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hunn1e-bunn1e · 1 year ago

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Dorm Heads - Reader Has A Collection of Items

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I'm still sick unfortunately, but thankfully my migraine is gone so I decided that I should still write the asks that have been sent in. Fun fact: I have a collection of old keys as well as a collection of quarters and Midori (A×K) and Sanemi (KNY) themed items. —Benny🐰

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🌹 I don't see Riddle as the collecting type, so he probably doesn't get the point of having a collection in the first place. He'd just see it as useless clutter or even a bunch of random trash that you keep in your room. It doesn't matter what you collect, he just doesn't get it.

🌹 Now, while Mr. Rosehearts thinks you're hoarding trash like some sort of giant bipedal raccoon, he won't stop you but won't encourage you either. He loves you so he'll let you explore your interests at your own pace... even if he thinks it's weird. If collecting various items makes you happy, Riddle won't stop you, he loves seeing you smile.

🌹 Let's say, in Riddle's part, that you collect standard playing cards of various themes. Ex. Solitaire cards with varying seasonal and holiday designs. Riddle would most likely ask you why you need so many different packages of cards and would likely try to convince you to use them once and a while since playing cards are to be played with. But if you say no he would drop it.

🌹 If you gift him something from your collection, he wouldn't get it but would accept it anyway because it's a gift from you. Riddle would probably put it on a shelf in his room or pin it to his wall, whatever it is. He'll grab it down and just examine it when he misses you.

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"My Rose... What's all this for? ... A collection? B‐but these are— ah... nevermind, what a... uhm lovely collection you have here..."

"Oh! This one is for me? Ah... well, thank you, My Rose."

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🦁 Leona is another person who I don't see as the collecting type, but if he did have a collection I think it would be a collection of different types of pillows. He keeps his collection on his bed and the surrounding floor because there are so many. So, Leona certainly doesn't mind nor care really if you have a collection of items.

🦁 That's not to say that our lion boy doesn't get annoyed when your attention is focused on your collection rather than him. Even if you and Leona were just cuddling and you turn to your collection, you've successfully pissed him off. Good luck getting him to let you go the next time you lay down for a nap with him. He won't. You're stuck now.

🦁 For Mr. Kingscholar's part, let's say you collect little carved wooden figures. Ex. Animals, plants, monuments, etc. Leona found out about your collection before you told him actually. He was getting comfortable on your bed, ready to lay down for another nap when he felt something hard poking him in the side. And lo and behold, it was a little carved wooden lion no bigger than a chess piece.

🦁 Leona will take whatever you give him not without complaint though, but if you try and take it back he won't give it to you. He most likely makes Ruggie turn whatever you give him into a necklace or a keychain saying that he can carry it with him at all times. On days when he can't see you, Leona will stare at the item you gave him and trace its edges and crevices with a smile on his face.

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"Hah? What's all this crap doin' on your bed? Move it off. I wanna lay down. C'mere Herbivore, I need somethin' soft to lay on."

"Huh? What's this for? Ah... sure whatever, I'll keep so you'll let me sleep already."

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🐙 Azul is an avid collector himself. He most notably collected contracts before his overblot, but he also likes to collect little fossils that he finds on beaches and embankments. Azul is certainly interested in the fact that you have a collection and would love to share his collection with you.

🐙 I'll say it point blank, Azul has 100% definitely tried to suggest selling numerous items in your collection. But he tones it down when you assure him that they're not for sale. He'll bring it up in passing every once in a while though, he's still not giving up. Azul will stop if you tell him to, though.

🐙 For octopus wifey you'll be collecting rocks of all kinds. Ex. Smooth and shiny pebbles to small chunks of gemstones. Azul will also contribute to your collection by gifting you various types of pearls of small pieces of dead coral. He even got you a special box to keep your collection in, isn't he so sweet?

🐙 When you give Azul something from your collection he'll shyly accept it and mutter a cute and quiet little thank you. He'll put it on his desk in his private office in the Monstrou Lounge; he makes sure to slip it into a drawer whenever Floyd comes in though. Whenever Azul is very busy at the lounge and can't see you, he'll glance at it every so often between signing papers.

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"This is quite the collection you've got here, Angel Fish. You know... a few of your little collectibles could go for a hefty sum... No pressure, of course."

"Hm? For me? I... w‐well thank you, Angel Fish."

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🪞 Oh, Vil collects things as well. Jewelry is the item of choice in his case; from antique brooches to new-age hairpins. He doesn't mind that you collect things, but he will be a bit snooty about which items are deemed worthy of being collected. Vil will absolutely eye your collection with disdain if it's something he doesn't like, but he won't say anything.

🪞 Vil finds collecting to be a respectable hobby that any fair gentleman should have, so he certainly supports you. He actually discovered your hobby when he barged in came to your dorm to see you and saw your collection littering the vanity he ordered for you. This kind of annoyed Vil, but he let it go when he saw how happy you were.

🪞 In Mr. Schoenheit's case, I believe a collection of feathers fits the best. Ex. Pheasant feathers, eagle feathers, peacock feathers, etc. Vil doesn't mind your collection but he does think it's a bit unsanitary that you'd pick something up off the ground and keep it, especially something like a feather.

🪞 Vil will accept gifts from you all the time, but sometimes he accepts them and just puts out of sight if he doesn't like it. If you give him an item from your collection, he'll likely pin it to the side of his full length/vanity mirror or sit it on the desk of his vanity. Whenever he's too busy with his acting and modeling career to see you, Vil will take a few glances at it while he's putting on his makeup.

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"Ah... Sweet Potato... What's all this garbage doing cluttering up your vanity? Collection? Wouldn't you rather... oh, I don't know... collect more appealing items per chance."

"Where in the world did you get this? Oh? You're gifting this to me? Well... I suppose I must accept it then..."

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🪲 Kalim has a collection too! He collects anything that catches his interest at the time, so his collection is compiled of all sorts of different things. He is overwhelmingly supportive of you and your collection. Kalim would love to share his collection with you!

🪲 Please! Please, please, please show Kalim your collection, he'll show you his as well, it'll be a nice little bonding experience between the two of you. He'll often give you all sorts of random things he comes across and ask if you'd add it to your collection or make a whole new collection based around it.

🪲 For our adorable sunshine boy, we'll make your collection one of coins. Ex. Coins from different countries, coins that are no longer produced, pressed coins, etc. Kalim finds them all so interesting and always asks about the history surrounding them. He's definitely given you coins from the scorching sands so you can add them to your collection.

🪲 If you give Kalim something from your collection, he's absolutely ecstatic! He probably keeps whatever item you decide to give him in his pocket at all times. When he can't see you, Kalim will reach into his pocket and run his fingers along the item to feel its texture.

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"Woah! These are so cool! Where did you find all this stuff? Do you want to see my collection of cool stuff too? It's in my room! C'mon let's go!"

"Eh? OH! For me! You're so sweet! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I'll give you something too, wait here!"

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💀 Idia obviously has a large collection of his own. He collects anime and video game figures; he even has an entire room in the Ignihyde dorm dedicated to it. Idia's glad you collect things as well, it makes him feel like less of an outcast.

💀 Do you want to see his collection too? Idia is very enthusiastic about sharing his collection with you, which is a lot for him to trust you with, so please say you like it or he might cry. He most likely won't try and contribute anything to your collection or really compliment it all that much, he's far too shy.

💀 In Idia's case I think collecting ornate keys would fit perfectly. Sometimes, when he comes to your room, he'll be distracted by all the different keys that you had and shyly ask you where you found all of them. Idia won't ask all that often, but he tries to do it more since he likes the way you smile when you talk about your interests.

💀 Idia gets so jittery when you gift him things, he thinks he's undeserving so he always ends up with teary eyes. He'll probably keep whatever item you give him in the top drawer of his dresser. Sometimes, when he's too shy to leave his room, Idia will dig through his drawer and clutch it in his hand, running his thumb over it.

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"You collect stuff as well? Is it figurines? Do you... d‐do you wanna see my figurine collection? A‐and maybe I can look at your collection as well... i‐if you want to."

"Your giving this to me? T‐that's�� A‐are you sure? I... t‐thank you..."

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🐲 Malleus isn't one to collect things, but he's certainly up to observe them. He needs nothing more than the gargoyles perched atop Night Raven College. He doesn't mind letting you indulge in your silly little human pastime.

🐲 Humans are so strange, Malleus doesn't think he'll ever understand them, but Lilia has a collection of human games so he supposes he can't complain. Do show him your collection, he would absolutely love to learn about his dear Child of Man's interests. Out of everything involving your collection, your smile has to be Malleus's favorite part.

🐲 In Mr. Draconia's case, I think a collection of dried & pressed plants would suit you best. While he definitely doesn't get why you would go out of the way to press and dry plants when they're right outside, he kind of likes it. Often, Malleus will have plants from the Valley of Thorns brought to him so he can gift them to you.

🐲 A gift? For him? Malleus would be absolutely delighted if you gave him a gift let alone one of your silly little human trinkets. He'd keep whatever item you ended up giving him in an ornate glass case and would never move it from there. When he can't see you, Malleus will gently open the glass case and observe the item for a while.

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"Ah... such interesting items that you've procured here, dear Child of Man. I wonder... would you like to observe my favorite gargoyles with me tonight."

"Oh? For me? My, my~ aren't you thoughtful, Child of Man. Perhaps I should return the favor..."

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ethereange · 6 months ago

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you saw him first. it had always been that way, your perceptiveness betraying you. a quick run to the store for some painkillers after you popped the last couple for a migraine, left you frozen in place at the sight of the ash blonde. your awareness heightened at the fact you were in a giant, beat-up hoodie with mismatched socks, your hair frizzy and gave the impression that you were hungover. and suddenly toughing through a headache at home didn't seem so bad right now.

katsuki was scanning over the jars of protein powder. his hand reached for the one with clean white packaging and a simple black font. the one he always liked. but it faltered, retreating, skipping over to one with a blue label.

since when did he like blue?

your head was throbbing and waves of tears threatened to form at your eyes, but you knew it wasn't from the pain.

he turned around, and all you could do was face the hopelessness of his gaze locking with yours. with him seeing firsthand the look on your face that would crack open until your heart shattered all over the tiled floor.

but it never happened. he never even looked your way.

"kacchan, did you find anything?"

kacchan? but it wasn't izuku's voice..

"i told ya to stop callin' me that," katsuki grumbled.

"i know, but it's so cute! i can't help it after deku used it for you!"

you clutched your bottle of advil. her clothes sat just right. her hair was what you spent two hours in front of the mirror with an iron for. she had eyes so blue it made the ocean pale.

was that why? was she why you liked blue now?

"oh!" she gasped, "is that the powder i talked about?"

"yeah, but," he sighed, "it's shit and i'm not gettin' it."

"what! how is it bad?" she exclaimed.

"the macros are terrible. i'm gettin' my usual."

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"you're no fun," she scoffed, "we need to get some gluten-free snacks, can you come?"

there was a pause, before he said, "nah, i don't eat that crap, i needa check somethin' first." the girl blinked at the bluntness, but shook it off and walked down the aisle.

"need somethin'?"

your heart skipped a beat.

piercing eyes of ruby met yours, the same as they always were. something that took years to read, always changing, always something behind the enchanting hue.

"no-" you whispered, mouth dry. "no," you repeated, clearly this time, "i was just on my way to checkout."

"checkout's the other way if ya didn't know."

your face burned red, but you steeled your gaze as best as you could and nodded, turning away.

"she's an intern, by the way." you stopped.

"what?"

"she's an intern, third-year. but she's not tryna be a sidekick, she's aiming for personal assistant. but i'm not picking her up- too chatty."

you swallowed, "okay, and?"

"just thought you wanted to know," he spoke, softly, as he reshelved the jar. "do you.. have another brand i can try?"

you stared at him, and you sighed. as you stopped at his side, you gazed over the rows of containers. "why didn't you like this one?" you gestured to the one he just placed on the rack.

"the macros were fine... i just don't like blue."

you let a laugh slip out, and a warmth budded in your chest, an all familiar feeling.

the pain of your migraine dulled as the pains of the past were slowly, carefully, starting to be stitched up. because you and katsuki were hunched over the protein powder, just like you were all those years ago. and for some reason it brought a sense of peace that you never thought the sight of him would bring again.

#katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #katsuki fluff #katsuki angst #drabbles #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo #bnha #mha

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krirebr · 1 year ago

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Relax

Pairing: Jake Jensen x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: ~500 words

A/N: I watched The Losers this afternoon for the first time in years to try to combat the Migraine Sads™ and I immediately wanted to grab Jensen's hand and tell him, "Oh no, baby, just stop." So here that is. 😂

It was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon and the bar was predictably dead. A couple was finishing up an appetizer sampler in the corner booth and a man and a woman sat a few seats apart at the bar. That was it. You were working alone, busying yourself rolling silverware.

As you worked through your stack, you saw the man at the bar leave his seat and move down towards the woman. He was cute with spiky blonde hair and a goatee that was kind of dorky but worked on him. Most importantly, he was fucking built. That fact forgave a lot of follicular sins. The woman was pretty. Brunette with a soft round face. But she'd been nursing an Old Fashioned for the last hour and was giving real fuck-off vibes as she compulsively checked her phone. This wasn't going to go well, but you were bored and kind of wanted to watch the train wreck, so you moved down to their end of the bar as subtly as you could.

"So, uh, you come here often?" he asked her, then grimaced. You resumed your rolling, trying to act like you weren't paying attention. "Yeah, no," he continued when she didn't respond. "I've been here a few times." He nodded to her drink. "I also like drinking. It's fun." He scowled but didn't seem able to stop himself. "And good." He shifted his eyes to the corner of the ceiling, looking like he wanted to die. This poor baby. She shot him a glare and moved to one of the high tops on the far side of the room to finish her drink. He just nodded in response.

You filled a shot glass with top-shelf whiskey and placed it in front of him. "On the house," you said.

He took and drank it without looking up then put his face in his hands. "I'm so fucking embarrassing," he mumbled. "Why is it so hard to talk to chicks?"

"Well, my first piece of advice would be to not use the word 'chicks' so much."

He chuckled, still looking down at the bar. "Any other advice?" he asked.

"Yeah," you said. "You gotta relax, dude."

