#i literally feel like i’m drowning i’m so panicky about this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lokigodofaces · 3 years ago

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list of variants/timelines i want to believe exist (and probably canonically do now)

this got long so i'm putting in a cut

a world where all of the events that happened in the Framework are real

bonus if the Framework world has their own version of the Framework that is like the real world in aos

Steve fell off the train, not Bucky. bc of the crap Zola did to Bucky, he survives in ice and well, and everything happens the same but Steve and Bucky's roles are reversed

Coulson doesn't bother to keep it a secret that he's alive, and the mcu is mainly just aos but with all the main characters as well (in other words, there's mainly good writing)

also in that world Steve and Bucky love Lola

Steve doesn't go back in time to live with Peggy

to all the people claiming aos isn't canon: Sylvie just made everything canon y'all. aos absolutely happened, and while i will argue that it happened in the main timeline, if you don't want to believe that it still happened in a timeline

Bucky didn't remember Steve soon enough, not until he killed Steve

Steve killed the Winter Soldier and didn't know who it was until he removed the mask

Hydra didn't hunt down Jiaying and by extent Daisy, so Daisy was raised by Jiaying and Cal who are not crazy bc they didn't have the same experiences they did in the main timeline

Thor never takes the others to Jotunheim, so Loki never learns he is Jotun

Fitz didn't survive almost drowning

Ward wasn't recruited by Garrett, but by literally any non-Hydra agent so he is a good guy

Coulson and May listened to the agent telling them to not send May in at Bahrain, heaven knows what happens there

the government gives the Avengers more than a week to go through the Accords, so they all get to the enhanced-people-have-to-wear-trackers, giant-underwater-prison, enhanced-operatives-can't-investigate-politicians, no-trial-for-enhanced, no-investigation-for-enhanced, etc sections so they all decide to not sign and just don't care what the government says

this is random, but i feel like Bucky as Ghost Rider would be a cool aesthetic.

the Avengers meet Robbie bc he keeps assassinating their targets bc they're targets of Ghost Rider's

Daisy dies instead of Lincoln

Daisy kills Lash before he can save her

Loki never "dies," so he is sent back to Asgardian prison after tdw

Radcliffe never reads the Darkhold, he just gave it to AIDA, so most of s4 doesn't happen

Dreykov comes after Natasha between Avengers and CACW, leading to the Avengers beating his *ss (like Yelena said, the god from space doesn't need an ibuprofen after a fight)

everything's the same but no Joss Whedon going on and on about Natasha not being able to have kids

whatever ship scenario you have is canon now

Loki gets all panicky after the Hulk beats him to a pulp, having now realized what he's done. Thor believes him, and this leads to Thanos being killed in 2012-13

Deadpool sits in the back of everything, shouting comments like "Yay! Superhero landing! But don't do that, it's bad for your knees!"

Peter Parker's parents never die

the Cavalry is an Avenger

Yondu brings Peter Quill to Ego, causing the universe's destruction

Gamora and Nebula get along their entire lives

Gamora and Nebula switch roles (Gamora becomes the cyborg, Nebula the guardian and Thanos's favorite daughter)

Heimdall actually bothers to look for Loki, seeing if they can find his body for a funeral, to find that he is being tortured by Thanos. Odin refuses to send anyone to save him, making Thor realize just how awful he is. Thor, Sif, and Warriors 3 go with the help of Heimdall to save Loki

Odin and Frigga are actually good parents, creating the most iconic trio ever

tw suicide for the next bullet point

Bucky commits suicide between TWS and CACW (Sebastian said in an interview once that Bucky was suicidal)

Loki keeps coming back as DB Cooper for fun or bc he keeps losing bets

the Eternals did interfere

the shrapnel kills Tony

this one thing i made about Mr Rogers adopting Loki

Robbie is part of the Avengers in 2012, but when he sees Loki he immediately says that Loki isn't the issue and goes off to fight Thanos single handedly (and wins)

for whatever reason Coulson and May do legally adopt all the Bus Kids

Hunter and Bobbi both go to break Fitz out of prison, and they stick around for the rest of the season

Fitz and Jemma never meet (saddest of sad days)

Loki for some reason is in FFH and he sees Mysterio's illusions and just laughs bc he's such an amateur

everything's the same, everyone's just obsessed with classical music and it's constantly playing so i get happy watching it

Asgardians are like the elves in LOTR (books, not the movies), so they're constantly singing and dancing and all

Loki is shown playing a Norse flute-like instrument (we know they exist, we've found them, they're different than your typical flute and we don't really know how they sound but i want Loki to be a flautist and no i'm not not projecting (note the double negative) and yes i headcanon Loki to be a flautist i don't care what anyone says)

everyone gets therapy

someone (Monica or Jimmy) hits Hayward on the head, knocking him out (the same way Gandalf knocked out Denethor in ROTK when Denethor told everyone to flee) and the rest of SWORD works with them because clearly Hayward has issues

Stephen commits to not texting and driving

somehow Luis becomes He Who Remains just for one timeline so the entire story is told like how he tells his flashbacks

Coulson doesn't help Fury and Carol escape

T'Challa does not survive and M'Baku becomes Black Panther

the suit in Iron Man 3 is not garbage the entire movie

Tony doesn't find a way to save himself in time

Ross dies in Incredible Hulk

Loki has a pet flerken he just always carries around

by the same logic, Bucky has a kitten he meets between TWS and CACW that he always carries around. said kitten attacks people when they attack Bucky

Bucky becomes Captain America instead of Sam

when Thor goes back to 2013 Asgard, he drags Loki with him back to 2023

Clint tests the time travel by going to Sokovia and drags Pietro back with him

Steve comes back an old man, but they use Bruce's attempt at time travel to turn him back into the 30 something Steve he was

literally anything happens other than Thanos killing Loki bc Loki only used knives when he isn't even tall enough to reach Thanos's neck

Sam and Bucky straight up kill Walker

Daisy never goes through terrigenesis

Loki somehow ends up a tutor for Daisy

Bucky joins the aos team after they find him on the run from Hydra

Bucky plays baritone saxophone bc bari saxes are awesome and it adds nothing to the plot but he spends at least half an hour in each movie playing bari sax

everything's the same but John Williams is the composer

S.H.I.E.L.D. uses GH-325 to revive a bunch of composers (Mozart, Dvorak, Beethoven, Bach, Bizet, Holst, y'know, all my guys) because they for whatever reason have their bodies because of some wack mission. and now they have a bunch of classical composers alive who insist on writing more music. and what are you going to do, tell Bach to stop composing?

by that same logic, someone working at the Guest House decides to steal Freddie Mercury's body so that they can revive him bc he just loves Queen that much

Thor realizes how awful Odin is and makes it his goal to get revenge for what Odin did to his little brother

Thor meets a bunch of Loki variants (most notably gator Loki) and just decides to stop questioning anything ever

Mobius teaches Loki how to ride a jet ski

Loki arrives at S.H.I.E.L.D. and informs everyone he wants to go to school and learn about politics and run for president and S.H.I.E.L.D. is like "okay whatever just don't tell anyone you're a literal god" but have no way to stop Loki from telling anyone

y'know the "shot heard 'round the world" thing from the Battle of Lexington (first battle in American revolution, if you don't know what it is, we have no clue who made the first shot & both sides were telling their troops to not fire. once that shot was fired the battle broke out)? yeah well that was Loki i'm pretty sure

Loki comes to Earth and becomes an Avenger and all but only ever introduces himself as DB Cooper. Thor doesn't ever come to Earth, so everyone just thinks DB Cooper found the secret to not age and just showed up to save people. he disappears for stretches of time & everyone stops being confused bc he was in hiding for decades of course no one's gonna find him (he is actually on Asgard)

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withoutmonsters · 3 years ago

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Mermay

Okay, so I wasn't originally planning on doing anything for mermay. but then mermaid Billy just...invaded...my brain and this is what resulted. Yes, i have more chapters planned. Sorry I'm posting this on the literal last day ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dark Water Deep

All Steve wanted was a nice vacation, okay? His junior year of college was over and the stress of finals was finally done with. Now he could sleep in until two, get really drunk with Rob and Heather, and not think for at least two weeks.

Of course, that’s not how it worked out, but then again, when has anything ever gone Steve’s way?

So instead of a nice vacation where Steve hangs out with his two best friends, Steve is here, in the middle of the night, drowning in California’s freezing waters. And when he says freezing, he means it. Ice cold shocks his system enough that he seizes and then a wave breaks over him and he doesn’t know which way is up. Steve flounders a bit, eyes clenched shut and lips pressed together as hard as possible, arms waving in the salty water in a vain effort to reach air.

Another wave washes over his and turns him over again. Something collides with his shoulder and knocks him sideways, jolting his jaw. Bubbles stream past him and he opens his eyes to catch the last of his precious supply of air float away. At least that gives him some semblance of which way the surface is, because his lungs are starting to scream with the effort of not breathing. He orients his legs so that they’re braced against the bottom as another wave hits, and then pushes up with all his might.

He breaks the surface of the water with a gasp of breath loud and panicked, and for a second, all he can think about is breathing as much air into his lungs as he can get. He sucks big mouthfuls of the still-slightly-warm California air and then chokes as he gets some water instead.

After a moment, Steve looks around. It had been a rip current, he was pretty sure, that pulled him out. He’d just felt like going for a walk on the beach, slightly drunk on Robin’s margaritas, when the water had felt so nice that he’d ended up swimming. But then something had yanked him, suddenly and sharply, and then he was head over tail and the shoreline was a distant line on the horizon.

A panicky feeling invades his heart as he realizes just how far out to sea he is. Steve can swim, of course, but that had been swimming in his pool, and in the quarry in Hawkins, Indiana, not in the middle of the damn ocean. The cold is already getting to him, sinking into his limbs and numbing his toes. He’s tired, and while the shot of adrenaline sobered him up real damn quick, Steve knows that he doesn’t have enough to get back to the beach. For a moment, Steve is still, trying not to let the direness of his situation overwhelm him, when something brushes his foot.

Read the rest on AO3

#mermay #harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #billy is a mermaid #robin buckley #heather holloway

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winterromanov · 4 years ago

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know it’s for the better - bucky x reader

pairing: college!bucky x reader

part of the will we talk? universe

prompt: what about college!bucky during quarantine? their school gets shut down... do they stay together? how does it go?

a/n: a repost bc the ‘read more’ fucked up on the ask and idk??? what happened??? but here u go. about 2k words

know it’s for the better

The semester is not supposed to end like this. No, there are supposed to be parties and laughter and getting wine drunk on the roof, bare legs dangling into New York City. There are supposed to be finals, and library study sessions, and football games in hot, summer rain. There are supposed to be more nights tucked in the twin bed in your dorm room with Bucky’s arm looped round your waist, fingers splayed across your bare skin.

Instead it’s the beginning of March and everything is over. You could feel it coming like storm clouds, black and ominous, hovering on the horizon. The virus has been hovering on your periphery for an embarrassingly long time. As your twitter timeline became more and more scary and the news could talk of little else, it has become frighteningly and anxiously real. Life—everywhere, but particularly in New York—is never going to be the same.

You have no choice but to pack up your little dorm room and return home. Your mom had frantically booked you a flight out, worrying that in less than a week they could be suspended altogether. The virus has been spreading furiously in the city. A place you now call home could be one of the most dangerous places in the world.

And yet…the thought of leaving behind everything so abruptly is killing you. It’s not even school, despite loving it so much. It’s not the college lifestyle or your friends or just having the freedom to waltz wherever you want without fear.

It’s Bucky.

You leave New York, you have to leave him. And God knows how long that might be for.

“Y/N.” His voice is soft, barely a whisper. Bucky has been quietly watching you fill suitcases with clothes, cardboard boxes with belongings. Every so often it looks like he is going to help, but he thinks twice about it, like he can’t bear this is happening. “Y/N…could we, like, stop for a second?”

“My flight leaves first thing in the morning,” you say, refusing to turn and look at him. Your eyes well up as your tear Polaroids and ticket stubs and a sketch Steve did for you from your corkboard, unable to look at those either. They’re just reminders of everything you’re leaving and will never be the same again. “I don’t have time. I just need to get this done, okay?”

“I can’t just keep watching you do this and not talk about what’s going to happen next!”

“Well, maybe you could fucking help, then.”

You never swear, not really, and you can feel Bucky’s expression burning into the back of your skull. Hurt, surprise, desperation. “Let me help. Let me understand what is going through your head.”

“I—I didn’t mean that kind of help, I just need to pack these damn bags…”

Bucky’s hands touch your shoulders. It should feel familiar, his limbs and yours colliding. But he feels like fire. It feels like you’re going to have his handprints burnt into your skin, red and raw, a tattoo of the one real relationship you’ve ever had.

Because he knows just as well as you do that…it’s not going to work, is it? School is over. There is a fucking pandemic going on outside, and you live all the way on the other side of the country whilst he is and always will be a Brooklyn boy. You were supposed to have a whole semester and the summer to sort out what came next, to establish the foundations of your future together, if there was definitely going to be one. And that’s been ripped underneath you like a traumatic tablecloth.

You love him. You love him so fucking much. But is it fair to try and keep going when everything is like this?

“You know my mom and dad would love you to move in,” he says, “You can quarantine with us, see how things go. I just—I just don’t want you to leave. Please don’t leave.”

“Bucky. Please. That’s not fair.” You say, eyes fluttering closed. “We haven’t lived together before and…how do you know we’d work like that? This is serious, and terrifying, and I need to be somewhere I feel safe.”

“You don’t feel safe with me?”

At that you turn to face him, seeing the desperate pain in his eyes. You run your hands across his jawline, cupping at his neck. One tear runs across and down your wrist and he looks away, embarrassed. “Sweetheart. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“God. Yeah. I know, darl’. I know.” He kisses your hand softly. “With everything going on, (Y/N), my future feels a lot more certain knowing you’ll still be in it.”

You fall into his chest, inhaling him in. That woody, fresh scent of his cologne, coffee and mint and dark chocolate. You want to wrap yourself up in him and drown. Escape to a place where time is irrelevant, and nothing ever ends.

“I need to be with my family, Bucky. My mom is worried about me. I can’t put her through me staying here, even if I wanted to. And your mom would be the same.”

“I get that. I do. But you’re—you’re making it sound like that we have to break up.” You lean out of his embrace, his tear-filled eyes scrutinising you. “Are…we breaking up?”

Your mouth opens, swinging like a door on a loose hinge as you try and say something. Eloquence usually comes to you easy, when talking about the books you read for class. It’s one of the things Bucky first noticed about you, your fervent love for language. But there are no words for this. Just empty, agonising silence.

“Why do we have to break up?” He asks, voice cracked in two like a broken porcelain vase. “Why is that what you immediately resort to? There are thousands of ways we could make this work. Starting with the fact that I love you. Is that not enough to even try?”

You pause. Your room, once your safe haven, now feels torturous and unbearable. Suffocating. You bite your lip, tears burning behind your eyelids. “I would love to say yes, Bucky, but I don’t know. I just—I don’t want to be a few weeks down the line, you here and me in Colorado, finding out that it hasn’t worked and it isn’t enough and we have to break up over fucking Skype or…I don’t know, slowly ghost each other into nothingness? I would a million times over rather end it here where I love you than then where I don’t.”

“That is the worst logic I’ve ever heard. Literally the worst. You are assuming the absolute worst of both of us, and…” he runs a frantic hand through his hair. “You know what, if that’s what you think, maybe you’re right. If you have that little faith in me—us—now, maybe we should call it quits.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m going to leave. Have a good trip home.” He looks around your room for one last second but does not meet your gaze. “Have a really fucking good trip home.”

Bucky hovers for a moment by the door, like he’s waiting for one last glimmer of hope. That you might ask him to stay because even…even after all that, he still would drop everything for you to say stay.

But you don’t. The door reverberates loudly in the frame on his way out.

You don’t break down, which surprises you. For a little while after he leaves, when you try to immerse yourself in packing and singing along to Taylor Swift from your speaker, you think that it’s for the best. It is, it is, because it can’t work and it won’t work and this will save pain further down the line.

But the hours pass and silence creeps in to your now empty, echoing dorm room, absent of the vibrant life that once occupied it and—your heart feels wrong. This is not freeing, or a relief. This is not the ending you wanted.

You go to get a shower and Bucky’s sports towel is hung over one of the empty cubicles. You turn the tap as hot as it can get it, drowning the whole room in steam and something switches within you. The tears start and they refuse to stop, wracking your body like convulsions.

You fucked it. You well and truly fucked one of the only things that could have got you through all of this, even if you’re over a thousand miles away. It’s like Bucky said. The future is uncertain and scary and untenable, but it feels a hell of a lot more definite with him in it.

You wrap yourself in your towel and walk back into the corridor. Wiping your eyes, there’s a shape in a red jersey hovering next to your door.

“Bucky?”

He turns, his jaw tight and eyes rimmed with red. “Y/N.”

He doesn’t have to say anything else. You run over to him, grabbing fistfuls of him desperately, like he’s going to flare and fade from you forever. His arms wrap around you with equal vigour, warm and panicky and home.

“I didn’t mean it.” You say, your words swallowed up by his ribcage. “Dear God, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.”

You can feel him sob, body trembling in your arms. “Thank God.”

“I don’t know what will happen next. I haven’t got a fucking clue. But I know I want you there, okay? However it turns out.” You bring his lips down for a kiss tinged with hot water and steam, relief and pure, young, beautiful love. Your foreheads gently rest together. Another quick kiss. “I love you. I love you.”

He kisses you again, like he’s trying to fit in as many as he can. Like he’s packing them all into a suitcase for you to relive, one by one by one, when you’re at home and everything feels like its crumbling.

It will never crumble completely. You know this, because James Buchanan Barnes is your foundations, and he made it pretty fucking clear on day one when he grinned at you in sophomore year Russian lit. You both love novels because you love stories. You love beginnings and ends and everything in between, the climaxes and the romances, murders and death and life—you love breaking apart character, brutally analysing fictional lives and motives. But most of all, you love the feeling of watching characters you adore falling completely and utterly in love. You have spent years trying to define your favourite love story amongst the hundreds you’ve read, but you never thought—

All that time, all you had to do was wait.

send me a request

#will we talk?#college!bucky #college!bucky x reader #marvel #mcu #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #fanfic #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky au #bucky barnes au #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n

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jowritesthingss · 4 years ago

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Liar, Liar

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): n/a (familial DLAMPR)

Rating: General Audiences

Content Warning(s): fire (nobody’s hurt tho), strong language...boi (that’s a joke they’re kids there’s not rly strong language beyond anx saying “dang it” too much for pat’s liking)

Length: 2,420 words

Brief Summary: Janus wasn’t always as cool and collected a liar as he is now. Also, the split of Creativity because why not.

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

“MORALITY!” Creativity shrieks, racing into the living room and colliding at top speed into said side.

With a loud “oomph!”, Morality reaches out to enclose a seven-year-old Creativity in his arms, rocking the other side reassuringly. “Wh-what’s wrong, Creativity?” he struggles to pant through having his breath completely knocked out of him.

“D-Deceit’s being meeean to me again!” Creativity whines into Morality’s shirt.

Morality looks accusingly up at Deceit, who stands faux-innocently in the doorway.

Deceit shrugs. “No I’m not,” he defends himself. “I’m just telling the truth. Creativity is a big, weird, whiny baby. It’s a fact.” He points at Logic smugly. “Ask Logic. He’ll tell you.”

