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bffsoobin · 4 years ago

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Windflower

01|02|03|04|05|06

↳ after a heartbreak you find yourself in a small town looking for purpose. you find employment with Choi Soobin and his impressive ancestral home. when you start to fall in love again, there’s no way for you to predict what you find in the depths of the home and Soobin’s mind.

➤ hanahaki au, angst, slight fluff, dark themes

Word Count:6,881

Warnings: swearing, descriptions of sickness and feeling generally unwell, mentions of doctors/medical treatments, deception, descriptions of anxiety/panic, horror, pain, major character death, general dark themes! Please proceed with caution if you’re sensitive! (also I did not proof read)

A/N:excuse my language; but holy fuck. I cannot believe this is the end of Windflower. This is insane. Windflower is my passion project, and the desire to write it is half the reason I opened my account on here. While it hasn’t been the most popular writing on my blog, I have been really really proud of it. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and supporting this since the beginning! I love you all!

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Soobin sat with his head dipped toward the dark wooden dining table. He was scrolling through what appeared to be a website for a plant nursery; as if he needed more within the home. You were sitting opposite of him, peeking over the top of your laptop where you were pretending to read an article on the ten best shows coming to Netflix this fall. Following the night of your drunken rage, the two of you had patched up your relationship as well as you possibly could. You’d traded apologies, talked it out over a store-bought cheesecake and moved on.

At least, you assumed he had. He acted as if you hadn’t accused him of being some type of fraud and proclaimed that you could no longer trust him. Everything was eerily the same, despite Soobin’s increased caution around you in certain settings. Gone were the days of him laying a hand on your back as you cooked or resting his head on your shoulder while you both dozed off on the couch.

You should have been grateful for his physical distance. Happy that he was giving you the room you had hinted at needing on that night a few weeks ago. Instead you were annoyed. Frustrated at the way you craved to feel his comforting touch even though you knew it would only bring you more pain in the end. For a while, you worried that his avoidance meant he had seen the evidence of your stupidity floating within the toilet bowl, but you knew Soobin well enough to know that he would have talked to you about it. Right? He would have brought it up; although slowly and with extreme caution, and asked you what he could do to help. He had proven himself to be mature and thoughtful, even after you’d tried to push him away.

He finally stirred in his seat across the table. You could actually hear a few of his bones crack with the movement and you stifled a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” He tried to sound intimidating, but his voice was so inherently soft around the edges that you couldn’t hold back the laugh.

“You’re just an old man,” you were poking at him, you knew, but it felt good. You felt normal. Almost like you were back to the time when the two of you were truly just friends. He planted both of his large, vascular hands flat on the table and leaned his weight forward.

“I’m an old man? You do know we’re the same age, Y/N. So if I’m so old...” he paused for dramatic affect as you stared up at him in amused awe. “Then you must be ancient.”

An offended gasp, obviously feigned, slipped between your lips; which you now noticed you’d chewed raw as you were thinking earlier.

“How dare you? I am the epitome of youth! My hair is flowing, my skin is flawless,” you pointed to a blemish on your chin you knew for a fact you’d had for days. “My youthful beauty is unmatched, can’t you tell?” You weren’t sure where your sudden good mood had come from but you basked in it. Even as Soobin used his hands as leverage to lean closer to your face, you didn’t budge. You couldn’t. This close up, you could spot every single little freckle on his face. The dynamic shades of his irises became more and more distinct until he finally stopped advancing toward you. It was easily the closest the two of you had been in weeks.

“Hm, you’re right. I can tell. There’s something about you...” he squinted his eyes as if he were scrutinizing your every feature. “You are beautiful, Y/N.”

The sentence brought an unwanted visceral reaction through your body. It was too much like a confession, too close to the exact words you needed to hear from him. A shooting pain rippled through your heart. You shuddered out an exhale, shutting your eyes tight as if that would stave away the pain. In a blind panic, you pushed away from the solid table and made to put as much distance between yourself and Soobin as possible. Then your migraine hit, the feeling like someone had stuck a red hot iron rod behind both of your eyes. Fuck. On top of that pain, a cough worked its way up your throat, producing a petal into your mouth that was slimy and bitter.

You only made it two and a half steps before your knees gave out, sending you hurtling toward the floor in a free fall. Sticking your hands out just before the impact, you accepted the fact that you were about to get a concussion out of your own inability to properly distance yourself from an unrequited love. But the sensitive skin of your face never bounced off of the original hardwood flooring you had once drooled over.

“Y/N?” Soobin was panicked, stooped down next to you as he had managed to barely break your fall and turn you around to lay on your back. Your vision was still swimming, but you cracked open your eyes very slowly.

‘What’s wrong? Do you need to go to a doctor?”

“No,” you croaked out, “was just a migraine.” Soobin scoffed.

“I’ve never seen anyone nearly pass out from just a migraine, Y/N. And in all the months I’ve known you, you’ve never-”

“I’m fine.” You asserted, sitting up as well as you could with his arms wrapped protectively around your shoulders. “They used to happen the last time I- uh, when I was in college. It’s okay, they’ll pass.” You were lying right through your teeth. The last time you had a migraine this badly, your then roommate had rushed you to the emergency room and discovered that you had hanahaki. There was no doubt that history was repeating itself.

“Okay.” He was frowning, obviously unconvinced as he pushed a hand against your lower back. “At least let me help you upstairs.”

----

The migraine either dissipates or you simply become accustomed to it. The petal you had coughed into a tissue when you first reached your room had dried, sitting on your bedside table in its perfect little form to mock you. You were so disgusted that you couldn’t even bring yourself to throw it away. No longer sensitive to light, you shrugged out from underneath your sheets and stretched your limbs until they cracked. A dull thumping was still present at the base of your skull; a reminder of what you’d just suffered. A sickly feeling of anxiety passed through you like a breeze, making the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention. Soobin was clearly not convinced by your insistence that your sudden ailment was nothing of concern. And he was right. In all the time you’d been around him, you never once experienced a spell quite like that, so how was he supposed to not be suspicious?

Although, you had to hold onto hope that he truly didn’t know any better. It seemed as though he was blissfully ignorant to the truth behind your sickness, and you’d like to keep it that way. For as long as you possibly could, anyway.

You hadn’t even noticed that you were pacing across the floor until you landed your weight onto a particularly squeaky board that sounded ridiculous in the otherwise quiet room. Freezing on the spot, you held your breath for some reason you truly couldn’t explain. Of course, there was no logical reason to do so, and the action only resulted in your lungs contracting violently. Your upper body shuddered as you opened your mouth instantly. Holding your breath for just a few seconds should have been a simple task, but to your weakened heart and lungs it felt like running a whole marathon uphill.

Buckling over, you heaved in mouthfuls of oxygen until your heart rate dropped back down to a normal rate. Add shortness of breath to your growing list of signs that should send you running for the nearest clinic. If you weren’t so foolishly attached to the man who was probably worrying about you downstairs, you would have already been booking yourself an appointment.

It just seemed totally inconceivable, even in your predicament, to leave Soobin behind within his ancestral house that surely felt horridly empty being lived in alone. You would sooner walk over lava barefoot than put him through that. It was stupid. So incredibly stupid, but you were literally willing to put your life on the line just to look after Soobin. He had really weaseled himself deep into your psyche. But you knew you were to blame for holding the door wide open. He had done so much for you, surely you could do him to kindness of sticking around as long as you possibly could.

So you trudged down the steps like you did every day, expecting to come face to face with an overly worried and doting young man standing in the kitchen or living room awaiting your arrival. But the lower level of the house was oddly silent when you descended the steps. The low hum of the washer and dryer running were the only indications that someone beside yourself was even there. Curiosity spiking, you made your way to the vacant living room to peer out of the windows. It was a bit hard to see him from this angle, but you spotted Soobin lounging on the back deck, skin browning in the sun and eyes closed in content. His arms were tucked behind his head, effectively lengthening his torso and giving you a full view of the sliver of skin that was peeking out between the top of his waistband and the bottom of the white cotton t-shirt You noticed that he was once again wearing the outfit he was donning when you first arrived at the front gate weeks ago. Although the outfit was simple and generally unremarkable, you would never forget the way your heart lurched at the sight of his lithe body the first time. The warm pull of nostalgia nagged at the back of your mind, so you selfishly let yourself sink into its embrace and recall the trepidation you had once approached the grounds with.

Soobin had charmed you so easily with his windswept hair and boyish charm that it was a shock you didn’t begin to grow flowers for him the first time you met. To be fair, the version of you who had rolled into town almost two months prior was much more cautious than the version you were now familiar with. Part of you missed that version of you; who was simply drifting through life, unattached to anyone and looking for a new spot to plant her roots. But you knew you weren’t built to live like that, as your attachment to Soobin had proven wholeheartedly.

Suddenly, you felt a lurching in your chest that didn’t necessarily hurt you; but urged you to go outside and talk to Soobin. A subconscious pull that reminded you that your body craved his attention just as much as your mind did. The weather was beautiful today, a pleasant temperature that made your skin feel like it was glowing as soon as you were under the sun. As soon as you stepped onto the porch, Soobin whipped his head around in your direction. Cutely, he scrambled to sit up, hair frizzy from the static of the Adirondack chair he had been lounging on.

“Are you feeling better?” A warm hand encased the left side of your face, Soobin’s sloped nose just inches away from yours as his speckled eyes studied every single pore and line on your face.

“Uh- I’m-” his proximity was making your jittery, heart rate spiking as you tried to collect your thoughts. “I feel better. The migraine is gone.” You ignored the way the same dull ache from earlier was beginning to seep into the edges of your brain.

“Oh, good!” A rush of his breath blew over your sensitive skin, sending your eyelids into a flutter. When he removed his hand, you felt oddly cold and empty despite the heat of the atmosphere. “Look, I don’t want you to do any work around the house until you’re feeling better. And I can call my doctor to get you in for a-”

“No!” The word jumped off of your tongue before you could reign it in; rudely cutting Soobin off as his eyes widened in shock. He shifted his weight as his eyebrows knit together in worry. You licked your lips- suddenly dry- and tried to collect the thoughts that were running laps in your mind. How could you possibly explain that going to the doctor would be a grave mistake and mark the end of your companionship.

“You don’t want to go to the doctor? I promise he’s really nice, Y/N, and he can get you medicine for your migraines.” His perfect lips were pulled into a worried pout, a thin sheen of sweat glazing his skin only exemplifying his perfect complexion.

“No, it’s just that...when I had them before they ran a bunch of tests,” you were hedging the truth and you knew it, but hopefully Soobin couldn’t tell the difference, “and there was nothing they could give me to help them. So a doctor would just be, ya know, a waste of time.” The skin on the back of your neck was heated in worry as you shot Soobin what you hoped was a convincing grin.

“Okay.” He was still frowning but he seemed to believe you. “Just please let me know if you want to go. I don’t want you to be miserable. And you’re still not doing any yard work,” he grasped your bicep and led you over to the chair he had just been lying in. His grip was strong as he gave you no choice but to sit down and relax. The plastic was heated from the sunshine and the heat of his body as you settled in and looked up at him, blinking slowly.

“I’m not gonna break, Soobin. I can handle watering the plants and doing some cleaning inside. You are not going to wait on me hand and foot.” You put some fire in your tone, hoping to edge away the anxiety you were feeling creep up the back of your throat. Having the exact person who sent your body on a fight against itself watching over you like a mother cat watches its kittens would surely put you six feet under.

Soobin’s eyes steeled as he crossed his arms over his broad, defined chest. “No, Y/N. I am going to wait on you, because you’ve spent so much time waiting on me, and you deserve to have someone take care of you. Please let me take care of you, bub.” You were speechless at the strength of his voice coupled with the nickname he had only used in a teasing manner prior to this moment. The longer you stared at the toned muscle of his arms crossed over the widest part of his torso, the more your throat began to tickle with the insistence of soft, red petals that were looking for an escape. Panicked, you looked away quickly, coughing as softly as you can to hopefully pass the action off as simply swallowing down the wrong pipe. Just when you think the moment has passed, an unwavering push at the back of your throat had you involuntarily gagging. Soobin sprung into action, patting a large hand between your shoulder blades as if he were burping an infant. He was calling your name, pulling some strands of your hair away from your face in a bid to get your attention; but you ignored him. Your stomach rolled, the pressure in your lungs and heart only increasing at his touch that you tried to shrug off.

Eventually the muscles of your esophagus stopped constricting and fresh oxygen could flow back into your crowded lungs. Hot tears slipped down your cheeks and you wiped at them in embarrassment, hiding your face from Soobin’s intensified gaze. You could only imagine what he was thinking right now; as you’d just went from insisting you had no need for a doctor to dry heaving over the side of his deck furniture. The thought had you shrinking into yourself even more. He was going to catch on eventually, wasn’t he? Fuck. You couldn’t avoid this much longer. The evidence of your disease was only mounting and Soobin was more observant than ever before.

“Y/N.” The call of your name brought you, slowly, out of your own mind. “Look at me.” The words could not have been any clearer, yet you shook your head like a petulant child. He sighed. “Please, I’m worried about you. Please let me take care of you. I can’t,” he stopped and you could hear him swallow clearly. Was that a sniffle? Your heart clenched in response. “I can’t sit here and watch you hurt.”

Still ashamed, you raised your head from your hands and stared out over the yard instead of facing him. You didn’t think your stuttering heart would survive seeing his expression in this supercharged moment. You’d sooner drop dead than see Soobin crying over you.

“Okay,” you acquiesced, mind already running in the direction of a backup plan, “I’m sorry, Soobin. You’re right. I do need you to look after me. Just please.” you swallowed, tasting the oddly earthy tang of flower petals on your tongue. “No doctors. You have to promise me.” Finally turning your body to face his, your earlier suspicions were confirmed.

Your heart constricted painfully at the sight of him, eyes rimmed red and watery with unshed tears and a line of worry creasing the soft skin of his forehead harshly. “Fine.” He huffed, clearly displeased with your stipulation but willing to make the sacrifice.

“Thank you,” the words were whispered, caught in a sudden gust of wind, but he heard them nonetheless and sent you a small nod.

“Of course.”

----

Soft sunlight filtered through the flowy white curtains hanging over the windows of the library. You weren’t sure why you hadn’t spent much time in this little haven since you moved in. Soobin’s cousin had filled it with plush armchairs laden with soft fleece blankets and the most comfortable throw pillows you’d ever felt. The books were certainly outdated, but you found some classics that satisfied the itch for escape you had begun to cultivate. Currently, you were flipping through a vintage illustrated coffee table book- the front page tells you it was made in 1962- that gave diagrams and names of all types of flowers. You shouldn’t have been surprised to find this type of literature here, as Soobin himself had admitted to learning the meanings of flowers in his free time.

The pages were delicate, so you flipped them carefully, fingers tracing over the edges that felt like they might melt between the oil of your skin. As you turned onto a new page a brightly colored sticky note, not unlike the ones you used to mark up textbooks, drew your attention toward the flower it was attached to. You recognized the flower as jasmine immediately, familiar with the patch of it that weaved among its neighbors in the garden. Brushing the sticky note aside, you read the delicate cursive underneath it: eternal and unconditional love. Cute. The image of a younger Soobin thumbing through the book, tongue pushed out in concentration as he researched warmed your heart.

A tremor of weakness passed through your arm, making your hand shake. A feeling of dread- which you desperately tried to push down- reminded you of just how much worse your condition had become. You had noticed it lately, the way you felt much more faint than normal, how much more often you had to take a moment to catch your breath, the way your whole body would shake when you cough up a mix of blood and petals into the sink.

But for now, you chose to lose yourself in this book and the newfound hunt for Soobin’s sticky notes of interest. You had to skip a few pages before you found the next ones; two bundled together in the upper left corner of the page marked off forget-me-nots and begonias. Gently lifting the sticky notes revealed the meanings behind these flowers, also featured in the backyard, to be true love and deep compassion and communication or connection, respectively. Curiosity mounting, you continued to flip through the weighty book. At first, you began to think that maybe the three notes you’d already found were all that lived within the forgotten book. As you neared the end, your eyes caught on two more, this time on opposite ends of the page. One partially covered an illustration of a snapdragon, the other highlighting the small flowers of a buttercup. Your nails caught on the edge of the blue paper as you lifted it. Buttercups: neatness and innocence. The definition made sense, calling back to memory the way your former best friend had coughed up a handful of the pale yellow flowers when you were just children. She was easily the most pure and innocent person you’d ever met, and given the matching nature of the boy who’d also been secretly pining over her; you couldn’t think of a more perfect example of the type of flower representing the relationship.

You wondered if Soobin had chosen and planted these flowers with the image of the relationships they’re indicative of in mind. The snapdragon’s description was totally covered by the sticky note; so you nearly had to pry the whole thing off before you could see the cursive. Deception. The word stared back at you. It seemed very out of place among the other markings that Soobin had made. You knew for a fact that a tall, thick patch of snapdragons were growing proudly in the garden, among all the other flowers with soft, beautiful meanings. Interesting. You would consider the fact that Soobin was only drawn to their aesthetics, but the way the drawing was marked with the same enthusiasm as the others was certainly curious.

You decided that you were thinking way too far into this. For all you knew, the snapdragons were simply planted by someone in his family and he had gone looking for their meaning. Nearing the end of the book, you were simply skimming over the book. Your eyes were starting to get tired, fatigue dancing under your skin as you considered taking a nap right there. On the final, yellowed page of the flower identification book, you spotted something alarmingly familiar. A red flower whose petals fade into a pure white near the stem. The exact same petals that had been crawling up your throat and ruining the little bit of safety you’d found within Soobin’s home.

Suddenly on high alert, you sat up straight, eyes watering as you finally focused enough to comprehend the definition. The red windflower. Death and forsaken love. Your throat went completely dry, heart dropping down to your stomach. The petals pushed against the soft flesh of the inside of your throat, scratching at the back of your tongue as a harsh reinforcement of what you were reading. Death? Surely you had joked with yourself that you felt as if you were dying, but was that not just because you hadn’t seen a doctor?

A new gagging cough slipped past your lips, consuming your senses totally as you focused on not spewing a mix of blood, spit and flower petals onto the surely expensive leather chair. Finally, you collapsed back in the chair, chest heaving, book laid open on your lap. Fresh tears brimmed your eyes. You needed to leave. As much as you desired to stay around Soobin and bask in his company, you were becoming increasingly worried for your life. You had to find a way to get him out of the house long enough for you to pack up the essentials and flee the house. It would hurt. It would hurt so bad, but nothing could be worse than the message of doom that your body was giving you. Loving Soobin would literally put you in an early grave.

“Hey, Y/N, you okay?” Soobin’s voice came cautiously from somewhere behind you and you jumped, clasping the book shut quickly.

“I’m-” you tried, voice too wrecked from coughing to continue. You cleared your throat, ignoring the painful pinch that created and tried again. “I’m okay. But I was wondering if you’d do me a favor?” Thinking on your feet had your head spinning, and you hoped he couldn’t sense the waver in your voice as you spoke.

He approached slowly, sitting himself on an armchair opposite of you. The knees of his jeans were stained brown with dirt, a sight not uncommon after his time in the garden. He pushed a hand through his mussed up hair. It was a nervous tick, you knew, and you felt awful for worrying him. Maybe it was better if you left after all.

“Could you go out to Hank’s and get me a Smore’s sundae? I would drive myself but...” a vague gesture over your generally unwell body made the point clear. “I know it’s pretty far out of town but I’ve been craving one since the first time we went.”

“Of course. I’m done outside, I can go. Are you sure you’ll be okay alone? I’ll be out for probably like 40 minutes to get all the way there and back.”

“Yes, Soobin. I can still handle myself alone. I’m not that sick.” The irony of the statement was not lost on you, but it seemed to have placated him enough for him to slip on his shoes and leave the house. As soon as he was gone, you threw yourself off of the chair. Your heart rate had been in a constant state of increase for weeks, but you just had to just push through it for now.

In a flurry of packing that was all too familiar to the way you left your college apartment, you began to gather your things. You felt a twinge of guilt for leaving behind some of your things for Soobin to contend with, but you had to push it aside in favor of working quickly. All of your personal items, chargers, enough clothing for two weeks, toiletries and any money you’d brought along with you were stuffed into your trusty tote bag. You took one last sweeping look around the room, anxiety licking at the back of your neck as you feared you were running out of time. Many of your dressers were still full and you had left the bed a mess but your most important items were tucked underneath your arm securely; and that was enough for you.

As you descended the stairs, you tried to ignore the way you wobbled dangerously down them until you finally got to the bottom level of the house. A bittersweet feeling rose in your chest as you surveyed the kitchen where you’d cooked and baked so many times. The living room beckoned you with similar memories of taking naps in the sunshine and watching your favorite films. A stray tear you didn’t know was welling up made a hot streak down your face before dripping off of your skin. No matter how much it hurt, you had to keep moving. The floor creaked familiarly under your feet as you approached the front door. The handle was cold under your fingers as you twisted, but the satisfying creak and rush of fresh air that you were expecting never came. You tried again, but the door didn’t budge. Locked. Okay, that made sense. Neither of you really used the front door, so of course it was locked up. Leaning down to inspect the doorknob, you realized that the age of the home meant that you would need a skeleton key to slip into the door and crack it open.

Slightly annoyed, you took a deep, steadying breath and headed for the backdoor. You would have to walk further to get to your car; but the back door should be unlocked, considering Soobin had just left out of it. With more fervor, you gripped the door knob and twisted, just to be met with the same resistance the front door gave. A flash of hot panic consumed you as you jiggled the handle again, just in case it would make any difference. Soobin must have locked it out of habit when he left, and you knew for a fact that he had the only key-as far as you knew- with him out at Hank’s. Blindly, you grabbed for your cellphone before realizing how useless that would truly be. No one knew you were here. You didn’t have any other friends in town, and it’s not like you could call the police to come help you without Soobin finding out. Sweaty palms made your phone nearly slip from your grip as your mind worked in overdrive.

“Okay.” you whispered to yourself, “where would he keep spare keys?” Rifling through a mental list of all the nooks and crannies of the home, a sudden realization hit you. That room upstairs where you had hit your head! That would explain why the room seemed oddly clean, and it was feasible to believe that what you mistook for an AC unit was actually a safe of some kind. Back up the steps you went, heart thumping in a rhythm that was surely unhealthy for someone as young as yourself.

When you finally got to the room, you found the mismatched furniture exactly where you left it. Soobin had clearly made no effort to move back the dresser or the table that you’d begun to slide out of the way; only making your mission so much easier.

For the first time today, you had luck when you pulled at the handle of something. Up close, you seemed to be clearly looking at some kind of built in storage compartment, made of a light metal and easily accessed by a small pull lever. Your fingers slipped as you swung the door open, excitement rising at the prospect of being correct about the keeping place of the keys.

