again, but Shoko would be there to catch you when you fell.

With shaking breaths, you pushed yourself back up. As you washed away your tears, you rebuilt your walls. Your expression was neutral once more.

You dressed and went to meet the others, keeping your swirling emotions contained. In your dreams you would relive it all - the darkness, the cold, the sheer terror.

But waking, you would not add to their pain. Death would not take you yet.

TAGLIST: @idktbhloley @iluv-ace

[mist-touchedxiv]

He had to have died. Though, what sins he'd committed to have warranted this trip to the abyss was beyond the Wood-warder.

A cough and the acrid burn of smoke grated across his throat brought him to the present. No. Not dead. But that wasn't a comfort.

Loksen's vision swam back into focus as he half-heartedly shield his face from nightmare heat of an unnatural blue fire that engulfed the market. The cough turned into a retch as another smell reached him: cooked meat.

With surprising alacrity for how godsawful he felt he sat up as his stomach lurched and the horrible burn of smoke in his throat met bile and the terribly pleasant remnants of berries and the copper taste of blood.

Wiping his mouth of the vomit, he dragged himself to his feet, his body protesting quietly the whole way.

The lucky dead (bangaa, Hyur and worst of all, Viera) strewn about in pieces and undefineable masses around the former market, the desert afternoon made dark by an impenetrable black smoke of midnight absurdly lit with the cerulean flames of Garlean destruction.

He remembered the agony of checking every Viera and other for signs of life to no avail. But, he found his attention seemingly guided down a small alley strewn with debris and the detritus of the lives of several pe-

He pushed the thought down, trying to center himself as he stumbled down an impossibly labyrinthine alley. The miles of burning urban hellscape soon gave implausibly a wide shallow stream, surrounded by an infinite darkness. He could feel the cool water sloshing at his knees, but he didn't clock the incongruity. Something. SomeONE had caught his attention. Pristine, beautiful in the knee deep water.

Fruitlessly, he waded through the water trying to close the distance but the crystal clear water was like quicksand.

Soon, the figure was slowly engulfed in the cerulean flames of Rabanastre and his pain intensified as if his very skin was slowly being stripped off his body and he cried.

"Loki... Rakas..." came an achingly beautiful voice from the burning Viera woman.

A psyche shattering primal scream of sorrow tore him asunder with sanity shredding pain.

He awoke with a gasp, his face soaked with sweat and silent tears and sat up with a start. As the drowsiness gave way to consciousness the world around him came into focus slowly.

The smell of sea salt was soon joined by calming rumble of ocean waves and the call of seabirds. Instinctively, he touched the raised scar tissue on the back of neck, a reminder of time past.

Taking several deep breathes to calm himself, he allowed the calming seabreeze coming from the gently undulating curtains of a nearby open window. A sleepy feminine murmur and the surprisingly gently touch of a large slender hand reassuringly gripped his bare inner thigh.

"Loki... you okay..." Merylwyb inquired sleepily into her pillow.

[galahadwilder]

The Time I Got Reincarnated as an Evil Version of Myself

Chapter 3: Disagreements

Link to AO3 in Bio

~

Akumatization isn't exactly a common experience among Parisians. With a population of over 2 million and under 300 Akumatizations—maybe half that if only count individual victims instead of instances (most of that thanks to Mr. Pigeon)—that's slightly more than a percent of a percent. Still, there are enough of them that there are certain common experiences. Any one of them could tell you that Akumatization is really only traumatizing after the fact, when you find out what you've done. It's a mercy, really, not remembering. Being saddled with the memories of causing mayhem, havoc, and murder would be too much for the psyches of most people, and Paris would look very different.

The number of people who have successfully resisted Akumatization is much, much smaller. A percent of a percent of a percent. Three people, in total, have ever done it. And while they'll gladly tell you how they did it, in hopes that you get the same success, there's one thing all three of them keep very close to their chests—a secret only three people on Earth share.

Breaking an Akumatization hurts. And worse—you remember everything.

Chloé sits curled up on a cot in the nurse's office, pressing her knees to her chest, trying her best to fight down the bile that rises in her throat. Hawkmoth may not have been able to see the memories he dredged up, but he had pressed on the worst emotional response she has, forcing her to relive her most painful moments. All her traumas, all the things she'd buried, front and center. She feels... she feels...

Ugh. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

The room is too small. And normally she'd be happy for the darkness after a panic attack—she really has to thank Marinette again for helping her admit she has those—but right now it's too much like the darkness, like the black void of Akumatization. She can almost see her mother's face blank with apathy, without recognition, devoid of love. Something inside her chest is tearing, pulling apart, and God she just wants her sister right now.

Zoé is not the person who comes through the door.

"Chloé!" Lila gasps, bursting through the door of the sleeping room of the nurse's station, all false concern and smiles. "I heard you got Akumatized!"

Chloé's pain immediately twists beneath her ribcage into rage and confusion as the most unexpected person in Paris throws her arms around her shoulders. Lila--Lila was expelled, she's been banned from the building, what is she doing here? Chloé wants to pull away, to shove her off, to do something, but she's a deer in headlights, frozen, utterly unable to stop the horror that she's trapped in.