He huffed. "Yeah, easy for you to sa-" he looked up at your face and stopped mid-sentence. His mouth just hung open for a moment then he took a breath to say something you were sure would be horribly awkward.

"Relax," you said again and poured him another shot. "Can I let you in on a little secret?"

"Uh, sure," he said, taking the shot seemingly unconsciously.

"You're really hot," you said with a grin. "You don't need to try so hard."

You could see his brain short-circuit. "Uh, what?"

"You heard me," you smirked.

"Why does it feel like you're flirting with me?" he asked, adorably confused.

"Because that's exactly what I'm doing," you said. "I guess I like the awkward ones."

He blushed and ducked his head bashfully. "I'm Jake," he said, extending his hand to you. You took it and gave him your name.

You checked your watch. "Well, Jake, I'm done here in about two hours," you said with a significant look.

He gave you another cute, little confused look and then, "Oh! You mean-?" You just smiled at him and he matched it with a grin of his own that lit up his whole face. "Ok, two hours then."

Masterlist

Tag lists are open

@stargazingfangirl18 @drabblewithfrannybarnes @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

#jake jensen x reader #jake jensen x you #jake jensen #drabble #the losers (2010)#reader insert #jake jensen x female reader #chris evans fanfiction #kris wrote something

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bettsfic · 1 year ago

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i just read this post about kids coming up to librarians and asking questions, and how wonderful and adorable it is, and i didn't want to besmirch that post with my response as a former kid who asked librarians for things, so i'm making a separate post.

my parents gave me a lot of privacy. in fact they gave me so much privacy that one could say it was neglect. it's hard to describe concisely what i went through as a kid, but let's just say it wasn't good and i don't have many good memories from that time. but one good memory i have was getting my first library card. in fact it was so important to me that i can't think of it without crying.

i was 5 years old. i could barely write my own name (i was not gifted), but my mom walked me through it letter by letter so i could sign the back. and once i did, i realized it was completely and wholly mine. mine to use. mine to take care of. mine to keep.

i had never had anything that was mine. it was my first taste of agency. with this card, i thought, i have access to anything. and no one can tell me no. the library was somewhere i felt safe, and there were very, very few places i felt safe.

and i used it. i used that card until it was nearly destroyed, just a scrap of cardstock with the lamination peeling off. for years i had these near-daily migraines, just physically and psychologically debilitating, and no one took me to a doctor. so i went to the library and checked out books on migraines so i could try to treat myself, so i could find a way to be in slightly less pain.

and later, i had read through my entire library's YA section and so every saturday my mom would take me to a different one in the library network. i can't tell you how much i looked forward to that. i didn't really understand what "fun" was, but going to libraries a town or two over was a blast for me. it was a reprieve during a time when all i can remember is pain.

i really liked that post i linked above, and i know kids asking for books is definitely cute, but to all librarians reading this: in answering those questions, by showing kids where to find the information they're seeking, you are saving lives.

sometimes i look back on my childhood and think, "why didn't anyone help me?" but people did help me. librarians helped me.

#libraries #tw child abuse

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kurishiri · 1 month ago

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17 . . . alfons main story

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: mentions of child labor or abuse, implied animal torture and death, symptoms of dissociation and depression (?)

—— Alfons’ POV ——

After Kate had left the pub,

I stayed behind, drinking whatever and whenever I felt, playing around in the night streets, and by the time I returned, Roger gave an earful, much to my displeasure.

I spent time around the vicinity as I pleased before returning to my room and catching up on some sleep that playing around at night had robbed me of,

and before I knew it, morning had come around.

Alfons: ‘You went and meddled even more, because that’s what you wanted’...

Lying down on the bed, I ruminated over the words from last night, leaving a bad taste.

After all, they were words that rang too true.

Alfons: ...Indeed, I had so much fun playing around with her that at some point I found myself closer to her than I ever thought.

A: She never felt discouraged in the slightest, even when she followed me around to places that should instill fear in her, and on top of that she would even fight a battle within a fire...

A: Now that I think back, perhaps she really had grown out of needing a ‘convenient illusion’ like myself.

She was someone who could live in reality in earnest. She could give her love to someone, and she could find her happiness.

——She could realize what I could only ever dream of.

—— Flashback ——

Alfons: hah... hah...

I left the boy named Roger behind, running for the orphanage that had kicked me out.

‘To die without leaving his mark on anyone’s memories.’

In other words, the fact I had been born, and the fact I will die... nothing will be left behind. Such was the my life.

The moment I had heard those words, I thought of the corpses of those nameless children, thrown out like they were garbage——

And I was struck with a fear that shook me to my core.

(But, that cat will surely remember me.)

(He wouldn’t ever forget me.)

That was all I wanted to check on. I just wanted to feel that warmth on my fingers once more, driving me to run as fast as my feet could take me.

When I knocked on the door of the orphanage, which was in poor condition, the head nurse answered.

And from behind her——a cat approached.

Cat: What’s with the noise?

Alfons: Oh, thank goodness... hey, don’t you remem——

Cat: ...Wh—it’s you!

Before I could finish my question, though, the cat threw a punch at me.

Alfons: gh!? B-but why...

Cats couldn’t hit people.

Wait, no, in the first place, cats——could not wear clothes. Nor could they speak words.

(So why is this cat wearing clothes and speaking?)

A throbbing migraine hit me then and there, causing me to close my eyes.

And when I opened them again, there before me stood——

the director of the orphanage, with a foul look.

(Ahh... that’s right.)

(I remember now...)

(My cat had long been——)

—— Flashback ——

It had happened on a certain day when I had made a small mistake.

And the director, knowing I wouldn’t react the way he wanted even when harassing me, instead aimed for the cat I had held so dear.

Seeing the cat become more and more of a lump of flesh right before my eyes, I felt my head start to throb in pain.

(This isn’t reality. That isn’t my cat...)

I said to myself, ‘The one who’s being hurt is not myself,’ as I always did.

All to escape to a convenient dream.

Such a habit, at that time, cast upon me a convenient illusion.

(My cat would never be killed by the likes of that director!)

(It’s the cat...)

(Yes, that’s right... it’s the cat who killed the director.)

The director, seeing me suddenly becoming devoid of all emotions despite having broken down crying just before, approached with a nervous air about him.

——In my eyes, though, it was a cat that approached me.

Alfons: I knew you could do it, my kitty cat.

And then I gently pet the back of its neck, as I had always done.

Then, after having peeked into the room that had gone quiet, the head nurse let out a cry.

Meanwhile, the cat let out a purr as I pet it.

Perhaps, the scene that was reflected in the head nurse’s eyes was that of the director down on all fours, purring as I pet him.

Truly, what a pitiful scene it was.

But, even so, to me, the director was killed by the cat, while the cat still lived on.

—— End flashback ——

——That is, until the moment I woke up from that convenient dream.

Director: Did you come here to get beaten again!? You... you bloody monster——!!

(That’s right...)

(The cat had actually died.)

(And I... I couldn’t bear such a thing.)

(Just to run away from the suffering, to somewhere less painful...)

(I had made myself think that the cat had never died in the first place.)

Even though I wished that it would remember me, even when I died, because I loved it,

I also chose to forget about its death for my own sake, however heartless that may have been.

Besides that, I had also heard at some church sermon that ‘love was not meant to be given while seeking something in return.’

In the end, in order to forget all the pain and suffering, I may have only pretended to love.

After all, I had used that cat’s life as I found convenient before throwing it away...

...so how was I any different from the people at the orphanage, who would use others for their own gain before throwing them out?

I had no memory thereafter of where I walked,

just that when I had come to, I found that I had left the orphanage, and I was wandering around the night streets of London.

(If only I hadn’t returned to check on the cat... I could still believe ‘it’s still living, and it still remembers me.’)

(And then I could still stay as the me ‘who could love the cat.’)

(I would have rather just stayed mad...)

(If I didn’t find out what actually happened... if only...)

If you find reality to be unpleasant, you need only seek out an escape.

But if I couldn’t even escape from it anymore——

What other choice did I have but to fall into madness?

—— End flashback ——

Now that I thought back on it, perhaps it was at that moment I had given up on any idea of living in earnest and any prospects of wishing for that so-called happiness.

And as I wandered the streets of the city at night on a whim, I found myself showing the people I met the momentary dream they wished to see.

After all, in order to live in this world that knew no kindness, a place one could escape to was needed.

To those who gathered around me, I figured this hand that could cast a convenient illusion on them was that very place.

(Just what am I doing all of this for?)

(Maybe I thought at one point... I could feel like some savior, who used his Cursed ability to show a sweet dream to those with a weaker will?)

Whenever I would plaster a smile on my face, spouting things like ‘let’s forget about reality and indulge ourselves’ while touching the backs of their necks, I would hear my own cold voice.

I was positively fed up with the me who would cling onto a fake love, who saw no hope in change for the better.

(But, well... I couldn’t care less anymore.)

If I was going to just up and disappear from this world, forgotten by all in the end...

Just like a single piece of candy, wouldn’t it be alright to wrap myself in a sweet dream for as long as I was living?

And then, if I could, I wanted to disappear from this world without leaving even the smallest trace of myself in anyone’s heart.

After all, the more clear any trace I left behind became, the more that would leave behind an open hole in the heart that could never be filled.

Alfons: ...I think I’ve had just about enough of this blasted sob story.

—— Kate’s POV ——

(“To die without leaving his mark on anyone’s memories”——such was Alfons’ tragic fate.)

I had always felt a sense of fear as I listened to Roger’s story of the past.

It was as though a black darkness that would swallow everything in its path whole was creeping up toward me.

(When Alfons dies... at that moment...)

(The members of Crown, the friends Alfons would play with, the people in the slums, me, anyone and everyone...)

(...will all end up forgetting about him.)

His name, what he looked like, the scent he gave off... and the fact he even existed in this world altogether.

Roger: ...Among the testimonies of people who’ve experienced this unnatural memory loss,

R: there was an account of having always felt like in their heart that they couldn’t remember something very dear.

R: And when they had a sudden urge to go into the ‘empty room’ in the house, they said they shed tears the moment they entered the room.

Kate: ...!

Roger: If I had to guess, that person had been close with one of the bearers of the ‘Curse of the Mirror.’

(When I had first met Alfons, I was more than fine with forgetting all about him...)

But now, at this point, just imagining how each of the memories borne between the two of us could fall from my fingertips and scatter on the ground,

I felt a pain I could hardly bear.

Just then, I was reminded of——

[1] The blue mallow tea

[2] The pie-throwing festival (+4 / +4)

[3] The fact we had drank together

The pie-throwing festival.

(I had thought he was going to take me somewhere shady,)

(but it would have never crossed my mind that we would end up participating in this odd festival that was held in the park.)

(When I had talked with Alfons, when we laughed together, and even when we touched each other in that way...)

If he were to die, I would no longer be able to remember any of it.

(Is that why...?)

(So that’s why Alfons——would never step deep into anyone’s life. Nor would he let anyone into his.)

He never sought anything more than a fleeting relationship.

And he would never connect with any person or place.

It was all because if he had made himself at home by someone’s side, or in their heart, then someday——

That would be left behind as nothing but a blank space, with no way to remember what had filled it with color in the first place.

Even if I asked Alfons himself, I would think he would simply laugh it off and say something along the lines of ‘well, if that is what you think, then perhaps that may be so.’

But, thinking about that, I felt his speech and mannerisms had some coherency.

Kate: ...So, about his fate...

K: Is it really possible to change it?

Roger: I know as well as you do. That’s well beyond me.

R: All that’s still being researched.

(Roger was saying that he had been researching this ever since before he had met Alfons.)

Kate: ...And how long has it been that way?

Roger: ——From the time I was a five year old kid, up until today.

(Wow, that is a long time...)

Even while under Her Majesty the Queen, a place that perhaps had the most documents related to the Cursed ones,

Roger, who was also a Cursed one himself,

didn’t know of a way to escape from their tragic fates.

That truth seemed to weigh deeply on my chest.

Kate: ...Thank you, for telling me all this.

Roger: Well, it’s not as though I intend to go back empty-handed.

Kate: Huh? ...wah—

With one hand, he pulled my waist toward him, his lips at my ear.

Roger: With this, you owe me one.

Then when he subsequently kissed the lobe of my ear, I pushed back against Roger’s chest on instinct.

Kate: W-what do you think you’re doing...!

Roger: I brought you medicine to help with a hangover, didn’t I? You can just consider this payment for that.

R: Well then, catch you around, lil lady. And take care of yourself.

With a shrewd smile, he left the room, leaving me alone once again.

Kate: Alfons’ tragic fate...

He was just like an illusion whose surface I could only graze my fingertips upon, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he would fade away from my heart like an actual illusion?

He had no desire to live, and so perhaps he wouldn’t mind if such a day came around tomorrow.

And at that time——would the feelings I had for him fade away as well?

(...I would hate that.)

I should have been searching for a way to bury this love to the grave.

But, no matter how much anguish this heart of love inflicted on me, I didn’t ever want to forget.

I wanted to hold onto these feelings close to my heart forever——even now, I found myself deeply wishing for that.

(I don’t want these feelings to become an illusion.)

——Around the same time, in the corner of the castle, the gears of a certain plot had begun to move.

Surrounding an elderly gentleman donning a blue ring were the other members of the parliament, their faces seeming nervous as they spoke in low voices.

Parliamentary member Goa: ...Have those insolent twats who put out the fire of purification not been caught yet?

to be continued…

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taranida · 2 days ago

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The Alan headcount; part 1

Alright, I started a theory on all the Alan Wakes we have in the games and, oh boy, did it get bloated. And I actually needed some of the Wakes just to establish important things to draw connections for the main idea. Now, looking at 10k words of build-up without even touching a fun part of connecting the dots, I’ve decided that it would be easier for me and for the reader to have it all split in two.

This part will be focused on the Alans, who don’t really spark arguments yet show and predict a lot. They extend what we know about Alan, add to his character, and allow us to see where some things in other Alans originate from. It will also mostly be focused on pre-AWII, with one exception. There will be no conclusion in the end; it’s just lists of what we know, a bit of dissecting of some of the facts, and nothing more. Aye, I will surely slap a cool quote at the end, but treat it more as a “what we know and ways to interpret it” or a light read of rambling about Alan Wake.

Alan Wake before and during 2010.

