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iwa1zumis · 4 years

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“i love you and i like you”: passion and burnout in Haikyuu!!

tw: discussions of self harm, anxiety, burnout and breakdowns.

spoilers for the whole manga!!

okay this is probably gnna be jflkafjdklfj all over the place, but i’ve been thinking a lot lately about the difference between loving and liking something, and how haikyuu emphasises the importance of both those feelings being present when pursuing a passion.

a quick look at google (and i KNOW my college professors are cringing away in horror victor frankenstein-style @ my use of google definitions but jflajfsdk bear with me!!) demonstrates how often the concepts of love and like are conflated, with love her being framed as a sort of deeper or more intense like: “to like or enjoy very much” to be specific. but personally i’ve always thought there’s something a bit misleading about that kind of definition, since its absolutely possible to love something or someone without necessarily liking them. to take a personal example: i love debate. i debated through middle and high school, made captain of the debate team, and was constantly travelling to and fro for different tournaments. even before i started to debate formally i’d jump at the chance to do mini-debates in class, argue with and rebut parents and friends over meals and causal conversation.... you get the idea. i loved debate, and still love it dearly, but i honestly don’t think i particularly liked it much. tournaments would always fill me with the most INSANE kind of stress, i’d barely eat or sleep in the days leading up to a meet, and i’ve had more muffled bathroom breakdowns in between rebuttals than i can count. after my final year of high school, i decided against joining the debate at university. i knew that if i were to retain ANY love for the activity going into the future, i had to force myself to take a break.

so what does this solipsistic tangent have to do with haikyuu, you ask? well i have no doubt that a vast majority of the players in the series love volleyball. they’re dedicated and passionate about it. they hunger for the chance to be put on the court. but do they like to play?

1. oikawa: “i forgot that volleyball can be fun”

ofc i wouldn’t be an oikawa stan worth my salt if i didn’t start this off with the (grand) king himself!! imo one of the reasons why oikawa is such a popular and well-loved character is his constant determination to keep moving forward and playing, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable opponents and adversities (”never forget my worthless pride”, anyone?). inevitably, all the hard work and practise he put into his craft has left him with a very carefully constructed, put together playstyle-- he’s the kind of player who knows how to bring the best out of each and every teammate on the court because of the amount of time he spends observing them and playing with them. it’s an outlook and playstyle best encapsulated in his now iconic line during the second karasuno v seijoh match:

“Talent is something you make bloom, instinct is something you polish!”

in my opinion the word “polish” it super significant here-- it explicitly singles out the years and years of hard work that set a foundation for his talent and instinct to shine.

but what happens when they don’t shine? there’s no denying that oikawa is an incredibly skilled and intuitive player (something that hinata’s acknowledgment of him as the “great king” to kageyama’s “king” immediately sets out) but oikawa himself is acutely aware of the fact that he can never quite measure up to his long-time rival ushijima or his immensely talented protege kageyama. oikawa’s self described strategy to deal with opponents is to:

“Hit it until it breaks”

but what happens when hitting something again and again with your carefully honed, “polished” skills yields no results? imo there’s a very clear binary mentality drawn here-- either you hit it and it breaks, asserting your superiority; or you hit it and it doesn’t break, enforcing your inferiority. with each perceived loss against ushijima and kageyama, oikawa’s internalized logic holds his own weakness up to his own face, shaking his faith in himself as a player. if you’ll pardon the on-the-nose-metaphor: the whole “hitting it till it breaks” strategy is a two-way street, and oikawa has been hitting himself, metaphorically speaking, for a very long time. i have no doubt that he loved volleyball, passionately, through middle and high school. but with his inferiority complex growing in the face of constantly refuted results, i think he slowly began to like it less and less.

so how does oikawa get his groove back? to answer that, we’ll have to turn to the post-timeskip chapters, particularly the two chapters that deal with oikawa and hinata’s unexpected meeting in Rio (372 and 373 for anyone curious!). while reminiscing with hinata over dinner, oikawa finally reveals the event that made him want to play volleyball (as a setter, to be exact)-- as a child, he watched veteran setter jose blanco step into a game and

“... inconspicuously help[ed] the ace get his bearings again... and then simply left the court.”

oikawa’s reaction to blanco’s playstyle might just be one of my favourite panels in the chapter for how it conveys so much with such little space:

the stammer of “i-i--”, which suggests a sense of resolve and determination forming in real time, finally coalesces into the determined declaration of “i wanna be a setter too!” what i took from this is that oikawa’s admiration for-- and liking of-- blanco expresses itself in the agency with which he makes his choice, in this case, actively deciding to be a setter so that he can support players on the court like blanco did. the liking that oikawa has here is therefore inherently linked to the agency and freedom he feels here-- freedom to choose his position, and how he wants his volleyball career to develop.

this recollection of his childhood memories, and the subsequent game of beach volleyball that oikawa and hinata play afterwards, essentially push oikawa back into the mental and physical space of a child or beginner, as the manga demonstrates with panels of oikawa being forced to ditch his usual carefully developed, polished playstyle to learn the ropes of beach volleyball:

ultimately concluding with the beautiful panel transition of oikawa, as a child AND adult, celebrating after a successful play:

“It reminds me that-- I forgot that-- volleyball is fun.”

in a different country, playing a familiar game by slightly different rules and led back into the mentality and freedom of a novice after years of careful development, oikawa rediscovers his liking for the game.

2. kageyama: “when you get strong, someone stronger will rise to meet you”

moving on to the king of the court himself!! i’d argue that kageyama’s childhood memories and experiences of volleyball function almost oppositely to oikawa’s-- while oikawa has to re-access the sensation of being a beginner again to like the game along with loving it, kageyama’s process of coming to like and love volleyball come from moving away from his early experiences and into a new phase of playing-- specifically, his partnership with hinata.

one of kageyama’s defining features is his individualism-- he’s both skilled and solitary enough to prefer to, as he puts it, “play every single position on the court”. notably, he wants to become a setter because:

“[it’s] the one that touches the ball the most.”

in fact, i’d argue that kageyama’s “king of the court” attitude that he was known for in middle school is an extension of this individualistic mindset: he holds himself to extremely high standards, and expects his team-mates (as extensions of himself) to meet those very same standards. the similarities between his internal monologue and his commands to kindaichi in these two panels, for example, are strikingly, visibly similar:

there’s that near-identical intonation of “move faster, jump higher!” that implies that the way he treats his teammates is just an extension of how he treats himself-- a deeply self-critical, miserable way, as it turns out. it’s telling that for the first few chapters of a manga in which characters’ eyes literally light up when they’re happy, passionate or excited, kageyama’s eyes are drawn as pitch black, even while he’s playing.

imo the reason why hinata’s appearance, and their later partnership, is so significant for kageyama’s personal development is because he can’t treat hinata like an extension of himself. hinata challenges him and his preconcieved notions of the sport at every turn: first with his lightning-fast reflexes and raw intuition, and then with his determination to hit kageyama’s toss no matter what. in fact, the first time that kageyama’s eyes light up in the manga is, you guessed it, when he and hinata first pull off a successful “freak quick”:

during the post-timeskip chapters we’re introduced to kageyama’s backstory in much greater detail: the way in which his grandfather fostered his passion for volleyball and the timing with which his grandfather’s illness and later death left kageyama increasingly alienated, thus further enforcing his individualist mentality. but what the chapter also gave us was an explicit confirmation of a theme that had been built up from the very beginning of the story, when kageyama’s grandfather tells him:

“when you get really strong, i promise someone stronger will rise to meet you”

i’ve seen translations of the line that use both “meet” and “challenge”, and personally i’d have to say that i prefer “challenge” for what it implies-- even before hinata got strong enough to actually meet kageyama halfway he challenged him to move away from his pre-established mindset of doing everything himself, and into one where he actually comes to enjoy-- and like-- volleyball.

3. hirugami: “maybe you’ve just had your fill”

hirugami’s case is kind of a strange one-- unlike oikawa and kageyama he’s not a major character, and his relationship with volleyball only gets a single backstory chapter as opposed to a series-long arc. but i personally ADORE his mini-arc for the things it has to say about burnout, passion and moving on.

hirugami is introduced as the youngest member of a volleyball family-- his parents, older brother and older sister all play the sport. when explaining how he began to play himself, hirugami says:

“... naturally, i started to play too. because i was good at it, and it was fun.”

imo there are a lot of really interesting things to pick apart with this phrasing: the “naturally” implies a foregone conclusion but also a degree of passivity, like he himself recognises that he was swept up in his family’s influence. the “it was fun” coming AFTER “because i was good for it” also implies a degree of correlation, as though if he didn’t have the aptitude, he wouldn’t enjoy the game (a mindset markedly different to both oikawa and kageyama). as hirugami gets older, this correlation of being good ----> having fun ----> being able to play begins to reverse, and therefore manifest in increasingly self destructive ways:

the main impetus for hirugami has now become not wanting to lose, which therefore requires a degree of heightened practise and self discipline in order to achieve. notably, having fun has been reduced to an afterthought, a state that might be achieved if he wins.

the correlation of “winning” and “being good” is a slipperly slope to go down, though, something that becomes especially apparent after hirugami’s team lose a game. the frustration of being unable to reach his goal of winning manifests itself as not being “good enough”-- acting on this, hirugami seeks to punish himself for “messing up”:

the close up panel of hirugami’s “confession” after hoshiumi confronts him hits particularly hard because it taps into a feeling that i’m sure almost all of us have felt at one point or another-- the realisation that something you once both loved AND liked is now only bringing you misery:

ironically, it’s actually this acknowledgement of “not really liking volleyball that much” that acts as a catalyst for hirugami’s recovery from burnout. hoshiumi’s acknowledgement of, and reply to, hirugami’s state is seemingly simple but deeply freeing:

and honestly, why not just quit? there’s nothing tethering hirugami to volleyball, certainly nothing as serious as life or death. personally my favourite part of this panel is hoshiumi’s description of volleyball as food from which hoshiumi has “eaten his fill”-- a lovely metaphor that re-contextualizes what could be seen as “time wasted” into something productive and indeed nourishing.

when we check up on hirugami post time-skip, we find out that he has indeed quit playing volleyball in favour of going to veterinary school, but he’s seen watching the game between the jackals and adlers on his phone with an eager, fond smile on his face, implying that it was the act of moving away from the table (so to speak) after eating his fill that let him still hold on to a love and passion for the game, even though he is now interacting with it as a spectator instead of a player. and indeed that might just be why i love hirugami’s arc so much-- with it, haikyuu tells us that sometimes passion’s don’t need to be re-ignited in the same way. while oikawa and kageyama rediscover their love for, and liking of, the game through a return to childhood and the arrival of a new partner respectively, hirugami’s journey away from burnout comes from recognizing that he can step away from the volleyball court, and that the love and like will still remain.

#ari.txt #meta #hq!! meta #haikyuu meta #hq!!#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#oikawa tooru #kageyama tobio #hirugami sachirou #me pointing @ myself: it's her officer! she's the one using her english lit degree to write 3k word long metas on sports anime!!#anyways jflafjsdlk this was an absolute blast to write!! and i'd LOVE to know what you guys think about it: do you agree? disagree?#please do let me know!! :>#long post

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eggsmuses-a · 2 years

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omg uhm ! ahit for the fandom game !

send me a fandom for my blorbos etc ! / accepting

THIS IS A HARD ONE AKGSJAGBS

blorbo : easily snatcher -- i would die for him which is to say he would kill me . hes just so funky and i love most of the portrayals and headcanons the fandom has for him !! my little noodly dad <3

scrunkly : either the kids collectively OR cooking cat . cc deserves some love and she makes me so incredibly happy i want to shake her in my mouth like a puppy which is very ironic to say . the kids are also scrunkly because they make me very feral especially that one mountain dew icarly animatic from early fandom days ( i THINK it was from icarly dont quote me on that ) which really shaped how i portray them and by addition snatcher ! maybe one day if i add bow and mu ill talk about it more

scrimblo bimblo : OKAY WAIT NO I TAKE BACK WHAT I SAID CC GOES HERE SHE GOES HERE AND I LOVE HER GIVE MY CAT MUM SOME LOVE !!

glup shitto : okay funny story with this one -- its the subconites but specifically oc ones . i love the canon subconites with all my heart believe me BUT also the funky guys the fandom makes are so sweet ! @/rakedsoul @/goldcnbuttercups and some other friends who arent in the rpc all made subconite ocs that i adore with my full heart and im like the only one who hasnt made one . mind you the first of us made a subconite oc because they werent confident in their conite portrayal in a roblox game that evolved into onion the minion -- MY LITTLE BOY i loved him

poor little meow meow : snatcher again or probably mu ... snatcher doesnt need explaining or mu but im gonna say anyway that mu is very misunderstood and doesnt deserve half the hate she gets . ofc that wont stop me from being cruel to her but i recognise its not fully her fault for ANYTHING that happens throughout the game

horse plinko : snatcher next question

eeby deeby : okay dont hate me for this one but for as much as i love him and want to muse him in the future as someone whos part scottish ... conductor . my first playthrough which is basically canon to my hk portrayal , conductor betrayed me and i felt so heartbroken because SPECIFICALLY his version of the boss fight gave me problems . i have no trouble beating grooves no - hit alongside like snatcher bc ive replayed his death wish missions so much akgshsg BUT conductor ??? thats a big no thanks i will clobber him for gay crimes

#/THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN #guess-i-exist-now #( out of eggs ) -- ooc #( eggs benedict ) -- ask #ahit //#/i think i generally have the same consensus as the rest of the fandom but idk i havent looked at anything theyve done in the past few years

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

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Shadows And Pills - 1

Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it. If you have any questions, please feel free to message me or send me an ask.

Thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield and @glassjacket . I would not have made it through this story and would honestly not be here today with the two of you. I will never be able to tell you how much you mean to me.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

In Case You Missed It: ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

Shadows and Pills

Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.

Alexa comes away with a shadow.

In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.

Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.

“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.

And so she sets a routine.

Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.

Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.

“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”

Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.

“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.

Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.

“Brenda.”

Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.

Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.

The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.

She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…

And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.

Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.

Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.

“Do your counting,” he reminds her.

How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.

Small blessings.

“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”

She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).

“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”

“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”

He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.

“And the shadows?”

How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?

“Still just the one.”

“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”

There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.

“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.

“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”

He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”

But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.

“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”

She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-

“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”

You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.

“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”

“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”

He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.

“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”

And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.

“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.

When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.

There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.

“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”

….

Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.

Not that there’s an office to return to yet.

Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.

And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.

Occasionally.

Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.

…

Night Routine: laundry. Pretend to eat dinner. Shower. Finish laundry. Clean already clean kitchen. Another shower (on the bad days, the ash and debris won’t wash off). Rearrange already arranged closet. Braid hair. Take meds, do not skip, no matter how much they screw up her sleep, because they help. They do. Settle into bed. Stare at the wall. Adjust pillows. Re-settle. Stare at the shadow. Start to drift off, slide into a flashback, scream back to full consciousness. Watch the shadow. Doze. Awaken from a fucked up nightmare she can only partially remember. Repeat ad nauseum.

Really, if Alexa could just skip the nights and go straight into morning, that’d be great. Mornings are tedious but tolerable. Afternoons are blurry and tense, especially therapy days, but nights…

Nights just won't shut down.

The drugs are partially responsible, the doctor has told her multiple times. The medicine can either make sleeping more difficult, or it can act like a sedative, dragging and holding her down. Honestly, she’s getting kind of mixed results. It’s difficult to stay awake, easy to slip under, but then she can’t stay asleep for very long, jerking back to consciousness in something close to full panic, unable to figure out if it’s the drugs or the dreams that’s pushing her to the edge.

Because the fucked up dreams...well, that’s all on her and her broken brain. She stopped bringing up the dreams in therapy after the first couple of weeks of sessions. The doctor seemed hell bent on steering Alexa towards the possibility that she was experiencing waking hallucinations, but there’s no way she could possibly be awake for all this shit. Maybe some of the flashbacks, but not…

Not…

Her brain isn’t that broken.

No. No, she can tell from the way she jerks to consciousness afterwards, she knows she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s unstable and has flashbacks, but she’s not delusional. They’re dreams.

Every night.

About…

Something.

Okay, sometimes she can remember. Sometimes the meds dull her down so much she forgets what day it is, but sometimes she can hold on to a detail or two. Cold, slender fingers, impossibly strong. A flash of bright blue that sends nausea racing through her entire body (who knew your toes could feel nauseated?) or a glimpse of bottle green that, conversely, thrills her to her soul. A smooth, velvet voice that penetrates every layer of her being, down to the deepest recesses. Darkness descending...a sense of dreadful awe…

And sometimes she can remember every unhinged detail with a terrifying clarity that she will never even consider mentioning to the therapist. Not if she likes her jacket sleeves to fit properly.

There’s honesty, and then there’s idiocy.

The shadow is larger tonight. Taller, a little broader, definitely denser. She would say looming, even, but it’s not quite that large.

Not quite.

She stares at it openly, no longer trying to avoid acknowledging its presence. What's the point? The doctor knows about it, and it’s not like she’s talking to it. She’s not that far gone yet. And she hasn't lied to the doctor, either. The shadow does watch her, like it’s waiting, gathering. Convalescing. But it hasn't ever talked to her.

