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gingergofastboatsmojito · 4 months ago

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His avoidance

I read this quote a few days ago and it reminded me of these two:

Source: Marriage.com YES! MARRIAGE DOT COM LOLOLOL!

So since I already went over her avoidant behavior 🔗 that might have as well cost us SYDCARMY this season:

Now I am gonna be fair because Carmy is avoidant too but differently. They are like "50 shades of I DON'T WANNA DEAL WITH MY FEELINGS, I RATHER COOK".

And in the bonus track, I will focus on the only great part of being a master avoidant.

So, Carmy... His avoidant behavior is a different shade of avoidance because while also being a defense mechanism, it is rooted in his C-PTSD, which he described in the AA meeting S1 monologue pretty well. He grew up in a totally different environment than Syd 🔗 but he also felt lonely and that scared him emotionally.

Avoidance resulted from that emotional scaring process that affects him even to this day. C-PTSD and PTSD are not the same, so it's important not to misdiagnose the two. Also, C-PTSD can cause autobiographical memory gaps but it only affects functional memory.

That being said, Carmy is extremely self-aware because he is an introvert. My theory also includes his AUADHD type, but I will not dive into that neurodivergency in this post, I will focus on his introverted type and avoidant behavior. That self-awareness is what differentiates him the most from Sydney who is an ambivert (extra-introvert). She defaults to denial, and he defaults to sublimation.

I went over his sublimation several times:

Here 🔗

And here 🔗

Yeah... I gave it some thought ok?

Carmy doesn't avoid feeling, he avoids acknowledging, but he's not in full-on denial, he just dances around an idea, a concept he's fully aware of, and then decides to disregard it thinking that by doing so it will disappear. It doesn't and then it becomes ART.

It becomes ANGER.

It becomes INSOMNIA.

Just like in Syd's case, it becomes PANIC/ANXIETY.

It becomes ADDICTION.

It becomes silence that feels like something crashing his chest and not letting him say the words he wants to say OR cry. It becomes PARALISYS.

And he runs away from it by cooking or sketching, smoking, etc. Instead of facing it even if it hurts, elaborating on it and letting it out verbally, crying his heart out if necessary, and eventually healing.

I am positive that ended in 03x10 when he was strong enough to confront his nemesis and then have a good cry, finally!!! I was sooo happy for him, it broke my heart, but I was happy. He's finally on the mend.

Carmy will continue avoiding feelings he doesn't feel ready to cope with, deflecting and diverting to other stuff to fool himself, sure!

But this will not traumatize him anymore.

He will go about it differently now that he can let out certain things that were stuck in him for far too long. This will also enable other "un-stuck" processes, such as finally leaving C behind after having an adult conversation / giving that relationship the closure it deserves, which he has been avoiding since last season.

But for that, he will have to quit avoiding the reason why he stalled it in the first place, which I explained → here 🔗

I am sure S4 will be all about that because that's exactly where he ended last season, so it's the logical progression:

I bet everything on his success.

Avoidants are masters of the unspoken communication

Bonus track: Both Carmy and Syd are masters of unspoken communication, that's also why they end up overdoing it, they end up abusing that skill they have and it turns counterproductive. But it is a skill nonetheless. THOSE LOOKS, THOSE SILENCES, THAT UNSPOKEN LOVE, THEY CAN SAY IT ALL WITHOUT PRONOUNCING A SINGLE WORD OR BETWEEN THE LINES OF THE FEW WORDS THEY SAY. THEIR TRADE MARK. THEY MASTER SILENCES AND INFLECTIONS LIKE NO OTHERS. THEY CAN SAY IT ALL "DIFFERENTLY".

They got this. Let's give them more time. S4 is gonna be all about them learning to use their words "properly" after they stop avoiding the conversation they owe each other.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

#sydcarmy #his avoidance #the bear #carmy berzatto #gingerpovs #the bear meta #sydney adamu #carmy x sydney #the bear season 3 #the bear season 4 gingerpredictions #carmen berzatto #the bear fx #syd x carmen #sydcarmy endgame #USE YOUR WORDS

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iravaid · 1 year ago

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I love your writing so much, your Simon Riley in Situations series is probably one of my favorite works in the entire fandom!!! The way you write tommy and simon’s relationship gives me so much emotions lol, like even though it only comes up a couple times in the entire series there’s just so much there! That flashback we get in in the desert was just a brief glimpse, and yet it was so much more powerful than how they were written in the entire canon comic (which might not be saying much because that comic left a lot to be desired, but still) It had me imagining their relationship as kids, and how tommy probably had a much easier time navigating their dad’s moods while simon struggled to pick up the social cues and unspoken meanings behind words and stuff like that, and how tommy, as a kid growing up in a pretty ableist society who had probably never even heard of autism until his teen years, would probably get frustrated with simon and not understand why he couldn’t just say the right things when he needed to, why he couldn’t just do what he needed to do to not make the situation worse (and simon feeling the same way and wondering why he couldn’t just know how to smile and say what people wanted to hear, like tommy) (This ended up being long and rambling but your fics just give me so many riley brothers feels lol XD)

Oh shit!! Thank you so much!!!! I'm so happy you enjoy this series, especially the relationship between Tommy and Simon!! It's genuinely so interesting to me and has a lot of potential to be built upon, considering how little there is for them in the comics (both a blessing and a curse let's be honest).

Augh, yeah, them as kids has a lot of emotional oomph, especially if taken the way I have, in all essentialities, taken the characters in my grubby mitts and gotten lint all over them. Tommy probably was the golden child in this family, Nigel played a lot of games in tormenting his kids, and I imagine turning them against each other, or at the very least Tommy against Simon, was one of them. I wonder if that dynamic might have changed when Simon left, leaving Tommy to be the only child in the house and no longer having a 'weird' older brother occupying the role of scapegoat (and protector, in his own way). In the beginning, I can see Tommy hating Simon for leaving, it's easier than hating his abusive dad at this point.

Things do change for the better, and in all honesties I can see Tommy getting therapy/counselling as an adult and learning how to become better adjusted and look back on his childhood with a trauma-informed lense, equipped with a kind of knowledge and vocabulary Simon doesn't/refuses to have. Internalied ableism definitely informs how they process their trauma and percieve therapy, and for Simon this is another brick in that wall after growing up the 'strange' one in the family that just doesn't get it. This is another thing he doesn't get, and it's a source of anger for him.

I imagine there is a lot of frustration for Tommy in the things you mentioned above, which is a dynamic I love love love, considering Autistic Simon growing up in Manchester in the 80s/90s at this point would be. A Lot for both of them, for different reasons. I imagine it would serve to emphasise that feeling of isolation Simon feels in this series, and I would go so far as to say Tommy doesn't hear the word 'autism' until he's an adult/in his 20s. Before then it was always alluded to, or people saying 'he's rather... odd.' about Simon with a strange expression on their faces. Autism and Asperger's (it's an outdated term now, but one that was used then) were very stigmatised and you were seen as there was something wrong with you or you were 'slow'.

God but their potential brotherhood when Simon comes back and kicks Nigel out of the house, and helps Tommy heal. I really love the complexity of their relationship, how two brothers who survived an awful childhood have different ways of coping and healing from it. Again, all in our collective heads, but I'm happy the comics only gave us the bare bones to play with. We'll grow our own meat, with blackjack and hookers.

I really want to write/am in the process of writing a fic set in Tommy's POV, waiting for his brother, beginning from Simon being announced missing after he's caught by Roba, to him being found and returned home, and ending just before That Scene. I want to explore their brotherhood through Tommy's eyes, how disparate some parts of them are and how similar others have ended up, as well as play on a theme Ghost haunting the family well before Simon is returned and believes himself dead. I'm unsure how it'll end up, but the goal is a 20k oneshot. Hopin to work on it in earnest in August, when Art Fight is over :D

Again! Thank you so much for this message! Had a big grin reading this, I'm so happy you liked those fics! Hell yeah!

#ask #codposting #simon riley #tommy riley

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pulsenewswire · 1 month ago

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Sad Shayari: Unlocking the Depths of Emotions

Sad Shayari holds a special place in the world of poetry, serving as an emotional bridge between the heart and the words. It’s more than just a collection of sorrowful phrases—Sad Shayari allows individuals to dive deep into their emotions and find comfort, understanding, and perhaps even closure. Through its simple yet profound lines, it touches the soul in ways that few other forms of poetry can.

When you're lost in the whirlwind of emotions, and words seem hard to find, Sad Shayari can express those unspoken feelings. You can explore more heartfelt verses on our Sad Shayari website to find the perfect lines that reflect your emotions.

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In Sad Shayari, the beauty lies in its ability to make readers feel understood. It’s like having a friend who knows exactly what you're going through, wrapping you in their words. Many people turn to Shayari during difficult times to feel less alone, to process their grief, or simply to reflect on past sorrows.

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The pain of unrequited love

Heartbreak after a relationship ends

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Betrayal from a friend or partner

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In fact, research suggests that writing about emotions can help people cope with loss and grief. By putting these feelings into words, we gain a better understanding of what we're going through. It’s no surprise that many people choose Sad Shayari as their preferred form of expression during hard times.

If you’re looking for more ways to express your emotions, explore our curated collection of Sad Shayari, where you’ll find verses for every mood and situation.

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Though it may seem daunting at first, writing Sad Shayari is something anyone can try. You don’t have to be a poet to get started—just an honest heart and a willingness to express your feelings. Think about a time when you felt deep sorrow or loneliness, and let your emotions guide you. Start with simple phrases or metaphors that capture your mood, and before you know it, you’ll have crafted something unique to you.

Writing your own Sad Shayari has several benefits:

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If you’re not sure where to begin, start by reading examples of Sad Shayari. You can draw inspiration from other poets and see how they use imagery, metaphors, and wordplay to evoke emotion. Our website has a wide range of examples to get you started, so feel free to explore our Sad Shayari library.

Sad Shayari has the power to connect people across time and cultures, offering an outlet for sorrow that can bring relief, comfort, and even inspiration. Whether you’re seeking to process your own emotions or appreciate the beauty of poetic expression, this form of Shayari will always hold a special place in the hearts of those who understand its depth.

Be sure to check out more Sad Shayari to find verses that speak to you personally. You can explore our latest collection here, where every word is crafted to echo the emotions you feel deep inside.

#sad shayari #sad shayari in hindi

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marjansmarwani · 3 years ago

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Congrats on the 1k you gorgeous sweet bean!!

Okay, I’m going to apologise in advance because I could not, for the life of me, pick a single prompt from the touch prompt list. So I’m going to give you 3 and you can go with whichever one that inspires you the most 💖

3. hiding face in neck

28. feeling for each other in the dark

35. kissing their bruises and scars

Jess, my dearest, thank you for the sweet message! I went with "kissing their bruises and scars" and I hope you like it!

This isn't really like anything I have ever written before, but I always love a chance to run with a metaphor so here it is

1k Follow Celebration: Kissing their bruises and scars

802 words || ao3

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TK had always been fascinated by the idea of scars.

