#and it bleeds into every other feeling and paranoia and self doubt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vegalocity · 3 years

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Secret kisses and Touching 2, 14, 22, 23, and 44. Secret Silktea relationship, except both spider fam and Monkey fam actually know! Half of them don’t care enough to say anything (Pigsy,Tang,Spider Queen,Wukong,Syntax) while the other half wants them to reveal it when they’re ready (Min Yi,MK,Mei,Goliath,Sis) - Pixel Anon

Affection meme

49. secret kisses

2. running fingers through hair

14.putting an arm around the other’s waist

22.falling asleep on the other’s shoulder

23. carrying the other one in their arms

44.sitting on the other’s lap

this took me forever to put together because for some ungodly reason i couldn't figure out the scenario

so i decided on a little vignette compilation of sorts

They knew what they were doing.

Of course they knew what they were doing. It was in either of their best interests to keep this a secret. Just because the clan had stopped their crusade to take over the city and their queen had dialed down the ‘revenge’ ideas, didn’t mean there wasn’t still bad blood between his clan and Sandy’s family.

And it wasn’t too difficult, it just meant that when they were all working together for some greater threat or whatever that they’d have to be sneaky. It was easy stealth was one of Huntsman’s greatest Attributes and suspecting Blue of anything was like suspecting a small dog of knocking over a bulldozer.

It wasn’t too hard to simply keep their hands to themselves. Or at least, it wasn’t hard for Sandy, Huntsman was quickly finding his self control lacking in regard to being in such a situation with his… well, with him. But could anyone blame him? Blue was more or less the hottest guy he’d ever ran into before and he was kinda-sorta DATING him! How could he not want to climb that like a tree at all times?

Especially when he was always being so stupidly fucking charming. Sure the ‘needlessly nice’ stuff wasn’t something he particularly appreciated, but it was starting to grow on him, if only on the amount of restraint he must have to keep it up all the time.

Soooo yeah maybe he was purposefully pushing their luck a little, but in his defense he wanted to see how much desire based frustration it would take before ol’ Blue would just pin him against a wall and make him regret wondering.

Syntax had shooed him away from being a nuisance at his worktable, so naturally, Huntsman had to go be a nuisance at someone else’s worktable. Thankfully Sandy was far more agreeable to the company, and thankfully the bid of ‘Bugging Syntax first’ kept his alibi solid. He wasn’t just going over to see Blue he just wanted to be a louse and his normal target had already locked him out of his room. And so nobody really suspected anything when he started to peer over Sandy’s side to watch him tighten this or that thing on this or that device.

And it was pretty damn fun to see just how much of a ‘nuisance’ he could be. This particular bout resulting ih Huntsman being pressed against the car engine Blue had been working on, feeling the orange hair slide between his claws and messing up the stylized mohawk and shuddering when he felt those huge hands almost entirely encompass either of his thighs while keeping him aloft. He hissed through his teeth as he felt Blue give one of his legs a testing squeeze and rolled his hips forward a bit-

“Fish Demon? I need to get another set of eyes on these schematics or I'll actually go insane.” By the time Syntax looked up from his clipboard Sandy was working on the engine again and Huntsman was leaning against his work area and had barely had the opening to whip out one of his knives and his portable sharpener.

Though Sandy’s hair was unable to be fixed and fell to a side as he smiled at Syntax and took the offered blueprints from him.

He wasn’t a big fan of those domestic snatches of time, he wasn’t.

It was mostly an instinctual response, Spiders were pack bonders, so of course when his internal senses started categorizing Sandy as ‘pack’ then he’d relax without intending to while being pulled in with a hand on his waist.

Which was definitely the reason why he was curled up to Sandy’s side, the cool slick feeling of his scales strange against his more leather-like skin. That stupid instinct was the only real reason why he felt so comfortable and like he could practically fall asleep like this.

He felt Blue’s hand gently start running up and down his side and dammit that wasn’t playing fair, it wasn’t his fault that he had been having sleeping problems lately and was rapidly getting drowsy.

He could feel Blue’s hum as the world started to drift away-

“Hey Sandy what do you think- Uhhhh”

“Oh, hello Xiaotian.”

“You know you’ve got a spider on you, right?”

“Oh yeah, Looked like he was having some paranoia problems, took a bit of wheedling to get out but Huntsman here was up for like four days straight ‘till now!”

“Did… Did you slip him your sleepy tea?”

“Of course not! That would be super unethical! Also I'm pretty sure he’s still semi conscious and passively listening without any critical thought right now since he only just dozed off and would probably wake up angry if he overheard anything like that!”

“....right… so anyway-”

The brat knew.

Dammit he knew the brat knew. She definitely fucking knew.

He should have known better than to try anything with that Professional Snoop underfoot. But He’d had plans with Blue before having to get stuck with the brat tonight because the Queen needed Syntax’s expertise and the Sister was on shift at work and Goliath already had plans doing who knows what, and he was stuck with Minyi since he ‘didn’t have any plans’

He’d dragged his feet on the idea of cancelling with Blue, but he’d fucking done it so nobody could say he didn’t contribute to the upkeep of their clan’s youngest. It was just his luck that Sandy had been fine with coming over instead, and the brat had overheard some of the conversation and got excited about ‘Mr Sandy’ coming over to visit. The brat had insisted on stringing some of her fake flowers into his hair before he arrived, after dubbing him ‘suitably pretty’ (her words) she’d done up her own hair as similarly as she could because he certainly wasn’t helping her with her weird pre-’company is coming’ rituals.

And… Blue was a hit with the brat. He had an infinite amount of patience for the inane childish babbling, stooped low so she could string the remaining fake flowers in her possession (why did she have so many fake flowers?) into his beard, and offered to fix dinner for the lot of them (which was for the best since the brat was such a picky eater she could barely stomach some of his specialties)

And… he was not jealous of a six year old for how she was able to crawl into Blue’s lap while the lot of them watched some inane mystery show for the character drama alone since the brat called and explained the mystery within the first three minutes.

Blue was a bit awkward on the sofa, it made sense, Goliath would normally sit on the floor for how the height and width of the couch was not designed with bigger demons in mind, and Blue was considerably bigger than Goliath. So while the brat was cozy as could be in the place of honor, Huntsman was stuck perched on the arm of the couch as to not be crushed into it trying to squeeze in beside Blue.

Not that that would be a wholly unpleasant experience, but the presence of the brat made it go from tempting to awkward. Nonetheless, part of Sandy trying to get comfortable had included one of his arms resting on the back of the couch, and while it seemed the brat wasn’t paying attention, it slid down to wrap around his shoulders.

When the time came Minyi didn’t need to be told it was bed time for her, she loudly announced it herself, changed into her pajamas, and after saying goodnight to the both of them went on with a

“I am going to sleep now! And I will not be out of my room until morning so if anything were to be happening I certainly won’t know it, because I will be asleep.”

She smiled widely at Huntsman and closed her door.

Nosey little brat.

Tang huffed a quiet laugh as Sandy gingerly began to lift Huntsman into the air, his broken leg not quite able to be splinted just yet, let alone looked at properly. It seemed the lot of them had suffered some pretty nasty injuries from this last threat (and no doubt it would have been worse if their team and the Spider Clan hadn’t joined forces) including Tang himself despite being on the sidelines for most of it, he was pretty sure his shoulder was dislocated, and the cut on his forehead was still sluggishly bleeding all over the right side of his face, but compared to some of the others he was basically fine.

So once He was able to pop his arm back into place (Ouch) he took to handling cleanup with the only other ‘perfectly normal person’ here, a woman maybe a few years his junior, he’d seen her every so often with the Spider Clan (or rather, with Syntax) but he didn’t know her name.

“Do you think they actually think they’re being subtle?” Her words caught his attention and he turned to glance at the woman. She was in the middle of splinting Xiaojiao’s broken wrist and at Tang’s questioning glance, she nodded at Sandy and Huntsman. Oh!

“I’m sure Sandy thinks he’s the pinnacle of subtlety” Tang responded. He was pretty sure the ‘thing’ that had developed between their friend and the most brutal of the Spider Clan was the worst kept secret on the team since Red Son had started hanging out with Xiaotian and Xiaojiao on the weekends.

“They are so cute when you just walk in on them.” Xiaojiao said around a snicker. “Like how they jump apart like when you flip a magnet over to the matching side.”

“Does your team have a betting pool? My brother organized one for the clan, and if they do anything damning within the next month i win the pot.”

“No! Ohh man we should get one started up! Hey Pigsy! You wanna make a betting Pool for Sandy and Huntsman’s secret romance?”

“Why the hell would i want to do that?”

“Finally have dirt on Sandy after decades of him never being embarrassed about anything ever?” Tang offered with a shrug.

Pigsy thought for a moment and shrugged back before going back to fussing over Xiaotian. “Sure. Who’s bettin’ what?”

send me stuff!