As fast as the excitement and relief had risen, they were quelled and buried deep underneath a wash of confusion. Within the confines of the compartment, you were faced with... flowers. In the middle, acting as some sort of centerpiece, was a pressed snapdragon stem. An entire cluster of flowers, attached firmly to a greened stem was propped up on a small stand; shrink wrapped in protective plastic. Something about the sight was oddly familiar. The stem was cut so perfectly across, completely unlike the way a garden sheer or someone breaking off the plant would present. A memory surfaced to the top of your mind, recalling the first time you’d had your flowers removed. It was cut in the exact same manner; with the precision only a surgical tool could make. Although you’d tried to bury the whole process in a dusty corner of your mind, you did remember your doctor offering the option to take the removed flower home. It had appalled and confused you, but it was clear that that was the source of this exact flower.

“What the fuck?” you whispered, catching sight of an almost unrecognizable sharpie scribbled on the corner. CS. Initials? Oh god. CS. Choi Soobin. Your hand recoiled as if you’d been burned, the feeling of bile raising toward your tongue. He had told you that he never grew flowers, so what the hell was this? Why would he keep this a secret? Hurt and panic joined hands and wreaked havoc on your nervous system. You could barely think straight. Was this his...trophy case?

When you shifted on your feet, you spotted a small envelope resting behind the stand. A sick feeling of curiosity had you reaching for it. At this point, you had no idea what to expect as your fingers stick to the material thanks to the sweat permeating your body. It takes a few tries, but once you finally get the envelope slipped open, you can’t tell what you’re looking at. The lighting was too awkward, so you dumped the contents out onto the surface of the compartment. You weren’t sure what you were expecting to see; but it certainly wasn’t this. Dozens of flower petals, dried and shrink wrapped in the same fashion as the haunting centerpiece spilled out in front of you. The smooth metal surface sent them all skidding, so it took you a second to get the whole picture. The first one to catch your eye was a white, pointed petal that you could easily identify as jasmine with the same handwritten pair of letters on one corner. YJ. Another protected petal, this one the tell tale purple-blue of a forget me not bore the letters SA. In fact, you could match every single one of these petals to a flower you had been fawning over in the garden since your arrival.

One that had scattered toward the back of the case seemed to compel you even though you couldn’t quite see it. You reached for it blindly, bringing a few, clearly much older flowers forward with it. Sifting through them only struck more and more fear into you. Every instinct you had was telling you to run, scream, pound on a window until you could bust out. Soobin was clearly not all he had claimed to be. But a dark, twisted side of yourself you didn’t know existed wanted to sift through all of the petals and match them up with the garden you’d cared for. Resting at the bottom of the pile in your hand, you finally came across the petal you’d initially reached for.

It was about the size of a penny; red, fading into a simple white at the bottom. This was it. This was the exact petal that you’d spit out onto your bedside table after your first awful migraine. Now that you thought about it, you never did throw it out. You were too disgusted to even face the flora that haunted you.

Your heart stopped. The sharpie on this flower was smudged, as if he had been in too much of a hurry to let it dry. Your initials were there, clear as day. He had collected your flower for his sick collection. He had collected...you.

The little happy world you had built yourself came crashing down like a ton of bricks. If he had done this to you, then surely all of these other petals came from others who had come to work and live with him. You recalled an early discussion about family tradition as you thumbed over a group of much more withered looking flowers.

This was the family tradition.

Alarms blared in your mind. Get out, your mind urged faster than your feet could move. Tripping over yourself, you hoped that Soobin wasn’t home yet, as you had no idea how to get out of the home. Your feet pounded noisily on the hardwood but that was the very least of your worries. Skidding into the kitchen, your blood ran cold.

Soobin.

“Hey,” his voice was smooth, unwavering as he leaned against the sink nursing a bottle of water. On the island there was a brown paper bag with Hank’s logo printed on the front. “There’s your ice cream.”

You didn’t know what to do. Clearly, you had been caught red handed with a tote bag in hand and anxious sweat rolling down your face.

“Oh, uh. Thanks.” The room sat creepily still as Soobin’s eyes, devoid of any clear emotion, roved over you. He quirked an eyebrow as he pushed himself off of the counter. You couldn’t move, even as he stalked closer.

“What happened to you resting? You’re sick.” He had asked a question but it seemed clear we really wasn’t looking for an answer.

“I just-” your words turned into a gasp as Soobin gripped your shoulder so hard that it hurt. Gone were the usually careful caresses of his fingers as he pushed you backwards. With your body already weak it only took one wrong step for you to be sent flying toward the floor. On instinct, you tried to grab onto Soobin’s solid body for support, but he stepped back and watched you fall, bouncing the back of your head off of the floor hard enough to go limp. Consciousness came and went as you struggled to do anything in the name of self defense. Your lungs and heart were too compromised to acquire and pump the nutrients your body needed. Soobin crouched over you, studying you with a passive look on his face.

“Ya know,” he sighed, pulling the tote bag away from your body. “I really did like you. I hoped to have spent some more time with you, but you’re just,” he clicked his tongue, grabbing you firmly by the ankles and giving an experimental tug. You slid along the floor easily. “So. Nosy. Too nosy for your own good.”

“Soobin, you’re not- this isn’t-” a dark chuckle passed between his lips. The ones you once dreamed of.

“You don’t know me. This is exactly who I am, Y/N. This is who my whole family is.” He dropped your ankles harshly, secure in the fact that you were too weak to get up. A shroud of darkness filled your head as you grayed out from the panic. When you awoke again, it was to the sound of birds chirping. It hurt to open your eyes but you did it anyway, spotting Soobin just above you, wielding a shovel.

He smiled down at you, deceivingly handsome, as he stuck the shovel into the pliant ground just to your side. Looking to your left, you spotted a freshly dug shallow grave and your blood ran cold at the recognition that he must have been digging this earlier in the day when you were reading.

“Please, don’t do this.” you begged with the last of your energy. “Soobin, please. I- I love you.” Desperation had you spitting out your deepest secrets in a bid to catch his attention and change his behavior.

“Awe,” he crooned, grabbing onto your wrists with a grip that would certainly bruise your delicate skin. “I know.” One sharp movement had you landing on your back in the dirt, several feet below ground level. The impact pushed all the air out of your compromised lungs and you didn’t even have the semblance to lift your head and scream to anyone listening. Soobin stood above you, blocking the sun from your view as he dropped something onto you. It took you a few moments, but you soon realized he had dropped a handful of red windflower petals and seeds onto your front. You shuddered. This is surely what had happened to all the other people who carried the flowers you’d found. This was how Soobin kept his beautiful garden. Sacrifice.

Wordlessly, he piled shovel fulls of dirt on top of your body. With your eyes slipping shut, all you could do was feel the weight of being buried alive consume you.

----

Soobin hated the winter. It was too long, too cold, too boring. He usually spent the whole time holed up in his home, dreaming of the day the weather warms.

Finally, finally, after months of waiting the time had come. An early summer breeze pushed his hair out of his face. This season he had decided to go for a purple color that seemed to suit his complexion well. Sitting on his favorite deck chair, he gazed out at the beginnings of his blooming garden. All of the usuals had cropped up, but it was with great pride and delight that Soobin regarded the patch of red windflowers that had begun to grow. For their first season, they were going strong, covering almost the entire plot of land he had allowed them. For a while, he had been worried that the new plants wouldn’t perform well, since he’d never dealt with them before. But he was quite proud.

As he sipped from a frosty glass of lemonade, he heard the distant crunch of his driveway gravel. It had been almost a year since the last time he heard it, but his heart jumped in excitement. Stretching his limbs, he began a lazy meander toward the front gate; already making out the slight static of the speaker as someone spoke into it, introducing themselves and asking if they were in the right place. Clearing his throat, he rounds to corner to the great iron gate surrounded by his guarding trees and glances back at his garden. Then he advanced, opening the gate as he came and beckoning his new guest inside the boundaries of his property.

“Hi! I’m Soobin. This house belonged to my great-great-uncle and his wife. Well, wives.”

tag list: @unlocktxt @magicisland9-34 @givethnofucketh @yeonjjuniverse

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adelindschade · 4 years ago

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Inspired by THIS scene and how much Cece & Schmidt (New Girl) remind of Anthony & Kate in a modern sense (waggles fingers to Bridgerton & Sons AU plotted and published for all to cherish by @newtonsheffield)

I just had to write. How else is a girl to celebrate her two days off?? Enjoy the shenanigans. Script was slightly tweaked. 1,930 word count!

A STIFF SITUATION (KATE X ANTHONY EDITION)

He wished he had opened his eyes when Anthony heard the very sharp click of the door handle turn. He would’ve anticipated who if he only spied sooner the figure crossing the panel of glass. Unfortunately, he prided his lids open too late, and he went rigid with the worst kind of anxiety.

Don’t be his brother. Don’t be his brother.

A fitted jogger suit came into view. Slimming. Stunning.

A curtain of hair wisped from shoulder to shoulder – long and dark and tied up into a ponytail, like a perfect waterfall.

Thank God.

Kate.

“Oh my God!”

He couldn’t help himself. It was a guttural reaction.

The groan was much louder than he anticipated, prompting her to pause under the arch with the most perplexed expression.

It was kind of cute, especially when no words came out of her mouth despite it being ajar.

“Are you serious right now?” He exasperated.

She blinked.

He continued before she could interject, more so to acquit himself than anything.

“How is it you still look this good under fluorescent lights?”

“I’m so, so sorry,” she began to pour out, a mix of panic and remorse. It didn’t suit her, he thought with furrowed brows. That wasn’t his Kate.

She had all but pushed the rolling divider that separated them to the wall in her haste to meet his side. “This is all my fault!”

Just as she took in his bedridden form cloaked with an unbecoming hospital gown, her big brown eyes descended to the cast of shame. The brazen baby blue ice pack atop it was another insult. He tried to suppress a wince as she herself paused mid-sentence.

“I thought-” she had just begun before her eyes settled. Her face contorted into heavy confusion. “What happened?” She asked, more sternly than before.

“Yeah,” he stammered, unable to form words. He had yet to master a reply despite having all morning to formulate something. He swallowed but it sounded by a grunt. “Um,” he prolonged, “here’s the thing… Um, this is embarrassing…”

The words were evading him and looking up at her inquisitive expression did little to help. God, how was it she looked this good, this cute, and also simultaneously this gorgeous all at once after jogging in summer heat?

He tried to talk with his hands, palm out but even then, his message fell flat. She was not impressed and hiked a brow. His lips were reluctantly to take over.

“I broke my penis.”

Really, the placement of the cast should have implied as much.

Honestly, the woman was designed to torture him. Both physical and mentally. First, she broke it, and now she was making him voice it aloud. He felt humiliated. And also, oddly beguiled. It should be a badge of honor for someone to ride a dick so hard for it to break.

And she hadn’t even been there to witness the aftermath.

He thought it was a mere cramp. They took a break. She didn’t press the matter further. They slept it off. She left the bed early for her ritual morning jog – how the woman had energy left was beyond his comprehension. The moment he rose, as did his dick, he felt the agony that came �� no pun intended – and no sooner did it begin, he foolishly called Benedict to assist him to the nearest hospital since he didn’t want Kate to see him in such disarray.

“You… what…?”

Dear God, she was going to make him repeat it! As if neither believed it in the first place.

“I broke my penis,” he stated more clearly, agitated with the whole fiasco. Why was he placating her part in this? He wasn’t the one that purposely bent it at an unnatural angle!

“Things were just out of control last night,” he explained – even though she was there! Her memory was just as fresh as his! He shouldn’t be the one doing the talking!

“And there was like, this one moment, where it was just…” he rambled both in words and ambiguous hands signs, “I woke up this morning with blinding pain; another moment I was watching myself, remembering last night. I think I finally understand what the tree of life is about.”

She was huffing, looking up and around, just as finished with the situation as he was. That was the Kate he knew – the sarcastic, expressive, and glowing woman he knew and loved. It was an art she could still look so radiant under just unflattering light and miffed with frustration.

“I can’t be certain of this but I’m almost positive your vagina contains a right angle,” he dared to speak into existence, looking at her dead in the eyes.

Anthony was not above Vagina-Blaming.

“I’m leaving,” she declared with a glare. Her arms crossed – damn her – unintentionally lifting the national treasures he considered her breasts. “I can’t believe I came-”

He was speaking over her in protest.

She was leaving. Her back was to him.

“How are you upset right now?”

God – he knew he was in for it given the velocity of her ponytail when it swung back to the other shoulder. Her eyes bore into his, lips curled into a scowl.

“Kate, you did this! What do you want from me?

“I didn’t think this would happen! I don’t want this to be a thing…” she waved between them. He nearly lurched forward; brow raised in disbelief as a swell of reactionary rage began to bubble.

Only, he realized, while Kate’s eyes were on him, she kept gesturing to his castor-padded shaft. She deflated and her voice softened uncharacteristically. “Because” she exhaled, “I like you. A lot. ”

Her head shook, distracted by the tacky tile pattern underneath them. She was comprehending her own words. A betraying smile fixed itself onto her lovely features, however brief it may have been. He saw it – it was there – even if she masked it with a stern line no sooner did it appear. “I can’t just always say what I feel…. It’s just, whatever, Anthony.”

She hid her expressive eyes by looking sideways, purposely avoiding the connection between them. Her words were weak and her posture anxious, shifting from one foot to the another. Always moving, he thought fondly. His Kate was never one to stay still.

“You like me,” he repeated with an unapologetic grin. She loved him. Her loved her. They both knew it. Yet, neither were willing to speak it first. Fortunately, both were happy to set such a slight aside, knowing the truth between them, no matter if silent.

Was it he who made the first move? Likely. Or Kate – she was spontaneous like that.

Either way, he wasn’t complaining when their lips met and skipped passed the gentle delicacies that usually came after a quarrel. Mouth open and tongues in happy collusion, Anthony was quite pleased to revisit where they had last left.

Her hair was just as perfect and silky as he remembered when it wrapped it around his hand and pulled her deeper into their . Her hand on his chest for purchase, striking an electric sensation within him.

A crack disrupted the ambience of the lover’s reunion. A loud, unsettling stiff crack and then the jolting, sharp pain that followed within seconds. Blinding, burning, terrible pain!

He hadn’t even registered how hard her pushed her away but he registered the volume of their combined shouts as he jolted upwards, rigid as humanly possible. His eyes squeezed shut, still processing the intense discomfort that was as sharp as the first.

The pained whine that escaped his throat was too embarrassing for him to admit. Thank the Heaven’s she was the only one to bear witness to such an emasculate scene. She was nearly as rigid as he, coiled defensively in surprise when she took him in.

His voice cracked in between the segment of uncharacteristically high-pitched agony, verifying his worst reality.

His hand slapped the uncomfortable hospital bed in protest simultaneously as she apprehensively poached the question “what happened?”

It was his turn to look away, averting his face to the uninhabited side of the room, and his eyes remained squeezed shut for dear life. His knees were arched and his hands curled into the plastic sheets beneath him.

“Oh my God, why?” he protested, regaining some edge in his voice.

Her hands were up in the air as if surrendering. Her eyes scanned over his form, unsure of what to do next.

“Oh!” he fumbled. His hand jetted out and then returned to his hair, combing his back while his body arched instinctively. The pain reverberated and all he could muster was wide, panicked eyes and mouth agape, hoping no more unsettling sounds flushed out.

“Uh…” she chewed over, “what…?”

Her hands crossed and then one rose to her lips for her to anxiously bite at an immaculately polished nail. Then another until both hands concealed her mouth but her eyes were vivid with shock and worry.

“Oh my God, my penis is having a heart attack,” he grumbled back. His hand propelled outwards, halting her from coming closer. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! You got to get out of here!”

“Alright,” she fluttered about, slow to turn back around. Both of her hands reciprocated the gesture, as if to hold herself at bay until her feet could shuffle the other direction. Purse – where’s her purse? Big, black purse – can’t miss it– ah! There!

He wasn’t sure what words he was trying to verbalize. It was all a stuttered mess until she began to bend down to grab her oversized bag near the door.

Then his reaction was visceral.

“Don’t bend over!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin and looked at him, aghast.

“For crying out loud,” he lamented, averting his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you nuts?” He tried his best to blink the image away. Her pert little ass – not really, not little – ugh, forget it! But he couldn’t!

Thankfully, her hefty purse consumed the upper half of her body, concealing her blessed breasts.

“I’m sorry,” he cracked apologetically. His eyes were pleading. “It’s the yoga pants!”

She was awkwardly shifting from the room to the hallway, weaving in and out as she scrambled to retreat.

“I’m sorry for this,” she rushed out the words until her entire body was outside his room. Still, her head poked through, and then pass by the glass where her words were still quite clear. “I like you!” she tried to end on a good note, offering a smile through the pane.

“I like you, too, so much,” he assured, however gravel and pain he sounded. She was still peeking through the glass, optimistic and glowing and loving…

“Call a nurse!” he pleaded aloud, leaning outwards to project his voice. “A male nurse! Probably a heavy-set male nurse would be nice!”

She was contorting her body awkwardly to muster a wave, not quite ready to depart. The bag was still in her arms, obstructing her chest. God Bless her. He never thought he’d say such a thing regarding her heavenly bosom but now was not the time.

“Bye,” her muffled voice sang sweetly from afar.

He was lurching more outwardly now, to the point of yelling.

“Describe it to them as like uh… as uh…battered highway cone!” He pushed out hurriedly once she was out of frame.

He leaned back, eyes squeezed and body tight. He winced multiple times in a row. He uttered another unbecoming groan, flinching as he verbalized just sounds of peak discomfort.

#this scene was peak comedy #I had to write my take on it #kathony #kanthony #Bridgerton and sons #modern bridgerton #Bridgerton au #THERE ARE SO MANY TAGS TO ACCOUNT FOR #Kate sheffield #Kate sharma #btw cece is perfect representation of peak Kate energy #Anthony bridgerton #drabble #mine #fanfiction

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writtenonreceipts · 4 years ago

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So, this is the last planned chapter I have for runaways. Unless someone sends in a prompt or something...But in any case I appreciated all the support y’all gave me for this one. It meant a lot. I never really thought I would ever post it...anyways enjoy!

TW: none...? I think this chapter actually constitutes as having fluff which is a very rare occurrence for me and my angst ridden mind...

where aelin discovers that home is found. Based on characters from SJMass’ Throne of Glass series. Previous link/parts found here.

lost and found

The sunflowers are well over six feet tall. They stand as proud sentinels beside the whitewashed porch. In the setting sun, their faces begin to droop, the yellow petals sagging more and more into the shadows. Until now, Aelin has never considered how strange these plants are. Never considered how they tower over everything so plainly.

Aelin stares at them. She is them. She is a shadow slinking down and out. Away from everything. It is easy to understand why the flowers droop when the sun isn’t present. It’s hard enough to exist when it is. How strange though--that visceral reaction. Even at this distance she can see the flowers bowing their heads as if drifting off to sleep. One by one.

“Hey,” Rowan’s face is soft, his hand warm as he grips her fingers. “It’s going to be alright, okay?”

She can only nod because as she’s beginning to speak the door to the house flies open and a girl comes barreling out.

She is barely ten years old and is laughing. She is barely ten years old and there is not a care on her face. She is barely ten years old and she is free. Her brown hair burns red in the summer sun and it whips about her face as she dances through the front yard. A white cat comes streaking out after her and darts beneath the porch. Someone stands in the shadows of the doorway, but Aelin doesn’t focus on them. She only sees the girl.

Evangeline.

Sweet, innocent, Evangeline.

Aelin can only stare and think of how Lysandra could have gotten the girl away from Arobyn and Clarisse. She can only stare and think of what the two must have gone through in the past few years. When she left. When she was gone.

Aelin’s heart begins to pick up and her breath hitches. But just as soon as it starts she pushes it down and throws open the car door.

As she rounds the front of the car, Rowan is getting out of his side, but he waits, leaning against the door--watching.

Aelin barely makes it to the edge of the grass when Evangeline notices her and waves a bright cheerful hand.

“Hello!” the girl calls, not really recognizing Aelin. But that’s fine. She doesn’t want to be known for what she was after all.

“Hi,” Aelin shouts back. She’s about to ask if Lysandra is available but Evangaline is already running to the porch.

“Mom!” the girl yells. “Someone’s here!”

Evangenline turns back to Aelin, eyes sparkling as a giggle escapes her lips. “She’s not really my mom, but I like calling her that.”

Something seems to burst in Aelin’s chest at that and new tears start to race down her cheeks. And then the form returns to the doorway and a young woman--the same age as Aelin--steps out.

Her brown hair is in a top knot with wisps falling around her face. She’s beautiful, no denying that, but Aelin realizes it’s not just her elegant features or the rich brown hair that make her so. Rather it’s the smile she’s casting over her shoulder as she comes out onto the porch, barefoot. She’s wearing leggings and a tank top.

Aelin steps a bit closer, almost against her will. She’s nearly halfway to the porch when she stops, cursing herself. She’d left. She’s left in the dark of the night. No note. Nothing. She’d left running from everything. Everyone. And standing before her was one of those people left behind.

She’s running a hand through her hair trying to think of something to say, someway to explain.

“Aelin?” Lysandra asks. Her voice cracks into dust. “Aelin?”

“I’m,” Aelin begins. She means to say something profound. She means to apologize. She means to do something other than cry. Because she doesn’t cry. She hates it. But now staring at her best friend, Aelin goes against everything she knows. “Lysanda--I’m--”

But the other woman is already running towards Aelin and yanking her into an impossibly tight hug. Aelin swears she can’t breathe. And right now, it doesn’t matter.

“You bitch,” Lysandra says. She pulls back and glares at Aelin. They’re about the same height but for some reason Aelin feels so small next to Lysandra. “You ever loving bitch.”

“Well screw you,” Aelin retorts. She doesn’t miss a beat as she stares at the brunette.

Lysandra throws a punch into Aelin’s shoulder, hard. And the two stand there. The sun is setting around them as Evangeline watches hesitantly and several footsteps are echoing in the house. They stand in the shadows of the sunflowers and Aelin begins to wish she’d never gotten in the car, that she’d never called Rowan, that she’d never left. Either time.

“Dammit,” Lysandra whispers and then she’s throwing her arms back around Aelin and pulls her just as close as before. “You scared me, Aelin. You scared me so bad.”

Aelin ropes her arms around her friend and holds on. “I know.”

She’s not sure how long they stand there, but Aelin grows slowly aware of the other person standing on the porch. He’s tall and broad shouldered with blond hair hanging just to his shoulders. His bright eyes are near mirror images of Aelin’s own.

The sight of him is enough to keep Aelin rooted to the spot. Because even though it has been nearly ten years since she has seen him, there is no mistaking her cousin.

