#now i’m in denial simply because to everyone i am known as that man hating lesbian

[resident-gay-bitch]

teetering on the gender binary spec for years and one “why not?” hair cut later and i’m like oh yeah i need to start T now and cut the boob off and get penis and be boy oh my god i’m a straight white man now i think

[serumandsteel]

the way we heal | jj maybank

- pairings: jj maybank x reader

- summary: people deal with trauma in different ways but it seems that jj thinks you don't care about the loss of your friends and deep down himself but he just needs to understand that people heal in their own time and through their own meanings, he just needed to be reassured of it. kinda pre season 2 ep 1 give ot take

- warning(s): really motherfucking angsty and swearing. mention of substance abuse

- wc: 2.2k :))))

a/n: all my fics the pogues and reader are the age 17/18 only because that's more comfortable for me to write. its been a long long time since i have wrote something so sorry for and spelling errors

People tend to deal with trauma differently. It could be resulting to crying you eyes out until you can’t breath and you can’t see through your tears clouding your eyes. Drinking until your liver wants to shut down and you whole body is so numb that yourself and everyone around you is so tuned out that you can’t function. Resulting to drugs to either feel something or not to feel anything at all. Or to have something to blame your actions on from yourself acting out simply because you don’t know how to handle the situation of a friend dying.

See you on the other hand dealt with it internally or the whim and feeling of not accepting death. Maybe it was your subconscious talking wanting you not to accept or maybe it was the gut feeling that you always got telling you that they were actually alive and have survived that storm that ‘supposedly’ had swept them away because “no body was found”.

This ‘gut feeling’ had always been right in many life or death situations. Or even just you picking out an outfit that you were unsure of whether it was going to get the boys attention that you had a crush on. It did indeed get his attention that night because that’s how you ended up loosing your virginity that night but that’s besides the point.

The best way you could describe it was like when people would do personality tests and it would ask “are you controlled by your heart or what you feel” probably not those exact words but you get the point. I felt with my feelings if my gut said yes then it was a yes.

Since the night that John B and Sarah had ‘died’ your gut had been telling you the opposite. That they were in fact not dead. As Big John use to say when you were a kid, you can never kill a Routledge. At the time it seemed like bullshit but now it was starting to grow on you.

However now your two friends were presumed dead and not everyone dealt with trauma like you did. Some would even go as far to say that you didn’t actually give a fuck that your friends were dead because you hadn’t cried or you hadn’t drunk yourself into a state of no return or resulted to smoking weed every single day and spray painted ‘murder’ on Ward Cameron’s estate. But at least Kiara wasn’t lying.

But the thing was you hadn’t cried because you couldn’t, you quite literally hated crying because it made you feel weak. Even if you tried and you tried your hardest but nothing came. At this point you could go as far as denial. This gut feeling was like getting hit by a semi truck every time a thought came into your head questioning maybe they were dead. Maybe they did get swept away at sea and never to return.

Your gut feeling was simply not letting you mourn the loss of John B and Sarah and now everyone thought you were an emotionless bitch. I mean they were right to a point but not the whole point.

So that brought you to current day driving around the Cut and night playing fucking real life Where’s Wally but its Where’s JJ Maybank because he’s blacked out drunk somewhere and now you’re on a rescue mission. Not like you had done enough of those in the last few weeks.

About an hour ago your phone rang and it was JJ asking you to come pick him up since somehow he had now idea where he had ended up and was too far gone to put together his surroundings. Well that’s what you had assumed he said since you had to decipher his slurred words.

At this point you had driven around the whole island and gone to every hid out spot that he would go smoke at or to just get away from everyday life. You had gone to all but one place. Where you avoiding that particular house because it held so many memories, plus the fact you hadn’t been near the place since shit hit rock bottom. Yes? But it was the highest chance that JJ was sitting on that dock with his legs swinging over it with a beer in hand.

Well you were right. As you walked down the old dock to where JJ was sitting it was if you could feel all the emotions, thoughts and disbelief crawling their way up your skin from the ground you were walking on. But that gut feeling was like a wave of fire, burning it all the way back to the ground.

“I don’t know why I just didn’t look here first. I should have known aye” you half heartedly said trying to keep the conversation light since you didn’t know what state JJ was going to be in. From the huff you got in response told you he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“How much have you had J?” You asked with concern but still trying to keep you voice light and less reprimanding because you knew he was in a too fragile state for you to be angry.

“Does it even matter how much Iv had. I don’t feel shit anymore” he replied back with his words straight forward and sobered.

“Well have you even given yourself a break for your body to sober up for you to even feel the effects of it? Or have you still been going since yesterday when I saw you? J its not going to do shit if you don’t give it a rest for at least a day or so” you said back trying you best to keep you and your voice as calm as possible. You fucking hated seeing JJ like this, you would never say it to his face but fuck it just reminded you of his dad when he got into states like this. Until the last week you had never seen JJ this bad. But could you blame him.

“You just don’t get it do you” JJ was now facing you and by the tone of his voice you had unintentionally struck a nerve that you were actively avoiding. “Why did you even fucking come if you’re just going to tell me how I should cope. Do you even care that JB has gone? He was our best fucking friend. He was my fucking brother my only family! And he’s fucking gone just like his old man. You haven’t even shed a tear y/n. You’re just acting like nothing had happened. Do you even care!” JJ was now on his feet breathing heavily and his jaw so clenched you’re surprised his teeth haven’t broken

“J, please do not yell at me right now” you asked with your voice shaking trying to hold back something that was bubbling at the surface. Was it anger or was it the water works that desperately needed to be let out.

JJ started to walk back up the dock, showing that he was done with this conversation that he could have avoided if he didn’t ask you in the first place to come pick him up. Deep down he knew that you would be the only one to come and get him, he just wasn’t as good at showing his gratefulness due to the alcohol that was numbing him.

“JJ just wait please, please don’t walk away” You stood back up and starting walking after him quick on the backs of his feet. He halted his tracks and turned around to look at you with a pained look in his face, as you got up close you could see his eyes stained red. Either from crying or the linger of weed still in his system.

“What could you possibly want to say y/n. I really thought you would be the last person not to care about this” JJ was now right up in your face and his voice was holding back trying his best not to yell. But that last sentence had taken you back.

“You think I don’t care JJ!” now you starting yelling “of course I give a shit JJ our friends are gone, they are not fucking here. I know it might not seem that I don’t care. But just because I’m not crying my eyes out every hour or drinking myself into a state where I don’t now where the fuck I am or getting high that I spray paint on any wall I see” your breath was now battling to come to the surface because you were talking so fast.

“Just because Im not doing any of those things doesn’t mean I don’t care JJ! People deal with this shit differently and you need to understand that” you breathed out trying to grasp for air again “the thing is JJ I have this annoying gut feeling thats telling me that John B and Sarah are not dead, and its literally preventing me to mourn them. I have convinced myself that they are alive and I can’t fucking mourn non dead people J. I don’t know how to fucking explain it”

“Well why didn’t you just tell us that” he replied after bit letting your whole rant sink into his brain, weaving its way through the alcohol that was clouding it.

“Because JJ! Even saying that out loud I sound fucking crazy, like I’m in a deep pit of denial. The thing is I’m far from denial. Yes I know there is a massive fucking fat chance that they are dead and have been food for the sharks” you exclaimed

“Don’t make it worse y/n” JJ shook his head not very happy with your choice of words

“Okay yeah sorry bad wording. Im sorry” you lowered your head in sorrow wanting to slap yourself in the face for trying to make jokes out of trauma.

“So its not that I don’t care J, trust me I do care. But John B and Sarah are not physically here with us and I cant physically care for them right now. But when we see them can do that”

“Y/n -“ JJ tried to get a word in but you hadn’t finished

“Don’t JJ. We will see them again” you put an emphasis on ‘will’ “I trust my gut and even you know that when I get a gut feeling that it’s always been right. Correct?”

“Yes but -“ he tried to get another word in but you needed him to listen.

“JJ I care about you. I care about Kiara and Pope. You guys are physically here for me to care for. The thing is I haven’t spoken to Kie since she’s with Pope half the time and I have spoken to Pope since he’s with Kid half the time and you? I can’t speak to you because your too far gone in beers to for me to even get a coherent conversation in” This was such an over due conversation to be had, you were now on the verge of hyperventilating. You needed JJ to hear this. Fully sober would have been better but half sober is the best you’re gonna get.

“JJ I understand if that’s how you’re going to deal with all of this but you can’t throw yourself completely away. We need you. I need you JJ. I can’t have you going off the deep end and then we loose you too. You need to be here for when we get John B back. He will need you for when he’s back”. The water works that you had been holding back had finally been released and trust it to be in front of JJ. He was your fucking rock, you couldn’t loose him. No way that would be your last day on earth if that were to happen.

“I-. Im sorry. I’m just so fucking lost y/n. I don’t know what the fuck to do. You’re always at work and Kie and Pope are god knows where. I just want this to go away so fucking bad. All this pain, I feel like I have no one” JJ was now crying to and gripping your waist as is you could float away into the air

“I know JJ, but you have us you have always had us. But you have to be so stubborn sometimes that you won’t let us in and help, you won’t let me in a help you” you had JJ’s face in your hands making him look at you so he knew you meant every single word. “I’m so sorry if you didn’t think I cared and I wasn’t there to help you, I just deal with this shit in a different way. Just like every single other person. We all heal differently and that’s okay. It dosent mean we care less. It doesn’t mean I care less”

Now there you and JJ stand on the dock leading off the chateau both in each others embrace purging the pain that’s both been locked up inside you for so long. The past you and JJ had people really didn’t tend to understand but neither did you. But you would always find your way back to each other at the end of the day. Despite the fights you had in the past and the days you would be at each others throats screaming at each other to the days you would be secretly stealing a glance at him because you just couldn’t help yourself.

You would always be there to help him take the pain away and he was always be there to do the same for you.

[hellomynameisbisexual]

“QUEER”

First of all, let’s clear up a common misconception. Queer does not just mean gay. It’s an umbrella term for an identity which deviates from society’s perceived norm: heterosexual, or straight. Queer can refer to sexualities — gay, bisexual, pansexual, — or it can refer to being gender-queer; i.e, any label that deviates from the perceived gender norm: the binaries, male and female.

“Queer” is a reclaimed slur.

If you do not fall under the umbrella of queerness, it is safe to assume that you cannot use it. At all.

I am bisexual.

This means I experience attraction to plural genders. Pansexual also works fine. For the difference between bisexual and pansexual — see here:

Being bisexual isn’t easy. I went through similar hardships to gay women: I experienced attraction to women and was scared of what this meant for me, in such an oppressively homophobic society.

I am not saying being bisexual is harder than being gay, nor the inverse. But my experiences are distinctly bisexual, not gay.

Without further ado, here are the 3 things I’ve found to be the hardest about being queer, but not gay (enough).

#1: Finding My Place

Or, not being queer enough

I always knew I wasn’t straight, but I didn’t know what I was. Up until recently, I was still questioning. This didn’t feel enough to join groups or conversations with LGBT+ folk, let alone go to pride. Was I even LGBT if I was never L, G, B, or T?

I am still yet to attend a pride, even though I identify (fairly confidently) as bisexual. I am in a relationship with a man. This is (problematically) known as a “straight-passing relationship” and makes me feel even more undeserving of a place at pride.

This has been upsetting to me at times. But for others, it can be outright devastating. Growing up and needing support, but feeling like you’re ‘not gay enough’ to ask for it? So many young people are being left alone and afraid. Finding others like you is vital to figuring out who you are. Likewise, finding spaces which are safe and inclusive is vital for anyone, regardless of their sexuality or gender identity. A friend of mine happens to be a transgender man, and he summed up the issue perfectly:

“One thing that I keep noticing is how all hangout spots are “gay bars”, or (far less common) “lesbian bars”. I’m a straight man, so I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be there, but hanging out at regular bars is still too much of a gamble, so I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

It goes without saying that gay folk aren’t always safe in these spaces, as seen by the homophobic attack on the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, in 2016. Bigotry hurts the entire LGBT+ community. Bigotry doesn’t stop to ask whether you identify as gay or otherwise queer before it pulls the trigger.

But the LGBT+ community itself is much more welcoming to those who “pick a side” and just come out as gay, already. The infighting is inexplicable when one looks to attacks such as that in Orlando: bigots don’t care which letter you are in the acronym. So why does gatekeeping exist when we need to be strong in the face of intolerance when fragmentation only makes us weaker? Who are we helping by continuing to exclude identities from the discussion?

#2: Myths and Misconceptions

Well, it stands to reason that if bisexuals are what they seem in TV and movies, why would anyone want to make them feel included? They’re “greedy” and inauthentic. They’re attention-seeking, not to mention their propensity for threesomes. Now, I haven’t been in a wild orgy yet, but it seems like it will only be a matter of time before I follow my natural path.

Straight men, in particular, need to own up to their assumption that bisexual women are down for a threesome. The thing is, we are. But not with you, you big ASSUMER.

Infidelity

All jokes aside, the stereotyping of bisexuals is not only hurtful, but leads to difficulties finding and maintaining relationships.

As I came to terms with my bisexuality, I also had to accept that I might never be fully trusted by my partner, regardless of their gender or sexuality. I was shocked when my partner reacted to my coming out with the equivalent of a shrug — so much so, that I burst into tears of gratitude that my soul-bearing moment hadn’t been met with slut-shaming or assumptions of disloyalty. Nothing has changed. If anything, our bond is even stronger for me having been more authentic after coming out.

But cruelty came from elsewhere: when I came out, I was told that my partner was to be pitied, either because I’m gay and in denial, or bound to cheat on him. The main consequence of such attitudes has been the crippling fear of coming out to my partner. It saddens me that I felt so relieved when he accepted me for being who I am, and loving him just the same as I always have.

This outcome is not the case for many couples, with straight folk worried that their bisexual partner will realise they’re gay and just leave them. This fear of abandonment comes from a place of ignorance. When the media presents bisexuality as a steppingstone on the way to “picking a team”, it’s no wonder that people struggle to trust their queer partners.

Other Queer Myths

The myth that all trans folk medically transition invalidates those who choose not to do so, and let’s not forget the ignorant jeers that it's all just a mental illness. Asexual folk battle the stereotype that they can never have a relationship and shall forever remain a virgin (because what an awful thing that would be, right?) And pansexuals… well, at the lighter end, they’re asked if they have sex with cooking utensils. But often, they’re erased as irrelevant because “we already have the label bisexual”.

This brings us onto the third and final difficulty that comes with queer folk who aren’t easily categorizable as gay: erasure.

#3: Erasure

Erasure refers to the denial of an identity’s existence or its validity as a label.

Non-binary folk face ongoing and loud claims that they simply do not exist. This is despite the historical and scientific evidence to the contrary. Plus, the most important evidence — them, existing. Asexual folk are told they simply have not found the right person yet, or that they are just afraid of sex. Demi-sexual folk are told “everyone feels like that, unless they’re just sleeping around!”. And bisexuals are dismissed as simply being in denial that they’re gay.

Monosexuality & The Gender Binary

Our culture is so built on monosexuality (being solely attracted to one gender — for instance, gay or straight). Monosexuality is reinforced through everything from marriage to dating apps, the media to what we teach in schools. People cannot fathom that someone might want to experience more than one gender in their lifetime.

The binary models of sex and gender are also deeply ingrained. These rigid belief systems combined are to blame for our inability to accept that bisexuals do not need to “pick a side”. I was paralysed by fear for 17 years because I found girls attractive and that might mean I’m gay, because bisexuals are just gays who haven’t realised they’re gay yet.

Bierasure

Bierasure is dangerous, firstly because it leads a child to have to internalise both biphobia and homophobia. For instance, I had to work through being taught to hate gayness, whilst being taught that any attraction to non-male genders made me gay.

Women were cute, and so I was gay, and this meant I was disgusting.

My own mother told me this. She also told me that something has “gone wrong in the womb” for a child to be gay. (Well, Mum, I’ve got some bad news about your womb!)And she, like any bigot, extended this theory to anyone who experiences same-sex attractions — anyone queer. This is another reason why bi-erasure is perilous. Whether you’re a gay, cis-male or a demi-bisexual, trans woman… if your parents will kick you out for being gay, they will likely kick you out for being any sort of queer.

If we deny the bigotry that bisexuals undergo, we will continue to suffer. It won’t just go away. It will fester, with bisexuals having no one they can go to who believes them. And thus:

Erasure Kills

Bullying and suicide rates of queer-but-not-gay people continue to sky-rocket. We must direct funding, support and compassion to every queer individual, as they are all vulnerable to discrimination and bullying. The problem is being left to fester. This is in part because bigots treat all queer labels as just ‘gay’, deeming them equally unworthy. This is how far erasure can go.

Conclusion

Earlier on, I stated that my experiences are distinctly bisexual. The same applies to any queer identity.

Emphasising our differing paths and struggles is important to avoid the aforementioned erasure of already less visible groups. But this does not mean that the LGBT+ community should be fragmented by these differences.

If we can unite in our hope to live authentically and love freely, we will be stronger against bigotry. We are fighting enough intolerance from without: there is no need to create more from within.

So out of everything, what’s the hardest part about being bisexual?

It’s the fact that nobody knows it’s this hard.

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

Monet Issues

Happy COI day! Here's some no-longer-canon-compliant angst because apparently the book itself isn't going to be enough for me :) 

No spoilers here, but I know not everyone is checking tags and such right now, so I'm going to tag a few people who have interacted with my fics before (lmk if you don't want to be!). Don't feel obligated to read this though, it's a little dark. @littlx-songbxrd @alastairxcarstairs @dianasarrow @doitforthecarstairs @archeronesta @thechangeling @styxdrawings @upsidedown-cats @fictionally-fantastic @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood

Fanfiction Masterlist

CW: mention or discussion of alcoholism, physical abuse, bullying, and toxic relationships

(title from the song Monet Issues by Chase Petra, which I may or may not have listened to on repeat while writing this)

Out of all of the people he’d ever snapped at, Alastair Carstairs had never lost his temper with his mother. Not until today. 

“He’s the same. He’s the same as he was last spring, before he left, the same as he was ten years ago. He is never going to change. Not for Cordelia, not for you, not for the baby. Why are you still doing this to yourself?” he pleaded. 

His mother smiled and sighed. “That’s enough, Alastair joon. Your father is flawed, but he loves us. He’s trying. You’ll understand one day, once you’ve fallen in love and started a family of your own.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Just answer one question then: if this child is a boy, will you allow him to do everything I was forced to do?” 

She hardened her expression. “Joonam, that’s just what family-” 

“No. Cordelia never did those things, did she? I never wanted her to. You never wanted her to.” 

“That was different. She’s… Well, she has a big heart, you know. I knew that you could handle such a burden, azizam. I know that it was difficult, but look at the man that you’ve become. I’m so proud of you. These trials life brings us… they only make us stronger.” 

Alastair could feel his stomach twisting as his mother spoke. “No.” 

“Alastair-” 

“No! I never asked for this! I never wanted this! You told me that I needed to be head of the family in his absence, but now that he’s returned, it’s as if the past six months never happened? As if the past decade never happened? He has been absent for ten years. Cordelia was allowed to simply be a child. Because she had a ‘big heart,’ you say? What about mine? Was it always small, or did you, did Father make it that way? Because I genuinely cannot remember a time before. When was I meant to just be a child? When you sent me away to school, to meet all of the boys who were allowed to simply grow up and make mistakes and learn from them while I was busy trying to keep my father alive and my family together? I didn’t need to be stronger. I was a child!” His voice cracked. “I needed to be loved and protected! I needed someone to take care of me, not the other way around! I needed to feel safe! I was a child!” 

He clenched his fists at his sides, seeing white. “It didn’t make me stronger. It made me- it made me broken. It made me bitter and angry, so much so that I pushed it onto everyone else. It made me a monster. Do you know how awful school was? They taught me to hate myself. I became a bully because it was easier to hurt others than let them hurt me. I let nearly every part of me die, just trying to survive it. I knew someone who didn’t, a fourteen-year-old boy who I watched die. And yet I preferred that over the idea of returning home and dealing with Father’s illness again. Do you want to know the truth?” 

He took a step closer to his mother, her expression hard and unreadable. “The truth is that the moment I met someone who I thought might actually take care of me and protect me, I ran to him. I trusted him like I’d never allowed myself to trust anyone. And I stayed with him, even as he lied to me, as he left me cold and alone night after night, as he made it clear time and time again that he would never prioritize me over his own whims and desires. I wanted so badly to feel loved that I gave him all I had, all of my time and energy and attention, knowing that he would never return any of it.” 

He took a step back, finally feeling the tears that had spilled down his cheeks. “I’ve realized now that I deserve better. I deserved better. You deserve better.” He lowered his voice and looked down. He knew that his mother loved him, that Cordelia loved him, that maybe even Elias loved him, in his own way. He just wished he never had to wonder whether his life would be different if someone had cared about him. “I know… I know you love me, that you love all of us. I know that you didn’t have many choices. You were in a terrible situation. But I can’t stand here and watch you sit in your denial any longer, knowing the prices we have both paid for it.” 

He stared at her, waiting for her to respond, but she did not. Alastair did the only thing he knew left to do: he turned and left. As he started towards the staircase, he stopped and spoke one last time. “You were meant to protect me, and you did not. That’s okay, because I’m learning how to be whole again. I’m finding better ways to survive. I am mending my own heart, alone, because it is my only option. But I want to make one thing clear, this is not meant to be the price of family. This did not make me strong, and you have nothing to be proud of.” 

Finally satisfied, he retreated to his room without waiting for a reaction.

