#they’ve been testing my blood pressure | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mollywog · 1 year ago

Text

Here is me everlark-ing that time I passed out and took a nose dive into some dude lap at a blood drive (there was no cute banter or romance in my case - only embarrassment)

I used this as an exercise in not overthinking… It didn’t really work; but I tried not to let myself linger…

Ao3 link

“I’m sorry. You don’t meet our minimum weight requirement, you won’t be able to donate today”, Nurse Sae turns the digital monitor towards her to inspect the number. Her shoulders slump.

One pound!

She won't be able to donate blood today over one measly pound! “I weighed myself at home this morning and I had two pounds to spare,” she pleads. She hates the sight of blood, but ever since her sister had received a lifesaving transfusion when she was eight, Katniss has been dead set on donating.

Nurse Sae frowns sympatheticly, “Different scales, different precision.” She gives Katniss another quick once over before sighing, “tell you what: why don’t you go and eat something; See if you can get another couple ounces to stick to your bones and I’ll weigh you again?”

Katniss perks up, “really?” If there’s one thing she can do, it’s eat.

Sae nods before busying herself organizing her stand. She continues casually, “If you really want to know the art of the weigh in you should talk to one of the wrestlers. The things those boys will do to make weight.” She shakes her head, “on second thought, don’t do that; they're not good examples,” she waves her hands in the direction of the offending group.

Katniss looks over to find a pair of blue eyes fixed on her, before flitting away.

Peeta Mellark.

Her stomach swoops. They’ve never really spoken, but this isn’t the first time she’s noticed him looking. He’s seated at the cookie table chatting with some other guys from the team. They’ve already donated and are waiting their required fifteen minutes.

She thanks the nurse and grabs her backpack moving in their direction towards the exit when her feet falter. Leevy, a girl from her neighborhood is giving blood and seemingly not doing well. She looks pale and her breathing is labored. The nurse has taken note as well, reclining her seat and fanning her as she checks the bag volume.

It’s too hot, Katniss realizes, though she was comfortable only moments ago. She’s sweating and pulls at the chest of her shirt for relief. Her breathing is short and shallow and she feels dizzy.

She needs to get out of here.

She stares at the door with renewed determination and urges herself towards it.

She’s not going to make it.

She doesn’t know what will happen next, but her vision is narrowing. New plan: she needs to sit down, preferably on a chair. She knows she must be close to the snack table. Her hands reach out searching until they hit something solid and she clings to it before her knees give out and the darkness closes in around her vision.

…………

She floats to consciousness feeling relaxed and more rested than she remembers feeling in years. The lights behind her lids indicate sun pouring through her bedroom window: it’s late. She can’t believe she’s slept in, she only ever does that when she’s sick. Her head is cradled in her mother’s lap as she strokes her hair. Katniss flexes her fingers and the hand in her hair ceases its motion. She whimpers in protest. A voice close to her ear says her name, but it’s not her mother’s soft tones. Instead a deep rumble, laced with concern.

She knows that voice. Her eyes flutter open and she’s met with Peeta’s concerned stare. He releases a breath and smiles, “good to see your eyes again.”

Her lips quirk involuntarily but then the memories creep in. She must have passed out; How embarrassing! She moves to sit up, but her head swims and she lays back taking the opportunity to inspect her surroundings. She’s been moved behind a privacy curtain and Nurse Sae is busy beside her, checking her blood pressure, asking questions, and gently testing her limbs. Her initial euphoria has worn off to a giddy embarrassment. She’s clammy and chilled, but physically no worse for the wear.

“It’s a good thing you caught her,” The nurse finally proclaims, patting Peeta on the shoulder, “Could have twisted an ankle or gotten a bump on the head.”

“It was nothing, right time, right place.”

‘Mm-hmm’ Sae hums with a sly grin.

Katniss notices Peeta’s blush, though she’s not sure why he’s embarrassed, “well regardless, thank you.”

“Now, I want you to sit here a bit and don’t you dare leave before you finish these,” she places a juice box and 2 cookies next to her. “Unfortunately after that excitement, no donating for you today. If you’re alright here, I’ll leave her in your care.”

Katniss opens her mouth to protest, but Peeta answers first, “don’t worry: our patient is in good hands.”

“I bet she is,” Sae winks.

Katniss waits until the nurse is out of earshot, covering her face before speaking, “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I did that. I swear I’ve never done that before.”

“It’s alright, really. You’ve actually fulfilled my white knight fantasies. What little boy hasn’t dreamed of rescuing a fair maiden?”

She bites back a smile; she can’t imagine anyone considering her a damsel in distress. More like a feral cat. “Come on, this isn’t your first rescue. What about that time Glimmer Rogers thought she twisted her ankle and asked you to carry her to the nurse’s office?”

“You remember that?” His lips twitch in amusement, “We were in like what… 5th grade? And besides, I think she faked it on a dare.”

It’s a silly thing to remember, but if she really thinks about it, she has plenty of memories of this boy’s kindness, as if she’s been watching and cataloging them for years. She masks this revelation with the last bite of cookie, “well I’m glad to relieve you of your duties Sir Peeta. I’ve got it from here.”

“I don’t know. I take this responsibility very seriously. How chivalrous would it be for me to just abandon you now?”

She rolls her eyes, “What are you going to do? Escort me to fourth period and sit behind me in case I faint again? Abernathy will love that.”

He scrunches his nose, “maybe not.” He pauses, “okay, here’s the deal; you’ll let me walk you to class and then maybe you could offer me a token of your favour.”

“What?”

“Come on, haven’t you been paying attention in History class?”

She hasn’t. They’ve been watching a costume drama about Henry VIII under the guise of learning in Mr. Plutarch’s history class. She vaugly rememebers a jousting scene where the ladies had given the jousters ribbons as good luck charms before their turn. “So you want my hair tie or something?” She laughs.

“That’s one option. Or… you could give me your number instead? That way I can check in on you later… make sure you’re recovering well.” He fidgets with his backpack straps. If she didn’t know better she’d think he was nervous. “If you’ll allow it,” he adds, averting his eyes.

Coming from anyone else she would think it was a line, but Peeta’s a genuinely nice guy. He’s only asking to be kind and she wouldn’t want him to worry if a quick text is all he’s asking. “Okay, I’ll allow it,” she says, extending her phone towards him.

This time when their eyes meet, his don’t flit away and the smile he gives her is so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness, that she can’t help returning it.

#everlark fanfiction #modern AU #highschool au #my bf in hs was a wrestler #he was in the lowest weight class allowable based on some sort of body fat test #he would do things like weigh himself holding a candy bar to see if he could eat it and still make weight #man HS wrestling used to be so important to me…#hahaha #should I put this on Ao3?

77 notes · View notes

pondslime · 2 years ago

Photo

invasive

bo sinclair x afab!reader

rating: explicit

wordcount: 941

Reader POV. Your dreams take you to different places, but you’re never too far out of reach.

EXTREMELY dubious consent as always. Mostly weird prose, but there’s some smut thrown in here as well. Somnophilia, cockwarming.

A/N: It’s been raining for nearly a week straight where I am. Every single day has been grey. This idea burrowed into my brain and now I’m inflicting it upon you. Similar vibes to poacher’s dream. I just...really wanted to write something that reminded me of the feeling I was trying to capture with that fic. Somnophilia’s been on my mind ever since I read this absolutely electric fic by our lord and savior, @visceravalentines. Definitely go read it if you haven’t already. It features a lovely man who is not at all like the one in this fic. We should all make out with him instead, probably. We won’t.

You’re lost in a quagmire of green, knee-deep in muck.

You’re running from something, but you aren’t sure what. You feel like it must be close. You can hear crashing, the sloshing of something at your heels. The water is dark here, it’s deep. You need to watch where you’re going, but you won’t. It feels familiar.

Maybe, if you push a little further, you’ll reach the edge of the marshland.

The trees crowd around each other, their bulbous trunks bursting out of thick green algae. It’s so dense here, impossibly heavy with warmth. It soaks through your clothes, bleeds under your skin. If someone sliced you open and cracked your bones apart, you’re sure you'd flare hot. Chalky white and exposed, scattering chunks of marrow over the swamp.

Things end up here when they have nowhere left to go. They get caught in the hanging moss and become part of the scenery.

You’ll make a mess of this place, but it won’t matter. There are animals here, bigger than you, and they’ve been waiting. You couldn’t ever run very fast. These kinds of games are about losing.

It wasn’t behind you, anyway. It caught your ankle underwater and pulled you down, tumbled you underneath its weight. You’re spinning wildly, rolling and churning, filling your lungs with water (but it’s so hot here, and you like that stuff).

It’ll play with its food until your neck snaps. Trailing blood in the water, dragging you back to a den squashed in the mangroves. A place of dead things, hobbled together out of reeds and a dozen people’s bones. You wonder if they sparked like yours, if they’re kindling too.

Your body is perched on top of a waterlogged tire and hid away until it starts to rot. It makes it easier to eat when it’s soft like that, when the botflies come. Practical things are sometimes the cruelest.

God, you’ve never been anywhere this hot.

You wake up with your face pressed into the pillow, huffing out shallow breaths. The room is bathed in pale light, milky grey with the faintest wash of blue.

The grey disorients you. There was so much light before. You blink a bit in the gloom. Water is still rushing away above you, beside you. It’s impossible to tell what time it is or how long you’ve been asleep. It feels like forever. You lived and you died long before you were spat out here.

Out of the heat of your dream, you’re surprised to feel your skin prickle with goosebumps. You must have thrown the sheets off in your sleep. The position you’re in feels unnatural, one leg hoisted away from you. It rests on something solid, something warmer than this room.

You feel so full (of water, of bugs in your belly eating away the soft tissue, of life).

Stop, look at the window. You’re not underwater. It’s raining, dripping tears down the glass. You’re awake again and the fullness is the pressure between your legs.

Bo’s hand cups at your breast, jiggling the flesh to test its weight in his palm. He catches your nipple between his fingers, tugs at it. When he rolls his hips, you let out a soft little noise, mouthing at the pillowcase. His cock pulses inside you, thick and warm.

He’s already so deep.

“Couldn’t help myself.” He murmurs into your ear. “Not with you movin’ round like that.”

His hand wraps around your thigh, easing you down. You let out a whine as you feel your walls stretch around him. He hisses out a breath, digging his fingers into your skin.

“You’re so wet, baby.” His voice is husky, the rasp of sleep still thick around his words. You can feel how slick you are, how easy it is for him to push in. “What were you dreamin’ ‘bout?”

“You.” You’re not lying, not exactly. He doesn’t need to know the specifics.

It’s the right answer, or, at least, the one he was expecting. You’re never really sure with him. It doesn’t matter, really. Your dream is getting away from you now, chased away by his hands and his lips and his cock. You were somewhere. He was there. You remember heat, you remember weight.

(Or maybe that’s all there is now and you’re getting things confused.)

“Thought you were tryin’ to kill me, baby.” He nips along your neck. You clench down around him, moaning into the pillow. “Asleep, squeezin’ me like that.”

Good, you almost say. If I wrap myself around you enough times, you can’t breathe. Neither can I, but I only need to do it once.

People get rid of snakes, throw them off into the swamp. They’re not supposed to be there. But this looks enough like their idea of home, doesn’t it? They’ll adapt or they’ll get eaten, and that’s all you could ask for.

His breath is warm on your skin. You reach back, your fingers curling into his hair.

“You ready to stop teasin’ me?”

(I couldn’t stomach you if I did. I’m not supposed to be here, anyway.)

You almost ask him if he had the same dream. Was it hard, waiting for the rot to set in? Waiting for softness? Did you taste better like that? Would he do it again if you asked him to? Could you return the favor?

Your hand tightens in his hair, giving it a sharp tug. His teeth are on your neck and it hurts in the way it’s supposed to hurt—scorching away inside you.

You’ve never been anywhere that hot, but maybe he has. Maybe he’ll take you there.

“Yes.”

#something something burmese pythons swallowing alligators whole in the everglades something something invasive species something something #house of wax #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #slashers x reader #slasher fandom #x reader #my fics #I've been under a lot of work stress lately lmao and I've been having a lot of weird dreams #bingo bongo himself featured in two of them. for the first time ever surprisingly.#u would think w/the amount of space I give him in my mind palace I'd have dreamed of him already but nope #my brain summoning this hick like. BITCH!! shut tf up about work for two seconds and look @ this jdshjhfdjjhfdj #peanut brain PEANUT BRAIN this week #so it felt fitting to write somethin weird n dreamy (nightmarish) w/him. idk #it's the vibe on this accursed day #this is...............somethin. idk what. but it's somethin.

219 notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 11 months ago

Note

AITA FOR POTENTIALLY KEEPING IMPORTANT MEDICAL INFO FROM MY DAD?

⭕️⭕️⭕️

((Emojis so I can find it when it’s posted))

(Cw for terminal illness)

Honestly this situation has long passed but it’s weighing on me so I wanted to see what people thought.

My grandfather had been very very ill for the past few years, and passed recently. Before then, while he was still capable of speaking, he and my dad were talking on the phone, and they got into an argument and my grandfather ended up saying something that was incredibly earthshattering for my dad. I was in the room during the conversation. My dad is not very emotional, but it’s the kind of thing that left him sobbing. It broke him. I remember him saying specifically “I’m never going to forget that.”

Except he did.

Later that night my dad called me in a panic because he thought he forgot to do something that he was supposed to do that morning, and I reminded him that he did, in fact, do the thing. But then he kept calling me frantic because he didn’t do the thing. And after some conversation with him I realized that he was just straight up not remembering anything he did that day, and even when I would remind him, he still wasn’t absorbing it. He even drove somewhere, but he just couldn’t recall doing it. I was very afraid about this memory loss ; my dad has a problem with his blood pressure so I was concerned he may have had a stroke. So we went to the hospital and they did a bunch of tests on him. I had to tell the doctors about what happened because my dad couldn’t remember no matter how many times he was reminded. Something that came up frequently was if something major had happened before the memory loss occurred.