“You look like hell cousin,” Aedion says after a moment. He’s leaning against the porch railing trying to look bored. But Aelin can see the smile quirking on his mouth.

“Bite me Ashryver,” Aelin snaps back.

And then they’re laughing so hard that Aelin nearly knocks Lysandra over. She’s full of tears and giggles as Aedion embraces her saying that he knew all along she was going to be alright. That everything was going to be alright.

“Aelin, when were you going to tell me you had a male model with you?” Lysandra hisses after Aelin and Aedion have finally gotten control over themselves.

Looking up, Aelin sees that Rowan has begun to kick a soccer ball around with Evangeline, letting her score on him while simultaneously giving her tips on how to dribble the ball more effectively. Aelin realizes she never knew Rowan could play sports.

“He’s my friend,” she says after a minute. She wipes a hand beneath her eyes and watches Evangeline sneak a goal past Rowan. “You got her out, Lys.”

“We got each other out,” Lysandra says and leans her head against Aelin’s shoulder.

“I got shipped off to the border of Orynth not long after Arobyn reported me,” Aedion says. He had tried one too many times to run away. To cause problems.

They’re seated around the kitchen table. A hastily made chocolate cake is left, half eaten. It’s the most delicious thing Aelin has ever eaten and she has to force herself not to eat the entire thing. Especially when reminded of the day Aedion left.

She hadn’t even gotten the chance to really say good-bye. Neither Arobyn nor Clarisse had told them that Aedion was leaving to a new foster home. And Aelin had never really tried to find him. She has to remind herself that the one time she did Arobyn forced her to sleep outside in the old maple tree with nothing but a chain on her ankle and moth eaten blanket.

Of course it doesn’t help when Aelin learns that Aedion had been just as abused as she and Lysandra had been.

“And then you got recruited into the war,” Lysandra says quietly.

Aedion reaches a hand over to hers in such a tender gesture that Aelin feels her heart clench. It is nothing short of a miracle that they found each other. That they can be happy.

In the silence, Aelin hopes that will be it. She hopes someone will make the comment that she should eat the rest of the cake. That laughs will be exchanged. And she finds herself shifting in her chair, moving closer to Rowan who has been quiet most of the night. But he has one arm resting over the back of her chair so it’s almost alright.

“You left the hospital without telling me,” Lysandra says.

And just like that the silence is shattered and Aelin feels herself stiffen. Old memories come crawling back behind her eyes and she can’t escape them. Just as she feels her heart quicken, Rowan’s hand is on her shoulder, his fingers running in smooth circles over her skin.

She is safe. She is fine.

But still, Aelin feels tears come to her eyes. She feels herself slipping just a little bit.

“I had to get out,” she whispers. Aelin runs her fingers over the scars on her knuckles as Rowan traces the scars on her back. It’s something he’s never done before, but in that moment it’s the most soothing thing she can think of. “I couldn’t...not after everything. Hell, Lys. I’m so sorry.”

Lysandra shakes her head gently. “No,” she says, “no, Aelin. You did what you had to do.”

Except she’d left her best friend there. She’d left her best friend in a hellhole of misery.

“I ran away,” Aelin says. She looks between Lysandra and Aedion, not quite able to read their expressions, but she presses on. “I ran away from everything.”

She feels Rowan's fingers tighten on her shoulder and his presence wraps around her. Even when she feels like she’s losing control, here he is.

Lysandra leans across the table toward her, her expression painfully soft in a way that Aelin does not deserve.

“But you made it back,” her friend says. “Just like I knew you would.”

“We’re allowed to get lost sometimes, Fireheart,” Rowan says. It’s the first thing he’s spoken in a while and just the sound of his voice lets Aelin take a full breath. Just the touch of his fingers on her skin is enough for her to relax.

And she knows that here--here she is safe.

It’s hours later. Years later.

Sometime later.

The moon is out on a clear summer night and Aelin can hear crickets in the distance. She can smell the sweet tang of summer on the air mingling with the soft decay of freshly mowed grass. And she can almost begin to say she feels like she’s home.

There’s a spare room she’s supposed to be sleeping in, but Aelin can’t. Even after everyone else has finally, finally turned in for the evening, Aelin is sitting on the porch staring up into the canvas sky.

There are too many stars. It’s a miracle she can see them all being this close to the city. But there they are. Pinpricks of light. How can they just sit up there like nothing?

She almost doesn’t notice when Rowan joins her. There’s a creak in the wood just outside the door and that’s the only warning she gets until a blanket settles around her shoulders. She glances up with a soft smile.

“Thanks,” she says.

She doesn’t know what else to say. She never thought she’d be here. That they’d be here. She’d never thought enough about what came after the drive and the tears and everything else. She wishes she had because this is painful. It’s too painful to think about after. So she doesn’t.

“Don’t you think it’s strange,” she says, “the constellations are almost all the same as they are in Wendlyn? We drove for over twenty hours and I can still see Casseopeia and the Bear and Orion’s Belt.”

He says nothing. Aelin keeps talking.

“I suppose it’s good to be like that. I don’t know what I would do if I looked up and suddenly everything was different,” she says. “It’s almost comforting, the way it remains. Because I--I’ve never been good with change. Sometimes it’s easier not to.”

She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t think she can. Not when her heart is aching and her blood has gone so cold.

It’s strange, feeling like this. Because she knows she loves him. And he’s said he loves her. But believing it...believing him...it’s embarrassing how hard it is to trust that. To know that.

Aelin looks straight at the soccer ball Evangeline left lying in the grass. The moon and stars reflect off of the plastic. In the distance a dog barks and a car backfires. When her hands begin to shake, Aelin fists them in the edges of the blanket.

When Rowan speaks, the deep timber of his voice reverberates through Aelin and she finds herself relaxing, automatically leaning her shoulder against his.

“I never thought I wanted to change,” he begins, “never really wanted to. Even after everything that happened with my dad, with Lyria. I said I’d let life wash over me and take it. But if there’s anything I’ve learned, Fireheart, anything that you’ve taught me--it’s that no matter what we can change. And hell, you’ve made me better for it. You’ve always made me better.”

His words are soft and careful. There is so much he leaves unsaid, but Aelin hears it. She feels it. Once again she’s crying. But these tears are silent and slow. The kind that comes when her heart is too full and words are never enough.

She’s about to wipe the tears away when Rowan reaches out and snatches her hand with one of his, the other comes up to cup her chin and gently he runs his thumb over her tears.

They’re so close now and Aelin can hardly look away from him. Even though they’re both still shadowed by the night and she can’t peer into his eyes like she so desperately wants to. Yet, it’s enough. The still darkness and the sounds of their careful breaths.

Aelin knows she’s the one who moves first. And she is not ashamed of it.

It only takes the tilt of her head and a small push forward and she is kissing him. Maybe she should be embarrassed by her tear stained cheeks. By the fact she was too lazy to shower even when Lysandra offered it. There are a million other things that she could be, should be, embarrassed about. And they all fly away.

Unlike the rest of him, his mouth is soft and gentle. It’s such an agonizing contrast, that Aelin nearly gasps. She melts against him just a little bit more, both amazed and proud of herself for resisting this as long as she had.

Because unlike that first hasty kissed shared in her dingy apartment, this one has no regrets.

Rowan moves against her in that way he does--controlled and utterly strong. His mouth slants against hers and Aelin drags herself closer to him. It’s hot and slow, gentle and desperate. So many things are running through Aelin’s mind but she doesn’t take the time to consider them.

Instead she considers the man before her. She considers everything she has become because of him. With him.

And it is enough.

end.

Hopefully this makes up for the angst of last time hahaha.

Thanks again for the support and kind words. My ask box is always open. I do have some other ideas in the works...

tags: @tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire @aelinchocolatelover@cicadabones

#rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #throne of glass #queen of shadows #kingdom of ash #modern au #the fanfic no one asked for #the fanfic no one asked for continues

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redantsunderneath · 4 years ago

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On Analysis - Introduction (the “why” part)

“He had the feeling that everything he saw was a broken-off piece of some giant blank thing that he had forgotten had happened to him.” ― Flannery O'Connor, Wise Blood

Maybe some broader personal context would help understating why in god’s name I write shit about how Age of Ultron is a remake of Eraserhead and Marvel crossovers are inherently about self hating creatives going to war with editorial. Like everyone else, I love a well told story but want to be surprised - seeing Star Wars is still the single biggest event in my life in supercharging my interest in narrative art. But from early on, I had this left brain/right brain conflict going on. I was super interested in details and loved anything that required getting all the pieces to understand (that one episode of Speed Racer where they explain all the buttons I only saw once but I must have excitedly told everyone in the schoolyard about it 2 or 3 times) and I’ve always been down for the even the shittiest world-building that makes you dig for details (maybe this why Star Wars’ gesturing at a larger canvas lit my fuse so hard and how my introduction to Marvel comics became the second stage rocket booster 3 years later - see my retropseudonostalgia post). This also is probably common, especially here.

But it’s the right brain impulse became an overriding unconscious attractor. I saw The Man with the X-Ray eyes very young and had some serious nightmares, but mostly remember actually wanting to recapture that dread. This became a pattern. Anything that unsettled me or made me feel weird, my brain interpreted as a good experience. 1977 was a real flashpoint for me: Star Wars, sure, and 8 is the right age for Thanatos to start haunting you, but I also got super fucking sucked in to the Prisoner and imprinted on BBC’s Dracula (especially the baby eating scene where I remembered the brides actually eating the baby on camera until the clip showed up on YouTube and, turns out, it was just a cut to a flame effect and the baby eating was all in my and Q anon’s head). The thing that unites these later two is a the feeling of Unheimliche, or something - a sort of out of body experience due to transgressive touching of something in the reptile brain, recognizable but hard to formulate in language.

Again, not saying this is an unusual experience, but I sought after this diencephalonic impact aggressively and spent years chasing this particular dragon before I figured out what I was doing. Rank and file horror didn’t cut it because I wanted not only to feel it but to understand what it was telling me and doing to me, to wrestle with it, so needed to something resonant to be there. Kubrick’s one neat trick was having an entirely rational approach to relentlessly assembling this kind of ineffable experience… depth of meaning by design. I think Christopher Nolan is only popular because we have so few architect directors today so we’ll take a B- stab at it (though the thematic waters he sails on are a bit shallow). This is what I was doing receptively, wanting to cognitively reverse engineer the texts that moved me and autopsy my reaction . There were elements the things that got to me had in common - there was an existential abjection that felt like a kind of rapture, a transgressive daring in showing me something I shouldn’t see, a experience of Mark Fisher’s version of the weird and/or the eerie, but most of all a feeling that there was a story underneath there being told in an abstract language that I innately understood but my conscious mind couldn’t quite get to.

On the other side of my brain, I was sparring with narrative structure and was captivated by the way periodical narrative produced this fuzziness and that trashy or disreputable forms were better at doing some really complex things. After a late 70s of consuming everything I could, like sitcoms no-one remembers, 1930s and 40s franchise B movies, Godzilla, ABC hourlongs (it was the time that Fantasy Island and the Bionic Woman strode the airwaves), etc - just absolute garbage - Comics hit me in 1980 and hijacked my brain for half a decade. This mostly satisfied that architectural impulse, though, and the need for the uncanny reasserted itself as a shifting obsession to pop/rock music, “hard” books, and catholic moviegoing (and I guess some of that right brain stuff is intrinsically libidinous and the pubertal timing seems right).

My childhood book consumption till 77 was all atlases, history, and encyclopedias. 77 to 83 it was SF/Fantasy. The one work of fiction I strongly remember as a small child was There’s a Monster at the End of this Book which is a work of absolute intersubjective terror that implicates the crap out you - I never bought the ending and saw it as a necessary contrivance to make it OK for kids but I repeatedly endangered Grover anyway, enjoying the transporting dread, and learned meta in Kindergarten as a bonus! But in 1984 (during the Sarajevo Olympics, that’s etched in my brain) I read Moby Dick, which was my first formative struggle with understanding subliminal story. I was already in love with symbolism and conversant with nuts and bolts MFA program bullshit, as any ironically pretentious HS student would be, but reading that and writing about it and other “tough” books (especially the next year in Junior English where I learned to write, full stop) taught me I could think about this stuff and hold these abstractions in my head long enough to see what was happening under the waterline.

Movies really dominated the late 80s, though, and I became obsessed with everything from the Godfather to Die Hard, but I was only just peaking under the hood, until the left brain brought me back to TV and and thinking about narrative structure. Twin peaks (and Wild at Heart) made me a real Lynch fan and I sensed what I sought was in that direction, but it wasn’t until I watched the whole show and movie in one weekend in 1997 that I had my conversion experience. Moby Dick opened the door a bit, but that weekend kicked it in. My first real resource for understanding (other than HS English, a couple of hits of acid, and dorm room bull sessions with sort of smart people) was alt.tv.twin-peaks where there were many amateur scholars trying to understand the red room and above the convenience store scenes, complete with ascii maps.

The final inciting event was Inland Empire. The thing about David Lynch that is so perfect for my hobbyhorses is that he works within a scene entirely intuitively, connecting to really primordial stuff, and puts everything together by “painting” with feelings instead of paint, never thinking about it, just knowing when it’s right. But he usually works with a writer and editor who helps shape everything into something at least fitfully comprehensible for someone wanting to follow the surface story. You get the general idea and can meditate on the areas that are clearly not “real” in some sense and require either aesthetic surrender or a lot of thought and one hell of an interpretive toolkit - you can see the frame even if you don’t understand every bit of the picture. Inland Empire, which he made with no other behind the camera people, is pretty much all the mind-blowing bits with very little skeleton, an abstract painting with no frame. This forces you, if you want to understand in any way beyond just enjoying the moments viscerally, to effort like hell. The project of this for me, the reason I started this Tumblr, was using the internet for procuring and learning to use interpretive tools and, in so doing, writing my way to constructing an understanding of this one movie. As a result, my approach to all narrative art was changed. I figure it is time to unpack this into a framework and try to recall the specific things that helped me get here.

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ruensroad · 5 years ago

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14.“I-I miss your arms around me as I slept, I know it’s embarrassing but you made me feel safe.” for Nie Huaisang / Mo Xuanyu.

Putting this in the Big Cat AU because it fit so well! Hope that’s alright :D

Prompt from this list here!

Prompt 14 | “I-I miss your arms around me as I slept, I know it’s embarrassing but you made me feel safe.” | Sangyu

He’d been wooed with flowers. Standing here, now, at the end of courtship and on the start of his new, married life, Nie Huaisang still wondered why that had mattered so much, in the end.

For their kind - and the Nie in particular - courtship was an extensive show of bringing down kills to present, or rolls of hides as gifts. It was about showcasing one’s mastery of the hunt and ability to provide for their prospective mate. Centuries of tradition, never broken, and even Nie Huaisang, for all his distaste of the rituals, could not deny it was how things were done, and had expected whoever wished to court him would follow that perimeter.

Mo Xuanyu had not. He’d brought him roses, lilies, chrysanthemums. He’d brought him plant bulbs and seeds for his gardens. Potted peonies for his rooms. A hanging basket of daisies happily flourishing in his aviary.

It should not have worked, all things considered, not to a Nie. But it had, because those flowers, against so much expectation, had showed more thought and care than a simple kill ever could. It’d spoken to his heart, a gentle reminder that someone cared, thought him worth courting, all without wishing for an answer in return.

When the Mo family had forced Mo Xuanyu to stop, Nie Huaisang had felt the absence of those flowers like one would miss a limb. He couldn’t explain why, even now, such a visceral reaction, but he had, and the rage that had carried him to Madam Mo’s parlor to demand Mo Xuanyu returned from his punishment still simmered on the memory.

He’d won Mo Xuanyu’s freedom by laying claim to him as a mate, a claim happily answered in that charged moment of time. Flushed with victory, Huaisang hadn’t thought more of it, what it truly meant to take this abused man under his care as his mate, but now it was all he could think about, how unprepared he was with another presence in his life, another plate at his table, another warmth in his bed.

His cheeks heated, thinking of that, and the depth of embarrassing despair he felt when he realized that he, for once, had no idea what he was doing. Tradition dictated Mo Xuanyu’s place under his blankets, sharing his rooms and space, and Nie Huaisang could not argue how well he fit. A surprise, as he’d always been, but still a fit.

And that was the problem. Why he was losing sleep, thinking too much on it. Why he wished and wished for more, but did not know how to breach Mo Xuanyu’s very real need to heal on his own. How much was too much? How could he know?

The smell of soft cedar and chrysanthemum eased past his crowded mind, long before he heard the still mismatched limp and soft hands touching his shoulders. He forced himself to breathe in that sweet, heady smell and not dwell on the injury, which stirred up that rage so easily, even three weeks after the fact.

“Huaisang?” Mo Xuanyu sounded half asleep and far too worried. “Is something wrong?”

He wanted to kick himself when he turned and saw the very real fear in his husband’s dark eyes. Foolish to be angry when his own actions caused just as much pain, if of a different sort. Even if he hadn’t used his other form to shred Mo Xuanyu’s hide, or nearly break his hip, he was hurting him just the same, and he hated that his brain, for all its cleverness, was so slow to realize it.

Nie Huaisang quickly took his hands and squeezed them softly, smiling as sweetly as he could, and was relieved when Mo Xuanyu’s body slowly relaxed. “My mind is too busy to sleep, I fear,” he chuckled, because it was true enough, and looked over Mo Xuanyu with a far more critical eye. “Why are you awake? Are your injuries painful?”

The soft blush that spread over his husband’s face was endearing, if startling, to see. “Ah… no, I am well. You have been gone so long, I just worried...”

He trailed off awkwardly, obviously cutting off what remained of that thought. Nie Huaisang didn’t have to wonder very hard at what it was possibly what he wanted to say. Worried he had gotten tired of Mo Xuanyu already, was displeased? That fear was still deepening his eyes to open wells of pain and Nie Huaisang leaned down to kiss his hands and nuzzle into his wrists, hoping to wipe away that fear with surprise.

It worked, for the most part. “My mind doesn’t like to be quiet,” he smiled up at his husband, feeling his heart squeeze in his chest. “Sorry for worrying you. I’ll return to bed soon.”

Mo Xuanyu relaxed further, but did not look fully relieved. He bit his lip, uncertain, and took a steadying breath that Nie Huaisang could see.

“May I stay with you then, until you are ready to return?” It came out in a breathless rush, an anxious slew that spoke far too easily of his expectation of rejection.

Nie Huaisang blinked at him, surprised, but nodded all the same. “Aren’t you tired?” he asked, watching Mo Xuanyu fold himself awkwardly next to him. His hip was still badly bruised, making kneeling a painful affair, and Nie Huaisang had to wonder how this was better, sitting here in silence, than sleeping in a soft bed, and he softly told him as such, worried himself.

He got another blush, blotchy as it was, and shy eyes that refused to look at him. “I… it’s just…” Another worry to his lip, then a sigh of defeat. “When you sleep with me, when I’m in your arms… I feel… safe.”

And I’m not there, Huaisang’s mind unhelpfully tacked on, making him swallow as his own cheeks heated. “Forgive me then. Had I known, I would not have left.”

“I’m not that fragile,” Mo Xuanyu told him, a hint of that strength he had that had been buried so long in his words. Slowly, he met Huaisang’s eye and nodded once. “It’s true, Huaisang, that I still expect to wake up and find this all a dream. Seeing you gone was just a shock, is all.”

“I’ll wake you the next time,” Huaisang promised, wishing it wasn’t a regular occurrence, being up so late. He took Mo Xuanyu’s hands in his own once more and squeezed them pointedly. “So you never have to feel unsafe again.”

A soft smile spread across his husband’s face at that, and finally, finally, a true relief was there in his eyes, hesitant, but willing to trust. “Thank you.”

#ruenwrites #sangyu #big cat au #nie huaisang #mo xuanyu #writing prompts

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swishandflickwit · 4 years ago

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my weary heart has come to rest in yours (i found my way home) — 1/1

Summary: "I don't get it," Katara purses her lips, befuddlement clear in the furrow of her brows as she turns to him. "You'd think the Fire Nation would know such an important detail about their own prince."

The Gaang wonders why the Fire Nation doesn't seem to know much about Zuko, like maybe where his scar should be? It opens up a lot of questions that they want answered. Zuko, on the other hand, just wants to sleep.

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 5.7k

Warnings: unbeta’d, zuko-centric, post-ember island players, pre-sozin's comet, zuko gets a hug (as he deserves), non-canon compliant (more like canon adjacent lol), ember island

AN: working title: obligatory the gaang finds out about zuko's scar fic // alt title: a pocket of happiness for my children

title from: Ride Home by Ben&Ben

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

The atmosphere amongst the occupants of the beach house is sullen and cross following their night out in the theater.

It isn’t lost on them that the edifice they have come to know as their solace belongs to the very monster man who brought upon their 'deaths'. The certainty that it had all been a fictionalized retelling was not enough to temper even the echo of the crowd’s rabid enthusiasm as they cheered the demise of the Avatar and his friends, nor erase the visceral image of the thespian Fire Lord standing before his adoring subjects—triumphant in his accomplishment of world domination.

They step through the threshold of the tyrant’s once home. The air grows thicker in acerbity.

Zuko wants to snark at them, I told you they’d butcher it. If he had been the person he was even a month ago perhaps he would have, but the words wither in his throat. The scene of him engulfed in Azula’s flames, however fake or fantasized, sears across his mind on relentless repeat so that it is more selfish entreaty than consideration that has him abstaining from permeating the burdensome silence with his signature brand of pessimism—realism.

Dinner is an equally stilted affair, the only sound to be heard is the clob of chopsticks against wooden bowls and the crackling of the campfire solemnly harmonizing with the occasional sigh of dejection.

This, however, does not last too long.

He supposes he should have seen it coming. This is the boy who offered his friendship at the slightest show of goodness from him. The Avatar is as buoyant in his movements as his element. Though Zuko has come to learn when it comes to his disposition, it is more alacrity than air that has him flitting from one emotion to another, ensuring he never dallies in his worries for too long.

So when Aang bellows, "That's it!" as he discards his bowl with a careless flick, the remains of his uneaten congee spilling carelessly across the cobblestones of the courtyard, Zuko doesn't so much as blink at his latest antics.

He is more surprised at Sokka's indignant huff seeing as it is the first sound he's made in the past two hours (which is subsequently also the quietest he's ever witnessed the other boy to be in all the time he's known him) since they've arrived.

"I would have eaten that," Sokka mutters irately.

(It is fitting however, that this should be the commentary to break his speechless strike.)

"I mean, what's the big deal? It was just a stupid play!” Aang exclaims emphatically, his voice cracking in his vehemence. “If anything, we should be laughing our butts off—that writer obviously didn't know what he was talking about!"