Cuddled up in his corner, Logic looks up from some fourth grade science textbook that he probably already knows cover to cover. “Please do not bring me into this little tiff of yours,” he says imperiously. After a moment, the facade melts, and he brightens. “Didja like that word? ‘Tiff’? It was the word of the day in Language Arts today, not that any of you were paying attention. It means—”

“Oh, shut up, nerd,” Deceit and Creativity chorus and well, at least there’s something they can agree on, Morality supposes.

Disappointed, Logic’s face sinks into a pout. “Fine.” His lip wobbles dangerously. “I can see when I’m not needed.”

And with that, Logic sinks down, presumably off to go bother Anxiety instead.

Morality knows that he should really go after Logic and reassure him that no, he really is needed, and they all really do love him. But with Logic no longer in the living room causing a distraction, Creativity and Deceit start to go off at each other again.

“You’re a booger head,” Deceit hisses, triumphant. “Logan’s the stinky poo-poo side, and you’re the booger side, you...you lame person.”

“No! I’m not a booger!” Creativity protests, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “J-just ’cos I thought it was a kinda dance that one time d-doesn’t make me the—the—”

Morality tries to gather Creativity back up in his arms, but Creativity pulls away from him, stubbornly glaring at Deceit even as tears start to pour down his trembling cheeks.

Deceit laughs, pointing a finger at Creativity. “And now you’re a crybaby! So you’re the crybaby side too?”

“H-hey, Dee, you really need to st—” But Morality’s pathetic attempt at crowd control is drowned out by a rapidly crescendoing siren.

Creativity is now openly wailing, his feet planted and his head tilted to the ceiling and his mouth gaping wide, and oh, dear, that’s never good.

Whenever Creativity starts to cry, it’s a toss-up as to whether he’ll hide in his room for a week or rampage through the entire mindscape destroying things. There’s not really an in-between, and there’s no way to tell which he’ll do each time.

“You’re—you’re a liar! You’re nothing but a liar!” Creativity asserts, his voice panicky and patchy and tremulous. He points a shaking finger at Deceit in return, trying to laugh at him, but the result is rather pitiful. “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

Then, all at once, Creativity shifts.

The tears dry up abruptly, and a too-wide, disconcerting grin spreads across his face.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Creativity says lowly, smiling way too much for someone who had just been in the darkest pits of despair.

Morality sucks in a breath, holding it, uneasily wondering what Creativity is planning.

Deceit has the decency to look slightly abashed, but he holds his ground nevertheless.

And then his pants burst into flame.

Morality is the first to scream, pointing a horrified finger at Deceit’s pants.

Deceit, wanting to know what Morality is screeching about, looks down...and promptly begins some screeching of his own, accompanied by little terrified hops all over the place. He dances around the living room, as if that’ll somehow magically douse the fire, but the extra exposure to oxygen only seems to be doing the opposite.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Creativity chants delightedly, a manic look on his face.

Logic abruptly rises back up to see what the ruckus is. He takes one look at Deceit running around, body engulfed in flames, and Creativity chanting not unlike a cult member, and Morality screaming...and he sinks back out.

A few moments later, a thoroughly reluctant Logic rises back up, being dragged by a fuming, worried Anxiety.

Anxiety surveys the scene in front of him for one, two, three seconds. Then—

“Deceit! Stop, drop, and roll already, you dummy!” he yells over the din, his voice slightly distorted. “Creativity, you weirdo, stop chanting, dang it!”

“L-language,” Morality mumbles brokenly, eyes wide as he watches the scene in front of him slowly begin to wind down.

Deceit pauses for a moment as Anxiety’s instructions sink in. Then he stops. Drops. Rolls.

Right onto the couch.

Setting the couch on fire.

“NO, dang it!” Anxiety screams, voice fully distorted now, and Morality is much too concerned with the six foot wall of raging flames to call him out on his strong language.

“Morality, a little help here!” Anxiety calls across the room, and the distorted, fully unadulterated panic shocks Morality into action.

It’s time for the Dad Voice. Morality sucks in a big, smoke-filled breath. He chokes. Sucks in another, more careful breath. Tries to make it look vaguely cooler this time.

“STOP!” Morality hollers, his voice magnified, deep, and booming over all the screaming coming from the other sides.

Everyone stops.

Logic stops mid eye-roll. Deceit stops stop-drop-and-roll-ing. Creativity stops chanting. Anxiety freezes in place. Even the fire all over Deceit and the sofa listens to Morality, slowing and shrinking and quickly petering out.

“That is enough,” Morality asserts. Gosh, he hates pulling the Dad Voice card on everyone, especially since they’re all basically the same age, and it always makes him feel so bad. But the cacophony going on in Thomas’ mindscape really was enough. If it got any worse, it would start to affect Thomas in the real world. “Deceit, stop calling people mean names. Creativity, stop setting people on fire.”

The two sides in question reluctantly mutter their assent.

“I’m telling Anxiety on you,” Deceit threatens Creativity under his breath.

“What the—dude!” Anxiety throws his arms up in the air, frustrated. “I’m literally right here,” he snaps, thoroughly Done with everything and everyone. “Who d’you think told you to stop, drop, and roll?” He mutters something illegible to himself before raising his voice again. “God, I wanna say a bad word so much right now but Mo would kill me.”

Deceit looks up and over at Anxiety. He stares quietly for a moment, astonished. Then tears begin to well up in his eyes—real tears, for once, not the crocodile tears he likes to pull on Morality to get what he wants. “I—I—Anx!” he blubbers, racing over to Anxiety and burying himself in the slightly taller side’s arms without prompting. “C-Creativity set me on fire! I was just pretending with him and he set me on fire!”

Chagrined, Anxiety looks at Morality from over Deceit’s head. He rolls his eyes and shrugs, a ‘what can ya do’-type gesture.

Morality returns the gesture before sternly turning to handle Creativity. “It doesn’t matter what Deceit said or did to you,” he says. “We do not set people on fire. You will apologize. Right. Now.”

“B-but!” Creativity protests feebly. “He...he started it though.”

“And I’m ending it. Right here, right now. Now.” Morality places his hands on his hips, staring down at the suddenly-meek side in front of him, quite a far cry from the crazed lunatic that had been present not two seconds ago. “Creativity. I believe you have something to say to Deceit...?”

Creativity nods earnestly, eyes wide and pleading. Then his eyes harden, and he shakes his head. “Yes—no. Yes. Uh.” He buries his face in his hand and peeps out at Morality, as if that can protect him. “M-maybe?”

“Uh-uh. There is no maybe in this, mister. It’s either a yes or a no.” Only a yes, really, but Morality’s gonna let the kid choose his own fate, even if that means he gets himself grounded for a month.

“Y-yes. Nooo.” Creativity clutches at his face, dropping to his knees on the ground. He lets out a pained cry, then, to everyone’s utmost surprise, two strange voices sound in contrast to each other.

“Yes!” one of the voices shrieks, delighted.

“No!” the other strange voice protests in tandem, defiant.

A flash of bright light—brighter than even the flames that had so quickly covered the still-smoking, now-singed sofa. Forced to look away, the sides all cover their eyes, squinting at the incredible brightness.

There is a yell—of pain?—of triumph?—and then, just like that, the light is gone.

Logic is the first one to chance opening his eyes, ever the curious soul and wanting to know what just happened. What he sees in the place where Creativity once stood makes him stop and stare, mouth hanging open.

Where Creativity had been standing in the middle of the living room, there are instead two strange new sides—one red, and one green. They both sit, curled up on the floor, disoriented and blinking up at everyone in a sort of tired confusion.

Logic steps forward. “Who...who are you?” he asks, his want to know overruling his wariness. The two of them just look so familiar, but Logic can’t for the life of him figure out why.

The two look up at him in tandem, cocking their heads with alarming similarity. They open their mouths.

“Why, I’m Creativity, of course!” they speak in unison, smooth versus garbled speech.

The two of them freeze, turning to face each other, eyes wild.

The green one’s face stretches into a wide grin. “Yes...it worked.”

The red one begins to shake his head rapidly. “No. Nonono. This isn’t happening. You’re not Creativity. I am.”

“No,” the green one says. “No, we are Creativity, brother.”

“Uh.” Morality clears his throat, guardedly inserting himself into the conversation. He swallows hard when the two supposed Creativities swivel their heads to look at him in unison. “Where’s...are you guys Creativity?”

“That’s what we just said, isn’t it, Mo-mo?” the green Creativity simpers, a sickly sweet smile on his face that he turns on Deceit next, standing up and walking over to him and Anxiety.

Deceit cowers into Anxiety’s side as the Creativity approaches him. He peeks his head out, hastily mumbling out a tiny, “’m sorry about...about calling you names.”

“It’s okay!” the green one says brightly. “I thought they were cool names. I like the idea of being the booger side. It matches my new color scheme!” As if to demonstrate, he picks his nose, wiping it on his new black-and-green outfit. “My brother is just a baby.”

Deceit smiles hesitantly, untangling himself from Anxiety and chancing a few steps in the direction of this new Creativity.

“Ew, gross,” the red one says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I don’t like you. You’re a stupid Creativity. I should set you on fire too.”

“Now, uh, Creativity,” Morality steps in again. “We just went over this. Uh. With you when you were...one Creativity?” Patton flounders, unsure of what to refer to either Creativity as. “Don’t make me go through it again now that you’re...uh, two.”

The red one sighs loudly, annoyed. “Fineee!” He pouts before sidling over to Logic. “Nice specs, four-eyes. What are you, a nerd?”

“Yes, and I like it,” Logic shoots back.

The two engage in a heated conversation, but it doesn’t seem quite so heated as the literal fire that had been raging through the mindscape under five minutes ago, so Morality decides to ignore it for the moment. He zeroes in on the green side, who seems slightly more troublesome.

“Y’know, I can teach you how to light fires like that!” the green Creativity is saying to Deceit, who seems much more interested in the idea than is strictly healthy. “That way we can light my brother on fire as revenge! The fire was my idea, of course, he’s not smart enough to come up with it on his own. But he’s the one who actually decided to do it.”

Green Creativity grabs Deceit’s hand with one of his (oh, gosh, that’s the booger hand, ew), and Morality watches as the two race over to the basement door, disappearing behind it.

Morality and Anxiety stare each other down, silently battling to see who is sentenced to the grisly death of going down into the basement after the two clear troublemakers.

Eventually, Anxiety relents. “I’ll go make sure they don’t get themselves killed,” he sighs, absolutely Done with the world yet again (let’s be honest, though, does he really have any other state of being?). “You three just try not to, um, burn down the house again, please?”

“Will do, Anxie!” Morality says nervously, waving a nervous goodbye as the purple side slinks into the basement, snapping the door shut behind him.

“No promises,” Red Creativity and Logic speak up in unison from behind him, then they devolve back into their tits—their—oh, what was that weird new-fangled word Logic had used earlier? gif? tiff?—they just go back to their argument, okay.

Morality turns to face the two of them, trying to feign a smile. After a moment, though, it wriggles off his face, and he sinks his head into his hands, sighing.

Poor Thomas, for having all of these dodos as his sides. Poor Morality, for having to deal with them. He doesn’t get paid enough for this. (He doesn’t get paid at all, who’s he kidding. Is it too late to ask for a different human?)

Turning up the 500-watt smile again, Morality marches over to Logic and this new Creativity. He plants himself between the two of them, internally forcing himself to come to terms with this. This is his new reality now.

“All right, break it up!” Morality instructs. “Mom’s making homemade macaroni tonight and if you make Thomas act out again, we won’t get any!”

Creativity and Logic immediately freeze.

“No!” Red Creativity laments. “Not the macaroni! We mustn’t lose the macaroni!”

“Indeed, that would be...not good,” Logic agrees seriously, nodding his assent.

The final crisis averted, Morality sighs in relief.

And just like that, peace returns to the mindscape of one Thomas Sanders.

Well. Just for the moment, at least.

(Tomorrow, when Green Creativity tries to put slugs in his brother’s pants, all bets are off.)

Fin

May I present to you: the real reason behind the Creativity split—a tantrum, pure and simple. And as for why Deceit ran away from and detested the light sides—utter embarrassment.

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spaceskam · 5 years ago

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no matter how hard we try to live our fantasies

Summary: deran trying to cope with an overwhelming crush. Alternatively: 2 times deran didn’t go for it, 1 time he did. .1.

“Can I go surfing with Adrian today?”

Deran watched Smurf as he waited for her answer. He’d slowly been convincing himself that they all hated Adrian. It wasn’t that Adrian was easy to hate, quite the opposite, in fact, but he was still paranoid. He was blaming it on the fact that he was stupid and seventeen and starting to think about Adrian in a way that he really, really shouldn’t. He was terrified that his family was starting to realize it.

But Smurf didn’t seem to notice because she smiled, “Of course, baby. Just be home for dinner.”

She gave him a kiss before he left.

By the time Deran got to the beach, Adrian was already there and rubbing sunscreen into his skin. The whole scene was oddly reminiscent of a dream he’d had a few days prior. Only this time, Adrian had more clothes on.

“Hey,” Deran called after letting himself stare for a minute. He’d known Adrian forever, but he still was lost on how his skin stayed so pristinely pale when he spent so much time in the sun. even the freckles that dotted his body didn’t seem to offer much in the way of a tan.

Adrian smiled over his shoulder at him and Deran’s brain short-circuited.

“Hey!” Adrian said, flashing a smile that made Deran feel fuzzy inside. Which made him a little angry. He pushed both of those feelings away. “Almost thought you weren’t gonna come.”

“Why would I stand you up?” Deran asked, grabbing his board from the back of the truck. Adrian dabbed the white lotion on his cheeks, effortlessly becoming so adorable that it was distracting. He almost dropped everything.

“I don’t know, you physically kicked me out of your bed last week and almost let me drown the week before, so Rude Deran is showing up whenever he wants,” Adrian said, but he lessened the blow by playfully kicking sand his way and grinning. Deran looked him up and down, kicking sand right back.

“I… didn’t mean to be rude,” Deran said. Adrian rolled his eyes and tossed him the bottle of sunscreen.

“Make yourself useful and get my back. I’m not ready to become a lobster just yet,” Adrian said, his smile still in full bloom. He didn’t have to tell him twice.

“Okay,” Deran agreed, stepping up behind him as he turned around.

Deran wasn’t stupid. Horrifically scared and in denial? Maybe, but not stupid. He was into Adrian. It took more than 10 different realization-moments before he accepted that fact, but we can’t all be perfect. He tried to avoid thinking about what that meant for his sexuality. He didn’t want to think about it. He’d much rather just think of Adrian and his back muscles and the way he smiled and how he probably looked with his board shorts on the ground.

And he did just that as he began to rub the sunscreen into his back. This was probably the most Deran had touched him since he realized he liked as more than a friend. It had heat pooling in his stomach. He really did keep himself in check for a while though. It took Adrian flexing his shoulder beneath his hand and letting out a little hum before his shorts began to tighten.

Deran paused, focusing on anyway to make it go away. He wasn’t about to be outed by a rogue hard-on. He filled his mind with anything that could possibly will it away. Mud, vomit, dead puppies, Craig. Frustration filled him when it was hardly working, taking over inch by inch of his body until Adrian hissed in pain and ducked out of his grip. Deran came into focus only to see a handprint on Adrian’s shoulder. His eyes widened.

“Damn, Deran,” Adrian laughed, smiling at Deran as if he hadn’t just bruised him. He knew he did. Adrian bruised easy.

“I’m sorry, I‒”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re just too strong for your own good,” Adrian mused, his eyes glistening in the sun and literally how was he supposed to not be into him. He was too gorgeous and too nice and Deran didn’t deserve him as a friend, much less as more than that. At some point, he realized he was staring again. “Hey, you okay? You’ve been acting weird lately. Thought it was just Rude Deran, but…” Adrian asked and God he sounded genuinely worried, what the fuck.

“No, I’m fine, just…” He tried to find a good excuse. Saying ‘I like you’ was insane and saying ‘I dream of you nearly every night’ was worse.

“Cody Family Business?” Adrian filled in. Oh yeah. He literally had the world’s best excuse.

“Yeah.”

“Then come on, get in the water with me. I’ll take your mind off it,” Adrian said, grinning that enticing grin as he walked backward toward the water. He didn’t know how wrong he was.

Deran followed anyway.

.2.

“Can I tell you something?”

Deran turned his head to face Adrian as they laid in the sand on the dark beach. It was Adrian’s 18th birthday and for some reason, he hadn’t wanted a large party. His request came with red cheeks and a timid smile: a night surfing and getting shit-faced, just the two of them. Deran had been on cloud nine and, even as his nerves built leading up to it, it was the highlight of the whole fucking year.

“You know you can,” Deran said. Sincerity was rippling through him and he couldn’t find a reason in the darkness to keep his walls up. He blamed it on the alcohol.

“But… you promise you won’t freak out? And that you won’t tell anyone? Because I don’t want anyone to know, I’m still figuring it all out, I just trust you because, well… I trust you,” Adrian said into the sky, not looking over at him. Deran was okay with the fact he wasn’t looking at him. It meant he could stare all he wanted without Adrian telling him he knew. He could drink in his jawline and his pale neck, his bare chest that rose and fell with his breath, the freckles that were sprinkled all over his body, the way his eyelashes brushed against his cheeks when blinked, and the way his lips stayed parted slightly. He was beautiful.

“Who would I tell? The only person I tell anything to is you,” Deran said, his fingers twitching in desperation to reach out to him. Man, he really must’ve drunk a lot. He was feeling ballsy and needy as hell.

The neediness burned deep in his bones whenever Adrian turned his head towards him and gave him a kind smile. He was nervous, that much was still present in his eyes, but he was smiling. He had such a nice smile. If he could just reach out and touch…

“So you’re not gonna freak out?”

“You didn’t freak out about me,” Deran pointed out. Adrian pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

He had accidentally discovered more than he should’ve about the Cody family a few months prior. It really wasn’t his fault. He came over every Wednesday to hang out with Deran. One Wednesday, though, happened to include a job and he walked in and saw a few hundred thousand laid out on the table while Deran nursed a budding black eye. Pope nearly lost his shit, but Deran promised to take care of it and pulled Adrian aside. Adrian said he had his suspicions‒everyone did‒but it was a bit more wild to see it in person. He also said he was worried Deran would get hurt which had him feeling fuzzier than he really should’ve.

Deran made sure to tell Pope that he’d made an excuse and that Adrian had bought it.

“This is different, though,” Adrian said softly, looking back to the sky, “I’m scared you’ll look at me differently, treat me differently.”

“You’re my best friend, nothing you say will make me feel differently about you,” Deran promised and he meant it so badly that it hurt. He had accepted that he was attracted to Adrian, that was fine, whatever. It wasn’t until he saw Adrian throwing up after drinking too much that he realized it was something much worse than that. There was no logical reason that he was so worried about him that he catered to him that entire night, and there was even less reasoning for why he still found him attractive when he reeked of vomit and looked sickly as hell. He’d really been trying to get rid of those stupid fucking feelings‒they made him weak and there was no point since he couldn’t act on them.

But then Adrian would smile at him and he was gone all over again.

“Okay, you promise?” Adrian said again, shifting onto his side and facing Deran completely. He chuckled slightly, turning as well.

“Promise.”

“I’m gay,” Adrian said, his voice soft and his face scared as he waited for his reaction.

