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vanderslootassgiraffe · 1 year ago

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I am haunted by the music of Erich Zann

This is not a creative writing piece, I'm just having a bad day. Don't mind the fancy wording, it helps.

This morning I was awoken far earlier than i would have wanted by presumptive sunlight at 6:17 am. I work nights, going to bed around 1, so this was less than 5 hours. Not terrible, but not enough.

I had just moved, my blackout curtains still unhanged, curtain rods still unaffixed.

I tried thumbtacks to hold them up. Of course that didn't work.

I tried using pants as a blindfold. They constricted my head and messed with my breathing. Tried hiding under covers, too hot & could feel breathing on my flesh. Pillow over the head--subconsciously shifted body right before drifting off--more sunlight. Final, piss poor attempt was just laying with my arm over my eyes, it was 930 when I decided to give up. Pissed from failed attempts and feeling like shit being too tired to exercise. I planned to blow up the sun.

My shower time, when I usually do my best brainstorming was instead plagued by anger, frustration, and eventual sobbing. Any attempts to calm down, stop my mind from lashing out, and shift it to my writing only fueled the anger.

Any thoughts along the subject were half formed, my unrested and sluggish brain not able to catch up with my ideas. The right words were constantly just out of reach. The sobbing came when I realized even if I downed an entire bottle of my sleeping meds, I wouldn't get any more sleep. As I had already taken my morning meds, which includes a stimulant.

I wrote anyways. I needed to keep up the discipline, and the creative outlets entire purpose is to refocus my mind, explore my feelings, and give me something to do. I managed a single cohesive paragraph. Which I would likely scrap tomorrow.

I lost it a bit, broke some stuff i didnt want to break, and when I was done continued with my day. The normal flow of ideas and daydreams stuttered, and when they came they were insultingly subpar and unsatisfying. Plus my left knee hurt.

Half made dnd characters, shitty speeches for an ill-conceived revolution, voices that didn't sound how they should, and endless words that just werent quite right. Eventually a melody I couldn't get out of my head, and a terribly designed Rube Goldberg machine that might have been able to play it.

It was at this point I thought of The music of Erich Zann. By H.P. Lovecraft.

In which, a student too poor for regular housing finds lodgings on a strange unmapped street, in a rundown building. The street was incredibly narrow, blocked completely in by warehouses, a river, and a massive, confusingly placed brick wall.

His new home had no windows. Save one in the room of another tenant; Erich Zann. It looked out beyond the brick wall.

Erich was decrepit, mute, distant, and played the viola. The student liked to listen to Erichs viola playings, considering him rather talented. The songs Erich played once night fell, made him consider the man a strange genius.

At night Erich would hauntingly play strange and beautiful, half finished facsimiles of music unlike any he'd heard before.

As he came to know Erich he asked him to play for him, and he did, but never the songs he played at night. When he pleaded Erich for them, even attempting to hum or whistle an imitation of the tune, Erich silenced him, covering his mouth with a bony hand. Erich Zann looked furious, and terrified.

Eventually Erich apologized with a note, saying he was an old, lonely man, afflicted with fears and disorders, especially around his music. He would still play for the student, but never the melodies from night.

The student attempted to eavesdrop one night, eventually pounding on the door after the man played his strange melody for a while and fell to the floor with a mute scream. Erich Zann attempted to explain.

He wrote for hours in a fever, but was interrupted before he could finish.

A low, nearly unhearable note came from the dark beyond Erichs window. Erichs face warped into terrible fear and he stood as if his bones were puppeted, and played without control.

His music was an attempt to drown out whatever lay beyond the window. The window fought back, eventually breaking. And the student was tossed around by a mixed wind of what came through, and the impossible movement upon the instrument. The candles went out. And in the dark the wind took Erich Zanns manuscript, the unfinished explanation stolen through the window. As the student reached out in an attempt to save it he saw pure nothingness beyond the frame. He immediately tried to save Erich from this but found him already dead, yet still playing on.

He ran from the building, to find it daylight. As he continued further away in distance and time he remembered less of the music, and could never find the street again.

It's impossible to know the complete meaning H.P. Lovecraft had in mind when writing this, though established pattern would suggest something to do with bigotry.

However, I took away something about the relationship and interactions of a troubled mind, manic episodes, a creative outlet, and perfectionism

Interpreting the endless dark beyond the window as "madness", Erich Zann could be using his playing as a means to hold it at bay. A creative outlet used to understand and utilize it, or simply drown it out. But with it being the only thing keeping it at bay, it must be done right. Especially if you want it to be "accurate" or "represent" feelings that defy explanation. Attempting and failing over and over again, to its own detriment. lashing out when someone wants to hear it, because it's not RIGHT yet and if they hear it now it will ruin it. Or perhaps the act of sharing being too vulnerable or embarrassing, even when sharing these things is a way to do it "better" and connect with people, which would help it serve its purpose. He attempts to explain it and even the explanation falls short building this frustration until he turns again to this outlet, and gives in, overwhelmed completely and continues hacking away at it sacrificing his physical and mental health until it is the embodiment of the very thing it was supposed to suppress or diffuse.

I don't know if I've learned anything from all this today, being still in it and too close to it. But I suppose there could be something along the lines of "don't put all your eggs in one basket". I have other things I want to say, something about reframing the act of creation or changing the goals of art so there is no real possibility of "perfection". But the words are failing me right now. I'll just save the rest for therapy.

At least typing all this out helped a bit.

#hp lovecraft #the music of erich zann #writing #writeblr #rant #mental illness #mental health #creative outlet #manic depression #adhd #autism #long post #lovecraft #interpretation

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keilemlucent · 4 years ago

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half-day

hawks | takami keigo x reader

word count: ~3k

absence helps the heart grow wounds

warnings: reader takes medication, angst, sad uwu

beta’ed: @hawnks

a/n: so in the middle of all the horny, here’s some angsty, SFW, hurt/comfort i wrote as a vent. enjoy 💗

...

“Did you take your meds yet?”

You paused on the edge of the bed, rubbing at your eyes with the inside of your wrist.

“No, I forgot. Sorry.”

You kicked yourself for how weak your voice came out.

Keigo’s wings drooped, though you could only tell by the wide shadow they cast on the wall of your shared bedroom.

It was late, far too late for you to be awake, but you’d forced yourself to stay lucid and somewhat lively to wait for Keigo to arrive home after patrol. It wasn’t something you did often, as he so often was kept past his scheduled hours.

This night was no different.

He’d come through the balcony door in the early hours of the morning, sighing harshly and kicking off his boots with a huff before even noticing you blinking at him from the couch.

And with a single look, his heart sank.

Keigo wasn’t an idiot.

You looked so tired.

Your eyes were shadowed, punched with sleepless bags and the corners of your pretty lips pulled down and taut. You worried your hands, picking at your cuticles and fingernails.

You mustered up a smile, and fuck, if it wasn’t one of the weakest things he’d seen in a long time.

He’d been quick to whisk the two of you off to bed after that. A short shower later, he slung on some sweats and draped a towel over his shoulders. He tried to keep his look casual, despite his own exhaustion, aches and anxiety.

Because you looked shitty.

Not that you ever looked bad, Keigo had seen you in any number of states. Fucked up, fucked out, bright and shining like the sun itself and tear-streaked—

But none hurt in the same way or as much as he’d been seeing you lately.

When he crept into the bedroom, your gaze was vacant, trained on the floor as you picked at a hangnail on your thumb.

So he asked about your meds, just probing, seeing where you were at.

Truthfully, Keigo’s work had been keeping him from home, though he wasn’t actively avoiding you like this.

But, he did have the undeniable knowledge that his absence was hurting you.

Guilt.

“You don’t need to be sorry, dove,” Keigo slipped next to you on the sheets, letting his wings stretch out and back over the thrown back covers. “Do you want some fresh water?”

You shook your head, silent, as you grabbed your pill organizer from your nightstand.

Keigo eyed the old glass of water, frowning. He could practically see the dust settling on the surface of the stale liquid.

“Are you sure—”

“It’s fine, Kei’, let’s just go to bed,” Your voice was so hollow, half-broken and swallowed up by the gulp of water you took down with your meds.

Keigo managed to keep a grin on his face, but it was hard.

He couldn’t restrain himself from taking your cheeks in his hands, worrying your undereyes with his thumbs the moment you set the murky glass down.

You didn’t say anything, just sagged into his grip, brow creasing.

There was a tension in the air, but nothing that could be cut or the kind that could easily immolate. This was the kind of sluggish frustration that pulled on your muscles and ligaments like gummy syrup.

It dragged the two of you down.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You spoke without thinking, your hands inching towards his knees.

Why was he?

“Lots of reasons, the first being that I love you,” Keigo reminded you, softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

It was all the touch you needed to fall into his shoulders, pressing your face into the wet towel around his neck.

It would’ve been cumbersome, a deterrent from fully touching him, but in that moment, it soaked up the budding tears at the corners of your eyes.

He didn’t need to know how poorly you were doing.

Why did his little affections send you spiraling?

Why did each of his touches feel like aloe to a wound that was deep and tarry, impossibly endless and nothing that could be tackled in a night?

Why did it hurt so good?

“I don’t want to hear the others,” you told him, squeezing his covered knee. “I think I know. I’m sad, not dumb.”

Your quip earned you a half-hearted chuckle, Keigo smoothing a hand up and down your spine.

“Can you lay with me?”

You gave a wordless answer, slipping into the sheets with him while feebly rubbing at your eyes.

Keigo sends a few feathers to click off the bedside lamps, keeping on a small light atop the dresser, the kind that throws pinpricks of faux stars onto the ceiling in oscillating little rings.

It was a false comfort, but you’d both take it.

You laid facing each other, naked in mind and body by then.

With your cheek squished into your pillow, it was even easier to see the tear tracks and worry that you carried.

Keigo had to be careful, he knew he had to, if he pushed you too hard for your words or feelings, you could just lockup, deflect and drift off into fitless sleep yet again.

You didn’t make him reach for too long, didn’t let him worry himself for very long, before you spoke up, weakly, and interrupted his thoughts.

“We’re okay, right, Kei’?”

The question sent splinters of worry into the tender flesh of his heart.

Keigo responded instantly, dragging your body into his as his feathers twitched and ruffled, “Yes, yes, we’re completely okay, better than, I love— “

“I know,” You pressed your face into his sternum, locking an arm over his lower back. “I know you love me.”

You still sounded so empty.

Keigo didn’t know what to do, fuck, he was grasping for even what to say.

“How can I make it better?”

He had to try, right?

Maybe that was the reason why he’d been rushing off so often and for so long lately, without rest, no matter how he felt.

He was a hero, his job was to make things better. He wanted to fix things, mend and stitch the ills and pains of others.

Yet, the person closest to him was splitting at the seams.

Work had been busy, busier than normal, and it just gave him the excuse to avoid his personal problems, like any sane, normal person.

Maybe, he was justified in shoving off the weight of everything, maybe, but only because every time he asked how he could help, you’d just say—

“You can’t, Kei’. It’s okay.”

Just like you did then.

Except, in the past, your voice would just echo from your lips as you gave him a sad smile.

This time?

Your voice broke and your breath hitched as you tried to tug him closer.

He can feel your tears wet his chest.

You tried to fight for so long.

You still were, notably. Against the loneliness and against the odds of your odd relationship, you smiled and mused your way through the struggles of it. You loved Keigo, and the burdens were bearable. They were never from him, they were from the fucked circumstances of his employment and the conditions around it.

You had a deep, heartfelt understanding of this. It was communicated about since the beginning of your partnership, and you had learned, quite well, how to deal with Keigo’s job as a hero. You’d peace with it, mostly.

A lot of the time, contending with this reality was hardly difficult.

But, it was distinctly entirely unmanageable during times when your own mental health started to spiral downward.

So, here you were, beginning to weep into your partner’s chest over all of the weight that was bearing over your mind.

Each moment, your mind sparked with a new poison, until one slipped out amid your muffled tears.

“I can’t even fix m-me— “

You snapped.

And you damn near shrieked into his chest.

Keigo hadn’t seen you do this poorly in a long time.

It hurt, all of it did, but like fuck he was going to push off the responsibility any longer. You’d never admit it, but his absence had to be doing some damage.

“You don’t need to,” Keigo promised, shifting to straddle your hips.

Maybe, on a different night, things would’ve gone a different direction.

Not that night though.

Keigo pressed his weight over your chest, tucking your face into his neck as his feathers settled up and over the two of you. A scarlet shield that read black in the witching hour of the evening.

You didn’t really notice, but you could feel Keigo’s breath and body over the top of yours. He was like some sort of barrier towards the outside world and god did you need it.

You tried to reply, but your words came out as blubberings, broken by tears and ragged breath as you buried yourself into Keigo.

Despite the fact that Keigo was over you, it was the unseen, soul-crushing weight of you that bore down on him.

How did you let it get this bad?

You choked on another sob, your thighs squeezing around his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, an accident borne from your own frustration. Keigo didn’t react to the pain, even when it tread so close to the sensitive roots of his wings. He could bear it— if you had to, he would as well.

This is the least he could do, right?

Be there, though he definitely should’ve been there sooner.

He nuzzled his nose into your temple, brushing his lips over the sweat and tears gathering.

“Cry, dove, I’ve got you now.”

And god, did you.

You sputtered and wept against him, whatever hollow sheen you’d been carrying falling away to a flood of pent up pain.

Keigo had his own mess of emotions about being complicit in letting you get to this point, and what that said about him as a partner, but he swallowed those feelings down to the pit of his stomach and busied himself with comforting you.

