#sleep deprivation does worse things to me than any kind of substance

[macdenlover]

having a lot of big macdennis feelings but words aren’t coming to me good right now. but i need you guys to know there’s the energy of a long sophisticated analysis of their dynamic in this post 🫶

[outofangband]

Maedhros in Angband which makes me realize I have not written much of the aftermath lately and I need to do that soon because I like writing that and I know a lot of you like reading those things Features Thuringwethil being a creepy little bat child though not nearly as creepy in my story which is actually centered on her which I'm honestly very proud of as a horror fan.  more specific warning under the cut

this one is actually pretty long yay

warning for implied abuse of all kinds and force-feeding not graphically described and without an emphasis on actual food because I know that does make a difference for some people it's more like magical substance force-feeding but it's still you know not pleasant. 1 vague reference to sexual assault which I'm probably making worse by even pointing out but again I still want to warn just in case

He had not meant to. Truly, he had not. He had hardly any idea why he had reacted in such a way as for so many months, he had been able to keep such impulses to himself. But it seemed that even in this weakened, ill, sleep deprived state, Maedhros still had limits and these limits had been crossed long, long ago. So, here he was, hanging by his wrists, feet barely touching the ground in what seemed to be a supply closet of some sort. He was not sure. The situation had gotten out of control very quickly; Mairon was gone, Maedhros did not particularly care where or why, but some lesser being, maybe another Maia, he was not sure had reached out to touch his hair as he was being dragged from one cell to another, (for reasons he was not sure of, he presumed it was Mairon’s orders) and he had snapped, whipping around and throwing her hand away. He had already endured days of her chattering about how pretty he was, how much she wanted to play with him if only the Masters Of The Fortress would let her. It was merely unsettling at first, for her words seemed to be those of a child speaking about a doll, or maybe a horse, rather than the true cruelty he usually encountered. He did not know whether to feel pity, annoyance, or confusion and this made him hesitate to strike back, even after he was presented with the opportunity to with Mairon gone.

But, his patience wore thin and inevitably it tore apart. He had pushed her hand away and she had screamed, truly like a child threatened with harm and Maedhros froze, for a moment overcome with guilt and concern. This gave the nearby guards enough of an advantage to drag the weakened elf away. Even after Maedhros came to his senses and begun to fight again, he was already overpowered by three or four others. He was brought here, to this tiny space and chains were attached to his wrists. He had no idea how long he waited until another guard came in to inform him that, by Mairon’s orders, he was to remain there for four days until the Maia himself came back to deal with him. Truly, this was more irritating than anything else and Maedhros had expressed this irritation even more foolishly, by spitting at him. The guard left after backhanding him across the face, hard enough for the coppery, sickening taste of blood to permeate his senses. Several hours later, he returned to tell the elf that Mairon had added the added punishment of no food or water until his arrival for the previous act of insolence. Maedhros bit his tongue to avoid worsening the situation further with yet another display of his frustration and merely glared as the guard left after hitting him again for no real reason.

Maedhros spent the next few days in relative silence. For many hours at a time, (he assumed these were some kind of working hours) there would be much commotion and noise outside the locked door. When there was none, however, he risked speaking and singing to himself quietly. He knew he was lucky, that these isolated hours, as boring and uncomfortable as they were, would be a mercy compared to what would come when Mairon or worse, Melkor required his presence again.

Perhaps it had been four days, perhaps more or less. Mairon seemed to be in a cheerful mood, which could not mean anything good.

“So, I leave you alone for two days and already such trouble you have caused!” the Maia remarked, amusement in his song like voice. Maedhros clenched his jaw and counseled himself to be silent. Antagonizing Mairon would not help at all, would only make things worse.

“You must be starving,” the other smirked, as though there was ever a moment in Angband when Maedhros wasn’t starving. He was rarely given food, barely of a substance to sustain even one of the Eldar.

“How long am I to go without this time? Four more days? One week? It hardly matters,” Maedhros snarled, ignoring his previous warnings to himself. Mairon’s smile widened.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he crooned in that saccharine tone Maedhros so hated, “That is not at all what I meant, darling, for I come bearing relief.”

That couldn’t be good. Mairon approached the elf until their faces were mere inches apart. Never taking his eyes off the other, the Maia reached up with one hand to loosen the chains on Maedhros’s wrists so his feet were more steadied on the ground. With the other hand, Mairon reached into his robes and produced a small bag, fiddling with the string ties until they were opened. Taking advantage of Maedhros’s nervous gaze on the container, Mairon gripped his chin, pressing fingers painfully into his lower jaw.

“Open up now,” he said softly. The elf shook his head. This command almost always prefaced something horrifying and even though though they were in a different position than usual, Maedhros had no reason to believe this encounter would end any better.

“I said, open your mouth,” Mairon whispered dangerously, “For this will be the only chance you get to eat for quite some time.” I care not! Maedhros wanted to snarl, but instead he grit his teeth, resolved to doing everything he could to prevent whatever foul substance the Maia held from entering his mouth.

Mairon sighed and moved closer to him, gripping the back of his head with his spare hand. Maedhros’s eyes watered in pain as Mairon tugged spare locks with brutal force. He managed to remain silent until finally the other pulled his head back and let go, knocking the elf against the wall behind him. Unable to soften the blow with his hands bound as they were, Maedhros yelped in pain as a wave of dizziness rolled over him and sparks lit in front of his eyes.

Seizing this opportunity, Mairon shoved a small greenish object into the other’s mouth, immediately pressing his hand over it and returning his grip to Maedhros’s hair to hold him steady as he was forced to swallow. The elf was unsure what he had just been given for it tasted vaguely like sage but had the consistency of…caramel? Or something else chewy and sticky. He could only assume it was some potent herb that Mairon had cultured himself and dreaded to think of what effect it would have on him. He did not have to wait long, for the Maia seemed quite willing to explain.

“Do not fret, dear. This is not your dinner. In a little while, you will fall asleep and when you awaken, we will get you some proper food. How does that sound to you?”

How did that sound? Confusing, was the honest answer. Why on Arda did Mairon wish to drug him now? So rarely was the elf given any substance that took away his consciousness, and almost exclusively when he became so unruly that Mairon wished to subdue him strongly enough so that he could be left alone somewhere when the Maia was called off to a different task. Would he be taken somewhere else again? Mairon rarely seemed to have the need to subdue him during transport; chains and other guards were usually enough. The elf tried to glare as the telltale signs of induced drowsiness washed over him and he blinked repeatedly. Mairon reached out to stroke his face. Maedhros managed to turn away before his head fell against his chest, the weight of keeping it up making him blindingly dizzy.  The Maia reached up to undo some the bindings on his wrists, allowing the other to weakly fall forward. His bruised cheek brushed up against Mairon’s tunic and then it was dark.

When Maedhros woke up to dazzlingly white lights and a general feeling of cold, he knew immediately where he was and groaned aloud in despair. As he came more and more into his senses, his suspicions were confirmed; he was indeed strapped to the cold metal table in Mairon’s quasi infirmary room. The Maia stood over him, pouring one vial of a dark liquid into another beaker of a clear, almost  sparkling substance.

“Ah, Maitimo. Welcome back,” he said cordially, not looking away from his task.

“Why am I here?” Maedhros muttered sleepily as memories of the last hour or so before he fell asleep swam behind his eyes. Unsurprisingly, Mairon laughed.

“Do you not remember? I said I would feed you once you woke up. I did not want to waste time dragging you here, not when you have been so starved for vital nutrients!” He brushed Maedhros’s hair off his face, noting the elf’s eyes still on the beaker set to the side. Maedhros was still confused. The Maia had never before gone to such efforts to give him food. In fact, Mairon was never the one who did; usually some guard tossed him a piece of bread, or shoved a small tin of water through the door of his cell. The other seemed to notice his confusion.

“This is a special occasion, Maitimo,” said Mairon cheerfully, “For not only will you be taken care of but I will have the opportunity to test out a new substance of mine. It has taken some time to convince my master to allow me this opportunity, he is so Keen to have you returned to him. It should very much come in handy should you continue to insist on being stubborn! One dose of this and you will not require more than water for several weeks! Easier on everyone, do you not think?” Maedhros suppressed another groan. He hated having to test out the various concoctions and medicines that Mairon put together, hated being the subject for the other’s invasive, unpleasant, and often quite dangerous research. Mairon smiled again at the other’s dismay.

“ Let us not waste more time!” he said brightly, returning his hand to the elf’s hair, pulling it off his face and holding his head still. Maedhros was still too nauseous to struggle against this grip, much to his horror as Mairon took another metal device from the tray beside him and held it against his lips. Maedhros had already experienced it before and his heart rate sped up. Carefully and easily, Mairon forced the two thin, metal bars into the other’s mouth until his jaw was forced uncomfortably open. The device was attached to straps on either side of his head and tightened yet again.

Mairon stood back to admire his work, smirking at the outrage and indigence in Maedhros’s eyes. As he strode over to the other table to retrieve the beaker, a few drops of saliva fell onto the table beside the elf, only adding to his humiliation. Mairon also pulled up a chair beside his bound captive so he could better access what he needed.

“Remember, if you had not been so unruly, this need not have happened,” said Mairon sweetly as he dipped a spoon into the beaker and placed it on Maedhros’s tongue. He groaned incoherently, the concoction tasting nearly unbearably bitter and burning as it ran down his throat. Unable to shake his head or move away due to the tight straps, Maedhros screamed in protest as Mairon brought the utensil back into the container.

“Hush now,” the Maia said absently as he gave the elf a second spoonful of the horrid mixture, “If you are good, I will give you something nicer afterwards.”

For the next ten minutes, Maedhros continued to endure the humiliation of being spoonfed by his enemy. Yes similar things that happened which he did not wish to dwell on especially not now but this was even more blatant. He did not know how many helpings he was forced to swallow. It was at least nine when  he finally succumbed to the bitterness, spitting up a few ounces of the vile liquid. His face burned with shame as Mairon so sweetly wiped his cheeks and chin with a cloth, adjusting the gag so he could swallow more easily.

Finally,  when it was done, Mairon returned the beaker to the smaller tray and removed the metal device from the elf’s mouth.

“What was that?” Maedhros gasped out once he had relaxed his aching jaw enough to speak clearly.

“Were you not listening before, darling?” Mairon asked, returning to his chair beside the other, “It’s a special concoction I created that will give you the nutrients you need without having to argue every day when you refuse to eat. You should be grateful.” With his remaining strength, Maedhros glared at the other for speaking of him like he was an unruly child who refused to sit still for dinner.

“Would you like to wash that taste out of your mouth? Do not look at me like that, Maitimo, I know you would,” Mairon purred, seizing the elf’s chin, yet again, “Now open your mouth,  elf.” Tears of shame and self hatred burned in Maedhros’s eyes as he opened his mouth long enough for the Maia to pour a few drops of a sweet, fruit like substance in. It certainly did remove the disgusting taste of the other potion but the look of delight and triumph on Mairon’s own face burned in his mind. What he would give to avoid his enemy having reason for such glee!

Maedhros rested his head down dejectedly as Mairon stood up, apparently to leave. As nice as it would be to have some peace from the depraved being, Maedhros still did not really appreciate being left strapped naked to the freezing metal table. At least, if the Maia was correct, this particular punishment would not be one he would be forced to endure again for quite some time

[banashee]

  Just another day, another mountain to climb together

 One moment, he’s just minding his business, then someone jumps at him. Or, more precisely,      on     him.

 It probably should be noted that this isn’t a “I will violently murder you”-jump, it’s… More of a “Save me and carry me bridal style”-jump. Clint holds out his arms out of sheer instinct and drops his Starbucks Cup in the process. Aw, coffee, no.

 He looks wide eyed and confused when he realizes that he’s holding none other than Tony, who blinks owlishly at him and looks just as confused, as if he only just realized what the hell is happening. If he did, that is, because Clint has no fucking clue what in the hell is even going on.

 “The fuck?” he asks, because yeah, that.

 “Uh.” Tony replies very eloquently, and he looks like he won’t be any help. He’s pale with giant purple eyebags and a messy beard in his face, wearing clothes that are stained with unknown substances and could possibly stand on their own. It’s clear that he’s been awake for far too long, and that, in turn, explains a lot.

 “There was a loud noise.” he offers, and yeah, there is a folder on the floor where it just slipped from the kitchen table. Now that he looks - with Tony still in his arms because he’ll probably fall right on his ass if he puts him down right now - Tony is also clutching the back of his shirt, although he now slowly, very slowly let’s go of it - Clint can see Phil hunched over on his seat, one hand pressed over his mouth and shoulders shaking. He fails to suppress his chortling laughter, though.

 “I’m sorry, it’s just - your faces!” he manages, and then proceeds to laugh his ass off. He is right though - Clint is pretty sure they look like something straight out of a comedy movie, and if he’s honest, anything that catches Phil off-guard and makes him laugh like that is well worth it.

 “I dropped my fucking coffee for you.” he then dryly informs Tony, who actually looks a bit sorry about that - Clint blames it on the clear lack of sleep because otherwise this asshole would laugh it off and say, “Too bad.” before pulling a new cup from somewhere soon-ish as a peace offering because they all live off of caffeine and no one messes      too much    with that.

 Now though, he doesn't say anything and Clint is pretty sure he might just fall asleep there if he'd let him - he deposits him on a chair, which leads Tony to sway back and forth a little bit while Clint makes a beeline for the coffee machine to get a new cup - it’s not like there isn’t more than enough caffeinated drinks here, but he’s been craving a sugary coffee shop monstrosity so that’s what he’d gotten. And promptly dropped it to catch a sleep deprived engineer, apparently, because that’s just his life these days.

 He takes care of the mess while the coffee runs through.

  When Clint turns back around, Tony is snoring lightly, toppled over with his head on Phils shoulder, who just keeps reading the report in his hands.

 When Clint sits down on the table, Tony startles awake, and blinks a few times.

 “I’m awake. Totally awake.” One side of his hair is sticking up everywhere and he looks more confused than ever. And also kind of adorable.

 “You were snoring.”

 “I do that when I’m awake.”

 “Sure you do.” He’s smirking, and inhales his coffee as Tony nods along to his words, rather enthusiastically, and promptly falls back asleep.

 He shares a look with Phil, who smiles in silent amusement, and steals a sip of coffee from Clint's mug.

 *+~ flashback ~+*

 The two of them are pretty close ever since they really got to know each other after the Battle of New York, all Capital Letters and all over the news. That particular week left everyone a mess - some more than others, but still.

 Clint has to deal with the aftermath of mindfuckery, total loss of control and killing friends, coworkers and innocent people in the process. He has to deal with being partly responsible for a lot of fucked up things including an alien invasion and even though it wasn’t him holding the spear, his intel is what lead Loki to stabbing Phil through the chest.

 Clint has to deal with being responsible for the death of his husband, the love of his life. That alone is enough to wreck him completely.

 SHIELD keeps questioning every word and move, and decided it would be safer for everyone if Clint spends the time it took them all to figure out whether or not he is to blame locked up in a windowless cell. He’d completely shut down at this point, and when he wakes up one day, he finds himself in a warm, clean and comfortable bed in a room in the tower with no memory of how he’d even gotten there.

 Turns out, SHIELD released him, and Natasha had busted him out as soon as she possibly could. He asks her about that later, and she quietly admits that she would have gotten him out, no matter what. But the fact that it had happened in a legal way would be in his favor - instead of having to run and hide somewhere far away, he is now able to live, rest and heal in the Avengers Tower where he’s around friends.