The idea that an experience could leave a lasting mark on you, a reminder to move forward with was something that he thought about often. It wasn’t just scars either, he had reasoned. There was a tiered system of sorts that he had developed in his mind in an effort to keep from dwelling, to distract himself from the wrongness in his head sometimes.

Scars, he decided, were experiences that stayed with you. Maybe not forever, but for a long time. They were the things you couldn’t just walk away from, that followed you, that kept reminding you. Even the stupid ones reminded you of something: watch where you’re going, don’t put your knives in the soapy water and forget they’re in there. The big ones were a reminder to heal, that you were not okay, but that you could be because it was healing.

Bruises, he had determined over sleepless nights as his mind wandered, were things that mattered in the moment. They stayed for a while but eventually faded; their hurt was only temporary. Sometimes they felt like the things that could end you, but they never were. The pain could be visceral and blinding, but it wasn’t permanent. They often hit hard and fast and left a deep mark, but time always told and bruises faded and you moved on.

There were other things that never showed on the skin but cut just as deep, but these mental scars and bruises were just as raw. TK was intimately familiar with those - he had spent a lifetime collecting them. His addiction was a scar; faded into memory but never truly gone. Alex was a bruise: something that had hit hard and fast but had faded without him ever really noticing. Something he had realized he was over one day when Carlos smiled at him and he smiled back on instinct, as natural as breathing without a single thought to what had come before.

But he had also come to decide that for every physical scar someone got, their loved ones ended up with a matching mental one. He had known this after years of a tumultuous childhood and adolescence, he had seen it in his parents; how his pain had weighed on them time and time again. But never had it been more clear to him than it was after he met Carlos.

Carlos, for all his composure, felt things strongly. It wasn’t something that he hid, and it was one of the things that drew TK to him from the start. He learned early on that when he was hurt Carlos felt it just as keenly. Even now, months later, some of that pain seemed to linger. He would catch Carlos eyeing the scar left behind by the bullet that had almost ended them, that had nearly ended him, from time to time. When they lay in bed he would often feel a hand gently tracing it, a kiss pressed to it. He never acknowledged it, content to let Carlos have this and cope with it how he wanted because he thought he understood.

It wasn’t until an officer in distress call that he truly did, when he watched Carlos breathe through the pain as Tommy put pressure on a deep knife wound in his side from a robbery attempt gone wrong. He bit his lip at the hospital as the doctor assured them that it wasn’t life-threatening; that with some stitches and antibiotics as a precautionary measure they could be on their way. And even with Carlos smiling at him - even with his hand in his and all the reassurances that he was safe, that he would be okay, TK couldn’t shake it. In that moment, he knew he finally understood.

The cut on Carlos’s side would heal, the scar would eventually fade. But this fear; the fact that for a moment he had been forced to consider the worst, never would. Now that he had tasted it the flavor of that fear would be forever in his mind, following him as he watched Carlos walk out their front door each morning.

He knew Carlos had noticed that something had shifted for him but he didn’t talk about it. Instead, he focused on Carlos, on making sure he was healing, on making sure he knew how loved he was. And if his hand lingered on the wound after it faded to a scar and if he paused as he traveled down Carlos’s torso to press a kiss on it, neither of them said anything. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, but they did say the important things.

Because while scars and bruises might be temporary, the knowledge that you are loved could outlast them all.

#911 lone star #tarlos #911 lone star fic #my writing #1k follower celebration #tarlos fic #jazzyjess #userkimmy #userbones #userjilly #userac #tuserpaige #tuserjamie #reyeslonestartag #reyesstrand #buckybarnesalways

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disastrousjest · 3 years ago

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Does it still hurt, JoJo? (Of course it does, how could you ask that?) Joseph’s hand rested on the door frame of what was Caesar’s room there on Air Supplena Island. He placed a hand to his chest, feeling a sudden pang there in his chest. The cold metal pressed against his bare skin wasn’t enough to ease the ache that had settled in his chest. Caesar. Caesar... The Joestar had to turn his back to the vacant room, suddenly clutching the fabric of his shirt. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, his eyes screwing shut. It felt like if he moved or did anything else he might just fall to pieces. It felt as though he were made of glass. Something that had been broken and carefully glued back together. Any moment anything could cause it all to come unglued and fall to a million pieces all over again. His heart ached. This pain felt worse than any of the injuries he had been recovering from since the fight against Kars. This trumped even the pain of losing his left hand and having to learn how to use the metal prosthetic that had been gifted to him by the Germans. (Caesar... Caesar... I-I’m... I’m so sorry!)

“If it weren’t for me--” He choked on his words, his other hand moving to slide over his lips. (Get a grip on yourself, this won’t change anything.) It was no use though. Joseph was already in tears. A fact he didn’t know until he felt the warmth touch his skin, wetting his glove. He blinked suddenly realizing the tears that had been streaming freely down his cheeks. How long had he been crying? Perhaps the entire time, he realized. He had been so caught up in the pain of his own broken heart that he hadn’t even realized that he had started crying. Joseph had to wonder then, was it the thought of Caesar that caused the tears or the fact that he had lost him? It was a heavy thought and something he didn’t want to sort though. He knew the answer to that. It was because there had been so much he wanted to tell him and he had lost his chance. It was because he blamed himself for Caesar’s death. Constantly feeling if he had only been just a few minutes earlier. If only he hadn’t said what he did to cause him to walk out that day. There were so many ways it could have gone. And instead--this was how things had ended. Leaving Joseph with a hole as empty as the room he had turned his back to. Never to be filled again. Just as Caesar was forever gone from this place, he had been ripped out of his life. It had torn a hole in Joseph’s heart that likely would never mend. Shaking hands lowered to his side, no longer having the will to fight the silent sobs that shook through him. HIs heat hurt. There was no escaping that. Instead, after several moments of coming to terms with that, he allowed himself once more to indulge in his emotions. Just as he had before, he dropped to his knees in the hall and allowed the grief to rake through him. Was this what it was like to have PTSD? Having to relive that horrible day over and over again? Would he ever get over Caesar’s death? Not likely, not completely. This would be a void that could never be filled, no matter what he tried or learned to cope with. The love he held in his heart only for Caesar would remain unspoken, unexplored--forever, at least as far as Caesar was concerned. And there would be nothing he could to fix that. No amount of healing would ever undo that. It was a loss he would just have to learn to deal with, even if it meant having moments like this. “Caesar... I... I...” Joseph clenched his fists tight, now on all fours. He slammed them hard against the ground. (I loved you! I loved you, and you left me here!) A pained yell escaped him after that, echoing through the halls. He screamed until his throat ran raw and only then did he bury his face into his hands to allow himself to sob until he could calm down.

Once he had gotten a hold of himself, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, using his forearm to wipe away the remaining tears. With a deep, shaky breath, he forced his legs to carry him away from Caesar’s empty room. Leaving with it a heavy heart, and a future he would never be able to see through. Caesar was gone.

#JoJodrabble #jjba rp #guess who's back #always his sunshine

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first-and-last-neocount · 3 years ago

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Whumptober Day 2

So much love to @theobscurepotato and @peregrinealpha, you guys are fantastic and I really appreciate the support, it means the world to know that I’m not the only one excited for this! <3

I have no excuse for this one. Pretty sure this is the purest definition of an id fic, because it just kinda wrote itself, and when I was done and went back to read over it the front of my brain was like ‘what the hell did I just create’ and my lizard brain was purring ‘yesss, good’ like goddamn Palpatine. This is definitely not a scenario that I think would actually have happened in canon, but apparently it’s a scenario my brain wanted to play with, and I definitely do blame it on Gerald canonically having way too much fun needling Damien for no obvious reason other than for the sake of winding him up.

Much like day 1, this is right in the grey area where I wasn’t sure whether to tag it NSFW or not, but I’m erring on the side of caution because I’d rather be overly conscientious than not. I also wasn’t entirely sure how to word the content warning tags, so I tagged it for general self destructive behaviour, because uh - what Gerald is doing here is not how to have a healthy relationship, kids. This is ‘personal experience with adolescent trauma’ meets ‘horrifically bad coping mechanisms’ with a dash of ‘really really warped views on intimacy’. This is also a consent nightmare, because Damien is not aware that Gerald is intentionally provoking him. Please do not try this at home.

Day 2 - Theme Chosen: Choking

Gerald Tarrant wasn't above using deception to further his own interests, but he preferred evasion to direct falsehood, and he certainly wasn't in the business of lying to himself. Thus, he was well aware of why he was engaged in his current endeavour – that being, inciting yet another argument with his companion, intentionally goading the priest he'd spent the last few months travelling with into a heated debate over the fate of the little girl they'd unintentionally absorbed into their group after encountering the Terata. The part of his mind that was coolly analyzing his actions, though, was smaller than the part which was focusing on the argument itself.

Both of those part combined were smaller still than the part of his brain that was fixated on what the priest's hands would feel like closing around his throat.

“For the last vulking time, I am not just abandoning her!” The Knight's fraying patience finally snapped, and the bulkier man took a step toward the adept, his eyes blazing. He was only letting go this much because Jenseny was well away from the cave that was currently their refuge, gathering sticks with Hesseth to make a fire; the rakh-woman had sensed the building tension, and had deliberately taken the girl out of the way so that the two men in the group could clear the air.

“I don't care if you think it would be easier, I promised to keep her safe -”

His hands were clenched into fists at his side, the force of his indignation expressed through the whitening of his knuckles, the corded tension in his arms as he held himself back from violence. Gerald fired back a retort on autopilot during an appropriate pause in the priest's rant, his own manner cool and detached, his mask of indifference firmly in place despite his mental preoccupation. God, the strength in this man – Damien Vryce was a fighter, and the proof of that was in every line of his body, the broad stretch of his shoulders and the thick muscle that layered his naturally-sturdy frame. His hands were large and strong-boned, the skin tanned and weathered by years of travel, thickly calloused by the tug of leather reins and the hilts of weapons. Fae-augmented healing or not, if Vryce hit him, it would hurt. It would leave a mark, at least for a while.

It would feel real, in the way things rarely did now, isolated as he was by his own carefully crafted cocoon of power.

The words of a past lover drifted through his memory, that long-gone voice dripping with disgust. You're pathetic. So desperation for attention, you don't even care what it looks like. I could make you bleed and you'd say 'thank you', wouldn't you?

“Are you even listening to me?”

Gerald snapped back into the present moment fully, his unnaturally slow heartbeat accelerating a little as he registered the building fury in Vryce's voice. His lack of attention had been noticed, it seemed, and the priest's handsome face was turning an alarming shade of red as his temper swelled. Pride simmered in Gerald's chest at the reaction he'd provoked from the normally level-headed man, satisfaction slithering through his veins even as he replied in a deliberately bored tone.