"Are you okay?" Lila asks.

Chloé's whole body contracts, as if making herself smaller will help her escape this. Her throat constricts, strangling her words into a choking whine.

Lila pulls back, holding Chloé at arms’ length. “I’m really impressed you were able to break the Akumatization,” she says with a smile that makes Chloé’s skin crawl. “You’ve been having such a hard time of it lately, you know, and, well…” Lila starts tearing up, wiping her eye with the heel of her hand. “I can’t believe Marinette did that to you,” she whimpers. "All we ever try to do is be nice to her, but—"

Something inside Chloé snaps.

"Nice?" she snarls.

Lila’s expression immediately changes—for a split second, Chloé can see the snake behind her carefully faked expression, and that snake is scared. Some part of Chloé, the part that still likes to hurt people, the part of her that is her mother, is happy with that, and she feels a brief burst of shame, but this is Lila. She deserves every bit of Chloé's vitriol and her own fear.

The rest of her, though? The rest of her is not happy. Another, primal, feral part of her, the part of her that spent ten years in love with Marinette Dupain-Cheng in spite of all her attempts to bury it, the part of her that remembers the day Marinette finally gave her Pollen permanently, the part of her that looks at her friends, her hive, and says protect with your life, rises up like a beast and burns in her muscles, her bones, her rage, and suddenly her palms slam into Lila's stomach, Lila is on the ground, stunned, and Chloé is standing over her like a wasp looming in the air above a doomed tarantula.

"I don't know how you got on campus," she spits. “And I don’t care.” She steps forward, her gaze beating Lila down into the ground. "You say one more word about Marinette and... and..."

Lila stares up at her, eyes wide and glistening. "I—I go here," she says, and for once, her voice sounds almost honest. "I—Chloé, we're friends, aren't we?"

Chloé’s brain goes white. "Friends?" Chloé shrieks. Oh, she’s about to get Akumatized again, isn’t she. But if her Akuma form goes after Lila? Worth it. "After what you did?" She bends down, grabs a fistful of Lila's tacky plastic orange lapels. "Marinette may have forgiven you but I. Have. Not."

Now Lila is the deer in the headlights, except she's not on a road or even on a highway, Chloé Bourgeois is a bullet train barrelling down on a fawn that has wandered onto the tracks and Chloé will not stop. "You are ridiculous, Lila," Chloé snarls, barely managing to stop herself from biting the other girl's face. "Utterly. Ridiculous."

"Hey!" Zoé says, forcing the two of them apart. "Break it up, you two!"

Huh, Chloé thinks, suddenly aware of her sister's hand on her chest. She'd been so pissed at Lila, she hadn't even noticed Zoé come in.

"She just..." Lila stammers, and the shock on her face—oh, Chloé hopes it's real. "She just—”

Than her eyes narrow. For a moment, a grin flashes across her face, before her teary shock returns… but with significantly less reality to it.

”You’re—you’re breaking up with me?” Lila sobs.

Zoé’s head snaps around, and Chloé can feel her sister tense. But she—oh, God, haha, Lila thought…

Lila doesn’t know she’s out.

Chloé starts to laugh.

It’s almost a cackle, more than anything. It bubbles up from her stomach, snatching her breath, doubling her over. She’s laughing so hard she fills the entire space of the tiny nap room, so hard that both Zoé and Lila are looking at her like she’s grown a second head.

”You think—” Chloé gasps, clutching at her stomach, “—I’d cheat on Kagami—” Oh, she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. It’s too funny. “—with you?”

This is, very definitely, not the response Lila was expecting, given the shock on her face. Probably she was thinking Chloé would loudly deny being gay (when of course anyone with half a brain could have seen she was), thus confirming to Zoé their “secret relationship” and making herself look like the victim.

Whoopsie for her!

Chloé’s laughter slows down as she plops back into her cot, and she sighs, wiping tears out of her eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” she gasps through the largest grin she’s had all day. “Utterly, completely, and totally ridiculous.”

The look on Lila’s face is priceless. There are few things more satisfying than outmaneuvering smug assholes, and it’s so rare to catch the liar off-guard like this. Blindsiding Lila is a joy all its own, and Chloé intends to savor the memory of that face for years to come.

“Wait a minute,” Zoé says, breaking the moment. “You know?”

”Of—of course she knows,” Lila begins. “She and I—”

"Shut up," Chloé growls, flexing her perfectly-manicured fingers like claws. "And get. Out."

Lila swallows, frozen for half a second, then she spins and bolts for the door. It slams shut behind her, leaving Chloé alone with her sister.

Chloé collapses back onto her cot, her back slamming against the exposed white brick. Now that the adrenaline is gone, the encounter is starting to leave a really bad taste in her mouth, the way any encounter with Lila does. The bile is rising in her throat again, and she just wants to strip off her own skin and fling it somewhere far away where she doesn't have to live in it. "What is with everyone today?" she mumbles.

"What is with—what's with you?" Zoé says, slamming her hand onto the cot next to Chloé's leg. "First the Pollen thing, then the coffee prank, then…” She points out the door. “Lila is a nice person, who for some reason after all the bridges you've burned decided to be your friend, and you just—"

"She hurt Marinette," Chloé mumbles. "Nobody hurts Marinette."