 Living with a bunch of people he’d only met a small handful of times before should be awkward, but it’s not. It just - works. Quite well even, once they’ve gotten to know each other a bit, started to thaw around each other, learned to trust and let themselves be.

 It feels good to be around people. It feels good to have company, to be able to seek out another human being even late at night when loneliness or grief hits.

 Anytime Tony closes his eyes since the battle, all he sees is stars and a wide, open space that’s way too far to make out with the human eye. It’s an endless void of galaxies, stars and planets, all scattered about space and not nearly enough time in a single humans life to discover it all. It should be beautiful and fascinating, but anytime he thinks about it, he’s terrified out of his mind and breathing gets hard for a while after.

 He stops sleeping whenever he can, because the nightmares are worse than insomnia. Everything gets mixed up, and his recent space travel with a nuke is just the icing on this fucked up, scary cake of baggage.

 So, it’s only natural that at some point, he crosses ways with another resident of the tower, while he wanders about at night because JARVIS locked him out of his workshop. He does that sometimes, just to make sure Tony doesn’t seriously injures himself  or sets the entire place on fire.

 To be fair, he hasn’t slept in      days     and he doesn’t think about the fact that Clint might not be wearing his ears when he steps up behind him in the half dark kitchen without a word.

 He is reminded of it when the archer startles and turns quickly, one hand reaching for the kitchen knife on the counter, eyes wide and tremors running through his entire body before he tenses up completely, ready for combat. When he grasps a second later that it’s Tony who he’s looking at, staring in horror, he immediately drops the weapon to the floor.

 “Fuck! Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-” He’s breathing hard, and there is something dark and painful in his blue eyes, before he pulls himself together and pushes it back.

 “I’m sorry.” he repeats, a little calmer this time, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Or hurt you.”

 “It’s okay, I guess I should have said something, or-”      ‘Great idea, Stark.’     he thinks, cringing inwardly but it doesn’t seem to bother Clint. He just looks on his lips while he's talking, which seems to help him make out the words. Clint nods in understanding as Tony finishes off with an apology of his own.

 Both of them need a bit of time to compose themselves, and luckily, there is a fresh, hot pot of coffee on the table. They share it in silence, then Clint says,

 “You can, you know.” Tony looks over, questioning and heavy-lidded. He really is tired, but sleep means nightmares. Unless he just keeps going until he passes out - he’s usually too wiped to dream anything, then.

 “Talk to me when you walk up behind me and I’m not wearing my ears, I mean.”  Clint clarifies, “I’ll be able to tell that there is a noise, better than just footsteps.”

 “Oh. Okay, that’s good to know. I’ll do that next time.”

 “Thanks, Tony.” he rubs his face, and stares into his half empty mug of coffee for a moment, then he keeps talking.

 “Are you okay?”

 The question surprises him a bit, and Tony is about to throw in a quip about still standing and not getting stabbed that day. But he’s literally too tired for snark, and the question seems both genuine and general. So, despite himself, he answers honestly.

 "Not really. Haven't slept in a while." he doesn't say anything about a wormhole and aliens, but it seems to be in the air. And as it is, Clint nods in understanding.

 "Yeah, I get that."  And he does. He can't remember the last time he slept more than 1 or 2 hours at a time, let alone through the night.

 It must have been way before all of this, when he'd spent a rare long weekend off at home with Phil. It was their last vacation, their last bit of free time home together, ever. The following week they had to depart to base in New Mexico for the Pegasus OP.

 They spent most of this time wrapped around each other in bed, because it had been a nasty, stormy week. Their apartment in Brooklyn was well heated, comfortable and lived in, but body heat has always been their favorite way to keep each other warm, and-

 Clint blinks a few times, coming back to the cold reality. No cozy off time with Phil, because he is dead and it's his fault.

 A pang of longing and grief stabs him in the heart, and Clint doesn't say anything more, hoping it's dark enough in the room so he can hide the shine of sadness in his eyes.

 He feels nausea rise in his throat, but downs the rest of his coffee nonetheless in an attempt to swallow it along with his emotions.

 Neither he or Tony say another word for hours. They simply sit in silence at the kitchen table at 3am, share another pot of coffee and breathe along with a friend because it's the only thing they can do to keep themselves going.

  It works. For a little while, it's enough.

 *~+

 Nights spent in silence and drinking coffee turn into keeping each other company through the nights. It is a desperate attempt to fill the cold space next to them in a bed and keep the night terrors at bay. They can’t and don’t want to replace romantic partners, but just being close to another human that they trust is enough to keep them going. A warm body to curl around, as to not feel as alone anymore.

 Time passes by, and things get better, although the struggles never really disappear.

 One day, Clint realizes that several months have passed since the battle and Phil dying and everything else. He needs to sit down in shock when he thinks about that, and the fact that he now can live, eat, sleep and laugh, even though the pain is still present in the back of his mind, leaves him stunned for a while as he remains on the spot without moving.

 Some days, he is genuinely happy and doesn’t really think about it very much, and if he’s lucky that holds up for a few more days. Then again, there are days, or of it’s bad, weeks, where everything hits at once and it hurts just as bad as it did at the beginning.

 There is at least some kind of balance, and he manages life as best as he can. Having the others around helps tremendously.

 While Clint is kind of a loner by habit, he is actually dependent on a small group of people around him by nature. It’s not something he likes to think about, because words like “failure”, “useless” and “weak” keep creeping through his brain, even when he firmly tells it to shut the hell up.

 As it is, he actually enjoys the company of his teammates a lot.

 He’s close to Natasha of course, seeing as they’ve been best friends for years and always have each others back.

 Whether they walk into battle side by side or beat each other’s asses on the sparring mats, compete on the shooting range, share meals or just hang out, whether they curl up somewhere just to share each other's company and body heat, it doesn't matter.  They work together like a well oiled machine and it’s a bit of home left over from the early days for both of them and they keep close to each other whenever they’re in the same place.

 Sometimes though, there are days or weeks where they’re apart for mission related or other reasons. They keep in touch if they can, but life is not quite the same then.

 Over the time, Clint get’s comfortable around everyone else as well. Surprisingly, or not really, because they’re similar in quite a few aspects, he quickly forms a friendship with Tony.

 Both of them are around at the tower a lot of the time and both of them are more or less of a disaster. They randomly meet at all hours of the day or night, keeping each other company and bond quickly.

 What starts out as sharing coffee and spaces in the middle of the night turns into spending free time with one another and at some point even sharing a bed to help each other through cold and lonely nights. It sounds wrong when you say it like that, but there really is nothing sexual about it. They’re close, and both of them have enough trust issues that they’re happy to have another friend they can be that close with.

 Neither could tell when they started to jokingly flirt on occasion or call each other awful pet names.

 “Hey Snuggluffagus.” - “What’s up, Shmoopie.”

 “Oh, hi Honeybun, can you come down to the lab later?” - “Sure thing, Cupcake.”

 It makes everyone around them groan without a fail, and leaves them with the desire to scrub their brains with bleach because most those names are just      that terrible.    They’re all having a laugh about it  - whatever brightens the day.

 Clint is also close with Bruce, Steve and Thor, who are around more or less often depending on their schedules but they all get along fine. They share meals and time not fighting whatever it is that week, and soon grow a steady friendship as well.

 He likes to cook or bake with Bruce, or watch nature documentaries in the middle of the night with him. Clint is fascinated with birds, something that he makes Bruce swear to keep to himself because the jokes about that and his codename would never die down. Ever. No one needs that. So they keep each other company on late nights and early mornings - sometimes even with a person or two more, and then it's easy to forget the crippling feeling of loneliness for a while.

 Bruce knows loneliness. He also knows what it is like to lose control and kill innocent people in the process. It's not great common ground, but it's a strong one. They don't talk very often about it, but it's nice to know that someone      understands    .

 Bruce is incredibly easy to get along with, too. He is a sweet guy, keeping mostly to himself at first but once he trusts and relaxes, he's a lot of fun to be around, dry humor and excitable about anything really, especially if one utters the magic words "for science".

 One day, when Clint is in the gym and working out  Bruce enters the room in a jog, rumpled and sleepless after days down in the lab, but clearly happy about something. He  then spends about an hour telling Clint about the newest breakthrough in one of his projects, simply because he's closest at the moment, jogging along and later sitting on his Teammates back as a human weight. He keeps on chatting the entire time, explaining things in a manner that Clint even      gets     what Bruce is working on and why it is exciting. It's interesting, and he thinks it's nice that someone seeks him out for the sole purpose of sharing excitement about something important to them.

 Steve, once he drops the Captain Persona and is confident in being himself, is easy to get along with as well - a lot easier probably than he gets credit for, but he'd never ask for that. He is a good guy to talk to in general, sweet and polite, but also a snarky asshole once he grows comfortable around people - he's pretty great to be around.

 Steve likes to do anything and everything that involves new technology or information of any kind, especially art, and he explores the 21st century with almost childlike wonder. It often reminds Clint that the guy is in his  20s - people tend to forget that he's that young, what with Steve being a national icon and often being referred to as "almost 100 years old" and all that but it doesn't really count of you've spent the majority of those years asleep and frozen, right? It really is sad to think about.

 As capable, strong and intelligent as Steve is, Clint feels protective of him - he feels that way about all of his teammates actually, even though most of them could snap him in half if they really wanted to. It doesn't change a thing.

 Thor doesn't spend as much time down on Midgard, but when he does, he's always great company. He is loud and booming in almost everything he does, happily lifting the others off of their feet when he pulls them into bone crushing hugs and smiles and laughs so radiantly - it brightens the entire day, and that in itself is another superpower of their resident God of Thunder.

 Thor likes to turn meals into massive feasts, trading stories until the sun rises again, and they cook breakfast together while the conversation never stops. Those are good times, and it brings them all closer together.

 But he also has a gentle, much more quiet side to him that they hadn't known of before. Thor is always willing to spend a sleepless night with one or more of them, offering company and words of encouragement or advice, or simply silence and a strong shoulder to lean or cry on, depending on what is needed of him. He happily provides all of it.

 Clint has talked to him about the battle, about Loki and everything after. He does so at a time where he isn't up to talking about these things with anyone except maybe Natasha, and it's hard. They sit on the rooftop at night, watching the sky even though there are no stars visible due to the light pollution. Clint doesn't look directly at him, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the city below them until his vision is blurry from tears.

 Thor doesn't say a word about it, he simply puts his arm around the smaller man's frame and lets him lean into the gentle touch.

 The night is chilly, but with him, Clint doesn't feel the cold and stays close until he can breathe again.

 *+~

 Since Clint spends a significant amount of time with Tony these days , naturally, he spends a lot of it with Rhodey and Pepper as well, whenever any of the two is around. And really, it doesn't take long at all to see why Tony loves them so much.

 Pepper is smart, strong and capable, which is always something that Clint can appreciate. But she's also such a kind person while simultaneously not taking anyone's shit - it's a rare and admirable combination in a person that way too many are lacking.

 She is also a massive nerd, about art and movies and anything else that might catch her interest. This reminds Clint of Phil, often times, because he'd had a lot in common with Pepper and called her a dear friend.

 It is a regrettable coincidence that Clint has met her only after everything had gone to shit. It's a shame, really.

 Rhodey is, in anything but blood, Tony's brother. He looks out for him, and the people around him because he cares and it's who he is. It helps that he'll always call him out on his bullshit, too.

 He's funny and protective and a great friend - Clint likes him immediately. Everyone is in agreement that Rhodey isn't around nearly often enough, but he comes over whenever he can.

 Usually, Tony is right there to greet him, but one day, he's running an update on Jarvis who usually announces any visitor, so Tony isn't in the living room when Rhodey steps out of the elevator - Clint can practically smell his once in a lifetime opportunity and grins widely before he turns to yell into the other room:

 "Tony, your common sense arrived!"

 It's met with an clatter of something, followed by an enthusiastic shout of "Rhodey!!" and the man in question bursting into roaring laughter.

 "Just how long did you wait to make that joke, Clint?" he asks the archer with an amused sparkle in his dark eyes.

 "Months, dude. Months. I'm way too happy about this." Clint confesses unashamedly, and then Tony comes running to tackle his best friend into a hug and to the floor.

 It’s a strange mix of people, but they’re all pretty damn great in their own ways, and together, this seemingly impossible concoction works out beautifully.

 No one in this household sleeps a lot or very well to begin with, so meeting up at odd hours is normal for them, too. It helps to be known and understood, and soon, they all keep each other company whenever it’s needed, too.

 Clint has spent most of his life lonely, and yet, the nearly 12 years of relationship and even more as friends he's had with Phil taught him that company doesn't have to hurt, that it can be the most wonderful thing in the world to wake up enveloped with another person under warmy heavy sheets. Those years taught him what trust and love and comfort really feel like.

 Now, that Phil has been taken from him, he can no longer stand to fall asleep and wake up alone in an empty bed.

 He's eternally grateful to have found this team.

 He's eternally grateful that Tony spends as many nights with him as he does and they wrap around each other to breathe in the warmth and comfort of one another.

 They fit - in a different way but still and Clint vows not to think too much about that. The guilt of thinking about "what if" and "maybe" feels like a punch to the guts, and Clint keeps that to himself as he's falling asleep with his head pillowed on Tony, with the faint blue shine of the Arc reactor right by his face as gentle fingers sleepily brush through his hair.

 *~+

 More time goes by, and life is life, as much as it can be for a bunch of damaged people who save the world on a semi-regular basis and stick together before and after.

 Then, one day, everything changes again, because as they find out that Phil is alive and still in medical where he recovered not only from getting stabbed back with Loki's spear, but also, mostly still recovering, from the invasive and party alien procedure that ended up saving his life.

 And no one bothered to tell Clint, or anyone else for that matter. They only find out because Tony is digging through top secret SHIELD files via JARVIS, because he is suspicious and ridden with the constant need to find answers. When he comes across those particular files, he curses up a blue storm and rushes upstairs to tell Clint and Nat and then the rest of the team.

 It’s like every wound rips open again, and Clint is about to personally murder Nick Fury. The rest of the team is tempted to let him - but at the end of the day, the director walks away alive while the Avengers pile onto a jet to get to the medical facility that holds Phil.

 Tony is piloting the jet while the others pace and Natasha is crammed into the tiny bathroom with Clint who is busy fighting off a panic attack and clinging onto her for dear life. Besides the panic about everything crashing down around him, he is torn between excitement about getting to see his husband again, something he’d thought impossible and had to learn to live with, and being scared shitless of anything going wrong. What if Phil doesn’t want to see him, or worse, what if he doesn’t remember him after all that was done to bring him back to life?

 But for once, life is kind.

 When Clint knocks and enters the room cautiously, while the team is staying behind in the hallway to give them privacy and not to overwhelm Phil, the look on Phil's face turns from empty exhaustion to genuinely surprised happiness when he realizes who is coming. He is pale and has lost way too much weight, but he lights up like a christmas tree at the sight of his husband.

 “Clint? Hey, it’s good to see you, Honey.” He sounds rough, but the sparkle in his eyes speaks volumes.

 “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier, Phil. I- we had no idea.” Clint crosses the room in a few steps, and sits down on the edge of the bed before his knees give up beneath him. Phil immediately reaches out for him, and he gets a hold of his hand and doesn’t let go. Clint leans as close as he can, and Phil melts against the touch. They hold onto each other for a while - it’s been too long.

 “How are you?” he asks, and despite his best attempts to hold back, there are tears stinging in his eyes and seconds later, they drip down onto the bed sheet.

 “I’m healing. I just - I’m glad you’re here, Clint. I’ve missed you so much.” Phil tightens his hold around Clint, as if he’s afraid he’ll be gone if he lets go of him. Clint hugs back as hard as he dares, too scared he might accidentally hurt him.