***

Sona returned to her room after her son stormed off. Her eyes scanned her dresser, a quiet mess of makeup, perfumes, Elias’ house key. She’d only just given it to him, but it was pointless. He always lost them. At least today, he’d forgotten them in their own home, and not at a bar or on a park bench or in some hansom cab halfway across the city. She looked up at her reflection in the mirror, at the purple spot under her eyes, at the wrinkles now set into her face, and thought of the days when she was younger. Did she always look older than her years?

Elias had been older than her, of course. Much older. Despite her young age, she’d been a widow. Not just a widow, but accused of murder. Despite all that had happened since, she could still remember clearly going before the Mortal Sword, confessing all that had happened, and watching herself acquitted and her husband’s death swept under the rug by a society that did not wish to face the reality of what she had endured. 

She’d been frightened, terrified, certain that no one would ever love after what she had done. She’d always known that her life would be difficult, that it would be unlikely for her to find a respectable husband, that she would never marry for love. Theodor was supposed to be a catch. She was meant to be the luckiest girl alive. She was young and naïve and blood spilled for it over, and over, and over, until she broke. Until everyone around her could see that she was broken. 

She thought that Elias would make her whole. She believed that he would take care of her, that he would love her, that he would provide. She hadn’t known how she could be so lucky, twice. 

Now, she wondered if she should have taken off on that milking cart. 

She’d thought about it many times, what her life could have become if she’d simply left. If she’d run away, away from the Shadow World, away from all that knew her past. She could have started over as a mundane. 

She always pushed the thought aside. If she had run, she would never have had her children. 

Her children. 

Their lives had been much more difficult than she’d dreamed of. They were never going to be easy, not being who they are, not in this world they lived in. Some pains were unavoidable. 

Some were not. 

Alastair had been a happy child, once. He’d carried so much love in his heart, perhaps even more than Cordelia ever had. That is why, when he learned the truth, he agreed so readily to help. Because he loved Cordelia, and her, and Elias, so much. He did not yet know that for some, the cost of love was pain and hopelessness. 

She allowed him to pay that price, the same one that she had paid, because it was easier than accepting the truth. Even as she watched him grow more and more anxious, as dark circles imprinted themselves under his eyes, as Risa shot her disapproving looks every time she asked him to look after Elias, or take care of Cordelia, or clean up some bottles, she allowed that price to be paid. 

She thought that the Shadowhunter Academy could be good for him, that perhaps it would benefit him to be away from the house. She was a fool, and by the time he first returned from school, she could see that the little boy she’d once known had disappeared. 

She could see him again, now, fighting to be heard. She could see that her son was finding himself again, but that it was a slow and painful process, and that he was still very far away. She wondered where her old self had gone, and if she could find her, or if she even still existed at all. 

She’d always known that Alastair was similar to her. Too similar, it seemed, and now, he had made the same mistakes she had. She knew the pain he felt too well, the pain that she could see in his eyes, hear in his voice. She’d thought that was love, but it was not. She’d learned the hard way, and now Alastair had, too. She knew that it was not a coincidence.

You had the biggest heart of them all, she wanted to tell her son. It’s still yours. I’m sorry.

She did not know how. 

She rested a hand on her swollen belly and thought about taking care of an infant while also taking care of her husband. She could no longer not ask anyone else to do it for her. 

For this baby, still unmarred by life’s hardships, for Alastair, for Cordelia, for herself, she took a deep breath and gathered her husband’s few belongings. She threw them in a suitcase, along with a short note, and placed it on their front steps, locking the door behind her.

A/N: Thanks for reading! The Farsi words are just terms of endearment, like “my dear.” I just want to say that I don’t necessarily think everything that Alastair said or Sona thought is true (or that Alastair even believed everything he said), I was just trying to get inside their heads a bit. Forgiving (and blaming) parents is really hard and complicated, and I really wanted to explore how Alastair felt about Sona a bit more. 

[shoyomeow]

EPIPHANY

❀ characters : wakatoshi ushijima x female reader

❀ genre : angst, angst, more angst and a sprinkle of fluff

❀ wc: 1533

“I know I shouldn’t be here.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

     ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You refused to believe it. 

Anybody but him.

He couldn’t possibly do this to you could he? Sora must have mistaken him for someone else right? Or who knows, he’s been getting a lot of attention from the press nowadays, maybe a hungry paparazzi made an edit for him. With the technology today it wasn’t completely out of the question right? 

You couldn’t even listen to your own thoughts because a part of you knew that you were simply trying to delude yourself by coming up with these justifications. You knew that no one could truly mistake him for someone else, he towered over everyone else and had an overwhelming presence, besides Sora had 20/20 vision. Paparazzi? That’s impossible because he was wearing the clothes that he had FaceTimed you in an hour ago, no matter how good you are it would be impossible for paparazzi to edit such a realistic picture within an hour and even more impossible for Sora to get hands on it before it was posted on social media.

You had always prided yourself in being rational, so why was it that right now you wanted to be anything but that?

Being rational meant accepting the fact that your boyfriend, who you loved and adored and had been with since your second year of high school, had his hands entwined with a stranger.

Being rational meant accepting that the ease in which he was doing this in a public setting meant that it wasn’t the first time. 

Being rational meant that you had to acknowledge that he couldn’t possibly be drunk because he refuses to drink for a week before a match, there have never been any exceptions and he probably wasn’t going to start now.

Being rational meant that you couldn’t be in denial anymore. 

Being rational meant that Wakatoshi Ushijima, the last person you had expected to hurt you, was cheating on you. And from the looks of it, it probably was not the first time he was doing this. 

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“Ushijima-san, you should go home.” the feelings that you thought you had overcome, the betrayal, the grief, the anger and the hatred you felt for yourself for so long came back crashing on you as you looked at the drunk man. At first glance one couldn’t possibly tell that he was drunk, but you had known him for far too long to not recognise his intoxicated state.

“You used to call me Toshi, please call me that again.”

“Ushijima-san,” you were clutching onto your apartment door so hard that you wondered if you would bleed today, “Do you have someone who can pick you up?”

It was four in the morning and you had been sitting in the same position for the past hour. Prior to that you were far too numb to realise your own emotions as you mindlessly and with a sense of monotony packed your bag. 

You sat down on the couch, the first piece of furniture that you had bought with Wakatoshi when you moved in with him, the once beige sofa was stained and had threads coming out of it’s upholstered ends but you never did have the heart to throw it away. 

There was a sense of dread that settled at the pit of your stomach as you processed your own thoughts. Were you going to remain oblivious to Wakatoshi doing this had Sora’s friend not sent her those pictures? Was he going to keep the wool over your eyes as you planned for a future with him? What if you two had kids at some point, would he have continued to do this?

The fact that he seemed so normal and nonchalant about him cheating was the thing that hurt you. It would make you a liar if you said that the act of cheating itself didn’t hurt but you could’ve dealt with that pain easier if he had been the one to tell you. But to have him lie to you for god knows how long, and see you plan your suburban fantasy with him was humiliating.

You heard the click of the door and straightened your back, he may have hurt you but you will not give him the satisfaction or ego boost by crying over him.

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“Please let go of me Ushijima-san.” his grip on the long sleeves of the hoodie you were wearing wasn’t strong, it was similar to the grip a mother would tell her child to practice so that they wouldn’t get separated. You didn’t know how long you could keep up the indifferent facade. You didn’t want him to see you be vulnerable, not back then and certainly not now. 

“You used to wear my hoodies too y/n, why did you stop? I always liked seeing you be swallowed up by them.” Ushijima wasn’t a clingy drunk, he was simply a person who exaggerated his pre-existent qualities. He became more blunt, if that was even possible and he always acted on the first thought that popped into his mind.

“Because we have nothing to do with each other anymore, Ushijima-san.” 

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“You’re up?” his tone was neutral like it always was, no underlying nervousness, no guilt that you could sense, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I’m leaving Wakatoshi.” you wondered how your tone sounded so firm and sincere when you felt like you were breaking apart inside.

“Ah I see, is everything alright?” there was a time when you found him taking everything into a literal sense endearing, now you just wanted to kill him.

“Everything is just dandy, you would know wouldn’t you? After all, you just got laid.” You wondered if it was normal to feel smug as you witnessed the sense of dread, shame and guilt well up in his demeanour, “I just want to know, how long has this been going for?”

He knew better than to lie to you but at least he had the decency to not meet your eyes as shame manifested and bloomed within him, “Around eight months.”

“Eight months,” you mulled over it for a moment when realisation struck you, “That was when you had gone with the team to Osaka right? For a retreat.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” you released a soft sigh, you would cry, you were going to bawl your eyes out as soon as you got into the cab that you had booked for yourself, the one who was definitely going to charge extra for having to wait for so long. You would probably cry for days over the fact that eight months ago, when he had missed out on your anniversary and you had not been worried about it because you had been together for far too long to worry about stuff like that, he had probably been balls deep into someone else.

“Ushijima,” his surname tasted foreign on your tongue as you had not addressed him with that in far too long, “I want you to not talk or say anything else. I’m leaving and by that I mean that I’m leaving you. I wish you luck in your future endeavours and may you forever rot in hell.” 

“Y/n,” he called out as you grabbed your things to leave, “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“You know something?” you smiled at him, the bitter and hate filled smile that you gave him made his heart ache, “I think that’s the first time I’ve recognised a lie of yours. Kudos to me.”

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“The cab is here Ushijima-san, please get in and leave. I have already told them your address.”

“Why?” He slurred as he was helped by the driver to get  into the car, “Why can’t it be our address anymore? Please come back. I miss you y/n.”

You smiled again, the same bitter smile that you had given to him while you were parting two years ago but much less hateful, “Ushijima-san, kindly get the fuck away from me and never try to contact me again. If you show up at my place again I will be forced to take legal 

You straightened your back once again as you walked into your apartment. 

The pain of him doing what he had done still haunted you, after all, can someone ever truly get over being betrayed by the person they trusted the most? But you could happily say that while the pain still existed, it had reduced into a dull throb. 

“Hey babe, who was at the door?” 

You couldn’t help but smile at your boyfriend who had his hair in foils waiting for the dye to set in and a face coated with a green face mask, “Oh it was just Ushijima.”

“Oh okay,” Atsumu turned to go back into the washroom, before his mind processed your words causing him to snap his head at you, “WAIT WHAT?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you walked towards him and pulled him into a soft kiss, trying to ignore the green face mask which had undoubtedly transferred a little onto your own skin, “You’re annoying as hell but I love you so much.”

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special shoutout to @samuthots​ cause i got the prompt list from her and that is what inspired this fic.

@daifwukus​

[anika-ann]

WINSoD - Pt.6

...We Both Will Drop

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2, part 3)  

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader  Word count: 4820

Summary: In which the mission to retrieve stones is on and you and Steve arrive to Vormir. Some things are simply... inevitable.

Warnings: (we all know what’s coming don’t we), blood and violence, character death, mentions of suicide, language

A/N: Don’t blame me, it’s the large scheme and shit. *runs and hides in a middle of nowehere*

Part 5

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Everyone on the team had been through having their heart broken at least once; hell, find one of humankind who hadn’t. After the Snap, it was an impossible task; even children, when asked, felt like something was missing to them, feeling a deeply-embedded longing they couldn’t quite comprehend. Surely, they wouldn’t use such big words, having only been five years old now, but the sentiment was all the same.

And when all humanity felt like that, there was little space for hope.

However, the hope that barely started to take roots in the team when they figured out a way to unlimitedly travel in time and space, grew rapidly when Natasha winced in a middle of summarizing the plan once more; only to reveal that the source of pain was… insane.

It was a tattoo-like message on her collarbone.

She had received a new set of words. And they happened to be written in Sam Wilson’s handwriting, a sentence little snarky and little sappy and… no one blamed Scott for asking the question that itched everyone on the tip of their tongue.

“So… that means we succeed, right? And they meet again, more or less for the first time? I mean, we already saw a case like that.”

Despite the cold shiver running up your spine, your heart was wrapped in a fluffy warmth at that thought. It would be worth it. The sacrifice made will be worth it.

You swiftly dried the tear forming in the corner of your eye at the memory of Natasha’s reluctant but bright smile before Steve could notice. You followed him as he climbed towards the peak of which your instincts told you was exactly the place to go.

He was gallantly helping you to follow without a single ‘I told you so,’ even when you slipped and nearly face-planted. Instead, he smiled at you tenderly, concern furrowing his brow, but not once he complained about you being a liability instead of the help you were supposed to provide.

Vormir was an inhospitable planet. All built of rocks, with icy wind, sweeping snowflakes into your face and you were grateful for your gloves and Steve’s broad shoulders that shielded you at least partly.

Finally reaching a plateau, you were welcomed by a creature floating above the surface; his face red, a bald scalp, head stripped to a bone with nearly no skin, muscles or fat, partly hidden by a hood of his tattered cloak.

You never liked studying history, but even you knew who this was – or who he seemed to be. If Steve’s face and posture was anything to go by, he thought the same.

But that couldn’t be, right? The Red Skull had died- disappeared when touching an Infinity Stone. Would it really be so crazy if he was still connected to one?

“Steven, son of Sarah,” the peculiar creature welcomed your soulmate with a hiss, repeating a greeting of similar nature with you, only showing off he knew your father’s name, not mother’s like with Steve, and obviously calling you a daughter.

Which wasn’t creepy at all.

“You-“ Steve only growled and was already lunging at the man, only for his body to go through him as if the figure was nothing but a unsubstantial illusion.

You yelped in fright for Steve, but he didn’t even fall to the ground, his training preparing him for more surprising situations that his opponent being immaterial.

The Red Skull appeared to be annoyed at Steve’s antics at best; he didn’t make any attempt at attacking either him or you, only watching you with freakily knowing gaze as if he already learned your purpose here. Which was impossible, right?

But was it?

“Steve… I don’t think we need to fight him,” you whispered, averting the piercing glare of the Skull on you.

Steve looked at you as if you were crazy and threw himself on the cloaked figure again; shockingly, with the very same result.

It was an irony for God’s pleasure, you guessed, Steve fighting an old enemy, an enemy that couldn’t be defeated it seemed. Funny metaphor of his life no one laughed at; certainly not you.

Feeling two pairs of eyes on you now, you shivered.

“You don’t, indeed,” the Skull howled over the wind that picked up. “I know why you’re here and I only act as a guide. No matter how much I’d like to go another round with you, Captain, that is all I am.”

Steve snarled, but didn’t come after him again, stopping in mid-motion when you gently placed a hand of his shoulder. He ended up only leaning forward, ready to strike, shield in his hand.

He was handsome even with the scowl on his face, you thought absently and quickly brushed it off, scolding yourself for such ideas at a time like this. But why wouldn’t you let your mind wander into such territory? At the moment, you felt strangely detached from the whole scene in front of you. You wondered if that would change or if you could fulfil your purpose with your soul at peace.

“Then guide us,” Steve hissed, protectively standing between you and the Red Skull.

“Careful what you wish for, Captain.”

You followed the floating figure towards the edge of the plateau, stopping several feet from a bottomless gulf.

You closed your eyes when the vertigo overtook you, the crushing weight of your mission causing you to sway. Steve allowed you to lean onto his body, your palm sprawled across his chest, and he pulled you even farther from the edge into safer distance.

“Why are you showing us this?”

“Because that is the face of destiny you’re staring into,” your guide explained, a smirk forming on his face. Steve instantly let you go in favour to brace himself for the fight to come. Except you already knew it wouldn’t come; not the fight Steve was readying himself for. “I’m not gonna push either of you, Captain. You manage that on your own.”

“What makes you think we would ever do that?”

“The fact that it’s what we need to do to get the Stone,” you answered quietly to the question Steve had spitted out, earning a horrified glance from him.

“Indeed. A Soul Stone is a special entity. To get a hold of it, you must sacrifice a soul. You have found yourself a smart wife, Captain, for she knows this. Too bad she won’t be able to make it back.”

“Over my dead body,” Steve snarled and for a good measure grabbed your hand and dragged you away from the floating figure.

“That certainly is an option too.”

“Fuck. You. Liar!” Steve snapped at him and not even his anger moved you this time. Anger was good. Anger was familiar and in a pleasant contrast to your serenity returning.

“Am I? Or does your team have another explanation for Gamora’s death? Never in my lifetime I thought I’d see a Titan shed tears…” the Skull mused.

Steve’s eyes met yours as he faced you and what he saw in them must have shook him to a core, because his face lost all colour, his irises flashing with rage and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“He’s a slippery bastard, doll. I don’t trust one word-“

Denial. The other thing you saw in his eyes was denial.

“I do,” you breathed out softly, tears finally appearing in your eyes as your scarily high walls that had kept you detached from the whole ordeal came slowly crumbling down. “Thanos arrived here with whom he considered his daughter. And she didn’t make it back.”

Your heart skipped a beat, startled when Steve’s large palms gripped your shoulders and shook you.

“He’s tricking us, that’s what he does! Don’t let him play with your head,” he thundered, his fingers digging into your muscle even through your thick coat, strong enough to bruise.

Swallowing thickly as Steve stared at you, pleading, determined and still unwilling to accept the reality laid in front of him. You forced yourself not to avert his gaze when you responded in a whisper, a sound nearly lost in the howling wind.

“You know he’s telling the truth, Steve.”

You felt hollow. The cold started to seep through your clothing, or maybe it was coming from the inside, leaving your fingers and nose freezing in a desperate attempt to warm your torso up.

Steve’s hands slid from your shoulders as if they lost all strength, his own shoulders slumping, light shake of his head when he turned away from you, fingers plunging in his hair for the shortest of moments before facing you again.

You could see the shift in his attitude; you could see the fight vaporizing from his body, all harshness dissolved and blossoming into tenderness you didn’t deserve at the moment.

Yet you let him touch you, eyelids fluttering shut at the sensation, ignoring the weight in your stomach and letting yourself indulge the kindness of his touch. A lightest brush of fingers along your jaw, over your cheekbones, the pad of is thumb running over your no doubt purple lips.

He was committing himself to a memory of you and you loved him for it more than you could put into words, warm tears escaping from under your eyelids. He was a good man. Once again, he understood what had to be done and that for some reason, God seemed to hate him, asking him to sacrifice his own happiness in favour of others. He had to let you go.

“Then I go,” he breathed out and you snapped your eyes open, startled.

Of course, he got it wrong.

God, you were such an idiot, you should have known.

You threw your arms around him, tight embrace he didn’t fight, burying his face in your neck instead.

“We both know I can’t let you do that, Steve,” you negotiated, allowing the harshness of your attitude – read, thinking he was being utterly stupid – into your voice. He didn’t seem to mind, breathing in deeply, melting into your frame and you knew it was time to act before he could.

You managed to sneak one arm lower, around his waist instead. He just adjusted the hug, his lips brushing your cheek, angrily red from the whips by the biting cold.

“I love you, sweetheart. You were right. You had to come here with me,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard your protest and you squeezed your eyes shut, more burning tears rolling down your cheeks. Fuck, how much you hated this. “You’ll get the Stone back, yeah? And you live a life. Buck, Sam, Ryan, Pietro… they’ll be back and take care of you. They all love you too. Hey, you might even get a third soulmark-”

“Steve-“ you couldn’t help but growl at his dickish words.

“Shh, doll. It’s all going to be okay. “

Moving your hands over his back as he rubbed to-be-soothing circles on your own, your trembling fingers got a hold of what you were looking for in one of the pockets on his belt. You were a terrible actress, even worse spy, but here you were, succeeding in the worst mission you had ever been given; not that there had been many to compete with.

God sucked as a boss and clearly was short off staff if he was sending the king of Hell as his messenger.

You buried your face in Steve’s chest, basking in the warmth he was radiating, the irreplaceable sensation of safety and content his arms around you offered, something you would miss immensely.

“Promise?” you mumbled, choking on a sob, the hatred for yourself deeper than ever in your life.

You needed that promise. What did it matter Steve didn’t know what he was promising? You had no clue what was awaiting you; he couldn’t either. But he was a good man, you had learned that in thousands different ways through your years together.

“Promise.”

“…it’s going to be okay,” you repeated after him and he squeezed you tighter, as much as you squeezed the object in your palm.

“One for the road?” he mumbled, voice shaky, never letting you to answer him before his lips found yours, thirsty and demanding, breathing your soul in, leaving you feel floaty. You nibbled at his lower lip in response, low growl rumbling in his chest, echoing against your own ribcage, the kiss consuming your whole being.

One for the road, your mind parroted dreamily and you instinctively melted into Steve’s frame, indulging the last kiss of your lifetime.

Christ, that fact alone caused your chest to constrict with blinding panic, your tears like waterfalls.

You inhaled shakily as Steve withdrew with a sigh, both of you turning to the Red Skull.

Steve stepped forward, never registering your little theft.

How could he?

He had been through so much, enough punches to his face and back-stabbing for a life-time. He had learned how to stay alert, to expect another blow at any moment. You could tell he was never letting go of that, not entirely, not even with his friends, no matter how it crushed his good soul, his faith in people. He was always ready to look for danger so he could avoid another stab in the back. But not with you.

Never with you.

Which had been exactly what you had relied on when you did what you did. The analogy with back-stabbing wasn’t even funny.

“Alright. What do I have to do?” Steve asked with determination, his voice only wavering enough for you to hear it, and the stone-keeper looked at him with one corner of his mouth raised in an evil cocky smirk.

Bastard. Enjoying this a little too much.

“You mourn, Captain,” he whispered and met your eyes as you subtly undone a part of your coat. He must have noticed then, unlike Steve. Or maybe he truly had known all along, even before you had come here.