#Silktea #Silkteashipping #Affection meme #vega writes stories too #letters to vega #Spider Queen wins the Spider Clan pot though she denies ever betting anything #but Minyi put in three sticker packs and a yoyo for her bet and she could have SWORN she saw them in the lair by Spider Queen's stuff

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delirioushrimp · 3 years

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Salvation is found in pain(ful pleasures) [Your Boyfriend AU]

Once more, I truly have no self control when it comes to @harbingers-appointed and his boys. Be happy Flauros, you finally get to steal the show from the King.

Hope you’ll like it Vee !

How many ? How many times did he kill you since the beginning of this twisted game ? How many times did you come back to him asking, craving, and begging for the punishment he was always so eager to bestow you ?

He cut your throat, watched you drown, let you bleed out, broke every bone in your body so many times you wonder how he hasn’t grown tired out of you yet. After all, no matter how satisfying and amusing it must be to kill a person -one yearning for death so ardently- over and over again, one has to get bored of seeing the same face dying by their hands, right ? You’re just a toy to him, an interesting one -maybe-, but a toy, nonetheless.

You’re not stupid enough to believe he genuinely likes you.

Still, you always come back to him, knowing he’s the only one able to give you what you want, what you deserve. You hate it when he does it in the front of the King though, because watching the pain and self-hatred in those gorgeous blue eyes as your life fades away to hysterical cackles, truly breaks your soul. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to suffer so horribly when all he’s done is love you earnestly and wholeheartedly, and most of all he doesn’t deserve loving someone as broken and ruined like you. You curse God for doing this to him, knowing you’ll never be able to return his feelings because you’re not worthy of his love. You’re not worthy of anything but pain.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair !

Lately though, you’re starting to notice a few changes in him. His knife lingers longer than it should, leaving shallow cuts on your skin before piercing you to the bone. His eyes which were usually narrowed in sadistic glee appear distracted, deep in thought as he observes your dying body. It’s strange, you’d never thought you’d get to see him so pensive; he always appears so confident, happy go lucky and in control of everything.

At first, you think it’s because he’s finally growing annoyed of your presence and constant pestering for pain. Maybe he found another, newer and more amusing toy to distract himself with. You would understand if that was the case, it was a wonder he actually “played” with you for that long. But that means you needed to find someone or something able to give you what you sought.

The next time you wake up after another of your “play sessions”, you don’t go to him. Instead, you ignore everyone and everything as you try to come up with a new alternative to your lack of executioner. You manage to evade Samael without much trouble, knowing the castle like the back of your hand after how many times you died there. You’re terrified of gazing into his eyes, terrified to see the absolute grief and agony in them.

You roam around the halls for a while before you manage to find a good enough hiding spot, a small balcony, away from prying eyes. You sit there for who knows how long, time perception long lost ever since the start of this never-ending game. What would happen now ? With nobody else willing to waste their time on you, what are you supposed to do ? Kill yourself over and over again until God decided to take pity on you and finally send your soul to where it belongs ? You remember the bastard’s words after the eighteenth time he cut you open, looking at you with that all-knowing smile.

“His Highness is the only who can end your misery. You could always ask him but- ah” he tilts his head to watch your life spilling away into a red river. “I doubt he’ll agree to it,” he ends with a dark chuckle. “But hey, no harm in trying, right ?”

He’d wanted you to do it, only because he knew of how much pain and agony your words would induce to the King. You had doubted his words, -you always did- fully aware that if he had lied to you, you’d have made Samael suffer for nothing. And you couldn’t, wouldn’t be able to bear the thought.

So you hesitated, waited for a miracle to happen, for the sadist to admit he was fucking with you, anything so you wouldn’t have to take the risk, like the coward that you are. And of course, he noticed, relishing in your growing paranoia and dread. God ignored your pleas once more, and you began to understand why Samael rebelled. You’ve never been a fervent believer after all.

God is not a benevolent being , merely the leading puppeteer of this world.

You gave in after seven more deaths, despair finally overtaking over fear, and went to find the King. It felt disgusting, seeing him smiling so earnestly at your mere presence when you only came to use him for your own, selfish and self-destructive wish. You felt it to your core, invading your soul, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You wish he hadn’t knelt before you with such devotion, you wish he hadn’t kissed each of your trembling fingers so tenderly, you wish he hadn’t whispered your name so fervently. The words that left your mouth on that day felt like the vilest of poisons.

“You…would do anything for me, right ?”

“Anything !” you flinched at the desperate, borderline hysterical tone of his voice. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you !”

You wondered briefly if watching you die so many times is what caused him to say those words, clinging to your body so pitifully, or if his adoration truly ran that deep from the start. You wished to never have an answer because whatever of the two it’d be, it would only make you more guilty.

“So…” your lips were dry. You felt your sins crawling on your back. “Kill me. Kill me please.”

The gut-wrenching look of pure horror which crossed his face told you two things; it told you your executioner had not lied to you, and it told you that no matter what you did, Samael would never be able to grant you your only wish. You knew that no matter how much you tried to hurt, destroy or even hate him- something you never believed to be possible- he could never bring himself to end your suffering. And you could not blame or despise him for that, he had waited so long for you and the only thing you gave him was pain and torment.

You deserve this, you deserve this punishment.

“Are you done moping around ?” you hear that familiar, bone-chilling voice calls for you.

You don’t even turn around to face him but knows what awaits you if you refuse to answer his question, as rhetorical as it may seem.

“I’m not mopping around,” you flatly say. “Just here to think.”

You hear him take a step closer, but don’t flinch or try to move away while he stands right behind you, and you wonder how long it’s been since you got used to this.

“Really ?” he asks a bit more cheerfully. “So, you’re not avoiding me ?”

You frown and remain silent for longer than you should as you try to find the meaning behind his words. He doesn’t seem to mind though as if he was waiting for your half-baked excuse.

“Avoid you ?” you retort back in a slightly sarcastic tone. “What are you even saying ? I know you’ll always be able to find me.”

He hums in agreement, taking no offense of the fact you still refuse to look at him, instead you think he is pleased by your admission.

“You don’t seem very happy to see me though.” He almost sounds hurt at the idea and maybe you would have bought it if it was one of your first interactions. “Did I do something to upset you sweetheart ?” The innocence in his voice is sickening.

You never bought the cute pet names or the honeyed words of concern though. You recall how you cringed the first time he used them on you, which was strange. You had never met him, and yet somehow, you’d been able to tell this behavior was not natural to him. He was attractive -at least to your standards- , his voice was rich and smooth, and his gaze had been solely focused on you; you should have enjoyed the attention from such a charming being, or at least, feel mildly flattered. But instead, your mind and body recognized the eager executioner that he was. Maybe it was because you refused to believe someone could have a genuine interest in you, or maybe it was because you’d unconsciously compared him to the King. Whatever it was, you never fell for it, and you never will.

“No,” you answer in a detached tone of voice. “I’m just staying out of your way.”

You’re not sure if he is confused, amused or irritated by your words but it feels like you’re suffocating. You’re used to the mockeries, twisted chuckles and fake flatteries but this silence, it’s not normal.

When were things ever normal here ?

You can’t help the gasp leaving your lips when you feel a hand grabing you by the hips and a cold breath tickling your neck. You easily guess the smile against your skin, and it takes everything in your power to repress yourself from kicking him in the ribs. You’re not afraid of the pain that might follow after that, but the other types of punishments he must have in mind.

“You think I don’t want to play with you anymore ?” His voice drops by a few octaves, sending vibrations across your skin. You still manage a small nod, voice stuck in your throat. “Aw…how sad. I must have done a terrible job lately, haven’t I ?”

“It’s just-“ You don’t like how your voice waver at his freezing touch. “You seem distracted and well…bored.” You hear him whisper a small oh ? against your flesh. “I thought you got tired of killing me.”

You realize how fucked up this sounds, and a sense of relief washes over you because it means you still haven’t completely lost it. But the moment is short lived when you feel him chuckle darkly, sending goosebumps along your skins. You really, really don’t like this.

“How awfully observant of you dear.” You feel his teeth graze the juncture of your neck, but you don’t move an inch, instead wondering if he intends to cut your jugular with his sharp incises. He’s never done that before, at least from what you can remember. “But don’t worry, I’m not bored of our little game…yet.”

You believe him for once, it would be rather strange for him to come here if he didn’t want to spend time with you anymore. But his voice, the way he stands so uncomfortably close, tell you he wants to change the rules and you’re almost sure he’s happy you noticed the changes. In fact, all of this might have been part of his plan, for you to notice the little hints he dropped during your last sessions and break from the usual pattern the both of you had created since the first day.

He’s always five steps ahead of everyone after all.

You let out a frustrated sigh, knowing that no matter how this conversation will end, you won’t like what will come out of it. But it’s too late to turn back now, not when he’s literally clinging to you like some damn leech.

“What do you want ?” you curtly demand.