She does not hear voices.

She yawns and rolls her shoulders, left then right, sliding a little lower in bed, searching for a cooler place between the sheets. Movement catches her eye, and she looks up as the shadow shifts, leaning left then right, and seems to…

Grow?

No, it’s never moved before. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen it move, but now it pulses and raises up, stretching-

No. No. Sourceless shadows don’t move. They don’t grow, they don’t shift, they don’t-

The shadow stretches upwards abruptly, definitely looming now, and Alexa hits the wall behind the bed, scrambling backwards in a blind panic as she realizes the shadow isn’t growing.

It’s coming closer.

Her breathing speeds up, but her limbs are heavy and dull with narcotic stupor. The foot of her bed darkens as the shadow creeps even closer, and she opens her mouth to protest, to scream, to say something, but her tongue is numb and stupid with the acrid, coppery tang of fear and pharmaceuticals, and she hates, hates this kind of dream where she can’t speak, can't move and she can barely breathe, and...and…

The shadow reaches out, stretches over her foot and slides up her calf in a clammy, viscous caress that tightens on her knee and pulls her several inches down the bed as her throat closes.

Do not shrink from Me. It is not your fear I crave, but your adoration. Come to Me, allow yourself to move past the fear and embrace what I wish to grant you.

Horror, deep and instinctual, floods her veins. Alexa feels the voice more than hears it, and it awakens an ancient fear that finally, though futilely, awakens her drugged limbs. She claws at her sheets uselessly as the shadow moves over her, a freezing oil slick that oozes against her skin as if her blankets and clothes weren’t even there, sending shivers to the very marrow of her bones as her gorge rises, and she chokes on the bile that singes the back of her throat. She can’t fight, can’t move against this intangible force, but neither will her terror let her sink past the fear to blissful unawareness.

Give over. Let go of your stubborn fear that tethers you to this useless reality. Allow Me entrance, and I will grant you the relief you seek. Release your grip on the world that cares nothing for you, and I shall bestow upon you the peace you so desperately crave.

Her skin raises in gooseflesh everywhere the shadow crosses, and her stomach turns as it squeezes its way up her torso, her chest, her throat, slipping over her lips in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. She opens her mouth - to scream, to breathe, to do something - and the shadow plunges inwards, invading her mouth, her throat, coating her inside and out with a thick, glutinous sensation that leaves her mouth hanging obscenely open, tongue thrashing, while her mind screams useless denials.

Submit to Me what you see I can easily take, give Me My due. Give over, drown in Me, and I will save you from this miserable existence.

And she is drowning, the air pressed from her lungs as a dark heaviness settles solidly over her. Her arms are forced over her head, and she is strung out on her twisted sheets, writhing under the weight of the shadow as it presses over every surface, against every entrance. No matter how she strains, her legs are gradually forced apart. The darkness’s lack of speed is affected, some barely functioning bit of her brain whispers to her; it could take her as swiftly as it cares to and is only moving slowly because it wants her to suffer, wants to taste her anguish. She has no chance against the shadow, she can’t even touch it, really she could just save herself the anxiety and fear and just-

NO.

She twists as hard as she can, but the shadow simply moves with her, flows over her, waits until she takes another breath, and then surges between her thighs, driving her torso off the bed with the force of its thrust. Every cell in her body locks, not in pain, but in complete revulsion. And then again, and again, cruel in the thoroughness of its violation, covering and saturating every crevice of her being, coating and tainting everything it touches.

Wrong, can't...stop, stop, stop, wrong, can’t...God, please…

You cannot rely on yourself, on your own mind for proper guidance. Let Me protect you. Let Me save you from yourself.

How long...minutes...hours...years...just stop, please…please-

The alarm clock shrieks right in her goddamned ear, and she can breathe and move and scream and goddammit, she fucking hates those dreams that send her careening onto the floor, scrambling for cover when she can’t even remember what she's running from.

Her morning routine is already in shambles. There’s no ignoring the alarm clock today. A morning shower maybe, to wash off the sticky aftermath of night sweats, definitely, but no lying about, staring at the walls in a sleep-daze. Definitely washing the sheets tonight, too.

She surveys what she can see of her bed from her crumpled position on the floor in front of the closet and sighs. Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare to tear up the covers that badly. She thinks for a moment of trying a little harder to remember, to recall some piece of the dream, but then her stomach flips over, and she summarily rejects that idea in favor of caffeination and medication.

She allows herself another few minutes on the floor, waiting until her respiratory and heart rates return to a less alarming pace before climbing to her quivering knees. The shadow darkens the far corner of the room, as innocuous as always. Though she doesn’t know why, she can’t help an involuntary flinch when she first sees it. It’s not normally present in the morning, at least, she doesn’t think so...well, she can't remember the shadow being so dark in the mornings, at least. But...

She clears her throat against the thickness that seems to coat it suddenly, and readjusts her plan to include a glass of water before she starts in on the coffee. She realizes after another long moment of staring that her hands are trembling along with her legs. Her jaw clenches, and she knows she’s being ridiculous. It’s a damned shadow. It just sits there. It’s a minor manifestation of a mild psychosis secondary to major psychological trauma. It’s just a damned dark spot; it doesn’t change, doesn't want her to do anything, and it definitely doesn’t fucking talk to her.

She. Does. Not. Hear. Voices.

…

Up Now: 2

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rowanwhitethornisbae · 4 years

Text

Faking It Ch 2

A/N: Thanks for all the love on chapter one! I’m defiantly going to make this at least ten chapters so buckle up haha. TW: Language

Aelin couldn't remember when she’d lost count of the number of shots she’d taken. All she knew was that the alcohol coursing through her veins offered temporary relief from the breathtaking pain. The pain that had her sobbing so hard that she vomited her guts up each and every night. These pointless high school parties were her only escape from reality. Her parents were dead. Who gave a fuck about anything. Stumbling a little, Aelin made her way over the kitchen sink, prepared to vomit if need be.

“Are you okay?” A low voice asked from behind her.

“Fine.” She muttered and leaned against the counter for some semblance of balance.

“You don't look it.” The stranger said kindly.

“Well isn't there some saying; Don’t judge a cover by its book or whatever.”

The mystery man laughed and Aelin finally lifted her head to look at him. He was handsome. So much so that if she hadn't already been leaning on something she might have swooned. His eyes were green, the colour of a pine tree in the dead of winter. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled and a tattoo crawled down the length of his arm and decorated the edge of his collarbone.

I like men with tattoos. She thought.

“Thanks.” He said, laughing awkwardly under his breath.

Oh shit. She avoided meeting his eye, instead landing her gaze upon his silver hair.

“Do you dye your hair.” She asked casually.

He seemed slightly taken aback, but smiled all the same. “No. Do you?”

She gasped as if it was the most preposterous thing he could've said and ran a hand through her long blond hair.

“I’d sooner eat snakes.” Aelin grinned.

“People all over the world do that voluntarily.” The green eyed man mused.

An image of someone eating snake popped into her head and Aelin suddenly felt bile rise in her throat. Before she could vomit on the perfect stranger, she bolted from the kitchen and into a vacant bathroom. Gagging, she fell onto her knees and was violently ill.

So gently that she barely even noticed, her hair was pulled back from her neck and shoulders as her stranger eased himself onto the cold tile beside her. When Aelin had finished vomiting, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and slumped against the wall.

“Thanks.” She said, tying her hair into a messy bun with shaking hands.

“I’m Rowan.” He answered, extending a hand.

For the first time in weeks, she felt a smile tug at the corner of her lips.

“Aelin.”

“Miss Galathynius are you even listening.” Her math teacher’s voice snapped her out of that very unwelcome flashback.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” She asked, earning a few laughs from her classmates and an elbow to the ribs from Aedion.

“Take a walk.” He snarled, and Aelin breathed a sigh of relief. She needed fresh air anyway.

The hallway was practically empty, save a few students on their way to the bathroom, and Aelin started towards the side doors to the parking lot. She passed a locker that had been decorated for someone’s birthday. Streamers flowed down from the top, framing the collage of photos perfectly. The girl in question looked to be a freshman, with a bright smile on her face and eyes that screamed innocence. The things Aelin would do to go back to freshman year. To live with that lack of knowledge and trauma that she so desired. But she couldn't.

She was rounding the last corner when something made her stop dead on her feet. There, leaning against the wall in a way she’d seen so many times before, was Chaol Westfall. Still, it wasn't the sight of him that send her heart into a flurry. It was the girl fiddling with her hair opposite him. It took Aelin a minute to recognize her. Nesryn Faliq, they had advanced chemistry together. She laughed at something Chaol said and reached out a hand to brush his arm. Shivers ran down Aelin’s spine at that hint of a touch. Chaol smiled back at Nesryn and leaned in to whisper something in her ear.

Unable to watch anymore, Aelin turned on her heels and bolted to the women's bathroom. She was breathing too hard, her heart racing much too fast to be healthy. God this was an awful time to have a panic attack. Slowly, she managed to calm her breathing enough to splash water on her face.

This was bad. Really fucking bad. They’d broken up barely 24 hours ago and Chaol was already flirting with the entire female population of Terrasen High. Fine, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration.

Clearly Lysandra had been right. Aelin slumped down against the wall and curled her knees to her chest. She needed a rebound, and fast. Aelin pondered names as she ran her fingers through the grooves in the bathroom wall. Name after name came forward and she found herself subconsciously shooting them all down.

Nox, Fenrys, Sam, Lorcan, Sartaq. None sounded right.

In fact, the only one she could ever see herself with was Rowan Whitethorn. The silver haired senior who’s heart she’d held in her hands sophomore year. Held and crushed. She deserved every ounce of the hatred he had for her.

Still, he wasn't a bad option. She knew he found her beautiful, he’d told her as much. The only problem was that he would never go for her again. People tended to put up a guard after having their heart shattered.

Flirting with him would be futile and unfair. The only way she could ever get him to date her was if she gave him something in return.

“Holy shit.” Aelin swore, jumping up so fast that she nearly hit her heat on the sink.

If there was anything Aelin knew about Rowan, it was that he wanted to play on the football team. He’d gone on and on about it before. According to him, he had been deathly ill during tryouts and had ended up vomiting off the side after one hit. He’d begged and begged the coach to let him try out again but it was four years later and Rowan still wasn't on the team. Lorcan, Fenrys, Vaughn, and Gavriel all were and Rowan was half miserable because of it.

There it was. A plan. She’d get him a tryout, somehow, and in exchange he would help her beat Chaol in whatever sick game they were playing. With a newfound purpose, Aelin washed her hands and walked back to math class.

Lunch. She’d make her move then.

----------------------

The cafeteria was mostly empty, a normal occurrence for Tuesday afternoons. The lunch provided was some weird crossover of meatloaf and mashed potatoes that had most students eating out. Unfortunately for Rowan, Fenrys had convinced them to eat in the cafeteria today in his attempts to stalk a blonde girl on spare in the lounge.

Now, he was picking at his food as his friends discussed the football game tomorrow. Rowan was just beginning to think his day couldn't get any worse, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?” Someone asked from over his shoulder. He knew that voice. Had heard it in both his dreams and his nightmares. Rowan’s grip on his fork tightened and his knuckles went white. His foot began drumming against the floor as he braced himself for impact. Everyone else at the table was rapidly flicking their gaze between Aelin and Rowan.

“No.” He said harshly, not daring to turn around. Rowan didn't think he’d have the will to deny her anything if he was forced to meet her eye.

“Please.” Aelin pleaded. “I have something to say to you.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad because I have nothing to say to you.” He responded, voice carefully exempt of any emotion.

“Then just listen.” She begged. “If you don't like what I have to say than we can go back to ignoring each other like you wanted.”

“I wasn't the one who wanted that.” He snapped before he could take it back.

Rowan felt more than saw Aelin stiffen behind him. Lorcan was drumming his fingers on the table, as if prepared to hold Rowan back if called for.

But it was Fenrys, the friend who was kind to everyone, who spoke. “I think you should go Aelin.”

She swallowed audibly behind him. “Alright.” She relented. “I’ll be at the Starbucks during fourth for spare. Come find me if you want.”

Rowan didn't bother to nod. Instead, he gripped his fork harder, letting up only when the sound of retreating footsteps subsided. He looked up slowly to find all eyes on him.

“So that just happened.” Lorcan mused.

“Yes thank you so much for that observation.” Rowan sniped sarcastically.

“Woah.” Lorcan replied, throwing up his arms in mock surrender. “You’re mad at Galathynius, not us remember.”

“Whatever.” He mumbled and went back to picking at his food. After a few seconds he threw his fork on the table and let out a groan of frustration.

“This food is the worst thing I have ever eaten in my entire life. It is terrible and horrible and fucked up and I have no idea what to do with it.” Rowan half-shouted. Heads swivelled in his direction and he ignored them. Judgement from people he didn't know was the least of his many concerns at the moment.

“Is that supposed to be some sort of metaphor for your life?” Vaughn asked, dead serious.

“Excuse me?”

“Seriously Rowan. All I've heard for the last year and a half is Aelin Galathynius this and Aelin Galathynius that and now she’s finally speaking to you and you’re not going to do anything about it.”

“I don't talk about her that much.” Rowan mumbled under his breath. Lorcan shot him a look as if to say “Yes. Yes you do.”

“I know I'm normally not one to get involved in deep shit, but Vaughn’s right. I’ve never seen you nearly as happy as you were for those few months in tenth. And honestly, what’s the worst that can happen. You hear what she has to say. You like it, great. You don't, fuck it and forget about her.” Rowan had never heard Fenrys speak for so long without sarcasm in his life.

“To be fair,” Gavriel said, always the buffer. “We’ve also never seen Rowan as broken as he was after Aelin. Maybe the risk outweighs the reward on this one Fen.”

Rowan didn't reply. He was too busy struggling to get the memory of those painful few weeks from his head.

“Just talk to her man. Who gives two fucks it’s high school.” Despite being mainly in an attempt to end this conversation, Lorcan’s words made sense. It was just high school. In one more year he’d be out of this shit hole and hopefully across the world in Rithfold. Talking to Aelin was just one step along the way.

“I’m going to.” He said, willing his tone to stay confident.

“Great man.” Fen said, patting him on the back. He barely felt it though. Barely felt anything as the rest of the day passed by in a blur, his thoughts occupied by a beautiful blond haired girl.

---------

It had been twenty minutes and Aelin was starting to think Rowan wasn't coming. In all honestly she should've expected that outcome from the beginning. Even though she understood, the way he had acted towards her at lunch had hurt more than she was willing to let on.

Instead of wallowing in her own self pity, Aelin took a long sip from her coffee. It seared her tongue and burned her throat, the pain helping to ground her in a way nothing else ever could. She was picking at her fingernails, head down, when he arrived.

A metal chair scraped against the cobblestone, a bird sung from a oak tree, a paper bag rustled in the wind, Aelin Galathynius blinked. That’s all she had time to do. One blink to compose herself before she was looking dead into the eyes of Rowan Whitethorn.

She allowed herself a brief second to take him in up close. His high and defined cheekbones, perfectly crafted nose, striking green eyes, and silver hair had always made for a truly stunning combination. He looked the same as ever. Except he didn't. His eyes no longer possessed that unbridled joy and love that she’d seen whenever he looked at her. Instead he just looked done. Done with life and done with her.

Aelin swallowed audibly and handed him a coffee. “Cream and sugar.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

Rowan’s hands tightened slightly. “You remembered.” It wasn't a question. After a brief moment of hesitation he accepted the coffee and went back to staring at the table.

“What is this about Aelin?” He asked softly. Although his voice was gentle, his tone was hurt in a way anyone else would’ve missed. She hated that. Hated that now, even a year later she was still somehow hurting him.

“So you know I broke up with Chaol. Or, he broke up with me.” She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. Rowan nodded once, nearly imperceptibly, and she took that as a sign to continue. “Anyway, Lysandra says that I need a rebound and I need one first because Chaol is the one who broke up with me.”

Rowan’s eye flared with surprise and something else she couldn't place. “I won't be your rebound. Please don't disrespect me by asking.”

Her heart nearly cracked open at the pain lingering in his words. “No no I would never.” Aelin paused for a brief moment to regain her bearings. “Here’s the thing. I don't want a rebound. I’ve been in a relationship for as long as I can remember and I'm in desperate need of a break. But, I’m also the most competitive person you'll ever meet. Like seriously it’s an issue, once -”

“I know.” Rowan interrupted. “Once you sprained your ankle 8 km into a 10 k run and still finished first because you couldn't stand the thought of losing. You told me already.”

Aelin just stared at him for a second, her chest unbearably tight. Rowan’s eyes looked her up and down and she could've sworn his eyes flashed in satisfaction at the pain written on her face.

Not wanting to look at him anymore, she went on. “I figured maybe instead of me actually doing the whole dating thing, we could fake date.”

She held out a hand as Rowan opened his mouth to protest. Begrudgingly, he restrained from commenting and gestured for her to go on.

“That way I'd beat Chaol in whatever this is, I wouldn't have to answer everyone’s condolences on my being dumped, and I’d be saved from the whole post breakup dating fiasco.”