“And then!” Zoé continues, heedless of Chloé’s interruption. “I’ve been trying to make you feel comfortable enough to admit to yourself that you’re gay for months, and then you just… casually? Out of spite?”

Admit that she's... what?

Wait. Something’s—something’s wrong. That's... not at all something she'd expect Zoé to say.

“I—I came out before we met,” Chloé says, haltingly. She's confused, and more than a little hurt. “You—you know that. You’ve met my girlfriend. We—” When she’d found out about Zoé, she’d been pissed enough for Akumatization—but afterwards, afterwards, it had been such a relief, such a joy, to have just one family member who accepted her as she was. “We went on double dates with you and Luka.” Had Zoé not known, all this time? Had she—had none of it mattered?

Zoé looks at her like she’s grown a second head. “Luka?” she says. “Marinette’s ex? I’ve barely even spoken to him, much less… been on dates!”

Chloé’s pulse is stabbing at her ears now. She has no idea what’s going on. Zoé’s confusion—has everyone else been feeling the same thing, today? Is that why they suddenly all hate her? Did some… Akuma or something wipe all their memories of her?

Except she was Akumatized, and Hawkmoth can’t have two out at once unless he’s Scarlet Moth, and that definitely didn’t happen today, and he’d never bother going Scarlet over her because he apparently still thinks of her as the nasty girl nobody cares about so he doesn’t think anyone would care about her the way they do about Marinette. A Sentimonster wouldn’t have this much reach, wouldn’t be able to make EVERYONE forget—

She can see Zoé going through the same mental calculations in her head. Something messed with someone’s memories. Hawkmoth is the most likely—okay, let's be real, only—candidate.

”You—you can’t be Akumatized, you rejected it,” Zoé says. “That means—” She turns pale. “You’re—you’re not my sister.”

Chloé’s heart stops. “W-what?” she manages.

Zoé backs away from her, eyes wide and immobile. “You’re a Sentimonster.”

The way she says the word—as if it's a swear, as if it's a curse—stabs straight through Chloé’s gut. She wants to vomit. Chloe is better at managing her anger when it comes to people she loves. Honestly, she is. But she never expected... from her own sister of all people... Don't get Akumatized, don't get Akumatized, don't get Akumatized—

Shut up and burn her, says the part of her that is her mother, and Chloé ignites.

She leaps to her feet, heedless of how Zoé is forced back, heedless of the terrified expression on her sister's face, barely aware of anything except her own rage. “OF COURSE I'M A FUCKING SENTIMONSTER!” she screams, reaching for her necklace. “You—you helped me steal my Amok from Mom! It was your plan! You—”

Instead of her mother’s wedding ring, Chloé’s fingers close on the necklace to find empty air.

Her entire body goes cold. She looks at the stunned, horrified Zoé, and suddenly she's in freefall. Part of her wonders if this is how Adrien felt when his bodyguard pitched him off the Montparnasse, but the rest is too caught up in the sickening drop of her gut, the fire in her extremities, the vacuum where her lungs are supposed to be.

"My..." she croaks, barely able to speak. "My Amok. It's—" She swallows as best she can around the lump that is digging spikes into her throat. "It's gone."

@emma-d-klutz @generalluxun @naresar @ninepostsstuff @grotesquewombat @erisluna35 @oblivionhold @all-peristeronic @chaos-has-theories @into-september @claws-and-bee-stings @279ital @drawing2cope @theramendragon @jameskillianreaper @wild-mare-of-prosecution @blessedfatui @luckychatons @ninepostsstuff @sailorladybug @ladybeug @ymfingsteadilyon @steelblaidd @alexseanchai @dravidious @lowbatterylamp @nekoisadumbname @lemonadeready @tobytober @sunny-key @amandayetagain @darkwolf13reblogs @faunina @marichatsajjvv @mugchild @greenbloodedskink @miraculoussly @flightfoot @chaos-has-theories @multimousenette @spookyyarn @cosmictacos @toychicraft-dump @dragonking1987 @thesernotthedroidsurlooking4 @coracal @erisluna35 @merryberry01 @claws-and-bee-stings @princess-of-the-corner

[ruvastuon]

A Bit Old For This

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Where did this come from? I don't know... I woke up at 6:10 am. and saw the prompt. This story just kinda came knocking on my brain without notice.

Story Warning: breif thoughts of death, violence, abduction, mentions of unstable mental state, and isolation.

Aaron woke up scowling to the sound of his alarm. 4:30 am. flashed brightly on the small LED screen. He’d overslept again.

Not bothering to snooze, Arron slowly sat up in bed and attempted to fight his growing desire to pitch himself over the balcony of his fifth story apartment. Imagining the complications in the event of his failure he discarded the unproductive thoughts turning his attention to the bathroom instead.

Pictures and Phil and Rachel in their uniforms hung on the mirror taunting him with their smiles, a constant reminder of his failure.

Blasted psyche test. Weren't people like him the very kind that the military were looking for?

