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foxintheferns · 1 year ago

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WILD HEART

Chapter Two

A Twilight - Paul Lahote Fanfiction

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

***Short summary for my antsy gals: this absolute babe with childhood trauma, no real family and a passion for animals goes to live in the woods outside of La Push beach for her job that’s she’s deemed is necessary to find her way in life, and guess who’s not happy she’s there because now they have to worry about this human who’s put herself smack in the middle of bloodsucker city, where they have an instinctual obligation to protect her. And guess who’s even more angry that he suddenly feels an undying and relentless, fiery need to be with her all the time? Angst, tension, passion, anger, love, jealousy, perhaps even some betrayal? This story’s got it all babes (yes, even the smut) - it’s just one of those slow burn, then-suddenly-everything-is-fuckin-crazy-and-the-angst-is-unreal fics, you know? stay tuned ;)

A/N: eek! Chapta 2 bitchezzzzz! welcoming sir Jacob Black to the arena now. Yessssir let’s get this ball rollin I am PUMPED. Give your thoughts on what’s about to happen next, I’m curious 😏

CHAPTER TWO:

I woke in the morning with half of my body hanging off of the little couch, my left foot asleep from being tucked under my other leg for too long. I groaned with sleepiness, slowly and begrudgingly becoming more aware of my surroundings. Light filtered in through the blinds that I had shut tightly over every window in the small cabin. I reached to grab my phone off of the small wooden coffee table, checking the time, and was grateful that my body had me on a regular schedule. I tended to wake naturally around 6 o’clock every morning, unable to fall back into a restful sleep. It was far too dark in the house for the light to have woken me on its own. I stretched and moaned, my legs extending out and causing my feet to go past the end of the couch. I pulled myself up into a sitting position, and mentally prepared for my day ahead. I knew I would have to check out my surroundings today, and plan out the catalog of data I’d be collecting this month. I’d have to focus on one species at a time, and I figured the Marbled Murrelet was a good one to start with. I wanted to see more of La Push, and the endangered, ocean-dwelling bird was on the top of my list for data collection. I ultimately had to submit my findings at the end of each month, in hopes that the observations I gathered could help create ways to bring the species’ numbers back to Washington. I stood, stretching again and drooping down to touch my toes, my body felt so sore, and I was finally feeling the multiples hikes I’d endured last night in bringing my belongings from my car to the house. I ambled over to the kitchen, starting the coffee machine. I walked around the small house, opening every blind I had closed the night before. Sunlight began to fall into the space, a soft warm glow coming through the glass panes. I breathed deeply, feeling confident in my decision to spend the next 18 months here. I knew that my passion for wildlife was one reason that lead me here, but I also knew that my deep and profound need for change was another. I had been living in Maine, finishing my degree and living with my ex boyfriend, Zack. After two years of constant fights, cheating (on his part, never mine), and manipulation, I had finally broken away. I hadn’t realized the relationship had been drowning me slowly. Suffocating me, pulling me under. It brought me to a place where I hadn’t recognized myself in the mirror. At my core, I wasn’t the girl who allowed myself to be treated that way. So why had I done exactly that? When I saw the job listing online, my heart had skipped; I had felt something stirring in me that hadn’t been awake for quite some time. ‘Washington Avian Conservation Project - Wildlife Biologist needed!’ - the posting had read…

‘Chosen candidate to spend 18 months total at observational shelter on Olympic National Park Forest land, 15 minutes outside of La Push, WA. Job description includes data collection and behavioral assessment of wild endangered species, including the Northern Spotted Owl, Marbled Murrelet, and Tufted Puffin for the interest in providing usable information for conservational planning and management of population risks. Utilities/housing included for 18 month period and additional compensation provided’

The lease on the apartment my ex and I had shared was about to be up, and I had taken the leap, applying immediately. To my surprise, a response had come in the next day, asking if I could arrive the following month to begin my stay. The few friends I’d had (although I’d lost quite a few throughout the enduring of my ex boyfriend’s destructive behaviors that had lead to my isolation) supported me greatly in my plans, eager for me to find myself. I wondered, with dismay, if they had seen hope in my eyes for the first time in years, and truly just wanted to me go anywhere that it would grow instead of simply continue to flicker and die out.

My best friend, Naomi, had thrown her arms around me, tears streaming down her soft cheeks. “Oh, Harley! Oh, babe, this is SO exactly what you need! Just get the hell out of here, find you again! God, I’m gonna miss the hell out of you, but…Har- this is it!”, she had cried, her theatrically passionate displays a very normal and truly beautiful part of our friendship that I found myself missing deeply now, being across the country from her. Her bright red hair had been sticking to her tear soaked, freckled face in stringy wet clumps, which I had peeled softly from her cheek with a laugh. I had been crying, too, with Naomi being the first person I told, and the only person whose opinion truly mattered, of my endeavor. And it was true: this was it. This was the shake-me-by-my-shoulders-and-scream-in-my-face to-wake-up blessing I’d been waiting for the universe to throw at me. I needed to remember who I was. What I loved, what I hated, what made me laugh, what made me cry. I had lost my mother 3 years ago now, never really getting to say goodbye to her after she spent her years succumbing to my father’s verbal abuse, never admitting she wasn’t ever truly happy, and never taking her own health seriously enough. Up until the moment she had passed from a heart attack at the age of 59, she had cared more for others than herself. Even her shitty husband. I had disowned my father, never bothering to look at the man again after seeing the way he had broken my mother without regret or acknowledgment. He had spent my childhood being absent, a drunk, and only ever pretending to care about his family for show. He hadn’t tried to contact me after I became estranged, only bothering to tell our relatives what a disappointment he thought I’d turned out to be whenever they saw him at holidays in the years following.

My ex Zack had thrown a fit at my sudden decision to leave. He had called me crazy and selfish, and thrown my large hiking backpack into the dumpster behind our apartment complex, seeming to try to sabotage my plans and somehow prove to me that I was incapable of them. I had pulled my pack from the trash pile, grateful he hadn’t ripped it apart or damaged it, and cleared my belongings from the apartment that night, staying with Naomi at her house in Portland up until the very day I had to leave.

I grunted as I pulled my brown leather boots up, wiggling my toes once they were on. I shook my head back and forth quickly, trying to clear my mind of the memories I’d quite intentionally left in Maine. My long, dark hair fell and jumped in waves around my head as I shook it with vigor, and I felt a surge of angry tears start to prick in my eyes. I felt alone suddenly, and the feeling made me mad at myself. I had known this would be hard. I knew I would feel lonely and sad. But more, I knew my love for nature and its beauty was the one thing that could call me back to who I was.

You’re here to live. You’re here to live for you, for the first time in your life - I told myself, breathing deeply and pulling my small pack that contained my data collection journal and my binoculars onto my back- It’s not going to be easy. But we’re doing it.

……………………………………………………………………………………

I spent the next few hours, and then the next several days falling into my routine. I woke up, ate breakfast, put my clothes and boots on, ventured out into the forest, and watched the birds of the Olympic Peninsula. I watched them flying, I watched them singing and talking amongst themselves. I watched their eating habits, their patterns and their routines, as I settled into mine. I found more peace in watching them simply exist than I ever thought possible. I began to recognize the same birds after several days, hearing their calls and watching their motions. When the sun would fall behind the trees and the star filled night would arrive, I continued to close the wooden blinds and lock the door of the lookout cabin tightly, never forgetting the reality that I was, indeed, a twenty something year old woman in the woods by herself. I tried to brush off the odd feeling I had that I wasn’t at all alone in the forest, reminding myself that I was simply hyper aware of the many species I shared the mountains with.

On day six, I made my way down to La Push’s first beach, and wondered immediately why it had taken me so long to come. I was beginning to feel quite socially isolated, and knew that talking to myself as much as I had been was probably a sign to spend my time around some humans as soon as possible. Although cloudy, and far from hot, the beach was a breathtaking place. Several tourists and visitors walked or sat along the sand, some exploring the tidal pools closer to the trees while others stooped to take photographs of the large rock formations in the water on the horizon. I decided a break was needed, and suddenly felt a surge of anticipation at the conquest of speaking to an actual person. Five days alone had passed quickly, and I hadn’t been truly mentally present after trying to avoid the negative feelings of accepting my own presence. It was hard to be alone with the woman in my mind after not really trying to know her for so long. I didn’t recognize her, but I was beginning to familiarize myself again. And, to be quite honest, I was beginning to be okay with her.

I decided a visit to a local restaurant would be the best idea; after all, a girl can only eat so much boxed mac and cheese. I walked down the main dirt road along the beach that cut through a small corner of the residential parts of the reservation. I had been studying the local maps, and knew that much of the land I was studying on, including the land that held my lookout shelter, belonged to the Quileute Reservation. Billy Black’s face flashed through my mind, and I wondered if he’d truly meant what he said when he politely offered his name and where to find him if I ever needed help.

What would make him think I’d need help?, I wondered scrutinizingly. I shook my head to myself as I trekked down the rocky dirt road, my map showing me only about a half mile more before the small reservation restaurant would be on my left.

Once I arrived outside the adorably cozy cedar-shake sided building, I immediately noticed the group of four very tall young men standing in the dirt parking lot. They were all tanned and ridiculously well muscled, and I found it a bit of a struggle to keep my eyes off of them as I had to walk past their huddle to enter the restaurant. One of them was completely shirtless. I quickly darted my gaze back to the ground when one turned in my direction at the sound of my footsteps. They were immersed in conversation, their deep and muffled voices a low hum as they spoke. After the one man turned in my direction, all four of their voices went quiet, and I felt heat rush to my face. With the heat of the eyes on me, I began to question my appearance. I wondered how I presented to locals. Did I look odd to these men? Lost? Dirty? Having spent almost the past week studying birds in the forest, I wasn’t sure I looked too good.

You showered, I reminded myself soothingly.

It’s probably not even about you, stop being so egocentric! my inner voice resounded again.

It was most definitely about me, or the men had coincidentally run out of things to talk about just as I had arrived. Their conversation remained halted as I kept my gaze on the front door of the restaurant, slipping inside quietly. My peripheral vision told me they never broke their attention from my arrival, and it irked me that they would be so brazenly unashamed to stare.

Inside the restaurant, only a few guests sat and dined, and I felt calmed by the fact that none of them seemed to glance my way or care about my presence.

“Hey sweetie, just you?” The soft feminine voice broke through my inner dialogue, and I turned my attention towards the sound. An older, doe-eyed woman stared at me with a gentle expression upon her face. She had jet black hair that fell to her midsection and was adorned with two thick braids on either side of her face. Her smile was kind, and her eyes seemed to soften slightly when she took in whatever she saw in my expression. Her gaze flicked to my backpack, then to the paper map I clutched in my right hand.

I nodded politely, returning the smile.

“Just me,” I replied, trying to ignore the repetitive nature of the few words I’d spoken to other living souls in the past week. She nodded back and gestured for me to follow her, guiding me to a booth in the corner along the front window of the restaurant.

“This spot alright? Nice light over here, I think.” I nodded and hummed gratefully in response, not quite remembering how to speak to another human in that exact moment, and slipped down onto the vinyl cushioned seat. I glanced quickly out the window, watching as the group of four men were now walking away from the restaurant in long strides, and felt the hair on my arm raise and bristle when I saw one of them shoot a brief look back to the restaurant. His face was striking - and startlingly familiar. I held back a gasp when I realized it was the face of the boy whom I’d seen with my new acquaintance, Billy Black, at the grocery store on my first day in town. He turned back again and kept walking with the other men, seemingly disappearing into the tree-line behind the dirt road.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Sue was my kind waitress, and in the 2 hours I spent at La Push’s tiny restaurant, she became my first new friend in Washington. Her gentle demeanor was undeniably motherly; it soothed me more than I thought possible. I hadn’t known how much I needed to be nurtured after the overwhelming change of the last week. She must have been able to sense the ache I felt within me for company and a listening ear. Sue sat with me at the small booth while I ate my warm chowder, grabbing a bowl for herself from the kitchen and shooting the man behind the back counter a look when he seemed ready to protest. Sue was immediately interested in why I was traveling alone, and felt compelled to tell me of her daughter and son, who she said were right around my age and lived on the reservation with her. We laughed and chatted as Sue welcomingly accepted my droning on and on about how much I loved my new occupation. She seemed to have no trouble understanding my passion for watching the birds, and nodded knowingly and with interest when I delved into ridiculously mundane (to anyone who wasn’t me - or a wildlife biologist) details of their subtle quirks and personality differences. She even belly laughed, shaking her head in honest disbelief as I told her of the one Tufted Puffin I had deemed to be ‘Frank’, as he tended to stumble around with the singular and all consuming goal of finding a female companion, and it had reminded me of a perpetually drunk friend of my father’s who often displayed similar desperate intentions.

After a free slice of chocolate cake on Sue’s request from the kitchen, and a plea for me to come back soon, I found myself bidding Sue a good evening, wanting to return on my hike back to the house before the sun set entirely. Sue tucked a few chocolate chip cookies into my backpack before I left, grinning and shooting me a wink.

The walk back to my humble cabin felt significantly longer and farther than my initial trip to town, and I found myself feeling more uneasy than I would’ve expected when the second half of my trip was blanketed in pitch darkness. My large flashlight illuminated the minimally marked trail ahead of me, although I knew I could find the way back to the cabin quite easily from memory at this point. I couldn’t decide what was bothering me so deeply. I had been in the forest after nightfall before, many times. This wasn’t new to me, and yet I found the hair on the back of my neck refused to relax. The muscles in my legs and back were tense, as if my body felt an underlying sense that I would need to break into a sprint at any given moment. It wasn’t until I heard the clear and obvious crunch of branches and vegetation underfoot that I validated the odd gut feeling I was experiencing. The sound was loud and heavy enough that I knew within seconds that it did not belong to something as small as a squirrel. I froze immediately on the dirt path, knowing I was way too far from the beach to try to run back to it now, and not close enough yet to the cabin to make it there before the likely creature could catch me. The sound seemed to be coming closer, although it was hard to tell just how far away it was. All I could grasp was that it came vaguely from my right.

Fuck. I thought to myself. Cougars, Grizzly Bears, there were far too many possibilities that this animal was one of immense danger for me to remain calm. I did the one thing I knew to do, and quickly reached behind me with my unoccupied hand to unclip the bear spray that hung from the right side of my backpack. Flashlight in one fist, bear spray in the other, I stood motionless in the center of the path, unable to hear much now over the sound of my heart beating like a drum in my ears. The crunching continued, and I shone my light across the trees quickly, trying to direct it to where the sound had come from, but not quite knowing which exact direction it had been. The light found nothing, and I suddenly remembered what I had been taught in my wildlife emergency training classes. “Hey, bear! H-hey bear!,” I yelled with as much force and strength as I could muster, my eyes searching the black around me wildly for any hint of motion, or the outline of a giant, lumbering bear, perhaps. My voice had come out broken and shaky, and I felt the urge to scream in terror rising like a lump in my throat. At my voice, the sound ceased entirely, and I had no idea where to point my flashlight. Silence fell across the forest around me. My body was tingling with fear, all of my nerves activated and engaged as I waited for what felt like several seconds.

“Well, I’m not a bear, but if I was - don’t know that those sounds would do the trick.”

The deep, rough, and seemingly amused voice came from somewhere in the dark abyss to my right, and I spun on my heel, gasping harshly and dropping my flashlight in the choppy motion.

“Shit!” The word came from my throat in a strained whisper that sounded humiliatingly close to a whimper. I dove quickly to grab the heavy flashlight again, and flung the light toward the voice.

My mouth fell open as my light touched upon the man. His massively tall frame was made to look bigger still by the shadows that the flashlight casted across the trees around him. It took me no less than two seconds to recognize him. The same man from the grocery store, and then from outside the restaurant. The one with Billy Black. His face was defined, dark and playful eyes surrounded by the facial structure of what could only be compared to a statuesque figure. A prominent set of dark brows sat above his eyes, and they came together now, straining as he threw a hand up in front of his face. “Jesus, wha-, fuck, can you shine that down?!” His voice came again, somehow alarming me more after I had observed him for the seemingly endless moment. It seemed my mind had forgotten he was a real person, only taking in his features as if I were watching from an outsider’s perspective. After a brief hesitation, I sputtered and directed the beam of the flashlight to settle at his legs, ensuring I could still make out his face easily. I was unsure how, but his facial features put me at ease in the same way the stranger Billy Black’s had, despite the fact that there was absolutely nothing calming about this situation. I was unsure where to begin.

“H-…wha-who-,” I stammered, then took a breath and began again, “Why are you following me?” My voice didn’t have a single ounce of the stone cold confidence I’d tried to instill in it. I swallowed hard as I realized my bear spray was the one thing I had to defend myself, and my grip on the can tightened slightly, my fingers cold and stiff.

