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hemera989 · 5 years ago

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Hot Takes: Yukio Okumura

Aka, 'My Analysis Of Yukio That No One Asked For And Yet I Will Give It Anyways’ asjhdkajshfs also, tw for talk of attempted suicide, suicidal thoughts, depression and trauma!

The main reason I felt it necessary to give My Take on Yukio was not entirely because I love him and feel like he’s a lot more immature and human than people like to think though that is a large chunk of the reason. It was rather because recent manga chapters have really gone on to shake up how I view him, and it helps to write things down.

I feel like perhaps it’s best to start chronologically in a way, because there’s no one event that really led to the reveal of Yukio as he is today- depressed, suicidal, and destructive. There is no one reason to point a finger at, or one life event to deconstruct. He’s a product of his personality, childhood, and the overall events that led to his birth. And what better way to start a childhood off, than with bullying?

Considering how traumatic bullying can be, it’s just a little bit surprising to see how much it tends to get glossed over (for both Rin and Yukio). This is where I believe Yukio’s inferiority complex may have developed, or at least started becoming prominent. He was teased and harassed as a child, and unable to defend himself besides relying on Rin to protect him. While Rin was only doing so out of genuine love and care for Yukio, this is likely where his twisted opinion of their relationship began. Rin was good and kind and strong, and defended him out of love, and Yukio was weak and a crybaby, and resented both Rin and himself for how little he was able to protect himself on his own.

This is where we can see his mindset begin to develop; Rin = good and strong, and Yukio = weak and bad. This even extends to Shiro, which we can see somewhat in what I believe is the Kraken arc.

This also becomes what I believe is the core of Yukio’s character- he does not like himself. Because he hates himself so thoroughly, he doesn’t believe that he deserves to be liked, or even that he genuinely can be liked for who he is. We see this in his conversation with Rin during the Aomori arc, where he remarks to Rin that if Shiemi knew the ‘real’ him, she would hate him. He believes that he is an unlikable person, to both himself and others.

In a way, this also stems from his relationship with Rin. Rin is in no way at fault for why Yukio is the way that he is, but the friction between their two personalities does deepen their own insecurities. Because Rin is reckless and headstrong, Yukio is forced to be the ‘mean guy’, the one to put his foot down, the one to say ‘no’ because he knows that Rin isn’t often capable of doing so himself. He is forced into responsibilities too intense for him to properly handle both due to Rin’s position as the inheritor of the blue flames, and due to his brother’s personality as the goofy, fun-having teen. (If you’ve ever had siblings, or, hell, even had to be the voice of reason in a situation where people are having reckless fun, you know exactly how this feels.)

When you take how his personality is, you can see exactly how his position as an exorcist has exacerbated this to an almost extreme amount. Though Shiro didn’t do so intentionally, he almost single-handedly createted one of Yukio’s most damaging mindsets- that becoming strong is the only way forward for Yukio.

(Don’t take this as Shiro slander, I love that man and he tried his best with the complicated history he already has with childhood) Through trying to give Yukio the chance to seize strength for himself, he set off quite a few chain reactions within Yukio’s mindset. First, he associated strength as a person with physical strength. Second, he associated worth as a person with physical strength. Third, he associated Yukio’s strength and worth with Rin, by making exorcism a way to protect Rin from other demons. Foruth, in my opinion, we can see the reduction of Yukio and Shiro’s relationship from a father-son bond to a teacher- student bond. Now, Yukio begins to lose his main support system- his father. Shiro is no longer his dad, but the paladin, a strong man who offered him an unhealthy way forward in life.

In one decision, we can see how Yukio’s self hatred found an external focus to worsen itself for him. Yukio believes that he is a weak, worthless, and unlikable person. But, now, he does have a purpose, something in life that is worth living for. He begins to develop his entire concept of himself as a person on that of becoming an exorcist, becoming strong, and protecting his brother. He hates himself, but he knows that he can do one thing- protect Rin.

We can also see where his superiority complex begins to develop. Being born human while his brother was born clearly demonic, Yukio has more worth in the eyes of the True Cross. Being the good child, and the smart child with a plan for his future, he has more worth in the eyes of society. He is better than his brother, and he knows it, but he also knows that Rin is (in his eyes) inherently good and kind, and Yukio is not. He is better, but he is also lesser than Rin.

Protecting his brother is also where I believe his relationship with Rin begins to deteriorate to a dramatic extent. Yukio wants strongly to protect him, because that’s where he believes his worth as a person is, but in a way, he resents the burden that’s been placed on him. He has to be the responsible one, the mean one, the assertive one, the negotiator, the one to clean up Rin’s messes, the one to fix everything, the one to give up his entire childhood just for exorcism to protect Rin. Yukio is a child, and one who was denied the chance to be one. He was never allowed the chance to selfishly externalize his emotions (like children should be ALLOWED to do, imo) and so never learned how to process his own emotions.

At this point in his life, he resents Rin for being ‘allowed’ to be selfish and destructive, he resents Rin and the world for having this burden of responsibility put on his shoulders, and he resents himself still for being an unlikable, weak, and worthless person, and for resenting Rin and the world. He is vastly, vastly unhappy and hateful towards himself, and is already suffering in the assortment of circumstances he finds himself in.

And then throw in a murdered dad, because why not?

Now, the burden that was placed on him and shared between himself and Shiro, is now solely on him. On top of having his father suddenly and traumatically killed, he is now responsible (in his mind) for Rin. One could argue Mephisto, but he proved... extremely quickly that he was not interested in the finer details of guardianship LMAO. Yukio now is the sole bearer of Rin’s wellbeing, and he finds very quickly that this is a role he does not (and cannot, as a child himself) succeed in.

Yukio has been thrust abruptly into the world of becoming a parent, in an extremely twisted and awful way. He is a child, in an adult field, surrounded by adults, treated as an adult, and now he essentially is the parent of Rin. This is complicated enough with Rin’s personality, but then you have to add in that Rin is the illegitimate and illegal son of Satan, and his very existence, if revealed, would lead to his certain death. As Rin reveals his powers, gets sentenced to execution, picks fights with Amaimon, uses his powers across Kyoto and in damn near every public space whenever possible, Yukio’s distress and mental state begins to worsen as he realizes that he is failing.

We can see him begin to externalize his mounting frustrations and anger and fear, through reprimanding Rin harshly, threatening Suguro, threatening Mephisto, and also that scene where he punched the shit out of Rin for being reckless. Yukio needs his brother alive, because Rin is his only family left, and because his worth as a person is tied directly to protecting Rin. It is his only purpose in life, and he is failing at it, and he deeply resents Rin for making it difficult, and himself for failing. His downward spiral begins to become visible around these points, and we can also see the start of his worsening habit of taking his volatile emotions out on others physically.

He is progressively being backed into a corner with no way out, and like a wounded animal, he is lashing out at anyone who dares come close. Yukio’s violent and hurtful behavior towards others is not because he’s an uptight asshole who does it for fun, but because he’s a traumatized, depressed, and suicidal child who is losing the one person he has left and who gives his life worth. He has no substantial guidance from the adults around him, and for all intents and purposes, he is alone. He wants to rely on Rin, but because Rin has a tendency to process negative emotions by shoving them down and away, Yukio can’t rely on him.

This is what I think is the most heartbreaking aspect of Yukio. He is a hurt and lonely child, who is deeply mentally ill, who is losing his brother and lashing out at others because he doesn’t know what else to do. He is acutely aware that he is being cruel and unkind, and he doesn’t want to be. He wants to be good, and kind, and liked, and valued. He doesn’t want to hurt others.

This scene makes this obvious. This is what I believe is the cliff’s edge where Yukio takes the drop that leads him to where he is in the manga now. He is terribly lonely, and hateful, but in a moment where he lashes out emotionally, he managed to do something he feels is well and wholly despicable. Shiemi is the one person he cares for genuinely, healthily, and truly. She wants to help him because she cares for him, and yet he hurts her for daring to mention his largest insecurity- and he knows that.You can see it written across his expression- he’s shocked, and horrified with himself for how he lost control. His hands are shaking.

He managed to do the one thing he feared above all, and that was to let Shiemi see who he ‘truly’ was. He hurt someone who unselfishly cared for him, and this is where he begins to think that he has gone past the point of no return. He is so awful, and terrible, that he hurt someone as kind as Shiemi. He is so worthless that he is failing at the one job that gives his life meaning. He is so evil and cruel that he has shoved everyone away, and now he truly has no one left.

He is worthless, and evil, and terrible- this is how Yukio views himself. Why not kill himself, and then the world would be rid of him?

Except, now another wrench has been thrown in. Yukio finds that, with Satan possessing his eye, he has become worse that worthless and evil and terrible. Now, his life poses a threat to humanity, by allowing Satan a way into Assiah. His life isn’t just worthless now, it’s become an active threat to the world, in his mind. Now, he can rationalize that his death is necessary. He is suicidal, but he has convinced himself that it’s fine, because he needs to die anyways.

This is where I believe he is in the manga, now. He is convinced that he has to die, and says it’s because he wants to save the world from Satan, but it is extremely likely that it’s mostly because he is extremely suicidal. He is hellbent (pardon the pun) on his own death. He will stop at nothing to secure his own death, no matter what it takes. His trauma, his mental illness, his self-hatred- they’re all open and exposed, now. If he’s an evil, unlikable, and cruel person, why not commit to it? Why not make himself the most evil, the most unlikable, the most cruel, if it means someone will finally get tired enough to truly put himself out of his misery?

He’s cast aside his true kindness and gentleness, and has embraced what he believes to be his ‘true’ self. He will die, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.

That’s my take on him, what I believe his mindset is and how it developed. Yukio is not a hero. He hurt Shiemi, threatened his students, threatened his guardian, and shot Rin multiple times. Whether or not Rin heals from it is irrelevant, Yukio still made the conscious choice to harm Rin, and others. But, he has never done so because he is evil inside. He’s done so because he’s a wounded animal, lashing out, determined to secure his own death. He is a traumatized child who has hurt others.

He deserves kindness and understanding, but also to be held accountable for his actions. He’s what I believe to be the embodiment of the ugly side of mental illness that many people are resistant to see. His character is uncomfortable to read, because he is startlingly real and three-dimensional. Like many of the characters in aoex, he cannot be classified as good or bad. He is a complex person, with good and bad aspects, like any person in real life.

godDAMN could someone give him a HUG and some THERAPY PLEASE.

#ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #character analysis #yukio okumura #okumura yukio #yuriotoko rants

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utilitycaster · 4 years ago

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One thing that strikes me about the Mighty Nein vs. Vox Machina is how much they are shaped by people, vs. experiences. Which isn’t to say those are a simple divide, or that experiences don’t loom large in the development of the Mighty Nein, but for most you can point to a few significant figures in their lives, for good or ill, who were a major, formative, lasting influence, whereas Vox Machina were more about specific events, not people. Even in the case of traumatic experiences it tends to serve as sort of an end to long-term abuse vs. a more acute event (see: Caleb vs. Percy and the Briarwoods).

Veth is the one member of the Mighty Nein who doesn’t fit this mold well, having been deeply changed by her experience with the goblins, although I’d say Yeza certainly is an influential relationship, much as how Zuala as a person and not just in her death is still an influence on Yasha.

I was especially thinking about this because of Lucien and Molly. There are extremely clear parallels in behavior between the two, but Molly was shaped primarily by Gustav and others in the circus, who might not have been perfect people but were generally kind to him and loyal to each other and just interested in being entertainers. The same potential for cruelty and manipulation was there - and we saw much tamer flashes of both - but because Molly was shown generosity and fun he tried to emulate aspects of that. Lucien, meanwhile, had all the influences and mistreatment of Shady Creek Run and then the Somnovum, and did not experience any environment like the circus, to our knowledge.

I should add that I don’t think there’s any easy fix of “be nice to Lucien and Molly will develop”; that’s not how it works and quite frankly makes me pretty uncomfortable as a suggestion (if someone is consistently manipulative towards you and blames you for not giving them what they want...that’s bad), and the fact that there was some magical soul-shattering involved the details of which we don’t know complicates things further. But it is another exploration of that balance of nature/nurture and the changes, for good or bad, a person can make.

#this took form initially as a draft at like 11:30 last night before I went to bed #and i think i thought it was deeper then #but i still stand by it #critical role #mighty nein

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letsdiscoverkitty · 4 years ago

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Home/Family Update - May 2021

I will take this right back to when I was discharged from the Priory in December. From there I moved back home with my parents; it was a bit of a difficult transition as I didn't have any home leave in the lead up to being discharged due to COVID and my consultant wanting me to make the most of my time on the ward. Add to that my EDP going completely awol, meaning that our whole 4 week pre-discharge meetings and relapse prevention plan went out the window. So yes it was a bit of a rocky start, and that is without you factoring in COVID lockdown/Christmas.