He wiped the tears from your cheeks, kissing away the stray ones that dripped down to your jaw and neck. His fingers and nails scratched and massaged your scalp, part of him prayed that the little circles he drew would pull some of the tension and stress from inside your skull, but that was just fantasy.

Ultimately, the only thing to do was nothing, and that was probably why Keigo avoided it for so long.

Powerlessness was not something he was used to, nor did he want to become familiar with it. He was the number two hero in the nation, for fuck’s sake. The last thing he ever felt was helpless, sans a few choice feelings about his arrangements with the Commission.

But with you?

He felt so useless in moments like these.

But, that was the nature of these things, and he knew this, the two of you had been over that, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel himself getting choked up.

And as much as he wanted to suppress his own feelings, he just fucking couldn’t.

And everything spilt over at once, as things tend to.

Keigo scooped you up, pressing your front to his, pressing your cheek into his own, a few of his own tear tracks forming.

The feeling of Keigo’s own sadness tugged you from your own panic.

You swallowed thickly, your dry tongue sticking in your mouth as you tried to speak coherently.

“H-hey, Kei’?” You asked, trying to rub away at his tears. “C-could you take a h-alf day tomorrow? You don’t need to, but— “

Keigo shushed you with a kiss, sagging over top of you a moment later.

“Yeah, y-eah, of course,” Quietly, Keigo added, muffled into the crook of your shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to ask.”

“It’s okay, but it’s how i-it is,” Your voice shook as you coaxed Keigo to meet your gaze.

And oh, to bear souls with another is quite an intimate thing, don’t you think?

Especially when there was so much raw between the two of you, things that weren’t quite right, and things that hurt a bit too much.

Yet, at the same time, as you searched Keigo’s pretty ambers, more vibrant next to his reddened eye whites, you held nothing against him. There was both implicit and explicit understanding swimming in the air between you.

The unavoidable harshness of your arrangement with the truth that both of you cared so much, even if you didn’t know how to chew of your chunks of reality. It was comforting, seeing Keigo give you a broken little smile as you rubbed his tears away, and he yours.

“I love you,” Keigo's wings fluttered with his words. “I’m sorry for not being here like I should’ve been.”

“It’s okay,” It was, mostly. “I’m sorry for pushing you away.”

You both needed to be better, but being ‘better’ was a process in and of itself.

Carefully, you rose, your hands finding Keigo’s bare hips while his helped prop up your back.

You swallowed around your fat tongue, grimacing and reaching for the stale glass of water.

Just before you could grab it, Keigo reached past you, stopping your hand from closing around it.

“Let’s start small,” Keigo gave you a weak smile. “Can I grab you some fresh water?”

You nodded, the warmth and care of the gesture immediately relaxing you. Quirking a brow, you managed a small grin, “Yes, thank you.”

And you let him.

And all that you’d been carrying with you didn’t dissolve, but it maybe felt lighter.

...

You spent the rest of the night twisted up in each other.

Truthfully, Keigo felt greedy. He’d been too absent and that had made him needy for you and your touch, even if it was just idle and soft.

He craved you in other ways, but you were more than enough.

By the sun rose came, he was hardly sated, but he had calls to make and things to arrange.

...

The next morning, you awoke alone, though the sheets were warm.

A few feathers laid around you, snuggling up to your cheeks and under the covers, fluttering every so often against your bare skin.

As you drew back to lucidity, you could hear Keigo’s muffled voice from the kitchen.

Your body ached, but in a necessary way. It reminded you of the night prior, along with your scratchy eyes and raw throat.

You threw on one of his shirts and padded towards his voice.

Despite your state, and the rawness of the air, Keigo still managed to stun you speechless, as he so often did.

He stood in the kitchen, hip popped against the counter with a pair of sweats hanging dangerously low on his hips. His phone was tucked between his shoulder and ear as he spoke low, hushed and hurried, his hands and a handful of feathers helping prepare two steaming mugs of coffee.

You didn’t eavesdrop, only approaching when Keigo breathed a sigh of relief and the phone was set down on the counter.

Somehow, you were able to surprise him.

Your arms looped around his waist from behind, circling and squeezing.

“I’m guessing you’ve gotta run?” You mumbled into his spine with a weak laugh. “I should say fly, huh?”

Keigo clicked his tongue, turning to drape his arms over your shoulders, “Nope, neither, dove. Two days.”

“… Two days?” You scrunch your brow, though Keigo was quick to smooth out the wrinkles with a quick kiss.

“Two days off a month, barring emergencies, not counting today. Fully off and all yours. And that’s not counting today,” Keigo’s smile warmed his voice. “Sound good?”

Your scrambled psyche rushed to catch up with the revelation that ‘holy fuck, Keigo actually had real, scheduled time off.’

“I can see how hard you’re thinking, chickpea,” Keigo tsked, somehow wrangling you onto the counter top, slotting himself between your parted thighs. “I’ve got this one, okay? I want to be around more.”

You bit your lip, gaze pointed towards the ground.

“For me or for you?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

You swallowed your tongue, still frowning.

It easily could.

Keigo needed the rest, even if he had trouble admitting it. As much as he claimed to be lazy, he was more so a workaholic due to his background. It was difficult for him to ever stop working for any considerable length of time.

Perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, just his training.

All the same, the idea of having Keigo around and mostly to yourself for a few days a month seemed goddamn fantastic.

“... Can it?”

Keigo softened visibly, rubbing at your side, just below the bottom hem of your sleep shirt. Maybe, he was a bit sheepish in those moments, but he’d had to be pretty stern making the calls he had that morning.

Speaking to the right people to allow him to get that time off had been a pain, but seeing the slow way you were deflating and melting into his arms made it worth it.

Not to mention he needed some lazy days as well.

“Of course it can,” Keigo gave a soft little smile. “Both of us getting a bit of extra rest, don’t you think?”

You flickered your gaze to his, where the gooeyness of his amber eyes caught and held you.

A part of you, one that had been particularly loud lately, screamed to ask for more reassurance. That in some way, Keigo was lying and you had to know.

But, with a deep breath, and a press of your forehead to his, you relaxed a bit.

Not enough, but it was a sure start.

“Alright, but only if you promise to let me help you relax too, and that includes today,” You silenced any retort he might have with a gentle kiss.

The moment you tried to pull away, Keigo’s hand was on the back of your neck, holding you steady and close.

“I dunno dove, it is my half-day,” He hummed with a raise of his eyebrows, the dark circles under his eyes hardly detracting from how luminous he so constantly was, “I think I’ll do whatever I’d like.”

You gave your own little grin, “That’s alright too, I guess. As long as you get some rest today.”

“So, a lazy day, that’s what I’m hearing?” Keigo’s wings fluttered at the concept.

With a nod and one more stolen kiss, you hummed, “A lazy day it is.”

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #hawks imagines #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #uwu

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goodlucksnez · 3 years ago

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a sky full of stars

Hello everyone so I wrote a er//aserm//ic fiction and it’s 5513 words I know right what the fuck I just kept writing and I didn’t want the story to end but it came to a lovely end

TW WARNING it deals with sui//cide depression,anxiety,panic attacks as well as medical surgery

TO NOTE In the story endeavor is not a hero and is a local tea maker and his wife is the surgeon which I just think it’s cute it comes together in the story it will make sense don’t worry

This is using my original AU with the Quirk flu

And lastly I hope you enjoy it I had a lot of fun riding and it has definitely improved since my last fic enjoy

you can read it on A03 or down below

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33360760

How Shouta got here was anyone's guess. Sitting on the edge of the roof of UA looking at the shifting colors as night began to fall around him. As the shades of reds mixed with the blues and yellows, how they washed over the buildings and trees with a gentle golden glow, Shouta closed his eyes and smiled. The tear-stained face of the Pro was hidden from view under foundation and tired eyes. With the still night air, he heard the roof entrance unlock and movement behind him.

“Hello, old friend,” Shouta said not even turning to look at him.

“What the hell are you thinking, step away from the edge now.” Mic's voice boomed over the concrete and echoed in the tranquil night air. “Please, people need you…. I need you.”

Shouta took a deep breath and stood to face his old friend. Mic’s face was panicked and he could see the crumpled note in his hand. Shouta was glad to see his friend one last time. He shook with adrenaline as he spoke in a quiet voice barely louder than a whisper. Years down the road Shouta in the confession of therapy would say he said it this way because whispers make people listen while shouting just falls upon deaf ears.

“All my life, I have been in love with the sky. Even when everything was falling apart around me, the sky was always there for me. I’m glad to see it hasn’t changed. Goodbye old friend.” And he stepped off the roof Mic’s voice echoed in the night sky as Shouta plummeted down and down until darkness.

---

That was five years ago. Shouta had been getting better about talking about his depression and the struggles but the one thing he could not do was hurt Mic again. Hizashi also died that day, his cheery disposition of the world changed, and he hasn’t been the same since. He had improved but Shouta still had guilt deep down but would never admit it. Hizashi's confidence was always so fragile, like a child’s, it took him years to return to radio and music. He once in a foggy drunken state told Shouta that music died the day he fell and all the sounds of the world that created such unique and beautiful different melodies, fused into one agonizing wave of sound that made Hizashi hate music and his Quirk. He had gotten better they both had recovered from that day but if they were both being honest, they were still those scared little Pros inside.

When winter came the vows of in sickness and in health were tested. Hizashi got sick first and Shouta played the role of nursemaid and helped him get better therefore it was no wonder Shouta got sick. When he was a child Shouta would hide under his bed to avoid being seen as sick, he had enough of name-calling at school he did not need it at home too. This continued into his adult life even after the accident 5 years ago.

The next time he had woken up he almost suffered acute heart failure from the number of stress hormones that were immediately pumped through his system as long-term best friend and husband Hizashi better known as Present Mic had busted through the bedroom door with a shout of “Shouta” with his remarkably deafening voice. “Wow were you sleeping?”

As if it would be a shock that he was. He has been up most of the night coughing and generally feeling ill. Shouta was having trouble getting out of bed today as a dull pain racked through his body pulsing through every limb. He merely grunted in response and the strawberry blonde-haired man sat down and rubbed his back.

“Shouta,” he asked his voice worried with concern and suddenly Shouta was back on that roof. He shut his eyes and winced at that memory and shook his head. The movement of his head caused the room to spin and he reached out to grab onto something stable the only thing near him being his husband.

The pressure in his cranium had built itself up to the point where he knew he had to get away to get checked out. Somehow, he had to take a trip to get medicine, the question was how would he succeed with such a mission when Hizashi worried about his every movement.

Mic continued to rub his husband's back. After receiving no answer, his usual jovial expression continued morphing into one of pure concern. “Hey, Shouta are you okay?”

The tired pro sighed but when he went to open his mouth the tickle which had been prominent in his sinuses flared to life and he quickly turned his head to the side gripping the side of the bed as the sneezes ripped through his body.

“Heh-R'SSHH! Hh-Hih-AET’SCHHH! ESCCH!”

Hizashi jumped in surprise. “Woah, many blesses,” he said. “I’m going to pick you up some meds, okay?”

Shouta grabbed his arm and said, “no you barely over being sick, I can get some.”

As he went to put on his shoes, he sniffed back the congestion that was threatening to flow. Hizashi watched him gathering his wallet and keys before hugging him tightly and whispered in his ear.

“I know how you get with these things; I call you in a few hours and you better pick up or you’re in trouble. I love you Sky.”

Shouta hugged him back and said, “I love you to songbird.” And he left the house with the sound of thunder in the sky boomed over him.

---

His feet hurt.

It was a stupid thing to focus on. Stupid because Shouta was still heavily limping his way through darkened alleyways and shuffling through crumpled up newspapers and puddles of...something. His breath came out in ragged gasps, the medicine still clutched close to the chest. Shouta had no idea where he was going. He just kept moving- one hand drifting along chipped brick walls and graffiti-stained cement, something to keep him steady. Focused. Home was the mission but it wasn’t the goal. The goal was-

Freedom from the pain.

His knees buckled and Shouta couldn’t stop himself from tumbling forward. He smacked into a dumpster; the weak thump of a body against rusted metal ringing in his ears. The stench of rotten food clawed its way into his nose; the pain now liquid fire in his veins. Get up Shouta told himself even as his eyes started to flutter close. You have to get up. His fingers twitched; they landed in a puddle of something gross. “Please,” Shouta whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please~” Thunder rolled off in the distance- a heavy, almost shuffling sound. Maybe- maybe he could get clean in the rain? Maybe-----

“Ah, your awake!”

Fuck! Shouta started, brain a sluggish mess. He- the last thing he remembered with solid clarity was collapsing against a dumpster. Rain pattered against the rooftop- a strange melody that did nothing to put the Pro at ease as he stared at the old man before him. He was heavyset, a long red beard neatly trimmed and a topknot giving him off an old school look. Shouta glanced around the room, just a little more awake now. He still felt like shit, wet from the clothes he had when-

“My shoes,” Shouta rasped, gaze falling to his feet. They were bare, his socks neatly placed on the floor with his shoes beside this...futon. A sad, threadbare thing on the floor. It took all he had not to run his hands over himself-no. No injuries. The only thing Shouta wasn’t wearing was his shoes. Shouta inhaled congestion thick and he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. An oven mitt was sitting on the floor between them, a teapot gently clutched in the old man’s hands. “You put band-aids on my heels?”

“I did,” came the quiet hum. “You’ve traveled quite a way. Those blisters are impressive.”