Rowan’s voice was hoarser than before when he finally spoke. “What do I get out of this.”

She took a deep breath in. “I’ll get you a football tryout.”

His knee slammed into the table and Aelin couldn't help but flinch. His eyes were wide and lit up with hope. “Seriously? How the hell are you going to do that?”

“I have a plan.” She tried to sound confident despite her growing doubt.

Rowan let out a small laugh. “The last time you said that we ended up in the back of a police cruiser covered in raw eggs and paint.”

Aelin’s face broke into smile and she began to laugh. For a moment she could almost pretend they were back in sophomore year, lying on Rowan’s lawn and watching the stars. Neither of them had known anything about constellations so they’d made things up based on what they looked like. By the end of the night, Aelin’s stomach hurt from laughing. She wondered when the last time she’d been that blissfuly happy was.

Just as suddenly as they had arrived, their smiles and laughs died on their lips. An uncomfortable silence seized the air and Aelin began to play with the hair elastic on her wrist.

After a few more seconds, Rowan cleared his throat. “I’ll do it.” He announced, although it sounded like he was still trying to convince himself.

“Great.” Aelin smiled. “Why don't you come over tomorrow and we can work out logistics.”

“Don’t you live with Aedion?” Rowan asked cautiously.

“Yeah but he’ll be at Ren’s place tomorrow for a project. I checked.”

Rowan nodded slowly and rose from his chair. “Alright.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Rowan standing and Aelin sitting. “I’m going to uh... go.” He said at last, severing the quickly brewing tension.

Without waiting for answer, he turned and fled, leaving Aelin to do nothing but watch. So they were actually doing this now. What’s the worst that could go wrong?

TOG Tag List:

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@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato

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@perseusannabeth

#rowaelin #rowaelin au #rowaelin angst #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius

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redqueen-hypothesis · 4 years

Text

maybe, home ➳ shaw (mlqc)

➳ PAIRING: reader x shaw (mlqc)

➳ WORD COUNT: 5191

➳ GENRE: sick!shaw, fluff

➳ SYNOPSIS: shaw falls ill and tries to hide it. you won’t stand his lies.

➳ REMARKS: happy yeeshaw day!! here’s to furthering the shaw agenda!!

He feels like shit.

Groaning, Shaw raises a hand to block out the sunlight currently assaulting his face, eyes squinting. His head is pounding like crazy, throat as dry as sandpaper. He wants to get out of bed and shut the damned curtains, but nearly retches the second he tries to stand, stomach heaving and the taste of bile bitter at the back of his throat.

Collapsing back onto his bed, he lets out a soft grunt, limbs aching. A cold? “Fuck.”

The ringing of his phone makes his ears hurt. A pained huff leaves his mouth, and he reaches for it, swiping the call button without a second look at the contact. “Who the fuck is it-”

“Shaw?”

At the sound of his name coming from your lips, Shaw pauses for a moment, mildly surprised, before realization catches up with him. He throws his head back to the pillows in flat out exasperation.

How could he have forgotten? He was supposed to meet you today at the train station at eleven, so that he could bring you over to the antique shop to choose prop materials for one of your shows.

Shaw glances at the clock sitting at his bedside table. Ten-fifty, he can still make it if he hurries. He’ll be late, of course, but you’ll forgive him after a light scolding, he knows-

“Shaw, are you still in bed?” He knows what expression you’re making, tongue pushed into your cheek with a pout on your lips. He can read you like an open book, every face you make etched into his memory. “You said to meet at eleven!”

“Heh, sorry. I overslept.” Shaw makes sure to keep his voice flippant, one hand bracing against the edge of the mattress as he waits for the nausea to subside. It doesn’t. “Ten minutes, am I right?”

He’s cold. Light shivers run up and down his body, although when he presses the back of his free hand to his forehead, his skin burns hot against his palm. No doubt about it, definitely sick.

“Hurry up! I knew you were going to be late as usual so I left later, but it seems like I’ll still be too early.” You complain, and Shaw lets out a quiet laugh at your words, fingers digging into the covers. He can hear the tinkle of a shop’s bell and quiet chattering, surmises that you must be buying your usual coffee at your favourite cafe now. You’re not too far from the train station.

He needs to hurry up. He wants to see you.

“I got you muffins, so you can skip breakfast and come right over.” You continue speaking, pausing for a moment when the barista calls your name to hand you your order. “I baked them myself, so you have to be my willing test subject and taste all of them, alright?”

You baked muffins for him. Goddamnit.

Shaw tries to get out of bed, he really does, but the second he gets to his feet, the room starts spinning in dizzying circles and he’s forced to stumble back to the bed, collapsing on the sweat soaked covers. A bitter chuckle leaves the back of his throat, one arm thrown over his face. What would you think if you saw him like this?

“About today,” Shaw swallows, throat scratching painfully with each word he speaks. “Something just cropped up, so I won’t be able to come. You know where the key is, just go ahead and take whatever you want.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, he knows, so patchy and full of holes he almost does laugh at himself. But he doesn’t want you seeing him like this, sick and weak and pathetic. That would be laughable, wouldn’t it? Him, weak?

“...Alright. The muffins will have to wait another day, then.” Shaw hates how disappointed you sound, even over the phone. He runs a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Rain check?”

You finally let out a little giggle at his joke, and the corners of Shaw’s lips involuntarily pull up at the bright sound. “Okay. I’ll see you on another day?” You sound so excited to see him again that his chest clenches in response - he blames the fever.

“Yeah-” He starts to say, but is cut off by a sudden coughing fit. Shaw holds the phone away from him as he thumps on his chest in an attempt to quell the hacking, but it’s too late, and he can already hear the concern in your voice over the call.

“Shaw! Shaw, are you alright?”

“I’ve got stuff to do, I’ll reschedule with you next time.” He interrupts, trying to stop himself from dissolving into another bout of coughing. “Gotta go.”

He hangs up before you can say otherwise.

Switching his phone to silent and tossing it to the side, Shaw slumps back onto the mattress, bare skin breaking out in goosebumps as shivers run up and down through his body. He feels fucking awful. His gaze falls on the shark plushie you’d given him as a birthday present on the bed next to him, its jagged teeth bared in a big, dumb smile.

Apparently, it reminded you of him. He still can’t see the resemblance.

“She doesn’t have to know.” Shaw tells the shark. It stares back at him with beady eyes, as if firmly disapproving of his lies. “Don’t look at me like that.”

The plushie isn’t cowed in the least by the threat in his voice. It just continues to look at him, eyes unblinking. It reminds him of you.

Shaw grumbles, and tugs the shark to his chest. It’s soft, the fuzzy material of the felt slightly ticklish against his bare skin. “You’re no help at all, you useless fish.”

He falls asleep curled around it, fingers clutching one of the fins tightly.

He kind of wishes it was your hand instead.

>>>

You can’t find it.

Taking your bottom lip between your teeth, you search about in your bag, brows furrowed. Shaw had decided to bail on you today, telling you that something had suddenly come up; and while you aren’t quite convinced, you’re sure he had his own reasons for cancelling on you so suddenly. You could go to the antique shop on your own (the key is under the flowerpot outside the entrance), but you don’t want to be there without Shaw. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Earlier, just before he’d hung up on you, you’d heard him coughing heavily and had been instantly worried for him. Shaw always seems so strong, so casual even in the most dire of situations, so you can’t quite imagine him sick. The thought is almost unimaginable, although you knew he’s human too, just like the rest of you.

If by any chance he is sick, well... you want to be the one to take care of him.

Hence, here you are - outside a warehouse (you’d almost thought you’d gotten the wrong address by accident at first), rummaging about in your bag for the spare key he’d given you for emergencies. You don’t know if this constitutes as one, but you’ve called him several times after he hung up - only to get sent straight to dial tone.

Worry tugs at you, urging your hands to move faster. You reach all the way down into the bottom of your bag, past the box of assorted muffins, and your fingertips touch cool metal.

“Yes!” You let out a little victory cheer, sliding the key into the lock, teeth clicking smoothly against grooves. A turn, a twist, and the door to Shaw’s home swings open, revealing a dark space beyond. You’ve never actually been to his home, but now that you’re here, you can’t help the sense of anticipation that fills you. What does his home look like?

The door opens into a huge warehouse turned studio apartment, industrial lighting and cables dangling from the ceiling and half finished graffiti covering the walls. The odd skylight punched into the roof here and there allows the late morning light to shine into the room, brightening up dark corners and illuminating a surprisingly well kept kitchen area.

Shoved against a wall at the far side of the studio are two mismatched mattresses pushed together, and there’s a pair of bare legs sticking out from beneath the blanket. Curious, you shift closer as if in a trance, and your mouth slowly falls open at the sight exposed to your eyes.

It’s Shaw, sprawled horizontally across both mattresses, fast asleep. Peeking out under the blanket with him is a familiar smile full of white felt teeth, and you find yourself grinning at the sight of Sharky practically being suffocated in Shaw’s arms.

“So cute.” You whisper to yourself, pulling out your phone to snap a picture. At that moment, Shaw mumbles in his sleep and rolls over onto his back, causing the blanket around his torso to slip down and reveal bare skin-

Oh my god.

Your scream must have broken the glass of the windows. At the sound of your voice, Shaw makes a confused snort in his sleep drunken state, his golden eyes flickering open blearily before they come to land on you.

He’s still naked.

You let out a squeak and immediately duck into a crouch, hands over your eyes. Your cheeks are on fire.

You don’t know how red you are right now.

“I didn’t see your... your...” Your mouth moves soundlessly, unable to form the word that is far too prominent in our mind right now. Your eyes are still squeezed tightly shut. “Your... dong.”

A second of awkward silence hangs between the two of you.

Suddenly, you hear a quiet laugh break out from above you. It’s soft, scratchy with sleep, and then two hands are at your wrists, tugging your hands away from your face. “Just say it as it is.” Shaw’s voice is teasing, and you can’t bear to open your eyes. You desperately just want the entire ground to open up and swallow you whole. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear. “D, I, C, K-”

“Stop!” You squeal in embarrassment, and he pulls you over until you’re barely holding yourself over him by the arms. You’re sure you’re about to spontaneously combust. “Shaw! Go! And! Put! On! Something! Right Now!”

He chuckles. “I’m wearing boxers.”

“That’s not clothes!” You squeak, beating at his chest with your fist, frantic. Your heart is hammering in your ears. “Boxers are underwear, not-”

A sudden, loud noise interrupts you in the middle of your sentence, and your eyes fly open to see him with both hands clamped over his mouth, trying to suppress his coughs. “Shaw?” It’s only then that you notice the dark shadows under his eyes, how pallid his complexion is. “You’re sick!”

“Just a little under the weather.” His voice is raspy, and he shudders a little as he takes a breath. Frowning in concern, you pull his head close to yours - missing the look of surprise that flits across his face - and touch his forehead to yours, brow furrowed.

He’s unbearably warm, and you can see a thin sheen of cold sweat on his skin. Definitely sick.

“You’re burning up!” You exclaim in concern, hurrying to tuck Shaw back under the blankets. He’s still wearing his usual casual, carefree grin, golden eyes glazed over with fever as he stares up at you. “Are you saying I’m hot?”

“Now is not the time for your jokes.” You scold, moving over to the kitchen area, pulling out a handkerchief from your bag and running it under cold water from the tap. Should you get him a glass of water too? “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? You could have just cancelled today.”

Shaw lets out a defeated sigh as you turn around to eye him, one hand on your hip. His cheeks are flushed from the fever. “’m sorry.”

“Here, drink some water.” You step over to him, lifting the cup to his lips and he swallows greedily without protest, fingers latching around your wrist to keep your hand steady. You don’t know whether it’s from the fever, but your skin burns at his touch. “Why didn’t you keep yourself hydrated? You need to drink water to cool off.”

“Couldn’t get out of bed earlier.” Shaw answers matter of factly, slumping back on the mattress as if it’s no big deal to him. Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest as you wonder how long he’s had to deal with these sorts of situations alone.

Part of you wants to scold him for not relying on you more, but another part understands - he’s been independent since he was a child, and it’s hard for him to break old habits. Pressing your lips together, you place the wet towel on his forehead with renewed determination - you’re going to show him that he can rely on you.

“I’m going to take your temperature, do you have a thermometer? You could be running quite a high fever.” You ask, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Seemingly unconcerned, Shaw lets out an exaggerated sigh, cracking open one eye to look at you. “Ahh, and they said you could only see pretty nurses in a hospital. Think you could get a uniform to go with it?”

Your face goes flat. This little bastard... “How about I break something of yours and send you to the hospital in an ambulance right now?”

“Ooh, feisty. I like that.” Shaw chuckles, eyes slipping shut again. You stare at him for a moment longer and shake your head, moving over to the kitchen area once more. Now, if you were Shaw, where would you hide medicine?

“There’s no point looking for medicine, I don’t have anything but painkillers.” Shaw’s lazy voice shatters your contemplation over his cupboards. You glance at him, mouth pulled into a frown. “What do you mean, you don’t have anything but painkillers?”

Shaw raises an eyebrow from the bed, easing up so that he can watch you. You don’t think he knows how vulnerable he looks right now, a faint, half smile tugging at his lips and eyes hazy from the sickness. “I mean it. There’s nothing.”

“What about paracetamol?”

“Nope.”

“Cough syrup?”

“Expired a few years back.” Shaw shrugs, as if it’s completely normal. You stare at him for a moment longer, before you lift your own fingers to your temples, rubbing them in an attempt to ward off the headache you can already feel coming. How can one person be so bad at taking care of themselves? “Shaw, you have nothing.”

A laugh leaves him. “That’s what I said.”

That’s it. “You’re hopeless,” you declare, rooting about your bag for your purse. “I’m going to the pharmacist before you die from a cold-”

“You’re leaving?” The words are said so quickly that you’re a little startled, and when you look over at him, he’s staring at you with an oddly vulnerable expression that you’ve never seen on him before.

“Yeah, to the pharmacist.” You say, moving over to sit at his side, running your fingers through his bleached hair. His eyes slip shut at your touch, and perhaps subconsciously, takes your hand with his own to press it to his heated cheek. “Ahh, this feels good. Don’t go.”

You’ve never quite seen him like this before, so much more demanding with your affections that he almost reminds you of a child wanting to be spoiled rotten with attention. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, bottled emotion swirling in your chest. “I need to get medicine because a certain idiot man doesn’t know how to take care himself.”

“Forget about him.” Shaw mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your side. You gasp, a little ticklish at his feverish heat, and feel Shaw’s grin against your skin. “Just stay here. The pharmacist is too damned far.”

“It’s a fifteen minute walk, Shaw.”

“Exactly. Too long.” Shaw complains, sucking at a spot a little over your hip and giving you a tiny nip. You yelp, tugging at his ear and he laughs. His lips are so chapped. “We can have so much more fun in that time-”

You stuff a pillow over his face. “No. You need rest.”

Shaw grumbles, but gives up when he sees the unyielding stare you’re leveling at him. “Fine, fine. Abandon this poor, sick man or whatever, you heartless woman.” You laugh at the put out expression on his face.

“I’ll be back soon enough. You need to sleep, however.” You try to pry his hands away from your waist, but sick Shaw is still miles stronger than you will ever be. “Oh, come on, you’re not going to get better if you don’t rest!”

“I want to rest like this.” Shaw fires back, plaintively locking his arms around and pillowing his head in your lap. His golden eyes squint up at you from below, a weak grin pulling at the side of his lips. “You’re supposed to be making me feel better, right?”

You eye him for a good second before a fond, exasperated sigh escapes your lips. “Fine, if you insist.” You begin combing through his hair, bleached strands slipping between your fingers

A mischievous glint sparkles in his eyes. “So, does that mean that we can-”

“Another word from you and I’m going,” you warn, a chuckle pulling itself from the back of his throat in response. Surprisingly, he doesn’t say another word and instead closes his eyes, tucking his face against your side, each breath coming out uneven and labored.

Just how sick is he, you wonder, tugging your lip between your teeth as you look down at his head in your lap. It doesn’t take long for Shaw to slip back into sleep’s hold, breathing evening out slightly and mouth slipping open slightly. You down at him for a moment, tracing his features with a finger, and finally pressing your thumb against his bottom lip gently. He doesn’t stir in the least, well and truly asleep.

Fondness tugs at your heartstrings. You lean down to press a kiss to his brow, smoothing his hair back.

“I’ll be back soon.” You mouth tenderly into his hair. Cradling his head in your hands, you gently shift it off your lap and onto a pillow instead, making to rise to your feet. Before you can, however, something latches around your wrist, and you look back to see Shaw grasping your hand tight with his own.

“I thought you were asleep-” You begin to protest, but when you look at Shaw’s face, you realise that he’s still completely lost to dreamland. His fingers curl around your hand involuntarily, an incoherent mumble leaving his lips.

It sounds like ‘don’t go’.

Looking up, you see Sharky tossed to the side of the mattress, awkwardly balancing on the tip of its nose and its tail propped up on a pillow. From this angle, the smile it usually wears has been upturned into a frown. Look at how he’s treating me, it seems to be protesting. A little laugh leaves your lips, and you reach over to rescue it. “I know you love him, Sharky, so don’t give me that look. Both of you have the same smiles, after all.”