Deran didn’t know what to say. The first thing that popped into his head was just a chorus of panicky ‘fuck’s and ‘oh no’s. It was one thing to be interested in a guy who you knew could never like you back, but it was a whole new ordeal knowing that he could and that he still couldn’t fucking act on it. Adrian was into men and Deran, a man, was into Adrian. So, so, so into Adrian.

But what would Smurf say?

“Oh, God, you’re freaking out,” Adrian said after Deran took too long to respond. His eyes widened as he tried to piece his thoughts together, watching Adrian sit up quickly. God, why couldn’t he be better with words? “I-I get it if you don’t want to be friends with me anymore, but, please, don’t-don’t tell anyone. Please don’t tell anyone. I’m still trying to figure it all out and, and I just wanted you to be the first person to know, but I get it if you, you, you don’t want to be around me anymore. ‘Cause, like, you know, we’ve slept in the same bed and I, well, I’ve seen you naked and stuff and‒”

“Adrian,” Deran managed to say, sitting up as well. He crisscrossed his legs, letting his hands fall into his lap. Maybe if he kept adjusting it would cover for the fact that he had no idea what the fuck to say that wasn’t ’me too’ or ’I like you’ or ’holy fuck you’re hot’. The last one didn’t even fit the conversation. “I don’t care.”

There we go. That’s good. Good choice.

“You don’t?” Adrian asked. He looked and sounded so vulnerable and Deran’s heart ached.

Again, a million wrong things tried to fight it’s way to the surface. ’Kiss me’. ‘Run away with me’. ‘I love you’. Yikes. Eventually, he found a way to simply say: “You’re still Adrian, I just know more.”

Whatever was in that alcohol must’ve blessed him with a few extra brain cells. It even earned him one of the best smiles in the world. Deran considered it could probably overpower the sun.

“Can I hug you?” Adrian asked, but didn’t really wait for an answer as he wrapped his arms around his neck. Deran was still for a moment, trying to keep everything stupid and out of control in his body in check.

Eventually, he let himself go and wrapped his arms around Adrian. Deran’s eyes closed, tugging him close and allowed himself, for a moment, to pretend that this was something different than what it was. For a moment, he could pretend Adrian was his.

When he pulled out of the hug, he found it hard to let go. Adrian seemed to understand that feeling and their foreheads met in the middle, their hands on each other’s arms and nothing but the sound of the ocean. Deran opened his eyes to see Adrian staring right back. They were close enough that Deran could feel him breathing, could feel the tip of his nose brush against his own, and could see the way his eyes flickered down to his lips more than once. This was his chance.

Kiss him now or never get another opportunity.

Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him. Don’t be a coward, kiss him. He’s waiting. Fuck everyone else, this is Adrian. Fucking do it!

“You’re a good friend, Deran,” Adrian whispered, his thumb rubbing circles into his bicep and Deran was about to fucking lose it. His stomach was so tense it hurt and his brain was so full that he couldn’t find anything coherent to say. Everything was Adrian. This was better than any wet dream.

So, instead, he let his body take over. His eyes looked down to Adrian’s lips and then back to his eyes, making sure it was obvious what he wanted and giving Adrian a moment to deny him if he wanted to. He didn’t. Deran slid his hands up over his smooth shoulders, stopping as they cupped the back of his neck. And he leaned in.

Their lips were barely a millimeter apart when his phone rang and he was rudely reminded why he shouldn’t be doing this.

Deran cleared his throat as he backed away, “I should get home.” Adrian was staring at him with a hard to read face, nodding as he let his hands slip away. Somehow, even in the heat of California, the absence of his hands had him feeling cold.

“Deran,” Adrian said softly as they both stood to their feet, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Deran let his eyes scan over Adrian one last time before he had to leave and never got to touch him like he just had again. He cleared his throat, convincing himself that he wouldn’t miss it.

“I know.”

.3.

“Can I stay with you?”

Adrian blinked a few times in confusion before it slipped into badly disguised worry and he stepped to the side. Deran stepped inside, reminding himself that this was Adrian’s place and he couldn’t trash it. He had to be respectful.

But he couldn’t help it, he was pissed. His hands balled up into fists, pressing against his head as he took ragged breaths in some stupid attempt to calm himself down. He didn’t want to fuck up Adrian’s place, but he also really needed to hit something. It only melted away a little bit when Adrian’s hand gently touched his back. He’d become way too sure that Deran wouldn’t hit him like he would anyone else who touched him like that. Thankfully, he was kinda right.

It’d been a few years since their almost-kiss on Adrian’s birthday and even though they never actually spoke about it, it had definitely changed something in their relationship. Adrian felt more comfortable touching him even as, with each passing year, Deran’s anger got worse. He’d manhandled Adrian more times then he liked to recall, but it made him feel better in the moment. Later, he’d hate himself for it. He already hated himself. The prospect of hurting Adrian made that hatred worse and almost confusing.

Why couldn’t he just stop fucking liking him? It was such bullshit. He was an adult now, adults shouldn’t hold on to stupid teenage crushes. That was Pope’s territory.

“What happened?” Adrian asked softly. Deran huffed another heavy breath, his nails digging into his palms.

“It’s fucking Smurf, man. She keeps fucking treating me like I’m stupid! She’s putting me and Craig both in shitty situations over and over and I swear she wouldn’t even give a shit if I died. I know she wouldn’t! She’s perfectly content in her selfish little fucking bubble! So is Baz! Pope too! They all think they’re so high and mighty ‘cause, ‘cause they, I don’t know, come up with shit, but even if I came up with shit, it’s not like they would listen! They don’t give a shit about me, man, I’m just there to take the fall for shit, I know it. I’m the baby, I don’t fucking matter,” Deran rambled. He’d almost begun pacing a few times but pacing meant losing Adrian’s hand on his back and that was the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid. “I literally almost fucking got killed yesterday and she didn’t even care. Said it was my fault! My fault some guy knocked me out with a gun and proceeded to fucking hit me when I was unconscious! My fault, huh? My fault!”

“Hey, hey, you know it’s not,” Adrian said, actually reaching up and placing his hand against his cheek. A tornado of something stirred in his stomach, staring at this man who thought it was okay to touch him like he might break even when he’d hurt people. Adrian knew damn well how dangerous he was‒and he still touched him like that. What the fuck? “Are you okay, though? That guy, he didn’t hurt you too bad, right?” Adrian’s fingers gently grazed over his sore cheekbone.

“The-the rest’s under my shirt,” Deran mumbled, feeling more than a little lost. Adrian always threw him off course, but today felt different.

“Can I see?” Adrian asked. Today was definitely different.

Deran nodded once, reaching for the bottom of his shirt. He got it about halfway before he winced, pain racing through him from the bruises that littered his abdomen. Adrian helped him take it off completely and gave him a smile once it was off. Okay.

Deran watched as Adrian inspected his bruises, a grim look taking over his previously smiling face. Adrian looked up and silently asked if he could touch to which Deran had no choice but to agree to. The minute he felt his calloused fingertips against his stomach, every inch of him covered in chills. He should’ve been embarrassed and maybe a little part of him was, but a bigger part was focused on Adrian and how he didn’t even tease him about it.

There was a lot of things different about today after all. Today, Deran didn’t give a shit what his family thought. In fact, he would happily do something to piss them off. If he got something good out of it, then that’s even better. He wanted to get away, to start new. He was tired of being hurt, being treated as nothing more than a little minion. He wanted to stop worrying about all the shit he was worrying about.

What better place to start than with Adrian?

“Adrian,” Deran said. Adrian hummed as he stood up straight, standing closer than usual with a confident little smile. He knew, he had to know. How the fuck did he know? It didn’t matter.

Deran basically smashed his face into Adrian’s. It was a whole lot less smooth than he could’ve been and a whole lot more forceful than that moment on the beach, but none of that really mattered when he was kissing Adrian. And Adrian was kissing him back. He had to arguments as Deran pushed him against the wall. Deran happily ignored the pain it caused in favor of focusing on the absolute gift from God that was kissing Adrian fucking Dolan.

“Run away with me,” Deran proposed, pulling away just enough to get his bottom lip back from Adrian’s teeth. Fuck. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Fuck my family, let’s go. Just you and me.” Adrian furrowed his eyebrows, looking over his face to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

“You really want that?”

“I know a guy down in Belize. Let’s fuck off. We don’t have to ever come back. We can spend all day surfing and all night fucking for the rest of our lives. Come with me,” Deran proposed, moving back into Adrian’s space. He liked it there, it was more welcoming than anything he’d ever experienced. He put his lips on Adrian’s neck.

“Deran,” Adrian said, grabbing a handful of his hair as Deran pushed him harder into the wall, “I get… I get why you wanna leave, but do you really wanna take me with you?”

Deran stopped, moving to look into his eyes. How did he somehow know that Deran was into him, but didn’t seem to see just how much? That was so frustrating. He didn’t have the words to tell him how much he wanted it, none of them worked. ’You’re the only one in the world I want with me’ was too dramatic, and ‘I’ve loved you since I was 16 and the only way I can have you is if we go away together’, while honest, was ridiculous.

“If you want, we can fuck first to make sure the sex is good enough before you agree,” Deran offered, watching Adrian crack a smile. He hoped he got it. He hoped that him asking at all told him everything that he couldn’t find the words for. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to find the words.

But he somehow had Adrian, so anything was possible.

“I’ll take you up on that offer.”

#i know i don't usually write for these two #but this was on my mind for awhile #so i stayed up until 1 even though i have work in a couple hours to write this #animal kingdom #animal kingdom fic #ak #ak fic #ak fanfic #deran cody #deran cody fic #adrian dolan #adrian dolan fic #deran x adrian #adrian x deran #maybe one day they'll have a ship name #3.5k word #literally no one asked for this

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debbie-tanthorey · 5 years ago

Text

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony. A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently. An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up. Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended). Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch) He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.” The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot. B-word leads to the C-word.

Alone now in my car, I fall apart. Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see. A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac. Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this. (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔) Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion. The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week. What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions. All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying. Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.” His reassurance tempers my panic . . life resumes.

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't. Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda. Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor. Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.” Did. Friday, March 6. Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one.

“Sure”

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’ She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her. She and Ian were married 18 months ago. Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9. Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk. Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn. Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread. Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work. This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before. A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10. Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect. She's calm. So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second. Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs. The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head. It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me. Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope. I do. And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters. Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed. A mistake, surely so. Just a glitch in the system. “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in. I’m in luck, they can. So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery. Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away. Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either. Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one. Fact of the matter, there is NO lump!

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia. He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again. This day I say, ‘ok'.

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case. ???? While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy. Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson. I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though. COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car. At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone. And it's too quiet in here. The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here. I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important?? Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease. Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it. (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!) In reality, robotically, walk over to look. There it is, plain as day. The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot. Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh. No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me. The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me. No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop? That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure. There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below. Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed. Needles are fun, aren't they??! (eye roll) Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me. (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room) And it begins. Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells. Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way. Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY. First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door. Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator. Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks. As I wait, pilfer on my ipad. Name is called, off I go. Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me. He begins talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”

“...(I go effectively deaf) blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly. What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE. Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently. Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?) REALITY Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally. Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available. (drifting off - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.) Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine. The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!! THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it. Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP. Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag. Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door. (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19. Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk. I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place. Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids. Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth. All the while knowing the beast is growing.

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16. Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know. I have breast cancer. There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG. Am a zombie. A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek. Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb. Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention. Vomiting would be a blessing about now. I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed) I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces.�� Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that. Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces. Watch them absorb what they now understand. I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George. This is the first time I will say the words. Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her. (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright. She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast.

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went. Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there. Am thankful I am not them. He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question. My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit. Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.

Life is insane.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between. Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it. What to do. What. To. Do. Staying right-minded is the aim. Crave it. C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there. OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3. I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me. Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event. Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy. Every day I plow through my work to-do list. Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery. Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow. A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus. A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives. In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.

Sleeping is not an issue during these days. It’s my safe place. Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago. (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation. I waffle. At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace. Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children. No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go. Acknowledgement. A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them. They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them. They’re part of who we are. Mine are set for execution. It’s them or me.

Time ticks by.

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15. Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive. True. This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor. I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING. So expect the worst. Naturally. Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk. I notice what great hair he has. Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first) expect that. Did. Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything. Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core. What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.” Meaning that tiny prick was it. Say what now? Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes. I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home. Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for. Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them. Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020. DtoDD DAY. Death to DD’s Day. (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom. Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same. Gee, I hope I come back.” Melodramatic to a fault I am. Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour. Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed?? Well, it is. Apocolyptically-quiet. Surreal. Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though. Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain. I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes. Dark room, humming machine. Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m. Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal. I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest) you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?” (yes, I really did say it) Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table. I do. My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here. In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things. Arms, legs . . belt around my abdomen. Am picturing masked-ants. Busy, busy. Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head. I feel FINE Am here, but not here. Oh God. Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air. Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating, “Debbie, wake up. Can you hear me?” Awake. Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD”

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it. Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened. Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me. I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me. Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how. Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive. Not moving. Lord, what have I done? Ice packs under both arms. Detest feeling this gross. I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself. Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????! God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors. Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor. No big deal. Not much to tell. Post on facebook that I survived. Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME. Here’s where it gets funny. Seriously. Humorous. Reality. My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days. Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance. Stubborn. Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds. First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch. Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not. Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!” Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge. “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!” She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed. Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction. With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!! It works!! Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.

Drains. Grateful to only require two. Three times a day they need emptying. Unceremoniously, Leah’s job. When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery. These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side. The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice. (you winched at the visual, didn’t you? haha) They get full. Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color. Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction. eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing. (shudder) Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.” (rap, rap, smack) “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).” My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot. Really HOT. She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading. Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her. Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23. A week passes, mostly uneventful. Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing. Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD. I feel terrible. Blah - which to me, IS terrible. No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’) Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day. The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately. I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive.

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim. (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power. I have no power, drained dry. Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area. Pitiful. I hate this. Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me. My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room. sigh I need a transfusion. I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back. Where’d Debbie go??!!

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait. Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction. I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS. (how embarrassing) “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you. STOP THEM.”

huh?????!

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.” Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius. (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze. TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!! Geez . .the tunnel, the light . . THIS IS WHY!!! TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!! Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well. Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there. In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment with oncologist in May to discuss options. Why??? Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting. Yes and no, in that order. Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’. For good reason. Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!! And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it. Too few days of relief pass swiftly - the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself. But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that. I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored. ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL. It’s normalcy. And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March. Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work. Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way. I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 30. Meet-my-oncologist day. (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??! Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further. Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!! Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone. Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in. Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair. I absorb the room. Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do. A few patients are here. One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there. Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban. And there’s me. Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.

Name called. BP and weight. Perks of the day . . bp is good, especially good for me. Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs. I’ll take it!! Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction!

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire. Ugh. Bottom of the page. Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation. Here we go . . Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying) Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals) Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S. Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”) Janice / mom / is 81. Terry / brother / is 55.” Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . . Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart. Two verbal inquires of me -

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely”

He pauses. He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details. “Never?” he queries again. Shake my head in the negative. Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer. No sense at all.”

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!) the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me. Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally. I consent. He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated. Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream) If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen. Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc. Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures. (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE) Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back. Come see me in two weeks please. Oh wait . . you drive quite a distance to get here, right? Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh . . . so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way. CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’. TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results. (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator. Am still me, after all. My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment. By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score. Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself. I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd. Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office. One last day not having to call, know anything. Ignorant bliss. Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center. I stop breathing. Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’ Not breathing. HERE WE GO (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart. Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.) Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%. Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?” 17 “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call. Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . . with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH! For the moment, issued a reprieve. I soak it up. Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing. Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

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theborahaecat · 5 years ago

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Penny for your thoughts? - Chapter IV

Title: Penny for your thoughts? [Telepathy AU] Relationship: Kim Taehyung/Jeon Jungkook Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content in later chapters. Word count: 4150 Summary: “~ Ahhhhhh, pretty boy is staring at us, definitely us. - Oh my god, will you stop screaming? ~ Oh look, he looks so adorable with those wide eyes, oh God, why is he so near. - It’s okay breathe. Breathe, and try not to do anything stupid. Oh no no, don’t stare. ~ Woah, so pretty. - No, I said do NOT stare. ~ Did you? Sorry, I must have heard you wrong.

A clear-cut internal thought-conversation? This was rare, Jungkook noted as he turned away, trying so hard not to smile.”

OR,

Jungkook can feel everyone’s thoughts and emotions, and Taehyung is that one person who thinks too loud.

Read CHAPTER I here.

Read CHAPTER II here.

Read CHAPTER III here.

… … … … … … … … … … . .

Jungkook stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, gazing at how the yellow halo of a streetlamp blurred into the fading night. Perhaps he should have brought a jacket.

He stifled a yawn, checking the time. Taehyung wanted to take pictures of the sunrise, so they had decided to meet really early. Jungkook sighed, exasperated by his own nervousness. Here he was, with over a quarter of an hour left until the allotted ‘really early’.

He leaned back against a tree, wondering why Taehyung had chosen to meet at the bus stop nearest to his apartment. He couldn’t have known where Jungkook lived, could he? Maybe he lived somewhere nearby too. Jungkook wondered why the thought of that cheered him up a little.

He studied the cemented sidewalk before him, letting faint, muted dream-thoughts from all around the sleeping street flow through his mind. He liked this peaceful period between two and six in the morning when he could let his guard down.

He let his mind wander to Taehyung’s shy smile, his cute, panicky thought-conversations, his bright eyes and darkened gaze that burned through Jungkook’s soul, completely oblivious to how tenderly he was now gazing at the edge of the sidewalk, alone in semi-darkness.

~ We’re late, aren’t we? - We’re five minutes early. ~ Oh no, we’re early? - Ye- Wait, what? It’s okay to be early, right? ~ Oh. Yeah, okay-er I guess.

Jungkook fought the urge to smile. Taehyung was somewhere around the corner, excited, nervous, nervous, panicking, overjoyed, nervous.

~ What if he doesn’t turn up? - He would text us or something, right? ~ But what if he stands us up? - He wouldn’t. ~ How are we so sure? - …We’re not… ~ Well then, what if? - Then we go alone. ~ But we don’t wanna go alone… - That was the plan in the first place, remember? ~ But then we promised us we’d go with Angel. - Maybe he’ll come. If we can wait just one minute till we go around this corner- ~ We wanna meet Angel. - Jungkook. ~ That’s what I said. - We met him literally yesterday. ~ But we miss him! - Ugh. Dramatic.

Jungkook found himself smiling fondly. Taehyung had just mentally called himself dramatic and Jungkook wanted to squish his cheeks.

~ And we want to hold his pretty hand because it’s chilly out here. - Oh god, not this again. ~ Imagine him pulling us into his gorgeous arms… - Or, like, don’t. ~ …holding us so close… - No, stop right there, please. ~ …that we can hear his heart racing… - God, don’t tell me we fancy him liking us. ~ I wonder what he smells like… - What even. Okay, that’s it. We’re reaching in ten seconds. Stop. Blushing. Right. Now. ~ Well, at least that warmed us up…

Jungkook pressed his cold hands against his cheeks, trying to get them to cool down. Was he ever going to get used to Taehyung’s vivid fantasies? What did he smell like, come to think of it?

When Taehyung finally half-ran, half-stumbled round the corner, cheeks flushed, lips nervously bitten-red, breathless, drowning in a printed white button-down Jungkook was not ready.

“Hi,” Jungkook breathed, leaning off the tree, telling himself to get a grip as he picked up his bag and walked towards where Taehyung had stumbled to a halt, frozen, lips parted, his gazing raking down from Jungkook’s body.

~ OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhm- - Wait, he said something, didn’t he? ~ His waist is so fucking tiny, can we touch? - What the heck, no way, get a grip, Taehyung. + Imagine- - No, you goddamned potato, don’t you dare turn up and ‘Imagine’ us now. He said something, and we’re being RUDE! ~ Oh no, he’s going to hate us now, isn’t he? - Ye- No, just- Say something!

“T-thank you.”

- W H A T . ~ We said something. - Yes, but that’s not- forget it.

“Thanks for coming along,” Taehyung mumbled, blushing hard, gaze now fixed on Jungkook’s shoes.

Just being around a flustered Taehyung did things to Jungkook and his confidence. He walked slowly up to Taehyung, gently brushing a finger under his chin, urging him to look up and into Jungkook’s eyes.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Jungkook smiled, “I’ll try not to be too much of a bother.” God, why did his voice have to turn all weird and breathy around Taehyung? Also, how the heck was he supposed to survive those puppy eyes?

~ As if Angel could ever be a bother. (Too close, too close, too close, too cl-) - He could make a wonderful distraction, let’s be honest, but not a bother. (Don’t you dare step back. We’re not rude. We’re not scared.) ~ But it would be totally worth it. (Why is he so damn pretty? Unfair.) - True. (Stop whining.)

“So, where are we going?” Jungkook figured he might as well try the whole ‘normal conversation’ thing.

Taehyung brightened.

- We know this part. We can talk about this. ~ His eyes are so pretty…

“We take a bus-” Taehyung’s words were cut off when a bus rumbled round the corner and came to a halt before them.

- Timing… ~ Woohoo! First not-a-date with Angelkook! - … Angelkook?

Jungkook climbed onto the bus, trying so hard not to smile and blush and look like an idiot in general. Taehyung was seriously too adorable. Angelkook, huh… Jungkook decided he might just let himself find Taehyung a nickname too, if only for non-verbal purposes.

The bus was nearly empty, Jungkook noted, grateful, as he took a seat beside Taehyung.

“So. Where is this bus taking us?”

~ He’s so cuuute - Shut up and respond.

“We ride this bus for about twenty minutes,” Taehyung had that bright, child-like smile again, “reaching somewhere around the outskirts. Then we walk a little to one of my favourite places in the city. It’s a pretty place.”

~ “Not as pretty as you, though.” - Tell me we didn’t say that aloud. ~ We didn’t say that aloud. - Good. ~ What if he doesn’t like it? - Well, people usually don’t hate trees…

Jungkook willed himself not to laugh.

“When you say ‘outskirts’,” Jungkook decided he might as well try to get Taehyung more comfortable, “does that mean nature-y stuff?”

~ Does that mean he likes nature-y stuff, or…? - We can’t tell. His tone is too neutral.

“Yeah,” Taehyung shook his hair out of his eyes, and Jungkook swore it should be illegal to look so good while doing something that normal.

- Oh god, he’s staring. ~ Pretty… - He doesn’t like nature-y stuff, does he?

Jungkook forced his gaze down to his hands, heart racing. Why did everything have to be so damn intense around Taehyung?

"T-the weather is pretty clear,” Jungkook tried in vain to get his voice to sound less breathy, “You’ll get some amazing pictures! I’m glad I’m here with you.”

~ His voice… - Oh good. He does like nature-y stuff. Phew. ~ We want to hear that voice forever.

Forever, huh. Jungkook knew that Taehyung didn’t mean forever forever. He just meant for a relatively long period of time.

He watched Taehyung fidget with the zip of his bag, while his excitement, nervousness and a sort of warm, soft feeling drifted through Jungkook’s mind. He imagined Taehyung’s precious thoughts and feelings drifting through his mind many years from now.

God, why did he always have to get so caught up in these words?

Forever, huh. Jungkook sighed, forcing himself to lock that thought away at the far back of his mind. There was no forever.

~ Oh no, he’s too close! - Now we realize that? ~ We were busy. - With what? ~ Panicking. - And what are we doing now? ~ …panicking?

Jungkook tried so hard not to smile.

~ He’s almost smiling, ohmygod- - Don’t stare. ~ His hair looks so soft and messy and fluffy and- - Don’t you dare. ~ We’re touching his hair. - We’re NOT. ~ Oh chill, he didn’t mind last time, remember?

Jungkook felt his cheeks warm under Taehyung’s stare. Why was Taehyung so frustratingly adorable? Was he going to touch Jungkook’s hair again? Why did that feel like a wonderful idea?

- No. ~ Just a little bit? - …No? ~ That’s a yes.

Jungkook discovered that this wasn’t an adequate warning. His heart fluttered when Taehyung turned to face him and gently tucked a few stray strands of hair behind his ear. He could feel his face burning when Taehyung continued to gaze intently at his face.

Within a blink, Taehyung’s gaze changed from nervous and fascinated to something calmer, more focused, calculating, confident, reassured and a strange kind of powerful.

# Charcoal sketch on canvas? To emphasize the jawline? ~ What about his coral red lips? # Then how about water-colour? - Stop staring. # Shut up. ~ Shut up. Yes, water-colour. He looks so soft! - Ohmygod, he’s uncomfortable. Stop staring! # Yeah. Acrylics won’t capture this gentle, dawn lighting on his high cheekbones.

“U-um,” Jungkook could barely breathe.

There was a fourth voice? As if three wasn’t messing with him enough. And god, this thought-voice sounded so in control and Jungkook was so glad he was sitting down because his knees would buckle under a gaze of that intensity from Taehyung.

“T-Taehyung?”

Taehyung blinked, flickering back to normal for a second, “Yes?”

- Not “Yes?” you pathetic tomato. Apologize! ~ For what? - Are you serious right now? For staring, of course. ~ But we just glanced at him for literally a second? - We. Were. Staring.

"I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Taehyung mumbled as he continued staring, “It’s just that you’re really p-”

- ABORT ABORT ABORT! ~ Why? - I- Just- Get a grip. ~ We can’t. We’re staring at him. - Then stop. Fucking. Staring. Damn it. # No, wait. Memorization in progress!

Taehyung tore his gaze away and buried his face in his hands, tips of his ears bright red, and looked out the window through the gaps between his fingers.

- We’re almost there. ~ Thank goodness.

“I’m so sorry about…y’know…staring,” Taehyung looked so flustered and Jungkook melted.

“I don’t mind,” Jungkook responded, honestly. Taehyung’s gaze had him struggling to remember how to breathe, but he hadn’t exactly disliked the feeling. He tried to ignore the way his ears were heating up, “Your eyes are beautiful,” Jungkook continued, “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind gazing into them every now and then either.”

Jungkook blinked.

What. Was he flirting again? Was he not capable of commenting about art being beautiful without it sounding like he was halfway in love?

No, wait. He wasn’t flirting perse, Jungkook reasoned after a pause. He was simply stating the truth.

~ OHMYGOD - Yes. ~ He said our eyes are beautiful - He did. ~ And that he wants to drown in them. - Well, technically- ~ Oh no, we’re going to die. - I mean, he just said he “wouldn’t mind”, so… ~ That’s basically code for “would love to” if we’re optimistic enough. - Well, we’re not. ~ We’re going to freak out and jump into a freezing lake, and then Angel might take pity and rescue us. - We’re just going to respond to him now.

“Thanks, Jungkook,” Taehyung breathed with a soft smile, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “But you shouldn’t encourage my tendency to space out.”

“It’s cute,” Jungkook mumbled quietly when he was sure Taehyung wasn't listening.

~ And after he rescues us, he’d take us home and lend us some clothes OHMYGOD - Shut up. We get down at the next stop, right? ~ OHMYGOD imagine Jungkook lending us one of his super-comfy looking hoodies that make him look so cute we can’t breathe. - We can never breathe around him anyway, so I doubt it makes a difference. ~ We’re so going to die. - No, we’re going to calmly, I repeat, calmly get off the bus and act normal around Angelkook.

“We get down here,” Taehyung picked up his bag, making it a point not to look at Jungkook at all, and Jungkook followed him off the bus, pretending not to notice the pink tips of Taehyung’s ears.

Jungkook followed Taehyung through a thick grove of firs, dodging low branches, sidestepping undergrowth, trying to blur out Taehyung’s panic so he could think.

Great. So now there was a fourth thought-voice?

There was the usual ‘focus, get stuff done’ voice and the adorable, flustered voice. Then there was that confident sexy voice that would be the death of him. And now, there seemed to be some sort of an intense, confident artist voice.

Photography meant that there would probably be at least a background presence of this confident artist thought-voice throughout the day, right? How was he ever going to survive this?

“So, this is it,” Taehyung’s hesitant voice snapped Jungkook out of his thoughts.

Jungkook stepped out of the grove and into a clearing, feeling like he had stepped into a faerytale.

The sky was a blushing mauve, reflecting in a shimmering lake that stretched out into the distance, disappearing into hazy mist. Wild grass lined the edge of the lake, spreading across the broad strip of land between the water and the line of tall firs, punctuated with wild lavender and tiny yellow and white blossoms, all covered in dewdrops.

About thirty feet from where they stood, a large tree like an oak, ancient, branches reaching out everywhere, creating a dome underneath. Strange white flowers, about as large as the palm of a hand, trembled in the wind on every branch.

It was all so frighteningly, overwhelmingly beautiful and Jungkook could only gaze in wide-eyed wonder.

# Now click a picture of him. NOW.

Click!

Jungkook froze.

- What the- It’s NOT okay to take pictures of people without asking them. We’ve discussed this! ~ But he looked so… # The framing was perfect. Should we have asked him at the cost of losing the moment forever? - Well, no, but- # Chill. We’ll delete it if he wants us to. ~ He looks so perfect here. - We should tell him… ~ You’re right, he looks perfect always, but Angel looks like he belongs here… # Surreal perfection. We might use dry acrylics for highlights on this one… - First of all, we’re telling him.

“Jungkook?”

Jungkook turned to Taehyung, the way his wind-tousled grey hair looked silvery in the soft light. His breath caught at the way Taehyung stood, relaxed, reassured, camera resting in his hands like it belonged there, chin raised, eyes bright, if slightly nervous.

So this was what came with the artist thought-voice. Jungkook drew in a shuddering breath, willing his own voice to stay steady.

- He’s looking here. Now tell him! # But that flower over there- - That flower is going to be there a minute later. # The lighting is going to change. - But-

Click!

- For heaven’s sake- ~ Talk now, we can’t survive this stare. - That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for, like, forever. ~ Talk-

“Hey, u-um-”

Jungkook couldn’t help but smile. Stammering Taehyung was too precious.

~ He’s smiling, and we have forgotten everything. - Are you fucking serious? # Hurry up! There’s a pretty shadow we need to click.

“Can I see?” Jungkook decided he might as well make it easier for Taehyung, “That picture you clicked of me, can I see it?”

“Sure, let me j- Wait, no, freeze. Don’t move your head. Or your hands.”

Jungkook froze, forcing himself not to react to the exasperation, the fangirling, the focused passion that filtered into his mind from Taehyung’s.

Click!

Taehyung jogged over to him, opening out the display to show Jungkook the photographs. Jungkook managed to not choke on his own breath.

It was a picture of Jungkook, well, spacing out, but with the tree and the mist and the wind, Taehyung managed to make him look ethereal. Angelic. Jungkook blinked. Was this what Taehyung saw when he looked at Jungkook? Because this photograph over here was art, and what Jungkook saw in every annoying mirror was very… different.

“I’m really sorry,” Taehyung shuffled his feet, “about not asking you before clicking this. And the other one too.”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook could hardly believe he was doing this but, “would you like me to be your personal model for the day?”

Jungkook flinched. He had definitely not meant it to sound so goddamn coy and flirtatious. The way his eyes had flickered down mid-sentence to how Taehyung subconsciously bit his lip had not helped. The way his fingers brushed over Taehyung’s as he handed the camera back had made it worse.

Taehyung didn’t step back. Even as his cheeks flushed a bright red, something in his eyes stayed steady, focused, as if looking beyond Jungkook as a person and at what Jungkook could be as a part of his work of art.

~ Aaaaahhhh! Angelkook is asking us if we want him to be ours! - Will you stop yelling? He asked us if we want him to be our model for the pictures. # Of course we do. He’s perfect. ~ That’s what I always say. Perfect. - I mean, I never particularly disagreed, so… ~ Oh look, he’s blushing! # Click a picture. Background tree in the right one-third, pink clouds in the background.

Click!

- Now talk to him. ~ Beg him desperately to be our model. - No, you dumb spinach. Accept his offer calmly.

“You’d do that?” Taehyung’s whole face lit up with innocent excitement, “You’re offering to let me click pictures of you all day? Really?”

“I mean,” Jungkook felt all warm and fuzzy in his chest, “if you want to.”

Taehyung tilted his head to the side and let his gaze, calm and intense, rake slowly down Jungkook’s body.

# Yep. He’s the perfect model for our usual themes and style. ~ How is he so fucking perfect? It’s annoying. - Distracting. + We want to drop to our knees and suck him off. - We’re NOT getting turned on right now. # We want to build a nude life-size sculpture, then drop to our knees to worship him. + That’s what I said. Imagine- - Don’t.

Jungkook was burning up. So Taehyung wanted, at some level, to suck Jungkook off. Great. Fine. Not something to ponder over right now. Breathe.

He tilted his own head to the same side to catch Taehyung’s eye, trying so hard not to imagine Taehyung on his knees before Jungkook, lips red and parted for him. He closed his eyes for a second, to fucking get a grip, damn it.

“Of course, I’d love that!” Taehyung looked like he was about two seconds from jumping up and down in either joyful excitement or nervous panic, “But, like, are you sure? I’m going to be asking you to freeze mid-sentence or mid-step, or go sit on some random rock and face the blinding sun for many minutes, and basically order you around. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

Jungkook bit his lip. Being ordered around by Taehyung sounded…not exactly terrible. Especially right now, when Taehyung’s voice was lower even though his tone was light and cheery, his eyes were dark, pupils visibly blown even in the low light, and burning into Jungkook’s, expectant.

“That’s fine,” Jungkook breathed, noting the exact moment when Taehyung realized he had been staring at Jungkook for a good while now, huffing out a quiet laugh as the voices in Taehyung’s head panicked over how Jungkook was staring at ‘them’. Taehyung looked beautiful, colour high on his cheeks, his shirt hanging slightly off his slender frame, revealing his pale neck and prominent collar bones, now fidgeting with the strap of his camera. Jungkook simply couldn’t look away, “I might even enjoy it.”

Jungkook mentally slapped himself. Why did that have to sound so damn suggestive? He only meant to say that he might enjoy this whole photoshoot thing with Taehyung. Not that he might enjoy being ordered around by Taehyung. Although to be fair, that didn’t sound terrible either, especially with the way Taehyung was looking at him again.

~ He said he might enjoy us ordering him around. What do we do with this information? + Save it for the bedroom. - Wha- Just shut up. He just meant he might enjoy hanging out today. None of that.

“Taehyung?” Jungkook pointed towards the far end of the lake where a faint red outline of a sphere was peeking through the morning mist, “Over there.”

Taehyung swore under his breath. Jungkook watched, mildly amused, as Taehyung dashed around, clicking pictures of the rising sun from between branches of the tree or lying down to get a good frame with a few blades of wild grass. Jungkook decided he might as well lay down on the grass, resting his head on their bags, and watched him work, letting Taehyung’s focus and passion flow through his own mind.

The horizon burned a mellow red as the sky lightened, and a soft golden light lit up Taehyung’s focused gaze, his beautiful hands, and Jungkook couldn’t help but gaze at him in awe. The way Taehyung moved, fluid, graceful, through the wild grass, the innocent thrill in his eyes, softly smiling as he pulled off his shoes and socks, the little jump and surprised laughter when he stepped into the freezing water, all left Jungkook feeling like he could stay here forever, with the quiet magic of the place and with Taehyung. He felt himself sink into the soft, sun-warmed grass, eye-lids a little heavy.

# Move a little to the side. Now click.

Click!

# Mmm, not what we imagined. Maybe try sitting down… ~ Food? # Later, promise. # Look, the sun is all glaringly shiny now. # We need to check the flowers now. ~ Pretty… # Change camera setting to m- # Ohmygod, hush. Tiptoe. Click.

Click!

- QUIET. # Come on, come on, hurry!

Click!

Jungkook’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the camera shutter directly above his face.

Click!

Jungkook registered Taehyung kneeling over him, knees on either side on Jungkook’s waist. Taehyung had one eye shut, the other at the viewfinder, and the rectangular smile that lit up like sunshine on fresh snow made his heart clench.

Click!

“I wasn’t expecting you to click pictures of me sleeping already,” Jungkook laughed, lifting himself up on his elbows to get a stray twig out of Taehyung’s silvery hair.

Click!

“Look, you’re insanely pretty,” Taehyung mumbled, still on top of Jungkook, still smiling wide, still clicking away. Jungkook could think of one thought-voice who would be so mad at dialogue, “and you have granted me explicit permission to click pictures of you all day long.”

Jungkook burst into laughter, ears burning, heart racing. God, how was he going to survive the day?

~ OHMYGOD we just called him pretty. - You’ve got to be kidding me. ~ But it’s true! Look- # Stop staring. Get back here.

Click!

Jungkook lay back down, still laughing, blushing, and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

Click!

“And if you think I’m not going to take full advantage of that, you’re…” Taehyung brought his camera down with a soft, satisfied laugh. Jungkook wanted to override his own thought filters, just to ruffle Taehyung’s windblown hair, “Well, you’re still insanely pretty.”

Click!

# Did we get the Moment of Flusterment? - How are we even doing this. # We do just about anything for art, remember? ~ Food.

Taehyung got off Jungkook to check his recent photos and Jungkook reluctantly got to his feet, dusting himself off.

# Yep. We got it! + Damn, we’d love to tap that ass too. - For heaven’s sake, he’s literally just dusting his pants off. ~ Can we eat now?

Jungkook’s entire face was tingling. Why did the prettiest person on earth have to call him pretty out loud twice before breakfast? Would he even survive until noon?

“So,” Jungkook asked as Taehyung picked up his bag, “Where next?”

“Breakfast?” Taehyung responded, heading towards the gap in the line of trees from where they had come in, “if you’re hungry.”

~ Please be hungry. # If he isn’t, we still have to go there click pictures with Bamboo. - It’s been a long while since we’ve been there… ~ OHMYGOD ANGELKOOK WITH PUPPY OH NO. - …fuck, that’s attractive. ~ WE’RE GOING TO DIE. - Fun.

“Starving,” Jungkook sighed.

He tried to convince himself that his heart hadn’t skipped a beat at Taehyung’s bright, relieved laughter.

- - -

REQUESTS OPEN! for Taekook drabbles - Picture Prompts

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storiesnobodyreads · 6 years ago

Text

Introduce me

Characters: Bucky Barnes x reader

Story: Bucky wants to be introduced to your parents but you dont really wanna cos your parents suck. Bucky tries to convince you/blackmail u all the time and finally he wins a bet.

Warnings: abusive/neglecting parents, fighting, but also love and fluff

A/N: yay I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for so long and it feels good to finish things.

You tried to remember how you had gotten yourself into this situation. Bucky by your side, silently moving his fork around in the disgusting, brown-looking mashed potatoes, opposite you were your parents, who judgementally stared at you and your boyfriend as if it were a staring contest in which only they were participating.

This sucked. You wished it had never come to this.

Bucky had been wanting to meet your parents for a very long time. Quite frankly, he was insulted that you hadn’t introduced him sooner: as if you didn’t take the relationship seriously. You did. You just didn’t want him to experience the horror to meet your parents. As much as you appreciated everything they had done for you, and they were still your mom and dad, you despised visiting them. They always made you feel like a failure. Nothing you did was ever good enough. Ever.