The young man’s expression didn’t waver. In fact, the only change in his face was the small lifting of one corner of his mouth into the beginning of a smirk. I felt a wave of terror wash through me as I imagined the horrific fate I could be in for if this stranger had the intentions my inner voice was screaming at me to be wary of. Despite my accusation, his gaze softened then, and it almost looked like he was about to laugh. He exhaled from his nose in a short, sharp breath, the sound resembling the start of a chuckle but ending quickly as he raised his brows and found my fear-stricken face in the darkness. He leaned forward slightly, cocking his head to the side. His voice was low and velvety, and summoned goosebumps across my arms once again.

“Following you? You’re on my land, sweetheart.”

➡️CLICK FOR NEXT CHAPTER

A/N: Chapter 3 coming soon! Thank you guys for stickin with it thru to this point if you’ve read this far :-) I’m so excited for the plot to thicken 🤪 let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapter’s upload!

-Ro

#fanfiction #fanfic #twilight #paullahote #Jacob black #Paul Lahote #imagines #fic #twilightfanfic #twilight fanfiction #romance #werewolf fanfic #werewolf #werewolves #edward cullen

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youjustgotxfiled · 6 months ago

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Hello, everyone! Back with the second chapter of my Sashannarcy Reader-Insert Hurt/Comfort Fanfic (that's a mouthful XD). Thank you so much to everyone who's checked out my story so far, and everyone who's liked it! I hope you stick around to see what else I've got in store.

If you like what you see here, please reblog, like, and share with your friends! Any and all actions you do here will help me out a ton.

And now, below the cut for those unable to access the link above...our feature presentation! :D

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A series of excited footsteps come towards you from the other side of the door. You recognize them as Marcy’s right away, but you don’t show as much when she flings the door open.

“Woah! Marcy!” you say, exaggerating your surprise. “YOU live in this wondrous abode? I never would have guessed!”

“Oh stop it, you,” Marcy replies. She sticks out her tongue, then resumes a wide smile before giving you a hug. As she does so, you feel yourself beginning to cool off already. “Glad you made it! Anne’s finishing up setting the table, and Sashy’s drying the last of the chairs in the living room.” She pauses, having gotten a look at your wet face and top for the first time. You flinch, but remain calm. Your line’s already prepared. “Woah, what happened? You’re all soaked!”

“Yeah, the heat got to me a little bit,” you reply. You add a small smile of embarrassment, and your cheeks begin to flush. “Still takes me a bit to adjust to the Californian summer months. You know how it is.”

“Oh, do I!” says Marcy. “I remember when I moved out of state to get my illustration degree, and I was NOT prepared for the sun and heat of Long Beach when I came back. Anne and Sasha wouldn’t let me live that down for months!”

Your smile fades a bit, and your next breath intake is quite sharp. Anne and Sasha. Right. They live here, too.

You look around the hallway, taking in the scenery. A whiff of pot roast comes from beyond the dining room to your left, mixed in with the smells of warm bread and…some kind of salad dressing? You don’t quite recognize it. Along the wall of the hall, several portraits of the trio—and other people you don’t recognize, leading you to believe they’re family members of some sort—are hung in frames of many shapes, several of them decorated with an embossing of leaves or frogs. You smile. Guess Marcy’s proclivity for using a lot of “frog” stuff in her life isn’t exclusive to her in this household. Though it does make you wonder if Frogvasion might have something to do with that—but, no. She couldn’t have that much in-depth knowledge about it…could she?

You blink your eyes a couple of times, trying to concentrate on Marcy again. She tilts her head in response. “You all right? You look like you could use a drink of water.”

You sigh. “That’d be wonderful, actually,” you reply. You COULD use something to calm your nerves a little bit.

“Okey-dokey, then! I’ll be right back!” Marcy turns, then gestures to your right. “Why don’t you wait in the living room? I think Sash just finished cleaning in there and Annie still needs another minute to finish the—oop!” She covers her mouth, her cheeks flushing a bit. “Forget I said anything! I mean, we TOTALLY don’t have a surprise for you—I mean, what?” A nervous giggle. Then she bolts into the dining room and the kitchen beyond—and almost trips over one of the chairs in the process. “Eeek!”

You smile. At least she quit while she was ahead. Not that you don’t find her adorable while she’s like this.

Watch it, you idiot, your mind fires back. Remember whose house you’re in. And who you’re dealing with.

Of course. Sasha and Anne. And Sasha’s still in the living room, in all likelihood.

You huff out another breath, squeezing your eyes for half a second before reopening them. You look around again—dining room to the left, bathroom at the other end of the hall, a set of stairs right in front of you, the living room to your direct right.

You grit your teeth and head into the living room.

You walk in to an interesting sight.

To your left, a big-screen TV dominates a bookshelf taking up the entire wall, with video games and a fistful of controllers—all Nintendo stuff, from the looks of things—taking up most of the rest of the shelves, save for a few scattered Blu-Rays and magazines. The floor itself is dark-brown and wooden, with an oval carpet in the center of the room—green in the center, pink in the middle rim, blue along the outer edge. On top of it is a circular coffee table—one that, for the moment, is all covered up in wrinkled newspaper pages. To the right, a big couch takes up most of the wall space, with individual leather chairs flanking it on either side. Each of these chairs also has a big pile of wettened newspapers on them, and there’s another one in the middle of the couch where—

You freeze. The serration in your breath comes back, though you try not to be too obvious about it.

In the middle of the room, folding the last of the newspapers and putting them on the pile on the couch, is Sasha.

You clasp your hands behind your back so as to hide their trembling. You keep your smile on as you get a good look at her.

Her hair is cut down into a much shorter bob, but there’s no mistaking that incandescent blonde color. She’s also wearing a black leather jacket with a distinct crossing two-sword patch on the shoulder, both of which make you wince. Beneath that is a pink flared skirt stopping at the top of her knee, with black leather heel-boots stopping halfway up her muscular calves. You can’t quite see her eyes in the dimming sunlight, but you could swear that she has a scar on her right cheekbone. A remnant of her battle with the demon, maybe?

All of a sudden, she looks up. She locks eyes with you. No visible emotion on her face.

Your breathing almost comes to a dead stop. Your hands are starting to have a real tremble-dance party behind your back. You heart begins to pound again.

A pair of raised eyebrows from Sasha. A curt, questioning wave. “Uh, hello?”

It takes a second to register that she just spoke to you. As you jump, you can feel your eyes dilating as you blink them several times, shaking your head. “Oh! Uh, hi! I, uh, heh heh…sorry to startle you.” You scratch the back of your neck, then return your right hand behind your back to clasp with your left. You straighten up, chest pushed outward. “I’m Marcy’s friend, from her studio.”

Sasha blinks. Then she bursts into a guffaw, closing her eyes and tilting her head back as her chest vibrates from laughter. Wiping away some tears, still grinning, she turns back to you. “Yeah, you look like the kind of friend Marbles would make, all right. At ease, soldier.” She puts down the last of her newspaper and begins to walk towards you, hand outstretched. “And it takes a lot more than that to startle me. Name’s Sasha, by the way.”

“Yes, I know,” you reply. You venture your right hand forward to meet Sasha’s, your left now resting on your hip. Though you’re still tensed up, your smile feels a bit less strained than before. Perhaps her grasp might have something to do with your circulation coming back online. “Marcy’s told me a bit about you. Anne, too.”

Another hearty chuckle from Sasha. “Only the good parts, I hope.”

Good parts, you think to yourself. Sure. Let’s go with that. For now… “She’s been a little light on the stories, admittedly. You look pretty cool, though.”

“D’aw, thanks,” Sasha says, waving a dismissive hand. She flits her eyes and lifts her back leg as well, and you start to feel a weird tightness in your chest. “This is nothing, though. Wait until you see the rest of my wardrobe. It’s got like, so much more style than this ol’ getup. I’ve had this for, what, five years now?”

“Hey, far be it from me to tell you what’s in fashion and what isn’t,” you say, putting your hands up. You laugh a bit, though yours is much shakier than Sasha’s. “I’m just saying you seem like the type who looks good no matter what you wear.”

“Oooooh,” she coos, putting the tips of the fingers on her right hand over her mouth. She wags her pointer finger at you as she replies. “You better not tell anyone else you said that to me. Some little birdies around here might get a little jealous.”

Your smile begins to stiffen. You feel yourself beginning to sweat again. Oh no. Have you made a mistake? Better backtrack, and fast.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything! I just—”

“Hey,” Sasha cuts you off. You swallow, your smile now melted away. You HAVE to be in for it now, don’t you?

Sasha steps forward, making it impossible to look anywhere but right into her eyes. You brace yourself.

To your surprise, however, she doesn’t yell at you. In fact, her tone is quite quiet and calm as she speaks, even if still clipped and short. “Don’t EVER feel the need to apologize for complimenting someone on how good they look. Okay? I do the same to plenty of people other than my wives, and they don’t really mind.” She takes your right hand, and her firm touch seems to cause at least some of the tension in your body to leave. “You just enjoy yourself tonight, okay? We’re all friends here. If any of us actually have a problem, you’ll know. Believe me. Besides, you look too nice for that.” She slaps your shoulder with your other hand, and it’s all you can do not to yelp in fright. “Now come on. Let’s have ourselves a little fun. It’s the weekend, after all!”

Ah, yes. The weekend. That thing the rest of humanity does where this magical concept called “fun” is the primary thing people love to engage in. Yes. Something you’re very familiar with.

Not.

You jump again when you see Marcy out of the corner of your eye.

“Hey! Sorry that took a bit,” she says, handing you your promised glass of water. “I, uh, got into a convo with Anne about her workday. Oh, and the roast’s just about done!”

“Thank frog,” Sasha sighs. “I’m starving. What say we all make our way to the table?”

“Heck yeah! Let’s do it to it!” Marcy replies, flapping her hands just a bit. Sasha grins, a peculiar twinkle in her eye. You don’t trust it, and brace for the inevitable even as the three of you begin to make your way to the dining room.

“So, what is this ‘it’ in ‘do it to it’ you speak of, Mar?” Sasha inquires.

Marcy looks at her, perplexed. “What do you mean? You’ve never heard the phrase before? It’s been a pretty common one for at least the last few decades.”

“Oh, I’ve heard it before,” Sasha says. She’s beginning to grin now, and you don’t like the looks of it one bit. You take a couple of sips from your water glass, hoping against hope the other two don’t hear the ice rattling thanks to your unsteady hands.

Marcy’s frown deepens, as does the lowering of her brows. “Then what are you trying to ask, Sash?”

Now Sasha’s grin seems to stretch across her whole face, and her eyes have narrowed. Unbeknownst to the two—please let that be the case, you hope—your eyes have widened, and your mouth is pursed shut as you brace for impact.

Sasha leans in to Marcy, her voice a near whisper. “I’m asking if we haven’t already ‘done it to it’ enough.”

For a moment, Marcy looks at her. Then her eyes widen, her cheeks going red. She grabs big tufts of her long, silky black hair, attempting to hide her face from a now-chuckling Sasha. “Sashaaaaa!” she groans, still trying and failing to hide herself. “You KNOW that wasn’t on purpose! I tried my best! Honest!”

By this point, you’re thankful you’ve all made it to the dining room table and sat yourselves down. Otherwise, you’re certain you’d have lost your ability to walk right by now, and the others would not have failed to take notice even if they’d tried. As it is, you’re now avoiding any and all eye contact with the other two, narrowing your world to just you and your medium-size, multi-ridged water glass as best as you know how. Even so, a stampede of flashbacks to them, and to every time they and every student, teacher, and principal at school teased you and berated you like this for being slow and weird and…worse, roars through your mind, with you just trying to take cover, hoping they all pass by. It always does. At some point. You’ve just got to wait it out. You just need a little time.

But you don’t get time.

Because that’s when an all-too-familiar voice rings out.

“Come on, Sasha. That’s enough.”

Every part of your body now refuses to move. Petrified doesn’t even begin to describe the state of your mind and heart right now. In fact, your eyes seem to be the one part of you that hasn’t lost agency, and it’s these very eyes that turn towards the source of the rebuke.

They stop when they find it. Because you KNOW who it is.

Even with her curled hair now tied back in a bun, sweat glistening on her brown face and forearms under the bright lights of the kitchen, and a few more wrinkles under her eyes than you remember, there’s no mistaking that glare. Those wide eyes. That booming, commanding contralto voice.

It’s Anne Boonchuy-Plantar.

The charge of thoughts and images in your head is back now at full force, but it has a curious effect this time: you feel compelled to keep your eyes on Anne, as if missing a single word, movement, or even breath she takes might be somehow tantamount to death on the spot. One image that sneaks into your conscious in the middle of your internal tsunami is that of a rabbit in a park, keeping a close watch on an overenthusiastic dog wanting to play chase. Or hunt. Either way, diplomatic negotiations by other parties—be it dog owners or Marcy and Sasha in the here and now—must be maintained posthaste, lest one misunderstanding create the spark of war.

Lucky for you, Anne seems not to have caught on to your off-putting stare, at least not yet. Fists on her hips, a large bread knife gripped in her right hand, and sporting a bright-blue apron with several dark blotches on it (not unlike the cuts and bruises she had when she killed Andrias, your very unhelpful mind chips in), she cuts quite the profile as the flustered housewife. Right now, she’s glaring daggers at Sasha, like you’ve seen her do so many times before. Too many times before.

“You know she’s been wanting to do the cooking for this one dinner for weeks. It’s not her fault our oven’s as old as dirt.”

“Oh, lighten up, Boonchuy! I was just kidding,” Sasha protests, holding the still-hiding-in-her-hair Marcy to the base of her own neck and stroking her love’s black hair for emphasis.

A grin appears on Anne’s face. You feel yourself starting to sweat again, but you remain resolute in keeping your eyes trained on Anne. You sure as hell aren’t going to let the same thing get to you twice.

Anne points the knife at Sasha as she retorts. “That’s Boonchuy-Plantar to you, missy. A name you and Marce share with me, in case you forgot.”

“I know. I was the one who suggested it to you,” Sasha deadpans. Her eyes narrow even more, her grin now beginning to resemble Anne’s. “And you did not just call me ‘missy.’”

“Uh, I was the one who asked you guys, thank you very much. And so what if I called you ‘missy’?” Anne takes a couple of steps forward, moving around the counter separating her from the dining room, still maintaining her wicked smile. You swear your heart is in your throat right now. “Watcha gonna do about it, commander?”

Keeping her own grin, Sasha turns her face up to the sky, her hair whipping behind her in dramatic fashion as she does so. She uses her free hand to rub her chin. At last, she shoots a glance back at Anne. “Don’t you worry, Annie. I’ll…think of something.”

Anne responds with a slow raise of her knife up to chest level. By now, you’re wondering if you’re ever going to be able to breathe again, though you somehow must be if the world hasn’t gone spotty and white on you yet. She points the tip of her knife towards Sasha, her own grin widening. “Not if I think of it first, Waybright.”

You’re shaking all over now—legs, arms, hands, head, you name it. Your brain is spinning with questions.

Something? First? Waybright? Knife? Hurt? BDSM? Possessiveness? Bad blood? Former warriors? Violent tendencies?

Violent tendencies?

VIOLENT TENDEN—

“Uh, guys?” Marcy says, giving you a lightning-bolt shock out of your fugue, at least for the moment. “Can we not do this right now, please? I think my friend’s getting a little scared.”

Anne seems to be yanked back to the here and now, too. She looks around—and makes eye contact with you for the first time. By now, you’re starting to get a bit exhausted from all the fear that’s been coursing through your spirit for the past twenty minutes, so there’s little to spare when she speaks to you for the first time. You figure that’s for the best.

“Oh. Hi. Uh…didn’t see you there. Sorry about that,” she says. Her cheeks have gone quite dark all of a sudden, though you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or stepping into the dimmer lights of the dining room. She puts the knife down on the table and offers her hand out to you, her smile now much more soft. “I’m Anne.”

You hesitate for a second, fighting your uncertainty over which version of her you just saw is the more genuine one. The more trustworthy one. Realizing that you don’t want to be rude to the apparent master of the house on your first visit, however, you force your right hand to put down your water glass, then raise it back up to meet Anne’s. “P-Pleasure to meet you,” you manage to say.

To your surprise, her touch is quite calming. You could swear you feel caterpillars blooming into butterflies in your chest and flying away then and there.

You break off the handshake with unexpected reluctance, shaking your head, mind still spinning. Maybe you need to start working on that water Marcy gave you to get your head back on straight.

You clear your throat before grabbing your glass again, downing about a quarter of it in one swoop. As you do so, you take in what’s on the table for the first time. Feeling the surface of it with your free hand through a plaid tablecloth decorated in pink, green, and blue squares with multicolored frills, you discern it to be made of pretty solid oak. Everyone’s plates are as white as healthy teeth, with single blue stripes encircling their round edges. The utensils themselves aren’t too flashy, but the glasses are quite intricate in their decorations; in addition to the water glasses being triple-roll-ridged at the top, the others have beautiful wine glasses as well, with each corresponding to their apparent favorite color—Sasha’s already downing her pink one, Marcy smiling at her green one, Anne pouring out some red wine into her blue one. All three have alternating clear-and-colored stones, bordered and stitched together.