 “Are you okay?” Phil asks then, but he has a feeling he already knows the answer. Clint stays silent for a while after that, just nods slightly. Then he says,

 “I’ve missed you, too. I can’t even - this is insane, but I’m so happy you’re alive. I love you, Phil.”

 He hasn’t said that yet, and it seems about time. Phil smiles, and kisses his scruffy jaw.

 “I love you, too.” then he asks, “Did Nick finally tell you what happened after- ? I’ve bugged him about it since I woke up, but he said it wasn’t possible.”

 Phil sounds resigned, and it just about breaks Clint’s heart. It seems so unnecessary and unfair that they both had to do this alone and without each other when they’d been through so much together before, had been each others rock for so many years.

 “Nick didn’t tell me shit.” Clint says darkly, gently running one hand up and down Phil’s back,  “I only found out because Tony was digging through SHIELD files. He does that sometimes.” He shrugs, unconcerned, and Phil huffs a laugh.

 “Of course he would.”

 “Just a normal tuesday, really. But this time he came across more, and when he realized you’re still alive, well… He told me right away, and Tasha, too. The others are all here as well and they’re waiting outside. But they’ll want to see you, too.”

 “Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

 As it is, Natasha is the first to join them - she’s missed Phil almost as much as Clint did, and she stays close to both of them for the entire time, even when the other Avengers slowly trickle into the room.

 Something heavy seems to fall off of them, and while everyone makes themselves comfortable around the room, Clint feels like something clicks into place.

 *+~

 Phil is happy to be able to get out of the hospital - Clint and Natasha stay with him the entire time until he’s released. It happens sooner than originally planned, but there is medical care near at all times back home in the tower.

 There is also one hell of a lot more privacy and people he actually wants to be around.

 Getting to know the team as they are now is exciting he finds. He is very pleasantly surprised to see how much they have all grown together, to see how they function around and with each other in everyday life and in battle.

 Phil is also happy to see that the two people he considered his family for years, have opened up to accept others around them. For as long as he's known Clint and Natasha, they’d always preferred to keep their circles small, for many reasons, trust issues right on top. But now, he can see them happy and comfortable surrounded by a group of people. They don’t wear any kind of masks, are comfortable with physical contact and even seek it out on their own terms.

 The only natural thing to happen is that Phil is accepted and included in it all without any question - friendships form quickly, and he is quietly relieved that he doesn’t need to keep up his bland Agent facade all the time - it makes him feel at home.

 One day, he is solving a crossword puzzle on the common room couch, with Clint knitting on a fuzzy, purple sock on one side and Pepper tapping away on her tablet on the other. On the far side of the couch, on Clint’s right, Tony is inhaling a cup of black coffee while simultaneously talking their ears off about a movie he’s found recently. It’s a horrible zombie apocalypse thing with even more horrendous reviews - naturally, he’s trying to win them over to vote for it on the next movie night to poke fun at. It’s one of his favourite things to do, and he’s already got Thor and Clint on his side - not a hard thing to achieve, since they’re always up for crap TV and crap movies.

 Pepper says, “Absolutely not, I can already see my braincells leave the room in tears.”

 Phil… Is seriously thinking about agreeing to the movie, just to see where it’ll take them. He’s curious. And kind of in a constant state of “might as well” now that he’s got another chance to live his life.

 He’s listening to the debate with half an ear, slight grin on his lips.

 “Of course it’s fucking stupid, that’s the point.” Clint says, looking up from his work for a moment, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

 “Oh god, please don’t tell me you guys found another one of those zombie movies.” Steve answers as he walks into the room with the cordless vacuum cleaner. Despite having a whole army of robots for all sorts of things in the tower, he likes to do things the old fashioned way - a lot. The compromise had been this thing - at least it’s almost soundless.

 “Alright, then we’re not going to tell you.” Tony shrugs, and downs another sip of coffee.

 Steve sighs, and Phil pulls his feet up to the couch to make space for him. Which is a good thing - because a second later, the couch hangs about six and a half feet up in the air and slightly tilted to the side because Steve just lifts it up like a fucking cardboard box to clean underneath it.

 Pepper lands half on Phil’s lap, casually tapping away on her tablet as if nothing happened, Phil topples over onto Clint, who wraps one arm around him but keeps up his conversation with Tony, who holds onto his coffee mug for dear life as three people suddenly slide right on top of him, but he’s otherwise unconcerned.

 Phil figures that this is just a normal part of life in this household and that he might as well get used to it.

 ~+* now *+~

 Tony is inwardly cursing himself. This, whatever “this” is, is getting out of hand.

 Yes, he’s flirting and yes he’s joking and he gets just as much of it back, but… Clint is married. He’s married      to Phil     and the two of them don’t need any more trouble, especially now that things have finally fallen into a good place for them after everything.

 He’s grown close to Clint in the last year, and sometimes, secretly, a small part in the back of his mind had wondered what might have been under different circumstances. He doesn’t dare, too afraid of losing not one but two good friends. But of course, he can’t keep his big mouth shut and continues to go on as always - stupid pet names met with corny one-liners, extragged winks and air-kisses thrown over the distance of the room.

 And it doesn’t seem to bother them - it’s comfortable banter, and apart from Phil being there, nothing really has changed, which is impressive. All of them share spaces and cuddle up somewhere as always, and there is nothing weird about it.

 One movie night - it’s another awful zombie movie because those fucking things are a tradition at this point - he’s tired enough to doze off several times, his head resting on Clint’s shoulder, who is snuggled up against Phil but still keeps one arm wrapped around him as he drifts off into sleep. He startles awake again at the sound of gunshots from the TV. His heartbeat increased and Tony is slightly confused to what is happening - his brain screams panic, but there is someone gently touching him. The hand that belongs to the arm still wrapped around him rubs small circles into his upper arm, and a calm voice tells him,

 “You’re safe. It’s just the movie.”

 Right. Team movie night. He nods, as he slowly realizes where he is.

 “Okay. Thanks. I’ll just…” Tony breathes in and out a few times, and when he’s calm again, drifts back off to sleep. It must be in the middle of the night when he wakes up again, curled up on the couch with firm body next to him and to a hushed conversation. He keeps his eyes closed, too tired still and too comfortable to move.

 “Do you wanna stay with him? I’m not sure how he’ll react to waking up alone.”

 “Yeah, I think I’ll stay. You okay with that?”

 “Of course. Let me know if you need anything?”

 “Will do. I Love you, Phil.”

 “I love you, too. Sweet dreams.”

 “You, too.”

 Someone, probably Phil, spreads a big, plush blanket over both of them, and Tony falls back asleep to the soft murmur of his friends, a gentle hand running through his hair and with a mixture of happiness, guilt and longing in his chest.

 *+~

 “You two are close.” Phil says when they’re making breakfast in their apartment the next day.

 Clint looks over to Phil, knowing exactly what he’s asking and he is half expecting him to look either angry or disappointed, but he doesn’t. It’s a simple statement - and a true one at that. Clint turns down the heat on the stove so he can answer while looking his husband in the eyes.

 “Yes, we are. It’s… Tony’s helped me a lot, and I try to do the same.”

 A little smile appears on Phil’s face. Nothing big, nothing humorous. It’s one of the small, understanding smiles that used to catch Clint completely off-guard years ago before they even started dating, because he just never experienced human interactions in this way.

 “You do. It’s good to know that you have a support system. And   I’m glad that you weren’t alone after - you know, after.” It’s a sore topic for both of them, and neither likes to talk about it. Least of all early in the morning, but there is more to it now.

 “Me, too. I’m especially glad I got you back, though.”

 Clint needs to be close to Phil, so he turns off the stove to prevent their eggs from burning. Then he steps into his space and Phil wraps his arms around him, chin resting on his shoulder. They share a few moments of silence, and Clint can tell that there is another question in the air. He remains silent though, because he doesn’t want to take the opportunity from Phil to ask on his own terms - he owes him that much. The knot of guilt over his feelings sits tight in his stomach, too, and it prevents him from starting this inevitable conversation.

 His grip tightens, and Phil brushes a kiss on his temple.

 “Hey, Relax. It’s okay, I understand.”

 “I just-” His voice cracks and he needs to breathe carefully for a moment before the words just spill out and he can’t stop them anymore. “I thought you were dead and I’ve never felt more alone. Having someone there to hold onto helped a lot, and the whole team helped with that. But Tony is just, I don’t know. We just get along. Nothing happened between us.”  He needs to say this out loud, because while the logical part of his brain knows that they didn’t do anything wrong, another, nasty part inside of his head calls him a unfaithful cheater.

 “A romantic relationship with anybody was the last thing I wanted at that time. Just being close to someone felt good, and then we started making these dumb jokes and I don’t - “ Clint almost chokes on the words, but he keeps going, because he needs to tell the truth, but he’s also terrified he’ll fuck up the best thing that ever happened to him. There are tears burning in his eyes and he briefly wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to cope if everything around him is starting to fall apart again.

 “I don’t know when I actually started to fall in love with him. I’m sorry, Phil. I’m so sorry.”

 Clint doesn’t know what kind of reaction he expects really - his mind is too fuzzy for this by now, but Phil simply hugs him tighter, gently running one hand up and down his back and through his hair until he’s calmer.

 “You don’t need to be sorry for anything. Please believe me when I say that I understand.” Phil is speaking slowly and carefully, clearly trying to find the right words to voice the thoughts inside of his head.

 “I died. I died and then I was brought back to life and nobody knew, so I might as well have been dead. And in any case, all I want is for you to be happy. So even if anything had happened between the two of you? I’d be okay with that.”

 They cling to each other, half cooked breakfast and boiling water in the kettle completely forgotten.

 “We’re so incredibly lucky we got another chance at a life together.”

 “We are. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

 “Even now that you know I’ve fallen in love with another person as well?”

 “It doesn’t change anything for me. I love you, Clint.”

 “I love you, too. So much.” It’s true - he doesn’t have words big enough to even begin and describe just how much he loves Phil. They pull away from each other,  just a little bit - still touching, and just enough so they can look each other in the eyes. Both of them have been crying, and they clearly need a bit more time to simply hold onto each other, but Clint can feel a giant weight lifting off of his chest.

 The truth is out, and they’re still okay.

 *+~

 In the upcoming weeks, there isn’t much time for anything really - it’s like the evil geniuses and crazed super villains collectively decided that now is the perfect time to pull petty bullshit after petty bullshit to keep the Avengers busy. And busy is exactly what they are.

 Today, they’re almost,      almost     thankful that it’s just doombots. It’s almost like a vacation if they compare it to the last 20 missions, because they always figure out how to blow the damn things into oblivion, at least until Victor Von Doom comes up with something new - that guy has way too much time on his hands but it’s still much much better than having to fight Hydra, AIM, ridiculously overpowered, giant animal hybrids or whatever it is that time.

 Or worst of all, dealing with natural disasters. Those are always hard because most of the time, they can only recover bodies, carry the injured to what they can only hope is safety and help clean up the rubble - it’s awful and devastating, because they can’t do anything to stop it in the first place - all they can do is help after the fact and save whoever is still alive.

 Right now though, all they have to do is keeping evil robots from destroying Manhattan and it’s a lot more successful than they’d hoped for. The whole thing is done after about three hours, and then they get to go home - a flock of reporters is following them, shoving cameras and microphones into their faces.

 Clint is very tempted to feed the mic in his face to the guy holding it - with a lot of force. But that’s frowned upon when you’re one of “Earth’s mightiest heroes” so he settles on fantasizing about it while he plays one of his favourite games, along with Tony who is an expert in it.

 The game is called “How rude can I be to their faces while using words that are big and sound pretentious when all I’m really doing is tell them to fuck off.” and it’s very very satisfying after a day (or month) like this and all they want is to go home, shower, eat and fall into bed for two days straight.

 Once they are finally free to do just that, they enter the common floor dead on their feet, shuffling to the private elevator that brings them to their own apartments. They lean heavily on each other, with limbs that are twisted or broken, bruises that will last and stitched up with traces of dried up blood on them.

 Bruce, freshly de-hulked and half naked is nearly asleep standing up and propped up against Thor, who has one arm wrapped around him and the other still on Mjölnir. Steve rests against the metal wall of the elevator, and if it wasn’t for him and the Iron Man suit, Tony would be on his ass on the floor by now. But as it is, he’s kept upright so Natasha can keep her broken ankle off the floor while holding onto him with one arm, since there are crutches at the tower but not the jet. Her other arm is tightly wrapped around Clint who is almost asleep on Phils shoulder, who holds onto the railing on the wall to take the weight - he’s been in the field along with the team this time, instead of just the comms from a surveillance spot.

 One by one, or in small groups, they get to their separate living spaces and straight to the shower. Natasha joins Clint and Phil for the night, because as much as she hates needing help, the injury on her ankle isn’t the only one she carried away today, and neither of them wants her slipping on wet tiles and crack open her skull just because she’s stubbornly independent. It’s days like this where Phil is very much reminded of just how similar Clint and Natasha are.

 Both of them would push on and push too far even when they physically should not or can not. You’d think he’s used to that after over a decade, and yet… Phil showers quickly, and prepares a quick and light meal with water and painkillers while Clint helps Natasha in the bathroom before he gets in the shower as well and they put fresh bandages on one another. They emerge when he’s just done, and the three of them share a quiet but comfortable meal amongst themselves. Everyone is exhausted, and they’ll have a huge breakfast with the whole team the next day, whenever they’re all awake again.

 That night, Natasha sleeps curled up next to Clint, leaving him in the middle in between her and Phil, and holds onto the blanket with an iron grip. As much as she loves these two, both of them are notorious for stealing blankets in their sleep, and she refuses to get in the middle of that. And it doesn’t matter how close they start out the night - as cuddly as they are while falling asleep, often times they’ll just roll over and make themselves into a cozy burrito while fast asleep.

 Whoever is lucky gets the most blankets that way. They always sleep with a billion covers for this very reason, but at least one of them always manages to hog more than a fair share.

 How exactly they lasted years and years of relationship and marriage without murdering each other out of sheer frustration in the middle of the night due to this, Natasha will never understand.

 The blanket slowly slips away from her as Clint turns away in his sleep with it and she thrusts an elbow into his ribs - not as hard as she usually would because she’s seen the bruises, but still.

 “Quit it, you dickhead.” she grumbles half heartedly, and Phil chuckles sleepily while the complaint falls to - literally - deaf ears with Clint. He’s already snoring.

 Sighing, Natasha cuddles up closer behind him in an attempt to get more warmth - this works, too.

 *+~

 “Wait, what? You must be joking.” Clint looks at Phil like he’s grown another head.

 They’re in their apartment and folding laundry, a task that’s long overdue due to their busy schedule, and now that things have finally gotten a little bit calmer they finally get around to it. Both of them are in sweatpants and ancient tshirts in their living room, seated on the couch (Phil) and the table (Clint) while they’re working and keeping up a conversation.

 Phil and Clint have been chatting away about a lot of things, until the topic of Tony comes up again. After their very emotional talk in the kitchen a few weeks back, they’ve talked about this a few more times, and it’s good - helpful for both of them. But today is the first time that Phil voiced this possible option - opening the relationship for a third person, provided that everyone involved would be happy and comfortable with that.

 Clint holds the pair of boxer briefs mid air where he froze and looks over at Phil, who finishes folding a t-shirt and holds his husbands gaze.

 “I’m not joking at all. If this is something you’d be happy with, and something that Tony would be happy with, it would be a good solution for this admittedly quite unique situation.”