Being discharged from an IP setting is never easy no matter who you are; changes in environment and routine can throw you off track without you even realising it and I did find myself struggling with this. I also had the difficult navigation of adapting to coming home in terms of my dad and his recovery. For those who might not know, last March my dad fell down the stairs in the middle of the night the day that my parents arrived home after a month in NZ. He suffered 3 brain bleeds (a subdural, an extradural and a subarachnoid), multiple facial fractures and a break in his spine. That night was one of, if not THE, worst of my life. We were told that it was very likely that he would not survive and that if he did he would be in a vegetated state or not able to take care of himself...we were told to prepare for the worst. By some MIRACLE he defied all the odds and at the age of 74 after spending 11 or so days on the ICU, a further 2 weeks on a trauma ward and then another 3 months in a neuro rehab, he was discharged home and is now, a year on from the accident, completely independent, no sign of further brain bleeds and is actually much fitter than he has been for, well, 50 years! Honestly, we never expected anything like this sort of recovery and from an outside perspective he is doing perfectly. However, there are things that will never be the same again and I don't think it is until you are with someone 24/7 that you are able to tell. He has changed quite a bit as a person; in some ways this is a good thing but in other ways it is not so. He cannot deal with changes in environment or routine; even things like having the bread on the side instead of in the bread bin completely throws him off and he doesn't even register that the bread is there. He gets very easily agitated, can be extremely rude and a little aggressive. Now some of this was already there (a lot of it was) but it has become more acutely obvious since the head injury. I have SO much respect and love for my mum - I really dont know how she has held herself up over the past 2 years, as well as helping dad when he was initially transitioning home (I was still in hospital but it sounded like he needed a lot of help for the first few months - which I only saw an inch of when they were able to visit me in hospital (he used to wander off and didn't know where he was etc. which is thankfully no longer and issue!)).

This is hard for me to say but I will admit that I have struggled more than I thought I would with being around him; in short I pretty much went through the whole mourning process whilst I was in hospital as the last time i saw him on the trauma ward before they stopped all visits and before I was admitted, he didn't know who I was...He thought he lived in another country and was telling me all sorts of stories that were fabricated, before telling me that he needed to go and pick up the mercedes and drive to sainsburys to get the Gin and petrol (we don't have a mercedes and he doesn't even like gin!) Anyway, I digress. So yes, I basically mourned for someone who was still alive physically but mentally had changed as at the time I didn't know whether he would be in a vegetated state or make a good recovery. Thankfully we are on the good side and he is doing so incredibly well but the bottom line is that he is different and living with him, at the age of 26, is HARD. We have good days and bad days (as any young adult who lives with their parents does) and there are many many days that I wish I wasn't living at home but I do my best to hold myself together during those times, especially for my mum because she, I tell you, is absolutely incredible. How she has put up with him for so long I honestly do not know!

Talking of mum, I would say that since the whole accident with dad, we have become a LOT closer. We really had to lean on each other over that month; we were driving down to Brighton every single day to see dad on the ICU and on the Trauma ward until we were stopped from visiting - it was mentally and physically exhausting for the both of us, especially as we were still barely processing the trauma and struggling with flashbacks in the night. We were the first ones on the scene of the accident (if it weren't for mum's medical training, dad would not be alive today). Of course we still have our moments but I feel like our relationship almost "levelled up and matured over the past year. We have bonded over being in nature and walking (because what else can you do when the country is in lockdown!?! but also because we have always been an "outdoors" family (well my mum, Andi and me have))- we also talk about dad and the accident quite a bit too, which has helped me beyond belief (and her too). We give each other space, and yes there are days when we dont get on but who doesn't have days when they dont?

On balance I would say that home is "okay". It is manageable. No the environment is not perfect and I do find it affects my mental health quite a bit and holds me back in some ways (I cannot wait to be able to move out one day) but I am incredibly grateful to have parents that are willing to and can afford to take me under their roof and help me out during this time.

Gosh, this has already ended up so much longer than I thought it would, I am sorry! In short: home life is okay. We are here and that is the most important thing. We saw Andi a two-ish weeks ago as we were in Cornwall for our usual time-share (we were so lucky that Boris allowed self catering two weeks before our usual time share week) - I think it was good for them to get out of their flat as I don't think they had left the small area where they live since last September when we went down to Cornwall (I was given leave for a week as it was sold to my consultant to help my dad's recovery, which is definitely did but yes we did pull the right strings to get that one!)

Anyway, I shall leave this update here and start the mammoth task of the next one. I am sorry that this is taking me so long, it's quite hard to write and think back and reflect (although actually quite helpful for me to do) so I do find that I have to come back to it a few times. Please stick with me x

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I forgot to add that dad had an assessment before we went away to Cornwall to see whether he can have his driving license back and (as mum and I predicted) he failed. To say that he did not take it well would be putting it lightly!!! I am actually ashamed of the way that he behaved and the things that he said/the reasons he fabricated as to why he had failed (let's just say he got sexist and rude - which I have ZERO time for and was appalled by him - I am so glad I was not with him/mum after the assessment as I would have blown my fuse at hime). He could not even entertain the idea that he had failed. He blamed everything/anything else that he could - even saying that it was the system and one of the first things he said to me was "I understand now, I've worked it out, it's the system, they aren't allowed to pass many people first time so that's it", which I just *speechless*. Mum and I have talked about it a lot and we don't think that he has ever "failed" at anything in his life. He also believes that he is 10000%. fixed and has no issues or problems and doesn't need any support or guidance. He refuses to listen to mum and I when we try to tell him about how unwell he was, he refuses to believe it and won't take it. One thing that mum and I are very glad of is that all of this driving stuff is OUTSIDE of the family. He can't put it on us. It is coming from an external place and we can support him if he lets us but that is his decision as to whether he lets us or not. He has never been a good patient; and he also won't take any advice (in anything) from mum or let her be right about something either, which is just sad, really sad. This is not a new thing, it has always been this way. And the more I reflect on our family/have reflected over the past year with dad in hospital, the more I see that I don't like. The way dad has behaved and treated mum, how he was always missing in my childhood, how alcohol always came above family, how old fashioned and unwilling to learn he is, how distant and uninterested he was, how he never says please or thank you, never asks how anyone is and refuses to talk about mental health (yep, despite so much going on in our family with mental illnesses, he refuses to talk about it and won't even ask "how are you?" or offer support etc)...I don't mean to be so negative about him, I really don't. I love him, he is my dad, but there is a lot of healing that needs to be done, and it is going to take time.

#personal #update

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psalloacappella · 5 years ago

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Red (oneshot)

Title: Red Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there: His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights: Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze — possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in: Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation: He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice: “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

#sasusaku #psalloacappella #sasusakufanfic #smut #sasusaku smut #uchiha sasuke #haruno sakura #sorry it's shameless #whatever ya'll #give me good head or give me death

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tanadrin · 5 years ago

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I suppose because politics is what means I have no future of any kind left, so it's hard to be silly about it. And I seem to have landed myself in a sector of social media filled with people who are very smug about how smart and nihilistic they are, and I hate all of you with the hatred that only a miserable, powerless person can feel.

I don’t buy it. Unless you are quite literally scheduled to be executed at dawn, “no future of any kind left” because of politics is catastrophizing. People in very dire circumstances the world over often manage to build some kind of life for themselves; it may not be the life they want, and the suffering they endure because of the circumstances they are limited by should not be dismissed, but to say that someone in such adverse conditions has no future is to infantalize them and deny them the agency they do have to shape their life to some extent.

And this is an insight I’ve found important when dealing with depression in myself: even if one’s catastrophizing is not irrational (say, you’re a queer person stuck in an extremely homophobic environment, at minimum for the next 5-10 years), that does not mean it is useful. To put it another way: circumstance might justifiably make you angry and sad and frustrated. That may be rational. Deciding, in the face of that anger and sadness and frustration, to surrender to it is not rational.

So--assuming that you are not a political dissident due to be executed, nor suffering from a terminal illness which somehow for political reasons cannot be cured (if either of these things are true, you have my sincere condolences)--I have to say, this ask reeks of someone who’s depressed. If you are depressed, you will always be able to come up with reasons why happiness is unattainable for you, due to circumstances entirely out of your control. This is not a crazy thing to think, because if you are depressed and not treating that depression, most if not all the things you try to do will not solve your unhappiness because they are usually orthogonal to what is making you unhappy. Your very ability to accurately imagine future happy states and what might bring them about is suppressed by depression; for instance, you might, if you are depressed and you know it, rationally understand that exercise often helps with your depression, but be unable to motivate yourself to exercise because the intuitive link between if I do X I will feel better is broken by an internal forecasting system that refuses to spit out predictions other than “nothing I do will help with anything.”

A depressed state is not a psychotic break--it doesn’t cause you to lose touch with reality--but I think depressed people would sometimes benefit from treating it like one, because it does subvert your ability to accurately model the world, and therefore you can’t trust your own ability to reason or intuit about certain topics. I have both experienced this from the inside, and seen it from the outside: friends whose depression causes them to believe they are unlovable, and thus that nobody loves them, even when told (and shown) repeatedly that they are very much loved, and very important to the people around them.

In fact, you remind me of this post: depressed and anxious people who notice politics is depressing and anxiety-inducing, and that depressing and anxiety-inducing problems confront the world and society, and therefore conclude that their depression and anxiety are a rational and reasonable response to the world. But that doesn’t follow at all! A lot of responses to a depressing and anxiety-inducing environment are more useful that shutting down and withdrawing, or letting yourself be paralyzed; and even if there are negative external factors in the world affecting your life, if you have nothing in your life that is a sufficient source of joy to offset these things at least somewhat, then you have problems sufficiently severe that I don’t think your depression or anxiety can be laid at the feet of the world at large alone; more likely, you’re dealing with shitty personal circumstances, and these are far more likely to be tractable to your individual capacities than, like, all of climate change. And if you do have some sources of joy in your life, you can cultivate those further.

To put it another way: humans are very bad at reasoning about things on large scales or over large timelines. One reason we’re slow to solve problems like climate change is that we tend to be pretty blasé about remote and impersonal problems, which is actually often useful as well--because it means we’re capable of adjusting our hedonic barometer to create joy even in catastrophic circumstances. If you are constantly worried about big issues like climate change or the Trump presidency to the point where you can never do that, then the conclusion you should draw isn’t that you’re a uniquely rational human being with a uniquely accurate worldview, it’s that your brain is broken and you should not trust your intuitition.

Emotional states are not rational models of the world. They are tools our brain uses to motivate certain kinds of action. They probably have their origin in our social evolution, but this means they are extremely untrustworthy when it comes to complex, large-scale, philosophical, or impersonal issues, because these are not scenarios our brains evolved to handle before the advent of high-population, highly-stratified societies.

Now, I realize it’s hard to convince someone they are depressed and/or should seek treatment by rational argument (lord knows I’ve tried in the past!), because after all, if we were being perfectly rational, we would not feel depressed. We wouldn’t feel anything; again, emotions are contingent tools, not highly rationalized responses to the world! So I won’t belabor this point any longer. Instead, now I’m going to get annoyed with you.

Because here’s the other thing depressed people do--and I have done myself. They see people who are not depressed, whose hedonic barometers are functioning normally, and capable of experiencing joy even in arguably (or inarguably!) shitty circumstances, and they get mad at them. How dare you be capable of laughing at a joke, or sharing a meme, or having a nice day, when everything is so bad!

This is a common response, not only from depression, but also I think from grief, or fear, or trauma, or lots of other things. But it’s bullshit. I’m sorry, but you don’t get to demand that everyone feel your suffering as acutely as they feel their own. You don’t get to demand that just because you’re a pessimistic ball of frustration and anger that everyone else be, too. You get to--and ought to--demand that people treat you with empathy and respect, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get to make jokes about topics you find depressing as hell. Yes, even topics that personally affect you, and may not personally affect them (though, of course, a lot of times people assume the person making the joke isn’t personally affected by the topic, when in reality they are and the joke is a way of relieving stress and coping with frustration).

That calvin and hobbes meme I reblogged is an extremely generic political compass meme; the only relevance it has to the world today, I suppose, is acknowledging that, like, politics is a thing that exists. If you’re upset by that--how dare people laugh at politics, the source of all my problems--you’re being a dick.

And this leads my to my final point, which is this: while we are all of us owed compassion, we also owe others compassion. And people caught up in their own anxiety and depression and anger often don’t see the way their emotional states impose costs on the people around them. They often treat the people around them badly--worse, at any rate, than they normally would--and react defensively if this is pointed out to them.

I’ve done this. I have friends who have done this. I get it. It doesn’t make someone a horrible person! It doesn’t meant they deserve to feel the way they do. But it does create the second half of a twofold moral obligation. You see, I believe that the, call it “utilitarian selfishness” view, is essentially correct: if all humans are of similar moral worth (they are), and you can only help one person (often true), and that person is yourself, it is no less moral to help yourself than it is to help someone else. This is usually framed as a grant of permission: “you are allowed to be selfish sometimes.” But it’s also an obligation: “you should not be a dick--even to yourself.” You have a positive obligation to care about your own suffering! And you have a positive obligation to try to reduce the costs your suffering--your bad mood, your depression, your anxiety--imposes on the people around you.

Because I’m not a smug nihilist. I actually believe, with embarrassing intensity, in a large number of abstract principles. And while I believe circumstance or injustice can conspire to make people feel miserable and powerless, and I have the utmost sympathy for you feeling that way, no one is so omnipotent as to be able to truly excise our power to do something with our life that is rewarding to us, no matter how modest. Your subjective feeling of misery is not license to be a dick to people, or to misrepresent them or their motivations. And if reading my tumblr (or anyone else’s) makes you miserable, you have a positive moral obligation to stop, because you’re being a dick to yourself, which is no more justifiable than being a dick to me. And being a dick to me because you don’t like my Tumblr, because you’re miserable and I’m not, is pants-on-head stupid.