You take another sip of your water, smaller this time. Your thoughts are slowing down again, but you’re still very much unsettled. Something’s gonna break if this keeps up, and you know it. Should have come in here with an exit strategy…

No, your mind intones. You wanted this. You NEED this. You’re not going to let THEM dictate your evening, are you?

You grit your teeth. Another gulp of your water. You don’t know about needing this visit, but you sure aren’t going to let them dictate how this night’s going to go. That time has long since passed.

You think.

You turn your focus back to the table. Best to see what dishes you’ll be dealing with tonight.

True to Marcy and Sasha’s word, a big pot full of steaming roast beef dominates the center of the table, with fistfuls of chopped carrots, celery, and onions poking out over the top of it. Okay. So far, so good.

To the right of the roast, a mid-sized bowl full of bread rolls sits, radiating with heat. Right next to that is…a bottle of A1 hot sauce? Huh. Not the most conventional thing in the world, but could still be workable as long they were separable.

To the left of the pot, however…a dish you can’t quite begin to comprehend. It looks like a salad at first glance, but the construction of it is quite unusual. To begin with, a large, ridged leaf of some kind serves as a makeshift floor for the rest of the ingredients piled on top of it. Some of these you don’t recognize, but what perplexes you are those that do: tomatoes, carrots, peanuts, shrimp, lime juice, and garlic. Combined with the scattered flecks of beans, pulp, and sugar you see sprinkled on top, you can’t help but feel a touch nauseous looking at it. The last thing you need right now is something spicy or weird that could upset your stomach more than it already has been—and tip the others off to anything wrong with you.

You look at Anne. She’s been chatting with Marcy about her workday and how fascinating you seem to be to work with and talk to, and she’s now looking you in the eyes again. Which means…

Hoo boy. You don’t have a backup for this one. You consider coming up with an off-the-cuff joke, then think better of it. Not a good idea to make a bad first impression worse if you can help it.

You blink, clearing your throat. “I’m sorry, what was your question again?” you ask.

“I was asking if you had any hobbies. Outside of work, I mean,” she replies. No visible change of expression at your miscue, from what you can tell. Okay. Maybe this is still salvageable.

“Not really, to be honest,” you reply, forcing your happy smile back onto your face. “I mean, unless you count watching TV or listening to music or…reading.” You look down and blush at this last one. Good frog, you must sound like such a loser nerd right now.

“Hey, it’s okay! You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Anne replies. She smiles. “I mean, I was never super into books or anything, but I love music and TV shows!” She leans in. You could swear her eyes seem to be a bit wider now, as if anticipating your next answer. “Do you listen to K-Pop at all?”

Crap. Going straight for the garrote, are we? Well. Here’s hoping this is a quick death.

You let out a huff, hoping it’s enough to hide your momentary widened eyes and flared nostrils at Anne’s query. You lock eyes with her. “Can’t say I do, to be honest,” you reply, keeping your voice as even as possible. “Never really…struck a chord with me, I guess. At least, none of it that I’ve heard.”

Anne begins to smile. You feel the tiniest ball of ice beginning to form in your privates. “How much of it have you actually heard?”

Your hands start to wiggle again, and you thrust them under the table as quick as you can to hide them. From the corner of your eye, you think you see Sasha raise an eyebrow, but that’s not important to you right now. What is, is keeping composure. Keeping appearances.

“A very limited amount,” you say. Your voice is starting to dry up, and you hope Anne doesn’t notice. “Only what I’ve heard sneak onto Top 40 stations.”

Anne grin widens. The ice-ball in you begins to spread into your bowels.

“Dude! You’ve been missing out. There’s so many amazing artists out there that don’t get any airplay. Here, I’ll show you!”

She whips out her cell phone from beneath the table, looking to Marcy and Sasha. “Everyone all right with Blackpink with dinner tonight?”

No, you think. Your heart’s beginning to pound. You feel your eyes widening and dilating again. No. Frog. Please. Please don’t play the song I think you’re gonna play. PLEASE don’t play the song I think you’re gonna play.

“Yaaaaass!” Marcy yells, raising her arms as if in triumph.

“I couldn’t think of a better choice, Annie,” Sasha says, a big grin on her face.

I couldn’t think of a worse one, you think, though you bite your tongue for the sake of formality. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself. You’re sure it’s true, though. Pretty sure.

You do, however, find room to voice one concern out loud. “Hold on a second. They’re a dance group, right? Or at least dance-pop?”

Anne raises an eyebrow, thumb hovered over her phone—over her music app, you presume. “Yeah. Why?”

You take a deeper breath, one you hope is not too needy-sounding. Frog knows you’ve made that mistake too many times.

“Wouldn’t it be, uh…hard to talk to each other, then? If we played it too loud, I mean? We are at dinner, after all.”

Anne’s face falls a little bit. Disappointment. Oh no. Oh no no no no NO. You need to—

“They do have a point, Anne,” Sasha cuts in, making you flinch again. Good frog, there’s actual amphibians who jump less than you do at the littlest things, it seems like. You feel a twinge of warmth in your chest for Sasha’s good timing, though that’s more because of sheer dumb luck on your part than any kind of perceptiveness on hers, at least from what you can see.

Sasha presses on. “I mean, we don’t have to listen to classical stuff or anything, but we should be able to have background music on without having to shout over each other.” She smiles, then reaches over to your right shoulder to squeeze it. “Plus, our new friend deserves to feel comfortable here.”

You can’t help but drop your head at that. How pathetic must you be to not just want music to be quieter, but to have someone request that on your behalf? Too much to be considered anybody’s “new friend,” that was for sure. Why couldn’t you just let people play their music the way they want to? Why did YOU have to be such a special snowflake that a harmless little EDM song left you on the edge of a nervous breakdown every time someone made a meme or repost out of it?

What validity did YOUR pain have compared to anyone else’s?

None. That was how much validity it had. None whatsoever. Nothing that could compare to what Anne and Sasha must have gone through in battle, or anything Marcy must have endured while watching her “loves” put life and limb on the line for the sake of your world and another. Bottom line, you didn’t deserve to be here. Plain and simple. Not in this nice house, not with this meal made with passion and love you don’t deserve to be given, not with this group of beautiful and amazing women whom you have no right to feel affection for and are too damn good for you.

Your breath starts to hitch, though it doesn’t quite feel like a struggle to breathe. Your chest feels very tight and heavy all of a sudden, but it’s not the kind of tightness you’ve experienced before that would preclude one of your fugues or fainting spells. You can’t quite place it, but you know you don’t like it. Perhaps you should do something useful for once and figure out a cover for it, double time.

You start to cough. You wait for a reaction from the others.

“Woah! Easy!” Marcy leans over, putting a hand on your other shoulder. Bingo. That’s your cue.

You cough louder, putting the crook of your arm over your mouth. You consider wiping away the tears starting to leak out of you, then decide against it. Better to use them to help sell this than give away their true nature. You squeeze your eyes shut for emphasis, then bring yourself back up again, blinking your eyes fast as you fix them on the ceiling for a moment.

“Hooooo,” you grunt, shredding your voice a bit in the process.

“You all right?” Marcy asks, rubbing your left shoulder just a touch. You’re blushing a little now—have been since Sasha started to do the same to your other shoulder, as a matter of fact—but this, too, can be covered up as part of the act. And now that it’s a bit deeper from Marcy joining in? All the better.

“Yeah, yeah! I’m okay. Just, uh…” Your mind blanks for a horrifying moment. Then you remember your sweating from outside, and decide to use it one more time. Just this once, though. More and they’ll be suspicious for sure. “—still dealing with a little dehydration, is all. I should probably drink more of my water here.” You throw in a patented embarrassed laugh for good measure.

You feel Sasha and Marcy’s hands leave your shoulders, though with odd slowness. You swallow. They bought it, but you’re out of deflection cards. Better step your toughness game up if you want to last the rest of the night.

You grab your water again, noticing it’s half-empty. All right. Not as bad as it could be. As you take another sip from it, you glance back at Anne. She’s put her phone down on the table for the moment, but she’s staring at you, quite tensed up. Waiting to see if you’re going to break even further, perhaps?

You smirk, raising both of your eyebrows. If she’s as on the wrong side of kindness as you think she might be, you’re not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break down even further.

“You see something green?” you ask her. You slurp your water, keeping your eyes on Anne’s as you wait for her response.

It's her turn to furrow her brows and tilt her head at you. Then a spark of understanding lights up her face, and she shoots you the same wicked grin she was giving Sasha a couple of minutes ago. “Well, no. First off, I was just wanting to make sure you wouldn’t hack a lung all over my table—”

“Our table, exsqueeze you,” Sasha interrupts. You slide your eyes to the right to see Sasha with a similar grin as Anne’s, then flick them back to Anne just in time to see her narrow her eyes and stick her tongue out at the blonde. Your own smirk begins to widen as Sasha continues. “What? I was the one who bought it with my own money.”

“Yeah, and all you ever do is eat off it, ya big meathead.”

A playful half-grimace from Sasha as she puts a fist on her right hip. “Takes one to know one, girlfriend. Remind me who’s been cooking Friday night dinners the last few weeks?”

Anne flicks her eyes to the ceiling in mock deep thought, then fires them back at Sasha. “Can’t say I remember exactly. Something about a musclebound brute with a psych degree.”

“Says the one who loves invading my gym room every chance she gets.”

“What can I say? You put on quite the show when you’re in there.”

“Uh, duh. It’d be kinda weird if the so-called ‘Strength Person’ in this family didn’t tear it up in every gym she went to. If anything, you’re the weirdo.”

“I’m sorry, who’s the super-saiyan between us again?”

You freeze at that. Up to this point in the banter exchange, you’ve been maintaining your smile and mischievous façade with surprising ease, considering what you’ve been through today. Inside, however, you’ve been feeling yourself teetering again. Now, Anne’s casual mention of that form of hers makes you feel like your grip’s slipped off the controls, stumbling into empty space.

In one unconscious motion, your right hand shoots up into view and grips the table with a firm claw hold. The soft bang of hand on wood causes Sasha to whip her head towards you, and everyone falls silent.

Dammit, you think. Thought I was a lot more quiet about it than that. Now what?

Now what comes in the form of Marcy reaching over to slide a couple of her fingers under your clawed hand, pushing upward against your palm to try to loosen your grip on the table. You don’t move it at first, wanting to make sure it won’t be trembling and give everything away when you do.

A moment passes. Two. The silence becomes more awkward as the atmosphere of concern in the room becomes more apparent. You maintain your focus on your hand, however. Doing this right is going to be crucial.

A couple of more seconds pass. At last, you feel some stability coming back into your hand as Marcy’s fingers somehow help relax it. You decide to take a chance.

You lift your fingers up from the table edge—one inch, two, three. Marcy takes the opportunity to slide the rest of her hand under yours. Frog, I hope Anne and Sasha aren’t seeing this, you think, your heart beginning to race yet again. I REALLY don’t want to get kicked out of their house for this.

You shoot a look at Anne, then at Sasha. They’re both watching you, but with strange looks on their faces. Concern? Panic? You can’t quite tell, but they both seem ready to jump at something. Someone, perhaps.

You swallow, turning your attention back to Marcy. She begins to lift your hand up in hers from the table, then lowers it into your lap. The ice-ball in your nether-regions, still growing after all this time, has now spread through all of your bowels. You decide to focus your attention on Marcy’s face in hopes of staving it off.

Looking into her eyes, you’re surprised to see her smiling. You decide to focus on her features in the hope of grounding yourself a little bit. Not because you think she’s as super-pretty as the others, though. No siree.

It’s fascinating, though, looking at her like this. You knew the general details of how she looked on a regular basis. Long black hair that went about a quarter of the way down her back. Green clip on the right side of the top of her head. Tan skin that’s smooth aside from the scar above her left jawbone. Small yet rounded eyes, nose, and mouth. Jean jacket with a fistful of frog-related pins and buttons on the collar and breast pockets, often covering a plain green t-shirt underneath. Regular blue jeans with the smallest of knee holes. Red sneakers scuffed with dirt along its white edges.

And yet, looking at her now, you feel yourself picking up on a few things about her that you somehow didn’t notice before. Like how she’s not bothering to pull her stray hairs back behind her ears. And how her dimples help accentuate her sweet smile and caring eyes when she’s talking to someone she trusts. And how her hands fit so well over yours like a pair of gloves, not to mention how the softness of her touch often makes you want to sway side to side.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Marcy asks. There’s no mistaking the concern in her voice now.

You grind your teeth. You hate to lie to her like this—to all of them, in point of fact. But…there’s no way you can tell them about this. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever, considering their sources of whatever trauma they all have are a lot less mundane and stupid compared to yours. Better to just finish this evening off as best you can and try to get back home.

You put your smile on again. It feels like more of a struggle than before, as if your facial muscles are one of the apparent weights Sasha likes to lift. Not that you can afford to think about that right now.

So many traps for you to fall into, you oversensitive ninny…

“I’m fine, Marcy. Really. You don’t have to worry about me. Matter of fact, a round of food in my belly will probably do me some good right about now.”

Marcy scrunches her eyebrows up, her face contorted into an expression somewhere between frustration, helplessness, and unhappiness, as best you can tell. You look down. It hurts your heart to do this to her, but it’s just what’s gotta happen, right? Batten down, get going, get through it, and get out. Perhaps even Sasha could appreciate that.

Nonetheless, you feel her hands leaving yours with the same awkward slowness with which she and Sash took theirs off your shoulders after your fake coughing fit. She nods as she begins to turn back towards the table. “You know what? Yeah. Maybe we should.” She looks up towards the others. “What do you say, guys? You think we should start now?”

“Fine with me,” Sasha says from your other side. “That pot roast ain’t getting any warmer.”

“I agree,” says Anne. She’s smiling again—the warmer variety, this time. “We might as well rip the band-aids off and see just how good we are as ‘food rescuers.’”

That gets a big laugh out of all the girls, easing much of the tension in the room for the moment. Though you don’t join in, you can’t help but smile in solidarity at the crack. You have to admit these girls can be pretty funny with their banter. At least, when they want to be.

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maxillo · 3 years ago

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artist, writer, music-maker, conlanger, occasional indie game developer. bachelor’s degree in information science. see bottom of this post for links to and descriptions of my original story projects. @maxdimo has original content only. 🌈🔥

tags: #llamart (my art), #max yaks (me being silley), #max tunes (my music), #md (me-core stuff), #cosmosis, #cryptidverse, #devius ex machina

things i tag for blacklists: #body horror, #eyestrain, #flashing images, #unreality, #animal death, #blood, #nsfw text / #suggestive (mild shitposts only), #gore (never irl!), #food. lmk if you need anything else tagged

interests: space, sci-fi, conlangs, dinosaurs, chaos ontology & metaphysics, prismatic gemstones, cinematography, indigenous rights/languages/histories, programming, extreme body modifications, writing tropes, speedrunning history, glitches, liminal spaces, worldbuilding, character design, and lizards.

media: spore & spinoffs, better call saul/breaking bad, vs. dave and bambi (fnf), invader zim, fossil fighters, undertale/deltarune, mob psycho 100, OFF, madness combat, flight rising, goatlings. i consume media critically.

fave bands/artists: Igorrr, C418, PilotRedSun/Bittertooth, Death Grips, Alias Conrad Coldwood, NDAD/Lauren Bousfield, Autechre, Toby Fox, The Black Dog, Plaid, Gridlock, Osamu Sato, Chipzel, Download, Amon Tobin, Skinny Puppy, Katagiri, Nine Inch Nails, Rinse & Repeat, Steinvord, Gojira, Justice, Machine Girl, Synthamesk, OSTS: Half Life 1 & 2, Portal 2, Dino Run, Spore Creatures DS

not putting up a public dni, i'll just block you if you're gross and meet any standard criteria for those.

Projects

Note: Wikis will eventually be moved to GitHub.

Do feel free to ask questions abt any of these, I may post about them infrequently here but I fucking love talking about them!!!!! Literally special interest Numero Uno for me it is my Lifeblood and Soul.

Cosmosis 🌌

ART | WIKI | OST [86 songs, 2:38:48]

Genre: Hard (ish) sci-fi

Content warnings: Profanity, mild violence, sensitive/mature topics, drug use.

Format: Disparate wiki documentation, illustrations, comics, animations (planned)

Year started: 2014

Total notes wordcount: 1,389,000

Easily both my largest and oldest story project, and one of my primary special interests. Is almost entirely focused on character dynamics between a gaggle of species and the shenanigans they experience adapting to life on the friendly world of Waboone. The main character, Len, is the only human in the group in a time and place where humans and Earth are completely unheard of, requiring him to learn the modern trade language of standard intergalactic from the ground up.

There's not much public shit to look at yet as far as the actual story goes, but I will be gradually building up a wiki to document its settings, species, languages, and so forth. Primarily inspired by Spore and Undertale.

Focuses:

Character-driven dynamics, arcs, and plot

Worldbuilding (aliens, tech, planets)

Slice-of-life

Linear narrative

Neurodiversity

Effects of/recovery from trauma

Non-romantic intimacy; primarily aromantic and asexual cast

Found family

Conlangs; standard intergalactic is the default language for in-universe content

Cryptidverse 🛣️

WIKI | OST [7 songs, 37:43]

Genre: Speculative fiction (sci-fi/fantasy/supernatural in a blender, very occasional horror elements)

Content warnings: Profanity, violence, gore, sensitive/mature topics.