I will put this Alan in both parts because he is important, and what I wrote about him here is a foundation that can be applied to any of them (to some extent). We know an awful lot about him (and all of it might be a lie), so I will skip some parts that serve no purpose for the theory.

I’ll call him just Alan; so, what do we know about him:

Alan was born in 1977… or 1978-1979, the guide for AW states he was 31 in 2010, the memorial in AWII reads 1977-2010; go figure.

Alan was born in New York or moved there at a very young age, since he and Barry, who grew up in New York, were childhood friends.

Alan was born with a congenital condition that made him sensitive to light to the point of being blinded by it and prone to migraines.

Alan never knew his father and was raised by his mother, Linda Wake, who had mental issues and spent a lot of time in various institutions while Alan was growing up. Alan was deeply affected by the absence of his father or a father-figure in his life.

Alan had crippling nightmares as a child before his mother gave him the Clicker.

Alan’s first published story was “Errand Boy,” which centred around a broken and twisted father-son relationship, horror, and a lighthouse occupied by the creatures that might’ve been an inspiration for the Taken.

Alan’s first serious writing gig was being a semi-regular writer on the Night Springs show. He hated it, by the way, felt that it was trash, and he was not a real writer. But he got over it; Night Springs ended up being a huge part of his personality.

Alan might’ve taken a job as a night watchman, carrying a gun and torch, in hopes of getting inspiration for his stories; as he states in one of the manuscripts, his first passion was crime. It was a boring gig, but at least he ran into Alice.

Alan is madly in love with Alice and cannot live without her.

Alan also knew that Alice actually can live without him and was always afraid that she will leave him, not allowing himself to truly believe that she loves him.

Alan’s first novel was about Alex Casey; the series grew and brought him success that he didn’t handle well. Parties, fights, substance abuse—all this rock-star lifestyle BS.

Alan considered only two people being close to him: Barry and Alice. And they didn’t get along well, although both care about him and genuinely love him, as he did in return. We have no information about what happened to his mother and what relationship he had with her.

Alan hit a writer’s block after the last Casey novel and his state started to deteriorate. He was moody, angry, and quick to lash out; the rock-star BS intensified. This drove his marriage to a breaking point.

Alan’s involvement in the vacation is unknown; he did say in one of the flashbacks that he wants a vacation for him and Alice, but Alice surely was the one to arrange everything and choose Bright Falls.

Alan forgot more dreams about the Dark Presence than Clay Steward remembers.

Alan had nightmares on a regular basis at the start of the first game; if it’s connected with giving the Clicker to Alice is unknown.

Alan had anger issues.

Alan was a sceptic.

Alan wrote everything that happened in 2010, taking inspiration from Tom Zane’s books, he found in the shoebox in the cabin and advice from his non-human editor Barbara Jagger. His scepticism didn’t stop him from writing supernatural events and Lovecraftian beings.

Alan, even at the time of the first game, had very strict rules about how exactly he should write to make fiction come true. He presents it as some sort of hunches or a writer’s wisdom.

Alan can manipulate time.

Alan ate the Dark Presence and enslaved the Bright Presence.

Alright, maybe the last fact was a bit too exaggerated, but it’s not without truth. Alan did indeed enslave the Bright Presence (and, frankly, everyone who has been mentioned in the manuscripts, plus some others, whose manuscripts Alan didn’t find), but the deal with the Dark Presence is a bit more nuanced. His last words, before he sat down to write “the ending to the story,” effectively rewriting the whole loop we just witnessed in the game, were about balance. Knowing what we know now, Alan might’ve consumed the Dark Presence’s powers whilst banishing her, effectively becoming too large of a presence himself to leave the Dark Place, or he took her place because, as he said, the scales have to balance, everything has a price; the price of killing the Dark Presence and freeing Alice from the Dark Place is staying in the Dark Place (as he himself believes in AWII) with complimentary Scratch in your head. Both of those possibilities have supporting evidence, and it doesn’t really matter which one of them you choose to believe; they lead to the same outcome.

Being consistent af, I will address the first fact(-ish?): as far as I know, no extra material was deemed non-canon, therefore the guide for AW is still a source one can use. Yes, it has some conflicts with the games, but the games have some conflicts with the games, and given the loops, memory issues, and the nature of this story, that has no need for retcons (‘tis just another loop, mate!), I’d say Alan just doesn’t remember his own birthdate and changes it on a whim. Or there might be another reason, drawn from other sources, that have nothing to do with our story.

Honestly, I’m not sure other facts need any clarification; people who will read this surely know a thing or two about Alan Wake. Moving on.

Oh, boy, the weirdest part of this part of the theory is here. We step into the territory of Alans upon Alans. Join me on a glorious adventure of exploring the multialans, because they are plenty, although the juiciest Alans might await us in the second part.

Dark Alan

We will start with the Dark Alan from The Signal and The Writer DLCs. For clarity, I will refer to him as, well, D!Alan, yes, I’m this cheap.

D!Alan is batshit crazy.

D!Alan gave up and allowed the darkness to consume him.

D!Alan is suspiciously similar to the Dark Presence, both in powers and behaviour.

D!Alan is trying to get rid of his rational part, coming off as malicious, but in fact being desperate.

D!Alan doesn’t need a crutch of writing, he can dream whatever he wants and the Dark Place will deliver; more so, we know for sure he was in no state to even touch the typewriter. He can occasionally narrate what’s going on, but it seems to be more about his need to vent.

D!Alan claims that light burns him.

D!Alan is powerful enough to swipe away the Bright Presence (although not without the help of Rational Alan).

D!Alan loves TVs.

D!Alan is bitter and hurt because he was left to die in the Dark Place.

D!Alan is best represented in the cutscene with Hartman, where he agrees that everything that happened was only in his head. As we learn from AWII, being Alan and being trapped in the Dark Place is a fate worse than death.

D!Alan is in control in the DLCs.

D!Alan is one of the most tragic Alans we have across the games. He wants everything to end, and if you listen to his lines, that are not about how his other part will die; it’s heartbreaking. I find those at the end of The Signal, the most revealing:

What did he have left to fight for? He’d lost everything even before he came here. Even his sanity was gone. What was the point?

Why had everyone abandoned him to die here?

The loss of everything even before is a bit nuanced: was it about the troubled marriage, burden of fame, inability to write, or something else? Something else will be discussed in the second part. Nonetheless, this line gives me chills. And the last one, I quoted here... well, D!Alan is crazy; he cannot think clearly to realise that, even if he’s right, not much time passed for him to come to this conclusion. The DLCs take place right after the first game, before AWAN, actually long before, since in AWAN Alan states he already learnt how to try to communicate with our world, managed to get annoyed enough with Mr. Scratch, who visited him multiple times, and decided to change the story he was writing. At the end of The Writer we see the name of the next manuscript "Return." It is not the AWAN's "Return," it’s a different story that was sacrificed to save Alice from Mr. Scratch.

D!Alan is not just suspiciously similar to the Dark Presence; he is the Dark Presence of the DLCs. Not only he does what DP!Barbara was doing, he behaves exactly like Scratch—insecure, lost, yearning for love and attention. D!Alan affects the Dark Place the way Scratch does in AWII, and Scratch and Barbara act differently: Barbara uses her innate powers to keep Alan and Alice hostage, banish the Bright Presence from the cabin, or push Alan away from his clairvoyant dream-memory; Scratch just shows up, changing the story to his whims, wrecking everything on his way. Their control is manifested differently; Scratch is a Dark Presence that can create. As is D!Alan, he’s dreaming everything that happens (mostly), and we can see how his state deteriorates through the environment.

D!Alan is surely not writing, on more than one TV we see him laying on the floor, narrating what’s happening or about to happen. This Alan is a Master of the Dark Place. All it needed is just to lose all sanity, reason, and care, not about all the rules Alan likes to impose onto himself. First glimpse at why Alan is unable to escape the Dark Place for thirteen years, being perfectly able to do it at any point.

D!Alan also let the darkness in and decided it wasn’t so bad. It can be tied to Alan’s history of substance abuse (who knows what kind of high the darkness can give?). But, no matter why he decided it was nice, after the two Alans reunited in the end, this understanding, lingering feeling surely stayed. Albeit somewhat controlled for the time being.

Rational Alan

After the D!Alan, we surely need to talk about the Rational Alan, opposing the Dark Alan in the DLCs. Following the lazy pattern, I’ll call him R!Alan.

R!Alan is not so dissimilar to Alan. Actually, there are not many differences at all.

R!Alan as well can shape the Dark Place, although way more subtle than the D!Alan.

R!Alan is assisted by the Bright Presence, who delivers him some of the manuscript pages that turn into words or phrases (of power?).

R!Alan is neither a “Bright Alan” nor a good version of Alan; he’s irritable, bitter, and not a nice person through and through.

R!Alan needs to use these words to manifest tools, goods, memories, or entities, but it is unclear if every word originates from the manuscript or even delivered by the Bright Presence. There is a high possibility he dreams some of them himself.

R!Alan created Imaginary Barry to accompany him.

R!Alan could be dreaming some of the environment as well, since there are helpful things around. Barry even warns R!Alan not to pursue the train of thought that Barry himself is from R!Alan’s imagination any further. Probably, because unlike D!Alan, R!Alan has no control over what will manifest and how.

R!Alan is the closest to AWII!Alan: he’s confused, in need of someone to lead him, and knows that somewhere something awaits him, but doesn’t really know what and why. He’s not in control as much as AWII!Alan is not in control.

R!Alan is hopeful, determined and not ready to give up.

R!Alan is quick to ditch Barry if it serves his purpose.

D!Alan and R!Alan are two halves of the one whole, but they are not the opposites in everything, only in a desire or the lack thereof to keep living. Where D!Alan gave up, R!Alan had changed his mind on this, yet he did want to as well after finishing Departure and saving Alice. They are not Good and Bad Alan, they are Rational and Irrational; the only reason I called the Irrational Alan “Dark” is because, take away some of rationality, rules, and care for the future, D!Alan is a Dark Presence, able to create genuine art and control the Dark Place. I guess the implications here are obvious.

There is not much to add, except for—I'll be damned if R!Alan wasn’t an arse for ditching Barry so quickly and easily. Actually, so much so, he, himself, was angry enough about that, he tried to kill himself.

Imaginary Barry

I’ll explain it with yet another Alan in the DLC, the third player in that story: the Imaginary Barry. He is Alan, too; well, a figment of imagination, but it’s the Dark Place, putting it into the Bright Presence’s words, he is as real as anything else there. I will refer to him as I!Barry for clarity, but keep in mind that there is absolutely nothing in his behaviour that is not stemming from Alan himself.

I!Barry is the originator of the “I’M COMPLICATED” meme. Yes, it’s an important fact; I had to put it here. He’s the one to call Alan complicated and then go as far as to call even his memories complicated.

I!Barry literally voices what Alan thinks about the surroundings before Alan does it himself.

I!Barry is the embodiment of Alan’s fear of being alone. There is no game between them, no secret; they both understand all too well that it’s not Barry, it’s a memory, a perception, a guess on how the real Barry would act in some circumstances. And they both are cool with it.

I!Barry comes off as his own man, but in truth, he does what Alan believes he would do, be it a commentary on some nasty noises or an annoying useless advice Alan doesn’t need.

I!Barry is not controlled by the D!Alan, he’s R!Alan’s creation, and he’s trying to kill him at the end of The Writer because, as the Bright Presence said, R!Alan has to abandon his delusions.

I!Barry is not the one to be offended by it; Alan is. Every dialogue line in the I!Barry’s Boss Fight is Alan’s guilt for his behaviour.

I!Barry’s Boss Fight in itself is Alan’s desire to have Barry by his side, his internal conflict for having to part ways, even if it’s not the real Barry. And it is his punishment for everything he’s done and about to do.

I!Barry is the first instance of Alan creating someone in the Dark Place who has some amount of agency, a different appearance, and a different voice that we see on screen.

There is not much to add, although I!Barry and some other entities deserve their own explanation, so I will leave it at that. I just need to establish that Alan is capable of creating semi-independent beings with their own appearances and voices that are to the point controlled by him, but not necessarily consciously or in a beneficial way.

AWAN’s Alan

My favourite Alan is, of course, the AWAN’s Alan. He’s the middle point between two madnesses, the result of a clear mind, a clear goal, and thorough planning. All the good stuff. Because I can’t help meself, I will refer to him as Awan (imagine some cute emoji here).

Awan is the most elevated Alan we ever saw on screen.

Awan is the most confident Alan we ever saw on screen.

Awan is a Master of the Dark Place even more than the D!Alan and without any side effects!

Awan can control it to the point where he kinda-sorta learnt quite a lot about the flora, fauna, population, and the ways in which the Dark Place operates, and felt safe there with only a torch and a gun.

Awan was contacting our world intentionally via radio and dreams (and managed to remember it).

Awan’s biggest achievement—he created a threshold with the Dark Place and Someplace, Arizona. Which, if the map doesn’t lie, is quite a distance from Cauldron Lake.

Awan is everything all the Alans we saw strive to achieve.

Awan is determined to change; he wants to be a better man; he acknowledged his flaws and worked on them.

Awan is still a jerk; don’t get me wrong, but he’s trying, alright.

Awan is elevated enough to create, together with Alice, an object of power to destroy Mr. Scratch.

Awan mastered the loop technique not just to follow the breadcrumbs he left for himself, but to the point where he remembers all the loops clearly and acts accordingly.

Awan even managed to make other people remember the loops to have allies.

Awan, obviously, is the most powerful time manipulator, who actually understands what he’s doing. From the Alans we saw on screen, of course.

Awan is the last Alan to be near the Bird Leg Cabin; in fact, Awan drowned it.

Awan might live on his own private island in the Dark Place with Alice.

Yeah, I guess it would be better to address the last point. Quite frankly, we don’t really know what happened between AWAN and AWII, but there is a possibility that the AWAN’s Alan, like Tom Zane, ended up in a personal paradise. For him, it would be a film setting where he met Alice at the end of the story-mode, creating a private island. I mean, not like we have a shortage of Alans for this to be impossible, and let’s not kid ourselves, the AWII Alan is a huge downgrade from the AWAN Alan; there is no explanation of why and how. Why did Awan fall into the spiral of madness and lost all of his elevation perks, why doesn’t he remember anything, where are his torch and gun at the beginning of the second game, why would he need to rob Noir-Casey to have them? It’s a wild idea (or not really), but in one of the manuscripts Alice’s Film described as their salvation, their chance to be together, a tin can with a bit of magic that Alice unknowingly created. And I’m sure, no one will doubt, Alice is capable of creating miracles.