I, too, have been so convinced of my misery and powerlessness, and so utterly convinced of my inability to make improvements in my life, that I have yielded utterly to the feeling of myself as a despised, helpless, wretched thing. You can spend years in that state. A lifetime, even. I suppose it relieves you from the burden of having to try, which is a tiny shred of comfort when the climb up the hill seems so steep. But I have found that in the long run it brings no other relief; there’s no regression to the mean, just an endless prolongation of misery. It required some courage, and not a little determination, to try to climb out of that pit. Sometimes you struggle. Sometimes you fall back in. Sometimes it’s easier to believe there’s nothing beyond that place of unhappiness. But there is, and you can get there, and the choice of whether or not to reach it lies only with you.

#if you are in fact due to be executed ignore this #and you have my deepest condolences #but in that case how did you get on tumblr???#Anonymous

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too-gay-for-marvel · 5 years ago

Text

routine

a/n: look i know im crankin these suckers out, i swear i have a life. ive just got a lot of thots and need to get them out asap or ill forget and then cry. so here, have some married mob boss Natasha and Carol because i love them

Word Count: 2151

Warnings: implied sexual content

Pairing: CarolNat x Reader

(pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4)

Your routine was a simple one when you were single. An early morning where you get up at 6, make your bed, and start the coffee before taking a cold shower. You’re out by the time the machine beeps and it only takes minutes to put on your pre-picked outfit. One cup of coffee (lots of cream, no sugar) while you read the paper. Your phone tells you it’s time to leave and you head to work.

The day is always filled with work work work and it keeps you busy. You can force yourself to focus, working through lunch and staying at the warehouse until it’s dark. You buy an apple and two oranges from the bodega on your way home.

Back home you start another pot of coffee before eating your apple at the counter. You cook a small meal, usually a frozen dinner but sometimes you cook real food, and eat it with your coffee. Sometimes it’s a disgusting combination, sometimes it’s not too bad, but it’s never good. But it’s routine and that’s what matters.

You hand wash the few dishes you have before changing and heading down to the apartment gym for a run. Sometimes you’ll talk with the doorman, sometimes you won’t. Either way, you go back to your apartment and take a hot shower before putting on some pajamas. You lay on the couch and put the news on your laptop while something else plays on the TV. You’ll eat the oranges while you relax and save the peels to boil on the weekends. A lot of times you fall asleep on the couch, always around 2am. You rinse and repeat with little to no variation.

But when you got involved with Natasha and Carol, routine was nothing but a word.

You understood, you really did. They were married, you accidentally wormed your way in, you all had different days. They went and commanded a mob, you were a carpenter. There was no telling what all they dealt with on a daily basis, and you just went to work and back home every day.

They could have at least tried to fit your schedule.

Now it was almost impossible to enjoy the walk to and from work because you were acutely aware of the people Carol and Nat would have follow you. “To keep you safe,” they had said. You didn’t care, it was an interruption.

When they would stop by, you couldn’t just heat up your one meal and be done with it. You had to make enough for three people, with three plates and three cups and three sets of silverware. And then you couldn’t even wash them right away because they were only coming by for a fuck. Which was more than fine with you.

But it messed up your routine.

And now they had the nerve to sleep over? They never stayed the night! Sure, sometimes they would stay until extremely early in the morning, but they never slept over. You would fuck, they would leave, and you’d rush to get back into your routine.

You couldn’t even get out of Carol’s arms to take a shower.

Maybe you liked the feeling. It had been a while since you had woken up in someone’s arms, and it was nice. It felt safe. Nat’s arm was slung around Carol’s waist and resting on your hip, and it was comforting. Any other person would have loved to wake up the way you did.

But you had a routine.

It was almost impossible to slip out of Carol’s grasp; she was a lot stronger than you had thought. She could pick you up and carry you around, but she was asleep! She shouldn’t be able to do this while she was sleeping! You were already late for your morning shower and it took almost 15 minutes to worm your way out of Carol’s grasp.

You froze on your feet when you got out of bed because you heard Carol sigh. If you had woken her up then you knew you wouldn’t be getting to shower. Horn dog, you complained to yourself. But she just shifted and rolled over to pull Nat closer before staying still again.

If only they could see you now, you thought to yourself. The fiercest couple in the mob game. Cuddling in bed.

Maybe them sleeping over wasn’t so bad. How else would you get to see them like this? Vulnerable, peaceful, almost even innocent. They weren’t mob boss legends, they were just people. People that were in your bed.

Dammit.

Now you couldn’t make your bed before a shower. Damn them. Never mind, having them sleep over was hell.

Well, at least you could still start your coffee. You spared one more look at the women in your bed and smiled to yourself before grabbing a shirt from the floor. It wasn’t clean and it wasn’t yours, and you hated knowing you were wearing an unclean shirt. But you liked that it was one of theirs. Maybe that was enough.

It wasn’t, but maybe it could be.

You snuck into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. It was bigger than usual and you knew it would change your grocery plans. Yet another part of your routine that they were changing. Maybe that could be okay, too.

You were halfway across the living room when someone knocked on your door. Looking at the clock in your kitchen said it was 6:47 (far too late for your shower). Who would come by that early? What else was going to ruin your routine??

With a sigh you walked to the door. If your routine was ruined you might as well ruin it properly. Your hair was pulled into a lazy ponytail, you were only in a dirty shirt, you couldn’t make your bed, and you were already… 36 minutes behind schedule. Might as well have a little small talk, right? So you opened the door-

“-Mornin’ sunshine-”

-And immediately shut it again, holding the handle in case they tried to open the door.

Why were they here?

“Y/N?”

No no no they couldn’t see your apartment like this! The coffee wasn’t finished, you didn’t have pants on, you hadn’t washed your hair. There were still dishes in the sink, a few blueprints on the table, two women in your bed-

-two women in your bed. Two married women in your bed.

Oh no.

“You alright, kiddo?”

“Just fine!” You called out. You didn’t let go of the handle until you locked the door, and then you ran to the kitchen to wash the dishes.

It was a bit ridiculous to wash the dishes first when there were so many other problems to deal with, but it was the most obvious. You could probably make an excuse for not wearing pants and the blueprints. But the dishes? That was way too out of hand.

You didn’t even dry them before shoving them into your cabinet and making your way to the bedroom where Carol and Nat were sitting up and rubbing their eyes. The sheet was down to their bare waists and you stared for just a moment too long.

“You okay?” Carol asked when she cracked one eye open just enough to see you starting to pick up the clothes on the floor.

Three more knocks on your front door.

“One second!” You shouted before rushing through your room again. You didn’t see Carol and Nat flinch from the loud noise.

“What’s going on?” Nat asked, and they both held their hands up as you tossed some clothes at them.

“You need to leave,” you said as quickly as you could manage.

“Kicking us out already?” Carol teased.

“Yes,” you huffed out with a single nod.

“What’s wrong?” Nat asked. She stood and pulled on some jeans before walking over to put a hand on your shoulder, but you shrugged it off.

More knocks.

“I said one second!” You shouted again and turned back to Nat. “Please leave.”

“We can chill in here,” Carol said as she finished tugging a shirt on. It was yours and it was just a little too small on her. She didn’t seem to care.

“I’m not out yet,” you shot back before shoving a shirt into Nat’s arms.

“Just lock the-”

“-Unless you want to meet my parents, I suggest you leave.”

That shut them up. Quickly.

Five knocks.

“I’m coming!” You shouted before looking at the shell-shocked faces of Carol and Nat. “Fire escape goes all the way down,” you said before shutting your bedroom door and running to open the front door.

They didn’t look happy.

“May we come in now?” Your mom asked. She looked more pissed than your dad, who looked amused at your ragged state.

“Please,” you said with a sheepish smile as you stepped aside and let them in.

“Nice shirt,” your dad whispered as he passed you. Damn him.

“Coffee?” You asked. You didn’t wait for them to answer before making your way to the kitchen and getting down two more mugs.

“You’ve already got three on the counter,” your mom pointed out, and your eyes shot to where she was pointing.

She was right. You had three mugs on the counter right by the coffee pot. And they were dirty. Because you had made Carol and Nat coffee yesterday when they had come over. And you hadn’t cleaned because they had ruined your routine. Please don’t notice, please don’t notice, please don’t-

“-You use all these yesterday?” Your dad asked, and you could feel your heart jump into your throat. You missed the small smile on his face.

“Long day,” you said nonchalantly as you tried to physically wave off the ideas he probably had.

“That why you haven’t showered yet?” Your dad pointed out, again, and you finally glared at him. He needed to just keep his mouth shut or your mom would get suspicious.

“Long night,” you explained even though you knew he didn’t buy it.

“Must have been,” your mom mused as she poured herself a cup of coffee because you had taken too long. “It cut into your routine.”

Why did they have to know you so well? Why couldn’t they just be distant and not care?

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask as you hand a mug to your dad.

“We can’t just come see our daughter?” Your dad asks from behind the mug.

“Not at 7am,” you tease, and he shoots you a wink.

“Your grandparents want the whole family to spend the summer together,” your mom says, her voice much softer than usual. You know what that means.

“And you’re bringing it up now?” You ask. It’s the middle of January; summer wasn’t even on your mind.

“So you can plan your routine,” your mom answers with a gentle smile. Maybe her respecting your schedule wasn’t quite as awful as you thought.

“We want you to have time to set things up in case-”

-your dad is cut off by a thud coming from your room, and all of your heads snap toward the sound.

“What was that?” Your dad asks as he immediately moves into his protective mode.

You don’t have time to answer before your dad makes his way to your bedroom. He doesn’t even ask for permission to enter because you usually never shut your door. You’ve never cared before, so he doesn’t ask now.

But what if Carol and Nat aren’t gone?

Blood is rushing deafeningly in your ears as your parents open the door to your room and look inside. You expect to hear gasps and immediate yelling, maybe some accusations. You’ve even got an escape plan ready and an alibi set up.

But the room is empty. There’s no clothes on the floor, your hamper is out of sight, and the bed is made. There’s no one in your room. The only thing that’s out of place is the open window.

“I thought I taught you to keep these closed,” your dad mused as he walked over and shut the window.

“Must have forgotten,” you mumbled.

“Long night,” your dad repeats your explanation, but he sounds completely unconvinced.

“Right,” you whisper before running your fingers through your hair and pulling your arms in tight.

“We should let you get ready,” your mom says after an extremely awkward amount of silence. You shoot her a relieved smile and nod.

“I’ll call you,” you say.

They each give you a kiss on the head as they walk by and say their goodbye’s before leaving your apartment. As soon as the door shuts you fall to the floor and just lay there staring at the ceiling. There were too many thoughts running through your head.

None of this would have happened if no one had ruined your routine.

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wilderwraith · 5 years ago

Text

supporting role

maplekeene

2635 words

Fitzroy wakes up from his post-curse nap and Argo is there.

—

Fitzroy can’t really remember ever opening his eyes while waking. Usually when he exits his trances, the world just sort of snaps into clarity and his full consciousness comes back to him, but it never really completely left to begin with. This time, it’s very different, and very disorienting. When his consciousness returns, it feels like he’s floating to the top of some dark body of water, like his mind is fighting to emerge from a pitch-black sludge and he can’t remember what he’d been doing. He’s had no awareness of the world at all for the past… Well, he certainly doesn’t know how long it’s been.

He’s so tired. He doesn’t even realize his eyes are closed for a little while, and when he does, it feels like it takes all the strength he has to open them. His surroundings are blurred slightly, at first, and for a brief moment he’s afraid the curse hadn’t been completely dispelled and he’s going to be pulled back into a nightmare. But then his head clears a bit and he finds his faculties fully returning, even if it feels like his bones are lead and every part of his being hurts.

He’s in their tent, he realizes. The canvas walls are alight with the sun outside. He’s pleasantly warm under a light blanket on the cot. He sees his cloak, vest, belts, and boots piled on the ground against the far wall and makes a mental note to scold whoever decided to just drop his expensive wardrobe in the dirt, but he doesn’t have too much time to get worked up over it because then there’s a sound of shifting fabric beside him and he looks up to see—

Argo. The water Genasi is sat in a wooden chair beside the cot, arms folded over his chest and one leg propped up on the other, dozing lightly. His head is bobbing a little, like he’s nodding off in class, and Fitzroy can’t help but smile at the sight.

He takes a moment to appreciate it. Argo couldn’t look unattractive if he tried, honestly, which is a real feat considering he has a goddamn mustache—Fitzroy hated it when they’d first met, but somehow over time he’d come to think it was kind of hot and now hates himself for that. But he thinks Argo looks the most attractive when he doesn’t know anyone is looking at him, so he really drinks in the sight of his toned arms, evident even through his loose tunic, and the smooth chest that’s pretty much always on display since he never laces up his shirts. His navy hair is tied back as usual, the dark curls cascading over his shoulders and back in casual waves. The way the soft light coming through the tent falls on the planes of his face and makes his blue scales shine like water really starts up the butterflies in Fitzroy’s stomach and god, he probably needs to not be staring like this at his friend and coworker—

And then, just like, a memory comes rushing to the forefront of his brain complete unbidden and echoes loudly in his ears. He can hear it as clearly as he can hear his own breathing.

