#// anxiety cw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

salembutnotthecat · 3 months

Text

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Ten Substitution

@monthofsick | day ten: sick with an audience motion sickness

tw for emeto, anxiety, motion sickness, brief description of crime scenes at the beginning

Not many things bothered Vanessa McAllister.

Vanessa McAllister was an EMT. She was a police officer. She was a behavioral analyst. She saw blood, guts, and gore on a regular basis. She victims with heads bashed in or riddled with bullets. She'd been to highway wrecks. She had crawled in through smashed windows, she had come to murder scenes and domestic calls.

There were few things that bothered or scared Vanessa McAllister.

Except the family of Willow Atkinson. They scared her.

Well, scared maybe wasn't the right word. But when Willow had mentioned Vanessa meeting them someday, that scared her.

Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had been creeping up on her ever since Willow had first mentioned the trip to meet her family and attend her brother Walker's season opener race. She had tried to mask her anxiety with excitement, but now, as they drove down the winding roads toward the small town where Willow's family lived, Vanessa's stomach churned with nerves.

As they journeyed down the winding roads, Vanessa attempted to distract herself with one of her crime novels. She figured immersing herself in a world of fictional crimes and investigations would provide a welcome escape from her mounting anxiety, as weird as it may be. But, she always was fond of making fun of the poor executions in books. However, try as she might to focus on the words printed on the page, her mind kept drifting back to the impending meeting with Willow's family.

She couldn't help but replay scenarios in her head, imagining all the ways the encounter could go wrong. What if they didn't like her? What if she said or did something to embarrass herself in front of them? What if they saw through her tough exterior and realized just how nervous she really was?

Willow didn't talk much about her family. Vanessa was sure there was probably some strain on the relationship, there had to be. Vanessa lnew what relational strain with family looked like, she lived it, so she never pressed Willow on it. But, it was understood by both of them that Vanessa needed to meet Willow's parents at least once before the two were set to marry. Vanessa would, in time, introduce Willow to her dad. But, probably not her mom. She really didn't want to take Willow to a maximum security prison. Even though Vanessa knew she could protect her, and knew Willow could protect herself, the idea of her sweet and mostly innocent fiancee entering a maximum security facility was almost laughable.

Vanessa glanced over at Willow, fidgeting with her engagement band, who was humming along to the radio, seemingly oblivious to her partner's inner turmoil. How could someone be so calm and composed in the face of such a daunting prospect? Vanessa couldn't help but envy her fiancée's seemingly unshakeable confidence.

But try as she might to emulate Willow's cool demeanor, Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her from within. The closer they got to their destination, the more her stomach roiled with nerves.

Suddenly, the car swerved around a particularly sharp bend in the road, jolting Vanessa out of her thoughts. She gripped the door handle tightly, her knuckles turning white as she fought back a wave of nausea.

"Shit, sorry," Willow said, "No clue what was in the road."

Vanessa shook her head, "No, no it's fine." He voice sounded tense.

"Hey, you okay?" Willow asked, casting a concerned glance in her direction.

Vanessa forced a tight smile. "Yeah, just… not a fan of these winding roads, I guess."

Willow reached over and squeezed her free hand reassuringly. "We're almost there, Nessie. Just a few more hours. Do you want me to stop at the next exit? We could fill up the car and you can take a breather, maybe get some water or something? I think the next one is like, five miles out?"

"Sure," Vanessa said, nodding, "I can run in and get us something to drink?"

Willow nodded, "Yeah, that sounds good."

As they approached the next exit, Willow guided the car smoothly off the highway and into the gas station parking lot. Vanessa felt a wave of relief wash over her at the prospect of a brief respite from the claustrophobic confines of the car.

"Here we are," Willow said, pulling up to one of the gas pumps. "I'll fill up the tank. You go ahead and grab us something, okay?"

Vanessa nodded gratefully, eager to escape the confines of the car for a few moments. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the crisp air, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

Inside the gas station, Vanessa decided to take a moment. She felt sick, but maybe if she just splashed some cold water on her face or soemthing, then it might calm her stomach down a bit. She pushed open the door and stumbled inside, collapsing against the sink as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

Closing her eyes, Vanessa took slow, deep breaths, willing herself to calm down. But despite her efforts, the feeling of nausea persisted, gnawing at her from the inside out.

With a frustrated sigh, Vanessa splashed some cold water on her face and forced herself to look in the mirror. She could do this. She had to do this, for Willow's sake if not her own. She didn't want to make the trip any harder for herself or Willow by getting sick..

Feeling slightly more composed, Vanessa made her way back to the front of the store, grabbing a few drinks and a snack for Willow before heading back out to the car.

Willow was just finishing up at the pump as Vanessa approached, a concerned frown on her face. "Hey, you okay? You were in there for a while."

Vanessa nodded, offering her fiancée a weak smile. "Yeah, just needed to use the bathroom. Here, I got you a drink and some snacks."

Willow's expression softened as she took the items from Vanessa's outstretched hand. "Thanks, Nessie. You didn't have to do that."

Vanessa shrugged, trying to play off her earlier panic. "No problem. Just trying to be a good partner, you know?"

Willow smiled, reaching out to squeeze Vanessa's hand. "You're the best partner I could ask for, Nessie. Let's get back on the road, yeah?"

With Willow's hand clasped firmly in hers, Vanessa felt a surge of determination coursing through her veins. She could do this. She could face whatever challenges lay ahead, as long as she had Willow by her side.