Aaron's scowl deepened as he tried to push down a rising sense of nausea, he really needed to take down those pictures before he…

A loud boom sounded from the living room and his failures were replaced by a sudden and unshakable dread.

He'd been anxious and angry in equal measure for most of his life, so Aaron was familiar with voids in his gut, but this dread seemed to be emanating from the back of his head telling him to run.

His brain didn't even process the command that had been instinctively issued before his body was moving calmly towards the bathroom window.

Unhooking the latched he ducked out to the fire escape and began to descend the stairs as quietly as possible while his heartbeat began to accelerate with each successive boom.

The wind began to pick up as he heard a low growl from above. He didn’t dare stop, didn't dare to look up and see what might have invaded his home. What would have happened had he hit snooze one more time? It was then that his anxiety caught up with the dread and a pit formed in his already weakened stomach threatening him with a putrid bile that crept into the back of his throat.

Aaron stopped just long enough to force the bile back down into his stomach. Unfortunately It was a moment too long, for even as he took several deep breaths after finally forcing the caustic mixture down his aching throat, he felt icy fingers gently wrapping around the back of his neck.

The back of his mind began to scream as his body froze in place. He wanted to move, needed to continue fleeing but it was as though his body had been frozen by those fingers which dug into the back of his neck.

"Are you sure this one will do?"

Aaron closed his eyes before he could see the person he heard them stepping closer. It was like his brain knew something worse than the eternal sleep he dreamed of would be forced on him if he made eye contact with whatever it was.

"The Professor was very clear in his description, and I can feel radiance even if it’s faint. I am a bit surprised he made it this long without being discovered."

His brow furrowed as Aaron tried to make sense of what was happening. What did they mean radiance? The feeling in the back of his head flared once more with the urgent desire to escape these things, but he was still firmly rooted in place as a bony finger pressed into the side of his face as warm blood pooled under the sharp nail.

The sting of torn skin was enough to convince the last sane shred of his mind that this wasn't another of his insane dreams, he'd always wake up when he was injured and less had drawn him from his wanderings. The icy grip around his throat tightened, and his vision blotched to blackness.

....

"Simon, wake up!"

His eyes snapped open at the unfamiliar voice. He was in a plain white room filled with sleeping figures. From a cursory glance he was probably the oldest by about fifteen years. Among them only about a fourth seemed to be awake, and half of those were staring at the walls in a daze.

He didn’t have much time to linger on his confusion as a familiar boom filled the room and his eyes were drawn to a wolf-like creature that stood towering over one child that was still sleeping. The creature's maw dripped with red as it didn't hesitate to bring its jaws down on the sleeping boy's shoulder before blinking out of existence with another boom, taking the boy with it.

Cries rang out from nearby children as they began to scramble away from any of the sleeping kids as more booms filled the room in rapid succession, always a sleeping child, and always there for less than a moment more than necessary. The teen near him continued to shake her unconscious friend while calling out his name as another boom sounded and knocked her away from the defenseless teen.

Aaron wasn't sure if it was that strange new part of his brain , or the well of frustration the had been brewing in his gut which caused him to leap at the wolf, but in the end the result was the same. Without an ounce of hesitation he pounced on the focused beast like a coiled spring which had finally been released.

Its body was lighter than the wolves he'd dealt with in the past, and as he pinned its throat to the ground with his knee, he reached to his belt finding his knife had been left unchecked.

His fingers gingerly gripped around the handle pulling it free as the creature seemed to catch up with its current situation and attempted to claw at him while snarling.

He was struck by the pathetically weak nature of this thing as his blade was buried in the creature's throat, tearing it cleanly with more ease than should have been possible. As the blade broke free of the creature it burst into a cloud of thick purple smoke and rapidly funneled into his mouth and nose suffocating him for a brief moment.

When the swirl was gone he looked down at his hands with patchy vision and tried to focus on the strange fog that he could now feel slowly making its way through his lungs.

"Congratulations!"

A little old man appeared not far away smiling from ear to ear.

"The first dream wolf has been absorbed so all survivors are now eligible dream Arbiter candidates!"

Little bursts of confetti sprayed over the room as the children and Aaron looked at the man in confusion.

It was at this point that the sleeping victims all started to wake up and look around them in confusion before happily reuniting with their peers and crying tears of what he assumed were relief.

For his part, all Aaron could manage to do was put away his suddenly clean knife, hoping the old man would suddenly decide it wasn't something that an abducted adult should be allowed to have.

[noxhawthorne]

Memories

Parasitic. The only way to describe it. No such has ever — or will ever — devour the psyche in such a twisted and sinful way. Relishing in the sordid pain as saliva drips from its dull teeth, gnawing, breaching the surface and burying itself in the depths. Seducing one into warm, melted comfort only to rip it all away, dunking you in pure menthol ice.

Sentiment stands for nothing. Entangled in the emptiness of frivolity, strands of hope turn to knots of fear, and the beast braids these into fine feathered ropes. They strangle, choke, gag and tighten the throat, swelling the lining of your airway until breathing is synonymous with retching, and air with bile.