 “Well yeah. Apart from the fact that this option kinda feels like a enormous dick move on my part? Like, neither of you is at fault for this mess? It’s not your fault for being, uh, gone after a long and committed relationship slash marriage and it’s not Tony’s fault for me falling in love and I don’t even know, maybe-possibly him falling maybe possibly as well? I’d have to talk to him about that… Which is awkward and I’m kinda scared of losing a friend due to this?”

 “It’s not your fault, either.” Phil says quietly, and reaches out to gently squeeze his hand as Clint stops rambling. He squeezes back, with a slight smile but doesn’t say anything to it. So Phil continues,

 “You don’t need to make up your mind right now, obviously. Just think about it? If it’s something you’d want. And if I’m being honest, I have a feeling that Tony won’t let go of you just like that, even if he doesn’t want this option.”

 Clint nods slightly, chewing on his lower lip for a few minutes and keeps folding more laundry before he speaks up again.

 “To be honest, I’ve thought about this before but I never thought it would be possible. It sounds kinda too good to be true, but… I think I would be very, very happy if this were to work out. But just one thing, Phil.” He pauses for a moment, carefully considering his words as he’s talking. He’s already answering this slowly, but now he slows down and pauses even more. This is important to him, and he reaches out with one hand again, and Phil happily takes it.

 “Would you be happy and comfortable with this as well? You’re not just suggesting this because you want me to be happy even when it’s something that would bother you in the long run? Because if that’s the case this option is off the table.”

 He’s looking straight at him again, and Phil smiles back. Even after all these years, he’ll never get tired of getting lost in his husbands deep blue eyes. He gets up from the couch and gently cups Clint’s face in his hands and kissing him, slow and deep and he hums happily, pulling Phil closer to him.

 When they break apart, Clint looks a lot more relaxed, but he’s very obviously still waiting for an answer to his question.

 “If I was unhappy with this option, I wouldn’t have suggested it. Yes, one of my biggest concerns is your happiness and I know how much Tony means to you. But he’s growing on me, too, and very much so. He’s been flirting with      both of us.    ” he adds pointedly, and that makes Clint burst out into a short bark laughter.

 “He did. And he was mortified when he realized it.”

 Phil’s eyes are sparkling with amusement, but he’s completely serious when he keeps talking.

 “So, yes, I would be happy with this if it was to happen. Take your time to think about it, and if it is something you want, you can talk to Tony. If he wants this as well, the three of us will get together for a conversation and figure out the rest. How about that?”

 Clint nods in agreement and he looks much happier and brighter than he ever did before when they talked about this specific topic.

 “Sounds good to me. I’m kinda having trouble to believe that this may be possible, but… Yeah. This is good. I’ll let you know if or when I’m managing to talk to Tony about this and how it goes.”

 “Alright then. Hey, what do you wanna cook for dinner?”

 The sudden change of topic isn’t nearly as unnerving as it should be - this is just how their conversations go sometimes and they’ve been doing it for so many years, it’s just another part of life.

 “Roasted potatoes and something? I’m in a potato mood.”

 *+~

 Tony alternates between groaning and repeatedly thumping his head on the desk in his lab. The  robot on the table beeps at him, sounding concerned.

 It’s a pretty small one, especially for Tony, and it’s kind of adorable. All round shapes with little legs that have it waddle about the place like a tiny metal toddler, communicating in low beeping noises and a few spoken words - he’s equipped with an AI and he’ll learn more over time. he also has a fondness for everything green.

 It’s supposed to be a joke gift for Bruce, because one day he saw *an article about robots that are meant to carry houseplants and change spots according to the sunlight and let the owner know if it is dehydrated. Tony had laughed, and thought he could make one, but better.

 Now, he’s in desperate need of a distraction so he attempts to stay busy with updating and perfecting the little guy. He’s been at it for a few hours, but his brain just won’t shut up. So naturally, after thumping his head on the desk proves to be entirely unhelpful, he does the only logical thing he can think of at two in the morning - he calls Rhodey.

 And because Rhodey is awesome he picks up after two rings.

 “Hey Tones. You okay?” He sounds awake - Tony is relieved that at least he didn’t wake him up.

 “Hi Honeybear. I fucked up big time and I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life and that’s saying something, coming from me.”

 “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific than that.”

 “See, that’s why I love you. Always honest and incredibly charming.”

 “You’re deflecting. What happened?” Rhodey sounds concerned, which he does often when he’s talking to Tony over the phone in the middle of the night. Probably rightfully so. They’ve been friends for decades - scratch that, they’ve been       family     for decades - and Tony has always been more or less of a hot mess. Rhodey knows this too well - but he’s trying to help here, even when he needs to be a bit blunt with his best friend.

 Tony sighs unhappily, and the little robot toddles close to him over the table, stretching out one of his little feet and affectionately pokes his arm. He absentmindedly pats it, then he tries to make sense of the latest dumpster fire in his brain for Rhodey.

 “So you know, the stupid jokes and flirting between me and Clint? I realized that I’m no longer joking and haven’t for a hot minute there.”

 “Yes. But that’s not new information, isn’t it? Something else changed, right?”

 Tony bumps his head onto the table top again, clearly audible over the phone. The little robot scoots closer again and pets his hair with one of his stubby little legs.

 “Saaaaad.” it beeps in his little robot voice, and pets Tony once more. He really built an affectionate little fellow there.

 “I didn’t think. I’ve been flirting with      Phil    , too. What the fuck am I doing, Rhodey? They’re married. To each other. Why the fuck am I falling in love with two of my best friends who are married to each other? Why? Who the hell does that?” He complains and rambles for some time, face smushed into the desk while he’s talking and Rhodey lets him. When Tony falls quiet again, he answers carefully.

 “These things happen sometimes. It doesn’t make you a bad person, Tony.”

 He hums uncertainly but doesn’t say anything else. Rhodey continues.

 “This whole situation? It’s a mess but it’s not anyone's fault. People fall in love. Even after their partner died. It’s just very unusual for that partner to come back to life. You guys might want to talk, just so you know and can work out where everyone is at. From what I know? Both Clint and Phil care a lot about you. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to hurt you, and you clearly don’t want to hurt them. Even if it’s unintentional.”

 Tony is listening, and even though he knows that Rhodey is right, he hates this situation. Stupid feelings. He sighs, then pulls himself up from the desk, nudging the robot a few inches away so he doesn't accidentally knock it over while getting up. It waddles near the screwdriver by the side and lightly taps it, causing it to roll a little bit. Excited beeping noises proclaim it’s happiness over this.

 “That’s gonna be a fun talk to have. I don’t even know how to bring that up.”

 “You’ll find a way, Tones. You always do.”

 “Okay. Thanks, Rhodey, I appreciate it.”

 “Call me if you need anything.”

 “Will do. You’re the best, you know that right?”

 Rhodey chuckles at that.

 “You’re not too bad yourself. Go get some sleep.”

 And they hang up on that.

 Tony does go to bed,  but he can’t sleep. He keeps turning and trying to find a comfortable position, but he’s anxious and keyed up. His thoughts run wild, and even though he knows that Rhodey is right, he doesn’t try and talk to either Clint or Phil about this for days. In fact, if he’s honest, he’s actually avoiding them, even when it’s the opposite of what he really wants to do. Inwardly cursing at himself, he keeps that up under the pretense of being busy but he knows it won’t work forever.

 Then, it’s once again in the middle of the night and he is in the common area because JARVIS locked him out of his lab. Tony almost set himself on fire for the third time that night and the AI is worried about him and his lack of sleep. So he kicked him out of his own lab and locked everything, informing him that he’ll regain access after 8 hours of sleep and a solid meal.

 Tony is not      wallowing    … Except that’s totally what he does.

 The footsteps behind him are light and they appear suddenly. It’s obvious that whoever is walking is used to being silent but deliberately making noise as not to startle him. Which narrows down the pool of people - and when Tony turns, he does so just in time for Clint to flop down next to him on the couch, intentionally casual but it’s obvious that he’s nervous about something. He hands Tony a mug of coffee and keeps one to himself.

 “Hey.”

 “Hey.” A beat of silence, and it’s awkward - neither of them is used to this, since they’ve always been able to talk or at least fill the silence when they needed to. Even silence has never been this awkward before.

 “So, uh. I don’t know if I said or did something, but I know you’ve been avoiding me for some reason. You know you can talk to me right?”

 Tony looks over at him, a pang of guilt already painfully in his chest.

 “Yeah, I know… Sorry about that by the way - it’s not your fault.”

 “You sure?”

 “Yes, it’s… I think I fucked up and I don’t know how to talk about it.” Tony cringes. “Hi, resident hot mess over here.”

 Clint just looks at him, curiously, and a little like he understands.

 “Hi, other resident hot mess here. Whatever it is, I’m sure we can figure it out.” He drinks his coffee and leans back into the couch. Is this the right situation to clear the air? A gut feeling tells him it just might be, but the part of his brain that’s constantly in a mode of      “Panic! Terror! Abort mission, we’re all gonna die!”    screams at him to keep his mouth shut. He’s familiar with this part of himself, and depending on the day, he even has something like a grip on it. But right now, a lot is at risk and he’s afraid of losing one of his best friends. Then again, if he       doesn’t talk    , he might lose him as well.

 Tony remains silent, keeping busy by inhaling his coffee. It gives him an excuse to think and not having to talk without being a total asshole. He’s exhausted and he wants things to be okay between them, but it looks like they need to have this talk.

 Clint looks tired, too. Briefly, Tony remembers that Phil and Natasha both left for different SHIELD missions and he’s not sure if anyone else is around - which probably means he slept like shit or not at all in the last few days. He’s also chewing on the insides of his cheeks - a tell tale sign of his anxiety, and it’s something he usually doesn’t allow himself unless he’s in private or with people he trusts.

 “Is it okay when I tell you something? I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not, and I’m kinda worried to lose you as a friend if I do.”

 Tony looks over at him, and it’s the first time he’s looked directly at him since they started talking. His expression is a mixture of confused, nervous and, if he doesn’t imagine it, slightly hopeful.

 “Of course you can.” He almost swallows the entire coffee that’s left in his mug out of nerves.

 “It doesn’t need to change anything if you don’t want it to. But you kinda should know, and I’ve been talking to Phil about this and he said I should talk to you, too. I, uhm, there really is no great way to say this but-” he takes a deep breath, holding onto his mug with a white knuckled grip.

 “I’m in love with you, Tony. I’ve been for a while.”

 Tony just stares, dumbfounded, and he needs to pick up his jaw from the floor before he can even respond. Even as he manages to find his voice again, all he’s able to vocalize are incoherent words until he’s got a grip on himself again.

 Clint looks like he’s about to accidentally break off the handle of his mug because his grip around it tightens even more.

 “I love you, too.” he blurts out, followed by, “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I’m comfortable admitting, but it didn’t feel right to say anything. You’re married and happy and I don’t want to get in between that. I also may have realized that I’m falling for Phil as well. Which is where the part of me fucking up and having no idea what to do or what to say comes to play.”

 Now Clint stares at him. Both of them stare at each other like they never met before.

 “Is that why…?” Clint starts, breaking himself off, but he doesn’t need to continue. Tony just nods. They share a few minutes of silence, before Tony speaks up again.

 “You said Phil knows and it doesn’t need to change anything if I don’t want it to. What do you mean? Are you not pissed? Isn’t      Phil     pissed? I mean-” he gestures helplessly with both hands, because this is the strangest conversation he’s ever been a part of, which is saying a lot, given that he’s, well, him.

 “We talked about this. A lot, actually. He understands, and he doesn’t blame any of us.”

 “      How    ? I mean, how can someone be so understanding in this situation? Can we grow more Phils in a lab or something? Fuck knows, the world needs more of him.”

 That actually makes him smile brightly, because yeah, Phil is pretty amazing, but there is only one. And that’s gotta stay that way, although he agrees that the world could probably do well with more men like him.

 What Clint settles on for an answer is actually, “Well, there is a good reason I married him in the first place.” Then, he continues to explain what they have talked about lately. The possibility of a three-way relationship, if it is something everyone involved would be happy and comfortable with.

 Tony’s jaw hits the floor once again and after long, stunned silence he says,

 “Okay, wow. What do we do now?”

 Clint actually laughs, and he sounds just a little bit hysterical. “I honestly didn’t think we’d get that far in this conversation.”

 “Well, fuck me, this is not what I expected at all, but, uhm.”

 “So, uh, what do you think?” he tries carefully.

 “You’re serious about this?”

  This one is easy to answer. Now, that the hardest part is over, Clint has no trouble finding words again.

 “Yes, absolutely. Phil and I have talked about it, and while I have thought, or more like dreamed about this option, I didn’t think it was really possible.” He drinks another sip of coffee - it’s gone cold by now, but he doesn’t mind.  “He suggested this, actually. And uhm, you don’t have to answer now obviously, but if this is something you want, then we will have dinner together and talk about this and figure out what all of us want.”

 A few moments tick by, but the silence now is comfortable and familiar once again - they no longer interact like they’ve never actually      talked     before, now that the elephant in the room has been addressed and, at least mainly, resolved. Both of them can breathe a lot easier now and they’re back into each others space, shoulders touching and leaning against one another.

 It’s fuck ‘o'clock in the morning, and now that both of them have said their piece, have talked about this, the adrenaline rush actually crashes pretty fast again, and the sleepless days catch up with both of them. Even with black coffee in their system, they could fall asleep right here. But they manage to get up, and in wordless agreement they shuffle off to the elevator that brings them up to the penthouse. Tony looks over, questioningly, and Clint just nods, follows him inside and they crawl under the blankets, wrapping around each other in the way that’s so familiar and comforting.

 They’ve missed this, even in the short amount of time they have not been around each other.

 Clint is about to take out his hearing aids for the night, but Tony's hand on his arm stops him and he looks over to see him smile at him.

 “My answer is yes by the way. I’d love to have dinner with both of you.”

 It’s the last thing he hears before they both fall asleep, but Clint hugs him a little tighter and hopes that this non-verbal answer will do for now - he’s not sure he would be able to produce words right now if he treid.

 The next morning, he wakes up wrapped in one and a half blankets and Tony clinging onto his back to stay warm and get a small corner of the covers that Clint has been hogging in his sleep. He cringes a silent “Oops. Sorry ‘bout that.” into the half dark room, pulls the blanket free and feels the vibrations and hot breath of laughter on his neck.

 Over breakfast two hours later, he texts Phil:

     “good morning honey, how is paris? speaking of the city of love, we have a dinner date with tony when you’re back. :) be safe, I love you ♥”  

 The response comes just minutes later.

     “Good morning Dear, it is as beautiful as always, if a little explosive. Looking forward to coming home, which might be this week if we’re lucky. I love you ♥ and am very happy to hear that we have this date.”  

 *+~

 Just as promised, Phil arrives back home by the end of the week. He’s texted Clint on the way back but he got delayed at HQ with several requests of “Can you please just take a quick look at this situation, Sir?” which turned into almost three hours and now he’s      done    and it’s late at night. Phil is happy to be back home and when he enters the apartment he shares with Clint on one of the top floors, it’s dark when he enters. There is, however, the flickering light of the muted TV that’s creeping through the door.

 Clint is asleep when he walks into the room, wrapped in a knitted blanket and one arm hanging off of the couch. A documentary if running in the big flat screen, closed captions on, and it shows a breathtaking underwater world that looks to be truly fascinating. There are two glasses on the table though, indicating that he’s had company before and probably fell asleep while waiting for Phil. It makes him smile, but there is also he guilt for taking so much longer than he had planned.