Format: Wiki documentation; short animations (planned); written narratives (planned)

Year started: 2019

Total notes wordcount: 277,000

Newer but more public worldbuilding project. A conglomeration of creature ideas I've thought of since childhood, loosely tied together in a shared setting as "cryptids", which are documented by humans and other species. Cryptids inherently defy human understanding of science and reality, making their documentation a struggle. They proliferate liminal spaces and can have wildly varying characteristics. The existential origins and traits of cryptids are a major focus, as well as the dilemmas with classifying them and their traits into any discrete categories.

Primarily inspired by Pokémon and a similarly inspired project by someone else that I haven't been able to track down in years.

Focuses:

Non-human(oid) main characters and POV (for narrative content)

Metaphysics, ontology, and philosophy

Creature design

Decentralized narratives (there is no one linear "story")

Neurodiversity

Liminal spaces

Alternate history

58 notes · View notes

marvelling · 3 years ago

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( A WORN-IN LEATHER JACKET, THE ROARING OF A COCKPIT, THE REFLECTION OF STARS IN YOUR EYES )▸ welcome to latverion, CAROL DANVERS (CAPTAIN MARVEL). it’s time to be gracious, for in this vast multiverse, you have been saved by emperor doom. according to records you are 57 (physically appears 30s) and use SHE/HER pronouns. emperor doom expects you’ll enjoy your career as BATTLE CHAMPION, or else. excellent. we look forward to your contribution. ( CLAIRE, GMT, 24, SHE/HER, BRIE LARSON )

ABOUT BASICS

FULL NAME: carol susan jane danvers / car-ell

ALIAS: captain marvel

AGE: 57 (april 24, 1965) (physically appears early 30s)

AFFILIATIONS: avengers, (alpha flight, carol corps)

GENDER AND PRONOUNS: cis female, she/her

FACE CLAIM: brie larson

IN-DEPTH ANALYSIS

POINT OF ORIGIN:

carol’s based on a sort of hybrid mcu/616 canon! the logistics are still a little rough around the edges so bear with me, but i’m taking some of her mcu backstory and role within the team, mixing it with her comics origins (she’s half-kree, got her powers differently, etc etc) and using more 616 to flesh her out

ABILITIES/SKILLS:

superhuman strength, stamina, agility, durability, & reflexes; flight; regenerative manipulation; decelerated aging; energy manipulation; master pilot & combatant

HAVE THEY BROUGHT ANY FAMILY OR PETS WITH THEM:

yes! chewie, my beloved -- she’s a cranky wonderful tabby cat who is ACTUALLY a flerken (cat-shaped extremely powerful alien don’t worry about it)

ANY HEADCANONS YOU WANT OTHERS TO KNOW:

(tw death, alcoholism, war)

she was born in boston in the late 60s to joe & marie danvers, a perfectly ordinary and in no way alien couple, no sir!

(turns out marie was, in fact, mari-ell, making carol half-kree, but she didn’t learn that for a pretty long time)

joe was… not the best dad & definitely favored carol’s half-brothers, stevie & joe, jr.

carol and stevie were really close growing up, and when he joined the military, she wanted to follow in his footsteps!

what she really wanted was to study literally rocket science in college and become an astronaut, but the family didn’t have enough money to pay for her to study; rather than being forced into a menial job, carol joined the air force. she earned her college degree through the us air force academy–she was one of the earlier classes of women to graduate, and a goddamn phenomenal pilot

not too long later, stevie was killed in military action, which made carol even more determined to honor his legacy, and she quickly rose to the top of her class

however, carol wasn’t allowed to fly in combat or become an astronaut due to Sexism TM! she was instead offered the opportunity to work as a special operative, and came onboard Project PEGASUS, a joint project between the air force, SHIELD, and NASA – headed by dr. wendy lawson, who quickly became a close mentor

lawson, was, of course, also a kree soldier named mar-vell, who, in carol’s presence, was attacked by her superior, yon-rogg

in the process, carol was knocked into a psyche-magitron machine, forever altering her genetic structure, rendering her amnesiac and unlocking her latent kree powers (she believed for a long time that she had somehow fused with mar-vell’s dna, but, nah, comics logic)

yon-rogg kidnapped carol, and for the next six years, she was trained as a kree soldier named vers, until she crash-landed on earth during a mission and managed to regain her memory

in the process, she allied with nick fury and basically became the on-call space girl/extraterrestrial superhero–first for shield, then for the avengers

at some point in there she was just entirely absorbed by rogue?? (tbd dependent on if/when we get a rogue), but that was a bad time for her, and she still has trauma from such a violating loss of identity

carol is a massive star wars nerd & has a pet cat (flerken) named chewie (chewbacca), who is a very good girl and we love her very much

in this house carol danvers is a lesbian !!

the combo of lightspeed travel & her kree abilities has dramatically slowed her aging–though she is well into her late 50s, she looks solidly 30 at most

this is a long rambling mess i’m sorry if you’ve made it this far i love you

QUESTIONNAIRE

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT EMPEROR DOOM?

Oh, fuck that guy. She doesn’t do well with authority (shut up, Tony), and she extremely doesn’t do well with overbearing megalomaniacal would-be emperors trying to build the entire world in their image. It’s not a great look. Carol has spent her life trying to reclaim power and autonomy from people who would try to take it away from her, just as she’s tried to do right by the little guy and keep people safe. The guy’s going down, and she’s not afraid to make some noise about it.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT THE BATTLES? ARE THEY TRYING TO AVOID THEM? OR ARE THEY EAGER TO JUMP IN?

This is a woman who canonically regularly beats up the Hulk just to feel a little better. Carol’s a battle champion, and she’s good at it. She hates being used for these ends; it’s dehumanizing and humiliating, and she’s spent too much of her life as someone else’s soldier. She’s strong as shit, but she’d rather be using that for herself, to make her own choices, to be her own person. No one should be used as a punching bag for someone else’s pleasure, someone else’s agenda, without consent or autonomy. She knows what that’s like. It’s awful. Still, there’s a thrill in the fight. It makes her feel alive. It makes her almost feel sane. Almost.

WHY HAS YOUR CHARACTER ACCEPTED THEIR JOB POSITION? WILL THEY USE IT TO GET CLOSER TO DOOM? OR WILL THEY USE IT EXPLOIT HIM? OR DO THEY SIMPLY LIKE THEIR JOB?

See above! She loves her job, but she hates her job, if that makes sense? Getting to just punch people is a terrific fit for her, and a great way to take out some of that pent-up energy and anger. But she hates why she’s doing it, and she hates that she has to do it. At least it’ll give her a ground-level view to see what’s going on--she’s never been very good on the ground, so it’s a change of pace. If she can get towards Doom’s good side, she can exploit him, and maybe fix this mess. Maybe. That implies getting on his good side, though, which, knowing her, isn’t about happen. She’s a damn good soldier, but a terrible spy.

#latverion:intro #intro #tags tbd

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ursie · 2 years ago

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Tell me about your oc Finn 👀📝 (also see I can do that too ❤️)

Adsgsgffsf help I can’t believe I’m being 👀📝 on my own blog..the nerve (❤️)

Anyway Finn is from my brother and I making oc X-men teams because we were bored. Our minds so keep that in mind that they’re designed to exist with the X-men today

Sophie (Finn) Lewis/ aka Ground Zero

Comes from long lines of (very self hating tbh) mutants.

He/Him

Butch Lesbian

Absolute chad

Ran away from home. Lived in a very religious (pentecostal to be specific) mutant community. Lot of attempted “cures”

He was raised in a very conservative (and explicitly misogynistic) manner and has a lot of hang ups at doing anything traditionally feminine tbh. He can cook/sew/ect was taught all of that it just carries a lot of baggage too

Accidentally became leader of his group of new kids because he’s the only one with self preservation skills. And common sense.

Their team is called The Vagabonds due to everyone’s relationship to home, people, and the island itself (none of them think it’s gonna last-or that it’s a particularly good thing in the first place)-they’re put in their group due to their high level mutations + distinct lack of love for Prof X’s teachings. Teaching them now to keep them from being issues down the road.

Gambit is their main teacher as he’s stepped down from an active roll to be a house spouse tbh (and his prev injuries are giving him trouble). He didn’t want to but Jean pointed out that aside from the fact he’s actually one of the only good teachers they have-they are more likely to trust him due to his history.

Gambits actually a p good teacher tbh

He has multiple powers due to the nature of his mutation (and being a legacy at that). He can create simple energy constructs/barriers using his own strength/energy to do so-inside his barriers he can boost his teammates power/health/ect (using his own health. Aside from that he can fly + mild precognition (needs to focus on what he wants to know-and can only see ahead into the same day-needs to be at full strength to do so-can project visions on his barriers

Once he runs outa juice his hair/eyes turns white (it fading as he uses his strength)

Leader but is a support/first aide hero. Not a heavy hitter focuses more on evac/medical/boosting his teammates.

Jock just really likes sports-used to sneak out at night to play with their neighbors daughter (became his 1st gf-ran away when she outed him)

Very good at baseball. Plays on the Krakoa team.

Has a nursing degree

Is the mom friend is the dad friend. Hates it

Actually one of the better combatants on a technical level in the team he just doesn’t have super strength or anything helpful against most metas-and what he does have he tries not to use needlessly. Does use a Bo staff when necessary.

Has a crush on Eddie and Zoey but as they are both in very committed relationships (and Eddie is straight) stays silent-still jokingly flirts with them though

Really does look up to Eddie because he has such trauma associated with womanhood and seeing Eddie’s joy with it and owning it and making is her own (Eddie is a Trans girl) really does make him feel a certain way lotta solidarity between those two (they are bffs-and tbh the crush does eventually go away and it settles into something much more familial)

Just dates a lot of people like dating is normal not being exclusive is normal just. Doesn’t think much of it and wants to explore his options but does eventually settle into a relationship with Amahle and Ivanna (a Wakandan and Atlantian mutant respectively-Amahle is a technopath and Ivanna has super tracking so to speak)

Very protective of Rosie and whilst he 100% gets Lenny’s fear and reluctance to come out does not like him leading her on especially not just to make Micheal jealous

Thinks Leslie is a ditz. Loves xem. Genuinely treats xem like zey’re 12 half the time (in his defense ze acts like xer are 12 half the time)

Lost his one of his legs in a mission (it was a choice) has a cool red one now.

Terrible stutter. Drives all the girls crazy nonetheless. Chad king 😳🥵

Body ody ody built like a brick house

Part of Gambits book club really loves reading all the books he wasn’t allowed to read in his youth

Wears a lot of lesbian slogan tees. Borderline misandrist ❤️

Rare long haired butch (his hair grows comically fast)

Really annoyed by the fact he’s one of the only members who can drive. Not annoyed enough to give lessons though. Remy can do that

#I love him. chad king #ocs #asks #anon #long post

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sk-lumen · 4 years ago

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I feel that I am on the cusp of great change, but something is holding me back that I can't let go of because I don't know what it is. From since I can remember, most of my 'problems' have come from not being able to love or be loved. How do I combat this?

Hi anon,

I'm happy to hear you're ready to make a huge change in your life. Whatever your level up journey has been so far, know that I'm proud of you. Making big changes is not easy, because let's be honest, it requires a certain degree of mindfulness and owning up to where you are in life. But it's a necessity to review what is, so you can decide where you want to go from there.

From what you mentioned, there may be a lot to unpack, but the important thing is you've already made the first step - choosing to heal, to recover, to get better.

"Not being able to love or be loved" is not a light matter, and I empathize with that. There are so many reasons or causes for this, but the good news is, everything you need is at your disposal: it starts with you. It starts with shaking the dust off your inner world and stirring up any limiting or toxic beliefs. By asking yourself deep questions which delve into the core of any childhood memories, wounds, traumas or anything else.

Questions like...

When was the last time you felt really loved, really seen and appreciated?

Do you feel worthy of healthy, deep, fulfilling love? If not, then why not?

Do you find yourself unconsciously sabotaging your relationships, rocking the boat just when it gets really good? Perhaps it's your subconscious' way of finding itself in new, uncomfortable environment (that being a healthy relationship) and, in a half-panic to steer the situation into familiar grounds, it sabotages everything. At the same time, it now proves your internal/mental belief system (of not having/deserving healthy relationships) and continues to validate them in this vicious cycle. And the key to overcome any vicious cycle, is to break it. Break the patterns, shift your mindset, reprogram your belief system.

What is “familiar” for you in terms of a relationship? Is it a list of mostly negative aspects? Then it may be time that you to change your mindset about what is familiar (=safe, good) with positive aspects that actually builds a healthy relationship.

Yes, healing starts with mindfulness and self-awareness as the first step, but then you need to practice it. I'm not going to sugarcoat the journey of self love as some glamorous, cotton-candy filled process (although incorporating pink into your environment does help, not gonna lie). It’s not just fancy facemasks and treating yourself. That’s just the glamorous side.

Self love practices can be actual selfcare practices:

By taking care of yourself, day by day, you begin to see your own beauty and appreciate all that you are.

By taking the time each day to nourish your body with healthy, hearty meals that keeps you strong and vibrant with vitality; by taking the time to brush your hair, lotion your body, brush your teeth, or indulge in further skincare regimes.

By looking out for your future self by doing things you don't feel like doing but which you know will make you feel better afterwards (just getting out of bed and taking a shower, when you may be feel depressed or anxious or just drained of energy); or even just by wiping down the kitchen surfaces, putting away any household clutter, and preparing your outfit for the morning after... The you from next morning will feel so much better to wake up to a clean, tidy home and outfit ready to go, right?

All these things add up. Day by day, it builds on your bond with yourself.

It helps you find safety within, because you realize you'll always have your own back.

It helps you find peace within, because you realize everything you need is already within you, those things you're chasing, none of them are essential to inner fulfillment. That cute person thinking you’re hot? Falls short next to finding that all-encompassing relief of feeling fully comfortable in your own body.

It helps you develop trust within, as you can now trust the most important person in your life - yourself, because you're loyal and authentic to yourself and honor your boundaries, your fears, your needs. When you make sure you're priority nr. 1, you'll be at ease because you'll never have to worry about being abandoned, or not being validated or appreciated through external forces. When you take care of your needs from the getgo, you step out into the world as a whole being, and not a half missing its other half.

It helps you find love within yourself most importantly, and at long last, you'll stop chasing it everywhere outside of you, because you'll realize what you really need to fill that emptiness within, is already within you - your own acceptance, your own respect and appreciation.

Darling, you're absolutely worthy of love!

If you don't believe it, write down "I'm lovable" every day. State it out loud every morning and day and night until it's engrained in your mind.

Use all of these habits and practices to your benefit. Journaling, meditating, mindfulness. Healing selfcare practices. Selflove begins with you taking care of you. If nothing else, it begins with you saying "yes, I accept that I'm lovable and worthy of being loved in my fullness". Yes, it begins with you, but you don't have to walk this path alone. You can accept help from friends and family, from specialists, just keep in mind that your healing is your responsibility first and foremost, not anyone else's. Other people can help on this path, and you can and should let them because they love you and only want to help you. But keep in mind they, too, are responsible for their own healing and working through their challenges and limiting beliefs.

I mention this because codependency and projecting onto other people are not the foundation for a healthy relationship, on the contrary. Because by projecting onto other people in a relationship, we are essentially expecting them to fix our issues, heal our wounds, fill the emptiness in us, make everything better in our place. We put our whole life's burden onto them, and then we wonder why the relationship crashes and burns, turns toxic, or leaves us unfulfilled. Why? Because the solution is believed to be in the external world, outside ourselves, anywhere else except ourselves. Because in a world where everybody rejects accountability for their own healing, the burden falls always on "the other person", and you can see why it can turn unhealthy fast. However, in a world where we strive to take charge of our healing journey, we lay the foundations for our own healing. It begins with each of us.

Note: I'm not licensed to offer specialised advice. For that, I would heartily recommend a specialist such as a therapist. Here and now, I want to make clear that there is nothing taboo, unusual, embarrassing or strange about reaching out to therapists. In fact, I genuinely believe if everyone had a therapist, the world would 200% be a happier place, because we'd stop just bottling every damn thing inside, you know? A specialist can help with listening, with providing clarity over your whole life, with forming accountability for your own choices, and so much more. They can help realign your thought patterns, your beliefs which, as we age, get so engrained and fixed in our heads, that it gets harder (yet still possible) to budge and change.

I hope these gentle words offer some comfort, and help you in your journey of healing. Just remember, you’re not alone okay? And if anyone thinks you’re not lovable, just throw this post in their face, because if Lumen says you’re lovable then you better damn believe you’re lovable. *mic drop*

Much love, -𝓛𝓾𝓶𝓮𝓷

#selflove #selfcare #glow up #glow up threads #growth mindset #leveling up #ask #you are worthy of love

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doloreterno · 3 years ago

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Hey. How are you?