Nevertheless, Bucky never ceased to grab the opportunity to get you to introduce him to your parents. “Because I want to meet the people who created you,” he’d offered as an explanation when you’d asked him why on earth he was so determined considering this. The second reason was because he’d lost his family a long time ago, thus he insisted on appreciating every sort of family member that he had. It was this second reason that got to you.

Often did Bucky attempt to blackmail you, but he’d never had the proper leverage. He once took an embarrassing picture of you from an unflattering angle, showing you with three double chins and one eyelid closing slightly faster than the other, while you were taking a bite of pie. “I’ll delete the picture if you introduce me to your parents,” Bucky had tried to make a deal. “If you don’t, I’ll show it to all the Avengers.”

You had politely declined. Bucky had then proceeded to show the photograph to all the Avengers, which was awkward but much more endurable than having to sit through dinner with Bucky, mom and dad.

One day, you and Bucky had gone out to dinner and afterwards decided to take a walk through the natural park in your neighbourhood, enjoying the golden hour and watching the sky light up pink as the sun set. Birds chirping, squirles gathering nuts, leaves flying peacefully through the air. Everything looked gorgeous, and with Bucky’s hand in yours, it all became even more stunning.

The two of you were peacefully strolling over a bridge, at least thirthy meters above a wildly raging river, when you made a bad decision. “Do you know what would be awesome,” you offered suggestively, “If you could jump off this bridge. You know, and do a triple salto like the pros.”

It was completely a joke and Bucky took it completely seriously. He smiled broadly. “If you want me to do it, I’ll do it.”

You realized your mistake instantly—the fact that Bucky was prepared to do anything for you. “Bucky,” you sighed deeply, “As much as I love you, even you, Sargeant James Barnes, Winter Soldier, cannot possibly survive a fall this high. So do me a favour and just give up.”

He cocked up his eyebrows in indignance. “You don’t think I can do it, doll?”

“I don’t—“ you started.

Before you could even finish your sentence, Bucky interrupted you. His eyes started shining as if he had got struck by the greatest idea in the history of great ideas; he looked like there quite literally lit up a lightbulb above his head. “What do I get from you if I jump?”

You rolled your eyes. “A dollar.”

“I am about to risk my life,” Bucky spoke up exaggeratedly, emphasizing risk my life. “I’m not gonna do that for one dollar.” He held a dramatic pause. “I will, however, do it if you’ll introduce me to your parents.”

A little laugh escaped your lips. Not for a second did you think he was actually going to jump. “Sure, Buck, but you—“

“You said sure!” Bucky gestured excitedly. “If I jump, you’ll introduce me to your folks. Now you promised. No take-backs.” It was ridiculous how childlishly exhilarated he became by all this. In a wild movement, he pulled you toward him by your forearms and kissed you firmly on your lips. Then, suddenly, without saying another damned word, he swirled around and jumped. Straight over the railing.

It was as if he had slammed all the oxygen out of your lungs. “Bucky!” you shrieked, throwing yourself toward the edge. Hearing his scream over the roaring river, you could just see him plunge into the water with an enormous splash. He fell in flawlessly; his body firmly in pencil-shape.

“SHIT!” you screamed, staring at the gaping cliff below you, hoping and praying and wishing that Bucky would come up. You stared desperately for what felt like eternity—finally, his head bopped up through the hostile surface. You couldn’t quite make out whether he was alive and swimming or dying and drowning. Before you know what your body was doing, you were running over the bridge as fast as you could. All your training with the Avengers, with the strict supervision from your boyfriend, kicked in as you sprinted to the side of the bridge, then jumping down and parcouring all the way down the rocky hill. You flew over the stones; heart beating insanely fast while panic clouded your senses.

Bucky was standing, you observed as you could hardly keep your balance when you reached the sand on the banks of the river. He was standing. Alive. ALIVE. You were still sprinting faster than your legs could carry you, now into the river, toward Bucky.

Bucky welcomingly spread his arms as he stood knee-deep in the shores of the rushing river. “Mr and Mrs Y/L/N, here I come.”

You shoved him against his chest. Tears were burning in your eyes. You were pretty sure you had never felt so many extreme emotions before. “Jesus Christ, Bucky!” you hoped to say it angrily, but the words came out rather like panicky sobs.

The smile on his face quickly vanished when it occurred to him you didn’t find this as hilarious as he did. “Okay, babe, calm down—“

You shoved him again, causing him to stumble backwards. “I thought you were dead! I honestly didn’t think you could survive this!”

“Argh,” Bucky did tiredly when you tried to hit him again but he effortlessly caught your arms. You struggled, but he didn’t show any recognition of your struggle. “Will I make it better or worse when I tell you I’ve done this before with Steve?”

You stared at him. “Yes—no.”

He stood there grinning with that stupid, boyish smirk on his face, very aware that he had shocked you but also very aware that you were already forgiving him.

The emotions were still swirling inside of you, to the extent that there really was only one reaction possible. It came so out of the blue, even the Winter Soldier didn’t see it coming. You climbed onto him, wrapping your thighs around Bucky’s neck, then threw yourself backwards into a summersault to slam Bucky to the ground. Only when he was fully underwater, did you release the grip you had around him. It was a particular move that Bucky and you had practiced a thousand times, mostly because he enjoyed the move a little more than he probably should.

He had started teaching you to fight three days after you had joined the team of Avengers. You weren’t an actual Avenger, no superpowers or actual skills, but you were an engineer. Quite a good one, if you dared to say so yourself. By working incredibly hard, studying your ass off, doing everything in your might to become better, you had managed to catch the eye of the one and only Tony Stark. You had become his intern and was now his assistant, helping him whenever you could, otherwise working on your own projects that Tony always declared to be mind-blowing. The Avengers had soon recognized your talent, noticing Tony’s face light up with pride every time you dropped by with a new invention for them, and everyone had welcomed you with open arms.

Three days into being Tony Stark’s official assistant, and it was publically known, Hydra wanted you. You, being an unprepared city girl with no experience in fighting whatsoever, was easily kidnapped walking down the street. The van stopped, two men jumped out, wrapped a dark bag over your head, pushed you into the van, and drove off.

It shouldn’t have been that easy, but it was.

Thankfully, the Avengers had immediately come to action after you had slammed the emergency bulb you carried in your pocket, setting off all the alarms in the Stark Tower. “We had no choice but to go rescue you,” Tony had later complained, “You were the only one who knew how to turn off those alarms.”

Bucky had been less capable to joke about the situation; he was furious that you had been taken by the enemy so effortlessly, and insisted that you’d learn how to fight. You’d told him you’d do it, but only if he’d be the teacher. And it was pretty clear how that relationship turned out.

You realized your thoughts had gotten slightly off-track; you had been chewing the same piece of carrot for a full minute.

After years and years of being around your parents, you had grown used to the fact that they didn’t respect you. But it bothered you to hell that they didn’t respect Bucky. First, they had wasted half an hour staring at his metal arm, their expressions filled with fear and not-so-subtle disgust. They had then proceeded to ask Bucky to put his coat back on and keep his hand underneath the table, so that they would have to see it as little as possible. Bucky had been polite about it. He was used to people being scared of him.

It was almost hard to describe how much you hated them for it. There was an uneasy feeling in every nerve of your body—only half-way through dinner you realized this was what it felt like to really want to punch someone in the face. Hate.

“How did you two meet?” your mother asked, voice cold and lips pursed.

Bucky put his fork down and leaned back in his chair, glad to start up a conversation. “Actually, it was Tony Stark who introduced us. See, your daughter is one of the brightest engineers on the planet, so of course she caught Stark’s eye, and he recruited her. She instantly proved invaluable to the team. I think she’s the most intelligent person I’ve ever met.”

“Hmm,” your mother did, shaking her head a little after Bucky finished his last sentence.

Bucky didn’t miss the nonverbal signal she was sending. “Excuse me?” he asked for an explanation.

“You just give her a lot of credit,” she shrugged disapprovingly. “Without the education that we provided for her, she would have been nothing in this world. She might be able to study, kind of, but if we hadn’t given her the chances we have given her, she would have been completely worthless.” Never mind the fact that you had worked insanely hard to make money to provide for the entire household during highschool, and despite that had managed to get a scholarship for a University.

Bucky’s eyes were wide. “I mean, what does—“

“Yes,” you interrupted him, “Thanks, mom and dad, for everything you did for me. I would have been nothing without you.” You had learned over time to get the words over your lips without vomiting.

Bucky glared sideways at you, his eyes shining confused. Offended for your sake.

“Dad, why don’t you tell Bucky about your business?” you suggested. He did, and that was it then. That was the last time you were mentioned in the conversation or that you even said anything. Your parents didn’t want to talk about you or your life; they didn’t care about you or your life. They wanted to talk about themselves. The only way you could come up in the conversation, was when it would make them feel better; by either emphasizing it was thanks to them you were successful, or remembering what a failure you actually were. You had always found this quite a conundrum.

“I almost cancelled that meeting for Y/N’s tenth birthday party,” your dad was telling Bucky about the meeting in which he had been offered a promotion. “Boy, was I glad I didn’t! No one showed up to her party anyway.” No one had showed up because everyone was scared to death by your parents; you’d later celebrated your birthday in class because the teacher and the kids wanted you to feel happiness when you reached the age of two hands.

Your mom laughed. “That’s right, dear,” she smiled evilly. “She didn’t have any friends. No one likes her.”

Bucky’s fist was balled so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“You’d think that her having no friends would mean that she’d spend more time helping out in the house, but no, lil missy here was always too good to clean a table. Like I said before, quite a worthless child.” Your dad seemed to have a good time talking about this to Bucky.

“After her tenth birthday party failed so miserably, we gave up on her birthdays,” your mom added. “We knew that no one was ever going to celebrate her. So after that, we always went on a nice vacation, to Hawaii or something alike.”

Bucky’s jaw was hard as he was clenching his teeth. His jaw did look sharp as if it could cut you. “That’s nice,” he brought out politely. “Must have been cool to spend your birthday in Hawaii,” he said to you.

“Oh, no,” your dad laughed out loud. “We didn’t take her with us. Why would we take some stupid child to ruin our holiday?”

Bucky looked so shocked, he came up with no response.

“Not that all children are horrible,” your mom intoned, completely misinterpreting his mood. “I’m sure you were a lovely child. Before you lost your arm, that is.”

Your dad agreed, “Yes, you are quite the gentleman.” The old man leaned forward over the table, making it look like he was going to whisper, but his words were as loud as before. “Tell me, Bucky, why on earth are you with our daughter?”

“Oh!” your mom snapped her fingers excitedly as she got an idea. “She paid you to pretend to be her boyfriend, didn’t she?!”

Bucky’s expression promised a storm. “No, I—“

“How much did she pay you?” your dad went along with it whole-heartedly. “Must have been a lot! She’s such a nobody, foolish and worthless, and you, well, you are a superhero!”

Your mom nodded. “Must have been a million bucks, for someone as talentless and dull—“

All of a sudden, Bucky rose to his feet. Promptly and aggressively, making the glasses of wine spill and the cutlery rambling. He angrily threw his napkin from his lap on the table. “I love Y/N,” he spat out the words. “I love her so much I didn’t even fucking know it was possible to love someone so much. And you—“ He inhaled sharply, having trouble finding the words. “Just because you cannot see what an incredible woman your daughter is, does not give you the right to speak about her like that. You are family. I can’t even wrap my head around how you can act this way.” Roughly, he shoved his chair backwards and held out his hand to help you up. “I mean, come on.” His voice dripped with disapproval. “Have some damn respect.”

The looks on your parents’ faces was priceless.

Bucky’s metal fingers tightly held your hand as he steered you out of the house, not allowing you to say another word to your parents. You had never seen him this mad before, except perhaps after you had gotten kidnapped by Hydra.

He didn’t let go of your hand until he had the door of his jeep open for you to enter. After you had climbed into your seat, he slammed the door shut behind you, making the vehicle shake. He moved around the front, took his seat behind the wheel, grunted something about “no idea what family means”, and as soon as the car was started, hit the gas to jolt of your parents’ property.

“Bucky?” you tried to say.

“I love you, but I need a minute to calm down, okay?” he breathed out.

You could feel yourself shrink, as if he had stepped on your soul. Softly, you replied, “Okay.” For a year you had managed to prevent this occassion. You had known that it was going to be a disaster since the beginning. But perhaps you had overestimated the strength of your relationship. Maybe this was the thing that pissed Bucky off to the point of no return—that you had made him loose faith in the concept of family.

You sat there worrying for quite a while. Bucky drove and didn’t speak. His silence was deafening. You couldn’t figure out what he was thinking or what he was going to say; soon the unrealistic fear that he didn’t love you anymore settled in. God, did you love him. You couldn’t imagine your life without him.

After what felt like hours, Bucky finally spoke up. “Your parents were wrong, you know.”

You sighed, feeling relief wash over you that he was saying words to you again, but also feeling very tired. You didn’t want to talk. You could predict a preach coming, one that Bucky had undoubtedly picked up from the righteous Steve, and you didn’t want to hear it. Sharing your feelings sucked. “I know. I refuse to argue with them, so I let them think they’ve won. I get the satsifaction of knowing they haven’t.”

“As much as I respect that approach,” Bucky started carefully, “I don’t think you—“

“Do you want to listen to some music?” you interrupted him. Now that you knew he didn’t hate you nor did he want to break up with you, you realized the absolute last thing you wanted to do was talk about your mommy and daddy issues. You preferred ignoring the problem until it just went away. You knew Bucky had been a fan of that method, too, until he had found you to talk to.

Bucky tensed his shoulders as if he intended to protest, but you had already arranged the music anf turned up the volume to its highest extent, blasting Bruno Mars across the dark, abandoned road. No one was out and driving in this neighbourhood on a Tuesday evening. No lanterns. All there was, was the risk of hitting a deer crossing the asphalt.

Soon you found myself getting absorbed by the stars, your forehead firmly pressed against the icy glass. You attempted to seek out constellations, but you were constantly welcomed by so much light from the moon and stars that all you could do was gawk. Mouth agape.

After at least an hour of driving through enchanting no-man’s-land, Bucky abruptly switched off the music. Only when you snapped your neck to look at him did you realize your neck muscles were aching. “What is happening?” you brought out insecurily.

“I’m pulling over,” Bucky informed you, while instantly following up on his words, stopping his jeep on the side of the road. His metal arm whirred in readjustment.

You still hadn’t the faintest clue what his intentions were. “Are we out of gas?” was your simplest conclusion.

Bucky threw the door open and leaped out of the car, leaving the engine roaring and the headlights shining bright. Stomping on the muddy grass, hands in his neck to help him breathe, he stood in front of the car. His silhouette perfectly outlined by the headlights—you were painfully reminded by how gorgeous he was.

“James?” you asked quietly. His name brought up no reaction, though it should have, since you only called him James during intimate times. Slowly, you made your way out of the car and joined Bucky to stand by his side.

“Okay, here goes,” growled Bucky, his eyes fluttering open when he sensed your warm presence beside him. “I don’t think you should let your parents talk to you that way. That makes no fucking sense. But that’s not why I’m mad. That’s your parents’ fault. Apologies, but they fucking suck. They don’t deserve you. At all.”

“Wait,” you still had to catch up, “What are you mad at me for?”

“For not fucking telling me!” Bucky busted out. “Doll, I have told you everything there is to know about me. My whole past, all my fears, it’s all out there. I talk to you. You have to talk to me too.”

For some reason, you could only think of that once he’d said it. After helping him overcome so many traumas, he could help you, too. Though the things you experienced were on a significantly smaller scale than Bucky, it was still troubling, and Bucky still wanted to help. You couldn’t even remember how often Bucky had woken up from a nightmare, screaming, bathed in sweat, occasionally attacking you with his metal arm, the one that had been so wired to do the killing. It had taken a long time before he was willing to talk about it. It had taken an even longer time for him to stop trying to push you away every time something happened. However, once he had accepted that you weren’t going anywhere, the relationship had grown all the more stronger.

“Bucky, it’s not that easy--”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Bucky demanded, his full body and full frustration now turned to you. “Doll, you’re the one who convinced me to share my feelings, talk, talk, talk. And now I find out you haven’t been talking about the thing that bothers you most. I guessed your parents were shitty but I never knew it was like this.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, aching your ribcage. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you exclaimed. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You don’t need my childish mommy and daddy problems on top of that. It’s fine! I learned how to deal with it. I just didn’t want to fucking bother you with it.”

Bucky’s eyes flared dangerously as he stepped in closer to me. “I want you to bother me!” he yelled. “I want you to tell me everything that’s on your mind, every little thing. I want to know everything about you because I love you, and I want you to trust me. I want you...” He inhaled sharply, seeing your shocked expression, taking a step back. Took a deep breath. “I just want you to bother me. Like I bother you.”

There were tears burning in your eyes. “I’m sorry. I... I guess I tried to protect you from my stupid problems but you’re right. I wanted you to bother me, too.”

“Okay,” Bucky was focussing on his breathing, probably counting to ten. It had started to rain. There were only several raindrops one second, then ear deafening thunder boomed in the distance, and suddenly rain came pouring from the sky without a shred of mercy, instantly draining you to the bone. “Well, shit,” he growled. “I hadn’t expected the day to go like this.” The furious fire that had been awakened in his eyes was slowly mellowing, and he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue despite the rain.

You shrugged, wiping a tear from underneath your eyes, which also didn’t matter thanks to the rain. “I kind of did. I knew it was going to be a disaster.”

“All this because I jumped off the bridge, huh?” Bucky smiled a little, picking up your gesture and removing the smudged mascara from under your eyes. “Listen, I love you, crazy parents or not. I’m glad you introduced me. Feel like we took a step today.”

“I hadn’t expected this, but I’m glad I introduced you, too,” you said. “I mean, you really showed them. Told them what you thought and then got the fuck out of the house. That was... Thank you for that. I love you so much.” You were still crying, but they had transformed themselves into happy tears, and mingled with the rain streaming down your face. Your hands cupped Bucky’s face, holding him close.

Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, were on your waist, pressing you closer to his body. “I love you too,” he whispered against lips, his hot breath sending chills down your spine.

You shivered, inhaling the smell of him, strengthened by the heavy rainfall. “We did enough talking and sharing feelings for today, right?”

Bucky couldn’t get himself to properly respond, and firmly pressed his lips on top of yours. He held onto you and you held onto him, both with so much passion and adoration, you realised it didn’t matter how much you would ‘bother’ each other. You’d always love him, and he’d always love you.

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just-an-anxious-mess · 6 years ago

Text

Sleepwalking

Virgil sleep walked. No one noticed at first because he'd stay in his room, wandering around in circles. Even Virgil himself didn't realise.

Then it got worse. Virgil started walking the hallways, unnoticed by anyone.

Virgil eventually realised one day when he woke up in the imagination forest instead of his own bed. After that he tried to do all sorts to keep himself in his room. He locked his door, put furniture in front of it and even removed the doorknob.

Nothing worked and every night without fail he would wander the halls, completely unaware of his surroundings.

One night as Virgil did his usual sleepwalking routine someone noticed.

Logans door had been partially open and as Virgil shuffled past, Logan glanced up and caught sight of him.

Frowning Logan got up and peered out of his door to spot Virgil turn the corner.

Curious, Logan followed and soon realised Virgils predicament.