"Speak for yourself, Twinkletoes," Toph chuckles. "I happened to enjoy my portrayal. It was wrong, sure, but what did you expect from a patchwork of second-hand accounts combined with your regular sprinkling of Fire Nation propaganda? It was dumb, but that was the point. You all know the truth, don't you? Quit being such wet blankets about it already."

After having heard a similar iteration from Toph earlier, Zuko finds no offense from the jibe. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the rest of his companions, save Aang—though even his propensity for optimism appears ready to float away on the next gust of wind.

"At least you were in the play," Suki offers, good-naturedly, if not a bit feebly.

"I think I'd rather just not be in it altogether, if it means I'd have to be depicted like—" Katara shudders before grumbling, as if there truly are no words for that disaster of a parody, "...that."

Zuko wholeheartedly seconds her sentiments.

"Toph's right though!" Aang blusters on, and it all seems rather void but he admires the kid's pluck. "In fact, I think we should all take this opportunity to look back on our adventures—"

Zuko groans. Frankly, he doesn't want to think too much about what it said about him that the Avatar's evasion tactics had relied mostly on improvisation and sheer, dumb luck than calculated military strategy and cunning.

"Or maybe we should just not."

"But Zuko," Aang turns big, round, pleading eyes at him. "Aren't you at least a little curious about what really happened? Not even Toph's heard about half of what we were up to before she joined up with us!"

"You were idiots then, and you're only just a little bit now," Toph snarks. "What else is there to know?"

"Toph," warns Katara just as Sokka sputters, "Hey!"

"It might be good for morale," Suki suggests gently. "I know I could use a pick-me-up."

Zuko gets along with Suki—at least, as well as he is able to get along with anyone. Still, he can't help but shoot her a betrayed glance following her pronouncement. Zuko just wants to sleep, but he should have known better. The minute he starts wanting things is usually the moment they float out of reach.

Suki smiles back unrepentantly, so he sighs in resignation and straps himself down for a long night of reliving his failures (again) and listening to their tales.

"I am a pretty gifted storyteller," Sokka puffs his chest then starts stroking oddly at his face, particularly the area at the sides of his mouth.

Okay? he ponders with a large heaping of confusion.

"That's the spirit, Sokka!" Aang exclaims, but before Sokka can thank him much less get a word in, Aang launches into the story of how the Water Tribe siblings actually found him. Unsurprisingly, it involves less tears—"By which Sokka means no tears!"—and an infuriated Katara and that, he can believe.

Zuko doesn't anticipate being spoken to for the rest of the night. At best, he is a mere purveyor of their communal fire. At worst, an engaged and enthusiastic reaction to the boys' avid narration will be expected of him. And as socially inept as he may be, he has enough tact to refrain from volunteering his side of the events. Even with the amends he's made, he hardly thinks it would encourage rapport to rhapsodize about a time they had been on separate sides at all, no matter how early it had been in their acquaintance. Zuko would (very much) like to retire at some point in the evening without having to worry about suffocating in his sleep.

(He hasn't had that concern for two weeks now, it was practically a new record.)

So imagine his surprise when the focus shifts to him. Toph, much to his mortification, recounts his outburst at being told by a child decked out in derisory Avatar robes (that had to be illegal, right?) that the scar on his 'Prince Zuko costume' was on the wrong side.

"I don't get it," Katara purses her lips, befuddlement clear in the furrow of her brows as she turns to him. "You'd think the Fire Nation would know such an important detail about their own prince."

"Yeah, Sparky." Toph stomps over from the opposite side of their circle to plop down beside him with all the grace of a landslide. "I didn't even know you had a scar until tonight!" She pokes aimlessly at his right cheek. "What gives?"

He stares at her agog before realizing she has no way of deciphering his countenance. So, he responds by addressing Katara's comment instead.

"I don't see why they would," he shrugs. "I'm sure by the time they heard, if they heard about it at all, I had long been banished."

"I'm confused," Aang rubs his head contemplatively. "If you're banished, what's with all the wanted posters? I thought being banished meant you had to stay away, but then they also want to imprison you? You're their prince, it doesn't make sense!"

"Come to think of it," Suki muses, "Why were you banished in the first place?"

"Hold up," Sokka did that thing where he stroked the sides of his face again—seriously, what was up with that?—"I've always wondered, how come you were branded a traitor way before you even joined us? Reading your poster wasn't exactly at the top of our to-do list."

Katara interjects with, "And what were you doing so far out in the South Pole that day we found Aang, anyway?" while Toph reminds him, "Plus, that still doesn't explain why your people don't seem to know anything about you or your scar."

A headache begins forming at his temples from the barrage of questions. He sighs in vexation before regarding Katara.

"Isn't it obvious? What did you think I was doing? I wasn't exactly sailing around for a vacation destination." Then lowly, somberly, at Toph, "And they haven't been my people," he rubs subconsciously at his marred flesh—mind flitting to that war room—always, always there—and to a whole division of loyal soldiers that in the end, he arrogantly assumed he could defend yet ultimately failed to protect. "Not for a long time."

There is silence in the wake of his disclosure, punctuated by the crackle of the tinder as it is disturbed by the gale gusting in from the beach, and an unnameable terseness that fills the air.

"Why—" he's not sure why he whispers, but it feels appropriate given their stricken expressions. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

Suki ultimately is the one to brave breaking the taut stillness, staring at him with purpose.

"Zuko, when—who—" she stutters with what he speculates is an uncharacteristic timidity. That is until she gathers herself with a deep breath, the query crystallizing on her exhalation.

"How did you get your scar?"

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he may have said too much.

"I don't see how it matters," he retorts, hoping the curtness in his delivery puts an end to this inquisition.

But Zuko never did have much luck getting what he wanted.

(No, he broods with a bitterness he wishes he didn't harbor so much, Azula made sure of that.)

"We don't want to upset you—"

"So don't."

Undeterred, Katara finishes in tonalities as soothing as the morning tide, "But it helps to talk about things that might have hurt you."

Around him, the pressure builds. A deadly gas awaiting a fuse.

"Oh, 'it helps,' does it?" he snarls, rage thrumming like wildfire in his veins—igniting his body, and detonating through his next words. "And who exactly does it help, huh? You sure it's my best interests you have at heart? Or—I know! You wanna know my weaknesses, keep the big, bad fire bender on a leash!" He throws his head back, some facsimile of a laugh escaping his lips. "Unless, of course, you're just saying that to satisfy your insatiable need to mother everyone."

Boom.

"Please, I haven't had a mother in years," and he hates it, he hates how it is his voice now that breaks and his body wilts as the violent cloud of his fury dissipates—all the rancorous contention leaking out of him. "I don't need your ridicule or your pity. I've been fine on my own."

And this is the moment he loses everything, he is convinced. Because this is what Zuko does, and what he is best at. His fingers are but sieves from which good things slip. All of him is a razor blade destined to pierce any that would dare come close. He is downfall personified, he is a plague.

This is how it should be, he reasons, cut him now as they would a festering infection.

(As his father, his sister, his mother, would.)

For broken things beget broken things, and they deserve better than to have him bring ruin upon them all.

But then a hand—hands—ground him, keep him rooted, keep him still.

"Well then," Sokka avers, with his special brand of genial but no less poignant solemnity. "It's a good thing we aren't in the business of dishing out pity. Isn't that right, gang?" He clasps his right shoulder, the gesture teeming with meaning though Zuko is the last person to decode it.

"Ridicule, on the other hand…" Toph snickers. Katara sends her an affronted glare before realizing the futility of such an action. She sighs her discontent instead, before returning her attention to him.

"And you're not anymore," Katara says with an earnestness that confounds Zuko to discover is directed at him. "On your own, that is."

"I don't understand," and truly he doesn't. He knows it is not their way to spill blood (barring Katara's commimation during his early days in the Western Air Temple, which was more than fair), but this is the first he's lost his temper in front of them for no valid reason. His choleric speech had their bonfire flaring with every harsh and erratic breath he expelled, sure signs of his waning control. "Aren't you going to kick me out? At least put me in chains!"

Katara's hand joins Sokka's on his opposite side as she approaches him from behind. He has to crane his neck to ascertain her aghast mien. "For what? For being angry? For talking out of turn?"

(It always boils down to this, doesn't it? Agni, why couldn't he ever just keep his mouth shut for once in his miserable life?)

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, because he is and he doesn't know what the right thing to do or say is.

"I know," Katara smiles, but there is something desolate in the curl of her lips. "You always are," she sighs. "I'm sorry, too."

Her thumb brushes back and forth across the nape of his neck and he would have started at the unfamiliar touch if her apology hadn't already caught him off guard. In truth, this entire night has been an anomaly with how quickly they all have made his head spin in the last few minutes alone.

"You're sorry?" he gapes, genuine bafflement coloring his articulation. "Why?"

"For pushing you to talk about what I should have known was a sensitive topic." It's her turn to squeeze his shoulder. "I really am sorry."

"There's nothing to forgive," he stammers, for there honestly isn't. He's still trying to get over the fact he received an apology, let alone that anyone sought a dispension of forgiveness. From him.

"Katara's maternal instincts and overbearing need to talk about one's feelings can be annoying. Believe me, I know."

"Gee. Thanks, Toph," Katara deadpans.

"But she's right," Toph's roughened hands encircle his left forearm. Compared to the siblings, her grip is near painful, as if to dig in her point. "Bottling it up, burying your emotions… it'll only hurt you more."

"But it doesn't hurt," he insists, stubbornly ignoring the waver in his importunity as his palm spans the breadth of his ragged scar. "It doesn't."

"We're not talking about the hurt there," Katara grazes cool fingers from his back to his front, before placing it prostrate and precise. "We're talking about the one here."

Right atop his heart.

"The monks have a saying," Aang has since nestled on his knees in front of Zuko. Without him noticing, their entire circle has gotten closer so that he is at the center—warm bodies surrounding him from all sides, little planets orbiting the sun.

"Holding onto anger is a lot like holding onto hot coals that you mean to throw at someone else. In the end, you're the one who gets burned."

"What do you want from me?" he questions wearily though he knows the answer.

"Nothing," Katara assuages. "Nothing you aren't willing to give."

"And we know you're a fire bender, buddy, but don't you think a fire shared is a village warmed?" Sokka grins encouragingly before sobering. "Maybe you don't want to, but I think you may need this. You've got all this—this—pent-up frustration inside you. I can't believe we never noticed it before, it's practically oozing out of you! Like pus from a boil!"

Zuko grimaces. "Thanks, Sokka."

Unfazed, he goes on. "Don't tell me you've had someone to talk about this with. I can't imagine you and Azula sitting round a campfire having a heart-to-heart."

You'd be surprised, Zuko thinks, if that night of confessions at the beachside counted at all.

"There's still so much we don't know about you," Aang adds. "We just want to understand."

"But, why?" he blurts, frustration mounting again like a forest fire. He is desperate to fathom their persistence, to decipher the motives behind their inexplicably lambent eyes, their magnanimous looks and their delicate tones.

"Because we're your friends, Zuko," Suki murmurs while everyone makes their approval known one way or another. "Sharing burdens is kinda what we do."

Oh, he thinks dumbly, Oh.

"It doesn't make for a pleasant bedtime story," he states with an almost believable clinical detachment, steadfastly ignoring the pounding of his heart at her proclamation of friendship. "And it's heavy. This is a load I wouldn't wish on anyone."

"All the better," Katara chirps, settling with her knees aside behind him, "that there's five of us then, right?"

Perhaps it is the security found amongst the shadows of the eventide that loosens his tongue. Perhaps it is that Zuko is just too exhausted, figuring that the fastest way to reach his bed is to simply not argue. It might even be the contentment that Aang and Sokka's adage brings him, the closest taste of home he's had since his separation from the person whom he now knows, without question, he loves most in this world. Or maybe it is simply time , here, on this island, the ghost of dual timbres wisened with age—and it can help you understand yourselves—ringing in his ears. And so beneath a collective scrutiny of ingrained amity and determined tolerance and encouragement and just… goodness.

He begins his tale.

He speaks until his already hoarse voice grows even hoarser, the words clumsy and stilted on his tongue, unused as he is to telling his story—along with the extensive range of sensations that come with it, and the illimitable memories it incites within him, some sentimental while others he would rather forget altogether.

He speaks of a mother's love lending him both strength and weakness, of how it should have been enough yet still could never outweigh his longing for the love of a father who scorns him, of a sister he adored until she, too, eventually saw him as nothing more than a hindrance, then an enemy. He speaks of an uncle whose favor brought him places he knew he ought to be but secretly did not think he deserved, of advice dispensed wisely and discarded carelessly, of a compassion that flamed so bright within him a King saw it as too untamable to remain, and so he snuffed it out with a fiery hand to his face. He spoke of lonely years with nothing but sky and sea and the musings of an old man over tea as his only company, of a path he knew deep down had been aimless yet it was all he could hold on to because it was a reminder that he was still real.

"Three years," Suki mouths, devastation written so plainly upon her profile Zuko couldn't bear to look at her. "He had you chasing a ghost for three years."

"So… so what you said… about losing your honor?" Katara mutters wetly, and if that isn't evidence enough of her sorrow then surely, the unceasingly dampening spots between his shoulder blades are.

He winces at the flashback her inquest incites, shaking his head in internal, forlorn reproach. His shame galvanizes him enough to want to explicate his reasonings out loud, for if there is absolution to be found in his ramblings then all the more reason to try.

"For so long, I fooled myself into believing that finding the Avatar meant regaining my honor. It never occurred to me until recently that honor wasn't something that could be taken away from you. It's something you earn for yourself," he sighs despondently. "Some days though, it wasn't even about honor—I just wanted to go home. But more than anything, my father led me to believe that if I captured you then I would finally, finally have his approval—his love," he shakes his head before releasing a hollow chuckle. "What a stupid thought."

"No, no it wasn't stupid!" Toph exclaims. "It's a parent's job to love their kid. And even then it's not supposed to be conditional!"

"I can't believe he would—that he'd bur—" Aang cuts himself off with a jerk, as if the word, burn, is a most foul curse that would be invoked at the slightest whisp. Zuko doesn't dissuade him. There was a time when he felt the same way, too.

"His own son," Aang finishes dazedly, his face a river of tears, a torrent with no signs of abating.

"I'm sorry," Zuko tries again, a little alarmed now at the frequency of watery displays before him. "I didn't mean to make you sad. Oh," in his panic, he thumbs impetuously at the stray droplets coursing down the arch of Toph's cheeks. In this light, she looks exactly her age, so young and slight, yet so contrary to what he knows of the mighty and unflappable earth bender. A pang goes through his chest that he could ever be cause for her melancholy, for any of theirs. "Please don't cry."

"You first," Toph replies, inconceivably subdued and gentle as she reaches up to frame his face. Zuko holds his breath when he assumes she will palm at his scar, which she does. But there is no judgement there, only indubitable acceptance, and comfort, as she brushes roughly at the tears he didn't even know he's shed.

"Oh," he repeats, not for the first, and certainly not for the last, time tonight.

Suki sniffs. "He doesn’t deserve you."

Sokka abruptly declares in hard intonations, "I'm gonna kill him—"

Before he can completely swear his intent, the water in the fountain behind them solidifies into menacingly pointy shards while the earth underneath them trembles dangerously.

"Get in line," Katara hisses darkly at the same time Toph grunts, "Not if I get to him first!"

Sokka's eyes are red-rimmed and gleaming. Still, he announces with a fair amount of acid in his inflection, "I know how you feel about this Aang, but you better hold me back when the time comes cause if I get my hands on that crazy, stupid, son-of-a—"

Zuko lurches forward to cover Aang's ears.

"Sokka!"

It seems the contact is all the incentive Aang needs to throw his arms around Zuko. The fire bender isn't expecting the extra ninety pounds and for all four, gangly limbs to wrap around him like a pentapus so he has no choice but to fall back to accommodate the extra weight, his head landing on Katara's lap as Aang does his utmost to actually meld himself onto his body.

"Slothdog pile?" Toph asks unnecessarily and with a gargantuan amount of glee that the shift in mood gives him whiplash. "No way I'm not getting in on this!"

Toph burrows her head onto his hip, knocking Aang's leg aside as she commandeers Zuko's own left leg like a body pillow. It appears to be all the permission everyone else has been seeking as well, for like dominoes they begin falling into place around him. Katara tucks his head a little more securely on her thigh before leaning her upper body against the lip of the fountain at her back while Suki lists against Sokka who leans his head onto Zuko's right shoulder.

"What—what's happening right now?" he doesn't want to appear too scandalized but he is at a loss for what to do with his limbs, outstretched as they are on either side of him. The Royal family didn't do touch, much less hug. The gesture became even more scarce when his mother… when she was gone, and though his uncle was a lot more free with his affections, it still hadn't warranted familiarity. His muscles contract at the overwhelming amount of contact.

"I wouldn't think too hard." Above him, there are traces of moisture on her visage but Katara chuckles, fond and ebullient now, much to his relief. "Just go with the flow."

"Says the water bender to the fire bender," he bites back weakly, which only fuels Katara's amusement.

Aang fastens his hold around the prince's torso, and he tenses even more.

"You know your dad's wrong, right, Zuko?"

"About what?" he quips sarcastically, but is surprised by the ardency in their antiphon.

"About everything," Aang counters fiercely. "Like, yeah, you chased us all over the world but you never aimed to kill!"

With his lineage it feels like a low bar but he nods his acknowledgement and his gratitude.

"You didn't save me from the pirates, but you kept them from… touching me," her tone is as algid as the glaciers of her homeland, but the rattle of Katara's bones is so prominent that he shakes along with her. "It could have gone a lot worse."

"I wouldn't do you that dishonor," he whispers brokenly, sick at the scenarios he can so acutely guess is conquering her imagination, it's own horrific play dancing along her features.

"I know," she reciprocates, just as gravely, "I know that now."

"You kept your promise. You could have come back, razed our village—"

"And mine," Suki joins Sokka.

"But you didn't."

He frowns. "Those days, my word was the only currency I had that was worth trading."

He doesn't like how they make it—him—sound. Every decent deed he had fulfilled in pursuit of the Avatar was done so as a courtesy mostly to himself. If he was to regain his honor, he had to act with as much honor as his, admittedly dastardly-to-begin-with, mission could provide. Now, Zuko isn't exactly an authority—even on his good days—on altruism but he could at least recognize that in those moments, any clemency administered had been the right thing to do.

"Anyone would have done the same," he defends faintly, then immediately wishes he could take it back when Katara growls.

"No, Zuko," she clenches quivering fingers around the ubiquitous pendant adorning her neck. "No, they wouldn't."

"It's more than that, though," Aang asserts imploringly. "It's just you. It's so obvious, how did we ever not see it before now? It's who you are," he takes a deep breath, the wisdom of a thousand others before him laying siege in his every movement, every syllable. "And who you are is the most honorable guy we know."

He does a double-take.

"You… you really think that?" He shakes his head in frantic incredulity, blood roaring like a storm through his veins. "All of you?"

He looks at each of them in bewilderment—lingers especially on Aang, at the roundness of his cheeks that should be testament to his naiveté yet so contrary to the maturity shadowing his bearing—as if he can divine their rationale through sight alone. He doubts them, and it makes him feel older than sixteen, his cynicism a pallium shackled to his shoulders. But there is a chorus of devout agreeance, Aang's hope a living, tangible thing that he gives to Zuko freely. He fumbles. He doesn't trust the fervor with which it sets him aglow (metaphorically and physically, it would seem, as Sokka comments mildly, "Wow, you're like a heated blanket with how warm you are. Hey, why didn't we think of doing this before?"), but Zuko—even with his infinite skepticism—cannot find it in his fractured heart to reject it.

"Zuko?" Aang prompts, raising his head so he can catch his eye, gray and gold colliding in an affable display of security. "You believe us, don't you?"

"Yeah," Zuko reassures, albeit timorously. He takes a bracing, meditative breath before releasing it, sinking into the downy cosset of their affections as he turns his head to Katara's stomach, lowers his arms to clutch Suki and Sokka closer, bundles Aang on his chest with his heated breath, and secures Toph to his side with a hand to her back. Then, stronger, "Yeah, I guess I do."

When he decided to share his tumultuous past, he thought that he might shatter and they would rejoice at the gravity of his turmoil. But he should have known better than to assume his friends—and how marvelous a notion, to think that he of all people would have a group he is honored to name as such his own—will let him. He knows Suki had called themselves so earlier, but he doesn't quite believe it. Not until now.

"We won't let him touch you again."

It is said through a yawn as one by one, they nod off, until only Zuko and Katara are left to drift close to the edge of lethargy. She strokes tenderly at his hair, so reminiscent of his mother that he feels a familiar burning in his eyes and a lump at the back of his throat once more, all from the simple motion—or so he tells himself.

"Sleep, Zuko," she sweeps away the strands at his forehead before impressing upon it a tender kiss. "No one will hurt you. Not anymore, not ever."

Zuko can take care of himself. The way he's brought up, he's had to. Beyond that, they are at the very front lines of a war—any day, any second, could mean the last for them and they would have no way of knowing until it is upon them, so Katara's asseveration should not have brought him the relief it did. If anything, he should have denied it with the same dose of pessimism realism he approaches most everything in his life.

But perhaps, just this once, he will allow himself the privilege of their refuge. He will allow himself to believe in the vehemency of their promise.

I just wanted to go home, he had said. And this is not a place he pictured himself ever being in, trivialized to a mere furnace, yet strangely he finds he does not mind it (not that he would ever divulge this forthright), not even a little bit. The struggle and strife of his history, of his present, are unchanged, but an effervescence envelops him in spite of the five bodies weighing him down.

Maybe even because of them.

He closes his eyes when Katara has another go at running her fingers through his hair. He can almost conjure the ghost of his mother's smile when she used to employ the same tactics to lull him to slumber. He thinks of his uncle, mistifying and genteel and terrifying and loving all at once, sitting vigil at his bedside when fever and delirium took him during those early days of recovery, and long after then, whether or not he admitted to his desire for him to stay. He compares this house and everything it represents—a relic to his family's happiness—to this strangely colorful and caring mismatch of a rugged group that someway, somehow, just manages to fit perfectly into his arms. He tightens his embrace, and it suddenly hits him.

He supposes home was something he could carry with him all along.

"Sleep," Katara hums.

And so he does.