"So what is your brother doing?" Vanessa asked, hoping that maybe, possibly, talking would help her feel better. Or at least distract her from feeling so bad.

"Season opener race," Willow said, "He does motocross professionally. This is the start of the season. Like Novak, when he plays his first game of the season."

Vanessa nodded, "Yeah. Okay, makes sense."

"Yeah, our parents didn't exactly like it," Willow said, "But he loves it. So, I'm happy for him."

"But it stresses you out," Vanessa commented.

Willow nodded, "Of course it does. I work in an emergency room. But, he lives his life how he wants, I live mine. And my parents will feel whatever they want about it."

Despite the conversation, Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom that hung over her like a dark cloud. And as they continued their journey, the sense of dread only intensified, until it felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, one wrong move away from plunging into the abyss below.

Willow glanced over at her, concern etched into her features. "Hey, Nessie, you okay?"

Vanessa forced a weak smile. "Yeah, just a little queasy. Must be the winding roads."

Willow reached over and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We're almost there. Just hang in there a little longer, okay?"

"Wills, pull over," Vanessa forced out, "Please."

As they rounded another bend, Vanessa felt the nausea intensify. She pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself to hold it together. But it was no use. Willow pulled over immediately. With a groan, she pushed open the car door and leaned out, retching onto the side of the road.

Willow reached over, rubbing Vanessa's back carefully.

"Ah, okay, yeah, there it is," Willow murmured softly, her heart aching for her fiancée.

Vanessa moaned softly, tears stinging her eyes as she struggled to regain control of her rebellious stomach. "I… I don't want…"

"Better out than in, Nessie," Willow said, her voice gentle but firm. She knew Vanessa hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of her. But she also knew that sometimes, it was necessary to let it out.

Vanessa tried to comply, but her body seemed to have other plans. Wave after wave of nausea crashed over her, leaving her weak and trembling.

"Good girl, get it out," Willow murmured, offering words of encouragement as Vanessa continued to retch. She wanted to wrap her fiancée in a comforting hug, but she knew better than to risk getting too close in Vanessa's current state.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the waves of nausea began to subside. Vanessa slumped back in her seat, panting heavily, her face pale and sweaty.

Willow handed her a bottle of water and a pack of tissues, her eyes full of concern. "You okay, baby?"

Vanessa nodded weakly, accepting the water and tissues with a grateful smile. "Yeah, I think so. Just… nerves, I guess."

Willow squeezed her hand gently. "We don't have to do this if you're not up for it. Your health comes first."

But Vanessa shook her head stubbornly. "No, I'll be okay. I want to meet your family. And I wouldn't miss Walker's race for anything."

Willow smiled, her heart swelling with love for the strong, brave woman sitting beside her. "Okay then. But if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

Vanessa nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "Okay. Let's do this."

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #emetophilia #tw motion sickness #cw motion sickness #motion sickness tw #motion sickness cw #anxiety tw #anxiety cw #cw anxiety #tw anxiety #novemetober 2023 #novemetober rescheduled

16 notes · View notes

kurosmind · 2 months

Text

Putting under a read more for potentially upsetting talk

So uhhh is it normal to feel like if I set foot on that plane I Will Die. Strong gut feeling and all. Is it just anxiety? Idk idk

#Anxiety cw

13 notes · View notes

thewolveswolf · 2 months

Text

man idk what’s going on but i keep getting really intense anxiety at 2am, followed by insomnia

i’ve been triggered as all hell the last couple of days so i can only assume it’s that, but it’s like,,, cutting through my chest so viscerally it’s difficult to breathe???

the overthinking is eating me alive, my abandonment issues just abt have me pinned by the throat, i’m hypervigilant and i want to completely shut down and run away. over things that rly aren’t that big of a deal???

ig that’s the thing w trauma. i’m violently oscillating between “i am being ridiculous this is so insecure and small and stupid” vs. “no i’m right, something terrible is going to happen and i need to run”

its rly rly awful. i wish i wasnt like this. i wish therapy was making a difference for this quicker. i feel like such a burden;;;

#trauma cw #anxiety cw #personal #sorry i’m so glum atm #i find venting into the void super helpful #so pls don’t feel obligated to respond if u see this #i’m safe and okay in that sense #i’m just rly fucking sad and breaking my own heart i suppose

16 notes · View notes

thefreakandthehair · 1 year

Text

you ever get so anxious that you start actually folding the laundry you’ve been putting off while sipping chamomile tea because if you don’t actively do something, you’re gonna crawl out of your skeleton? or is it just me? 💀

#wedding planning is absolute hellscape and i am reminded constantly of how much i wanted to elope #too late now but if you’re considering eloping take this as your sign #anxiety cw #lore and more

39 notes · View notes

idiopathicsmile · 1 year

Text

telling an anecdote when you've got both ADHD and anxiety: sorry if i already told you this. and sorry if i already apologized for having told you this. and also sorry if i've also already apologized for apologizing for having told you this. oh and additionally sorry if i

#mental illness cw #anxiety cw

151 notes · View notes

commander-krios · 9 months

Text

A Shimmer of Gold

Fandom: Andromeda Six Pairing: Damon Reznor/Traveler Rating: Teen Summary: Cursa brings up some old wounds... and some new ones. Words: 4000 Additional Tags: Sexual Humor, Swearing, Banter, Blood, Minor Injuries, Anxiety, Flirting, Sexual Tension, Budding Love, Mutual Pining