Shouta’s gaze flicked to the two clay cups- one by his feet, the other next to the old man’s knees. Steam started to curl out of the teapot; a fire Quirk perhaps? “...You’ve got a fire Quirk.”

The old man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re very observant. Yes, I do. Would you like some tea? I have some delicious Herbal Spring at the moment it might help with that cold you got.”

Shouta eyed the teapot in question- the steam was barely more than a little trickle of a cloud. Could he have poisoned it while I was out? He shrugged, looking away.

“Ah good!” The old man leaned forward to pour tea- Shouta first, then himself. “Herbal Spring is a very fragile tea, you know. Raise the temperature too much and you’ll ruin it. Keep the water too cold, and it loses its flavor.”

Shouta didn’t reach for his cup. He heard the soft clink of China being set down on the oven mitt. He- he saw the near-empty room he was in. “Where am I?”

“My tea shop! Aaah well,” the old man smiled again as he reached for his cup. “Soon to be my tea shop. This is a storeroom of sorts.”

Shouta watched the old man drink first. A happy hum, a deep sip that made the Pro finally reach for his cup. He brought it to his lips, taking a tentative sniff. Even with his blocked nose, it smelled sweet. Shouta took the tiniest of sips; the warm liquid sliding down his parched throat with ease. It had a soft note to it; sweet and almost fruity, enough to make Shouta …breathe. “Who are you?”

“Just a simple tea maker.” Another calm sip, the old man closing his eyes for a moment. “Who are you?”

It...it lacked the same venom that Shouta’s question had. The same cautiousness, an almost feral edge to it. The old man’s question was simple. Calm and steady; Shouta bit the inside of his cheek before he took another tentative sip. “No one.”

“It is an honor to meet you, No One.” The teapot was held out like a porcelain olive branch. “More tea?”

Was this...a joke? Shouta bit the inside of his cheek before he held out his cup. There was still plenty of tea left in the small cup and it took all the Pro had not to wince at how hands were still shaking. Hot liquid sloshing about, threatening to go right over the dull rim. Yet...if the old man was going to say anything, he didn’t. He merely poured Shouta more tea, careful to keep the liquid from the rim.

Shouta brought it up to his lips, taking a bigger sip. “You’re,” this time he winced. His throat was still a raspy mess. “You’re not going to ask me why I was outside?”

“Mmm, you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

Shouta watched the teapot be set gently on the oven mitt, the old teamaker once more quietly enjoying his cup. The two sipped their drinks in relative silence- only broken by the steady drumming of the rain overheard and Shouta sniffling. An odd sort of silence, almost peaceful; Shouta wasn’t bombarded with questions. The old tea maker was content to drink his tea; he’d already downed three cups by the time Shouta had managed to finish one. He sneezed 3 harsh sneezes and drank more tea hoping to soothe the throat. The teapot seemed to rise without being asked; a second cup poured, a second cup that Shouta found himself willingly drinking. “Aizawa,” he whispered, staring down at the amber liquid. The Pro’s voice was painfully loud in the quiet. “My name is Aizawa Shouta.”

The old man gently smiled; callused hands curled around his cup. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Aizawa Shouta.”

“What-” Shouta shifted on his futon; the tremors had finally left his hands. “Who are you?”

“Just an old man with wisdom and regrets,” came the happy reply. “You can call me Enji if you wish.”

Enji? It was a familiar way to address someone he’d just met. Right. “...I’m not calling you Enji.”

“Fair enough,” the old man chuckled and there was something warm in his voice that begged the Pro to relax. Maybe he has another Quirk? Can someone have two Quirks?

Shouta glanced down at his cup, his thumbs brushing the rim. “Why are you doing this?”

“Sharing tea with a fascinating stranger is one of life’s true delights~”

That...was not what Shouta was expecting. He frowned; was it too late to make a run for it? He was pretty sure he had strength in his legs now, even if he still felt awful. “That’s some bullshit,” the dark hair huffed, settling on something solid. Something he could trust. He attempted to rise to his feet and he wobbled for a moment. Pain that rolled through Shouta, begging for him to plop his ass back down. “You’re crazy, old man.”

The old man didn’t move from his spot on the floor. He merely hummed, a red eyebrow rising at the uptick of rain against the roof. “You will need a proper raincoat then. You’ll be soaked if you leave now.”

“...You’re not going to stop me?”

“I cannot stop you from your long journey, Shouta. Just as we cannot stop the fire from burning the log or ice freezing a pond.” Shouta watched the old man set his cup down; empty. “But please,” he groaned as he lumbered to his feet and Shouta was pretty sure he heard joints pop. “Let me get you an umbrella at least.”

His chest hurt. Shouta’s throat was stupidly tight. Painfully tight as he stood there, watching Enji dig around in the storeroom for an umbrella. “...You,” Shouta tried to clear his throat. To stop himself from crying like the idiot he was. “You don’t have-”

He shouldn’t have wasted his breath.

The umbrella was pressed into his hands with care. It was an old thing that had seen better days- a raggedy blue thing with a few frayed strands and a scuffed handle. It was old and worn and the most precious thing Shouta had ever held in his life. “Thank you,” the Pro whispered, clutching it close to his chest.

“Of course,” Enji hummed, bowing in return. “Please stay dry.”

---

Shouta descended the step of the tea shop, his body aching with every step. The medicine still clutched to his chest. The words still echoed in his mind. “You tell me when you’re ready.” He found himself walking the feeling of cool water running down his wet body was quite unpleasant. The wind blustered and the rain pattered on the antique umbrella and the way home seemed twice as long as usual. His mind raced, how could a stranger see so clearly into his mind was it that transparent to everyone that he was broken. As his feet hit the sidewalk a single thought crossed his mind. Hizashi. His songbird. His love. He was probably worried sick. As he pulled out his phone, he saw the screen was broken and as the light lit up his face, he could see 54 unread messages. Fuck. He ran, he didn’t even notice the tightening of his chest and the pain in his limbs, as he rounded the corner almost slipping on the wet pavement. He saw the lightly tan building of his home; the outside light was still on. As he unbolted the door and took a step inside, his heartbeat deafening in his ears, a pair of arms wrapped around his torso and pulled him inside.

As Shouta panted, Hizashi's grip gets getting tighter and tighter. No words were said but the silence spoke volumes. Shouta felt tears spring to his eyes and choked back a sob as Hizashi guided him to the living room sofa and sat him down. Wordlessly Hizashi began to take Shouta's shoes off, gently searching his dark eyes for some kind of answer of where he was. Shouta could not meet his gaze, and just shook from the wet clothes and clutched the sofa tighter. Hizashi nodded and went off down the hall. He returned a moment later with fluffy towels and the first words were spoken.

“Out of those clothes.” Shouta blushed but did as he was told and as each soaked article of clothing was removed from his body it was replaced with a warm fluffy towel. However, it didn’t stop his shivering and Hizashi started rubbing the frozen skin of his lover. After a few minutes, Hizashi suddenly stopped and stood up, turning his back from Shouta.

Suddenly the blond jolted forward. “heh… ehh…. heh'ISSShooo!" and went into the kitchen to grab a box of tissues.

As he sheepishly returned and met the gaze of his husband, he muttered an apology. “Sorry.”

Shouta was at a loss for words. Why was he sorry? It was not his fault Shouta got sick, not his fault he was broken. He had done everything right, Shouta was wrong. He blinked in rapid succession before finding his voice. The voice of Enji filled his head ‘When you’re ready. He spoke with a voice broken and small.

“The day that the rain smelled like ice cream, my cat went to heaven in front of my eyes. The day that the copper pipes in the old building smelled like burnt food, my best friend... went to heaven in front of my eyes. I couldn't save them. It's sad. Neither one had the chance to become an adult. They should have become adults. They should have had children of their own and loved those children. And I want to make that possible for other people. So don’t be sorry. You saved me. I love you.”

He had never expressed that amount of raw emotion in his whole life, not even to his therapist but it felt right. The nerves he felt flowed out of him as his tears decorated his face. As he sat covered in the towel he sobbed, all the emotions he had been holding released like the steam from that teapot that brought him warmth not a few hours before.

Hizashi cradled him, as his body racked with sobs, gently like how a mother would cradle a baby, pausing to kiss him and repeat gentle nothings. As Shouta began to wind down, all the strength he had been pretending he had disappeared and he slumped against Mic and closed his eyes and soon unconsciousness took him.

Shouta slept for hours it seemed like. Each dream he had was confusing and odd as if he had two brains competing for the dream. His tired muscles ached and the dull pain between his eyes had increased to a dull migraine. Truth be told he felt awful. But soon his body had had enough and he felt the being of a sneeze. He tried to hold back for a while longer but found it futile. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as the tickle reached its climax.

“Eschht, Eschht eh ugh sniff heh hhh AET’SCHHH!”

The last sneeze ripped through him with such force all the blankets and towel that had kept him warm fell off of him and he was left sniffling chest exposed to the room and his husband who look just as surprised as himself.

“Goodness bless you Sho, you have caught my cold.”

The tired man just groaned and said with a voice still raspy and strained “Not a cold, it's probably the flu, I should have told you sooner, I just- ugh sniff again heh hhh Hit'choo!! Hih-tschh!! Hihh…hih-tsCHEW!”

With the last sneeze, he felt his Quirk go haywire and soon his hair was floating above him and his eyes had turned a red hue. Luckily for him, no one was in the radius but he still felt awful. A hero could only depend on two things in this world, their Quirk and the one they loved. If Shouta could take one of those away without realizing it, it could mean trouble.

Mic had knelt in front of the laying down Pro and gently cupped a tissue around his husband's nose. “Bless your hon, come on blow for me.”

Shouta did a wet gurgling blow and groaned as the Quirk deactivated his dry eyes yearning for water. Mic dabbed at Shouta slowly being red nose and stood. He made his way over to the linen closet and grabbed the warmest winter sweater and returned to his sick husband.

“Arms up you know the drill.” As Mic helped the Pro get dressed, he called out to Siri.

“Hey, Siri, text Doctor Green we are coming in an hour.” As Shouta's head came through the sweater hole he simply frowned. This Doctor had treated him after the accident but was a close friend of theirs. As Siri confirmed the appointment Mic sensed Shouta's discomfort and replied to him. “I know sweetie you don’t like the doctor but you know he can help better than over-the-counter drugs. He continued and I will be there the whole time.”

Shouta shook his head. “Together,” he said in a small voice

Mic helped the sickly Pro stand and guided him to the mirror next to the door and kissed him on his flushed skin. “Forever Together.”

The train ride for the first leg of the journey was uneventful. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the moving subway train was distracting enough to distract other passengers from Shouta's constant sniffling. Mic was stood holding on to the overhead bar while Shouta was sitting with his head in his hands. Mic was constantly asking if Shouta needed anything even though he would not be able to provide much relief besides encouraging words. As the overhead speakers announced their stop Mic helped Shouta stand as the train came to a hard stop be cursed in English as Shouta stumbled forward again him.

The misty afternoon after the rainstorm was heavy in the air but still, Shouta shivered a clear sign of a fever and the couple picked up the pace to the doctors. As they rounded a corner a few blocks away they were met with the flashing blue and red of a line of police cars. As heroes, they knew a situation was happening. Mic half dragging Shouta went to them who seemed to be in charge of the crowd of citizens and asked what was happening. The short man with light brown hair replied with the normal answer for any citizen. “Nothing to worry about Sir heroes will handle it.” Mic frowned and dug in his pocket and grabbed his Hero license and flashed it at the man. Taken aback the man quickly responded. “Oh, um sorry, a Jewelry store has been taken hostage, he paused before continuing “my chief might need an extra few hand…he paused and looked at the struggling man Mic was holding up “is he also able to help.” Mic didn’t have time for this and he ducked below the police tape and began walking to the line of cop cars. Shouta followed but sluggishly. As he neared the chief of the police, he quickly scanned the street. He could see the jewelry store in question had a broken window and was heavily surrounded by local heroes as well as other members of the police task force. As Shouta caught up his eyes were half-closed and looked like he was going to pass out any second. Before Mic could attend to Shouta a round of gunshots filled the air and out of instinct he grabbed both of them and they hit the pavement hard. After a few moments, he helped Shouta lean against a cop car tire and checked over his body. ‘No wounds’ Mic thought ‘I don’t have time for this we need to get through this street.’

Mic looked at the task force and saw the numbers had decreased whoever was in the store had an amble firearm. As a local hero approached the car Mic asked what the status was and what they know. The local hero stating that the man inside the store had a bullet-type quirk and could shoot many rounds of ammo and was demanding everyone to leave and no one would get hurt.

Mic thought ‘a bullet type quirk, like Pro hero Edgeshot’ Mic continued to question. Did they have any other people with them? The local hero shook his head no they are alone. Mic could work with this. He waved over the chief, a man he had worked with a few other times.

If they could stop the man quirk do, they have enough to help the hostages and defeat the villain. The chief simply nodded his head and Mic set to work.

He gently shook the arm of Shouta who barely raised his head. “Hey love I know you are exhausted but we need you Quirk right now can you aim your Quirk over to the storefront.

Shouta tried Mic had to give him credit for that, but as soon his hair started to rise it quickly fell. Shouta mumbled a response thick with congestion. “I. Can’t…tired”

Mic rubbed his arms in understanding and replied “What about if we use your illness as an advantage, you can’t control when it happens right, what if we use that.”

Shouta turned to look at Mic. “What are you suggesting?”