Seeing Steve already spinning on his heels when he understood the guide was having a wordless conversation with you, you had no time to actually brace yourself before wrapping both of your hands around the handle and driving the blade into your torso.

No one had told you it would hurt like motherfucker, but no one had told you how loud Steve’s scream would seem even over the ringing in your ears either.

No one had warned you that pulling the blade away would be really fucking hard, impossible even. But you had lived in the impossible for the past eight years, hadn’t you? You tore it away with a grunt, shocked at the dull agony.

You had planned two stabs, just not to give Steve any ideas, but the blinding pain slowed your movements. Before the tip of the knife could as much as graze you skin for the second time, Steve was easily twisting it from your hold and throwing it away.

You watched the weapon clank on the stony surface of the plateau, leaving droplets of crimson in the snow, hypnotized by the contrast.

The moment Steve’s hands touched you, your knees gave away and the throbbing in the wound intensified as you nearly collapsed to the ground. But he was here – he was always here to catch you, strong arms supporting you and shakily helping you to sit down.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to tear your gaze away from the blood and look up at him. His face was drained of all colour – funny, yours must have too, mustn’t it? –, his expression pure horror, blue and green fighting in his terrified eyes.

“What did you do?” he demanded breathlessly. “Oh god, what did you do?!”

You would think it was obvious, but your head spun too much to point that out. Too many words to form. Too much work.

“Played my part,” you mumbled instead.

Inspecting the wound shortly, but very much painfully, Steve was fast to press against it and make you howl in agony. And shit, there was so much blood… who would have thought there would be so much so fast? It was strangely warm against your body, soon cooling off. The contrast was fascinating.

“Fuck- hey, hey, you’re going to be okay! Look at me!” Steve ordered and the commanding voice left your fingers tingling. Or was it the cold? “We’ll get you to the compound and then I’ll be back here, figuring it out, okay? Now, breathe with me and do not-“

You smiled at him kindly or at least you attempted it. He was a true fighter in heart, never giving up. That was why you had needed to injure yourself fatally, which he effectively attempted to avoid when disarming you. But the biting cold prevented your body from resisting the brutal intrusion. The fact you had pulled out the stopper out in attempt to stab again had probably helped.

A part of you was getting nauseous at such formulation, at being content at succeeding in… yeah, there was no euphemism for this, it was a fucking suicide. A different part yelled ‘good’, because that had been the plan.

What Steve was offering sounded so, so tempting. He would make sure to pamper you when you got to the compound, falling asleep in the chair, holding your hand, sitting guard by your bedside and you would be warm, feeling oh so immensely loved… but you couldn’t allow that.

You forced the next words out of your mouth while your brain yelled at you to just give in and nod instead.

“No. Steve… I’m already halfway gone. You need to throw me-“

“NO! No! Not a fucking option!“ he bellowed, his vision possibly gaining crimson edges of rage if his expression was anything to go by. It was swimming in front of your eyes, but even in his anger, he was so damn beautiful. A piece of art. Man too beautiful not to be sculptured by angels themselves. “What were you thinking?!”

I wasn’t thinking. God had. The King of Hell told me to do it. This way we win, you know?

“We both know I won’t make it there if you try to take me-“

“You will!“ he spat back stubbornly, his frame shaking and you suspected it wasn’t because of the temperature. No, either he was pissed off beyond belief or… or scared. Because he was well-aware of the fact you were right.

Your body started feeling like floating, your eyes turning to the sky on their own and you gritted your teeth, fighting it.

Not yet. Not fucking yet. Not until he knew this wasn’t on him, that this was something you simply had to do.

“Steve, Stevie- this is why I was resurrected. This is it. I go, so you could continue the mission, get the Stone back, fight whatever fight might come. I’m so sorry for this, but you know it has to be me.”

He looked at you with so much hurt in his eyes that you would have thought you stabbed him. He shook his head violently, trembling hands pushing harder against your wound and making you let out a sound way too close to a whine. You thought at least. The ringing in your ears was getting louder and the world was losing its colours… or was it like this the whole time, on this planet? You couldn’t remember…

Yet, you would swear that a crack in his conviction appeared on his face, one he swiftly disguised and shook off, determination replacing it as he fought the tears streaming down his face. You felt nothing but relief when you realized he started accepting the truth, started accepting what was happening. What had to happen.

“No. No, that’s not true.”

Your next words tasted bitter and dripped venom, but you said them anyway, a harsh reminder of your first goodbye. You hated yourself for speaking them; however, Steve had to understand.

“We’re out of time, Steve,” you mumbled, your tongue growing heavy, funny taste on it. “We’re always out of time.”

“Please, doll, not again, I can’t-“ The way he choked on his sob told you your shot found its target, the memory crushing his hope, slowly, but surely forcing him to resign. The calm you had felt when you arrived here returned, embracing you gently and you hoped your attempt at smile turned out decent.

“You can. You’re the brave-“ You hissed in pain as you wanted to straighten yourself just a bit, to be closer to him, instantly regretting not asking Steve to move you instead. Fuck, that hurt. “-bravest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s bullshit-” he spitted out, but he helped you sit up straighter, allowing you to nearly drown in the pools of his irises.

God, he was so beautiful, even in his grief, eyes red-rimmed, his nose running. He was yours. Always yours, you knew as much.

“My hero-“

“I’m not a Captain for while, you know,” he chucked humourlessly, a glint of something you didn’t like displaying on his face. “Just let me take you-“

“Not the Captain,” you shook your head, lamenting yourself for muddling it up. Calling him your hero was a bad, very bad idea. But you couldn’t think anymore, your head was buzzing with too many thoughts, wrapped in sensation of endless pain radiating from your gut. “You, S-s-stevie. Now let me go.”

“NO!”

“If I d-die before-re you throw m-me-“ you negotiated, only to be interrupted by the creature you had completely forgotten was there as well.

“She’s right,” the Red Skull confirmed flatly.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Steve roared, not bothering to look at him as he gathered you in his arms, not without a serious wave of vertigo on your part. And pain. Fuck, always pain. Being stabbed fucking hurt.

He only stood, torn between the tinniest chance at your survival and doing the right thing. It was ridiculous and disgusting how much it reminded you of your first goodbye. Left, or right door? You or millions, this time?

“Doll-“

“’s okay, Stevie. I love you. Al-always. Br-- the edge. ‘d let go,” you breathed out, your words slurring as you were losing control. He must throw you soon. That sucked. You would like few more moments with him.

Or a lifetime. Kisses, cuddles, playful lovemaking, friends and kids… maybe you could adopt, or just keep trying…

Steve’s features twisted in denial, jaw clenched, but it did nothing to disguise the tremble in it. His eyes were squeezed shut, glittering drops of salty water escaping, your own waterfalls never stopping. You clenched your teeth with effort to raise your hand, bloody fingers caressing his smooth cheek.

“’s ‘kay.”

He shook his head desperately, but his grip grew firmer, his steps heavy as he carried you to the edge as if he was about to meet his own end.

You swallowed your own sobs.

You didn’t want to die. You wished you could say you were at peace, you had thought you were but you weren’t. Yet, you needed to convince Steve about the opposite – again.

Life was so fucking unfair.

If that was true though… was at least death just?

Your eyes flickered to the terrible chasm, vertigo taking over once more at the image of just how long the fall would last.

Endless seconds of free fall.

But it wouldn’t be the fall that would kill you, would it now? It would be the landing.

It was always the landing.

Hovering above the edge in Steve’s arms, his eyes turned up towards the colourful sky, as if he was trying to keep his tears at bay or simply couldn’t look at you. Seconds felt like hours. Like forever, even. It was obvious he couldn’t make himself let go.

Jesus fucking Christ, how could he, after all? You wouldn’t if in his place, your roles reversed.

“Down-“ you muttered lowly and he instantly obeyed with his gaze returning to you.

The gaze he focused on you would always be carved into your memory, even in death, you had no doubt. You never knew a man could say so much about the agony that was tearing him apart with one look, but here he was. Your Steve.

When he kneeled, lowering your body to the ground, his hold slacking a fraction, you knew it was time. You forced another teary smile, lips quivering, no longer able to tell if it was from pain, the cold seeping into your bones and core or simple fear.

What was waiting at the bottom? More pain or something else? Maybe the peace, finally? How would you be able to rest in peace though, knowing you were leaving Steve behind?

“S-so good t-to me,” you breathed out shakily, memorizing every feature, every wrinkle of laughter and worry, even as the darkness started eating out the edges of your vision. You needed to go, now. You gathered the last remnants of strength, bracing yourself. “Love ya’.”

Propping your palms against his chest, you pushed away from him, the feeling of the sudden lack of ground under your body dizzying.

Wind slapped your cheeks, freezing the tears in your eyes and cutting through the wound.

The gale carried Steve’s broken scream to your ears and you sent him one last whispered sorry.

The fall seemed to have no end. But for once, God was truly merciful; you didn’t feel the landing.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Seeing their past selves was strange to say at least and Natasha mused how long of a path they had all walked since the first assemble of the Avengers.

In a way, it carried hope too though. She had buried hope for her soulmate and lost friends a long time ago; but now it was back. They had retrieved the Stones from New York relatively smoothly – though Clint had got a bit perplexed at having his soul punched out of his body by the Sorcerer Supreme – and were on their way back to their time.

This mission was a pretty ambitious stretch from Budapest. She had told so to Clint and found herself honestly smiling at his burst of laughter after years of mourning. Some lives had been ruined, but others still remained; and the chances that what they had lost in the dust could be brought back had concrete outlines now; outlines visible on her own skin as well. Her chest ached, but her heart fluttered with the memory of her soulmate.

Her feet landed on the platform with a rather ungraceful thud, but she still managed to keep herself standing upright. One glance around was all she spent to check up on everyone; only to find two people missing.

Blood froze in her veins, the satisfied smile at completed mission slipping from her face as her heart changed its pace from excited to horrified.

No.

No, this was not how this was supposed to go! Everyone should have come back!

So why was one whole pair missing? Why-

Strangely enough, her horror only escalated when she noticed that it was in fact one person missing only; because the other was on the platform with them, closer to the ground that she had expected, stripped of the nano-suit, stealth suit darker as it was dripping water; pink as it mixed with crimson stains on his thighs and torso.

No.

Oh no.

This was not happening. It couldn’t. Not again.

Steve had fallen to his knees, hands by his side clenched in tight fists. Blankly staring ahead, not actually seeing anything in front of him, a smudge of red – three lines clearly drawn by bloody fingertips – on his cheek and his face free of any colour and emotion telling enough of a story; screaming a story, in fact.

Natasha’s insides twisted painfully and she nearly spilled the contents of her stomach. She recognized that look – she had seen it before on Steve. On herself in a mirror.

Tears stinging in her eyes, she took a shaky step towards him, her heart weeping and grieving for her friends.

“…Steve?” Bruce questioned lowly from behind the machine he had controlled, but it only filled the deadly silence.

They all already knew what happened – or understood enough.

The Stone giving away warm amber glow slipped from Steve’s palm, his fingers plunging in his hair and gripping tightly, pulling enough to make it hurt like hell no doubt.

Yet, Natasha was well-aware it did nothing to dull the deep visceral pain that overtook his whole being, swallowed his whole shattered soul.

A guttural moan left his lips as he curled into himself and she didn’t bother blinking away her tears anymore.

Nothing she could do would sooth his grief. Yet, she placed her trembling palm on Steve’s shoulder in attempt to ground him, to show him she was there for him.

A desperate shriek, a helpless cry loud enough to tear ear-drums and hearts, cut the thick air of the compound and the large frame of a supersoldier went limp, swaying aside.

Natasha didn’t try and stop the fall. God knew that he would be falling for too long anyway.

The fucked-up thing about this kind of fall was that the landing, the only thing that could bring relief, would never come.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Epilogue

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

HOLD THE FIRE!

If you don’t kill me, you might get an epilogue, you know? One you might actually like. Just SAYING!

Also, thank you for reading :-*

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hey I just read like all of your one-shots (or whatever you call them) and they are amazing and very well written, so I was wondering if you could write one where it’s slytherin!sirius and gryffindor!james but instead of James being in love with lily it’s Sirius. So he’s always like flirting with him and everything. Only write it if you want to or if you feel comfortable writing it, and if you have time. 🥰

"Prongs? Mate, are you listening to me?" Remus said.

"Uh-huh," James said, but he was so clearly lying. He wasn't even looking at them, he was looking at the entrace of the Great Hall, peering at everyone who walked in. Big mystery who he was waiting for, Remus thought, rolling his eyes. He perked up as soon as one Sirius Black walked through the door. "How's my hair?" he asked, ruffling a hand through it.

"It looked better before you messed with it," Peter muttered. James either didn't hear him or was ignoring him, which was just as well, because he was busy making sure his glasses were still on his face-- as if he'd be able to see anything without them.

James got to his feet and tossed them a, "See you soon!" as he made a beeline for the Slytherin table.

"Prepare yourself for rejection number... what are we up to? One hundred and seventy-three?" Remus said.

"It'll be number six, if he actually bothers to ask him on a proper date this time," Peter said.

Remus was looking at James as he practically skipped over to Sirius, but Peter didn't care to watch. "Proper date? During breakfast? That's not Prongs's style." Sure enough, the grin on James's face was more look-at-me-I'm-so-charming and less asking him on a date. It was horrible that Remus could tell the difference between the types of smiles he had when it came to flirting with Sirius-- Remus wasn't even on a first name basis with him, but for all the times James had waxed poetic about him, Remus felt he was allowed to call him that instead of Black.

"Sirius! How are you this fine morning?" James asked, sitting down on Sirius's free side at the Slytherin House table. He liked to think it was fate that there was so often a free spot next to Sirius.

"Fine," Sirius said flatly. "Did you need something?"

"Can't your company be reason enough?"

"Did you need something?" Sirius asked again.

"Er, I suppose," James said, thrown off by Sirius seemingly not caring about his presence, but Sirius didn't know why he would be.

When, in the entire time of them knowing each other, had Sirius been happy to see him? That he'd showed, at least. It wasn't his fault that he liked attention, and James always gave him plenty of that. He didn't want to encourage him though, because things had been... tense with his parents lately. They wanted to know why he hadn't dated any of the eligible pureblooded girls in arm's reach, and they got suspicious when he dodged as many times as they asked.

"There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up," James continued.

"I am aware."

"And- well, I was wondering if you would like to go with me."

"No thanks," Sirius said.

"Ah, a slightly longer response than last time. I think I'm growing on you."

"You most certainly are not," Sirius lied. "Shouldn't you run back to your friends and leave me alone, now?"

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Alright then," James said, getting to his feet. "Hogsmeade isn't for another week or so. You can let me know if you change your mind."

"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you."

James only smiled at him before leaving.

Sirius sighed. He really should do something about him, but there were two problems with that. 1. He didn't want James to stop and 2. He'd tried to get James to stop in the past, to no avail.

*

"Your greatest admirer is here," Severus said as they were all sat in the Three Broomsticks at a table.

"Bloody brilliant," Sirius said. He didn't need to look to know that it was James.

"Can't you tell him to sod off?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You think I haven't tried?"

"If you hexed him more, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Think back to fourth year and tell yourself that again." Fourth year had been Sirius was in quite a bit of denial about himself, and James had been a challenge to that. Unfortunately, James hadn't been very bothered by getting hexed on the regular, so nothing had really changed. He'd kept slightly more distance that year, but physical distance only so that he could put a shield up; not the kind of distance that meant he left Sirius alone.

Severus made a face. Clearly, he remembered it as well.

Sirius didn't bother to hope that James wouldn't come up to him, because any time he thought that, he was always wrong. What Sirius didn't say to anyone was that he was sure it he complained to Professor McGonagall about it, she would take care of it for him. Everyone had a healthy fear of her, and if Sirius were truly bothered by James's constant flirtation, he would be able to stop him. He liked the attention simply because it was attention, and he liked the flirting because of who it was coming from. The first, he had admitted to Regulus when his brother bothered him about it. The second, he would keep entirely to himself. Sirius was the heir of a Great House, and he was expected to marry and have children of his own. If his parents caught wind of him trying to stray from that path, their reaction would be... unpleasant. Of course, Sirius only had Severus to tell, and Severus wouldn't tell his parents-- if only because his parents didn't like him for being a half-blood-- but with the way information traveled, Sirius wasn't going to risk it. Also because Severus rather hated James. A most unfortunate situation, but there was no helping it. Sirius had known what his life was going to be like pretty much since the moment he was born.

As if on cue, James made his way over. He even offered Severus a smile-- that wasn't returned-- before turning to Sirius. "Hullo, Sirius."

"Hi," Sirius said, because ignoring him was just rude.

"Can I buy you a butterbeer?"

Sirius raised his glass and gave it a little shake to draw forcus to the fact that it was still half-full. "I'm all set, thanks. Don't your friends miss you when you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Ignore them to come talk to me."

"Nah, they're fine with it. I think they like the space, actually. Gives them time to talk about what a tosser I am without me overhearing," he said with a grin.

"Charming," Severus said under his breath. Sirius kicked him under the table, which earned him a scowl as well as silence.

*

"Hey Sirius, go on a date with me?" James asked.

Sirius didn't miss a single step as he kept walking down the corridor. "Nope. Shouldn't you focus on asking out someone who's attainable?"

"I would never dream of settling."

Sirius kept his face blank instead of grinning like an idiot the way he wanted to.

*

"When was the last time someone told you how handsome you are?"

"I don't know, when was the last time we spoke?" Sirius asked, not looking up from his parchment.

James laughed. "Does that mean you'd like to date me? I'll compliment you all day every day, if that's what you want."

"Never said that was what I wanted," Sirius said, although, yes, that was what he wanted. Particularly with James. He'd like to do quite a few things with James, but thinking about that would be torturing himself. He couldn't have him, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Then what do you want?" There was no denying the flirtation in his voice, but Sirius was going to ignore that.

"Right now? To finish my assignment."

James tilted his head to get a better look at his parchment. "Is that the essay for Professor McGonagall?"

"Yes."

"Cool, I need to do that too," James said, and sat down on the other side of the table. He started unloading his bag, and Sirius figured it would be more trouble to tell him to leave than to just finish his essay. Besides, he was getting close to finishing, and if James was starting it right now, then he'd leave before James was done and that would be a problem solved.

*

"Sirius! What a pleasant surprise," James said.

Sirius groaned and thumped his head forward so it was pressed against his knees. "Believe it or not, a man sitting in an unused corridor doesn't want to make polite conversation."

"Er, you alright?"

"Peachy," Sirius said flatly.

James sat next to him, leaning against the stone wall. He nudged Sirius's knee with one of his own. "You want to talk about it?"

"With the golden child?" Sirius snorted. "No thanks."

"Problems with your parents then? Regulus has said they're a bit- strict."

"One, strict is a kind word for it, and two, you and Regulus don't speak to each other."

"Is that an order?"

"It's a fact. He finds you annoying."

"Good to know," James said mildly. "But I overheard him say it to one of his mates. You're right; we don't talk."

"Mm."

"So? Did you want to talk about it?"

"No offense, but I think speaking to you would only encourage you."

"Encourage you to have a friend? The horror."

"You know what I mean."

A pause. "I do, but would it really be so bad if you did encourage me? I'm not half-bad, which you'd know if you ever gave me a chance."

"Giving you a chance would mean pissing off my parents, and I do have to live with them. So thanks, but no thanks."

James gave him a look that was far too serious and assessing.

"What?"

"It's not like we'd have to get married just because you went on one date with me."

"I'm aware. My parents aren't. Unless you're going to be the one to hammer that into their heads, I'm not risking it."

There was a long pause, and Sirius didn't know if James was going to press his case further or leave. There was also a decent chance that he'd decide to switch the topic. Sirius didn't know which option he was hoping for.

"We don't have to tell anyone," James said quietly.

"Even your mates?"

"I think they'll be happy to finally have me not talking about you."

"And you could actually do that?" Sirius asked, turning his head to look at him. "You'd be able to not talk about it? Because it's not a bloody joke. If we go on dates and my parents find out, I'm as good as dead."

There was a twitch on James's face when he said the bit about his parents, but he didn't say anything about it. Sirius didn't fool himself into thinking that that meant James would forget about it. "I can keep a secret."

"This is such a bad idea," Sirius said, leaning his head against the wall.

"Is that a yes?" James asked, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

"It's a reluctant yes, with stipulations."

"I can handle that."

"It's amusing that you think so," Sirius said. Severus was his only friend for a reason, and it wasn't solely that Sirius was picky as hell. James would probably find out, a couple weeks in, that chasing Sirius was a lot better than having him.

*

Sirius knew it was stupid, and he knew that it was stupid while he was doing it, which was a whole other level of dumbarse for him to reach.

He snuck out of Grimmauld Place to go see James. It was summer, and his parents liked to manage his schedule during all hours of the day. He couldn't leave with a vague excuse-- even Regulus couldn't get away with that, and they were less controlling of Regulus since he was younger. If he wanted to see James over the summer, his only choice was to sneak out in the middle of the night.

He knew where James lived, but he'd never been there before. The good news was that James had extended an invitation before the train home, so he wasn't showing up unwelcome. Unannounced, yes, but he was welcome. It's not like he'd been able to send an owl earlier, asking if tonight was okay.

Luck was on his side, thankfully. He made it out of his house without incident, and into James's room without waking anyone. James was already awake, so he didn't count. It was also a good thing that he didn't have his mates over, because that would've been hard to explain.

James grinned, moving over to help him clear the window. "Hey."

"Hey," Sirius said, giving him a quick kiss hello.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming over?"