But I said not really. Because the conversation he’d had with my grandfather absolutely destroyed him, so badly that his brain just threw away the whole day so he wouldn’t have to remember. And honestly, I didn’t want him to remember something that made him feel like that. So I would tell the doctors that my dad spoke with my sick grandfather but it was just a routine call.

Now, ultimately, my dad ended up going through several rounds of neurological testing, and it turned out he was just experiencing transient global amnesia as a result of the trauma of that conversation, and he’s fine now. Still doesn’t remember that day and can’t absorb information I tell him about it, but neurologically he is fine. My dad did not receive any less treatment as a result of my not sharing the details of what was said.

My grandfather has since passed, and I don’t want that interaction to live in my dad’s head as one of the last ones they’ve ever had, so to this day I’ve never told him what my grandfather said. But sometimes I feel like it was wrong of me to keep that information.

AITA?

(Side note: my grandfather is not an unkind person. He was extremely well loved within his community and among us. I can’t speak highly enough about what a good man he was. but as he got closer to the end and as his mental facilities began to decline, sometimes he could get hostile. I know he would never intend to hurt my father or any of us, so I would never want to leave that impression with you. )

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

89 notes · View notes

brunchbitch · 22 days ago

Text

Work has been pretty good lately. I had a consult on OB that was a really difficult situation (birth trauma) but I feel like I did well and it was nice to use more of my clinical skills! Staffing is also slowly improving which is helpful.

My mom had a health scare last week - she went to the opera with two friends and on her way to the bathroom in the middle of the performance she passed out in the aisle and bystanders couldn’t find a pulse for about 15 seconds. Once she came to, she was helped to the bathroom and vomited for over an hour(!). They called 911 and the paramedics came, her vitals were stable, so they said she was fine. It just seems kind of crazy to me that they didn’t even offer to get her checked out at the hospital?

She’s still dealing with pretty significant GI issues and is nauseous/vomiting pretty frequently. Her cardiologist said she doesn��t think it was actually a cardiac issue, that it was likely a vasovagal syncope event and due to her low blood pressure, that was why they couldn’t find a pulse. She had already started to do a lot of cardiac tests bc she was dealing with tachycardia and shortness of breath on a hiking trip in England a couple weeks ago, so I’m glad they’ve already been working things up. But it is still really freaking me out. Both my parents have heart issues and her dad died of aortic dissection when I was six. I’m just scared - I don’t know what I would do if I lost her or my dad.

#personal

15 notes · View notes

stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 9 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 2: THE WEIRDO ON MAPLE STREET

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: This part is heavy. A lot of things are happening. Nancy and Diana's friendship dynamic will be tested throughout the season. I wanted to make this pool party as realistic as possible. In watching this episode, I understand Nancy's want to fit in, but it's at the expense of Barb in my opinion and I wanted to showcase how that feels through Diana. As a dancer, I hate when after finding out I am a dancer, people tell me to dance...it makes me uncomfortable. It's not a skill that is always on for me. The move Diana shows everyone is called a Scorpion (Rhythmic Gymnastic Style).

P.S. This is what I picture Diana wearing to the pool party.

Warnings: Sexual implications. Blood. Peer Pressure.

Word Count: 3517

Masterlist

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V

HARRINGTON RESIDENCE

When Steve said he was having a party, I never expected to be outside in his backyard, sitting on a lawn chair freezing to death. I shiver wrapping my arms around my knees. I have been here for over an hour and have done nothing but sit by the heated pool watching the water. The definition of ‘party’ was as lost as I felt. Tommy H attempts to throw Carol in the pool. She screams trying her best to escape his hold. I lean against Barb savouring her warmth and rest my head on her arm watching everything unfold. Nancy sits in a lawn chair beside Steve. Barb and I were long forgotten once we arrived. I am too cold to care.

“I thought parties were primarily inside the house.” I mumble. “What kind of party is this?”

“A stupid one.” Barb responds with a sigh.

“All they do is smoke and drink. Where’s the food?”

“Eating isn’t in style, I guess.”

I peer around Barb’s shoulder keeping an eye on Nancy and notice she is on her second beer for the night. I groan, feeling restless and stand up to stretch my legs.

“Did you want to go for a walk?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, around the pool.”

Barb looks at the pool, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “No thanks.”

I pout, but don’t question her and begin my walk.

“Diana, where are you going?” Nancy asks.

“I’m tired of sitting around. I’m going to walk around the pool for a bit.”

Nancy smiles, her blue eyes seem glazed and a little out of focused. “Okay. Just don’t leave.”

“I won’t.” I respond, no matter how much I actually want to.

I stroll along the edge of the pool thinking. Steve Harrington throws a lot of parties and I’m most certain the whole school has been to Steve’s house at least once in their lifetime. Which meant Steve’s parents weren’t home often. I look at the towering house and the expansive backyard. I don’t know what it’s like to be an only child, but I do know how it feels to be lonely even with others around. My gaze lowers to across the pool. Nancy smiles at Steve; they’ve been talking since we arrived leaving Barb and I alone. I don’t look at Tommy H and Carol, knowing they’re all over each other, stealing kisses and soft giggles. Instead, I look at Steve. Really look at him. His impressively beautiful hair, the cigarette behind his ear, the forgotten can of beer in his hand, the way he looks at Nancy. Like he…enjoys being around her.

I tilt my head to the side. This is the first time I am privy to observing how Steve interacts with Nancy. He seems more…genuine and real. Not this superficial, arrogant "King Steve" persona he puts on at school or when he’s with Tommy H and Carol. I admit my perception of Steve Harrington is based on how others view and talk about him. He’s the boy we watch walk away. The Big Man on Campus. The Casanova. A glorified asshole. But in being in his house for this brief moment and seeing how he is with Nancy separate from Tommy H and Carol…maybe I had it all wrong and Steve Harrington isn’t that bad.

A gust of wind blows past and I hug my jacket close to me. I am so cold I start to jump up and down. Sauté. Sauté. Sauté. I jump higher landing through my feet. Glissade assemblé. Glissade assemblé. I continue to jump from petit allegro to grand allegro and after a few minutes I begin to practice the Gargouillade.

“Do you ever sit down?” Tommy H shouts.

I almost miss what he said and stop jumping. From across the pool, Steve, Nancy, Barb, Tommy H and Carol all stare at me with expressions ranging from awe to concern.

“She’s practicing.” Nancy says.

“For what?”

“The Nutcracker showcase next month.”

Tommy H winces. “Sounds painful.”

“What the hell is a Nutcracker?” Steve asks.

“The Nutcracker,” Nancy corrects. “And it’s a two-act ballet by Tchaikovsky.”

“Bless you.” Carol jokes, grinning. Tommy H kisses her temple.

I roll my eyes, putting my hands on my hips and pace back and forth in efforts to catch my breath. Sweat trickles down my back and I finally feel hot enough to take off my jacket.

“Diana got one of the lead roles in the second act.”

“Nancy.” I warn, marching to the other side of the pool.

“What? It’s a big deal and you should be so proud of yourself!”

“I am but…” I squeeze my jacket. Stop telling them my business!

“How long have you been dancing?” Steve asks me, sipping his beer. I am taken aback by his question.

It’s the first time Steve is talking to me directly and not through Nancy. The first time I feel like he acknowledges me enough to talk to me despite the circumstance being forced upon me by Nancy. It takes me a moment to respond.

“I-I was two when I started,” I stutter, looking anywhere but his face. “It’s how I met Nancy."

“You’re a dancer too?” He directs his question to her.

“I quit last year.”

“Why?”

“I just didn’t want to dance anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t…” she shrugs, finishing the last of the beer. Nancy wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Diana is gonna go pro one day.”

I feel like I’m going to explode. Steve looks at me again and this time I meet his gaze.

“Pro? Sounds like sports.”

“Dance is a sport.” I interject.

Steve raises his eyebrows, though his eyes tell me he doesn’t agree with me. I’m not surprised because it’s the common stigma surrounding dance. Becoming a professional dancer is a one in a million chance. There are so many odds to win against. Making money is dependent on the opportunities you get and with whom. It’s not as stable as a regular 9 to 5 and the training is extensive and strenuous that most don’t make it.

“Diana has the grace, strength and flexibility.” Nancy continues. “Her lines are perfect; her feet are beautiful.”

“Lines?” Carol questions.

My nails dig into my palms.

"The way she moves is aesthetically pleasing. She can do crazy things with her body.”

“Is that so?” Tommy H smirks.

“Diana, show them!”

My face feels like it’s on fire. Everyone is looking at me now. I shift from side to side wanting the ground to swallow me up. All this attention on me is too much and I feel like I can’t breathe.

“No, no. I-I can’t.”

“Please, Diana?” Nancy pouts, clasping her fingers together.

I want to tell her to stop. I hate being asked to dance outside of a studio. It makes me feel like a clown at a circus, ready to entertain and Nancy knows this.

“I would love to see these crazy things you can do with your body.” Tommy H’s tone suggests something else entirely.

“Me too!” Carol adds, leaning back on him.

I shake my head, tucking a loose curl behind my ear. “It’s too cold.”

“Just a kick then!” Nancy offers.

“Yeah, just a kick, Diana.” Tommy H adds, smiling devilishly at me.

“Nancy, I don’t think—” Barb begins.

“Yeah, show us!” Carol interjects, smiling at me.

Tommy H cheers aloud while clapping obnoxiously. I glance at the faces in front of me. Barb looks as uncomfortable as I feel and I can tell she’s trying to help me out of this situation but she is overshadowed by Tommy H and Carol. Steve looks surprisingly hesitant and Nancy’s hopeful face stares encouragingly at me. I close my eyes and sigh, placing my jacket on the empty lawn chair beside Barb. Nancy squeals in excitement as I perform some last-minute stretches to warm up my hips and back.

Lifting my left leg up and grab the outer side of my foot with my left hand. I begin to push my back foot towards the sky as high as I can which is pretty high, considering its already by my ear without much effort. I turn my elbow outward so it’s pointing forward and in front of my head. I lift my other hand and grab my ankle with my right hand and meet my left hand with it. When I straighten my leg and pull my leg forward, the back of my thigh touches my head. I pull until I am in an over split.

“Holy shit. How is that possible?” Steve exclaims. Nancy claps proudly while Steve stares at me wide eyed and confused.

“That’s disgusting.” Carol says.

“What are you?” Tommy H adds.

I immediately let go of my leg and stand straight. They didn’t have to be so mean.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Barb snaps, holding my jacket out to me. I take it from her, sitting in the lawn chair beside her.

The “party” resumes as if nothing happened with Tommy H, Carol and Steve all standing finding someone or something else to entertain themselves with. Nancy watches Steve’s every move, trying to be discreet but failing. Tommy H and Carol stand near the pool and Tommy H tries to throw Carol inside again. Carol screams at the top of her lungs.

“One, two, three.”

“You’re such an asshole, Tommy.” Carol giggles.

Steve comes back with a can of beer in his hand. I can’t see what he’s doing until he quickly opens the can, putting his mouth on the side. I cringe thinking about all the germs on that can. He chugs the beer in a matter of seconds, dropping the can on the ground.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

Steve plops himself on the lawn chair. The cigarette behind his ear, dangles from his lips. He looks at her feigning confusion.

“You’re not?”

Of course, she is.

“You are such a cliché; you do realize that?”

“You are such a cliché.” Steve responds, reaching for a lighter on the side table. He lights his cigarette and inhales. “What with your grades and your band practice.”

“I’m so not in band.”

“Okay, party girl.” He hands her a can of beer and the blade, challenging her. “Why don’t you just show us how it’s done, then?”

Barb and I look at each other. That would be Nancy’s third beer for the night. Any more and she’ll get sick. I close my eyes praying Nancy won’t do what I think she’s going to do. Barb shakes her head.

“Okay.”

Nancy standing up caught the attention of Tommy H and Carol.

“You gotta make a hole at the bottom—”

“I got it.”

“Yeah, she’s smart, you douche!” Tommy H laughs, crushing a beer can against his head.

“That explains so much.” I mutter under my breath. Barb snorts, smiling.

Nancy pokes a hole in the can of beer and quickly opens the top before she begins chugging the beer.

“Chug, chug, chug! Chug, chug, chug, chug, chug!”

I’d be impressed, if I weren’t so taken aback by the way Nancy was acting. She drops the empty can on the floor, stumbling slightly. Tommy H, Carol and Steve all cheer and whoop for Nancy who curtsies in thanks.

“Barb you wanna try?”

Barb perks up. It’s the first time she’s been addressed the entire night. “What? No. No, I don’t want to. Thanks.”

Nancy pouts. “Di?”

“Absolutely not.”

Nancy looks at Barb one more time. “Come on.”

“Yeah.” Steve encourages. I squint, shaking my head.

“Nance. I don’t want to.” Barb hisses.

Nancy ignores her putting another can of beer and the blade in Barb’s hand. “It’s fun! Just give it a shot.”

“Nancy. She said no.” I interject, sternly. I can’t believe she’s forcing us to do things we clearly don’t want to do.

“Okay. Fine.”

Barb stands up in the centre of the circle. I look up at her feeling on edge about what was going to happen and what could happen. Barb isn’t equipped to poke a hole in the can. She doesn’t know how. The silence is so loud, it’s awkward and I want to grab Barb and tell her to sit down. Barb mumbles to herself, fiddling with the blade. She presses into the can, but the blade slips, slicing through her hand. Barb flinches, dropping the can and knife on the concrete.

“Barb!” I shout, rushing to her. I hold her wrist in my hand to inspect the damage. Blood oozes out of the cut in her palm, trickling down her wrist and my fingers. “Oh my gosh.”

“Gnarly.” Tommy H laughs.

I glare at him, letting go of her wrist. “It’s not funny.” I snap.

“Are you okay?” Nancy asks, her eyebrows etched with worry. She seemed to have sobered up a little.

“Yeah.” Barb says.