“It's not as if you're saying anything you haven't said before, Reverend. Given the intensity of our pursuit, the girl would likely be safer out of our presence than in it. Regardless, though, it comes back to the same point; our goals are too important, we can't allow ourselves to be sidetracked by one insignificant chi-”

He read Vryce's intentions through the fae before it happened, the sudden resolve bleeding off the priest in an unmistakable wave of crimson, but his own surprise at finally eliciting such a concrete and visceral reaction kept Gerald from responding in time – not that he knew, necessarily, what response he might have tried to make. In a single smooth movement, the Knight grabbed Gerald's shoulder with one hand, shoving him forcefully backward while the other settled around Gerald's neck. As the Hunter's back slammed into the rough stone of the cave wall, Vryce pinned him there, leaning in as he snarled out his words in a voice gone guttural with rage.

“Don't you dare call her insignificant.”

The vitriolic reply he would have given in any other situation died unspoken as Gerald's usually turbulent mind went utterly, blissfully quiet, only a single line of thought remaining to him.

Yes. That's it. Do whatever you want. Hate me.

Hurt me.

Just don't let me go.

A dark and twisted lesson it might have been, but Gerald had learned one truth of human nature early in life, and had never forgotten it even as centuries passed. People were more than happy to lie and cheat their way through life, and would deceive you at every turn; you could so rarely be sure of where their real intentions, or attentions, might lie. They could talk, laugh, eat, fuck, and at every moment their thoughts could be elsewhere – but not when they wanted to hurt you. If they were that angry at you, no distractions existed.

Once you drove them over the edge enough to put their hands on you, you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Gerald tipped his head back against the unyielding stone behind him, just to feel the way Vryce's hand was clenched around his neck a little better; he didn't technically need to breathe to sustain himself, but he was reeling and lightheaded nonetheless, from the heady mixture of triumph and adrenaline pumping through his veins. A sensation of mingled horror and satisfaction, so deep it made him nauseous, made him swallow reflexively against the way his mouth flooded with saliva in response – and then swallow again, when Vryce's grip tightened on his flexing throat, strengthening the whirl of emotions in his mind until Gerald felt a very real stab of fear that he might actually faint.

All of it lasted, however, for only the briefest moment.

He could see it as the Knight came to his senses; their faces were only inches apart, wide grey eyes staring into burning hazel, and he saw the exact instant that the blind haze of fury fell away and Vryce realized how far he'd lost control. A wave of horror doused the smouldering blaze in those warm green-and-brown irises, and Vryce wrenched himself away, his hands going lax and falling back to his sides as he stared at the Hunter in horror.

“I'm – I didn't mean – hell!”

Gerald drew in a ragged breath, now bracing himself against the cave wall intentionally as his head spun; there was a vague sense of loss echoing in his mind, but far louder was the roar of victory, the greedy hunger in his chest transmuted to a throb of purring satisfaction.

Yes, I can hold you, I can draw your focus, I can make you care...

Careful this time to show nothing of the emotional tempest in his mind, Gerald lifted one hand to rub lightly at his no-doubt-bruising neck, casting the Knight a sardonic glance.

“Don't flatter yourself, Reverend,” he muttered, with a icy steadiness that he most certainly did not feel. “I assure you, if I felt you posed a genuine threat, you would never have gotten that close to me. You couldn't truly hurt me if you tried.”

At least, not when I can make you look at me with that much fire in your eyes...

Vryce seemed to have registered his words as the subtle threat Gerald had meant them to be taken for, though, if the priest's thoroughly shaken expression was anything to go by. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated for a long moment, looking deeply conflicted and vaguely sick. Finally, he shook his head sharply, and bit out a curt few words.

“It won't happen again.”

With that proffered statement – surely meant to be reassuring, or perhaps pacifying, for no doubt he assumed the Hunter was furious about Vryce's presumption in laying hands on him – the priest turned and strode hastily out of the cave. Gerald stayed where he was, hands splayed out against the cold rock behind him, feeling his pulse beating forcefully in his throat as he closed his eyes.

Oh yes, it will. If that's the only way I can have your hands on me, I'll make sure it does.

#whumptober2021 #no.2 #Choking #coldfire trilogy #fic #masochism #self destructive behaviour #nsfwhump #evil is what you make of it #gerald tarrant #damien vryce #the neocount writes

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fantasyoverreality98 · 4 years ago

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Weather the Storm

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x MC (Casey Valentine)

Summary: Bryce and Casey go on a vacation to Hawaii a few months after the attack on the Senator.

Author’s Note: It took me a while, but here it is. This will probably be one of my last fics for the next little while, since I recently started my fourth year of university and things are just overall not very fun. Sorry for any potential typos! I’ll try my best to write a little bit, but can’t make any promises, unfortunately. Hope anyone who takes the time to read it enjoys!

Taglist: @anotherbeingsworld @aylamreads

Word Count: 1,260

---

Water lapped against the shore, soaking the sand beneath her feet.

Casey stood by the ocean, arms crossed over her chest, trying her best to ignore the dread that settled deep in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she listened to the sound of the waves.

Sienna’s sobs echoed in her mind. The image of Rafael laying down in a hospital bed burned into her memory forever.

Danny…

The tears started before she had a chance to stop them, and she covered her mouth with one hand to muffle the sobs. It was too much. The wound too fresh.

“Case? Are you okay?” Bryce stood behind her, the knowledge of his presence enough to calm her, even if just a bit. “What’s wrong?” He stepped forward, resting a hand on the small of her back.

She shook her head, not trusting her voice to remain steady. Instead, she looked up at the water once more, trying to focus on the fact that she was alive. Despite all odds, she had survived.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Casey glanced at Bryce for a moment, his face blurry through the salty tears. “I just—” She sighed, shaking her head before looking back at the waves.

Bryce wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. His warmth reminded her that she wasn’t alone, releasing some of the tension in her body as she leaned against him.

Casey shifted, sniffling as she turned to face Bryce. He looked down at her, brushing some hair out of her face when they made eye contact. She pressed her lips together for a moment, letting out a shaky breath before she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him against her.

“I love you,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck.

He shivered at the touch, hugging her tighter. “I love you, too. So, so much.”

Never, not in a million years, would she grow tired of hearing him say those words. They filled her with hope every time he said them.

She leaned back, pausing for just a moment before placing her hands on his face, pulling him down for a kiss.

“Why don’t we go swimming for a bit? I can even teach you how to surf,” Bryce said once he’d broken off the kiss, looking down at her with a grin. “It’ll be really fun. I have a feeling you’ll be a pro in no time.”

Casey laughed, gripping his arms as she pulled away to look up at him. “That seems very unlikely, but a swim sounds great right now.”

The first few weeks after the incident at the hospital had left Casey terrified to step into any hospital rooms. Ethan advised her to take a break for a while, and after a while, she finally managed to set foot in the room of her first patient in weeks.

Now, three months later, it was finally time to get a proper break. She missed working, but also felt tremendous relief that she’d been granted time for a little vacation.

“Come over here, there’s something I want to show you!” Bryce’s voice echoed over the water, his excited grin enough to pull her out of the past again. “You can use my board!”

Smiling, Casey walked into the ocean, swimming out to where Bryce was sitting on his surfboard. He helped her up and pointed back to the beach.

“This used to be my favorite place to come when I was in high school. The beach was always a way to escape from everything that happened back at home.” His breath was warm on her neck, and she sighed as she leaned back against him.

Bryce wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. Were it not for his support the past few months, Casey wasn’t entirely sure she would have been able to cope. The two of them had been sleeping in the same bed since the night after she was free to leave the hospital. At this point, they practically lived together.

“Thank you for showing me,” Casey whispered, shifting to look up at him as she rested her head on his chest.

With a grin, Bryce looked down at her, brushing some wet strands of hair from her face. “I’ve been dreaming of taking you here for a while. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” She glanced back at the beach again before turning her head to peer at the water.

It wouldn’t be long before the sun set. Bryce tried to encourage her to try out surfing, but she decided to head back to the shore and watch him instead. Casey laughed when he wiped out on a wave after a few minutes, disappearing under the water a moment before his head surfaced within seconds.

When Bryce got back to shore, the sun was starting to set, the sky growing darker. He pulled Casey to his side as he plopped down beside her in the sand. The two of them were quiet for a while, watching as a kaleidoscope of colors reflected over the water.

“I really appreciate you showing me your favorite beach,” Casey whispered once the sun had set. She turned to face Bryce, hating that he would see the unshed tears shining in her eyes. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Memories of the night of the funeral plagued her mind. Seeing Bryce break like that had marked a shift in their relationship. It seemed both of them had decided that after that, there was no point in wasting time anymore. Casey told him that she loved him a few days later, and he’d immediately said it back.

Bryce tugged her even closer when she shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “You have no idea how much you mean to, Casey.” She felt him shaking, and turned to see that he looked at her with tears in his eyes.

Neither of them spoke, instead leaning in until their lips brushed. Tears started to stream down her face as she thought about Danny and Bobby again. Every time it seemed like the wound had healed over, thoughts of that day sliced even deeper than before.

Some of the tears trailed down to their lips, the salt laced with an unspoken bitterness. Casey took a deep breath, tugging Bryce closer, holding onto him as if he would disappear if she let go. His warm hands on her body was enough to keep her grounded, to remind her that she was still alive.

“Come on, we should head back to the hotel.” Bryce pulled away, grinning at her through the tears that still shone in his eyes. “I’m taking you back here in the morning, and you’re going to learn how to surf.”

Casey laughed when he stood up and reached down to grab her hands, pulling her to her feet. “That’s going to end in disaster. I can tell you that much right now.”

“I’ll be right there beside you, it’ll be great.” Bryce winked, quickly wiping away the few remaining tears from both of their faces before he took her hand in his and started to walk.

As the two of them made their way back to the hotel, Casey thought about the events that had led up to this moment. She wished more than anything that none of it had happened. But right now, with Bryce by her side, she knew that, somehow, everything would be okay.

#choices fanfiction #bryce lahela #bryce x mc #bryce lahela x mc #open heart #open heart 2 #choices: stories you play #play choices

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helahades · 4 years ago

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By the Water Fountain

(Natasha Romanova x Black!Fem!Reader)

A/N: This is my entry into @fanfictionaries trope challenge! I sort of completely twisted the prompt up. Mine was Best Friend’s Brother.

This fic doubles as a songfic for Water Fountain by Alec Benjamin.

I recommend listening to that song before reading. ( on youtube // on spotify )

Warnings: Red Room like abuse. Codependency. Trauma. Angst. Rejection. Seriously, abuse. Everyone is abused. Injury. Dissociation. Trauma.

Word Count: 3.4k

—

Under a blended peach sky, and during the in between that hangs both the sun and moon, a pretty girl is thinking about her soft and unshakable love for you.

Practice is over, and you’re smiling, looking out across the courtyard from where you sit with Natasha on the fountain’s edge.

“Do’ya ever want to get married, Natalia?”

When you say her name, it’s tangy and sharp, the Russian way, with a hint of Spanish, but gentle all the same. A drip of nectarine streams over your lip and down your chin, and you don’t even catch and cover it like you might if you weren’t high on dreams.

This dance academy seems like forever sometimes—its been years of your life since they demanded your recruitment—but you always take time to dream. If you don’t, Nat won’t, and her unspoken appreciation of your hope keeps the both of you warm.