 He steps closer to press a quick kiss into Clint’s blond mess of hair, then he heads to the shower and changes into pajamas. By the time he’s done and enters their bedroom, Clint has apparently woken up and re-located, because now he’s dozing in bed and turns happily when the bed dips down with the weight of another person. Phil lets himself be pulled down and greeted properly, and they spend a while trading lazy kisses and making out, not talking much, just the occasional “Hi” and “welcome home” and “How are you?” before they pull apart again and cuddle up under the blankets.

 “Oh hey, how was the talk?” Phil asks then, because he’s interested, and Clint smiles lopsidedly, wrapping both arms around Phil.

 “Much better than expected. I’ll tell you tomorrow okay? Too tired now.”

 They sleep in that day, and when they arrive in the kitchen there is already coffee ready and food on the table because life is great and their team is even better.

 It’s a good day.

 *+~

 The three of them manage to get together for a home cooked dinner soon. They’re nervous and excited, despite knowing each other as well as they do, but this is still different - but as it turns out, different is good.

 The evening starts out just like any other where they hang out, and having Clint’s cooking for dinner is always a treat. Conversations are easy, and by the time they have coffee and dessert - cheesecake in a glass from Phil - the topic leads slowly to the three of them and they just talk for hours.

 Options, wishes, boundaries - it’s good, and by the end of the night, all three of them are happy and excited, but there is also a giant weight lifted off of them. They move to the couch after dinner, and they continue to chat, piled up and cuddled up on top of each other.

 Tony spends the night with both of them at once for the first time, too.

 He learns that there is a space for him with Clint and Phil, and that he fits right in - it is that night that they share first kisses and more.

 Tony also learns that he’ll have to deal with      two     blanket thieves in the foreseeable future but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed - he’s way too happy and relaxed for that. Maybe that’s just what he gets for being a snorer, who knows.

 “Oh god, there’s two of them.” he grumbles half heartedly, fruitlessly trying to hold onto the blanket as it slips away from his grip. He scoots closer to Phil then, because he’s not entirely rolled up in his blanket yet. Phil chuckles sleepily, then he quips,

 “Hi, I’m Phil, this is my husband Clint and this is our boyfriend Tony. All of us have terrible sleep habits. Have a nice day.”

 Then he wraps an arm around him, and Tony stifles his laughter as to not be too loud. This side of Phil is new to him, and god, he loves that he can be here to experience this.

 Phil is equal parts happy and stunned - he’d never thought this would be his life one day. It’s different, but it’s good and he’s so very happy to be alive. He’s happy to share his new chance at life with Clint, who has been by his side for so many years, and with Tony who is a new but wonderful addition to their life together.

 Clint, unaware of the banter right next to him, seeks out their body heat in his sleep, laying right on top of Tony. He ends up with his nose stuck in silky dark hair that smells faintly of something musky and expensive. One arm snakes over him until Clint can reach Phil, happy as soon as he can lightly touch him, as well.

 He’s incredibly happy, with the turn of events and in general - he never thought this would be possible in the first place and yet here they are. It scared him, but now it just feels right. Perfectly comfortable. He doesn’t want to lose this, ever.

 Tony feels happy, warm, comfortable and most of all, loved. Having a weight on top of him always helps him sleep - he figures, that’s why people buy weighted blankets but he’s always found it working much, much better with other humans - especially humans that he’s close to.

 *+~

 In the next days, weeks and months, they learn a lot about each other. Little quirks and habits, mundane everyday things. But also what the other needs in certain situations and how they can help.

 They learn that while all relationships require open and honest communication, a relationship involving more than two people does so even more - it’s a learning process, but they manage it.

 Tony realizes just how much it helps to talk to partners who don't just assume - they       ask     and together, the three of them always figure it out.

 “You’ll get there.” Clint tells him one day, “I used to be even worse at talking than I am now. But as long as you’ll stay open and honest with us, everything will be okay.” It really is reassuring. None of them is perfect, no matter what biased voices might say.

 They have flaws and habits that drive each other up the wall sometimes, but they handle it all with honesty, patience and love and so they work on issues together. Bad mental health days or bad days in general - just another day, another mountain to climb together. And they get better because of it.

 *+~

 …Possibly to be continued in the future?

 *+~

     Prompt No. 44 - “Hi, I’m Phil, this is my husband Clint. And this is Clint’s boyfriend Tony.”  

 *+~

 *Disclaimer: The plant care robot is a real thing that I’ve found online and it’s frickin’ adorable. I wanted to involve it somewhere in my writing and it just fit here. It doesn’t match up with my stories timeline but eh, unimportant details and all that ;)

 Credit where credit is due:

 The robot in the article was invented by Tianqi Sun, CEO of robotics firm Vincross.

 https://www.businessinsider.com/the-hexa-robot-can-take-care-of-your-plants-2018-7?r=DE&IR=T

[everstarry]

ethereal (2/?)

words: 3764

chapter two: the bluebell

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Althea found waking up to be easier than she expected. She woke to the smell of cinnamon. The young woman stretched in her bed under the soft linen. She arched her back and curled her toes, flopping back down onto her bed with a small huff. It made her think of a little black cat that frequented the halls of her old home. Remi used to chase it out but it always somehow managed to find a way in. Althea wondered if it missed her as much as she missed him. All she could think about were the times where she used to sneak scraps of her breakfast to the kitten. Or how she sometimes found him playing in the flowerbeds of her garden. She smiled at the fond memories of the little creature. Althea knew she couldn’t think of the kitten all day. She would eventually have to get up. She yawned and sat up, eyes blinking blearily around her suite. 

“Good morning,” Remi called from the lounge area. She must’ve heard her begin to stir.

Althea looked toward her friend’s voice before getting up and walking to the table area. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the spread of fruits, honey, and bread that decorated the top of the wood. “Did I wake up late?” she asked, popping a grape into her mouth before facing Remi.

“Not any later than usual,” Remi stood to greet her even though Althea told her time and time again not to bother. She didn’t like that whenever she entered the room Remi felt the need to stop whatever she was doing just to let Althea know she was aware of her presence. Old habits die hard and Remi’s old master was strict. “I was told to let you sleep in case you were deprived of it during the journey.”

Althea turned to the spread again and picked up a piece of the cut up strawberries that laid in a pile. “Told by who?” she asked curiously, popping one in her mouth. The red fruit was sweet on her tongue. She motioned for Remi to sit back down, grabbing for a few more pieces of the fruit.

“Cara, who was most definitely told by King Mando.” She could hear the grin in her friend’s voice as she got comfortable again. “You woke up on time anyway,” Remi pointed out. Althea was used to waking up early to tend to her garden.

“You should try the bread,” Remi urged, “It’s pretty tasty.” 

Althea looked at the knife beside the loaf of uncut bread before looking at her friend. “You already had breakfast?” she asked. There was no other reason for her friend to know what the uncut food tasted like otherwise. She nearly sighed at herself for not picking up that fact earlier. “Earlier, I mean,” she corrected herself.

Remi nodded, “I went to the kitchen and it was prepared for me there.” Althea cut two slices and slathered them in honey. She walked over and handed her friend the other piece before settling down in the seat next to her. Remi took the bread with grateful eyes. 

Althea knew breakfasts fed to the servants were nothing more than essentials which meant that Remi was probably just given a piece. Althea jokingly nudged her piece of bread with Remi’s in a sort of toast. Her friend grinned at her and repeated her action. “To us,” she said excitedly.

“To us,” Althea exclaimed and bit into her piece of bread. Remi was right, it was a little slice of paradise. The cinnamon and honey created a lovely savory flavor. She wondered if it was served everyday or just on special occasions. It was odd to refer to her arrival as a special occasion, the young princess didn’t believe she was all that special.

“Even better the second time,” Remi joked before taking another bite. Althea laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her free hand. She wouldn’t mind if she could spend her every morning like this. She felt happy and at peace, it was such a beautiful feeling. She thought of her marriage again and wondered if this would be her permanent residence or if she would share a room with her husband. Just the thought of waking up with the Mandalorian sent a sort of shock through her body. 

She realized she hadn’t said anything for a few minutes and Remi had already finished her piece and was staring at her curiously. “Promise me,” Althea looked to Remi, “That if you are ever hungry or just want more of something you will take it from the plentiful spread they give me.”

“I couldn’t–” Remi started but Althea shushed her by feeding her a bite of her own bread. Remi began to chew which let Althea talk. 

“You always go above and beyond for me. It’s the least I could do. There is no way I can finish all this food by myself anyway,” she shrugged, finishing her bread as she said it. Althea would rather share anyway, knowing that if she didn’t finish sometimes the food was wasted.

“You’re too sweet,” Remi pinched her cheek playfully between her thumb and index finger. “Then you won’t mind me helping myself to another piece of bread then?”

Althea smiled, holding her cheek, “Not as long as you get me another piece with just as much honey as my last one.”

“Of course,” Remi got right to it. She relaxed into the cushioned chair as Remi hummed a soft tune. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine being back home in Saneca. Her new room and her old room tended to blend when she thought of home now. She supposed it was constantly correcting herself, reminding herself that this was home now. That although she could go back she was nothing more than a visitor now.

“How do you feel about exploring the garden later?” she asked, looking down at her hands.

Remi continued to spread honey on a piece of bread for her, “Didn’t we already do that?” she teased. 

Althea turned to look at her with a slight pout, “It’s not the same in the dark,” she explained. “I need to see it in the day time to see where the sun is the best and–”

“I know,” Remi turned and held out the bread for her. Althea took it, swiping her thumb across the edge of bread to gather up some honey. She licked her finger and savored the sugary substance. “You want to go talk to Kuiil about planting your marigolds.”

“Guilty,” Althea said quietly but knew her friend would still hear her. “I can’t remember if I saw any last night. Plus, he was so frazzled about me knowing so much about all the flowers he wanted to show me.” 

Remi sat next to her and began to eat her own bread. Her friend had piled her piece with a bunch of fruits. Remi hummed when she took her first bite. “I wouldn’t mind going down to the garden,” she brushed a few crumbs off her dress. “It’s not like we have all that much to do.”

Althea agreed. Back home she would often spend the day with her sisters. She supposed the only thing she had to do was to write to them. “When do you think the wedding will be?” The thought of the ceremony seemed to set her nerves ablaze. The longer she thought about the more nervous she became. Althea barely knew the Mandalorian king and she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with him.

“Soon,” Remi shrugged. “From what I heard you’re the only one for him.” Althea blushed crimson as Remi laughed. “I meant that you’re the only woman who has entered or was interested in an engagement with him. He’s going to want to marry you as fast as he can. Gotta make sure you don’t run away,” she grinned. 

“I wouldn’t,” Althea made a face as she imagined the Mandalorian standing alone in the castle. For some reason it made her very sad. 

Remi made a humming sound as she looked at her friend. “Because you like him or because you don’t want to back out of the deal?” Her blue eyes gleamed mischievously.

“It’s not like I don’t like him but my father needs the extra armies,” Althea tasted the words as she uttered them. It didn’t feel right in her mouth. It felt like something she wouldn’t say. “I was promised to him so I’m not going to back out,” she said finally.

“Even if he offered to break off the engagement?” Remi asked. “I mean maybe you have a thing for armor and a nice voice…” she trailed off.

“He does have a nice voice though,” Althea conceded with a small laugh. There was a moment of silence where Remi just blinked at her but then she burst out laughing.

“I didn’t think you would agree,” she grinned. “I’m kind of glad that you did. Now I can tease you with it.”

Althea groaned playfully. “I’m going to get dressed,” she said, changing the subject. She stood up and made her way to her wardrobe.

“Do you need help?” Remi asked, looking at Althea’s back as she rocked back and forth on her feet.

“Yes,” she said picking a blue gown. Althea knew that she needed to pick a gown that was made of a lighter material and that wouldn’t show dirt or grass stains if she decided to help Kuiil. Remi took the dress from her hands and off the hanger as Althea stripped from her nightgown. The blue dress had shorter sleeves than her other dresses. Remi soothed out her sleeves before tying the dress in the back. “Thank you,” she said as Remi crouched down to help her with her shoes. 

“You’re welcome,” her friend stepped aside as Althea began brushing her hair. “To answer your other question, I wouldn’t.” She pulled a few pieces of her hair back so they wouldn’t get in the way later.

“Wouldn’t what?” Remi gave her another pin for her hair. 

“I wouldn’t break off the engagement even if he told me I could,” she said simply, looking herself over in the mirror. 

“Why?” Remi asked softly behind her. 

She turned slightly to look at her friend. “There could be worse people to be married to.”

“You don’t even know him,” her maid said solemnly. There was something in her voice that made Althea realize that Remi was concerned. That she was worried about her princess. It gave her a glimpse into her friend’s thoughts. Althea was glad, Remi was always reluctant to sharing her worries with anyone.

“Yet,” Althea paused to brush her hand against the back of her friend’s, “I feel like I do.” She was trying her best to comfort her. “I don’t know what it is but I saw him and I just… I felt like pieces of myself—some I didn’t even know existed—fell into place,” Althea smiled.

Remi still looked skeptical. “You didn’t want to be married to him the entire journey here and suddenly, he says five words to you and you’re swooning?”

“I couldn’t explain it even if I tried. Maybe we are made of the same cosmic dust,” she met her own eyes in the mirror and gave herself a small smile. “It’s going to be okay,” Althea promised. “I’m going to be okay,” she added, knowing that was what her friend wanted to hear the most. 

Remi let out a little sigh. Althea didn’t expect her to understand when she barely understood herself. “Okay,” she relented. “Are we going to go to the garden or what?”

They took their time on the walk over so they could explore a bit more of the castle. Althea wanted to look at the tapestries and carpets and all the things she missed out on when Cara took them up to their room for the first time. Kuiil met them at the entrance almost as if he expected her to return. “Good morning, princess,” he greeted with a slight bow.

Althea smiled at him, “Good morning,” she replied. “I’m sorry for dropping by so unexpectedly,” she apologized. 

“I’d figured you’d want to see the flowers and other plants during the day with how much you were enthralled with them last night,” Kuiil smiled bashfully, straightening his posture as if he was pleased she loved the garden. 

“I think she enjoyed being out here more than she enjoyed the actual feast,” Remi teased while Althea laughed.

“I was wondering if you could point me to your marigolds,” she inquired. “That is if you have any,” she added, not wanting to make the royal gardener upset if he didn’t.

“I’m not sure if we do,” he replied honestly, ushering them down the many rows and flowerbeds. She admired all of the plants as she passed. “I think we have some violets and pansies,” he mentioned offhandedly.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” Althea began shyly, “I was wondering if you had any empty spaces or if you could tell me where in the castle I would be able to garden?” she asked. 

“I think we can arrange for your flowers to be added to the garden. I think the gesture of your flowers joining our garden is symbolic,” the gardener nodded to himself. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Althea shook her head. “Besides, I don’t even have the seeds with me.”

“Nonsense,” Kuiil began. “I have spoken.” He nodded to himself again. “I’ll even let you pick the spot.”

Remi smiled, “I’ll go grab the seeds.”

“Perfect,” Kuiil began walking. “There’s a few spots that I think would be perfect,” he turned to look at her, “Come along,” he motioned for her to follow him.

“I’ll be back soon,” Remi promised before leaving the garden to get the flower seeds. 

“If you tell me how often they need to be watered or taken care of I can gladly help,” Kuiil began, ushering her to one sparse spot in the garden.

“I couldn’t ask that of you. I’ll take care of them,” she smiled. Having a small garden to take care of would allow her a taste of her home. She needed to be back in a garden to feel like herself again. “Besides, I love taking care of flowers,” she explained.