Before he could reply another round of gunshot shot at them and he quickly covered Shouta's body with his. He immediately felt the sharp pain as a bullet entered him under his ribs, and he could feel the blood start to spill. With an adrenaline-filled body, he quickly pulled Shouta into a somewhat kneeling position and aimed his head toward the storefront. “I’m sorry about this love this isn’t going to be big on dignity.”

He grabbed the end of his ponytail and brought the split ends to the underside of Shouta's nose. The already irritated organ began to twitch as the strands of hair slowly twisted around.

Shouta tried to ignore the incessant prodding of the frizzy hair against his sensitive nose, but with each swipe, the tiny hairs that shook loose were soon sucked up into his twitching and quivering nostrils. He shuddered and froze in place a tear slowly trailed down from his eye to his cheek as his nose began scrunching and wriggling from the irritation.

“Come on Shouta you can do it,” Mic said. Shouta’s chest heaved and he couldn't help but give in to the itchy and tickly urge to expel those irritants from his nostrils.

“H...hhih...” The beginnings of a sneeze showed as his eyes began to droop. His chest expanded further “Haaahhh! Aaahhhh!” His eyes fully closed, head tilting back and signaling the oncoming release. Mic aimed his face toward the storefront and sent a silent prayer that this would work.

“Hit'choo!! Hih-tschh!! Hihh…hih-tsCHEW!”

As Shouta sneezed his hair lifted with ease and soon the storefront was temperately Quick free. Mic activated his Quirk and told the task force to go. Shouta was still panting from sneezing but his eyes were open however Mic didn’t know how long he could keep them open. As the task force ran in the subject found his Quirk would not activate and soon found himself being put in handcuffs and a medical device being placed that would stop his Quirk without the help of Erasure.

As Mic received the thumbs up, he spoke to his shaking husband who was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Bless your hon you did it, you can relax now.” As Shouta did all the energy slipped from him and he lost consciousness and slumped over on the wet pavement. Mic grabbed the fragile man and began to walk to the nearest ambulance, as he stepped into the back of the ambulance the medic and himself helped Shouta into the gurney, and soon the siren wailed and they were finally off to their destination.

As they entered the hospital fast lane and the medic was ready to receive both of the ProS, Mic was insistent to be placed near Shouta as he wasn’t comfortable around hospitals. The medic nodded and escorted them to their joined room. Shouta was seen to first. They took blood and gave him fluids; they also provide pain medicine and sadly they had to wait until he woke up.

Mic surgery was quickly scheduled. He met with the surgeon while sitting next to Shouta and rubbing his arm. The female was fairly tall and had blue tint to her eyes and white hair. She explained the surgery before Mic consented.

“Upon examination, we identified 1 cm diameter entry wound at the left lower abdominal wall, Sir. The images we took showed the bullet in the peritoneal cavity but no injured intraperitoneal and retroperitoneal viscera. We decided to remove the bullet laparoscopically.” Mic nodded. She noticed the band around his finger and smiled. “How long have you two been together?”

Mic smiled and replied “4-year next month, but I have known since we were 14 that this is what we both needed.” He paused before swallowing hard “We've been through a lot but I can’t imagine life without him. He is my whole life, my Sky. He bent down and kissed the sleeping man's hand. The surgeon smiled and spoke “I see, well that must be hard with both of you rushing into battle all the time,” she looked down at her clipboard before continue “I have treated a lot of patients in my day but never have I seen a love quite like your, it’s very special.” A monitor beeped and the surgeon motioned him to follow. “Well, shall we take care of the bullet Mr. Hizashi. Mic kissed Shouta’s hand before leaving the room.

Shouta was hot. It was too bright wherever he was. His mind was foggy. He groaned as he sat up, he immediately recognized the smell of a hospital. What happened. The last thing he remembers is the sound of gunshots and Hizashi…Shit Hizashi he jerked into a sit-up position and looked around. The nurse that had been changing his fluid jumped back. “Calm down you’re okay! Just relax.”

“Where is he…what happened?” He asked rage filling his croaky voice. The nurse replied, “Sir he is in surgery he will be out soon don’t worry he is okay.” She laid him back against the pillows before continuing “We need to make sure you’re okay Sir make sure you don’t have a concussion. He pulled out a light and shown it in his eye without much warning. The tickle flared to life and he turned his head.

“Issh’iIEWW!....hhh..heh… “TSCHTIEW” Thankfully his Quirk did not activate he wiped his nose on the back of his arm as the nurse apologized.

“Sorry Sir, but the good news is you don’t have a concussion so you will be out of here as soon as we can get some medicine and your husband is awake.”

Shouta relaxed slightly and closed his eyes and tried to keep the panic from getting too much to handle. Within the next 2 hours, Shouta tried to not be a bother to any of the staff but his flu had proven a little too much for him to handle.

As a nurse with a gravity-type quirk was walking down the hall with floating plates of dinner, he groaned as another tickle forced him to sneeze and he felt his quirk activate and he heard the crash as the dinner plates fell and crashed on the floor. Many of the nurses were understanding but he still felt awful. When his husband was wheeled into his room Shouta's eyes began to water and he had to fight back tears. The surgeon explained the surgery was a success and he would be discharged later today. She told Aizawa in a voice soft and comforting. “He loves you so much, you are a very lucky man.” She sat on the edge of his bed and looked into his eyes. “I know you feel broken but he is trying so hard to make sure you are taken care of. The world is a cruel place and I know you have suffered more than most. But know this, he loves you and has sworn to protect you. You might be a Hero to the public but he is your Hero, let him save you. She wiped a tear from her eye and turned to leave. Before leaving the room, she said “Oh and you have a gift make sure to grab it before leaving.” And placed a small box on the counter next to the door before leaving him.

When Hizashi woke and passed all the discharge tests and Shouta had his medicine they left the hospital holding each other’s hand and holding a box of tea that they would use for the rest of their life.

The end.

#Vic writes #vicwrites #bnha fic #fanfic #my fanfiction #My fic #sneezefanfic #sneezefic #sneeze fic #mysneezefic #bnhafanfic

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seancekitsch · 5 years ago

Text

Prize Buck

I’m out of my hiatus. I was asked for Klaus Headcanons, wrote a smut fic after work today instead whoops

A/N: drug use, addiction, oral(m/f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap that shit folx), female or nb afab reader, thinking sad thoughts while doing sexy things, sorta sub!Klaus, mental health issues, roughness, unedited, i added a line that only makes sense if you read the comics

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“You’re seriously telling me you’ve never done this? You?” Klaus asks, bringing the bowl and the lighter closer to you. You hadn’t, in honesty. You were the worlds most casual of casual stoners. You’d roll a joint if the mood struck you; meticulously crafted and thin for the perfect little heady time. Or you’d take a hit from a bong at a friends house, only if they offered to smoke you out. Really though, weed wasn’t your thing, it just had to become a part of the routine now because there weren’t other options. You couldn’t get your normal poison, amphetamines, so feeling uncontrollably sluggish instead of uncontrollably wired was the new normal.

A non-committal head shake was all you could offer. He was right to be incredulous at that revelation. You had met in rehab, for god’s sake. Klaus had, no HAS, a lot of problems, some you watched him scream and sweat through during his first week in the room across the hall from you. You were the one that he woke up constantly, because your crash left you near coma and crying when you were conscious. Despite making your recovery hell, he was the only one you could talk to when the tears subsided. Before rehab, you were a a published scholar at the height of your career, working with a newly discovered artifact from an anthropology dig. You’d spent your career hopped up on all of the meds you could find, culminating this research, staying up for thirteen days before having a breakdown in which you break the artifact from shaking so hard and crash your car fleeing the research center with your writing.

Weed was new. It was never your thing. But Klaus was new too, and he was your thing. You’d become fast friends in group therapy sessions, and inseparable out of them. It was unorthodox and frowned upon, but you became roommates once you’d gotten out. Just a small studio above a shop. A couch and a mattress that you’d switch off sleeping on, or you’d just both crash on the flood a hairs breadth away from snuggling. But it was the option that worked. You’d both confided that true sobriety wasn’t an option. So instead of anything hard, it was weed and alcohol. This was something that wouldn’t kill you or get you sent back. Controllable. And maybe one day you’d be able to go into a different field. Get an apartment with an actual bedroom. Maybe he could be able to shut out some of his power. But for now, this is what would work. It was a transition that made sense to you.

“I just can’t believe you’ve never shotgunned a bowl. Don’t all the great writers have their little parties where they smoke each other out? Isn’t that how Mary and Percy had that orgy with Lord Byron?” You wanted to correct him that you were a disgraced anthropologist, not a writer, but his warm thigh nudging yours reminds you now isn’t really the time. You give a weak smile instead.

“I guess since you’re the only person I smoke with, you’d be the only person to shotgun me.” He scooches closer to you, earthy scent already working wonders to entrance you. You wonder if he knew he had this effect on your mind and body.

“So you’ll let me shoot you now?” He asks. You smile, a little anxious, a little toothy.

“Shoot me? What am I, a ten point buck?”

There’s going to be a great feat of self control to keep yourself from jumping the curly haired man next to you, and self control is not one of your strong suits. You were head over heels in lust with Klaus and you didn’t even know if he was into women.

He begins with an unceremonious prodding at the fresh ground bud in the glass bowl with his pinky. Then he flicks the gas station lighter once. Twice. A spark. The flame dips into the bowl and there’s a soft crackle that’s accompanied and fueled by Klaus’ plump lips wrapping around the head of the pipe. It’s almost obscene to look at and you find yourself shifting uncomfortably. Well, not uncomfortably, but not in a way that’s appropriate for this setting. There’s probably more than a slight chance Klaus knows you’re aroused, but he’s being polite about it. Even now, as his lungs are filling up with smoke, and he’s puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk, there’s this ebbing and throbbing between your legs.

And now, for the shotgun itself. You know he’s blowing all the smoke in his body into your mouth, but the last thing you expect is how it feels to actually have his lips on yours. At first he’s methodical, a slow diaphragm push of smoke into your mouth, your lips parted slightly and drinking in the smoke as it comes. But no, that’s not enough; not giving Klaus enough access to deliver the goods. He makes quick work of parting your lips further by a harsh squeeze to your jaw. The way the smoke and his tongue invade your mouth does nothing to help curb the lack of self control you possess as you moan wantonly into the kiss. The shotgun. You could be addicted to this alone.

By the time he pulls away, you feel like a balloon in that you’re floating, and the hand you have securely placed on your roommates thigh is the only thing keeping you from floating out the window and into some electrical wires or into a tree for birds to choke to death on. You start low, reddened eyes looking from your hand on his thigh, up to his chest. Klaus’ chest is almost always bare. His arms and the muscles of his abdomen were littered with the odd scar and tattoo here and there. He told you they’re from fighting in Vietnam in the 1960s and France in the 1400s. When he said it, he was so earnest you could do nothing but believe him. Then your eyes travel a little more north, to his lips. He needs a shave; his mustache and his chin getting a bit too scraggly, but they tickled when you came together for the smoke. And then you finally meet his eyes, unabashed that you just drank him in like lemonade. His pupils are blown wide when you finally look into them; not something weed would do to you. No, this was something else.

“Another?” He asks, voice trembling and breathy, not above a whisper.

“I- I want more.” Your voice coming out a tad huskier than you intended, not masking how his actions had an effect on you. Your skirt feels entirely too open right now. If you were wearing jeans, or tight pants like his, you’d feel some kind of restraint. Like a chastity belt, you think, some real medieval torture. But it would be all too easy to lift this skirt, or even to shift your hips and grind against something for even a tiny iota of relief.

You don’t even watch Klaus take the hit this time, only turning your head back to face him when you hear him stop sucking. This time, he sets the bowl down before leaning in. Your mouth is open and ready for him, already a quick learner from what just transpired. So Klaus doesn’t grab your jaw this time. Instead, he grabs the hand that’s still resting on his thigh.

And he shoves it towards the crotch of his pants.

Where your open palm lands clumsy and hard against the hardness straining at his pants.

He groans as contact is made and almost coughs the rest of the smoke into your mouth, but you’re there to suck it down in stride. There’s only a quick pause for you to exhale this now twice filtered smoke before your lips re-attach to his, the bowl and lighter now forgotten.

His hand drifts to your jaw a second time, before sliding down further to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer, until it strains your back. He knows you fell asleep on the couch last night, so he knows how much this burns your taught muscles. All to his advantage it seems, as you shift your weight to your knee before turning and straddling him, all without breaking the kiss or your removing your hand from his clothed cock. Your skirt pools at where both of your hips meet, and he readjusts it -ever the gentleman- for you as you begin to knead and squeeze him beneath your hand.

Instead of smoke now, your mouths fill with the moans and sighs of each other, both refusing to end the kissing first and both running out of air. The onslaught of kissing continues through some under the shirt fondling, through Klaus less than gently pinching at your nipples, through you unbuttoning Klaus’ pants- now much too tight. He only breaks the kiss finally to beckon you,

“Stand up, I’ve got something else I want to show you”

Wobbly, you give his clothed cock one more squeeze before you rise to your feet.

While you move to reposition, standing over him now with your skirt bunched in one hand and your panties in another, he shimmies his pants down to his knees. All of your wondering if he was into more than just men is silenced when his tongue makes first contact with your clit. He takes the time to swirl his tongue tantalizingly slow, then quickly flicking his tongue upward, making your knees buckle until they land at the back of the couch just above his shoulders. You lean into it as he writes letters to you with his tongue, teasing the entrance to your cunt with his fingers and gathering the wetness until his fingers are slick.