The desire to talk with the energy for silence alone constrains thoughts, serving only to deepen the dread that fills your veins. Black poisonous ink flowing through like thick sludge, solidifying and send muscles into soaking aches of anguish.

It sits, ephemeral. Leaving no crevice bare, the cracks of consciousness are filled with its retched stench.

N. H.

[snapshotofthesun]

your own voyeur

The body’s age is nineteen, but the mind is split into three.

There is a seven-year-old girl inside her, and she is screaming love me love me love me until her voice is hoarse and her eyes are full of bitter tears. She has scruffy blonde hair and wears her brothers’ hand-me-downs as she warms the bench at half time. Suspended, trapped in time and space, forever stuck sitting on the curb of the parking lot after her mother forgot her between the bread and cereal aisles. Love me love me love me until I am enough.

There is a fourteen-year-old banging against her cerebral cortex who scoffs and rolls her eyes and steals her mother’s cigarettes, who kisses men with tobacco-stained teeth and pretends she likes the way their hands clasp the small of her back. She’s irreparably tarnished, broken in seven places. Her teachers shake their heads and call her a case of wasted potential as she sips cheap vodka from a plastic water bottle and tilts back on her chair until her head spins. In three months when she discovers the concept of a manic pixie dream girl, she will internalise the performance of chaotic femininity until she loses all trace of the girl she once was.

And hidden deep within her psyche is a spinster with shocking grey hair who recites the passage of Margaret Atwood she learned one day in high school that she will never forget: “Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies…?” She peels pomegranates and clementines, letting the juice stain her cuticles, and watches the dust dance in the warm afternoon sunlight. She will be lonely for the rest of her life.

The body sits on a couch at the back of the party, listening to the thudding heartbeat of bass and sipping on a concoction that burns like bile in the back of her throat. Cinnamon whisky. Apple juice. Black leather and cigarettes. She’s out of cigarettes. The craving is an itch in the back of her skull.

Her friends have introduced her to a man she’s never met before, one that looks at her hungrily and won’t stop pouring her fiery drinks. The room spins in slow, hazy circles. He asks her if she has any tattoos, and when she removes her jacket to show him the inkblot on the back of her arm, his fingertips trace the skin as if he can feel the pain of the needles inside her. In another lifetime the softness of that touch would send sparks across her skin. But the fourteen-year-old inside her burnt away every nerve, every sense, every feeling in the recesses of her dark bedroom one night. Untouchable.

He's watching her; she’s watching him watching her. Life in the third person – life at arm’s length – has a strange appeal.

You are your own voyeur, says the spinster.

Love me love me love me, says the child.

“I’m out of cigarettes”, says the body, downing her drink until the unwanted voices recede. Within seconds there’s one between her fingers, one clamped between his teeth.

There’s a section of blankness, of dark, terrifying, stumbling haze, then she’s leaned on his shoulder with a lit cigarette in one hand and a brand new drink in the other. There is brief, unintentional eye contact; she is terrified and slightly amazed by the intensity of his stare, the way he cannot tear his eyes away from the curve of her jawline, the wildness of her eyes, the strip of exposed skin between her shirt and jeans.

I bet he wants me, says the fourteen-year-old.

The body isn’t quite sure what she wants.

I bet he needs me, says the fourteen-year-old.

And then his lips are on hers and her drink smashes against the cold stone floor and the child is screaming at her, pounding against the walls of her brain in fear, because his kiss burns like motor oil and his hands grip her like he’ll never let her go. The child knows that her churning stomach is fear, not butterflies, and that this potent, base desire is nothing like love, nothing like the love she craves so deeply. But the child is small, and the child is weak, so when the fourteen-year-old forces her into a headlock and begins stubbing out butts on her skin, there is nothing she can do but howl like a caged animal.

His hands find the warmth underneath her jacket; she exhales a cloud of fog into the icy night air. There is a shock of coldness in his touch that releases her from this strange delusion.

You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman.

He pushes her backwards – a fit of passion – and her head hits the wall behind her.

You are your own voyeur.

There is pomegranate juice dripping from the spinster’s mouth. The fourteen-year-old, stunned into submission, drops the child in a crying heap. The body pulls from his grasp and stumbles through the crowd.

She finds the bathroom. The walls vibrate with the thud of the music, like a living entity. There are tears in her eyes. She could watch herself cry, watch the emotion sink and splash and bend across her face, watch it furrow her brow and tighten her jaw and admire the way her mascara stains her cheeks. But she’s tired: the child is tired, the fourteen-year-old is tired, the spinster is tired, the body is tired. Tired, and so, so lonely.

Love me love me love me love me.

She stares into the mirror, searching for a sign of life, but the body does not recognise itself.

[orangetintedglasses]

☨- There. The moment Greenie rebelled back, showing the will to fight back and survive was Remade 's downfall. He had finally gotten over the turmoil to get his hands dirty if it meant securing the safety of his comrades. It wasn't a perfect leap of course. There sure would be times where Vash would still try to rule his decisions based on non violence. A pacifist Buddhist, a protagonist Belial has only seen a few times in his other worldly travels. He respected this. So he would do Greenie a small favor. He would help keep his remaining mental psyche clean of slate so that his spiritualness was not tainted by bloodshed of his own doing.