“Barb, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” Barb replies, her voice is shaking and I know she’s fighting back tears. Barb looks at Steve. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Oh, it’s…it’s, uh, down past the kitchen to the left.” He stands up escorting her back to the house.

I look at my hand and the dry blood sticking to my fingers and quickly grab my jacket from the lawn chair running after them. I can’t stand to be around Nancy right now.

“I’m coming with you, Barb.”

I hold Barb’s hand under the cold water in the downstairs bathroom. Steve left five minutes ago leaving me and Barb alone. The air feels thick and heavy around us as we stand in silence. I know Barb feels embarrassed about what happened and that’s the reason she’s not talking. I understand completely and allow her the time to process what had just happened. Removing Barb’s hand from the water, I quickly soap my hands and rinse them before closing the tap. I quickly dry my hands against the hand towel and tend to Barb. I take her hand and inspect the cut.

“It’s not that deep which is good.” I comment.

“Yeah.”

The cut begins to bleed again and I take a heap of toilet paper and quickly wrap it around her finger tight to stop the blood. Barb watches me work. I tell her to hold the wound tight to stop the bleeding. Barb nods her head and sits down on the toilet seat staring at nothing in particular. I sigh deeply and crouch to her eye level placing my hands on her knees.

“Are you sure, you’re okay, Barb?” I ask, softly.

Dark brown eyes look at me. “I’ll be fine.”

I frown, growing upset with what happened by the pool. “I don’t know what’s up with Nancy or why we’re even here. Did you see how she was acting out there? I felt like I was in a circus and you, Barb. Your hand.”

“She wants us to be her guardians. So that’s what we’re going to do. Guide her and make sure she doesn’t get too drunk and do something stupid.”

“Like sleep with Steve Harrington.” It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. I shake my head. “We can’t stop her from doing that when she clearly wants to, Barb. Nancy can deny all she wants, but she wants to be here. She wants to get drunk and she wants to sleep with Steve.” And it doesn’t explain why we need to be here.

“I know…” Barb says solemnly.

Neither of us say anything for a moment. I am lost in thought, drawling circles on Barbs thighs. If Nancy would just admit how much she likes Steve, Barb and I wouldn’t be here right now. Tonight, left me wondering where did my best friend go. That person out by the pool is not Nancy, it’s a version of her I don’t know nor want to know. She didn’t notice how uncomfortable Barb and I were tonight which is so out of character, I don’t even…I shake my head again, biting my lower lip.

“Why are we here, Barb?” I ask quietly.

“Because Nancy wants us to be here for her.”

“Then why do I feel like…a handbag. An accessory in all of this? Why do I feel like she doesn’t want us here?”

Barb doesn’t answer. I sigh and stand up feeling completely drained. I want to go home. I want to take a shower and sleep. I want to do anything but be here. I hear footsteps and laughter followed by Nancy and Steve’s voice. Barb and I look at each other before springing into action. We are scrambling out the door in seconds rushing towards the grand staircase.

“Nance. Nancy!” Barb calls.

Nancy pauses, hugging the towel against her face, looking at us. Steve continues to walk the steps, not bothering to look back. I observe Nancy. She is drenched from head to toe with bits of mascara gathered around her eye.

“Where are you going?” Barb asks.

“Nowhere. Just upstairs…” she hesitates to respond finding the right words, “to change. I fell in the pool.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and go home. I’ll just get a ride or something.”

My jaw drops. Go home? Go home? She begged us to come and make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, and now she wants us to leave? That’s all we ever wanted to do since arriving here.

“Nance.”

“Pardon?”

Barb and I say at the same time. Nancy looks at us.

“I said why don’t you go home.”

“I know what you said, Nancy, but you asked us to be here for you.”

“I’m fine,” Nancy says with a hint of attitude. “You guys can go.”

I stare at her for a moment trying to figure out where my best friend went. “Did we do something wrong?

“No.”

“You seem like you’re mad at us.”

Nancy sighs, rolling her eyes. “I’m not mad at you guys. I can just tell you don’t want to be here so you can both go home. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Barb and I don’t speak for a moment. I’m too frustrated to say another word. I lied to my parents to be here. I lied to Mrs. Wheeler to be here. I wanted nothing to do with this and Nancy knew that, yet Barb and I were forced to be here, ridiculed and embarrassed. And Nancy doesn’t see any of it. She only sees Steve Harrington.

“Nancy. This isn’t you.” Barb says, sadly.

“I’m fine, Barb. Just go, both of you.”

Nancy races upstairs without looking back. I scoff shaking my head. Unbelievable. I turn towards the door grabbing Barbs arm.

“Let’s go.” I snap.

I am stunned when Barb resists. She looks at me with sympathy and I immediately know what she’s about to say.

“I’m gonna stay here…”

“Barb, are you serious?” I exclaim. I don’t care how loud I’m being.

“I know, I know,” Barb says pinching the bridge of her nose. “But I can’t leave her here.”

“She just told us to go home and I don’t know about you, but I’m not staying where I’m not wanted.”

“I just can’t leave Nancy here alone.”

My chest feels hollow. What about me? I want to ask. Barb was supposed to be our ride home. With Nancy staying and Barb staying with her, I had no way of getting home. But I refuse to linger around while Nancy stays upstairs with Steve. I can’t call my parents; I’m not supposed to be here across town. I’ll get in so much trouble, I doubt I’ll be able to leave my house for anything other than school and dance for a long time. I can’t risk it. I look at the door behind me. The thought of walking home alone scares me and I wish Barb would leave Nancy and come with me. Be with me, like I’ve been with her when she cut her hand.

My nostrils flare as I push down the tears brimming my eyes. No. This is your mess, Diana. You have to fix it. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and I stand straight holding my head high.

“If that’s what you want to do,” I say quietly. “I’m going home.”

“Are you going to call your parents?” Barb asks, eyes slightly wide.

I shake my head, putting my jacket on. “I’m just going to walk.”

“Walk!? Diana, c’mon. Just stay here—”

“No, I can’t.” I say with finality.

Looking defeated, Barb nods her head, pulling me in for a hug. “Be safe. Please.” she whispers.

I hold Barb tight, breathing in her floral scent. Neither of us let go for a long moment and a part of me feels like this hug was a…farewell. I release myself from her hold and glance down at her finger. It’s still bleeding, drenching the white tissue paper a bright red.

“You be safe too, Barb. Please find a bandage for your finger.”

“Yes, mom.” Barb teases.

I smile and it feels genuine. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

NEXT -> PART V

#stranger things rewrite #black fem reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #dianasinclair #eddie munson x black!reader #steve harrington x black!reader #eddie munson x female reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #sinclair!reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson x sinclair!reader #steve harrington x sinclair!reader

24 notes · View notes

satashiiwrites · 3 months ago

Text

wip whenever

Tagged by @rosieposiepuddingnpie for a WIP whenever. Working on this little piece this afternoon and hope to have a chapter yeeted this weekend.

Tagging @monsterrae1 @tkwritesdumbassassins @quietborderline @whimsyswastry @missanniewhimsy @outtoshatter with no pressure and anyone else who wants to play along.

Graphics by me

Title: Separation Anxiety, chapter 2, part of An Endless Knotting series

Fandom: 911

Pairing: Buddie.

Fic summary: Buck returns to work after his heat leave and both of them have some adjusting to do while separated as Eddie prepares to start his new job. However, reunions are meant to be savored, and Eddie has a surprise for Buck after his trying shift.

Tags/warnings: first draft. Egregious use of spanish endearments in possibly incorrect ways, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, excessive knotting, mpreg, porn with plot series.

Eddie does his best to keep busy with chores and errands but he has to constantly tell himself not to follow the not-so-subtle tug of the bond that stretches between him and Buck like a rubber band.

He needs to let Buck work, Eddie tells himself again and again. Not even a trip to help Abuela with her grocery shopping is suitably distracting.

“You keep sighing like that and I’ll have you audition for a telenovela. I saw a flier for auditions. You can play pining lovestruck man numero uno.”

“I’m not single,” Eddie laughs, “and I’m not interested in anyone other than Buck. I just miss him.”

“Your alma gemela. I remember what that was like when I was first bonded to my Edmundo. I missed him so much and he’d just be outside mowing the yard or running to the grocery store.”

“Buck’s a bit further away,” Eddie says and then internally scolds himself for trying to out-miss his mate with his abuela. Abuela still missed her husband, Eddie’s namesake grandfather and it’d been a decade and a half since he’d passed.

“Tcch,” Abuela scolds him, tone playful. “You’re both so young.”

“My knees ache sometimes in the mornings. I’m not that young.”

That gets a chuckle out of Abuela and Eddie counts at as a win. She has him shucking corn on the cob for their dinner and saving the husks so they can be dried to make tamales. Christopher is busy on Abuela’s Nintendo discovering the world of Hyrule and saving a princess.””

“Your Buck is good for you, good for Christopher,” Abuela idly observes as she stirs the red chili sauce she’s making to go with the pork she slow cooked all day, taking a taste. The rice cooker Eddie bought for her as a birthday present with his first paycheck from the army is keeping the rice warm and ready, the large pot on the stove filled with water to cook the corn ready and bubbling next to the sauce. They’re going to have a feast tonight and Eddie wishes Buck was here to try it all.

He’ll have to ask if they can take the leftovers home so Buck can have a taste. His omega seems to like trying spicy food, and Eddie would love it if Buck loves the food he’d grown up with so they can share it. They’ve both loved everything they’d shared so far.

“He asked if I would teach him to cook your favorites,” Abuela says with a sly smile.

“Buck did?”

“Yes. He wants you and Christopher to be happy. I told him I’d teach him the family secrets including my tamale recipe. Something tells me he will be a good student and keep you and Christopher well fed.”

“You’ve never taught mom your recipes,” Eddie says dumbly, proud that Abuela has taken to Buck so well. She’d… tolerated Shannon and been polite to her face but the family had for years called Shanon la gringa in a not-so-flattering way.

Abuela has already bestowed multiple endearments upon Buck including guapo, dulzura and Eddito’s amor which indicated Buck had passed some invisible test that Eddie didn’t understand with The LA branch of his family. Even Pepa had been teasing Buck within five minutes of meeting him and calling him Evanito.Pepa doesn’t call anyone not a blood relative by a nickname.

He’s a bit nervous about introducing Buck to his parents. His parents historically have disliked everyone Eddie has so much as looked at and had waged a not-so-cold war against Shannon from the day they’d announced her pregnancy with Christopher.

“Tcccch! Your mother has no patience and cannot handle any heat. Luckily you have our side of the family to strengthen your stomach!”

“Abuela,” Eddie protests, thinking he should probably defend his mother but it’s sadly true that his mom never has been able to eat anything remotely spicy despite being married to his father for thirty-five years and living in south Texas her entire life.

#Separation anxiety fic #Buddie #buddie fic #first draft #wip whenever #an endless knotting series #Mpreg #alpha beta omega #911 #evan buckley #eddie diaz

18 notes · View notes

winters-dream · 2 years ago

Text

Villain hit the ground with a thud, their knees digging into the soft forest dirt. Their wrists were tied painfully behind their back, cutting off the circulation to their hands. Blood trickled down their face, the bitter taste of metal hitting the back of their throat. Villain kept their head down, a psychotic smile plastered on their face.

The piercing edge of a sword tilted their chin up, digging into the flesh. The sharp edge created yet another cut, a thin line of blood followed the curve of their neck and soaked into their shirt. Not that that drop made much of a difference. Villain’s shirt was practically dyed in the substance; a mixture of their own and Hero’s blood. Their fight had been the most brutal they’ve had in ages, and the rush of it reminded Villain of one of the many reasons Hero was their favorite in the hero agency.

“This is where you end, Villain,” said Hero. They stared down at Villain, their triumphant smirk tickling the villain’s humor. A maniacal laugh cut through their throat, growing louder and louder with each passing second. Hero’s smirk quickly morphed into a scowl as they jab at Villain’s throat, more blood spilling down their neck.

“What are you laughing at?” they asked. They began circling around Villain, making sure to drag the tip of their blade around the criminal’s shoulders. “You end here. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I could kill you right now.”

They stopped behind Villain and dug their weapon between their shoulder blades. Villain grinned at the pain, they’ve never felt more alive than they did in that moment. Hero leaned over their shoulder, their breath tickling Villain’s ear.

“I have you right where I want you.”

Villain let out a giggle, becoming more and more unhinged as the time passed.

"I believe you will quickly find,” Villain said, flashing a bloody smile in Hero’s direction. “That it is I who has you.”

Confusion colored the hero’s face. Obviously, the blood loss has affected Villain’s thinking. It was clear that they were the one on the ground tied up, weaponless. Just one powerful thrust of Hero’s sword and they were finished.

“What do you mean?”

Villain quirked an eyebrow. “You won’t kill me. You’re too soft.”

Hero scowled and jabbed at them again, eliciting a gasp from Villain. “Don’t test me. I can pierce your heart just as easily through your back as I could your chest.”

“But you won’t,” said Villain. “No matter how violent our fights have gotten, no matter how close of an opportunity you came to killing me, you always stopped at the last second. Let me live another day.”

Villain wrestled their way into a standing position and took a few steps towards their enemy.

“Admit it, love”

With a snap of their wrists, Villain broke the ties binding their wrists together. “You don’t really want to kill me, do you?”

Hero swung their sword up, stopping Villain from taking another step. Their stone-cold gaze met the villain’s delighted expression.

“I don’t,” admitted Hero. “But I will if you come any closer.”

Villain laughed once more, a sinister grin plastered in their face. They walked around Hero’s sword and stood chest to chest with them.

“Go ahead, then.” They held their arms out, waiting for Hero to strike. “I won’t fight back. Kill me.”

They locked eyes with Hero, their once confident attitude replaced with fear. A wicked grin formed on Villain’s face as they gently pulled the tip of Hero’s sword to their chest, pushing in a few millimeters.