You put the shark plush in his arms and Shaw finally shifts a little, wrapping his arms around the toy and letting go of your hand. Free at last, you rise to your feet and poke Sharky on the tip of the nose. “Take care of him until I get back, okay?”

Sharky doesn’t reply as usual, but you know he’s reluctantly agreeing. You cast your glance on Shaw, a gentle smile tugging at your mouth.

“Don’t worry.” You say, dropping a kiss to his temple. He doesn’t stir. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

>>>

There’s the sound of humming.

Shaw stirs slightly, half dangling between a shadowy world of dreams and reality, feeling more well rested than he has in ages. Strained notes of the familiar song drift past his ears, along with the sound of steam escaping a pot. His limbs and eyelids are heavy with sleep, tempting to draw him under once again, but he forces his eyes open, turning onto his side where the noise is coming from.

You’re standing at the stove, dressed in one of his old band tees and shorts, both far too big for you and hair thrown up in a quick bun, tendrils and wisps escaping to frame your face. There’s a pot sitting on the fire, and you stir it with a wooden spoon a few times before lifting it to your lips to taste it.

Shaw watches as a small smile of satisfaction spreads across your face, and you cover the pot with a lid once more, turning to wash up in the sink.

For some reason, he can’t take his eyes off your back as you continue humming to yourself. There’s a lump in his throat, a throbbing in his chest that he can’t blame on the fever - it aches, burns. Shaw feels full, so damned full, as if a gaping hole in him that’s been around since forever has finally been filled.

You look like you’re comfortable in his clothes, standing barefoot in his home and messing around in his kitchen. You fit seamlessly into his house, as if you were meant to be there from the very beginning.

Your name leaves his lips before he knows what he’s doing.

You whirl around and he sees varying stages of surprise playing over your face, expressions he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. Then, almost in strikingly slow motion, your eyes brighten when you see him, your lips pull up in a smile, and your entire face takes on a vibrant air - as if you’re happy just seeing him awake.

“Shaw!” You say his name, hurrying over with a wet towel, wiping your hands on the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt. He can’t help but throw a hand over his face at the sight, an emotion too dangerously close to happiness bubbling at the back of his throat. He must still be out of it from the fever. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just-” He runs a tongue over his lips, feeling cracked and dry skin there. “Just need some water.”

“Wait a second.” Holding out the fresh towel, you gently dab at his face and mouth, before moving to wipe down his torso. He shivers a little at the chill, but then you cover him with the blanket once again, tucking him in. “I’ll get you a cup of water and some porridge, okay? You should eat something since you’ve been sleeping the entire day without any food. That can’t be good for you. After you’ve eaten that, you can take the medicine.”

Shaw groans as he looks up through the skylights, rubbing at his eyes. “... what time is it?”

“Early evening! You slept through most of the afternoon, but I managed to get some water and paracetamol into you when I got back from the pharmacist’s.” You call from the kitchen, ladling porridge into a small bowl for him. Shaw fixes his eyes on the sight, trying to commit it into memory. “You were quite out of it, so you might not remember anything. Do you feel better now?”

“Yeah.” Shaw cranes his head, stretching out his arms. When he sits up, his head isn’t spinning any more, and the nausea in his stomach seems to have subsided. “When did you put on my shirt? More importantly, why wasn’t I awake to see it?”

“My dress was getting uncomfortable, so I stole some of your clothes that were lying around. I hope you don’t mind.” You step over with a tray of porridge and a glass of clear water, sitting at his bedside and holding out a spoon to him. He doesn’t mind, quite the opposite, in fact. “Here, eat up. I’m no cook like Victor, but-”

“Feed me.”

Your eyes widen near comically at his words and Shaw lets out a short bark of laughter. And then you’re stuttering, a pink blush high on your cheeks as you try to find the words to deny him.

“Shaw!”

“What, you won’t help an ill person out? My arms are so weak they won’t even stay up, look.” He dramatically tosses his arms into the air before they fall back into his lap. “I’ll drop the spoon and make a mess all over the bed, so you need to feed me.”

You shake your head once, clearly aware that he’s teasing you. “You’re so annoying.” Still, you lift a spoon of porridge to his lips, turning your face away, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “Here.”

Shaw does his best to restrain his laughter, leaning back against the wall to take in your expression, the shade of pink staining your face deepening into a rosy blush. “It’s too hot to eat. Blow on it for me.”

This time, you do gape at his shamelessness for a full five seconds before you regain your senses, sputtering furiously. “Shaw!”

The chuckles finally spill forth from his chest, nearly bringing tears to his eyes. Your face turns even redder at his clear amusement, and you reach out to pull at his ear painfully. “Stop laughing at me!”

“Ow, ow, okay.” Shaw can’t seem to stop snickering, and you puff out your cheeks at him. He lifts a hand to flick your nose. “When you react like that, who can resist teasing you a little?”

You scowl at him, but raise the spoon to your lips anyway to cool it down before holding it to his mouth. “Say ahh.” You still sound like you’re sulking.

Shaw opens his mouth obediently this time, amber eyes fixed on you with each bite he takes. The porridge is a little bland since he can’t smell it, but the fact that you’re feeding him makes each bite far more enjoyable than if he were alone eating alone.

He finishes the entire bowl in a matter of minutes, and doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up when he asks for seconds. Stomach finally satiated, he lies back down and watches peacefully as you clean up the kitchen, the light of the setting sun casting you in its soft, orange glow.

Shaw turns to the side to see Sharky lying on its side, looking at him. See? That wasn’t so scary, was it now? She’s going to accept you no matter what, and she isn’t going to leave. You can stop being so cautious now.

He grunts, eyes narrowing as he stares suspiciously at the toy shark. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Your voice comes from behind him, and Shaw rolls over to see you walking over. You press the back of your hand to his forehead, your skin cool to the touch. “Still a little feverish, but you should feel better soon.”

“If I stay sick longer, will you take care of me then?” The words leave his mouth before he can think them through, and you still at his bedside, eyes widening. Ah fuck, too emotional. He tries to play it off, donning his usual casual grin and raising a hand to ruffle your hair. “You know you love me too much to watch me languish in pain alone, yeah?”

Your answer is something he doesn’t see coming.

“Of course.” You bite down on your bottom lip, looking fairly upset and Shaw is caught off guard in an instant. Earnestly, you grab his hands, squeezing them gently. They’re so small and smooth compared to his. “Next time you get sick, just tell me. I want to be there with you, I want to take care of you, and I want to do it for a long, long time. So don’t be alone anymore, okay?”

Shaw stays silent for a long time, staring up into your eyes. They’re thoughtful and serious, not the slightest hint of humor or playfulness in them. A short bark of laughter leaves him, and he hates how scratchy his voice sounds. It’s all the sickness’ fault. “Damn, I could kiss you right now.” The warmth of your hands around his is something he never wants to let go.

“You can’t.” You scold instantly, moving to pull away from him. “You’re sick, and if you kiss me all those germs will definitely get into me, then I’ll get sick and you’ll have to take care of me-”

Shaw pulls you forward by the arm, and you tumble into his lap, faces dangerously close to each other. He can count every eyelash brushing your cheeks, see the way your pupils waver and dilate as they struggle between meeting his eyes and looking away. “Shaw, this is not what a sick person should be doing-”

“You’re so noisy.” Shaw comments, putting one hand over your mouth. You make muffled noises of complaint against his palm, but then Shaw leans in, so close that he can feel stray strands of your hair tickling his face, and presses his lips against the back of his hand.

The distance of a few centimetres suddenly feels all too far, and Shaw lets out a disappointed sigh, knocking your foreheads together. He hears your yelp, and stifles a chuckle in his throat.

With mild amusement, he watches as your eyes flicker open, stunned, before he pulls away. “That’ll have to do for now.” Shaw loves, no, lives, for your reactions to his teasing. He could watch them for hours and never get bored.

You sulk, pressing your hands against your reddened cheeks. “You’re awful. For a second, I thought you were actually about to kiss me!”

“Oh? You sound disappointed.” Shaw laughs, and you scramble to deny it at once. He watches you as you rant, completely unaware of the small, contented smile he’s wearing on his face.

He can see your dress thrown over the back of one of his chairs. Your heels lie next to his motorcycle boots at the door. You’re dressed in his shirt, scolding him for speaking nonsense, and he’s never felt warmer than he does now.

This sort of life is different, but okay. Shaw likes this kind of different.

A snort leaves his mouth at his own thoughts. He’s tumbling, head over heels, falling face first into the unknown. But it’ll be okay, because he knows you’ll be there with him.

“Are you even listening to me?” You complain, tugging at his arm and eyes clear and honest as they look at him. Maybe one day, he’ll ask you to come move in with him, and then instead of his house, this will become his home. At the thought, Shaw finds himself grinning, and ducks down to drop a playful kiss to your cheek.

It suddenly doesn’t seem so far off, after all.

“Nope.”

#mlqc #mlqc fanfic #mlqc shaw #shaw #mr love queen's choice #mr love queen's choice shaw #ling xiao

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s-creations · 4 years

Text

Return the Flames - Chapter 2

All at Dead Bird Studios knew of Amos' (The Conductor's) ability. How the owl could suddenly erupt into flames if angered enough. When the studio first opened, Dominic (DJ Grooves) was told that Amos had his ability under control. Nothing to worry about. No possible loss of anything from an open flame.

A few years later however, and that control seems to have lessened to a dangerous degree.

It should have just been a simple, week long drive to fix the problem. It really should have been.

Dominic should have asked a lot more questions and should have been prepared for a twist ending.

_________________

Fandom: A Hat in Time Rating: General Audience Relationships/Pairings: The ConductorXDJ Grooves Warnings: Eventual depictions of violence, slow burn relationship, named characters, attempt of an accent, being hunted down, a race against time (sort of).

In two days time, the back of Dominic’s trunk was filled with suitcases. Dead Birds Studio had its doors closed, with its workers being told to relax at home for the next week. All were confused as to why their bosses were leaving, together, for so long, together. But there was a spark of hope that this was the indication that the feud was well and truly over.

Dominic closed said trunk before casting his eyes over to the studio steps. Amos was taking time to give farewells to his family. Grandchildren climbing over the elder owl, who was speaking to a very sickly looking one. Even with a few mottled patches, Dominic knew it was Amelia from the numerous photos that hung from Amos’ office.

The penguin knew that the younger owl was very ill. With what, he’d never known. But it exhausted her, seeming to continuously molt, Amos being heard from his office shouting to make sure she was cared for. The conductor constantly fretted over the possibilities. Amos worked over time as train conductor, director, and baby sitter when Amelia needed a day to sleep. Dominic may not like the other’s personality some times, the penguin couldn’t deny that Amos was an amazing father. Pushing himself to a dangerous degree.

Amos was speaking quickly and quietly, occasionally reaching out to preen a few feathers on Amelia. Who in turn would just smile and nod, giving a gentle response, eventually pulling Amos into a tight hug. When they broke apart, Amos helped his daughter back into her wheelchair. It was a bit of a challenge to get the grand kids off of him. A pure white dove, the nursemaid if Dominic remembered, helped pull the tiny birds off. Now free, Amos placed a gentle kiss on Amelia’s forehead before making his way over to the car.

The penguin caught Amelia’s eyes and gave a wave in greeting. Which she returned in kind with another warm smile.

“Oi, are we goin’ or not.” Amos huffed as he climbed into the car.

“Alright Darling, alright. Let’s get this show on the road then.” Climbing in as well, Dominic brought the car to life and pulled out of the parking lot.

They’d left early enough that the streets were bare. The sky was an inky darkness, the stars unseen among the steady lights of the city. The silence stretched on between them. Dominic itched to turn on some music. But he wasn’t sure what Amos would not complain about. Although the penguin also wasn’t sure what to talk about to fill the silence. They’d just started and it already felt like it had gone on for too long. Clearing his throat, the penguin went with the first safe topic that came to mind.

“Amelia looks well.” Dominic chanced as the traffic light turned green.

“She is…” Amos offered as a reply.

“Is she...okay with this? This trip, I mean.”

“More than I am.”

“You didn’t have to take my offer-”

“Not that, ya peck neck. She’s actually thankful I’m doin’ somethin’ reasonable about this.”

“For once.”

“And what does that mean.”

“That you only recently stopped doing your own stunts.”

“Ya sound like my bloody health insurance.”

“But you can admit, I have a point.”

“Peck neck.”

“Bringing the original topic back. Are you worried about the trip?”

“There’s...a lot ta worry about. But I did spend the better part of these days ta make sure she was financially set. So, that’s one less fret.”

“Are you expecting a problem with her while we’re gone?”

“...No. Not really. And I thought I told ya no more questions.”

“It’s in relation to the conversation about your daughter. I wasn’t sure how far that request went.”

“She’s fine. She has help. She’s goin’ ta be set. There, we talked. Now leave it.”

Dominic felt his feathers ruffle in frustration, but did as requested. It wasn’t his place to push for answers and he honestly didn’t have the fighting energy at the moment. If the Conductor was going to shut down then the penguin wasn’t going to worry about it. He was just a convenient ride. But as they left the city limits and silence fell again, Dominic searched for another point of conversation. Anything to just get rid of this tension.

It dawned on him how little he and Amos had in common. Amos never opened up and, when they were full time rivals, they weren’t ones to share personal information or interests. Even if the penguin liked conversing, when they were fighting he knew better than to try and get close to the other. Now that the rivalry fell away, there was still too many years of animosity to just have everything be okay. This new beginning was going to be hard to achieve. Especially if Amos shut down like this.

Dominic was broken from his musings hearing the other beginning to snore. It wasn’t as loud as the penguin thought it would be. Just a gentle whistling created by the owl’s barely opened mouth. Such a contrast to his large personality. Dominic chuckled as he refocused on the road.

Turning on the radio and keeping the volume low, Dominic let himself become lost to the music.

It was burning.

A fire alight in his chest that was steadily growing. Clawing, tearing at his throat as it tried to escape. When it couldn’t, it started to consume him. Fear rising as he felt his body starting to melt from the heat. The inky blackness that surrounded him, the cool pressure, filled with bright, brilliant stars that shined in the quiet calm. It was maddening.

As he burned, it’s soothing presence was mocking. It seemed so close. That he could reach out and touch it. To calm the flames that consumed him. But it seemed to move away as he scrambled forward. He needed relief.

A noise, a voice, a chanting started growing from the distance.

“Release, burn, return…”

He couldn’t. It hurt too much. He didn’t want to.

“Release, burn, return…”

No, no he can’t.

“Release, burn, return…”

STOP!

“Amos.”

Giving a startled gasp, Amos woke, quickly scanning the area. He was first aware of how close Dominic was to him. Worry clearly seen on the penguin’s face. Next was the fact they were parked in a large lot. A large, grandly decorated hotel spotted in the distance. Amos almost winced seeing the night sky spread above them.

“Amos,” Dominic spoke up again, “Are you alright? Were you-”

“‘M fine… Did...I sleep all day?”

“Yeah, you did.” Dominic stood, stepping away from the owl. He wasn’t sure why Amos was nervous so suddenly. But he didn’t really want to be within hitting range if things turned ‘fight of flight’ with the owl. “I figured it would be best for us to rest for the night.”

“Aye...are we makin’ good time?”

“We are, but I need some sleep. I’m going to get our bags. Take some time to wake up.”

Amos gave a grunt in response. Rubbing his forehead as Dominic headed to the trunk, the owl’s hand eventually traveled down and rested on his chest. Where the uncomfortable burning sensation was coming from. It was bearable, for the moment. No urges to release flames from his mouth. He was surprised he survived the majority of the day without that. But, he worried more about how much long he was going to last.

“You alright?”

For the second time that night, Amos was startled to attention. He recovered quickly and stood. Actively avoiding making eye contact with the penguin. “I said ‘M fine. Give me my suitcase.”

“Come now Darling, you’re on this trip to relax. I can handle this.” Dominic took Amos’ moment of stunned confusion to lock the car and begin the treck up to the hotel. He smirked hearing familiar, anger filled footsteps rushing towards him.

“‘M not a crippled, old bird. Ya don’t need ta mother hen me. Now, give me my bag.”

“Amos, you’ve been bursting into flames. You’re clearly in pain and you needed a companion on this journey. I’m here to make sure you don’t push yourself. So, that means I will handle the bags.”

“...Ya peck neck.”

“Good counter argument.” And with that, Grooves let it drop. If Amos’ silence was anything to go by, he was done as well.

The owl’s grumpy demeanor slightly dropped as they entered the lobby. The interior reflected the exterior in it’s design. Pure white with ornately designed golden accents. The furniture matched the color scheme, Amos worrying he would trip over something if he wasn’t paying that close attention. The only pop of color came from the floral arrangements. Bundles of green with breaks of blue, yellow and pink flowers.

It was relatively empty, save for the workers and stragglers like themselves.

Amos hung back, deciding Dominic didn’t need to be crowded as he checked them in. He claimed a cushioned seat nearby, grunting as he attempted to get comfortable. A hand reached up to rub his chest again. The heat was still down, but there was that constant burning. Peck, he hated feeling like this. Old, exhausted, in pain. He couldn't wait for this to be over with.