The moment Remade was kicked off to choke on his own bile, he would be plunged, and impaled by Belial's summoned marlow white saber. Crafted from his own essence; the sword would cut down all who'd oppose its master. Silently the Daemon sinks the saber to the hilt into Remade 's heart. Breaking the connection the two plants had with one another. Freeing Greenie of this unnatural aspect of his consciousness. Belial was not a monk of any sort. He was the defiance of karma and impermanence. A killer that has time again and again shit on death's doormat, and laughed. Belial would always cheat for the outcome he believed was worth aiming for.

"This fight has come to its conclusion. You are not fit for the throne my dear flora. Give thanks to your counterpart, he in the end still showed you mercy." Belial slowly slid the sword out of his chest and back. Just as the plant would collapse to his knees, his head would follow to join his feet, with a swift final beheading. Cutting the black roots that was so deeply implemented.

The prism cleared for them, light filtered in, as a familiar room of greenery took place of the shadows. Belial stood once more in his humanoid glamour and lit a cigarette. Staring at Greenie, who was victorious and the true head of his being. They were now in Vash's mind palace, his original safe space. The remnants of his other self fading like burned crisp leaves. "It's time you get your shit together. Your final fight is with your twin. There are still others trying to help you regain control. I won't be there to aid you from this point. When you gain control of your body, be wary of any flying bullets..." Belial walked up to Vash and ruffled his hair.

"When we meet again in the waking world, you owe me." The last words he would speak before finally dispersing.

Two sets of blue eyes widened at the sight of the bone-white blade, though only one would feel the release the blow represented, cutting through the tangle of invisible strings that had kept Vash bound and even giving him back his voice. No more sharing, all his own again, as the Remade double barely had time to gasp before Belial cut him down. And when that happened, the missing color returned, taken back from the Remade copy-- climbing up from his feet like ink on paper, all the missing hues of blacks and browns, yellows and greens that had been 'cleansed' returned, leaving the youngest of the Stampedes standing there. Whole again.

Looking down at his hands, Vash almost can't believe it. He doesn't feel the weight meant to keep him down here anymore. It would still be a feat all it's own to get back where he needed to be, but... he'd be able to do it, now. He wasn't trapped down here anymore.

Vash lifts his head to thank the other, but by that time, Belial is gone, with just the promise of being owed for his service still ringing in his ears. What that means isn't clear... but he doesn't care. He's going to get out of this place.

And he'll start by trying to follow that strange disruption he felt before...

[manmetaphysical]

7: Scorpio Mavericks and Poets

It should be evident by now that Scorpio is a sign that has penetrating insight and they may make good pyschologists, forensic scientists, criminal invesigtators and surgeons. Mars, the ancient ruler of Scorpio, is the knife cutting into the skin.

One of the great mavericks of history, a self-taught Renaissance man was Paracelsus (10/11/1493). His name is shortened from Philipus Aureolis Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim. His contribution to medicine was groundbreaking and not fully understood at the time. He researched deeply and observed what he saw and became known for it- Mercury conjunct Pluto in Scorpio in the 10th house of reputation. He was even  known as the 'Martin Luther of Medicine'. He was not only a scientist, but also a scholar, doctor, astrologer, magician, healer and alchemist and he loved shaking things up- he has a few planets in Sagittarius so could be a firebrand as well.

Paracelsus made many enemies as he didn't care what people thought of him. Though born a Catholic, he was was ultra anti Catholic and took every opportunity to challenge the power of Rome. He debunked the practice of blood letting as a cure and the notion of the Four Humours (Blood, Phelgm, Yellow Bile and Black Bile) as established by Galen, whose book he burned, preferring to say that the body was controlled by chemicals- Salt, Sulphur and Mercury, hinting at today's understanding of hormones and neuropeptides. He did retain the traditional notion of the four elements -Fire, Air, Water and Earth- however.   

He stated that the mind can influence the body as in the Placebo effect, so was way ahead of his time on this one too, suggesting he understood psycho-somatics long before that term was ever coined. He was also a toxicologist and knew that there's no real difference between a poison and a medicine; that it's all about the dosage- anything can be toxic, even water. This makes him the quintessential Scorpio. His legacy today is in varying fields as he seemed to be able to contain these contradictions under the same umbrella.

The continued testing only dug him in deeper into his research, and he was able to make the studies repeatable and obtained similar same results in Belgium Germany and Italy. But he was  heavily critiqued from all sides both non-astrologers and astrologers who didn't like the findings as they conflicted with 'tradition' and deeper archetypal symbolism is always resistant to quantitative statistical methods. He was accused of bias and felt under attack from all sides (Chiron conjunct Jupiter in Taurus so troubled self esteem, opposite his Juno/Mercury). After the divorce from Francoise, it was very unfortunate that he took his own life in 1991. 