Other than that, not much to add here; I know there is a chunk of people who didn’t play AWAN; obviously, I can’t explain the story and its significance in the first part of a theory about a completely different thing. But everyone who played it and read all the manuscripts will understand what I’m talking about. The change from AWAN's Alan to AWII Alan is too staggering, really.

Finally, we are in the AWII territory for our last Alan for this part.

Noir-Casey

He, as well as Barry in the first game’s DLCs, is a figment of imagination, and he as well is as real as anything else in the Dark Place. I will refer to him as Noir-Casey.

Noir-Casey follows his own set of rules and character traits, because even before the Dark Place, he was Alan’s creation with thought-out and established behaviour.

Noir-Casey, as well as I!Barry, is an embodiment of Alan’s fear of being alone. This time he has no allies from (kinda) without, so he creates one within and doesn’t let go even after Noir-Casey’s deaths.

Noir-Casey acts the way Alan feels he would in given circumstances, unlike with I!Barry they do play the game of Noir-Casey being his own entity, although they do it following the script.

Noir-Casey is the only character, even in the Dark Place, whose thoughts Alan can "read," not only as an inspiration-clairvoyance “match the black and white bubble” scattered around the Writer’s City, but also when Noir-Casey is right in front of Alan.

Noir-Casey, even while confined by the story, knows that he’s just a character, and he is Alan. Frankly, Noir-Casey is not really happy about that, but it is in his character to suffer silently and just keep going.

Noir-Casey knows about the loops, remembers some of them at least, but, again, true to his character and bound by the script, he acts on this knowledge only in certain moments, giving vital information in a way that won’t affect the story (Alan doesn’t react to any of those bomb-drops at all).

Noir-Casey might’ve been created as a helping hand in stopping Alan from writing; every time Alan encounters him, Noir-Casey comes uncomfortably close to killing him. Since and if that was true, things have changed: in the second alley scene, being suddenly shot in the abdomen would actually trigger Noir-Casey to fire back, but he doesn’t.

Noir-Casey in the first alley scene claims that Alan will kill him there loop by loop; what we are shown hints that Noir-Casey is killed by Scratch, the scene is eerily similar to what we can collect from the moment when Scratch gets to the real Casey. Yet Noir-Casey’s wrath is directed at Alan.

Noir-Casey obviously knows more than he lets out. He doesn’t have memory problems and understands a thing or two about the Dark Place, even if he can’t really comprehend it, being a character from the books.

Noir-Casey might be Alan’s regret for killing the PI from his novels, as it was a starting point for everything to go down in his life. Noir-Casey might be Alan’s desire to be tough and move on, ignoring the pain. Noir-Casey constant presence in Initiation can be Alan’s “I’m sorry” and newfound appreciation for the character he once despised.

Noir-Casey in many ways plays the role of the Bright Presence.

Noir-Casey is yet another time when Alan created someone with agency and a different appearance and voice.

Noir-Casey is clearly a literary device for Alan in AWII. It doesn’t really matter how exactly he was manifested: was Alan dreaming about him, reminiscing about the times when everything was sunshine and rainbows, or was he deliberately writing him into Initiation loop by loop; Noir-Casey surely is yet another Alan. Noir-Casey serves few purposes that might or might not have changed since the moment of his creation, and he does a pretty good job at it; what’s interesting is that the character knows and understands more than the writer. And this will come into play after we will talk about yet another set of Alans in the second part.

The hero has a thousand faces and a hopeless path

#rcu theory #alan wake #alan wake 2 #alan wake game #alan wake ii #remedy connected universe #remedy games #awan #alan wake's american nightmare #remedyverse #remedy entertainment

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thoraeth · 7 months ago

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A/N: 850 words, gn!reader. You're the personal assistant of the weirdest punk band in the Grand Line and today you're having a breakdown. Unfortunately, Buggy has no intentions of leaving you alone.

[One Piece punk band AU/ modern AU]

Cut out for the job

The door slams closed. You kick your sneakers away, enjoying the silence of your hotel room.

You haven't been able to catch your breath all day: Mr. Trafalgar called at 6 am because Ace was held at the police station; third time this month. Then it was Barto's turn. He needed your opinion on a nice gift for his nana, but kept arguing that your ideas were stupid. Franky gave you a migraine, shouting left and right during the band's weekly meeting and Buggy…oh, Buggy. He was insufferable these days: snappy, needy, tense, constantly asking you to fetch him stuff, to take him places.

You’re starting to feel like you’re never enough, drowning in this chaotic routine.

You can almost hear your mother's voice in your head: “Are you really throwing your life away to follow a band of idiots?!” Well, in your defense, being a band’s personal assistant was supposed to be fun. But now? Here you are, tired, sad and underpaid, living in yet another horrible hotel room. Maybe you're not cut out for this job.

Your phone glows up, a text from Buggy. “It's 11 pm for fuck's sake!” you shout, throwing the buzzing device on the sofa.

Buggy has been doing it for weeks: every night he sends you tons of messages for the most trivial stuff. He’s lost his mascara, bought ten pairs of shoes, whines about his paycheck. A bratty, pushy attitude he’s never had before.

In fact, the two of you used to have the most interesting conversations and a special chemistry that made you feel some type of way more than once. Like that night, backstage. The glances, the gentle touching while you helped him getting dressed…you can still feel the goosebumps on your skin.

You pick up your phone, puffing at the crowd of notifications.

[Hey, you still up? Listen, face paint is running out, I’m thinking cherry 3.2 this time but I’m not sure if 1 or 2 cans.

Heyyyy are you ignoring me?? 👺😭 You sleeping already?]

[Oi Bug, can we discuss this tomorrow? It's way past my working hours.]

[...ok.]

[Rough day, I really need to unwind 🥲]

[ Wanna hang out? A little fun will make you feel better.]

[ Thanks but I’m done with work, see you tomorrow!]

[seen 00:15 AM]

[Buggy? You ok?]

[seen 00:50 AM]

“Shit. He's upset now.” You whisper, your eyes and mouth wide open “What if he gets me fired?”

You feel low-key furious: you shouldn't be punished for setting boundaries. If he’s playing the cocky boss during the day, you can play that game too and clock out at night. Screw him.

The sudden sound of the doorbell makes you jump out of your skin. “Hey it's me.” A familiar voice comes from outside the door, muffled.

Stomping to the peephole, you see Buggy. He’s nervously thinkering with his blue hair, pacing back and forth in the duck hoodie you got him for his birthday.

“Are you serious?” You ask, opening up.

“I know, I’m sorry. Just five minutes and I'll be gone.”

Buggy's not wearing his piercings and face paint; he looks serious, a bit scared. His ice blue eyes stare at you in silence and all your anger seems to melt away as he sits on the sofa.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Am I fired…?”

“What? No!” He shrieks, outraged. “Just sit, please.”

The second you're next to him, Buggy focuses on his boots, hands twitching on his knees.

“I-I know I've been a bit of an asshole lately.” He stutters. “I drove you crazy asking tons of stuff and…”

“You’re being a pain in the ass. Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to spend more time with you but I messed up.” Buggy side-eyes you, his face red and flustered.

“I think I like you. A lot.”

Those words make your heart race so fast you can barely breathe.

He continues: “I tried to write to you, but every time… I couldn't say it the way I wanted.”

“Is that why you kept texting me for hours every night?!” you snap, breaking your silence.

Buggy jumps back in his seat “I didn't realize I was bothering you! I've always enjoyed our silly chats. But I'll stop, I got it now. We're just colleagues.”

You burst out laughing. Buggy leans towards you, shouting things you can't hear over the joy exploding in your chest.

He's about to get up, distraught, when you reach for his neck and pull him towards you, pressing your lips on his. Still a bit surprised, Buggy melts into your kiss, holding you so tight it almost hurts.

“For a second I thought I didn't want this job anymore.” You chuckle in between kisses.

“I’ll ask Trafalgar to give you a raise, then.”

“He's gonna fire us both when he knows about this.”

You dive your back into the sofa, pressed under Buggy’s weight. As he kisses and laughs into your neck, you remember why you decided to follow this band of idiots in the first place: there’s no other place in the world where you’ve felt more alive.

#nevermind the blorbos #one piece fanfiction #band au #buggy the clown #buggy fic #buggy fanfiction #buggy x you #buggy x reader #one piece buggy #barto club #bartolomeo one piece #ace one piece #trafalgar law #franky one piece

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yourlocaldouma · 2 months ago

Text

I kinda was just motivated. It's really my first time using this app so please be patient with me. I just wanted to see innocent zero with a contrast of his color palette with wavy hair.

Innocent Zero fell for you little by little, him not really noticing it and excusing his behavior by thinking 'im only doing this so you cannot cause more trouble'

He'd be wrapping an arm around your waist keeping you close whenever there was a ball that he had planned and invited all the underground crime lords to have a private 'chats' with each other (making more business deals and plans of smuggling rare band things and whatnots)

He calls you pet names, such as dear, darling, sweet heart (whenever his mad).

He'll randomly kiss you from time to time, not really explaining why. (He likes the flustered look on your face, to be the one to only ellicite that type of reaction from you sends a thrill to his veins)

He buys you various items that connects to your hobbies, saying something along the lines of "here, don't bother me"

You sometimes do gardening on the indoor garden, and he watches you without you knowing.

You were quite devastated when you found out that he infested it with magic-sucking bugs and made it a death trap for any intruder that had entered the castle. But in return, he gave you a few potted plants for you to take care of, saying, "I don't like that moppy look on your face." He doesn't even know why he did that, he literally shoved it into your arms carelessly.

Don't be concerned when you wake up from your slumber, finding yourself seated on his lap, with him twirling a strand of your hair with a blank look on his face. He was contemplating whether he should kill you or not.. but he would quickly make up a reason as to why not. His children were fond of you, their mother. And killing you would just end up sloppily doing their missions because of their 'pathetic' grieving. (His words not mine)

Just go back to sleep and don't question him about it, you'll be getting a glare and a slap to your mouth if you ever mention it in the morning. Though he heals the tiny bruise afterwards.

He had starved your children when they were younger as a punishment. (HAVE YOU SEEN THEIR WEIGHT ON WIKI!?)

He had remembered you crying after Epidem was in an infirmary bed, clutching his tiny hands between yours. He may had gotten too far on Epidem.

Fun fact: Epidem liked pudding because it was the first flavorful and sweetest thing he had ever eaten after you had introduced it. But he limits himself because he didn't want to see you sad and get beaten by his father. This was when he was still a child.

He was standing in the doorway, looking at the scene, your back was facing him.

He didn't like the tiny sobs that escaped from your lips, he could feel an unknown migraine that formed everytime you let out small cries, or the way his heart was painfully getting squeezed. He marched towards you ripping your hold on the boys hands and gripped your shoulder, "Stop crying." He commands, voice threatening.

After that he had dragged you away and locked you in your shared bedroom.

Cyril Marcus is an asshole, an asshole that you unfortunately married.

#innocent zero #mashle #innocent zero x reader #epidem #mashle x reader

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sicknessbysalem · 22 days ago

Note

so first of all i absolutely owe the self proclaimed habitual novak requester my life... i love novak but have never been able to write a proper request of my own for him so im very thankful for them lol! BUT I do have a request! Finally! in your most recent Novak fic there's and exchange from a worried marina about Novak having thrown up his medicine and how they 'both know what could happen', before going in about the seizures. (1/2 because its not letting me send longer)

Anonymous said: (2/2) I was wondering if you wouldn't mind actually writing a fic about when/if that has ever happened. I am a huge sucker for first times/flashbacks/etc... Would it be possible for you to fill this request? Your writing is amazing and I love what you come up with! So if you have time/inspo/etc, can we see the first time that Novak has thrown up his medicine and what happens because of it? Maybe he has a stomach bug but is still encouraged to take it and something happens? thank you so much!!

oh nonny, you really did it this time! you both are some of my favorite anons aside from another. i so deeply appreciate your requests for novak (and all requests, tbh).

much like the fic with elya, i'm surprised i haven't done more with novak and seizures as a side effect from being sick/stressed/etc, because ever since novak's final season as a pro player and the injury he sustained, seizures tend to come when he has fevers or severe migraines (interesting fun fact: with novak's more intense migraines, he has to seize to break it for some reason. his body will refuse to let the migraine dissipate until its too much and he has a seizure.)

i am so happy to write this fic, i hope it lives up to your expectations!

if you have any other requests, comments, questions, etc., please send them my way!

tw emeto, fever, seizures (in discussion and occurrence)

The house was quiet, save for the occasional sound of the wind rattling the windows. Novak lay on the couch, pale and sluggish, his body curled slightly in discomfort. His forehead was damp with sweat, the low-grade fever making him feel both too warm and too cold at the same time. A trashcan sat nearby, a clear sign of how his day had been going—one filled with bouts of nausea and trips to the bathroom, with very little relief in sight.

He'd thrown up during the midday practice break and by Landon and Henry's combined force, Novak went home after calling his mom.

Marina hovered in the kitchen, her hands busy with the motions of making tea, though her mind was elsewhere. She was always a little on edge when Novak was sick, especially since his seizures had started after his playing days ended. It had been a long road, watching her son deal with the aftereffects of that head injury, and even now, with medication helping to keep the seizures at bay, she couldn’t shake the worry that lingered just below the surface.

“Mom, seriously. You don’t have to fuss,” Novak’s voice was hoarse but steady, a faint hint of amusement in his tone despite how miserable he looked. His eyes flicked over to her as she approached, a cup of chamomile tea in hand. “I’m fine. Just a bug. Probably from Elya.”

Marina gave him a sharp look, one that only a mother could give—a mixture of concern and exasperation. “You’re not fine, Novak,” she said, setting the tea down on the coffee table. “You’ve been throwing up all day, and now you’re running a fever.”

Novak shifted on the couch, grimacing as the movement caused his stomach to twist painfully. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, taking a slow, steadying breath. “It’s not a big deal, Mom. I’ll ride it out.”