"My parents read all my letters that are unmarked or from people they don't approve of." Which was to say, they read all of his letters before passing them on to Sirius, and he wasn't sure that they gave him everything. Severus had mentioned something off-handed last year, as if he'd already told Sirius about it. Sirius, of course, had had no idea what he was talking about. "Sending you a letter would've been almost as suspicious as if you'd sent me one."

"I would've sent you one if you hadn't told me not to," James said.

"I know," Sirius said with a grin. He meant to get comfortable, but he pulled James back to him and kissed him again-- with a lot more tongue this time. "That's what's so great about you," he said, stepping back to pull off his shoes and take off his jacket.

"I'm great because I listen to you?"

Sirius untied his hair and ran his fingers through it. He wrinkled his nose when he felt more tangles than he'd bargained for. "You're great for a lot of reasons. That was just the one that was topical."

"Can I quote you on that?" James asked. "James Potter, great for many reasons."

"Quote me as often as you want, so long as you don't mention I was the one that said it."

"Right, our little secret."

"Our big secret," Sirius corrected. "Which you knew and agreed to before anything happened."

"Not complaining," James said, then made grabby hands for Sirius.

It was such a James thing to do that Sirius laughed as he stepped closer, letting James wrap his arms around him. "Missed you. Spending so much time apart is horrible. We should show up at Hogwarts and make classes start earlier in the year so we can sneak around there. Much easier than sneaking around like this."

"You mean because during the summer, only I can sneak out to see you?"

James nodded. "It's really not fair to make you do all the work."

"Well if you would buggering kiss me, it wouldn't be all the work, now would it?"

"Mm, true," James said, then leaned in.

Sirius had fallen in love with him. The stupidest thing he'd ever done. He'd known it was a mistake as he did it, but he leaned into it. No regrets.

[souvcniir]

*   bopping  along  to  forever  by  drake  is  𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑  ,  the  twenty  two  year  old  cis  man  thrown  back  to  their  business  days  with  none  of  his   memories  .  voted  most  likely  to  move  out  the  country  ,  alis  was  known  for  being   resilient &   facetious ,  go  figures  you'd  always  find  them  being  threatened  to  be  kicked  off  of  the  football  team  ,  but  grew  up  to  be   audacious &  untrusting  .

what’s  happening  cuties  !   listen  ,  i  cannot  join  a  group  without  giving  the  fattest  and  biggest  warning  that  despite  being  in  the  rpc  for  a  minute  now  ,   i  still  suck  at  introductions  .  embarrassing  luv  ,  i  know  asdj  .  i’m  gi(anna)  ,  i’m  nineteen  years  old  ( a  big  old  baby   )  ,  i  go  by  she  and  her  pronouns  and  i  currently  live  on  the  east  coast  which  throws  me  in  the  est  timezone  !!!  this  is  one  out  of  two  of  my  children  that  i’ll  be  bringing  you  ,   and  um  can  i  just  say  im  obsessed  with  the  fc  pairing  i  got  going  on  for  alistair  .  aron  piper  and   giuseppe  maggio  ?   this  is  what  heaven  is   asdfgh  .    down  below  you’ll  find  a  little  about  alistair  !  and  if  you  want  to  plot  you  can  either  smash  the  heart  button  ,  send  me  a  message  ,  or  message  me  on  discord  at  𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐮����𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐲#1776  .

*   𝐎𝐍𝐄                          𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  .

a   black   eye   in   response   of   words   of   provokement   ,   lonely   nights   concealed   by   random   bodies   ,   gold   rings   sitting   on   bruised   knuckles   ,   calloused   digits   shielding   a   bright   sun   from   bloodshot   eyes   ,   distant   chatter   drowned   out   by   loud   thoughts   ,    salty  drops   gleaming   on   tan   skin   ,   enchanting   pearly   whites   ,   thunderstorms   singing   pretty   hues   to   sleep     .

*   𝐓𝐖𝐎                          𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 .

full   name.   alistair  aurelius  salazar  .   nickname(s).    alis  ,  ali  .   preferred   name.   alistair  .   past  age.   twenty  two  .   present  age.   thirty  two  .   date  of  birth.   november  first  .  zodiac.  scorpio  . gender.    cis  man .   pronouns.   he  and  him  .   sexuality.  pansexual  .   younger  faceclaim.   aron  piper  .   older  faceclaim.   giuseppe  maggio   .   character  inspiration.    hardin  scott  ,   niccolo  govender  rossi  ,  lip  gallagher  ,  and   bellamy  blake  .

*   𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄                          𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐒  .

(   physical  abuse  ,  slightly  detailed     )

    sorrows  and  raindrops     ,   remnants  of  a  first  breath  that  established  the  tone  of  the  upbringing  of  curly  locks  and  pearly  whites  that  never  flashed  for  too  long  .      he  was  a  prisoner  in  a  punishment  meant  for  another  .   he  was  a  prisoner  to  rage  .

   he’s  made  up  of  pleads  ,   and  sobs  that  still  haunt  his  childhood   .   neglected  of  forehead  kisses  and  bedtime  stories   ,  gifted  fists  against  previously  bruised  flesh  in  substitution  .    black  and  blue  decorating  his  body  so  frequency  that  for  a  while  he  forgot  what  he  looked  like  without  them  .   

   one  night  ,  he   held  his  broken  arm  in  his  lap  and  begged  her  to  tell  him  why  ,  why  did  she  hate  him  so  much  ?    she  never  answered  ,   didn’t  even  move  a  muscle  .   left  her  seven  year  old  child  to  pull  himself  off  of  the  floor  and  out  the  door  .  that  was  his  last  memory  of  her  .

    left  in  the  care  of  the  foster  system    and  a  year  later  was  put  into  the  custody of  a  man  who  was  suppose  to  be  his  father  .   a  politician  who  had  cared  more  about  his  image  then  his  own  blood  eight  years  earlier  .   not  an  excuse  ,  his  father  would  learn  that  with  the  help  of  guilt  eating  him  from  the  inside  out  .  did  everything  he  could  think  of  to  make  it  up  ,    not  an  easy  challenge  .  

*   𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑                         𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 .

walked  hand  in  hand  with  being  difficult  .      labeled  the  broken  bird  .  the  dirt  bag  .   found  traces  of  himself  in  chaos  and  so  he  became  it  .    a  smart  boy  drowning  in  a  hurt  he  had  not  fully  recovered  from  .    got  better  as  the  years  went  ,   and  twenty  two  was  his  golden  years  of  doing  his  very  best  to  not  self  destruction  .  

kept  himself  busy  ,  but  that  does  not  mean  he  kept  himself  out  of  trouble  .  a  smart  boy  who  had  the  ability  to  stumble  into  class  with  black  rims  covering  regrets  from  the  previous  night  .   cannabis  was  the  best  form  of  therapy  and  getting  blacked  out  on  weekdays  was  his  favorite  sin  .   

careless  and  impulsive  ,  everyone’s  favorite  partner  in  crime  .  bruised  knuckles  and  a  fat  lip  were  the  consequence  of  a  insolent  mouth  that  never  knew  when  to  stop  .   smiled  with  blood  dripping  from  his  mouth  and  returned  to  his  dorm  with  bruised  knuckles  ,  now  he  remembered  what  he  looked  like  .    

charming  words  and  wandering  hands  might’ve  fooled  you  ,  but  commitment  for  him  was  unreachable  .   he  was  stuck  in  the  mindset  that  he  was  too  fucked  up  for  someone  to  love  him  and  it  showed  in  every  relationship  he  had  ever  had  .   he  was  the  heartbreaker  ,  or  more  so  the  cold  hearted  .  used  others  to  silence  the  demons  in  his  head  and  left  before  the  sun  crept  through  curtains  .  

*   𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄                         𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓  .

ten  years  formed  a  new  label  ,  the  phoenix  .   the  businessman  .    moved  around  until  he  settled  in   san  francisco  where  he  soon  opened  up  a  bar  with  his  business  partner  .   successful  ,  finally  funded  his  own  life  with  money  that  he  earned  .  but  there  was  more  to  him  then  just  expensive  cars  and  days  being  referred  to  as  boss  . 

healed  in  more  ways  then  he  had  been  ten  years  ago  ,  thanks  to  the  help  of  actual  therapy  (  though  cannabis   was  still  a  friend  )   .   greatest  achievement  was  finding  forgiveness  in  his  heart  for  his  father  and  building  a  normal  son  -  father  relationship  .    

decided  early  he  didn’t  want  kids  and  instead  adopted  a  pitbull  named  kyson  .   his  best  friend  and  as  those  around  him  joke  ,  his  son  .   is  his  background  a  picture  of  him  and  his  dog  ,  yes  .  mind  your  business  .

now  a  known  playboy  ,  though  most  aren’t  surprised  .  says  he’s  too  busy  for  relationships  but  it’s  just  the  fact  that  some  things  never  change  and  commitment  was  still  a  scary  thing  .  

recently  ,  as  in  the  last  three  years  ,  moved  to  riccione  ,  where  he  opened  up  his  fourth  bar  .   lives  in  a  house  on  the  beach  and  only  returns  home  every  few  months  (  plus  the  holidays  )  .  has  become  a  big  beach  bum  ,  but  he  likes  the  environment  .  does  the  whole  beach  life  activities  too  ,  the  hiking  and  the  surfing  (  though  he’s  not  very  good  )   .  

no  longer  a  fighter  ,  and  instead  is  the  one  breaking  them  up  .   realized  there  was  one  thing  he  never  wanted  to  be  ,  his  mother  ,  and  so  he’d  never  resort  to  using  his  fist  unless  in  the  act  of  defense  and  even  then  he’s  had  a  good  job  of  walking  away  .  

*   𝐒𝐈𝐗                         𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓  𝐈𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓   .

back  to  square  one  .  no  memories  of  who  he  grew  up  to  be  ,  just  the  old  feeling  of  anger  and  hurt  .   sad  to  see  his  process  thrown  out  the  window  ,  his  healing  cracked  open  .  the  biggest  question  ,  is  will  he  get  to  his  end  point  once  again  or  will  a  second  chance  be  his  downfall  ?

*   𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍                          𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒  .

has  always  taken  very  good  care  of  himself  in  the  sense  of   what  he  puts  into  his  body  ,  even  in  college  he  paid  important  attention  to  diet  and  exercise  .  

doesn’t  speak  of  his  mother  ,  or  at  least  he  didn’t  .  you  asked  a  question  and  got  silence  in  return  .  most  never  actually  knew  what  the  first  seven  years  of  his  life  was  ,  which  left  many  in  shock  when  he  finally  decided  to  open  up  about  it  .

he  doesn’t  like  nicknames  and  prefers  to  be  called  just  alistair  ,  though  some  people  do  get  a  pass  ,  even  if  that  pass  comes  with  a  hard  look  .

his  drink  of  choice  is  bourbon  but  he  hasn’t  been  a  bigger  drinker  since  his  college  days  ...  his  friends  would  joke  it’s  because  he  overdid  it  too  many  times  in  his  younger  years  . 

*  𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓                          𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒  .

*   these  are  simply  just  ideas  to  give  us  something  to  start  with  ,  i  am  open  to  anything  that  is  not  mentioned  as  well  am  completely  and  totally  okay  with  switching  things  around  and  adding  things  to  these  ideas !!!  i  love  plotting  and  bouncing ideas  off  of  each  other  so  don’t  be  afraid  to  stray !

                    YOU’RE  BAD  FOR  MY  HEALTH  ,  YEAH  YOU  SHOULD  HURT  SOMEBODY  ELSE  (  PAST  CONNECTION  ┋  OPEN    )  .    he  was  bad  for  their  health    ,   a  rollercoaster  that  consisted  of  too  many  downs  .  toxic  ?  yes  .  in  love  ?  in  denial  .  but  whatever  was  between  these  two  ,  it  kept  them  at  each  others  throats  and  in  each  other  bed  .   this  was  not  the  one  who  got  away  ,  it  was  the  one  he  needed  to  stay  away  from  . 

                   WILL  HE  ALWAYS  BE  MINE  ?   ( PRESENT  CONNECTION  ┋  OPEN   ) .    his  first  adult  relationship  ,  and  like  alistair  himself  it  was  not  always  easy  .  long  nights  ,  busy  days  ,  sometimes  this  relationship  felt  like  it  was  set  up  to  fail  ..  and  then  they  got  their  moments  where  butterflies  flapped  their  wings  and  rose  spreaded  to  cheeks  and  it  really  seemed  like  it  would  work  ...  but   good  moments  ,  they  come  and  go  and  this  relationship  leaves  the  other  thinking  how  long  they  might  have  alistair  . 

                  I  GOT  A  BAD  IDEA  ( PAST  CONNECTION  ┋  OPEN   ) .    he  looked  to  his  left  and  saw  them  ,  and  when  he   looked  in  front  of  him  he  saw  the  bars  and  regrets  forming  .   these  two  were  a  duo  that  wreaked  havoc   ,  being  around  them  meant  cop  sirens  and  bad  decisions  .  these  two  were  ,  what  do  they  say  ?  young  and  dumb  .

                  WHOLE  SQUAD  MOBBIN  EVEN  THOUGH  WE  ONLY  SIX  DEEP  ( PAST  CONNECTION  ┋  OPEN   ) .    his  best  buddies  (  that  i  manage  are  still  apart  of  his  life  in  present  time  )  made  up  of  two  to  three  others  .  they  are  his  people  ,  his  picked  family  .   

                I  SWEAR  IF  I  EVER  LEFT  YOU  IN  THE  COLD  ,  IT’S  CAUSE  IT  WAS  COLDER  INSIDE   (  PRESENT  CONNECTION  ┋  OPEN   )  .   a  old  friend  who’s  no  longer  that  ,  a  friend  .  i  picture  this  to  be  more  complicated  then  what  it  seems  ,  but  picture  these  two  going  from  being  attached  at  the  hip  to  not  speaking  to  one  another  .

                  CAN  YOU  IMAGINE  ?   ( PAST  CONNECTION  ┋  OPEN   ) .    that  one  person  who  badly  wanted  something  more  from  alistair  and  got  exactly  the  opposite  .   lovers  in  the  way  of  intimacy  but  one  sided  emotionally  .  

[oneofyatosfollowers]

One of a Kind- Chapter 13

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191861/chapters/53700181

Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13360973/1/One-of-a-Kind

Yato's system hissed in warning, sensing his adrenaline rush and advising against it. He ignored it, grunting as he tried to haul himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his kid. Yukine kept himself in front of Yato, his body barely blocking the torso. Yato squeezed Yukine's shoulder, trying to look around Hiyori at the threat. The other Wall-Hs had scurried behind piles, trying and failing to look as though they've been working the whole time. Only the long haired man with glasses stayed by them, asking the Lieutenant General what the meaning of her visit was.

"Please Lieutenant General Bishamon," Hiyori begged, "I have the plant! It's my duty to bring this to the captain!"

"Yato didn't do anything wrong!" Yukine shouted at her. Bishamon regarded the two through narrowed eyes. The amethyst irises then rested on the Wall-E. She coldly took in his battered form, eyes meeting his with equal hostility. Behind her Kazuma stepped up, his glasses pulling up all the information it could.

"Bishamon, this is the one we we're looking for. He's gravely injured both organically and technically. If we wanted to take him in, now would be the best time." Kazuma's message to her systems read.

"Are we sure that's the plant?" Bishamon sent back. Kazuma's eyes darted across his bifocals, then he nodded.

"So this is what the General meant when he said he 'took care of it'" Kazuma grimaced, clearly able to see all the damage under the tattered wearalls. Bishamon hummed in response. She knew the head of her and her men was strong. Strong enough to stand above them all and beside the captain. But this seemed too much, it passed self defense against a cleaner who traveled with an Eve and a Mo. It seemed this Wall-E was a formidable foe, to be able to cause such damage to the Auto. But, still, nothing the Secur-T and their numbers couldn't handle. There really was no reason for the Co-pilot's involvement. Not only that, but why try to get rid of the plant?

"Why did you attack our co-pilot?" Bishamon addressed Hiyori.

"We didn't! He attacked us!" Hiyori stepped forward, "Please Lieutenant General, the Co-pilot doesn't want us to return to Earth, he's trying to silence us! Yato is not a danger, he's just trying to help me complete my mission!" The Eve held out the plant for everyone to see. The dirty brown glass caught the light and the leaves were shown to be a bit brown at the tips.

"Why would the General try to silence you?" Kazuma asked. Hiyori faltered, looking over her shoulder at the two boys. Yato let out a shuttering breath, then nodded to her in encouragement, eyes hard. His blood still dripped into a small puddle on the floor. Hiyori brought the plant closer to her, just above her heart.

"Because the order was given by a man, centuries ago, to make sure the humans never returned to Earth. We think, w-we think," Hiyori's shoulders curled inward, "We think he was also the one who activated the virus that caused the Wall-Es to slaughter each other." Hiyori said. All eyes went to Yato, his eyes covered by his bangs as his head hung low. From under his arm, Yukine's legs began to shake from the effort of holding up Yato's weight, but he remained strong.

"But Yato doesn't have the virus! If he did he wouldn't have survived this long!" Yukine proclaimed. Bishamon didn't look convinced, scowling in contempt at Yato.

"Or it simply means he was the one to come out on top," She hissed. Hiyori and Yukine flinched, not knowing enough about their companion to refute. Yato's heart went out to them feeling as guilty as it has been for a long time. He finally had the opportunity to do something right, something worthwhile and not futile.

Yato knew about the virus. He knew it was his father that wrote the code and oversaw the production of the first line of cyborgs. Knew how much his father hated the destruction mankind had caused such a beautiful planet. He also knew his father was brilliant and meticulous, there was no way the Wall-Es would have such a drastic malfunction without it being deliberate.

Yato knew about the virus, but not before it was too late. He didn't figure this all out until one of his co-workers snapped and went on a war path. It started to happen every so often, then it seemed to happen more and more frequently. First one, then three, then five, then twelve. Wall-Es living in fear and suspicion of each other, knowing that one can start swinging while the other was turned. It became survival at all cost while fearing for your own sanity. And once Yato put the pieces together, after weeks of denial while scrubbing blood off his hands, he resigned himself to this fate. After all, his father created all the Wall-Es based off of Yato's blueprints, homicidal coding and all. His son, his prototype.

And as a prototype, he was no exception. Yato had snapped, pushed over the edge by the adrenaline of killing a hoard of his fellow Wall-Es in a frantic effort to protect the woman named Sakura. When bodies laid at his feet and crimson stained his clothes, he heaved in a breath and passed out. At least he thought he passed out, but instead of his vision fading to black, it fated to red. His warning system flared up without any text letting him know why. It was like watching a movie thorough a scarlet tint, his body moving on it's own without any feeling. He swung wildly at the bricks and dirt that formed the alley they were in, howling in pain and pleasure at the top of his lungs in a voice that wasn't his. Behind him a he heard a scream.

He remembers having whipped around in slow motion, blue irises surrounded with dark grey scleroses focusing on a woman on the ground. She cried in fear and heartbreak, reaching a hand towards him. Her body temperature glitched into colors of greens and yellows, obscuring the world's beautiful red color he wanted to see. He tries not remember what he did after that, having wandered around with red vision for a long time, longer than any other infected cyborg had. But that might have been because of his prior training in fighting that those who opposed him didn't have. That or his odd sense of survival that seemed to run in the family. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

But then, one day, something kicked in. A flash of white text cut across his movie screen and said 'LifeLine Activated', then he could suddenly control his bloodstained fingers. His vision had cleared and his body was once again his to control, finally allowing him to fall to his knees and sob. It left him to hang on to the last words his one and only friend had spoken, forgiveness directed at him. The others that remained feared him after that, keeping their distance as he desperately tried to contact the man who created him only to come up empty. Desperately tried to isolate whatever was in his system that worked as an anti-virus, so he could save what little life was left on the massive planet. But the Wall-Es attacked each other, falling one by one, till he was the only one left, a fixed but broken machine.

"My name is Yaboku Kotonoha, son of the famous Dr. Kotonoha, who is known as 'The Father of Cyborgs' or simply as 'The Crafter'. I am a Waste Allocation Load Lifter: Earth class; ID 001-Prototype. The virus was over-rided by a code done by my father. I can assure you I'm no longer a threat. He is the man that gave the order A1-13 to the Auto, assuring humanity never returns to Earth. The Auto is the threat, to both Earth and the people, including the captain." Yato informed the room. By the end of his speech, Yato had became out of breath. He tried to stand strong, but the lack of oxygen in his battered lungs was making him light headed. Good thing Yukine was still right by his side, supporting him.

Bishamon's eyes narrowed as she repeated the last of the Wall-E's words, but her glare was shifted to Hiyori who repeated her plea to finish her task. Bishamon regarded the room in thoughtfulness. The situation was starting to make sense but she still didn't know what to make of it. She looked to her Major General for advice.

"If he was made by The Crafter than that means he was trained by the same man as our co-pilot. That could explain how he was able to stand up to him and the other Wall-Es. If it got out that the second in command of Heaven's Sun was created and raised the same as a Wall-E then," Kazuma's sentence trickled off. It was just speculation, but at the very least the Wall-E's name and ID aligned with Kazuma's records, this made his story plausible. (Even if it did say he was deceased). Bishamon knew as much.

"Well regardless, that doesn't explain the A1-13 protocol." Bishamon said. But, she looked to the plant in the Eve's hand. The human Eve of a wealthy, noble family of doctors. She had no reason for deception and was simply following her purpose. And Bishmon's purpose was to protect the lives and happiness of the humans of this ship. The Lieutenant General spun around to face her line of most loyal troops, arms behind her back, feet in line with her shoulders.