At first, because she can’t help it, she thinks about marrying you, as if that’s what you meant.

“Maybe someday, I guess,” comes a thoughtful monotone that only Nat can conjure, “Why—you thinking about marrying Alec?”

“God no,” you huff, cuddling into her shoulder as the fruit goes bitter. She opens up to you physically in a minute way, receiving your warmth and closeness despite the neutrality of the coming breeze.

“Well...I just don’t know actually,” you continue, “The two of us fell in love way too young, you know… And I needed him then, so maybe it was more like dependence.”

Shifting on the cool stone of the fountain's edge, you are suddenly aware of the way the tights sit on the skin of your thighs, stretching with each movement.

It becomes hard not to think about the love shell you’re trapped in. Everyone at the academy has found a different way to cope, and for some, including the you of the past, that meant lying with someone just to remember intimacy.

That was before. Before you knew the meaning of the word, and before after dance practice naps in your little haven turned into kissing and heat and softness.

Some days, swaddled up and tangled with the other, you would press kisses under Nat’s jaw, where she smelled like cinnamon and flowers and fabric softener, and she would giggle like the world never gave any weight to feeling. She would dance her fingers along your spine when the peach stretched into moonlight, and the darkness would stun her into remembering you’re promised to another. Her brother.

“Sometimes, Nat…I think I love you instead, and that kinda scares me.”

You look at her, you squeeze the sour fruit.

She says nothing.

Her rejection is acid to your soul.

—

Shadows and blown glass and dried petals and the wood of your apartment at sunset.

It all runs through Natasha’s mind in a haze when she begins to think about the energy here and why she loves it, and why it feels so secret. She doesn’t go this far, but it all feels like sapphic poetry that a man might try to capture, but would never understand if he barged in here. It’s a secret world made for fond hearts.

When the both of you are here, you can pretend that your instructor doesn’t make you repeat across the floor routines til you bleed, or that you haven’t been criticized to the point of tears and vice. You shed the day together, so that when the masks go on in the morning, they aren’t shoved away by the bends of emotion. You touch and whisper and still yourselves passionately, being at one with dancing dust and ticking clocks.

Some days, you can’t explain, but she always understands, it’s easier to lie still and it feels like autonomy after a day of being forced to move. You can’t stop stretching your ankles and marking routines, and some nights you wake sobbing when the transition of a routine leaves you. But she’s here, like she always is, as you are for her.

You remind her to eat, when to stop, and when to put on clothes when the AC chill rattles too bitingly. You dream for her, until she can do it alone, and her soft grins grow into beaming cheesy smiles.

When you kiss her, she’s sweet. Her lips are plump and hydrated (because you can only stop dancing to drink water) and she makes soft sweet sounds against you that run down your throat and into your heart.

When she kisses you, she’s breathless, and she remembers all the ways you taught her to dream. She likes to hold your hand and kiss you languidly or sharply, like you have all the time, or none of it. Hands pushing up tank tops, thighs between each other, collarbone kisses, then Alec. He comes to take Nat home, to tell her it’s time to go, and he kisses you hard and scratchy before slamming the door, stealing your peace, and shattering your haven.

—

It’s not that you don’t like Alec. You did at one point, even feel in love with him. His energy is as strong as his body, and he seems to comically be everything Natasha isn’t. He fills rooms with overwhelming charm, his dancing is sharp, agile, cutting through the air like licks of flame.

You prefer to see Natasha dance in her tortured grace, she can be quick, but when allowed, her grace is slow like a bloom and moves outward from her form.

Natasha and Alec both have learned how to play this system. They’re both clever and witty, but Natasha is the best because of natural skill, while Alec is exceptional because he still runs the sibling rival race that Natasha dropped from years ago.

Alec plays everything to win, he is outwardly passionate, and to be the focus of his attentions is a life secured in… something. You love him in the way that you must love someone that is good enough, that can get you out of here.

If Natasha would say the word, you would leave him. She doesn’t hesitate because of some familial loyalty. Her brother isn’t a jerk, necessarily, just oblivious to the finer things. Nothing about the unique circumstances they’ve survived together brought them closer together as siblings. Natasha didn’t know that hurt people could heal from two into one. She didn’t know people should have someone to confide in, and you don’t really either.

Alec is just… a pleaser. A source of abject power in social circles. He rides the line of knowing how to deliver performance, but knowing which one will get the right results. He controls. And he is incredibly hedonistic. It’s hard not to compare this with how you and your best friend only try to pleasure the other. She lives for your smiles, even if they’re just chemical, and even if she has to squint for them in the moonlight.

There’s just something about having someone who knows hurt in the same way as you without explanation. You scratch a line in the baseboard by your door when one of you sprains or breaks an ankle again from the incessant repetitions forced upon you at the academy. You’re both fucked up enough to laugh about it.

You roll frozen water bottles over knots and stretch through the resistance of scar tissue. When the sky falls into the time of buttery peach, she falls into you, warm like sunset and lovers’ candles. You like to kiss between her thighs, where she smells sweet like sugar cane, even like bubbly hand soap, and you kiss the moons where her nails dug into her thighs too hard when she tried not to let the instructor make her cry. In the soft tissue of your underarms, when you fold over her, sometimes you feel the gentle drag of her body’s scattered hairs. And it’s intimate in ways unspeakable.

She’s pink everywhere. In her cheeks, in the reflection of her hair on the walls, between her thighs, and her lips. She feels vulnerable with you. It’s enjoyable in a way she resists some days. Reminds her of getting tickled. She hates it just like she hates not being able to pull the thread back that unwinds from her heart, and the way she opens when you smile at her.

It’s intimate and innocent the way you learn how another woman’s body can be different. The rounds of your nipples are wider, darker, softer in their edges. The curls of the hair on your mound roll into you, framing you, while Natasha’s aim down, straight, the way rain points down windows. Your eyes are honeyed caramel, Natasha’s are the splashes from the water fountain. You could look at each other forever. But you don't. You have class in the morning.

A frigid and grating rap of knuckles lets you know Alec is here. Shooting up, it’s a flurry of sweatpants and tossed scrunchies, a routine you and your best friend know too well. When you come to the door, he pushes in like he does, kisses you with the sharp grating of his newly shaved face. He groans into it, pulling you in with a scoop of a muscled arm. When he pulls away, your head drops. You can’t see her cat eyes, her firey hair, her composed face wearing its mask before she really should.

“Nat. Walk yourself alone, tonight,” Alec commands into the night, eyeing you with the calm and cool intent of predation, freezing the wax of your candles. The crickets seem too hush outside.

Nat makes for the door, with a face that reads as stoic to anyone who can’t read the slight upward curl of her lips. She pulls the ends up like strings, lest they melt into a grimace in front of this man made of fire.

“Are you sure”—

You knew it was futile before you began. He raises an eyebrow like you’re crazy, and she’s looking back, just for a second, eyes like oceans, before she picks up her bag and is out the door, walking brusquely across the quad.

You wish the chill had swallowed you instead. That you had slammed the door.

Motions happen.

You pull off your shirt, because he never knows how, he carries you to your little bed. His belt buckle hits the floor like a gunshot, and when he crawls over you, you stare at the ceiling.

—

“Baby,” he nudges.

When he touches you, you leap out of the fog, sleep leaving in a gasp.

He knows.

When he passed out without learning to perfectly spot during fouettés, they dumped buckets of ice water on his bare back. Poked him in the ribs for not improving his cambré. Made him balance relevé in the snow, naked, for falling out of it on an off day. You know why he’s the best. And it’s not because he wants to be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, accent tumbling. He rolls closer to where you sit, hands pulling your waist til you’re close enough to gather in his arms. He tugs you to lie with him. It’s comfortable enough.

“Baby,” he starts again, massaging a welt on your shoulder, “we need to get out of here.”

You want to scream at how obvious it is. You think about how you’ve cried it on your bathroom floor. How Natasha would say “One day.”

“And baby,” he whispers again, soft like he can’t stop, always, every night, “we’re doing it together.”

He presses a ring into your hand. It might not fit, it’s most likely stolen. But that’s not the point.

“I love you.”

The innocence has left.

—

The sun has risen, the sky is white like it’s running off a dandelion, and you’re in class.

Rose. Roza. You’re the rose, the pretty flower, paired with fire for a man.

You’re in the middle of a showcase—new dancers, new victims watching your display, sitting in a line against the mirrors, watching your demonstration with Alec before they themselves will go on and show their best.

It’s controlled—always. Each turnout and disengagement from the floor matches a single piano note. You face away from each other, the idea being that you can only trust yourself to be on time, and that your partner must know you won’t fail. There is a lift at the end, that depends on this synchronization, and if you fall before Alec comes ready from his pirouette, you’ll surely be injured. He’s always ready, it’s hardly a worry.

Launching out of your plié, you spin like leaves in the wind, like the flower they named you. Catching his eye as he plants after the pirouette, he catches you by the hips, raising you with a press of his shoulders. A gentle wrist, pointed toes, arched back, and the silence of your peers. Nobody claps. Claps are for the surprised.

When Alec lets you down, slowly and controlled, at least fifteen seconds after the final note, you catch a red bun when your vision levels. Mask sealed.

—

“Did you get home safe?”

“We don’t have homes.”

“Clearly not,” you spit, burning with her rejection.

Her face says nothing. You can only hear the spouting, rushing water.

“Does it not matter to you, Natalia,” you question, voice breaking slowly.

Her voice never comes.

“We’re getting married—Alec and I…”

You say it carefully. Like a threat. Hoping she’ll care.

“I remember the you that couldn’t imagine that.”

“I remember the you that didn’t make me want to.”

She looks bored. Like she’s waiting through the tantrum of a child. Your heart swells. Irritated with anger. Mask cracking.

You turn the ring in your pocket, upset with letting her win. Upset with knowing this is how it ends, and that your one day isn’t together. Upset with spending endless nights growing into her, just for her to watch you leave with indifference.

Pulling out a coin, the one that matches hers, the ones that you found before the fountain, you watch where she sits. You watch until she looks at you, and slide it closer to the water. You don’t push it in.

“He says he loves me. Who knows if he means it. But he said it...and you didn’t. I can’t be here forever, Nat.”

She blinks, willing words to come, and as you walk away, they still haven’t.

The sky turns sour.

—

Porcelain. Smooth, painted baby angel porcelain. You twirl like you’re in a music box, like a spring propels you. You dance until the days blend together, and you perform for Americans. You dance until they want to take you.

The rose and the flame.

—

Your American pointes are stiff. They expect you to break in new ones. When the sky turns peach, you’re under fluorescents, twirling like the wind. Twirling for hours.

“I heard Americans smell like wet dogs.”

He doesn’t bother to be quiet, and he’s smiling with the promise of intertwined futures. It also helps that no one practices as late as you, lovers more in love with a journey to come.

“I heard they have a lot of money.”

“That, they do, Roza,” his tongue rolls Russian, and he crosses to kiss the tips of your fingers. He’s so sweet in the nights.