-//////-

Later, much later, when the power from the comet has receded to the faintest of throbs, and his sister is sedated and heavily guarded while his father is in chains at the bottom of the most isolated prison in the Fire Nation, their fates to be decided in the coming weeks by a tribunal composed of the remaining leaders from all nations—when he retires to his room in lieu of that of the Fire Lord's (despite the mantle and all it entails, both the sordid and the noble, falling solely onto his shoulders), and he sports yet another scar, a burn, that he will bear just as proudly as the first and more fiercely than even his eminent title, for there was no higher honor than protecting a friend—when his uncle has resumed his seat, snoring soundly and deservedly on an armchair at the side of his vast four-poster, always at his side as if they had never parted for even one second, and he is sandwiched between his two most favorite twelve-year olds in the world, Toph as unmindful of his injury as one would expect her to be when she plants her sleep-dead body right atop his chest, and Aang entirely all too much, curled into a ball that hardly breaches his space, apart from his head as he dozes lightly on his shoulder—when Sokka and Suki are passed out at the foot of his bed, his leg a pillow for their weary heads and their bodies as tangled onto each other despite Sokka's own bandaged leg (like the kindred souls he knows them to be, like magnets helpless against each other's pull), and Katara has expelled the last of her curative waters on him, much to his insistence that he doesn't need it any longer, before she sinks into the only unoccupied space above him on his bed—when they lie there in the first quiet they've achieved since they all adjourned here, their heads touching and their breathing in sync—he opens his eyes.

"You did it, Zuko," Katara's voice is a susurrant trill tinged with exaltation and pride. "You're home."

As he does then, he does again now, and tightens his hold—a hand to steady Aang's lolling head, another at Toph's back to still her fitful body, his leg pushing to burrow the blanket further into Suki's side, and the fireplace flaring with his breath to heat the figures he cannot reach. The difference in this embrace, however, is in the absence of doubt and the lack of fear, replaced with all the affluence of his adoration—unhindered and abounding.

"Yeah."

It is his turn to press a kiss onto her forehead, lips moving tired but no less grateful and indulgent.

Cradled in the warmth of everyone he loves and cares about, he is quite inclined to agree.

"I am home."

-//////-

AN: "Holding on to anger is like grasping on hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets hurt." —Buddha

i feel like you aren't part of the atla fandom and the zuko nation until you crank out one of these lmao. listen, listen, the beach gets cold at night so i just always picture these kids a pile of tired, sleeping limbs at the end of every day and all huddling into the only free source of heat, no fire required. let me live in this world.

come say hi to me!

#atla #atla fanfiction #the gaang #zuko #zuko fanfiction #honestly this is v self-indulgent fluff #the gaang deserves all the love & downtime #cuz they are just chiLDREN #zuko gets a much deserved hug #zuko + the gaang #altho honestly i think my water tribe sibling bias is showing lol #also zuko has a lot of repressed big brother instincts #so let him be a big brother!!#let him hug it out!!#i will die on this hill #yes i will #swishandflickwit ff

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novantinuum · 5 years ago

Text

Crack the Paragon, Chapter 8

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 6.5K~

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart.

Chapter summary: In which together breakfast can’t solve everything.

You can find the first/previous chapter and AO3 links in the reblogs! (I have to omit them from the original post these days to ensure this will show up in the tags.) If you enjoyed this, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos on AO3 as well.

Chapter 8: Fissures

In time, the rest of the household bursts to life.

His dad wakes up an hour or so later on his own accord, rolling out of bed and groggily stumbling into the bathroom to soak in the shower for a solid twenty minutes. Steven eagerly shares the good news— I’m whole again!— after he finally emerges, and while it takes a fair moment for his still half-conscious mind to fully grasp what he’s attempting to explain, when the message finally lands Dad lifts him off the floor and spins him around in his arms, laughing with joy. Compared to Pearl, his reaction to the gem’s rotation is minimal, which comes as a sweet relief.

“I’m just glad to see ya’ smiling and in one piece again,” he says, holding him close.

After sharing an amicable nod of greeting with Pearl, his dad sets out from the house to check on his van, promising he’ll be back in a few minutes. Apparently he needs to lock it, because he totally forgot last night. Again. Also, he did say he’d grab the waffle iron before he went to bed, so fingers crossed for that. Steven’s mouth waters at the mere thought of Dad’s homemade waffles, golden, crisp, and stacked sky high, their flavor— buttery, with a hint of lemon zest— bursting like fireworks against his tongue. Nobody makes waffles like he can, not even Pearl. While waiting for Dad to return with breakfast materials, he changes into clean jeans and a shirt. Lazily, he flops onto his belly on the couch with plans of playing Splashy Shark on his phone, only to find...

Steven groans, dropping his head face first into the middle of the cushion. His phone’s battery is so low it won’t turn on at all. Dead as a doorstop! It seems he forgot to plug it in before falling asleep once more, for the umpteenth thousandth time, even though he tried to remind himself early this morning on the beach. Typical.

“Is the world ending again over there?” Pearl— currently lounging at the kitchen counter— asks with a playful lilt to her voice. “Do we need to call in the rest of the resistance?”

“Noooo, it’s fine,” he replies, drawn out. “This is a path I must walk alone, for I’m the lad who forgets.” He rolls over onto his back, stretching his free arm towards the ceiling as if desperately reaching towards the stars. “And to forget is the dark burden I bear,” he whispers dramatically.

“You didn’t plug your phone in last night, did you?”

“Whoa, how’d you guess??”

“Steven, you do realize I’ve lived with you for almost three years, yes?”

“Oh,” he says, brows shooting up. “Right!”

Humming, he pulls himself off the couch and trots up the steps to the loft. He sets his phone on his nightstand and connects it to the charge cord. Unfortunately, it'll take a while for it to build up enough juice to turn on again. That’ll teach him. Or maybe it won’t, time will tell. He hopes it won’t be out of commission for too long, though, because he really should call Connie about all this…

The temple door begins to open. He rapidly turns upon hearing that familiar sound, just in time to see Amethyst emerging from the depths of her room. Her hair is a mess, her eyes droop in exhaustion, and for a moment one of her fingers digs halfway up her nose. More than anything, she looks like she needs a great big hug.

“Hey,” she mutters, and yawns. “Any word on ol’ Steven 2?”

“Amethyst, Amethyst, Amethyst,” he hollers, beaming from ear to ear, and leaps from the loft to greet her. He doesn’t even bother floating, with no need for a soft landing from this height. The impact of his bare feet against the floorboards reverberates through the whole house. “Guess what??”

He flings himself around the purple Gem, almost knocking her clear over in the shock of surprise affection. (Although by this point, if she’s not used to his hug attacks that’s her problem.)

“Uhhh, what?” she says, face blank even in the wake of his effervescent enthusiasm.

Pearl’s hands go to her hips. “Steven, what have I told you about jumping from the loft?

“I’m the full package again,” he declares, and throws his arms wide, pointedly ignoring her for the moment. “My gem reformed and then we fused!”

Despite her low energy otherwise, Amethyst cracks a grin at his good news. “Whoa, really? When was this?”

“This morning! I was up super early. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Sheesh. You and me both, bud.”

“At least you don’t actually need to sleep. Lucky.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been making a habit of it for so long that not sleeping pretty much has the same affect,” she says, and crosses to sit on the couch. She stretches back, body sinking into the familiar curves of the cushion she always claims. She props one of her hands behind her mass of lavender hair. “Ah, that’s more like it! So… after everything,” she begins cautiously, balling the other hand up against her gemstone, right against the facet she herself cracked about a year and a half ago. “How do you feel now?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. “Okay, I guess. I’m in one piece, but… everything’s different now, y’know? Even though I don’t want it to be.”

Her expression grows more downcast, the fringe of her hair shadowing her features. “Yeah.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steven catches Pearl watching their conversation from the kitchen. It’s painfully obvious she’s trying to keep her dutiful surveillance on the down-low, her side glances interspersed with time spent washing raspberries and gathering waffle ingredients for his Dad, but he doesn’t get why this secrecy is necessary on her part. It’s not like they’re not openly discussing this in the middle of the house. If he and Amethyst really wanted to talk privately they’d wander outside, or into her room. Nonetheless, there’s nothing he could say that Pearl hasn’t already heard.

Although now that he thinks about it, there’s plenty of stuff he hasn’t told Amethyst yet. He purses his lips, unable to shake the thought of her visceral reaction to the reveal about his mo— about Rose— that dropped like an anvil on their family last night. With that in mind, how will she respond to the permanent visual reminder of this change that he now embodies?

With a quick glance between Pearl and the doorway his dad left through, his mind is made. If he isn’t forthright now, she’ll find out eventually. He figures it’s better she hears it from him rather than through the grapevine.

“Y’know, I should probably mention,” he says with a half laugh. “My gem did a bit of a weird thing. It kinda… flipped?” To prove his point, Steven lifts up the hem of his t-shirt, barring the diamond for all to see.

Amethyst squints as she peers at his gem. “What the fu—“

“Amethyst,” Pearl interjects sternly, crossing towards the pair of them.

“—uuuuuudge is that? Gems can do that??”

She rolls her eyes. “Somehow I doubt that every Gem can—“

“Oooo, lemme try!” she gleefully squeals, leaping to her feet in one bound and throwing her arms aloft.

Her gemstone begins to glow a soft purple as the finer details of her form blur into an indistinguishable mass of light. The edges of this light bend and wobble, and she seethes in intense concentration, but despite her efforts her gemstone refuses to budge.

Gasping for breath, her hard light form snaps back into its customary shape like a rubber band. The light fades, revealing her scowl. “Aww man, no fair! Everyone else gets all the cool powers.”

“Haha, well I didn’t exactly do it on purpose,” Steven says, shrugging nonchalantly.

The screen door slams open, prompting everyone in the room to sling their attention to the man standing tall and proud with the cast iron kitchen appliance brandished like a sword in his hands.

“Who’s excited for waffles??” he asks, his grin contagious.

Steven shoots his hand in the air. “Oooh, me, me! I’m excited for waffles!”

“Then guess today’s your lucky day,” he chuckles, moving across the house to the counter. “Pearl, ‘ya wanna help a man out here?”

“Ah, yes!” she chimes, raising en pointe as she triumphantly jabs her finger in the air. “Of course! I’ve even taken the liberty of gathering the ingredients for you already.”

Dad stutters for a moment, clearly not expecting this turn of events considering her former animosity towards him. Their family trip to Empire City— the night the tides forever changed— wasn’t that long ago, after all. He threads anxious fingers through a thick length of hair.

“Wow, you, uh- thank you.”

Steven follows them to the kitchen area, stars in his eyes as he rapturously watches their amicable interactions. Showcasing a surprising capacity for teamwork, they set up the waffle iron and start to prepare that gooey, delicious batter. His mouth waters at the mere scent of the lemon his dad squeezes into the bowl. Acting on unspoken impulse, Pearl grabs a whisk and accepts the bowl from him, beating the mix of ingredients until it’s reached the perfect consistency. The tastiest pancakes and waffles come from batter that’s still a little lumpy, his dad always says, since that causes them to rise better. In any case, his taste buds can hardly wait.

“I’m so hungry I think I could eat like, four bazillion waffles,” he tells Amethyst in the most candid voice he can muster, relocating to the couch she’s lounging on with a hop and a skip.

“Heh,” she says, a suitably up-to-no-good smirk framing her face. “Not if I get to all of ‘em first!”

“Whaaat? Naw, come on, you wouldn’t do that to your favorite Steven!”

“Are you kidding? I’d steal food from myself! After I swallowed it.”

“Ewww,” he laughs, his nose scrunching up.

They continue to laugh together for a solid few seconds, but the enthusiasm holding their facades together so precariously soon fades. Meanwhile, in the background Dad and Pearl converse as easily as if they’d never carried a decades-long feud to begin with. (Oh, the sweet irony of this reversal!) Steven clamps his lips together, for once clueless what to say to Amethyst to make everything better. Their conversations aren’t usually like this. They aren’t so… stilted, like he has to traverse across a lake of thin ice. He sighs, feeling his chest rise and fall with a weight almost heavier than the memory of the last few hours. That’s the one thing he fears most, if he’s honest about all this— that as a consequence of the mess Rose left him, his relationships with the Gems will never be the same again.

He can only guess Amethyst heard his sigh, because she’s the one who first moves to break the silence.

“Hey, uh,” she begins quietly, and shoots a quick glance at Pearl, meeting her eyes briefly before looking back at him. “I’m sorry for… well, everything, really. That I said last night.”

He frowns, the memory of her words’ sting suddenly looping itself in his mind like a broken record.

“And then, what? She creates you just so she doesn’t have to deal with the fact she’s a liar?”

“Oh. You, uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, “you don’t need to apologize for that. We were all pretty stressed, I get it.”

“No. I do!” she insists, her expression stretching wide. “What I said, it wasn’t just mean, it was wrong. Like, I still feel like I don’t know anything about Rose, or Pink, or whatever anymore, okay? But just because I don’t get anything doesn’t make you— gah, forget it,” she says hurriedly, waving the thought away. “The point is, I’m sorry, y’know? For real.”

The earnesty of her apology covers his wounds like a salve. Blinking heavily, he throws his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.

“Apology heartily accepted,” he says, muffled.

The stiffness in her form eases up, and she finally, truly allows herself to hug him back.

“Thanks, dude.”

From that point forward, the atmosphere of the house grows lighter. No longer needing to worry about the state of his relationship with Amethyst, Steven throws himself into the nuttiness and excitement of family time feet first. The two of them horse around while Dad and Pearl continue making breakfast, wrestling each other in front of the warp pad. It doesn’t take long for a stack of waffles to pile up on the counter, cooked to a golden brown perfection. Catching his breath from all the play fighting, he eagerly rushes to sit himself at the counter next to the purple Gem, empty plate and utensils already set in front of them. His legs freely dangle, not long enough yet to reach the foot rest midway down the stool. He’s not paying attention to hear it, but his dad must have said something witty because Pearl is chuckling breathlessly. It’s probably one of his corny dad jokes. Pearl will never admit it, but she has a secret sweet spot for his puns.

The temple door slides open— a rush of slightly stale air wafting in to greet them— as Dad removes the last waffles from the iron. Beaming, his attention immediately peels away from the promise of food in favor of the entrance of one of his favorite people.

“Garnet!” he calls, throwing his arms wide.

“Good morning, Steven,” she says with a slight sing-song lilt in her voice, crossing the room towards the rest of the family. With a slight smile, she places her hands solid on his shoulders. “I presume you figured out how to fuse back together with your other half.”

“Yup! All together,” he grins, titling his neck back to peer up at her.

“Except his gem flipped, and now it’s all funky,” Amethyst interjects in a flash, playfully jabbing him right at his navel.

Garnet’s comforting grip slackens, her hands slipping free.

“Hey!” he giggles, smacking Amethyst’s arm away. “No tickling!”

“It’s not tickling, it’s revenge!” she says with a loud raspy chortle, and puts him in a headlock, scruffing at his hair until it’s a frizzy mess. He kicks his legs in futile protest as she mounts her attack, laughing until the pressure in his lungs is too much to handle and tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. It’s the most he’s laughed since… well, since before he was cracked.

The others, however, aren’t smiling. They don’t seem to be paying any attention to their antics at all. Pearl’s hand is balled at her chin, her soft blue eyes pinned on the Crystal Gem leader. Even his dad’s peering at her with concern, the spatula dangling off one finger.

“Garnet?” his dad asks, his frown deepening the faint wrinkles around his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Pearl chimes in.

“I…” She clenches her fists, averting her glance. “I don’t understand. Your gem—“

Amethyst scoffs. “—is all diamond shaped now, and it’s totally weird. Steven, show her!”

He gives a slight scowl, subtle enough that the others wouldn’t pick up on it right away. It would be nice if she wasn’t being so pushy about this, if he could find the right moment to tell Garnet himself. But with everyone here watching in anticipation, there’s really nothing else he can do.

Sighing heavily, he lifts his shirt, exposing his gem. “After I fused with my gem half, it was just like this. I still don’t get why.”

Her visor may cover her eyes, but he knows the spectrum of her expressions well enough that he doesn’t need to see them to know all three pupils have shrunk into pinpricks. Her mouth widens into a circle, crystallizing in her shock.

“Oh,” she breathes heavily, grinding her teeth against each other hard. “I- I never foresaw this possibility.”

Sweat beads at his brow. Even though she’s trying to mask it (probably for his sake), he can tell she’s struggling to keep from falling apart. Her hands are visibly quivering, and the gems inlaid in her palms pulse with light. He swallows hard, lump hanging in his throat. “Heh, what can I say?” he shrugs with a nervous laugh. “Guess I’m just really unpredictable!”

“Perhaps,” she says quietly, thankfully managing to pull herself together again. She flexes her fists, their tremor receding. Crossing her arms, she moves to lean against the wall by the fridge.

The household falls so quiet that Steven can hear his own stomach gurgle, everyone staring at the fusion in wordless worry.

His dad coughs. “Well, anyways,” he says, spinning the spatula in a circle. “Who else wants waffles?”

“Lay ‘em on me,” Amethyst says, holding out her plate. He serves her two to start. She shoots him a pair of finger guns, and digs in.

“Okay. I’m assuming none for Pearl?”

“That would be correct, thanks.”

He promptly turns towards the Crystal Gem leader, a weak grin stretching across his face despite the soured atmosphere.

“What about you, Garnet?” Wanna try the ol’ Universe family recipe?”

She shakes her head in singular motion. “No.”

The churning in Steven’s stomach fades into obscurity in light of the bitter prospect of his guardian’s emotional instability. So much for daring to hope that they could all make amends where needed, refrain from obsessing over their problems, and move on. He slumps on his stool. Dad deposits a pair of golden, buttery waffles on his plate, artfully garnishing the stack with a dollop of whipped cream and a cluster of raspberries from the bowl of them that Pearl washed earlier, but the idea of together breakfast no longer sounds very appetizing anymore. After all, it’s not the food that makes a together breakfast, it’s the company. And with Pearl and Dad standing nervously to the side, Garnet struggling to remain stable, and even Amethyst sapped of her usual spunk in the light of their demons, this is about as far from together a family can get. What did he do wrong? Why isn’t this the sunny future Garnet showed him last night?

Leaning his cheek into the palm of his hand, he aimlessly picks at his breakfast with his fork.

Amethyst glances over at him, already neck deep into her own meal. “Eat up little man, they’re super good!” she declares.

His mouth turns up into a small grimace the longer he stares at the food. It looks wonderful, but...

“Actually, I’m not all that hungry anymore.”

“Steven, you need to eat,” his dad says.

“I just said, I’m not hungry.”

Dad’s brow furrows as he leverages one of his rare father knows best faces at him. Steven looks to Pearl for rescue, but she (perhaps wisely) averts her eyes, choosing not to interject herself into Greg’s parenting.

Amethyst, however, is more than willing to take up the charge. “If you don’t eat up in two minutes, I’m claiming them,” she threatens, deadpan. “I’ll lick them, nice and slow, with lots of slobber, and then they’ll be mine.”

“Okay, okay!” he says, holding his hands up defensively. “Geeze.”

He blows a weary burst of air past his lips, grabs his fork, and begins digging in to appease his dad. The first bites settle like stones in the pit of his empty stomach. He has to admit, even if his appetite is zilch, at least they’re good tasting waffles. All his guardians visibly relax upon seeing him start to eat breakfast. Amethyst’s tensed shoulders drop. Pearl allows herself to lean back against the counter. Garnet uncrosses her arms. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimpse of the fusion picking up the can of whipped cream and squirting some directly into her mouth when she thought the other two Gems weren’t looking. The corner of his mouth perks up. Looks like someone has a secret sweet tooth!

He’s halfway through the second of the pair of waffles when the short quartz sitting next to him grins devilishly.

“Hey, Steven…”

“Hnn?” he utters, muffled through the food in his mouth.

She flicks a raspberry at him. “Catch this hide!”

He yelps, just barely ducking in time to miss the fruit. It falls apart upon impact on the floor, its juices exploding outward across the wood.

“Touchdown,” she says, and blows off her finger as if it were a pistol.

The edge of his lips curve up, chipping away at his melancholy. “Oh, I see what you’re steppin’ in!”

Pearl groans, throwing her hand against her temple. “Must you two really—“

“Let them have this,” Garnet says coolly as she leans back against the fridge, the whipped cream can still dangling at the edge of her grasp.

“But we just cleaned this place!”

Amethyst chucks another cluster of berries at him, but this time he’s expecting her fruity projectiles. He cranes his neck back, letting his mouth fall open wide. One of the raspberries bounces off his chin. Close, but not quite. If he’s quick enough, maybe he can catch one in his mouth. That’d be pretty awesome! Thankfully she seems to catch on to his ploy, because she starts to toss them underhand. He stifles giggles as he successfully snaps one— no, two— berries right out of the air.

“There’s some days I feel like we’re raising two children,” he hears Pearl comment to his dad offhand, as they watch them fool around with their food from the sidelines.

“And there’s some days I feel like I’m raising four,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

He coughs into his fist. “Uh, nothing!”

She raises a vaguely disgruntled brow at him, but doesn’t say anything more on the matter.

He and his quartz sibling gleefully continue messing around with their edible projectiles until they grow bored of it, soon returning to eating their food like (mostly normal) beings. Really, he can only speak for himself, since she’s recently taken to eating the paper plates along with her breakfast. He grins through a mouthful of whipped cream. This is one of the many things he loves and admires about her, that she always knows how to cheer him up when he needs it. Before their little food fight, the soured atmosphere of his household left him almost feeling sick, but he already feels a lot better now. Needless to say, with his restored appetite the last waffle doesn’t take long to disappear.

“Next time you really gotta try one!” he enthuses to Garnet as he discards his paper plate, weaving between Pearl and his father as they begin to clean the kitchen. “Dad’s waffles are batter than anything!”

He contorts his features into the most exaggerated expression he can muster, waiting with baited breath for the shoe to drop. On the other side of the counter, Amethyst snorts.

Her nostrils twitch with an uncertain air, the straight edge of her visor casting a deep shadow on her face. She stands with her arms wrapped tight around her torso, like a tourniquet wrapped around a bleeding wound. “Hmm. Perhaps one day.”

And in the space of those three simple words, his little heart breaks into pieces. She almost always chuckles at his corny puns, always! So for her to barely even acknowledge them, for her to bottle away all her usual joy and confidence and quiet wit and hide it under a rock solid mask of falsified indifference, it stings more than anything. He thought she’d grown past this.

“Garnet, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice cracking in his anguish. The others all look up from whatever they’re doing with obvious curiosity, all of them silently asking the same question but none of them having the courage to approach their leader directly. “You’ve been like this all morning, ever since—“

With a shallow gasp, his eyes grow glassy. Her mood drastically changed the moment she saw his flipped gem. He clamps his hands over his mouth.

Oh, shards.

He did this.

Both Pearl and Dad move on automatic at the sight of emotional distress, the Gem solidly clasping his shoulder, and his father wrapping his arms around him. Across the room, Amethyst bites at her bottom lip, expression alight with genuine compassion.