I want to ask you that. But I have no way of reaching you. I have no means of communication with you. I can't ask how you are or see if you're okay. I can't celebrate your successes or mourn your failures from afar. And maybe I deserve it. But I feel I don't.

It's been about two years now. I don't know if I should count from August or November. November is when you officially abandoned me, but August is when you first admitted to cheating on me - secretly, of course. Honestly, Ollie, I used to be a mod on that server. All I had to do was ask and I was able to go back and read and delete all of your confessions. Star and I have been friends for years, now. Geez...Years. it's weird to say. Being locked up for ten years does shit to you, huh?

I can't help but wonder "why". Why did you abandon me? Why did you stalk me? Why did you abuse me? Why did you even agree to anything in the first place?

I remember the day we met, mostly. You and Birdy were a thing. I....Honestly forgot most of Birdy. I know he was catty and mean. I know he hated me. I know he abused you. And I know it's him I should thank for introducing us. I remember you mentioning we'd met before, too...

And I remember Ciro. It's funny what time does, you know? The first person I'd ever fallen so hard for is now a distant, bittersweet memory. You know what they say, I guess; hindsight is 20/20.

What they don't mention is how painful it is, and how often times, the other person isn't the only one in the wrong. I fully admit that in the past? I was an awful, horrible, abusive person; but not to you. I changed for you, because I loved you so, so dearly. And I still do. I'm sure I always will. Just like I still love Ciro, Ryan and Emmett. Love - actual love - never truly goes away.

And that's why I said what I said and acted how I acted. I want you to stay away. You lied to people about me, abused me, gaslit me, made me think I was a monster when I was actively changing, getting help, and being properly diagnosed. And yeah - I still fuck up pretty often. I'm human. And I'm a human that's still learning what do many would have learned in their developmental years; friendship, family, love, happiness, self love, aspirations and goals, support....All these mundane but wonderful things I missed out on my entire life and for those long, long ten years.

I remember when mom moved out. I thought, "It's over? Just like that?" It didn't feel real and I felt so...pit off by it? I don't know the actual words. But I remember how good it felt to be able to express my emotions openly - to be able to feel sad and happy and cry and laugh and listen to music and do art projects and dress how I wanted and come and go as I liked. I was so, so happy and I still am so very happy and grateful to be free.

But so much was done in those years - and in half of that? You were there. I thought when I moved out that finally we could fully be together. All my dreams were coming to fruition. But then...You abandoned me. Not a word of unhappiness was spoken. You just left. Blocked me. Avoided me. Wouldn't even be in the same room as me. And I was utterly powerless again.

I couldn't take it. I sent all those message because I knew, if you came back? I'd take you back with open arms. My heart was a bird and you were it's nest. How can a bird rest when it has no home...?

I figured...Since that was the case, I'd make you hate me. You wouldn't come back, and my planned suicide that night wouldn't bug you.

Jayden may have been an ass, but, he did one thing right. He took me to the ER. Called an Uber. They locked me in that psych ward for a week.

But I'm glad they did. Sounds stupid, right? Especially with how scared I was of psych wards.

But I learned so much about myself, my illness, and the people there gave me wisdom that non atypical people wouldn't give. They may be there for a reason, but so was I.

I guess I'm writing this because, recently, I've come to understand and experience many things. So many things about the world...

Well. I guess the first thing is, I haven't been suicidal since that year. Don't get me wrong - I'm still depressed and lonely often, but definitely not to the degree I was before.

My chosen family is the best family I could ever ask for. My Domme, my step parents, my little brother, my new kitten Neptune...and of course, everyone else I've met.

For someone with BPD, I'm considered hard to read and level headed. My Momma once called me a walking, talking dichotomy and honestly? She's right. It's kind of amusing. But it makes me feel special. It means I survived. Unfortunately, that's not always a good thing either. Being stoic and blank faced all the time seems to stem from the residual trauma of those ten years. But are you really surprised? Cause I'm not.

I've gotten better at vocalizing how I feel. It still takes me a bit and I fumble over words, but, expressing myself vocally has become much easier.

I don't want to get married. I don't want to have kids or a huge, white picket fence family. I'm a polyamorous, grey-ace, low maintenance introvert who prefers cats and pain over the American dream and? I'm okay with that - happy about it, even. It's an odd relief knowing I don't have to live up to those standards that were forced on me for so long.

Lastly....You can feel more than one emotion. About anything. It's okay to. And I'm so grateful for the happy moments we shared and the sweet memories we made. I'm so happy for the times where you did egg me on in my growth. But with that said....I'm also still sad. Still mourning. I wish you had told me. I wish you wouldn't lie to people. I wish I knew all the whys and hows.

But with that....I don't really have much more to say. I guess we both know you could never really replace me just as I can never really replace you. But we shouldn't have to, and shouldn't try to. Everyone is an individual in their own rights. Everyone is different.

I know there's not a chance in frozen hell you'll see this - that any of you will. Malo, Emmett, Karmalits, Angel, Adarius, Nassir, Ciro, Ryan...Thank you for helping me grow. Thank you for loving that broken, venemous child that was locked up and forgotten about. I love all of you dearly and always will. I'm sorry I didn't understand and that I hurt you.

I hope you're proud of who I am and who I'll become

Thank you and I love you.

Forever your blue rose, forever your angel,

Dolor

#a letter ill never send

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trapped-inadystopianovel · 4 years ago

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Hi, hello, it's me, Tatiana, the hot mess behind this blog. So how y'all been? I've been a depressed trash can on fire these past 6ish months! 2020 did a speed run of a decade worth of childhood trauma in that time. It's been a good time on my end. I just thought I would give an update, more for me honestly to help me get a wrap around everything from my life to my WIPs:

I'm over half way down with my accounting degree. Yay!

I have about 7 chapters left of my read through my first draft of Providence(I have been here for like 3 months now and it took my like 3 to get here but it's progress). I've decided it needed more POVs and just whole rewrite. Not a whole lot of changes but also so much.

I'm currently sitting in a moving truck with my dad going from the west valley of Arizona back to the center of North Carolina to move back in with my parents instead of continuing to live with my sister and her family (fuck the chaos)

I've outlined a WIP called All Eyes Are On seeing as I didn't have the mental energy to work on Providence.(I need this in like the two good days I had in the middle)

I also started storyboarding the book after Providence. By start I mean I have 5 sticky notes on my project board. (It's been like that for about 7 months now)

2020 has been a bitch but I've been slowly getting better. I do not thrive under chaos, I shrivel up and die as I get crushed by it.

Also to everyone that sent me MGM, WBW, STS, and any other kind of ask I'm so so sorry I haven't answered them I will get to them when I get home once and for all.

#hi dont mind me #just rambling #tati rambles #not writing

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philomathhh9 · 4 years ago

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A Stroll Down Memory Lane

Philomath, I just took a stroll down memory lane. A very cliché thing to say, I know. It was a long stroll though; the sun set and dawned upon my path countless of times and I kept walking. Swept away in a journey of nostalgia and emotions of comfort, I soon was struck by a wave of anger and resentment.

All began when I chose to check my phone as I dressed to leave home to study for a big upcoming exam. A friend and colleague of mine had messaged me his location in Riyadh; his family recently moved there. We went back and forth and chatted about how our homes where a mere ten minute walk apart and that we could meet up once we visited our families in winter. It then hit me. “Home” was no longer that small cozy place in Saudi Arabia; the little apartment that I spent seventeen years of my life in. The place I had just called Home in front of my friend was nothing but a figment of my past - a dream I dreamt for just a little over a decade and a half. Home in the present is this place in Amman in which I currently take residence in with my sister, my lovely cat Leta, and my sweet departed cat-angel Valenta, who has been buried in our garden since May when illness rode her fate.

I am content with the present day. I really am. However, calling my parents’ place in Saudi Home swung me back to the moments, days, months, and years of my being that I spent in innocence. I ran the Maps application and I checked every part of what used to be my life. I saw the school I spent the whole of my childhood in. I saw the park and the malls I used to go to on weekends with my mother. I saw the restaurant that my father enjoyed dining in on Fridays and I even saw the school I spent my high school years in. I then paused. Memories of my high school senior year washed up from an ocean I thought I had left behind. I spent it the way I spent the entirety of my days till then: dreaming, reading, and exploring the wonders of what life is. Curious is what I was. Not the kind of curious that is forced and involves taking a risk and leave familiar surroundings because they feel threatening and unsafe, but the type of curious that sticks to you in innocence while thriving in your provided environment- you just wonder if the outside is just as splendid.

I wanted to become a lawyer at some point in high school and that brought me to read my personal statement that I had sent to universities in the UK for an undergraduate law degree. In front of me was a live example of what I used to be: a dreamer. Today, I believe that ignorance and innocence are synonymous from a certain perspective, despite being two very different words. The saying “Ignorance is bliss” is popular because of that very reason. Not knowing and staying in my naivete brought me happiness. Soon, the clock started to tick and the time came where being curious was not a thought to think of, but a thought to I had to execute. I had to figure out what was to become of me. My dreams of becoming a lawyer leaped away as the reality of its demanding financing settled. This marks strike one against young Philomath.

Now, I am in the path of becoming a doctor; something I had chosen and kept as a back up plan in case the launch of my time with law failed. I know I did not choose it for the prestige of it. The human body and the world within infatuated me just as much. To reiterate, I am content with who I am and what I am doing today. It just so happened that the start of my new life as a meds student yanked my innocence away from me as I cried for and held on to it for dear life. My parents’ conditioning brought me to block away all my triggers and flaws by daydreaming and spending my time with thoughts of idealism. Now that my little daydreaming session of seventeen years had been brought to a screeching halt, I was shocked with what I found down here. As I recalled this and what followed today, I felt nothing but a strange mix of anger, resentment, disembodiment, and disbelief of what I had been and put others through. My surroundings in my first year of medicine were not only less than ideal, but straight up parasitic and gnawed at my little body day by day. The gnawing manifested physically; I lost a good fifth to fourth of my weight as depression and maladjustment took over me. Now that my bubble of idealism was popped, I was subjected to the thorns I harbored all along and had no idea what to do with them other than project them on others, both good and horrible people alike. That marked strike two for young philomath.

Personal boundaries were alien things to me. Unfortunately, that me twinkle in the eyes of whom I know now to be a narcissistic sociopath. During the timeline in which him and I met, I was already dealing with confusion, maladjustment, and a dear friend that faced demons only I knew of. Today her and I do not really keep in touch anymore despite being mostly amicable. As far as I know, she is thriving and walking up her own path and struggle day by day and I am happy for her. Though, resentment still plagues the back of my head as she fell victim to projection of my own flaws and I sadly fell into hers. It was a lot of up, downs, lefts, and rights with her and at that time we brought horrible things out in each other. Apart from my doings, she had a phobia of abandonment and would do anything and everything to reassure herself and of course, due to my lack of boundaries, I enabled her. She was and is not a person of bad morale, but the anything and everything included a lot of jabs and stabs that mark where some scars in my soul still are today. That was strike three for you, young philomath.

Back to the twinkly yet empty eyes of the narcissist that ended up becoming my wicked boyfriend. Like a vulture, he spent his first few weeks and months with me circling me and analyzing just how vulnerable I was and how much I had on my plate. Again, I had no boundaries; that meant that whatever he wanted, he would draw out of me. And inspite of that, nothing was ever enough for him. Everyone dear in my life at that time, I gone to the extremes for. That is: everyone but my own self. So I kept enabling him to use me, control me, and display me as an accessory. Did I project my flaws on him too? Yes. The truth is I never was, am, and will never be perfect. The difference though, was that I eventually recognized where I fell wrong with my people and took it upon myself to halt it and improve myself. Him on the other hand, emotionally abused the soul out of me until it no longer yearned to be in my body and to this very day, he victimizes himself as the ex of a horrible liar slut that harassed him for affection and ended up cheating on him. Again, horrible move on my part for both parties involved, but I will never ever dismiss the things he would do to me. He would use my insecurities as leverage and hold my emotional needs hostage until I popped and fell into an irrational reactive state. And of course, he contorted it all to make me out as the guilty. The crazy bitch. Yes of course, the crazy bitch that gave him everything she could give to him. The same crazy bitch that he gaslit, put down, and rejected when she needed him the most. What people do not know today is that when I horribly sought other than his affection as I fell into another reactive state due to constant episodic emotional rejection, I already was contemplating leaving him. The cycles of abuse became unbearable, and although I do not excuse myself for it, they finally pushed me to do something that was awfully wrong on my ex’s and the involved person’s behalf. And I cheated. The cherry on top of the icing? I do not recall the timeline it happened and suppressed it due to personal trauma. I lived my life knowing and believing that everything that happened between me and said person was at a time where him and I were not an item. Until it was brought to light by the third party that I did what I did around two weeks before I left him, the time I knew as the moments I was building myself up the courage to leave him. And that was strike four.

Strike four marked the most ultimate of an ultimatum for me; it was either saving myself or continue down the path of self obliteration. Those two weeks before I left him were a turning point; for once I felt like I had to choose myself and my sanity before anyone else’s. I took back control of my life by ending it with him. Although initially it was amicable as we shared a group of friends, I ended up backing away more and more until I cut him off completely because he kept trying to get his sticky fingers on me and snatch me back onto his rollercoaster. Things with my friend were still going though, and with all that I already had endured she again did anything and everything to feel like I was not going to abandon her. I felt and feel for her, I really do. Just like emotional rejection and abuse pushed me to do a big mistake, her fears pushed her too. But reasons and context do not mean excuses. If I held myself accountable for everything I projected on her and him and everyone else in my life at that time, it would mean I had to hold her accountable too. And so, the journey of learning how to set boundaries and bettering myself began. She rejected it the whole time. To her, boundaries meant abandonment, and the more I set them, the more she’d do anything and everything to reassure herself I would not desert her. Until she did one last move, after which I could not bring myself to tolerate anything. At a weak point of hers, she spoke with my same ex that I had cut off to console her about my issues with me. She knew what kind of a person he is. In her vulnerable moments, he saw an opportunity to “avenge” the narcissistic injury I caused him by taking back my own control and pulled and withdrew information from her that he ended up using against me. With one big mistake, he contorted, molded, and spiced things until they tasted just right. To him, this was his big moment that he was waiting for: to end the bitch that dared dump him before he finished dumping her. One year after breaking up with him and not speaking with him at all, he used my friend’s poor judgement and vulnerability to attempt sabotaging me and my reputation. He circled me with other people and bullied me for my pronounced sexuality and supposed “manipulation and lies” and tried to convince other people to jump on an anti-me bandwagon. He even went as far as claiming that his reputation, which he ruined with his own hands, was in fact tarnished by me and the said fact that I was “psychotic” and never shut up about him and talked horrible of him to everyone I knew. All I did was confide in my so-called friends about the abuse I endured; ironically, no one turned against him the way he claimed and everyone that actually had a problem with him had nothing to do with the people I confided in. In this circle of nonsense that brought me severe trauma, barely anyone took him seriously. Reasonably so, picture viewing a couple split and move along with their own lives until one decides to dish and chase the other with some old dirt between them to convince people that the other was ruining their precious reputation. No sensible person would interfere with someone else’s problems with another. I ended up standing up for myself and further asserted my boundaries away from him by refuting responsibility for his broken reputation and stated that in fact it was his problem. I also mentioned that the circus of a show was unnecessary and that if he approached me like normal people do I would have been reacting very differently and took responsibility for my “dirt”. I ended things between him and I by pointing out the fact that it was pathetic to harass someone a year after they broke up him and it did nothing but prove his goal of claiming me as the “obsessed liar” the actual opposite. In the end, I was not the one to harass the other long after no contact with an old screw up.

I then retained my most powerful tool: boundaries. Although I understood why my friend spoke with him, I could not help but hold her accountable that her irresponsibility with that move caused him to set off on a rampage. So I kept withdrawing from her and she could not bear it. Until one day she comes and “warns” me to “be careful of what I tell my friends because they are not the people I think they are”. The very friend that I had trusted with my life and a lot of information and mistakes on my behalf. The same friend that allowed him to grab those out of her in her vulnerable moments. I am more than sorry for everything I caused her, but this is something I would never forget. I remember trembling with anger and blocking her so that I would not blow up on her and cause her trouble and cost her a spiral. I got so angry that I became sick the next day. And ever since then, I had enough of my relationship with her. It was clear to me that we had both done too much to each other to recover from as normal friends. It had to end. After a few months of occasional angry SMS’s from her, I made it clear why I left and what I felt and that she would have to stop sending me message. She ended up acknowledging my hurt and apologized for everything she had done on her part. Everything. I remember crying with exasperation as I read her message admitting to everything; as for a good while of my life, I felt like I was the only one paying for my mistakes and trying to remedy them. The fact that someone else finally took responsibility for the damage done to me was something new and something alien. All that because I learned to set boundaries.