Sylvia Plath (27/10/1932) is another character, a kind of maverick. Whatever you may think of her status as a woman in the shadow of her husband Ted Hughes, her poems are sharp and sardonic, and memorably worded as would be expected from a Scorpio with a stellium in Virgo. She is among the 'great' poets of the 20th century without a doubt. She did have Pluto in Cancer opposite Saturn in Capricorn and a complex mix of planets in Virgo involving Neptune (she put her head in a gas stove) the South Node, Jupiter, asteroid Eros and Venus making her role as a woman and her sexuality a clear focus for her work. There is also the Juno factor. Her Juno was conjunct the Moon in Libra which can oscillate wildly there. Remember that Juno represents equality in relationships and marriage contracts, but Juno was in fact not just wife, but also 'sister' to Jupiter, so this points to a more karmic entanglement where relationship issues burrow deep into the psyche. 

Her reasoning was not always clear, perhaps to the detriment of a full and fair evaluation of her life and talent. She decided to take her life which further obscured her intentions by a slew of other issues. The blame game goes on, but I think her work is strong enough to survive all the controversy over who did what to whom.

Understanding the symbols helps enormously to understand the sign. A scorpion is an odd little creature scuttling about under rocks, but it is much less scary than it looks. Its venom is rarely enough to kill a human, but it is something about the way it looks so ready to attack with their pointed pincer that frightens people. In the astronomical positioning the Scorpio contstellation it is the opposite of Orion the giant as in the myth, Gaia asked a lone scorpion to help her defeat Orion who was a giant on the rampage. The scorpion achieved this by sheer focus and dodging all attacks. But the associations don't stop with little creatures on the earth, they  elevate to the eagle, also an alchemical symbol,  and then to the phoenix rising from the ashes which makes sense when you think the crossover point of Scorpio and Sagittarius subsumes the so-called '13th sign' Ophiucus (the serpent bearer)- again pointing to a deeper wisdom around medical issues of the body and knowledge of healing modalities- and only then it heralds the much brighter, lighter more forward-thinking sign of Sagittarius.

It's is good to end with the feisty but memorable words of or the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (27/10/1914) who had a Saturn/Pluto conjunction in Cancer and a serious alcholol problem. But he too was a Scorpio sun sign and he gave us the line 'And death shall have no dominion' - the Death Tarot card is the one associated with Scorpio- but also these words offer a suggestion of Martial energy being the potent magic to counter the darkening days, of ageing. It's the feeling that just being alive makes you feel angry and vulnerable so you want to strike out with poisonous venom at your enemies.

But the phoenix rising from the ashes would suggest that a rebirth brings about higher potential to behave in ways that ultimately transcend all the difficulties. 

"Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."  

[theam-cjsw]

The AM: April 22, 2024

A throwback to an early 2000s post-rock debut, excursions into psych-folk and ambient country, and your usual genre-and-decade-spanning mix of offbeat easy listening—enjoy another three hours of mellow Monday mantras on The AM.

Stream on CJSW, or use the Spotify and Soundcloud links below. Tracklist is after the break.

Hour One:

Lillian Kindly Spoken Thieves • Phonic Smoke

Flight SUSS • Birds & Beasts

The Chauffeur The Golden Age of Wrestling • Scorpion Deathlock

Meadow Transient In The Well • Meadow Transient

Tessellate! Zachary Gray • Plan B

Kiki’s Tavern (For Vasilis) Greg Foat, Sokratis Votskos, Warren Hampshire, Ayo Salawu • Live at Villa Maximus, Mykonos

Sunday Hiro Ama • Music for Peace and Harmony / Sunday

Yoti e Miyauchi Yuri • Single

Communal Imagination Tommy Perman, Andrew Wasylyk • Single

I Gotta Find Some New Friends Salami Rose Joe Louis, Flanafi • SARAH

Hour Two:

Wave By Wave Harmonia, featuring Vittoria Maccabruni & Michael Rother • Musik Von Harmonia / Anniversary Edition

Melting on the Meadow Black Moth Super Rainbow • Start A People (Expanded Tracks)

The Ecstatic Dance MISZCZYK, featuring Bile Sister • Thyrsis of Etna

Creating Love and Happiness out of the Noir - the Melancholy Dreamsploitation • The Soft Focus Sound of Today

Tracers Miracle Fortress • Was I the Wave?

Silky Spring Yuuf • In the Sun

Antitech Efterklang • Springer

Rumeurs Caméra • Caméra

Old Growth Year of Glad • Old Growth

Dizzy Ditty Ariel Kalma, Jeremiah Chiu, Marta Sofia Honer • The Closest Thing to Silence

The New Last Sam Prekop • Comma

Hour Three:

Seven Seconds to Sunrise Project Gemini • Colours & Light

Gassed Up Jeffrey Silverstein • Roseway

Lay With Luck Woods • Five More Flowers

Reaching Out Beth Gibbons • Lives Outgrown

Endless Shore Melody's Echo Chamber • Melody's Echo Chamber

Under a Pale Light Felt • The Pictorial Jackson Review

Constellation Knife Pleats • Hat Bark Beach

Harm's Way Ducks Ltd. • Harm's Way

Astronaut Lab Coast • Walking on Ayr

As Night Is Falling The Clientele • Suburban Light

Fog Summer Bruises • Light to Waste

[writer59january13]

Where art thou anonymous benefactor...to offer me succor?