Amos’ attention perked hearing a familiar laugh. Dominic was conversing with the hostess, both enjoying something the penguin had said. No doubt. With how charismatic, down right charming the other was. Grooves could say anything that could just light up the room.

U̬̒n̩̓l̨̯̳̓̈i̫̋k͎̰̥̍̌́e̼̿̈͜ ẙ̱͙̏ö͕̺͈́͘͠u̠͉̗͗̐.̳̬̙̇̊͗

The owl coughed, frantically covering his mouth when some flames flickered out. He hunched over to hide himself away. He needed to get to the room. If he could make it to the shower, he could cool himself down. What was taking Grooves so long!

“Amos?”

He snapped back to attention. Dominic standing over him with a look of worry. Amos stood, stumbling slightly as he put weight on his legs.

“Whoa, Amos, are you-”

“Room, now.” The Conductor coughed out, a few flames licking against his cheeks.

“I...right. Right, come on then.”

It was a tense and quiet track to their room. Dominic kept a hand on Amos’ shoulder to direct the owl. As his focus remained on keeping the flames at bay. The attempted to appear ‘normal’ while quickly moving to the properly numbered room. As soon as they entered, Amos made a direct line towards the bathroom.

Ignoring the fancy decor, the owl climbed into the tub and turned the water onto the coldest setting. He let out a strangled gasp of relief as the water hit him. It was brief contact, however, as the liquid seemed to evaporate as soon as it made contact. There was a moment of shock when ice cubes suddenly slid into the tub, pooling at his feet. Only to look up and find Dominic holding the signature ice bucket, looking sheepish.

“I figured...ice would help.” Dominic offered with a weak shrug.

Amos nodded. He sat down, leaned back to allow water hitting his face and chest. “Think you could get me some more?”

“Yeah...hang tight Darling.”

Amos merely gave a wave. Letting himself lay out as best he could, he picked up a handful of ice to eat it. All turning to water as before it even touched his tongue. A small cough brought his attention back to Dominic.

“Do you want me to just pour it on you or…”

“Give it.” Amos dumped the contents directly onto his chest. A small sigh of relief escaped him, eventually holding the bucket back out. “More.”

“Think you could ask politely?”

“I’m in pain. Politeness is not my biggest concern.”

Bucket returned to the penguin and left alone, Amos buried himself into the already collected ice. It was slowly lowering his raging temperature. The owl allowed himself to relax, falling asleep before Dominic returned with another round.

#A Hat In Time #discotrain #the conductor #dj grooves #s-creations #fanfiction #ahit conductor #ahit dj grooves #Multi-Chapter

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fanficfeeling · 5 years

Text

Lovely Part 2 - Jaskier x Reader

A/N: Hey everyone! Wow! Part 1 received far more positive feedback than I thought it would! I'm super grateful to everyone who read part one, or left a comment, or was just very encouraging, you've really helped re-spark my love for writing <3 Boy, this took way too long to finish, but I just really wanted to make sure it held up the first part at least a little! I hope you enjoy this part as well, and I'm planning on writing at least one more part to this after this, so let me know if your interested in that/how much more of this story you're interested in seeing! Either way I'm planning on continuing to write for The Witcher, and on starting to post for other fandoms (of which I'll be posting a list soon!) so if you like my work please follow or just keep an eye out! Love you guys.

Summary: 3 times Jaskier has done his best to distract Y/N from the less enjoyable parts of her life.

Part 1

Warnings: Brief language warning.

Tagged: @failure-of-the-day (I might be assuming but I thought you might like to be tagged!) @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @blue-hoodies-for-life @athenaisalpha

Y/N found out rather quickly that spending time with Jaskier is a surefire way to bring a smile to her face. Her job can be depressing, Geralt is often silent at the most inopportune times, and travelling for such long distances can be boring, but Jaskier is none of those things, and often goes out of his way to grab her attention from that which brings down her mood.

For instance, moments like this one: Y/N has returned to this small town's inn after helping the townspeople for the day, feeling like the weight of the world is on her shoulders after the day she's had. Geralt hasn't returned from his monster slaying yet, so she seeks out Jaskier for company.

When she finds him in his room, he's laying on his bed, writing something down on a piece of paper haphazardly, using his propped-up knee as a work surface. As impractical as the position seems, he looks comfortable: laid back, his normal, fancier wear tossed aside for a simple white shirt and comfortable trousers, and a smile upon his face. It take Y/N all of a second to decide that the look does him great justice.

"Jaskier." Y/N starts, making him aware of her presence.

He looks up, briefly startled, but when his eyes come to rest on her, his smile widens, "Hello, Y/N."

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm back in for the evening."

"I'm glad! It was getting boring around here with no company. Please, come in, sit down." Y/N expects him to gesture to the chair against the wall in invitation, but he simply moves his feet and makes room on his bed for her. She means to be more proper about coming into his space, but as she approaches, she finds that she ends up throwing herself down onto the bed, her exhaustion weighing down her bones.

This seems to be the first time Jaskier notices her mood is off, "Hey, everything alright?"

Y/N looks at him sheepishly, "Just a long day is all. How was yours?"

Taking the hint that she wasn't up for talking about it, Jaskier indulges her, "I started writing a new song today, and I have to admit, it's taken up pretty much all of my time. It's-"

It's all Y/N can do to stay focused on his words for that long, as images of ill people, broken homes, and crying children fill her mind. This town is lucky to have an inn still standing, considering all the havoc beasts nearby have caused. Why must monsters even have to exist like this at all? Why must innocent people suffer for mindless, bloodthirsty crazes? Why does Y/N dedicate herself to cleaning up messes that aren't even hers?

"Y/N?" She looks up at Jaskier at the sound of his persistent voice, and it isn't until she attempts to speak that she realizes she's begun crying. She also finds that she can't find anything to say to him to make an excuse for her state.

He doesn't question any further though, and swiftly gives her a soft smile, before setting aside his papers and opening his arms, beckoning her towards him.

She doesn't even think about it as she crawls towards him and re-positions herself so that he can envelop her in a hug, as she lays her head against his chest. Just being there quickly quiets the tears, but Jaskier doesn't let go, and for that Y/N is grateful.

They sit in silence as Y/N calms herself, and eventually Jaskier leans down a little bit to kiss her forehead and whisper, "Whatever you've been through, please just remember that I'm here for you and that your soul is good, and deserves to be returned the help and goodness that you give."

Oh yeah, that's why she does it all. However hard it can be, it's the good she does that keeps her moving.

~~~

The next time Jaskier goes out of his way to lift Y/N's mood, Y/N and Geralt are sitting at a table in another tavern, completely silent. Normally Y/N has no issues with respecting their silence, she often enjoys it, but her work involved a lot of repairs today, and she barely had any human connection at all throughout the day. She fidgets, doing her best not to disturb Geralt as he seems to contemplate something—she knows he has his own demons swimming around in his mind—but she worries that if she doesn't do something stimulating soon, she very well might burst.

Jaskier descends from the rooms above the tavern space, looking to begin his own work for the night as an entertainer. He had gotten permission from the owner of this establishment earlier in the day to perform in the space, and as it got on into the evening, he knew that now was his prime time. He had cleaned himself up, decided on his song list, and was ready to go.

As he looked around the tavern sizing up his audience, his eyes came to rest upon his travelling companions. Geralt seems lost in thought, and Y/N... Y/N seems downright bored. Knowing that she's been having a rough go of it lately with her work, Jaskier quickly decides that he cannot let this stand.

He swiftly changes his course and makes his way towards their table, a plan only half formed in his mind, and when he stops in front of them he finds himself asking, "Y/N, could I ask a favor of you?"

She looks at him, curiosity in her eyes and a soft smile on her mouth—a goddess in the flesh, he thinks—and he continues, "I have some songs that I was planning on playing tonight, and I would like to see how they fare as duets. Would you join me?"

Jaskier doesn't know by what miracle she says yes, and neither does she, really, but soon the two fall into a groove that brings the attention, and coin, of the patrons. They stumble through the first few songs, rousing some laughs from their audience, until they get to "Toss A Coin To Your Witcher", and the audience joins in singing with them. The pair puts on a show as they sing and they dance, and the audience adores it.

After a rendition (or several) of Jaskier's hit song, many of their audience members start to fall away, so the bard takes that as a hint to start slowing things down.

"Y/N, how would you feel about rounding this performance off by performing "Her Sweet Kiss" with me?"

Y/N's heart skips a beat. She's heard the way he sings that song, and the emotion he puts into it is always enough to bring her near to tears.

"I would be honored."

He starts the beginning off himself, and cues her when to come in. "So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?" Jaskier never breaks eye contact with Y/N as they sing, and she utters no complaints as it feels like he bears his soul to her while gazing deeply into hers.

"I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. If this is the path I must trudge, I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance, garroter, jury, and judge."

When Y/N had wished for human interaction, this was not what she had expected, but fuck her if it wasn't far better.

As the song comes to a close, Y/N still can't find it in her to look away from his eyes, but luckily for her, it seems that neither can he. The applause of the crowd goes unnoticed by both until the moment passes on its own.

"Thank you, for doing this with me, Y/N."

"Thank you for asking, Jaskier."

~~~

While traveling is, of course, a luxury, just the act of getting somewhere new isn't always the most enjoyable of activities. Travelling may be an integral part of Y/N's job, but knowing that is rarely enough to make her feel better about her soreness from riding her horse, or the boredom she feels as they slowly move along on empty side roads, past endless fields. Yet, this is ultimately a part of her job, so she grins and bears it for the satisfaction of helping people and the coin it brings.

Jaskier, in all his many observations of this captivating do-gooder, begins to notice that she rarely has a good time between locations. He notices that she has no way to occupy herself, besides just listening to him ramble, and he notices that she doesn't seem to plan on doing anything to remedy that situation. So, he resolves to do so himself.

"Y/N," He begins as he sits on her horse behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist. "How would you like to play a game?"

"A game? Why?"

"Because I'm terribly bored and would like to hear your lovely voice. Are you in?"

"Oh, uh, I suppose I am, yes."

"Okay then. I spy, with my little eye-" Her laughter that follows is enough to make Jaskier's heart light. Making her laugh always makes him just a little bit happier.

He hears Geralt groan next to them on Roach, and watches in amusement as he begins to trot further up ahead of them.

"What a grumpy, grumpy man. Alright, hush now, or you'll miss the object. Anyways, I spy, with my little eye, something very long and brown."

"Oh, oh, is it the tree trunks?"

"Very close but not quite. Something dusty."

"The road!"

"Ding ding ding! You've got it!" She laughs once more at his enthusiasm.

"My turn then! I spy, with my little eye, something... big and blue."

Jaskier pretends to think for a moment, and then feigns surprise as he exclaims, "The sky!"

He thinks her joyful laughter is stopping his heart by now, but he's certain he might fall off the horse when she says, "I could preserve this round for a little longer and say 'It was actually your eyes', but that might be a little obvious, huh?"

He rests his head on her shoulder and attempts to look at her face. "That gives me an idea. I spy, with my little eye, something lovely."

A blush breaks out across her face immediately, but she tries not to make assumptions. "Oh, uh... those flowers on the side of the road?"

"Not quite. A bit closer to me." She swears she can feel his arms tighten around her just a fraction.

"Then... is it the horse? You two seem to get along quite well." He chuckle is deep, and she can feel the motion against her back.

"I do love Cinnamon dearly, but you're still a bit off. Try again."

Y/N's breath hitches in her throat, and she glances to the side to look at him, finding him closer than she expected. "Lovely? Is it, uh... me, then?" His smile is enough to make her think her heart will soon burst out of her chest.

"Very good. You're excellent at this. Fancy another round?"

It takes her several minutes to calm down, but she gets into their game again, and sure enough, before either of them even know it, they've reached their destination. They both find themselves a little sad when they have to let go and get off of Cinnamon, but the feeling of being so close doesn't leave either of them for hours.

Yes, Y/N reflects, everything really does get better with him around.

Yeah, Jaskier thinks, I wouldn't trade a second with her for anything.

#Jaskier x reader #Jaskier #jaskier fanfiction #The witcher #part 2 #series #Lovely #mine #Geralt of Rivia #geralt #fluff #cute #fanfic #reader x jaskier

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sainadazai · 3 years

Text

Chapter 5

^^^

A/n Hey I drew a lil doodoo drawing of y/ns suit

So yeah, this was a quick one when I was bored. Maybe Ill do more art for this book and better art later. I also apologize for the body type being on the side of thin- curvy.

I simply drew the common body shape for MHA's animated style, and then made the thighs a lil thicker because I felt like a garter deserves some nice thighs . If its not your body type, or it offends you, I apologize, and I can take it off this story if it bothers anyone.

Anyway..

On the way out of school that day, you could faintly hear the quarrel of two boys from your class, the ones whose fight earlier scared Ojiro. They seemed to have so much in common, and yet it pitted against them. They needed a wake up call, but it wasn't yours to give. The yelling was hard to just walk by, but you did your best to tune it out, you'd ease dropped enough earlier when you watched them put their hearts into their battle on the screen.

Still, your mind was preoccupied, so you walked past them easily, not even sparing a glance. Eyes stuck to the ground in concentration. Just trying to follow the little scrapes and grooves in the sidewalk you stood on.

Todoroki said thank you, after you apologized. As if he'd never heard it before, that's what his voice sounded like. Like no one ever noticed that fear he had in those heterochromatic eyes. Whatever happened to him, stuck with him. Bothered him, even. You could just tell.

Why hadn't you said something more? Or maybe all you said was all he neede-

"Oof!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you," He did see you, he saw you from meters away, looking at the ground. Perfect time for him to execute his plan.

You looked up from your spot on the ground, having fallen over. There stood Shoto Todoroki, in all his deadpan glory, looking down at you. He wasn't offering a hand so you did your best to stand on your own while keeping your underwear hidden. The boy didn't seem like the type who would look, but you never know.

"Ah, don't worry, um, its my fault anyways." You had been waiting for the chance to talk to him, but now he stood in front of you, there was nothing you felt comfortable saying. Earlier in class you totally embarrassed yourself in front of him, and then scared him. In a mean way too, in a trauma way.

"I don't really see how it's your fault."

So he did want to talk to you? He could have simply left after the brief apologies, but he stayed, protesting your claim. That and the privacy, made it much easier to respond to the boy.

"Well, I was staring at the ground, so not really the best way to walk through a place where anyone else could be." You kept your gaze at his shoes, to prevent from overthinking and getting flustered. This was supposed to be the beginning of a great friendship.

"Hm, you always look at the ground?" He pondered seriously, as you used his voice to block out the sounds of yelling a couple hundred meters away.

What was he implying with that question? Did he mean it as an insult, or was he just curious? He always seemed so sincere with his words, blunt but soft. It was strange to you, but it felt trustworthy.

"What do you mean?"

"You always seem to be looking at the ground, like in the quirk assessment test, and when you were beating me earlier. Why do you do that, L/n?" Todoroki took a step forward, standing one meter away from you.

"I guess to distract myself?" You were guessing out loud, but again something about it felt okay. Like you could say whatever you wanted and he would still just be there, curious eyes staring down at you.

"What are you distracting yourself fr-"

"You were super cool in the training earlier!" You almost yelled at him, not feeling like describing the eyes that felt so prying on you every time you spoke. Similarly not wishing to relive all the years where talking got you beat up in alleys on your walk home, and black eyes began to mark your face more commonly than not. It's not like that would be important to him, at least your wounds healed.

He had that trauma, whatever it was, constantly screaming at him in the mirrors or reflections of himself. A scar that widens his stoic eyes at the mere presence of heat, something that must hurt him very badly. Your childhood bullies are nothing to him, so it's best to talk about anything else.

"Oh, um thank you, L/n, but you were the one who won after all. I won't let you best me again, you know."

"Oh, I um, I'm not sure that win was fair.." You rubbed the back of your neck, hiding your embarrassment for your actions earlier. It didn't seem to cross your mind that what you did was actually what you were supposed to do. All you could think of was the look in his eyes that you put there, and you didnt ever wanna see it again.

Todoroki could sense that feeling of guilt in you, he'd felt it plenty of times before. Alone in his room when he dreams of his mothers face, sitting at his desk at school, thinking of all of the times he lost control of his quirk as a kid, in training. He learned to see it in others, you felt like it was an unfair win because you had scared him. That was your job, though, wasn't it? Why were you so upset at your success? He didn't understand.

"Did you break a rule, or something?"

"No.."

"Then how could you have cheated?"

"I just.. Look whatever happened to you eye-" you stopped as you noticed him stiffen. It wouldn't be nice to make him relive his trauma either, so what were you meant to say?

"I just shouldn't have used heat, I could tell that was a burn scar and it was a cruel thing to do." you looked down at the ground feeling like the shittiest hero in the world.

"You were playing the villain, though, weren't you?" He spoke again, seeming to have regained his stoic presence and stone face.

"I guess I was, but I'm here to become a hero. A hero wouldn't do something like that."

"Maybe they would." He started talking with certainty that disobeyed his use of the word 'maybe'.

"Huh?"