“Ah, don’t be like that sweetheart,” he whines to you, but you can feel his smile growing wider. “I just want you to enjoy this as much as I do.”

What the fuck is he saying now ? Maybe you should just kick him after all, then jump and, if you’re lucky enough, break your neck against the cold pavement below, if not you’ll just break every bone in your body and wait until you respawn like some videogame character. It’s nothing you haven’t experienced before, though the demon freak is more into using his knife -you think it’s always the same- than his own hands on you.

“We both know you’re not getting out if this cycle, not for a very long while at least…” he trails off, as if you had somehow forgotten why you were here in the first place, as if you weren’t living with the constant reminder that you couldn’t die. Is he trying to make you cry or something ? “And well…I know you’re not getting off of the pain, you’re not that kind of freak.”

“Just get on with it, the floor below us is starting to become more interesting than you,” you grit between your teeth as you take a step towards the edge for emphasis. He lazily takes another step as well, completely unbothered by the situation. He must know you’re not joking.

“Don’t interrupt me, that’s very rude,” he scolds you, like a parent trying to reason with their unruly child -the idea both amuses and creeps you out- but you don’t miss the cold authority behind it. The warning is clear. “Like I said, you’re not getting anything out of this and I’m starting to feel like the bad guy here.”

You take another step forward and grip the stone railing as tightly as you can as a sign for him to hurry but also to keep yourself from sending your fist in his face or his stomach. Can’t he just break your neck or bleed you dry ? Starting to feel like the bad guy ? Well, he’d fit the role if this was a classic fairytale, although as sweet and devoted Samael was to you, he would not make for a very good prince charming -or a very twisted one- while you’re all too aware of how terrible of a damsel in distress you’d be. One could almost say the purple freak is the only one playing his part right.

“Don’t you think you deserve some award for going this far ?”

Your eyes narrow. Why does he speak as if you had a choice in this ? Why does he speak as though there is anything to be celebrated expect for you to have fallen as low as only finding some sense of peace in dying brutally to the hands a psychopath ? Is this what he wants to reward you for ? Does he really think you’ll agree to it ? You refuse to believe it.

“Ah you’re right, that was a poor choice of words,” he admits in a childlike voice as if he’d heard your thoughts, but it’s not the first time he'd done that. “Rather, I think you’d enjoy our playdates much more if you indulged yourself a bit…” His voice grows huskier as the hand holding your hips moves lower and lower, somewhere he’s never been. “I promise to make it feel so good you’ll forget your own name…” he whispers sensually to your ear before his tone suddenly shifts to sadistic glee. “And then…I’ll watch that beautiful blissful expression of yours turn to absolute agony !”

His revelation turns your body to stone as you attempt to process what he just suggested. This can’t be real. All of this just because he wanted to fuck you ? No, it was not just about sex -not when he could do so much better than you-, this was about the additional control he’d have over you. He’d already gained ownership over you once he became the only one able to give you pain, and by becoming the only one able to give you pleasure, he’d have complete control of your strings.

“I’m not interested, get off of me,” you try to sound calm, much calmer than the inner chaos that your mind is right now.

“Really ?” How could a word carry so much darkness ?

Before you can react, you feel a hand grabbing your hair in a tight grip then violently yanking you aside, in a soundless cry till you’re forced to look at him. You close your eyes on instinct, refusing to submit to his gaze. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes but you ignore them, instead focusing on the sensation of his cold face against your own.

“I have to admit, it’s been a while since I found someone so pathetic and hopeless. Kinda reminds me of…” he ponders while you try keep your breathing steady. “Oh no I shouldn’t speak of him when he isn’t here,” he seems to mumble to himself. “But really, you have nothing to lose here, cutie,” he finishes in a sing-song voice.

“You’re only doing this to hurt the King,” you finally manage to breath in a cracked voice.

“And what of it ?” he says in a surprisingly flat tone, which causes you to stop struggling. “You’ve only hurt him since you arrived here.”

You don’t want to hear it, not from him.

“You ignored him, didn’t even try to spare his feelings or spend time with him because you were too engrossed in the only thing that mattered to you .”

How dare he lecture you about feelings ? Him, out of everyone you’ve met ?

“And when you asked him to kill you ? Oh, that was beautiful !” He laughs heartfully. “Trying to use his own words against him so shamelessly…I’ll remember this for a while haha !”

“Stop…” you whisper weakly.

“Stop fooling yourself Darling, you’ve never cared for him,” voice full of poison slipping into your already sick mind. “Maybe you actually like to see him so miserable.”

“ That’s not true !” you cry out. “I never wanted him to suffer because of me !”

But have you ever done anything to prove it ?

“I never-“ you struggle to form a coherent sentence. “I didn’t-“

“Didn’t even give him a chance, went straight to me instead. How fucked up is that huh ?”

You’re trembling, trembling from the truth of his words, trembling from the coldness of his body, trembling from realizing you’re the villain of this story.

“After all,” he murmurs right into your soul, “monsters recognize each other, isn’t that how the saying goes ?”

He lets go of you, and you crumble. You barely register your body falling to the ground as you feel your nails dig into your skin. He sighs.

“Come on sweetheart, you know I’m the only one who can make you feel better. It’s only going to get better from now on. “We’re gonna have so much fun you and I =)”

[ACCEPT HIS OFFER] [RUN AWAY] [JUMP OVER THE EDGE]

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Okay, so there are three endings to this fic, I intend to do them all but I’m really interested in which one you’d like to read first. I’ll regulary check to see what people want during the next few days.

Pick your poison :)

#your boyfriend #your boyfriend au #flauros #reader insert #there is no fluff #only pain #no comfort #MC is really fucked up in this one #should i add more tags

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lovetenya · 3 years

Text

𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰

pairing: tenya iida x gn! reader

warnings: angst. anxiety. paranoia. self doubt. unkind words. non-explicit mentions of physical pain & scarring. implied death, but i don’t elaborate. lying. worrying.

word count: about 1.8k

author’s note: nobody writes any iida angst, (barely anyone writes for him at all) and as a vehement lover of angst, i thought i’d fill that gap. i love tenya, i really do, but i love to think about him in this way just as much as i love to believe he’d be the perfect other half. nobody is perfect, not even ingenium.

loving tenya iida is yellow.

it’s the color of the petals on the soft yellow daisy bouquet that he surprised you with on the night of your first anniversary. although it wasn’t a last minute purchase (how could he forget the best day of his life?), he still wasn’t exactly sure what to get.

what kind of object can symbolize a love so encapsulating?, he thought. there is no tangible item that could possibly show how i feel.

he picked up the familiar flowers from a shop on the corner that the two of you had walked past before on a date. it was one of the first ones, and you pressed your face against the glass to get a better look at the delicate flowers inside.

he caught himself in his romantics when he thought that none of them were prettier than you. nothing was or ever would be better than this moment, where you were on your tip toes in an attempt to see more flowers. that day, he insisted on buying you a small bouquet of yellow daisies, and thought it would be sweet to indulge and revisit the memory.

the week before your anniversary, he made you promise not to execute any elaborate celebratory plans.

“honey, you know that I’d rather do nothing with you than anything with anyone else,” he said. and he was serious. he would rather sit together on the couch half-listening to a documentary (because you can’t keep your eyes off each other) than go out to dinner, where he couldn’t let down his guard.

although he liked to think that his work made the world a safer place, he couldn’t help but feel paranoid whenever you were out in public. how could he be sure that someone in the restaurant didn’t want him dead? how could he be sure that they wouldn’t kidnap and kill you just to make him suffer? if he couldn’t be sure, was it worth the risk?

he’s an iida, after all. with their striking looks and long hero legacy, it’s not exactly easy to blend in in a world whose wellbeing depends on your greatness and ability. there’s a great sense of pride in coming from a long lines of heroes, and his parents were much less than thrilled to receive the phone call that tenya was in the hospital following the incident that rendered his arm “useless”. they weren’t happy to see that he chose to leave his arm that way as a reminder of his dedication.

when they figured he was out of earshot, they asked questions.

did the doctors check for any mental ailments?

will he ever be able to use his arm again?

why didn’t they amputate?

what kind of hero accepts a physical wound and doesn’t try to heal?

what kind of hero goes after a villain on their own?

are you sure he’s cut out to be a hero?

tenya isn’t proud of the publicity his family got following the incident including a certain self-proclaimed hero killer. he isn’t proud of the wary stares he gets from his classmates. he isn’t proud of the violence he’s been forced to commit. he isn’t proud of any of it, really, but he doesn’t regret his actions; not for a second, not even when he’s painstakingly rubbing scar balm into his shoulder, hoping that at least the scars would fade.

the pain, which seeped deep into his muscles and pricked at his bones, was more than just a cosmetic concern. he couldn’t care less about a scar, but with his limited movement capabilities, he knew he’d never be able to teach his sons to throw. the doctors didn’t have to tell him that. but, of course, they did. he knew what it all meant. he saw through their sugarcoating and attempts at softening the blow. they should’ve known better.