Carefully he turned Virgil around and guided him back to his room where he decided to stay and observe Virgil.

Virgil tried to walk out of the room several times and each time Logan made sure to stop him. He was fascinated and wondered if it was a regular thing and if Virgil knew he did it.

The next morning at breakfast while Roman and Patton discussed just how many pancakes the batter would make, Logan confronted Virgil.

"you were sleepwalking last night. Were you aware of that?" he asked and Virgil sighed and nodded.

Logan considered him for a second and said "if you sleepwalk tonight I'll have to observe, sleepwalking is an intriguing thing that I'd like to understand more and what better way than to observe it with your own eyes?"

The question was rhetorical and Virgil shifted uncomfortably. He needed to think up a way to stop Logan from watching him and fast.

"it was probably just a one off, plus the idea of having you watch me while I sleep is really creepy." he said and Logan frowned with disappointment but replied "OK, I'll refrain from that then."

Patton and Roman suddenly tuned in, having finished their conversation. "so how are you two this morning?" Patton asked while Roman just piled lots of pancakes onto his plate.

"just a little tired." Virgil replied, poking at the single pancake he had on his plate. He didn't feel very hungry so he took a couple bites and quickly made an excuse to leave.

As shut his door Virgil decided that he'd just not fall asleep so he didn't sleep walk again.

Night fell and Virgil made sure to sneak a few energy drinks into his room to keep himself awake.

He managed to keep himself from falling asleep and although he felt exhausted, as daylight began to creep through the window he was relieved.

Logan seemed to have noticed he hadn't been sleepwalking the previous night because he didn't even bother trying to talk to Virgil about it.

Patton frowned as Virgil downed a cup of coffee which was very unusual considering the number of times Virgil insisted he didn't like the taste of it. He made a mental note to keep an eye on him.

That was why Patton was the next to find out. He woke up in the middle of the night and decided to grab a cup of warm milk or something to help him get back to sleep and he made it a point to walk past Virgils door.

He knew Virgil had a horrible habit of staying up until the early hours of the morning so he stopped and listened to see if Virgil was asleep.

"don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep." came a muffled chant and Patton was instantly concerned. Something had obviously happened to make Virgil not want to sleep and he wouldn't rest until he found out what and helped him get through it.

Patton opened the door to see Virgil sitting inside his wardrobe hugging his knees to his chest.

Virgil seemed to be oblivious to Pattons presence so he put his hand on Virgils shoulder as gently as he could to minimise the chance of Virgil flinching.

Virgil still flinched massively but Patton gave him an encouraging smile and said in a soft voice "I'm here to help."

Virgil hesitated before mumbling "I don't want to to fall asleep."

Patton nodded and replied "tell me why and I'll try to help you overcome whatever it is."

Virgil sighed and hid his face as he muttered "I keep sleepwalking."

Patton brushed off the embarrassment in Virgils voice and said "I'll stay here all night and make sure you don't hurt yourself if it'll get you to sleep."

Virgil squirmed uncomfortably as Patton hugged him and whispered "I don't want to be a burden."

Patton hugged Virgil tighter and blinked away tears at how sincere Virgils voice was.

"you could never be a burden, if you ever have problems just come to me and I'll help as best I can. You don't have to struggle in silence all on your own. You can come to any of us for help." Patton struggled to keep his voice level as he imagined how hard it must have been for Virgil for the last however many years that he'd been dealing with everything on his own.

Virgil sniffed and a couple tears fell as he had trouble believing Patton. He still didn't want to be a burden but he guessed he would try to ask for help when things got to much instead of bottling it up until he ended up lashing out with mean comments.

Patton managed to convince Virgil to get into bed and try and sleep by promising him he'd stop him hurting himself or wandering the corridors.

Patton gave a small sad smile as Virgil fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He hoped whatever was causing the sleepwalking wasn't too serious because he hated when his family got upset.

Patton made sure to stay up all night to keep Virgil from wandering and when Virgil woke up in the morning he gave him a smile and a big hug.

"you only need to ask for help." Patton reminded him and then lead the way to the kitchen for breakfast.

Virgil sat at the table feeling much better now he'd had some sleep but he was still pretty tired from staying up all night the night before.

Logan walked in and again didn't mention the subject of sleepwalking or anything which Virgil was glad of.

Roman wandered in with a yawn and immediately began to scarf down his breakfast as if he'd not eaten in days while Virgil merely nibbled on a slice of toast.

Patton walked in and found the contrast rather amusing but stopped himself from saying anything. He needed to wake himself up if he was going to make it through another night of no sleep.

He planned on making sure Virgil didn't pull any more all nighters.

That night he stayed awake until three in the morning and he just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

Virgil sleepwalked out of his room and into the corridor. Logan had gone to sleep at a reasonable time so he wasn't awake to pay attention to Virgil shuffling past his door this time.

Virgil woke up the next morning on the floor and sighed as he realised Patton had probably fallen asleep because he was in a corridor somewhere.

He pushed himself to his feet and frowned as he noticed Roman laying on the floor a few feet past him.

Roman suddenly yawned and woke up, his face going bright red as he noticed Virgil.

"I... Um..." he said in embarrassment and that's when Virgil realised.

"you sleepwalk too don't you?" he asked and Roman nodded.

"Virgil! I'm so sorry!" came the shout from Patton who suddenly came running down the corridor close to tears.

He came to a stop and doubled over, trying to catch his breath. He gestured to Virgil and then to Roman trying to ask a question but he was still out of breath.

"I think what Patton is trying to say is why are you and Roman in this corridor." said Logan who had come from the same way Patton had.

Virgil looked confused for a second but Roman realised what they meant.

"we both woke up here after sleepwalking." his voice shook slightly as he tried to stop himself going red from embarrassment.

Logan seemed intrigued and asked "has anything happened recently that either of you would be panicking over?"

"really? You're asking me that?" Virgil said in disbelief. He was literally the embodiment of anxiety, he was always feeling panicky over something.

Roman frowned and tried to think what had caused such a reaction and then his eyes widened as he realised what it was.

Virgil closed his eyes to try and remember if anything particularly big had happened in the past few weeks and when he remembered he opened his eyes.

"well... Um...." Roman said hesitantly his face going pink.

Virgil was staring at the floor, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes as he said "romanandikissed." he spoke too quick for anyone to understand him.

"I didn't quite catch that." Logan said, raising an eyebrow and Roman was the one who explained.

"Virgil and I kind of... Um... kissed and I guess we were both freaking out about it? Possibly?" Romans voice was hesitant and shy, easily drowned out by the excited squeal from Patton.

"my two babies! Aw you're so freaking adorable cute!" Patton was practically bouncing up and down on the spot.

Logan sighed and held the bridge of his nose, unimpressed by Pattons actions but unwilling to bring his mood down by telling him to act his age.

Virgil felt his cheeks burn as Patton engulfed both him and Roman in a hug, still squealing about how happy he was.

When he'd extracted himself from Pattons arms, Virgil sent a glance at Roman who shrugged.

"come on Patton, leave them alone so they can talk through their issues." Logan eventually said.

"aw but Logie..." whined Patton with a pout.

Virgil couldn't help the loud snort at Pattons nickname for Logan and Roman had clamped a hand over his mouth to hold back his laughter.

Logan sent a glare at them both before responding. "how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" his voice sounded resigned as if this was a regular occurance which made it more difficult to not laugh.

Patton let out a loud sigh before grabbing Logan by the arm with a drawn out "ugh fine. Let's go then."

With that a spluttering Logan was dragged down the corridor, leaving Roman and Virgil on their own.

As soon as the two had gone Roman and Virgil glanced at each other before erupting with laughter.

Virgil stood doubled over clutching his stomach in pain as he tried to calm himself, looking over at where Roman was laying on the floor in a similar position.

"that was hilarious." Roman gasped as he struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the wall for support.

Virgil let out a noise of agreement before thinking back to what they'd identified as the cause for his sleepwalking.

Roman seemed to notice his change in mood as he got to his feet and looked around, running a hand through his hair as he tried to think of the right ways to phrase his words.

"you know how, um, the sleepwalking thing is due to us freaking out?" Roman asked in a quiet voice.

Virgil didn't trust his voice so just nodded.

"uh, well, um. I just wanted to say that I can't stop thinking about the kiss and I kinda liked it!" Romans words came out rushed and his voice broke partway through.

Virgil looked at Roman in stunned silence before mumbling "me too."

Roman stared at Virgils now bright red face with a soft smile "Really?" he asked.

Virgil smiled shyly and nodded.

Roman beamed at that and tried to come up with something else to say.

"do you... Um... I don't know... Maybe... Want to..." Roman started to ask, stumbling over his words.

Virgil shook his head with a grin as he stepped forward and gently kissed Roman, silencing him immediately.

"if you're trying to ask me if I want to date you then the answer is yes." Virgil whispered, pulling back with a smirk as Roman stared at him in a shocked daze.

"I... Really?" Roman asked and Virgil rolled his eyes.

"Of course, I don't just randomly kiss people like all those Disney prince's who don't seem to think they need consent to..." it was Romans turn to shut Virgil up with a kiss.

"stop attacking Disney and I'll take you on a date tonight." Roman said making Virgil grin.

"fine, but you kind of just proved my point." Virgil smirked at the fake glare Roman shot him.

"well I guess we should go find the other two before Patton makes Logan go insane." Roman said and they headed down the corridor where Patton and Logan had gone, both of them smiling as they thought of the conversation they'd just had.

It looked like neither of them would be wandering the halls that night.

Tags:@amethystdarkwolf @mcfreakin-childproof-caps @patchworkofstars @kitkat-doodles @unikornavenger @dolphin-squirrel @sympathetic-deceit-trash @starryfirefliesbloggo @cakercanart @neonb-fly @kaymischief25 @punsterterry @aprilthevene @theoddkidnextdoor @fuckingemoace @i-sold-my-soul-to-thefandom @im-so-infinitesimal @sea-blue-child @thecatchat @iris-sanders-athena @saphael-malec102 @smedenn @corkeecoderyt @sopi-montezzz @illogicaldeath @deadpanstar

#just an anxious mess's fics #virgil sanders #roman sanders #prinxiety #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #sleepwalking

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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

Text

Metamorph - Chapter 2 - Part One

((If you want to read it on Archive Of Our Own, here's the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817548/chapters/37052751))

August, 27 – 8.02pm

John, it’s Bruce. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call; I was working on... something. Where are you? Are you safe?

‘Where are you hiding? Are you getting into trouble?’

August, 28 – 10.38am

Hey, John. I don’t know if you’re getting these messages, but when and if you do, can you call me back? Or at least pick up the phone?

‘You need to contact me so I know you haven’t gone back on our agreement.’

August, 28 – 6.56pm

John, you know you can stay with me, right? I have over 100 guest bedrooms. I wanted to ask you before, but... Never mind. Do you have somewhere else to go? Call me back.

‘I need to keep an eye on you.’

Sitting on a roof, a shattered brown slant like the slope of naked hill, in the putrescent heart of Gotham, John listened to the voicemails Bruce had left on his phone over the past two days, reading what he perceived to be between the lines as he practically whitened (more) with irascibility – his eyes seemed to unattractively bulge against the colour of his skin, he saw disinterestedly; he was looking lividly into a spreading rain puddle expanding next to him, groping desperately for his already chilled, nerveless fingers. His knuckles popped as he clenched his hand around his phone, thinking involuntarily about how he had always compared Bruce’s eyes to water painted by moonlight, or rain splashed against an oval of pavement: they were silver and rippling, and he always managed to drown in them. He turned away from the thought now – and, as he literally turned, saw a dark figure, hunched against the rain, sliding his way through the street, looking like an ink-dot in the near distance. John could see he was willowy and dressed finely, all gilded buttons and expensive black material, and he felt a pang. It was Bruce; he knew it was; he was as familiar as the back of his hand; John had a violent flashback to the first time he’d observed the way Bruce walked, all trained grace despite his height and muscle. He had a knack for showing up whenever John was pensive about him, like he was now, typically when he was troubled and the sight of him crumpled his insides like deflated balloons.

Part of him wanted to run up to him and throw his arms around him with buckling enthusiasm – he wondered if he smelt good in the rain. He’d only held his best friend once what felt like an eternity ago, and it had felt as good as he’d always thought it would, even if the gesture had been somewhat brief and somewhat one-sided. Bruce’s heartbeat was the most steady thing in John’s life – slow, rhythmic, strong, powering on like a great race horse. But he wouldn’t and couldn’t, not while he was still a temple for this rotten rage inside him. He was always unpredictable when he was like this; this was the same irrational rage he’d schlepped during his brief time as The Joker, revived from an ember of anger that had been caused by something, quite frankly, not worth a killing spree over, that had inexplicably smouldered into a flame he couldn’t control.

I can’t lose control again. He’d never forgive me. There has to be an explanation for this – insecurity, just like before.

John told himself this vehemently as he dropped from the roof, jarring his knees. If Bruce heard, who was a respective distance away, he didn’t turn. The rain was shedding ruthlessly on Gotham, like she was weeping despondently for John’s internal suffering, and it rattled hard against the pavement, choking up the grates. The tarmac rivers – endless city sidewalks twisting and turning whenever he faced – that flanked him were blackened by dampness as he picked his way across them, his hands in his close-fitting jacket, towards Bruce’s quickly receding figure. He tailed him with graceful succession and predator watchfulness until he walked past an alleyway, when he grabbed Bruce by the shoulder, feeling him tense under his hand, and pulled him into the alley, into a yawn of gaping darkness.

Something – an elbow, a fist, a foot, a knee, he didn’t see which – jammed into his stomach, and he gagged, hunching over. He felt something, presumably an elbow, assault his back, and he buckled, sprawling and eating grit, spitting and swearing. Belatedly, he realised how stupid it was to grab Bruce Wayne of all people without warning him first, and, feeling sorry for himself, he spat blood. Oh well. It was too late now.

Importantly, to his own credit, he didn’t retaliate, involuntarily or otherwise.

“John?” Pushing his wet hair out his eyes – his hood had fallen back during the assault – Bruce stared at him in astonishment, looking uncharacteristically unarmed. John feared for a moment it was the strange man from Arkham, because that was the only other time he’d seen him stripped of his defences, but the guard came back up with a snap, and the vulnerability dashed away simultaneously until there was nothing left but a blank slate. He blinked as he observed chidingly, “You grabbed me.”

John got up slowly, flexing his sore muscles. Pain thrummed through him, slow but sure, like the beat of a separate heart. One thing John had always given Bruce credit for was his ability to fight and defend – but only when he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. Sniffing sourly, he bristled, “I didn’t expect you to get physical!”

“Sorry.” Bruce didn’t sound very sorry. He looked a little dazed. Actually, he looked almost entirely out of it, like John had interrupted something of significant importance and personal impact – or like he was intoxicated. His hand was curled tightly around something, his veins standing on end.

Driven by some unknown, buried compulsion, a voice in his head that whispered between the littered web of his shattered thoughts, he backed Bruce up against the slick alley wall, who took in a sharp inhalation of breath in surprise but, surprisingly, allowed it (allowing it simply meaning he didn’t dig his elbow into his jugular but stared at him in favour) – John almost took a surprised breath himself. He caged Bruce between his arms, his hands flat against the wall, and felt heat rolling off him in tangible waves, his steady heartbeat beating slowly under his.

Bruce wasn’t alarmed. Good to know.

Their height difference didn’t matter. Somehow, John managed to feel inches taller than he actually was, and Bruce seemed suddenly a lot smaller. Though he wasn’t alarmed, tepid confusion glittered in the billionaire’s eyes.

“Your voicemails-” John broke off, trying to string together words that could explain the inexplicable, blistering crest of anger marring his stomach lining. The words wouldn’t come. Ineloquently, he moved his mouth with no ramification as Bruce stared at him with stretched patience, awaiting the return of his eloquence. Doctors aside, Bruce had always been the most patient person in his life. “Well,” he diverted lamely, “I’m here now.” His voice sounded slightly sulky in his ears. “So you can keep an eye on me.”

Bruce’s eyebrows drew towards the centre of his forehead. He didn’t keep eye contact – he had difficulty with that, too, just like he had problems with expressing himself – as he said, questioningly, “John, you don’t... you don’t think I’m trying to keep tabs on you because of... because of Joker, do you?”

John was baffled. “Well, aren’t you, bu – Bruce?”

“No. I was... concerned about whether you had a place to stay, John. That’s all. And I wanted – want – you to come live with me, if you have nowhere else to go. You’re good company, John.”

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to do with this information. It was so far from what he’d been mulling over, and the contrast gave him an almost panicky, frustrated feeling to have to reassemble what he thought he knew. Giggles bubbled up his throat hysterically. He had to turn away and wrap his arms around himself. He didn’t want Bruce to see him like this – vulnerable. Bruce was never vulnerable, so John felt ashamed to succumb to something his best friend rarely ever had.

Bruce’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. His hands were, in society, imperfect – scarred and pale, they were the hands of a criminal boxer, not a billionaire playboy. But with one touch, John felt the panicky, frustrated feeling quell softly. “Take your time, John,” he finally prompted as John turned to look at him.

“I’m okay.” Clenching and unclenching his fists as he breathed to make absolutely sure, John smiled. He was sure. He was calm again, and how strange was that? Human contact could do what Arkham medicine, most of the time, couldn’t. No, that was too broad of a term, ‘human’ – Bruce’s contact. “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problem, John.” Bruce backed up, putting a respectful amount of space between them again. John felt the loss like it was physical; the shoulder where his hand had once rested felt sizzled out. “What are you doing out at this time of night?” If he was suspicious, it didn’t show, but, regardless, John dug his nails into his palms meditatively.

“Oh, you know – clearing the old cog wheel.” John tapped his temple with his right index finger before lifting his other hand unceremoniously. He unfurled it like a ripe flower, revealing, infused with his palm – he’d held it tightly – a memory card, sheened thinly by a fine layer of dust. “What’s this?”

Bruce opened his own hand where the memory card had once sat, looking – well – startled was the closest word for it. He blinked as he clenched and unclenched his hand, like he was testing to see if the memory card would materialise back into his hand, proving John was holding something different entirely, before he looked back at him. “How did you do that?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Bats.”

Bruce sighed, turning his head away. He stared out the alley as a white car, stained by – something – glissaded down the frosty road, flashing their broken headlights sporadically ahead of them. He said nothing about the car like he’d expected him to as a subject change; instead, he explained everything – the gala, the creature, what it had said about ‘wronging’ him, the memory card, the computer errors, and, finally, Alfred’s ingenious, basic idea to buy a camera that matched the memory card. It looked like a strange memory card, though, nothing John had ever seen, and in Arkham he’d liked to tinker with things like broken phones and dead cameras as one of his activities all the time – he’d dealt with plenty of memory cards before.

“How you wronged him?” John frowned, holding the memory card to the light, which was actually just a thin ribbon of moonlight peeking into the alley. “Buddy, you don’t think it was something your father did, do you?”

Bruce shook his head slowly, but his eyes were far away. He shoved his hand through his hair, mussing the onyx locks attractively. They almost seemed to blend into the darkness. He said tightly, “I don’t know. The way he looked at me – John, it was personal. But I’ve never – I’ve never wronged someone before, not to the degree of exacting revenge. Well... apart from you...”

“Well,” John reasoned calmly, “we just need to play his game, don’t we? Put the puzzle pieces together to find a sweet treat at the end. Then we’ll know.”

“We?” Bruce sounded carefully blank.