Hero gasped at the blood that started to spread from the puncture wound. Villain pushed in another millimeter, their grip on the blade slicing their hand.

“Just a few centimeters and you’ll pierce my heart.”

They applied more pressure to the sword, pushing in a full centimeter. Hero pulled the sword out of Villain's grasp with a gasp. They flung the sword behind them and took a step back.

“You’re insane.”

Villain smirked. “I never claimed anything different.”

They tapped the bottom of Hero’s chin as a form of farewell.

“Until next time, love.”

Villain left with a chuckle, and the next time they met, Villain was granted that same mercy.

#my own #writing #hero x villain #villain x hero #villain #hero #oneshot #imagines #fantasy

68 notes · View notes

aajjks · 5 months ago

Note

i granted alina’s wish 😁

mommy issues!JK

you’re reluctant to let jungkook go but he reassures you that everything will be okay. in the distance, you see the familiar red and blue lights and once you’re comfortable, jungkook shuts and locks the car door before approaching the police car.

“HYUNG!!!!”

“what’s up man!!”

jung hoseok is a longtime friend of jungkook’s. they met in college before going their separate way but they’ve always remained in touch. whatever jungkook needed, hoseok was right there to help him. by getting in touch with busan’s government, hoseok helped jungkook secure full custody of seol against his parents and he’s been helping him since. this situation being no different.

“you mind if i take a look at y/n?” with jungkook’s permission, he heads to the car you’re sitting in and uses his flashlight to see through the car window. hoseok grits his teeth. “looks pretty bad. mind unlocking your car?”

jungkook unlocks it and hoseok opens the door to get a better look at you and the sight is heartbreaking. “hmm…i need an ambulance here immediately. victim has a busted and cracked lip, a black eye, left cheek is swollen. there’s a lot of bruising around the rib cage area and a leg wrapped up. victim says the aggressor broke her leg. can i have your name, ma’am?”

“it’s y/n. kim y/n”

“victim’s name is kim y/n”

“copy that. ambulance will be there in 5-8 minutes”

“thanks for your cooperation, miss kim” hoseok shuts the door and jungkook locks it back. “thank goodness you came when you did. it could’ve been a lot worse and no one would’ve known” hoseok pats jungkook’s back before going inside the house and when he’s inside he sees two women trembling in fear and two men but one critically injured. “what’s up you guys” says hoseok.

“what’s up, man!” greets yugyeom.

“i’ve got everything handled, alright? i got some back up coming soon, so get out of here before you look like suspects”

the boys nod their heads before evacuating the home and 2 minutes later, more policemen show up. everyone in the house is under arrest and within 5 minutes, an ambulance appears to take jicheol away but you stubbornly refuse to go to the hospital.

“c’mon, y/n. we need to make sure you’re okay” says mingyu.

“guys, i’m fine. i just want to go home. i don’t want to be here anymore”

“we’re going to leave, i promise but you need medical attention y/n”

you look at jungkook and even he insists that you get medical attention before getting on the road. with jungkook’s help, he puts you on the stretcher and follows you inside the ambulance.

“we’ll follow you!” says eunwoo as they get inside the cars and follow the ambulance to the hospital. while in the truck, they take your temperature, blood pressure, and draw blood to do further testing. when they arrive to the hospital, the first thing they take care of is your broken leg, then your bruises.

“hi, you’re ms. y/n right?”

“yes”

“is this your husband?”

“one he will be but no, he’s my boyfriend”

“aww~ well, i’m here to give you some medicine for the bruises and tell you so super awesome news”

“news? is everything okay?”

“your bloodwork is fine. no life-threatening symptoms buuuuut congratulations, you’re pregnant!”

W H A T?!

“huh? no. nonononono, that can’t be true. we—he uses condoms and i’ve never cheated on him. jicheol kicked me in my stomach—,”

“and the baby is fine. if you want, we can use an ultrasound to get a better look but according to your bloodwork, you’re 2-3 weeks pregnant”

~🫧

What. What. WHAT.

Jungkook isn’t sure if what he’s hearing is right, you are pregnant?? “Umm doctor b-but my wife- I mean my girlfriend is right we always use protection?!” He questions dumb founded.

When did he even knock you up? Of course it’s his baby- jungkook looks at you with tears in his eyes, “b-baby are you hearing the doctor?” He asks as he grabs your hand and kisses it.

You’re pregnant with his child

He can’t believe it. “Oh my God.” He exclaims as you both share a sweet kiss, Jungkook is now an emotional mess. So, you endured all that pain and abuse while pregnant with his child?

“Yn baby how did you not notice?!” Jungkook questions you, when you bring up the fact that jicheol kicked you in the stomach, Jungkook’s eyes harden.

While he was busy protecting his first child- you were unknowingly carrying and protecting his second one.

After your pregnancy is confirmed, Jungkook is so full of joy, you are granted leave from the hospital due to your special circumstances.

“Yn I’m so so happy that you’re pregnant but…” now comes the dreadful question.

He’s nervous.

“Are you- do you want to keep the baby? I-I swear I didn’t get you pregnant on purpose… it’s your choice and I’ll be with you every step of the way…” he kisses your hand as you both walk to your car.

“Y-You can abort the baby if you’d like- I know we haven’t been with each other for long but I love you so much… I see my future in your eyes. So it’s going to be your choice.”

He looks into your eyes.

“But I hope you won’t because I’ve always wanted a family with you.”

#ask: mi!jk #OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG AHHHHHGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH #PREGNANT BESTIESSSSS #IM SO HAPPY FOR JK N YN

2 notes · View notes

crippled-punk-guy · 1 year ago

Text

Just a quick warning that this gets pretty heavy. I usually don’t feel the need to add warnings but if discussions of medical neglect bother you please don’t read this for your own sake.

Getting run around in circles by doctors again. One doctor says I need genetic testing to confirm. The genetics office says it’s not necessary because having a diagnosis won’t stop the symptoms(?). And my pcp’s receptionist basically said it’s out of their hands and there’s nothing more they can do. Which I understand they’re just general practice I’m not blaming them, but what is the actual point of having an EDS specialist if all they do is tell you “oh yeah you definitely have it. But knowing for sure won’t change anything. So instead of getting the diagnosis that would help you get access to other tests you need and equipment you shouldn’t have to pay for yourself we’re going to dismiss you and subtly imply you should shut the fuck up”. So what do I do now. I was told to call the genetics office that I’ve already been to before and tell them everything I have before knowing they’ll say the same damn thing again and again until I finally give up.

So essentially, I more likely than not have either Classical like or Hypermobile type but they won’t test to confirm because “it won’t change anything”. Except it will. It would make doctors stop thinking I’m crazy. It would make my insurance company have more reason to listen. It would make it easier to at least know what complications I’m at risk for. But none of that matters. Because there’s no cure. Even though two physical therapists that specialize in this agree that I have it and two primary doctors have aswell, all of whom say I need genetic testing because they’re genuinely worried about me and have said before they can’t believe that I’ve been denied testing.

So what do I do now. I’ve done what I’m supposed to. For six fucking years I’ve seen doctor after doctor trying to figure out what’s going on in the first place. And when one of them has an answer that makes sense and my other doctors agree with they say it’s not important enough. Well it’s important to me. And every other patient dealing with the same shit. It’s important to me because my joints are getting worse. It’s important because I’m having heart and blood pressure problems. It’s important because I’m having other issues I won’t share here.

So when does it become important enough? When my neck finally becomes so unstable it causes a chain reaction of other problems? When I can barely walk because of pain and dislocations and falling? When it’s impacting my eating and sleeping and every moment of my life?

Is that important enough yet.

Or are you going to just wait for me to die so you can avoid diagnosing someone else with this disorder and keep saying it’s so rare you don’t need to bother with it.

Why is this condition treated like this. Why is it “not important enough to test for” when it has life limiting and life threatening complications.

This is why patients turn to the internet. This is why patients lose faith in medicine. And I’ll let you in on a secret, I have great insurance. I am incredibly privileged to still be on my parent’s insurance, imagine how much harder it would be for someone who isn’t.

In conclusion, I’m just going to start telling my doctors I essentially have hEDS. Many doctors have agreed, I have a diagnosis of hypermobility, they just refuse to make the wording more clear or do testing to rule out other possibilities. I have all the symptoms. I have for years since my literal childhood. And they’ve gotten worse. Slowly at first and now very concerningly quickly.

But it’s “just being flexible” right? It’s not like it’s completely disabled me or anything. No biggie. /s

#hypermobility spectrum disorder #HSD #hypermobile eds #ableism tw #medical neglect tw #disability #wheelchair user #POTS

10 notes · View notes

chewriting · 1 year ago

Text

Even After Death Chp 3

Sooooooooo, a continuation has been made. Despite how much pain I love putting Kit through, I'm also a romantic who can't write bad endings. Let's hope that I actually round this whole thing out at some point; I've actually sat on this for so long debating whether it's done or not but I've decided I don't care anymore. Enjoy!

Obligatory Parts (if you want context and/or pain): One Two

Read it on Ao3

Content Warnings: none apply actually!

Snippet: Things get tighter; pieces adding in wet clumps to like a rudimentary clay sculpture. Slowly, oh so slowly, toes stretch out from feet attached to dewy new legs. Fingers reach any way they can, testing the range of weakened muscles. Then there’s light, unbelievable light.

As he’s woken up for as long as he can remember, Kit’s eyes snap open. Which immediately burn like Hell.

The weather in Faerie is not that much different than what he saw on Earth. A sun shines on the plains, rain waters the endless forests, and the wind brings smells from unknown regions. Sure, sometimes the lightning flashes different colors than the blinding white he saw in London once and some parts of Faerie never touch sunlight at all. But it isn’t that much different and none of it has ever alarmed him, especially since he’s spent many of his years far above the clouds.

This, though, Kieran has never seen before.

A guard had run in, trembling and exhausted, cutting off the meeting Kieran was having with a general. He all but demanded that the both of them look outside for the world was surely ending. It felt like relenting to a child’s vivid fantasy, but they finally got up once it looked like the guard was about to cry. Now, Kieran can understand the desperation.

From his balcony, it’s like the entire world has been doused in red. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice the change from inside. It’s picturesque in its purity, not a spot where the color fades or alters. It coats everything. Kieran can’t help but think of blood; blood that’s been on his hands and blood that drips down the smooth plane of someone’s back.

In the center of the sky, a perfect, black circle creeps towards the sun. Though it’s impossible, Kieran swears he can watch it move.

Below, small specks of grouped and lone fae drift around the courtyard below, staring up as well and unsure what to make of it. They’ve had eclipses before but never not predicted, never such a color.

Kieran doesn’t know what it all means but nothing about is good. Unexpected things don’t happen in Faerie for the benefit of its people. Distantly, he’s thankful both Mark and Christina are in New York for the time being, debating on his behalf in the creation of new laws. At least they’ll be safe if this entire realm collapses in on itself.

He turns to his guests, the general far more composed than the guard, who’s broken out in a thin film of sweat around his hairline. But Kieran can’t blame him.

“General, I need you to get in contact with my brother. However is the fastest.”

They nod, silent, and are off the balcony in a blink.

“Your Majesty, what are we going to do?” The guard asks.

Kieran looks back at the sky. Yes, the form had crept closer in the few moments he looked away. “I need to speak with the Seelie Queen. Whatever this is, it affects us all.”

✩

Consciousness comes with a feeling of being broken into pieces. Thankfully not painful, but incomplete. The sensation is difficult to grasp, covered in thick cotton that its sharp edges can’t be made out. Out of it all, a crushing pressure surrounds from all sides can be made out; pulling and pulling into what can only be considered the core. A center, pulsing and alive but not yet ready to live.

Things get tighter; pieces adding in wet clumps to like a rudimentary clay sculpture. Slowly, oh so slowly, toes stretch out from feet attached to dewy new legs. Fingers reach any way they can, testing the range of weakened muscles. Then there’s light, unbelievable light.

As he’s woken up for as long as he can remember, Kit’s eyes snap open. Which immediately burn like Hell.

He struggles to gain purchase but his hands and feet swipe through cool nothing. There’s no sound around him, giving space for his heartbeat to thump painfully in his ears. Opening his eyes doesn’t give much either, the stinging can’t be seen through.

But Kit’s lungs burn so he has to bare it. The second try is more bearable than the first and Kit takes in his surroundings.

Everything is blue, perfectly blue. Spinning in place, Kit can see it extends all around him. He’s underwater. And sinking. He flails helplessly until coordination finally settles in his limbs, pushing him to follow the column of bubbles rising to the surface. Kit can’t watch the light of the sun grow closer, fearful of an illusion revealing itself, so he clenches his eyes tight until the tips of his fingers touch air.

Kit breaches, gasping a short breath before the waves knock him under again. His upper arms scream for him to stop, but to stop is to sink like dead weight. He doesn’t understand why it feels like he’s wearing that damn vest Jem sometimes makes him run with for endurance training. Examining his chest only shows there’s nothing there, well and truly nothing that extends all the way down to his feet. But he can’t focus on why he’s completely naked in the ocean or the frequent flashes of something grey in his periphery every time he turns; there are more pressing issues. Like trying not to drown.

Another brief breach reveals a distant red dot, bobbing with the choppy waters. With no other plans making themselves known, Kit steels himself to make the swim. The waves are too rough for him to stay righted, leaving Kit to stick just below the surface until he’s forced to pop his head out again to breathe. He narrows in on his counting, the same method Jem taught him when it feels like his legs are about to give out beneath him. Just get through the next ten seconds. At every ten, he breaks for air and restarts the count.

It feels like it helps but that could be the memory of Jem at the gate of their garden, a wide grin visible even from the treeline. How he gripped Kit tightly regardless of how sweaty he was, congratulating him for doing so well.

Enough time has passed that when the buoy comes into focus, Kit’s muscles are threatening to slide off his bones. They ache with each stretch of his shoulders and quiver once given the slightest break. But he musters just enough strength to hit its side and wrap his arms around the base. It’s bigger than he thought, which means it’ll be harder to pull himself on top of the platform; but he’s seen pictures of seals basking on them, and Kit is at least more dexterous than them.