“I know all about ya. I know… I know you’re not the fancy lad that you put on. You come from, y’know, kinda lowly stock. Your mom and your long haul truck driver dad, and… I know this ‘cause I was investigatin’ ya. I was checkin’ up on ya, keepin’ an eye on ya.”

Something sour curls in Fitzroy’s gut. Of course, he’s known that something was up with Argo for a while now, and he can’t be completely sure that this is what he’s been up to, but to know that his friend, his sidekick, has been secretly digging through his past and personal life… The betrayal from that is only rivaled by his utter embarrassment and—he hates to admit—shame. He’s spent a considerable amount of effort to keep anyone from learning about his background, and for Argo to be the one to find out is…kind of catastrophic, if he’s being honest. For different reasons.

He’s really not looking forward to the talk they’re going to have to have in the near future.

The longer he looks at Argo, though, the more memories begin to come back and there’s a large part of Fitzroy that just can’t be angry with him. There is no part of Argonaut Keene that has ever been mean or petty or vicious, which Fitzroy can’t say of himself, and in his heart of hearts he knows that Argo couldn’t have had ill intentions. Was it kind of shitty? Yeah, but Argo must have thought there was good reason. He’s a rogue, but he’s never struck Fitzroy as nosy. Not when it comes to his friends.

And that brings back more of Argo’s one-sided conversation with his lifeless body.

“You’re a good dude. You’re a really good dude, and you’re my friend, and I believe—I believe in ya.”

“I’m your friend, and Firbolg is your friend. And I think you’re gonna be remarkable! I think you’re gonna be just an amazing person! Because, you just… You have it in ya.”

“Don’t let your failure dictate what you’re gonna be. Y’know, when you fail at somethin’ the only way it defines ya is if you give up! And you haven’t given up!”

“Look, you gotta come back to us. We can’t do this without ya.”

A flood of warmth rushes through Fitzroy, then. He’s said in the past that he doesn’t trust Argo, but he’s not sure if that’s really true. Even when he acts shady and keeps obvious secrets, Fitzroy would still trust him with his life. The utter adoration that blooms inside him at just the sight of the rogue is enough to quell his unease about their current standings, at least a little.

He’s glad he was unconscious while Argo practically bared his heart in front of him, and he’s even gladder that he heard everything. He’s never really known someone with a heart of gold before, not like Argo’s. Affection swells alarmingly within him as he continues to gaze at the Genasi’s sharp, handsome features, dark eyelashes fanning out across his blue skin, shiny lips parted slightly, strong chest rising and falling with gentle breaths—

Before he feels too flustered, he coughs a little and, as he’d thought, Argo starts and wakes immediately. When his sea green eyes fall on Fitzroy, Fitzroy smiles and hopes it doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Argo smiles, too, a softer version of the relieved expression on his face the last time Fitzroy had woken up beside him. “I spend a lot of time at your bedside.”

“I know.” He laughs a little. “I’m, uh, I’m a frail—”

“It’s a little creepy,” Argo says with a kind grin.

Fitzroy shifts and tries to prop himself up, but his arms don’t seem to want to hold his weight very well. It’s embarrassing, being this weak in front of Argo, but it would’ve probably bothered him a lot more if his sidekick hadn’t looked at him with such soft kindness and wordlessly reached out to support him until he was sitting.

He takes a breath and tries to get his head on straight. It’s probably a good idea to get right down to business—there are far more pressing matters than his and Argo’s relationship and it’s the next thing weighing on him. The past twenty-four hours have been…a lot.

“Um, Argo,” he says, fiddling with the edge of his blanket. “I heard…what you said to me, in some far-off, distant part of my consciousness while I was suffering from the curse. And… We obviously have a lot to talk about. But I just have one thing to say to you right now, Argo.”

The suspense is palpable between them and Fitzroy almost wants to say something else entirely, but he shoves that aside.

“Tell me you picked up the pieces of the apple that I took a bite out of.”

—

After making sure the apple is mended and safely stowed away, Fitzroy leans back in the cot for a moment. Exhaustion really has set deep in every fiber of his body and he aches all over.

“Ya doin’ alright?” Argo asks, a concerned frown coming over his face. “I mean, that was… That was all pretty intense. Are you feelin’ okay?”

“I’m…very tired.” Fitzroy runs fingers through his hair, suddenly aware that he probably looks like a mess and undoubtedly has bad bedhead.

“I’m sure.” Argo looks a little uncomfortable for a moment, his gaze falling and his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Can—can I ask you a question, Fitz?”

Fitzroy isn’t sure why his stomach drops, but he nods. “Uh, sure.”

“If you heard me talkin’ about—about, y’know, that, then… Did ya hear…everything?” He looks equal parts anxious and hopeful as he asks it, like half of him is dreading Fitzroy’s answer and the other half is hoping he’ll say yes.

Fitzroy looks at him for a moment, contemplating and trying to figure out how to go about answering the question. He’s not surprised Argo’s asking, but he’s not sure what he’s hoping he’ll say.

He takes a breath. “Yes, the adventures of Larry the Lime were…extremely riveting.”

A blush slams into Argo’s cheeks and he laughs loudly. “Yeah, I know!”

Fitzroy laughs too, feeling a blush crawl up into his own cheeks. He loves seeing Argo laugh.

After another moment, though, the laughter dies down and the actual topic at hand still hangs between them acutely, unaddressed. Fitzroy combs through his hair again. “Um, but seriously, Argo, I—yes, I heard everything. I should… I should thank you for what you said. I didn’t know you felt that way, and I’m… Well, thank you.” He clears his throat awkwardly and feels the blush heat up. Expressing genuine, heartfelt emotion has never been especially easy for him. “It probably didn’t seem like it, but your presence helped a lot. I could…feel your support and that meant a lot to me.”

When he looks up, Argo is smiling from ear to ear. It makes Fitzroy’s stomach do another somersault. “I helped? I mean, you really feel like it helped?”

Fitzroy blinks and nods. “Yes, I—”

“Ha ha!” Argo, seemingly without thinking, reaches over and grabs Fitzroy’s hand with both of his. “I felt so helpless the whole time. I mean, the Firbolg went lookin’ for Calhain and Althea had that ward and I just—I felt like I couldn’t do anything to help except sit there and talk, so I’m really glad that I—that I could help ya, even a little.”

Then, he looks down and realizes he’s got Fitzroy’s hand. His eyes widen and he lets go as if it’s burned him. “Oh… I’m sorry, Fitz, I didn’t mean ta—”

The sudden absence of the rogue’s palm, of the cool, scaly skin against his own hand is surprisingly jarring. To Fitzroy’s horror, he finds himself chasing Argo’s hand and grabbing it. “Argo, I—”

Argo, I what? What exactly is he planning on saying? What the hell is he doing?

“Argo… I…” He swallows thickly. His gaze is trained on their hands, on his sidekick’s blue fingers curling around his own. “When I say your support meant a lot to me, I mean that… Well, you mean a lot to me. You mean a lot more to me than I can—” He stutters, completely unsure what his mouth is trying to do. But it’s sure as shit too late to back out now, isn’t it? “Do you… Do you understand where I’m going with this? It’s—I—”

The other scaly palm is suddenly on his cheek and he looks up with a start. Argo’s face is very close, close enough that Fitzroy can smell the salty ocean scent that follows him around, like he’s constantly being chased by a sea breeze. “Are ya sayin’ that ya like me?”

Fitzroy’s face is on fire—it must be. This is definitely not how he imagined this conversation going and yet… And yet, Argo is so close. His heart is pounding. His breath is coming quicker and he feels like any second now he’ll explode all to pieces. The only thing keeping him together is the fact that Argo’s touching him and somehow it feels right. It feels safe. It feels…kind of like the home he’s always wanted.

Slowly, Fitzroy nods. “I—yes, that’s what I’m saying. I…” He takes another deep breath. “Like you, Argo, and I think I have for some time now. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I don’t expect you to—”

“Fitz.”

Fitzroy blinks, confused. “Huh?”

“Will ya shut up and let me kiss you?”

His heart is hammering away at his ribcage and it feels like all his insides are melting into goop and his head is spinning so fast he can hardly think, but his body reacts almost on its own. He whispers, “Yes.”

Argo’s lips are dry, but smooth, and cool like the rest of his skin. It’s quite pleasant. Fitzroy had never allowed himself to entertain the thought of kissing him much, for the fact that he was almost certain his feelings were unrequited, but if he had imagined it, this would probably be exactly it. Argo’s hand is still cupping his face, and without really thinking Fitzroy’s hand rises to his shoulder, up his neck, and into his hair. There it tangles into the damp, beachy waves that are just as soft as he would have guessed.

The kiss isn’t long, even though Fitzroy would like it to be. But there’s activity on the other side of the tent, and they both seem to remember that there’s business to attend to at the same time.

When Fitzroy opens his eyes, Argo looks just as breathless and stunned as he feels. There’s a handsome flush in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes that Fitzroy doesn’t see very often. A curl has come loose from his ponytail and dangles in his face and it’s honestly kind of adorable.

“This doesn’t get you off the hook,” Fitzroy says, still trying to get his breath back.

Argo winces a bit. “Yeah… I know.”

Fitzroy swings his legs over the side of the cot, grimacing at the ache in his body when he does. “And I guess we have even more to talk about now.”

“I guess we do.”

“But, um. That was…very enjoyable. I’d like to do it again sometime when I don’t feel like death warmed over.”

Argo smiles. “That would be great.”

They each take a moment to collect themselves. Argo re-ties his hair and Fitzroy stands to put on the rest of his outfit and comb his hair with an actual comb that he keeps in his belt pouch. He’ll really have to compartmentalize this, he thinks, if he wants to finish this assignment strongly.

As they’re about to exit the tent, Argo clears his throat and leans in close to Fitzroy’s ear. Tingles race down his spine when he feels that stupid mustache tickle the side of his face. “Just in case it wasn’t clear, Fitz, I like you too.”

With that, the Genasi pushes aside the tent flap and departs in one quick, fluid motion, leaving Fitzroy standing there with steam coming from his ears. Althea is worried he’s gotten sick when he finally joins the rest of the group, and he makes a point of remembering to strangle Argo later for winking at him.

#maplekeene #the adventure zone #the adventure zone graduation #taz #taz graduation #my writing #god I’m writing fic again how wild is that

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ginger-and-mint · 4 years ago

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Happy birthday Myx! 🥳🎂 Have Several questions because I Want To Know Things. ^^; Illness & Injury 6 for everyone, Whump 2 & 3 for everyone, and Writer's 2, 13, 19, and 46 for you!

thank you Mel! ♡ and oh my gosh I’m so delighted by this abundance of questions!

6. What is their go-to remedy for an upset stomach?

Kara and Bramley both like some warmth on unhappy tummy. They’ll make themselves tea, more for the warmth than anything else, and sip it while taking it easy. Kara is likely to get herself a little warm pack too if she can.

Malia tends to go straight for medicine or a tonic. She doesn’t like to be slowed down by her body, and so will opt for whatever she thinks will be most effective in the shortest amount of time.

Si, being a song-mage, was once surrounded by fellow song-mage friends they could ask to cast a stomach-settling healing spell on them. With that option off the table, they'll also look for a fast-acting medicine or tonic.

Grayson and Elliott both try to ignore an upset stomach for a little while in the hopes that it’ll settle. When that fails, Grayson will go get himself a tonic and complain to his friends until it kicks in, while Elliott will either try sitting quietly and sipping on water or tea, or if he can get away, just sleeping it off.

Ryder is knowledgeable enough to take a different approach depending on how upset his stomach is. For something minor, he’ll make himself a digestion-easing tea, like mint or chamomile. If he knows that won’t be effective, he’ll go straight to a tonic. When it’s something he’s eaten that’s not agreeing with him, sometimes he’ll just go make himself throw up to get it out of his system.

2. What is their pain tolerance? Do they close their eyes and block it out, or go into a full blown panic?

Grayson really hates tolerating pain, but if he has to, he can take a lot. Most of the time, he will remove himself from painful situations as quickly as possible and complain bitterly about anything that hurts. But if the chips were down, he would turn out to be a lot tougher than anyone expected.

Bramley is a Sweet Baby and We Do Not Harm Him is not really used to enduring pain and has a low tolerance for it. He would close his eyes and block it out rather than panicking, but not really be able to do anything except sit there and block pain until he was Helped. c’:

Kara is Pure Sunshine and We Do Not Harm Her Either has a pretty high tolerance for acute pain and doesn’t panic about injuries, but she has been known to get faint from them. She’s also easily worn down by chronic discomfort, like being too hot or cold or just having a constant dull ache of some kind.

Malia is the opposite. She can put up with low-key pain or discomfort for a long time, but an acute injury would freak her out a lot more than she’d like to admit.

Ryder has a high pain tolerance on all fronts, honestly. As soon as he feels pain, he looks for a solution to ease it, and if there are none to be had, he’ll grit his teeth and block it out.