John slitted his eyes. “Yes, we! I’m now working with you, buddy. You know, Bruce and John, John and Bruce, a team. We can take him down together!” At Bruce’s unconvinced look, he wheedled, “He tried to manipulate me, you know. Don’t I deserve to be a part of this?” And his eyes flicked to the mouth of the alley. It would take two seconds to dart away at a running speed if he answered the next question wrongly. Maybe, if he had the element of surprise on his hand, he’d be able to keep to the shadows and lose him. But Bruce was the shadows, and the idea sounded daunting. But he’d outrun him in the past, hadn’t he? He didn’t have much strength, but he did have speed. “Don’t you trust me, Bruce? After everything you said, after everything we agreed on, you still don’t-”

“John,” Bruce exhaled, deflating – he really did look like a popped party balloon, which spawned the image of a pink helium balloon shaped as a bat; John almost giggled. “Of course I trust you.”

John blinked, startled. “You – You do?”

“Yes. I... I do believe you’re trying.” Bruce sounded tentative. A burst of sweet warmth, like his blood had been replaced with hot chocolate, adulterated his veins, making him feel unhealthily feeble. “Whatever that is worth... But... I like to work on my own.”

John stepped closer. He wanted to reach out and touch him so badly he ached, and now he was close enough to, not that he dared. “It can be a new experience,” he coaxed imploringly. “Dr Leland is always telling me to try new things – it keeps us refreshed spiritually.”

“This could be dangerous, John. I wouldn’t forgive myself if you got hurt.”

Sentimental pain prickled his heart, like the thorn of a rose piercing his skin. Now the urge to touch him was beyond aching – it was agonising. “I won’t, buddy. I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“I know you’re strong.”

John blinked. “You do?”

“Of course I do. Not just physically, but emotionally. You’ve bore the brunt of a lot of shit, John. But...”

John decided, if he allowed it, Bruce would list off infinite reasons why working together was a bad idea, apparently none of which being brittle trust. So, he turned on his heel and phlegmatically sauntered out the alley, a surprised Bruce hot on his heels. “This memory card is strange, buddy,” he observed. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Do you know anything about them?” Bruce asked, recovering, as he fell into step beside him.

#batjokes #juce #juce fanfiction #telltale juce #batman telltale #batmanxjoker #jokerxbatman #johnxbruce #brucexjohn #batjokes fanfiction

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stevenuniversallyreviews · 7 years ago

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Episode 60: Keeping It Together

“It’s not our fault!”

Does Steven Universe have a more ominous setting than the Prime Kindergarten? Rose’s Room comes close (and I maintain that Rose’s Room is the scariest episode of the series), but episodes featuring it always pay off the unsettling setting with an actual scare. Whereas the muted colors and cacophonous clangs of Kindergarten maintain a constant thrumming dread, promising something horrible and imminent, and lets that tone linger uninterrupted. Amethyst’s fight with Pearl in On the Run is intense, and the Crystal Gems confronting Peridot in Marble Madness ramps up the suspense, but we haven’t seen any true horror from Kindergarten until now.

And yeah, holy shit.

As I mentioned in Reformed and Sworn to the Sword, Keeping It Together establishes Garnet’s next big arc. But hers is much different from her fellow Gems’, both in structure (it’s the shortest by far and resolves with its Peridot Episode instead of its Steven Episode) and in tone. Garnet is the emotionally healthiest Gem on the planet right now, so she needs a bigger push than Amethyst or Pearl if she’s going to lose her cool. This isn’t to belittle the other two Gems, but there’s a reason the prompts for their episodes are day-to-day issues (for them) like renewing their physical forms or training a student, while Garnet needs dramatic scenarios like the Cluster Gems or a friend’s betrayal to reach the same level of crisis.

In short, external motivation is everything to Garnet’s arc because she lacks the internal baggage of her peers. There’s nothing unhealthy about being queer a fusion, so her problems stem from societal oppression that targets her for being who she is. We’ve seen her face fusionphobia with grace against Jasper, and we’ll see that bookended with Peridot when the season ends, but an attack on her identity as abhorrent as the Cluster Gems is certainly grounds for an extreme reaction.

We’ll get there, but first I have to point out how well-structured this whole episode is. The opening revels in switcheroos, first with Garnet’s serious conversation turning out to be part of a chore session, then with two red herrings in quick succession: the hint that we might see Ruby and Sapphire, and an extended callback to On the Run suggesting a focus on Amethyst.

From there, the episode looks like it’s going to be about Steven settling into his own new status quo as a more respected member of the Crystal Gems. And in a way, it is! We spend a lot of time with him, and he summons his shield without any fanfare when the going gets tough. But it makes sense to focus on him more here than in Reformed and Sworn to the Sword, because Garnet’s status as a fusion is still novel to him and has changed their relationship in a way that warrants examination. And in an episode about Garnet encountering forces that don’t understand fusion to a horrific degree, it’s a soothing contrast to see Steven’s own misunderstanding come in the form of genuine curiosity.

Steven is also where we get a lot the goofiness that often accompanies the show’s horror episodes, but don’t let the clip of his spectacular shrug fool you, the comedy crown here goes to Peridot. This is the episode that tips the scales on Peridot as a villain: she began as a coldhearted alien, and her bureaucratic fussiness emerged in Warp Tour and Jailbreak, but now she fully transitions from a menacing opponent to a panicky thorn in the Crystal Gems’ side. All it takes is one look at Steven to make her lose her worker bee cool, and the action scene that follows plays her increasingly absurd bag of tricks for laughs as she outmaneuvers our heroes.

Peridot’s newfound jitters make sense on a character level, as she lost her power and is stuck on a world she knows is doomed. But the silliness that ensues also works wonders for Keeping It Together’s structure: by making her such a loud source of comedy, her exit marks a concrete tonal shift from goofy to grave. And by making her someone to be pursued, we get rid of Amethyst and Pearl in the process. And by revving up to a breakneck pace to follow her zany action, we reach the third act around the episode’s halfway mark to let it sink in that much deeper. Thanks, Peridot!

After focusing on Garnet in the episode’s onset, we’re right back to hanging out with her again. She’s even more confident than usual here, accepting Steven’s effusive praise with a simple “thank you” and acknowledging out loud that she’s great, to show us how big of a deal her panic attack is. We’ve seen her handle monster after monster without breaking a sweat, and she even defeats Jasper with a smile hours after getting destabilized. But the Cluster Gems hit her where it hurts, and seeing Garnet get rattled like this is far scarier than the monsters themselves.

Not to take away from Aivi and Surasshu’s awful Cluster Gem theme (great, but awful), but the true sound heroes of this scene are whoever designed the ungodly noises these things make. Considering nobody is credited as “Monster Scream Maker” I’ll go ahead and shout out the whole sound design team for this one: Timothy J. Borquez, Susy Campos, Tony Orozco, Daisuke Sawa, Robert Serda, and Tom Syslo. I have no idea how their jobs work, but I’m so glad they’re so great at what they do.

And then of course there the visuals, and dear lord are they upsetting. The drizzle of mismatched body parts starts small, with a hand and foot that happen to match Ruby and Sapphire’s colors taking the Gem Shard concept we’ve seen in Frybo and Secret Team to a whole new level of creepy. But the limbs get bigger and bigger until the excruciating reveal of five screaming Gem ghosts transforming into a monstrous “arm” reinforces Garnet’s pained explanation of what these Cluster Gems actually are: the remains of her long-dead friends forced together.

But even then, even as Garnet is literally falling apart, she manages to push through the horror and save the day with Steven’s help, leading to Estelle’s showstopping argument with herself. Where A.J. Michalka’s frequent use of separate voices for Steven and Connie shows Stevonnie’s youthful uncertainty, Estelle’s normally steady performance makes her frantic and distinct portrayals of Ruby and Sapphire a shocking swerve. It both subverts and fulfills our expectation of seeing Garnet’s two halves after Stephen brought them up during laundry, and brings home the idea that splitting up isn’t a fun party trick no matter how much Stephen (and fans) want to see more of them.

The little details here are amazing. I love that it’s Ruby’s eye that tears up during the fight, but by the aftermath she’s moved to rage while Sapphire is still reeling; one lives moment to moment, and the other thinks in the long term. I love that gaps in the conversation are filled by them clearly sharing the same thoughts, namely that Rose might have known about these experiments and kept them secret; the notion that this is even possible foreshadows how dark Rose’s secrecy is going to get in the coming episodes. And even though it’s tragic, I love that the header quote can first be read as Garnet’s guilt over being part of the rebellion that caused her friends to suffer, but can be reread after The Answer as guilt over prompting the Diamonds’ interest in fusion. It’s not her fault, but it certainly would feel like it was.

But therein lies the difference between Garnet and Amethyst/Pearl: guilt this intense would shut the latter two down, but by the end of the episode Garnet has kept it together. She’s still upset, and she should be, but she’s not letting herself drown in her sadness and anger.

The Week of Sardonyx is about to test Garnet again, and Pearl’s betrayal can hit even harder now that we’ve explicitly been told about the importance of consent in fusion. And as I hinted at earlier, fusion’s multipurpose metaphor extends to a specifically queer reading that’s vital to Garnet’s arc. I honestly wouldn’t mind being hammered over the head with the message that homophobia is bad, because yeah, homophobia is bad and kids should know that and children’s media doesn’t bring it up very often. But like everything to do with fusion, the Steven Universe team handles the allegory factor with incredible finesse. There’s no one-to-one analogy between fusion and queerness beyond Ruby and Sapphire both presenting as female; indeed, the mistreatment of queer people in the real world rarely includes forcing them into long-term relationships with each other a la the Cluster Gems, and Homeworld society only finds fusion acceptable in same-Gem relationships, so it’s actually heterophobic if we want to get stupid and pedantic.

This show doesn’t need an episode about conversion therapy or corrective rape to display the horror of an outside force perverting what you are and oppressing who you are, and Garnet’s journey through Season 2 shows that Steven Universe isn’t content with presenting two women in a relationship and patting itself on the back for being progressive. The fact that the show addresses homophobia with sensitivity but without pulling punches is something entirely new, but the fact that it’s doing so while enhancing a character and advancing the main plot is even more outstanding.

Future Vision!

The headline here may be kicking off Garnet’s arc, but it also revs up the Cluster Arc: these shard fusions are bad, but who could’ve guessed they were apocalyptically bad?

Peridot’s surprising resilience to large objects and gravity is as true in the Beta Kindergarten as it is in the Prime, if Kindergarten Kid is anything to go by.

The question of whether Rose could’ve known details about Diamond tactics reframes Sapphire’s rage in Now We’re Only Falling Apart.

If every pork chop were perfect, we wouldn’t have inconsistencies…

As great as Steven is here, would he really be that surprised that he’s coming along? I get that they’re showing that the status quo of getting some respect is still new to him, but yeah, after saving everyone in Jailbreak I think he’s pretty official. Enh, just a gripe, it’s implemented well enough.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

I think just above On the Run sounds right for Keeping It Together. It’s a terrific Garnet episode with a welcome side of Peridot, and manages to set the stage for a new arc while culminating Kindergarten’s foreboding tone with a bang.

Top Fifteen

Steven and the Stevens

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Winter Forecast

Keeping It Together

On the Run

Warp Tour

Maximum Capacity

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

The Test

Future Vision

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

No Thanks!

4. Horror Club 3. Fusion Cuisine 2. House Guest 1. Island Adventure

(No official title card for this one, likely due to Keeping It Together being part of a Steven Bomb, but luckily this piece from Vondell Swain will do.)

#keeping it together #steven universe #su #steven universally #review

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sailorfish · 7 years ago

Text

First Virtue

Fandom: Rivers of London

Pairing: Gen

Rating: T

Word count: 3k

Summary: Nicky doesn’t want a stupid police officer to bring the bad guys to justice, she wants a soldier. Nicky is upset, Peter freaks out, for Oberon it’s Tuesday. And Nightingale, of course, is a soldier.

AN: Idek, I listened to the first four books in a row last week and all I want for Christmas is as much WW2!Nightingale meets 2010s!Peter fic as possible. So I decided to add to it. Super self-indulgent lol. This is something between a drabble and possibly Chapter 1..? New to the fandom so hi, and my sincere apologies if something is terribly off. Spoilers for Broken Homes!

EDIT: Now edited and up on AO3, as an (eventually) 3-chap fic.

“You promised!”

The childish shriek echoed through the woods and I picked up my pace. Whoever Nicky was yelling at - and I had a pretty good idea who she was yelling at - didn’t respond, or responded too quietly for me to hear. That was a bit worrying. It was a bit worrying that Nightingale had found her first, period.

Nicky wasn’t handling Sky’s death well. It was all well and good to say that she had eternity ahead of her and would learn to live with grief eventually, but right now she was a little girl and very upset. She’d taken to having tantrums and running off alone. Not that I could blame her; after everything in Skygarden, if I’d thought I could get away with that behaviour while in my 20s, I’d have seriously considered following her example.

As it was, we had been contacted by Oberon, who’d somehow known we were investigating a Little Crocodile in East Finchley (dead end, literally - he’d died three years ago in his sleep), to help find her and round her up. Seeing as how we were in the area and all.

Not that there’s much that can harm a goddess in Highgate Wood. It had been part of the huge, ancient Forest of Middlesex up to a thousand years ago, but deforestation had started in the thirteenth century and left it a pleasant enough park, if you like that sort of thing. If there’d been any magical being who wanted humans and human-shaped river goddesses to pay for the deforestation, we’d probably have heard from them already.

Still, it was getting dark and Oberon presumably wanted to get back to whatever he did when he wasn’t babysitting child goddesses sometime before midnight. Me and Nightingale, meanwhile, were part of The Great Family-Friendly Metropolitan Police (Because We Care), and were thus always keen to help reunite lost children with their guardians. Even when the lost child in question was the scariest thing within a 10-mile radius.

But I’d secretly hoped that me or Oberon would have found her first. The last time they’d met, Nicky had been furious at Nightingale. I doubted she’d completely got over it in the past month and a half. Judging by Father Thames’ example, genii locorum had a tendency to get stuck at stage two.

Now that I was closer, I could hear Nightingale calmly explaining that we’d put those responsible for Sky’s death in jail, and that the justice system had been blablabla.

Oh no, I thought. He’s trying to rationalise with her.

Nightingale had told me that he’d been the youngest in his family, and presumably posh boarding schools, war, and Indiana Jones escapades didn’t train you well for dealing with small children. I, as a guy with enough younger cousins to fill up half a moderately sized school, knew that there were multiple tactics you could use to defuse a tantrum situation: from the healthy slap my mum had often threatened me with, to distraction via bribery with candy. Rationalisation wasn’t one of them.

“But they’re not the ones who really did it,” interrupted Nicky, either showing a more sophisticated grasp of the Nuremberg Defense than I’d expected of a primary school student, or just wanting to be contrary. “You haven’t found their boss. You haven’t made him pay for killing my friend!”

“Peter and I are attempting our best to rectify - ah, to fix - that,” said my governor. “As I promised, we will find him and bring him to justice as quickly as possible.”

“So you’re going to kill him soon?”

There was a little too much hopefulness in that childish voice, and it made me feel a bit sick. Lesley’s words rang in my ears. I remembered Dr. Walid’s report about the man who had drowned on dry land.

Nightingale hesitated in his reply. I was very aware that until recently, he wouldn’t have. Non-magical lackeys were one thing, them he was more than happy to arrest. Rogue magical practitioners, though, it was much easier to just off them. But the old Folly was learning new tricks - or rather, I could admit with a touch of pride, I was teaching it new tricks - nowadays. We were trying to stay off the path of indiscriminate carnage. Of course, that’s not always the response the victims’ friends and family want to hear from the long arm of the law.

“No,” Nightingale said finally. “As police officers - ”

But Nicky had heard enough.

I burst out of the trees and into their meadow just as her face screwed up tight and her little hands balled into fists. I glanced over at Nightingale quickly. He didn’t look quite as confident and smooth as he’d sounded. He was facing the goddess head on, but he stood a little hunched and his fingers were clenched bone-white around his cane. His own gaze flickered briefly to me and he gave me a very slight nod, before he turned once more to fully weather the goddess’ fury. Nicky took in a huge breath.

“I don’t want a stupid police officer!” she howled. “You promised! You promised as a soldier! Life for life, blood for blood! I don’t want a police officer, I want a soldier!!”

A wave of magic crashed over me so hard I almost staggered back out of the clearing. It was a pure tidal wave of wrath, and loss, and blood, and I thought for a moment I would drown to death on dry land too, drown in a sea of blood. It felt every bit as bad as when Nightingale had disarmed that demon trap in Soho, and I wasn’t halfway across London this time either.

Everything felt muffled, as though I’d gone swimming and my ears were full of water. I resisted the urge to tilt my head and bang on my temple until a stream of water poured out of them, like a Looney Toons character. Luckily, it cleared up on its own within a minute or two.

When I finally looked up, I saw that Nicky was swaying just a bit. She didn’t look angry anymore. Instead, she looked a little guilty, and a little panicky, and extremely uncertain about whether she should be looking guilty and panicky at all. Whatever it was she’d done had obviously not affected me, so I turned my own slightly panicky face to Nightingale.

He wasn’t flopping on the floor, gasping for air, which was a huge relief. Instead, he was frowning, and his eyes were closed. Before I could ask him if he was alright, his eyes shot back open. He pulled himself up straight. Very straight. Not that Nightingale usually hunched or had rolled shoulders or anything, but this was the posture I recognised from when he was being upbraided by Seawoll or was about to face down something terrifying. I automatically sidled over closer to Nicky, and chanced a brief glance over my shoulder for extra propriety. There was nothing but trees, of course.

I looked back at Nightingale, who was staring at me and Nicky with an odd expression on his face. His eyes raked over us, and alarm, dismay, and pity flitted over his face one after another. Alarm, I got. Even dismay made sense - I myself was a bit dismayed at the prospect of figuring out how to properly deal with a child goddess who’d just attacked an officer of the law, even if we were both unharmed. But pity?

Then, to my other utter surprise, he dropped his cane, put his hands in the air, and gave us an encouraging smile.

“Bitte haben Sie keine Angst!” said Nightingale. “Ich bin ein britischer Offizier. Habt ihr von einer KZ geflüchtet? Werdet ihr verfolgt? Leider kann ich euch nicht zu, ah, zur Sicherheit begleiten. Aber ich habe eine Karte von der Gegend und ein bisschen Essen für Ihre Tochter.”

All of that was, of course, lost on me. All I got was that it was German, and maybe British officer. Sorry, not everyone has a classical education and can speak twenty languages. I gaped at him, confused and alarmed, then shot a glance at Nicky to see how she was taking this. She seemed to have forgotten her tantrum altogether for the moment, which was good news (distraction - it works!). Unfortunately, she was not one of those useful goddesses who understands all tongues spoken by mortal man. She was as puzzled as I was.

Nightingale cursed softly under his breath - when I think back, this was the moment when I truly understood something was wrong; I couldn’t remember a single time I’d heard him swear before - and switched from German to a Slavic language. I vaguely recognised it from my mom’s business acquaintances, also known as a good third of the cleaning staff in the Greater London area. Polish, I’d wager (though not a lot of money, to be fair). At our blank looks, he switched to French, then, a bit desperately, to another language which sounded a lot like German. With each switch he obviously struggled more when putting the sentences together, and grew more frustrated at our continued incomprehension. But he kept up his smile all the same.

I interrupted him before he could switch to something like Ancient Aramaic and truly frighten me.