"Listen up," her voice boomed, "we need to do everything in our power to get this plant to the ship's mainframe without the knowledge of our General." The Secur-T gasped, questioning their leader's betrayal.

"It has always been our mission to keep the population safe until our return to Earth. I don't obey this 'Crafter' I obey the captain of Heaven's Sun who's under threat by his co-captain. We must save the ship!" Bishamon declared. The line of Secur-Ts let our a cheer, saluting her and promising to follow her to the end. She nodded at them with a determined smile, then looked to the two Secur-Ts that had accompanied the Go-4 when Yato first arrived.

"Kuruha, Kinuha, Kazuma and I will find the captain, you two will then guard him. Get his side of the story as well." Bishamon commanded them. The two nodded and broke from the line.

"Wait!" Hiyori stepped closer to Bishamon, "Watch out for the Go-4 too. He's on Kouto's side!" Hiyori told them, to the groups surprise. Bishamon's eyes widened, her mouth falling open.

"Kuguha is-" she shook the betrayal off her face, turning back to the two, "You heard the Eve, be on the look out, but don't cause a scene."

Kuruha and Kinuha nodded, making their way to the elevator. The rest were ordered to be on stand by around the pool, and to be ready for crowd control when the time comes. Tsuguha and Akiha in the lead. They were to act like they didn't know a thing.

"Ill call a doctor for the Wall-E" Kazuma said.

"Yato's fine." Yato wheezed out a smile, which Kazuma returned with a nod.

"Is there anyway you can call Dr. Masomi Iki? I know he's not good with tech but." Hiyori asked the Major General. Kazuma gave her a smile too.

"I'm pretty good with tech myself. Consider it done," he reassured.

"That's all well and good but we don't have time for that," Yato hissed and forced himself to stand, "None of you know Kouto like I do. You need me with you."

"Don't be stubborn!" Yukine scolded.

"Either way, we need to get going," Bishamon turned towards the elevator, "Have the doctor meet us off of the pool deck, somewhere there are no cameras."

"None of the cleaner's closets have cameras," Yukine piped up, "He'll be safe there." The Mo shifted the extra weight. Yato looked at him, but spoke to Bishamon.

"The kid stays with me." Yato said, he then looked to Hiyori, who moved towards the Secur-T. Nodding at her determined expression with acceptance. His eyes not any less pleading.

Kazuma made his way next to the Wall-E, ducking under his handle and supporting the other side. Yato grunted and adjusted to the new position. Once they were ready, Kazuma nodded to his lady.

"I've stalled the security camera in the elevator, hopefully he won't suspect a thing."

The group made their way to the elevator, doors shutting behind them. The head Wall-H waved to them in a lazy fashion, the glare over his glasses making his expression unreadable. Bishamon clicked the button to the main deck and they were off. Hiyori and Yukine filled the two Secur-T in on the underlying darkness of the ship. During their explanation, Hiyori kept looking back at Yato out of worry and guilt. His eyes stared at the floor, glassy and tired.

"Kazuma?" Bishamon looked at her Major General. Kazuma looked past his glasses, his expression not promising.

"I can't find any record of the Auto's blueprints. Only the captain would know it," Kazuma looked at Yato, "And the last thing I want to do is try downloading anything from him in this state."  The Secut-T flinched at Yato's glare, cold and threatening.

"Wise choice," Yato agreed.

"Well at any rate, we need the captain to open the hallow detector for us so Eve can put the plant in," Bishamon clenched her fists, "That's going to be tricky with the General of the Army blocking the way."

"Hang on! He doesn't know your not on his side, right?" Yukine piped up. He shrunk a bit when the Secur-T whipped around to look at him in surprise. The Mo blushed under the quiet stares.

"You make a good point," Kazuma said with a smile.

"Agreed." Bishamon looked at Yukine again then turned back to face the door. Subtly, Yato patted his kid's back as best he could.

"Bishamon, I think I should go with you." Hiyori turned towards the woman with a hard look that left no room for argument. The Secur-T didn't look too pleased.

"No."

"But Lieutenant General-"

"He doesn't know we are against him. If you go with us, he'll know somethings up," She turned to the boys behind them, "You three stay on the deck till we return. While Kazuma comes with me, I'll call for reinforcement if I need too. We will open the Holo-Detector." Bishamon said, glaring through his reluctant expression.

"Understood," Kazuma affirmed. The elevator slowed to a smooth and easy stop, doors opening up. Noise. Shouting and scuffling filled the workers' hallway. Chaos. Just before Bishamon could step out, a wolfish-looking Secur-T stepped into view.

"Lieutenant General Bishamon, I need you all to come with me. General's orders."

[violetsmoak]

Tabula Rasa [6/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/48034471

Blanket Disclaimer:

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn’t know and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn’t care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (Rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #i’ll protect you #soulmark tattoo #bright anxiety #soulbond #a lie #hand holding

First Chapter

Author's Note(s): And now for a bit of Jason's perspective, before we return to chronological continuity...

________________________________________________________________

The minute Tim reveals to the Family that Jason is his soulmate—the minute Jason’s sudden burst of conscience has him confirming it—he knows he’s done. He’s lost all ability to pretend anything to the contrary, even when Tim gets his memories back, everyone will always know.

And he will always have to face the looks like the ones they’re giving him now.

As soon as there are no more civilians lurking outside the door, it’s as if a den of wolves has rounded on him.

“What the hell?” Steph demands. “He said you were dead!”

Ouch. Although…I guess he wasn’t lying.

“Congratulations, I guess,” Duke offers, not looking sure he’s expressing the correct sentiment. Then again, he often looks at a loss at figuring out the dynamics of the Family he’s suddenly found himself a part of.

Cass seems unsurprised about the whole thing which makes a certain amount of sense; she might not have known exactly what was going on between him and Tim, but she noticed something.

Bruce remains blank-faced.

Jason hates that he can’t read him or figure out what he thinks of all this. Is he angry? Disappointed? Plotting to lock Jason up again?

“If we might all calm down,” Alfred speaks up, ever the voice of reason, “this is a trying time for all of us. No doubt more so for Master Jason and Master Timothy.”

Though he seemed shocked at first, it seems he now simply accepts the fact, in the same way he simply accepts and adapts to every new Wayne Crisis.

“How long have you known?” Bruce asks, question void of inflection.

Jason meets his eyes in defiance. “A while.”

“And Tim?”

“Longer than me.”

“Why didn’t either of you tell us?” Dick cries, hurt lacing every syllable.

But Bruce steamrolls over that, too, asking the real questions. “Were you aware of this at the Tower?”

Jason clenches his fists and refuses to answer.

“The Tower?” Steph echoes. “Wait. You mean when he beat Tim within an inch of his life?” She levels a vicious glare at him, twin spots of angry red on her face as she jumps to her feet. “You tried to kill him! Your soulmate!”

“In case you don’t remember, I wasn’t firin’ on all cylinders back then,” Jason shoots back.

“That’s a shitty excuse and you know it!”

“And it wasn’t exactly the last time,” Dick adds, then winces like he didn’t mean to add accidental evidence against Jason in this impromptu Trial by Bat.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Jason snaps. “It’s not like I asked for any of this.” He pushes away from the wall that’s been holding him up since all this began. “Thanks for this little reunion, but I’m out of here. You all have your hands full with coma boy now.”

“You can’t just go!” Dick protests. “If he wakes up and you’re not here, how do you think he’ll react? You’re the only one he recognizes!”

“He doesn’t recognize me, he recognizes the ball and chain on my arm,” Jason retorts, brandishing his left wrist.

Far from emphasizing his point, everyone’s eyes rivet toward the mark, which hasn’t settled back on his wrist yet. It’s as if it acts as a reminder; everyone goes quiet and considering in their own way.

He hates that, that they think they may pass judgment on him, on this—on the fact fate fucked him and Tim over.

“Screw this,” he says and stalks from the room. He tries to ignore what looks like a flash of relief on Bruce’s face.

He doesn’t bother with the elevator, needs the physicality of stomping down sixteen flights of stairs to cool his anger. It doesn’t help; he gets outside the hospital and ends up just kind of standing there near the ambulance loading bay.

Not sure what he’s supposed to do now, he digs out his cigarettes and lights one, starts puffing away in agitation. He should leave, get out of here to do something useful. Screw playing nice for anyone’s sake—it would serve them all right if he did decide to put Gotham in his rear-view.

But he has to get back on task. Whoever this person is that’s decided to be his new archenemy, he’s bad for more than just Jason’s business. That’s why he has to stick around.

Not because of Tim’s recovery.

He ignores the voice in his head (which sounds annoyingly like Roy) that tells him denial isn’t a talent no matter how much effort he puts into it.

Jason has started his second cigarette when he hears a familiar pattern of footsteps approaching.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, I don’t want to hear it, even from you,” he warns.

“I am not here to say anything in particular to you,” Alfred replies serenely. “I would, however, ask if I could trouble you for a cigarette.”

Jason almost jolts at that and stares at the older man in astonishment. “What?”

“Curious. Nowhere in your files was it mentioned you had suffered recent auditory damages,” Alfred remarks mildly. When Jason still can’t summon a response, he adds, “It has been a rather trying two weeks, Master Jason and decently brewed cuppas are scarce in this place. Rather suspect, given how much funding we provide them with.”

As if in a trance, Jason slides a cigarette out of the pack and hands it to Alfred. The man takes it gingerly, the movement awkward but practiced, like it’s something he hasn’t done in a while. He bends to hold it to the flame that Jason automatically flicks to life and gives a few experimental inhalations. 

For a while, they stand in silence. Jason spends a good deal of that sneaking glances at the butler as he handles his cigarette almost artfully between two fingers.

He can’t take it anymore. “Since when do you smoke?”

“You are not the only one in this family who had tumultuous teenaged years. I spent some time before I went into service frequenting pubs that made your American CBGB look like a primary school.”  

Jason blinks. “Huh. And I’m suddenly re-evaluatin’ who’s the most secretive member of this gig.”

“Quite.”

There is another long spell of silence. At last, that gets to Jason too.

(And he knows Alfred’s doing it on purpose, damn it!)

“Look, Alf, it’s not that I…” he begins, then stops because he’s not sure how he wants to tackle this. “Soulmates or not, I’m the worst person to be around the kid right now. And I’ve got…stuff going on.”

And I might be the reason he got shot, to begin with; I don’t know if I can be around him knowing that.

“Understandable, Master Jason. One can only do what is within one’s power,” Alfred hums. “This is a difficult situation, and you need to take the time to process, however you do so. This family—Master Timothy himself—has always weathered emergencies just as dire as this. I have every confidence and faith they will again. At least this time, no one has died.”

And isn’t that a low fucking bar? ‘Whelp, you still have all your limbs and only slight mental trauma, but you’re alive, so good for you!’. This fucking family…

“Have you ever had occasion to visit Japan in your travels?”

The segue makes Jason turn his whole body to face the man again. “Uh. Once or twice?”

“Was it all for business or did you visit any cultural sites? I remember as a child you had a fascination with Matsumoto Castle.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I got to go there, once. It was awesome.”

No need to tell him it was to meet with the head of the local Yakuza for Talia. Why does he want to know that, anyway?

Alfred hums again.

“The Japanese have a philosophy I have always found fascinating,” he says, using his finger to tap away a bit of ash. “They treat breakage and repair as an integral part of history and development, rather than something to hide or gloss over. They call it kintsugi, if I’m not mistaken.”

Jason frowns, the term tugging a memory. A late night in bed flicking through National Geographic. “Isn’t that when they fill the cracks in clay pots with gold or something?”

“There is a relation between the two,” Alfred allows, amused, and then becomes thoughtful once again. “The past may be imperfect, but it is not something to repress. It is there whether we want it to be or not. And it is how one accepts and changes in relation to that which shows one’s measure.” He takes another drag of the cigarette and frowns, shooting Jason a judgemental look. “I forgot how bloody awful these things are.”

And Jason can’t help snorting with laughter as Alfred flicks the butt away.

“Anyhow. I hoped to catch you before you left and say I wish to see you again soon. Sooner than a few months this time, though I understand you have a life of your own.” And there’s the Alfred guilt; Jason knew it was coming. “I did, however, hear a rumor that the Red Hood died in an explosion the other night. With him off the streets now, perhaps it will be more convenient to come around.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “I’m not fallin’ for it.”

“Falling for what?” Alfred replies, innocent. He turns. “We will see to Master Timothy, have no fear about that. I will send you updates as to his condition. It may take a while, but I remain confident he will improve. Good day, Master Jason.”

And then he heads back into the hospital.

Jason glares at his back, telling himself he will not let that sway him. He’s too old to let well-meaning manipulations sway him. And yet…

Tim had seemed so…frail. Vulnerable. Terrified. And that had gone away when Jason was there.

The expression is in such contrast to the other he has in his head. The blank resignation and acceptance when Jason all but told him he wished he didn’t exist.

Like he was fucking expecting it.

He smokes two more cigarettes before swearing and turning back to the hospital. This time he takes the elevator.

When he re-enters Tim’s room, everyone looks up in surprise at his return. Except Alfred, because the man is a sneaky fucker, and Jason wonders if Tim doesn’t have more in common with him than with Bruce. He refuses to meet anyone’s gaze, though, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

“I might be a jerk, but I don’t want to make the kid hemorrhage from the stress of me not bein’ here,” he grumbles. “So I’ll stick around until he’s, I dunno, less breakable or something.”

He can almost hear Dick’s smile. “Thanks, Little Wing. Knew we could count on you.”

“Bullshit you did.”

“Master Jason.”

He sighs and sidles into an empty chair, one closest to the door, farthest from Bruce, and with a good vantage point of Tim. 

This is gonna suck.

“So,” Dick leans against the wall next to Jason, movement slow and deliberate. There’s a slight, manic edge to his voice. “Soulmates, huh?”

“I swear to god, Grayson, if you keep bringin’ it up, I’m out of here.”

“Spoilsport.”

But mercifully, he leaves it alone. For today.

⁂

To say that Jason’s world has completely uprooted itself within the course of weeks would be an understatement.

At first, he expected everyone to leave him alone—his presence tolerated only because of the technicality of him being Tim’s soulmate. But the day after Bruce’s birthday and the visit from Gillian Sato, Dick pulls him to one side while he’s getting coffee and hands him a folder. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Jason flips it open and blinks at the contents. Pages and pages of what looks like a whole new identity. “‘Todd Jacob Kane’—what the hell is this?”

“Well, we had to explain how you’re connected to the Family if Tim or anyone asks. So now you’re a distant cousin on Bruce’s mom’s side of the family. Explains the hair, too.”

He reaches out to tug at said hair, but Jason ducks and snarls at him, “Why the fuck do you have to explain anything?”

“That social worker will come back. And now she and all the doctors know you’re Tim’s soulmate, so you can’t be dead or unaccounted for. At some point, other people will ask, too.”

“You’re talkin’ like I’m gonna be around once his head’s back on straight.”

“That could take a while, Jay,” Dick says with uncharacteristic solemnity “Maybe even longer if the damage is worse than we think. We’re just trying to prepare for every eventuality. Besides—don’t you want to be alive again? In the legal sense, I mean.”

“Not if it means I gotta spend more time with you losers, or like, pay taxes or something.” He leafs through the documents, eyebrows raising. “Shit. Barbie went all out, didn’t she?”

GED, vaccinations records, passport, social security number, military records (ex-army medic, two tours of duty in Manbij—hell, she was paying attention, wasn’t she?) and—

“What the hell is this? Formal PTSD diagnoses?!”

“Can you think of a convincing argument where those are wrong?”

Jason grumbles in response, because, no, he can’t.

“Leslie may have had some input, based on everything she knows about you and us.”

“And what about this, huh? Why do I have a juvy record?”

“You can’t be too clean or anyone looking into you would know there’s something up. Besides, you already had a juvy record, it’s not like it’s a change. And this segues well into your military career.”

“Where I racked up a dishonorable discharge, looks like.”

“Did you look at the reason for it?”

Jason glances through the document, and a bit of the tension clears. “Okay. Yeah, that would track.”

“This way you’ve got both a criminal record and a service record. If you’re intending to keep straddling the line of good guy and bad guy, you’ve got a background to build on for either.”  

Jason considers this as he looks back down to the files, and whistles. “Damn, Barbie.”

“My wife’s a genius.”

“Well, one of you has to be.”

“You’re just jealous.”

That you somehow ended up soulmates with two of the most gorgeous and capable women on the planet? Who wouldn’t be? I mean, if I gave a shit about soulmates.

The thought rubs him wrong for some reason, and he thinks back on Tim. The kid isn’t really the worst option in the world. He can sort of see if he were a different person—the kind that’s swept up in the soulmate nonsense—how the younger man could be appealing. His sarcasm alone might have made them friends in another life.

Dick must notice something in his expression because his own softens, and he says, “Tim will be okay, you know.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You sure? Because you looked kind of—”

“I’m fine. It’s not something I’m losing sleep over.” He tries to deflect. “And you’re takin’ this all suspiciously well, considering you were freakin’ out about it yesterday.”

“Well, I had time to process. And I think it makes sense.”

“…Fuckin’ excuse me?”

“Maybe not on the surface,” Dick hurries to add, “But the thing is, you and Tim, you’re both…” He hesitates, looking for the word.

“Replacements?”

“Damaged.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What.”

“Well, you are. For different reasons. But maybe your damages complement each other or something?”

“That is the stupidest thing you have ever said to me,” Jason informs him. “And you once asked me why they put the paper on the onions so tight.”

He was thirteen, and it was the first and last time he ever attempted to cook anything within the same vicinity as Dick Grayson.

⁂

Tim is in and out of consciousness, and barely even Tim for the first month or so. It doesn’t stop him from somehow using his latent powers of manipulation to get Jason to agree to stick around even longer—or worse, visit the manor.

(And yes, he’s aware that at the moment Tim is, perhaps for the first time in his life, not even capable of manipulation. But how else is he supposed to explain the way he folds whenever the kid turns that sad, panicked gaze on him?)

It’s a pain for more reasons than his own discomfort, because the thing is, he wasn’t actually lying to Tim when he said he had work.

Just because Penguin’s a slimy bastard doesn’t mean he isn’t smart. Jason’s taken his words to heart in the time that he’s been lying low. He scoped out the Hungry Ghost, the club that fronts a modern-day bordello and chosen it as his information-gathering hub. It took a bit of reconnaissance and conveniently arranging for the current bouncer-slash-barback to skip town, and he had a gig lined up.

He’d put on a convincing show of hesitating at the entrance. He’d awkwardly shuffled a bit and mentioned to the owner, Madam Salome, that he heard they hired without caring too much about past records.

She’s a hard-mouthed woman, whipcord thin and angular, and with a cold look he’s seen before on a lot of the girls walking the streets. She grills him about why he was in juvy (carjacking—not a lie) and why he got discharged from the army (killed a man for raping a young girl; also not technically a lie) and whether he has any kind of issue with sex work (“No ma’am, world’s oldest trade. Should be regulated.” Which is also something he believes).

Then she gives him a hard look like she can tell he’s lying and hires him anyway.

So now he’s ready for his long-con of surveillance, which means he can’t be spending every free moment with Tim.

Right?

Yet, against his inclination and will, he finds himself at the manor every evening, helping with physiotherapy or sitting by Tim’s bed with his nose buried in a book.

(Or trying to have his nose buried in a book, it’s sort of hard when he’s being watched by Tim’s unwavering gaze. Strange how he’s good at that even with one eye still covered with a bandage.)

He’s uncomfortable with how attached the kid has gotten to him in such a short time, all because of his soulmark; it feels false since Tim currently has no memories of everything Jason has done to him.

A niggling voice in his head that sounds like Kori this time reminds him that Tim seemed open to the idea before.

(He shrugs that off.)

It’s a while before he gets over the guilty pit in his stomach whenever he walks into a room and Tim’s face lights up to see him. The kid might not be talking yet, but he’s ridiculously expressive. Jason wonders how he survived in the boardroom with such an open face, before he remembers that before, Tim knew how to hide more.

He always keeps space between the two, a careful distance unless he needs to help Tim calm down or with physio exercises; the only time he gets close to Tim of his own volition is when the kid is asleep. Even then it’s just to study him and try to figure out why the hell the universe thought they’d be a good match.

Sometimes he’s downright resentful of him.

Inwardly, he rails that it’s Tim’s fault they’re in this situation. If he hadn’t been there that night, if he’d not had some stupid meltdown on television, he wouldn’t have been in Crime Alley. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near Jason and wouldn’t be brain damaged now.

(You don’t know that, Kori’s voice in his head reminds him. He throws himself off buildings and into fights every night. He could easily have gotten hurt some other way.)

This makes him feel like an ass for thinking and he’ll immediately seek out Dick or Damian because clearly, he has feelings that need to be exorcised. Right now he can’t get out on the streets to do it, so the Cave will have to suffice.

He prefers Damian, to be honest. The kid is doing his damnedest to act as if nothing has changed, which Jason needs right now.

“I don’t know what everyone is so worried about,” the brat dismisses one day as Dick watches him and Jason spar. Jason wishes he could say he’s taking it easy on the kid, but they’re pretty evenly matched. “Drake has survived his ordeal and will recover. He always does.”

“But he might not this time.”

“Pennyworth is seeing to his needs, there’s no need for us to continue deviating from our usual routines.”

“You’re assuming he will get all his memories back,” Dick cautions, crossing his arms and frowning as Jason ducks the swing of a bokken. Dick won’t let either of them use real swords against each other since they might fall back on League habits. “He might not, Little D. Then what will you do?”

Jason grits his teeth, sensing that the question is directed to him, too. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s a sentiment he’s been thinking over more and more the longer Tim remains functionally amnesiac.