“If those are not enough to satisfy your need of gardening, maybe you can help with the other plants found in the garden,” Kuiil softly touched the leaves of the flowering plants next to them.

“I would be honored.” Althea felt her heart swell at the thought of helping the older man in the garden. She looked over the spot where Kuiil had taken care of her but felt like she needed a bit more sun. “Is there any spot that has full sun?” she asked.

“I have some by the bluebells,” he motioned for her to walk with him. “If you want to find it, I’ll grab some supplies for you.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I’ll meet you there.” When Kuiil had left, Althea made her way to where the vibrant blue flowers were planted. She crouched down to look at the soil and the spot where she thought the gardener meant. It was a perfect spot and she knew that the gold would compliment the blue of the flower planted next to it. 

Althea looked at the small weeds sprouting from the rich soil and began to pluck them. As the first smear of dirt appeared on her hand she felt herself smile. She held onto the small weeds as she continued to get the spot ready for her first addition to the royal garden. The young princess set down her small pile of weeds and kneeled down to get more comfortable while she worked. She leaned over to start working on the bluebells, picking the flowers that looked like they were beginning to droop and the weeds that tried to overtake the soil.

“Do you not like them?” She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the Mandalorian’s voice. Althea nearly fell back in shock when she turned and saw him standing behind her. She wiped her hands free of the dirt that clung to them and hurried to stand. 

“Oh no, these are beautiful!” she exclaimed. “I was just helping, cleaning it up so it could bloom fuller as the season continues,” Althea blushed, embarrassed that he caught while she was so disheveled. He didn’t seem to mind her state as he bent down to pick up one of the delicate flowers she had plucked from the plant.

“Cara told me that I would probably find you here and that you liked flowers.” His voice was honey smooth and she wanted more than anything to hear more of it, more of him. 

“Yes,” she replied breathlessly. “Kuiil is letting me plant some of the seeds I brought with me… I hope that’s okay with you,” she added timidly. Althea looked him over and wondered if he was hot in the dark clothing and armor. The sun was shining bright, she could feel the heat as it settled over her. Though, there was a slight breeze that gently swayed his cape.

“If I would have known you were coming I would have prepared the garden for you,” the Mandalorian admitted. Althea found she nearly closed her eyes to savor his words. They seemed to cover her exposed skin in a way that made her yearn for more. 

“Thank you, my king,” she breathed, bowing her head slightly. “But your garden is already beautiful.” She meant it. The garden at Saneca wasn’t as big as the one before her and she found that she was in awe at the number of flowers that covered the land.

The Mandalorian seemed to want to say something but refrained from doing so. “Has everything been to your liking?” he asked finally, something close to concern dripping from his voice. 

“Perfect,” she smiled, clasping her hand behind her back as she swayed slightly. “Is there anything you need me to do?” Althea asked, wanting more than anything to be helpful.

“No,” he started and then sighed, “Yes.” Althea gave him a confused look. “The Queen Mother wants to speak with you,” he explained. She picked up the disdain in his voice.

“Your mother?” she asked, hands falling to her side as her heart dropped to her stomach. He seemed to wince at the question, as if those two words had burned him.

“Sort of,” he twirled the stem of the flower in his gloved hands. “I think it’s about our wedding,” he added, sounding at least a bit more hopeful. The way he said ‘our’ made her heart skip a beat. 

“I was expecting that,” Althea laughed softly, trying to put him at ease. It seemed like the Queen Mother was a touchy subject. “I have some ideas about what I wanted but I wanted to make sure those were okay with you,” she paused, trying desperately to gage his reaction when he realized that she wanted to please him more than anything. The young princess also wasn’t sure if there was traditions that she needed to abide by. “But I’m sure she’ll help guide me through some of the tougher decisions.”

There was huff of air that came from the helmet wearing man, she wondered if it was a laugh that escaped him. “Don’t let her bully you into anything you don’t want to do, Althea.” The way he said her name made her shiver. She wondered if he noticed. “I hate thinking that someone like her would take advantage of you,” his voice was soft again which made her cheeks dust with a rosy pink.

She held out her pinky before she could stop herself. “I pinky promise,” she heard herself say.

“Pinky promise?” he asked, helmet tilting to the side. The rasp in his voice was still there even with the teasing question.

“As in, I promise I won’t let her walk all over me,” Althea mumbled, somewhat embarrassed that she still held out her little finger to him. Even though her sisters told her to never mumble, even though she only pinky promised her brothers when she was much younger than she was now. “I’m sorr–”

The Mandalorian suddenly wrapped his pinky finger around hers. It was awkward because of his glove but he gripped her finger tight in his own. “It’s a promise then,” he breathed out.

“Promise,” she agreed with a smile. Althea leaned down to kiss her thumbnail, his finger seemed to tighten around hers and his eyes followed her every move. She found that she enjoyed being watched by him. She leaned away.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat. “Please don’t feel the need to apologize to me,” he began. “There was no need.”

Althea hummed. “What if I do something awful or I mess up?” she asked. “Then I would need to apologize to you,” she teased. 

“There is nothing you could do that I would ever think warrants your apology.” For some reason, his words made her sad. It made her think that he thought he didn’t deserve any of her grief or sorrow. All she could see was the lonely Mandalorian in his dark castle. He let her pinky go and the distance between them seemed to grow. Althea wanted to reach out just to hold on to him, just so he wouldn’t slip away. “I told the Queen Mother that you were busy today but that only means she’ll said someone to fetch you in the morning,” he said. King again, almost not the person she was just talking to.

“Okay.” She fought to keep the frown from forming on her face. Althea didn’t want him to know just how sad that had made her. She wanted to protect him from her own feelings. 

Silence filled the space between them, and the Mandalorian king looked down. He stretched out his hand to offer her the wilting bluebell. Althea noticed a slight tremble in his gloved fingers. She looked at him but found it was impossible to tell where he was looking, if he was even looking at her at all. “It goes with your dress,” he said simply.

She weakly smiled, “Thank you.” Althea took the flower from his hand as if he offered her something precious, in a way he did.

taglist: @munted-llama @bittersweetamor

[daneel-the-sister-of-castiel]

Smoking Love - Chapter One: Savior

"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs." He never knew what being in love felt like until he met YOU.

This is a K Project anime fanfiction centered around your journey in HOMRA and your journey to loving Mikoto Suoh, the infamous Red King of HOMRA.

Rated PG-13 for violence, language, and trauma

    The smell of smoke was one all too familiar to you... and it seemed to follow you around wherever you went, in your sleep and in your waking hours.

    It was there when you came home from a sleepover, only to be greeted by the sounds of sirens and the reeking stench of scorched wood instead of the usual scent of fresh-cut grass and the ringing of laughter.

    It was there when you escaped the grasp of your friend's mother, ignoring her pleas to come back to her. You rushed over to your blazing home, trying to force open the front door. Your hands were instantly scorched, the skin on your palms procuring second-degree burns as you screamed in pain, the remnant scars serving as reminders that there wasn't anything you could've done to save your family.

    Its ever putrid presence emanated from your father's and your little sister's ashes as you had scattered them on the ground where your childhood home once stood a few weeks before. 

    It perforated your nose every time you stepped into your abusive foster parents' house; you couldn't take a breath without coughing up a storm. It would be a surprise if you didn't get secondhand smoking from your time there.

    The smell of smoke had never brought you anything other than sleepless nights and unpleasant memories. It was death and misery, destruction and loneliness. Until that fateful day in the middle of July, the height of summer, when you met him, a stoic redhead with violent tendencies and a bad smoking habit, and that scent you hated so much began to represent not only the bad things in life, but also the good...

        ��                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    "Ughh, why does the world hate meeee?! Why?!" you asked yourself for the second time that day, banging your head against your bike's handlebars one last time before jerking off of it with a scowl. You pulled down your size too small shorts for what seemed the millionth time that day, then started your two-mile walk through gang-infested territory with a bike that had both tires popped. Your day had had such great promise this morning.

    You had been woken up by the sound of your favorite song blasting through your phone and not a nightmare. You had checked your phone and found out that the book you'd been waiting forever to read was finally available at the library. Your air conditioner had even started working, which was the biggest blessing of them all. One more night of kicking off sheets and sweating like a pig, and you were about ready to give the manager of your building the loudest screaming fest ever, even worse than that time where all you could take was cold showers in the winter and you about almost burst his eardrums shouting at him to fix it already.

    That was where the good part of your day ended. For lo and behold, in the excitement of last night's movie marathon, you had forgotten to take your laundry out of the washer. Now all your nice, fitting clothes were still sopping wet, which left you searching through every stupid little hiding spot in your apartment until you found a clean pair. The ones you happened to find, however, were from three years ago and you had since grown into yourself more. So getting the shorts on took you about a solid ten minutes and quite a few groans accompanied by a couple of colorful curse words mumbled under your breath. The shirt barely fit over your hips with your chest almost popping out of it, leaving you feeling a tad bit exposed. At least you wouldn't get hot in your current attire. After all, it was the middle of July. How cold could it get?

    You really wished you'd told yourself to shut up because right after you'd went downstairs and gotten your bike from the bike rack outside, it began to pour. Not sprinkle, not a little drizzle that lasts for about five minutes. No, the clouds decided that today would be a nice day to unload every ounce of water stored in the atmosphere down onto you. Okay, maybe not just on you, but you were currently getting drenched and you still had to bike two miles to the library for your job there, in the stinkin' rain, with clothes that were too small. You felt that you had every right to be a bit dramatic. You could have taken the train, however, you were never too fond of being in close, cramped quarters with strangers nor did you like walking to the station, either. This was Shizume City after all, run by various clans and gangs, some headed up by "Kings." You didn't want to walk about on foot with those kinds of crazy people roaming around. So you resigned yourself to begin biking in the cold, wet rain. That was the first time you asked yourself, "Why me?"

    When you finally got to the library, one of your colleagues told you that the book you'd been waiting for, guess what, had accidentally been checked out to someone else by the new volunteer. You had to hold yourself back from screaming out loud and banging your head against something, anything, as long as it was hard and could make you forget about every crappy thing that had happened to you that day. Instead, thankfully, you opted to sigh through your nose, resigning yourself to stand in front of a fan for a few minutes before you had to shelve some books.

    After shivering for a solid three hours with a towel a co-worker had given you wrapped around your shoulders, you managed to dry off and wanted to thank the stars above that you hadn't started sneezing. You refrained from doing so, though, because you didn't want to risk jinxing yourself again. Of course, it didn't matter anyway, because after you closed up shop at ten p.m., you discovered that someone thought it would be just hilarious to stab a hole in your two tires.

    "Well, I hope they're happy, because I know I sure ain't little Ms. Sunshine right now," you grumbled under your breath. You may have been grumpy and out of sorts at the moment, though you were by no means depressed or ungrateful with your lot in life. You knew that your problems were nothing compared to many others around the world and that you should be thankful for the roof over your head, the money in your pocket, and the food in your belly. It's just that you were so hopeful for today.

    You hadn't had a nightmare about the fire the night before, something that was rare and unprecedented. You could barely go a day without thinking about how much you'd been deprived off all those years ago. You had not only lost your father, your sister, and your home, but your mother as well. She wasn't the same after the accident... neither of you were. She shut down, not eating, not sleeping, letting herself waste away. She couldn't even bear to look at you anymore, because all you did was remind her of what she'd lost that day. It was why she, your own mother, gave you up. She left you to grieve alone and suffer among strangers. The day she signed the papers was the last day you ever saw or heard from her.

    From there, you were bounced from family to family for years. You either got terrible, abusive people who didn't care two cents about you or kind, impatient, and sometimes shallow people who didn't want to deal with your scars (both physical and emotional ones). You grew self-conscious of the burns on your hands. They itched, they burned, and they made your palms rough to the touch. You were teased by the ignorant bullies at the school, who thought you'd gotten them from touching a burning stove on accident or clumsily spilling boiling hot water on them. In those days, you tried to make yourself as small as possible, so you never stood up to them, no matter how much you wanted to.

    It was like that until you were taken in by the most wonderful family you'd ever met. Under their tutelage, you blossomed into the confident, smiling young woman, capable of being proud of herself. They taught you how to defend yourself and how to keep up that sense of optimism you'd lost the moment you'd lost your family. Of course, there'd still be days where you cried or where you'd despise yourself or you'd doubt others loyalty, but they were fewer than before. They didn't control your happiness any longer. You could breathe freely once again. Just thinking about the fact brought a small smile to your face as you trudged down the street with the bike beside you. Instead of reminiscing about past events, however, you should've been paying attention to your surroundings. If you had, you would've sensed a sinister presence following close behind you.

    You didn't notice until it was too late and you had already walked into a trap.

    "Hey, you look like you could use some help with that bike there, pretty lady," you heard a gruff voice behind you say. This caused you to freeze. You got a sinking feeling that this stranger wasn't interested in helping you, and only wanted to do you harm.

    "That's sweet of you to offer, but I think I'm good for now, thanks," you declined in a polite tone, your back facing him. You didn't want to encourage him into jumping you early before you could retrieve the tiny bottle of pepper spray tucked into your bra.

    "Aww, come on now, don't make a man feel more guilty than he already is. Here." He reached to grab your bike from you and that's when you saw your opening. You jerked the handlebars forward and rammed it into his stomach as hard as you could, dropping the bike before whipping out the spray, discharging the volatile substance right into the man's eyes.

    His yells of pain echoed in the alleyway you'd chosen to take a shortcut to your apartment, a not so bright idea considering you were now running for your life in shorts that kept riding up your thighs. You almost succeeded in escaping until bam! Two men who looked like they never left the gym suddenly appeared in your path and blocked the exit. You tried to stop your momentum, yet it was no use. Your body crashed into them anyway, then found yourself being dragged back to the man from earlier. You tried your hardest to struggle, but it wasn't any use. They had muscles thicker than your neck and seemed unaffected by anything you did. You couldn't get them with your pepper spray since you, being stupid, had dropped the can when you'd banged straight into them. In other words, you were screwed, big time.

    "Hey Rino, what should we do with her now?" one of the men holding you asked the man who you sprayed in the face mere seconds ago.

    He was fiercely rubbing his eyes with closed fists when he snarled, "Teach that little bitch a lesson. No one messes with Rino."

    You'd scarcely processed what the gangster said before being slammed into the trash bin behind you and pinned against it. You let out a shriek of pain once more, trying to struggle in vain as one of the massive giants got ready to punch your lights out. Your heart was beating in your throat, causing your breath to quicken. You tightened your body up, bracing for more injury... yet it never came. Just before his fist could crash into your face, a calm, monotone voice interrupted, "You're in my way."

    Your captors all turned their heads toward the new voice, to find that there was not just one newcomer, but at least six newcomers, and boy, they did not look pleased at all. However, one stood out from the rest, probably the one who'd spoken. He was tall and lean, with striking red hair and an air of power radiating from him. You could tell he was the leader of the group. For some reason, you got a vague sense of familiarity about the man, but you couldn't quite place it. You had an itching feeling that this wouldn't be the last time you'd see the telling redhead. Behind him, you could make out the faces of three others: a tall blond man with red sunglasses and a black blazer, a teenager with chestnut hair holding a baseball bat in his hands, and a heavier set blond man with a beard and saggy clothes. You couldn't make out any of the others.

    "Yeah, you heard the Boss! Let the girl go and get your damn asses out of HOMRA's turf or we'll make you pay!" the teen shouted at your captors, gripping his bat tighter, eyes seeming to glow with fiery red.