although he’s now your tenya, he was a hero first.

before there was you, there was responsibility. before there was love and devotion, there were hero duties and combat instincts. they’re ingrained into his mind, refusing to be ignored. even when things seem fine, he can’t help but make sure. he couldn’t live with himself if his laziness were to cause someone else’s pain. that isn’t what heroes do. when you’re in public, he’s constantly scanning the room and won’t sit with his back to a door or window, because he needs to be able to see who’s coming and going. he has to make sure that everything is fine. he has to make sure everyone is safe, and everything is put-together.

he has to be strong, because there are thousands of people counting on him. he has to be strong, because evil doesn’t rest. he has to be strong, because... if not him, then who?

the day of your anniversary, you texted tenya while he was at work.

you: i hope you have a great day, my love! i can’t wait until you get home so we can celebrate! <3!!

tenya: I can’t wait either! I love you very much, sweetheart. See you later.

he came home with his arms full of the bouquet of flowers, and almost teared up at the sight of the dinner you had set up for the two of you. you always considered every worry, every caution, every gut feeling of his, and he appreciated that more than he’d ever be able to express. no words did it justice.

you’re more than his other half, you’re his everything. you’re everything he needs, everything he can’t be, and more.

you surprised him with an at-home dinner date, where it was perfectly safe and calm, and there were no people hiding in the shadows. music softly played in the background, and the daisies looked perfect on the table.

it’s okay, tenya, you reminded him. you’re home now.

yellow is tenya’s birthday present, or the envelope holding it at least.

there are only so many thoughtful gifts you can give before the inspiration simply runs out, and you have to go bigger. you have to look forward, and think of what will really leave a mark on someone’s life. you only have so many chances to get it right.

one year, for his birthday, you got him the deed to a recently-discovered star and named it after him. a star for your star. your guide in the dark. your light in unimaginable darkness. your ever-present warmth.

many years later, when tenya is long gone, his star sparkles a little brighter.

through the telescope, he seems to be waving hello.

golden yellow is the promise ring that you have no idea how tenya afforded.

you insist he take it back and that neither of you are ready for the commitment, but he refuses, of course.he’s never been more ready for something in his life. he tells you,

“i got it for you because you’re worth it.

every day with you is worth it.

i never want to spent another day of my life without promising to love you every second of every day.

every time you wear this ring, you’ll be reminded of how much i love you.

i saved for months, anticipating this very moment when i’d get to promise myself to you forever.

i promise, you deserve it.

you deserve everything, and i can’t wait to give it to you.”

and you did deserve it. and you deserve him, in all of his glory. forever.

the harsh bruises littering his chiseled body are yellow at first. they turn purple, eventually, before they fade away completely. their sting, however, is more than just the pain of broken blood vessels. they’re a concrete reminder that tenya isn’t untouchable. he isn’t invincible. he’s human, and he bleeds red.

the bruises come when his instincts send him in the wrong direction, when he dodged too late, or when he couldn’t seem to land a kick. he tells you that they’re from when he “tripped going down the stairs” or when izuku “accidentally punched him too hard during a training session.” (lies.)

yellow is the embarrassment you feel when you confront izuku, pleading with him to be more careful with tenya, and he tells you that he couldn’t have possibly caused those bruises, because hasn’t seen iida outside of class in weeks. nobody has. he’s been training more than usual, and hasn’t been at group dinners.

yellow is the sickness and guilt you feel at the realization, because you recently teased iida for not getting his homework done. he smiled weakly, pretending like it was just a foolish slip-up. it was so unlike him, you couldn’t help but poke a little fun.

“ooooh!!! class representative iida tenya, professional stick in the mud, didnt complete his populations analysis essay on time??? somebody call the news outlets!!! or an ambulance, because i think i might die from shock!!!”

he couldn’t blame you for your ignorance, because he liked that you didn’t know. you didn’t know how tired he was. you didn’t know how hard he was pushing himself. you didn’t know how hard he was working. you didn’t know how close he was to breaking. nobody did, and he liked it that way. nobody wants to see their leader falter, or hesitate, or fail, so he didn’t let them.

while he didn’t like to make you wait, he especially didn’t like to make you worry, and he figured the best way to do that was to keep it all in. he was supposed to be an upstanding hero, worthy of admiration and inspiring greatness in all, but at the end of the day, your opinion of him mattered the most.

in his mind, he was supposed to be your hero. and he tried, with every fiber of his being, to be your everything.

he was supposed to keep you safe, not keep you up at night, wondering if this morning was the last time you’d get to kiss him goodbye. he’s supposed to come home to you, and he promised, even though he couldn’t be sure, that he would. he didn’t want to lie about that.

his lies are yellow. they’re made with hope of protecting you, with keeping you safe from the evil swirling through the world.

what you don’t know can’t hurt you, right?

...right?

they’re made with intentions filled with sunshine and his golden gaze when you’re supposed to be studying, but the temptation is too strong.

his intentions are filled with the colored pencils scattered on the floor of his dorm room from when you sketched each other for the first time.

they’re filled with honey coated love, first sweet and satisfying, but eventually leaving you with a sore throat. they leave you feeling his love, but also his lies.

and through it all, you still love him, maybe even to a fault.

even when he’s yellow.

120 notes · View notes

complicatedandstained · 4 years

Text

Every Rose

A Grass is Greener AU fic, for / inspired by @snowflake-of-destruction and @shaky-mayhemm because their soap opera AU is everything

Warnings for strong language, melodrama, rich people, cheating, minor alcoholism, minor smut, some abusive behaviors, and completely made-up gardening facts.

Axel crouches low to the ground, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose, and gently takes a thorny stem between his thumb and forefinger. He exhales, nostrils flaring, the taste of salt hitting the top of his lip, and carefully shifts one of the vines of climbing roses, more tightly interweaving it with the closest bar of the black iron trellis. The patterned trellis arch casts intricate shadows across his sun-freckled arms, and he thinks back to the better part of an afternoon last week he had spent with those shadows playing across his body, positioning both it and the trellis to Roxas’ liking.

He’d stood just about right here then, glancing up at Roxas. Adorable, clever, sassy Roxas, with delicately rendered and neatly labelled sketches of the garden in hand and a pencil between his lips, had been perched in the mouth of a nearby, low-lying window, offering the occasional “A little to the left,” “What if we trimmed down the shrubbery, just there?”, and Axel’s personal favorite, “God, could you be any sexier?”

This last comment brings to mind a more recent encounter. Roxas’ tongue trying to knot with his, tasting like salt—like the Margarita he’d been sipping was a little on the strong side. He can still feel Roxas’ soft, glossy, dark gold hair between his fingers. Roxas’ hands hot and certain, pawing at denim and then his belt buckle. Roxas below him, kneeling in the grass beside an Andromeda bush blooming with sweet-smelling white bell flowers. Roxas murmuring “God, could you be any sexier?” yet again with something like actual reverence before he’d unzipped Axel’s jeans, tugged away plaid boxers, and licked—

“You’re still here, are you?”

Axel’s entire body tenses and he closes his fist in reflex, clenching the rose vine. A thorn bites through the worn palm of the gardening glove he’d been meaning to replace and gouges the center of his hand.

The slow, regal drawl coming from somewhere just behind Axel continues, “I was certain you’d be finished by now. You haven’t been slacking off, have you?”

“Fuck,” Axel gasps as the pain kicks in and then he bites his lip, tilting his head to gaze up at Roxas’ husband, standing just a few yards away on the front walk. It appears Isa had been watching him for God knew how long, while Axel fantasized about his lonely, jaded, sexy, blond, trophy husband complimenting his yard work and making him moan.

Fortunately, this is not the first time Axel has had to work out such excuses on a dime, and he reaches for the most tried and true one, “No, sir. Just trying to make the gardens every inch as lovely as your home and its owners.”

“Hm…” Isa fidgets with a key ring, and pockets it, the lights of his black Corvette blinking once behind him, as if, Axel feels, in belated warning.

Isa crosses the last few yards toward him. He’s wearing the kind of suit that Axel’s sister Kairi would know the name of, tailored to make him look like he was born to wear it. He walks with the self-important purpose and dismissive confidence only a lawyer can, his brow raising only slightly, as Axel hisses a strangled “Ah, fuck” again, tugging the thorn out, and clutching his hand to his chest.

Axel takes a breath to calm himself, and this time not from the sharp pain, which is proving to be a welcome distraction. It’s the entirely new-to-Axel sensation of paranoia that he wants to send packing—paranoia that’s drawing the acidic taste of bile to the back of his throat.

At least Roxas isn’t out here with him. He’s long gone for the evening at this point, off to “Girl’s Night” with a few neighbors.