Read on AO3

~~~~

Damon hadn’t seen their resident princess since the ship had left Cursa, except for the brief moment when he’d run into her in the hallway. She’d taken her music box, and stolen a surprise hug, before disappearing into her room for the next several hours. Meanwhile, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her and Cursa and everything since.

He tossed and turned for a few hours before finally giving up on a nap, escaping his room to haunt the ship, trying to calm his racing mind. His blood itched beneath his skin, a crawling sensation he couldn’t escape no matter how he paced through the halls. Usually, he could kill someone to relieve himself of the jitteriness, but there was no one here he wanted to kill.

Except maybe carrot head.

Vexx was in the infirmary now, being tended to by Ryona, and for a brief moment Damon wondered if he could get away with sticking his head in, throwing around some insults. Then the thought of being poisoned by the lovely Tilaari made him rethink his plan.

It’s always the nice ones.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Damon reversed direction, heading for the kitchen instead.

The galley was quiet when he entered, the emergency lighting dimmed for the night cycle. But he wasn’t the only one plagued by nightmares of Cursa, it seemed.

Astrea was sitting at the table, a cup of tea in her hands as she stared at the cracks in the metal, a faraway expression on her pretty face. Her silver hair was piled on top of her head, strands falling from the knot and brushing her shoulders and neck, some even tumbling down her back. She wasn’t wearing her normal clothing, the things she moved comfortably in during the day. Instead, she was dressed in a pair of black leggings that looked similar to what Aya wore most days. The white button up shirt that she practically drowned in looked like an older one of June’s, and for a brief moment, he had to suppress the yawning demon inside of him.

Despite the clothing style and size, Astrea almost looked regal, even as she sat there against a backdrop of grey metal and fluorescent lights.

At first, he intended to turn around and leave her to brood. It was easier than the alternative. But he found himself moving closer, letting his boots make noise on the floors. He usually loved spooking her, but he doubted she would appreciate it tonight. Especially after what happened to them on Cursa… or more specifically who had happened.

But he could still have some fun.

Coming up behind her, he boxed her in with an arm on either side, hands gripping the edge of the table, leaning close enough that she’d be able to feel his chest nearly brushing her back. His mouth hovered near her ear, breath ghosting across her cheek.

“You look like you need something harder to drink than that.” He whispered, a smile curling his lips when her hands tightened around the cup in her hands.

The music box he’d returned earlier in the evening sat in front of her, open but silent. The little ballerina spun, blue light illuminating her face, casting shadows along the walls. A pretty trinket that held nothing but ghosts.

“As if you’d follow through.” She snapped, breathless despite being irritated. “That makes you the worst kind of tease.”

“You have no idea what kind of tease I can be, Princess.”

She sighed and closed her eyes, fingers brushing the Kitalphanite music box before closing it with an audible click. They sat like that for a heartbeat, then two. Resting her hands flat on the table, she breathed silently, and Damon noticed the slight tremble in her fingers. She was so hauntingly sad, a beautiful conundrum of soft edges and sharp words. The sun encased in a moonlit package.

Trailing a finger along her shoulder, Damon’s smile widened at her sharp inhale. No matter how sad she was, or how angry, she couldn’t resist his charms and he felt a little of his anxiety recede. He continued his perusal down her arm, circling gently around her elbow before his fingers closed around her wrist.

She gasped, jerking away from him so suddenly she nearly fell from the chair. That’s when he noticed it, the makeshift bandage barely wrapped around her forearm. It was a pathetic attempt at dressing a wound, the ends of the cloth tattered and falling apart.

And stained with crimson.

She stood as fast as she could, her foot catching against the chair, and Damon’s hand darted out to grab her shoulder, steadying her until she untangled herself.

“You’re bleeding.”

A flash of anger as she shrugged his hand off. “I’m fine.”

“How long were you hiding this? Since Cursa?” He grabbed her wrist and lifted her arm, the bandage falling off to reveal the wound in her forearm.

It wasn’t deep, nothing to get upset about in the grand scheme of things. Hell, he’d had worse in the past. It wouldn’t need stitches, but it bothered him how easily she refused help. As if she wasn’t a part of the crew by now. As if the rest of them wouldn’t give their life for her when she seemed so quick to give up hers for them.

“I got nicked during the training with Aya.” She said, trying to pull her arm away but his grip was like iron. “It’s barely a scratch. Doesn’t even hurt.”

Damon stared at her, eyes hard, trying to break her with his gaze alone. When she didn’t even flinch, he pressed the pad of his thumb against the cut. She gasped in pain and he released her, letting her cradle her arm to her chest. Fury burned in her eyes.

“Liar.”

“Prick.”

There she is.

Damon smirked, glad to finally see some fire return to her golden eyes. “Astrea, if you were interested in trying knife play, you only had to ask.”

She rolled her eyes, turning away from him but he saw the blush before she could hide it. Good, he could still get to her.

“I don’t want your pity.”

His fingers itched uncomfortably. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but decided the risk wasn’t worth it. Their friendship was already fragile. The brief touch of her hand during their trek down the Cursan streets was no doubt a mistake on her part, her fear giving her enough courage to seek comfort from the closest person. But he didn’t deny that he wanted to touch her again, to feel her cool bioluminescent skin against his, to take comfort in her the same way she did with him.