Meanwhile, poor dear Si is not great with pain. Song-mages are primarily healers, and so Si is really used to having even little hurts soothed quickly and easily. They don’t panic when in pain, but they do get extremely miserable.

Elliott has a very high pain tolerance when the pain feels within his control; he can power through even the worst headaches or stomachaches, for example. But as soon as the pain feels out of his control (i.e. he gets injured), he panics.

3. How long do they typically take to recover from illness or injury compared to average?

Ryder and Kara, by virtue of Robustness and Being Sensible People who largely take care of themselves when under the weather, are quick to recover.

Grayson and Malia both heal quickly from injuries, but take a little longer with illnesses. With Grayson, it’s more a matter of him not being back to himself until his symptoms are completely gone (he is very much a Man Flu type of guy.) Meanwhile Malia will treat an injury with appropriate care, but is likely to push herself back to full capacity before she’s fully better from an illness, leading to a slower recovery.

As big and strong as Bramley is, he’s actually a little more delicate immune system-wise. He tends to be a slow recoverer, even though he’s good about looking after himself when sick or hurt.

Elliott and Si also tend to have slow and uneven recoveries, but in their cases, it’s due to hooliganery. Si takes good care of themself during the uncomfortable phase of their illness or injury, but as soon as they feel 90% better, they’re eager to leap back into life with their usual zeal. That’s not always a great idea and can lead to them prolonging whatever is afflicting them. Elliott, on the other hand, is just a stubborn idiot who doesn’t take care of himself. He’s particularly bad about this with injuries, often aggravating them and even making them worse because he won’t give them the rest they need to heal.

2. Are you a pantser or plotter?

Usually I lean more towards plotting, although I do leave a lot of room for the new directions and ideas I know I’ll discover during the process of writing itself. But Ginger and Mint is the big exception -- I started writing it with zero plan whatsoever. I do have an outline for it now, but I was probably eight or nine chapters in before I made it.

While the final product is definitely not as a polished as it would’ve been if I’d planned it from the start, it was honestly super refreshing to not worry and just write. I’ve been trying to bring a little of that experience over into my more serious writing -- it’s so easy to get caught up in plotting and forget to leave room for writing itself to be a generative process.

13. Describe your writing process from idea to polished

Have idea. Whee!

“Mark out” the things I want to happen in the story or chapter:

I usually do this by writing out short snippets of prose or dialogue related to the ideas I’ve had about each moment. For example, let’s say I know I want a moment where Grayson talks to Ryder. I’d type up a couple lines of dialogue and/or maybe a line about Grayson encountering Ryder and noting what he’s doing or how he’s looking -- whatever’s relevant to the scene. Basically, whatever ideas I have about that scene will be represented in writing in the “mark.”

I have all these marks ordered in the document in the same way the scenes will eventually be chronologically ordered. For me, having visual space is important for my ability to think, so I hit the enter key enough times between the marks that I can see only blank space when I want to work with a certain moment.

Build out each mark until I have a full scene. I do try to go roughly start to finish, but definitely jump back and forth depending on what I’m feeling most inspired by or what my brain seems to be spitting up ideas about. I also skip ahead whenever I feel stuck, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Go back and string the scenes together. Add transitions, fill in any missing pieces, etc.

Re-read the full thing from start to finish and make final edits. Yay, done!

19. How do you keep yourself motivated?

goooood question fam

I struggle with this as much as the next person (see: 2.5 year G&M hiatus). I haven’t discovered a foolproof method of motivation yet (pls advise if you have), but I do tend to feel inspired whenever something reminds me why I want to write this story. That could be thinking about a scene I’m really excited to share, re-reading a scene that reminds me why I enjoy portraying a certain character or environment -- anything along those lines.

46. Do you reread your own stories?

Yes, the ones that I like! Some things I’m not particularly proud of and don’t go back to very often, but re-reading pieces of writing I do like helps me feel motivated, inspired, and confident.

#thank you so much these were so FUN #asks #gnm asks #lessthanconventional #nausea #just the briefest mention

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detectivesebcas · 5 years ago

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Whumptober 2020 Day 26- Migraine

Warnings: illness, injections

Universe: any post-STEM AU

----

Stefano wakes up in pain. His head throbs, and his stomach is churning. He is curled up on his side, and he knows that if he so much as turns over, he’s going to be violently ill. He freezes, eye closed, breathing slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. At least it seems to still be dark outside. He’s sure the sun coming through the blinds would be agony right now.

He should get up and take some of his medication, or perhaps get up and get to the toilet to be better prepared for the inevitable, but the pounding in his head and the creeping, sick feeling in his stomach keep him rooted to the spot. He could ask Sebastian for help, but he isn’t even sure he can trust his own voice not to trigger a dramatic worsening of his condition.

He tries to focus on his breathing, but instead he just ends up feeling alone and miserable. Every beat of his heart spikes a fresh stab of pain inside his skull. His skin is clammy, and soon he is shaking all over, but he lies as still and quiet as he can until Sebastian stirs behind him.

“Stefano? You awake?” His voice is thick with sleep and his words are slurred, but it’s still the most beautiful sound Stefano has ever heard, because it means he’s not alone in his misery anymore.

He tries to respond in the affirmative, but the noise he makes is more of a quiet moan than anything else. It does the job though, and when Sebastian responds, he is clearly wide awake and ready for action.

“Are you having a migraine?” Sebastian murmurs, and Stefano is thankful he is keeping his voice down. Even as quiet as Sebastian is, the sound of his voice sets off little lights behind Stefano’s eyelid.

“Yes,” he breathes, careful not to move any more than necessary.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian whispers, and Stefano can hear the shared pain in his voice. Sebastian is empathetic almost to a fault, and while it is sometimes helpful that Sebastian can understand what he is going through, it also means Sebastian can get caught up in his own reactions at times when Stefano needs his help.

Luckily that doesn’t seem to be happening now, because Sebastian asks, “Do you think you can hold down your pills?”

“No,” Stefano replies between deep, measured breaths. Even the thought of swallowing anything right now is almost enough to make him vomit. There is no way an oral medication is going to help him, but they do also have the injectable versions of his pain and anti-nausea drugs. Unless he catches an oncoming migraine very early, that’s usually the approach they have to take.

“Alright,” Sebastian whispers, “I’ll go pull up your shots. Don’t move.”

If he wasn’t in excruciating pain, Stefano might laugh at that or at least roll his eye, because moving is the absolute last thing he wants to do right now.

Sebastian manages to extract himself from the bed without moving the mattress very much at all, for which Stefano is extremely grateful, and heads into the bathroom to start rummaging around in the medicine cabinet. It’s probably not actually all that loud- and he’s sure Sebastian is trying to be quiet both for his sake and Lily’s-, but with his overly sensitive hearing Stefano is acutely aware of every little noise Sebastian makes.

“Okay,” Sebastian says softly as he comes back into the room. “You stay right there. I’ll take care of everything.”

Once again, Stefano has no intention of moving, but it’s still comforting to know that Sebastian has everything under control. The bed shifts just a little as Sebastian climbs back in, but Stefano ignores it, stays focused on his breathing, and wills himself not to be sick when he is so close to getting some relief.

Sebastian pulls down the waistband of his pajama bottoms and plants a hand on his hip, which apparently is how Sebastian finds an appropriate injection site in the dark. Stefano isn’t going to question his methods now, and he just breathes slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth as Sebastian swabs a place on his right hip with alcohol and uncaps a syringe.

The needle stick feels harsher than necessary on his overly sensitive skin, and the medication burns as it goes in, but Sebastian’s hand is still on him, and his words are encouraging.

“You’re doing great,” he whispers. “Just one more.”

The second shot isn’t nearly as bad as the first one, and when Sebastian withdraws the needle, Stefano breathes a sigh of relief. The medications don’t work instantly of course, but when they’re administered this way he usually starts to feel better within five or ten minutes.

Sebastian readjusts his clothing and does some more rummaging on the nightstand, then eases himself back into bed. He could just go back to sleep right now. He’s already done more than enough for Stefano, but Stefano is pretty sure he’s not going to do that.

“What else can I do?” Sebastian murmurs, and even through his pain, Stefano can’t keep himself from smiling a little.

“Just hold me,” he whispers.

He is very, very sensitive to touch right now, but even more than that he is ill and scared and he needs the comfort of Sebastian’s arms.

“Okay,” Sebastian whispers. “Just let me know if it’s too much.”

Sebastian slides into place behind him, his chest to Stefano’s back, and pulls a blanket over both of them. His movements are slow and cautious as he wraps an arm around Stefano, but the warmth of his body is already helping to calm Stefano’s shaking the same way his presence is helping to calm Stefano’s nerves.

“Just try to get some sleep,” murmurs Sebastian. “It’ll be better soon.”

Stefano wants to tell him it’s a little better already, but sleep claims him before he can speak.

#whumptober2020 #no.26 #migraine #the evil within 2 #Fic #injections tw #Sebastian Castellanos #Stefano Valentini #steseb

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the-overgrowth · 5 years ago

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Retrospective: “Faybane” #1

This is where it all started, on July 8th, 2016. Although probably a bit earlier than that, but this is the earliest thing I can find that’s actually written down, so that’s what counts. And back in the day I didn’t let ideas marinate the way I do now, I just started writing pretty much as soon as I got the idea.

Anyway, the document was created at this point in time according to Google Docs, and was last modified in October 3rd, 2016. It’s only 3 chapters long, plus one incomplete fourth chapter, and the whole thing is about 17k words.

Which is a lot for 3 chapters. I would say something about how I’m less wordy now, but the latest draft is like 107k words long, so, like, I will always struggle with shutting the fuck up, methinks.

Also, the reason this is called “Faybane” is because that was the working title I used, and the name of this document. I thought it’d be the proper title but like. It’s bad lmao.

Anywhomst, let’s get into it!

Some background info for those who are new or need a refresher: this WIP became a thing after I read and was disappointed by A Court of Thorns and Roses by SJM, as well as The Iron King by Julie Kagawa and some book by Holly Black, was it Tithe?

ACOTAR was the biggest culprit. I feel that this is important to keep in mind as we go through this mess.

We open on Sidra in the forest with a bunch of men she calls a hunting party. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there, but since she’s the only decent hunter among them and it’s her sister’s wedding today, she has to make the kill to feed the people attending said wedding.

This is, as the kids say, big stupid, and seems like a very ill-prepared celebration? I guess it makes some sense for them to want fresh meat, but this fresh? What if they didn’t find anything? What if they didn’t manage to kill anything? Is the whole thing cancelled? Stupid.

We find out they’ve been hunting a boar and that this dude named Liam, our Gaston replacement, previously wounded the animal but didn’t kill it, causing it to flee and force the hunting party to follow. It’s up to Sidra to make the killing blow, which she does with an arrow straight into its head. This was back when Sidra was still YA Heroine Extraordinaire and the time period was Vaguely Medieval, I guess.

They begin taking their quarry back home and Sidra thinks about how she normally doesn’t hunt this close to the “Faewilds” because animals closer to the border are said to be bigger and more violent. There isn’t an actual border, people just had to rely on intuition and not wander too far into the forest.

She also mentions a girl named Wilda, who disappeared fairly recently and everyone suspects it was the fae. This isn’t relevant now, but Wilda will return in later drafts, I think.

Everybody, especially my family, knew that I was one of the best archers in town, whether I used a bow or a crossbow.

Shut up, Not!Feyre. Nobody likes you.

I should mention that at this point I didn’t bother googling how big wild boars get and just assumed they were the size of like, a thick medium dog. Which is, if you know how big boars are, very incorrect. Four men pulling the animal seems realistic enough, but then Liam just lifts it up on his own? Not buying it.

Sidra laments how much she hates Liam and we find out that he apparently tried to assault her and she stabbed him? And apparently she’s not happy about his marriage to Sinéad but can’t do anything about it because “Father’s word is law” and Sinéad herself laughed it off when Sidra tried to warn her?

Yeah, gonna call bullshit on that one. No idea why this was here or what purpose it serves, the reason Liam doesn’t exist in the latest draft is because I never figured out what his purpose was so I axed him entirely.

Current!Sidra would just kill him the moment he showed an interest in Sinéad, and Current!Sinéad would 100% believe her sister about something like that.

Some bloke named Connor strikes up a conversation with Sidra, seemingly worried about being this far away from human civilization. Liam teases him about it and calls the fae “knife-ears”, because I still had brainrot back then and liked Dragon Age and had zero original ideas in my head.

The men make jokes about having sex with fae women and Sidra seems so disturbed by this that she nocks an arrow. This isn’t the first time she makes references to feeling unsafe around these men, I have no idea why I wrote it this way aside from being edgy, I guess.

My village was mostly populated by men, and even though I wasn’t one of the pretty girls there, I knew these men weren’t picky, even with all their talk about beautiful fae women. I’d heard that fae women would kill their men after sleeping with them. I had no way of know it was true, but a part of me hoped it was and that Liam would some day soon get “lucky” and encounter a female fae, so she could end his misery.

Edgy, dude.

They eventually arrive and Sidra goes inside her house, which is a simple cottage with three rooms. I think her family are all farmers? It’s kind of confusing. She goes into her and Sinéad’s bedroom, where Sinéad is preparing for her wedding. Also, she’s blonde.