I brought myself out of my stroll down memory lane. Now, I am filled with nothing but pride that I not only overcame my own demons and learned the concept of boundaries, pride that I chose to use my mistakes as a learning point and not a point of shame. I now have more power and independence than ever; although, I still have a lot to work on. My ordeal has caused me to be very reluctant with expecting anyone to assist me with any hardship and become guarded. On a note, I do not expect my ex’s last appearance to be final; that is unless he becomes knowledgeable enough to realize one more move towards me would show everyone watching his true color and that his most prized possession, his ego, would be in danger. I do hope he left things as they are and just gave up; as I am not a hostile person that enjoys attacking- even in self defense. But it became clear that staying out of his path does not stop him from staying out of mine. I feel always ready and on edge to play his exact game and use leverage against him so that he would never come near me again.

As I now conclude writing to go study, I feel nothing but content with who I surround myself now and the person I have become. Thank you, Philomath again for living up to your name and allowing your love for learning get me out of a path of self destruction.

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plantvenuss · 5 years ago

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Avenging what we lost- [ Steve Rogers x Black! reader ] - 3

[A/N - To be added to the taglist just ask! 🍒💕! the summary may be the same for a few chapters or it might change!]

For previous chapters: Part one, and here for Part two

WARNINGS : None

Summary: Following the release of the readers hospitalization, the reader tries to find out why and who was behind what happened on the 21st of September, 2013. But will they you after the right person? and what happens when it becomes harder than you thought it would be?

1 year ago....

February, 8th 2013.

“You gonna be okay?” Melina, the woman who had been your caretaker for less than a year asked, rubbing your back as the yellow taxi parallel parked in front of you.

The streets were busy, the sound of honking, buzzing cars filled your ears. You breathed in the scent of DC and savored it, the smell of fresh air and soft winter breeze hitting a spot you’d never thought you’d feel again.

Everything felt new, your mind felt fresh- it felt like it somehow expanded and you were open to more knowledge that you could’ve never reached before. You named it the “post-accident high.” because you thought that everyone who had experienced such severe “accidents.” felt this way. That the trauma was so severe that it shook the core of the soul. And the body not knowing how to react to such drastic changes, made changes of its own to adapt: renewing the mind

You nodded as the driver loaded your things in the trunk. ”Although I don’t really remember some things.” you commented jokingly, which made the both of you giggle.

You turned to her, the necklace she had given you on your birthday swinging with the movement of your body. You gave her a soft smile and placed your hand on top of her forearm.

“Are you?” You asked back, becoming serious, and she gave you a stunned look, her eyebrows furrowing, eyes looking around as if you had been talking to someone else before she gave an answer.

She opened her mouth but stopped, wrapping her arms around herself as the whisk cold air blew again. She smiled a sad smile, watching the cars drive by as she continued to stand there with her arms wrapped around herself.

She nodded after a while of silence, like she was appreciating the scene in front of her- the kind of nod you give when you’re satisfied with everything.

“Yeah. I am.”

Finally, she turned and placed her hand on top of yours and exhaled, a short breath enough for it to make the air that escaped her lips turn to fog and dissolve into the air.

You placed your hands on top of hers, the feeling that this moment would only last a short second sitting in the pit of the both of your stomachs.

Although you were not brave enough to admit it, you were going to miss parts you could remember about her. You were going to miss how she put up with your bullshit all of the time, how she would always come in with a brighter smile even after you yelled at her and told her to fuck off countless times. You never meant for all of that, the yelling, the cursing the temper tantrums, it was just that she reminded you so much of your brother, Marcus.

So well put together, so patient and tolerant with all of your shit, you were almost starting to believe that Marcus’ soul was put into the the body of this woman to taunt you.

And you couldn’t help but get angry. It wasn’t his fault, none of what happened that day was anybody’s fault but your own, and you had come to terms with that not too long ago. But you couldn’t dismiss the anger you felt. How could he just leave you here all alone like this? with scars etched all over your body, it disgusted you. You were supposed to protect each other, you were supposed to protect him.

But your pride was too high to admit that to her, how much she reminded you of your brother, even with all of the 3rd degree burns that were patched up and hidden away so the rest of the world couldn’t see you, or hear your stories.

“How about this.” You began, the idea of letting her go so soon breaking your heart. Not now, not when you had such a connection with her.

Slipping your hand away from hers you turned, the taxi driver impatiently seated in his car, waiting for you to say your goodbyes.

“how about we grab a coffee one of these days?” you asked, gulping, waiting to be disappointed.

She smiled brighter, her smile almost bringing the sun out, she nodded and you limped toward the taxi with her help, you said your goodbye’s and the taxi sped off, merging into the Washington traffic. But when you turned to look around, even after sitting in a queue of red lights and honking cars, she was still there, waiting.

June 20th, 2014.

Today....

“Any updates on the missing files?” Steve asked as he crouched over Natasha’s desk, she shook her head, no, as she continued to type at an impeccable speed, her eyes managing to keep up with whatever her fingers were feeding the computer with.

“I’m trying to hack their feed, trying to see if anyone was in that file room before you.”

Steve nodded, fixing his posture and standing up right, grabbing one of the files he took from the base off of Natasha’s desk, skimming through it.

“Good. Let me know if you find anything.” turning on his heels Natasha’s words stopped him from moving any further, “I’m in.” she said, and Steve turned around faster than he’s ever done before.

“Whoever this is,” Natasha spoke after a while of static buzzed through the computers speakers. “meddled with the feed, so I can’t identify the face. Only the times they were in and out.”

Steve huffed, dropping the file back on top of the neat stack of files, Natasha turned towards him with her lips pressed tightly, the feeling of failure seeping into her veins.

“We need to talk.”

He peered over his shoulder and scoffed as the door clicked behind Steve, kicking his feet off of his desk he stood, in one swift motion, his back still turned on Steve.

Steve took this as a sign to move forward, he placed his shield on the couch that was placed in the center of the room and moved his way towards Fury’s desk, he took Fury’s silence as a notion to speak but he chose to remain silent.

“What is it, Rogers?” He asked, his dominant voice bouncing off of the walls. Steve exhaled through his nose, his stubbornness getting the best of him, he swayed on his feet before his eyes flicked up to meet the back of Fury’s head.

“We have missing files and you don’t seem to care.” He croaked out, Fury’s body suddenly turned to this accusation, almost like he jumped at the idea to argue.

“Did I say I didn’t care?” He bounced back, finally meeting Steve’s eyes for the first time since he stepped into the room.

“You’re not exactly acting like you do.” Steve sassed back, if there was ever a time to be sassy, the time was now. Those files were important to S.H.I.E.L.D and now that they’ve been stolen, without any possible trace, the existence of S.H.I.E.L.D is at stake.

“So you’ve come to my office, to tell me how I should and shouldn’t give a damn?”

“No-” Steve pursed his lips into a tight line and tucked his two thumbs into the hilt of his uniform. He turned his head towards fury, his blue eyes boring a sense of urgency behind them, he knows he could catch whoever took the files, hell he wanted to catch whoever did this, all he wanted was for Fury to feel the same.

“All I’m asking is for you to help, send some agents, send a tech team- just send someone. It’s just me and Romanoff down there, and as much as I’d like to believe we can get it done on our own this time,” Steve raised his shoulders and Fury gave him a look of understanding and defeat after a moment.

It marked hour 3 when the loading bar successfully chimed, your head shot up from your desk and you rubbed your cold hands together. Wasting no time your hands moved towards the mouse and you began navigating what you could get your hands on.

“Come on, gimme something.” You urged on, your leg jittering up and down in anticipation. It took you months of planning to get your hands on these things, and you were hoping all of your good work was not put in for nothing.

Just when your hope was beginning to crack you came across a double file, which of course had its sets of passwords because it was S.H.I.E.L.D, but you had no problem getting past those, when you did your hands froze.

You pressed harder against the mouse, the beds of your fingers crushing the material under it, you grit your teeth, your heart beating faster than ever as you read the file over and over again just to make sure you were reading it correctly.

‘S.H.I.E.L.D INITIATIVE, PROJECT SEP 21ST-13 D.C’

‘There must’ve been some kind of file error, surely this couldn’t have been under the hands of S.H.I.E.L.D?’ you thought as you continued to hover the mouse over the file, your fingers shaking with anticipation. You shouldn’t feel this excited about knowing who was behind the attack against your family, but you can’t help it, you’ve finally been able to pin a face to this, after months. And that face was S.H.I.E.L.D.S.

Pulling yourself together you opened the file and the screen glitched for a second, the darkest black you’ve ever seen over-taking your screen as the sound of the computer increased to a piercing shriek, but it was over quicker then you could react. The screen lit up again, and your computer was bombarded with notes, weapon blueprints and potential “attack” dates, all written in some sort of code that you’d never come across before.

You did everything you could, tried to figure out the coding, tried to figure out any hidden features the weapons had, hell you even tried to figure out who triggered the launch for the bomb to go off in the first place, but after around half an hour, the file shut down and re-set its password.

You had figured out, a short while after you had failed to retrieve any useful information that would bring you to a lead, that whoever coded this file must have been the expert among experts, because they were able to hide the fact that after a specific time, you were locked out of each file, depending on the files importance.

Deciding to wrap it up for a day you pinned the hard-drive to your desktop when something caught your eye. This file stood out the most, instead of a mini folder as the image for the file itself it was a small, square bar with extremely small green coding against it, you thought nothing of it, deciding that it was probably a file about getting through HYDRA’S computer system, you decided to leave it alone, until your eyes came across the files name.

‘PROJEKT: [Y / N] [L / N] - 29203 SERUM # 5′

Turns out the night was going to be longer than you thought.

#steve rogers x black!reader #x black reader #avengers x black!reader #captain america x black! reader #captain america #black widow #nick fury #chapter 3 #Chris Evans

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heat-riser · 4 years ago

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Some weird analysis of when you knew me.

I’ve thought about doing this for a while. One part screaming into the void, one part for anyone who was on tumblr in it’s heyday and watched me be strange and into- frankly- the worst characters and really terrible ships. I’m 26 now and understand a bit more about myself after finally finding a good therapist who specialized in sexual trauma and delving into the deepest darkest parts. Maybe it’s part insight for people who were friends with my at the time- and by ‘at that time’, I guess I mean any point in my life up until a couple years ago. From around 5 years on- I was in a constant state of incredibly deep sadness and anxiety but was too numb to even really consciously feel it. I learned some of the worst things about people and became acquainted with some of the worst things a person can feel at 5, and then again multiple times around 9 due to rape by two different boys. The first, my family and people around me knew about pretty immediately. The second was completely unknown to people until recently. It’s not an easy thing telling your parents another neighbor boy who was a ‘friend’ raped you too. I can’t really explain properly how deeply this effects a person and how people don’t really understand it. Things as little as not being able to be outside my house without a jacket and full pants to cover my whole body because I internalized that showing your body is vulnerability opened up the possibility of sexualization and therefore- attack. All the way to now with everything being resurfaced and having nearly no sex drive and being unable to feel arousal without more anxiety coming in and overpowering the arousal feeling. It was recently recommended to me by my therapist to not play horror games because the feelings of arousal and fear are so tightly linked. I’ve been with the therapist for three years and anticipate at very least another 3-5 and she has clients who have been seeing her 10+ years for having experienced childhood sexual abuse. I can’t remember if I’ve talked publicly here about any of that but most of my friends are aware of the first one (it’s not really something I want to throw out there randomly and conversations in covid time are strange). I was only aware of the first one up until a couple years back. When talking about buried memories, how they come up, how to tell if they’re legit, I halfway thought “what if there was more” and felt sick to my stomach. One of the sure signs of a memory being true is an emotional response. I’m in the process of reclaiming the memories of the events involving the second neighbor boy. But point being- I learned the world was awful very early on and it became the background for all future development (sexual, social, self, etc. etc.). I began to numb myself after the first event and went through half of elementary school and middle school angry, sad, and hateful- I especially hated men, but also just the world at large. By high school, I had learned to shove all of that down. I can’t really recall feeling much of anything in high school. So the people that knew me at the time really only knew a weird ghost of a person. Then there’s this thing called trauma reenactment- where victims are drawn to things relating to the trauma situation. So this is what takes me to explaining the characters I was interested in. 1- Adachi. I now see as little more than a sad incel but it does say a lot about where I was at the time to be so fascinated with him. He shared my resentment towards the world, the idea that anyone who wasn’t depressed simply didn’t understand, and saw more of a problem with the world than his current state of being. Of course that was relatable. I very clearly remember in middle school believing people that weren’t depressed simply had no idea what was going on around them. Of course I thought that and still struggle with that mentality. All I had really known was deep despair and numbing myself from the world. I didn’t understand how other people didn’t realize that but now know what the emotional world I was living in was not typical of children. So here was someone that knew how bad everything around was and how bad the world felt and I clung onto him the same way I did my own idealizations. With what I’ve been processing more recently, the dude needed therapy and to unlearn that depression was cool and correct but had shown multiple times he was unwilling to challenge any of his issues and just started killing people. There were a lot of favorite characters through this but one that sticks out as another really fucked up example of where I was was Damon Gant. I look back at liking him as the ultimate symbol of trauma reenactment. He’s older, he had power, he was creepy, intimidating, unsettling, and controlling. Everything my predators had been to me at the time. So- all of those things were in a way intertwined with my own sexuality as they’re what I first learned with anything ‘sexual’. Some of my favorite ships are due to the same reasoning. Gant and Lana- again, kind of inherently controlling, imbalance of power, and ends horribly and tragically. I always found something intriguing and beautiful about the most horrific and sad feelings. And I’ll touch on it just for the record. Cyrus is big fucked up- but I think he is, though maybe incorrect, well intentioned with his main goal being what he believes will actually be better for everyone cause of his projection of the awful things he feels on everyone. He doesn’t go out of his way to hurt anyone and certainly doesn’t enjoy other people’s pain but rather wants to eliminate what he sees as the reason for people hurting others with and end justifies the means mindset. His numbing/attempts to numb, hatred of emotion, and hatred of people inflicting pain on others is all incredibly familiar and I’m certain a part of me in middle school knew that when picking him as a fave. As I progress, I’m more interested his potential to relearn people and start opening up to feeling. (Pokemon Master’s definitely more than hinted at him changing and I’m hoping that means they’ll go that route with remakes.) I should note that during my most ‘numb’ parts would sneak out and I would be very- and increasingly over time starting with 6th grade- suicidal and became addicted to cutting and self harm (which I realize now are both just further numbing techniques). I described the feeling at the time as a parasite controlling your brain and a part of yourself knowing you had to fight against it. There was a period I was certain of how I would die, it was just when I would finally snap. I should also say how much people are able to numb themselves. I can remember getting so anxious that my heart would race and the world felt fast- I would get to the point of gagging but can’t remember ‘feeling’ any ounce of anxiety consciously. When first becoming sexually active, I had extended, horrific anxiety that would have hospitalized me for a couple weeks if not for my mom being able to stay home with me (also out of work for a couple months and left addicted to xanax for a bit). And still didn’t quite believe her all the way when she suggested it was anxiety. And I sure as hell didn’t make any connections to any possible mental issues around sex. So I’ve ranted enough but saved this bit for the end cause it hits kinda hard. People tend to feel the same things they felt in locations. Curiosity got the best of me and I drove around parts of my childhood I spend a lot of time at and specific routes I would take. (It’s called state dependent memory if anyone’s interested). I’m learning just how much I was numb to everything and wondering just what it was I was covering up my whole life. This isn’t easy to really type out cause of how fucked it is with the realization that I didn’t really experience childhood to a degree. During my drive, past my high school, up near my friends houses, the route I would take coming back from college- I was deeply, and very profoundly sad in my core. Nothing near what a person should have felt through their childhood. I missed so much. And I’m sorry to my friends at the time who only got to know a strange, numb, trauma reenacting, ghost of myself. I’m not going to be able to relive those times in a better light but I can at very least do some work to prevent a future spent numb and profoundly sad. But my brain is finally allowing me to remember some things because it’s deemed that I can handle it, I’m learning more about myself and my past, learning how to listen to what my brain and body are telling me and why, and getting better at expressing grief and real, raw, sadness and a touch of deep-seated anger so I think I might be starting to turn this around.

#TW: rape #TW: self harm #TW: suicidal ideation #some explanation of why I liked the characters I liked #This was meant to be focused on the character thing but went all over the place

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bigskydreaming · 5 years ago

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Dick's strange habits thqt no one but himself can understand, like the tendency of his to move of city everytime due to he used to travel everywhere in the circus and can't help but do it because he is used to it. Also, we know Dick love gymnasia but, what do you think would be a hobbie for him? Like, idk, sketch and draw or something ...

Yeah its actually a huge pet peeve of mine when people characterize his tendency to move as him being flighty or having commitment issues because…no?? Sometimes people just like new places? And someone who literally spent his early childhood traveling and experiencing the world, upon reaching adulthood after years where he had no choice but to live in one singular city, might actually just want to take advantage of his freedom to move about freely and relocate frequently just because he wants to? Its not like his family don’t all have reliable access to the resources of a billionaire and also alien technology and teleporting teammates, and reaching Dick wherever he goes is not even remotely a hardship for them so how does it even make sense that him moving a single city or even state away constitutes ‘running away from them’ like, I’m pretty sure if he actually wanted to run away from his family or friends and not be followed or put actual distance between them he’d like….do a better job than…”oh what if I go to the very next city over’.