You’re about to beg for it, cry for his fingers to penetrate you, but you don’t have to because he plunges in to the hilt. There is no easing into it, he thrusts his middle and ring finger at a break neck speed. Your skin feels white hot and the only purchase you can find is in squeezing the fabric balled in your palms and Klaus skewers you and torches every one of your nerve endings with his hot mouth and fingers.

Your high is coming to a head, literally and figuratively, when Klaus retracts all attention. You whine, pouting and pitiful, when he says something that surprises you:

“You’re gonna cum, right? Order me. Order me to make you cum. I’ll obey.”

So you do.

“Fuck— Klaus. Fuck! Make me cum. Make me cum on your face.”

When he returns to your cunt he’s unmerciful, working you back up to and through your high before you can even realize it’s happening. You barely savor it before you’re convulsing, sinking your knees further until they rest on his shoulders and he has to grab you by the ass to hold you up. You hadn’t been touched like this since before you had met Klaus, and you wanted more. Insatiable and prone, you make your next move untangling yourself from his grasp.

Sinking down, you feel the old wood creak beneath your stiff knees. This would hurt like a bitch, but when Klaus smiles down at you with his face covered in the wetness of your orgasm, you can’t find a reason to care. His smile is genuine, wide and splitting, the same look he gives you when you come home with pizza. Well, this was about to be better than pizza. The tip of your tongue touches the head of his cock first, a tiny testing lick earning a full body shudder from the man in front of you.

“Please don’t tease. Do a guy a favor. Please baby?”

You’re a sucker for his pleading, and just as he didn’t give you time to adjust, you don’t give him any warning before you sink your entire mouth down on him, only stopping to hollow out your cheeks when his tip hits the back of your throat. You hold it there for a moment, and then only gag as your lungs run out of oxygen. Klaus could be a substitute for oxygen, you’d gladly rather take him in than anything you would have tried before.

He whines, you notice. High pitched and needy. He would probably do anything I asked right now to cum, you think, but you quickly dismiss the thought. In a way you’re glad it’s you sucking his soul out through his cock and no one else, because he’s putting so much of himself into this. You wonder if he’s been taken advantage before. You hope not.

You banish the thought by moaning around the head of his cock. You revel in his reaction, to bury both of his hands in your hair as he all but sobs out “oh god please keep doing that” or something like that, you can’t really tell for sure over the rush his touch sends straight back down to your core.

As much as you want to worship his cock, your own tears from gagging on it start to sting your eyes. So you pull off him, just long enough to ask,

“Do you want me to finish you like this? Or another way?” Pausing to kiss the underside of his cock before adding, “You can have any part of me you want”

It’s like a flip switches, and he’s pulling you back up, pulling your skirt down and off of you in fluid motion, before you take your spot straddling him again. Impatient, he pushes you down onto him, thrusting away immediately finding a groove.

“Oh I’m gonna make you cum— gonna be real good for you. M-make you feel real good.” He’s a stuttering, groaning mess as he thrusts up into you.

“You feel amazing inside me. You’re doing so good, Klaus. Making me feel amazing,” you coo, doing everything to praise and encourage him. “I’m gonna cum, can you feel that? It’s all for you, do you want that— OH”

The thought caught mid air stopped short by a particularly accurate thrust right into a spot that makes you scream, your second orgasm of the afternoon now much closer than it had been. You feel your muscles clench as you bear down on him, trying to make Klaus hit that spot over and over. By the way his rhythm is almost non existent, you can tell he’s almost there too.

Something crosses your mind, and before you fully process the thought, one of your hands is wrapping around his throat, fingers and thumb squeezing deftly so that you don’t close the airway, but that he sees stars. That does it.

Klaus cumming is almost more beautiful than it feels. His cock twitches and paints your insides, and you cum from the sensation as well, but the blissed-out fucked-out face smiling up at you is to see heaven itself. His eyeliner is streaked with tears, his lips swollen and bruised, a smile splitting his face in two.

You move to get up, maybe clean yourself up, but at least put your panties back on. Klaus stops you though with his hands gently but firmly on your hips, holding you in place.

“Just stay. For a bit. I’m not one of those dames you can deflower and avoid their calling cards.”

A snort of laughter. A joke covering real insecurity; you can see right through it.

“Klaus, you were deflowered long before I ever got here, but I’m not gonna go anywhere. You shot me, I’m your prize buck.”

#my work #klaus x reader #klaus hargreeves x reader #klaus hargreeves imagine #klaus hargreeves smut #smut #tw drugs #addiction tw #drugs cw #prize buck series

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ofmythsandmadness · 4 years ago

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i need a favour - seven.

PART SEVEN - bullet wounds and wounded hearts. (or, in which, they’re just too eager for some relief from the pain that no one gives a shit about labels anymore). WORD COUNT - 3318. A/N - forgot i wrote this, forgot about it for months & here we are. sorry. i’ve not really had much interest in writing this or anything in this style on here lately, but i didn’t want to leave this totally abandoned. figured, there’s no point in letting it rot away, might as well post (and for some reason, there’s been a spur in people reading this, so.) START FROM THE BEGINNING - one | two | three | four | five | six

PEOPLE THEORIZE A LOT ABOUT COMAS. And more specifically, what they do to a person.

More specifically than that, where a person goes, once in one. What the mind and psyche creates for them, where and when they escape off to while their body falls apart. If they relive their life’s best and worst moments until they can return to reality, if they dream on continuously - like the world was just one bad trip, and waking up they would not even realise their sleep had lasted more than a day. Or, if the person’s aware of everything around them, just unable to open their eyes and rejoin life - but maybe that was something totally different entirely.

But it was nothing like that, for her.

There was no way to tell just how much time transpired, when out; it could have been an hour, a couple days, three years tossed down the drain, for all she knew. Time moved so much differently, lost in the hellish dreamscape of the inbetweens of life and death.

For the most part, she felt absolutely nothing at all. Not even a sense of drowning, or darkness, or anything around her; like she was dead, her brain was turned off, and really...nothing at all. The only way she knew she was still alive and things were happening was when her brain woke up just a little, enough to send her into panics she could not express. She still could not move or speak or fucking breathe on her own, but she felt the world crashing in, sluggish and deafening around her. People moving around her, voices, loud noises echoing like crashes and explosions that she could not place. It felt like she had been laid down in a warzone, paralysed from head to foot and forced into silence. Just waiting for her eventual death.

And the voices...she really could not distinguish most. Or if they were even real. She got flashes of familiarity, phrases and sentences that added up to only nonsense in her mind - threats of violence, promises, old memories so faded they might as well be someone else's. None of it made sense. It just made her feel more and more scared, and trapped, every time she ‘woke up’ again. Left her craving the still of death once more, waiting for its skeletal hands to cradle her trembling figure again.

Finally, however, she heard the first real sound in a long time. She left the stillness to a strange noise, not a voice but a repetitive beep that would not turn off. At first, she thought it was also in her mind and that if she just ‘shut’ her eyes, sleep would once more overtake her - but despite her mental protests, the sound wouldn’t stop. If anything, it got louder, forcing her forward until she could just about think of opening her eyes.

And then, the beeps were joined by another sound; soft, almost non-existent mumbles, or snuffling of something? Something alive, not a machine, but...Y/N wasn’t sure what it was at first.

That was, until she began to move. With all the strength possessed in her frail figure, she pushed her lids open, blinking away copious tears welling at the bright light and forcing her eyes to work again.

She found herself in a small, white room - and though her mind seemed a million miles away, she could sort of guess it was a hospital room. There really was not much around her, the bed being the main furniture. The beeping came from her right, and she was able to crane her neck just enough to see some sort of monitor, the sort she would have seen on a crappy doctor’s show. With flashing lights and graphics she really couldn’t make out and honestly just hurt her head. She turned away from that pretty fast.

To her left, however, was a different story. She found the other source of the noise; Diego was slumped over in a chair too bony to be comfortable, softly snoring away. Which was never a good sign. The man was a quiet, still sleeper, like he was always waiting for something to happen - but after too long without sleep, his body would collapse into emergency catch-up mode. She had seen it many times after he’d come to her. And he always snored then.

She sighed, letting her head fall back against the pillow. There was no pain, which she guessed was either good or bad (who knew what the doctors were pumping through her veins, eh?) but her mouth was bone dry and she felt helpless, like even calling out for Diego was a deathly trial.

Y/N craned her neck again, taking his slumped figure in. He was almost right next to her bed, close enough that if she could reach out -

-her hands shook like tsunami waves, crashing against his black jacket like jagged knives of limestone on a cliff. She just could not find strength enough to angle them right, finding herself only able to brush the man and hope he felt her touch from wherever he had drifted to. Forget calling out; she could only mimic motion in the barest of touches, waiting for something to happen.

Luckily, it only took maybe a minute for him to stir. Slowly at first, then when realising what woke him up, he was up in seconds. His hands met her own, squeezing tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he croaked out, voice hoarse and worn out - she could only imagine how much stress-induced yelling he had been doing. Begging for something to be done, snapping at anyone who tried to get him to move; the guy was all too predictable. “I just fell asleep, I-”

“-s….okay…” Her vocal cords felt rusted over; how long had it been since she spoke? Her hand left his, gesturing weakly towards her throat. “Wa...wa...ter?”

“Shit, right.” He left her side and grabbed at a glass by her right. Within a moment he was by her left again, bringing it up to her lips. His hands shook ever so slightly. “Careful.”

But she ignored his word and slurped at it eagerly, too parched to be ashamed at how childlike her actions were. Too long had her throat been forced dry - how long had it been since the relief of a glass of water?

Once she had drunk enough, she waved it away, doing her best to smile. “Thanks.”

“Course.” His eyes remained on hers, steady and dark. “How...how are you feeling?”

She glanced away for a moment to look down at herself in the bed, before looking back. Slowly, Y/N shrugged. “M’not sure...weird. I don’t know how I should feel.”

“Right. Well, you’re on a shit load a’drugs, so I guess that’s stopping the pain. Uh...you remember what happened?”

She frowned. “Sort of. More...I don’t know. Remember the pain...like burning, on my side. Talking...was there a Polish chick?”

Diego didn’t crack even the tiniest of smiles. “Ukranian. But yeah. She was with you when it h-hi-she called the ambulance.”

“Right.”

“Look, Y/N, I am so-”

Before he could continue, a new voice joined the duo, one Y/N was certain she did not know. She tore her eyes away from the man by her side to take him in; tall, gray-haired and smiling from ear to ear. It made her a little uneasy, the look; was this how all gunshot victims were treated? With doctors who thought big grins and happy tones were a good answer? If she didn’t already have a headache, she would by just one look his way.

“Good to see you up! Was wondering when that’d be happening.” He seemed to grin even larger, if that was even possible, and made his way around her bed. She watched him fiddle with something behind her, before moving into her view once more. “How are you feeling?”

“Um...weird,” she mumbled, struggling to find any words to describe the feeling. “Tingly.”

“No pain?”

“Not really.”

He nodded. “Good. You’re going to be hopped up on pain meds for a while, but just let someone know when you start feeling anything.”

“Okay.”

Once more, he nodded. He looked like a bobblehead, almost, in the ways his head swivelled and shook on his too-small neck. “You got quite lucky, I must say. Good support system. This guy, right here? Barely moved at all while you were out.”

Her hand squeezed a little, in Diego’s. “How long was I out?”

“About three days, after surgery.”

“S-surgery?”

His grin got a little strained, there, but somehow still remained. Impressive. “Yes. Yeah, we had to get you straight into intensive care after you were brought in. The bullet hit your right hip, just about here-” he grazed the blanketed leg lightly, “-but then travelled downwards into your leg. Which was somewhat good, you avoided serious damage to your hip, but it did nick your femoral artery.”

Y/N frowned, glancing down to where his hand hovered. She could not even remember feeling pain in her leg; it had radiated from her hip alone. “How...how did it go down?”

“Well,” the man sighed, “from what we could gather, you were at just the right angle for the bullet to go straight through the hip. Since it didn’t hit that bone - again, a lucky point on your part, it tore right through and down to your upper thigh. The bullet actually remained lodged, which made reason for surgery. If it had come straight through, well, I don’t know what situation we’d be in but you were very fortunate. Held you from bleeding out on us.”

Something about the emphasis on ‘lucky’ made her feel somehow worse. Like she was a kid all over again, and before getting the bad news, her parents had to amp up the few ‘good’ things about the situation. She really wished he would stop smiling.

“How much...I…” she weakly lifted her hands, gesturing downwards. “How much damage has been done? In simple terms...please.”

His grin shrank a little more. “Well, that’s a bit complicated. The surgery was a success, although there were several blood transplants needed to cover that hit your artery sustained. However, because of said bleeding, and the way the bullet hit, it will be a long recovery time. The leg muscles are built to be used, but when damaged as yours was, well - I can bring in the charts and explain this to you simply, if you want?”

Y/N bit her lip, hard enough to rip through. Absent-mindedly, she noticed the taste of blood, licking a bead of red off. “Long?”

“The timeframe is hard to estimate,” he said - and at least that time, he had the courtesy to look semi-apologetic. “After a couple days, we’ll check in and see how well the limb is functioning, if the muscles are healing properly. You should be able to head home by that time, if it's healing right. But I’m afraid you're not going to be able to use the actual limb for a while.”

Vaguely, from what felt like far away, she heard Diego curse. The doctor kept talking, throwing around words she could not understand, verbal warfare against her already panicking mind, creating a chasm of stress and fear inside her brain. She wanted to do something, reassure him, ask the doctor what she could do and when - but it was impossible when she herself was drowning in panic.