“Pity?” Damon snorted, waiting for her to look at him. This time there was hesitation in her gaze. “You need to get that taken care of before it gets infected. And Ry will kill me if she finds out I let you run around with one of Bash’s grease rags as a bandage.”

Astrea fought a grin and he felt a small victory at that. “Afraid of doctors, Damon?”

“This one, I am. She grows enough poison to kill the entire K’Merii clan. It’s better to stay on her good side.” Avoiding Astrea’s hand, he wrapped his fingers around her uninjured forearm, tugging her along behind him into the hall. Even with the sleeve of the button up shirt as a barrier, touching Astrea felt like he was putting his hand in an open flame, searing him from the inside out.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The infirmary. Where else?” He had other ideas, ones that involved much less clothing, but he didn’t particularly want to be bled on at the moment. It was a bitch to get out of fabric. And there was a lot that they still hadn’t talked about.

Astrea planted her feet, refusing to move until he stopped to face her. “I can’t go there.”

The terror in her eyes made him pause, biting back the sarcasm that was second nature to him. So she was still thinking about Cursa. And carrot head.

Damon didn’t need much of an imagination to know what Astrea probably saw when she closed her eyes: the sneer on Vexx’s face when they’d found him on Cursa, the deranged anger in his green eyes, the viciousness of his words to her in his makeshift cell…

Fuck, this was a complication they didn’t need.

He didn’t know what compelled him to do it, a momentary lapse in judgment or maybe his dick really was making the decisions lately. At her words, he nodded before leading her in the opposite direction. The itch beneath his skin returned when he paused outside of his room. This… he shouldn’t do this. No one came into his room but him. The best option was for him to go in, get the first aid kit, and bring it to her room.

He turned suddenly, unexpectedly, and Astrea ran into him, smacking directly into him before she realized what happened. Her free hand, the one not still caught in his grip, grabbed the front of his shirt to keep herself from falling on her ass, and she teetered for a moment. He tightened his hold, pulling her against his chest, and she blinked up at him, confused.

Her small form fit perfectly against his and it took everything inside of him to move away from her, to let her stand on her own two feet, his hands tightening at her waist briefly.

Whatever she saw on his face made her frown.

“Damon- are you okay?”

Damon didn’t know what to do with his hands so he brushed his fingers through his hair, feral grin on his mouth as he released his hold on her, leaning against the closed door of his room. He hated how his chest ached, helpless to do anything but offer an inadequate sort of comfort.

Sarcasm it was then.

“Worried about me, Princess?”

She slanted her eyes slightly, suspicious at his sudden mood change. For a moment, a million different things passed behind her gaze, questions she no doubt wanted to ask or comments she wanted to make. Instead, she shrugged, giving him a small smile. “No, I’m only wondering why you live in a storage closet.”

“Funny coming from someone whose room was storage.” He shifted away from the door, hands in his jacket pockets as he glanced down at her. She was absurdly short but it was cute in a teacup sort of way. When her nose scrunched in annoyance, he had to resist flicking it. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

He hit the panel to his room, waiting for the brief moment for the door to hiss open. The interior was cool, dark, simple: exactly the way he preferred it. He paused a few feet from the door as Astrea hovered on the threshold, eyes wide like she was an animal caught in a hunter’s crosshairs, unsure what her next move should be.

It was strangely adorable.

“You’re letting the air out, get the hell in here and close the door. And don’t touch anything.” Damon turned away to retrieve the medkit from his dresser, placing it atop the desk and opening it to look for the necessary supplies. Bandages, ointment, some alcohol wipes.

He tried to ignore Astrea as she walked the perimeter of his room, eyes pausing on the few things he kept. Like the knives that were displayed along the walls, the shelf of books above his bed, the holo-pads on his desk. The bed that was still made and unslept in. Her eyes took in every detail about his personal life, judging him based on what she saw instead of what she knew. Irritation curled darkly in his stomach.

“Sit down.” He snapped harshly, hating how she was hovering by the books.

She glanced at him not in fear, but in concern. As if she had something on the tip of her tongue that she wanted to say. He didn’t particularly want to hear any criticism from a goddamn princess about his choice in decor. Especially since her room had been a barren wasteland the last time he saw it.

“What? Did you have a problem with the curtains? Or maybe the sheets? Care to tell me how to make the room less gloomy?” His eyes flashed angrily in her direction, hating how even now, he still felt like that little kid on Cursa, the one who wanted so much but didn’t feel deserving.

Silence followed his words and he gripped the container of wipes a little too hard, nearly cracking the plastic. A rustling of fabric, a shuffling of feet, and Astrea appeared at his side, fingers brushing against his hand. He didn’t hesitate to curl his fingers around hers, tugging her closer.

Her voice was quiet, the air circulator almost drowning her out when she spoke. “I wanted to know if I could borrow a book. I miss being able to read whenever I want and… well, you have some I might like.”

Lifting an eyebrow, he glanced at her curiously. She watched him with eyes like a golden dawn, a small grin on her dark lips. “Is this your idea of foreplay, Princess?”

The responding blush was worth it, a little of the bioluminescence in her skin making her glow. It was stunning how easily you could read a Tilaari. The glow never lied.

Using the moment to his advantage, Damon pushed her into the chair near the desk. Grabbing the wipes, he knelt in front of her, gripping her wrist and straightening her arm. The bleeding had stopped but the cut was red around the edges. It was already on its way to becoming infected. Great.