Ah... methinks legal tender could be a boon to help me bolster

mein kampf with necessary material equipage, which prospect to acquire essential commodities sabotaged

at the altar of gullible travails, thus perhaps thee could make a contribution to mine gofundme page.

Castaway stranded on figurative deserted island pitted with absolute zero salvation, sole recourse finds scant consolation with prayer lifetime atheist draws futile faith within himself grudgingly accepting feeble accomplishments ditto permanent estrangement among kith and kin tortured more punishingly versus death sentence of choice: firing squad, gallows, guillotine...

nostalgically sentimentally, and zealously yearning fore gone girl(s) of mine, one spouse two grown offspring long since severed emotional home ties even when under same roof appalled, embarrassed, jarred particularly regarding good for nothing hang dog looking papa, mentally unfit father, who wrought misery upon heads he begat chronically dirt poor Mainline moocher never earning a bloody

cent claiming psychological disability (verity substantiated with professional assessment attests to psychological mental illness probably present during inchoate biological development in utero, and most definitely congenital) unfortunate no supportive resources, thus experiencing grievous incalculable relentless scapegoat treatment - me no kidding inadvertently subjected with cruel, diabolical,

exponential sucker punches while riding the bus sitting stone temple pilot faced during class, belittled, defeated, framed unfairly as spitball culprit during eighth grade mathematics with Missus Labosh subsequently painfully shy lad threateningly harangued, and nearly paddled courtesy Methacton Junior High School principal Mister Clock believe me you, aye remained mum about said incident til...this moment,

not surprising since every unpleasantry suppressed unwittingly festering within psyche in tandem with threatening rapier sarcasm ostracizing jibes cumulative wrath unwaveringly smoldering, passively brooding, visualizing punching meanies, screaming... wanting to kill - sublimated hurts glowering, exploding... decades later -

more often surfacing unannounced at odd times venting bile at wife directly, and barking

at deux daughters subjecting innocent progeny with mine anger, or rerouting, harboring, channeling... pathological addiction answering and posting personal classifieds, yours truly guilty attempting to appease call of wild at mental, physical, and spiritual expense additionally setting poor paternal example accompanied with detached avoidance maybe costing yours truly king's ransom and/or receiving my just desserts, yes?

Thus yours truly imagines

whizzing backward at light speed

to reverse engineer and rejigger space/time continuum

many stupid blunders

that cost me being knocked out cold

courtesy rock em sock em life size robots

compromising opportunities the figurative ball

slipped out of my court

bungled, fumbled, mulcted

courtesy naiveté I did excede.

Analogous to albatross greater than weight

Atlas shrugged, severely over burdening fountainhead, yours truly intermittently wavered, sputtered, petered... out bumped uglies fumphered, rutted, née languished along since birth, (possibly while in utero, or even moment of conception nada so thoroughly good by George) or well resigned dirty deeds done dirt poor deeply grooved within very self restricted comfort zone,

eventually digging deep black hole sun, infinite void everywhere exit prohibited, whence twilight o' mine waning existence awakened sober inescapable realization impossible mission to garner je nais ne quois joie de vivre, thus officially reeling courtesy psychological angst (strumming), whereby galactic dash board pluck pitted against frantic ethereal desperation) eek clip sing el sol lure rays refracted back

rendering blind did as a bat sightless wayward son helplessly, rustling grimly, futilely groping, lumbering, resigning, scarce tenacity clutch slipping automatically bing foisted transcendent

state, where absolute zero soundcloud bereft succor – meadow fore enshrouds hermetically sealed turin soul (mine) cocooning grubby human forever pinwheeling within otherworldly realm

timelessly suspended within infinite void n'er aging, rather regressing toward infantile state, unable to distinguish familiarity after aye promise never tug heave fanta see piquing curiosity

acronym spelled out regarding above

soda describing bubbling sensation "**** And Never Touch Again," red alert universal emergency advisory button commencing countdown to

Armageddon, but subsequently resign quintessential pregnant outcome housing grimacing deathstill blackness unbeknownst to constitute afterlife, or less disconcerting, disheartening, disenchanting... prospect namely imperfectly square discombobulated chaos betokens palatable alternative, perhaps revelation (cryptically spelled courtesy Chinese fortune cookie) less

dim sum more tolerable conclusion possibly incorporates being rezoned, repurposed, reassigned... within parallel universe fast D'Cell rating indicative approaching beginning space/time continuum, where cosmos concentrated into microscopic speck sagely, taste fully, gingerly... handled... courtesy garden variety

budding fubar Homo sapien.

An armature linkedin to robotic divine creator, who never tired plying matter into big bang dang boomerang contraption only to release stretched material with frisson cold snap, crackle, and pop

indiscriminately, haphazardly, gamely... flicked teensy weensy itty bitty cosmic dross - poofing into immeasurable shift shaping said vast bajillion mile wide instant karma credit witnessed umpteenth

birth expanding into former vacuum of nothingness simulating an all encompassing immense awesome kaleidoscope when

viewed thru virtual reality goggles all the while frustrated wordsmith toying

with incomprehensible far out mind boggling notion defying elaboration.