LOL sorry. But like I said, its a huge pet peeve because like….the sheer certainty with which its often ‘diagnosed’ that this tendency of Dick’s is because HE wants to run away or avoid his family like….goes hand in hand with the canon and fandom’s tendency to blame Dick for the lack of support he tends to get, with it being concluded like “oh well, what can they do, this is how Dick wants it, that’s why he runs away to another city when something bad happens, he’s running away from his problems.” No, not necessarily. Especially when he still has the same problems there. Sometimes people just legitimately use a change of scenery to cope with depression or trauma. Its not just running away, lol, relocation if you can manage it has actual validity in a wide variety of trauma or depression-related situations. And as for what his family could do about him ‘running away’ when something bad happens, well…they could get in a car and drive the half hour to the city he moved to in order to check up on him and be like FYI, if something did happen, we’re here for you.

Additionally, the way both canon and fandom tend to frame Dick’s frequent relocations is with….a bizarre degree of judgment, like….I’ve seen it cited as a character flaw, even? That he can’t commit to one place? And its like….umm, who says he has to? And for me it kinda all cycles back to that tendency people have to judge certain behaviors by what’s normal to THEM based on THEIR life experiences and behaviors, and like….Dick’s childhood wasn’t the average life experience. Why should his mannerisms or behaviors as an adult reflect what most people consider ‘normal’ instead of reflecting what’s normal for HIM?

BUT I DIGRESS.

Anyway, back to your question, as far as hobbies for Dick….tbh, I think he needs more. My headcanon there is he doesn’t do enough just for himself or focus enough on finding ways to just enjoy life for himself….its why I think its so important for him to just have as a day job something he additionally enjoys and is low-stress, like teaching gymnastics….its too much trying to devote himself to everyone but himself 24/7, 365 days a year.

But he’s been shown playing the guitar in canon, I could see that being something he explores more if he made a point to prioritize finding hobbies and passion pursuits for himself. Anything artistic really, any creative projects….I could see him having fun getting involved in a local neighborhood theater kinda thing, or forming a garage band with other superheroes.

Alternatively, he’s someone who just likes to know and do and experience new things. So I could see him every so often just kinda….randomly picking a new skillset to try and pick up, just for the hell of it, or learn a new language he doesn’t already know, or try a new instrument, etc.

He’s someone who’s entire personality to some degree is about never standing still, and I could see that reflected in even the kinds of hobbies he took up….specifically in the idea that he doesn’t ever stick to just one hobby, that he’s constantly switching it up. Because to me, I think for him it wouldn’t be about any particular hobby, so much as being about the experience of trying something new. That’s his passion…..so his ‘inability’ to commit to things like places or activities isn’t actually an inability at all - especially since we know he’s perfectly capable of committing to a wide variety of things….from people he makes commitments to, to his teammates, to his lifetime of vigilantism in general….basically I just mean, its all about perspective and how you look at it.

The kind of thing I’m describing where he frequently drops one hobby after awhile to take up a new one, is only an inability to commit to one…from one direction. Looked at from another direction, he is committing….its just the thing he’s committed to is the frequent renaissance of his interests, the constant subjecting or immersing of himself to or among new things, new experiences, so his life and his interests never stagnate, are always changing.

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sirenakhan · 4 years ago

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The Burden of Skin

By Sirena Khan

Copper and bronze, earth and sand— all beautiful in their own regard, yet when worn as skin, they are often disdained. This is because skin, the organ that holds our muscles, bones, thoughts and memories together, is a burden. History reveals that it was not always like this, but once it was, it stayed that way. Racism was and still is a contagious movement. Perhaps it will take another movement even more infectious to dismantle the first, something like Black Lives Matter.

With palms lighter than the rest of her body, Sarra opens her mother’s purse and scents of sweet jasmine and spices spill out. Amongst endless tissues and coins is a tube of whitenening cream, nestled like a secret. The lack of an ingredients list is omnious but not as ominous as the cream’s existence, the cream’s purpose.

“Mama used to scold me for playing in the sun, she was afraid I would darken. She tries to persuade me to use such creams but I could never. Do you know what they put into these things? It’s practically radioactive!”

Shame, colourism and racism; all deeply internalised within all coloured and otherwise communities. As tightly woven into the fabrics of society as Sarra’s cornrow braids were with each other. Some day she hopes for the embrace of thorough acceptance, but for now, she forces herself to be thankful for tolerance.

Madhumita is considered the most beautiful in her family. It is not her many degrees and accomplishmeents but her fair complexion which earns her praise from many of the elders. She sorely tells me of the first time she was racially vilified.

“He called me a gypsy, this big, white man,” she says incredulously, “that’s not even the correct slur. I believe that if someone wants to abuse someone else, it should at least be ethnically accurate. He should have called me a terrorist, or curry-muncher.” Madhumita is a lecturer, perhaps it was the teacher within her that sought to educate racism. Perhaps it was humour being one of the few tools she could use to cope. Sara understands. Many people of colour do. Such incidents of racism are not rare, but are also not always as blatant. Victoria Police, although showing a history of racial profiling and vilification in their official reports, assure others that not only is there no racism amongst their ranks, there is no racism dilemma at all within the force and in their dealings with the publlc. Despite their view, they agreed to initiatives to tackle racism such as the Police Accountability Project and the Diversity Recruitment Program, because the burden of skin is real. Whether they feel it or not.

Dania wears a hijab, it is part of her work attire as a counselor at the Islamic College of Melbourne. She feels the weight of this harmless, thin fabric constantly. Yet she recalls a time when wearing it did not feel like anything at all. Adjusting the cloth around her face, she tells me, “everything we feel has been imposed on us because of colonisation.” Dania is right. Things like skin and headscarves— there is a shame attached to them, a bullseye that came with conquering. Colonisers claimed land proudly, leeching nature and cultures of its resources and meaning. Teachings were changed to better fit the western narrative, peacefully matriarchal and equal societies became unravelled by patriarchy, women and cultural practises were sexualised to the point of fetishisation.

Although aware of the internalised racism that comes with colonisation and its aftermath, Dania shows me how she applies a homemade ‘remedy’ to her daughter’s skin. A mixture of lemon, milk and oats that is said to lighten the complexion. As she gingerly spreads the concotion over her toddler’s arms, she frequently compares her daughter to her much fairer son.

“I don’t know how he is so pale, we must have taken the wrong baby from the hospital,” like Sara and Madhumita, Dania tries to seek humour in her circumstances and she cannot be condemned for that. Even with her daughter’s obvious confusion and retaliations, and the dismay in Dania’s eyes. Racism breeds internalised racism and people of colour are the ones that suffer. The burden of skin is a curse imposed upon coloured children by others who idly live in their privilege of never having to carry such a weight. When this burden is noticed by the privileged, it is often skewed into something more heinous. Something succinctly encapsulated when Dania says she “can’t decide what’s worse, being called a paki or exotic. One leaves me angry and the other leaves me disgusted.” When this burden goes unnoticed, racist powers continue to flourish and society is left to deal with yet another George Floyd case. This sounds like a ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ predicament which Sarra, Madhumita, Dania and every other coloured person face.

Another thing that all three women had in common was their understanding that racism was not their problem to fix. The only people wo had the power to dismantle such a system are the very people who constructed it. Yet in order for that to happen, those people to acknowledge the problem. With global Black Lives Matter protests, social media blackouts and news coverage, the realisation of the extent of the issue is beginning to sink in for most but still, not all.

Australia is in a stasis. You will find acknowledgements of racism and colonisation everywhere. In plaques that read “We acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the land” or “We acknowledge the Elders and honour their cultures and stories.” Acknowledgement is the first step in dismantling racism but once aknowledgement is achieved, many realise that it isn’t enough to change things. With overpolicing and incarceration rates unchanged for coloured communities, many might argue that these acknowledgements do nothing to actually address the harms that the Indigenous population face each waking and sleeping moment.

Australia has a gruesome colonial history, comparable to that of the United States of America yet there have been more white people protesting against face masks than for their coloured neighbours. Study after study shows the same findings; socio-economic status and social standing bear no weight, racism follows any individual of colour. Moreover, the consequences of racism are not simply hurt feelings. Policing, access to education and healthcare, mental health and employment oppurtunities are all affected. Society can be so adverse to people of colour that Sarra, Madhumita and Dania have all considered adopting ‘whiter’ names on job applications and dedicating hours of practise to gentrify their dialect. This tactic does little to quell racism in the recruitment process and racism in the workplace statistics.

Like an infection, racism has long since spread to all areas of society. The spread is so sevre that universities, governments, organisations, police and media outlets alike have staged multiple outcries and implemented various counterattacks to alleviate the racism and denial problem in Australia.

“There’s a shame around it; even my family don’t like to talk about it, colourism, racism, whatever,” says Sarra, “the denial and avoidance is on both sides.”

The subject is controversial and extremely necessary, but also hurtful. There is a trauma that’s often revisited for people of colour and for others, it can be plain uncomfortable. The discussion needs to be held though, because racism is more hurtful and more uncomfortable and tolerance is not enough.

“I do not want to tolerated, like some kind of annoyance. I want to be accepted and embraced, valued. I want to be respected,” Madhumita expresses.

Indigenous Australians barely make up three percent of the population, immigrants not even thirty, mixed just about twenty. These numbers seem appallingly low yet Australia is commended as being one of the most diverse nations. Some studies find though, that barely half of the Australian population actually appreciate diversity.

Denials, acknowledgements, statistics, protests, initiatives. They all show that Australia is knee-deep in racism, that the country is severely white-washed and that many of the people who have the power to change this do not care to. People of colour should not have to gather in the streets amid a pandemic to beg for equality and kindness. They should not have to politely protest to eradicate an issue that they did not even cause.

“It’s degrading,” Dania shakes her head, “they should be thankful that’s all we’re asking for and not revenge.”

When Dania says revenge, all of the experiences that Indigenous people faced comes to mind. The pillaging and thieving, slavery and assaulting, the unfortunately successful attempts to dilute the native population.

All that people of colour are asking for is the burden of skin to be lifted, nothing more. There is something very upsetting within it all. The idea of marginalised people having to ask to be treated with kindness and the realisation that treating them with kindness is not currently the default but a rare luxury.

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seeaddywrite · 6 years ago

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not by blood, but by choice

a/n: ugh, okay, so technically this was started as a response to the Day 2 prompt for Roswell New Mexico Week 2019, which was family, but i am the worst at adhering to deadlines. 4k of this was written yesterday, but I COULDN’T GET IT TO END.

thanks to @soberqueerinthewild, as always, for listening to me whine & letting me borrow her idea of Isobel taking self-defense classes!

right. Max + Malex fic, set six months post-finale.

“So, Isobel is where, again?” Michael asks, his elbows on Max’s kitchen counter to either side of a full plate. Max is damn good at using the grill on his patio, and Michael’s never one to pass up free food. If he’d known that it would end up just being himself, his brother, and his newly official boyfriend, however, he’s not so sure he would have accepted the invitation.

It’s not that Michael hates spending time with Max. He really doesn’t, anymore, not since the other man died. Six months of sharp-edged grief and directionless anger over the actions of a dead man had been awful, and Michael can’t pretend that he’s not glad to have his brother’s steadying presence back in his head. They’ve been spending more time together in the three weeks since Max has been back, usually involving food and shitty television, and, most importantly, Isobel’s presence as a buffer. He and Max don’t know how to spend uncomplicated, unplanned time together anymore, even after the residual anger and bitterness between them fades, and Alex’s presence seems to have made the awkwardness worse.

And that shouldn’t be a surprise, shouldn’t be the smack in the face that it is, because Michael has known since before Max’s death that he thinks Michael should let Alex go to focus on a future in which he can be happy, as if a relationship with Alex can never be more than a reminder of the tragedies in their shared pasts. And Michael’s pretty sure that there’s a little bit of discomfort at the idea of Michael with a man, too, and he doesn’t want to touch that particular idiocy with a ten-foot pole. He’s pretty sure Max won’t make it out of that conversation in one piece, and Michael doesn’t want Isobel and Liz on his ass for killing him again when they’d only just gotten him back.

“Self-defense class,” Max says with a small sigh, glancing at Alex like he’s not sure how much he can say about the matter in front of him, despite the fact that he’s been involved in every step of the work to bring Max back and protect them all from the long-reaching arm of Project Shepherd. “She’s a little . . . focused.”

Michael picks up what Max isn’t saying without any mental prodding, and he drops a hand from the counter to Alex’s good knee, squeezing for his own, selfish comfort. He gets a reassuring smile for his troubles, and Michael takes a moment to revel in how lucky he is that Alex was willing to give him another chance after every stupid fucking thing he’s done in the last year: dating Maria, trying to hide from his grief at the bottom of a bottle, and swinging first and asking questions later. Alex had been the one to drag him out of his self-imposed exile and help him to realize that Isobel needed someone, too, so he understands the worry Michael feels better than most anyone could.

Michael would like to think that he’d pulled himself together enough to be there for his sister, but no amount of support had been enough to heal the gaping wounds Noah left in her soul. Max’s return helped, and her obsessive need to become more powerful has definitely eased in the past few weeks. She’s no longer practicing mind control on random passers-by, and she’s done blowing things up just because she can, a fact for which the entire town should be grateful. But Michael knows, just as Max does, that their sister is far from fine. Her laser focus has been turned from expanding her supernatural powers to physical self-defense now that Max is back with them, and it might be better for their anonymity, but no one is convinced that it’s better for Isobel.

“She’s been through a lot,” Alex says, his voice level as he cuts through the moment of tension with his usual affability. He’s been eating steadily, and is sitting comfortably on one of the tall stools surrounding the kitchen counter, no hint of uncertainty in his posture, but Michael knows better. He’d asked at least three times on their way to Max’s if Michael was sure that he’d be welcome, and when he realized that Isobel wasn’t coming, the grip on Michael’s fingers had tightened to an almost painful degree. Even now, when Max lifts his chin and gives Alex a look, there’s an undeniable tension in the muscles beneath Michael’s hand.

But Alex isn’t intimidated by Max. He wants to get along with him, Michael thinks, because they share all of the same friends and loved ones, and are at least tangentially family, which means more to Alex than most people would be able to understand. That doesn’t mean he’s going to back down and show his throat, though, or let Max run roughshod over his opinions. Max doesn’t seem quite sure how to handle that; he’s been running the show to keep the three aliens safe for their entire lives, and Michael suspects he’s having a hard time adjusting to the fact that others had become just as involved in that goal while he was gone. But Alex is good at plans and strategies in a way that Max isn’t, and has more personal experience with trauma and healing than Michael cares to think about. His understanding of Isobel’s actions carry weight, whether Max wants to admit it or not.

“No matter why she’s doing it, self-defense isn’t a bad way to help her build some confidence,” Alex continues, meeting Max’s gaze calmly across the table. “She’s got an expert teacher and other people in the class to make sure she doesn’t take it too far. It’s as safe as anything like that can be -- and I think we’d all rather she took out her frustrations on a punching bag instead of people. I really don’t think you need to worry about her; she’s just looking for a way to feel safe in her own skin again.”

They’ve talked about this before, Alex and Michael. It’s always been after nightmares of being forced to put Isobel’s body in a pod next to Max’s, or watching her being dragged away by scientists who caught her using her powers in obvious ways during her more reckless moments. It’s been Alex who’s gathered him close in the middle of the night and whispered reassurances and explained that recovery from trauma doesn’t always seem right or healthy to others, but Isobel has to learn to stand on her own again without interference from her friends and family. She has to learn what it means not to depend on anyone after years of leaning on Noah and his reputation to make a life for herself. Michael doesn’t pretend to understand, but he’s promised Alex -- and Isobel herself -- to give her some time and space to try.

But Max has only been up and moving for three weeks, and he’s too mired in the guilt of sending his sister into such a tailspin to realize that he’s not doing her any favors by trying to smother her. But that’s Max; he’s always been too ready to do whatever it takes to protect them, no matter what the cost. That’s how they ended up covering up a murder and carrying that burden by themselves for over a decade. It’s why his friendship with Michael crumbled around them. It’s why he can never really feel safe -- and Michael’s tired of watching the same thing happen, again and again.

Max stabs a piece of chicken with a bit more violence than strictly necessary, but doesn’t make any move to eat it. “I’ve been worrying about Isobel since she fell out of her pod and into my arms when we were seven,” he says coldly. At some point, he’s shifted to sit up straighter in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest while he stares, narrow-eyed, across the table at Alex. “She’s never had any interest in self-defense before. A taser and influencing minds has always been enough for her. So even if I could stop worrying, I wouldn’t, because my sister is off the rails, and she needs help. And for the record? The fact that you’re dating Michael now does not give you the right to tell me how to be there for my family.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence from all parties as the electricity in the room flickers and Max battles with himself to rein his powers back in. He seems just as shocked as the others about the words that have escaped his mouth, and Michael can’t quite wrap his head around the speed with which the conversation escalated. He gapes openly at Max, his blood on a slow boil. Who the hell does he think he is? Alex has been building a friendship with Isobel for half a year, while Max was gone. He’s listened to her cry, and even helped her find a decent self-defense class. Alex has been there for her, and for everyone else, while Max abandoned them for a moment of heroism that left them all fucking reeling -- and he’s going there? With Alex, who’d only been trying to help? Fuck no.