“Steven.” Garnet kneels to address him face-to-face, sighing heavily in her exhaustion, worrisome as that is. He quickly blinks through the burn of unshed tears, glancing up at her. “The truth is, I— we have something we need to share. With all of you.”

The room fills with uncomfortable tension, the shock of her admission and its concerningly specific wording sinking in like maple syrup soaking through a waffle’s airy layers.

He rubs at the corner of one of his eyes. “W- we? I don’t—“

Pearl steps towards her, shaking her head in a daze. “Garnet, no, surely you can’t mean that…”

“Ruby and Sapphire have decided they want to take some time apart. Indefinitely.”

His mouth falls ajar, but there’s nothing he can think of to say. Steven’s chest rumbles, shaken with cries anchored too deep in his soul for him to actually express. In a heartbeat his dad pulls him closer.

“But… why?” Amethyst asks, face painted in shades of faint betrayal.

She adjusts her visor. “Because in the wake of recent revelations, we’ve realized that we only remained Garnet because of her.”

“Garnet, you—“ Pearl stammers— “now you know that’s not true! You saved each other’s lives, you fell in love with each other, you—“

“We stayed fused because a diamond took us by the hands and ordered us not to question who we were as Garnet,” she corrected. “Ruby and Sapphire, they never truly got the luxury to seek self fulfillment as individuals, not like you or Amethyst did. We… we both need time to reflect on what’s happened.”

Slowly swaying in his dad’s embrace, hugging those sturdy, dependable arms to his chest, Steven quietly speaks up.

“If both of you have been hurting ever since last night, then why didn’t you unfuse already? Why push through it just to come to breakfast?”

The fusion pauses, probably considering her phrasing. She briefly balls her hand at her chin, fingers pressing against one of her gems, and then taking a breath, allows her visor to shimmer away entirely. Her eyes glisten as she imparts her honest answer.

“If I unfused earlier, I wouldn’t have gotten to hug you goodbye.”

He can’t stifle his sobs any longer. Breaking away from his dad, he throws himself at Garnet and— pressing his cheek against her chest— gives a keening cry, the mounting pressure abruptly releasing from his chest but manifesting across his features as dry as a bone. He’s cried too many tears in such a short span of time that he almost wonders if he’s finally hit the bottom of the well. His fingers grip at her familiar form as if he can single-handedly keep her here together with him forever. He dry sobs in her arms until he aches, vying to burn the comforting sensation of his guardian’s solid hold, the assurance of the even thrum running through her hard light body, into his memory forever more.

The other two Gems join in the embrace, kneeling on the floor with him and wrapping themselves around him like a blanket.

“You- but you can’t just leave us,” Amethyst whispers brokenly. “Not now!”

Her voice hitches. She sighs, pressing her forehead against the smaller Gem’s. “I know this is gonna hurt you, I know. And we’re sorry. We’re so, so sorry. But we need time to reflect, to understand who we are apart from Garnet."

“Yeah, but…”

“Listen to me,” she says gently, pulling back and lifting her chin. “You are enough. An inimitable cut of quartz, just as you are. Please. Even in your darkest moments, never let yourself forget the depth of your worth.”

She nods, her lip quivering.

“And Pearl.”

The ebony Gem peels away from the hug at her beckoning to catch a glimpse at her, her pale blue irises glinting through the liquid pooling over them.

“In my absence, I need you to be strong. Not only for yourself, but for all of us. The Crystal Gems will do well under your leadership.”

She hums in confirmation, taking her new mission to heart. “Of course,” she says, straightening her back and sniffing away her tears.

Garnet turns her saddened gaze to him next, passing her fingers through his tangled mop of hair. “Steven.”

“Y-yeah?”

“None of this is your fault.”

“B-b-but—” he blubbers.

“None of it. The past is not your burden. And any time you begin to fear it is, I want you to pause… take a deep breath… and remember how much we all love you. You are your own Gem."

He bobs his head slowly, sniffling as his breath evens out.

The fusion sits back on her heels, ending their long embrace.

“Greg,” she says as she stands, leveling her three eyes directly at him. Though Steven has no clue what, some silent conversation passes between the two of them— like charge passing through circuitry— in a series of subtle, indecipherable expressions. “Take care of my family.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies evenly, wiping a stray tear away from his own cheek.

Closing her eyes, Garnet begins to glow white, the gems at the core of her being shifting and separating into two smaller light bodies. They’re still holding hands at the moment the glow fades. Sapphire is the first to let go, letting her gloved fingers fall loose against the skirt of her dress.

Ruby’s face is a blank stone wall, one that’s been visibly chipped away at. Her eyes clearly glisten, as if she’s about to fall apart at any moment yet is stubbornly holding this outburst of emotion back until she can escape to a place of privacy. Sapphire, on the other hand, makes no attempt to mask her distress. As always the fringe of her hair covers half of her face, but the tracks of her tears flow down her cheek and to her chin, threatening to drip onto her bodice.

Despite the unfortunate nature of their appearance, Steven can’t deny he’s still glad to get a chance to see them.

“Um… h-hi, Ruby, Sapphire,” he stutters with his best attempt at a smile. “Long time no see?”

“Hello, Steven,” the blue Gem responds in amicable but still relatively formless monotone, as she clasps her gemless hand over the other. She sniffs, wiping the stray lines of hard light based fluid away from her eye and nose before allowing her expression to crystallize again. Gathering herself, she turns to face the group. “If all of you will excuse me, I need some time to think. Alone, for once.”

With not another word— not even an attempt at greeting the others, or consoling Ruby, who looks ready to cry at a moment’s notice— Sapphire turns on a dime and effortlessly glides across the warp pad to the temple door. She holds her right palm to the crystals embedded in the stonework, the blue one glowing bright in response. The seldom used entrance unlocks with a sonorous click. They all watch in stunned silence as she disappears through the opening, into the vast depths of the Crystal Temple.

The group stands ramrod straight, no one budging an inch as they stare vacantly at the doorway. Ruby folds her hands tight together, pressing them to her chest.

Pearl, thankfully, is the first to break the spell. (He’s thankful because he isn’t sure if anyone else here could’ve gathered the courage in the light of everything that just happened, himself included.)

“Oh Ruby, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, balling her hand against her mouth.

“D’ya wanna go punch some stuff in the Kindergarten with me?” Amethyst offers softly, slinging her arm around the shorter Gem.

Steven weakly raises a finger in suggestion. “Or we could play some games here. I finally found that limited release console version of Fight Fighters a few days back, if that’s up your alley.”

“And I could always take you for a quiet drive up the coast,” Greg says.

She shakes her head, shrugging away from Amethyst's attempt at comfort. “I- I don’t really wanna talk to any of you right now, to be honest. S’ not your fault, but—“

Ruby pauses, her small form nearly shaking as she averts her gaze from them all, staring into the middle distance with glassy eyes.

“I think… for now, I jus- I just need to run away,” she croaks. “Sorry."

Not even bothering to hold back her sobs anymore, she barrels across the room in a flurry of anguish and climbs the steps to the warp pad. Everything happens so fast that no one can react quick enough to stop her before she activates it, a burst of cyan light springing forth to whisk her away into the stream. In seconds, she’s gone.

Steven shuffles his feet, feeling for all the world as if some antagonistic force of the universe just stole a decent chunk of his heart away.

“Well, now what?” Amethyst says with a big shrug.

Pearl crosses her arms, her lips curving into a subtle sneer at the glibness of her attitude. “What do you mean, ‘now what?’ We’re going to go round them up, sit them both down, have a calm, rational discussion, and fix this!”

“But you can’t just— ughhh,” she groans, throwing her head back. “They’re not inanimate objects for you to sort into piles, P! You can’t expect to throw them together and like, make them fuse again! That’s not how it works!”

“Now, that’s not what I meant, I—“

“Bull! It’s exactly what you meant!”

She haughtily turns up her nose, aghast. “I don’t appreciate the accusatory tone you’ve taken with me!”

“And there you go, gettin’ all defensive,” she says, throwing her arms up. Her form glows white as she effortlessly shapeshifts into a picture perfect purple doppleganger of her. “Blah, blah, blah blah blah,” she spits in the most exaggerated voice she can muster, twirling the bottom ribbon of her sash on her finger. “I’m Pearl, and I know better than everyone else ‘coz I’m always right!”

“Amethyst! That’s enough!”

He pales as he watches the two of them outright self destruct. In many ways, it’s a disappointing step back. He hasn’t seen them spat this badly for almost a year. His feet shuffle awkwardly beneath him, bare toes twitching as his mind yearns for some brilliant idea that could stop this fight in its tracks, but at the current moment he’s got nothing.

“Daaaad,” he whispers lowly, obscuring his mouth from their view with a cupped hand. “Help me out here?”

His father grits his teeth, nervously stepping forward between him and the two Gems at each other’s throats. “H-hey, you two, how about we all take a deep breath a—“

“Shut up, Greg!” they shout in unison, whirling on him.

He throws his palms up, immediately backing away from their vitriolic spat. Steven grabs onto his arm once he’s returned to him, hugging it close to his chest, which is growing tighter and tighter by the second. He absolutely hates seeing his family fight, more than anything, but when they refuse to listen to reason, what can he do about it?

“As I was trying to say, you’re completely taking my words out of context,” Pearl hisses, advancing on her.

“No, I’m not!” she hollers, her voice echoing into the rafters of the compact beach house. She jabs her finger under the other Gem’s nose, the action violent enough in its intensity that Steven can’t help but flinch at the sight. “You still wanna think you can wave your little hand and have everything go back to the way it was, poof, like magic! But guess what?! You can’t!! Garnet’s gone, we have no real leader, Ruby disappeared to shard knows where, you can barely explain a single thing without locking up, basically everything we ever knew about Rose was a complete lie, a-and, and—“

“And now it’s Steven’s turn to leave,” he declares abruptly, the tension held in thick knots within him easing at his bold decision.

This is apparently enough to snap Pearl out of her emotional tizzy, his guardian whirling to face him with an embarrassed flush blooming blue across her cheeks. “Oh, Steven, I—“

Spinning on his heels, he scrambles away from the others as fast as he can, heart racing, only pausing to retrieve his phone from where it’s been charging and to slip on sandals. “I’m sorry, can’t talk, I’m headedtotown, needsomefreshair, bye!”

He lets it slam behind him as he races out into the arms of Beach City’s breezy, overcast morning. His flip flops clap rhythmically against his heels.

“Wait! Steven!” his dad calls after him, but it’s already too late. He’s not going back in, he refuses. Not now, not with everyone being so sullen and argumentative and weird.

He thought they could move on, he thought all this repressed pain and feelings of betrayal could heal and they could all grow closer for it, but apparently he’s wrong. Nothing about this messed up situation is ever going to get better, is it? He doubles over as he passes the mailbox, his sprint slowing to an abrupt halt. His teeth clench, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans like rose barbs through delicate skin as he catches his breath. Steven digs into his pocket for his phone.

“Hoh geeze,” he mutters, holding down the power button to force restart. “This is such a mess.”

At least he was wise enough to grab his phone in the first place. Blessedly, the screen finally lights up.

And as feared, he’s met with a hefty cluster of missed notifications from Connie. Sweat beads on his brow as he begins to scroll through them, even though he knew darn well this was coming.

Connie: Um?? How was any of that supposed to not make me worry?

Connie: Are you okay?

Connie: Steven? ???

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 7:02 am.

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 7:04 am.

Connie: Pls call me when you can

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 7:51 am.

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 8:47 am.

Connie: Seriously I’m kinda freaking out rn what’s going on over there, I’d come over as backup if I could but I’m packing for the India trip and mom won’t let me leave

He purses his lips, silently smacking himself for sending that stupid, stupid text early this morning in the first place. “Yeah, I should probably clear this up,” he mumbles.

Steven swipes to unlock his phone, navigates to Connie’s contact, and presses the video chat button. Forget calls. This is definitely a scenario in need of face-to-face communication. If they can’t be in the same place at the same time, a video chat is the second best thing.

He plops himself down in the sand, and patiently waits through the first and second dial.

____

Notes:

Woo, this was a fun one (see: heart wrenching) to write. I enjoyed tackling a wide variety of family interactions here.

Some random notes for this chapter:

-HC: while Pearl hates eating, she's actually a fairly good cook. She's the one who makes sure Steven's getting some good ol' healthy food in him.

-Uhh, that game Steven was gonna play before he realized his phone was Dead with a capital D, 'Splashy Shark,' is just this universe's version of Flappy Bird, honestly. Don't ask why, haha, I thought it'd be amusing. XD

-I HC that non-diamond type Gems wouldn't be able to flip their gemstone like Pink/Rose/Steven can. It's something that requires a whole lot of power to carry out. Thus why even Amethyst, the shapeshifting master, can't manage it. As an added point, Rose was able to shift the color of her skin to a far lighter shade and completely change her eyes, whereas other Gems tend to retain their color scheme when they shapeshift. Rose definitely had an extra strong shapeshifting ability in the first place.

-After chapter five, the insinuation is that Garnet went into the temple, unfused, and Ruby and Sapphire had their little falling out there. They only fused again to come out for breakfast because they realized Garnet never got a chance to hug Steven goodbye for now- and they weren't sure when (if ever) they'd be fusing again. Whether this softened the blow or made it worse for the kid is up for debate.

-That being said, I want to clarify that this definitely isn't the end of Ruby and Sapphire's relationship. I'll tag more thoroughly once I start diving into specifics, but their arcs will be about self discovery, both about who they are as individuals and in relation to each other.

-I did not expect to end up writing a Pearl and Amethyst spat in this chapter when I first planned it, but I'm certainly not complaining. It just sorta... organically happened. XD

-The title of this fic actually has a double meaning... the word 'paragon' can refer to both a diamond, or something that is an example of perfection. The divergence in this world led to Steven's gem being cracked, but it also essentially shattered the perfect little family dynamic that he'd had for so long at this point.

#su #steven universe #su fanfiction #su fanfic #crack the paragon #garnet #amethyst #pearl #greg universe #ruby #sapphire #my writing stuff #i swear if this doesn't show up in the friggin tags... *grumble grumble*

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drink-n-watch · 5 years ago

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Welcome back one and all. Have you been looking forward to this week’s Demon Slayer? We were right in the middle of a deadly fight after all. Sort of an awkward place to leave things. I know I wanted to see the conclusion. How about you Crow?

Absolutely (I say in bold print)! And — I don’t think is a spoiler or anything — we even get a brief replay of the final moments of the battle. In case we forgot. True to form!

Where are my manners… As always, I will be having the pleasure of discussing this episode with my friend Crow of Crow’s World of Anime and of course all of you! Not that there’s all that much to spoil, but we’re going to go into the episode in some detail, so if you haven’t seen it yet and don’t want to be spoiled, I suggest you tab out for half an hour or so and go watch it, Crow and I will wait. Also, I’m in plain text this week!

Are you proud of me Crow? I finally learned how to put all the proper disclaimers at the beginning of posts!

You can’t hear, but I’m clapping in appreciation. I knew you could do it!

I can hear it in my heart

Episode 9 wasted no time, we were brought straight back to Tanjiro and Yahaba

desperately trying to murder each other. I thought Yahaba was an interesting character, or at least potentially interesting. You know — interesting design, interesting power the creepy calm cryptic type. Triple C! But well, it turns out he was already done for! Were you hoping to see more of him, Crow?

Perceptive question! Yes, I was. There were hints of character richness there, to the point where I expected him to not be dead. It was only when his skull began to actually disintegrate that I figured yep, he’s dying.

awww man, that’s gonna leave a mark

I’m not sure exactly how it works but I’m assuming the water that Tanjiro summons is considered an extension of his blade since it could kill a demon. Did we get an explanation?

Not that I saw, but I agree with your theory. His sword’s water effects must be an extension of the blade, at least insofar as it affects demons. Back in episode 7, we saw his water powers rip the two under water (well, under swamp) demons apart, and they stayed dead. So I guess it’s the same thing?

I thought it was because they were shades maybe?

Despite get summarily dispatched, Yahaba actually managed to put up quite a fight for the few seconds he was still standing (well, less standing and more lying about evaporating…). I quite liked the aftermath. Like isn’t the right word. Seeing Tanjiro barely able to move from exhaustion and injury after his fight, just laying on the ground wheezing, went a long way to drive the impact of the confrontation home. I could almost feel it along with Tanjiro and what I felt was a great deal of relief with a sprinkle of pity and melancholy.

Wasn’t that great? So often, heroes walk away from a battle with a cut or a scrape. Tanjiro got pummeled, and he looked it. Were you impressed by how dedicated he was to getting to the other side of the compound where his sister and new friends were fighting? He took the sword in his teeth because his arms were too tired. Kinda reminded me of Violet Evergarden!

ok!

But of course, that was just half the story. Over on the other side of the grounds, the rest of them were trying to deal with Susamaru. I was a bit confused as to why Tanjiro was so panicked about this. Sure, Susamaru is very strong, but hadn’t they determined that she was weaker than Yahaba? And these were 3 demons she was dealing with. Then I remembered that Neuko was seriously injured, Tamayo seems to be a non-combatant, and my favourite Yushiro just grew back his head. Yeah…there may be some trouble there.

As happy as I was to see Nezuko alive and kicking(ha!) again, I have to say completely healing her off camera like that felt like a cop-out. Not only does it seem that she instantly recovered, but she can now kick those tamari without losing a foot, for… reasons. That’s a bit convenient wouldn’t you say, Crow?

If I had to point to one serious disappointment in this episode, it was that moment. You’re right! And as evidence, remember how Yushiro freaked out in the previous episode when Nezuko even looked like she was going to try to kick the ball? Sure, Tamayo said her serum gave Nezuko a power boost without human blood, but it seemed pretty dang convenient.

Though you’re also right about something else: Their soccer footwork!

just try to get one past me!

I liked that lightening of the mood by turning a battle for survival into soccer practice, it was a cute scene.

It was interesting seeing Susamaru gaining respect for Nezuko’s footwork!

Despite the fact that things seemed to be going quite well, Tamayo was worried. We learned two important facts. 1) Nezuko is gaining strength at a prodigious rate, especially considering she’s never eaten human flesh (allegedly) and 2) Susamaru was quite literally toying with them and Neuko wouldn’t stand a chance against her real strength. And so it was time for a grown-up to step in.

that hir is so perfect

Tamayo has been playing it coy. Standing back and acting very delicate. But she hasn’t survived all this time in defiance of Kibutsuji because she’s anything resembling weak. Her poise, power and words ripped through the unfortunate demon before she could realize what was happening. And those words struck a chord with me as well. Crow, do you think Tamayo was just trying to get under her opponent’s skin or was there some truth to that story of Kibutsuji living in fear? If so, it makes the character even more interesting!

There’s a lot to decompress from that moment, isn’t there? First, Tamayo has really impressed me. What a tragic character who chooses not to wallow in that tragedy but decides instead of fight in her own way to rid the world of a terrible evil. That’s noble stuff! Yes, I think she was trying to get under Susamaru’s skin (and doing an admirable job of it!), but I think there’s some truth to what she was saying. Remember in episode 8 where Kibutsuji was able to shrug off plain rudeness, but lost his temper completely when the poor drunk dude quested his unhealthy appearance? There was something driving that reaction, and I think it might have been an almost paranoid level of fear.

Good point…he did hate being called sick… hhmmm…

he’s afraid of responsibility!

Turns out the blood spell Tamayo was casting activated the Kibutsuji demon cells in Susamaru’s body and essentially destroyed her from within. Visually it was a visceral scene and possibly the most gruesome to date. It’s going to stick with me. And Tamayo calmly explaining that she had never been one of the 12 demon moons because she didn’t have a number on her eyeball, while pointing to sais stray eyeball on the floor, certainly didn’t make it any less gruesome!

[ A question: Was it merely Tamayo’s spell, or was there actually a curse from Kibutuji, where if a demon speaks his name, his cells within them rip them apart? Wasn’t Tamayo’s goal to goad her into speaking the name? I think that’s what I got from Tamayo’s description…]

I do know Kibutsuji’s curse gives him control over those who have his blood ad his cells eventually kill them. Didn’t they mention something about him keeping his identity secret and therefore making it impossible for other demons to give him away. That’s why the teeth grinding guy was so panicked a few episodes ago. I’m guessing that basically extends to speaking his name out loud. That’s how I’m taking it… I guess he is very paranoid!

Crow thought we should take his questions out but it’s good

Was that horrifying and pitiable all at the same time or what? The two demons had been deluded into thinking they were powerful and on the inside with the demon they revered, but nope.

In the end, Susamaru went like all the major demons have gone so far. Small, scared and pathetic. A lost child who ended up and a very wrong path. I understand why they are setting up this moral dilemma, trying to build up sympathy for the demons, but can’t we just have one of them that’s an actual bad guy? At this rate, I’m going to end up having a really difficult time cheering for the Demon Slayer Army.

Tanjiro’s parting words here were the final nail in the coffin (um sorry, poor choice of expression). There is no salvation to be had for demons. Their sins are too great, the burdens upon their souls cannot be lifted. A tragic realization that is sure to make Tanjiro even more eager to find a cure for Nezuko.

how?

I continue to like Tanjiro’s reactions. His push to understand puts him at odds with most of the other demon slayers we’ve met. At odds with the demons, too. He’s doing his own thing and he’s trying to maintain his core humanity at the same time. Tough balancing act.

You’d think that with those intense battles out of the way and all the useful exposition we got, the episode would be basically over. Nothing left but a quick, sweet wrap up to tie everything together in a nice little bow and send the audience away with a smile on their faces, ready for episode 11. In a way, it did exactly that! But it also did much more.

It was my favourite part of the episode.

Oh! Oh! I’m looking forward to this, because it was my favorite part, too! Go on!

all the cuteness

My two favourite characters are Yoshiro (because I love comedy relief and a proper foil character) and Nezuko (because I’m predictable). They both played important roles in this part. Yoshiro’s various intensely exasperated faces at getting patted on the head by Neuko, or at the horror of potentially taking Nezuko with them, were so much fun to watch. By contrast, the mundanely painful sight of seeing him wasting away from disease brought all the death we’ve been seeing back down to a terrifyingly relatable level.

What Irina didn’t tell you is that Tanjiro joined the other three in the basement after he’d finished with his vigil to watch Susamaru finally turn to ash. As soon as he entered, Nezujo ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. A perfect “awwwww!” moment. Then, she ran back down the hall and did the same thing to Tamayo! Even better, she patted Yushiro on the head! There was almost too much adorable in the room at that point!

awwwww indeed

For her part, Nezuko seems to almost be taking advantage of the suggestion she’s under. Relishing in seeing her family again. Overflowing with love for everyone in the room. Of course, the interesting part is that Tamayo and Yoshiro are not in fact human at all. But she’s decided to see them as such and therefore as part of the family. Which begs the question, how much is imposed suggestion, how much is willful self-delusion?