Where had Diego gone? Why did he feel so far away? He sat beside her, but his hands were fidgeting and his face tight, and she just wanted him to tease her, hug her, promise her that she wasn’t lo-

“-judging by your faces, this isn’t sounding great but I promise, you’re in the best possible case scenario. I mean, you got here at the best time, you’ve had the best working to put you back together. And physical therapy will be a big help, you’ll be recommended some top-tier-”

“-whenwillIbebetter?”

Her words were hardly a breath, leaving right along with the little air in her system, but Diego still heard it. He clutched tight to her tsunami waves for hands and looked pleadingly the doctor’s way. “Can we h-have a moment?”

“I-” his eyes darted between the two, before resigning to an answer. “Sure. A nurse will be in at five, with me. Let me know if anything happens.”

Diego just nodded and watched him leave. The second he was out the door, he turned her way, hands moving from hers to hold her face, brush away the tears quickly slipping down her cheeks. Blearily, she made out his own eyes, swimming with emotions she had not seen from him in a long, long while. “Hey. Hey, it’s - it’s g-g-gonna-”

“-I got shot,” she huffed, struggling to get the words out between sobs. “I got shot, I got - I can’t walk?”

“That’s not -”

“-holy shit, Diego,” she cried, and in an instant his arms were around her, holding her as close as he could to his own trembling figure. She tried to talk, but failed and simply gave into the sobs. Words struggled to make their way through, really indiscernible and lost. Whatever it was, Diego could probably guess the point they were making - and it did not ease the guilt bubbling in his stomach for a second.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” she whispered, sobs turning into quick huffs of breaths caught like she was running out of air. “You - the guy - the way he talked - I’m so fucking-g screwed.”

“Don’t say that.”

“That’s how they do it, don’t they? Make you feel...lucky, like you dodged a -” she stopped to snort, like any of this was funny - “-a bullet, but you’re really screwed.”

“Stop.”

“What if I never walk again?”

His arms stiffened around her - only for a second, but enough for her to notice. It was not a thought only she had had. What more did he know? “I...l-look, you’ve always said it best. Look at the bright side.”

She slipped out of his grasp then, pulling back so he could see her face. Stained with tears and puffy, with red and dark circles alike taking a toll on the previously bright expression. She was scared, and rightfully so.

“I don’t know how to do that,” she mumbled, staring him down as though somehow, she could give him all the fear through her eyes, make him feel all the things she did. And maybe she could, because the longer he looked, the harder it felt to keep his own composure.

“I don’t know how to do that...not with this.”

Diego didn’t say anything to that. All he did was hold her a bit tighter and sigh heavily as he traced circles into her back with shaking hands. In return she used his shoulder as a tissue and openly sobbed, uncaring as to who saw or what repercussions came. As far as she could see, it didn’t matter anyways. Did it?

“What do I do now?”

Her words were soft, kitten mews into the heavy silence. Accented only with another heavy sob.

“I don’t know, Y/N.”

She cried a little harder. His arms couldn’t hold her close enough.

“But I’ll be right there with you. M’not letting you go, not now.”

She sniffled. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? I mean it.”

“I’m a fuck-”

“-shut up,” he murmured, hand finding hers and closing over it. He held it to his own pounding heart. “I’ll be there. That’s that. Okay? W-whatever happens, I will be there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N shut her eyes and leant her head against his dampened shoulder. She let herself focus on the sound of his heartbeat and the steadily beeping machines, somehow a semi-relaxing melody despite the stress behind each. She squeezed his fingers gently.

“O...kay. Okay.”

She felt his lips meet the crown of her hair, then his own head fall against hers. And then it was just nothing more than the two of them. A small duo, amidst the chaos of it all, finding just a moment of peace before things got even worse.

That was not the end of her tears shed that day, far from it. She cried more than she had in years, maybe more than her entire life. She cried when her sister came, when her dad showed up and told her her mother couldn’t get away from work, she bit through her lip trying to hold back the tears when her class’ warm messages of ‘get better’ finally got delivered. The dam was broken; the water dripped freely down her cheeks, waterfalls of emotions held back for too long.

Six weeks was a minimum of her being able to properly walk again, and it felt like it was a lifetime. The doctor broke down physical therapy rules, recovery times, prescriptions and all the ways she could be fucked otherwise by this wound, and the nurse pumped her to the brim with all sorts of medicines she couldn’t begin to pronounce. Her sister pretended to cry before leaving and her dad drank through six straight coffees, dumping packet upon packet of Splenda until the garbage can was filled with paper and cardboard cups. The doctor droned on and on, and the nurse kept ‘checking up on her’, and everyone kept wishing her fake sentiments and fake smiles that might as well be placebos, sent to placate her weakening psyche.

It was only hours later, when there was any relief. When they were all gone, and yet for some reason, Diego stayed.

“Don’t’cha have to…” she cleared her throat, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “Y’know. Fight crime? Play neighbourhood superman tonight?”

Diego shook his head. His grasp on her hand tightened and it was only then when she realised how long he had held on. She had gotten used to the feeling, with her own fingers limp and weak throughout the day, and yet he had traced steady circles into her skin for the entire day and into the night.

“Not tonight.”

“Diego...I’ll be okay.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Just go, I’ll-”

“-m’not leaving,” he grunted, firm and hoarse. He ducked his head so she could not see his expression, but Y/N did not have to see his face to know what he was thinking. “S’all.”

She was exhausted and still weak, and the limbs that did work didn’t seem to want to, but still she tried. Y/N adjusted herself on the hospital bed and laced her fingers properly through his, gripping tighter than she could all day. His head moved at that, but did not lift.

Carefully, she lifted their joined hands to her chapped lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. The lump in her throat grew larger, and she found herself unable to speak more than a ‘thank you’, but maybe it was more than suffice, for the two of them.

Only then did their eyes meet, and his other hand moved to grip tight to theirs. Diego’s lips quivered, but he stayed silent, simply letting go of the breath held back in his own throat. Their faces remained close, separated only by their own hands, but holding onto the matched caring gaze reflected on both of their faces.

There was a feeling of mutual fear, and grief, and shame and loss that ascended the wound - years of pain between the two of them that sped up to meet this moment joyfully. But they did not speak on any of it. Just held tight to one another, even as her hands grew weary and trembling and his gaze grew dark.

She fell asleep looking at him, and feeling finally, the littlest bit of hope.

TAG LIST (let me know if you want to be added or removed) - @asexualmarauder @thatshellfiredean @the-bird-suit @rangotangomango @fandomsandmore394 @thatkidofwarandpeace @antoouu @soul-of-a-traveller @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @artsyle @asuperconfusedgirl @fic-cheesecake @spacenerdpascal @doctorsgirl262

#i need a favour series #diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves series

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bunnylouisegrimes · 5 years ago

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Justice For My Carl (TWD Fic)

A/N: I wrote this a long while ago, but I’ve been having a lot of shit going on recently, so I felt like publishing it. It sums up my feelings about TWD pretty well (it’s a little more extreme to fit the story, but still). Hope y’all can enjoy it. It’s my first TWD fic in a while (and my first fic in general in a while), and maybe one of my last TWD fics (and last fic for a while). My big story with my 14 year old OC? I have no clue when it’s going to be done. My life has gotten so busy these past few months and I expect it to be just as busy if not busier for the next. Plus, Charlie/NOS4A2 has become more of a main interest to me. I’ll never stop loving Carl or my other fanfics from other stuff, however, including TWD. Please, enjoy.

Justice For My Carl

By: Bunny Louise Grimes

Recently, Negan has been a little upset, and questionably concerned, that I had been going outside in the middle of the cold night, uptop the fire escape of his factory, lost and grieving, but I had reminded him that he too was lost and grieving always carrying around that bat, and that seemed to shut him up, although I did receive a quick backhand slap as punishment for even using her against him and speaking of her that way. I apologized and he forgave, though I could tell he was still ticked. I had told him that me being outside was safe (due to his watchmen being like gargoyles in a church) and that I deserved it. I work hard and do what you ask, I had said. I deserve a reward, don’t I? Isn’t that what you’re all about?

He nodded and said, “Very well then. I suppose. Just don’t do anything stupid. Don’t fall off the edge of it or something.”

“Trust me, I’ve contemplated it,” I said. “After loosing my beloved, I’ve thought about it, but I’ve never came to a desicion. I’m sure you can relate to those feelings, right?”

He held back a deep chuckle and leaned back against the armchair. The sound of leather meeting leather and rubbing against each other filled the dim room. His zippers and belt also made some light metallic noises. The night was already quiet, and perfect for him to catch me uptop his fire escape in the night.

“Ah, kid,” said he, “I didn’t want to kill myself. That’s fuckin’ weak. I wanted to find a purpose. I wanted to find people to lead. I had nothing after my Lucille was gone, but I knew I wasn’t going to fucking kill myself. I’d die if I’d die, so fucking be it. But I wanted to find people to be with and lead. And what do you know? Months later, I found it. So next time you think of jumping off that ledge, think of me, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay,” I replied, appreciating his “kindness.”

“Now run along,” he shooed me away. “Go get some rest or something. I’m gonna go see if my wives are available. If not, my Lucy here is gonna get some good ol’ special time with Negan.”

I wanted to laugh, but I gave a weak smile. Really, laughter was hard anymore. I knew that if my dear was still alive, we would share a laugh over his dirty and eccentric humor, despite him not exactly being an ally.

The next morning, things were fairly normal, the constant hum of life throughout the industrial sanctum, when Simon approached me. Tall and lanky, with a ridiculous mustache, he almost looked like the bad guy of a cartoon or a Tim Burton character to an extent.

“So,” he told me. “You got a visitor.”

“A visitor?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“Someone from Hilltop,” he explained. “He said he’d like to speak to you.”

“Very well then,” I replied, walking with him. “I will see him.”

The right hand man led me to the room where the inner circle would have their meetings. I would know because Negan allowed me to be there. He would let me run basic errands when requested by his best of the best and knew I barely spoke a word to anyone, especially about what they talked about, even to my friends from long ago. Even to Rick and Michonne, and little Judith, there was nothing to say. To Daryl, who was locked up briefly, and now released to do the most backbreaking things alongside Rick, words were lost.

We entered the room. Negan sat in that comfy chair with wheels with his bat by his side. I looked and saw someone else across from him on the table. His hair was crazy and dark, somewhat curly. His facial hair was dark as well. His skin was tan. His dark brown eyes turned to look at me. He was dressed in greyish tan clothing. He stood up. He was taller than me like my Carl was. His demeanor was soft and gentle.

“Hey,” his quiet voice greeted. “I hope you remember me.”

Remember you? I thought. I looked deep into my broken mind, trying to figure out who he was. So many faces now all a blur to me. The only face that stood out amongst the rest was my love’s.

He cleared his throat. “You... look... the same. Maybe... different.... worse than before... but still... you.”

Like the spark of a flame, a sense of familiarity started to dawn on me. He looks... like...

“I hope you are recovering well from your loss.”

He knows about my loss? Of course he would. Everybody across this whole post apocolypse globe practically knew. I bet people who hadn’t even met us knew about it. It was like the gunshot heard across the world. I was the girl who lost her love, and to all of us, regardless if we had hope or not, we were the people who lost the future.

“I understand, maybe it’s not the best timing?” He tried. “Or maybe... you’re unhappy with me.”

Unhappy with you? Why? I thought. It wasn’t your fault the future is dead. It’s mine. I got him killed. Carl tried saving me. You didn’t have to live with that guilt.

“Go ahead,” Negan urged. “You can say something.”

No words could come out of me. I just stood there, Simon beside me, drinking his tequila, the silence of the room deafening.

“You really don’t remember me?” He asked, surprised. “I expected you to be furious with me, my name and face burned into your mind.”

Name and face? Millions of names and faces were blurred together like in a melting pot and I couldn’t differentiate one from the other. Only one name and face stood out, like a beautiful imperfection on a painting.

He began to wring his hands nervously, clearing his throat again. “Uh... shall I introduce myself once more?”

Did I meet him in the sewer? I thought. Wait... those sewers... damp, disgusting, the low hanging strong stench adding to the weight on my entire body... somebody asking if he could get some meds... who was that? His voice was... that person’s voice...? But why was he there in the first place? We hadn’t met him before coming to Alexandria. We didn’t meet him there, did we? No, that can’t be right. We met him... where?

“We met at the gas station, and then the woods?” He tried again to jog my broken and sluggish memory clouded with grief.

Woods, I thought. Damn woods. So beautiful and peaceful to me before my loss, now a constant reminder of my loss. But... wait...

It hit me.

You were there.

You witnessed my foolishness getting my love killed. He couldn’t save both of us, right?

Wait, no...

I’m right. He couldn’t save both of us.

But... I never hit the ground and got surrounded. I know this because I couldn’t remember feeling the hard ground and seeing living dead faces around me. That was wrong. That was at the prison. Carl had two eyes in that memory. He had one eye for quite a few months now.

I remembered it wrong.

Which meant that I wasn’t foolish and Carl died saving me... you were foolish...

Which meant he died saving you.

You got him killed.

You were the fool who killed the future.

My heart sank. My God...

I remembered it wrong! I was so devestated and heartbroken that I put the blame on myself. I took an old memory and used it against me. I wanted to think of Carl dying with a purpose, not trying to save someone so stupid and pointless, but I thought the opposite was reality.

I blamed myself for no reason.

It wasn’t me, it was him.

My fists clutched in tight balls. I looked into him with fire and fury in my eyes. I began to sweat. I was burning a furious fever.

No forgiveness for you.

You bringing back the truth just awoke a sleeping giant.