    HOMRA, eyes glowing red? It was then that realization came crashing down on you, why the leader seemed so familiar to you, why he had such an intimidating demeanor. You were in the presence of the Red King, the Third King and leader of the clan HOMRA, and some of his most powerful Clansmen. You'd never seen them before in person, but you'd heard from others that they were people you didn't want to mess around with. They must've been on patrol around the city, just happening upon you about to get beaten to a pulp.

    The leader of the men who'd assaulted you scowled defiantly, "Why should we listen to a bunch of punk ass phonies who don't know the first thing about fighting?" Damn, this man must've been stupider than you originally thought, or he just had a major death wish.

    The scary guy with the baseball bat and skateboard, who you assumed was Misaki Yata, the so-named vanguard of HOMRA, lit his bat aflame with the trademark Red Aura that all fellow Clansmen had, tightening up his jawline and growling. The man with the sunglasses, who you guessed might be Suoh's second-in-command, Izumo Kusanagi, flicked out his lighter but didn't open it. The both of them seemed to be waiting for something... or someone.

    The King didn't react like his comrades did, but you saw an angry fire blaze in his eyes for a fraction of a second, there so fast, gone so soon. It had been there, though. You were certain of it. We all waited with bated breath as Mikoto Suoh dug his hands into his pockets and pulled out a cigarette from one of them, sticking it in his mouth as he closed his eyes for a second. Then his nimble fingers shone with the Red Aura and the King lit the cancer stick, taking a good, long puff of it.

    "I'm getting tired of waiting, you asshole!" your original attacker screeched as Suoh did so, "We'll beat your asses and then I'll have my way with the little whore over there." Yep, the idiot had completely lost his mind. He must've really wanted to die.

    That last statement seemed to be the final straw, for the Red King flashed open his amber eyes once more and that fire you saw a moment ago was fully ablaze, eradicating any trace of the amber that had been there before. Next thing you knew, you saw a big fireball made of Red Aura coming straight for the lowlifes, who decided to toss you into a brick wall in their haste, slamming your head right against it. Your vision began to blur as you felt blood trickling down your neck, listening to the mangled screams of Rino and a chant of "No blood, no bone, no ash!" before your mind went began drifting away and it was too difficult to concentrate on keeping your eyes looking and your ears listening. The last thing your senses picked up as your mind faded was the lingering smell of cigarette smoke wafting up your nose, and the feeling of warm, strong arms wrapping around your weak frame.

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own the characters or the gif. Credit goes to GoRA and the creator of the gif. The storyline is my creation, however.

Note: You can find this fic and subsequent parts on my writing blog, fanfictionamerica

[trujillostanley91]

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[sfc-russell-ziskey]

Unfortunately, my cousin and I don't really talk much. And he's busy with his equipment and his ghost busting. I don't suppose he's got much time for the extended family. There's supposed to be a family reunion, but I haven't heard if he's going or not.

The way you talk about Asmodeus...you really do make that demon sound pretty pathetic, in the bigger picture. They've been talking themselves up in a really creepy way, but I suppose smaller things feel like they have to do that. Because image is all they have - not substance. I suppose that'll get worse before it gets better. I'll keep what you say in mind.

[Russ' smile got a little softer, and wider.]

The armored vehicle I operated for a while was great. I did a lot of property damage that way. Really fucked up the Soviets' plans, too. Saved a lot of people - got them out, alive. And it cost the Soviets a lot to build it all back. Guess they never had that much to begin with, though. The things you learn from stuff you weren't supposed to see....

[His look turned a trifle more pensive.]

For all the destruction, though, I never killed anyone. I was careful not to. It wasn't their fault, being where they were. They were just caught up in something much bigger than them, and they didn't really have much choice about it. They were just trying to get by, like any of us. It's always better to send them home with a few scrapes and a story. They have families and loved ones, too.

Love....

[Russ took a deep breath, here.]

Love is indeed powerful. It makes us strong. And foolish. And smart. And soft. It inspires us. And it can wreck us. Bring us together, and forge some of the most amazing bonds. It lies at the heart of our most cherished relationships with one another. Our friends. Our families.

[His voice became soft and warm. He thought of Louise, and John. He contemplated other loves he'd had for a time. And the idea of unknown loves yet to be. He thought of Mort's rum-addled confession about his feelings for Moe.]

It's what sparks our concern and care for one another. It's what brought us here, to fight Asmodeus. It's the connections of family....but it's also the way Mort cherishes Moe. The way he encouraged Moe back in Ohio, and wants him...to be...safe. And...healthy....

[His voice trailed off. Russ' gentle brown eyes flicked side to side as he spoke. He wasn't feeling as tired as he had been a little earlier. Hearing Gozer praise him the way they had had a uniquely invigorating effect on him, but he also knew he couldn't possibly be thinking too clearly when his mind tried to add everything up. No. It's the sleep deprivation giving him these odd thoughts. Or was Asmodeus subtly working on his mind...? This wasn't.... They....just weren't... Couldn't.....]

[Don't read anything into it, Ziskey. What part of "'bad idea" do you need a refresher on? Sleep first. Clear your head. Everything will make sense later. Get some damn perspective!]

Y'know, Gozer, I appreciate you telling me about this Asmodeus clown. And I really appreciate your offer to help us. I think with your insight, we've probably got this demon licked, or we will soon. But, I'll be sure to call you if we haven't.

[Russ gave his lopsided grin.]

Quick as a sheep's butt.

[DON'T WINK, DAMMIT!]

Thanks for checking in on me like that, Gozer. That was...it was really kind of you.

[What are you thinking, Ziskey - you must be stark, raving bonkers. Lost your vertical hold. Half a bubble off plumb. Off your infernal nut. Several screws loose. Five cans short of a six-pack. The cheese slid off your cracker. You're an absolute box of frogs. Out to lunch... THE GATES ARE DOWN AND THE LIGHTS ARE FLASHING, BUT THERE'S NO TRAIN COMING!]

As for Mort and Moe, I don't suppose there are ever any promises that love will always work out with us humans. Sometimes, it doesn't. But, sometimes, it does. We just...hope. We hope and we try our best. We slip up, sometimes. We stumble, or fall short. It's not always perfect, or ideal. It's a process. And it's work. But, when it's right, and the love is there, driving all the choices we make in what we say and do, how we treat each other, the work doesn't really feel like work at all.

It just...it takes time. Usually. I don't know if that makes sense to you. It's pretty abstract. We usually talk about it as stories. In songs, or poems. Movies, books. Jokes, even. It's...complicated.

[CHILL, Ziskey. Chill out. They're going to sense all this....turmoil.]

But, I'd really like to talk with you more, when this is all over. If you'd like to, of course. You must have some pretty amazing stories of your own.

I...hope you're all right. You sounded so concerned about something. You went out of your way to look after me. I'd like to return the favor. Or, at least try. In any case, take care...Bestie....

y0

g3t z0m3 z133p y0u army fuck3r i can h3ar y0ur brain c311z d3t3ri0rating fr0m h3r3

@sfc-russell-ziskey

[scripttorture]

Hi- this is the anon from the ask that was very general- character is a well trained female in her mid 20s- story is set in America in modern times. She is not with any kind of set organization but works as a vigilante type to stop an underground American group from committing countless atrocities upon civilians, she is not being tortured for information: simply put, she is being tortured because they hate her. They want her to suffer and then die, not as much physical torture but more...1/3

Psychological torture. They are trying to tear her down to nothing because in their minds, they are simply returning the favor. As i said they had the intent to kill her- however she does manage to get out- a rescue mission- not by her own accord but what would be a torture method that would stay with her and you would see lasting effects of? I guess what I would be trying to show to readers is that she physically survived but mentally she never left the torture. And apologies if I'm ...2/3 Asking a lot but what are the extreme tortures that would slowly kill someone? I hope this is the right amount of information and I hope that this is helpful- thank you so much in advance:) 3/3 

This is definitely theright amount of information, thank you. :)

 It’s also a veryrealistic set up. Which I very much appreciate. Though you should keep in mindthat ‘psychological torture’ isn’t really a thing so much as a phraseapologists tend to use to dismiss the impact of physical tortures that don’tleave scars such as sleep deprivation, starvation, solitary confinement etc.

 All torture has hugeeffects on victims’ mental health and it allhas a massive impact on their lives. Now there are a lot of ‘clean’ non-scarring tortures that could easily be lethalbut I’m not sure how well that fits with the idea that these torturers want todestroy this character. Because generally people tend to belittle and dismiss theeffects of non-scarring torture: they see scarring torture as ‘worse’.

 Which isn’t true, butdoes impact on what people chose to do.  

 Given the way youdescribe the set up I think this time I’m going to step outside the ‘NationalStyle’ of the country you’ve set this in. Modern torture is generally ‘clean’ ie non-scarring and although all torture can be lethal modern tortureis by no means guaranteed to be lethal.

 What I’m getting fromthis ask is that you want something scarring, possibly disabling. Somethingvisually wrenching for the audience that could instinctively inspire horror withouthaving to go into intensely detailed description. Something the character couldsurvive but could very easily havebeen lethal.

 To me that just screamsmedieval Europe.

 Let me be clear for allthe methods I’m about to describe even with modern medicine this characterwould be extremely lucky to surviveand many of these would result in her being disabled for the rest of her life.I suggest picking something based on the level of disability you’d becomfortable writing her with as well as what you feel fits the story.

 1)     Burningalive. Even a fleeting glance at European history turns up thisold method of execution. It is potentially a horrifically painful and slow wayto die. And with modern medicine it is potentially survivable. Let’s be clear,this couldn’t be the modern method ofdousing a victim with petrol or a similar flammable substance. For this to bethe slow, scarring process you want it would have to be a wood or gas fire.

WhatI’m picturing is essentially suspension over a flame. The suspension on its ownwould be extremely painful and cause nerve damage in her hands. But doing itlike this would keep her alive for longer, which appears to be what thetorturers want. By dangling her above a flame in this way her feet and legstake the majority of the damage, while her vital organs are at a greaterremove. The torturers could use this to burn her feet and legs to the pointwhere they’d be amputated, cause first and second degree burns to the skin ofher lower abdomen and genitals and the character could still survive.

You’dhave a lot of scope with this method to decide the extent of her disability andscarring. Her feet would likely be amputated however you did this, but how highup the leg the amputation would occur and the extent of the burns over her bodycould easily vary quite a lot.

 2)     Thewheel. This is a much more disabling scenario. For thoseunfamiliar with the wheel, this was a method of torture in historical Europe.It involved tying the victim to a wheel in an X shape and systematicallybreaking the bones in their limbs turning the victim into-

‘a sortof huge screaming puppet writhing in rivulets of blood, a puppet with fourtentacles, like a sea monster of raw, slimy and shapeless flesh mixed withsplinters of smashed bones’ Hamburg 1607.

Accountsfrom the time suggest that human beings can live for hours or days in this state.As a result you have a really large window of time in which she could berescued and the torturers could very well think when they leave her that she’sbound to die.

Iam honestly unsure whether her limbs could be saved in this scenario. I suspectit would depend on how exactly the bones were broken. Historically this wouldhave been something like repeated blows with a large hammer. That wouldprobably result in multiple amputations. Something that instead produced cleanbreaks (rather than splintering the bones) would be more likely to allow her toretain her limbs. She’d need multiple surgeries all over her body toreconstruct them and a lot of her bones would be held together with pins. She’dprobably suffer from chronic pain for the rest of her life and would havehugely reduced mobility in her hands and feet.

 3)     This one is a uniquetorture that the Vikings inflicted on one of the old Kings of East Anglia.I think it was Edmund.

Hewas tied to a tree and the torturers cut through his abdomen and removed hisintact intestines. They tied part of the intestine to the tree then untied the victim and forced him to walkrepeatedly around the tree, tangling his intestine around it.

I’dsuggest something similar with a post inside a building instead of a tree.

Nowthis is risky and there are a lot ofways it could just kill the character. But if it was done ‘carefully’ bytorturers who wanted her to suffer for as long as possible, then that doesn’thave to be the case. Any nick or cut to the intestine itself would likely causesepsis so that should be avoided. Likewise howthe abdominal cavity is opened up is important because the torturers would needto avoid slicing into major veins or arteries.

She’dneed surgery. The doctors would need to go over every inch of her intestines tocheck for the slightest cut. They’d need to clean it. If it had been damagedthey might have to remove a section (you can ask scriptmedic about how thiswould affect her day to day life, I understand it varies depending on how muchintestine is lost). She’d then have to have everything put back in place andstitched up. She’d be left with large scars across her abdomen which mightrestrict her ability to turn/move that part of her body.

Thisis less physically disabling than the other two methods but it is visuallyshocking and would likely have one hell of an impact on your readers.

 All of these would be aslow death and the torturers might well see them all as ‘humiliating’ deaths aswell. I think that fits with your concept of them dehumanising the character.

 I hope these fit with the kind of arresting, affecting visual youwanted. But if I’ve gotten the wrong impression from the ask and they don’t: ifyou’d prefer something that wouldn’t leave such obvious physical marks orlasting disabilities, feel free to drop me another ask and I can put togethersome ‘clean’ techniques that would fit.

 Just to round it outthere is one very straightforward thing they could do that would take a longtime, be painful, non-scarring and would be seen as humiliating: Starvation.

 I have a Masterposton the effects of starvation here, and anotheron the effects of solitary confinement here. Leaving her locked in a cellwith a supply of water to starve to death could give her a week or more ofpretty intense suffering.

 With hospital care she’dsurvive and probably wouldn’t have any scarring or permanent disabilities butit would certainly have an incredible impact on her mental health.

 As a final point youmight want to take a look at myMasterpost on the psychological effects of torture, which would applywhichever method you end up picking for your story.

 I hope that helps, andgood luck. :)

Disclaimer

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (9/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option. Read from the beginning here

She forgets, sometimes, that Central is first and foremost an intelligence officer. She thinks of him as many things: logistics wizard, second in command, rookie wrangler, and occasional diplomat. There are other roles, too, other titles, but they don’t pertain to professional affairs, so she tries to exclude them from any kind of list --- even a mental one.

In the nearly four years she has worked with him, she has almost always seen him in the role of the military attaché, the voice of proportional response, and reasoned intervention. If she is theory, he is practice --- or, at least, that was how they played at it in the course of their negotiations with potential funding nations.

She trusts Bradford, maybe more than anyone else on the face of the earth. Time and time again, he has come through for her: as support, as a voice of reason, as the unholy wrath of a man armed only with a six shooter who still managed to fell the Muton that had taken too keen an interest in her as chaos engulfed the base. Of all the things she has ever doubted, his loyalty is not one of them.

It does not negate the shock when he comes to her a few days later with Pods ready to move on her order from Ireland, Lebanon, and Ecuador.

“How?” She asks, staring at him from across her tiny office.

He shakes his head. “There are always backchannels, but it’s better I don’t say anything beyond that. Shen says any facility to house them will need separate filtration and HVAC. He’s already got engineering working on it.”

“And Vahlen?”

“Seems happy enough for the new specimens.”

“She’s not upset about her research being interrupted?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle. “I owe you.”

“I’m just doing my job, Commander.”

“You’re sticking your neck out.”

He shrugs. “Not pursuing it would be reckless. We don’t know what those things are for.”

She rubs at her eyes, feeling the last few days of lost sleep. “I’ve been following up on civilians who had been exposed to whatever it was they emitted. They all seem fine, as far as I can tell from the records we have on hand. No signs of illness, no shift in behavior. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find, but ---“

“But you’re not gonna feel better until you look.”

She nods. “Exactly. I already feel like I’ve failed us once. I swear, I don’t know where my head was, but I’m not going to let it happen again. We’d all be up a creek without you.”

“You’d have found a way.” She shakes her head. “Come on. You were always the better diplomat.”