“Sid! There you are!” she said cheerily. “Killed a boar, huh? Good on Liam for taking all the credit.”

If you know your man is trash, why are you marrying him?

Apparently Liam seduced Sinéad with sweets and baked goods. I mean ... fair enough. Considering how Sidra complains about being hungry and skinny and going without food if she doesn’t kill the boar because this year’s harvest was minimal, I’m assuming y’all are starving.

We find out Sinéad’s mother doesn’t let her do anything around the house or farm, to preserve her “soft and white” hands and pale complexion so she could be married off easily. This makes zero sense, you’d think these medieval men wouldn’t have the same beauty standards as Victorian England, plus having a mouth to feed that doesn’t even help feeding itself is just nuts.

But remember, this isn’t Sidra, this is Not!Feyre. She needs to be sad and put-upon and a victim. She explains how she was never pretty to begin with and thus nobody considered her to be worthy of marrying off, which then meant she was put to work and became even less attractive because now she was so cool and badass that all the men were intimidated by her.

Yeah, in a village that already doesn’t have a lot of young women? I’m not buying this, lmao. But go off, Not!Feyre.

I’d been the one helping around, instead. Hunting, mostly. Sometimes I’d chop wood or work the farm. Marrying out of the house seemed impossible. Marrying up was practically a dream you forgot upon waking. Had I been pretty from the start there would’ve been a foundation to work from, but I was a lost cause even before my skin became tan and my hands grew veined and calloused. I had freckles which people mistook for mud and dull brown eyes, a long nose that had been broken one time too many and a mouth that made it look like I constantly felt a bad smell no matter what facial expression I made. I’d always been of rather short stature and had brown hair and thick eyebrows, which in combination with everything else made my parents call me their “little goblin”. The scar on my face didn’t help me either: men didn’t like it when their women were more battle-hardened than they were.

Oh god please, don’t go off! We don’t care! Stop going off!

Also what fucking parents call their poor kid a goblin? Yikes.

Sinéad convinces Sidra to get prettied up and Sidra is all “oh I bet all the men will just fall over themselves for my favor now huh” which is just the most annoying fucking thing, prompting Sinéad to respond:

“Well, winter is coming and game is scarce. If they want to survive, marrying the best hunter in the village might be a good bet.”

Yeah! This is correct! I refuse to believe people wouldn’t be into Sidra! Not only does everyone apparently know she’s the best hunter in town, but Sidra herself confirmed the men here outnumber the women and aren’t very picky.

This is fucking stupid. I’m glad I axed it. In my defense, I was very much trying to emulate the YA shit I’d read so far.

Sidra’s grandmother enters the stage. She’s very old in this draft, but otherwise unchanged.

She was a short and wrinkled old lady with extremely bad vision and an even worse grasp on reality. Or maybe an extremely acute grasp on reality, depending on whether you believed her stories or not.

Sidra changes out of the dress again to go out and help her father prepare the boar, all while sulking.

I didn’t envy Sinead, nor any other bride. Despite what most people thought of me, I wasn’t some poor ugly girl longing for the love of a man and the security of marriage. Did I enjoy the idea of having somebody care for me? Sure. But it wasn’t on my list of priorities. I was still trying to figure out what actually was on that list. Not that it mattered. The prospects for a poor village girl were very finite.

Womp womp.

We get some confusing and barely related stuff about Sidra possibly becoming a royal hunter for the king and also about where the village is located in relation to the Faewilds. She speculates that maybe the fae aren’t real, but the way she and everyone else talks about them makes it pretty obvious that they are? This was supposed to build mystery, I guess.

We skip forward to the wedding and Sidra is moping again.

“How are you feeling?” Father asked and squeezed my shoulder.

I wasn’t sure why he was doing that. I assumed it had something to do with the wedding and the fact that despite there being fewer women than men here, I was still not asked to dance. Though this didn’t really bother me, so I just shrugged.

“It doesn’t bother me. Anyway I will continue to mope and feel bitter about this thing that doesn’t bother me.” Hunny ...

At least Current!Sidra has the self-awareness to admit she’s sad and lonely.

[Father’s] marriage to Sinead’s mother was never out of love, more out of necessity. It was easier when you had a big family.

Except for when this “big family” is 3 people who work and 2 people who are just being fed, right? See, I knew back then that having a big family helps when you have a farm, but I also needed to make Sidra Special so Sinéad had to sit on her ass to highlight how pretty and feminine she was or whatnot.

Bleh.

They talk a bit about Sidra’s mother, who passed away five years ago, and Sidra reminisces about how she used to tell amazing stories. It’s all very ... whatever, and serves only to make this point for the hundredth time:

I wasn’t like Mother. I wasn’t full of life and spirit like her. I wasn’t loved and respected by the entire village like her. I was just her disappointing child whose existence they’d rather forget except when they wanted something killed.

Right after this there’s a really abrupt scene transition. Nothing about the wedding coming to an end, nothing about her going to bed, it’s just ... some while later?

Sidra’s father comes back home from ??? and tells Sidra he saw a stag somewhere, but it was hours ago so she better get a move on.

I’m not sure what either of them thinks this will accomplish? Like ... what is she gonna do with it when she kills it ... Carry it home? On her little boney ass? Hmm? I guess I didn’t think of that because I had meta knowledge that she wouldn’t get it home either way, so who cares about logic, right?

Sidra kills two rabbits while stalking the deer, and despite telling us earlier that she doesn’t venture far away from human civilization and the boar hunting being the farthest she’d been and that she wouldn’t go this far alone, she has no issue dwelling very deep into the forest this time.

Like. Henlo? Can we have one logic please and thanks you? Granted, she keeps stopping every now and then to Feel Things Out, but this really goes against how careful she was before and at no point do we get an explanation to her sudden boldness. Plot reasons, I guess.

She nearly stumbles into fae territories and finally decides to head back, except when she starts returning, she sees the stag she’s been tracking. It’s abnormally huge and has a “dark brown” coat that she finds odd, but of course she’s too stupid to connect the dots.

She sneaks up on it and honestly? This chapter ending still slaps.

A scream of pain left the creature and I saw it topple. But though my arrow hit a deer, a man fell to the ground.

DUN DUN DUN.

And yeah, the ACOTAR roots rear their ugly heads again. I liked the idea of the protagonist shooting a fae disguised as an animal, but I decided to cut out the middleman and just have her obliterate Val right in chapter one. Don’t worry, he doesn’t die.

#retrospective #my writing

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badacts · 6 years ago

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fake plant, real love

for the ‘clint/bucky’ square for @clintbartonbingo. based on this excellent post

The plant was a gift from Natasha in lieu of a real plant - she’d handed it over with an off-colour joke about Bucky barely being able to keep himself alive, which had made Steve frown, but they all know that plants are a pain in the ass when you travel as much as they do. Also, she’s not wrong.

It’s an expensive one, because it looks extremely real right down to the fake dirt in the pot. It’s a deep green, a bright spot of colour in his spartan, off-white rooms. Bucky sets it on the window sill and promptly forgets about it.

Things change, and keep changing. Bucky somehow ends up with Clint Barton in his bed, which progresses to Clint Barton very quietly moving himself in like he thinks Bucky might not notice if he’s subtle about it. Bucky’s personally pretty keen on Clint being there - in his bed, in his kitchen (barely awake), on his couch at the end of their longest days - so he just makes space for Clint where necessary and leaves him to it.

They fit together. Clint is kind of untidy, but Bucky, who is fastidious by nurture - or the opposite of it - rather than by nature, mostly finds it kind of comforting to see the trail of mess Clint leaves in his wake. It makes his place...homely. Clint seems to benefit from Bucky’s ability to make him coffee and therefore turn him into a functioning human being each morning. And they’re both, in their most vulnerable moments, not made to be alone. Being together, the two of them, is better.

They’re also good at the division of labour involved in keeping an apartment. Bucky cooks, Clint does laundry, Bucky does the vacuuming, Clint takes out the trash.

“And I water the plant,” Clint says, gesturing to said plant. The fake plant, that is.

Bucky opens his mouth, about to tell him, or call him an idiot, or maybe just ask whether fake plants can survive long term exposure to water.

“This,” Clint says first, “Is the only plant I’ve never killed.” His smile is the genuine, gentle one Bucky loves, crinkling the skin around his eyes with affection.

Okay. Bucky can never, ever tell him that it’s not a real plant.

The plant seems to suffer no ill consequences from Clint’s religious weekly waterings. Bucky contemplates ordering an actual real plant to set him loose on, but he can’t bring himself to do it in case Clint either kills it or realises that he’s currently caring for a fake.

The thing about relationships that no one likes to talk about: sometimes lies by omission are absolutely fuckin’ necessary.

In all other aspects, things are good. Better than, maybe. Bucky, for whom things have been bad, or worse than, for so long, it’s kind of a wild experience. He’d thought the improvements might end with Steve crashing into his life and turning him back into a real boy just with the pure force of his existence, that he’d end up just being alive and barely surviving the things he’s done and trying, pointlessly, to erase them, but no.

Somehow, Clint never learned any of the lessons about accepting his lot in life that assholes tried to teach him. He still wants for better, because of and in spite of himself, and he’s taking Bucky along with him.

Bucky’s in love with him. Like, a lot. And never more so than when he wakes up, warm and easy, to Clint’s gentle snoring - he blames his several-times-broken nose, but Bucky’s more inclined to blame how he sleeps on his goddamned back in a starfish-sprawl - and his heavy arm cradling Bucky close.

Bucky had gone to bed first last night, waking only briefly when Clint had stumbled in later, mumbling reassurance to Bucky in his hoarse late-night voice. Now he’s still crashed out, lashes shadowing his cheeks.

Bucky wriggles out from under his arm, not as careful as he used to be. Clint won’t sleep long after Bucky gets up, for all he might want to, so there’s not much point. He does take a second to watch Clint’s brow furrowing as he registers the loss before he rolls into Bucky’s space on the mattress, grunting something indecipherable.

The sensation in Bucky’s chest is un-fucking-imaginably sweet. It’s ridiculous that he gets to feel like this, but he won’t give it up for anything or anyone.

He pulls on a shirt off the top of the dresser, hiking up his sweatpants on the way to the coffee machine. He’s partially obstructed by a redheaded figure reading in his kitchen.

“Are you trying to expand your housewifery skills?” He asks, fingering the corner of her home design magazine.

“I can already do laundry and kill people,” she replies without looking up. “What more do I need?”

“You’re right. Nothing at all,” Bucky says. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Bucky gets the machine set up and running, and then digs out three mugs and some creamer and sugar. Nat is all companionable silence besides the occasional fluttering of a turning page. Bucky hums a little to himself as he works, waiting her out.

He’s rewarded, eventually: the little spider is impossibly patient, right up until she doesn’t want to be.

“I need to go to Moscow,” she says in Russian, accepting a mug from him and cupping it between her hands. When she looks up at him, he notes that she has a bruise just coming up on her cheekbone.

“Need to, or want to?” Bucky asks, leaving Clint’s mug on the bench and bringing his own over to sit across from Nat.

“Both,” she replies immediately. “Neither. Will you come?”

“If you need me,” he says, “Or want me.”

“FOUR MONTHS,” Clint barks from down the hallway. Nat jerks, her mug skidding against the benchtop.

The bedroom door slams open. Clint looks flustered - as usual, first thing in the morning - and kind of pissed. “Four fucking months, Bucky!”

“What are you talking about,” Nat says, fixing Clint with a cool look that tells him exactly what she thinks of him yelling at this hour of the morning.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky says, not because he knows what this is about, but because he knows when Clint is really, properly angry, and this isn’t it.

“You watched me water a fake plant for FOUR MONTHS,” Clint says, ignoring Nat entirely.

Ah, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s acutely aware that Nat is now looking at him instead.

“There are starving children in Africa with no water,” Clint continues, as though that is at all relevant to him and a fake pot plant.

Nat, without looking away from Bucky, says to him, “Your codename is ‘Hawkeye’, and you can’t distinguish between a real plant and an artificial one? How are you even still alive?”

Clint opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “How would not being able to do that possibly present a real risk to my life?”

“Traps,” Nat says immediately.

“If you can name me one time you’ve encountered a trap involving fake plants-”

“Morocco,” Nat says. “Bolivia, with the cartel. Montreal. That fake cactus in the bathroom of a mob restaurant.”

“What were they hiding in a cactus?” Bucky has to ask.

“It was a person dressed as a cactus.”

“There was a dude hiding in the women’s bathroom dressed as a cactus?” Clint demands.

“It was the men’s.”

“That sounds more seedy than actually life-endangering.”

“He had a knife.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Clint tells her, and then levels a glare at Bucky. “Seriously?”

“You liked it,” Bucky says, helplessly and absolutely without meaning to.

Nat laughs. Clint blushes, his glare wavering. “What?”

Bucky shrugs. “You weren’t hurtin’ anyone.”

“I wasn’t exactly helping, either!”

“You liked it,” Bucky repeats. “Doing it made you happy. Not really seeing a downside here, sugar.”

Natasha, who generally isn’t here with just the two of them, and who Bucky had momentarily forgotten about, looks Bucky in the face and mouths sugar with a hilarious expression on her face.