But Marina wasn’t convinced. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, glancing down at her son, who was clearly trying to downplay the situation. “What about your medication, Novak?” she asked softly, her brow furrowing. “You haven’t taken it yet today.”

Novak closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a slow breath. He knew this was coming—his mom always worried about his medication, especially when he was sick like this. But the thought of taking his meds, especially on an empty stomach, made his stomach churn even more.

“I’ll take it in a bit,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Novak,” Marina said firmly, sitting down on the edge of the couch beside him. “You know how important it is that you take it. We can’t risk you having a seizure.”

Novak opened his eyes, looking up at her with a weary smile. “I know, Mom. But this stuff wrecks my stomach even on a good day. I’m not sure I can keep it down.”

Marina sighed, her worry deepening as she gently brushed back a strand of ash blond hair from Novak’s forehead. He felt too warm, his skin hot to the touch, and the sight of him lying there, sick and vulnerable, tugged at her heart.

“I’m going to call Willow,” Marina said after a moment, standing up. “She’ll know what to do.”

Novak groaned softly, closing his eyes again. “Mom, you don’t need to call Willow. It’s just a stomach bug.”

But Marina was already reaching for her phone, her fingers moving quickly over the screen as she pulled up Willow’s number. Willow had been Novak’s friend since high school, and now, as a nurse, she was the one Marina trusted most when it came to Novak’s health. Plus, she was always willing to answer questions knowing how chaotic it was if Novak actually went to a doctor or an emergency room.

The phone rang twice before Willow’s familiar voice came through the line. “Marina? Everything okay?”

Marina glanced over at Novak, who was doing his best to look unbothered by the whole situation. “It’s Novak,” she said, her voice quieter now. “He’s come down with some sort of stomach virus. He’s got a low-grade fever, and he’s been throwing up most of the day. I’m just… I’m not sure about his medication.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Willow’s voice came back, calm and measured. “Which ones? Any?"

"Hang on," Marina said, pulling the phone away from her ear, "Novak, have you taken any medicine today?"

"I take the antidepressant and the anxiety medication in the morning," Novak told her, "I take the seizure one with lunch since mornings are already rough."

"Okay," Marina said, putting the phone back to her ear, "He took the mental ones, the seizure one is his lunch medication and Henry texted and said Novak threw up around that time."

Willow sighed softly. “I understand. The medication can be harsh on an empty stomach, but it’s important that he tries to take it. If he can’t keep it down, don’t give him another dose. Just let him rest and keep an eye on him.”

Marina nodded, even though Willow couldn’t see her. “Thank you, Willow. I just didn’t want to take any risks.”

“Of course. Keep an eye on him, and if his fever spikes or he has any other issues, call me right away.”

“I will,” Marina promised before hanging up the phone.

When she turned back to Novak, he was watching her with an expression that was both amused and resigned. “What did she say?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“She said you should try to take it,” Marina replied, her voice soft but firm. “But if you can’t keep it down, we’ll leave it for now.”

Novak sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, sitting up slowly, though the movement sent another sharp wave of nausea through him. He leaned forward, pressing a hand to his forehead as the room tilted slightly. “I’ll give it a shot.”

Marina handed him the pill and a small glass of water, her eyes never leaving his face as she watched for any sign that he was feeling worse. Novak took the pill reluctantly, swallowing it down with a sip of water before leaning back against the couch, his hand still resting on his stomach.

“You worry too much, Mom,” Novak said quietly, though there was no real bite to his words. He knew she worried because she loved him, but he hated being fussed over, especially when he felt like this.

“And you don’t worry enough,” Marina shot back gently, her eyes softening as she looked at him. “It’s okay to let people take care of you, Novak. You’re always so strong for everyone else.”

Novak smiled faintly, though the effort seemed to drain him. “I know,” he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. “But it’s just a bug. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Marina didn’t respond, knowing better than to argue with him. She reached out, brushing her hand lightly over his forehead again before standing up and heading back into the kitchen. Novak leaned back into the cushions, the familiar warmth of the room and the quiet hum of the house around him lulling him into a state of half-consciousness.

But even as his body began to relax, the nausea lingered, a constant reminder that his stomach was far from settled. He could only hope that the medication wouldn’t make things worse.

As the minutes passed, Novak’s breathing grew slower, more even, though his fever still burned beneath his skin. Marina watched from the doorway, her heart aching with the familiar worry that came with being a mother. Novak had always been strong, always the one to push through whatever life threw at him. But in moments like this, when he was vulnerable and sick, it was hard not to want to protect him from everything.

“Just rest, Novak,” she whispered softly, even though he couldn’t hear her. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Novak wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep. The room around him was still dim, lit only by the soft glow of a nearby lamp, and the quiet hum of the house was unchanged. But his body told him that not enough time had passed for the medicine to settle or for his fever to subside. The warmth that had wrapped around him earlier had now intensified into a deep, burning heat that made his skin feel sticky and uncomfortable. His stomach churned violently, sending sharp, unsettling waves of nausea through him.

Without warning, Novak’s eyes shot open, his breath hitching as his stomach twisted painfully. He tried to swallow down the nausea, pressing a hand to his abdomen in a futile attempt to steady himself. But it was no use. He had to move—now.

Novak pushed himself up quickly, too quickly, the room spinning dangerously as he struggled to stand. His legs felt weak, almost unsteady beneath him, but he forced himself toward the bathroom, a low groan escaping his lips as another wave of nausea hit him hard.

The short walk from the living room to the bathroom felt much longer than it should have, every step jarring his already unsettled stomach. By the time he reached the bathroom, Novak barely had time to brace himself before he was sick, the retching harsh and unforgiving as his body rejected everything—including the medication he had just taken. He reached to the side and gripped the edge of the sink as his other hand pressed against the wall behind the toilet, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, but the nausea was relentless, leaving him gasping for air between each violent heave.

It wasn’t long before Novak heard footsteps approaching—familiar, quick, and full of concern. Marina.

“Novak?” Her voice was soft but filled with that unmistakable note of worry as she appeared in the doorway. She didn’t need to ask what was wrong. The sight of her son hunched over the sink, pale and shaking, said it all. “Oh, honey…”

Novak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His vision blurred slightly, the dizziness still making it hard to focus. “I’m… I’m okay, Mom,” he managed to croak, though his voice was weak and strained.

But Marina wasn’t buying it. She moved toward him quickly, her hand resting gently on his back as she watched him with that motherly concern she couldn’t seem to shake. “You’re not okay, Novak,” she said softly, though there was no reprimand in her voice. Just worry. “You’re burning up, and now you’ve gotten sick again.”

Novak leaned heavily against the sink, his forehead pressed against the cool porcelain in an attempt to ground himself. The nausea had subsided slightly, but his stomach still twisted uncomfortably, and the fever was making everything feel hazy and distant. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose.

“I… I didn’t keep the medicine down, did I?” Novak asked, though he already knew the answer. The exhaustion in his voice was evident, but there was still a faint hint of humor there, as if he was trying to downplay the situation.

Marina shook her head gently, her eyes filled with sympathy. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t.”

Novak groaned softly, his body slumping further against the sink. He hated this—the vulnerability, the helplessness. But more than anything, he hated how worried his mom was. She had enough to deal with, especially with Elya to look after if he was down for the count. He didn’t want to add to her stress.

“I’m fine,” Novak mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… need to rest. It’s not a big deal.”

But Marina wasn’t having any of it. She knelt beside him, her hand still resting gently on his back as she searched his face for any sign that he was downplaying how bad it really was.

“Your fever’s climbing, Novak,” she said quietly, her voice laced with concern. “You’ve been sick all day, and now the medicine’s out of your system. We need to get you feeling better.”

Novak shook his head weakly, trying to pull himself together, but his body wasn’t cooperating. His limbs felt heavy, his head pounding with the intensity of the fever, and the nausea was still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

“What about Elya?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “She’s in bed, right? She’s okay? I should've woke up when she got home...”

Marina blinked, surprised by his question but not entirely caught off guard. Of course, he’d be more worried about his daughter than himself. “She’s fine,” Marina assured him gently, brushing a lock of hair from his damp forehead. “She’s sound asleep, didn't even notice you were out cold on the couch, she was excited to get back to her painting downstairs. You don’t need to worry about her right now.”

But Novak couldn’t help it. He was always thinking about Elya—whether she was okay, whether she was happy, whether she needed anything. Even now, in the throes of a fever and sickness, his mind immediately went to her.

“I don’t want her to… see me like this,” Novak murmured, his brow furrowing as he leaned heavily against the sink. “I don’t want her to worry.”

Marina smiled softly, though her heart ached for her son. “She won’t see you like this,” she promised. “I’ll make sure of that. But right now, I’m worried about you. Let me take care of you for a little while.”

Novak chuckled weakly, though it quickly turned into a low groan as the nausea threatened to return. “You worry too much,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“And you don’t worry enough,” Marina countered, standing up and gently guiding him away from the sink. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the couch. You need to rest.”

Novak didn’t argue. He was too tired, too drained to fight her on it, and truthfully, all he wanted was to lie down and close his eyes. His body felt like it was on fire, the fever burning through him with a relentless intensity that left him weak and shaky. Every step felt heavier than the last, his legs barely cooperating as Marina helped him back to the couch.

Once he was settled, Marina draped a cool cloth over his forehead, her touch gentle and soothing. Novak closed his eyes, grateful for the small relief the coolness brought, but the dizziness and nausea still lingered, making it hard to fully relax.

“I’ll call Willow again,” Marina said softly, sitting down beside him. “We need to figure out what to do about the medicine.”

Novak shook his head weakly, his eyes still closed. “Don’t bother her again, Mom. It’s late.”

Marina gave him a look, even though he couldn’t see it. “She won’t mind, Novak. This is important.”

"Mom, please," Novak said, "I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning... or, afternoon I guess. Then we can call her, okay?"

"Fine, tomorrow afternoon..." Marina said, "Or if you get worse."

Novak sighed, too tired to argue further. His breathing had slowed, the exhaustion settling in deeper now that he was lying down again. His mind was still fuzzy, his body aching and feverish, but the steady presence of his mom beside him brought a small measure of comfort.

“Thanks, Mom,” Novak murmured after a long pause, his voice barely audible.

Marina smiled, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. Just focus on getting better.”

Novak nodded weakly, though he was already half-asleep, the fever and exhaustion finally pulling him under. Marina sat beside him for a few more moments, watching him closely, her heart heavy with worry.

But even in his fevered state, Novak’s concern for his family never wavered. And that, more than anything, was what made Marina love him all the more.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the living room where Novak lay. His body still ached, the remnants of the stomach virus that had hit him hard over the last twenty-four hours leaving him weak and exhausted. Though he hadn’t been sick for the past few hours, the lingering fever and deep-rooted fatigue were ever-present, making even the simplest movements feel like a struggle.

Marina moved quietly around the house, trying not to disturb him too much. She kept an eye on him, her maternal instincts on high alert even though he seemed to be resting better than the night before. Still, something wasn’t quite right.

Novak had woken up feeling… off. It wasn’t the usual discomfort of the virus. It was something deeper, something more unsettling. The familiar weight of unease settled in his chest, and though he didn’t want to worry his mom, Novak knew the signs. He could feel it in his body—the way his muscles felt tense in a way that had nothing to do with his sickness, the slight dizziness that had persisted even after the fever started to wane.

This was the kind of off that usually came before a seizure.

He’d learned to recognize the warning signs. The strange fogginess that filled his mind, the creeping tension in his limbs—it was all too familiar. And though the seizures had become a regular part of his life after the head injury, that didn’t make them any less frightening. He hated the way they made him feel, the sense of losing control over his own body, the intense heat that followed, and the panic that gripped him afterward.

Novak shifted on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the movement only intensified the growing sense of unease. His muscles felt tight, his breath coming in shorter bursts as the tension mounted. He could feel the warning signs, and despite his best efforts to stay calm, he knew what was coming.

“Mom?” Novak’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper as he called out to Marina.

Marina appeared in the doorway almost instantly, her eyes filled with concern. She’d been hovering nearby all morning, knowing that something was off with her son but not wanting to overwhelm him. The moment she saw the look on Novak’s face, her heart sank.

“Novak?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with worry as she came closer. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Novak swallowed hard, his hand gripping the edge of the couch as he tried to steady himself. “I feel...” he hesitated, his voice strained. “Something's wrong...”

Marina’s face softened, though her worry deepened. She knew exactly what he meant. They’d been through this enough times that she recognized the signs almost as well as he did. Without saying a word, she moved closer, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as she knelt beside him.

“Okay,” she said quietly, her voice calm despite the fear that tugged at her heart. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Novak nodded weakly, already moving to sit up. His body felt heavy, his limbs shaky, but he knew he needed to get to the floor. Sitting or lying on the ground during a seizure made things easier—less chance of injury, more control when the convulsions started. He slowly eased himself off the couch, Marina helping him as he moved.

Once he was on the floor, Novak stretched out on his side, his head resting on one of the throw pillows Marina had quickly grabbed. His breathing was shallow, the tension in his muscles building as his body prepared for what was to come. He closed his eyes, focusing on keeping calm, but the familiar feeling of helplessness crept in, making it hard to stay steady.

Marina settled beside him, her hand moving gently to his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “I’m right here,” she whispered, her voice soothing as she continued to run her fingers through his hair. “You’re okay, Novak. I’m right here.”

Her touch was familiar, grounding him in a way that helped ease some of the panic. Novak focused on the feel of her hand in his hair, the soft rhythm of her voice as she reassured him. The tension in his body mounted, the telltale signs of the seizure drawing closer, but having his mom there, calm and steady, made it a little easier to handle.

Just as Novak’s body started to tremble, a small set of footsteps approached. Elya, his six-year-old daughter, had been playing quietly in her room, but she always seemed to know when something was wrong. She appeared in the doorway, clutching one of her stuffed animals tightly to her chest.

“Daddy?” Her voice was small, worried, as she took in the scene. Marina looked up, giving her a gentle smile despite the situation.

“Elya, sweetheart, can you do me a favor?” Marina asked, keeping her tone light and reassuring. “Can you grab a glass of water and an ice pack for Daddy? He’s not feeling too good right now, but we’re going to make him feel better.”