But Isa’s asking him why he’s here so late. Isa suspects something—somebody—held up his progress. If Isa finds him out, Axel could lose this ludicrously lucrative job and his entire business and his reputation and his chance to further seduce Roxas.

Okay. So, maybe seducing Roxas shouldn’t be on this particular mental list, but it could be his only shot at getting the sweet but dangerous, hot, blond tease out of his every waking thought.

And, all this aside, Isa, who’s got the body of a cross-fit model and the resting bitch face of a Doberman, might literally murder Axel for touching his bored, stay-at-home boy toy.

Axel scrambles to think of a more specific excuse for why last-minute touch-ups on the trellis and minor maintenance to the hedge would take him this long, but he’s spared from voicing them, as Isa speaks again.

“I’ve heard talking to plants helps them grow...”

Isa comes to a halt closer than Axel was expecting him to. Axel could easily reach out and run a hand down his toned thigh and calf. In other circumstances, the silken gloss of the man’s trousers accentuating toned muscle might make him want to...

“...But I’m not certain that kind of language is what the botanary community had in mind.”

Axel takes a long moment to process this response to his pained swearing, staring up into Isa’s soft blue-green eyes and the light crinkle of the nose just between them. Isa’s thin lips don’t seem as taut as they usually do, curving up just the slightest bit in the corner. Over all, Isa looks almost… Fond?

He had spoken completely deadpan, but rather than the admonishment Axel had expected—almost hoped for—it had sounded more like… A joke?

Had Isa, his latest lover’s jealous, serious, apathetic, workaholic husband, just made a joke? A joke to amuse Axel, his lowly gardener, the one he may or may not have just subtly accused of screwing his husband, or at the very least, wasting his money and time?

Axel’s going to have to reevaluate Isa’s opinion of him. He’d assumed it was low-grade-dirt poor. But the way Isa’s staring down at him right now… Well, Axel knew the guy was gay, obviously, but with his sights set on Roxas, it hadn’t occurred to him that his other employer might have been taking a look.

Axel figures there’s only one way to know for sure. He slips on a practiced, easy smirk. “Didn’t hear you walk up, that’s all.” He slowly reaches back and rubs the nape of his neck with the palm that’s not bleeding, giving his arm a nice slow stretch and watching Isa’s eyes follow with... Admiration? Axel’s smirk broadens. “You ‘bout gave me a fucking heart attack.”

Axel doesn’t usually swear around his classier employers—Xigbar being the main exception—but the slight quirk of Isa’s lip earlier makes Axel think the man might find it charming. And even if Axel has no idea what the hell he’s doing right at this moment, he figures charming can’t hurt.

“Apologies,” Isa drawls without any sincerity behind it, examining the open knuckles of his black leather gloves. The gesture might have come off as bored, but the slight lift of Isa’s lip proves enough to tug up Axel’s own.

“I was just…” Isa’s gaze strays only briefly to the saplings, hedges, and artfully arranged flower beds Axel had slaved over, before landing on Axel himself, raking the muscles of his back through his taut white tank, “admiring the view.”

The fuck am I doing? Axel asks himself as he plucks a soft pink rose from the vine he’s working with and offers it up with his signature blinding white smile, giving Isa a better view of the ribbed tank top stretching across his wiry but muscular chest. “You like what you see so far?”

Isa’s smirk turns patronizing as he accepts the rose, but his green eyes catch onto Axel’s with surprising steadiness, confidence. “I wouldn’t mind a closer look.”

Axel supposes, technically, they could still be talking about the garden, but he’s starting to doubt it. He tells himself a little harmless flirtation with Isa won’t hurt anything. It’s just necessary job security. He’s not trying to hurt Roxas. Roxas doesn’t even have to know. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Isa happens to be turning him on right now with his slow, articulate lawyer voice, his gorgeous, fancy-ass suit, and his incredibly uncharacteristic, mild flirtations.

So, Axel sits back on his good palm, stretches out his legs in front of him and purrs, “Think that could be arranged.”

Isa nods, as if they’ve just shaken hands over a business merger, says, “Very good,” and then checks his antique looking gold and brown leather wristwatch. “It is getting late. You’d best pack up your things.”

“Uh…” Axel, sits up straighter. Maybe they were just talking about gardening after all. “Alright.” Being ginger with his injured left hand, Axel stands and tucks sheers, twine, spray, and the other tools he’s most recently been using back into the bag he’d used to transport them from his pick-up, occasionally glancing back to Isa, who’s alternating between watching Axel and examining the most recent yard work. Gear collected, Axel shoulders the strap of his bag.

“You didn’t stay late waiting around for me, I hope?” Isa asks as Axel steps up. His overly casual inquiry makes the hairs on the back of Axel’s neck stand up. Is Isa still wondering what took Axel twice as long as necessary, or is he hoping Axel wanted to see him?

Once again, Axel opens his mouth to bullshit a response, and Isa starts talking again before he can, shrugging his shoulder, “Hm. No matter. I expect you know you’ve done an exceptional job, Mr. Emberson. And I’m glad I caught you.”

Axel quirks a brow. “Are you?”

Isa scowls mildly, flutters his hand to indicate Axel follow him back toward the towering expanse of his mansion, and then sets off at a brisk pace. “Roxas told me he forgot to pay you earlier.”

“Oh.” That had not been at all where Axel thought Isa was going with that.

Isa spares Axel a backward glance, frowning now, voice softening into something that almost resembles sympathetic, “I do apologize. I can’t imagine what he was so distracted with that he couldn’t manage to do the one thing I…”

Axel’s initial irritation at Isa putting down his husband with an ease that feels like habit gives way to a deeper heat in his chest. Maybe Isa’s tone is sympathetic, and Axel’s heart rate is just picking up because once again Isa is dancing so precariously close to the truth that it feels calculated.

Isa’s thoughtful gaze feels like ice pressed to Axel’s face and he thinks it would suck to stand in court with him, because those eyes alone make him feel guilty as sin.

“Well,” Isa corrects, smirk knowing, if brief, as he taps his chin, “perhaps I can imagine…”

Fuck. He knows.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Axel offers, forcing his brows to furrow lightly.

Isa snorts. “Of course.” He pauses in front of the front door, a broad, darkly elegant wood with an opaque glass window inset with crisscrossing silver. Isa taps at the security keypad and produces his key. “Well, regardless. If you’ll follow me inside, I’ll write you a check for all your, ah, hard work.” Isa’s lips stretch into an actual, full, tight-lipped smile, as he holds the door open for Axel and gestures for him to enter with a sweep of his hand like some sexy Victorian gentleman.

Axel thinks vaguely of that John Mullaney bit. You ain’t getting me to no secondary location.

He thinks vaguely about Roxas straddling his lap on a garden bench, pressing featherlight kisses up his neck like a lovesick teenager, while Axel rubbed his back and whispered “You’re so beautiful” over and over again.

Axel hesitates in the door frame, lips fumbling for an excuse, eyes catching sight of his clunky black work boots. “Probably shouldn’t, boss.” He smiles, lifts a mud encrusted boot, and crosses his arms. “I’ve been known to wreak havoc on the upholstery.”

Isa’s brows rise suggestively, and his thin smile only widens. “Don’t worry about the dirt, darling. I have people for that.”

“I, uh…”

Isa frowns when Axel fails to step inside immediately, and sets his hand firmly on the gardener’s tanned bicep. The thorns of the rose tucked under his thumb snag gently at his skin. “Axel.”

Heat rips through Axel’s veins from the point of contact. Isa has the kind of voice you don’t say no to.

Axel sets his hand over Isa’s and follows him inside.

* *

Isa has the study of a Sherlock Holmes villain. Neatly organized bookshelves studded with the occasional curio fill two walls from floor to ceiling. Above his desk hang twin abstract paintings reminiscent of evening thunderstorms, all blotted hues of blacks, blues, and violets, lit with streaks of flashing gold. An astrological globe printed with constellations sits in one corner and a potted fern in another.

Isa makes his way over to a wide, disgustingly well-organized mahogany desk. The only sign that the space is not sheerly for show that Axel can see is a collection of coffee mugs abandoned beside a powered down MacBook and a single framed photo of a beaming Roxas hugging at a Siberian Husky Axel’s never seen a hair of in real life.

Axel wishes he hadn’t noticed the photo and steps closer to the large fern to his left, crouching to run his thumb along its discolored fronds.

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” Isa asks.

Axel glances up with a start, but Isa is no longer looking at him. He’s pulled a leather checkbook from a desk drawer and begun thumbing through it.

“This little guy could use a bit more sunlight,” Axel glances to the distant window across the room, its blinds pulled down and curtains drawn. “Indirect, don’t need to burn it to a crisp or anything, but… should liven him up a little.”

Isa chuckles, a brief, dry thing, as he picks up a pen and starts to write Axel’s check. “I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Emberson. Thank you.”

Axel notices Isa’s set the rose Axel gave him in a half-full water glass beside the coffee mugs, and smiles to himself—in spite of himself.