“I wouldn’t care one way or the other,” Damian insists, parrying Jason’s next attack. “The longer he takes simply makes it easier for me to take my rightful place as Father’s true heir.”

“That’s bull. If he never goes back to the way he was before, that means everything that’s made you jealous of him goes away too. You lose your rival—the one person you’ve been measuring yourself against since you showed up.”

Damian grunts, either in effort or derision, Jason can’t tell, since he unleashes a flurry of attacks that forces him to go back on the defensive.

“Take away the parts of Tim you pretend to hate, and all you have left is a brother who needs you.”

“Tt.” Damian jumps back from Jason one last time and throws down his weapon. “I yield. I refuse to listen to this nonsense any longer.”

“Hey! No quittin’!” Jason yells at his back as he disappears, and glares over at Dick. “Thanks a lot, asshole. I was just startin’ to work up a sweat before you started with your Dr. Phil crap.”

“I’m only trying to get him to understand the seriousness of all this,” Dick tells him. “He’s seen all of us get injured and come back from things before. Hell, he’s died and come back. I worry he’s starting to believe it’s a given when it’s…really not.”

“Kid grew up in the League of Assassins,” Jason reminds him. “Trust me, he understands the futility of things.”

“And do you?”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What now?”

“You’ve also been acting like this is all temporary. Like Tim’s just going to bounce back,” Dick says, crossing his arms tight against his chest like he’s trying to comfort himself. “But there’s a real chance he doesn’t. I mean, come on, Jason, look at what happened to you. You’ve had brain damage before. It took a dip in a Lazarus Pit to fix that.”

“It’s different,” Jason snaps. “I had my head caved in in about nine different places. Doc Thompkins already said the kid’s injury was clean. He’ll be back to chuggin’ energy drinks and playin’ with his gadgets in no time and I can get back to my life.”

“You mean the life that literally burnt down around you?”

Jason snarls and throws up his hands. “Know what? Bat brat had the right idea. I’m not listenin’ to you ramble anymore.”

“It’s okay to worry about him, you know!” Dick yells at his back as Jason climbs the stairs back to the manor proper.

And that is why I prefer when it’s only Damian. Dick always takes advantage and tries to go for the heart-to-heart. Though it could be worse. It could be B.

For the most part, Bruce has been keeping out of Jason’s way when he’s at the manor, which he is simultaneously relieved at and frustrated by. Relieved because he doesn’t want to have that conversation, the one where Bruce judges him and finds him unworthy of being Tim’s soulmate.

(Jason doesn’t want to be his soulmate, but Bruce finding him unworthy is one of those anxieties leftover from his childhood.)

Frustrated, because one of the few good things about him and Bruce has always been that they can be bluntly honest with one another. It’s a no holds barred, going-for-the-throat kind of honesty, that cuts through the shit and straight to the core.

(Except perhaps the months leading up to Jason’s death, and his return to Gotham when he wanted to be a little dramatic.)

He wishes they could just fight about it and get it over with.

⁂

It is several weeks before Tim can sit up on his own; a month spent in bed, needing help to get showered and redressed. Jason thankfully doesn’t have to do any of that stuff. Alfred and Dick appear to be falling over themselves to do that, though the long-suffering expression on Tim’s face whenever he needs help amuses Jason.

At least that’s the same; Tim never liked having to ask for or get help. Jason knew that even without being around him often.

From the scowls he tries to hide from everyone, he dislikes the various therapies he has to endure, too.

Jason does the bare minimum of what the family wants. He stays with Tim, so he doesn’t freak out, holds his hand when he needs to, puts up with Bruce somehow looming from an entirely different wing of the manor, and leaves with lots of leftovers from Alfred.

But that’s it.

Jason has no intention of getting attached or encouraging the universe’s practical joke; as soon as Tim remembers (and he will fucking remember, Dick, so stop jinxing it) he’s gone.

He doesn’t have rambling conversations with Tim the way Steph does; she isn’t glaring at Jason as much anymore, but she pretends like he’s a statue or wallpaper on the rare occasion they pass in the hallways.

(He’s sure at some point that will end since they both have tempers and are raring for a fight.)

Cass just looks between the two of them like she finds them amusing or something, which a kind of insulting.

It’s lucky they see little of each other that first month. Steph shows up during the day after her classes or whatever it is she does when she’s not in costume and leaves for patrol before Jason arrives. Whenever Jason gets there and learns that she hasn’t left yet, he ducks into the kitchen to sit with Alfred for a while.

The old butler is the only one who appreciates how uncomfortable—how angry—the whole soulmate issue is making Jason and doesn’t make him feel guilty about it. He also appears to sense how restless Jason has been since benching himself.

Undercover work has never been his favorite thing, and with this job, he surprisingly has more nights off than on. It’s disquieting, leaving him with too much time on his hands to ruminate about his shadow rival or dwell on the situation with Tim.

“Why not assume a different mantle whenever the need arises to go out?” Alfred suggests one afternoon as he kneads the dough for his homemade egg pasta. “I don’t pretend to approve of the nighttime doings of anyone in this family, but a lifetime habit is difficult to break even in a few weeks.”

“Don’t you think I considered that? But it’d kind of be a give away if a new mask shows up on the streets so soon after Red Hood bites it,” Jason replies. He holds out the bag of flour when Alfred gestures for it.

“Are you telling me that in the vast collection of gear in the basement, you cannot find something that is storeyed and recognizable?”

“Not unless Bruce still has the Wingman suit,” Jason snorts.

Alfred says nothing, merely raising his eyebrow as he continues to add a few fingerfuls of flour to the dough.

“Are you kiddin’? I thought he tossed that and the Redwing out after Damian…?”

Alfred’s hands still for a moment, his eyes closing as he no doubt remembers that horrible time. Then, with small effort, he shakes it off and replies, “I fear Master Bruce was not in the mindset to do much of anything constructive during that time. The suits went into storage.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt B wants me wearin’ anything of his right now. In case you haven’t noticed the waves of disapproval driftin’ up through the floor, I’m not his favorite person right now. He won’t want me touchin’ his suit.”

“Your suit, Master Jason. It was always meant to be yours when you were ready for it. Prior to the…incident…with Master Damian, it was to be an olive branch. A means of returning to the fold should you ever decide the need for Red Hood had passed.”

Jason’s chest tightens for a moment and he’s unsure what to say to that at first. He’d known when Bruce came to him that time that it was an olive branch, a second chance—but he’d assumed it was a temporary thing. An ace in the hole against Talia and Leviathan.

And of course, the bastard would never just come out and say that.

Jason’s not emotionally equipped to unpack yet another one of Bruce’s backhanded attempts at parenting. Instead, he focusses on Alfred’s last words.

“This is Gotham, Alf. There will never not be a need for Red Hood, I don’t care what Bruce thinks.”

“Perhaps. But then, I’m of the opinion you need not choose between the two. A mask is not a man, Master Jason. It is a symbol. How one uses that symbol makes the man.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, Alfred working and Jason mulling it over. At last, he sighs and smirks at the old butler. “You know, for someone who disapproves, you have a lot of opinions.”

“At my age, I’m allowed, Master Jason. Now go set the table for four.”

“Four? Is B stayin’ tonight?”

If he is, I’m not.

“No. But Miss Cassandra will be. She returns to Hong Kong tomorrow to tie up a few loose ends before returning here. I insisted that she have a decent meal and sleep before heading to the airport in the morning.”

“And…uh…Blondie?”

“I heard a certain Mrs. Grayson requires her talents this evening.”

⁂

And so Jason finds himself back to patrolling several nights a week, once more striking fear into the hearts of criminals.

Albeit behind a different mask than he’s used to. 

There are provisos, of course, as Batman informed him in his usual detached way down in the cave. No guns, no lethal force and he can’t spend all of his time in Crime Alley.

“It would be too much of a coincidence given Red Hood’s demise.”

“Bullshit!” Jason had argued. “No one’s patrollin’ that part of town anymore. And I’m pretty sure people have noticed Red Robin ain’t even pokin’ his nose in either.”

“Red Robin has made appearances along his usual routes,” Batman dismissed.

“What? How?”

“Black Bat has agreed to take on the mantle every week or so. She is closest to Tim’s height and weight. We can’t have anyone connect Tim’s injury and Red Robin’s disappearance.”

“But what about—?”

“Signal has been monitoring the East End. He is as invested in the well-being of neighborhoods as you are. I have every confidence he can handle it during your absence.”

“Must be nice to have your confidence. Wonder what that’s like?”

“If you didn’t have my confidence, you would not be getting this suit,” Batman replied shortly and turned back to the computer. “If you continue your investigation into the changes in Gotham’s underworld, do so in a way that doesn’t connect Wingman to Red Hood.”

Damn it, even when he’s trying to make a gesture, he’s still an ass about it.

“Nah, I figured I’d go shout it from the rooftops,” Jason shot back sarcastically and stalked away before he could get into an actual fight with the man. “Next thing, he’s gonna tell me not to say anything to Tim…”

Which, obviously? They decided early on not to tell him anything Bat-related while he’s recovering. 

The problem is, Tim doesn’t seem any closer to remembering anything.

Every week that passes, even after the surprising instance of Tim trying to sing Happy Birthday to Dick (which, okay, Jason was also relieved at that, but only because he’s been watching how frustrated Tim’s been with his music therapy) he shows no sign of knowing anything about Tim Drake or Red Robin or any of it.

It’s a cause for concern, and not only because of Mission related reasons.

Gillian Sato keeps visiting the manor every week.

Jason might not be on great terms with Tim—might be awkward as hell around him—but he’s even less so with her. Alfred texts him when she comes over, and Jason does his best to get to the manor as soon as he can. He’s more effective at looming over her on these ‘visits’ than Dick is. And she can’t object to his presence, even when he interrupts her well-meaning-but-leading questions. The ambiguous kind, where Tim’s current yes-no answers might land him in a sea of trouble.

 “You don’t trust social workers, do you, Mr. Kane?” she asks him one day when he interrupts every question she asks, wanting to qualify statements or elaboration to an almost pedantic degree.

Tim seems to have fallen asleep again—pale and exhausted from darting his eyes between Jason and Sato’s less-than-veiled disagreement. Across the room, sitting cross-legged and pretending to be absorbed in a video game, Damian looks like he’s ready to jump into action if need be.

“Lady, there ain’t no one in this house you people haven’t screwed over.”

“But not you,” she pries, eyes keen. “According to your record, family took you in. Your cousins, was it? Kate Kane and her father?”

(He’s still not  sure how Barbara got Batwoman to sign off on that; Kate never really liked him.)

“Yeah, but not before I lived on the streets a few months. And I don’t regret the experience one bit since it meant I didn’t get fucked over by the system.”

“That isn’t in your file.”

“Last time I checked, they seal juvenile records,” Damian speaks up, tone sharp. “Is there a reason you’re looking into him when you’re assigned to Drake’s case? Or so you allege.”

“I hardly see how it’s your concern,” she tells the boy. “Although on that note, is there a reason you refer to your brother by his last name? Some lingering resentments, perhaps, that gave way to violence?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, a delicate angry flush that’s almost imperceptible in his dark cheeks. “If you believe I intend to share any information with you, you presume your self-importance to be above his legal rights to privacy. I can assure you, as much as he irks me, Drake is far above you in the status quo.”

Huh. Has the bat brat ever said anything nice about Tim?

Damian’s implication would insult most people, but the woman doesn’t even blink. “If these are the manners Mr. Wayne instills in his children, it seems my office’s concerns are valid.”

“Manners are not requisite indicators of good parental care,” Damian retorts. “But again, I am not the subject of your inquiry, am I?”

They stare at each other a beat before Sato looks away with a sniff. “I just want to have all the facts.”

Jason narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, showing off his mark which is already reacting to his proximity to Tim. It’s a less than subtle reminder her facts are irrelevant to him. He feels no guilt doing so since the damned mark’s caused him nothing but trouble so far. He should at least be able to use it to keep the kid from being hounded by social workers with axes to grind.

It has the desired effect. She purses her lips and scribbles something on her tablet with a stylus.

It would surprise him if whatever she writes is still there when she gets home; Babs can be vindictive even from a distance.

There’s a subtle clearing of the throat, and everyone glances over at Alfred.

“I fear it is getting late, and Master Timothy needs his rest,” he said. “If you would be so kind, Ms. Sato, I will escort you to your broom—ahem. Apologies. Your car.”

Jason and Damian both choke in surprise as Alfred gestures for her to follow him, even as Sato continues to appear unimpressed. Once they’re gone, they exchange looks.

“Did Alfred just break British-butler protocol and insult a guest?”

“Given the past few weeks, it does not surprise me he is beginning to crack,” Damian notes, frowning at Sato’s back as she leaves. “I don’t like her.”

“You don’t like anyone, that’s not unusual. But nah, I don’t think anyone likes her.”

It’s like she’s being an asshole on purpose.

Damian folds his arms. “No. This woman is…she gives me an unpleasant feeling.”

“Aw, look at you all protective,” Jason teases, just resisting the urge to ruffle Damian’s hair. He enjoys having two hands, even if one of them has a soulmark emblazoned on it that complicates his life. “And here I thought you and Timbers didn’t get along.”

“Tt.” Damian looks away.

Jason goes back to sit beside Tim, picking up his book as he does so.

“This is,” Damian begins after a long pause, then stops, looking angry, though at what is anyone’s guess. At last, he clenches his fists and says, “This fate is…unworthy. For him.”

He doesn’t meet Jason’s gaze as he stalks off.

“Huh,” Jason says out loud, watching him. “See, now you have to get better, so you can give him a hard time for being a secret sap.”

Where he’s been feigning sleep for the past ten minutes, Tim snorts.

⁂⁂⁂

To Be Continued

This blog isn’t my primary, so my reblogs don’t show up very well. As such, please reblog the fic, otherwise not a lot of people are going to see it :)

<3 Violet

[goatyuzuru]

Thoughts on 2018/2019 Season

Actually, I am supposed to be on a figure skating fast because I want to take a break, take a step back, and remove my feelings from this sport. It’s helped me a lot this week. But I think before I refast, I want to say I’m just so glad this season is finally over. The way the corruption of this sport escalated was beyond what I even expected. I knew about the corruption, the politicking, the amusement of the way judges score skaters, however, I didn’t think it took less than 1 season for it to get to a new level. I see skaters getting low 80s to mid 90s throughout 1 season. I see robbing everywhere. I see selective calls. I know it will not change even after this season ended, but having this off season will allow me to breathe.

Over the past weeks of grieving about World Championships 2019 Men’s event results, I am now in a mix of stages among bargaining/depression/acceptance. I think I ranted too much on twitter and Planet Hanyu last two weeks that I don’t think I need to talk about my denial or anger stages. 

Bargaining

There were many what ifs that went through my mind during these couple of weeks.

“What if Yuzu was never injured? not at cor 2018, not at nhk 2017, or not even his many other injuries that he’s decided to never share with the public? He would probably have been invincible by now.” But that is such an unrealistic and greedy expectation for an elite skater. Also, Yuzu is a human who simply makes the most out of what he has. I don't want to think of him as invincible or superhuman. We are all human who think we are subhuman trying to be superhuman. Yuzu is already inspirational by being his full potential. He allows me to love both the weak Yuzuru and the strong Yuzuru.  

“What if I never discovered Yuzu in 2016? What if I never discovered figure skating in 2010? When I first came to know Yuzu I thought because he won so much, the sport actually rewards talent. After a while I slowly discovered the ugly truth that even when he did win a lot in his life, he’s been robbed and underscored chronically. It was he who earned those titles, snatched those scores off from the judges’ dirty hands, challenged the system, and fought his way to be above the scoring corruption and above the sport. So when I found out the truth about what this sport really is, I really wished I never knew about it.” But then to know Yuzu is also one of the best things that happened to me. He inspired me as a person in so many ways. And to know Yuzu means I have known what true figure skating is. There is real figure skating in Yuzuru Hanyu and the figure skating that ISU is promoting. 

“What if he never won at PyeongChang? That might have been better for me to quit watching figure skating at that time." But that would be super selfish and stupid. The gold medal is one of the best compensations that happened to Yuzu throughout his competitive life as a skater.

“What if he retired after PC? The sport doesn’t deserve him. Everyone benefited from his presence except the man himself.” But I am not Yuzu and I can’t walk his journey. I can’t feel his pain or happiness so how would I know he won’t still enjoy his difficult road ahead. 

“What if Yuzu changes the way he skates? What if he tries to go with Nathan’s or Vincent’s strategy? The system doesn’t judge program components correctly or penalize incorrect techniques, so why bother following the rules when you’re not rewarded? Or "what if he changes his nationality to Canada, Japan doesn’t deserve him anyway?” But I realize from Yuzu’s interviews that while he hates losing the most, he would never change himself in order to win. I realize that it is as hard for Yuzu to empty his program for the jumps as Nathan delivering a complete program. Likewise, it is as hard for Yuzu to cheat his techniques as Vincent trying to correct his. And even if Yuzu did all of these things Nathan or Vincent did, he isn’t an American to get this treatment. Yuzu isn’t the one who should change, should lower his standard. It is the ISU, the judges, the tech panelist, the federations. Yuzu does not need a new passport to win. He did it before to be beyond the corruption, he can possibly do it again. 

After bargaining so much, I realized none of the what ifs will do any good for Yuzu, for the other skaters, for the sport, or myself. I was led to a stage of depression.

Depression 

I guess to many spectators, the scoring discourses on social media and among fandoms seem very silly or “not that deep”. But as someone who thoroughly invest my time, energy, and emotion as a fan for it, I find the necessity in having these voices so that even if the scores don’t stand or the system collapses, the true figure skaters can be remembered, the message of unfairness can be reached to new fans. Seeing myself, who is this much invested into the sport just as a fan, I wonder how much more the many figure skaters, who’ve gone through such pressure and discipline, financial hardship and injuries, emotional breakdowns and sacrifices, have been robbed of their potential titles/scores/sponsorships.

The problem I’m seeing is not only the skaters who don’t benefit from the corruption are negatively affected, the skaters who benefit from the corruption also get hate from many people. Look, I don’t hate the American skaters like Nathan/Vincent/Bradie or the Russian skaters from Eteri camp/Samarin...etc. When I don’t like someone’s skating I am usually just indifferent to them, meaning I don’t bother following them. That’s simple; if you don’t like something, you stop watching it. The problem is these skaters are being shoved into my faces and the way they are being overscored robbed me of my enjoyment for the sport because I find it unfair. That’s also very simple. So I hate to see people generalizing all of the rants are coming from a place of biasness or antis. That is not true. Also, as soon as you are a fan of certain skater, in my case a Yuzuru Hanyu’s fan, you are automatically being labeled as a sore loser or hater. The thing is, many fans who truly study figure skating would agree that the scores don’t match with what are being seen. But it happens that they might be a smaller part of a fandom and don’t get too vocal about this. So instead of seeing everyone as an obsessive fanyu, perhaps the reason many of them fight so hard is to see someone like Yuzuru Hanyu, who is the epitome of a figure skater, gets rewarded deservedly. Perhaps it’s because we value great technique and great skating and the skaters who won happen to not have those? I think it is fair to say a lot of people would get hurt because their favorite skaters did not win and the initial reaction could be a bit overwhelming. That’s normal. But if what they are witnessing in the sport that led to their criticism are fair, they should have the right to vocalize their criticism in order for justice to be heard, especially the rulebook to back their criticism. 

Yet over and over, no matter how reasonable many people have been. No matter how much effort in putting up videos to compare skaters’ programs or to explain the discrepancies in the way the tech panel called or didn’t call certain elements, the ISU and general public decide to be ignorant about it. They create their own narratives or put up media play to benefit themselves. They take down videos to remove the evidences. I even think of proposals on how to change the scoring system/format. Maybe the skaters shouldn’t get the scores right after they skate? Maybe we should only have 1 panel of the same judges? Maybe the judges/tech need more time to review the elements and program components? Maybe ice scopes should be inplemented for all jumps and in all countries. Every single element will be put into video cuts for the judges and tech to review and mark the bullets accordingly so the GOEs will autopopulate? The definitions in the rulebooks need to be given more objective, quantative metrics based on collective data or stats? Maybe the scores should be temporarily announced 2 hours after the competition (if the scores get announced later, the competition will be shortened) and the public can vote for what scores need to be reviewed. They can ask the judges to write a review at the end of the day on why they score the elements/PC and if the public do not agree they judges will get a strike. After 3 strikes in their career, the judges will be banned from judging? If any fed decides to bribe the public, at least someone can report it? I thought about all of these possibilities...

And I realize the products are not going to change as long as the creator isn’t willing. There will always be some loopholes.

Acceptance

I am slowly accepting all of this, what I cannot do and what I can do. Accepting neither means that I am agreeing with the results or scores nor normalizing the way the sport plays out. I only know that I cannot change the way ISU/feds politicking or how the general public’s view about certain skaters/achievement stans bandwagon on the glory of its beneficiaries' achievements. But what I know is I will not give them what they want: my attention/money/support. I don’t want to give attention to the undeserving skaters whom I feel like they try to promote. Rather than giving these skaters attention through my ranting, instead, I can just go back to how I should, which is stop watching them. It will be hard since Yuzu will be competing against some of these skaters and that I will follow his career as long as he allows me to, which makes it inevitable that I would see other skaters somehow. But if I would just really ignore, it would allow me to stop feeding on my hatred/bitterness toward other skaters, who aren’t bad people and are pretty talented per se, and just support Yuzu as his fan. I want to spread the love so that even if he perhaps might not always win or get the highest scores on paper, his greatness could still be felt and seen. Because of the love that is spread for Yuzu on twitter, Olympic Channel acknowledges him as the biggest star. Laureus twitter now actively tweets about him. Figure Skating is such a low profile sport but Yuzu is often compared to other greats like Rogers Federer or Tiger Woods (lol) or even Ronaldo by commentators. That shows how he really beyond this sport.