“We could always try a real plant,” Bucky suggests. “Seein’ as you’ve been practising and all.”

“Practising for having kids,” Nat adds right as Clint takes a sullen sip of his coffee. He chokes.

“Jesus, Romanoff!” He sputters.

“I thought a dog might be better to start with.” Bucky can’t resist piling on, enjoying the way Clint has gone bright red. Also, he ain’t cut out for raising children, but he thinks a dog might be okay.

“I hate both of you,” Clint says once he’s got his breath back, but he doesn’t mean it - the humour is pushing at his annoyance, about to break it apart. Sleep-ruffled and trying not to laugh and caught in the light from the window, he’s really something.

Yeah. Bucky could have a dog with this guy. Bucky could do a lot of things with this guy.

#winterhawk #cbb #clint barton bingo #my fic #bucky barnes #clint barton #natasha romanoff #they r in love

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pengychan · 6 years ago

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Ecclesiastes 10:1

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael. Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: don’t you hate it when you’re trying to have a lunch date and archangels keep crashing it.

***

“Run this by me again. Some angel wrecks the Great Plan, you do your duty to ensure he is adequately punished, and somehow you’re the only one who gets screwed over it?”

“... In extremely crude terms, yes.”

“And your closest cooperators carried it out.”

Gabriel folded his arms, giving Beelzebub what he hoped was a sufficiently icy look to hide the fact the memory still make him feel… ill, he supposed, was that what feeling ill was like? It was awful. Being human was awful. He couldn’t wait for it to be over. “They did,” he said, his voice clipped and cold, hoping they’d let the matter drop.

Beelzebub raised both eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed with Gabriel’s attempt at expressing cold disdain. “Did they pull them out, or did they cut?”

“What?”

“Or both?” the Prince of Hell leaned forward, all inquisitiveness and morbid curiosity. Had Gabriel bothered to be around Earth much during the Inquisition, he would have recognized it as the look on a torturer’s face while surveying another torturer’s handiwork, trying to figure out who did it better. “Just curious. Did it leave a mark?”

“That’s-- in no way relevant!” Gabriel protested, and this time his voice did shake. He hated that, and he shut his mouth so abruptly his teeth clicked together.

“Show me.”

“No!” Gabriel snapped, rearing back, acutely aware of the fact Beelzebub could force the clothes off his back to look if they wished, and he would be powerless to stop it. Actually, while the fact he might end up in Heaven again if his vessel was destroyed kept them from killing him, there was plenty that the Lord of the Flies could do to him. Plenty of horrible things, all manners of torments they could unleash and oh God, why had he acted without thinking, why had he thrown himself at the mercy of a being who had none, and who would not tolerate defiance?

Not much of a change from Heaven, it seems.

The thought was absurd as it was horrifying, and Gabriel could scarcely believe it had come from his own mind. Before him, Beelzebub’s eyes darkened, their features twisted… and then nothing happened. They stared a moment, clearly angered, then they let out a long breath and their features smoothed again in a blankness that was… almost as terrifying.

“You may want to learn better,” they droned. “No answer but yes zzzir will be accepted once you take your place in Hell.”

A wise man would have known that was the right moment to keep quiet; just nod, and let the matter drop. But Gabriel - formerly an archangel, a man for less than twenty-four hours - was in no way, shape or form wise. “I am never joining you in Hell,” he protested.

“That remains to be seen,” Beelzebub said, sounding almost bored, and paused to rub their chin, looking intently at him. “Either way, what happened to you confirms my theory,” they finally declared, causing Gabriel to look back at them, blinking. Had they… truly worked out something about the Ineffable Plan? About the reason why he’d been cast out?

“What theory?” he asked, leaning forward. Beelzebub met his gaze, deadpan.

“God is an absolute lunatic.”

“Wha-- God is not-- don’t say that!” Gabriel protested, rearing back as though smacked, and looked around like he feared God themselves would show up in that room to smite them both. Of course, no such thing happened. God had never truly showed Their face to anyone in eons; Gabriel and the others only ever speak to God through Metatron… and last Metatron had spoken to them, it was to spell out his sentence for trying to destroy an angel without God’s permission.

A crime born of pride.

Beelzebub snorted. “What, are you outraged on behalf of the one who cast you out? Or are you scared?”

“Both!” Gabriel snapped. “Don’t you ever-- call God a-- and look who’s talking!”

A shrug. “Unlike a certain someone up above, I make no mystery of being a lunatic.”

“Ah,” Gabriel paused, thinking it over. Of all things the Prince of Hell could be accused of, he supposed false advertising could be crossed out. “... Fair,” he conceded.

At the door, the barrier of Hellfire still crackled, but Gabriel could no longer hear Sandalphon calling out. Worry gnawed at the back of his mind - what if he’d been hurt? What if he’d been destroyed? - but Beelzebub had said that Hellfire wouldn’t harm him unless he was stupid enough to stick his hand in it to open the door. Sandaphon was probably not that stupid, Gabriel thought rather patronizingly, which was sort of rich coming for someone who had temporarily forgotten about his own mortality to run in front of a speeding car only hours earlier.

Either way, he had little choice but to take Beelzebub’s word. And little time, too, because sooner or later some human would notice the flames engulfing the door and try to do something about it. Amusing as it might be to imagine a human trying to extinguish Hellfire with one of those funny red cylinders they liked to use, Gabriel suspected it would cause a stir.

"So, you admit I'm right. I see you're starting to learn."

"Wha-- no! God is absolutely not a lunatic! You are, if you think-- I won't ever join your side. I may not know what the Ineffable Plan has in store for me--”

“Oh, still clinging to the belief you have a somewhat relevant role in it? Or any role at all?” Beeluzebub sneered. Gabriel clenched his fists so tightly his nails sank in his palms.

“Everyone is part of the Plan,” he spat, regretting evenr telling them as much as he had. Why had he actually done that, answered their demand to know what had happened? The Prince of Hell had no right to give him orders, even when they sounded more like requests. He was about to add something scathing, or at least he would have once he did come up with something scathing to say, but he had no time to try.

Suddenly, something rumbled. Beelzebub blinked. Gabriel groaned and doubled over, empty stomach clenching painfully.

“What was that?”

“N- nothing,” Gabriel gritted out, just as his stomach decided to give its best imitation of a jet engine. This time, the Prince of Hell clearly worked out where the noise had come from.

“What is your body doing?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to deny his current vessel was doing anything against his will, but he realized quickly enough it would be useless; his stomach thundered like… well, not like Metatron’s voice, but close enough. “Hunger,” he gritted out. “Aziraphale said it’s hunger.”

“Then you need to nourish your vessel,” Beelzebub said, matter-of-factly. “Or you’ll die.”

“I know. Aziraphale tried, but I can’t make myself--” Gabriel trailed off when Beelzebub waved a hand, extinguishing the Hellfire at the door.

“Come with me,” they ordered. “I might just know what could do the trick.”

***

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I don’t think the food is too bad.”

“It’s not the food, it’s nice - not that you would know since you keep swallowing everything without chewing. It’s Gabriel.”

“Ah,” Crowley muttered, taking a sip from his drink and leaning back against the chair, one leg stretched under the table and the other crossed over it. “I also have a bad feeling about him.”

“You do?”

“I have a lot of feelings about him and all of them are bad.”

Oh, of course. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Crowley rolled his eyes. Not that Aziraphale could see that behind the dark glasses, but he knew his demon well enough to guess that rolling was precisely what his eyeballs were doing.

“He’ll be fine. He only needs to stop being stubborn and eat something. And if he doesn’t, then he dies and it’s the circle of life. By the way, like the new direction cinema is taking? Soulless remakes of beloved classics. I think it’s one of my finest ideas yet.”

“I don’t believe it was your work for one single moment.”

Crowley made a face. “Fine, so the humans and their fancy corporations got there first. And I am fairly sure corporations are something Heaven came up with. But it was among my plans.”

“Didn’t you cry watching the original?”

“What-- I did not!”

“Warlock says you did.”

“Warlock lies. He lies a lot. I taught him well,” Crowley shot back, tilting up his chin as though to challenge Crowley to say otherwise. Aziraphale chose not to remark having seen some smeared mascara on that particular day - angels’ memory is, of course, nothing short of miraculous - and just nodded, letting the matter drop.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, setting down the chopsticks on his now empty and thoroughly cleaned plate, “I am concerned. This is unprecedented.”

“And also entirely not our problem,” Crowley pointed out. His leg bounced slightly. “It’s his problem. We got him someplace to stay and basic instructions. You know, I think this is the right moment to discuss that idea we were floating around.”

“Crowley, if this is about your plan to set free every snake in the London Zoo Reptile House, it is entirely yours and I will not--” Aziraphale began, only to trail off when Crowley waved a hand.

“No, not that one, angel. I can do that on my own, thank you.”

“You better not, there are children visiting and last we went speak with them, the reptiles were plenty happy--”

“I’m talking about the plan to get away from London for a bit. Possibly without giving our new address to the forces of Heaven or Hell or whatnot. Somewhere in the South Downs, maybe?”

Our address.

Crowley spoke those words like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there weren’t just about a million implications to an angel and a demon - however native they might have gone after millennia on Earth - to share the same address. And by extension, the same home. You don’t share an address without also sharing home, too. Unless of course your aim is tax evasion or something equally dishonest Aziraphale would never be caught doing.

Not that he would be caught even if he did it, of course, but that was no reason to be dishonest.

You go too fast for me, Crowley, he’d said a few decades earlier. This time, however, he said nothing. It was still fast enough to make him dizzy, but he found he was not scared. He found part of him - probably all of him except for a tiny voice in the back of his head and maybe his left knee - looked forward to it.

The South Downs sounded lovely. Maybe they could find a nice cottage.

“We could give the address to someone here on Earth,” Crowley was going on. “The Them, maybe. I like the Them. And they like me, I hope - you really want a bunch of kids who got rid of the Horsemen of Apocalypse not to dislike you, am I right.”

Aziraphale smiled. He still remembered the way something in his stomach dropped when he’d seen what had been his flaming sword in the hands of War; the crushing doubt - had he done the right thing, surrendering it to humanity? - had returned… only to be vanquished when a little girl had grasped its hilt and turned it against War herself.

I believe in peace, bitch.

Well, stabbing someone with a sword might not be most people’s idea of upholding peace, but as the Romans said - if you want peace, prepare for war. It had proven him, to his utter relief, that he had done the right thing… and so had Crowley, when he had given humanity the gift of knowledge, the ability to tell the difference between good and evil. Because if you don’t know how to choose, you never really have a choice, do you? That was what he’d struggled so much with. What Gabriel was going to struggle with the most, probably, and it concerned him--

“... Bigger on the inside, you know?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, just then realizing he hadn’t been listening for the past minute.

“The place in the South Downs, I mean. We could make it bigger on the inside. For your books.”

“Oh. Oh, right. I would take them with me. That might be bothersome--”

“You only need a suitcase.”

“It’s a lot of books.”

“Bigger on the inside. Is it me, or you forget you can do miracles most of the time?”

Aziraphale shifted. “Well, not frivolous ones. Last time, I got a rather strong-worded note by Gabriel and-- ah.” He blinked, and nodded to concede the point. Gabriel would not send him any more strong-worded notes. Gabriel had been fired and thrown out without a letter of warning, without even getting to put his possessions in a cardboard box. “... Well, someone will take over his duties.”

“And you really think they’ll bother telling the angel even Hellfire cannot hurt that his miracles are frivolous? After what happened to good old Gabe for trying to mess with you?” Crowley grinned, leaning back to balance the chair he was on its back legs, but Aziraphale didn’t smile. It made him uncomfortable, to think about it - even if he’d tried to destroy him, he had never wished for Gabriel to be punished on his behalf.

… Or maybe he had, just a little. But not so harshly, never.

“Well, you know, maybe Michael will--”

“Ugh, that wanker. If she does, you can tell her--”

“Good afternoon to you as well.”

“Gah!”

As Crowley tumbled back on the ground - oh, he really should have told him not to do that with his chair, it was an accident waiting to happen - Aziraphale looked up to see Michael standing by their table, hands folded tightly, a polite and entirely impersonal smile on her face.

“Aziraphale,” she said, voice neutral. “Mind if I join you?”

With the mind’s eye, Aziraphale saw her again - carrying the holy water Crowley was meant to die screaming in, looking ever so self-assured. Suddenly, Crowley’s grudge towards Gabriel didn’t seem so petty anymore.

“... Very much, really,” he informed her. “But I suspect that’s not going to stop you.”

“No,” Michael agreed, taking a seat. “Not at all. Now, I suspect you have as little wish to endure my presence as I wish to endure yours, so I’ll make this quick,” she added as Crowley pulled himself and the chair back up, rubbing his head with a groan. “I have reliable information that you have met Gabriel.”

Not too long ago, that statement would have been met with some stammering and an attempt at sounding as innocent as possible. Now, to Crowley’s immense pride, Aziraphale didn’t even bother with that. “Oh?” he said politely, tilting his head on one side. “Have you not come to sample this restaurant?” He smiled innocently at her unimpressed look. “It is quite rude, you know, turning up at a restaurant and sitting at a table without ordering a thing. May I recommend a dish or two?”