Everything shakes as Kit’s nail dig into the metal, barely providing enough leverage to heave himself out of the water. He flops heavily, wetly, on top and though it dips with his added weight, it holds.

The buoy isn’t salvation. Its platform isn’t nearly big enough for Kit to curl up on, leaving his lower half hanging off the side and at the mercy of the frigid waters. But he clings to the light post, a vice grip on its supports. Pure desperation. Kit knows if he falls, he won’t have to strength to fight the current again. He’d surely drown.

So he continues to count: up to ten, down to one, back up to ten. Calm his racing heart, bring even breaths back into his lungs. Gently lead his body from fight-or-flight back into a headspace where he can think critically. Safe, for the time being, Kit thinks. He can’t remember how he got here. A crowded room is in focus and the feeling of Hazel’s arms around him is sharp–as is the smell of her clearance perfume. There’s another sharp memory, but it brings pain and no visual. But then there’s nothing. Images transition into a blackness that’s only revived when Kit’s already underwater.

What had been doing after talking with Hazel? Jem and Tessa might have hugged him, but that also could have been the night before. Why did they hold him so tightly? Why was Tessa’s arm shaking around his shoulders again?

The battle. Warm, damp grass that Kit pretended was just from a recent rain. Weathered leather rolling out of his palm. What happened during the fight? Did he get captured and somehow escape? Did someone magic him here, without clothes, a weapon, or memories? A chill unrelated to the winds cutting across his wet, exposed back settles in his core. Did he succeed? Was he killed? But that wouldn’t explain how he is very much alive, very clearly breathing, right now. Unless this is a very fucked up version of the afterlife.

No. People don’t just come back to life, not without someone to perform the spell. Not without a price. So he pushes it from his mind. Something more reasonable must have happened. Kit will figure it all out once he’s back on land, preferably with some pants.

Speaking of, Kit stretches as much as he can to scan around the light post in the middle of the buoy. The same blue as underwater surrounds him, only cut at the horizon line where the grey sky meets the sea. Typical English weather. But, it means that there are no boats to be found. He lays back down, resigning himself to just waiting. He has no idea where he is or how far offshore he woke up. Even a well-trained swimmer can’t go indefinitely and though Kit isn’t the same kid he once was three years ago, grimacing at the sheer idea of exercise, it’s a death sentence to pick a direction and go.

There’s nothing to do but wait until a passing boat spots him or he dehydrates.

And then there’s still the weight trying to drag him over the side. Out of the water, it’s heavier; sharper. Twin hooks, lodged into the meat of his upper back, carrying lead weights at the mercy of gravity. One wrong move and they could tear his entire spine out like a Mortal Kombat fatality. Kit risks a gland, praying someone didn’t actually try to weigh him down to drown him. But instead of heavy, iron chains, there are wings.

Sodden, dirty wings, but wings nonetheless. Dark grey clumps crowd sections of grey-blue feathers together and there’s what looks like blood the closer it gets to his skin. Kit can just stare at them. They’re limp, the wind only managing to rustle a few fibers. It explains how heavy they are. But Kit can’t comprehend them, that they’re somehow attached to his back.

Any attempt to move them like he would any other limb results in nothing. Then again, Kit doesn’t know if he could move his arms or legs either. Another piece to a puzzle that Kit can’t understand. But the drying salt water makes his skin feel two sizes too small for his body and no amount of smacking his lips generates moisture. He’s already incredibly thirsty. He can’t guess how long he has as he can’t figure out how long he’s been here. Any minute before he woke up is a minute stolen from his final countdown. He needs to stay awake; be prepared to signal help in case anyone comes.

Exhaustion weighs on his eyelids and he’s not given enough time to protest.

He barely wakes up again to a shout, distant and muffled but there all the same. A shape behind the scaffold tower approaches. Kit’s heart rate kicks up but he can’t move a muscle.

“You doing okay?” The voice booms across the water like a cannon shot. He blinks and it’s impossibly closer. He can’t conjure the energy to call back, raise a hand, anything. An engine’s rumble cuts through the silence, growing louder and louder.

“Hey, please, say something bud,” A man pleads. He’s bent heavily over the side of a pristine white boat, a single hand steadying him against the waves knocking against the hull. The bush of his mustache hogs most of the space on his face but that could also just be Kit’s eyes refusing to focus. Shoving down his embarrassment at a stranger getting a great view of his bare ass, Kit kicks to the best of his ability. It’s a pitiful splash, but the man straightens up. “David, I saw him kick!”

He sounds American, which only serves to confuse Kit more. Is he not even in English waters? The man turns to the ship’s cabin, though the windows are too dark for Kit to see inside. “I don’t care what you think you big downer. I’m dragging him aboard, dead or alive. Regardless, someone ‘aught to be missing him.”

The boat creeps ever closer but when Kit closes his eyes, he opens them again already onboard–swaddled tightly in a wool blanket and propped against the boat’s side. The man from earlier crouches in front of him, blocking out the sun that must have appeared while Kit was out. Either of the times. He smiles brightly as Kit blinks, trying to clear his vision. His mustache really does steal a lot of the attention from his face, but it’s like the rest of his features have tried their best to make up for it. The smile lines and crow's feet are deep and his dark eyebrows are more reminiscent of caterpillars.

“Whoo-wee, there ya are. I’ll tell ya, I worried we’d lost you for good.” His voice is far too loud so close to Kit’s ear but Kit can’t do much but flinch minutely away. They wrapped him pretty damn tight. At least the man had the means to look bashful. “Sorry, kid. Have always had a volume issue.”

“Don’t overwhelm him,” someone calls from the cabin, notably more British. David, the man had called him.

“I wasn’t,” he argues but shuffles back some. It brings the sun directly into Kit’s eyes but at least he has space. The man blushes again, before wrestling his cap off and slapping it onto Kit’s head. He sways with the force of it. The man’s blush deepens as he wraps two hairy and sturdy hands around Kit’s shoulders to stabilize him. “Ah, geez, not very good at this rescue gig am I?”

“Blimey, Jesse, take the helm.” Jesse scrambles back as another man appears. Usually, just one middle-aged man would be enough to cause a light sweat to appear on the back of Kit’s neck, but fear immediately shoots through his veins looking at David. He looks far too similar to Kit’s dad. Jesse mutters under his breath but still obeys.

David’s sandy blonde hair is already starting to grey and his brown eyes are faded like a sun-worn stone. Contrasting Jesse’s unruly facial hair, he’s clean-shaven. But unlike Johnny Rook, the lines around his mouth say his serious expression isn’t permanent. And he gets on his knees to look Kit in the eyes.

“Ignore him. He don’t know when to shut up.”

“Hey!”

“You’re only proving my point,” he replies calmly. He turns to Kit again. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Kit feels himself relax despite so much of his instincts screaming to not trust either of them. Too many people have tried to kill him over the past few months; too long under his dad’s roof for a handful of free years to pry those lessons loose. But muscles still slack against his mind’s objections. Maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s exhaustion. He nods and David’s shoulders loosen.

“Here, take small sips of this.” He hands over a crumbled water bottle hidden in a coil of rope. With some struggle to free his hands from the blanket, Kit cradles it between his palm to drink. It’s only water, but it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He tries to chug it, but David puts two fingers on its base to prevent Kit from tipping further. “Small sips, remember?”

Kit glares. David chuckles but doesn’t relent. He gently guides Kit through the entire bottle and doesn’t comment when Kit waits for the last drop to hit his tongue.

Kit swallows, cataloging the immediate effects on his throat. His voice is still barely more of a croak but at least it’s audible. “It’s sweet.”

David does smile then, less bright than Jesse’s but no less warm. “It’s an old coast guard trick. A little sugar helps draw the electrolytes into your bloodstream.”

“Did you give him the peanut butter?” Jesse calls and David sighs.

“Not yet. Give the boy a minute.”

“You said he might need the calories!”

“It won’t do him any good if I shove it down his throat.”

Kit’s stomach chimes in with an echoing growl. David’s eyes widen and Jesse laughs deep in the cabin. He barely ate before the fight and who knows how much time has passed since then. Or how many calories he burned swimming.

“I could eat some peanut butter,” Kit says.

“Fine.” David pulls a small packet from one of his cargo short pockets. It’s the same color as the plastic of the boat, with a large brown drop printed on the side. “I mean it when I say eat this slowly. You can puke otherwise.”

He tears the top off, thankfully, as Kit doesn’t know if his fingers are strong enough to grip it right, and all but places it in Kit’s hands. It’s strange to eat with someone watching him so closely, especially when he’s basically drinking peanut butter like it’s a juice pouch. He can’t help but feel like one of those cats in the squeeze-tube treat commercials.

Clearly, these two men are mundanes. Kit doesn’t get the same goose-pimpling as he does around some Downworlders and they don’t carry themselves with the same authority and entitlement most Shadowhunters do. It doesn’t explain why they haven’t commented on the state they found him in, wings or lacking clothes. But he continues putting off asking as he squeezes the last bits out of the packet and David has made himself comfortable just off to Kit’s side, clearly not going anywhere. Done, he tucks the bottom edge up to start rolling it in on itself.

“Where are we?” Kit asks. David looks confused for a moment before his face clears.

“You don’t know?”

A familiar trill sings up Kit’s spine. It’s been a while since he’s needed to lie on this scale and he hasn’t been given enough time to come up with something believable, but hopefully, they’ll believe anything due to his situation.

“Everything is pretty fuzzy,” Kit admits. David looks off to the horizon, expression cloudy again.

“Do you remember anything at all? How you ended up in the water, maybe?”

Kit takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. In the dark, he gets a better vision of the character he’s playing. Like sliding on a mask, he falls into the role. “I was on a boat with my friends. I think I tripped. Next thing I knew I was in the water.” Kit opens his eyes again, looking at David, trying his best to appear downtrodden, forgotten.

“I didn’t get any calls of a man overboard,” David says. Kit can only shrug.

“I don’t think they noticed.”

David looks at him, eyes hard but sympathetic. “Were you kids drinking?”

Kit flinches back but thankfully David reads it as fear of being reprimanded and not surprise. “I’m not a cop kid, you’re not gonna get in trouble.”

For a moment, Kit looks away, biting his lip. Then, he nods slowly. “We’re just trying to have some fun.”

David just nods. With a groan, he stands up; remarkably stable against the rocking of the boat. “Well, we’re on our way back to Dover. We didn’t find a phone on you and we don’t have one on the boat. So you’re going to have to call someone back on shore.”

Before Kit can ask about his clothes, Jesse pipes up from the cabin. “Sorry ‘bout your clothes, by the way. They were soaked so we’d thought it would be better to get you out of ‘em. I have them hanging right here though!”

Kit doesn’t want to think how they’re going to give him back clothes that don’t exist. Which is another problem, why did they see him having clothes in the first place? Shadowhunter glamours are usually complete invisibility. Only in a few instances has Kit seen werewolves and vampires hide some of their more obvious features from mundanes without resorting to concealing themselves completely. But they were always intentional, never something that just happens.

At least it also clears the anxieties Kit has about his new wings, which tucked underneath the blanket are still cold and damp. And not an exhaustion-fueled hallucination. They’re going to be a pain to dry out, something tells him he can’t just leave them be like he would with his hair. Ty would know. Ty would know all the steps to properly drying a bird’s wings with care and respect. But thinking about Ty still feels like standing over a towering drop, toes sticking out over the edge just begging someone to push him over. So he shakes the thoughts away.

“I think my phone is still on the boat. Or with my friends, if they’ve docked already,” Kit says.

“That’s good. Do you remember your number?” David asks. Kit only nods because it would probably be too suspicious not to. “Alright. We’ll take you to the police station in Dover and they can call your phone there. Hopefully, your friends will be in a sober enough state to come get you.”

There is absolutely no way Kit is going to the police. But he does remember the map of active Institutes in the UK that Jem and Tessa asked him to be familiar with, just in case something were to happen and he needed somewhere to go. Three years ago, Kit would have never thought of any Institute being safe but now it’ll be salvation. He’ll be able to contact his family.

This time, Kit doesn’t have to pretend to be thankful. David looks uncomfortable under the spotlight of Kit’s gratitude, so he just nods and goes back into the cabin. For a moment Kit thinks they’re going to leave him be until they dock but Jesse comes back to the deck with a dark cloud overhead.

“You know I hate it when you boss me around,” He protests.

“This is a special situation,” David replies. Jesse rolls his eyes but plants himself across Kit. He bends his knee to rest his elbow against and the foul mood passes, replaced by another deep flush. This man goes through more colors than a cheap mood ring.

“Also, we didn’t look or nothin’ when undressin’ ya. Honest. I covered you with the blanket and Davie was real quick. No peakin’.”

Kit wasn’t worried about it until he started talking. He slides the flaps of the blanket to cover his chest better.

“Plus, you’re a little young for me. What are you, sixteen, seventeen?”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Whoo, you’re just a baby. I like my men older these days. Aged like a fine wine, I say.” Jesse almost shouts out the last part, which David just grunts at. It’s then that Kit notices the smooth, golden band on his ring finger. A surprising miss with how it glitters in the sun. He can’t remember if he saw David wearing one.

“Are you two, married?” Kit asks.

“It’ll be fifteen years in four months.”

“I didn’t see him with a ring.”

“That’s ‘cause he never wears it on the boat, the shit. Says he doesn’t want to lose it in the water.” Jesses leans across the gap between them like he’s sharing a secret despite his voice not being able to reach a whisper. “I think he just wants plausible deniability if we ever stumble across some mermen on our trips.”

“Don’t fill that boy’s head will lies, Jess.”

Kit, despite himself, laughs. Since they really are in the English Channel, how he’d love to tell them of the colonies of mermaids that call it home. Though Hazel says most of them avoid mundanes due to their frequent ferrying causing heavy pollution, a few like to wave to passengers from the water’s surface.