"Not all heroes are what you think they are, L/n." He looked you dead in the eyes, the intensity of his aura growing and it almost felt like you were supposed to cower in fear. Still, you held your ground, despite now being only inches away from him.

"Sounds like you speak from experience," You tilted your head becoming more outwardly spoken and allowing your thoughts to exit your mouth.

"That's a topic for another day, goodnight, L/n." With that, he turned away and walked stiffly out of U.A.'s gates. Leaving a million questions to run through your mind.

Did this make you friends now? When would that other day come? Had you just eternally ruined your chances at being a hero? Was he right? Were some heroes bad, like you? Were you bad? There were too many questions for you to answer yourself. So you settled from going home and making some dinner with your parents, you missed them, after having to be friends with other kids all day. They would be your comforting escape from highschool, or well, two days worth of highschool.

When you arrived at the barrier-like gates of your school the next morning, you were rushed with reporters. They were men and women, tall and short, circling around you all at once. You could hear the sweet and kind voice of Uraraka from afar, but you couldn't see her over the swarm of reporters. It was terrifying.

"What's it like having all might as your teacher?"

"Is the hero course majorly improved by the symbol of peace's presence?"

"Why did All Might become a teacher?"

"Have you done any training with the number one pro?"

Being here almost felt like being in your own mind. Swarmed with questions you don't have the answers too, or the confidence to answer them if you do. It was overwhelming, the world began to spin around you and your palms grew sweaty. E/c eyes shot in every direction to find an escape but they couldn't, you were trapped. Then, little black dots started to crowd up your vision like ants in your eyes and you fell unconscious.

The brown haired girl who had been happily indulging reporters noticed your fall and ran to you, grabbing hold of your arm. She wasn't really sure what had happened, but she decided to just take you into class with her. The reporters busying themselves with other arriving students.

Ochako took it upon herself to take hold of your backpack and drag your limp body by it, all the way up the hill and into the buildings of U.A. She wouldn't admit it, due to being a bit shy, but you caught her eye on the first day of school, and she'd been meaning to befriend you. Unlike the group of girls who she noticed had adopted you, Ochako spent her first few days with Deku and Iida. Securing herself in a nice little group with them.

However, you were very pretty, and adorably shy, and she really wanted to be your friend. Then after your awesome performance in yesterday's training, she was set on it. This was a great opportunity for her to help someone out, and make a new friend!

Strange looks came from every direction as the short, pink-cheeked girl dragged your seemingly lifeless form through the halls. They were both concerned for you, and confused at her calmness in the situation. However, no one spoke on it, fearing a hero class student might have some weird reason to do a strange thing like this.

Well, no one until Deku. He had been excited to greet his friend until he noticed her unusual baggage.

"Hi Urarak-Is that L/n?!" His eyes shot wide and he almost jumped back.

She looked down to you, and then back up at the freckled boy, "Oh, yeah" rubbing her neck she added, "She sorta passed out by the reporters and I couldn't just leave her there!"

"Oh my god! Is she okay? Should we take her to recovery girl? What if she has iron deficiency? Did the reporters zap her with some sort of quirk?"

"Deku...Deku...DEKU!"

"Wahh!?Yes?"

"She is fine, I think she just got overwhelmed." Uraraka tried to calm him. She wasn't all that sure about your condition herself, but it didn't seem crazy like Midoriya was implying. You just looked panicked. Her head turned as soon, Todoroki walked up to 1.A. 's door.

"Oh, hello L/n.." he looked down at you, kicked your side a bit to check if you were dead or not. Honestly, he wasn't very surprised to see you passed out in the halls, having assumed you were met with the reporters as well. Todoroki couldn't blame you for falling unconscious, he wished he could have, too.

At his nudge, you stirred awake, and then all at once, shot up to your feet defensively. "A-All Mights cool, okay! He's fine, he's just fine. Please I-" Then your eyes cleared and you were no longer in front of the school. The people surrounding you were no longer reporters, but your classmates.

"Oh, um, hi..guys?"

"I already said hello to you, L/n."

"While I was unconscious?"

"Yes."

"How does tha-"

"Get outta my way you losers!" The puff of blonde hair and rabies stormed through the halls. Back slumped like an angry old man, scowl resting on his face. He was not excited for school after yesterday, and those damn reporters made it worse, bringing up the sludge monster incident. So imagine the rage when the annoying girl who placed just behind him on almost everything was at the door, looking stupid, and nervous, and in his way.

"L/n! You better get out of that doorway!"

You squeaked, not because bakugou's empty threats scared you, but because if you defied him, that meant speaking words. He seemed pretty good at words, so you didn't want to test it. His voice was also way too loud for someone who had just woken up from what you thought was a near death experience.

People were scary.

Soon enough, however, everyone was settled in class. You, in your seat next to Todoroki, who didn't seem quite as cold as the day prior. Not to say his face was any less stone-like or his voice was any less monotone, but the aura around him wasn't as intense. That comforted you as Aizawa began the days homeroom period.

"Decent work on yesterday's combat training, you guys. I saw the video feeds and went over each of your team's results. Bakugou, you're talented, so don't sulk like a child about your loss, okay?"

Said boy huffed a breath "Yeah, whatever."

"And midoriya.."

He continued talking about how Midoriya has to break himself to use his quirk, but you tuned it out because the memory of seeing it was pretty gross.

"L/n, your battle with Todoroki was risky, he was less than a foot away from a victory by the time you took action, additionally, you're going to have to get those nerves under control. We can't have you apologizing every time you use your quirk. It's a waste of air."

His call out of your name was enough to shock your eyes open, but him criticizing your work in front of others? That was terrifying. You knew he was right, about everything, it was his job to be, after all. Still, it hurt to hear, considering it wasn't like you intended on being shy. Your body just clamped up and started to sweat when other people came around. It got super hot and loud and scary until you muttered an apology, nothing about it was voluntary. If anything, you really wanted to be extroverted and say what's on your mind and be bold. The world just seemed to have different plans, you supposed.

"Sor- I mean, uh, yes sir!"

Todoroki shot you a side glance , internally a bit proud at your ability to stop the apology that rested on your tongue. He was having an internal battle with himself about why he wanted it and why he didn't. The argument points being; it's adorable when you're shy, it's kind to apologize - versus - you being confident yesterday was arousing, and making quick progress is a sign of intelligence. A tough battle for the young boy's mind.

"Today we'll be choosing a class representative. Hurry up and choose before class ends." Aizawa zipped himself away in his sleeping bag and the class was left confused. Until you suppose everybody wanted to be class rep. Then there was an abundance of screaming and begging. From the red haired boy, the pink skinned girl, the kind girl from lunch. The whole class thought they would be worthy leaders. You heavily disagreed.

From your experience in previous schooling, class representatives were meant to be somebody smart, strong minded, compassionate, a good leader. These were just a ton of kids begging for attention, really, you aspired to be just like them.

Aizawa was right, though, you needed to get the whole shy thing under control, and fast if you wanted people here to view you as a threat. So you decided you probably wanted momo as class rep and slumped in your seat to strategize ways to be more bold.

While you were zoning off in your seat, Iida took charge of the situation, you guessed it was always going to come down to a vote, but good on him for 'coming up with it.'

"Hey, L/n."

"Wha?! Oh todoroki, um, yes?"

"Who are you choosing?"

"Um, Yaoyorozu.."

"Why?"

"Well, she is smart, and kind, and probably a good leader, so"

"Okay. Me too then."

His words didn't make sense to you. Was he agreeing with you just because of something you said?vIt couldn't be. Maybe he was insisting that he, too, was a good leader. That would make more sense than agreeing with you.

"You're a good leader too?"

"No. I will also vote for yaoyorozu."

"B-b-but...WHY!?!" your eyes widened in shock as you whisper-yelled at him.

"You don't want me to?" he asked, still in deadpan.

"I-well I do, B-but um, nevermind." It was better to return your gaze to yo[ur desk. He would think you are weird if you said something about it being because of you. He probably just also saw those traits in momo, it had nothing to do with you.

There were almost tears in your eyes. It felt as if the whole world was rooting against you, cheering for your failure. Eyes were watching and glaring, it felt like it'd be better to just curl up into a ball on the floor. Be so small they cant see you anymore, then maybe the universe would stop hating you so much.

They were out of soba for lunch. You would rather starve.

Next to you, on the way to some random table, momo was complaining about how Midoriya was president. She didn't understand what he really could do, being that he was so shy to attention. He reminded her of you, but she would never say that. It would make you nervous, like you and he were competitors, and he is so much nicer than you.

"Hey! Over here!" Ashido called to the two of you, waving her hand frantically.

"As I was saying, he does show some signs of good leadership, but im worried he is too nervous right now."

"Mm, yeah.." Your hand came up to wave at said boy, who had been making an uncomfortable eye-contact with you for quite some time.

Over at Midoriya's table, the conversation about pros had shifted to you. As Iida was explaining his family business, or hero-business, it led him to the memory of having been told a story about you. About your dad, to be precise.

"Yes. And I dont think I'm the only descendant of a pro in our class."

"What?!' Ochako screamed, eyes wide and shaking in excitement.

His gaze flickered to where you walked slowly next to a rambling black haired girl. No lunch in hand and mind seemingly elsewhere.

"Yes. I recall the story of one rising pro from years ago, under the name of Magneto. He was almost in the top ten ranks after less than a year of hero work, and climbed quickly. His private life was kept under wraps but his last name was L/n. That, and the metal quirk lead me to believe that the L/n of our class is his relative in some way." Iida presented the information with less gestures than he used for his own family, but more like he was solving a mystery, one he seemed quite proud to have deciphered.

"Oh I know Magneto, he retired around the same time All Might got famous." Uraraka added.

They were both quite indifferent at this information, but Midoriya was thinking a million miles a second. He knew exactly why your relative retired. In the battle where All Might saved over a hundred people, and became famous, the battle he'd watched a thousand times as a kid, Magneto was injured, along with his pregnant wife. It caught the news a couple days later and he had written down everything.

So was this hero your father? Uncle? Cousin? Is this how you got to be so strong? He was so busy feeling in awe of you he began to stare. Lost in the gate of your stride, and the stillness of your lips, how they were pursed in a straight line as if you disagreed with something. Those e/c eyes were however lost in thought. Until you spoke something quietly and looked up at him, holding eye contact.

He blushed slightly at being caught and decided he should just wave, and you waved back.

From the other side of the table, Todoroki could hear everything. He could acknowledge that you were strong, with or without a famous dad, but he wondered if the pro-hero dad thing was the same for you as it was for him, He'd hope not, he assumed not, too. Even if your life wasn't what he had thought it was, you always smiled so brightly. When you thought no o[ne was looking, you'd smile at Midoriya's success, and the fighting of the kids in front of you. Sometimes he even caught you smiling to yourself in class, as you just wrote down some English questions.

That smile didn't feel like it came from struggle, or masking pain, it felt genuine. He found that he really liked that.

"Warning Level 3 Security Breach!"

#todoroki fluff #shoto torodoki #todoroki shoto x reader #mha todoroki #todoroki x reader #mha fanfiction #mha fluff #momo yaoyozoru #yaomomo #momo x reader

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years

Text

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic!

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block.

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that!

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

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tslasvegas · 4 years

Text

Episode 3: “UGH just rename Luxor to Loser” - Xavier

Well... that takes care of the Timmy problem... Love Timmy... Just didn’t know how our dynamic would be cus he was runner-up to the last survivor game I played which I won. Hm... Well...

That went well. There's nothing like a live video tribal to get people together. and stephen didn't react too badly. but i know now he won't work with me moving forward

I’m sorry I’m terrible at confessionals... So things are going well, I think we have a decent tribe but it is too soon to tell. I’m not a huge fan of creative challenges, at least from my previous game, I guess we will see how that goes. Most of the guys seem nice, still trying to feel everyone out.`

A 4-2 vote off is interesting. Someone is on the bottom for sure. Also, this next challenge is a creative challenge and when I do these solo I usually do really well. Hopefully I can channel that energy into a win for us here because two tribes are going to tribal. We’ll be down to 17 after this, so I’m not sure if we’d go into a tribe swap yet? Maybe 2 tribes of 8 with one person sitting out?

Oh hot dang, two tribes are going to tribal next time. Probably going to be us :( now it is time to make alliance chats!

....five seconds later

I suspect that after this double vote out that there will be a tribe swap. I hope I end up with Mo and Jaiden at least.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/17NPxKO_TKgqjNqsaWlbmlL0jgU36Aygi/view?usp=drivesdk

I really like this challenge. I feel confident about it but at the same time nervous that 2 tribes will be going to tribal. I really hope my tribe wins this one since I still don't know how the tribe feels about me. Wish me luck guys!

My tribe is not going to win this immunity challenge. Our nightclub is due just hours away and we have little nothing done. I am going to have to scramble soon.....I did nothing to help my tribe with the challenge, so if it is me that goes, I would understand

....five seconds later

Honestly, I want to keep Jaiden and Mo around because I feel closer with them than anyone else. I want to keep Kailyn around because she seems to make time for challenges. Everyone else I am okay with going home, Ben hasn't really done anything soooooo maybe him? Oof

If we lose, then it's 2/3rds my fault and 1/3 Stephen. We better not be on the chopping block if we do lose. This is a two person Tribe as of now. Bobby Jon and Stephenie.

...five seconds later

UGH just rename Luxor to Loser

Second we lose Ben finally responded to my pm’s..... hm..... alright....

Y’all rlly won with a PowerPoint SKDJDJSKLALALL

Some of these guys have an excuse for not giving input into the challenge. Some do not. If I go home because some americans could be bothered doing some base level discussion, ill be annoyed. If I go home because a tribe threw a challenge because they thought id be an easy vote, ill be pissed.

youtube

All that hard work that went into this challenge really paid off! We scored the best and don’t have to attend tribal!! Which is absolutely exciting! Andrew told me he wanted to work together which is rad. Livingston and I want to work together which is radder. And Joey and i want to work together which is raddest. I haven’t spoken too much with Jeff lately even though we talked quite a bit early on. Pat and I speak occasionally. Stephanie and I didn’t really speak at all until recently but we’ve gotten into a good groove the last few days. I’m feeling pretty good about this game so far. I hope there’s no tribal swap or anything right away.

So when I get my chip total I'm gonna update Keegan. He is currently at a soap making class but I want him to know I am serious about working with him in this game and I think this is a good gesture. - keegan has let me know he has 4 chips and is willing to pool them over to me when we have enough so that we can unlock the store. I let him know I am okay with doing the same thing to him, whichever. But yes this is looking HOT for me. - "what's in the store?" | all i can really assume is advantages. we need 10 chips to unlock it. This is very similar to the Unnamed Season but the betting cap gives us more control. At this point, I don't think anyone can mathematically unlock without pooling chips. Keegan and I just need 1 more chip between us. Let's just hope we aren't separated by a swap or some shit. I am hoping for a bit more time on this amazing tribe to get that set up so I have a good idea of what the store holds.

We lost again!?!?!?!?!??! I am so surprised? Nah I'm kidding, but I don't care. I don't blame our team for losing because 3/5 of us were panicking because our president could be a cheetoh. I'm voting Stephen tonight, I hope the others follow suit. It SHOULD be simple, but 9 hours is a long time for Survivor; and if he knows it's him then might run around and create some chaos - which would be funny.

Rachael (love her she’s probably who I’m closest with along with DeNara and Kailyn) is not being subtle about the fact that she either has a pre-existing friendship with Ben or is currently aligned with Ben. Because Ben, from my knowledge has not been social with anyone, nor has he been super active and in our alliance chat with Kailyn, Rachael seems uncomfortable with the fact that Ben is said to be the vote and is saying she would prefer someone else to go. But like c’mon you can’t deny he hasn’t been social, and even if I had a friendship with somebody before a game, if they aren’t active I’m voting them out. Also I lied to my tribe a couple times this round because I’m lazy.

UGH. We LOST the challenge!!! And it wasn't even close *grumbles angrily* But it's okay. I'm gonna have to work my pussy out to this entire tribe to make them keep me around! I feel pretty good about this, I believe the target is leaning towards Ben but we'll have to wait and see. I don't think it's possible rn but I'm hoping for a swap soon so I can feel a little more re-energized in this game because my tribe has been super quiet lately... I think people will try to move the vote around so I'm going to use my current lack of employment as an opportunity to make myself stay alive on this tribe lmao

These guys are being super boring and either Jake is dumber than i thought, or shadier than i gave him credit for. Xavier might be trying to play me but regardless its doubtful ill stay. John seems to have the most chance of winning out of these four as hes not overplaying. Kevin hasnt spoken to me since the colin vote and it pisses me off that I might be going home after being one of two people that worked on the challenge when kevin was taken off the chopping block immediately for playing jeopardy. i hate this tribe.

....five seconds later

Johns out, Jake too by the sound of it. Time for plan B, which never works but might as well try. Fake idol time.