“I’m sorry.” Max swallows heavily, his eyes sliding closed for a minute. The apology gives Michael the moment he needs to press pause on his impending explosion, and Alex looks genuinely poleaxed by the unexpected words. He’d been bracing for a blow-up, Michael realizes, taking in the challenging tilt to his chin and the glint of banked fire in his eyes.

“That wasn’t -- I’m not --” Max trails off, running the palm of his hand over his face before opening his eyes and directing his words to both of them. “I don’t have the right to talk to you that way, Alex, and I should know better, by now, than to let my temper get the best of me.” He glances wryly toward Michael, who just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Alex doesn’t share Michael’s patience for whatever comes next. He pushes his plate off to the side of the table and leans forward, his expression inscrutable, but Michael can read the uncertainty in the tilt of his eyebrows and the tight line of his lips. He nudges his boyfriend’s knee with his own, trying to get him to look over, but Alex is focused on Max.

“I know that you’ve been protecting them for most of your lives,” he says quietly, a strange solemnity in his voice that makes Michael want to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him into his side. Family is a difficult concept for Alex; he’s never had anyone willing to protect him from his father of any of the rest of life’s cruelties. And while Michael’s always wished for something more than Max and Isobel, someone more, he knows that he’s damn lucky to have them. Alex knows it, too, and is trying to meet Max halfway, which is more than Michael would have ever asked of him.

“You’re family, and I respect that. I’m not trying to tell you how to support Isobel, or to pretend that she’s doing fine when we all know better. I’ve just been where she’s been, at least a little.” Alex hesitates, and in a moment of prescience, Michael can tell what he’s about to say and opens his mouth to stop him, to tell him that he doesn’t need to reopen his own wounds just because Max is bleeding all over him. But before he gets the chance, Alex plows forward, as unfailingly brave as he’s always been. “Someone who was supposed to love me hurt me, too. It’s not the same, and I’m not naive enough to think I know exactly what she’s going through. But I do know that after something like that? After betrayal and feeling so completely out of control of your own life? It takes time to feel comfortable in your own skin again. Time, space, and support from people who love you.”

Michael tangles his fingers with Alex’s, and soaks up the small smile he gets in return. If Max is anything but understanding and kind in the face of such an emotionally honest confession, not even the threat of Liz’s temper tantrum is going to stop him from punching his brother in the fucking face. Alex doesn’t often talk about his father, and Michael can count on one hand the amount of times he’s heard him admit that he needed help to begin healing the wounds left by years of abuse and unfounded hatred. If Max rewards that honesty with callous words or cruelty, Michael doesn’t care what their connection is -- Alex is his family, too, and doesn’t have many other people to protect him. That’s Michael’s job, and one he takes damn seriously.

Thankfully, Max only nods slowly. There’s no way to be sure of what he already knows about Alex’s father, or the real reasons he went to war, but there’s a glimmer of understanding in his eyes that tells Michael he knows enough to tread carefully. “It turns out I’m not so great at protecting anyone,” he says dryly, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. “Or taking good advice, apparently. I really am sorry -- you’re right. I need to let Isobel come to me, if that’s what she wants. It’s just harder than I expected, after all this time.” His smile is a sad, resigned thing, and Michael is irritated that it gets to him. Max deserves to feel some guilt and regret for what he’s done, and even if his death isn’t the cause of all of Isobel’s trauma, he needs to own the fact that he fucked up.

Michael does his best to squash the thought. They haven’t talked about the moments leading up to Max’s death, or how any of them feel about it -- the three of them have simply slapped a bandage over the bleeding wound and done their best not to poke at it. Michael knows it won’t last forever; eventually, he’s going to lose it and tell Max exactly how much damage he’s done to all of them, not just Isobel, with his stupid stunt. He’s got plenty to answer for, and part of Michael wants to point it out, to bellow that he didn’t seem to care so much about protecting them when he was resurrecting Rosa Ortecho, that maybe he should have thought about how Isobel might feel -- but he doesn’t. This isn’t the time, not with so much already going on around them.

Alex shakes his head, but some of the tension has dissipated from his face. “You don’t have to apologize. I get it. It’s hard to take advice from people you don’t really trust, and I know I don’t have yours, yet. But I really do just want to help, in whatever way I can. You might not think he and I are good for each other, but Michael’s the only family I’ve got, and you and Isobel are his, so . . .” he trails off, looking uncomfortable while trying to navigate complex emotions. Talking about how he feels and his own motivations is never going to be easy for Alex, even though he and Michael have gotten better at it is as they restarted their relationship.

It’s hard to watch him push through the explanation, but Michael doesn’t jump in and try to help. He knows better; Alex is perfectly capable of expressing himself, and won’t appreciate an attempted subject change, no matter how awkward this one is. He shifts restlessly on the stool and kicks at the bottom of the counter in an effort to distract himself. The knowledge that Max doesn’t think the two of them should be together has weighed on Alex since Michael told him the story of how his hand was healed, and he knows that it’s better to get it all out in the open now, because if he has any say in the matter, Alex is sticking around for the rest of their lives. And if it helps him, or Max, to air their grievances, then Michael can deal with it.

“What?” Max is staring at Alex, his expression twisted into obvious confusion. “Why would you think that?” There’s an obvious glimmer of hurt in the depths of his eyes that Michael doubts Alex can see. Max doesn’t usually bother to hide his emotions from his family, but with others, he tends to make more of an effort. “I’m not going to pretend that I know you very well, but I don’t have a problem with the two of you being together. I don’t know what Michael’s been telling you, but I’m not actually a bigot.”

“Max,” Michael interrupts, rolling his eyes. “He’s not calling you a fucking homophobe, relax. I told him about what you said before you --” he waves a hand, still uncomfortable with blurting out the word ‘died’ in reference to his brother. Isobel had taken to using the word as a weapon, wielding it viciously every time Max tried to convince her to give up her relentless pursuit of power and self-confidence, every time his protective instincts became smothering and hard for her to deal with, but Michael can’t quite bring himself to do the same. Not when it’s still so fresh in his mind, and Max’s, too.

Alex nods, for the first time looking uncomfortable. “It makes sense. I know that I haven’t been the most reliable person for Michael, so I understand that you might not want to listen to what I have to say about Isobel, but -”

“Wait, wait, hold on a second,” Max interjects, directing his bewildered stare at Michael. “What did I say? I remember -- I remember the lightning, and killing Noah, but everything gets hazy, after that.” There’s a far-off look in his eyes as he struggles to put the pieces together, and Michael shifts on his stool and eventually stands, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He’s recounted that night’s events for Alex, and for Liz, later, but this is the first time the subject has been broached with Max. It’s a hundred times worse; every word feels fraught with tension and buried emotion, and Michael doesn’t want this to escalate into a real fight.

He can feel Alex’s eyes on him and knows that he’s going to have to answer, if only because Alex doesn’t have all of the details, and groans. This conversation feels like peeling a scab off of a nearly-healed wound, and it hurts, but Michael can’t bring himself to stalk off and ignore it any longer. They need to talk about this, to get it all out in the open, and Michael refuses to restart a decade-long habit of storming off when he and Max argue. The two of them are damned good at hurting each other, at leaving when things get hard, but Isobel isn’t in a place to bring them back together, anymore. And call him selfish, but Michael has enjoyed having his brother back, these past three weeks. Things have been good between them, and losing that over something that Max doesn’t even remember clearly would be fucking stupid. Michael might be frustrated, might feel like shaking Max until his brain rattles around in his skull, but he’s still Michael’s family, and that’s so rare that he won’t entertain the idea of losing it again because of death or stupid arguments.

So he stops the restless pacing around the kitchen just behind Alex’s shoulder and flexes his newly-healed hand in pointed reminder of the conversation in the cave that Max can’t recall. He’s not ashamed to admit that he takes a little takes petty, vindictive pleasure in the way that Max flinches — he’s not awful enough to want Max to hurt, but Michael wants to make damn sure he remembers, the next time he’s hyped up on power and thinks he can play God, that’s never okay to irrevocably change someone’s body without their fucking explicit consent, even if he’s sure it’ll be an improvement.

“You said to leave the past behind and look forward,” he says, and if the words drip with accusation, Michael thinks it’s justified. That had fucked him up, for a while. Those words had gotten in his head and under his skin, and burrowed even deeper when Isobel agreed with them -- and he and Alex had lost months while Michael tried to follow their advice with Maria. “You wanted to get rid of my reminder.” Again, he flexes fingers that had been stiff and numb for the last decade, this time without really thinking about it. “And Isobel agreed, afterward, so --”

“You thought that meant I was telling you to give up on Alex?” Max interrupts abruptly, and Michael doesn’t understand the incredulousness in his voice. What the hell else could he have meant? But Max is staring at him, brows drawn and mouth open, and for a split second, Michael wishes that he could read the other man’s mind with Isobel’s ease. It’d be nice to know what Max is thinking, if only to get him to stop staring at Michael that way.

“Let me get this straight,” Max says finally breaking the tense silence as he pushes away from the counter to stand. He runs his fingers through his short hair in a move that Michael recognizes from years of post-drunken brawl confrontations -- it’s the frustrated gesture that comes right before the agitated pacing in front of holding cell in the Sheriff’s office. With the pacing comes the ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ face that, despite all of Michael’s determination not to give a shit, always makes him feel a tug of guilt in the pit of his stomach. “You have never once listened to me before, about anything, and that’s where you decide to start?”

Sure enough, the predicted pacing starts a second later, and Michael’s eyes narrow, his temper flaring hot and powerful in his chest. He’s glad Max isn’t dead, and he won’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to start listening to the same old bullshit, especially when he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Do you need me to participate in this conversation, or is this where I’m supposed to shut up and listen to daddy like a good little boy?” Michael asks acerbically, his expression twisting into something bitter. “Fuck off, Max. I’ve listened to you before, and you know it. You’re the one who said anything to keep the secret, remember? Last I checked, I’ve been following your lead on that for years, even when it meant letting Isobel think I was a goddamn murderer!” His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and Michael deliberately pushes away from Alex and the table in case things get ugly.

He’s ready and braced for a fight. Part of him is even looking forward to it; Michael’s still got a hell of a lot of anger where Max is concerned, most of it centered around the fact that he’d done exactly what Isobel and Michael had warned him not to. He’d decided he was a freaking deity and sacrificed himself, leaving them torn apart and bleeding when they needed him. Michael’s hand, the fiasco with Noah, ten years of resentment — Michael’s practically salivating for a chance to swing at Max. Maybe then the restlessness that’s been crawling beneath his skin, making him unpredictable and reckless since Max’s death will finally be appeased. Maybe he’ll be able to let it all go, afterward, and function normally, like’s supposed to.

Max doesn’t give him the chance to find out. His reply is strangely even, tinged with regret and something Michael can’t get a read on without pushing into his head. “I’m a lot of things, Michael, and we both know that not all of them are good, but I’d like to think I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”

It’s Alex who frowns and asks, “What do you mean?” when Michael just stares, still balancing precariously on the razor-thin line between cold silence and an explosion of temper. The wind’s been taken from his sails, though, and he wants to hear the answer to Alex’s question, so he says nothing.

Dark eyes glance between them, and Max huffs a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. “Come on. Think about it. I should have given up on Liz a long, long time ago. If all I cared about was hiding the truth about what we are, I would never have gotten close enough to fall in love with her -- and I definitely wouldn’t have told her the truth when she came back, especially not after what happened to Rosa. Everytime we got closer, something awful happened, and it hurt both of us. And being with her now, it’s still like dangling from a cliff.”

There’s a fond nostalgia in the way he speaks, like he’s repeating words from Liz’s mouth with the incredulity of someone who still can’t quite believe he got the girl. “It’s not safe. It’s not easy. Every minute with Liz is like this incredible adrenaline rush, and I’m always wondering what’s going to happen when I finally crash, but I wouldn’t give her up for anything. Not even when Isobel begged me to find someone else. I knew that I couldn’t.”

Max looks from Michael’s face to Alex’s, and the slightest hints of a smile tweak the corners of his lips. “So I’d say it’d be pretty damn hypocritical of me to tell you to give up the love of your life when I’m not willing to do the same.” Max’s tall, broad body sags back against the kitchen wall, and he tips his head back against the panelling, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t remember that night very well. Just feeling invincible, with all that power -- but I still do think you need to let go of the past and stop reminding yourself of everything that hurt you. It’s impossible to move forward together, carrying all of that weight with you, and it would have ruined any chance you had of making things work. That’s all I meant, Michael, I swear.”

There’s a moment’s silence, and Max swallows before lifting his head to look back across the room at Michael again, apparently waiting for a response. He doesn’t get one -- at least, not from Michael. There’s too much going on in his head to even consider responding coherently; strong feelings always intensify the noise in his mind, turning his thoughts to chaos and threads of ideas impossible to untangle from one another. It’d made learning to speak as a child way more difficult than it should have been for someone as smart as Michael, and he still finds himself lapsing into silence from time to time.

Max and Alex both know this about him, and no one presses. His boyfriend simply slides from his chair to stand behind him and wraps him in a warm, gentle embrace from behind, and rests his chin on Michael’s shoulder while he looks at Max, who’s still slumped against the wall, looking tired and significantly more concerned the longer the silence goes on. “Good,” he says, speaking for both of them while Michael tries to understand how he and Max could possibly misunderstand each other on such an epic level when they literally share a psychic connection. “Because I’m not leaving again, and things might have gotten pretty damn awkward if you were going to be an ass about it.”

The blunt statement makes Michael laugh, and for the first time since entering Max’s house that night, he turns his head and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth. It’s the first overt display of affection he’s made in front of Max and is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s been careful not to initiate much in the way of physical contact in front of his brother. Alex hasn’t said anything, and Michael knows he wouldn’t, whether it bothered him or not, but he’s immediately pissed at himself for the reluctance. Max’s opinion isn’t supposed to matter, whether real or assumed, but apparently, Michael’s always going to care, at least a little, about what his brother thinks.

It’s a galling realization, but it doesn’t seem quite as bad as it would have an hour ago.

“Nah, he’ll just find something else to be an ass about,” Michael drawls a moment later, and Max makes a face at him, but it does nothing to disguise the relief in his expression. He’s been waiting for Michael to erupt, to yell and call him names, because that’s what they’ve done for ten years, and damn, it feels good to break that cycle. “Which is fine, because Max being nice usually ends in being a captive audience for Dostoyevsky read aloud, and I don’t think we need to be a part of his masturbatory fantasies, you know?”

Max snorts, and Alex grins, the stretch of his smile obvious against Michael’s cheek. “Well, that explains some things about the books Liz has been carting around lately. I knew she didn’t randomly decide to pick up the most depressing book ever written,” he adds, the teasing clear in his voice. This close, Michael can almost feel the slight waver of worry that the joke won’t be well-received, that Max is going to snap at him again and all the progress they’ve just made will be ruined, but Michael isn’t worried.

Used to the mocking comments, Max just rolls his eyes and grabs his plate from the counter, still half full of food, and shoves it in the microwave to reheat. “Great,” he tosses over his shoulder, loud enough for both of the other men to hear clearly. “Another brother who wants to take shots at my library. You’re going to have to get some new material, Manes, because Michael and Isobel have exhausted those jokes. You two deserve each other.” He sighs dramatically with a good-natured smile in their direction, then takes his steaming plate from the microwave before disappearing into the living room with it. Michael can’t decide if he’s giving them a much-needed moment alone or is really just that hungry, but he appreciates it anyway. Alex has frozen against his back, and they definitely do need a second to themselves.

As soon as he hears the television turn on in the living room, Michael turns in Alex’s arms and presses his lips to the hinge of his jaw. “Now you’ve done it,” he says lightly, running a hand down Alex’s back soothingly. “He’s adopted you. You’re going to have to put up with all of that oblivious, overprotective bullshit just like the rest of us, and pretty soon you’ll be as crazy as me.”

Alex huffs a disbelieving laugh, obviously bewildered by the twist the evening had taken. “I came here ready to fight with him all night,” he admits quietly, and casts a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, as if worried that Max is eavesdropping from the next room. “This is better. Even if it’s a little bizarre.” There’s a small, pleased smile on his face as he takes a step back from Michael and laces their hands together, and it remains as they heat up the remains of their own food and join Max in the living room to watch Friends reruns with Isobel’s Netflix account. They don’t talk about anything difficult for the rest of the evening, reverting instead to teasing comments and character imitations, and Michael catches himself relaxing into the easy camaraderie of the evening.

It’s not perfect, and maybe it never will be, but Michael thinks it’s a pretty damn good start to the family they’re trying to rebuild.

#rnmweek19 #roswellweek19 #day two: family #my fic #malex + max #malex fic #whistles

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