He shuts his eyes, rubbing his thumb between them. What the fuck am I doing?

“Here you are, darling.”

Axel opens his eyes and drops his hand to see Isa holding the check out.

Darling rings in Axel’s ears as he crosses the room to accept it with a slightly bowed head and a gracious, “Thank you, sir.”

Roxas had asked Axel not to call him ‘sir’ within two sentences. Most clients offer him their names on Day 2. Isa seems to have no intention of ever doing so.

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Axel’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but he thinks he’s starting to catch a slight slant to Isa’s words that say he’s teasing. He glances up to see the slight smirk again.

Axel chances another flirtatious smile of his own. “No promises, boss.” He takes the check between two fingers, waves it slightly, teasingly, before turning and straightening it, just to double check Isa spelled ‘Emberson’ right. Axel halts abruptly and rereads the numbers a couple times.

“Something wrong?” Isa asks, stepping up behind him, hand on his shoulder as he peers at the check as well.

“This isn’t the amount we agreed on.”

“No.”

Axel glances up to Isa, who slides his hand down his shoulder to his bicep and then pulls him toward the black leather futon adjacent to his desk.

“Take a seat, Axel. There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Seeing no other alternative, heart rate picking up again, Axel reluctantly sinks down into the expensive smelling cushions. Isa crosses to the double doors of the study and snaps them both shut.

“It’s about my husband.”

Axel’s boots press harder into polished floorboards, ready to spring up. His cock throbs at the memory of Roxas’ smooth hard abdomen hot under his hands, the beachy smell of Roxas’ hair under his lips and the taste of him like salt and coconut and burning tequila. Roxas’ eyes, wide and blue, alternatively coy and teasing and desperately wanting... Sex with Roxas had been like being pulled gently and firmly underwater and drowning in him.

Isa knows.

Axel crosses one leg over his knee. “What about him?”

“It has come to my attention that you have had the misfortune of witnessing a few,” Isa hums, swishes his hand dismissively, “spats between Roxas and I. No marriage is perfect. Some words were said…” Isa tilts his head in implication, frowning, nose crinkling again around his scar.

“Some dishes were broken…” Axel counters, not wisely, but if Isa’s accusing him of something, it doesn’t hurt to accuse back. He’s heard multiple arguments, both hushed and roared, at this point, but what has most stuck with him is the telltale glint of shards of plate and million pieces of a splintered wine glass scattered across the front hallway.

All Roxas had said in explanation that day was: “Watch your step. I didn’t.”

Isa freezes, fist clenching and unclenching and then nods, something Axel wants to call hurt in his eyes. It’s strange to hear a perspective outside of Roxas’ reluctant ones: He’s bored with me. He’s done with me. He doesn’t give a shit what I…

“Yes. Well… We all do things we regret. I assure you, we did not mean anything by them. Some relationships are more passionate than others. It’s our way. At the end of the day, Roxas and I are deeply committed to each other. We rely on each other. The pair of us haven’t always kept to the status quo and there are those who would like nothing more to see us torn down, and we must keep a united front. As far as our family and friends are concerned, we are madly, deeply in love and we cannot afford to put that perception in jeopardy.”

Isa paces forward, closing in, and Axel once again pictures him in court, addressing the jury, telling them what to think and how to think it with a natural authority that offers no space for doubt or disobedience. An openly gay, big shot lawyer with blue fucking hair and a sexy husband with an attitude and a day-drinking problem. Axel realizes not for the first time that Isa has to be better than everyone else, stronger, more cut-throat, more perfect than anyone else just to exist. And it seems like he damn near is.

“As you are all too aware, rumors in this neighborhood spread rampantly as weeds.” Isa’s eyes catch Axel’s. “I need you to prove as adept at killing them at their source as you have with my lawn’s dandelion population. Naturally, I am willing to compensate you for your discretion, and to recommend you to some of my colleagues who may be interested in a wide variety of your services.”

Axel doesn’t miss the half-dozen implications weaved within these words, but he’s also not entirely sure he wants to correct them.

“I trust this arrangement is amenable to you.” Isa’s standing above him, at this point, his knees pressed to Axel’s, his arms crossed, discerning.

Axel has a feeling sex with Isa would be like being slammed back to shore by a cruel wave and then receiving CPR, having his chest—his whole body—pounded back to life. For a moment, with Isa tense and poised like he might pounce on him, striking green eyes staring into him, through him, Axel wants to find out.

“Yeah.”

Axel’s mind floods with relief that apparently none of this actually has to do with his fling with Roxas. He might actually get away with Roxas and whatever the fuck this conversation is.

“Yes, of course, sir. Your business is your business.” Axel waves a hand as if to wave off his own knowledge of the subject and moves to get up. “Say no more.”

A heavy gloved hand lands on his shoulder, stilling him.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple as that.” Isa smiles sadly. “You’ve no doubt noticed that Roxas has taken an interest in you.” Isa’s thumb skims along Axel’s skin, below the strap of his tank top.

Axel finds himself nodding as his throat threatens to close itself off entirely. “Yeah, yeah.” He coughs. “He has shown quite an interest in my work. His designs for the gardens are really quite impressive. We’ve been fine tuning some of the details together to make his masterpiece a reality.”

Isa gives a world-weary sigh. “Yes, he thinks so, at any rate. Thank you for humoring him.” Isa’s gloved fingers knead into Axel’s shoulder in a kind of smooth leather massage, tone turning teasing again, “I hope he hasn’t been too much in the way.”

Axel frowns. Isa speaks as though Roxas is a lovesick puppy nipping at Axel’s heels as he works, instead of the entire reason their garden is going to be the hottest garden in Radiant Garden this season.

“Really, I’m not. His designs are stunning, insightful, and intricate,” Axel remembers a conversation they had had earlier, momentarily pushing aside the rising suspicion of what this conversation is actually about, “If he were interested in taking on clients, I know plenty of folks who’d be interested in seeing ‘em.”

Isa rolls his eyes but then meets Axel’s again with a momentary, indulgent smile. “You’re too generous. Roxas doesn’t need the work, I assure you.” Isa’s hand drops down Axel’s shoulder to his bicep, squeezes. “My husband wants for nothing.”

Isa releases Axel’s arm and Axel’s free hand rises to touch him on the arm in return.

Yeah, Axel’s brain bites back skeptically, except something to do with himself every fricking day.

“Everybody needs their hobbies…” Axel suggests more mildly.

Isa scowls. “He has more hobbies than he knows what to do with: painting, ceramics, equestrian training, amateur bartending…” He paces in an impatient circle, ticking off on his fingers, and then turning on his toe to face Axel yet again, “expensive hobbies that he abandons within a matter of months. This is only the latest. I fear he’d only grow bored and leave your clients wanting.”

Axel may not have known Roxas long but he can tell that his passion for design is more than just a passing fancy, and from what he can tell, the guy had some schooling in the subject as well. Axel forces himself to smile softly, “Well, if he wants. He knows where to find me…”

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you,” Isa lifts his hand again, pats Axel on the cheek so briefly he thinks he might have imagined it. “I wasn’t referring to his interest in your work…I’m afraid you’ve quite charmed him.” He glances to the ceiling for a moment, grin wry. “At least his tastes remain impeccable as ever...”

Axel decides to play dumb again, since it’s gotten him this far. He spreads his palms open, lifts them in the smallest of shrugs. “I don’t follow…”

But Isa blatantly scoffs, glancing down his front, tight tank top, tight jeans. “Please. Neither of us are stupid. You’re an attractive, well built, welcoming man, Axel, and Roxas is…” Isa halts, reaching out to grasp Axel’s wrist, and lift it up, “Are you bleeding, Mr. Emberson?”

Axel lets him tug at his arm, ignoring the jolting prick as the fabric of the glove shifts against the clotted cut in his palm. “Oh, not so much any more…”

“Unbelievable.” Isa abruptly drops his wrist and gives him a hard glare that makes Axel suspect the rest of the conversation had been going remarkably well in comparison. “Jesus Christ, Axel. Don’t move.” With this Isa sweeps out of the room.

Axel stays put, his back sinking into the swanky futon, deliberating over what Isa does or does not know, and does or does not want from him.

In a few minutes, the door opens, and Isa pushes through, a bowl cradled in one arm and white dish towels draped over the other. He’s hovering over Axel again in moments, their knees pressed together, Isa’s palm reaching out. “Give me your hand.”

“It’s nothing. Really.” Axel winces and retracts it, clenching it to his chest. It’s just a thorn prick. He’d had a hundred of them. It’s strange to see Isa so concerned over it.

“Your glove is filthy. You’ll get an infection and it’ll be on my head. Give me your hand, you senseless, pretty fool…”

Axel gingerly removes the glove, hissing as the dried blood pulls off and the tear in his palm starts to bleed again.

Isa reaches out his hand once more, and Axel hesitantly places his inside it, blood dribbling down the side.