Jesse gives Kit an impish look. “He’s just trying to keep ‘em all to himself.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting a mermaid,” Kit says, barely able to look out over the edge to the horizon line. They’re moving quite fast, faster than it feels slouched on the deck and out of the grasp of the winds. Jesse isn’t so lucky, his hair is whipping in all directions as he stares at Kit. “Or a merman,” he adds, like an afterthought.

Jesse’s blinding grin returns, somehow a hundred watts brighter. “Maybe use this to your advantage. Everyone loves a good story of defying the odds.”

“I don’t think tripping off my friend’s boat is very heroic.”

“Muddle some of the details then, emphasize others. A little fib never hurt anyone.” It almost makes Kit laugh again, he has no idea how much that truly applies to Kit’s life. “Did David ever ask you your name?”

Kit shakes his head. Jesse throws his head back but doesn’t look surprised.

“David, why didn’t you ask for his name?” He calls. There are a good few beats of silence before there’s a response.

“I was more worried about making sure he was okay.”

“It’s about bein’ polite. You old cod.” Jesse turns back to Kit. “What is your name bud?”

“Kit.”

“Kit! Ha! Easy to remember, I like that.” Jesse laughs. “Well Kit, do you wanna hear how I used a real good story to lasso the most handsome man this side of the Atlantic?”

“Jesse,” David warns but he gets waved off.

“Oh, hush. Focus on not crashin’. I’ll leave out all the raunchy details, promise.”

Kit nods, which is enough for Jesse to launch into a story of an American businessman meeting a British Coast Guard in a pub. How Jesse experienced love at first sight for the first time in his life and how at the time he felt suaver than James Deen but looking back was more like a fumbling teenager at thirty-three. How David took pity on him and invited him for a walk after paying the tab. How they ended the night in bed, with no details besides a hearty wink in Kit’s direction when David started to protest.

The story kept stringing into others: Jesse’s first marriage to a woman in the States that was a terrible mistake–she was lovely, just that Jesse is gayer than a fruit bowl, the disaster of David trying to propose romantically and nearly losing the ring in Abbey Lake, and their two foster daughters preparing for year nine.

It’s a nice distraction, especially when halfway through Jesse gets more peanut butter and a package of saltines to smear them on. Kit clenches the trash in his fist, fighting the anxiety of going to shore. Something happened during the battle, something big. Big enough that he grew a whole new set of limbs out of it. As Jesse talks, Kit tries to subtly shift and shake out his wings. Hydrated and fed, his muscles respond better. Their movement is limited but there; learning to use them will be a big hurdle. But he’s putting that on the back burner for now.

Despite all the fear, Kit wants to see his parents. He wants to kiss Mina’s forehead; relish in Tessa’s perfect mom hugs; listen to Jem’s stories. It feels like he hasn’t seen them in forever, which could be possible. Though he can’t feasibly ask Jesse for the date without really sounding crazy. But the animated way Jesse tells his stories helps keep everything from flooding his system; keeps him occupied as the shoreline gets clearer and clearer.

The stories also give Kit a chance to feel for any injuries. But surprisingly, Kit isn’t hurt anywhere. There is an ache in his upper thighs where they dug into the edge of the buoy that will surely bloom into dark bruises and soreness on his chest from dragging himself on top. Overall nothing too severe. Most alarmingly is a dip just to the left of his breastbone. And another cutting across his abdomen. Kit can’t remember getting them. Jem would never aim for something as vital as his heart during training, never hit hard enough to leave a pink and shiny scar behind. He runs his finger up and down the divot, as Jesse keeps talking, almost soothingly.

Despite his approaching three years away from Los Angeles–on top of his well-sheltered existence there–the bustle of the docks and the speckling of families walking the rocky shore, is blissfully familiar. Not a shot to the chest like he thought it could be. Their docking goes smoothly, which Jesse says is because David is at the helm and not him; one poor docking job resulting in lots of scrapped paint caused him to be banished from the job. It’s also a little funny watching them try to find Kit’s supposed dried clothes that Jesse swears he hung just by the wheel. Good grief, Kit, I’m really sorry, you’d think with how small our boat is things would be impossible to lose. It’s as if they just up and disappeared. Eventually, they just dress him in an old pair of David’s swimming trunks with pink seastars and flip-flops Jesse found buried in a trunk. They assure him that the police will have a spare shirt he can have and while Kit can’t express it, he is grateful for not needing to tear a shirt to accommodate his new wings. Which he’s going to have to do to all of his tops, shit.

It’s David who insists they walk Kit to the police station on the docks, even when Kit practically begs them to just let him go alone. The walk is short, thankfully, but Kit’s mind is a whir trying to come up with a reasonable excuse not to have them walk him inside.

They stop right at the doors when Kit finally turns on the ball of his foot to look at them.

“I’ll be okay from here. You don’t need to walk me in.”

They look at each other, hesitant. Definitely parents. “You sure Kit?” David asks.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to make it up the stairs.”

“I am surprised with how much energy after swimming for Lord knows how long,” Jesse comments.

“I’m an active kid,” Kit says, growing ansty. They’ve been incredibly nice, nicer than Kit could have possibly imagined. But he really needs them to leave. “Thank you, for saving me.”

Jesse’s face scrunches, which is all the warning Kit gets before he’s enveloped in a warm hug. He’s at the perfect height to hide his face in Jesse’s neck. Though Kit isn’t very keen on touching strangers, it’s the recharge he didn’t even know he needed.

“Okay, Jess, don’t suffocate him,” David says, gently pulling him back.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” Jesse wipes away a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m so glad we found you kiddo. Take care of yourself, ya hear?”

“I will. Promise.”

Jesses just nods while David places a warm hand over Kit’s shoulder. “You’re a damn lucky kid.” Kit can’t even respond, it’s more true than they know that it clogs his throat up.

David takes Jesse’s hand as they leave, but Jesse calls over his shoulder as they’re walking: “Keep the shorts! As a reminder to keep your partyin’ on land, yeah?”

Kit just shoots them a thumbs-up. It isn’t until they turn the corner and he’s sure that they’re not coming back that Kit goes in the other direction.

The marker of the Dover Institute wasn’t on an exact street, but they’re typically grand enough that they’re hard to miss. As he walks, he racks his brain for any cracks in the impenetrable darkness in his memories. There’s a possibility that someone could have put a block on his memories like he recalls Clary had done to her for most of her childhood. But it feels less like someone creating a fortress around a set of memories and more like an absence of them. A void.

The thought alone is enough to make Kit shiver. A complete and perfect gap in recollection is terrifying. But he wanders the picturesque British streets of Dover, squinting at every brick-laid building and shop face. The glamours meant for mundanes never caused him any trouble but sometimes out of the corner of his eye they’re still successful. When he first visited the London Institute it took him a few blinks for the boarded-up church to fall away and its towering reality to show. Then again, that was still before his Vouyance rune.

Once he’s exhausted the major streets with no luck, Kit takes a chance to tuck himself into an alleyway. With no one around, Kit manually stretches out his wings. They’ve been pressed tightly against his back out of fear; clearly, he isn’t fully glamoured but his wings are and while they may be hidden from sight, they’re still physically there. Someone getting knocked in the face by an unseen force as a random boy passes by is weirder than he’d be able to pass off.

He barely retrains a groan as he unfurls fully. Sensation floods through them in pure bliss; it’s heavenly. And with them out, he can examine them more thoroughly.

They’re gigantic, for one. The tips brush either side of the alley when he stands in the center, far past his arm span. He gives them an experimental shake without his hands. They’re still pretty difficult to move but they jostle a bit. So, for now, they’re mostly for show. No flying yet. Though flying would be sweet. He runs his fingers through the inner feathers, still mostly damp and dirty with that gray stuff from before. But they’re really soft; and sensitive, as a jolt of electricity hits him square in the brain. No touching then, either.

He’ll have to clean them at some point, but that’s a plan he can form when he has access to a shower. At least their color still comes through. Two different shades of grey-blue, darker on the bottom feathers and lighter at the tops. He’s not sure if they’re reminiscent of any bird species or something entirely of their own. Again, a problem for later.

As of now, the sun will be setting soon and Kit doesn’t want to be roaming around at night in just swimming trunks and old flip-flops. So he carefully folds them back, but not too tightly–he needs blood flow–and sets back out to the streets.

He’s momentarily distracted by the cliffs in the distance, almost too white to be natural. But signs around town call to tourists to buy postcards and other memorabilia of the famous cliffs made of chalk, so he has to assume they’re real. Or a very elaborate scam. Glancing at closing tourist shops has another perk, spotting the date. With mounting horror, Kit realizes it’s been nearly three months since they fought the Fae. Not an eternity, but not a normal amount of time either. Was he in the water the entire time? If so, were people looking for him? Was his family worried? Was Ty?

The anxiety fuels him through the final stretch of searching so that on his second lap around the street enclosing downtown, Kit spots the familiar glow of witchlights. They’re set into lamps low to the ground, leading from the paved street up a foot-packed path into the forest. He’s more than happy to follow the trail with the prospect of a phone at its other end.

The Devon Institute looks more like a stereotypical English bed and breakfast than a hub for Shadowhunters, ancient thatch roofs and all. Unlike the Los Angeles Institute which looked like it could comfortably hold dozens of Shadowhunters at once, this just looks like someone’s house.

Ivy crawls up the walls and nestles into blooming window flowerboxes and grooves in the stone siding; but, the front garden is well-maintained and lush. All the curtains are drawn but light still shines through like a beacon. The front door is painted a cheery, wisteria purple. Thankfully, there’s a Toyota parked in the driveway, a sign of modern living.

Kit drags his feet up the dirt drive, craving nothing more than a bed to probably sleep through the next few days. But, call Jem and Tessa first. Then hibernate.

He finds himself knocking before he can think about it. It’s an Institute, he can just go inside. But his brain on autopilot just treated it like how he’d show up at a friend’s house. Before he can just open the door, a woman is already there.

She’s young, maybe a little older than Tessa looks, with the kind of hair that gets kids called carrot-top in 90s shows. She looks confused to see Kit there as if she was expecting someone else.

“Oh, I thought you were a Downworlder. Most Shadowhunters don’t knock if they show up at all.” Her accent is thick and is most definitely not British.

“Why would I be a Downworlder?” Despite back aching and exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, it’s all he can focus on.

“Lots of Downworlders flee the Continent and come here for a safe night's sleep before they move on.” Her face pinches and she gives Kit a harsh look. “It’s not against the Law. I’m allowed to run my Institue how I please.”

“Where do they even stay? They can’t enter, right?”

“They can if I let them in.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Kit doesn’t know what’s going on. “Do you have an open room for me?”

The woman holds the door open so Kit can slink in. For some reason, he feels like a child who got caught sneaking out. There’s a cool drop of guilt in his chest for not knowing who runs this Institute, especially since she’s not anyone he recognizes.

Inside, it doesn’t do much to dispel the intimate charm it holds. It’s a very modest entryway with a single set of stairs leading to the second floor and two open doorways branching to other parts of the house. As he examines the decor, something he could only describe as nostalgic for the Edwardian era, he hears her inhale sharply.

She’s staring directly at his wings, which of course aren’t invisible to her.

“Listen, I don’t know where they came from either. But, actually, do you–”

“Wait,” she cuts him off, suddenly far paler than before. “I know your face.”

Kit tries not to shiver at her wording, thrown back to the last time someone told him that before promptly trying to cut his head off. He takes a shaky step back. There isn’t much he can defend himself here if it comes to that. Though the porcelain urn could make a good distraction.

“Let’s not jump to anything,” Kit insists. But the woman’s face clears, recognition visible in her leaf-green eyes.

“You’re Kit Herondale.”

He takes another step back, blindly feeling for anything he could grab a hold of. “Maybe I should just leave.”

“How are you here? We burned your body.” She sounds equally scared and fascinated. Kit’s heart drops and clangs down his ribs until it hits his stomach.

“What?” He croaks.

“Your body. We burned it, as is tradition. Though your family kept your ashes instead of giving them to the Silent Brothers.”

His breathing catches; his lungs won’t expand. The room blurs and spins around him but his hand clenched tight to an end table keeps him from falling over. So, he did succeed. He did die in battle. Hazel must have told Jem and Tessa his last wish; they must have spread him in the ocean. But why is he back? Why isn’t he still dead?

Kit looks up at the woman, who’s also pressed against the far wall. It’s very un-Shadowhunter like but Kit can’t blame her. Someone back from the dead is nothing to snuff at. Something in his gaze causes her to gulp audibly.

“Please,” he begs, “I’m not here to hurt you. Or anyone. I don’t know what’s going on. Can I just use your phone?”

#kit herondale #kit rook #ty blackthorn #minor original characters #kit x ty #the wicked powers #TWP #the dark artifices #TDA #the shadowhunter chronicles #TSC #I've squeezed this out in tiny droplets over the span of like six months #I haven't been able to write so I'm posting this instead #chewrites #series: even after death

7 notes · View notes

sparkliingdust · 2 years ago

Text

Who's The Dreamboat, English?

Happy Steggy Secret Santa gift for @thevillagegay! I saw from your tumblr and AO3 that you’re also a big Cartinelli fan. Me too! I wanted to bring a little bit of that into the fold and to hopefully match your request of angst/fluff. Hope you enjoy, and have a happy new year!

Sneak peek: Steve might be a supersoldier. Peggy might be a super spy. But all their skills and experience can’t outsmart an actress’s instincts. After a string of mishappenstances, Angie finally discovers the truth about the mystery man in Peggy’s life – although she can’t say she’s all that surprised.

AO3 link here.

Steve idles in their bedroom, watching Peggy prepare for the day ahead. Standing in a button down shirt and pants, he’s unsure of whether to ignore the sting of warmth in his hands from the coffee cup he was clutching or soak it in. He and Peggy are still getting used to these mornings. Some are a rush of passion, ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye darling’, a mad dash to squeeze in personal time in between the lab experiments at the SSR. Others, like these, are quiet, thoughtful, time moving still, timed arrivals and departures, every moment being seemingly accounted for.