At the end of the day, I console myself that whatever Yuzu has achieved does not even define everything about how great he is as a skater. So I will just try my best to enjoy his career when I can. 

[i-beg-your-parsons]

my name is...

Relationship: Briar Daly/Theresa Sutton

Count: 2,033 words

Special thanks to @lesbian-choices, who brought this pairing to our attention back at the gaychoices discord. This one’s for you, wlws!

Tag: @jellymonster, @h-doodles, @deeohno, @lesbianvalgreaves, @samira-yazdi, @letmeloveasterplease, @wlwchoices, @al-servo, @badbitchkennarys, @davenportandbrandy, @dumbbrowngirl, @imissmaxwell, @sapphic-legends, @kaitlynliaoswife, @i-stan-shaylex-and-love-ame, @megowitch, @alanakusumaswife, @westchesters,

— 

Theresa Sutton sat alone on the steps of the banquet hall leading to the garden outside Karlington estate. Her lemon yellow dress had hiked up to her calves (which would be extremely scandalous in normal circumstances), but at the moment, she found that she couldn’t care less — not when Mr. Marlcaster, her (ex) fiancé, had just called off their engagement.

A particularly unladylike groan escapes from her throat. And he did it in public, no less!

So give her a bloody moment’s rest if she wanted to wallow by herself in a rumpled, distasteful state in a corner at one of the most prominent social functions of the season. She was really, really tired.

It was about the beginning of May; the weather was getting warmer, but it was still too cold for her taste. She absently stared at the moonlight reflecting on the rippling water of the ornate fountain in the middle of the space. Crickets, owls, and other nocturnal animals could be heard in the distance, just having another typical evening.

A cold breeze blows. It sapped the warmth from her skin and prompted a quiet sneeze from the miserable woman. Theresa was so glad she decided to wear gloves today. She curled herself up into a ball, hugging her legs close to her chest and resting her forehead on her knees.

There was something comforting about the cold when you were sad. Theresa liked to think it was Mother Nature’s way of saying that she sympathised with her situation.

At least then she wouldn’t feel so alone.

“Miss Sutton?”

She jumps in response to her name, hastily wiping away her tears in hopes of looking a little less dreadful than she knew she definitely looked. 

“O-oh yes! What can I do for you —”

Theresa cranes her head towards the direction of the voice coming up the steps, leading back inside to the festivities.

“ — Miss Daly?” She couldn’t help but say in confusion as she scrunched her eyebrows together. What was she doing here?

“Miss Sutton,” Briar answers in return with a nod. She offered the lady a tentative smile, taking note of Miss Sutton’s current state. “I, uhm, saw you from the refreshments table,” Briar nervously smiled, carrying a glass of water. She looked hesitant, idling at the top of the stairs.

“Would you… like some company? And some water, perhaps?”

“Oh,” Theresa blinked, already feeling the tears start to burn at the back of her eyelids. Of course Miss Daly was nice and kind and thoughtful.

Briar looked even more worried and decided to jump the gun. She descended from the top of the stairs to even lower from where Miss Sutton was sitting down, so that they were facing each other as she stood. She offers the cup of water, and Miss Sutton accepts it with a nod.

“Thank you, I suppose I was feeling rather parched,” Theresa quietly murmurs before daintily sipping from the cup. She offers the maid a grateful smile. “You’re very considerate, Miss Daly.”

“Just Briar’s fine. Miss Daly is my mother,” Briar sheepishly grins, fiddling with the end of her sleeve. “And I’m glad to see it helped.”

Briar settles down just by Miss Sutton’s feet. Her arm brushes by the yellow fabric of her skirt. They were close enough such that Theresa could feel the light heat of Miss Daly’s back slowly waft towards her, and gently brush the surface of her skin.

(It felt… nice, which was odd, considering their current relationship.)

The two sit in silence, digesting the reality of the situation: There they were, two women who were acquainted only because of their connection to a man — Edmund Marlcaster.

If it were anyone else, Theresa might have enjoyed the drama.

“I have to tell you that I didn’t mean to flirt with Mr. Marlcaster,” Briar starts. It was hesitant, sure, and definitely apologetic. Theresa could feel the sincerity coming off her with each word.

Miss Sutton raises a playful (and maybe slightly sarcastic) eyebrow. She could feel the corner of her lip quirk, “And how might one accidentally flirt with a man?”

The fabric of Briar’s sleeves aggressively flopped as she frantically waved her hands in denial (and surrender). “No, nothing like that! I meant that I didn’t return his advances for the purpose of ruining your engagement.”

“Yes…?” Theresa blinks, trying to process the information. What was happening, exactly?

Briar sighs, deciding that she couldn’t avoid telling Miss Sutton about her life back at their quiet village. “At Grovershire, I was very much a ‘one of the boys’ type. I was always loud and restless, so I liked to run around town during my morning errands. I’d come back with bread and vegetables, but also mud stains on the hem of my skirts…”

“Sometimes, even on my face,” Briar shot a wink at Miss Sutton, which made the lady laugh. 

The maid grins inwardly in satisfaction. “I would often climb up one of the trees at the edge of town and read a book I nicked from my father’s study. And I’d break my way into my mother’s alcohol stash routinely.” She pauses for a moment, before continuing, “So I suppose they didn’t see me as a woman. It was part of the reason I came with Clara to Edgewater.”

Her eyes suddenly widen at the information she just divulged to the loose-lipped noblewoman, “Oh! Please don’t tell her though! I’d hate to worry her more than I have to.”

Miss Sutton solemnly nods, and though Clara would be wary of her, Briar felt that she really wouldn’t speak of it.

So, she continues.

“I didn’t think that I would ever get married. So I thought, why not stay with my best friend, who was now without her mother, and suddenly thrust into the cutthroat world of nobles?”

Briar took a deep breath before speaking again. 

(This was where it was going to hurt.)

“I think that… I got swept away by the feeling of a man taking a liking to me. I suppose it made me feel like I’d succeeded as a woman.”

And then, everything was still. 

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. Briar was keen on avoiding meeting with Miss Sutton’s eyes for as long as she could keep it up.

That was, before the lady gently clasped both of her hands around one of Briar’s. Her expression was filled with nothing but understanding and… was camaraderie the right word for it? 

Briar couldn’t really think.

“You needn’t worry. I doubt our theoretical marriage would have lasted, anyway,” Theresa resigned. She’d known at the exact moment Countess Henrietta accepted her proposal for her son. 

Absently, she played with Briar’s calloused fingers that were still in her grasp. “I suppose, much like you, I was too thrilled at the prospect of finally having a man that accepted me.”

She tightens her grip, with her lips pursed in a tight line, “Or more accurately, my marriage proposal.”

Studying the other woman, Miss Sutton could see that aside from being kind and sweet, Briar Daly was also very pretty. Dark and full eyebrows, expressive eyes, a dashing side-profile, and long black hair (currently wrapped into a tight bun) — which was so thick and full that some strands couldn’t help but stray to the Indian woman’s face.

Theresa didn’t know what came over her, but she reached out a hand to play with a lock resting limply against Briar’s neck.

“I can see why Mr. Marlcaster took a liking to you.”

Briar, who was spaced out at the feeling of Miss Sutton’s soft fingers pressing on her own, had regained enough conscious thought to blush, “Oh… uhm… well, I don’t know about that. I think he only took a liking to me because you two were so incompatible with each other.”

Theresa couldn’t help but be amused at the woman’s bluntness. She places a hand on her chest, pretending to have been shot with an arrow, theatrically wincing, “My word, Briar! You wound me.”

Briar chuckled, pleased to see that Miss Sutton was now relaxed enough to even joke with her. “It’s clearly Mr. Marlcaster’s loss anyway! He would be surprised to find that you’re actually very charming, if he was smart enough to look past your extreme penchant for gossip,” she affectionately teases Theresa.

The noblewoman blushes prettily with a grin, lightly hitting Briar’s arm with her fan. “Hush, you. Parties are dreadfully boring without gossip, because all that everyone talks about is politics, this new exotic thing they bought, or who’s now signalling their fan at who.” 

For a heartbeat, they simply sit in each other’s company.

Before Miss Sutton stands up and briskly pats off any dirt on her skirts. She immediately answers the look Briar just shot at her. 

(She somewhat resembled a domestic fox that just had food taken from her.)

“I should be getting back in and at least try to pique some random bachelor’s interest. Father’s already going to be disappointed with me once I head home tonight. Might as well have something in consolation.”

Miss Sutton seriously studies Briar’s face for a moment, seemingly searching for something, (Briar anxiously hoped she had whatever she was looking for), before Theresa places a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you, Briar.”

It was practically nothing at all: a quick touch of skin and lips and no more.

But to Briar, in that moment, that peck on the cheek from Theresa Sutton felt like everything.

“Puffy!” 

Briar manages to choke out from her stupor, gently grasping Miss Sutton’s gloved wrist. Theresa’s confusion was evident, “Pardon?”

Briar could feel her cheeks burning from her sudden outburst, “Uhm, your eyes are still a bit puffy.”

Theresa’s eyes widened, prompting her to bring her hands to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Oh, well… I suppose I’ll have to wait out here for it to subside before heading back in. It would be most unbecoming,” Miss Sutton chuckles weakly, trying to joke away the stuffiness. She stood lightly slouched and slack, with an evident air of resignation about her.

“I very much need to salvage as much dignity as I have left.”

“Well, you could do that…” Briar trails off, looking away from the lady. The handmaiden was clearly unsure of her next words. Miss Sutton keeps her gaze trained on Briar, waiting patiently for her to finish. Their eyes meet when Briar glances back at her, blushing harder and dropping her eyes to her shoes. 

Briar slowly slides her hold down from Miss Sutton’s wrist, gently grasping the lady’s fingertips, much like a gentleman would before he kissed them in proper greeting.

“…Or you could take a walk in the gardens. With me. If you like.”

Briar could feel Miss Sutton’s eyes widen.

(In surprise? In disgust? In delight? —

Briar found that she was afraid to know.)

“T-The Duke’s a rotten man!” Briar adds quickly, and she isn’t sure why. 

“But he has a beautiful garden.”

She rocks back and forth on her heels, to expel some of the developing tension in her body.

“So, uhm… how about it?

Miss Sutton takes a few moments to answer her, keenly staring at Briar’s flustered form, like she was attempting to search for her true intentions within them.

(And she found that she did. 

At least, she hoped so.)

Theresa smiles, and manoeuvres her hand — still in Briar’s grasp — down to gently hold on to Briar’s bicep.

“I accept.”

Briar lights up; her eyes sparkled with elation. Almost too excited, she starts to pull them to the direction of the greenery, almost making them stumble. “All right then, let’s go, Miss Sutton! I haven’t been here before so there’s lots to see.”

The noblewoman smiles at her companion’s enthusiasm. “Please,” Miss Sutton brings her free hand to lightly rest on Briar’s shoulder. The touch effectively stilled Briar, making their gazes connect.

It felt warm, despite the cold of the evening. 

“Call me Tessa,” she smiles radiantly under the moonlight.

—

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, but why are you wearing a staff uniform?”

“… It was the only way I could get in.”

[imagitory]

Yesterday I received a message from a user and replied to it publicly: later the same day, the user contacted me asking for me to remove their name from that message, as they had not intended for their username to be on it, so to respect their privacy, I’ve deleted that original reply. In case this post does still resonate with anyone (given that it discusses the transgender and asexual experience), however, here is a transcript of what they sent me, plus my response. Feel free to comment, reblog, or like, if you want! xoxo

Anon said:

Thanks for reblogging that, because honestly it probably ties into the same root cause as how my family perceived transgenderism in me that didn't exist, simply because I don't fit my gender norm. There was only so much insisting that it was okay to be trans, despite experiencing no such dysphoria, before it started feeling like I wasn't supposed to deviate from said norms without being trans. I'm so grateful that it eventually clicked in their heads that I really wasn't in denial.

You’re welcome! Although I am cisgender, I identify with the ace spectrum, and I would say that everyone’s experience, while having some similarities with people of the same identity, will invariably be slightly different. With me, for example, although I don’t feel much if any sexual attraction, I’m not aromantic: I’ve dated both a woman and a man at different points in my life, before I fully understood that my romantic feelings for them were different than what people label as sexual attraction. (Since I didn’t know what asexuality was, I’d mislabeled myself as “bisexual,” as the only labels I’d known at the time were straight, gay and bi, though my mum suspected even at that time that “bisexual” wasn’t right. She let me figure it out on my own, though, bless her.) Like some other ace people I’ve read about, I have mild touch aversion. I can get uncomfortable being physically close to strangers (i.e. being on the bus and having someone else’s leg or arm touching mine) and I hate to the point of panic when people invade my personal bubble without my knowledge or permission (i.e. when someone sneaks up behind me), but I’m also perfectly comfortable being hugged by friends or initiating platonic hugs on my own terms. At work, for instance, sometimes I get little kids (upon seeing me in a bright Disneyland costume) thinking I’m a character when I greet them, and they’ll come up and hug me as if I were Snow White or Wendy, and that doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable, because I can usually read their intent through their body language and prepare myself. My mum and I, who are thick as thieves, hug all the time: I do not initiate or enjoy hugs with my dad, as we are not similarly close. I hug my coworkers a lot upon meeting, if we’re on friendly terms. Even when I’ve been in a romantic relationship, I have sometimes gotten restless or uncomfortable when cuddling or kissing deeply, but I still like being affectionate with my partner. The big determinant is trust – if I trust you, I can acclimate to and even like you touching me. And yet I know many uninformed people would just immediately presume that I have some unresolved sexual trauma in my past, which is just not true.

I’m glad that your family came around and is supporting you. That support can be so invaluable, and it doesn’t just benefit you but your family as well, as now their world view has been broadened by your experiences.

[eleanor-robinson]

Writing, in the Tunnel of Terror

In my writing group, I have the company of two other writers. Wonderful, creative and dedicated writers. I enjoy their company hugely; their support means the world. Yet, I feel as though I am not on the same journey as them. They both write quite prolifically and have been writing for a few years. They are older than me, they have careers. Of course, I’m sure there are things I don’t know, and everyone carries their own struggles, but lately my self-comparison demon has been flaring up.

I have been feeling a lot of shame over the last few weeks—shame that I can’t write as quickly as them; shame that I can’t seem to dedicate myself to my story like they can. I’ve felt weak, and like a failure. When I sat down to think about how my writing process has been going, and to take stock of the things that have been going on in my life, I realised that its no wonder I haven’t been able to get stuck into my novel. The truth is that I’ve been going through a journey of my own, and you can’t really compare a rollercoaster to a bus. Or in my case, a boat ride.

I don’t feel remotely “settled” in any aspect of my life at the moment. For this whole summer, I have felt like I’m on the Tunnel of Terror boat ride at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory—the surreal and disturbing version from the 1970s film. I’m doing my best just to cling onto the damn boat and not get thrown overboard into the chocolate river.

Last Sunday.

I came out to my Dad as Nonbinary on Sunday. Well, I tried to. He gave me a hefty kick back into the closet.

It was the evening, just me and Dad at home. I came into the living room, where my Dad was watching the golf on telly. I sat next to him and gave him a hug. He could see I was upset, so he asked me what was up.

I had a choice then—do I dare be honest with him? Or do I pretend there’s something else wrong? Could I be honest with him? At first, I pretended I was nervous about starting my new job. But it didn’t sit right with me. I decided to do it. I’ve practised it enough times in my head to know exactly what to say—

I don’t really feel like I have a gender at all. I’ve realised I’m not as attached to womanhood as I thought I was, being constantly gendered at work this year made me feel uncomfortable and confused. I don’t know what to call myself anymore. I’ve thought about using Mx instead of Ms as a title at my new job, but that scares me too. I emailed the new school about it but I got the sense that it wasn’t really possible, so I agreed to go by Ms, which feels safer and more comfortable to me anyway. Its been a stressful and confusing time.

Dad was silent, he didn’t take his eyes off the golf. When he spoke, his voice was tense—

What are you saying? You want a sex change to become a man? What are you trying to prove? You were the girliest little girl I know. You liked sitting inside, colouring, writing stories, doing crafts. Why are you making life hard for yourself? There’s always something with you. Just when we thought you were getting settled down. Your generation are just jumping onto bandwagon after bandwagon. I already have to tiptoe around you in case I’m accidently sexist and now there’s this. I mean for God’s sake. This isn’t normal. This isn’t what normal people do.

After a little back and forth that was mostly me saying the same things, and him saying the same things, I went upstairs and cried into my pillow. I hadn’t even managed to utter the word Nonbinary to him.

After a while, I heard my mum come home. Mum already knows, I trust her, she isn’t judgemental and has been helping me work through my feelings. I comforted myself with the thought that at least I have one ally; at least I have one parent who is accepting. That’s better than what some people get.

My mum came into my room and sat on my bed. He thinks you want to become a man, she said. It would have been funny, but I feel too wounded.

That’s not what I said, that’s not what I meant.  

He doesn’t understand. He’s very old-fashioned. He is going to get dragged, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century whether he likes it or not. She strokes my hair. Take your time, just be yourself.

­­­­­­­­­­Even later on, Dad came into my room, with my mum. He tried to make up with me, in his own, back-handed way— I’m sorry I was grumpy, I just feel like you’re making your life harder for yourself.

I’m one of the kids on the boat in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, with my notebook open, but its too dark to see my writing, and water keeps splashing the pages and ruining the ink, and its not Willy Wonka sitting at the front of the boat, but my Dad speaking judgemental words into my ear. He is supposed to be the one sat next to me, protecting me. I couldn’t articulate to him then that its not me making my life hard, but him.

Last Monday.

The next day, I wake up anxious and full of thoughts. I have had a night of anxiety fuelled dreams filled with characters from my past, people I’ve let down or are simply not in my life anymore and I miss. I force myself out of bed. I do my yoga, I do my meditation, I do my morning pages, I eat my sensible porridge (because I read once that oats are a superfood for curing depression). It’s all mechanical—I am hoping these things will bring some relief. However, all the while, I am scraping at myself, raking myself in search of answers. What is my gender? How can I make myself palatable? How can I fix this? It’s hard to stop. I feel like I have scraped the barrel of my soul and at this point I’m just drawing blood. I know in theory that how other people react to me isn’t my burden, but the wound of rejection throbs. I shower and get ready to meet a friend.

After charity shopping with my friend, we stop for a pint after. She’s known me for a decade, throughout various ups and downs. She can tell something is up and asks me what’s wrong. I tear up. I don’t want to freak you out. She reassures me she won’t be freaked out, so I tell her the whole awful story. I haven’t even told her about being Nonbinary before.

She holds my hand and listens. She’s kind.   She doesn’t judge me. She reassures me. She says she loves me. She doesn’t reject me.

At the end, she says It’s exciting really and smiles.

Today, Saturday, later in the week.

Things with my dad will get better. He can tell I’m hurt, and he is being extra nice to me. He thinks his reaction doesn’t matter because he got the wring end of the stick and I don’t actually want to become a man.  He doesn’t realise that his reaction completely crushed me and made me feel like if I was anything other than woman he’d reject me. We’ve been talking about it a bit more here and there, but he still thinks I am needlessly making my life unbearable.

I simply am who I am—and the world makes it hard for me to do that. As an LGBTQ+ person, denying who you are feels no less comfortable than being who you are in a homophobic and transphobic world. With staying hidden, you have overwhelming feelings of guilt, self-denial and fear, of carrying a great secret burden, of feeling trapped, with no one to talk to. With being open, you have fear how of people react to you, of being discriminated against, of being rejected and hate-crimed, of never finding love. Of course, it’s not like there are just two paths, its a spectrum, and coming out is a life-long task. Also, there are positives to each one too. With staying hidden, you have more physical safety, control and time to process. With being out, you feel free to express yourself completely, even if it is terrifying. Of course, some people are “outed” and are robbed of their choice and autonomy. Others simply cannot come out for their own safety—or maybe they can come out to their friends, but not their family in a sort of double-life of half-freedom. I had a friend at university who was openly queer with her peers, but not with her family. She worked part-time while she studied, and was frugal. When we talked about her financial sitation she said she was saving up money in case her family ever found out she was LGBTQ+, and disowned her.

It feels important to include what happened on Monday as well as what happened on Sunday. There are happy coming out stories, there are painful ones. It’s true that things are a lot “better” than they used to be for LGBTQ+ people, especially in the UK where I live. But coming out is still a huge emotional burden that shouldn’t be underestimated. Like my writer friend Fiona said, ‘Yeah it’s 2021, but for some people in their heads its still the 1950s’.

So I haven’t done much work on my story this week. But I’ve been busy. I’ve been doing other, very important work. I’ve been busy self-soothing, trying to reframe my thoughts away from self-blame and attack to being proud of myself for how true to myself I am. I’ve been journalling and talking to friends. Also, swimming, a lot.

I feel lighter.  I am proud of myself for being curious about who I am. I am proud of myself for wanting to live authentically. I am proud of myself for being brave, for being honest. Indeed, a writer’s work is that of bravery and honesty so this journey through the Tunnel of Terror will only benefit my work, I’m sure of it.

As for me and my Dad? I came down this morning and he had my bike laid out across the kitchen table, replacing my brake pads. I’d vaguely mentioned this a week ago. So, maybe we will be okay. He’s helped me off the boat, and onto my bike.