“Sir, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I said, because it seemed the sort of thing you said when your governor apparently forgot all knowledge of English after being hit by a magical attack.

Nightingale startled and lowered his hands.

“An Englishman!” he breathed. That’s when the goosebumps really started crawling. He hadn’t forgotten English - he’d forgotten I could speak English. “But I’m sure we would have heard…”

He frowned, then visibly reassessed us.

“I’m Captain Thomas Nightingale, of the 2nd Parachute Battalion,” he said. If he was lying - and he could very well have been; I had no idea if a parachute battalion needed hundreds of trained wizards - he was doing it very smoothly. “What’s your name, soldier? Which unit are you attached to?”

“I, uh… I, sorry, what?”

Not my best efforts, I know.

“I’m not about to shoot you for desertion,” snapped Nightingale. “Not when it was to rescue a young girl. Foolish, but brave. How far are the others from here? If I can, I’ll accompany you and talk to your CO on your behalf, but we have to go now. What unit are you in?”

By this point, I had basically figured it out. I am a detective after all (or would be, if I passed my exam). I’m also a magical almost-detective, which means sudden amnesia of the past seventy-odd years frightened me, but didn’t leave me saying This simply cannot be happening, what is going on?! It was happening, and what was going on was that Nicky had wished for a soldier. She’d got him alright.

Of course, the problem was that knowing what was happening didn’t mean I knew what to do about it. I opened my mouth, not actually sure whether I was about to go with a placating lie or the honest truth.

Nicky cut in first though.

“I don’t need rescuing by Peter!” she said, genuinely indignant albeit a shade quieter than normal. She probably hadn’t followed the rest of it, and she looked altogether exhausted, but she’d certainly understood that part.

I nearly groaned out loud as bewilderment widened Nightingale’s eyes, and he quickly shifted to a battle-ready stance. We’d clearly been downgraded again. First it had been Poor victims of the Third Reich, treat with care, then Idiot IC3 soldier loses head upon seeing poor young female IC3 victim and deserts army to rescue her. Now it was What the fuck are two black Brits, wearing weird-ass clothing, one of who is a child, doing traipsing through the Black Forest?

“Who are you?” said Nightingale again.

And again, I was interrupted before I could answer. This time by Oberon.

“Peter is your apprentice, Nightingale,” Oberon said in his calm way as he strode into the clearing next to Nicky.

A part of me relaxed: now, all the adults were here. A part of me tensed more: Oberon’s gaudy sword was still on his hip and I didn’t miss how Nightingale’s eyes narrowed further at the sight of it. The final part of me giggled hysterically: this was probably more black people than 1940s Nightingale saw in a month.

I’m pretty sure the only reason he didn’t just blast us all with a fireball and leave it to God to sort us out was that the Germans would never have come up with such a moronic lie. An incredulous laugh bubbled to his lips as he glanced between me and Oberon.

As his assessing, sceptical gaze swept me over head to toe, I stiffened. Nightingale - 2010s Nightingale that is - often tells me it was a different time back then, and I can’t deny that. But there’s a huge difference between feeling sorry for someone you think’s a victim of Nazis and actually thinking of them as an equal. And I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d be able to look my mentor in the eyes quite the same way if I had to carry the knowledge, in the back of my mind, that seventy years ago he would have treated me like dirt.

Luckily, I never had to find out. Nightingale proved to be genuinely decent. All he said was, “This is ridiculous, I don’t have an apprentice. I don’t even know this man.”

“But you know me,” said Oberon.

That was news to both me and Nicky. Oberon had to give us pointed stares to stop us from asking the hundreds of questions this raised. Nightingale looked considering, though he didn’t relax.

“I do remember you,” he said slowly. “Late twenties, Newcastle? Alberich - no, Oberon?”

“Yes.”

Oberon must have certainly made an impression, if Nightingale remembered him over a decade later. Or - I revised my earlier statement: maybe this was more black people than 1940s Nightingale saw in a year.

“And the girl?”

It had been a good impression too: Nightingale was wary and still frowning, but he looked less ready to incinerate us all if we breathed wrong.

“Goddess of a young river,” said Oberon.

Nightingale accepted that too. Now that he was looking for it, he could probably sense that she was a genius loci. He inclined his head to her, and she nodded back silently.

Running away, then her tantrum, then the huge wave of magic, and finally the sheer bizarrity of Nightingale The Soldier had clearly taken its toll on the child. Noticing that, Oberon settled, cross-legged, onto the ground, and pulled her into his lap. She promptly turned her head into his shoulder and drifted off to sleep. Clever. Oberon was clearly much less of a threat now - doubly clever.

That just left me.

“So: a fae, a goddess, and my supposed apprentice. Is this some kind of jest, Oberon?” said Nightingale. “I’ve never seen… Peter before, and there’s no time to train an apprentice during the war.”

“It’s not a trick, sir,” I finally spoke up. I’d been thinking about how to convince him. “And I can prove it. You can read my signare, can’t you? You told me you could see who trained a person based on that.”

“Did I also teach you not to be fool enough to let an unknown wizard cast an unknown spell?”

Unless we fought in, say, Halo, any duel between me and Nightingale would end with me being crushed like a bug. Particularly a wizard duel. It was a bit flattering to hear him imply otherwise. Though of course it wasn’t really my governor saying that, just a stranger borrowing his voice and face.

“I’ll just be casting a werelight,” I said meekly. “And you can, ah…”

I trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to say, You can threaten me with Oberon’s stupid sword, if it makes you feel better, because throat-cutting is still faster than formae and I’m pretty sure the only way you’ll agree to this is if there’s cold iron touching my neck. It wasn’t the sort of thing you usually had to say to your boss-slash-mentor. This is the sort of trust exercises all those companies should really be doing. Do you trust your boss with seventy years worth of amnesia to not slit your throat with a sabre? Alternatively, after seventy years worth of amnesia do you trust your employee not to fireball you? If you’re both alive after an hour, congratulations, you have a fantastic office environment!

Because I was pretty sure no version of Nightingale knew what trust exercises were, I nodded awkwardly towards the sword instead. Luckily, both he and Oberon got the gist.

Oberon shifted Nicky as he drew the sword, then passed it to Nightingale, hilt first. He looked utterly calm, the bastard. Maybe in the eighteenth century offering someone to possibly chop your head off had been all the rage. Meanwhile I think my crazy idea made Nightingale even more wary of me, and I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t enough that an unknown black man with a working class accent was claiming to be his apprentice, oh no, he had to turn out to be an idiot as well. Nightingale gripped the sword with frightening ease.

I took a deep breath and bared my neck.

As the cool metal touched my skin, I realised for the first time what so many of the animal protagonists in my children’s books must have gone through. I’m sorry if I ever doubted you, Bigwig. Baring your neck and feeling a claw against it is terrifying.

I cast the most basic, least flashy - let alone explosive - Lux I knew how to.

It was enough.

The werelight reflected oddly in Nightingale’s eyes. The breath he drew in was a sharp hiss, and the swordtip wavered terrifyingly for a moment. I licked my suddenly very dry lips. But he must have had the same thought. The sword withdrew immediately, then clattered down next to the cane.

“Who - who are you?” he said quietly.

“I’m Peter Grant, sir. Your apprentice.”

#rivers of london #peter grant #rivers of london fic #fanfic #my stuff #thomas nightingale #god this is so self indulgent #and so unbetaed #hardest part was figuring out whether to make nightingale really good at german #or kinda bad at it #i think i ended up with good but slightly stiff which is good enough for me

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yelloskello · 7 years ago

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so like as of late i’ve unfollowed a lot of blogs and blacklisted a lot of socially conscious stuff and barely ever actually post about any of it anymore and Here Is Why

i’m tired and i’m burnt out and i’m cynical and it’s not good for me. for months now--almost a year now I think, maybe longer--i’ve had an issue where I go into hyperdrive whenever there’s even the remotest conflict, I start spacing out out of fear, I... I don’t wanna call it shutting down, but I stiffen up, and I shake, really bad. It’s awful. It feels awful. As such, i’ve been doing my absolute best to avoid conflict.

So when I see posts that make me really, really angry, I cannot respond to them. I cannot engage. This was really insidious when I was still working, as i’d read something early in the morning and spend the next 9 hours dwelling on it until I could get home and think about something else - and that was the best case scenario, where I didn’t just go and look up more about it and dwell some more. I’d be physically and mentally tense, in pain from being so wound up, getting bad muscle cramps. I’d get bad heart palpitations, get dizzy. I can remember getting so angry about shit I wasn’t actually able to keep working until I got some sort of resolution, i’d get light-headed and panicky and have an uncontrollable compulsion to get off the salesfloor and just bury myself in this shit. It was very literally affecting my personal and work life on a daily basis. And that was just one side-effect--the other was this innate sourness, where people talking to me about that stuff just made me want to spit acid and curl up and take a nap. i’ve been calling it numbing up but let’s be real i’m dissociating, just switching off those emotions until it’s over. I already know that there isn’t a corner of this green earth that doesn’t have fucking frustrating and awful and manipulative and ugly people, and I already have the worst thoughts about it, and it’s just adding to the pile. i’d numb up at best. at worst I might break down.

So now I just don’t read that shit. Stuff I really care about, I cannot read it, because the emotional distress was and is tearing up my life. i’m taking things easy and just drowning myself in shitposts, stuff that for the most part is just easy on the mind. I kinda hope it’s easy on other peoples’ minds too. Sometimes you need that break.

#I don't really think anybody actually cares about this change #mostly this is just like #idk I guess I just want to kinda get across how seriously this affects me #to nobody in particular

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myaekingheart · 6 years ago

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I wish Halloween was considered, like, a blackout day for mental health issues and stress. Like, why can’t I actually just enjoy a holiday for once? Why does real life always have to get in the way? I really wanted to enjoy Halloween this year. The older I get, the more I can’t help but feel as if I’m losing touch with my happiness and excitement for things, especially holidays I used to be really pumped for like Halloween. I mean, it probably also does not help that I grew up in a house that went all out for holidays and now we barely do anything so I feel this pressure to go all out when I have zero energy and motivation. We haven’t even been watching Halloween movies or specials so it’s like we haven’t even been festive and that sucks. I at least dressed up today and walked around school as Wednesday Addams which was fine, I felt confident with the exception of the god-awful middle part (I really hate myself with a middle part). One teacher told me she liked my costume, and another guy was like “OH SHIT YOU’RE WEDNESDAY” when we passed in the halls which felt good. I wanted to tell my teacher “Ha this isn’t a costume tho” when she complimented me but I just told her thanks instead. It was fun and all, but deep down I was actually internally combusting all day which sucked. I was tired and nervous (my anxiety always hikes on Halloween for some reason, which sucks because it’s a holiday I do really enjoy but I get so goddamn panicky and it kind of puts a damper on things). I was second-guessing myself a lot this morning just nervous. I knew hardly anyone else was going to dress up, so there was that. At least Wednesday is a discrete enough costume to wear and not feel like I stick out like a sore thumb, though, which is a little comforting. The entire thing was put together with things from my closet, anyway. It also didn’t help that my stomach was acting up. It was really probably just nerves but regardless of what the cause was, it made me feel even more anxious. That coupled with the fact I spent too much time getting ready this morning left me feeling unmotivated to make myself my usual breakfast (plus I was running out of time) so instead I just a fucking chewy granola bar and that was it. That was all I ate all day until my boyfriend came home from work. So I went basically eight hours running on nothing but a 100 calorie granola bar. And that fucking sucked. I’ve really been trying not to restrict anymore, but that’s a pain in the ass when everything is so much more important than eating. I just brushed it off, though, because I told myself I could always just buy a Pop-Tart from the vending machine when I got to campus. It would be fine. Of course, it wasn’t until I got to campus that I realized I forgot my wallet and therefore had zero money whatsoever on me. Which was also disappointing because they were having a $1/$2/$3 book sale on campus, as well, that I was really looking forward to checking out-- even though I had completely forgotten it was today until I was on the bus. Classes were fine, pretty much the same old shit. This week has really been slamming me, I feel like I’m drowning in the middle of the ocean during a rough storm. We’re just still trying to recover from that stupid fucking hurricane this month, which set us all back a full week. I hate the way we have to try and cram everything into a shorter amount of time, and how my teachers were complaining that fall semester is even worse for this happen during because we already lose almost a full week for Thanksgiving break anyways so this just makes it even worse. All the work is so overwhelming, too. Compositions and writing assignments and reading homework and tests galore-- it’s insane. And the other problem is that it’s fucking endless, as soon as you get one thing done, you’ve got ten more assignments to take care of. There’s no minute to step back and breathe. I’m drowning. By the time my last class was over and it was time to go home, I was pretty much wiped. I was sitting in medieval lit when I reached that point in the starvation process where you’re stomach feels empty and tight and your vision becomes kind of hazy and you feel like if you don’t eat something soon you’re going to pass out and never wake up again. It’s like you can feel the energy literally just evaporating from your body, you feel so weak and nauseous and hungry. I started sinking into the numbness by the time I had gotten to the bus stop, and at least at this stop I can sit down without feeling vulnerable or weird. The only issue is that my bus takes fucking forever to get there. I watch the same route pass by three fucking times every day before my route shows up. It’s fucking ridiculous. But then my bus finally came and I was able to get on and relax for at least a little bit. Or try to, anyways. I feel like I haven’t been able to relax all day, either. I’ve been kind of jumpy and impatient. Anxious, basically. Just wanting to get everything over with asap so I could move on to the next thing and the thing after that and the next thing after that. It kind of waned during the day, but this morning I was so high-strung I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I already got that weird sensation again briefly this morning while I was getting ready (which lowkey fucked me up, too) and then before class started in French, everyone started having this big group discussion about Thanksgiving that made me want to shoot myself. But anyways, I got on the bus this afternoon and was honestly just so relieved to finally be going back home. All I wanted was to sit down in my chair with my laptop and relax, maybe watch some spooky movies. Actually take advantage of it being Halloween, you know, shit like that. The bus seemed to show up to my stop relatively early, and I thought maybe I would be able to catch my transfer without waiting a fucking half an hour like every other day. I didn’t want to push my luck, nor did I have the energy to speed so I kind of just walked as fast as I could to the intersection only to find the bus sitting there at the stop. I considered jaywalking but I’m a pretty lawful person and the drivers around here are fucking idiots so I really didn’t want to run the risk of getting hit. So I waited, and then wanted to kill myself. I watched the bus pull away and then the crosswalk sign tell me to go. I would have to wait a fucking full thirty minutes for the next bus all because I refused to run across a busy fucking street. Perfect. I tried calling my boyfriend to tell him what was up but he didn’t answer. Said later he was super busy at work. So I had no choice. I don’t like sitting at this bus stop. It makes me feel vulnerable. I refuse to sit. This bus stop also always makes me insanely anxious. The other route that stops here goes through the heart of the ghetto so there’s always loud hoodrats hanging about that make me nervous. They’re bigger than me, stronger than me, they could easily take me down. That’s a lot of the people in this town, but at the bus stop specifically is where I encounter them the most and it’s nerve-wracking. There’s also this woman who frequents the stop whose financial situation I’m not exactly sure on but she’s hellbent on getting money from other people. She will legit walk into the street during a red light and knock on people’s windows asking “Do you have a dollar or two?” and she always asks me, too, and I always tell her no, I don’t, even when I do. I don’t give money to strangers. It’s too dangerous. Luckily, there was nothing like that at the bus stop today. After the ghetto bus hit, I was there all alone. I also did not end up having to wait as long for my bus, probably because it was “free day” (where nobody had to pay fare) so the buses were moving quicker without anyone fumbling for change. Once I got home, I so desperately wanted to just relax but it was not in the gods favor. Instead, I spent the next hour that I had home alone scrambling to get all my homework done. I had to write a poem for class tomorrow that we didn’t know about until Tuesday, and had to print off like 25 copies for everyone in class for a workshop next week. I had a composition to write for French class. I had a weekly response to write for medieval lit. And then when I got all of that done, I started some laundry because we can’t afford to get behind again. I was going to maybe start the dishes, as well, because that’s another thing we can’t afford to get behind in again, but I didn’t really have the strength. Remember, at this point I was still running on only a 100 calorie granola bar. I was losing steam fast. I would like to say I prioritized myself and grabbed a snack when I got home but let’s face it, we all know that’s not me. We all know I have a shitty relationship with food and feel like it’s not as important as everything else on the planet, that I can eat when I get everything else done almost like a reward system. Hi, I’m disgusting. My boyfriend came home right as I was loading laundry into the washer, and he brought me some donut holes from this morning so I ate those all the while thinking in the back of my head how fucked up eating donut holes at 6pm was like what a way to spoil my fucking dinner. Yeah, I’ll admit, I was a little disgusted with myself but they were good and I was hungry so whatever. I wish I had gotten time to really relax but instead I sat waiting, tensely, to hear if anyone had actually finally responded to my boyfriend’s offer of doing something tonight. We were thinking of getting together with friends but nobody ever replied back, and time was ticking quickly, we were running out of time to get an answer. I sat around in my dress and full face of makeup until, like, 9pm just waiting to hear anything, not wanting to wipe everything away and crawl into pajamas only for someone to say “Yeah, get dressed up and come over” and I’d have to put everything back on again. We ended up not going anywhere, and not even doing anything. No Halloween movies, no candy, nothing. A total fuck-up of a Halloween, honestly. And now it’s November 1st, the holiday came and went and hardly anything good came of it. Additionally, I had a panic attack about forgetting rent was due tomorrow and a minor depressive episode due to my mother’s fucking psychopathic facebook tantrums. In a nutshell, she had to take her parents to the airport this morning (they were down for their annual week-long visit) and had the rest of the day to herself so I guess she sat at home alone drinking and complaining. She started slamming facebook with all these posts that were either sexually inappropriate or childish whining, like one of a costume idea where you draw a jack-o-lantern face onto a man’s ass shared with a caption heavily implying she was talking about doing this to my father and kept saying “Happy Halloweenie!” The worst was her trick-or-treater tantrum, though. She started complaining about how she never gets any trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood and how depressing it is, how she would literally move just to have trick-or-treaters. And then she got SO UPSET about it that she posted pictures of her process of basically mutilating a pumpkin-- and I mean mutilating, like she stabbed a giant square whole into it and gutted the thing and called it her “chiminea pumpkin”-- solely because small children in cheap costumes were not coming to her front door asking for candy. Like, the minute I saw that I was so fucking disturbed. All I could think about was her slow descent into insanity over the years and how it has all built up to this and how it will continue to descend until she likely commits murder because if she gets so upset over trick-or-treaters that she feels the need to take her anger out on a pumpkin with a knife, I can just picture her snapping one day and killing a man or some shit and that is fucking terrifying. So yeah, she’s officially a psychopath and as much as I love her, jfc I fucking hate her, too. I ended up having a minor breakdown (in text form, anyways) to my friend about her and how I feel like my real mother is dead and has been eaten by this monster my mom has become over the years, and just overall it was a huge fucking downer and made me feel even worse so yay to that. So yeah, all in all my Halloween sucked and I’m so depressed about it I could cry. It only comes once a year and I so desperately wanted to enjoy it but there were so many fucking things in the way of that, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been scammed and now it’s over and it won’t be Halloween again for another 365 fucking days, I have to wait an entire year to redeem the shitty Halloween I’ve had this year, and it’s not even something anyone would even fucking care about because shut the fuck up Amanda it’s just one day out of the year it’s not a big deal you whiny disgusting bitch.

#delete later #ramblings

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