With a practiced ease of one used to doing these sorts of things, he smoothed the cloth down her arm, cleaning the injury thoroughly, meticulously. She hissed at the contact, immediately attempting to pull her arm out of his grip. He only tightened his hold on her. “Stop moving.”

“Is that an order?”

Damon glanced up, trying not to smile at the cheeky tone. His fingers danced along her arm, delighted that she shivered in response. “Does someone have a control kink? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

A smile curled her plump lips and he had to forcibly stop himself from leaning closer.

“You don’t know much about me, now do you?”

A surprised chuckle left him. Oh she was coy. “Be careful what you wish for, Astrea.”

He finished bandaging her up, with a clean bandage this time, eliciting another shiver when he touched her wrist. He waited for the inevitable twitch of her mouth or flutter of eyelashes. He’d never admit it to anyone, let alone Astrea herself, but he enjoyed seeing her dazzling smile and the softness in her gaze whenever he looked at her. Whenever she noticed him in the room.

“I know it probably won’t mean much to you, but you handled yourself well.” He double checked the bandage, making sure it was secure. The last thing he needed was the entire thing to unravel while he flirted with the pretty Tilaari. “With Zane.”

“I barely did anything.”

“You did more than you had to.” Satisfied that she wasn’t going to die from infection, he stood to put the medkit away when he felt a brush of fingers against his hand again.

He paused, fingers curling around hers, the discomfort in his skin easing slightly. Astrea was stronger than he’d taken her for and that was his mistake. But Alisa… Well, she was right. Astrea cared about him for some stupid reason, looked at him most days like he put the stars in the sky instead of snuffing them out. And fuck- he cared about her too.

He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

On top of all the shit she was already going through, he didn’t want to mention how things went down on Cursa, with the K’Merii or how the knife he’d given her hadn’t done shit to protect her, how it felt to see her fly at Vexx in a rage, that same knife held at the wrong angle in her hand, and how easy it was for Vexx to disarm her… or how Damon’s heart had jumped into his throat, the distance between them too large to save her, but there was no avoiding it now.

“Astrea-”

Fuck. He didn’t want to do this.

Those big gold eyes glanced up at him, completely unsuspecting of where his thoughts had gone. She’d seen so much violence in the last few weeks, the kind that would shrivel the soul of a lesser person. But Astrea… she wasn’t afraid of what was coming. She wasn’t afraid of him, even when he didn’t deserve her understanding, her kindness.

So selfless and yet… she was scared of Vexx.

What was it about carrot head that left her shaking, terrified to the point that she couldn’t even close her eyes for some rest? Even with an entire crew to keep her safe.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He never thought he’d be the one to ask that.

“You can ask me anything you want, Damon.”

His lips twitched at that. She really didn’t want him to take her up on that. She’d never stopped blushing if he did.

Clearing his throat, he tried to dispel the awkwardness with a grin.

“What is it about Vexx that scares you? If he wanted to kill you, he could’ve done it on Teranium. None of us would’ve been the wiser.” He released a tight breath through his nose, managing to glance at their hands still entwined in the space between them. “He was never stable to begin with, but I don’t think he wants to hurt you.” He snorted at the thought. “I doubt he can.”

The joke at Vexx’s expense fell flat, not that she seemed to notice. Her gaze was focused on the wall in front of her, as if she saw something there that wasn’t grey metal. Damon could imagine the horrible things she saw, he still saw nightmares if he slept for too long.

“I’m afraid of what I’ll see in his eyes. That what we had at the palace was nothing but a game to him.” She shut her eyes, dropping her grip on Damon’s hand. He felt colder without her touch. “It would… it would destroy me.”

Oh.

Well, shit.

Her violent reaction to Vexx and how heartbroken she was after their chat in the storage room cell made sense now. He’d tricked her into trusting him while plotting to murder her family. To help Zovack overthrow the royal family, to get rid of her too. Damon was used to fucked up shit on Cursa. Hell, he’d done some of it. But to trust someone with a part of yourself, a part of your heart even, Damon couldn’t imagine that sort of betrayal.

His stomach twisted, an uneasy feeling creeping into his chest, making the air a little more difficult to breathe. Unable to look at her, he packed the medkit again, ignoring the new thought that lingered in the back of his mind. The one that said he should go to the infirmary and promptly punch Vexx in that big nose of his.

“You really cared about him, huh?”

The chair creaked as she shifted her weight. “Yes. I had no one except Nerissa for so long. And when Vexx came along…”

Her words trailed off, sitting heavy in the silence.

“And now?” Damon prompted, hating how heavy his chest felt at the thought of Vexx with Astrea. “What are you going to do?”

“I… don’t know.” She stood, the air moving when she stood, walking towards his bed, staring at the view of the stars out of his window. His eyes followed her, watching as she nervously twisted the hem of her shirt between her fingers. “I can’t imagine life without Vexx, but he did something awful.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Damon leaned against this desk, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for the queasy feeling to pass. He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t. “And I knew carrot head before all of this shit. He might be an asshole, but I can’t see him being unnecessarily cruel.”

The rest of the sentence stayed his tongue. How could he when it’s you.

Astrea let out a sigh, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear as she turned to face him. When she finally looked at him, really looked at him in the dim lighting, her eyes shone like sunlight, a shimmer of gold, warming and ensnaring parts of him that he long thought died on Cursa.