I really liked that Tanjiro finally addressed the question directly and acknowledged that he was uncomfortable with the situation as well, but that he’s accepted it because it seems that Nezuko has retained her free will. Thank You! That makes me feel so much better for some reason. Now we can all move on!

That free will bit? That was everything. It seemed to me that Nezuko is capapulting her mind off delusion into a greater truth: that Tamayo and Yushiro, by virtue of their choices, are in fact part of her family. It makes them human in the sense of members of the human community. I love that message!

when the lies are so sweet….

Tamayo and Yoshiro will be leaving town out of precaution, and Tamayo invites Neuko to join them, as they will know how to take care of her. Yoshiro is the one to watch in this scene. Despite acknowledging the wisdom of the offer, the siblings decide to stick together and Neuko runs out the door. Just as Tanjiro s about to run after her, Yoshiro calls him back and staying with his back to Tanjiro the entire time, admits that his little sister is a real beauty.

How adorable was that moment?

Very, very adorable! And did you see who drove the decision for them to stay together? Tanjiro wavered. He wants her to be safe as desperately as he wants her to stay beside him! But Nezuko took his hand and gave him a look that spoke volumes. It’s as articulate as I’ve seen her be so far!

that face!

If I remember correctly, Zenitsu was your favourite right Crow? Want to tell us about the closing scene?

Cool — thanks! Zenitsu is among my favorite characters in this series — and the list is growing! But, poor Zenitsu! Tanjiro’s on his way to his next assignment — his Crow being a real pest like only we Crows can be — when both of them stop because they hear this tearful voice. It’s Zenitsu! He’s begging this bewildered and disgusted girl to marry him because he could die at any time!

Zenitsu needs to work on his communication skills…

Where was his birdy?

Few away in embarrassment?

good guess

And another great episode down. Demon slayer has been consistently entertaining and does not seem to be losing momentum at all. I wish Tamayo and Yushiro could have stuck around a bit longer but I bet we’ll see them again. Any closing thoughts?

Isn’t Tanjiro supposed to gather tissue samples for Tamayo? Shouldn’t he have her forwarded address or something? Other than that, I’m still thinking of Tamayo’s tears as Nezuko hugged her!

Previous episode reviews

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 01: Cruelty

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 02: Crow will protect me

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 03: Sabito and Makomo

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 04: Final Selection

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 05: My Own Steel

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 06: A Friend fo All Humans

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 07: Muzan Kibutsuji

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 08: The Smell of Enchanting Blood

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 09: It’s a Whole New Ballgame

Hooray for more pictures!

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba Episode 10 – A Friendly Game of Kickball Welcome back one and all. Have you been looking forward to this week’s Demon Slayer? We were right in the middle of a deadly fight after all.

#action #anime #Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba #Horror #shonen #supernatural

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harpsichord-canvas · 6 years ago

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[archive] highly late "top 5 of 2016" list

Yes yes, I know. It's March. But I thought this would be a good introduction to this blog. Both personally as a way to practice and for a reader to gain an idea of what kind of music I'm into. This was also an enjoyable peace for me to write in retrospect. I'll keep the write ups for each album brief merely touching the surface and highlighting certain songs or moments which add to what made these so notable and important to me.

5. Nicolas Jaar - Sirens

The reason for this albums inclusion in my end of year list can be summarised in as single word; 'atmosphere'. In honesty my first reaction at the beginning of the album was to check the connections on my headphones before that initial shattering outburst that leaves a trail of cascading piano arpeggios in its wake, a moment that would similarly leave a trail of goosebumps down my spine. The minimalist approach to the opening track is immediately contrasted in 'The Governor' which features noisy and visceral drum beats alongside chaotic saxophone lines which warble there way around on top. For the next three track these feeling are explored and built upon with such some wonderfully composed beats, moments of desolation and bilingual lyricism. The album finishes with the infectiously catchy 'History Lesson' where Jaar sings about humanities repeated mistakes throughout history in the form of chapters in a book which all builds up to a triumphant breakdown of soaring manipulated vocals. 'Sirens' also gets my praise for having the most interesting artwork and packaging of any physical release I picked up last year with its blank scratchcard preface that can be erased to reveal the photo of Nicolas' fathers artwork on display in Times Square. The visual piece by Alfredo Jaar entitled 'A Logo for America' focuses on the modern ethnocentrism of the United States and the oft forgotten history of South America, a theme which also resonates throughout this album.

4. Radiohead - A Moon Shaped Pool

It's not often that an album reaches the levels of hype that surrounded Radiohead's anticipated "LP9". I was consistently somewhere near this congregation of excited fans adding in my wild speculations to the upcoming album of possibly my favourite band of all time and the first band I fell in love with (there's a story behind that I'll maybe explain some other time). I remember vividly when the album finally leaked, loading the album up on my phone and going out for a walk with my dog for the first listen. As the album ventured out of the tension of 'Burn the Witch' and the spacious beauty of 'Daydreaming' into the uncharted territory of 'Decks Dark' I was approaching the top of the hill behind my house, the sun was setting and by the time the chorus hit I knew it had been worth the wait. This album has , An underappreciated aspect of the album is in my opinion the lyricism on track six, 'Glass Eyes'. The words describe the disembarking of a train into an unfamiliar environment, perhaps a new stage of life, and the anxiety that inevitably comes with it. Its noted how when we are presented with these new and uncomfortable paths it can be all to easy just to slip back into old ways. This appears to be the option the character in this song opts for as Thom continues to describe a train winding its way through a landscape, in which his input is unnecessary. He doesn't know nor care where he is being led, just content to drift effortlessly through life. The song ends with the simple line "I feel this love to the core" which, when combined with the luscious instrumentation, can be frankly overwhelming. This cripplingly sad lyricism is present throughout and is often stated bluntly to great effect. There's nothing all that new within this album but rather it is a culmination of all there past adventures with obvious influences from all stages of their career. I really hope this isn't the last we hear from Radiohead but I'd be content with this as the bookend to one of the greatest discographies in rock music history. (On a lighter note, I'm finally seeing them live this summer and I can't wait!)

3. Pinegrove - Cardinal

It was at this point in the arranging of the list that things became really difficult for me. These top three are all within a thread's width of each other and the order in which I place can change depending on situation or mood. Had you mentioned the band Pinegrove to me at the beginning of the year you would of been met with a blank face. It was only upon the release of this album that I gave them my initial listen and for the first time in a while I was instantaneously hooked on a bands music. Lead singer Evan Stephen Hall has a talent for writing memorable vocal melodies which are perfectly delivered in that unique country flare his voice he possesses. The album begins and ends with the contrasting songs 'Old Friends' and 'New Friends'. The infectiously catchy former serves as a reminder to not take the loved ones who surround you for granted. In the final song however the writer finds them self isolated, after neglecting friendships they grew stale and now he is left on his own. What takes place in between could allude to the reasons for this with stories of social anxiety and failed relationships. I can't really overstate just how listenable these tracks are with there relatable lyrics that flow so easily off the tongue. In the past year I have had the pleasure of seeing them live twice with a noticable increase in the size of crowd only over a short period of time and have high hopes for the future of the band. I am eagerly anticipating what they can come up with for their following album. I personally hope to see an ambitious step up with a longer tracklisting of varied and thematically intriguing topics but I'd also be happy just to have a new set of wonderful tunes to drunkenly sing along to.

2. Frank Ocean - Blonde

I noted how few albums could reach the anticipation levels of 'A Moon Shaped Pool' but after four years of waiting since the universally acclaimed 'Channel Orange', Frank Ocean had it beaten. This album may have rubbed certain fans up the wrong way on initial listens. Compared to Frank's previous efforts this album is notably more stripped back in terms of production with drums often totally absent in tracks. However to me this adds to delicate nature of this album that oozes with class and grow further upon me with every spin. A prime example of this stripped back approach is the song 'Solo' where he details, with scarily vivid imagery, an acid trip where he envisions "a bull and a matador duelling in the sky" over nothing but a gently drifting chord progression. This album just has a bountiful collection of memorable moments spread throughout the hour long duration. To name but a few the gorgeous clean guitar work in 'Self Control', when the beat switches in 'Nights', the surprise entrance of Andre 3000 to the beautifully poignant outro of 'White Ferrari' that brought out the allergy excuses in the majority of fans. Despite reaching such heights of fame though this album is still authentically Frank's work with fearless decision making to strip back the production while featuring some largely experimental moments like the noisy sound collage which rounds off the album. By that point I always find myself in a near delirious state and it comes as a comfort to just let the abstract collections of sound wash you down. Overall if it takes four years to produce an album of this calibre then every one the countless delays was worth it. Despite being less than a year old is deservedly a modern classic in many eyes, an accolade which I'm sure will only become more cemented with time.

1. Car Seat Headrest - Teens of Denial

The point that finally made me settle on this as my number one album of the year was the play count which is far and away above the rest to the stage where I know every word to heart. Everytime I left the house to go to a lecture I found this as my go to soundtrack and would have have to restrain myself from singing refrains out loud in the street. But amongst these potently catchy hooks and riffs lies some truly incredible examples of creative songwriting. Front man Will Toledo is no stranger to intimate transparency in his lyricism but I still found myself taken aback as he so openly conveys the motions of his emotional breakdowns to the listener. In an age where we still struggle to openly discuss issues of mental health it's so refreshing to find a public figure who is willing to put his life on display like he does through this album. A prime example of this is presented in the anthemic 'Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales'. In this centerpiece Will recalls experiences of his younger self getting blackout drunk before driving home from a party, a dark and tabooed past which most adults would carry as a secret to their grave. Instead it is used as a lesson to encourage listeners to listen to the voices of reason in similar situations and put aside these selfish and reckless thoughts. If you were still somehow unsure of Will's writing ability following the former half of the album then any remaining doubt will be thrown away following track ten, 'The Ballad of the Costa Concordia'. This incredibly grandeur and lengthy track can be broken down into three sections. In the first he discusses his own personal experiences with depression with a slowly declining enthusiasm for life. This portion acts as a hugely effective build up to the second part in which he breaks down hopelessly letting free a chain of thoughts about his inability to deal with adult life, reaching a climactic point with simple shouts of defeat and surrender. The song then continues to detail depression but far less on the introspective level but instead addressing society as a whole and all the while these lyrics are skillfully infused with references and analogies comparing his own life to the fate of the Costa Concordia, the luxury cruise ship which capsized of the coast of Italy following a collision with a submerged rock. As a final note this songwriting is backed up with a an approach which is distinctly lacking in modern rock music. A lot of beauty in classic albums lies in the imperfections and raw production style and I wish producers would learn from this album and make the choice to not compress the life out of every instrument in their arsenal. I have only touched upon what I love about this album but I sincerely hope you can take a listen yourself and understand why it is my choice for album of the year 2016.

Honourable Mentions

Jeff Rosenstock - WORRY.

Bon Iver - 22, a million

Parquet Courts - Human Performance

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anoutlandishfanfic · 7 years ago

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SOM AU: Part Eleven: Not While I’m Around

You can find previous chapters here.

June 17th, 2016 Lallybroch. Claire

“What did you do?”

“Where did you eat?”

“Did you miss us terribly?!”

A chorus of excited questions swirled around Jamie and I the moment we stepped onto the terrace, forcing me to set aside the worries over my husband’s military orders for a moment or two. Maggie and Joan nearly tackled me in their attempt to welcome me at the same time and a laugh burst from my lips, much to my own surprise.

Maybe there would be a way to stay together.

“Mama Claire! Mama Claire!” Maggie tugged at my arm and I swept her up into my arms, my heart singing. She rested her head on my shoulder with a contented sigh, commenting, “I like calling you mama.”

“And I like hearing it,” I murmured past a lump in my throat, smiling down at her and the joyous faces of my children. It was official now and they were finally mine. They all pressed against each other and leaned into me, all trying to occupy the same space. Swallowing hard, I inquired, “What have you been up to while we were gone?”

Little Joan answered, beaming up at me as she held onto a fistful of my skirt, “We’ve been practicing!”

“Have you?” My brows rose in surprise, “What have you been practicing, love?”

“Our songs for the concert!”

“The what?” Jamie’s voice now added to the clamor. It was just at this moment that Ian entered the terrace, his approach masked by the children’s uproar, and Jamie turned to his closest friend and brother-in-law with a wry sort of grimace. “I suppose this is your doing.”

Ian grinned, placing a hand on my elbow in welcome, “On the contrary! Mother Hildegard had recruited them long before I had a chance to. Why didn’t you tell me they had such lovely voices, Jamie? That song they sang at the wedding was absolutely angelic.”

“Mother Hildegard?” Jamie’s gaze now turned to me.

In the busyness of planning the wedding, I’d completely forgotten about L’Hopital’s annual benefit, which was always the eighteenth of June.

“But that’s tomorrow!” I exclaimed, my stomach clenching.

“Delightful timing, isn’t it?” Ian’s eyes took on an impish gleam as he winked at me. “They’ve everything they need and they already know the songs. Just think of it! They’ll be the grand finale! Seven children in one family… and now they’re the heart’s delight of one of L’Orphelinat very own! A happy ending, if there ever was one.”

“No,” Jamie shook his head, his voice firm, prompting an uprising of dismay from the children. “They willna be singing tomorrow.”

“Oh, but we’ve been practicing all day, Father!” Marsali wailed.

He silenced her with a look, then, gesturing towards the house with a jerk of his head, asked of Ian, “A word with ye, aye?”

Ian registered my drawn features for the first time and nodded solemnly, following Jamie back the way we’d come. Ellen picked up on the growing tension and met my gaze, her eyebrows furrowing in a silent question she’d been raised not to ask aloud.

What’s going on?

I gave her a weak smile in answer and she nudged Brian who, always hungry, suggested we find a snack.

“It’s nearly time for dinner, sweet,” I reminded him. “But that’s not a half bad idea. Why don’t you all get cleaned up and then maybe you can show me what you’ve been working on.”

They all readily agreed to this and we set off together towards the house.

…

I found the men in the library, sharing a healthy dram of whiskey as they hatched a plan… one I refused to enact.

“No,” I stated defiantly as they tried to convince me of its merits. “We are not remaining behind.”

“I have to go,” Jamie wearily tried to explain, his hand reaching out pleadingly for mine.

I took it instantly to stem any further justification for splitting up the family, as well as out of an urgent need to touch him, to be near him.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t go with you.”

He shook his head. “That would only place you and the children in danger. It’s me he wants.”

“I very much doubt that,” my throat constricted as I thought of the man who had stood before me not an hour before. “He won’t stop until he has the both of us back under his control and you know it.”

I felt Jamie flinch, his visceral reaction a jolt of fear running from his body into mine. He must have caught the tone of near panic in my voice, for pulled me closer and onto his lap.

“Aye, I ken it well,” he murmured into my neck as I held onto him tightly, “but you are safest here at home.”

“You are my home.”

I slid my eyes shut as he leaned back into the deep, leather chair with a heavy sigh, taking me with him.

“Sorcha…”

“Don’t ask me to forsake my vow to you, James Fraser,” I pleaded, pressing hips against him, my hand over his heart. His pulse was erratic as mine was, but we both slowed into sync as I murmured, “Where you go, I will go and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die and there I will be buried…”

I won’t let even death separate you from me.

“Be it so,” Jamie finished when I could not, his voice low with a sincerity and earnestness that came from deep within his heart, “or may the Lord punish me greatly.”

He kissed me then, taking the very breath from my lungs. I didn’t know what it would mean, or where we would go, but it would be together… or not at all.

A delicate cough came from the room’s only other occupant and yanked us from our reverie.

“If we can get you to France,” Ian interrupted, a wide grin on his face with a hint of moisture in his eyes, “I think we might be able to pull it off.”

…

Dinner was a tense and solemn affair, even with Ian present. The children all knew something was afoot and it made them revert to all of the habits I’d worked so hard to break them of. Brian egged Marsali on to the point of armageddon, which set Ellen on their case and made her snap at Maggie for spilling her milk, which in turn ruffled Willie’s feathers and promptly sent Joan into a fit of nervous tears.

Seeing that they were all to the point of near hysterics, I suggested, “I think it might be time for me to take the children upstairs, Jamie.”

He looked up absently from his food and nodded, silently dismissing us all from the table before returning to his meal. How he had any appetite at all was beyond me. I gladly left my plate behind in favor of the sanctuary of the children’s rooms. We all filed out and made our way to the stairs as quickly as possible, none of us wanting to linger in the room where stiff formalities and unspoken dangers hovered near.

Teeth were brushed and faces washed in the usual efficiency, but once in their pajamas, all sense of normalcy evaporated. Maggie took hold of my hand as I tried to leave their room to check on the boys, digging in her heels and forcing me to stop dead in my tracks.

“I don’t want you to go!”

I looked down at her in concern, “I’m not going anywhere, love. Just stepping across the hall for a moment. I’ll come right back to read you a story.”

“No!” she dissolved into tears on the spot.

Alarmed, I caught sight of Marsali standing in the doorway, looking very much like she was ready to go to war with the entire world. Her hair free of its usual bonds and her arms crossed firmly, she was a force to be reckoned with.

“What’s going on?” I swallowed hard as I picked up the wailing four year old and asked of her sister, “What’s wrong?”

My fears raced ahead of me, imagining the worst had happened while Jamie and I were way… and Randall was here.

“Father got his orders, didn’t he?” Marsali jaw clenched as she tipped it up in defiance.

My heart sank as I remembered that this had happened to them several times before. Jamie would receive word and be gone for months at a time, returning without warning and often in a mood that the children dreaded. He’d be dissatisfied with anything and everything they did and the smallest things could send him into a funk that would last days on end.

I nodded and Joan joined Maggie in her tears. I hadn’t a clue as to what to say. Jamie and I hadn’t discussed how much of our plan we’d tell the children and I could never lie to them.

The truth in its simplest form would be my assurance.

Sinking to my knees and reaching out to her, Joanie ran to me. Marsali was slow to follow, but follow she did, and I soon had all three of them in my embrace. Knowing without looking that Ellen, Jenny, Willie, and Brian had taken their place in the doorway. I spoke softly, but confidently.

“We will stay together.”

…

Jamie met me in the hallway. His eyes came alive as I padded softly out of Joan and Maggie’s room.

“Asleep?”

“Mmm,” one corner of my mouth lifted in a tired smile, “only just.”

He stepped forward and swept me up off of my feet, into his arms. It took me by surprise but I didn’t object, choosing instead to bury my face in his neck and melt into him. The bergamot and amber of his cologne mingled with a deeper, richer scent that I could only describe as his and I sighed as the balm of his nearness permeated into the core of my very soul.

We moved silently down the hallway and my pulse quickened as I realized we were headed to the master bedroom. My head knew that I would not be returning to my own room, which was on the other end of the wing, and that my belongings were now arranged with his, but my heart hadn’t quite fully realized just what exactly what this would all mean.

Our room.

Jamie paused and shifted me slightly as he turned the knob and nudged the door open. This accomplished, he looked down at me.

“Come to bed with me?” he murmured, a low hush that matched the desire in his eyes.

My lips hovered above his, my breath catching as warmth began to spread across my cheeks.

“To bed… or to sleep?”

A low chuckle rumbled through him and I had my answer. He eased us into the room, turning so I could shut the door with my feet. The click of the latch sent a thrill through me and I felt it’s echo in Jamie, a magnetic sensation that drew his lips to mine. We met with an electrical shock that ignited something within me that I hadn’t experienced the night before.

I had wanted him then, but I needed him now.

I opened my mouth to his and pulled him closer, my fingers grasping at the nape of his neck. This primal, overwhelming hunger for him was as exhilarating as it was foreign, a sensation unknown and one I eagerly submitted to. Jamie turned me in his arms and the floodgates opened as I felt the bed materialize beneath me. My back arched, my hips searching for his as I tugged at the hem of my dress, easing it from between us. His trousers now shed, Jamie climbed onto the the bed with a low groan and ushered me into the center of the enormous mattress. He kissed my neck, a quiver of delight running through him as he realized I wasn’t wearing anything to hinder him beneath the crumpled folds of my cotton sundress.

“Why, Mrs Fraser,” he purred, “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

I sighed as he settled his weight onto his elbows, “On the contrary, it was intentional.”

He lifted his head, his eyes bright with laughter as he moved to brush a stray curl out of my eyes, but suddenly froze. His brow furrowed as he slowly reached out his hand to pluck something out from between the pillows. He instantly dropped it onto the bed like a hot coal and yanked me away from it, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process. I cried out in pain and frustration, confused as to why he’d do such a thing, but then I saw — and smelled — what he had.

It was a lace sachet of lavender.

My stomach rolled and my head spun at the fragrance as I scrambled right over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Jamie was at my side in an instant, but it wasn’t him that I felt when he placed a hand on my arm. I jerked free, digging my heels into the plush carpet as I recoiled, moving a full body’s length away from him before I even realized what I was doing. I shook my head, trying to find my real surroundings amid the mirage around me. I kept moving, sliding my back along the solid framework of the wall until Jamie stopped me.

His bulk kept me from smashing into a large, wooden trunk, but his touch didn’t linger as he demanded, “Tell me what you see, Sorcha.”

My heart beat wildly in my chest and I could hardly breathe, let alone speak. I shook my head desperately, but he insisted.

Tell me what you can see.

I saw my quarters on base.

I saw the supply closet shelves.

I saw the stark, white walls of the exam room.

I saw nothing at all.

“No,” I choked out.

Jamie moved closer, his warm, solid presence bumping against my legs as I hugged them tightly to my chest. His chin settled on my knees, his nose barely an inch from mine. I blinked once, twice, and tried to focus on the face before me instead of the one ingrained in my memory.

“What do you see, a nighean?”

I swallowed hard, hiccuping, “You.”

“Good,” he crooned. “What do you feel?”

My hands and feet were numb as I sat there, gasping for air. I moved them slowly and tried to regain some semblance of tactile function, but had very little success. Jamie took hold of my hands, bringing them to his lips, clasping them against his heart.

“What can you feel?”

His heart beat beneath my palm, it's rhythm quick but sure. Each pulse came at steady intervals and tugged at mine to do the same, guiding me out of my abject terror and into a hazy fog of disorientation.

“You,” I gulped, tramping down the urge to pull away and tried to mimic his patterns of inhaling and exhaling. I let out a shuddering sigh as he pulled me into his arms, cradling me gently against his chest.

“What do you smell?” came his next question and I was calm enough now to know what he was doing.

He was grounding me.

I’d witnessed the technique in triage, but never thought to use it myself. With each sense, he was pulling me away from the chaos inside my head and securing me to something that was not connected to my demons. He became my anchor, the point to fixate on as I fought to regain control of my body.

“That bloody lavender.”

He flinched and I knew it’d had a similar effect on him, though he’d managed to keep his wits about him.