I slammed him down against the table in a fit of seething enragement. I loomed over him, irate and heartbroken. Tears and sweat poured from my body onto his goosebumps covered and hair raised skin. He was pissing and shitting himself all at once. Good. This lousy excuse for a human being should be afraid.

“You.... murdered the future!” I screamed. “You killed him! You killed the future of us all! You made me blame myself for weeks! Do you know the pain I’ve felt?! Do you know how we all have no hope and purpose to live?! Why should you get to live when he doesn’t?! I will kill you, you bastard!”

Simon pulled me off of him, but I jumped out of Simon’s arms and slammed myself back on top of the inferior one. His breath rattled as I landed on his chest. I clutched my hands on his neck and began to squeeze the life out of him.

Negan intervened and I felt two leather arms around my stomach area heaving me up. He was surprisingly stronger than Simon was. Or perhaps he just happened to have a better grip on me. I kicked and screamed and fought. No! Negan, you are hindering me from wiping him clean! Don’t you understand?! He needs to die!

I screamed with tears streaming down my face. My face felt hot and red. To an outsider, I looked like a kid having a fit at a toy store and Negan was my father trying to calm me down and get me out of the store. But I wasn’t heartbroken and angry about not getting a toy. I was heartbroken and angry about not getting a chance at having a purpose for carrying on in this world anymore, along with others not. Carl was going to lead us all, and I would be alongside him. But this... thing... killed it all.

“Negan!” I screamed. “Let me kill him! Please! Let me throw him in the fire! Iron his entire body!”

Negan didn’t respond and instead shushed me as he held me close to him. Not facing him, of course. I was squealing and squirming and fighting like a pig about to be thrown into an oven. I glared at the terrified and petrified fool, staring dumbfounded at my fit. He wasn’t guilty at all. He was just... horrified at me.... not his actions.... but wasn’t I a byproduct of his actions?

I was what he made me.

I shouldn’t have let a foolish and useless being get to me this much. But all I needed was to eliminate him. It wouldn’t fix things, but by God, justice must be served!

Negan continued to try to silence me and calm me down when I saw Lucille sitting on the table.

She visits my love. She comforts him and keeps him company. She would understand Carl. She would understand the decision I would make. If the sickness that killed her was the person in front of us, Negan would make the decision I was about to make, so he would understand. But he didn’t think like that in the moment, which was why he was preventing me from grabbing the bat and ending this sad sack of shit.

“You need back up, boss?” Simon asked.

“I got it,” Negan sputtered.

“Let me kill him!” I cried. “Please!”

“Just settle down,” Negan whispered. “It’s okay.”

None of it was okay. The one who killed the future was to get away Scott free... justice must be served.

That’s when I went absolutely apeshit crazy and practically jumped out of Negan’s arms and back into the table. I crawled as fast as I could to the bat. I grabbed her just as Negan grabbed my foot.

“Just one hard swing to his head!” I squealed. “That’s all it takes!”

I got loose and jumped up. I ran over to the scared thing like a battle charge into a war and raised the barbed and beautiful bride above my head.

I could see the fear in his eyes. I could smell his fast flowing blood. I could hear his fast heartbeat. I could taste his sweat. I could feel his trembling and panic against my skin.

“Now die!” I screamed.

I was slammed down on the table by Negan grabbing my leg and making me trip. I nearly lost my teeth as my chin slammed against the table. I cried out in pain. Lucille rolled away from me and Simon grabbed her before she landed on the floor.

“Give her back to me!” I yelled. “Justice must be served!”

Negan pinned me in the same position again and said, “Give her to me.”

Simon obeyed, a little weary. Negan, holding me with one arm tight around me, tight enough that it was hard to breath, took Lucille in his hand and hit her wooden handle against my head.

I immediately went limp and felt heavy. My head hurt. I was seeing stars and spots. No, I thought. I lost. He gets away. I can’t fight anymore.

Tears poured down my cheeks and a weak and pathetic sob escaped my lips.

Negan buried my face in his neck and shushed me again, telling me reassuring and calming things. My fist was weak against the durable leather on his shoulder and went weaker, slipping down his body and dangling like a loose fishing line. I wept weakly into his jacket and neck. I was in pain both physically, mentally, and emotionally.

“Maybe... it was a mistake to come here...” I could hear his voice shake.

“Simon, take this young man back to Hilltop,” Negan ordered.

“Yes sir,” Simon responded.

“Justice will prevail.” I managed to slur amongst my crying and gave him one last hateful look. My voice was muffled by Negan’s leather. Tears ran down my red eyes and puffy cheeks. “Your actions will have consequences. I will see you in Hell.”

Negan continued to shush me and quiet me even after Simon and the sad sack left the room.

“He’s gone now, okay?” He hushed. “You don’t need to freak out anymore.”

Exhausted and weak from my scene, I collapsed onto Negan, weeping until I couldn’t anymore and fell asleep.

When I woke, I must’ve been out for hours, because it was no longer daylight and instead close to dusk. Negan had left some cookies and hot chocolate for me shortly before I woke up, due to the hot chocolate being warm still. I knew that I could remicrowave it if I wanted, so that’s probably why he gave it to me in the first place.

I weakly got up and picked the mug up. I sipped it, every sip calming and dimming my angry thoughts. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he laced everything with sedatives. Heavy sedatives, especially, considering the fact that I went absolutely ballistic on that son of a bitch.

I chuckled, thinking of how amusing it was that he was that terrified of me. Good. I want you to look at me and feel that fear. You should. What was the saying? Tiny but mighty? I was always tiny but mighty. That’s how I survived this world.

After finishing everything, I layed back down and stared up at the ceiling, wishing death upon the little bitch, when my door opened. Negan walked through my door.

“Well, look who’s finally awake,” he smirked.

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“No,” he told me, almost confused at my question.

“He needs to be.”

“And what will that do?” He said. “You can’t change the fact that Carl is dead.”

“But he will not die in vain,” I said.

“Killing him will make his death inexcusable,” Negan told me. “He risked his life for that kid.”

“Nothing excuses my love’s death, especially risking his life for someone as stupid as that,” I growled. “You don’t understand, Negan. He survived everything else, but this was how he died? We have no future. He was the future. You said it yourself. I am not the future. I am no leader. You are right that I cannot summon him, but justice can be delivered.”

Negan sat silent, not knowing what to say.

“Just let me be, please,” I begged him. My head rolled over and I looked him the eye.

Negan got up and left, closing the door behind him. I gazed up at the ceiling more, the dimming and last traces of golden sunlight from the foggy windows spread out against the ceiling and watched as they slowly disappeared and the windows were instead dark.

After about an hour of this, I got up and snuck up to the fire escape. I gazed up at the starry and beautiful night. The cool winds felt amazing on my hot and weak body. I looked up at the sky, lost in my starry world, when I heard a voice come from behind me.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

I turned around and found myself taken aback by seeing him.

“How did you get here?” I demanded.

“I snuck in,” he explained. “Long story short, I managed to sneak into one of their cars and hid around the complex. I needed to talk to you. I needed to find you and speak to you.”

“Even after the fit I threw?”

He nodded.

I laughed. “You really are a fool. You just don’t get it. Come to think of it, nobody seems to get it.”

I turned back to the night and continued to speak to him.

“You killed the future. Have you no guilt?”

“I have guilt, of course. I didn’t know this would happen.”

“Well, it did. And now, you must live with that guilt for the rest of your life. Or rather... maybe you don’t...”

I chuckled darkly to myself, but he seemed too stupid to understand what I was inferring.

“I want to apologize for what I did.”

“Apologizing isn’t enough. I don’t think you understand just how badly you messed up. The whole future is gone. All hope is lost. It is not the grief talking. It is the truth.”

“If you cannot accept my apology, than that is on you.”

I growled and grabbed him by the shoulders. “None of this is on me. All of this is on you. You did this, and you must suffer the consequences. I begged you two not to do those things, and I tried to sacrifice myself for Carl, but I couldn’t because you got in the way. You prevented my chances of saving him by pushing me out of the way when I could’ve saved the future. You didn’t even save Carl when the zombies surrounded him and the undead were on top of him. This proves how weak you are. Who had to kill them? I did and he did. This was your plan. Why didn’t you take it into your hands to save him?”

Silence came from him.

“That’s what I thought,” I whispered, releasing his shoulders and walking towards the ledge again, looking down upon the concrete. God, it never looked as soft as it did in that moment.

“You are awfully close to that ledge,” he pointed out. “You’re not going to kill yourself, are you?”

I chuckled and smiled suddenly. “No. You know what? No. That’s the weak way. I’m not weak like you. I’m not going to do that. I’m not gonna do what Carl had to do. We both will have to die because of you, and I’m not having that happen.”

I turned to him and smiled, circling him slowly and deadly. “Justice will prevail. Your actions will have consequences. I will see you in Hell.”

I backed him against the railing. He shivered and shook as I looked him straight into his fear filled eyes.

“If the strong future doesn’t deserve to live, then a weak being like you shouldn’t. If we shouldn’t have a purpose in carrying on, then you shouldn’t.”

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t do this...”

“I’m sorry, Siddiq,” I told him. “But it’s how it’s gotta be.”

I used all of my might to throw him off of the railing. His screams must’ve died before ever leaving his throat because he didn’t make a noise as he went splat across the concrete.

A rush of relief, satisfaction, and tranquility filled me after the sound of his bones crushing against the concrete entered my hearing.

I chuckled and looked up at the starry sky. “Into this house we’re born, into this world we’re thrown. Like a dog without a bone, an actor out on loan.”

I went down the steps and to where the now dead body lay on his bed of concrete. I dragged him over and crept to the gate of undead, also known as No Man’s Land, unnoticed by the watchmen. I threw him in and the undead’s attention went to his carcass. They began to eat him and I smiled satisfyingly. By morn, they would think him another dead bastard.

I went back inside and went straight back to my dim room. I closed my door quietly, put on “Riders on the Storm” on my record player, ate a Cadbury egg, hugged the Future’s cloth hat and placed it close to my chest near my beating heart that seemed to be slightly revived by my murder. A smile spread across my face again and I nuzzled the hat lovingly.

“Justice for my Carl,” I murmered, falling into the best sleep I’d have in weeks. “Justice for my Carl.”

#the walking dead #twd #twd carl #carl grimes #the walking dead carl

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justatiredghost · 8 years ago

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Wakeup Call Chapter 1

So I accidentally started shipping my oc with Harry Carlyle. I wrote a bit of them first meeting at the beginning of the game. Rich is a disaster and has a crush immediately. Read More AO3

Doctor Richard Galen had never been a morning person. Even after over 600 years of sleep he still felt like death when they pulled him out of cryo, the world a blurry haze, and there was nothing on his mind except coffee. Well, he would have liked something a bit stronger, but that would have to wait; he'd be going on the clock soon. He knew the symptoms of extended cryo and what to look out for, but it was standard protocol to have another doctor check him out, so Rich just sat there at the edge of one of the beds, drinking coffee as he answered the other doctor’s questions automatically.

He was on cup number three when he was finally left alone to recover after his checkup and, slowly but surely, the world was coming back into proper focus. It was strange to think that they were no longer in the Milky Way, far from anything familiar. Sure, this is exactly what he had wanted, but it was still hard to get his mind around. Deep thinking wasn’t exactly his strong suit, however, so he decided to focus on his surroundings instead.

There were only a handful of people milling about, mostly doctors Rich had met before cryo. There was a big monitor on the far wall cycling through images, one even of a tropical landscape intended to depict one of the possible places humanity might be able to settle in Andromeda. Rich couldn’t help but scoff. It was all bullshit, of course. There was no way to predict what would truly await them here and Rich doubted they’d be that lucky. The only purpose the image really served was enticing people to join and keeping spirits up. Rich took another generous sip of coffee burning his mouth a little but he didn’t particularly care.

“Better take it easy,” another doctor said as he walked passed, heading to the coffee pot located conveniently next to Rich’s bed. “There’s going to be quite the line to the bathrooms here pretty soon once we start waking more people up.”

Rich’s mind was too sluggish at the moment to really respond, but he drained his cup anyway as he searched his memory for the man’s name. Harry Carlyle? That sounded right. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk before they left. He held his empty cup out and the doctor laughed. Once he’d finished filling his own cup, he filled Rich’s as well and headed back to his patient.

Rich only had a few minute left before he needed to get back to work so this time he tried to actually enjoy his last cup of coffee. At least the irritableness was beginning to subside. A little, anyway. His default was still generally grumpy. He looked around the room again, paying attention to where the different supplies were kept as well as watched the people, noting his new colleagues.

Somehow he kept finding his gaze pulled back to Carlyle though. The first thing Rich noticed about him was how soft he was, especially with his patients. Well, that wasn’t true, the first thing Rich noticed was how attractive he was, but he was trying not to acknowledge that. Carlyle had a gentle way of teasing people to make them feel more at ease, yet there was also a slight sharpness and wit there in the way that he occasionally pushed a joke just a little too far, his deadpan delivery making him difficult to read in a way that Rich greatly appreciated.

Rich caught himself staring at Carlyle’s jawline and forced himself to look back down at his mug. What was he doing? He’d only been awake for a few minutes and he was already crushing on one of his coworkers. Not exactly the best way to start his new life here. He had too many other things he needed to be focusing on right now. He should really get to his station and prepare for his first patient. He set his mug aside and stood up gingerly, trying not to groan at the stiffness in his muscles. He was definitely too old to make anymore 600 year journeys across space so this trip had better have been worth it. For good or ill, he was stuck with this life now.