“Thank you.”

Well, that was unexpected.

Her freckles were like constellations across her face, her skin glowing as she smiled shyly, eyes dropping to an empty spot on the floor in front of him. Everything about her was a mystery, from her past to her present, but one thing that wasn’t was what her grin did to him.

“For what?”

“For not sparing my feelings.”

She… wanted to thank him for that? She puzzled him more every day he knew her. He’d been a bastard to her since the day they’d met and yet… she was here with him. That counted for something.

“When, in the short time you’ve known me, have I spared anyone’s feelings?”

“It’s why I-” She stopped herself, blushing before pushing on through her embarrassment. He couldn’t help the smile that appeared. “I trust you. You don’t coddle me or treat me like I can’t handle the tough things. You’re honest.” She glanced at him with a sly look. “Most of the time.”

“You make it sound like I don’t care about you.”

“Do you?”

More than you think. More than I should.

Astrea must’ve sensed his hesitation, or maybe she read something on his face and in that case he needed to stop letting her affect him so much, because she stepped closer. “I know it hasn’t been easy, but if you need a friend, Damon. I’m here.”

Before he could rethink his actions, he tangled their fingers together, squeezing gently, trying to bring some comfort to her. Or maybe just himself. “I’ll be there if you want… when you go see carrot head. If you want to, that is. I know seeing an old boyfriend is weird enough-”

She smiled as she stepped closer, that persistent glow of her skin nearly blinding him in its radiance. “Vexx was never my boyfriend, Damon.”

He hated how his heart clenched at her words, hope reigniting in him… for what? He didn’t want to dissect it with her staring at him like that. Because he didn’t know what he was capable of.

“Good. He doesn’t deserve you.”

When her grin widened, he had to close his eyes before he died of embarrassment. “Damon- you do care.”

With her hands still in his, he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her settle comfortably against him. With his lips near her ear, he whispered a threat. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

She laughed, her breath coming in puffs against his chest. She tightened her arms around him slightly. “Why do I doubt that?”

With a soft laugh, he buried his face in her hair, mesmerizing how every inch of her body was pressed against his. On Cursa, he already knew he was in trouble when he felt the first brush of her hand against his. There was no doubt now that this little stowaway was more important to him than he ever thought possible.

“Damon, the secret softie.” Astrea teased, fingers tickling along his spine. “Who would’ve guessed?”

He could, with all honesty, claim that it was her fault. And he found he liked that fact.

#my writing #andromeda six #a6 #a6 fanfic #a6 traveler #tilaari traveler #damon reznor #oc: astrea #astrea x damon #blood cw #injury cw #anxiety cw

19 notes · View notes

kulay-ng-banaag · 3 months

Text

A Gentle Reminder

One visits the other to rekindle the light. (Indonesia/Philippines) Warnings: -anxiety attacks (mild at best but the buildup is there) -smoking -politics (one side more explicitly than the other) Read on AO3 (registered users only)

[ Photo from Pinterest; have not yet traced back the photographer. ]

☼ ☼ ☼

The sound of running water cuts off as he turns the faucet knob. Glassware, ceramic dishes, and steel utensils clanked together in the sink bowl. The atmosphere was filled with the revving of motorbikes, the rusty booms of the azan signaling the hour of Isha, and the lucid voices that beamed from the newscast playing on the TV.

Once he finished scrubbing the table and the counters clean, he popped open a bottle of milk tea and flopped down on the sofa. Even with his tito Bikol’s cooking, he had never developed as strong a spice tolerance as he would have liked. Neither had he developed a language proficiency on par with the locals, despite the many letters exchanged and visits conducted. At least not in the same capacity as he had hundreds of years ago, but even the lingua francas of old were as mutable as clay, and the living things molded out of it.

Like all other things, nations changed over time. Philippines was no stranger to that truth.

All he had to do was keep tabs on the news from the other side of the screen, observing the inevitable winds of change. Once he foresaw the calm before the storm, he quickly scraped together in the wee hours enough necessities to suffice a week of travel. The closest to a formal notice he left behind was the blunt instructions he texted to a handful of staff handpicked by his gut feeling.

If anyone asks, I’m in Jakarta 👋🏽✈️

Nothing more.

He could fabricate a working visit out of nowhere, but it would almost certainly be followed up by a slew of questions regarding his rationales. His true intentions. His commitments to the burdens he never signed up for in the first place. People would express — as a request or not — their want for his presence, but rarely their need for it.

Not Indonesia. Not explicitly, at least. He gracefully wielded a commanding presence in public, but he was a closed book in the private sphere. A core of scorching hot earth buried deep that could explode with the right amount of pressure. Under the right conditions, a volcano could erupt violently. Once it did, there was no stopping its flow of destruction. The best Philippines could do was to be the ocean waves awaiting the incoming lava flow.

He listened intently to the stories broadcasted in front of him. It would be a mistake to call Philippines a tone-deaf airhead when he learned, painfully and repeatedly, to temper how his instincts would translate into his body language. In the comfort of his partner’s abode in the capital — at least for the time being — he was free to unravel the mask he wore in public.