“You may not,” Michael said coldly. She folded her hands on the table, looking all the world like a CEO at a meeting. Except that she wasn’t the CEO - that would be God, and last someone else had tried to replace Them things had turned kind of messy. Michael was more of a branch manager, Crowley assumed. “I have to know what transpired when he came to you.”

Well, that put Crowley before a choice: telling her to have her show up at Gabriel’s doorstep and give him a heart attack, or not saying a thing only to annoy her. Considering that he’d had plenty of chances to have some fun at Gabriel’s expenses, he went for the latter option.

“Well, good luck finding out.”

Michael’s gaze darkened. “Tell me what happened after his arrival on Earth.”

“Or else what? You’re going to miracle me another rubber duck?”

“Towel!” Aziraphale exclaimed, delivering a swift and actually rather painful kick to Crowley’s shin. “I believe you told me it was a towel you had her miracle for you.”

Oh, Crowley thought. Oh, right. “Ah, yes. Absolutely. That was the towel. I mean, I would have liked a rubber duck, but a towel was also fine,” he muttered, glancing at Michael through the dark glasses. She looked annoyed, but not confused or suspicious, thank Satan.

… Well, no, Satan definitely had nothing at all to do with it. Maybe he should give in and thank God, if anything because they’d made Michael and… about everyone else just dense enough not to see through their rouse. But maybe it would be best not to try their luck by bringing it up again and risk saying something that would make it obvious even to the dumbest of archangels.

“... Anyway. Duck or towel, you should know better than to try threatening us. The guys downstairs sure learned the lesson. Didn't you?”

Michael gave him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would be very happy to personally dunk him in holy water if she believed it would destroy him; Crowley had to give her a point for being much, much better than Gabriel at giving the evil eye. Then again, she was known for personally throwing Lucifer out of Heaven, while Gabriel was mostly known for telling a teen virgin that she was pregnant and nearly giving her a heart attack.

Two wankers, but the one sitting across him could actually be very dangerous and maaaaybe he shouldn’t push her too far, or she might just try her luck with him.

“I have not come to threaten you,” Michael gritted out. “I have come to talk.”

“Oh, I see. Taking over Gabe’s duties as a messenger already? You were quick to replace him. Very efficient,” Crowley blurted out, his ‘do not piss off this one’ strategy already flying out of the window. He watched with keen interest the expression on Michael’s expression turning to fury and then something else - was that guilt crowley had glimpsed? - before her features smoothed in a neutral look. “That is none of your concern. I demand--”

Crowley made a buzzing noise, the kind you get for a wrong answer on a television quiz. Michael gave him an annoyed look, then spoke again. “... I am here to ask what has happened since you met Gabriel.”

Aziraphale nodded politely, but made a point to have more of his drink and wiping his lips before replying. “He arrived at my doorstep. I took him in, and healed him. He panicked and ran in front of a car. I healed him again. We gave him some, er, instructions about life on Earth, and took him to a hotel. To give him some space.”

“To get him out of our hair,” Crowley added.

“That too,” Aziraphale conceded.

Michael ignored that last statement. “I see. When Sandalphon found him in the hotel where you left him--”

“Oh, so he found him. And what was he there to do? Tear off another couple of limbs?”

That clearly hit a nerve, because Michael slammed a hand on the table hard enough to make a couple at the far end of the room wince and turn. She was livid, anger barely in check. “Harming him was never our choice,” she hissed, almost better than Crowley would have. “We were concerned as to how he was faring.”

“How lovely,” Crowley said drily. “Why turn to us if you already know where he is?”

“Because he’s no longer there. Sandalphon called back to tell us Gabriel had... turned to Beelzebub.”

Crowley blinked. He looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley raised both eyebrows. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish out of water. Or like a guy who has just been told that the Archangel Gabriel ran off with Beelzebub.

“... I am sorry,” Aziraphale said slowly, brain clearly struggling to get any meaning out of the words he had just heard. “Gabe has just done what with who now?”

A rueful smile. “So much for getting answers. I assume this means it comes as a surprise to you as well.”

“One hell of a surprise, pun intended,” Crowley muttered, and scratched the back of his head. “Wait - what would good old Bub want with him?”

“Claim him on behalf of Hell,” Michael said bitterly. “As far as they are concerned, it makes no matter that he didn’t truly Fall. He was cast out, and they consider him their property now.”

“But they can’t, can they?” Aziraphale spoke up, frowning, “They cannot claim a mortal soul until, well… death.”

“But then they only have to kill him.”

“Unless he surrenders it willingly.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“... Right. Me neither.”

“What would even happen to his soul if he dies in this mortal form?” Michael asked. Aziraphale shrugged.

“The usual, we suppose. Either Heaven or Hell, and not a clue of which it is until it actually happens. We don’t know, Gabriel doesn’t know - and neither does Beelzebub, I’ll bet. Which, if they do want him in their ranks, is probably the reason why he’s still alive.”

Michael frowned. “I see,” she muttered. Probably not an answer she liked, but still better than the worst case scenario, Crowley supposed. Not that he’d seen much difference between Heaven and Hell when he’d last been upstairs posing as Aziraphale; over the eons since the War things sure had changed there, and for the worst. All that whiteness and huge spaces would drive anyone crazy. Maybe he would also be spoiling for war, if he was stuck up there. Crowley had no idea how or why would anyone actually wish to go back there, but Gabriel desperately wanted to.

“Maybe Bub is planning to tempt him into something that will doom him to downstairs,” Crowley suggested. “Now that’s something I’d like to see. They haven’t done any work on the field since… huh. Come to think of it, I am not entirely sure they have ever done any work on the field. Being royalty and all.”

“Still, Beelzebub must have gained some kind of control over Gabriel,” Michael muttered. “When Sandalphon got there… he wasn’t very coherent in his call, but he said that Gabriel had turned his back to him to hide behind Beelzebub. That makes no sense, it’s not like him at all. Why would he-- what is it?” she asked, blinking at Crowley, who had raised an arm like a school kid about to ask a question.

“Question,” he said. “Was Sandalphon there when you yanked out Gabe's wings?”

The way she stiffened was enough of an answer on its own, but she did reply. “He was.”

“And he just… waltzed in on him? Expecting to be welcomed with open arms?”

Michael stared. Frowned. Stared some more. With some imagination - and a flaming Bentley hurtling through a ring of fire on the M25 was testament to the fact he did not lack it - Crowley could see the gears turning in her head. Finally, her frown deepening, she opened her mouth and spoke.

“... Do you think he took offense?”

“If he did-- take offense--” Crowley stammered, then snorted. “For what, getting a pair of wings yanked out of their sockets?” He gestured wildly, almost hitting a waiter who was only trying to pass by while balancing several dishes, a pile of glasses, and his own fragile mental health. “While he screamed and begged for you to stop? Naaaah. Who’d be that petty?”

Michael seemed unsure as to what to reply; not too surprising, really. Angels were the kind who showed themselves to humans in blinding looking like wheels within wheels, with a thousand eyes and multiple animal heads, yelling at them with voice like thunder to ‘FEAR NOT’. It had taken them an embarrassingly long time to realize there were better ways to go about it, after a few heart attacks the Bible did not mention. In the end, Michael turned to Aziraphale.

He shrugged. “That is sarcasm,” he informed her. “He did take offense.”

“And he’s probably terrified of the lot of you,” Crowley muttered. “I mean, hiding behind Beelzebub? You’ve got to be desperate. Aaaand pretty foolish, really. They’re not known as someone to give help to those who need it.”

Not anymore, anyway. It had been a very, very long time since the Fall. What they had been before then was a distant memory, for all of them. Unaware of this thoughts, Michael seemed to take offense herself.

“He has no reason to fear us. God did not order us to… to harm him further.”

“Is that supposed to reassure him?”

Another confused look. “It ought to.”

Ah, archangels. So out of touch. So amazingly clever and so incredibly stupid. Crowley opened his mouth to say as much, but Aziraphale got there first.

“Was he told that? That he meant no harm?”

“Of course! Sandaphon told him to--”

“Fear not?” Crowley guessed.

“Of course! And that he would not be harmed - he wouldn’t listen!”

Aziraphale nodded. “It sounds like trauma.”

“Trauma?”

“It’s… a human thing. He fears you.”

“Because he is human now,” Crowley pointed out, and leaned forward on the table, chin resting on the palm of his hand. “Which raises the question, why are you pursuing him? He’s not one of yours anymore. You cast him out. Not your problem, no?”

Ah, there is was, the anger - looming behind her eyes like thunderclouds. Not too long ago, she might have tried to smite him and would have probably won; but, after the little show he and Aziraphale put up with each other’s faces, she clearly hesitated to start a fight. Not with Aziraphale there to back him up, at least.

“It is none of your concern,” she gritted out, and stood. “As you won’t cooperate, consider this meeting closed.”

“What, are we supposed to believe the lot of you won’t be watching us like hawks, hoping we can get you to him? What makes you think we can? Beelzebub got him. Good luck getting hi-”

“We can get in touch with him, I believe.”

A groan. “Come on, angel,” Cowley protested. Aziraphale gave him an apologetic look, then turned back to Michael. Who, on the other hand, looking sceptical.

“You can?”

“Well, we have been nice enough to help him out, despite our… differences,” Aziraphale replied, ignoring Crowley’s low groan at the word ‘nice’. Also, ‘difference’ was an interesting way to spell out ‘the fact he tried to destroy me’. “And we might still have the means to contact him..”

“Then do it.”

“Later.”

“What-- why?”

Aziraphale leaned back on the chair, folding his hands. “First of all, because we were having a lovely time and intend to keep doing so. Secondly, if he knew we have been in touch, and is so keen to avoid you, he might no longer turn to us for help. So it is best for you to leave before we contact him. We’ll figure out what’s going on and I’ll get back to you”

“How do I know you will?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, I said I’d try to stop the Apocalypse, and in the end I did.” No need to let her know that they had done… next to nothing, really, other than running around a lot like headless chickens and eventually just giving a pep talk to Adam. “I do keep my promises.”

“Also, you have no choice,” Crowley informed her. "If you don't leave, we won't do a thing."

She clearly wasn’t happy, but in the end, there wasn’t much she could argue; for once, they held all the cards. As she stiffly left the restaurant - “I’ll be waiting for your call” - Crowley groaned.

“We had a chance to get them both out of our hair,” he muttered, leaning back

“Crowley.”

“We don’t even know what the Heaven is happening with Beelzebub. Maybe Gabe has already been dragged to Hell somehow. Probably doesn’t have the phone anymore.”

“Well, it’s worth a try,” was the response. As Aziraphale fished the phone out of his pocket to call Gabriel’s number, Crowley made a face and turned to the entrance. Michael was gone.

“And here I’d hoped the show we put on had scared the lot of them enough to leave us alone.”

“Oh, it did work, that’s the thing.”

“Huh?”

“That’s why I said yes,” Aziraphale said, looking from the phone. “She never wore her heart on her sleeve, but I can tell she is afraid of both of us. And yet she took the risk to turn to us anyway.”

Ah. Crowley suspected he was starting to see his point. “To find that arse.”

A nod, and he scrolled down to Gabriel’s number. “Yes. To find that arse.”

***

“I am not an expert in human etiquette, but I believe you’re supposed to close your mouth when you chew.”

“Mghf?”

“You’re making a fool out of yourself,” Beelzebub snorted, propping their chin on their hand and raising an eyebrow as Gabriel bit down on what was probably the fourth Lardburger in a row. Before him there was still a mountain of greasy, cheap junk food that would have given Aziraphale something remarkably similar to a stroke if only he knew Gabriel had rejected the finest sushi in London to stuff his face with… that.

“Not bad, is it? Hell came up with it last century - caused a wonderful increase in heart disease. It is addictive, by the way. Maybe I should have mentioned it before… before I… are you listening at all?”

Clearly not: entirely ignoring Beelzebub’s attempt at gloating over a small victory, Gabriel threw aside the empty wrapped of the Lardburger and proceeded to empty the bag of fries directly into his mouth. A few children - annoying, loud human children - a couple of times over looked at him, giggling. The Lord of the Flies rolled their eyes.

“I have seen famine victims acting with more dignity,” they informed Gabriel, getting no reaction at all: he just kept stuffing his face with the utter abandon Dagon would show before a brand new victim to torment. In the end they just leaned back and watched, mildly amused against their own will. They suspected that fool was going to regret losing control like that but oh, why try to warn him while he was so clearly not inclined to listen? Let him go on and find out the fun way just how frail his vessel was.

“You should drink something with that,” they finally said, deadpan, pushing the can of soda towards Gabriel and holding back a smirk. They were vaguely aware of a human saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and they could only come to the conclusion that maybe so did the way to a former archangel’s soul.

Before the week if out, he’ll be ours, Beelzebub thought, perhaps just a little too optimistic considering that stuffing one’s face with greasy fast food was not precisely a sin, let alone one worth damnation - regardless what an angel called Aziraphale might have to say about that. They just sat back, and waited for Gabriel’s gluttony to be sated.

Meanwhile, in Gabriel’s empty hotel room, a cell phone kept ringing uselessly.

***

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"Dead flies make a perfumer's oil stink, so a little foolishness is weightier than wisdom and honor." Ecclesiastes 10:1

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable bureaucracy #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #winging it

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