Elya nodded, her little face determined as she dashed off to get what was needed. Novak’s body was starting to tense now, the first signs of the seizure creeping in. His breath hitched slightly, his muscles twitching as the inevitable convulsions began to take over.

“Just breathe, Novak,” Marina whispered, her hand still stroking his hair as she moved slightly to keep him on his side. “I’ve got you.”

The seizure hit then, the full force of it taking over as Novak’s body jerked and convulsed. His limbs shook uncontrollably, his breath coming in short gasps as the seizure gripped him. Marina stayed calm, her hand never leaving his hair as she kept him in position, making sure he was safe as the seizure ran its course.

After what felt like an eternity, the convulsions started to slow, Novak’s body gradually relaxing as the seizure subsided. His muscles felt weak, his entire body drained from the ordeal. But even as the seizure passed, the familiar rush of heat followed, making his skin feel like it was on fire.

As the convulsions of the seizure began to subside, Novak's body gradually stilled, but the tension in his muscles didn’t fade. Instead of the usual relief that came with the end of the episode, his body locked up, freezing in place as if every muscle had forgotten how to move. His chest remained tight, and though the seizure itself had passed, Novak still couldn’t draw in a proper breath.

Marina, who had seen this reaction before, immediately noticed the signs. Novak’s eyes were half-open, unfocused, and he wasn’t moving. His breaths came shallow and uneven, and a thin trail of saliva had gathered at the corners of his mouth, the aftermath of the seizure still clinging to him.

“Novak, honey,” Marina said softly, her voice steady despite the growing worry in her chest. She shifted beside him, leaning closer as her hand continued to stroke his hair. “I’m here, sweetheart. It’s over now.”

But Novak didn’t respond. His chest was barely rising, his lips parted as if he were trying to breathe but couldn’t. He was completely still, his body frozen in the aftermath of the seizure, as though he were caught between the physical exhaustion and the lingering effects that kept him from fully coming back to himself.

“Come on, Novak,” Marina murmured, her voice gentle but firm. She knew what was happening. She’d seen it enough times to recognize the pattern—how he’d freeze up, his body locked in place until his mind and muscles figured out what to do next. “You need to cough, honey. I know it’s hard, but you have to.”

She gently tapped his back, a repetitive motion meant to coax his body into reacting, into breaking free from the frozen state that held him in place. Each tap was slow, deliberate, as if she were trying to remind him how to breathe again.

“Novak, cough for me, sweetheart,” Marina continued, her voice soothing as she kept up the gentle rhythm of her hand on his back. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

For several agonizing moments, Novak remained unresponsive, his body stiff and unyielding beneath her touch. His eyes fluttered slightly, the only sign that he was still with her, still trying to process what was happening. His breathing remained shallow, each breath a struggle as his chest stayed tight, almost as if he were holding it all in.

Elya, standing nearby, watched with wide, worried eyes, clutching her stuffed animal tightly to her chest. “Why isn’t Daddy moving?” she asked in a small, trembling voice. She looked between her grandmother and her dad, clearly frightened but not entirely understanding what was happening.

Marina gave her granddaughter a reassuring smile, though her attention never wavered from Novak. “It’s okay, love. Daddy just needs a little more time to wake up.”

With another tap to Novak’s back, Marina felt the slightest shift in his body—his chest tensed for a brief moment, and then, finally, a weak, sputtering cough escaped his lips. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The sound seemed to jolt his body back into action, his chest expanding as he sucked in a deeper, shaky breath.

“There you go,” Marina whispered, her hand moving in slow circles on his back as Novak continued to cough weakly. “You’re okay now. Just breathe.”

The coughs grew stronger, each one pulling more air into his lungs, but with it came the uncomfortable sensation of excess saliva and mucus that had built up during the seizure. Novak gagged slightly, his body still sluggish as he tried to push it out, spitting up the saliva that had gathered in his mouth. Marina quickly grabbed a tissue, holding it to his lips as she carefully nudged his head forward to force everything out.

“There we go,” she murmured, wiping his mouth gently as she continued to rub his back. “Just take your time.”

Novak’s chest heaved as he took in several deep, shaky breaths, his body finally beginning to respond after what felt like an eternity of being locked in place. The tension in his muscles slowly began to ease, though his limbs still trembled with the aftermath of the seizure. His mind was foggy, and everything felt distant, as if he were still trying to reconnect with his surroundings.

It took a few more moments before Novak’s eyes fully focused, the hazy confusion gradually lifting as he blinked, his gaze slowly shifting to find his mom beside him. His throat felt raw, his mouth dry, but the oppressive weight in his chest had finally lifted enough for him to breathe without struggling.

“M-Mom…” Novak’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, and it took him a moment to gather the strength to speak. “I…”

“Shh,” Marina soothed, her hand still resting on his back as she leaned closer. “Don’t try to talk yet. Just breathe, okay?”

Novak nodded weakly, his body still heavy with exhaustion. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the lingering taste of saliva from his mouth, but the effort left him even more drained. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and the warmth of the fever that still burned in his body made everything feel ten times harder than it should.

"Right, let's sit you up..." Marina said softly, helping Novak sit upright and lean back against the couch, nudging the trash can closer in case there was more stuck in his throat.

Elya, who had been watching anxiously from the sidelines, finally took a small step forward, clutching the glass of water she had brought earlier. “Here, Daddy,” she said softly, her voice small but determined as she held the glass out to him. “I got you water.”

Novak’s heart swelled at the sight of his daughter, her little face filled with so much worry but so much love. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her everything was okay, but his body wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, he reached out a trembling hand, taking the glass from her with a weak smile.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he managed to rasp, his voice still shaky.

Marina helped guide the glass to his lips, her hand steadying his as he took a small sip. The cool water was a relief against his dry throat, but even that small action was exhausting. Novak leaned back against the couch, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to regain some sense of normalcy.

“You’re doing great,” Marina whispered, her hand still resting on his shoulder, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of his disoriented mind. “Just rest. You’ve been through enough today.”

Novak closed his eyes briefly, nodding as he leaned into the comforting touch. The seizure had left him drained, his body weak and trembling from the effort of just staying upright. But the worst was over, and even though he still felt far from okay, there was a certain calm that came with knowing his mom was there, that Elya was safe, that everything around him was being taken care of.

After a few more minutes, Novak finally found the strength to speak again, his voice still hoarse but more coherent than before. “Sorry…” he mumbled, his gaze flicking toward Marina, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes.

Marina shook her head, her expression soft. “You don’t need to apologize, Novak. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

Elya, who had been hovering close by, finally sat down beside her dad, her small hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’re okay now, right, Daddy?”

Novak smiled faintly, though his body still felt heavy with exhaustion. He moved his arm to tug Elya closer, and she nestled into his side, watching him with wide and worried eyes. It broke Novak's heart to scare her.

“Yeah, princess” he whispered, his voice soft but full of warmth. “I’m okay. Thanks for helping me.”

Elya beamed, her worry easing slightly as she snuggled closer to him. Novak let out a slow breath, his body gradually relaxing as the tension and panic from the seizure faded. The heat still clung to him, his fever not yet broken, but with his family beside him, the weight of it all felt a little easier to bear.

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emetophilia #emeto cw #emeto tw #emeto writer #fever cw #fever tw #seizure mention tw #seizure cw #seizure tw

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savage-rhi · 9 months ago

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"no, you didn't just call me 'love' you said 'my love'. that makes a huge difference." Ignis and noct?

Noctis's head was swimming around with so many thoughts that he thought he would drown. The migraine he had carried all day didn't help things. Much less did his posture tamper down the ache as he was sitting slouched forward on a stool near the kitchen island of his apartment with his head laying against the countertop.

Occasionally, Noctis's gaze would follow Ignis as he went about cooking dinner. Tonight was fresh poultry from Insomnia's upper district, along with some imported fruits from Tenebrae. He could smell the seasonings Ignis doused the meat in, and he felt his stomach rumble at the prospects of having a decent meal instead of instant noodles which had become an addiction so bad it would put Gladio to shame.

There was a lot that went through his mind. Assignments long past due, people at school still treating him different because he was royalty, and of course there was a fine helping of guilt as he continued to observe Ignis.

"Can I ask you something?" Noctis near grumbled under his breath as he raised his head from the countertop.

"If it's cheating on your writing assignment, the answer remains a solid no." Ignis said as a matter of fact as he closed the fridge door.

"You're no fun," Noctis playfully mocked. He sighed and propped his chin under his arm. "Why did you call me that earlier?"

"Hm?"

"The love thing."

Ignis shrugged. "I called you love as a term of endearment like I do for everyone else back at the palace."

"No," Noctis shook his head. "You didn't just call me 'love', you said 'my love'. That makes a huge difference."

Ignis didn't reply and kept going through the motions to get dinner ready. Noctis glared all the while, feeling a strange tension start in his throat and working its way down to his stomach. He didn't like it when people weren't direct with him. He especially hated it when his father, the great king himself performed such tactics to avoid a serious conversation he was in no mood to entertain.

Right at the precipice before Noctis was about to explode, did Ignis clear his throat as he began to sauté the meat.

"Let me put it this way," Ignis began. "We've known each other for quite some time, and the simple term of 'love' doesn't quite extend the warmth I want to convey."

"Warmth?" Noctis muttered.

"Correct," Ignis gave a nod and turned the heat down on the meat. "You're not simply my master and I your servant in the same vein as you're not my son and I am not your secondary parent. We're beyond these two points as far as I'm concerned. In addition, by no means are we friends."

"So what does that make us then?" Noctis felt himself getting more confused by the second. He closed his eyes for a short moment only to flinch and open them back up as Ignis gently placed down dinner in front of him.

"I'd like to think of us as brothers, and in my family, we affectionately referred to one another as 'my love' in that case."

Noctis looked between the meal and Ignis, unsure of what to say as he could feel the weight of Ignis's words. He was happy the silence didn't linger too long as Ignis spoke again.

"If it offends his majesty, perhaps I can--"

"No," Noctis interrupted. He shook his head and leaned up further in his seat. "It doesn't offend me, I just--"

He really didn't know what to say, and made a fist when he thought back to his earlier outburst. Ignis didn't deserve the flighty tantrum of a brooding teenager, yet Noctis knew he gave him a taste and then some. However, unlike his father, Ignis stuck around even amidst the chaos.

Ignis wasn't his father. He wasn't Regis.

When Noctis really thought it through, he realized neither man deserved the cold shoulder he had been freely giving to them both.

His eyes began to brim with tears.

"Noct?"

"I don't deserve that." Noctis admitted bitterly. "It's something special, and I'm not--"

"Oh Noct," Ignis sighed. He shook his head and approached Noctis and gave him a pat on the shoulder before he was soon embraced with a warm hug. He smiled as Noctis finally released the sadness that had been building up within himself, and comforted him while he cried.

If you like my work and feel generous, feel free to donate to my ko-fi account or my cash app account!

Cash App: $JayRex1463

#drabbles #final fantasy xv #noctis lucis caelum #ignis scientia #noctis x ignis #ffxv ignis #ffxv noctis #noctis #ignis #final fantasy 15 #final fantasy xv fandom #broody teenager noctis

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blood-mocha-latte · 3 months ago

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king and lionheart for the fic thing please :)

fanfic ask game

king and lionheart

my favorite scene

“You’re the most stressed out cheerleader I’ve ever seen!” He yells, not as close as Perconte had but still wince-inducing. George snorts, but doesn’t look away from the field. “Clearly you haven’t met Megan Bloomfield!” He yells back absently, rubbing his hands together again. no one has commented upon this but i will Never be this funny again. this was my peak. it's all downhill from here

my favorite chapter (if it's a multichapter)

it's a Oneshot but of the king and lionheart SERIES, the second part is my favorite. it has lace it has fucking it has migraines it has the crippling fear of change it has toye in sweatpants. what's not to love

hardest scene to write

“Shut up.” He says, and sounds warm. “When I think about shit changing, I don’t think about losing things. I think about – I think about you, I guess. About getting a house. Getting home at the same time every night. Getting a bank account. Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I know that I don’t want to know what the fuck I’m doing with you.” i HATED writing this because i both still don't think the last sentence makes sense. and also i swear to god this sounds like every monologue in every piece of media ever and i kind of hate it for that. my blandest child <33

favorite character to write in the fic

luz gave me SO MANY ISSUES but it was really interesting to expand into a fear of change as well as the inherent eroticism of domesticity from his perspective. so he wasn't EASY but he was FUN. and isn't that all anyone ever wants

favorite dynamic to write in the fic

they were Barely In It but i NEVER write malarkey and guarnere and they're soooo fun. they're just a little silly your honor. let them be Pals in fic 2k24 <3

why I chose that title

the LYRICS babey!! esp these ones: And in the sea that's painted black, creatures lurk below the deck But you're a king and I'm a lionheart And as the world comes to an end, I'll be here to hold your hand 'Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart like that's LOVE son. don't talk to me

a fun fact about the fic

i wrote most of it in Bed with my Wife whilst drinking Wine. which may have come across in the fic because i was tipssyyyy and happyyy and possibly more interested in Other Activitiessss

#rie answers #thank you for the ask arthur <3333 #king and lionheart my darling king and lionheart i miss you bb

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cuttingpenisblackmetal · 3 months ago

Text

freshly-kicked-out-of-dethklok magnus encounters preklok toki (read on ao3)

Begging someone for something in his second language has done nothing to improve his migraine. In fact, it seems to be making it worse. Nevertheless, he keeps at it; let nobody say that Magnus Hammersmith is not resilient.

“Just let me talk to her,” he mutters to the library payphone, in slow, clunky Norwegian. “Just one talk.”

Not that it’s achieving much. “No, Magnus,” says his uncle on the other line, “She wants nothing to do with you.”

“She’s my fucking mom. She doesn’t get to cut me off, she’s my mom.”

“She’s not cutting you off. Mind your language.”

“It sure sounds like it!”

“This is for the best, Magnus. We won’t enable your lifestyle.”

Pain: it’s been the only constant in his life. His head hurts like someone’s left a knife behind his dead left eye. “My lifestyle?” Magnus echoes. “This is about me being gay?”

“No, Magnus, this is about the drugs.”

“I’m taking them for a medical reason. I have… uh, what’s the word? Head damage. I told you this.”

“We’ve heard your excuses before.”