“I’m terrified I’ll drip on that fancy suit of yours,” Axel admits as Isa dabs his wound with warm water and heat seeps up his arm, pain chased with soothing. “Maybe you oughta take it off.”

Isa bites off a smile that makes Axel groan when he realizes what he’s just said.

“Do you often find yourself overly concerned with the welfare of other men’s suits?”

“More than I’d like,” Axel mumbles, though Isa doesn’t immediately reply, rinsing dirt and blood from the towel and then cleaning the rest of Axel’s hand, wrist, fingers, before slowly patting them dry.

“You have the hands of someone who’s worked hard to get where he is.” Isa muses, wrapping bandages in an X across his palm to keep a strip of gauze set in place. “Roxas’ hands are soft as snow. He’s pampered, spoiled. He hasn’t known a day’s hard work in his life…”

Whose fault is that? Axel wants to reply, but Isa doesn’t notice Axel’s expression momentarily darken. Isa’s being sweet to him, but the way he treats Roxas...

“He needs attention, romance... He needs everything to be about him.”

Axel thinks again of the way Roxas had beamed and smothered him with kisses while Axel whispered to him how beautiful he was.

Axel decides he doesn’t necessarily like Isa, despite his attempts to be pleasant, but with Isa standing between his legs, working a fresh towel up Axel’s neck and across his cheek, muscular arm brushing Axel’s chest, Axel can’t deny that his body wants Isa’s hands all over him, or that he does, in fact, want to see how Isa looks without the suit.

Isa continues gently wiping Axel’s face of sweat and dirt and then sets the bowl aside.

“Better?” Axel whispers.

Isa gently cups Axel’s cheek, apparently not oblivious to the heat building in Axel’s chest or the way his pupils have blown out, eclipsing green with something darker.

“What Roxas doesn’t understand,” Isa says slowly, “is that after a hard day’s work, sometimes all I need is a quick, rough, hard, dirty, meaningless fuck. You understand, I think.”

Axel grins. “I think so.” Axel reaches with his good hand to grip Isa’s hip and pull him down onto the futon. He’s aiming to get Isa in his lap, but Isa’s stronger than he expected, and pulls Axel’s back to his chest instead, not hesitating to begin tracing kisses up his neck and toward his ear.

“How rough are we talking?” Axel purrs, reaching back to rub Isa’s thigh.

Isa’s teeth tug at Axel’s ear. “I can show you where to bite Roxas to make him come completely undone.”

Axel breath catches. He tries to twist his head around but Isa’s hand is secure on the back of his neck. “What?”

“It’s only a matter of time before he tries to seduce you,” Isa says and Axel can hear the slant of a smile again. “If he hasn’t already. You ought to be prepared.”

“Isa,” Axel sucks in a quick breath, “we’re just friends. I wouldn’t dream of—”

Isa sweeps the strands of Axel’s bun away from his neck and bites the nape, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure straight down his spine. “Hush, Axel.” Isa’s hands drift down Axel’s chest and lower, fitting their bodies more snugly together, and cleanses Axel’s skin with his tongue.

“God, Isa…” Axel grins and moans, as Isa continues his attentions, rough and direct. All thoughts clear his brain aside from the after image of the last object his eyes landed on before he shut them—across the room, on the desk, a pink rose, a silver glass, black thorns. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs, hoarsely. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop...”

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lookwhatilost · 3 years

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i hate having these insecurities, that inner voice always going "everyone hates you, you're annoying, shut up, don't talk to people, this is stupid, this is embarassing", i hate it because it feels pathetic, i hate the narcissism of dwelling on my insecurities. i wish i could just flip a switch and turn it off. it's probably better to be an annoying (but harmless) unselfaware personal than someone constantly immersed in their own bullshit, over-selfaware, always on edge, their discomfort bleeding over to everyone else, blinded by neurosis.

its dehumanizing to others, everyone becomes an instrument of your ego, a source of harm of validation, you see people not as people, but threats or obstacles or means. thats why i call it narcisstic, at it's worst, that's what it does to how you view other people.

i love being drunk. i know I drink way too much, but drinking is the only thing that flips this switch off. i become normal, at ease with others, also gabby, annoying, irresponsible. but god when im the right level of drunk(ish) it's like the fog clears, everything is quiet, i can just be a person with and enjoy people, with out my internal comissars scrutinizing and reporting on everything, without weird arbitrary guilt and fear and confusion.

i'm not scared of myself and everyone else. i just want to be able to feel that way without, y'know, being drunk also. it fucks with my ability to forge and make connections with other people, i try to talk to someone and ti's like NO THAT'S TOO FORWARD, TOO WEIRD, TOO PERSONAL, TOO SELF INDULGENT, TOO ANNOYING, TOO OFFENSIVE. Trying to anticipate every possible way something might be misinterpreted. Try to send someone a nice little gift and OH GOD WHAT IF THEY THINK THIS IS SOME ATTEMPT TO MAKE THEM FEEL OBLIGATED TO INTERACT WITH ME, A CRUEL IMPOSITION.

I don't think anybody owes me anything, acts like that aren't kind if they have some implicit requirement of recompense, but do other people know me well enough to know that? do i gotta preemptively explain it? no that's insanely weird and offputting right? I hate that I'm even saying this, because it's kinda doing exactly the thing, but idk, that's what this alt is for. It just needs out sometimes. On some level my whole life I've always hoped that, if I could make myself understood, I could ease that pressure. There's very few people I've known well enough and long enough I feel (mostly) comfortable talking to them, like I know they'll understand me, or at least extend the benefit of the doubt if they don't, and it relieves some of that. But it's a rare hard thing to forge.

Growing up I was very socially oblivious and it led to a lot of pain, so it's resulted in this compensatory hyper-sensitivity and paranoia. I don't intuitively know how people feel, but I know they *might* feel all kinds of things I can't anticipate, because I have a weird brain. Most people are probably not bothered. I don't pester people a lot. I don't make demands of anyone. This is probably like 60-90% mental illness but... how do I know that? It doesn't *feel* true. Maybe it's not.

I think I've said this before but every sober minute of my life (which is something I avoid whenever possible) is, with rare and wonderful exception, like this. The Wallace Shawn poisoned wine glass scene in Princess Bride, for every decision and interaction, and it never ends. I'm better than I used to be. You know you fight with yourself and try and built better thinking patterns and account for your cognitive distortions but I just... I get so tired of being like this. So tired of myself. I don't want it. I don't want to fear people, I want to love them.

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fortunebuoyed · 3 years

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BANGS A GAVEL, GIVE ME META ABOUT CLAUDE AND VAMPIRISM // @usedhearts

So you have to understand: It isn’t to say that Claude doesn’t believe in predatory figures wearing human faces. They learned from a tender age that the beautiful and privileged are capable of the vilest acts against those beneath them in the pecking order. Those above will always feed on those beneath them, stripping them of pride, of dignity, of coin, of innocence, even of life. Others bleed for them, and they delight in that endeavor on which the survival of their inferiors depends.

Having seen the ruling class for what it is, and the horrors society holds for those without privileges or protections, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Claude is more fearful of earthly horrors than the supernatural. Their idea of a vampire aligns with that of the metaphor behind every gothic novel of the age, the ancient aristocrat who impedes progress and preys upon guileless flesh. The vampire is simply an antiquated way of defining timeless but all too mortal horrors.

This extends even to other supernatural beings -- Angels embody a superhuman selflessness, the Devil is condemnation of free thought and impulses left unsanctioned by the Church, the Werewolf vilifies avarice and wrath. They see the fantastical as nothing more than a lens by which reality has been distorted, a way to advise others without calling out the figures they are based upon.

Even in calling Armand a liar, they interpret his claims as an attempt by a brutalized youth, so much like their own self, trying to assert agency over his suffering. They know Armand was hurt, one would have to be blind to miss how pain has colored everything he is. They don’t doubt the kidnapping, the way his flesh was sold, down to the Palazzo with the saintly but all too intimate master, the loss of countless brothers and friends. Even the cult they can halfway reason into fact, that separated from his patron their friend fell in with a crueler master. They are not afraid for their friend because he was in the clutches of evil pyre-building Vampires. They are afraid of the scars that a zealot who used his followers left behind which their friend cannot face.

In making it a tale of vampirism, Armand gives himself fangs and is able to consume others before they hurt him, is able to make himself larger than life and impenetrable by the aches of the world. In that, they pity him on some level, but know this coping method is unhealthy even at their first brush with it. There is an easy case to be made that Claude’s annoyance with Armand’s claims is driven by a want to be trusted with what they think his truth is rather than the walls he has assembled.

Claude is less a skeptic in stubbornness but by what they take for reason. That their mainverse sees them surrounded by a force of will immortal, a death goddess, a witch, an embodiment of a concept, and their dear Armand only seeks to spite that cool summation of the world to obscured and dehumanized evil.