“If you head out from the L&L around the usual, and I’m not an unofficial blood bank, I can probably have dinner set and ready here about 7:30. If that’s not cutting it too close.”

A line of concentration etches across Peggy’s face. She starts applying her lipstick when her mother’s words echo in her mind, “’The truth will out’.” A pair of words made famous by Shakespeare. A condemnation by her mother who caught her children in fibs. Peggy shares an enthused smile, “Sounds like a plan.”

Steven, just like Peggy, learned to read the pauses. A life by omission was something they both signed up for but not all the is wanted to be dotted or tees crossed.

Peggy’s cover stories have cover stories. She knows how to carry on a case of her own, to camouflage it from her colleagues’ attention, to slip in and out of identities to get to the truth even if she has to lose herself along the way. But there’s something to this cover, to not yet allowing the world to know the love of her life returned yet, especially keeping Angie in the dark, that makes her wince inside.

“Peggy -”, Steve says, placing his cup on the drawer set and turning in time for Peggy to place her arms on his waist.

“Steven,” Peggy sighs, finding comfort and safety in the midst of a million thoughts running through her mind.

“Angie means a great deal to you - “

“She does. When I started rebuilding my life in New York, she reminded me to let my guard down and to trust that I didn’t have to carry the world on my shoulders. Quite similar to someone else I know,” Peggy says, warming her hands up his sleeves and resting on his shoulders.

He’s brought this up before. They’ve talked about it at length. It kills him to bring it up again. “I know I’ve interrupted the life you’ve created here, and that nothing could never go back to the way it was,” he hesitates to continue, “But I don’t….there’s still time to change -…”

He’s forced to stop short when Peggy plasters a kiss. Soft yet tight. A light pressure of how much he holds dear with her matching everything she holds dear with him.

“It’s you. My future is with you,” Peggy reaffirms. “Until she finds out the truth, it is difficult to conceal our relationship because Angie was there for me when I had very little to turn to. But she knows how much you mean to me as well.”

“I can only hope once all is said and done, I’ll get her approval,” he quipped bringing a smile to her face.

“Darling, you have no idea.”

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

Another day of tests. Another day of questions. But her and Steve made it through together. Another day of plans. “Good afternoon, Ange,” Peggy returns, almost breathlessly like she’s walking on air as she sits down at her usual seat in the automat.

“Hey, English,” Angie greeted, following suit to Peggy.

"It must've been a long day at the phone company," Angie shoves her pad and pen back in her apron, knowing her friend’s order like the latest play she’s been reading when she notices it. Her lipstick is smudged. “But when did you find the time to go 'parking', Peg?' Angie observes, discreetly circling her hand around Peggy’s mouth, a playful grin across her face.

Peggy’s gaze doesn’t break Angie’s, even as she feels a blush running up her shoulders towards her face. Even the concealer and the lipstick she re-applied couldn’t hide the distinct smudge of lips of having stained remnants underneath of one of the most breathless kisses she and Steve managed to squeeze in her office. The smudge is so small that nobody could notice it - except the two women in the room.

“Let me get you the regular, and you can spill the beans,” Angie notes cheerfully, turning on her heel and heading towards the kitchen.

The crimson paint always falls in line around Peggy’s full lips. Looking back on the professional incident Peggy and Jarvis encountered at the diner, they later laughed at how Peggy still managed to look immaculate after serving crippling blows to multiple agents with her fists, tablecloths, chairs, and dish pans. Not a hair or an eyelash fell out of place. So, today, Peggy either had a truly rough day enough not to reapply her wares or this person must’ve been someone deeply special. Angie hoped it more than anything – it was the latter.

Peggy’s finishing her make-up and checking over every hair not of place when Angie sets down the platter of tea with sandwich on the table and scooting into the booth, “So, who’s the dreamboat, English?”

It was just like Peggy to cut to the chase, but Peggy wasn’t biting. “No one, Ang. Too many ‘close calls’ at the agency for extracurriculars.”

“You can’t bluff your way out of this one. I’m an actress, after all. Falling in love is the one feeling you can’t truly fake, English,” Angie crossed her arms. “Though I could give you a Best Supporting globe for trying.”

Peggy debates, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Angie. There's no dreaming of boats here.”

There’s a moment of silence. A brief staring contest between them. Peggy isn’t fessing. Angie won’t give up that easily, but she can at least change the subject now. “Well, if you won’t tell me about your day, I’ll tell you about mine. My agent said Hollywood’s been calling since my background gig with George and Gracie,” Angie takes a sharp inhale and tries to smooth out the exhale. “and it’d be silly for me stop picking up the phone,” Angie starts, re-arranging the napkins on the table.

Peggy swallows the news as the sip of tea coats her throat, “That means you might be heading out west, I presume.”

“Catch a little sunshine. Get a little famous,” Angie quips. “It’ll be tough to say goodbye to the rundown shack Howard let me stay in, but not having to pay rent has let me save up a little and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I miss pounding the pavement.”

“That’s fantastic, Angie. I’m so proud of you,” Peggy reaches out her hand to hold Angie’s. “I always knew you were gonna make it.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about all of my failed auditions, is that all those no’s led to a yes. Some of my dreams are finally coming true,” Angie hinted.

Peggy debates, “There’s no stopping the rest from coming true either.”

“That all depends on you,” Angie reaching for Peggy’s hand into her own, like throwing down the gauntlet. “I’ve been telling you English, you work too much.” She releases an exhaustive reminder. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you found someone who really makes everything on the clock worth it to come home to?”

The warmth trailing through Peggy’s heart almost puts her at a loss for words. “Yes, it would,” She couldn’t go into specifics, but she does something that she’s only ever done for one other person – make a date, or a promise, of sorts. “I will soon enough.”

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

He had brawn and brains. More than enough of both that his legacy gave him credit for. But he wasn’t the best at being a spy per say. Even Steve would admit that. Nat was always a hundred moves ahead of The Avengers out in the field. Maria guided him through SHIELD’s special task forces for a decade when Fury compartmentalized everyone’s missions. Peggy founds SHIELD and she designed the playbook for them to barrel through Hydra bases during the war as his official return loomed.

Granted, Steve and Peggy had done plenty to keep their tracks covered – finding the smallest of nooks and crannies of Brooklyn he and Peggy could spend time together, stopping his driver blocks away from Howard’s house and walking up through the backwoods instead of straight to the front door, donning a wide range of disguises heading in and out of SSR facilities. But that didn’t mean there weren’t cracks in the system – the telephone operators sniffing out rumors of the best looking new agent joining the ranks, phone calls abruptly dropped when the house keeper or Angie picked up a call first, rushed meals that left more dishes in the drying rack that Angie couldn’t imagine only Peggy could eat on her own.

In the grandness of Howard’s mansion, he and Peggy started building their life together, but it’s not altogether theirs. It’s the SSRs making him their top super soldier again. It’s the government trying to turn him into another science experiment. It’s going to be the dreaded judgment day when media find out he’s back. The pockets of normalcy and secrets shouldn’t throw him off guard, but as the sun sets and he’s taking a shower after spending a day with Peggy at work, where they were making plans for the future, the former finally creeps up on him.

When he hears a woman’s voice from the next room, nothing stops his brain from his brawn to not answer and step out of the bathroom wrapping a towel around his waist.

And it’s not Peggy he finds in their bedroom, but a dirty blonde in a white button down blouse and light brown plaid suit armed with a vase. She narrowly throws it before halting suddenly, “Oh my god! Are you kidding me?!”

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

Peggy wasn’t one for distractions or nervousness. They were all adults. But here she was besotted with both as she prepared a tray of tea ready and Steve and Angie waited in the foyer. The truth will out – indeed. Of all the rooms they hid in, Angie finally decided to try theirs for a change in scenery. She just never expected it’d be with her best friend walking in on the love of her life half-naked.

Little did she know – the air in the next room isn’t exactly tense. Angie was surprised. It’d be a shock for anyone. The long gone Captain America back – in the flesh, healthy, happy, alive. She knew it would dawn on her more fully how much Peggy must’ve been hiding from her. But she couldn’t help but relish this moment – she foiled a super soldier and a super spy’s plans.

The foyer is deafeningly quiet as he sits across from Angie. He feels like he’s swallowed up the loveseat as he tries to situates himself on what to do next, a cascade of emotions resting on his face and with his body shifting uncomfortably – relieved, embarrassed, almost amused. All of their I’s dotted and t’s crossed completely thwarted by Angie coming home early and wanting a change of scenery to practice her auditions.

Nothing could break the ice more than seeing someone next to nude, prompting Steve try a different approach. “I understand, from what Peggy has told me, you were a great comfort to her while I was – away,” he says, folding his hands together over his knees.

“English was having a hard time after the war, after everything she, I mean, the both of you lost, and what I imagined you’ve been through -”Angie started. “It wasn’t easy. It took her a lot of time to open up. But, we got there eventually.”

When Peggy entered the room, both of their focus divert as she comes in with a silver tray of tea in her hands. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” Steve’s eyes meeting Angie’s as Peggy sits down next to him and starts handing out teacups with saucers.

“This isn’t the first time you two have met, however,” Peggy admits, as she situates her tea on her lap, and catching a bemused look on Steve’s face.

Angie starts to fill him in, “I saw you on the war bonds tour in Passaic,” before pausing to take a sip of her tea. “I must say, you look like you’ve knocked out Hitler a million times since the last time you were seen though.”

Neither are sure who almost chokes on their tea first, but Peggy is the first to recover. “It’s a side-effect of being found buried in the ice, and the incubator Howard designed to help his body adjust to room temperature.”

Steve jumps in, “The serum created a protective shield for regeneration, but there’s only so many...battle scars the ice could melt away.”

Angie nods in agreement, but in secret disbelief. She almost made a quick comeback before the phone rings, disrupting Angie before she had the chance to respond. Peggy and Steve both make a move to stand up but Angie excuses herself first. She’s only gone for a couple of moments when she returns to the foyer, the sunlight catches Peggy and Steve’s embrace just right.

She’d seen Peggy’s life on the line with the agents at work. It struck her that she, as much as she wanted to, couldn’t kid herself that they were both probably more compromised that someone unofficial found out their secret. Was it her right to truly find out how he returned? Or why?

Instead of questioning it, or poking too much fun, Angie promises to not rub it in her face too much. She’s knows Peggy’s in love. And she also knows, just as much as Steve and Peggy, life doesn’t dole out retakes. Seconds chances rarely, if ever, happens. Their secret was safe with her.

#steggy secret santa #steggysecretsanta #steggy #my fic

13 notes · View notes

vsnotresponding · 2 years ago

Text

CHAPTER 6 - THE ALZIWAQ - KARMA

masterpost

The island felt Ira’s reunion with the Iria.

At first it was nothing, only a few dozen of imitation that vanished on the room, and the high pressure on the air that made us bleed. But that was only the beginning of a chain reaction.

Imitations started to fail, not only on the palace, but the city, even further. Like a wave, the blackout travelled through the island, darkening the streets and stopping the purifying stations besides the river. The worst effects being felt on the mines, stopping the exploitation besides the Core, leaving the tunnels unusable for weeks, even months. And this is just for the moment. I don’t think it’s over.

It's not something that Orga liked in the next day’s meeting, nor the shahin. Not only because of the bad image it’ll give to the daughter of Derya's governor when she arrives in a few weeks, but because the khithi also felt it.

Like Ira described, it echoed on them too—they might have felt the same pain she did, or merely the signal. Either way, they felt it, and turned all that pain into rage.

The protest that had been disturbing the capital for months got worse, the backup the shahin had sent to the streets not so long ago insufficient to contain them. Even now, days after and under a new storm, the fight on the streets is still going, unstoppable.

Sick, they have nothing to lose, not really.

Even if I don’t have much information about what’s happened, the palace's been sealed up until Sher’s fiancée arrives, the security, usually lax, duplicated and reinforced. Not only are there guards following me around everywhere now, I’ve even seen imitators patrolling, even Garvan, and it’s not even his specialty.

The lack of information does not make it easier to ignore the screams that get to my study under the rain, though, the faraway vision of the streets flooded with people.

It doesn’t make it easy to forget the words of the creator, either.

The palace has been thrown into chaos, but we keep working,

Days after the disaster and a week before Derya’s arrival, we focus on how to use Ira to heal the island. Surprisingly, the khadae didn’t take away my position as leader of the project after the accident, and I've been allowed more freedom than usual.

Garvan keeps watching Ira, bringing her food and asking her questions about her state. Soon we’ll start the tests, but I’d rather be sure she’s totally recovered and that the alziwaq works properly on her now that she’s healthier.

Due to the difference in her blood from being a creator, Áine and I had to modify the drug as she got better to avoid secondary effects, and so far it’s been giving good results.

Or that’s what they’ve been telling me. I’m not allowed to go see it with my own two eyes, even after I insisted. I know it’s for my safety, like the guards, but I’m not happy about it.

So I focus on finding solutions. In the mess of my desk rest the books I brought from the Umars about creators, and notes I’ve been collecting these past years.

I like the work. Thinking of alternatives. After the last days of tension and activities outside my control, it relaxes me. I throw myself into the papers and data. As soon as I got back from the Iria, I wrote down everything that had happened with as much detail as possible, more for me than the report I gave at the meeting. Being unable to forget what she said haunting me even in my dreams was at least useful for something.

I look for that paper in between the stacks and I reread it, again. I don’t think analyzing the effects she has on the world when she connects will be useful to heal the Iria, but it’s a way to, at least, when we start the tests, to see where's the limit we can work with.

A knock at the door distracts me, and I move my head towards it, the paper forgotten. I don’t bother answering, Garvan halfway to my desk and Emhi closing the door behind her. I see the guards guarding it before it closes.

I sneak a glance at the clock that hangs from the wall, the light of the imitations telling me the hour.