“Tis gone,” he assured me hastily, his thumb gently stroking my cheek, “I threw it out the window.”

Good.

“He was here,” I murmured rather unnecessarily. “In our home — in our room, Jamie — and he’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you report, I know it.”

His arms tightened around me, “Aye, mo chridhe.”

“Do you think the plan will work?”

“It must,” he vowed, “for I willna let him have his way.”

Pressing my cheek against his chest, I tried to find Jamie’s usual warmth. His body temperature was always higher than mine it seemed, but we were both chilled to the point of trembling just now, our hearts cold at the prospect of facing our attacker once again.

“You’re shivering,” Jamie mumbled into my neck, his lips cold against my skin.

“You aren’t much warmer.”

He managed a smile as he brought the both of us to our feet, leading me around the bed and through an enormous closet. His head turned to scan the clothing as we passed and he paused only a moment to whisk two plush robes from their place. An open doorway brought us into the biggest bathroom I’d ever seen. It boasted a full sized tub, next to which he deposited the robes. To call it a bathtub really wasn’t doing it justice, for it was nearly as large as a swimming pool.

Jamie perched me on the edge of it as he let go of my hand for only a moment, flicking on the water and pouring in a healthy amount of soap from a small vial as he did so. I steeled myself, knowing that most bath soaps contained at least a hint lavender, but was completely undone by the overwhelmingly soothing scent of chamomile and honey instead.

He brought me back up to my feet and began to unbutton my dress, slipping the sleeves over my shoulders and pulling his own shirt up over his head. Jamie’s hands slid over my hips, pulling me close for a kiss that began to loosen every knot inside of me. We came apart only long enough to step into the tub and lowered as one into the rising water.

I climbed onto his lap once he’d moved into a comfortable position and his strong arms wrapped around me, not allowing for even a breath of space to come between us.

“Warmer or cooler, a nighean?”

“Warmer,” I murmured, my lips brushing against his neck as I pressed my cheek against his broad shoulder.

He reached out and adjusted the water’s temperature, guiding it into perfection before taking something from the array of bottles on the side of the tub. I heard him squeeze some of the contents into his hands and warm it between them. Gently massaging it into my skin, he started at my shoulders and slowly worked his way down my back. I relaxed under his touch and the thick scent of honey coated my senses. The safe, sweet fragrance lulled me into contented haze as Jamie turned off the water and a hush fell over the room. I slowly lifted my head and found his lips once more, the heat of his touch as intense as that of the water surrounding me. My arms slid from his shoulders, my hands traveling across his pectorals and around his ribs to pull him tighter against me.

“Sorcha,” he murmured. His gaze was as protective as it was passionate, his blue eyes fierce with a strength of will that attacked the strongholds of fear in my heart. “You’re safe.”

“For now,” I whispered hesitantly, the fog of suspended time thick around my head.

Jamie’s hands rose from the water to frame my face, his warm palms pressing against my cheeks. “No’ just for now, mo nighean donn… for always, I give you my word.”

A shiver ran down my spine as I shook my head slowly. He meant what he’d said and would protect the children and I at the cost of his life, I knew, but none of us were safe as long as Jack Randall was alive. It didn’t matter where we went or what we’d planned to do. From the dawn of tomorrow on, we were in danger.

“Randall willna hurt you again,” he vowed, nuzzling my ear and stilling my movements.

“No’ while I’m around, mo chridhe.”

#Outlander #outlander fanfic #sound of music au #som au #part eleven #not while i'm around

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brkfstfordinner · 6 years ago

Photo

words by Fred

[Au]

In its most refined form, in function and currency, music is no less valuable gold.

Growing up, I had pals but my best friends all either held mics and played instruments, or could be completely wiped from existence with a pencil eraser. I wasn’t their friend but they were certainly mine. Blink 182, Pepper Ann, Em, System of a Down, Missy Elliot, Doug, Nas, the Recess gang. And later along the way Kid Cudi, BoJack Horseman, Morty, Lincoln Park, Frank, Mac, Chano, Ye, Tyler, Gene and Louise Belcher. These guys all seemed to ‘get it’ more than most people I actually interacted with every day. They were with me in my room for hours starring at the ceiling after moms would hit the light switch, they were waiting for me every day when I got back home from school and they even occasionally provided a wide range of advice on how to approach not dying a virgin.

The mic holders, in particular, I think speak to us all in two main ways. When a song is relatable, it means listening to Bryson Tiller’s ‘Don’t Get Too High’ after a breakup and ugly-crying because your estranged girlfriend of 5 years is now a Veuve Clicquot savant and stores every nuance of the French champagne in the part of her brain where she used to house the memories you made together. This is the kind of music you don’t just listen to, you hear it. The songwriting, composition and delivery feel like the artist twisted the lid off your head open, reached into your brain, and used your thoughts to decorate their lyrics.

A song can also be aspirational. This means when Jay-Z boasts, “I have cars I haven’t seen in months… Niggas thought Hova was over, such dummies/ Even if I fell I’d land on a bunch of money,” you can’t quite relate because that isn’t your reality… But, you’re empowered because it makes you feel like it could be. It’s a transfer of energy that makes the dream of wealth, of beauty, of notoriety and abundance, depending on what you’re listening to, feel tangible, even if that feeling is only momentary. It keeps the hope of better days alive.

There is a third, less cerebral, more visceral level that music connects. You don’t just listen or hear it, you feel it; like a painting or photograph you see and are completely enamoured with but can’t explain why. When it hits, it feels something like Mr. T punching you repeatedly in the stomach, with all his finger-rings on and all of his might. It hurts sometimes but when it gets going, you don’t want it to stop. You can’t explain why you are compelled by it – it’s not always the subject matter, may not quite be the lyrics (if there are any at all), not specifically the melody – you just are. It is its own, almost spiritual language, manifesting itself through any sonic means you are willing to receive it; able to penetrate through all the barriers that separate us from one another. It consoles the inconsolable, it comforts the comfortless.

I happen to believe that the force that makes these fourth-dimension connections possible through art, exists as a raw element floating in the universe, almost in the same way a precious metal occurs in nature. Sure, it’s valuable and has the potential to spark a revolution but it is too unassuming in its natural state to reach most of us. It often needs a vessel that will translate its value before it can be consumed. In the case of a valuable metal like gold, that vessel is a process called extraction; while in the case of music, I believe, it is the sonically inclined who are connected to the universe, that become that vessel.

Bar Macedelic, which is sentimental to me for many reasons, Mac Miller’s Faces mixtape is my favourite of all his projects. From the beginning of his career, Mac always had drug references sprinkled across his music, in the “causal” way we’d known suburban white kids to dabble in the forbidden fruits. This might sound weird but it never occurred to me that he had a real problem until he was on his GO:OD AM media run over a year after the release of Faces and he spoke openly about his mental and physical condition during its recording, and eventually overdosing. Probably because even when Mac candidly and very specifically rapped things like “I've been to hell and back trying to get attached to my better half/ Never that, the smile’s so gone, so bring the coke on”, the delivery and attention to detail that carried these words were always so masterful that it didn’t seem consistent with the image you have in your head of an addict. Also, you never ever got the sense that Mac was glorifying the use of the stuff. It was always more like he was speaking openly about himself in the sometimes quirky, sometimes dark candour that he always did and drugs just happened to be a part of that reality. Insomnia, nostalgia, melancholy, space, Bill Murray, and euphoria were also parts of that microcosm. The bluntness never shocked me. If anything, it was consoling that here was this guy who was at the top of the world with access to everything and anything he could possibly fathom and yet, the degree of separation between us and him seemed minimal. He had the same questions about life than I did. But, he was processing all of it and fashioning it into something beautiful.

Here he was, essentially taking the universe’s proverbial ore and through the painstaking, emotionally and mentally exhausting process of creating (not unlike gold extraction), turning pain, love, uncertainty and all the raw materials he was interacting with in the universe into pure gold. For him, quite literally because it made him a fortune, but for me (and others) it was gold because it felt at times like it was necessary for my sanity. More than something nice to hear or look at, the product of this alchemy became a tool.

There is a high cost to those who allow themselves to be vessels for this kind of transcendent communication though. As human beings, we each have the profound capacity to feel intensely; love, regret, ecstasy, shame, sorrow. These emotions are often reactions to our experiences and need to be felt in order to emerge from them into a place of relative peace. In practice, many of us don’t exhaust our capacity to be present in our feelings because the cost is too high. It’s why we stop ourselves from loving as hard as we could. It’s why we’d rather front than confront that we’ve deeply hurt or been hurt by someone. It’s why we’d rather get dumb-wasted than deal with personal traits that make us feel shitty about ourselves. Being completely vulnerable is not only painfully crippling but also actively requires a lot of work.

Music that accesses this dimension is almost always the result of an artist aggressively exploring their full capacity to feel. They give themselves completely to their emotions, often at a personal expense, and let the results of that process bleed onto pieces of paper, through instrumentation and into microphones. It’s harrowing and traumatic and exhilarating and once the piece of art is complete, we are ecstatic to receive it and that’s where it ends for us (the consumer). Except, that’s not actually where it ends. Because after the lengthy, complex process that is the extraction of gold from rock ore, there is an industrial vessel that is left filled with all the impurities and by-products of the process. The muck and dirt that had to be gathered somewhere so that this timeless, valuable metal that literally builds (and destroys) economies and will be used for fashioning jewelry and shaping the electronic and aerospace industries, can exist. Whose job is it to attend to that vessel? To make sure that the wear and tear of the strenuous process is not causing it to corrode internally with each cycle? Who makes the call to maintenance to find out if the vessel has been serviced after the gold has been dispatched to buyers and we’ve moved on to focusing on the Pateks and satellites it’s been for? Or, as Kendrick so poignantly put it on ‘Feel’:

“I feel like the whole world wants me to pray for ‘em

But who the fuck praying for me?”

There isn’t much I could have personally done to help Mac. Even though one day he got on the piano and played a beautiful ballad for me in my living that got me to call mother when I was being a shitty son, or that he talked me into reminding myself who the fuck I was one afternoon when I almost abandoned a project I was passionate about, the reality is I didn’t know him. And he certainly had no idea who I was. But there are people around me who I can call or go see. There are people who I interact with every other day who are vessels for gold. And we should all make it our collective responsibility to not just admire shiny stuff but also really try to take care of each other holistically. Put a call in. Get a hug in. Be kinder to one another. Listen more.

Because we rob the world and ourselves of our gold when we don’t take care of each other.

Rest in Peace, Mac. Rest in Peace, Pro. Rest in Peace ,Sharpa. Rest in Peace, Sammy. Forever with us.

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mentalisttraceur-long · 2 years ago

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Real, capacity for it is an inevitable consequence of how the brain is implemented, both over- and under- reported, definitely culturally influenced.

Absolutely possible for brain to execute cognition flows which have more or less "crosstalk"/"mixing". Every brain does that to some extent. Lots of people's brains stumble upon it as a coping strategy for not having to experience certain unpleasant reactions to certain aspects of themselves or bad emotions or memories.

The less crosstalk (the more habitualized the neuron firings that suppress or avoid the crosstalk, and eventually that means dehabitualization as unused synapses that would do the crosstalk get pruned), the greater the possibility for partitioning of thought, emotion, introspection, and memory. If the partitioning is such that there is enough mind on each side, enough brain matter executing each flow, then the conscious experience within at least one of those flows is of having another entity who is neither under your conscious imaginative control nor simple enough to be best modeled as a non-mind.

Especially in the face of great suffering, especially early on in life when there's more plasticity and less long-established chronically used brain and mind patterns... well it would be so easy for the normal mental ability to not think about something awful, to dodge or jam memories with deliberate focus elsewhere, to get trained up until it is automatic, perhaps even before a full self-concept, theory of mind, and coherent conscious memories form.

A confounding variable is how you label and interpret your own cognition. For any given configuration and severity of partial partitioning, you could think of the stuff from the other side as you, but why? Well, in the "bona fide" DID cases there is usually a very simple and visceral "why not" answer: because it's unbearable, debilitating, or incompatible with functioning in the environment or among the people that made the split adaptive. But of course... brains do what they train. If you spend a lot of time, especially formatively, with it being more normal to model/conceptualize/describe parts of your internal experiences as separate entities, then you'll label more of the stuff at the edges of introspection as another mind, and you probably won't try as hard to introspect through those partitions, might not discover or notice the thoughts or experiences which let the cognition flows flow into each other more.

There is also a real chance a decent amount of us are closer to "multiple" than we believe, just so adaptively so that we have no reason to notice - after all, your brain can be executing a certain amount of cognition at any given time, more with persistent training. It's using some of that to implement you. Are you sure you're all of it? Maybe there's enough left over for another mind besides you. So long as you have enough uptime, (perception of) control, memory access, and ability to explain and predict yourself as one coherent entity, why would you even notice? It might just manifest itself as the occasional unbidden thought or epiphany or reliable intuitive gut feeling.

Certainly among people without even a hint of DID, some are partitioned very differently. Some of us have... different conscious scope, different degrees of awareness and visibility, different access to raw sensory experience versus interpreted emotionally lensed experience, different amounts of reliably useful intuition and perceptiveness which we cannot consciously explain.

Of course, it's not... free. Your brain can only do so much. If you're not burning at least twice the calories, you're probably not hosting three full humans' worth of cognition in parallel. But of course... all you know is your amount of cognition. Perhaps you presume we all have roughly the same amount. But let's say I have approximately half as much as you do in my conscious mind flow. Or vice versa, either way. How exactly would you know? How many examples of slightly worse thinking or worse situational awareness or subtly worse sensory processing or lower interpersonal competence or worse empathy would it take to make it obvious? And then how much of that difference is due to practice and training, or biological differences, or giving my brain not enough oxygen and food? How much of that is due to the edges beyond which we cannot introspect being tighter in one of us? And how much capacity is left behind those edges?

where’s the smart money on DID these days? culture-bound syndrome? universal thing? overreported? underreported?

from the outside, aspects of it seem to resemble recovered memory; but the idea that our identity is frangible and that brains do weird things in response to trauma does not seem theoretically unsound to me.

my own inclination is toward skepticism, but i can’t tell if that’s just because i find the language used to talk about it off-putting.

#cognition #link later #cognition habitualization

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heroes-of-your-heart · 7 years ago

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Present Mic, Katsuki, and Eraserhead with a transguy s/o who has mild insomnia, some self harm tenancies, and depression? I'm looking for comfort.

Hey anon, I did my best for ya.-Mod Martyr

Present Mic/ Hizashi

If you don’t take medication for the depression or insomnia, Mic is all for you seeing a doctor, cause he knows that, in some cases, meds can really help a guy out. He’ll also 100% clear his schedule to go to the appointment with you, if you want. Hizashi also gives 0 fucks about the stigma surrounding depression as a mental disorder. He’s there for you.

If you don’t want to take medications to help, Hizashi is still going to try and help you as much as possible. He may not understand that you aren’t ready to get that kind of help, but he’ll accept your decision. This man has his phone on vibrate 24/7 in case you text him feeling terrible. Hizashi has become a master of answering texts without being caught by his students or coworkers.

Once your relationship became serious, he gave you a key to his place. You’re encouraged to come over if you feel awful or can’t sleep. If you can’t muster up the energy, he’ll spend the night at your home instead, so you aren’t alone. Mic is very aware of how dangerous it can be to leave somebody with self harming inclinations and depression alone.

Lets face it, he’s probably woken up to get ready for work and found you sitting on his couch, half dead in a binder you’ve been wearing too long because you haven’t slept well in days/weeks. If this is the case, Hizashi will make you shower with him and give you a fresh set of way oversized clothes he has. He doesn’t even care if you want to steal a pair of his boxers.

He WILL send you texts to remind you not to wear a chest binder for over 8-ish hours. If you’re on HRT he also tries to make sure you adhere to the dosage and schedule that you need to.

Hm, oh boy, when Mic found you with fresh injuries from self harm, he was a bit shellshocked. He thought somebody had legit pinned you down and hurt you at first, but then he realizes how ridiculous that idea is. If somebody had done that, you would have fought, called him, something to that effect.

If he wasn’t meant to see them, he just pats your shoulder for a second, not sure how much physical contact you’re willing to put up with after him seeing. Hizashi’s first words are something like “It’s okay, I’m not angry or disappointed, just let me disinfect them. Please.”

The concern level went from 0 to 100 real quick when there are more injuries and scars than he expected. He cries a little bit, trying to tell you how much he loves you. He knows asking you to stop for him is the wrong thing to do, since you’ll feel guilty about the issue or feel compelled to hide it.

After that incident he asks you to at least cuddle with him that night and let him lay his head on you. He whispers that you’re the strongest guy he knows. Allmight has physical strength, but not the fortitude of spirit you do. Nobody else he knows is struggling this hard to live, and he’s so, so proud of you for making it this far.

Katsuki Bakugo

The first thing he found out about was the scars/injuries. This boy walked in on you just after putting your binder and undergarments on. At first you don’t understand why he stopped talking after coming in. Then you realize. This set of clothes doesn’t cover the scars. You fucking scramble to your bed and rip the top blanket off to cover yourself. He’s smart enough to know they aren’t just the usual scarring from injuries. They’re too neat and orderly for that.

Being bullheaded as he is, Bakugo isn’t leaving until you explain what’s going on. He’s only been with you for a few months, but you already mean a lot to him. He knows you don’t sleep very well, or very often, but the rest of your problems are still a mystery to him.

The short explanation of your coping mechanism isn’t smooth, and you’re clearly very upset that he knows now, but Bakugo doesn’t give one fuck if you’re upset. He leaves right out, not saying anything. You panic, wondering what he’s going to do, and try to throw on your clothes and shoes as fast as possible. You also toss on a coat and get ready to run. Bakugo was prone to violent, visceral reactions, and you knew it.

When you go to open your door to get away for a while, he opens it.

“Where the fuck are you going, sit back down.”

You’re probably shaking or crying at this point, and Baku seems to have no fucks to give. You step back, and he comes in, using his foot to shut the door behind him because his hands are full. He’s got a cabinet’s worth of medical supplies from the bathroom, and dumps them all on your bed.

Since you haven’t really moved from your place by the door, still shaking or crying, he comes to you. Bakugo rests his hands above your hips, even when you flinch at the contact, he doesn’t hesitate. “You’re not in trouble, you’re my boyfriend. You look after me when I’m hurt, I’ll look after you now.” Baku is so, so gentle in trying to mend your injuries. His calloused hands resting gently on your skin and his quiet shushing you is sweet. He’s all over you, like he usually is in private, but his chaste kisses are soft and excessive.

After that, he won’t leave. He’s dragging you into bed with him to lie around and cuddle. He asks you to explain exactly what’s going on, and is firm in his resolve to help you. Things are still pretty normal, but he tries to check on your mood more often.

When the depression is hitting hard and you can’t get out of bed, he’ll carry you. Bakugo makes sure that you’re decently clean. If he has to, he’ll make you lean over the bathtub so he can wash your hair. He’s very aggressive in trying to care for you.

If you let him, he’ll bring Kirishima over because Kiri will ramble on about how gentlemanly you tend to be, and how manly you are. Plus his energy is infectious, and sometimes you get a boost when he’s around.

Bakugo does a lot of research on self harm, depression, and insomnia to try and find some strategies to care for you when you feel awful. After all, you tend to him when he’s being an asshole, or is injured. To him, it’s not very different than that. He loves you and nothing will ever change that.

Eraserhead/Aizawa

He knows you’re an insomniac like him, how could he not? You’re usually awake when he is, and he knows you don’t take naps or go to bed early, so it’s the only available option left. You both text back and forth when you’re apart at night, things like cat pictures, memes, and reminders for the coming day.

If you’re together at night, it’s usually at your house. Aizawa actually sleeps more when he’s there, because your house is a pretty safe space to him. Having him around eases you a bit, because even if you can’t sleep you can stare at your lover all night and contemplate his gentle expression. It gives you something to do other than antagonize over how little sleep you’ll be running on tomorrow.

Since you’re a pro hero like him, he does worry about your cognitive functions being messed up because of the insomnia. It fucks him up sometimes, so naturally it’s gotta fuck you up too, right? Not with the amount of caffeine you drink. During your hero patrols, you carry energy bars, a thermos of coffee that’s so strong that it’s downright nasty, and some facial cleansing wipes to make you feel more clean and awake on the job.

Aizawa is so worried for you. He once saw you brew that gross coffee, and ever since has been wary of drinking any beverage you make. This guy loves being awake and alert as much as you do, but one cup of that shit can move him through a whole school day, and you drink a lot more than he does.

He also picked up on your self harming tendencies long before you told him, but he lets you decide when you’re ready. The little ticks you have like scratching at scabs or not caring about the pain of injuries are a couple of the things that tipped him off, as did the razor he discovered missing a blade in your cabinet. Living alone, you weren’t as careful as you used to be about hiding things.

When you finally think telling him is unavoidable, and do it, he asks very, very politely if he can see. The scars and injuries both fading and new surprise him with sheer numbers. He hadn’t quite expected this, but he’s ready. Aizawa reassures you that he loves you, and that if you ever need him he’ll be there. He also suggests seeing a doctor or licensed professional to try and find better coping skills. But he knows he’s the pot calling the kettle black, since his form of self injury is working himself into the ground.

Back when you first got together, he noted the excessive use of dry shampoo and day old clothes you wear, signaling that you don’t take great care of yourself. Hell, he’s the same way, sticking greasy hair up into a bun and spraying febreze on his clothes to make himself look and smell socially acceptable, if a bit lazy. Aizawa also has depression, and tries to stick around you on bad days so that you can suffer together. He takes medication for it, but there are still shitty days and nights.

Usually you’ll both get up to do house tasks together. Even though you’re both tired and dying on the inside, you can do just about anything together. On some days you’ll both clean your living space, on others it’s his being organized. You’ll both try to do the bare minimums: laundry, washing dishes, and airing out the apartments. This becomes a lot easier if you move in together, as do lots of other things.

Aizawa tends to buy both of you little self care kits. Bath bombs and lotion are some of his favorite things. Anything you ban both do together and relax is a blessing, and when you both take baths, he’ll lean your back against his chest and wrap his arms around you, letting the hot water soothe all of your collective aches and pains. He knows your injuries sting a little bit, but the qualities of the bath bombs he gets seem to be helping your scars fade faster, and your skin is soft too.

After the bath, it’s mug cakes and doing paperwork on the couch. It’s not as relaxing, but it’s easy to work while you’re together in your pyjamas. Every once in a while, one of you will lean over and kiss or just lean on the other, prompting a short break of smiling and exchanging gentle contact.

#aizawa shouta #present mic #katsuki bakugou #bakugo katsuki #eraserhead #yamada hizashi #hizashi yamada #bnha #boku no hero academia

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