The cracks began to form on the level-headed expression he maintained ever since he made landfall where he was not supposed to be. Through all the reports and commentaries as close to impartiality (or not) as they could get, he could see the wars of emotions taking place. Abstracted exhilaration on one end, ineffable grief on the other, and in between the buried pains had begun to fizzle and release steam. He would rather tune out the cries of despair and rage until they all dwindled together into empty static. With his arms crossed, his hands were already gripping tightly on his sleeves and he could already feel his heart beating as if it wanted to break out of his rib cage, away from the memories that were flooding in. Memories of pain and terror that he wished he could forget, but could not afford to.

What snapped him back to reality were the sounds of the front door clicking shut, followed by the taps of leather soles against the terracotta tiles that ascended to the upper floor. The silence of a lover in anguish was louder than the discordant harmonies of an agitated country.

He shut the TV off and made his way upstairs, down the hallway, and towards the open archway that led to the balcony. As he knocked his hand gently against the hardwood frame, a breeze wafted through the bamboo wind chimes above, almost as if Ibu Pertiwi wanted to ensure her guest was acknowledged.

Already, a lit kretek dangled between Indonesia’s fingers (one of which had an unmistakable ink stain at the tip). If Philippines had never cared about preserving his vocal cords, he would have succumbed to the vice as hard as Indonesia had. He only ever smoked when he was under extreme stress, and it surprised many at how infrequent that was.

The last time he lit one up for himself was two years ago, for the same reasons that Indonesia was going through now.

He sat down on the empty chair next to Indonesia’s, unfazed by the burning scent of bitter herbs and spices. Besides, the electric fan standing across them was whirring in their direction, out of respect for the other songbird that lived in the same space.

Philippines glanced up at the brightly-colored wicker cage hanging above on the opposite end of the balcony. He whistled a little tune, and the feathered resident within chirped back in reply.

“He’s healing up well.”

Philippines glanced back in surprise from hearing Indonesia speak up at last.

“I’ll be taking him to a rehab center in Kalimantan. That way, I’ll be around by the time they release him back to the wild.”

“That’s good to hear,” Philippines replied.

Indonesia pressed the end of the cigarette to his lips, then exhaled a puff of smoke. “I hope he doesn’t get caught again.”

“Oh.”

The soft smile on Philippines’ face faded from the realization. Often, Indonesia would foster rescues in critical conditions. At the time of the raid, the songbird was a sickly hatchling. Not only did it make a full recovery, but it chattered so much that the only bigger chatterbox was Philippines (who had pursed his lips like a child making tampo when Indonesia made the joke). Still, even with such a hopeful future ahead of it, there remained the risk of recapture, the violent return to a system that gambled on its ability to satisfy lofty aspirations, and swiftly disposed of those that failed to keep up.

Such a possibility seemed so far-fetched, yet the lack of certainty only served to tighten the suffocating grip of fear. Indonesia and Philippines knew that all too well. Centuries ago, when they had professed their love for one another, they were torn apart by conquerors from far away. Centuries later, when they had renewed their vows for one another, they were torn again by tyrants from within. Decades later, they broke free of those cages, only to return to a world they struggled to adapt to.

Now, they were birds at risk of recapture.

Minutes passed as they sat together in silence, struggling to keep themselves afloat lest they drowned from the millions of clashing voices that burned inside them both. Whatever the outcome, inevitable or not, Philippines would rather burn brightly in hell with Indonesia than abandon him, even if it meant he could at least march onward with most, if not all, pieces of himself intact. Maybe that was the problem, to begin with.

Yet, despite everything, the world continued its revolution around the sun. People continued to move forward with their lives, refusing to let anything or anyone take that away from them. The caged bird continued to sing, even in the face of an unambiguous future.

Indonesia exhaled a last puff of smoke before stubbing out the cigarette in the sand-filled ashtray. Philippines drew his knees up and scooted closer when he felt Indonesia lean onto him. He wrapped Indonesia’s arm around his and their hands slowly entwined together.

Philippines was the first to speak. “Abang?”

“Hm?”

“Do you remember what you told me two years ago? When I was going through what you’re going through now?”

Indonesia remained silent as he recalled.

By that point in time, Philippines was as battered and bruised as anyone, and had been bleeding all over for too long for comfort. Indonesia would easily admit that Philippines was luckier for breaking free a good decade earlier than he would. What he disliked to admit was how it had made him anxious when Philippines would not respond for days, weeks even. That had been his way of learning about how the final results would be of such paramount importance that its reverberations would be felt across the world.

Indonesia’s sole regret was that he did not see Philippines sooner, let alone immediately. Indonesia knew better than anyone, however, that Philippines, for all his exuberance, was the type to push people away when he was upset. He did not even want to celebrate his birthday that year. The next time Indonesia heard from him was when he sent a message that he was arriving a week ahead of the scheduled state visit.

Philippines had remained steadfast against all odds in the crucial months building up to that pivotal moment. He had snuck away to help distribute meals to volunteers who had lightened the load of an immense burden off his shoulders to the best of their abilities. Ultimately, he was desperate to get an up-close-and-personal glimpse of the numbers that were coming in.