“I got hit in the head. You want to talk to my doctor?”

“When you’re ready to get sober, we will happily talk to you.” The way his uncle says it is all business. “Until then, I ask that you please leave her alone. You’ve made her suffer enough.”

“I’ve made her suffer? She’s the one who let her piece-of-shit husband beat her kid up! She’s the one who— who--” The words don’t come in Norwegian, so Magnus switches to English, “She’s the one who abandoned me. Fucking sent me to live with that psychopath! She owes me, for all the shit she put me through! Give me her fucking phone number!”

The line goes dead, and suddenly Magnus is just the lunatic who’s been shouting in a public library. He snarls and slams the phone back into its receiver.

You would think, in Tampa, that the sight of a homeless junkie screaming into a payphone wouldn’t arouse so much attention, even if the homeless junkie in question had half the conversation in Norwegian. The librarian at the front desk is eyeing him suspiciously, and the other homeless who’ve come in to escape the humidity are either gawking or looking ashamedly away. A grubby teenager curled up on a couch is staring at him with big wideset eyes.

Magnus’ head hurts; at that moment he hates every single person looking at him. He has a knife in his belt, and he wonders how long it would take someone to stop him if he just started going around stabbing faces. Could he get two in, three, five? He’ll go for the grubby teenager first. That kid’s eyes are very far apart from each other, it’s kind of unsettling.

While lost in his spontaneous violent fantasy, he’s accidentally let himself glower at the grubby teen for a little too long. The little vermin seems to interpret this as an invitation, for suddenly he springs off of the couch and approaches Magnus, wringing his hands fretfully in front of his chest. He would be well-built if he weren’t emaciated; he has to be at least sixteen, but the way he holds himself, and the badly-fitting filthy clothes he wears, make him seem much younger.

And he greets Magnus, unexpectedly, in Norwegian: “You’re from Norway too?”

Magnus has a migraine. It’s like someone’s shoved a wire in one temple and out the other, and his left eye is throbbing softly. The last thing he wants to do is have a conversation in Norwegian, which made his head hurt even before Nathan gave him literal brain damage, and entertaining a pathetic urchin doesn’t seem like much fun, either. So it’s to his own surprise when he answers, also in Norwegian: “I lived in Bergen for a few years.”

The kid has a very wide mouth, and at the answer this breaks into an impossibly broad grin. “Oh, cool!” he says cheerfully. “I’m from Lillehammer.”

“Cool.” Magnus turns away from him.

“I’ve never met another Norwegian here,” says the kid, completely missing the hint. “I heard you speaking Norwegian on the phone. That’s how I knew you’re from Norway also.”

“Mm.”

“I hate my parents too. My mom’s real mean to me.”

“That sucks.” Magnus is already walking towards the door. “Well, I’ve got to go, so.”

“Oh, wait, I’ll come with you!”

The kid disappears from his side. Magnus has almost made it through the door when he reappears, now with a ridiculous-looking blue cap perched on his overlong tangled hair. He appears to be carrying a (homemade?) guitar case on his back.

It’s like being trailed by a stray dog. When Magnus emerges into the hot Tampa morning, the kid is close on his heels, still chattering away in enthusiastic Norwegian:

“I haven’t gotten to talk to anyone in Norwegian since I’ve been here. I learned English before I moved here, but it’s hard. Like, I never know where to put -s on things. And what’s the difference between am and is? Also, what’s faen in English? Also, I can’t write English. The spelling’s hard. So I just write things down in Norwegian.”

Magnus has parked his truck a few blocks away. Because it seems like he’ll only ditch this kid by driving off, he makes a beeline for it.

The kid remains in hot pursuit. “Can you spell things in English?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, wowee. And you can read it?”

“Sure.”

“Wow-wee. You can be my English teacher! You can teach me all the spellings, like how to spell… spaghetti. S-K-F-O-K-K-A-T-T-Y.”

“Spaghetti is Italian.”

“Oh, faen. Really?”

“Really.”

“What about hamburger? Is that also Italian?”

“German.”

“Helvete. Didn’t know that. I love hamburgers. I thought when I came to America I’d have hamburgers for every single meal. Hamburger for breakfast, hamburger for lunch, hamburger for dinner, and then if I want a snack, I can have a hamburger for my snack, too.”

Magnus glances back at the kid, who is, bafflingly, still following him. They’ve walked two blocks more quickly than anyone with a migraine should be expected to and still this guy remains undeterred. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I’m going to join a band and become a rockstar.” He says this with the complete confidence that only the truly stupid are capable of. He’s even grinning at Magnus, absolutely thrilled by his bright future. “That’s why I moved to America. I can meet the best ever band here, I just know it.”

Magnus’ question had been more along the lines of, why are you following me, but he’s never been good at expressing himself in Norwegian. The answer is so blithely optimistic that it makes him want to retch. He scowls, snarls, and tries walking a little faster.

“I’ve been going to auditions,” the kid continues. “I play the guitar. I’m really good at guitar. I taught myself mostly everything. Except I had a friend back in Lillehammer who taught me lots, too, all about the black metal stuff, but I like death metal more, so that’s why I came to Tampa. Cause this is where all the good death metal bands come from.”

The best damn death metal bands, Magnus wants to correct him. Prime example: Magnus’ death metal band, the one he’s been so recently and ruthlessly exiled from. He scowls at a pawn shop as they walk past it, and catches a glimpse of them in the reflection of the window: he, with his ghoulish dead eye and his old-beyond-its-years smoker’s complexion and the clothes that get dirtier by the day, and a bizarrely cheerful Norwegian kid who looks like he’s only ever slept in dumpsters.

They reach Magnus’ truck then and it can’t come soon enough. “Hey, well, good luck with all of that, man,” Magnus says, switching to English out of convenience. “It’s a good city to be a musician in. Just uh, keep practicing and all that.” He unlocks the truck and climbs into the passenger seat. Finally, solitude—

“I practices all the times!” the kid says in thickly-accented English as he climbs into the passenger seat.

Into the passenger seat.

“Oh,” comes Magnus’ dumb reply.

“Yep, but it’s hard without de amps what to makes the guitar louder.” He’s still grinning, positioning his guitar carefully between his thin legs. “Wowee, you’ve gots the real cool trucks. Why’s it so talls?”

“It’s lifted—” Magnus breaks himself off, and blinks a couple of times. “What the fuck do you want?”

The kid gives him a blank look.

“Seriously, the fuck are you after, here? Food? Drugs? What’s your fucking angle?”

He grins again. “Oh, foods! Okay, we goes gets some foods.”

It’s Magnus turn to stare blankly.

“How’s about hankburgers? Boy, I really loves hankburgers—”

“Fine. Hamburgers. Alright, let’s go.”

It has to be loneliness, Magnus concludes. From his own time in Norway, Magnus understands the sheer relief that comes from meeting someone who speaks your language in a foreign country. Maybe it’s loneliness, too, that compels Magnus to start his truck and start driving in the direction of the nearest Dimmu Burger; though he’s an unwilling participant in this conversation, it’s already the most attention anyone has shown him in months.

At any rate, he doesn’t seem to be escaping it any time soon. “What’s your name?” the kid asks, switching back to Norwegian.

“Magnus.”

“Magnus.” He repeats it with nothing short of reverence. “That’s a cool name. Sounds like what someone who casts magic spells would be called. My name’s Toki.”

“That’s weird. What is that, Icelandic?”

“I’m named after the Viking my family’s descended from.” Toki says this with a bashful smile, as if it’s something he’s used to impress Americans before. Which is funny, because he doesn’t look remotely ‘viking’—appearance-wise, he’s sitting at the intersection between ‘girl’ and ‘Victorian chimney sweep’. “Toki Víg-tönn. That’s ‘Toki Wartooth’ in English, I translated it.”

“And you want to go into death metal? That’s a black metal name.”

“Faen. Should I get a stage name?” Toki seems genuinely concerned by this. “Maybe I should call myself an American name. Like… Tommy?”

“Nah,” Magnus shakes his head. “That’s lame.”

“How about Magnus!”

“How about you just use your own name?”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll keep being Toki, then.”

The conversation comes to a natural, blessed lull, in which Magnus focuses on driving and trying not to crash his car out of migraine-induced inattention. Unfortunately, Toki proves to be irrepressible, because he’s silent for only a few seconds before he starts up again:

“Where are you staying?”

“Here.”

“In the…” Toki turns his head, looking at the shops around them, “In the mattress store?”

“In my truck. I live in my truck.”

“You must get sore legs a lot. You’re really tall.”

“Yep.”

“I bet sleeping in a mattress store would be nice. You’d have so many beds to choose from. I’d sleep on a different mattress every night.”

“Mm.”

“I sleep in a dumpster.”

Magnus glances at him. “I can tell.”

“What does that mean?”

“You smell bad.”

“Oh, fuck you, you smell like a dog that died.” Toki says this rather cheerfully. He turns his head, taking in the interior of the pick-up that’s been Magnus’ home ever since Dethklok kicked him out: empty cigarette packs and dead lighters, a duffel bag full of clothing, a threadbare blankets, and enshrined in the back—

“That’s a guitar!” Toki gasps, pointing to the space in the back. “You play that?”

“Gibson Les Paul,” Magnus says modestly, “Yeah, I’m pretty good.”

“But it’s kind of a lame guitar. It’s like, if a grandpa’s guitar was electric, it’d be that guitar.”

“Come on, kid.”

“You have an amp for it?”

“In the back, yeah.”

“I want to hear you play. Oh, we can jam out together! I’ve got a Flying V.” Toki pats his homemade guitar case proudly. “What do you like to play?”

For a moment, Magnus debates lying and claiming that he’s a jazz guitarist—he’s starting to worry that if he reveals he and Toki share anything in common, he’ll never get rid of the kid. His ego intervenes, however, and he admits: “Death metal.”

If Toki smiled any wider, his jaw would fall off of his slightly misshapen face. “No way! We both play guitars for death metal and we’re from Norway! We’re gonna be best friends!”

Magnus will sooner throw Toki out of a moving car than make him his best friend. He hasn’t spoken Norwegian for this long since he was a teenager, and his head is protesting violently. He leans over and fumbles around the centre console for a non-empty packet of cigarettes.

“Are you in a band?” Toki fills in the silence.

“I’m, uh, between bands.”

“Maybe we can join a band together. I’m going to lots of auditions. You can come with me and we’ll be a guitar duo.” Toki gasps, then, his eyes going wide. “Oh, we can start our own band!”

“I’m taking a break from music.”

“Why?”

Magnus has to hesitate over this one. He finds one carton with a stray cigarette in it, grabs it, and pops it in his mouth.

“Cause I’m…”

He searches for the word in Norwegian, fails to find it, and answers in English instead:

“I’m blacklisted from the scene.”

“What means that?” Toki asks in his clunky English.

“Means nobody wants to work with me.”

“How come?”

Here, again, Magnus hesitates. He has one hand shoved in his pocket, searching for his lighter. He still hasn’t come up with a plausible lie to explain to people why he left Dethklok—and then he realises how ridiculous it is, to worry about what this little parasite will think of him.

“… I stabbed the lead singer of my band.” Magnus finally finds his lighter.

“Wowee,” Toki breathes, “Dat’s brutal.”

“Yeah.” He lights his cigarette, inhales deep. The hit of tobacco does nothing to relieve the headache.

“Why you does it?”

“He called me crazy.”

“You sounds crazy. Stabs a guy just what for callings you crazy.”

This doesn’t sound like admonishment at all, but Magnus shoots Toki a glare regardless. Magnus’ withering scowl cows Toki for all of three seconds; he shrinks back in his seat, looks away, and then immediately brightens up again.

“That just makes you the extra brutals metals guitarists,” Toki says confidently. “You’re like Burzums. If they doesn’t sucks. So how comes dey bla… blaskliskted you?”

“Cause Americans are posers, Toki.”

“What means that?”

“It means they’re fake, man. Pretending.” Magnus takes a long drag of his cigarette, savouring this chance to dwell in his own bitterness. “They wouldn’t know real brutality if it stabbed them in the back.”

Toki blows air through his lips as he considers this, sounding rather like a contented horse. “… They must be real nice, though,” he finally says, in a dreamy voice. “Can’t waits to meet them all and be friends…”

It takes Magnus several seconds to identify the pang of emotion in his chest as pity— he’d initially mistaken it for acid reflux. Toki is annoying, and he has the disposition of a particularly aggressive black mold, but he has something that’s terribly rare in this godforsaken country: he seems nice. There’s a glittery optimism about him, and Magnus doesn’t get the sense that it comes from naivete, the way that Nathan’s closely-guarded softness fatally belies a sheltered upbringing. Toki’s a homeless immigrant who’s obviously seen some shit and yet he’s just... plain goddamn nice. That’s almost worse, somehow. There are bands here that will eat him alive.

They pull off of the street and into a strip mall, where one of the less shady Dimmu Burgers sits like an island among an ocean of potholed concrete. Magnus has all of thirty dollars to his name, which was ostensibly supposed to be used for food, but pain and opioid dependence have robbed him of his already modest appetite, and besides, feeding a starving kid might give him a much-needed karmic boost. He pulls up to the menu board and turns to Toki.

“Alright, kid,” he says, in English, “What do you want?”

Toki’s staring at the board with wide eyes, and there’s colour rising to his face, a bit of sweat beading on his brow. He blinks several times, then stammers, “Um.”

Still smoking his cigarette, Magnus waits for several seconds, watching as Toki stares at the board and grows gradually redder, like a ripening tomato.

“Um,” Toki finally says again, voice small, and switches to Norwegian: “Magnus? I can’t read it.”

“Ah.”

“Can you tell me what it says?”

If speaking Norwegian gives him a headache, translating is going to cave his skull in. Magnus gives the board a cursory glance. “Hamburger, hamburger with cheese, uh—potato sticks? Chicken… chicken blobs. And… what’s the vegetable with layers. That as rings. ‘Onion rings’. What do you call that.”

“Oh, yeah, I want all of that.”

“Toki, that’s the menu.”

“Do they have something sweet? Milkshake! Can I have a milkshake? Oh, and how much?” Toki reaches into his pocket, and extracts a handful of change: a few quarters, a dime, a bouncy ball with a plastic horse inside of it. “Is this enough?”