His hands are unwrapped, his regular shoes are on the floor. Your eyes flicker to them, disapproving, before looking at him. Regular shoes scuff the dance floor.

“What will they do?”

He pulls your arms out of third, pulls your hands into his, stroking your locked up knuckles, undoing the forced curves of your hands. He’s telling you to come with him. To rest your overworked body. There will be plenty of time to practice in America.

It’s a sweet moment, soured only by being the wrong ending, and your unfinished business.

“Come with me. It’s our last night in this stupid place. Let’s celebrate.”

You let him pull you close. You kiss him and you mean it.

“I just have one thing to do.”

—

Knocking on Nat’s door, you realize it’s the first time you’ve done so and been unsure if she would answer. It’s 2am, after all, and the words you spoke before were very final.

When the door swings open, not enough time passes for a wait. She hadn’t been sleeping. There aren’t many words. There doesn’t have to be. What would you even say, really?

You go for a hug, but closing the distance, it morphs into a kiss. A gentle one. A sweet meet of the lips. A goodbye. Then, both of you are crying. Neither of you knows enough about America, enough about life without the other...but too much about saying goodbye.

There aren’t any words because they’re the kind of words you’ve already said to other people. The words that you hate to hear, that have been wrung too many times from the back of your throat to cover the spaces between that no language can. There aren’t words to say how this sucks.

Your lover, your confidante, your supporter. You try not to think about that strange fight. You try not to think about how she couldn’t say she loves you. You both know she does. Only she knows that her love won’t save you from this place. If you leave and have a boring life with Alec in some city or countryside, at least no one will beat you again. No more broken ankles, and no more bad jokes about them.

Some place squeezes in the back of your throat, pulling at the wells of your eyelids. When she pulls out your coin, the one you left behind, she presses it into your hand, watery tears on her pink cheeks, and she looks like a peach sky. Standing together with silent tears, it’s a moment before you calm them, breathing together like you would when tears meant harder hits.

You put the coin in your bra, giggling, because there’s nowhere else for it to go. She giggles too, and it’s a stupid thing, but the thing you find, because something needs to do. Something needs to be tallied in the baseboards.

“He’s waiting for me,” you whisper in your watery voice.

It’s always like this. Someone always has to start it with a timer.

You come closer because she’s so warm.

She strokes your face, pushing back some fly away hairs.

“You’ll do amazing. Don’t mess it up there. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t be afraid of them…”

She pauses, conducting the waves that threaten her composure.

“Don’t forget me...I won’t forget you.”

And that is the most she can give. That is her love, in different words, and that is the most she can say without you deciding to stay. You’d tough it all out with her, but it wouldn’t be right. She will make it out. You need to believe it.

You kiss her again. You hold her hands, and you walk away before more tears fall.

—

When you wake up, your back and legs ache, but the sunlight is in your bones, and your soul is light with new beginnings, and mourning like you’re already gone.

Alec made love to you last night, and you enjoyed it. Maybe… maybe there’s some understanding. Maybe life won’t be bad.

When you’re walked to the car that will take you to the plane, you pass the water fountain. The sky is blinding and empty. So is the seat that Nat usually takes. You taste nectarines.

Alec squeezes your shoulder, and you’re back in the moment. He tells you he loves you, the wind twirling around like a blessing. It feels unearned.

It’s an easy car ride, and as time clicks by on the digital clock, you recoil at the car freshener blowing into your nose with the biting freeze of the air conditioner. You can’t stop watching that clock. You take moments when you know Natasha’s alarm is ringing on her floor, when class starts, when lunch begins.

You think about what the American schedule will be like all the way to the plane. You wonder where you’ll go when the sky turns peach.

Soaring over cities, you see water. You see the glimmer of Nat’s tears, and you wonder if she’ll see the same sea when she makes it out.

You wonder if she’ll think of you too.

—

(reblogs appreciated!)

tags: @xbuchananbarnes (ty honey) @invisibleanonymousmonsters (ily) @threeminutesoflife @honeychicanawrites @sapphirescrolls @tropicalcap @mariahthelioness29 @avintagekiss24 @allaboardthereadingrailroad @venusbarnes @hurricanerin

#fanfictionariesclassictropechallenge #nat x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #ballet au #dancer!au #nat x black!reader #natasha x black!reader #natasha romanoff x black!reader #black!reader #woc!reader #nat x woc #nat x woc!reader #nat angst #natasha angst

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renaroo · 5 years ago

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Thinking Positive

Disclaimer: Doom Patrol and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics Warnings: internalized homophobia, depression Rating: T Synopsis: In order to heal, Larry will have to work on being more positive. It’s a long and difficult journey.

A/N: I watched Doom Patrol last year and to say I loved it would be a major understatement. But the thing that took me by surprise the most was just how meaningful Larry Trainor’s story was to me, someone who also grew up surrounded by a lot of homophobia and feels like openly living with pride is still a difficult and ongoing struggle into my adulthood.

And with global quarantine being what it is, I’ve had a lot of strange and curious time on my hands to work on things so far as mental health is concerned. And it’s had me thinking a lot about how sometimes negativity and cyncism is a coping mechanism that’s easy to use but damaging in the long run. I tend to take that perspective away from Larry’s story rather than the way the show sometimes dismisses valid personal fears of outing and shames closeting. So this rambling story came barreling out of me. I hope it makes some sense.

Larry dismissed himself from dinner with the rest of Doom Manor’s residents.

It didn’t take much more than some dismissive words on his part, easily ignored over the rambunctious antics of Jane and Cliff, or the attempts to quell said antics by Vic and Flex. Rita was the most difficult to escape, considering Larry was her main outlet for commentary, but even she was willing to let him go when he stressed that he was tired.

He had tired rather easily over the last few months, and Rita knew why even more than the others.

In some ways, it was like therapy. In other ways, it was like torture. But that had always been Larry’s dilemma. He was rarely allowed to have one over the other.

Even before the Negative Spirit melded to his very soul.

When Larry attempted to frame his fears in less selfish designs, he framed his need for more energy as being there for the others. Cliff needed to have someone counter his gutsier instincts. Jane’s sarcasm needed someone equally verbose in it. And Rita, of course, counted on Larry’s counsel more than anyone’s. But it was easier, lately, with each other, with the others like Vic and Flex and even Dorothy, young in appearance and still finding her place as she was.

Besides all that, Larry had made a promise to himself that he wasn’t going to blame his reluctance on others anymore.

Which led to the closing of the thick lead door behind Larry. The slow removal of his protective bindings as the Richter scale crackled in the decompression port. The daily walk through his metal room and his radiation proofed furniture.

It was funny to think that his room had changed so little from the minimal aesthetic it had when the Chief first offered him a place nearly half a century ago. Funny, but also uncomfortable. Like it was wrong and stupid of him, but it had been so long that it would be weirder if Larry attempted to make any big changes.

He laid down on his bed and made himself comfortable, his hands rested over his chest, close to his heart.

Larry gazed at the ceiling and felt the rumbles deep in his body which let him know that the spirit was aware of what time it was.

“Hey there, buddy,” Larry said, voice low and tired. “It’s that time again. The one where I try to get stuff off my chest.” His hands tapped rather nervously over his shirt. It was light enough that the nerve damage kept the tips of his fingers from truly feeling more than the slight pressure of it. “Literally.”

For the life of him, Larry couldn’t figure out why he always started out so nervous and uncomfortable every day.

Then again, Larry had lived his entire life nervous and uncomfortable. It was hard to break habits formed over a century, he supposed.

“Okay, well, here goes nothing,” Larry sighed, closing his eyes and preparing himself. Idioms aside, it did not feel like nothing, it felt like everything every time.

“Start from the top? Positive things?” Larry asked out loud. With his eyes closed, the rumble from the negative spirit felt even stronger, more enthusiastic perhaps. “Of course, you eat those up. Alright.

”Today my azaleas began to bloom early. I got some rhododendron seeds in the mail. Chief is offering to get me a new greenhouse on the property, to expand things. Dorothy made me a flower crown. She didn’t use any of my flowers. I think she used paper and then with her, ah, powers turned them into real flowers. Usually, her using her powers is disturbing, like the whole thing with the puppets. But this was, you know, cute. I liked it. I mean it’s quicker to use a Snapchat filter, but…”

The negative spirit rumbles more abruptly. It gives Larry a sense of warning or disapproval.

“I know, I know, staying positive,” he sucks in a deep breath. It’s the sort of deep, lung filling breath that he’s only capable of thanks to the negative spirit’s possession of him. Their temporary separation reminded him of that. That, however, was an unspoken positive between them.

“I tried a new recipe, everyone seemed to enjoy it,” Larry continued. “It’s curried roasted eggplant with smoked cardamom and coconut milk.” He couldn’t resist the huff of a laugh that escaped him as a result. “Sheryl would’ve never believed it.”

There was a numbness that spread out from his chest. It was an overwhelming sense, but Larry considered it a good development.

He and the Negative Spirit both took a long time to have a response to his ex-wife being invoked that was anything other than overwhelmingly negative.

Still, it was best to trade subjects and not linger on old regrets. As natural as it was for Larry to do that.

“With all the new residents, this place has really gotten lively,” he said, arching his neck back more comfortably on the pillow. “I know I’ve let you out a few times to explore that for yourself, but you probably miss a lot of the little things.”

A gentle hum radiated out from his chest. Positive? Affirmation? Larry was still deciphering the finer bits.

“It’s good for all of them,” Larry concluded. “They fit together well. Well, not fit. The whole point of this place is that fitting is…”

He trailed off, catching his own turn toward negativity long before the spirit had a chance to disrupt him.

“It’s nice, seeing how meaningful it is for Cliff and Jane to have someone…” Larry scowled and lifted up one of his hands from his chest to scrub at his face. Doom Manor was so hard to contextualize sometimes. “Not younger. She’s older than all of us. Smaller? It’s nice to see Cliff and Jane both have someone smaller to look out for. Daughter. Little sister. However it goes.” He lowered his hand down to his side, away from his chest where he’d more acutely feel the rumbles of the Negative Spirit’s responses. “Did I mention she made me a crown? That was nice.”

Larry lapsed into silence, his eyes unfocused as they stared at his ceiling and past it toward all the feelings and regrets of a long life.

He never felt the need to regain a sense of fatherhood like Cliff was haunted by. But he had been a father, too. He had been a father of two.

And he never saw either of them again. Never tried.

Sheryl had taken them away to a better life. Maybe she remarried, to a man who could love her the way she deserved to be love. Maybe the boys got a father who could teach them all the things about being a man that were beyond Larry’s comprehension.

It probably would have been simple enough to find out, if Larry had asked questions or reached out.

But he hadn’t. He forfeited that part of his life, just like he had forfeited so much else.

In some ways, he hoped Sheryl had told the boys he had died. That way they never grew up wondering why Larry hadn’t reached out. So they didn’t have the accurate picture of what a coward their fearless flyboy father had been.

There was no telling how much time he was prepared to spend down that path before his body jolted.