He excused himself to get away from the monsters that manifested before his eyes. The flowers of hope still bloomed in many parts, but a bramble of sharp thorns had been growing at a suffocatingly exponential rate that threatened to engulf the whole garden. Philippines felt it crawl up onto his skin and pierce itself onto his very being, causing him to stumble in the empty hallway. It was brightly lit, but it grew increasingly cold and dark. The walls had begun to close in, threatening to crush him if the thorns did not yet thoroughly impale through him first. He wanted to cry out in pain. He wanted to scream for help, but he found himself unable to speak. Or maybe no one could hear him.

Suddenly, he sensed the light ding of a bell and a mild buzz from his pocket. With shaky hands, he pulled out his cell phone and stared at the message that flashed on his screen. He took a step back and steadied himself against the wall before slumping down to the floor. He sat there in the comfortable silence of the empty hallway. He gasped for breath as he held down the outburst of emotions that had welled up in him. A smile radiated across his face, trembling lips notwithstanding, as he rubbed the back of his hand against the tears that had flowed down.

Philippines remembered that moment. He would always remember those words that had been the lifeline he failed to admit that he needed. He wanted Indonesia to remember them, too, forevermore.

Indonesia let out a sigh before finally responding, “I remember.” He was caught by surprise when he felt a hand cup his face to wipe the tear that had trickled down, the faint scent of jasmine emanating from it. He turned to gaze back at the warm gaze of his beloved pearl, remembering how he longed to see them again after years of confined stillness. How he longed to hear his phone ping and see something, anything, new from Philippines. How he had been sitting in drab and stifling formalities. How he had stepped out for a breath of fresh air and passed that onwards to breathe back life into someone from over 2,700 kilometers away. How he wanted Philippines to have something to hold on to, no matter how bleak and dark it got.

He wished he could be kinder to himself, and he was grateful that Philippines was there to remind him.

They gently pressed their foreheads together, and Philippines leaned closer to press his lips against Indonesia’s. He whispered those same words Indonesia had told him before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

I love you, no matter the results.

☼ ☼ ☼

TRANSLATIONS:

azan: The Muslim call to daily prayer (salat). The last one, Isha, is at nighttime. In this age of modernity, loudspeakers play the azan from the mosques. tito: Uncle (Tagalog). It’s not restricted to addressing a biological relative; very often it’s used to address older men like how we use “sir” in English. Ibu Pertiwi: lit. “Mother Earth” in this case; A historical national personification of Indonesia. In my honest opinion, using the local name slapped harder than merely writing “mother nature.” kretek: Indonesian cigarette blend of tobacco and cloves as the main ingredients. tampo: Tricky to translate into words — it’s ten times easier to demonstrate in person. In this context, think of a parent telling their child they should eat their ampalaya (bitter gourd) and the child makes this face >:T abang: Older brother (Bahasa Indonesia); same as how kuya (Tagalog) is used to refer to older peers/upperclassmen (as in like the senior-year senpais, not the elite trapos if you get lmao). Sometimes also a casual way of calling people “sir.”

MISCELLANEOUS:

Frankly, I’ve only ever been to East Java (mostly in Surabaya), so if I missed out on any observable nuances from Jakarta, that’s on me. I also wrote this on a whim of inspiration and spite. In minimized general, Philippine cuisine builds on a sour base with salty or sweet complements. However, spicy is king in Northern and Southern Luzon, and Southern Mindanao. One of my classmates is Bicolana, so eating spicy Indonesian food is a no-brainer for her. Fortunately, they have plenty of milk tea in stock in convenience stores in Indonesia…for those who need a little help in neutralizing the spicy taste HAHA! Someday, I’ll talk about my bayan OCs. Not today. I need more time ironing them out; time I simply do not have right now. For now, Bikol is he/they. Going back to my trip, I saw so many households with pet birds. I ended up learning about how the popularity of songbird competitions drives wildlife trafficking. 🥲 Speaking of which, I headcanon Indonesia as a wildlife officer. Half to restore balance to the universe for the cursed fact that he’s technically a cop; the other half because if Piri is the musically-gifted Disney Princess, then Indo is the forest friend Disney Princess. Kalimantan because that is where they’re constructing the new capital city of Nusantara because Jakarta is sinking among other reasons. Since the dirt children have to work closely with their governments – whether they like it or not (or choose to lol) – Indo would have to eventually move in, assuming it comes through (just saying because my home city was supposed to be the new capital but clearly that flopped lol). The bird rehab center is very real. It’s my first time learning of the place — thanks to me getting insecure about making it up. 😭 Specifically, Piri was at the Parish Pastoral Council for Responsible Voting (PPCRV) command center. It’s non-partisan but affiliated with the Catholic Church in the country; we have another watchdog entity without any religious affiliation – the National Citizens' Movement for Free Election (NAMFREL). The volunteers were encoding election returns in tallying the votes. One of my dearest friends was fast enough to sign up. I had wanted to draw a 612 comic right after Halalan 2022. Scrapped it altogether because I was horribly depressed, so to say. Then, during one of those many low points, I cooked up that plot bunny when Indo texts Piri those words (the last phrase of the fic). Still, I couldn’t get a comic together any sooner, even if it was a shorter one featuring that plot bunny, as I’ve since returned to university. Following the news and social media posts on Indonesia’s post-elections definitely brought back painful memories. And that plot bunny. Originally, I wanted a far shorter but no less cathartic drabble. Ended up going really ham. I wish I could do more. I hope this is enough.

#anxiety cw #anxiety attacks cw #smoking cw #politics cw #hetalia #hetalia world stars #hetalia fanfiction #hws philippines #hws indonesia #indophil #katha ng banaag #arc: contemporary

7 notes · View notes