Oof well the uhh, “obvious friend group” has picked their target and it just so happens to be the only person I’ve made an actual alliance with :/ Poor DeNara. I really didn’t want to have to vote her off this early if I didn’t have to and then the worst part is she didn’t even hear it from me. Nobody is even mentioning game right now and Rachael is acting legitimately surprised to me when I came to her saying “okay this is an easier vote than I thought”.. even tho Ben claimed he had already talked to her..?? Idk man I must’ve done something wrong along the way but these people LEGITIMATELY don’t talk to me. My instant reaction is leaning towards being bitter but bitterness doesn’t really get me anywhere :/ I feel kinda.. out of it rn emotionally just because of everything else I have going on so if I seem more reserved tonight at tribal than usual, that’s why. I just hope that I’m not still stuck on that damn mountain rolling my dumbass rock back up only to get knocked back down again. I’m remaining optimistic for the future.. let’s keep winning some challenges mmkay

Okay good news, I shouldn't be leaving. But that being said DeNara, you have goT TO PULL. YOURSELF. TOGETHER. She's packing her bags and from my knowledge she's going to be fine tonight. Hopefully it'll be Ben who's going but DeNara giving up like this isn't helPING.

....five seconds later

Also I am in two alliances which is cool I guess.

Oops....... and now I'm controlling this vote I think :) It feels good. I don't know what my plan is !! I'm lying to everyone. I basically put myself in a position to be the 4th person in both votes and I love it so much. I keep telling ppl I'm an emotional mess and I think I'll milk that because SOMEONE is going to get betrayed tonight... love that for me. Rachael, Nik, and Ben want to vote out DeNara Mo, Kailyn, and DeNara want to vote out Ben And tbh I would prefer Rachael or Nik!! Since neither of those things are happening I guess it's up to me to decide which way I wanna swing... I hate/love myself for this. I think there are good cases for both people to leave, because I think that getting rid of DeNara strengthens bonds I never had with Rachael and co. while getting rid of Ben just makes me their enemy. Honestly I am starting to lean towards getting rid of DeNara for that sole purpose alone. It'll be messy for sure. Ben provides NOTHING to the game right now and I hate the fact that he announced in his intro that he's just here to backstab people... but villains don't win unless they're sitting next to another villain. He's the goat to me and Rachael right now, but pretty homos like me always win xx I might regret this decision down the road but HOPEFULLY whichever side I take will pay me back in protection down the line. I think I have the charm to smooth shit over w Kailyn and Mo but its up for determination. I think that I have the finesse to beat Rachael in a vote, too, but I don't want to put her back up against the wall just yet..... ;) Anyways... I hope this isn't my last confessional. I wasn't having fun until I found my place. Let's get it on.

It is me or Ben tonight. Guess we will find out who...

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theskyeandsea · 4 years

Text

A Little Melon-choly || Orion & Skylar

Location: The Common & Skylar’s Apartment

TW List: Chronic Illness and Abuse Mentions

Notes: Just happy fun times at the farmer’s market! calcifires Today at 2:44 PM watermelons wouldnt be in season in Maine but YA KNOW swampfoxx Today at 2:45 PM Listen they're vampire watermelons so its DIFFERENT

The farmer’s market. It wasn’t exactly Orion’s style, but Orion had been sent off by the family to grab groceries. Since he was spending more time at home than usual due to the whole sun not rising ordeal, he was available to be sent off for errands. This seemed like a purposeful ploy. His mom was constantly on him to cut out all the soda and snack foods that he indulged in. So she made up a list and sent him off with strict instructions to return so she could start dinner. Admittedly, he preferred this over being forced to ride along with his parents to something like this. He was happy to hear that she had other plans. So instead, Orion found himself moving from cart to cart, smiling awkwardly at each vendor as he marked his mom’s list off one by one. As he fell into the groove of it, he was almost able to forget how cold it was outside, but every now and then a breeze would blow through and he would get the painful reminder. He shuddered, rubbing at his arms to create some friction against the long sleeves. Unsurprisingly, the list was in order with the setup of the farmer’s market. His mom was way too prepared. He was practically done with his list, only two things left when he spotted a familiar face. From the looks, she spotted him too. His heart immediately began to race, and Orion’s breathing get heavier and faster. He should probably just keep walking on. Give her some space. Clearly she wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t blame her. But the two were close enough now that it would have been even worse to not saying anything at all. “Uh…. hey there.” He mumbled nervously and waved, “How’s it going?” This couldn’t get any more awkward.

While Skylar didn’t typically go to the farmers market, she figured that it was about time for her to get out of the house and do something, anything to stave off the impending bout of… seal symptoms. The endless night was wearing thin on her and it would be for the best if she went outside, got some fresh air, and talked to some people. So, she took one of her reusable grocery bags and headed out to look at a bunch of produce that she really couldn’t eat. The nice thing about the farmer’s market was that it meant a lot of people were out and about, with plenty of floodlights to spare. Safety and numbers meant the little bottle of holy water in her pocket would probably go unused. She’d started keeping some on her ever since Nic had dropped off his ridiculous shipment of holy water at her apartment. If he thought things were dangerous now, she was going to listen to that advice. Walking from stall to stall, Skylar smiled politely as she looked at the bundles of vegetables and things that she… couldn’t eat. This wasn’t one of her better ideas. As she looked over a few of the stalls, her eyes locked with someone familiar-- her breath caught in the back of her throat. Rio. As he walked up, Skylar’s back straightened and she stared at the weird fruits in the stall in front of them. “Hi. It’s going.” She said stiffly, “What about you?” She asked, not looking him in the eye.

Well this was definitely awkward. Orion should have listened to his gut and skipped the stand. He needed a few things from the same stall that Skylar was currently at. He figured it was better to get the pleasantries out of the way now. As awkward as this was, Orion felt it would be more awkward to just remain silent and continue to run into each other throughout the market. So Orion would bite the bullet and just say hello. What was the worst that could happen? “That’s good. Or well.. It’s alright. I guess.” He muttered, readjusting the hat on his head. He didn’t normally wear baseball caps, but the brim helped to hide the fading black eye. Not that he had much to hide about it. The story behind how he got it was more embarrassing than incriminating. “But uh I’m fine. I uh- didn’t know you shopped here often.” The translation? He didn’t know she could eat any of this stuff. But maybe in smaller doses and if paired with enough meat she would be fine. From what Orion had learned, Selkies were mostly carnivores. “Sorry- I am just here to grab a few things. Then I’ll be out of your hair.

“Mhm.” Skylar hummed, her lips pressed tightly together as she stared at the fruit in front of her. Wow, they looked really weird… like she didn’t normally pay attention to how fruits and vegetables looked, but these definitely seemed a bit odd? She couldn’t quite put her finger on why they seemed odd. Glancing over at Rio, she saw the way he shifted the hat on his head, and her eyes widened as she saw the slight discoloration around his eye. Gasping, she dropped her cold facade and stared at them. “Are you okay? What happened to you?” She asked, glossing over his pleasantries. They both knew that she didn’t belong here, in the farmers market. They didn’t really need to beat around the bush. “No, you’re fine. I’m just looking anyways.” She said, the words earning her a scowl from one of the vendors not far away.

Orion was all too aware how Skylar could barely make eye contact with him. She was focusing way too hard on the fruits on the stand, apparently trying anything to avoid looking over at Rio. He understood why. It was best now to just swoop in awkwardly next to her, grab the selection of fruits and then disappear and stop bothering her. But unfortunately, Skylar risked a glance at him and noticed the eye. “What? Oh, this?” Orion laughed nervously, pointing at the bruise and wincing slightly at the pain. He tried to keep a calm and collected demeanor. At the end of the day, it legitimately wasn’t that serious of an injury. “Yeah I’m fine. Seriously. I didn’t even get it in a cool way.” He admitted, readjusting his baseball cap again more on reflex than anything else, “I uh- tripped…. Down a hill.” He shrugged, “And I realize that sounds fake. But like legitimately. I was with someone who could vouch for me. I was walking backwards and I tripped and rolled down a hill and smacked my face against a tree root.” He started laughing, for real this time at the hilarity of his own ineptitude, “Pretty lame, right?” He moved closer in her direction, careful to move slowly. “Right, right. Sorry. It’s not my business anyways. I just gotta grab a few things.”

“Are you sure? That sounds…” Skylar’s voice petered off before she could finish the thought, but Rio had already answered the question. It sounded like a convenient story, but the way he was laughing seemed like it was real? Maybe? Glancing at his body language, she pursed her lips-- she wasn’t familiar enough with him to get a good enough read on him just yet, but he seemed like he was telling the truth. And, if their experiences at the failed anime night was anything to go off of, he wasn’t a terribly calm liar. “No problem, I’ll get out of your way.” She said, walking away from the stand. But, before she left, Skylar stopped and looked at some particularly odd items in the stall. For one thing… what were watermelons doing here? It was March, watermelons couldn’t be in season yet. For another-- “Uh, Rio…” She said, eyes widening as the fruit appeared to move and shudder. “You should get away from there.” Before he could respond, Skylar watched as the watermelon began to growl and rolled menacingly out of the stand. “Shit!”

Skylar didn’t seem to believe Orion, but he could hardly blame her. It wasn’t like Rio had a squeaky clean image of honesty to go off of. His entire life had been spent lying. Honesty was definitely a virtue of his. “Trust me, it was way more embarrassing in person than it is telling the story, and that’s saying something. I ran into this guy in the woods and we were attacked by this… I don’t know.” Okay that part was partially a lie, but Skylar had been freaked out enough during anime night. He didn’t need to go into detail on the vampire creature that had attacked them. “And I freaked out and fell down the hill.” There we go, full story out. “Oh- Sorry I didn’t mean you had to like leave or-” But Skylar was already walking away. Orion sighed and cursed himself for being so. Dang. awkward. But all he could do was try to shake it off and grab what he needed from the stand. But then he heard Skylar’s voice again, shakingly saying his name. He glanced over, seeing her staring pretty uneasily at a group of watermelon. “I can’t imagine that would be very good right now. Not in March.” But then he noticed it, the thing moved. And… did it just growl at Skylar? “Holy-” He began only to be interrupted when the watermelon began rolling towards Skylar. And along with that, it looked like more started to wake up as well. He eyed Skylar nervously, “Uh Skylar I think we should go. I don’t really need zucchini that badly anyways.”

“Yup, one hundred percent.” Skylar nodded, backing away. But, as she started to move away from the stall, another watermelon, then another, began to fall off the stall and roll towards her. Oh god. Why was this happening, why did this sort of thing always happen to her? Before she could continue her mental pity party, one of the watermelons lunged at her, the widest part opening up to reveal rows of teeth and a bright red center that seemed to be almost… bloody? “No, no, no, no, no!” She shrieked, running away from farmers market, pursued by a small fleet of rolling watermelons that followed her across the open grass of The Common. “Rio! What are these things?” She shouted over her shoulder, hoping that he was still with her. She hadn’t really bothered to check to see if he was running behind her, what with the awful watermelons hot on her heels.

Orion followed quickly behind Skylar. The things weren’t incredibly fast, but there were a lot of them. And they seemed to come pouring out from other booths to join the group. Others around the market were screaming, the collective noises stinging at his ear drums as they all flooded against his senses at once. Curse hunter senses. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to find some way to drown at the noises, but that only succeeded to distract him long enough that he lost his footing and fell forward, crashing into the grass and rolling. He pushed himself back up pretty quickly, but had noticed a distance growing between himself and Skylar. And some of those things were still following right behind her. He began running again, “I- I don’t know!” He screamed over to Skylar. That was the worst part of all this. He didn’t know what they were. Or where they come from. Only that they seemed to have fangs and clearly had a thing for humans and seemed to have red spots dripping from their centers. Was it blood? The smell of the food from the farmer’s market made it too hard to narrow down any particular scent. And he was too busy running to stop and touch the red liquid for himself. “Where’s your car? We need to get somewhere safe!”

Why were there always weird, terrible things trying to eat her or drown her or just kill her? Skylar didn’t have much time to dwell on the thought as she continued to run away from the rapidly rolling watermelons. And this time, it wasn’t even something that could legitimately be called scary-- these were just watermelons with giant flipping teeth. “You don’t know?” She shrieked, incredulous. He knew about selkies but he didn’t know about demon fruit? Great, just gr-- One of the vampires snapped at her pant leg, tearing a chunk of fabric from the cuff of her jeans. Stumbling forward, she did her best to keep her balance and continue running. Jesus. This sucked, this sucked, all of this sucked. “My car? It’s-- it’s over there!” She said, point to where her Honda Civic was parked across the way of the Common. “Run!”

Orion hated not knowing what these things were. He didn’t like not knowing things in general, but it seemed especially bad when those things he didn’t know about tried to kill him. “I- It’s not something that-” What was Orion trying to say there? He couldn’t tell Skylar that his family only made him study things that they wanted him to kill. That’s where all of his former knowledge came from after all. Since then, Orion has been studying what he could at the Scribe Headquarters but fruit wasn’t exactly something that he had been trying to read about. Apparently he should have been. “I didn’t know fruit could attack people!” He yelled again, eying the watermelon open itself up, exposing fangs and chomping down at Skylar’s leg. Orion’s heart jumped and he gasped before realizing that it had only gotten her pants and not her leg. He breathed a short sigh of relief and eyed the area where she pointed towards where her car was. He veered towards that direction, heading off towards the car when his foot caught into something on the ground. Maybe a hole, maybe a bump. It didn’t matter much. Only that he could feel his ankle twist and he fell forward. He raised his arms to try to cushion the fall, but his elbows hit the ground hard and he rolled forward. His face, down in the grass, the next thing he felt was a searing pain in his arm. He yelled out, looking up to find his right arm with a watermelon biting into it, and hard. Blood poured from his arm and his jacket was torn. Orion’s fist clenched as he cried out in pain and he pulled his left arm free from under his body. With one strong blow, Orion brought his fist down onto the watermelon and crushed it entirely, watermelon guts and presumably Orion’s blood splattering off from it. Orion pulled his injured arm free and pushed himself away. His breath catching in his throat as he processed the pain. It was a watermelon. It doesn’t matter that he crushed it. He hadn’t murdered a freaking watermelon. “Keep running!” Orion yelled, hoping that Skylar wasn’t going to try to help him. He pushed up again and began running towards the car again, cradling his injured arm in the other.

Her heart was pounding in her ears, her lungs felt like they were going to explode out of her chest, and she honestly felt sick to her stomach from the combination of adrenaline and running. Panting heavily, Skylar was dimly aware of the loud thump behind her, but she thought it was just one of the watermelons-- maybe it had decided to stop chasing after them? But then she heard Rio’s yell of pain. Looking over her shoulder, she was startled to see a watermelon latched onto his arm, fangs embedded into his flesh. But, what caught her even more off guard was when Rio brought his hand down and obliterated the watermelon. Chunks of watermelon flesh and possibly real flesh soaked the ground. Before she could comment on it, Rio had already gotten back up to his feet and was running her way again. Bolting to the car, she grabbed her keys from her pocket and clicked the unlock button, the lights flashing to alert her that the car was open. Throwing open the side door for Rio, she jumped in the drivers seat, slamming her door shut. A heavy thud slammed into her car door as a watermelon threw itself into against the metal. “Get in, get in, get in!” She said to the man, as she jammed her car keys in the ignition.

All Orion could think about was the pain shooting through his arm. He tried to ignore it, as his feet hit the pavement and drew closer and closer to Skylar’s car. The pain was temporary. He was luckier than many. His arm would bleed for now, but it would quickly slow down. And before long the only evidence that he was ever injured in the first place would be dried blood and a torn hoodie. He ran towards the car, a watermelon rolling smashing into the door as Skylar jumped in. They were surrounding the driver’s side now, and Orion leaped, hitting the trunk of the car and siding over it, and throwing the door open. He pulled his hoodie over his head and used it to wrap around his bleeding arm, careful to avoid dripping any in Skylar’s car. He didn’t speak for a long moment while he tried to regain his breath, but finally looked over at Skylar. “Thank you. Oh god. What the heck were those things?”

As soon as Rio was inside, Skylar threw the car into drive and pressed the gas pedal, urging her Honda Civic down the road. Her front tire smacked into something that gave with a loud popping noise-- she must have squished one of the weird watermelon things? Glancing back in her rear view, she saw that Rio was clutching his arm into his chest. “I-- I have no idea. Demon watermelons? Evil, cannibal watermelons?” She guessed, adrenaline still coursing through her veins as she tried to calm her nerves. Checking the road behind her, Skylar was relieved to see that no rogue watermelons were chasing after them. At least there was that. As she took another look back at Rio, she noticed… scars. Lots of scars, bruises, some faded, others fresh, covering his arms. Those couldn’t have been from just now, right? Pushing the thoughts from her mind, she focused on the road in front of her. “Are you okay? Did they get you? Do you want me to take you to the hospital? Or, I-- I’ve got a first aid kit at my apartment, would that be enough?” She offered, hoping Rio would take the offer for help. That wound couldn’t be good.