Not without warning, the Negative Spirit seized through Larry’s body with force and separated. His eyes rolled back into his head and everything went limp and dark.

When Larry woke with a gasp, he already knew what had happened, but he sat upon his bed all the same and grabbed at his head in frustration.

“Look! This is part of it!” he yelled toward his chest. His heart was racing, equal parts the Negative Spirit’s pulsing and Larry’s own anger. “I know, I know we need to work on being positive, but you got yourself paired with one of the most naturally negative sons of bitches on the planet. This wasn’t just about you, alright? We’ve talked about this before. I was born negative. I’ve been looking at the dark side of things since I was seven years old and that’s not changed in a century. You have to work with me here if we’re going to get anywhere.”

He was answered only by the creaks and groans of Doom Manor.

“I’m allowed to remember bad things, you know,” Larry continued to argue. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe everyone’s right and I’ve been letting them rule me. I-I know you’re all right about that. But completely avoiding and ignoring negative things doesn’t keep them from existing. It’s dangerous. And it’s wrong.” His frown deepened. “I’d be more of a monster than I ever dreamed myself being, if I thought anything less than the fact that the boys didn’t deserve what they had to go through. Alright? They may be old men now, but they are still my boys. And they deserved not losing everything they ever knew. And they didn’t deserve all the secondhand anxiety and paranoia from me. Those are just facts. Even if they were unavoidable.”

Finally, the Negative Spirit hummed again.

“What? That’s what you wanted from me?” Larry asked, splaying his hands against his chest to feel the rumble more. “You wanted me to say it was unavoidable? Look, how many times do I have to learn these lessons until you’re satisfied?”

There was quiet once more.

“If it’s until I believe them,” Larry’s voice softened to a murmur, “we’ll be doing this every day for a long time. Maybe until the day I finally die. And even then it might not be enough. You know that, right? I’m pretty majorly fucked in here, and a good amount of that came with the package before you joined in, buddy.”

The hum was unmistakable that time, Larry felt it through his core.

Okay.

“Okay,” Larry repeated, laying back down. “Stop having fits the second we go into some territory you don’t like, I’ll try to respond quicker.”

There was another unmistakable hum through his chest.

“If you’re wondering about the conversation with Rita about Flex, then you probably were already aware of most of it,” Larry snorted. “I’m coming up on one hundred years old, I don’t want to repeat what I said to my best friend about someone else’s quads.” He tossed his head a little from side to side and then sighed. “They are nice, though. And admitting it out loud didn’t light me on fire, so, who knows. Maybe being gay does get easier with practice.”

That seemed to satisfy the spirit, and it did Larry, too.

Small victories — victories so small that a previous version of himself might have argued they weren’t worth celebrating, not for the amount of time it took for him to get to that point. But he felt the accomplishment all the same.

There were so many regrets and so much fear in his life that was still there, and he still didn’t believe that erasing all of it was the fully responsible or realistic thing to do.

But he could make himself lighter, in whatever small increments he could. And that was surely worth the battle alone.

#writing #dc fic #Larry Trainor #Negative Man #Keeg Bovo

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bardic-inspo · 4 years ago

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hey! just saw your stuff on AO3 recently and was wondering when you realized Deacon had grown on you like a mushroom? i'm also wondering about your approach to writing about trauma and mental health. not really a specific question, just wondering if you had any thoughts/resources/processes!

Hey there! Happy Friday!!

Hahahaha. This made me cackle. I don’t think I’ve ever read something so accurate. He crept in on me!!

I started rough drafting Bring the Gasoline about a year ago, very shortly after finishing Fallout 4 for the first time. I traveled with Deacon a little bit at that point, but I couldn’t let go of Mac for very long. It was a while before I got his full story, and I was a good way into my fic by the time I did. BUT what really won him a place in my heart is @electricshoebox‘s incredible DeaCready fic, A Line in the Sand. I cannot recommend it enough for all of the reasons. It’s great. It’s amazing. Words are just...hard right now for some reason apparently haha. So, what I’m saying is, my love for Deacon is mostly their fault. <3

I finally get to the point in my longfic where Natasha and MacCready meet him and...to quote a melodramatic elf from Dragon Age, I “felt the whole world change”. The dynamic between the three of them just caught me. So now, naturally, I’m helplessly in love with them and ship them in a happy OT3 in the post-game. As far as my approach to writing mental health/trauma....ah....Just to be overly cautious, I’m gonna put this below a cut in case someone doesn’t want to see this content. I do talk a little about my own experience, but only vaguely.

To be a bit painfully blunt, I do write what I know to some degree. Without really meaning to, I realized that Natasha might have very different reasons for her trauma, but I projected a lot of the symptoms I’ve experienced as someone with an anxiety disorder and some traumatic family experiences, onto her. It was sort of jarring to realize this, because it wasn’t my intention. But I’m...okay with it. It’s helped me explore some themes in a safe way. It’s also helped me explore how those symptoms affect others who love the affected person. When I’m writing characters with anxiety or trauma, some lessons that I’ve learned personally and try to keep in mind include:

Healing/Recovery isn’t linear. Even when life, overall, gets better, someone can still have bad days. And that doesn’t mean they aren’t trying, or they aren’t growing. A lot of mental health conditions have lapses or cycles. Certain things might trigger these days (or weeks, or months). Sometimes it just happens.

Love doesn’t fix everything. Falling in love does not fix or erase or heal someone from their trauma. But having that support can certainly help someone weather those trials. Sometimes you have a lot of great things or people in your life, but you still feel shitty.

Trauma and mental health conditions manifest differently in different people. I’m using trauma/mental health to refer to a massive variety of conditions or experiences. But even with two people who have had the same experience or condition, that can look massively, incredibly different. They have different backgrounds that cause them to respond or react differently to those experiences. They may be at different stages of coping or treatment. They may respond differently to the same types of coping or treatment.

Mental health conditions and trauma can be incredibly physical. This can be so many different things. Stomach aches, lack of appetite, fatigue, restlessness, so many more things. They may or may not be related to the source of the trauma. When my anxiety is at its very worst, I get choking sensations. I’ve never had an experience of suffocation (thank goodness!), but I have since developed some aversion to even having shirts or other things too tight to my neck, because that reminds me of choking, which reminds me of how I feel when I get way too anxious. When people are starting to recover from big, big emotions, their body is often exhausted (and dehydrated) and as a result, they can feel very achey and tired. That much emotion takes so much energy.

People who are struggling with mental health or trauma will not always tell you that. (Or, they will. But not with words). I’m going to use Natasha as an example here. When we meet her, she’s clearly leaning too hard on drink as a crutch. On top of that, she seems to be throwing herself into situations she seems to have at least some sense that she really cannot handle. People who are not ready or willing to face their current state will often express those sentiments in unspoken behaviors. Natasha is a character who seems to repeatedly endanger herself. She gives reasons for it, she’s even defensive about her choices when others try to broach the subject. When someone isn’t taking care of themselves, it speaks to how they view themselves. (Another character that comes to mind is Caleb Widogast from Critical Role, who often purposely dresses in filthy clothes and allows himself to be unclean). But Nat’s situation is far more severe than my own. And I have not experienced any of the violence or physical trauma she (or any of the other Fallout characters) encounters on a near daily basis. This is something I need to do more research and take special care with as we move deeper into the fic. If you are anyone else knows of good resources for writing mental health conditions or characters who have suffered trauma, please always feel free to drop me a message. I have a lot to learn, too!

#ask memes #fanfic #fic rec #writing #bring the gasoline #mental health #anxiety #trauma

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the-devil-herself · 5 years ago

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Never Enough - Chapter 10

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 10 DESCRIPTION: Certain mates of Jotuns receive soulmate marks on their bodies. What happens when Loki’s mark is found on a girl with immense power? RATING: M NOTES/WARNINGS: Plot development!! Hope you enjoy, all feedback is welcome!

TAGGED: @kneel-before-queen-loki @lokis-girl-in-mischief @tarithenurse @fangirls94

“Hello, little one,” Loki’s smooth voice welcomed me in.

I stepped into his room and saw he had made himself at home. His whole room was decorated with colors of green, black, and a splash of gold. His room was simple but neat. He had a few trinkets on his desk along with paper and ink, and several books on his shelves. His bed was huge, covered with furs that made it look insanely comfortable to sleep in.

“Chinchilla hair,” he answered my unspoken question. “Some of the softest hair on Midgard.”

“You just had it get chinchilla blankets, did you?” My tone was snarky, incredulous at the unnecessary blankets.

Loki chuckled and moved deeper into the room. He sat on one of the chairs by the fireplace, which wasn’t burning at this time of year.

“I did not ask for it. Nay, my brother gave it to me as a gift. I guess as a way of saying, ‘Yes you are a prisoner but here are some soft blankets to forget about it.’”

I grinned at his honesty. He could see right through every gesture, especially Thor’s.

“A prisoner that did harm thousands,” I pointed out, taking the seat next to him.

“Ah, yes, that. However, I did not ask you here to discuss my past affairs.”

“Why did you ask for me?”

I sat up straighter in my seat, ready for the oncoming interrogation. I would have to lie. I would have to dance around every question, maybe answering with my own questions. I would have to pull out every trick in the book, even though Loki most likely WROTE the book.

He grinned at my obvious anxiety. “Do not fret, little one,” he purred. It didn’t calm me down. “I won’t force you to answer anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he promised.

I nodded. “Alright then, what is it?”

Loki stood from his seat and faced me. Then he pulled up his shirt to show me his scarred side from where the sword had hit him and nearly killed him. It had healed pretty well, but my powers weren’t an exact science so there would be scarring from the dead flesh I accidentally hit.

“My wound has healed nicely,” he commented casually. “Thanks to you, I should add.”

“I didn’t do much,” I assured him, not looking into his eyes anymore. “It was more of a team effort.”

“Yes, well I don’t precisely believe that so forgive me.” He let his shirt fall back down, covering the scar. He went over to fetch some tea he had been brewing because of course he had that around.

He handed me a cup, still smiling. I drank in silence at first, waiting for him to continue, but he didn’t. “Well I’m sorry to say it’s the truth though.”

He let out a small snicker. “Darling, I know you probably thought you were going to come in here and lie to me, but there’s no need. I know you have abilities, but it is your choice on whether or not to disclose them to me.”

I sighed, putting the cup down on the table next to me. He was giving me a choice; I could walk out of this room and leave him confused. But I couldn’t. I think he knew that, too.

Maybe he deserved an explanation for his resurrection from certain death to cope. I wasn’t sure. But the one thing I knew is that I couldn’t walk out of the room and ignore the man that I cared for.

I folded my arms in my lap to stop my fidgeting. I shot a quick glance over to him before looking back down again.

“Yes,” I admitted with a breath. “I have abilities, and they helped save your life.”

He looked interested and nodded for me to continue.

Closing my eyes, I blurted, “I’m different from other mutants. I don’t have cool powers that can create fire or ice or anything. I can’t create anything really. I was cursed instead with immense power that was only made for destruction. My hands don’t help, they destroy. I can kill thousands in the blink of an eye, rather than save them. I’m not a superhero but a monster that’s being caged.”