Magnus glances at the handful, then waves it away and pulls up to the speaker.

A few minutes later, Magnus is accepting a paper bag veritably dripping with grease from a cashier that looks like as much of a junkie as he is. He hands it to Toki, who’s gone uncharacteristically quiet, and pulls into a space in the parking lot.

Silence is a weird thing. After prolonged exposure to the chatty, sentient ray of sunshine that is Toki, it feels like an ominous cloud has passed over the sun, offering not a pleasant shadow but a promise of a storm. Magus stares out of the windscreen for a minute, waiting for Toki to speak, and when he doesn’t, he finally turns to look at the kid.

Toki is hugging the bag to his chest, staring down at it bashfully, and—God help them all—he looks like he’s tearing up.

“You good?” Magnus asks against his better judgement, in English.

“This my first foods in two days,” Toki whispers.

“Ah, shit, kid.”

Toki looks up at Magnus with big misty eyes. “Nobody’s ever boughts the hankburgers for Toki before...”

“Oh, God, just eat, man. You’re making this weird.”

Toki doesn’t need to be told twice. He eviscerates the bag, tearing it open in his haste to get to the greasy feast inside. As requested, there’s a hamburger, a cheeseburger, a box of chicken nuggets, fries and onion rings, and a milkshake nestled in on top of that all. He doesn’t stop to ask Magnus whether Magnus wants any of the feast, but sets in without hesitation, shoving greasy food into his mouth as if Magnus might at any moment jerk it away from him.

There’s that indigestion-like pity, again; Toki eats like he’s starving. Magnus himself, despite being tall, has always had his appetite dulled by drugs and the various malfunctions of his brain, but many a time he’s watched Nathan put away five jumbo burritos in a row and still have room for dessert. The metabolism of teenage boys is a force of nature unto itself, and Toki is ridiculously, embarrassingly, teenaged.

After a moment of contemplation, watching him dispatch burgers is too much—Magnus switches on the radio, finds himself another cigarette, and glowers out of the window, as his head is filled with the staticky roar of local death metal and the faint slobbery sounds of a famished kid inhaling junk food.

It really is a shame, he finds himself thinking around a pull of cigarette smoke. Maybe this is the post-concussion syndrome speaking, but the Tampa death metal scene can be rough, and Toki seems so nice. Just a dumb, nice kid—

“You’s a hairy bitch.”

Magnus’ gaze jerks back to Toki. “What?”

“You’s a-bitch-hairy,” Toki says. It sounds like it’s meant to be English, but he has no fewer than six French fries hanging out of his mouth, so it’s a little hard to tell.

“Say that again, you little shit—”

Toki’s eyes widen. “A-bitch-wary?” he utters, before swallowing several French fries whole. “What’s on the car sound thing! You’s—no, they’s—they’s Abitchwary.”

“Obituary?”

“That’s what I says!” Face red, Toki switches to Norwegian: “This band is called Obituary, right? I love them!”

“Yeah—yeah, Obituary.” Magnus presses a hand over his eyes. “Never say that to anyone.”

“Were you in Obituary?”

“Nope.”

“What band were you in?”

“Just finish your fucking food.”

“All the good American bands come from Tampa,” Toki observes wistfully, fishing out the last of his French fries from the greasy packet. “Like Morbid Angel, and… don’t know any others, actually, I don’t listen to American bands.” He looks up at Magnus then, beaming, “But I bet the band you were in was the best band.”

They are—they were. “You’re getting your hopes up. Tampa isn’t all that.” Magnus peeks out from behind his fingers, giving Toki one of his more menacing glares. “People here aren’t nice, Toki.”

The glare does absolutely nothing to deter Toki. “You’re nice,” he rebuts. “You drive me around, and talk Norwegian to me, and you bought me food… you’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met, Magnus.”

Magnus needs an antacid, or to be shot, or to lay off the drugs; his stomach is burning. “Yeah, well,” he says gruffly in English, looking away, “You owe me.”

“Owes you what?”

“Huh?”

“What I owes you?”

Magnus glances back over, “It’s a figure of speech—”

“I don’t gots no moneys,” Toki admits, eyes wide. “Whats to give you. You means—” and he pitches his voice into a whisper, “You wants me to sucks your d—”

“Fuck no.”

“But I don’t gots nothing!”

“Do you know what a figure of speech is?”

“Nopes.”

Magnus, speechless, takes a long drag of his cigarette; Toki looks despondently at his lap for all of two seconds before his indomitable sunny nature triumphs.

“I gots it!” Toki declares. “I gets you a new band!”

Magnus blinks at him. “I don’t want a—”

But Toki’s already pulling a crumpled flyer out of his fanny pack. “This band’s having an audition today,” he says in Norwegian, pushing the colourful scrap of paper towards Magnus. “They’re looking for a new guitarist. You’re a guitarist. You should go audition and be their new guitarist!”

Magnus takes the piece of paper. “Aren’t you trying to become a guitarist?”

“Yeah, and I was going to audition, but I owe you, you just said so. So you should go to this one.” Toki gives him a vague smile, “I have a feeling they’ll like you.”

Magnus’ head hurts. His head hurts, and he’s cursed, or otherwise God really exists and hates him personally. On top of it all, his life is a bad joke, and this is confirmed when he un-crumples the flier:

newly signed crystal mountain records

DETH metal band

DETHKLOK

summons GUITARIST for their DETHLY MISSION

And four faces that used to be familiar suspended below the jagged-font red ink. Below their image, the word ‘AUDITION’ blazes, along with today’s date and the location of their old rehearsal space.

Magnus must have blanched, because even the remarkably oblivious Toki notices something strange in his expression. "Do you know them?”

Magnus’ finger grazes Nathan’s face, deformed by creases and grainy with cheap ink. He towers like a mushroom-cloud in the centre of that flier, flanked on either side by his band—sans Magnus, who has been conspicuously edited out of this promotion photo. Hell, he remembers taking the photo, now that he thinks about it, and when he looks to Skwisgaar’s side he finds a conspicuous sharp edge of pixels: the place where they edited Magnus out.

“No,” Magnus answers, face stony, “I don’t know them.”

Toki’s brow creases. “Really?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you’d know them. I don’t know why.” A brief cloud of consternation crosses Toki’s face, but then he grins again. “You should audition for them!”

“No.”

“Yeah, you should! I bet they’d like you! I have a feeling they’d like you.”

“No.”

“Oh, I bet you’ve got performance fright. You know what I do when I have performance fright? I bring my deaddy bear and I pretend I’m performing for him.” Toki gasps. “I’ll give you my deaddy bear! Then you won’t be so scared to audition—”

“I SAID FUCKING NO.”

Magnus screams it—the shout echoes around the interior of the truck like a whip-crack.

Toki’s cowering, flattened against the truck door, his blue eyes big and bewildered. That’s right, Magnus thinks, Toki doesn’t yet know that Magnus Hammersmith is crazy, and that shout had come out of nowhere. His broad dumb face is blank, uncomprehending, as if Magnus had just slapped him across the cheeks and then taken a shit in his milkshake. Abrupt cruelty from a man who’s been so unexpectedly kind to him.

Toki’s fear earns him no mercy from Magnus. “I said no,” Magnus repeats himself, in English, through gritted teeth. “I’m not auditioning for those—those dildos.”

“What means that?” Toki asks in a small voice. “Dildos?”

“It’s a bunch of fake plastic dicks.”

“Like whats the lady fucks herself with?”

“Yeah, Toki, like what the ladies fuck themselves with.”

“And the gay guys, too,” Toki contributes, in a terrified whisper.

Magnus thrusts the flier across the car; Toki takes it and puts it on his lap, staring down at the crumpled faces. There’s a ketchup stain on Murderface’s torso—what’s new?—and Skwisgaar’s beautiful blond hair has been amputated at the shoulder by a minor tear in the paper. The flier itself is printed on nice paper, the Crystal Mountain Records premium stationary; without having recorded a single full album, Dethklok is selling out. There’s a bitterness churning in Magnus’ stomach that no drugs or cigarette smoke can quash.

Still visibly rattled, Toki closes his eyes and takes a few timed deep breaths in a way that Magnus can recognise from experience as an attempt to dispel a building panic attack. When he opens his eyes again, his fear has been tempered by determination. He locks gazes with Magnus, undeterred by the bloody colour of Magnus’ dying left eye.

“I auditions for those dildos,” Toki declares.

Magnus blinks. “Alright, bud. Good for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Toki glances down at the flier, then sheepishly back up at Magnus. “Can you reads to me the directions to the auditions place?”

Magnus glances down at the address, though he already knows by heart exactly where it is. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette on the windowsill, “I’ll drop you off there.”

“Really?”

“Sure, it’s not far from here.”

“Thanks, Magnus! You’re the best!”

It’s a blessing in disguise that they’re seated in a truck, because Toki looks like he wants to fly over and tackle Magnus in a greasy, hamburger-scented hug.

Dethklok’s old rehearsal space really isn’t far from here. A mile down the highway and a couple of turns right would have them there in fifteen minutes. Magnus has made the drive a hundred-thousand times before—a pre-rehearsal chicken nugget run, a procrastinatory aimless drive, picking up Nathan from his part-time job, picking up Pickles from a last-minute drug deal, picking up Skwisgaar from his old guitar teacher’s house down the street. Drunken snack-shopping sprees at the nearby strip mall or chaotic, destructive rampages through the neighbouring suburbs; Tampa is his adopted home, by now, he knows these streets like the back of his hand.

Was his adopted home. He’d given years of his life to Dethklok and they’d gone and booted him out of the band just as they were starting to get big. And, looking at Toki, it makes sense: he would be perfect for them, a dumb little doormat they can stamp all over. Magnus is too old, too experienced, too willing to stand up for himself in the face of Pickles’ insubordination and Nathan’s constant criticism. That’s the real reason he’d been kicked to the curb, why Nathan had deliberately pushed his buttons until he’d had an episode and stabbed him—and now he’ll be replaced with a younger, stupider, more Norwegian guitarist. The world is cruel indeed.

As he drives, he watches Toki from the corner of his eye. Toki is slurping down a milkshake, face pressed to the window, grinning stupidly at the passing world. His legs are wrapped around his home-stitched guitar case, his dumb-looking cap sits askew on his badly cut hair. When he catches Magnus staring, he turns around and offers up an enthusiastic smile, face gaping open like a catfish begging for bread.

“Can you comes with me?” Toki asks in English. “I’ll feels better with a good pals like you to hears me play.”

Magnus shakes his head. “You’ll do fine, kid. You don’t need me there.”

“You really thinks so?”

“I knows so.” Magnus takes an exit, makes a left turn, and rolls into a parking lot. “Well, here we are.”

Toki looks out the window and his face falls. “This ams a…” He squints at the sign before them. “Mad…. Dress…”

“It says ‘mattresses’,” Magnus finishes for him.

“They’s auditions in the store for mattresses?”

“Weird, right? But a lot of Americans do it.” Magnus shrugs. “It’s cheap rehearsal space or something. Beats me. But yeah, that’s what it says on the flier.”

“Wowee.” Toki looks at the mattress store, then back at Magnus. There’s the faintest hint of suspicion on his face.

“Tell you what,” Magnus leans back, “I’ll wait out here for you. You go in, do your audition, and then come out and let me know how it goes. Alright?”

The suspicion melts into gooey whole-hearted relief. “Okay,” he agrees, pulling open the door, “I goes auditions and you waits for me. Boy, I feels better knowing my pal Magnus is right heres.”

“Mm.” Magnus looks away, staring pensively at the mattress store as Toki climbs out of the truck. He waits to see Toki skipping his innocent way towards the door—

The driver’s side door of the truck is wrenched open, and suddenly, Magnus is, as he feared, trapped in a greasy, dirty, vaguely hamburger-scented hug.

“You’re the best,” Toki mumbles in Norwegian, voice muffled in Magnus’ shoulder. “I’m gonna do my best guitar playing ever, just for you!”

The aroma coming from Toki leaves no doubt that he has, in fact, been sleeping in a dumpster. “Uh,” Magnus coughs, “Yeah, good luck.”

Toki springs off of him, lands unsteadily on the pavement, and then turns to give Magnus a big, sappy grin. With no further ado, he turns and, as predicted, skips towards the mattress store, his adorable hand-crafted guitar case swinging on his back.

Magnus waits until Toki’s halfway through the door. Then he starts his truck’s engine and goes peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal of rubber. He floors it, shooting around the shopping complex and back towards the highway, shaking his head all the while.

What idiot would believe a death metal holds auditions in a mattress store?

Somewhere, buried deep below the migraine and the drugs and the churning tar-black bitterness, Magnus feels a little pang of guilt. Toki seems like such a sweet, dumb kid, dumb enough to actually trust Magnus. He’ll probably be crushed when he realises that Magnus has betrayed him; and then he’ll learn the lesson that people are never simply nice, and he won’t let himself be fucked around with.

Nice kids like Toki don’t survive long—they need to be hurt, the way you hurt your fingers on guitar strings to build up the callouses, and Magnus is one of the only people with the guts to do the hurting. It’s not malicious, really. It’s just a fact of life, a lesson he’d tried to teach Dethklok, too.

Besides, Magnus reasons, he’s doing Toki a favour. Toki is genuinely sweet, caring, he has an optimism to him; a band like Dethklok would chew him up and spit him out. In the long run, when Dethklok is revealed to be a bunch of selfish, backstabbing, petty, lazy cowards, Toki can look back at this encounter and be glad to know that Magnus had his best interests at heart. Maybe by then the world will know how Magnus has been wronged—yes, he’ll be the benevolent, mysterious saviour of this encounter, intervening to spare another talented guitarist from the musical meat grinder. That’s what friends do, after all; Magnus is kind like that.

But the weird pang of guilt remains, and the migraine is worse than ever.

He’ll find a place to park, take one of his last oxys, try and get a nap; he’ll think once or twice about Toki Wartooth, that incomprehensible niceness and the hug he’d given Magnus. But then he’ll go on to brood about how his band kicked him out and how his bitch mother cut him off and how the rest of the world has so cruelly wronged him, and for the foreseeable future, Toki will be little more than a glimpse of sunshine that failed to interrupt a shitty, overcast life.

#metalocalypse #hello fandom i don't interact with. today i offer you: nice things happening to toki #my fic

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