[deuildenoms]

Right the first time - an open letter

To be fair, even as it is addressed to you, this open letter is not for you, simply because I have all the reasons to believe further communication with you would be utterly futile.

 Let's begin this properly by saying I always admired you a lot; you were to me one of the most erudite people I knew. Unbeatable when it came to political and societal analysis, straight as an arrow when it came to your values. We are both artists. One painting of yours hangs on my wall still, several of mine used to sit in your flat - pardon me for assuming they are long gone. Pardon me as well for the length of this letter, as some things must be expressed in ways I cannot shrink.

 I used to joke about how you were the pillar of my social life. You were as extroverted as I am introverted, and were the crossroad between me and many people. I indeed met the man who abused me through you.

 I don't want to go into the details here. I couldn't even tell I was being abused - not the first time, not the following times, not actually until you picked up the phone that fateful day months later, and dragged me out of the pit of denial I was in, when suddenly I could no longer turn away from the fact something was wrong in my life.

 I was thankful, at first.

 So there goes, on one side: him, twenty-six, his boyfriend, twenty-seven, you, twenty-nine. On the other side, me, twenty-two, my two long-term romantic partners, both of them twenty-three, with who I am exclusive. We all started hanging out together like we all belonged in the same world, linked by the many values and hobbies we had in common and by what I thought were our mental conditions, as well. They were familiar with my anxiety medication. We all referred to ourselves as neuroatypical, you had ADHD, his boyfriend is autistic, and he is neurodivergent for sure. Formerly hypersexual.

 You introduced me to them, but I had no idea they were non-monogamous, or even that you and his boyfriend were fucking on the regular. That I learned when he came to me and told me he liked me.

 You didn't believe me when I kept saying on the phone, I didn't know they were poly, like it was impossible for me not to know-

 I turned him down at first. But something greater awoke in me as he touched an ancient wound that had only begun to heal and suddenly nothing was more important than to keep the man who had shown interest in me. To hell with my own will and interests, and I understood that only later. He therefore had to be my boyfriend, although platonic, since neither of my partners would allow something sexual, and neither did I want it- to hell with my own will.

 So, we met with my partners around a table one night. We defined boundaries together, to seal this new, atypical relationship. It was healthy, it had to be. As clouded as I already felt, it could only be something healthy; as used as I was to atypical relationships, as confident as I was.

 The first thing he expressed was that he regretted we weren't allowed to kiss, as for himself it didn't have to mean something sexual.

It didn't keep him from kissing me. Or dry-humping me. Or push my boundaries and making a game out of it. I pushed him away at first. Before the white noise set. Before -

-to hell with my own will-

And then it was white noise, that culminated into horrid acts I can't think about without feeling like throwing up. Simple facts am sure of: I did not want it at first. He did not attract me in the slightest. I had no intention of cheating on my partners by experimenting anything with someone else.

Then here comes the inevitable dissection of why I committed the acts I did with him. I learned many words in therapy that I keep denying as they are utterly absurd and as much as they apply to many victims of rape and sexual assault, I know they couldn't possibly apply to me, couldn't they.  

 Under the influence.

Lack of informed consent.

My therapist used the word remote-controlled.

 I'd rather the story be one of adultery caused by passion, getting carried away, being unable to resist. Though as much as I try to convince myself, there is always something tarnishing the picture; starting with the simple fact I did not want it at first. That I said no several times. Until I couldn't, he would lead and I would follow, he would tell me it was okay and I would blindly nod, hiding it from my family and the world and myself because your brain finds extraordinary ways to cope and tell you it's justified, it's the right thing, it happens for a reason.

To hell with my own will, he had interest in my body, I needed to be a body at his disposal and I committed to be just that.

When he stepped out of line, at first, I was the one to comfort him and tell him it was okay. He was formerly hypersexual; it was normal and realistic he didn't know how to restrain himself with a girl he was not allowed to fuck.

He was neurodivergent to a much higher degree than me. I was the one with a fancy degree, a higher degree of normalcy even, and a much lesser mental condition. I was the strong one and most responsible. He was just an intense dog, his words.

It was my job to keep him on a leash and my fault if I failed at doing so.

 He would either tell me it was okay because in his terms it was a cuddle. Or, sometimes, that it was indeed an honest mistake, but it was okay to make mistakes, especially in an intimate setting, and he wouldn't tell anybody, it was not to be known.

Sometimes he told me I couldn't keep my pheromones in check.

 I told you the first time he trampled boundaries and kissed me. You said he'd better be careful, as it was not acceptable; yet you understood him, being impulsive yourself.

 But now, in hindsight: no matter what I did, who I was even, there was someone on the other side with his fangs out, ready to feast. I didn't mean for this letter to be about my own psyche or the reasons that pushed me to react a certain way faced with this. That is my psychiatrist's job. I was under the influence of someone who very visibly took advantage of me.

 -with whom you sided-

 I had the gut feeling something was wrong between us. From a friend of yours -not even your own mouth- I finally got word that you were taking your distances with me, because I quote, had apparently said something diminishing our friendship a lot in your eyes. What the hell.

So then, here comes that fateful phone call and here comes the seek for answers.

Turns out I had apparently told his boyfriend you were just a drawing buddy who I wasn't feeling this close to, which deeply hurt you. I apologized profusely for this is not what I had meant at any point. I believe I told him I wanted to maintain a certain level of privacy, which I still believe I'm entitled to, and I didn't want my friends, no matter who they are, to know every detail of my private romantic life, at any point. Of course, this is what I meant, but then, it turns out there's what the boyfriend understood and faithfully repeated to you.

 The boyfriend also told you something else, though, didn't he. He told you that, in our relationship, with him, between his spouse and myself, everything was going perfectly fine to the point where we had sex.

 You had heard, from my mouth, previously, in front of my partners, that we hadn't had sex. So, knowing everyone in the equations including my partners, you decided to step away, because you deduced that I didn't share the same moral values as you did; the principle of radical honesty, which makes this whole relationship anarchy thing possible in the first place.

 Radical honesty: everyone tells everyone else everything right the first time.

 Surely, I didn't respect those principles; tell this to the two friends I came to be familiar with in therapy: denial and repression.

My version was that we hadn't had sex because I couldn't accept the truth, for the sake of my partners, yes, but especially for myself.

Avoid digging too deep into this, because you'll find your lack of informed consent among all the other ugly things you convinced yourself were righteous and safe. Your brain finds a way.

He said it was either just a cuddle, or an honest mistake. If it was a mistake, his mistake, it was not to matter, and it was not to be known.

 And yet, as I found out through you, he didn't exactly make the same speech to his boyfriend. We had stepped the relationship up, he told his boyfriend as a duty to make sure he was alright with it… and he was clear then, everything on my side was up to me.

 No matter what I felt or had discussed with my partners, it was up to me. Too bad if I couldn't do it.

As you condescendingly explained me, you were all neuroatypical, telling each other everything right, the first time, no barrier possible per your psyche. You gave me an ultimatum in all but name; so, I told my partners the very evening. It is actually when the truth, in the form of words, poured out of my mouth, that I saw it for what it was for the first time. Also, my loved ones telling me I had been abused.

 So, I thanked you, profusely, for bringing me out of denial. I cut ties with him. Actually, everything I thought I felt for him evaporated in an instant. A finger snap, and I felt like waking up. I was left with shame, incomprehension and rage.

 I couldn't keep one of my partners from sending him a rage-fuelled message that sent his boyfriend whining in my DMs about how he couldn't handle this pain, that we both had made mistakes but he shouldn't have to endure all this hate. Was I responsible for the way my partner expressed his own devastation? I was not, but I am, to this day, proud he did it this way.

 Then, I started telling you I had figured out something else, that I believed my consent was not respected, that it was more serious than a matter of adultery, that it was sexual assault.

And it was the last I ever heard of you.

You ghosted me, unfollowed me; gone. You were gone. Not gone from their life, though. As I later guessed, it was not about you getting away from a spicy situation because you knew everyone involved, this time.

The message was clear: you cut ties with me and didn't want to hear from me again, you sided with them.

The delivery was rather petty: no words needed because I didn't deserve to be talked to no more. I'm familiar with the technique, sadly, although I have to admit I didn't expect to see it coming from you, aka the most virulent advocate of radical honesty.

 Shouldn't I have known that you wouldn't exactly apply the same rules to everyone in your vicinity? Why did you ghost me and refused to listen, even?

 It is the main reason why I'm making it clear that not only I'm not expecting an answer from you, I'm pretty sure I never want any. Because, any further discussion on the reasons you left will boil down to my consent being questioned and I undoubtedly cannot accept this.

What could you believe other than I'm dishonest, lying, cheating scum who cried wolf when the tables turned-

That's fine by me, but have you ever wondered what it says about you rather than me?

 A woman comes to tell you she had doubts about her consent after erratic behaviour for months. How do you decide which party is worth listening to or not?

Is it, simply and crudely, pardon my French, because you happen to be fucking his boyfriend and not me? Is it because you identify with their mental behaviour rather than mine?

Because you understand them better?

 Then, of course, the truth lies in front of me now. Being an erudite activist the likes of you doesn't keep you from binding your values to fit your interests, as it has stopped no one ever in history. Being neurodivergent doesn't keep you from being a rapist. A damaged person with a fucked up past and skewed vision of sex, maybe, but a rapist no less.

An autistic female friend had come to tell me about the red flags she perceived about him during this period, how I should be wary about neurodivergent men making less efforts and using their condition as an immunity token. I couldn't hear her words, at the time.

Later, another friend confessed he had a crush on his boyfriend that vanished when he noticed certain patterns of bad faith and gaslighting. The ugly truth my naive self didn't understand slowly revealed nonetheless.

 I can't say I understand them fully, but I understand myself, now, at least. I'll repeat it once more:

I was deceived, abused, put under the influence, in denial, and I couldn't say anything and I couldn't tell.

 As I came to understand, the key lies within me. I am the only one who can make sense out of the situation and come to the conclusion that it was indeed rape. Whether you like it or not; you are not inside my head, and you are no one to draw conclusions.

Neither are they, neither are any of you. Neither do you share my pain and suffering today. And that’s okay. I’m healing, as shitty as it is. My partners are with me. My social life will not be the same, my sex life will not be the same, but we go forward, even if it means walking on spikes for a while.

 I believe I am done here, with my story. There’s not much I expect from you, as I told you. I can no longer trust you nor can I respect you. You now belong in my eyes to this sad category of woke men who turn a blind eye when the abusers turn out to be their buddies.

There is just one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you:

 If radical honesty means telling everything right the first time, what do you make of those who can't tell everything right the first time?

 What do you know of those who can't tell they're being abused, who don't have your wit yet, or your experience, or your maturity, or who don't happen to have a PhD in manipulation? Who can't think or process things the exact same way you do? Who, let's dare to say it, aren't neurodivergent enough, aren't damaged enough, to be the victims in the story according to you?

 If you ever come up with something to say one day that doesn’t involve questioning my consent or siding with my abuser, there is a chance my door will still be open.

 There is a chance you won’t be just another sad example; otherwise, too bad.

 It’s time for me to heal.

[itsamberh]

Ain’t over you yet (part 1)

Author : @itsamberh​

Pairing : Stiles Stilinski / Reader

Word count : 2090

Warnings : A little swearing? Also I mention a panic attack so don’t read if you’re not comfortable with it.

Based on Too Much To Ask by Niall Horan

Author’s note : So this is the first part of my short series for @lovefilledtragedy writing challenge. Thanks to her for motivating me to write and for proofreading it! Basically, this is the first time ever that I publish one of my writings so I hope you’ll like it. English is not my first language so there might be a few mistakes. Please tell me what you thought about it so I can improve! I hope you’ll enjoy your reading. :) 

Part 1 Part 2

Waiting here for someone

Only yesterday we were on the run

You smile back at me and your face lit up the sun

Now I'm waiting here for someone

Stiles was the first one to arrive at Derek’s loft for the annual meeting of the pack. They decided to reunite for the first time since everyone graduated from college. All of them stayed in California but Malia, Scott and Lydia had moved to San Francisco. 

“So…Scott told me you and y/n aren’t together anymore?” began Derek leaning against the table with his arms crossed against his chest. “Of course he told you, why keep it to himself when he can literally tell everyone I know”, mumbled Stiles rolling his eyes. “I didn’t come tonight for it to be all about our breakup. People break up, that’s how relationships go.”, he added. “Isn’t there any way to make up for it though?” The young man only sighed loudly as an answer. But Derek used his werewolf power to listen to his friend’s heartbeat rise when he asked his question.

A few moments later everyone arrived as well as Isaac who finally decided to move back from France. Even if you weren’t a supernatural creature you could feel the awkwardness between y/n and Stiles as they both had their exes here. But thankfully, everyone was having a good time and no one was making it awkward about the ex couple. 

Stiles and y/n always had a love/hate relationship, yet everyone in the pack knew it was because they were attracted to each other from day one. They didn’t talk much or when they did they were arguing.

She started hanging out with the pack when she got stuck in the janitor’s closet with Isaac and Allison where Isaac had his panic attack. She had gotten hurt on her sides and Scott had to explain what happened because as stubborn as she was she needed to know why Isaac had suddenly grown fangs and claws with yellow glowing eyes.

The first thing she said after that was “I knew something was wrong with you guys” which was everything but how they expected her to react. Since then she wanted to go with them on every case. At first, Stiles didn’t want her in the pack, he wasn’t jealous he just felt like they didn’t need a new person with them or that’s what he told himself. He just had this huge crush on her, the kind of crush that makes you mean with the person. The denial was so strong he tried to convince Scott that they didn’t need her.

“I don’t know, I mean who would want to become part of a group of friends who are constantly risking their life for others?” asked Stiles. Scott looked at him with a deadpan face “Lydia, Malia, Isaac, need more examples?”. Stiles sighed loudly “I’m not sure we can trust her though and she’s only human”. “So are you!” “But I was here from day one, she can’t come with us she’ll slow us down.” “Come on Stiles we always need help Allison told me she won’t be a burden!” “And what if she’s hurt?” “You’re scared for her to get hurt?” “No… I mean I don’t want anyone to get hurt, never mind as long as she stays out of our way..” Scott stared at his best friend, he wasn’t biting it. He knew there was something Stiles wouldn’t say. And she became a full member of the pack anyway.

She started coming at every meeting of the pack, trying to figure out the cases, becoming friends with them. She quickly became close friend with Isaac and Allison.

In fact, y/n was quite like Stiles, sarcastic, energetic, smart and really stubborn. They managed to tame each other eventually, being only human they had to have each other’s back so that is kind of what brought them closer.

After the whole alpha pack problem was solved, the pack decided to take a break from the supernatural. Scott, Allison and Stiles were struggling to deal with the consequences of their sacrifice in order to find their parents so Lydia proposed to organize a party to finally get to live like normal teenagers. She proposed to y/n to come to her house so they could prepare the party as they didn’t live far from each other. They were putting up the drinks and the snacks on the kitchen bar. “Isn’t it a bit too much ?” asked y/n. “Too much?” snickered the strawberry blonde girl. “Y/n you’ve already been to one of my parties you know how this goes.”

“Actually Lydia, that’s the first time I’m going to one of your party.” “What?! Every time it’s the party of the year, everyone talks about it!” “Yeah, well if you haven’t noticed I’m a socially awkward being before becoming friends with the pack I didn’t have many friends.” Her friend sighed deeply, “I don’t understand you’re such an interesting and caring person!” “Aw thank you!” Y/n was really touched by what Lydia told her. For the past few years she had been struggling with social anxiety which made it difficult for her to socialize. “Anyway we have to make tonight unforgettable for you! It’s going to be fun I’m sure you’ll love it!”

When they were done, both girls got dressed for the party and did their makeup and hair. Y/n went for a simple black dress that hugged her figure perfectly. “Look at you! You’re wasting you potential sweetheart!” exclaimed Lydia. “I don’t feel comfortable wearing a dress but I thought I might try it for tonight, you know, get out of my comfort zone.” “Anyone you want to impress?” said Lydia with a smirk on her face. “Yeah, myself.”

The party started and everyone was arriving one after another. Scott and Stiles arrived together, Allison was Isaac’s ride which was pissing the young alpha off. Y/n was sitting on the couch and observed everyone dancing, chatting and drinking. She wasn’t at ease here but at least there was the people she cared about here to make it bearable.

“Y/n/n, look at you, you look stunning.” expressed Scott taking place next to her on the couch. “Aw thanks Scotty. Are you having a good time?” smiled y/n. “I am, I’m glad we can finally rest after everything that’s happened to us.”

In the short amount of time they have known each other, Scott and y/n grew pretty close, they confided in each other a lot. Y/n has helped him with his relationship with Allison on multiple occasions. Scott handed a red cup to his friend. “Here let’s live a little tonight.” “Thanks Scotty but I’m good.” “You’re sure?” She nodded. “Okay, I’m gonna see the others just come and get me if you need anything, okay?” “Will do.” Right after the werewolf left y/n, Lydia came to her with a drink too. “Lydia, I just told Scott the same, I’m good.” “Come on y/n I want you to have a good time, so you have to come talk to people and drinking may give you a little boost AND I make the best punch so I won’t take no for an answer.” “You know how to have your way don’t you?” smiled y/n taking the cup. “I do! Now come socialize.”

Lydia took y/n’s hand and lead her where Scott, Stiles, Allison and Isaac were talking. “Hey guys.”, said y/n awkwardly waving at them. Allison and Isaac turned to greet her. Stiles though, was stunned to see her wearing a dress with a makeup heavier than usual and her hair done perfectly. “You look..really pretty tonight y/n.” stuttered the boy. “Thanks Stiles!” simply answered y/n. “I think I’m going to go get more drinks, y/n you coming with me?” proposed Allison. “Yes sure.” followed the shy girl. When both girls left, Lydia hit Stiles’ shoulder with the back of her hand. “ ‘You look pretty’...” she imitated him. “What are you? Twelve?” “She is pretty what’s the problem?” he replied. “Oh my god.” The strawberry blonde girl rolled her eyes.

A few drinks later, y/n was finally enjoying herself, dancing to her favorite songs with her friends. Lydia was right, drinking made her friend more carefree, less self-conscious and just herself. She even managed to bond more with Stiles, they danced and talked together for a little while. “I see you’re quite a dancer y/l/n.” said Stiles over the loud music. She giggled, “Bullshit, stop making fun of me Stilinski!” “No I mean it really.” “Bullshit.” She replied staring at him dead in the eyes. “Whatever..” he rolled his eyes back.

Y/n went back to the bar to take another drink. “Maybe you should slow down a little on the drinks.” he advised taking the cup from her. She squinted her eyes looking at him. “Are you my father?” “No but I’m your...friend and I don’t want to find you sleeping on the floor outside next to the pool alright?” “That’s bullshit you don’t care about me don’t force yourself, no one cares about me anyway.” she said slowly. He felt his chest tightened at her words. “What the hell are you talking about? Scott cares about, Lydia cares about you, I care about you.” “Yeah whatever.” She made her way to the stairs to go to the bathroom. “Wow, wait, where are you going?” “Leave me alone Stiles, I can handle myself.” “Y/n..” “I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE.” she yelled, Isaac who was near them looked at them with wide eyes. “OKAY.”, yelled back Stiles going outside offended by her behavior. Isaac mouthed “What the hell?” to Stiles who only shrugged back to him.

Straight after managing to sober up a little, y/n went back downstairs, she found herself in the middle of people dancing, shoving her. She was starting to be hot, her breathings speeding up, she could feel her heartbeat becoming crazy in her chest. The minutes felt like hours, she couldn’t breath anymore, her hands were shaking. She was having a panic attack, tears welled up in her eyes. She tried the best she could to catch her breath and calm herself down but it didn’t seem to work. She rushed outside as quickly as she could, when she was outside the cold air hit her and seemed to help to soothe her a little.

Feeling bad for leaving her alone in her condition, Stiles went back in the house to find y/n. He didn’t find her upstairs and started worrying. “Damnit.” he muttered to himself. “Are you looking for that drunk y/h/c girl?” asked a girl sitting in the corridor. “There’s a few drunk y/h/c girl in here if you haven’t noticed but yes, she has a black dress.” he responded running his hand in his hair and licking his lips nervously. “She went back downstairs, I think she wasn’t feeling really well.” she added casually. “Okay, thanks.” The skinny boy rushed downstairs and when he didn’t find her in the house he went to check outside. That’s when he saw her on the grass trying to calm herself down with her head in her hands. “Oh thank god..”

Stiles got to y/n and sat on the grass next to her. “Hey, are you okay?” She looked up to see him, her makeup all smudged because of the tears streaming down her cheeks. She shook her head and opened her mouth and only managed to say “Panic attack..” as she was still out of breath. Stiles just took her in his arms and tried to calm her down. “Please relax, deep breath y/n.” He had his chin on the top of her head, his hand gently rubbing her back to calm her sobs down. “I’m...I’m sorry.” she murmured against his chest. “It’s okay don’t worry.” They stayed like this for a few minutes Stiles trying to distract her from her panic attack.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked when she was calm again. “I can go home alone, don’t worry I already ruined your night..” He stared at her with a deadpan expression. “You really think I’m letting you leave alone after what just happened? I’m taking you home okay?” “Okay… Thank you Stiles.” She stared at him, admiring his amber eyes. “No worries.” He smiled awkwardly at her and she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Stiles then took y/n back home where he made sure she wasn’t going to have another panic attack before leaving her.

So this first part might be a little slow but we’ll get to know more about their relationship later on. Once again, let me know your feedback about it. :)