I waited for him to be disgusted at me. Instead he leaned forward and nodded again for me to keep going.

I took a breath. “I almost killed the people I loved, so they brought me to Tony. He took me in and tried to train me, help me control my powers, but I know what I really am. If I’m not an Avenger well then, I’m a weapon, and that’s how most will see me. So, I hide away… from the world… from people. The world doesn’t need another nuke.”

I chanced a look at him. All I could see was understanding. There was no pity, or anger, just simple understanding. He knew what I meant—what it was like to be thought of as a monster.

A tear fell down my cheek suddenly. I brought my finger up to it and inspected the drop, surprised I had started crying. I didn’t even feel it coming on.

“I don’t know what will happen to me here—if I’ll become an Avenger or stay hidden forever. It’s unclear to me, and I think to the others as well. It’s a new path we’re on together, and I try to stay patient but… I need to live.”

Then, he did the unexpected.

His hand softly touched my arm, rubbing it lightly to say he recognized my situation. My mark spurted to life with a renewed burning, but I tried to forget about it. His hand on me felt too good. I couldn’t risk losing this moment, may it be the last time he touches me like this again. My skin was becoming goose-flesh, and my heart was aflame.

“I do not see you as a monster, Dana,” he muttered to me sincerely. He looked into my eyes but did not let go of my arm. “You saved my life by destroying the disease within me. No monster would do that. No, I see something stronger. Perhaps stronger than I.”

I chuckled. “How could I be stronger than you?”

“You have the world in your hands, yet you choose to keep it running, to keep it filled with life. Not many in your position would make the same choice. Power is not just the ability to do something, it is the ability to do something harmful yet choose not to.”

His words hit me more than I expected them to. He was calling me, a simple Arab girl from the suburbs, a more powerful being than himself.

Unfortunately, he dropped his hold on my arm to collect something from his desk. He brought it back to the seating area and opened the leather flaps to reveal a dagger. The blade shone in the dimly-lit room like a beacon and sharp to the touch.

The bottom was fashioned in gold with a pattern on it I couldn’t make out in the poor lighting.

“My mother gave this to me when I was but a small child,” he recalled, looking at the blade fondly and smiling to me. “She told me that since I was growing up, I needed to start making decisions. I was to be a prince and possibly king, so I had to learn—when to use the dagger and when not to. Then, she said, I would know that mercy, too, can be powerful.”

He handed me his precious blade. I carefully held it in my hands, inspecting the blade. He watched me with a grin as I observed it with wonder and awe. It was gorgeous to be sure.

My eyes moved from the tip of the dagger to the handle. The gold was definitely real, which explained why it was super heavy. There were engravings in different colors.

When I saw what was on it, I dropped it on the couch. I hurriedly stood up, shaking and huffing. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered before running as quickly as I could down the hall to my room. I heard Loki call my name in the back of my mind but paid it no heed.

I reached my room and slammed the door shut. My heart was pounding so hard that I felt ready to burst. I found that my legs were jelly, and I fell to the floor by my door. I brought my left hand up to feel my head and wipe the little sweat that had gathered there from nerves and running.

I looked at my hand then and brought it back down to eye level. Gently, I took the bracelet off and placed it slowly next to me. Turning back to my wrist, the mark was still there, clear as day and still tender from the burning.

What was happening to me? Everything about this seemed impossible, but no logical explanation could be found for why the pattern on my wrist matched the one on Loki’s dagger.

Why did I burn when I touched him?

My heart fluttered, and I leaned back against the door. Nothing made sense to me anymore, but everything was pointing me to Loki. I just wouldn’t accept it yet. Loving him was preposterous. And loving me was out of the question for him!

Love. Tears were flowing regularly now. Yes, love. I had never felt it before, but in my small time with the god, I had come to feel a connection and bond stronger than any I had experienced before.

But he considered me a friend, right? That’s what we were, at least acquaintances. Oh, what he would think when he saw my mark! He would believe I was an obsessed, love-sick girl. I could not tell him or anyone for that matter.

I mean, even I could barely accept the fact that I was destined for Loki.

#loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki marvel #loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki x original female character #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #thor #The Avengers #soulmates #never enough #loki fanfiction #Loki Fandom #never enough chapter 10

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suzzblhgfdsbjkjds · 5 years ago

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Ive been inspired to write my thoughts and experiences on depression.

Thing is that it's a silent killer. You don't really realize you're depressed untill everything around you changes. You change most drastically than everything else. It has an accumulative effect, it snowballs itself into fruition and by the time you start to notice that something ain't right it's been not right for a whole lot of time. Depression, something I often am uncertain of,do I really have it? Because I've been like this for a really long time, I'm not sure if I'm not just that kind of person now or whatever is going on, I rly don't have a way of comparison, I just remember that I was happy somewhere along the line of my life, but I can't recall the feeling. And by happy I mean fine, or okay. Not necessarily 'happy' but the opposite of miserable and empty. I guess I should call it peace. You lose yourself, you lose your interests, you lose your reason for existence. When it was at it's peak I slept from dusk till dawn, I skipped lectures, I failed classes, I didn't workout anymore, I didn't do anything besides sleep. And that itself creates a ground for depression to sink it's roots into. It's autotrophic in the way that it makes you create your misery and then feeds itself out of it, making itself even more impactful.

Depression is like onions as Shrek would say. It has layers and it's problematic in many different ways that compliment each other at the same time, you can't tackle one and expect it not to reappear if you shift your focus on the others. Its doubt in everything, and I did that, I doubted my friends, my family and myself, it's also fuel for every insecurity, it makes them grow a thousand times, it zooms into them, it makes communication so bad, because even the thought of speaking to someone about it is overwhelming.

Something that breaks a person is the fact that this is who you are now, you ain't going back. In my case I won't be going back to my previous plan of education, I won't be the same personality, I won't bring back the words I've told different people, I can't rewind the traumatic experiences, I can't delete the memories and thoughts about permanent solutions, I can't get rid of the eye shadows, the coping mechanisms i developed, the hairs I ripped out.

But the worst of it all is that it never goes away. Even if you get better, even if you're hanging in and you're progressing you're just one dead relative, one failed exam, one rejection, one quarrel with a family member or a friend, one of something triggering and you're back in there. Like it never left, and it didn't.

Yes it gets better, but you've got an anchor on your leg, you just wait till you get to the deeper ends of the sea again.

No one really has the power to help you, only to support you while you help yourself, it's a one man/woman journey and you gotta understand that, because I've been relying on people to heal me, and that makes relationships toxic and you lose your loved ones, you don't win the battle that way.

The number one tip I could give is to just focus on the current, the sounds right now, the light or darkness around you, the air in your space, don't dwell in your mind, it's intoxicated and will lie to you, and it WILL convince you to believe in things normally you would never agree with. You happen to have the enemy inside you , and the trick is to not take it out along with yourself. You start to self destruct and that's a strange opiate which I can't out with words but it's common and you should avoid things with lasting damage. You'll feel better destroying yourself in that moment, but when the moment passes you're left with the scars of whatever you've done to yourself, not necessarily talking about physical scars.

But let me tell you, there is good in every bad, light in every darkness. You'll become stronger by the time, you'll learn how to handle it more and more and you'll know how to help other people, you'll empathize a lot easily, you'll appreciate the smaller things , even the things you never saw before.

Depressed people have that unspoken connection between each other, they really understand what just can't be put into words or logic. That don't mean they can help each other, but it does give the perspective that you're not really alone, even tho it feels pretty lonely locked inside your own head.

I wish everyone going through this to make it out alive and well. They truly are special, like all people, magic and blessing in this universe they are.

You can't really knock depression out, you can't kill it, but what you can do is make yourself stronger to endure it's punches and do the things that wouldn't let it develop further.

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hughiecampbelle · 6 years ago

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Haunted House (Ben Hargreeves Drabble)

((UMBRELLA ACADEMY SPOILERS))

Character/s: Ben

Word Count: 664

Inspired By: idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish

A/N: So. . . This isn't my best haha. But I love Ben and wanted to write something to get back into it. I hope you guys like it! 💜

He had his own unspoken language. The kind that whined in chairs scraping against the floors, embarassed at dropped dishes and sleepy knocks along the walls, restless flickers in the lights. One tap, two, a stomp. Your heard him up and down the stairs case. Chasing after you, letting you know he was always there. Sometimes out of boredom. The mundane pieces of life, he never knew how to quite handle them. Paying bills, chores, always up and down. Patient to a fault alive, he was done wasting his time. It was torture watching you waste yours. Get out, travel, leave the old house behind like you always talked about. A forgotten engagement, long gone with the rest of your future together.

Pots and pans would clink, silverware shake, cabinets swing open. He always forgot to close them. Careful with the books. A soft touch, flipping through them. A sweet sound, slowly turned pages. Engrossed in the last of the stories. You made a note to pick up more, ones he hadn't already read. The laundry tumbled, windows opened, he always thought a little more fresh air would do you some good.

You learned to interpret the silence, the long pauses, the lull in conversation. The anger, the sadness, the joy. You found yourself waiting for a response out of habit, part of you expecting his voice to travel through the halls, a laugh or sigh, anything to show he was still there, still listening. He never left without a goodbye. Made it known he had to go, but that he would always be back, the same way he used to.

That's when things seemed to be the emptiest.

You cleaned up the mess, straighten out pictures, reorganize everything you could think of to keep busy. You never liked to be alone. Your place was bought, meant for two. One without the other seemed off. These times felt as if he were really gone. Rearrange furniture, he always seemed to bump and trip when things moved. Careful, you'd warn to the room. The bookcase shook, the couch slide, somehow he always seemed to forget how much space he took up. Clumsy boy, you'd laugh.

Sometimes you got caught, careless. His siblings checked in, came with sad smiles and akward, distant hugs. They were still new to this, being a family. You didn't blame them, couldn't. If he could forgive them, you would too. All of them made lives for themselves, individual, growing outward. They never really knew you, of you, not before the burial. Meant to send out invitations - weddings and funerals the only thing that brought them together he once joked- but you barely had a date set. Thought you'd have more time for that. You knew their names, faces from pictures, tv, but someone had to die for you to meet face to face. They heard your whispers, aplogies, the panic in your voice telling someone to hush before answering the door. It was ridiculous, too hard to explain, even a little crazy. They thought you lost it, the others assuming it was your way of coping. Some you hadn't seen since the day you met.

Ben always said, no matter what, he would always come back. He didn't, one night, and then he did. You can't see him, not anymore, but you always knew he was there, felt his presence behind you, in the doorway, waiting at the table, a dinner for two. Together you lived in your haunted house. You weren't sure what would happen next. He urged you to leave, move on, the supportive fiance you knew he'd always be, but that felt impossible. Things still hurt. Saying his name. Watching his things collect dust. The stillness of his side of the bed. His ring on the dresser. It was still new, fresh, not yet healed over, but a knock, the moving of a curtain or drawer opening always reassured you no matter what, he was still there.