The loud crash and the sudden loss of gravity definitely took Rich by surprise. He flailed about more than he’d like to admit and narrowly avoided hitting his head when the system was reset and gravity returned. He groaned, sore and bruised from the hard landing, something popping unpleasantly and he stood. At least his patient seemed fine. Rich scanned the room, but there seemed to be minimal injuries. Although he couldn’t help but notice the grin Doctor Carlyle shot him before he got back to work.

Hopefully that wasn’t going to be a regular occurrence. He didn’t exactly want to spend his days making a fool of himself and coming away with more bruises. Lots of people were asking what had happened, but Rich just doubled down, focusing on his work and making sure his patients were doing fine. He knew how the military operated; they wouldn't be getting any proper information for a while. The next time he managed to get a break, he went straight for the coffee pot unable to resist another cup. He’d only taken one sip when a voice behind him took him by surprise.

“Looks like you got a few flips in back there,” Carlyle said and Rich was just glad he didn’t choke on the coffee.

“I hope you enjoyed it because there will not be a repeat performance,” Rich said, stepping out of the way so Carlyle could get at the coffee pot as well. “I'm getting too old for stunts like that.”

“It was very impressive,” Carlyle said, chuckling. “I hope you didn’t hit the ground too hard.”

Rich couldn’t help but get distracted by how pleasant it sounded. He had a gentle voice, deep and calming, one you couldn’t help but trust and Rich felt a pleasant warmth in his chest at the sound. Stop it, he told himself. Focus. I came here to work, flirting isn’t going to help, it’ll just bring more disappointment and heartache.

“My old bones will definitely be feeling it for a while,” Rich said, thankful he wasn’t prone to blushing. “So, any idea what the plan is for the rest of the day? It doesn’t sound like we have too many more sleepers to wake up.”

“I don't know about you but I'm going planetside shortly,” Carlyle said, flashing him a smile.

“Ah, part of the Pathfinder team, then? I didn’t realize I was in the presence of such an important person.”

“I’m really not,” Carlyle said, laughing again. “I’m just there in case someone stubs their toe.”

“Well, while you’re out there having fun, we’ll be here doing all the real work. Just do us all a favor and make sure they don’t set up shop in a swamp or something. Not exactly the best place for an outpost.”

“Make sure they set up in a swamp, got it,” Carlyle said with another smile as he set his empty cup down and headed for the exit with a friendly wave.

Rich watched him go, hoping he and the others would all make it back in one piece. But then, when did these sorts of things every go smoothly?

It was late as Rich made his way down the corridor, although you couldn’t exactly tell from the lights. They were always kept bright, simulating sunlight for those working opposite shifts, but it definitely confused one’s internal clock. He was exhausted, though, and he would be sleeping except he’d left his jacket in the med bay. Maybe his memory was going. Either way, he was sure he’d forget it entirely if he didn’t grab it now so sleep would have to wait.

As the doors to the med bay hissed open, he was surprised to see Carlyle there apparently deep in thought. He looked surprised at being interrupted and rubbed at his face quickly, either trying to get himself to return to reality or compose himself. Not exactly a good sign.

“Didn't expect to see you back so soon,” Rich said lightly, pretending not to notice as he went to retrieve his jacket, giving him a bit more privacy if he needed it.

“Yes, well, I guess out here things never quite go as planned,�� Carlyle said distractedly.

“Things went that well, did they?” he asked sarcastically.

“Habitat 7 isn't going to be our new home if that's what you mean.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find us some place better,” Rich said. He stood awkwardly, not sure if he should leave, but Carlyle spoke before he could decide.

“Someone else will be doing that. I’m too old for all this. I’m not sure when that happened but I guess it’s better I realize is now. A lot went down out there. We lost a lot of good people. There are better hands than mine they should be relying on.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Rich said automatically. He wasn’t exactly one for this type of encouragement, but somehow he couldn’t help himself. Besides, he’d read all the other doctors’ qualifications before joining up and his was definitely the most impressive so hopefully this wasn’t all sentimentality. “If I ever stub my toe, I’d rather you be the one to patch me up. Still, if you think it’s best. I know I’ve been too old for all that excitement for a long while now.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m older than you,” Carlyle said with the hint of a smile and that made Rich more relieved than it should have.

“Not by much You wanna talk about what happened out there?”

“I suppose you’ll be hearing about it soon enough,” Carlyle said with a sigh. “The Pathfinder is dead.”

Ah. The words fell from Carlyle as if he had been trying to hold it back but couldn’t any longer. They sat heavily in the air and Rich new the implication was that Carlyle hadn’t been able to save him. They were both doctors, they knew they couldn’t blame themselves for every death if they wanted to last for any length of time in this job and they were both old enough to have gotten used to it all, but Rich had gotten the impression that he and the Pathfinder hand been friends. That always made things more difficult.

Rich wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that. He wasn't any good at this stuff. He supposed a ‘that's rough, buddy,’ wouldn't exactly help the situation and any reassurances would just sound insincere. They both knew it wasn’t technically his fault but that wouldn't stop him from beating himself up over it. Awkward silence wasn’t going to help either though and he wanted to do something to help. Too bad his style of coping wasn’t exactly healthy. Still, worth a shot.

“I brought some whisky here, pretty much the only thing in my personal effects,” he said instead. “Soon there won’t be any left in Andromeda. Care to share a bottle or two?”

“Well. I can’t exactly turn an offer like that down, now can I?”

#ryder #harry carlyle #mea #mass effect andromeda #mass effect #fanfic #cal writes stuff #harry x oc #probably more to come #richard ryder #richard galen #i'm writing about an oc who has a crush on a minor character #i really don't expect this to appeal to anyone #i just keep getting more and more self indulgent #this'll be part one #wakeup call #my fic

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tiredbiplantlady · 7 years ago

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bipolar ask posted by loloren69

General:

1. Type 1 or type 2?

I don’t really know. I could speculate as a psych master’s student, but I don’t feel comfortable making that call. I only know my therapist told me I was bipolar, said I was manic, and described mania to me and specified my behaviors that fell in line with that, no doubt about it, which would indicate bipolar I

2. Self-dx or professional dx?

Self-suspected, professional confirmed

3. Are you currently hypo/manic, depressed, mixed, stable, or not sure?

Hypomanic at the least, but it feels like I’m coming down because I’m exhausted for the first time in a while and 6 or 7 days of barely sleeping

4. Do you have any other mental illnesses/disorders?

I’ve had a diagnosable form of nearly every anxiety disorder in the DSM at different times since childhood and was diagnosed with various disorders from ADD to dysthymia and adjustment disorder. I consider my only other still-valid diagnosis to be PTSD, but it’s in remission.

5. When did you first start having symptoms?

In retrospect I’d say the mood problems started around 15, but it got way worse in 2014 and worse still in 2015. the depressive symptoms were out of control and may have been a mixed episode (age 22)

6. When did you realize/learn that you have bipolar?

I suspected it briefly as a teenager even though I didn’t know shit about it, but didn’t think about it again until the past year and then the past few months my therapist identified symptoms I described as hypomania and in the last week as mania

7. Have you ever received a misdiagnosis?

I don’t know if my former diagnoses were necessarily “misdiagnoses” - I think symptoms change over time, new things come up, other things trail off. I think one professional can see symptoms and call it one thing and another professional can call it something else. It’s complicated and subjective.

8. How self-aware are you on a scale of 1-10?

LMAO I am the most over-analyzing, self-aware person - easy 9 or 10

9. How many people know about your bipolar disorder?

Couple people. I’m skeptical about talking about disorders, especially new diagnoses because I’m insecure about what people think because I’ve received several from different professionals, and outside people tend to just see a shifting diagnosis and think I’m making shit up “new year, new diagnosis” always gotta have “something wrong with me” to talk about. Which isn’t how I feel and labels don’t really mean shit, it’s the symptoms and their treatment I care about. A label is just a fast way to describe something complex. sorry it took a while to figure out what was wrong and i went thru many labels before landing here

10. Are any of your family members bipolar?

Two formal diagnoses/very related diagnoses that I know of (grandma - MDD w/psychotic features, highly likely undiagnosed bipolar based on past behaviors (delusions, hallucinations, yelling on top of a roof, etc. police called, institutionalization), uncle - bipolar I w/psychotic features). some others I suspect, imo

11. Name three fictional characters you relate to and/or headcanon as bipolar.

Uhhh Ian Gallagher. I’m not creative with this right now and I haven’t thought about this at all.

Hypo/mania:

12. When hypo/manic, do you get euphoric, dysphoric, angry, creative, social, or several of the above?

It depends. It seems like I get euphoric, creative and social sometimes, and euphoric, agitated (not angry), and dysphoric other times. But those cluster together

13. What has been your longest hypo/manic episode?

I think it was from November 2016 to January 2017, so like 3 months, but it was the first “episode” I noted and kept even some track of after the fact. I may have had others in the past.

14. Have you ever had a psychotic episode? What symptoms did it include?

I’ve had two depressive episodes that I can specifically certainly note that included delusions (lasted just over a month to two months) of the somatic variety.

15. What kind of impulsive decisions have you made?

Where do I start? Over-spending, over-eating, drinking to excess, impulsive risky sex/sexual situations/hypersexuality, getting tattoos/piercings (kinda goes with spending, but I mention it specifically because it’s permanent), long-distance travel without telling anyone where I was going, cheating, lying, not thinking ahead and it hurting people, falling in love, ending relationships, general recklessness and selfishness. I’m sure there’s more and I’m not proud of it in the slightest, so please don’t think I am.

16. What’s the most money you’ve spent in a single day while hypo/manic?

$200-300

17. What’s the longest you’ve gone without sleep?

Period...um. I couldn’t say. Probably 2 with NO sleep and with minimal sleep (3-4 hours) over a week

18. Are you a creative type? Have you ever made a poem/song/other artwork about being bipolar?

I’m creative, but I don’t write about being bipolar because I never fully considered myself to be so until recently. I’ve written about mood instability and trauma a TON tho. And much of my art work is and always has been about duality, mixed emotions, extremes, and highs/lows.

Depression:

19. When depressed, do you get suicidal, bored, anxious, guilty, or several of the above?

It depends, but I’m mostly unmotivated as fuck and empty. I start feeling worthless and unlovable and I hate myself. Sometimes I feel suicidal, but have never attempted and won’t. I’ve self-harmed and planned how to kill myself, but was never intending to do it. I’ve spent the majority of my life in a state of constant anxiety so there’s that, especially when depressed. Irrational guilt and sluggishness are common for me with depression. Once in a while my mood dives along with my energy, but my mind is over-worked and highly anxious, which is when the delusions I’ve had occurred.

20. What has been your longest depressive episode?

Fuck...months upon months. I couldn’t tell you. Maybe even a year or more, which is why I was misdiagnosed as dysthymic as a teenager

21. How do you cope with depression?

In the past, I didn’t. I suffered massively. Now, I’m still not so great with it. I talk in therapy and I write, but even still I tend to stay in bed and feel numb/mope/distract myself with anything I can. I tend to be able to function enough to go to school because I feel like my life and future depends on it, am anxious as fuck, and do my best but end up with late work, being withdrawn and feeling doomed to fail, believe I’m doing far worse than I am and that I’m awful and don’t deserve to be there

22. Are you a sleep-all-day depressive or an insomniac depressive? Do you overeat or lose your appetite?

It depends, but in the most recent past, sleep-all-day and overeat. But I’ve been sleep-all-day and no appreciative and I’ve also been insomniac and overeat (2013-14)

23. When is the last time you cried or had a breakdown?

Tuesday August 1, 2017 (9 days ago)

24. Have you ever self-harmed?

YUP. Razor blades/cutting, punishing binge-eating, starvation, and abusive risky BDSM/relationships/sex

25. Have you had problems with substance abuse?

Not really, but I’ve drank a little lately

26. Have you ever attended AA/NA/etc?

27. Have you ever attempted suicide?

28. Have you ever written a suicide note?

Yes, but it was just to get it out. I threw it out after I wrote it.

Other symptoms and treatment:

29. Do you ever dissociate?

Y U P

30. Do you ever have hallucinations? If so, what are they?

No hallucinations. I’ve thought I’ve heard shit before, but I’m pretty sure it was a fluke and I want to believe in ghosts so. Call me crazy if you want, but what the fuck ever. I’ve had delusions only

31. Do you see a therapist? Do you feel like it’s helping?

Yes and yes

32. Are you on any medications? Do you feel like they’re helping?

No, not anymore, and I fucking hate anti-depressants, refuse mood-stabilizers and anti-psychotics and maybe want to keep having some anxiety meds

33. Have you ever been hospitalized?

No, and I want to keep it that way

34. Have you ever attended group therapy?

No, but I’ve conducted roleplay group therapy baahaha

35. Have any of your symptoms gotten worse over the years?

Yeah, I think the manic shit has gotten worse over the last 2 years

36. Have any of your symptoms gotten better over the years?

I think the depressive stuff has gotten a little better, or maybe just less frequent

37. Do you have a favorite coping method?

What does that mean...healthy or unhealthy...I guess I like meditation and I fucking miss working out A LOT. I like drinking as an unhealthy thing, but I’m sure I’ll hate it as much as I hate binge-eating once it catches up to me if I let it get that far. I’m tired of gaining weight after the 80 pounds I lost, and it’s really fucking with my self-esteem, makes me feel frustrated and sick

38. If you could choose to be neurotypical, would you?

#meandmine #mental illness///#general tw #self harm tw #alcohol tw #drugs tw #suicide tw

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