Orion was trying to hold back tears from falling down his face. The last thing he needed to do was cry in front of Skylar too. Hadn’t he caused enough stress in her life? He thought after all these years that he would have at least built up a tolerance to pain, but apparently that wasn’t true. The only thing that helped him get his mind off of it was theorizing about the watermelons. “I wonder if they were watermelons at all.” Could they have been some kind of shape shifters? It didn’t seem likely. Watermelons may have been a good disguise at a farmer’s market initially, but it hardly seemed effective to stay in that form while hunting prey. It seemed more likely that Skylar was right. They were some kind of cannibalistic watermelon. Which begged another question. Were they alive? That… thing that Orion had smashed. Had it been alive? “I mean- they obviously were watermelon I just… I don’t know. I wish I knew.” He had been staring up at the roof of the car, his eyes closed as he tried to not dwell on the pain or the situation. He heard Skylar asking about his arm, the concern apparent in her voice. Or maybe it was just fear. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on Orion’s part. “Huh? Oh no. This is fine. He didn’t bite very deep. It’s just a surface wound.” Orion lied. But he had no other choice. He couldn’t let Skylar try to treat him or take him to the hospital. How would he explain it when the bite marks closed by the end of the night? “I just wrapped it to make sure that I didn’t bleed on your car.” Orion forced laughter, trying to make himself sound more light hearted than he felt. He raised his hand into a thumbs up towards her to prove just how great he was. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized what he had done when he took the hoodie off to stop the bleeding. His arms. His scars. Out in public. He quickly moved to bury his free arm under the wrapped on, trying to hide as much of it as possible. “You can just uh- drop me off. If you could. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“If they weren’t watermelon at all? What, like some kind of magic illusion?” Skylar asked, trying to process what that could mean. Whatever it was, it had felt pretty real to her, between with her ripped pant leg and Rio’s arm. Those were some pretty scary illusions if they weren’t real. “It’s, it’s okay. I mean, I don’t know any of this at all. I just-- I’m just trying to figure things out.” She said, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. As she spun the wheel in a less than controlled turn, she realized her hands were slick with slime. Grimacing, she wiped her palms on her jeans. They were already ruined, she might as well. “If it’s just a surface wound, why are you wrapping your arm like that? I’m not-- I’m not going to just ditch you.” She said, shaking her head. “At least let me get some neosporin and a bandage on it. Please?” Skylar asked, making eye contact with him through the rearview mirror, hoping that it would convince him. Ultimately, if he said no, she would let him leave. But… as much as she hated what Rio had done, she didn’t hate him. She just hated the way he’d gone about things. She wasn’t going to punish him, that wasn’t who she was. “It’s your choice, but, please, Rio. Let me help.”

“No- no. I think they were definitely real.” Orion answered Skylar, still trying to theorize. Pull anything from his brain that may help him connect some dots and determine what those things actually were. But between the pain and his arm and the now near panic attack that may or may not be building up in him, nothing was coming to mind. He wasn’t good under pressure, never has been. “You deserve your answers. Whatever they are. I’d like to help.” He tried to find a moment of peace within this conversation. But right now he was stuck. He needed to get out of this car, to make up some excuse to get away. But he didn’t want to push Skylar any farther away than he already had. He just wished that he could be normal. So that none of this was an issue in the first place. “Yeah- F-fine. But I don’t want to bleed all over your apartment.” She didn’t mention the scars. Honestly, he didn’t know which was more awkward. But he was pretty sure he would prefer it if they never spoke about it. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t tripped this wouldn’t have been an issue.”

“Mmmmmmm.” Skylar hummed, tapping her hands anxiously against the steering wheel. Now that she was away from the watermelons, that she’d had the chance to catch her breath, her shoulders began to shudder, slight shivers running down her spine. Nope, nope, no. This was fine, this was okay, this was… it was gonna be okay. When Rio relented, she let out a sigh and nodded. They could go back to her place, get his arm treated, and then she could freak out. No freaking out right now, nope, nope. She was going to be calm. She didn’t even get hurt, Rio was the one who’d been hurt. “It’s not your fault, none of this is your fault.” She said as she pulled down the road to her apartment. Zipping through the parking lot, she pulled in and shut off the car, hurrying out to open the door for him. Her fingers slipped off the door handle on the first time, still covered in slime, but she managed to get the door open on the second try. Hoping he didn’t comment on that, she nodded. “C’mon, let’s get inside. I think my roommate’s at work, so we should be okay.” She said, praying that was the case. She didn’t need to deal with more questions…

Orion didn’t realize that they had arrived at Skylar’s until he heard the passenger side door being opened. He perked up immediately, realizing it was Skylar opening the door for him. He had blacked out? That seemed a bit over the top, considering Orion was plenty familiar with pain. Though he didn’t have a lot of experience with being bitten by a watermelon. His vision was blurry at first and he had to force himself to move so that he could see again. He climbed out of the car, mumbling a “Thanks” to Skylar and eyeing the slime on the car handle. Despite how fuzzy he felt, his hunter senses were working overtime to keep him aware. He could hear the slime dripping from the handle onto the pavement. “Cool. Cool.” He nodded, following Skylar inside. He remembered her place, almost fondly. It had been at least. At the beginning. He followed behind Skylar, following closely behind to make sure that he didn’t stray anywhere she didn’t want him. He owed that much to her.

When Rio stepped out of the back of the car, Skylar’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. He didn’t look good-- how much had he bled? Looking at the sweatshirt wrapped around his arm, she saw that there was quite a lot of blood. Much more than he’d let on. Oh god. How was he even standing? “Here, wait.” She said, lifting his good arm over her shoulder. He was a little shorter than her, but that made it easier for her to help him up the stairs to her apartment. Just one step at a time. Her keys were already in her hand and she managed to fit them in the lock on the first time. At least she had that going for her right now. Moving inside, she shut the door with her foot before walking Rio over to one of the chairs in the kitchen. “Sit tight, okay. The first aid kit is in the bathroom. Give a shout if you start to feel, um… worse?” She asked before hurrying down the hall.

The second she stepped inside, Skylar let out a shuddering breath, shoulders shaking. Rio had gotten hurt. Rio was badly hurt. This was, this was the first time since the Karkinoid attack on the beach that she’d seen one of her friends get hurt like this. And that had happened far away from her-- she hadn’t fully seen everything that had happened to Remmy. Gripping the basin of the sink, Skylar stared at the drain, trying to steady herself. “This is fine, this is fine, this is fine.” She mumbled to herself. Except none of this felt fine. Splashing some cold water on her face, Skylar looked up in the mirror, catching sight of the exhausted, strained young woman that stared back at her. Had she always looked this tired? Or was this just the toll White Crest had taken on her. She swallowed thickly before grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet. Walking back into the kitchen, she offered a tense smile. “Hey, how are you doing?”

Orion didn’t argue when Skylar stepped in to help guide him into her home. It was pathetic, how he was acting. It was an arm wound, it was hardly anything that serious. It hadn’t even hurt that badly when it first happened, though he may have adrenaline to thank for that. His family would be laughing at him if they knew. Oh god. The thought of his parents reminded him that he was out in public, with a short sleeve shirt on. That wasn’t good. But there was nothing to do about it now. The damage had been done. Skylar had seen them, and Orion needed to figure out what he was going to say when the time came.

He fell into the chair that Skylar offered and rested his injured arm on the kitchen table. After Skylar left, Orion pressed his forehead against the kitchen table and stared at the darkness that remained between himself and the wood. The tear dripped from his eyes before he could think to stop them. It wasn’t much, just a few stray tears. But it was enough to force him to start sniffling and it was enough to embarrass himself to death. He could hear the water running in the bathroom, could hear that Skylar was talking to herself, though he tried to force himself against listening to the words. Eventually, he heard the water stop and Skylar making her way back into the kitchen. When she asked how he was, he raised his good arm up and gave a thumbs up as an answer. When he could manage it, he finally sat back up and looked at Skylar. “I’m super fantastic. I don’t want to get blood on your kitchen.”

When Skylar saw the tears that had trailed down his cheeks, her heart broke for him. He was just as overwhelmed by this as she was, wasn’t he? And there wasn’t anything she could really do to help. “Mhmmmm. Well, do you mind taking the sweatshirt off? I don’t really know about first aid, but I know that you should clean a wound out just so it doesn’t get infected.” She said as she opened up the first aid kit. Her hands were shaking as she undid the latches, but she did her best not to let the slight tremors show. Pulling out a couple alcohol swabs, the neosporin, and a roll of bandages, she set them on the kitchen table and waited for him patiently. Now that they were face to face, she could see that the scars and injuries that covered his skin were more than she’d initially noticed. What… what had happened to him?

Orion immediately used his free hand to wipe away any tears from his face. If he survived today and didn’t die from embarrassment it would be a miracle. “Oh. Right. Of course.” He smiled, slowly unwrapping the sweatshirt from his arm. He grimaced as the blood made it stick to his skin, and he had to peel it from his skin. In hindsight, the wound already seemed to look marginally better than it had when it first happened, a sign that the healing had already started. But this was fine. It was still bad enough that Skylar could treat it, wrap it up and then Orion could leave and no one would be the wiser when the thing healed before the weekend. Especially since he was never leaving the house again without making sure he had a long sleeve shirt under the hoodie. Or two. Once the arm was completely exposed, Orion looked up at the ceiling and shut his eyes. If he didn’t focus on the pain, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so badly. “I promise I won’t whine too much. Do whatever you need.” He mumbled, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. The alcohol burned like no other, but Orion gritted his teeth and tried not to make a noise. When he felt like he needed a distraction, he spoke. “Can I ask you a question?” He prefaced, before leading into it. “What causes the uh- the slime. Do you always do that? Or does something else cause it?”

Watching as he unwound the sweatshirt back, Skyler winced at the sight of the bite mark-- it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be, though, which was a relief. If it was any worse, she’d insist on driving him to the hospital, or at least urgent care. Taking the alcohol wipes, she began to dab around the wound, cleaning off the blood and doing her best to make the process as quick as possible. She’d seen nurses do things like this before, when her sister had taken a bad spill during cheer practice and had needed to be patched up. “No, no, you’re fine. I’m just sorry that you got hurt.” She said, hoping that talking would help him through the pain. Setting aside the alcohol wipes, she opened the tube of Neosporin and spread a layer on some gauze before pressing it gently over the wound. “Oh. Um,” She hesitated for a moment. She still didn’t trust Rio, not fully. But… how could she really say that when he was here, bleeding in her kitchen, after having been bitten up by some cannibal watermelon? “It happens when I get nervous. Or scared. And when I need to change.” She said, not looking at him as she unwrapped the bandage and began to wind it around his arm.

This was better than going to a hospital, Orion could at least confirm that. They would want to take IV’s and that meant needles in his arms which meant questions. He would take this over that any day. Honestly, the scariest part of today was that Orion dropped the groceries he was supposed to be picking up for his mom. How was he going to explain that? “Thanks, but obviously not your fault. I’m just clumsy.” He shrugged, jumping at a particularly ill placed dab of alcohol that really stung at one of the bite marks. “Sorry, sorry. It just stung.” He listened to Skylar explain the situation to him. Well, the first two definitely made sense. Considering the situation. “Right. That makes sense.” He nodded his head, longer than needed, because he was awkward. “I uh- I read that you can get sick right? If you don’t change?” He asked again. He was genuinely curious, though considering their history maybe this wasn’t the best topic of conversation. “Sorry- sorry. None of my business. We can change the subject.”

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not anyone’s fault. Except for the crazy guy who was selling evil watermelons.” Skylar said with a shake of her head. Why were those things even out at the farmer’s market anyway? When he jolted at the sting of alcohol, she backed off immediately. But, he seemed okay over all? She continued to clumsily wrap the wound, her fingers unused to the task. Medical stuff wasn’t her forte. If anything, she’d usually been the one receiving treatment. Getting tested by specialists and seeing doctors and having them try and figure out what was wrong with her. When really… the only thing wrong with her was that her parents weren’t telling the truth. At Rio’s question, Skylar’s lips pursed together in a thin line and she focused on tying off the bandage. “Mhm. That’s what happens, apparently.” She said. She didn’t want to think about this right now, but if he was bringing it up… If his research could tell him this much, maybe he could help her figure out a way to be normal. How to undo this… situation.

Skylar brought up a good point. Orion had to wonder how those things showed up at the farmer’s market in the first place. She had to be right- someone brought those things there on purpose. Did someone… grow those things? Had they brought them there with the sole purpose of setting them free on unsuspecting bystanders like Orion and Skylar? And Orion shouldn’t have been unsuspecting- he knows about the supernatural. He should have known about what those things were. If he was a real Scribe, he would have known. Orion understood that look that Skylar had. The two seemed to feel similarly about themselves. The hatred of what they were. He just wished Skylar didn’t feel that way about herself. He would need to do more research. Maybe the more he learned about Selkies, the more he could teach Skylar. In turn she would stop hating what she was. Maybe. “Well… seriously I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me. I can help clean up and then I promise to get out of your hair.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy to help, when I can.” Skylar said, gesturing to the sloppily wrapped bandage. “I’m not… good at this kind of first aid stuff, but maybe I should take some classes or something. With how often people are getting hurt, it might not be a bad idea.” She said with a sigh. The adrenaline had faded from her body and it had left her exhausted. Tiredness seeped into her bones and she was on her last legs. Slumping back in her chair, Skylar rested her head in her hands. “You don’t need to do anything, you’re good, honestly. I can get this stuff taken care of by myself.” She said with a weary smile. She’d get it all figured out, she’d handle the mess, and then she’d take a nice long shower and go to bed. It wasn’t even technically night time yet, but she just needed this day to be over.

Orion laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it, “Yeah, well. We shouldn’t have to be good at first aid stuff. If this town would just give us a break every now and again.” His arm still hurt, though he had to admit that it felt better now that it had been cleaned and wasn’t wrapped in a sweatshirt. “But I may be able to show you a few things. I’m not an expert or anything, but my dad’s a doctor. He’s shown me a few things.” Not many things that he ever wanted to see or do again, but the first aid may come in handy. At least long enough to get someone to a hospital. He couldn’t tell if Skyar didn’t want to burden Rio or if she wanted him gone. Rio didn’t blame her of course, it was just hard to tell. He pushed himself up from the kitchen table. “I wouldn’t mind or anything but.. I get it. I can head out.” He stood there for a moment longer. Something puzzled him. She really wasn’t going to ask about the scars? It was driving him crazy, the unknown. Skylar had seen them. What was she thinking? He was heading towards the door, ready to escape when he couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m trying to learn self defense.” The lie came to him way easier than it should have, but then again Rio was also trying to be prepared when it came to stuff like this. “With… this town I thought it would be good. Clearly I’m not very good at it right now.”

“Mm. It’d be nice if it would…” Skylar sighed. “But, it seems like it’s just been one thing after another. First weird blood puddles, then fish rain, then the giant lobsters and the stupid chest on the beach with the eyeball in it. And now endless night time.” She shook her head. How were all of these things that had happened? How were any of these things she’d just said real? Her life had turned into some crazy fantasy novel and she honestly just wanted it to go back to normal. “Really? You don’t need to do that, I might just sign up for like… a Red Cross class or something.” She said, shaking her head. As she slumped back in her chair, Skylar stared listlessly in front of her. She wasn’t actually looking at anything, not intentionally. But, when Rio blurted out words, she realized that it probably looked like she’d been staring at him. At his arms. “Huh? Oh. Okay. That’s cool.” She said, slightly confused by his sudden outburst.

Orion just nodded along as Skylar rattled off each thing that had happened in town just since the beginning of the year. It was a long list… one that he hadn’t realized just how heavy the last few months had been until she listed it all together in one neat bullet pointed sentence. “Wow. Yeah. When you say it that way it almost sounds like the town’s not normal.” He tried for a nervous smile. Considering their situation it wasn’t exactly time for jokes, but Ricky had helped Rio see that some light heartedness was good in dark situations. If only Rio’s jokes didn’t fall so flat so often. He supposed that he lacked the confidence. “I mean I’m obviously not an expert or anything. I’m not a pre-med major like my sister. I mean I was. That was my original plan. But I changed course. Sorry that’s not important.” He shook his head, backtracking, “Red Cross is definitely more qualified to teach you this stuff. But the basics I have down pretty well.” Skylar seemed confused by Rio’s outburst which was… peculiar. Had she really planned on not asking him about it? If so, he had practically outed himself which was embarrassing. “I- uh. Sorry. I just saw you looking and didn’t want you to think that I uh like… did it to myself or something. So… okay. Sorry. I can leave now.”

“Definitely not normal.” Skylar echoed, the joke in his voice lost to her. All of the energy she’d been able to muster had been drained from her in the last hour, which made just sitting up a chore. And it was difficult to try and parse together Rio’s words, even with her hearing aids. “Mhm. I think I’ll look into the Red Cross. Thanks, though.” She said with a small smile. As he continued to talk, Skylar realized that he thought she’d been oggling his arms, staring at him-- she hadn’t meant to. She just hadn’t realized that she was even staring off like that. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m--” She shook her head, “I’m just really tired. I was zoning out there.” As Rio offered to leave, a minor feeling of relief made its way through the haze of exhaustion. “That’d be… for the best.” She said with a nod. The second he left, Skylar flopped down face first in bed. Rolling over, she mumbled into her pillow, “I hate farmers markets.”

#p: alm #p: orion quinn #wickedswriting #chronic illness cw #abuse cw

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

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Extra thanks to @glassjacket and @thoughtslikeaminefield for not only helping me through this story but also through those dark moments. I wouldn’t be here without both of you. Period. And thank you, @glassjacket for your guidance and textwork on the image. 💙

If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it.

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Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

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