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katie-dub · 6 years ago

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The Princess of White Chapel (12/12)

Dr Killian Jones is having a terrible day. He’s got a mission, he’s got a time machine, he’s got … drunk. What could possibly go wrong?

AO3 | Tumblr

Rated M for alcohol use, violence, minor character death, frank discussions of depression and grief.

I can’t believe we’re at the end - thank you to all of you for reading, to my betas, the ever fantastic @distant-rose and @ultraluckycatnd, and to the talented @princesse-swan for creating beautiful art for me.

Now, on with the show!

One Year Later

He was on a pirate ship, hand and hook on the ship’s wheel. The salty sea breeze felt good against his skin, soothing the heat of the hot, summer sun. Princess Emma was leaning against the railings, smiling brighter than any star in the sky and giggling as the breeze wafted her curls across her face.

Lily circled lazily overhead, on guard for attack from pirates, the Evil Queen, or the villain Rumplestiltskin. But those dark clouds on the horizon could not spoil this moment, for he was here with his love. He was at peace.

“Dr Jones, Dr Jones, calling Dr Jones!” Despite being fast asleep just moments ago, Killian's reactions were laser fast. His arm shot out and he answered the phone as he yanked it to his ear.

“I can send you to another bloody realm you know, Scarlet,” he growled. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh really?” Belle replied. He pulled the phone away from his ear to squint at it in confusion. Will’s face pouted up at him in a ridiculous kiss face.

“Why are you using Will’s phone?”

“Forgot to put mine on charge last night.”

“You never forget to put your phone on charge.” Killian could practically hear her blush at his unspoken accusation.

“Yeah, well, we were.. Um. Busy,” she blustered.

“Well, well, well Miss French. Find yourself busy with our dear Will often? If so, I'd suggest you get your jabs. You don't know where that boy's been.”

“Killian!” Belle was equal parts indignant and embarrassed. “What we - if I - look, if you're still coming to book group, can you bring that book you told me about?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Really? I thought you might feel a bit uncomfortable, what with the subject matter…”

He glanced over at his copy of Atonement on his nightstand. “Lovers cruelly torn apart before their love story had truly begun? Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“Sorry.” Killian felt as though he could hear Belle's wince through the phone. “Honestly, I'll understand if it's too much.”

“It's fine, love. The counselling is helping me to cope with everything. At least this couple got their happily ever after, if only in fiction.”

He briefly wondered what he and Emma’s fictional happy ending would have been. He could practically see it, him gazing at her in adoration as they said their vows, her radiant smile as he dipped her into their first kiss as husband and wife.

He realised that he hadn't been listening to Belle at all, caught up in a love story that could never be. “... Should I stop by your place on the way?”

“Sure, you can tell me all about how Will finally tricked you into accepting that date.”

“I heard that!” Will shouted in the background.

“I meant you to!” Killian called back.

Belle sighed. “I'll see you at 7.”

“Bye. Don’t do anything I wouldn't do.” He raised his voice. “And, yes, that includes Will.” He was expecting the sudden silence that greeted his words. He may give Belle a hard time, but he really was pleased that they'd finally got their act together.

His eyes flicked to the time on his phone. 8:15am. Too late to go back to sleep, but he didn't quite feel ready to leave the comfort of his bed behind and face the world.

Instead, he pulled up Facebook and scrolled through his feed.

Cute baby.

Woah, seriously ugly baby. Bloody hell, what an unfortunate face, Killian thought to himself, swiping just a little faster away from the photo.

Robin Locksley shared a post from The Guardian:

A Crocodile in our Midst

“One year on from the appearance of the London Dragon, and the start of the Enchanted Disaster, we now know one man was behind it all. Robert Gold. Now that the scale of Gold’s influence and empire built on favours, deceit and corruption at the highest levels has been revealed, we ask; what lessons can we learn?”

He hesitated. Stared at the post long and hard. He should have known his feed would be full of stories like this today.

He couldn’t read it now. Perhaps he never would be able to. He’d been through enough in the past year, reporting to the Darling Inquiry, to the police, to the university.

He was finally in a better place. People finally knew what a monster Gold really was, had always been. He was working alongside Dr Smee at Imperial College London. He was getting out more. He was having regular sessions with Dr Hopper.

But still.

He sighed and continued to scroll.

Holiday photos.

Cute children.

Cute dog.

Cute baby.

Aurora Rosen shared a post from The Daily Mail “People are so mean!!! Leave this family alone!!!”:

‘Leave our princess in peace!’ plead Ashley and Sean Herman

Alexandra Herman stole all of our hearts as the face of the Enchanted Disaster, a beautiful little girl lost in another world. Her parents’ campaign for her safe return had a happy ending, but now that she is safely home, they beg for privacy.

Cute baby.

Holiday photos.

Ironic “wish you were here” post of a dowdy living room presumably intended to get a laugh, but coming off a little too bitter.

Ruby Lucas shared a post from OK! Magazine UK “Get it girls ;)”:

A Royal Romance for Rapunzel

“Singer Rapunzel and Princess Elsa open up for the first time about how their shared ordeal kidnapped by Gold led to them finding love.”

So many people had been brought together by the strange happenings in town, and what did he have to show for it? Two pictures on his wall. Emma’s sketch of a swan and the recent painting he’d done of a swan on the Thames that had made him smile. The first painting he’d done since she’d left that he actually thought worthy of hanging on the wall. Yes, it was lovely to feel that Emma had helped him to rediscover his love of painting, which gave him a link to both of his lost loves, but still... A painting couldn't ask about his day, couldn’t hold him at night, couldn’t borrow his phone when it forgot to charge its own phone because of their more enjoyable activities.

God he never thought he’d be jealous of Will bloody Scarlett.

Killian sighed and put his phone to one side. It was no good. Everything was making him think of Emma. It was still several hours until he had to be at their spot, he needed a better distraction than social media.

He’d been putting off deep cleaning his fridge. No time like the present.

***

He was at their spot and the sun was shining. It wasn’t the harsh, oppressive and overwhelming heat of the previous year, but instead a gorgeous sunny day.

He should have been grateful that on his and Emma’s day, the weather was glorious, but he felt angry. There should be storms raging, torrential rain, unnatural, unseasonable fog. Something, anything to show that the world understood what he had lost.

This resentment wasn’t a new feeling to him. He’d spent years biting his tongue at the way his friends prodded him about his love life or how an acquaintance would casually refer to the loss of Milah or at the sight of Gold. His short time with Emma and the healing that he’d done in the past year had helped him to not feel overwhelmed by it. On a normal day.

But today, it was all too much.

Twice he had loved wholly, honestly and truly; and twice that love and joy had been ripped from him.

He could see how much more to life there was than just romantic love now. His therapy had helped him to appreciate the richness and beauty in all aspects of his life. But he was a passionate man and he longed to share his heart with another. The absence of that love left an emptiness inside him that caused a deep ache if he dwelt on it for long, because whoever heard of lightning striking thrice?

The beautiful day made him feel like the world was taunting him. It was just so unfair. Where was the sense in anything that had happened? As he seethed, questions whirled through his mind, he could feel his wrath taking over. His muscles tensed, he clenched his teeth, his chest felt tight as the tempest grew.

No.

Not today.

He needed to reclaim today as a celebration of his short time with Emma. He couldn’t let his fury win.

He stared at the water and tried to remember the mindfulness exercises that Dr Hopper had taught him to help him to cope. Eyes unfocused. Deep breaths. Feel the bench beneath him. Listen to the sounds around him. Notice how he felt. Don’t try to change it. Accept it. Sit with his feelings.

He caught a glimpse of golden hair.

“Swan?”

The woman spun, he knew it wouldn’t be her. He’d done this so many times before. Especially in the beginning. She had magic. She was from an entire realm full of magic. She could find a way. She would… He’d always been disappointed.

“Yes?” Green eyes looked back at him. She had soft cheeks, a dimpled chin, she was perfect. She couldn’t possibly be real. Then she frowned at him. “Do I know you? Because you said my name and now you’re doing some kind of creepy stalker thing and I’m really not into that.”

“Are you Emma Swan?”

She held up her hands and stepped back from him. “Listen, buddy -”

Killian shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m being so weird. Um, you know the Enchanted Disaster that happened?”

“Yeah! Is it bad if I say that I thought it was cool as fuck? I may have snuck a niffler home. Kind of regretted that when the little fucker tore my purse to shreds looking for treasure.”

“OK, well, I met another you, from the Enchanted Forest.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“But I didn’t end up the other realm?”

“Not everyone switched places. Some people stumbled through portals. She was the first. Faced off against the London Dragon?”

“Oh god, I remember that! People kept asking where I’d learned how to do magic, didn’t like it when I said Hogwarts. But if you’re going to ask a dumb question...”

Killian laughed and nodded. This was so weird. She was Emma, but not Emma. She had the same dry sense of humour, but with the addition of pop culture references. He realised that he’d waited too long to say more, still overawed. “The dragon was actually friends with Emma,” he said, desperate for the conversation to continue.

Emma frowned at him and shook her head incredulously. “Oh come on! Now I know you’re making this up.”

“No really! I didn’t much like her, kind of a bitch and a major fire hazard. Honestly, I don’t miss having her in my flat.”

“You had Maleficent in your apartment?”

“I believe she’s Lily’s mother actually.”

Emma smirked at him. “Bullshit.” He just raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, trying to give off a “you keep telling yourself that” vibe as he grinned. “If I believe you then I have to accept that the street art I keep seeing of her looking like some kind of badass female Saint George is all anti-dragon propaganda. You have to let me have that vision, people buy me drinks because they think I’m her, I’ve gotten laid because of it.”

He laughed. “Far be it from me to cramp your style, Emma may not have actually slain the dragon, but she was definitely a badass. Have you seen the one of her looking like Wonder Woman with the lightsaber?”

“In the parking lot on Brick Lane? I love that one!”

“She loved it too. Of course, she didn’t actually know what a lightsaber was.” He laughed at the memory.

“Tell me you fixed that immediately or I’m not sure we can be friends.”

He laughed. “As if I would deny anyone a proper Star Wars education.” Emma nodded her approval. “Hey would you like to get a coffee?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Emma shook her head and his face fell. “Sorry, er, what did you say your name was?”

“Killian,” he said, trying not to feel too sad. He studied his feet, wondering if the ground could just open up and swallow him. Of course she wouldn’t want to get coffee, this was so strange and he’d approached her in the weirdest possible way.

“Maybe we could get a hot chocolate instead?” He looked up at her in surprise. She shrugged. “I don’t drink coffee,” she said apologetically. “Is that ok?”

“Yeah.” He was dazed, stunned into stupidity by this new Emma Swan.

“Come on, I want to hear all about how awesome I am.” She winked at him. And for the first time since Princess Emma had stepped through that portal he felt that powerful feeling surging through him and lighting him up inside. For the first time since she left, Killian had hope.

#csbb #cs ff #captain swan #ouat ff #katie dub writes #tpowc

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