We had agreed to meet to discuss how to continue working with the creator half an hour ago. I start to stand up, but Emhi gestures me to stay seated.

“I got distracted.”

“We can see.” Garvan moves one of the chairs near the wall towards the table and sits on it, backrest towards me with his arms crossed on it and legs at either side of the chair. Emhi just leans on the desk, her expression weary.

Unlike us, she is part of the imitators' soldier order, and even her high rank hasn’t spared her from covering shifts with no end. Garvan told me she even went to the city, but she didn’t say anything about it. If she confessed what she’s seen to Áine, we are both ignorant to it.

“And?” They both move their eyebrows in an inherited gesture. “Have you decided anything or…”

“There wasn’t any meeting,” says Emhi at the same time that, like her brother, she moves a chair to seat down. She crosses her legs and her arms on top of them. “Neither you nor Áine showed up, so we adjourned it.” I want to be surprised about Áine, but she hasn’t stopped working since the incident with Ira, equally or even greater than me. In between the creator and her duty with the volunteers of the process, I’m surprised she has found time for our meetings. “You are lucky the khadae decided to send Anuna to the city, or you wouldn’t hear the end of his complaints about your irresponsibility.”

“Another one?” I look at Emhi. She sighs.

“Not only Anuna. We are the only ones left, and the two rookies.”

“And only because they can’t send them to the streets.” Garvan rights himself, in indignation, even if he’s one of the few that have been spared.

I lean forwards on the papers, arms crossed. When we started working with Ira, the khadae gave me a group of ten people, some soldiers and imitators as help. Áine, Garvan and Emhi are among them, but as the days have passed and the situation on the outskirts has deteriorated, most of them have been sent to the streets. It worries me, not because I think we can’t manage the creator on our own, but because of what it implies. More so, there’s nothing wrong with having extra people to run tests or fetch stuff.

“Garvan, don’t be like that.”

“What? It’s true,” he says, looking at his sister. “The poor girls are greener than Karma when he got here.”

“Garvan!”

He ignores her, but looks at me as if apologizing, when I look down and let out an embarrassed groan. That doesn’t stop him, though.

“Luckily, they pardoned your sword lessons, because—”

Emhi’s smack on the back of his head shuts him up.

“Okay, okay.” He frowns as he rubs the injured area and looks at his sister. “There’s no need to resort to violence.”

“Don’t be whiny, come one,” she ignores him. I can’t help but smile. “Besides, we have more pressing things to do than talk about how useless Karma is for anything that’s not data analysis.”

My smile drops immediately, turned into seriousness. It’s true, as refreshing as it is to see them argue, we have to do something with the lack of help when we work with Ira, and we also have to talk about what we are going to do with her. Though for that we need Áine.

“If you say important in regard to the fatir, she’s as impertinent as always.” He snorts, but I see him smiling a little. He hasn’t stop complaining about being her nanny, but he’s started to warm up to her. It’s strange, because they’ve seen her at her most human, but I’ve only seen her when she was a creator and nothing else. I struggle to reconcile the idea of Ira as a person, the one Garvan complains about, and Ira as a creator, that causes blackouts and makes the walls cry tears of blood.

“At the very least the alziwaq makes her drowsy,” he continues, “I don’t want to imagine the pain in the ass she would be if she had more time to get bored.”

“She’s perfectly civil with me.”

“You always watch her when she’s sleeping, Emhi.”

“That’s exactly why I say it.”

“Either way,” I interrupt, “what matters is if she’s gotten better. We have been increasing her doses, has she noticed?”

“Not a clue.” A few seconds go by as he looks outside, his previously relaxed face now tense. It’s getting darker. “There’s something we were hoping to talk about in today’s meeting, Karma. We think it’d be better to lower them.”

“But you said it’s helped.”

“She might not notice other effects while awake, but…” his eyes look at the table and not our faces, “she sometimes sleep-talks.”

He doesn’t add anything else, his gaze on my lion plushy. Emhi and I look at each other, worried, the air suddenly tense. I remember her warning, so many days ago, before seeing Ira for the first time. I had totally forgotten about that.

“And you snore, why is that relevant?” Emhi tries to joke to lessen the tension, not very convinced. Garvan shakes his head.

“I’m being serious, it’s… unsettling.”

Silence falls again. I look at Garvan, his eyes hazed, the light auburn darkened by the change in lighting on the room. It reminds me of Áine before my mother died, of the look she had after talking to her. It’s back now, not only in here when we see each other, but in Garvan too.

“Like after the Iria?" I try, because it’s the only time I’ve felt like that with the creator, even if I know they’d seen it before. He shakes his head with emphasis.

Sometimes it’s like we were disconnected, in different realities. Them on a shore, me on the other side. They process certain events differently—like the protests, that leave Emhi exhausted, but not tired, Áine with the khithi volunteers and with my mother, and now him too.

Fortunately, the door opens to break the silence that settled after my question.

“You are here, thank the gods.”

It’s Áine, a guard closing the door behind her. I gesture to her with my head as a greeting while she comes closer to us, leaning on one side of Emhi’s chair, her arm holding her waist, the other circling Emhi’s shoulders as an answer.

I look away, uncomfortable at the gesture, the moment too private for me. Garvan seems to have come back to himself, he even rolls his eyes at Emhi when she looks at him, her eyes slits, as he catches him looking at them with an amused face.

“What.”

“Nothing.” He accompanies his words by raising his arms and turning back to me. Unconsciously, my lips move upwards, as do his. In spite of the years Áine and Emhi have been together we keep being happy for them, it was pretty ridiculous to see them dancing around each other without saying anything for years.

“Have you talked to Ira?” asks Emhi. I turn back to them as Áine nods.

“Yeah, that’s precisely what we wanted to talk to you about.” She says, looking at me, her amber eyes clear under the imitations’ light. I right myself. “She was sleep-talking when I went to change her bandages… she was chanting.”

Emhi and I turn to Garvan, who is frozen looking at her. Áine follows our eyes, her expression alike.

“You’ve felt it too.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Áine? What?”

“When she woke up,” she turns to answer me, “before focusing her eyes. She… Ira…”

I know we all remember how she looked at us after the Iria, her strange and fluid gaze, piercing through us. What happened before that, the pressure and the high-pitched sound. The blood.

“Has she attempted anything?” Emhi tries to look at her face, worried.

“No, no,” she shakes her head. “She didn’t try anything, in fact…” It looks like she’s going to keep talking, but frowns her lips. “It’s only… it’s as if there was something else inside her eyes. Another entity.”

Garvan nods in agreement, but I’m confused. Emhi repeats the question I made to Garvan before.

“Like the other day?”

“No.” Now it’s Garvan that talks. He has stood up to walk towards the window. His back to us, looking at the night and the rain that keeps falling, he continues. “In a way, it's different. Less absent, more alive.” He turns to us, arms crossed. “But it’s not Ira.”

��And she’s not aware of it, which worries me the most.” Áine stands up to come closer to the desk. “She might guess that sometimes… she alarms us with what she says or does or how she looks at us, but she’s not even aware she sleep-talks. I think it’s something new, from the alziwaq.”

“Are you sure? Couldn’t it be because of the Iria?”

Even if I know it’s not due to that, I try. The drug is a too vital element of my plan to solve the problem—I don’t want to think about loosing it.

“It happened before, even if now it’s… worse. We have to lower the dose, stop even.”

No. Not that.

“We can’t do that,” I raise my voice.

“Karma, she doesn’t have her abilities under control, and without a creation to somehow focus her connections it can only get worse.”

“We could give her back.” I realize the mistake in my words as soon as I say them. The shahin has her creation, embed on the desk on his study. It’s a stupid suggestion, but I have nothing else to debate her with. I realize we’ve started to shout at each other.

“Do you really think your father is going to just give it back to you? After what happened in the throne room?”

“No but…” I look at Emhi and Garvan for support, but they both avoid my eyes, focused on the floor. Áine has crossed her arms.

“Why do you insist so much in using it? Her wounds are healed, the infection on her arm is gone. She’s healthy, she’s present.”

“It’s not enough!” I hit the table, and some papers fall to the floor. Her lips frown again.

“Oghan,” she reprimands me, her voice hard when she says my name, eyes fixed on mine, cold gold. I clench my fists and stand up, trying to relax.

“It’s our only chance. We’ll need to take some risks.”

I don’t want to explain my plan, not yet, at least. I know they won’t like it, and I’m not too happy either with the conclusions I’ve reached, but I do believe it’s our only solution.

“We are talking about another human being, Karma. You can't toy with her life like that.”

I remember the state the connection left her at. Weak and sickly. I shake my head, the image quickly replaced by her face when she connected, by the rage in her eyes when she attacked us in the throne room, the determination.

“The lives of every khithi depend on us to find a solution.”

“The lives of every khithi are in danger precisely because of us!”

I know she doesn’t mean her, or Garvan or Emhi. Not me, specifically, at least. She means my father’s family, Garvan and Emhi’s, all énna—the imitators, that for generations have taken advantage of the island and her people.

I see the breach between us once again in her expression that talks of horrors I’m unable to imagine. To me, they are numbers and data, statistics of population and mortality. To her, it’s her people. My anger disappears.

“Áine.”

“I’m lowering her dose, whatever you say. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

I want to add that I’m in charge, that I was appointed leader. But she’s right, I couldn’t stop her, even if I wanted to. I sit back, the chair scratching the floor, and pass my fingers through my bangs, moving them away from my eyes, even if they fall back immediately. I sigh, resigned.

I’m tired of arguing. I’m tired of not moving forward. I give up.

“Then, what’s your plan? Because the test we’ll do on her will weaken her, and we need her to heal fast enough.”

Áine uncrosses her arms and steps back, sighing. I see then how tired she is, the circles under her eyes, the slow blinking of her eyes. She opens her mouth as if to talk, but closes it and looks at Garvan.

“You are the one that has spent the most time with her.” Garvan raises his head. “What do you think?”

“I know we wanted to wait a few more days, at least until the situation on the city lessened, and for the mirza’s fiancée to arrive, but…” he looks at me. “I think we should start now, with the tests, slower to avoid hurting her. I don’t know what you are planning to do after this, but I hope you know what you are doing, Karma. We won’t be working with hypotheticals from now on.”

I nod, because he’s right. It’s something that also worries me. And, honestly, we are running out of time. Factories fail faster after being repaired, imitations break or don't heat or shine like they used to. I’ll find another way to carry on with my original plan, another route without the alziwaq’s help. Who knows, maybe she’ll be able to do so without the help of an external drug. I’ll talk to Súil about it and the lack of help for the project.

I try to stay positive, in spite of the circumstances, because for the first time in months, and even though there are obstacles I can’t even comprehend and that stop us from moving forward, we have a marked path. A solution, a way to fulfill the promise I made my mom.

“Emhi?” Áine has turned her back to me to face her girlfriend, who has been observing us in silence for a while. She smiles slightly and rests a hand on her sword.

“You are the nerds that know about all of this,” she gestures to the pile of papers on my desk, “I’ll do whatever you decide.”

“I’ll talk to the khadae tomorrow morning to update him on the beginning of the tests,” I say. “I’ll also ask him to send more reinforcements.” Áine looks at us confused.

“More?”

“It’s only us left, and the rookies.”

She shrugs. There’s no remedy to the out of control situation in the city. With the siblings, she walks to the door, the meeting apparently over.

“It’s ridiculous how many soldiers they need. They are containing ill people, not a battalion.”

“True, but I’m glad we got rid of the asshole that’s Anuna.”

“Garvan!” her sister reprimands him.

“What? You hate him too.”

“Whatever you say.”

Their voices disappear as they walk away, but Áine stays, hesitating besides the half closed door.

“Karma? Do you want me to go with you tomorrow when you talk to the khadae?”

“Huh? Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.” Her worry warms me and I stand up to go to her. She really is exhausted, her shoulders slumped, struggling to keep her eyes open. She knows the anxiety that talking to the khadae gives me, and in spite of her obvious affected state, she’s worrying about me, even if we were shouting at each other a minute ago.

We stay standing, in silence, for a few seconds. I remember her discomfort after the audience at the throne room, how I silenced my worry. Slowly and hesitantly, I rest my hand on her shoulder to call her attention. I don’t want to repeat the same mistake.

“Are you okay?” And before she can answer, I continue: “I know these past few days, well, months, we…” I clear my throat, “we haven’t been on the best terms and—”

“If you apologize for the accident, I swear I’ll hit you,” she stops me and rubs her hair. “It was not only your fault, Karma. We were all responsible, you know it, and we have repeated it to you—”

“Still. I’m still sorry,” I lower my head, but make an effort to raise it up back again. “And not only for that. I know I wasn’t the most approachable after that, less after she…" I swallow hard, tears starting to appear in my throat at the thought, “she died and, I don’t know. That we are like this is my fault, and now it’s getting worse and…”

My voice breaks when she interrupts me by hugging me, her head resting on my shoulder due to her height, my temple on her hair. We stay quiet.

I can feel some tears going down my cheeks to her curls. I hug her too, tightening my grip. I’ve missed her so much.

I realized I not only lost my mom that day, but her too, not in the same way. I laugh, saddened, at the same time that I sniffle.

“I’ve been an idiot.”

“Don’t worry,” she says as she breaks the hug, “we are used to it.” And she messes up my bangs. I push her away, laughing once again, this one happy. She smiles back.

“Thanks, I guess,” my smile turns sad, “but I was serious.”

“I know.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. I look at them, not moving away.

It’s the first time in weeks, to not say months, that we really talk. The feeling it leaves in my chest is warm, comforting. I know we have much left, that most of the time I'm difficult to treat, that I close up and ignore what I don’t like around me. It’s a beginning, at least. A first step.

“You should go,” I say to her. “Emhi must be waiting for you.”

She squeezes my hand one last time before smiling. When she leaves, I stay at the closed door for a while, and sigh.

I have to get ready to talk to the khadae.

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon

#vsnr púlsar

8 notes · View notes