“And you’ve got me beat for tactics and strategy. We can contemplate the great ironies of life later.”

“After dinner?"

“After you get some sleep. You look like hell.”

“Central Officer Bradford, always the charmer,” she jokes.

“I mean it.  If medical got blood out of you now, they’d probably find it was more caffeine than anything else.”

“Hey!” She feigns offense. “That’s discounting all the cortisol I’m sure I’ve got coursing through my veins still.”

She’s not sure how his expression manages to simultaneously convey both a profound sense of worry and his distinct lack of amusement. She’d really like to congratulate him on the feat, but she somehow doubts he’d appreciate it. “Go to bed.”

“You coming too?”

Well, that certainly wasn’t supposed to come out of her mouth.

He cocks his head to the side, contemplating her for a moment. “Find me a bed that’s not a bunk, and I just might. But you’ll just have to make do for now, unless you’ve got a Queen sized mattress around here somewhere.”

She gapes for a moment, fishing for a response. “No, but I know what I’m requisitioning once we have a surplus.”

“Surplus? You are really sleep deprived,” he chuckles. “Bed. Now.”

“Maybe you do have a point,” she yawns.

“It’s been known to happen. Really, get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

“Promise?”

“I dragged you out of the shower to command a counterattack four months ago. You really think I wouldn’t drag you out of bed?” “Fair point.”

--

And so, they begin again.

It’s not like the early days, not really. They are strangers again, yes, but strangers with a shared history, a past that ties them to each other. They have common ground, common trauma, a common knack for making the men under their command just a little uncomfortable.

It’s little things, coffee in the morning, a beer at night. They are both grasping for something, some front to unite behind. It’s not enough, not really, but at least he’s stopped looking at her with accusations in his eyes, and life on the bridge has begun to lose some of its tension.

“Commander, Central, we’ve got a secure transmission coming through,” Gunda announces from her console late one afternoon. “Patching it through to the Commander’s quarters.”

“Come on,” Bradford says, motioning her up the stairs. “Someone else you gotta meet.”

She quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest.

The terminal screen in her room flashes with the simplified crest, and she reaches for the keyboard, inputting her password. The screen flickers, distorted and pixelated, then is supplanted by a familiar figure.

“Hello, Commander.”

Her mouth falls open. “Mr. Spokesman?” She manages.

He is unchanged, as far as she can tell, as much a fragment of a time long ago as she is. The lights, the voice, everything: it’s just as she remembers.

But it can’t be. It shouldn’t be.

“The council you once knew is no more. Its membership have all sworn loyalty to the ADVENT administration --- with one exception. It is good to see you again.”

She fights the urge to flick the lights or check her hands or elbow Central, something, anything to check that she is not dreaming. This is surreal, or maybe unreal. This is the shadow and substance come to meet, and she’s lost her footing. She settles heavily into her desk chair, suddenly lightheaded.

The Spokesman presses on, explaining his efforts to work against the administration from within, as security footage of her own captivity plays out on the screen. She pinches the skin of her hand and runs through the events that have led her to this moment. It all makes sense. Everything adds up. But something, something, something is off and she can feel it.

It’s enough to make her nauseous, enough to make her dizzy.

Deep breaths, she tells herself. You can’t lose it now.

Pictures of missing civilians appear on the screen, and the Spokesman continues on, a grainy picture of an ADVENT facility filling the screen, some kind of mysterious black site that they’re meant to investigate. “Save our world. The clock is ticking. Good luck, Commander.”

Before she can respond, he is gone.

“Did that … did that just happen?” She asks, turning to face her second in command.

“You two having a civil conversation? I’m surprised, too.”

It takes a moment for the comment to register, but she chuckles when it finally does. It’s a joke; he’s teasing her.  There’s something like an attempt at fondness in his voice, though she refuses to get her hopes up quite yet. “I was always civil.”

“Only because if you’d actually lobbed a boot through the screen, it would have taken a bigger dent out of the budget.”

No, that is fondness. She feels a little better, more grounded, maybe. This is real. It’s happening. Someone else has verified it, even if only indirectly. She is not hallucinating, or half between dreamland and the real world. They have a problem to solve, and she’ll need to address it. She knows this framework. She recognizes this framework. She can do something.

“Sounds like it’s a good thing Tygan and company were able to crib together some inspiration on comms. We’re gonna need it.”

“It’s always something, Commander. That won’t ever change.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t have a good feeling about whatever it is we’re going into.”

“You and me both.”

--

She envies her men sometimes. She’s not proud, and she’d be hard pressed to admit it to anyone, but she does. Hershel and Molchetti cuddle together under a blanket during an impromptu movie night. Martin naps on Royston’s lap during the nightly news. Lan and Pukkila dance with each other in the kitchen while Bernard yells at them both about hot pots and we have a whole base, but no, you two, you choose here for your waltz.

Had she not been drafted into the re-development of the XCOM project, she would not have met Bradford. Of that much, she is certain. After all, there would have been no reason, unless they had crossed paths at a conference, and even then, she’s not sure either of them would have looked twice at the other. It was the project that threw them into one another’s lives.

She wonders if things would have been different had he taken the role of Commanding Officer, instead of Central. It’s no secret between them that he was offered that role first. Would she have remained a civilian? Surely, she wouldn’t have been involved in the day-to-day operations once the activation order was given, at least not to the extent she presently is. Would it have opened other doors, other possibilities? 

She wonders, too, what would have happened had Colonel Curran not gotten sick, not been forced to step down as project head. What would have happened if they had remained colleagues, equals? What if they had stepped back, looked at the bigger picture --- would they have been able to see the possibility of a life together? And more importantly, would that possibility have been enough?

They are both dedicated at best, fanatical at worse. Devotion to duty is all well and good until it devolves into all consuming obsession, until you can’t pull back and see the rest of the world around you, the things passing you by, the things that matter more.

They have broken protocol once, in the wake of the assault on the base. She’d finished her business with the Council, assuring the Spokesman that while, yes, they had survived, they were emphatically not alright and could the Council please find it in its hearts and coffers to increase their budget so that they didn’t have to operate from a base in shambles? Her ribs burned and her feet ached and when she closed her eyes, she still heard the screaming, still heard the klaxons. The infirmary, already clogged with wounded, had been able to do little more than splint his wrist, pending x-rays once the most seriously injured had been stabilized.

So, yes, she’d buried her face in his chest; yes, he’d held her close, mindful to avoid the three cracked ribs. “Really thought I was gonna lose you there for a minute,” he’d said. ”Scared the hell out of me.”

“I have no idea how you managed that with a pistol, but I’m glad you did.”

So, yes, she’d leaned in closer; yes, he’d brought his good hand up to cup her cheek.

“I’m worried it’s some kind of trick, or that, I don’t know, that we missed something.” She’d told him. “I’m afraid we’re gonna wake up tomorrow and find this was some kind of dream and we’ve all been wiped out.”

“This is real, Lizzie. We made it. We’re safe.”

So, yes, they’d kissed.  They’d kissed because they were whole and alive. They’d kissed in case they weren’t and would wake to a vast glossy lake, and an ominous ferryman, gesturing for them both. They’d kissed. She refuses to regret it.

She knows they are playing a dangerous game, one that, should it backfire, may land them both in front of a court martial. She’d really like to kiss him again, before it catches up to them. She’d like to get out of this life, find somewhere safe, settle down. She’d like time, time to get used to waking up next to him; time to find out what their routine might look like, free from the stress of the war; time to build a life together.

She’s just hopes they’ll get it.

[baileymacias]

Taller And Faster Pro Swingball Cheap And Easy Ideas

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Korean Ways To Increase Height

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[starving-ariess]

Anorexia: An Addiction?

Well. What’s an addiction?

Addiction (noun): the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance or activity. Addiction is used to describe alcoholism, drug abuse, etc. A popular discussion these days is if teens are addicted to their phones. You can be addicted to someone you love.

But anorexia?

Let’s see.

How much can I eat today? I’ll say 400 calories. That ought to be enough for me to lose. What am I going to eat? Should I save my calories for dinner, or spread them throughout the day so I don’t go crazy and eat everything in the kitchen? Let’s plan my meals. I’ll have a clementine (47) for breakfast, an apple (65) for lunch. In between I’ll drink water and do my best to not think about food.

Maybe I’ll go downstairs to look at all of it. Don’t eat it, don’t even think about it, my brain is screaming, but oh god it looks so good and maybe just one bite won’t kill me fuck don’t do it fuck I did it and one bite turned into ten and now I have 200 extra calories to burn off fuck fuck fuck how am I going to do it I don’t have time to go to the gym today well 600 is still pretty low I’ll eat dinner and eat less tomorrow.

People ask me if I’m sick sometimes, but I honestly don’t feel sick. I’m okay.

The next day.

Wake up, bathroom, weigh. Lost a pound, thank god. The relief flooding through me is like nothing i have felt before. Like a drug. We have better control than yesterday. No food until dinner as punishment. Go to the gym and burn off 400 calories you haven’t eaten. Don’t fucking pass out. Drink water. When you get asked if you’re okay after you sit down for fear of falling down don’t fucking say a thing. You’re fine. I can’t afford them asking questions I can’t afford anyone knowing (that I’m not sick).

Back home.

Dinner. Swallow every mouthful, relish everything, it’s over too soon. Don’t linger in the kitchen. You’re in negative numbers. Lay in bed wide awake listening to your stomach growl and thanking god you feel too weak to get out of it if you fucking eat you die you can’t fucking eat pop a piece of gum in your mouth drink a whole bottle of water in one sitting make yourself feel sick (although you aren’t actually sick) don’t fucking eat.

The next day.

Wake up, bathroom, weigh. How the fuck did I gain this isn’t fucking possible fuck what the fuck am I going to do I’m so fat I can’t take it anymore I’m not eating anymore I swear to god. You go through the day feeling shaky as fuck thinking about nothing but food with the snide voice in your head telling you you’d better not fucking dare

“I’m hungry”

“Yes and you fucking deserve it. We’re not eating”

“Yes it fucking will we are going to starve we are fat and worthless and can’t do anything right and we are going to get this one goddamn thing right even if it kills us” and then you don’t eat for two days, but you’re not sick, you’re just listening to the voice in your head.

You sit in class and the girl across from you glances at you sometimes, wondering why your fingers are constantly wrapped around your wrist. Trying to make sure it doesn’t get bigger than what, 6 inches? She’s getting kind of tired of you staring at her legs all the time too. And seeing your fingers slide across your very prominent collarbones. And offering you food that you won’t accept. She’s made a list and by now the foods that you “don’t like” are more than the foods you do like.

Your nails are purple and so are your hands. You stare at the bones while you flex them, not paying attention to the teacher and feeling slightly dizzy. The bell rings and you stand up but you can’t remember the last time you ate and you feel like your world is crumbling around you as you fall to your knees and fuck you can’t see and you can’t feel your heart and you are actually terrified for a minute although why should you be? You’re not sick.

But then your vision comes back and you’re on your already bruised knees and your teacher is kneeling besides you, a very concerned look on his face, he knows you haven’t been eating, you have had him for two years and he hasn’t seen you eat once “let’s talk” he says “I’m fine” you say because you already know what is coming and the familiar excuses rise to your lips “i stood up too fast, I’m just tired and a little sick (LIAR), I’m fine though” and you walk away before he can protest desperately hoping you won’t collapse while he stands and watches you.

The hunger pangs are worse than ever when you’re home, laying in bed to avoid eating as always, downing water like it’s the fucking oxygen your food-deprived brain is starving for and you’re so fucking determined not to eat you just lay there and you can’t even cry about the food you miss because you’re so exhausted.

And your mom comes home and calls you for dinner and you start to say “I’m not feeling well” but she goes “it’s your favorite” and you break and have a plate (500 calories) and it’s more than you’ve eaten in a long time and afterwards when you’re in the shower burning your skin off to try to stop the fucking cold for once you shove your fingers down your throat over and over and over again until you’re on your knees in the shower sobbing for dear life because you shouldn’t have eaten those fucking 500 calories and you can’t get all of it up and you are so fucking done with everything and your music is blasting loud enough that your parents can’t hear a goddamn thing and when you finally manage to emerge the mascara streaking down your cheeks is just from the shower and I was really cold that’s why I was in there so long but I’m feeling better now, I think I’m just going to go to bed.

And you go to bed but you don’t sleep because your throat is sore and you are vigorously doing sit-ups trying to burn off 500 fucking calories and you fall asleep in the middle of one.

The next day is Saturday and you oversleep the alarm you set to go to the gym because your body is starting to protest again and you wake at noon to your best friend shoving a plate of food at you because “we’re supposed to go shopping and you’re late!” and the first thing you do is slide your hand up your shirt and shit it’s cold but you finger those ribs obsessively and wonder why it feels like you have ribs when all you see every time you look in the mirror is layers and layers of fat and the food is so enticing and your friend offers you some, she knows you don’t eat and watching you kill yourself in front of her is killing her slowly, if you’d bother to stop obsessing over how many calories you can eat today you’d notice the savage red lines on her wrists and how she’s always wearing bracelets but you don’t and anyway you decline the food, obviously you do, and the two of you go out and you’re wearing a thousand layers because it’s freezing outside but at least you don’t feel like you’re going to faint but you had 500 calories yesterday maybe that’s it maybe you’re a failure yes you definitely are.

And the two of you go into New Yorker and she convinces you to try in this dark green dress that matches your eyes perfectly and you go into the cubicle reluctantly but you don’t actually try it on you spend the entire time staring at your body critically in the mirror, turning one way to the other wondering why the hell you can’t see the ribs you felt this morning and when you come out dressed in your warm clothes again and she stares suspiciously you just say “it wasn’t my style.”

And you go to lunch and don’t order anything but a water until your friend insists you get something or she’ll call your mother so you order a salad and pick at it and she goes “you’ve lost a lot of weight” and you reply breezily “oh just a couple of pounds” and she raises her eyebrows because you both know you’re lying unless oh just a couple of pounds is the term for 20 now. And you’re clinically underweight, and you both know that too, but your parents couldn’t give two shits and you refuse treatment because you’re not sick. You have everything under control.

Your friend pretends not to notice you’re eating jackshit and asks what you want for your birthday. “Oh surprise me” you say airily and in your mind your head is screaming DEATH DEATH JUST FUCKING DIE ALREADY but of course you don’t say that.

And your birthday rolls around and you fake a smile as you blow out the candles wishing for death, don’t eat any of the cake and try to slit your wrists the night after.

And that’s when your parents come in and say “we need to talk” and you end up sitting on a therapists couch staring at a painting of a wave and wishing that’s where you were instead of here, with the shrink questioning you and you answering numbly with “yes” or “no” or “I don’t know” until one thing she says the third time you spend an hour sitting there stands out and she says “eating disorders kill. And you deserve to be alive. There is not an eating disorder weight. You can be sick at any weight. You are loved. You are worthy. Your weight does not define you.”

And you look at her and her eyes are a deep brown and they are earnest and you bullshit so well you know instantly when someone is telling a lie and she is not and it is the strangest feeling and you start to fee light-headed but it’s not the feeling you get when you’re about to pass out it’s something different and before you know it you start to cry.

And you cry and cry and cry until you have no tears left and then she hands you a tissue and a second one just in case and she sits there and doesn’t say anything and you sit there too and thoughts are whirling in your head and you’re thinking about everything you’re thinking about the past two years of all the meals skipped and the plans cancelled and the excuses and the lies and the panic and the sadness and the pain and then you open your mouth and you say

“I think I’m sick.”

So you tell me. Is anorexia an addiction?