I also think on some level they are protecting themself? In that they have seen and damned the evils that the rich and callous are capable of, and to think of anything greater would break them. They have done their best to make the world right, fight for it all of their adult life. To know that there is something greater that cannot be bested with their sword and their wits would probably drive them out of their head with paranoia or melancholy, perhaps both. They only accept Armand might not be full of shit towards their twilight years because they are finally at a point that they can handle it. They no longer rely solely on the idea of striking back and impacting the world to cope with their trauma.

Short of settings where Claude joins their ranks, they simply will not believe in Vampires as an actual facet of their reality. It’s all parable, metaphorical, a superstitious smokescreen. A stake through the heart can’t actually stop all of those who further predatory cycles within society -- but then, they think it would feel damn good to plunge some hawthorn directly into Morcerf’s heart.

#i woke up a little too late to lie [CLAUDE ; CHARACTERIZATION]#usedhearts

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curiosity-killed · 4 years

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a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

There are seven paths through the mountain, and Wei Wuxian strikes off on one of his own. His fingers still twitch, itch, with the indignation and rage that had licked up his arms when the Wen prisoners were drug out in front of the targets. He draws in long breaths, tries to remember what it felt like to harmonize his qi with the rhythms of the air and the ground beneath him. It’s harder now, with resentment hissing where golden energy once sang. As he passes away from the rest of the participants, winding through the quiet wood, his heart steadies into an easier rhythm, and he can feel his shoulders loosen. “No mess,” he breathes out. He turns in a slow circle, more for the sake of movement than any surveying purpose. Energy winds restless and eager through his limbs, unsatisfied by the long walk up the hills. He’s tired and antsy in a way he can’t wholly blame on the competition.

Since that night, since Jiang Cheng found out, he’s been trying to bully Wei Wuxian into getting more sleep, as if the problem is Wei Wuxian not wanting to rest. It’s sweet, almost. For all that the world has hardened and sharpened Jiang Cheng, it’s nice to know he’s still naïve in some ways.

The problem isn’t that Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to sleep. He’s been walking around half-exhausted since he stopped using resentment to prop him up during the war. He would love to sleep if it weren’t for the screaming, clawing, raving hands that scrabble across his throat and rip into his chest every time he tries. He’s no longer sure how much of it is from the seal and how much he carries on from the Burial Mounds, wraiths as a reminder of his bargain. Either way, the only way to quiet their wailing is to wait until he’s so exhausted oblivion takes him out at the knees or to drink until everything is sodden and soft-edged. With Jiang Cheng and shijie’s new campaign to ensure he takes better care of himself, he’s been cut off from either option. Instead, he’s left dreading evening, skin crawling at the thought of lying down. It leaves him brittle, dry-edged, like a leaf turning crisped and fragile in autumn. He perches on a fallen tree and sets to playing. It’s a gentle song, softer and brighter than any he played in the war. Monsters like music, it turns out, as long as it’s played right, as long as it sounds like an invitation. He lures them on and into Yunmeng Jiang’s nets and stops when there’s just enough, when he feels the pressure on the mountain ease just-so. He could draw all the creatures of the mountain into their nets. He could lure the dead from their graves and send them dancing all the way to Jin Guangshan’s bedside in the middle of the night. With the seal humming against his chest, there is so very little he cannot do. But – Jiang Cheng doesn’t want a mess. So. Lowering Chenqing, he settles back into his perch and exhales. The air is sweet up here, purified by the trees and the living things growing through the soft soil. Closing his eyes briefly, he drinks it in and lets the sunlight dapple his skin with warmth. He’s tempted to fold his legs beneath himself and meditate in the afternoon quiet. As a kid, he always struggled with their meditation classes, too aware of the rest of the disciples sitting around him and constantly tempted to open his eyes, to check how much time had passed, if he was doing it correctly, if there was something he was missing. But outside of their classes, floating in the cool lake waters or sitting alone in the grasses, he had slipped into it like the softest sea. Listening to the gentle murmurs of the universe, feeling the expanse of his own breath, has always settled him. The way the rhythms of his own body echo those of the tide, the wind, the steady earth, makes him feel small in a way nothing else does: like he is only a piece of a whole, a bud on an endless tree, rather than a child running, bleeding, from hungry dogs. There’s a noise, the quietest scuff of feet on the road, and he shifts, opening his eyes. Lan Zhan walks carefully between the shadows, upright and alone. Sunlight catches on the silver of his hairpiece, the summer blue of his robes. A smile pulls at Wei Wuxian’s lips, instinctive, reflexive, and he straightens up to call out to him. Unbidden, Zewu-jun’s words return to him. I hope you will not be so selfish to the people who care about you. Back when they were young, before, he and Lan Zhan were an even match. Strong enough to challenge each other, to hold each other up. There was a reason they’d worked so well on the hunt for the yin iron. Now, though — how can Wei Wuxian possibly be Lan Zhan’s match? Lan Wangji, Hanguang-jun, the righteous and indomitable. His stomach twists sickly, grief and regret and hurt coiling deep in his low belly. It would be selfish, to try to keep Lan Zhan, to try to bind him to his own dead weight. Steps sound steady up the slope toward him, and Wei Wuxian barely scrambles to his feet before Lan Zhan is there, directly in front of him. “Ah Lan Zhan,” he greets, trying to steady his voice with some of his old lightheartedness, “I heard you were tired of mending your family’s principles in Cloud Recesses.” “I made some progress composing the music score,” Lan Zhan says, “and I wanted to share it with you to see how it works.” Disappointment slides bitter down Wei Wuxian’s throat. Of course he’s only interested in fixing Wei Wuxian, as if he’s ever been anything but a problem. He taps Chenqing against his open palm. “Lan Wangji, who do you take me for? Can’t you leave me alone?” he complains. He’d rather be left on his own than have to deal with this constant nagging reminder of what he’s thrown away. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says stubbornly, “who do you take me for?” He swallows, suddenly caught by the earnestness in Lan Zhan’s voice. That bitter part of him, the teeth and claws he grew in the Burial Mounds, wants to bite back that Lan Zhan is nothing, that he is only a mythic hero just like everyone else thinks him and Wei Wuxian has no need of his concern, his presence. Hanguang-jun, it wants to say. I take you for Hanguang-jun, cold and aloof and empty. He can’t. As much as he could lash out and fight back in the war, it never really lasted that long. From that first night in Gusu, the first shuddering connection of his sword against Suibian’s sheath, Wei Wuxian has had a tether sewn into his soul, pulling him always back to Lan Wangji. Now, he breathes out and looks away. “I had once taken you as the one who knew me in this life,” he says. It falls from his lips like spring blooms, delicate and easily bruised. His whole self feels newly raw with the admission, as if he has opened himself to Lan Zhan’s inspection. “I still am.” His eyes flit up to Lan Zhan’s face, startled and unsure. There is no doubt in his amber eyes, no hesitance in his reply. In the face of that certainty, Wei Wuxian is left shaken, rocked. How? he wants to ask. How can Lan Zhan stay so firm in the tempest wake of Wei Wuxian? How can he answer so surely when Wei Wuxian has lashed him with rebuke and insult and distance? It is terrifying to feel that unwavering gaze on him, the weight of his conviction too much for Wei Wuxian’s exhausted shoulders. “Lan Zhan,” he says, because the words are now pressing to his lips, the confession budding on his tongue, “Lan Zhan, there’s something I need to tell you.” His brow tenses, just the faintest line of shadow between them, and Wei Wuxian knows he needs to say it even as he can’t fathom how to begin. It was easier with Jiang Cheng and shijie, when it came out by accident. Now that he’s had time to think and prepare, he finds himself with none of the right words. “There’s— I—” he starts, stumbles. He wants to make it easy, to grab Lan Zhan’s hand and press it against his chest over that gaping hollow gnawing beneath his skin. “Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, swaying half a step closer. Before he can find any word or betray himself by reaching out, Wei Wuxian catches footsteps behind him and twists, tugging Lan Zhan with him. It’s instinct more than anything, paranoia the smallest cost of survival. Annoyance rears up when he catches Jin Zixuan walking alongside shijie, boasting about Lanling Jin’s hunts. Shijie looks miserable, eyes downcast and posture carefully correct. She deserves better than this, deserves someone who brings the smile out on her lips and the brightness into her eyes. Jin Zixuan deserves far more than a single punch to the face. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan chides, a hand on his arm, and he subsides with a scowl. He holds out until Jin Zixuan plants his foot firmly in his own mouth and shijie starts stammering, nerves catching up to her. It’s far more patience than he really owes the peacock, he thinks. “Wei Wuxian? Why do you keep showing up?” “I should be asking you that question,” Wei Wuxian snaps back. “Why did you stop her after she rejected you?” For all that he’s tried to respect shijie’s wishes in regards to this match, he can’t understand what she sees in the man. Every encounter Wei Wuxian has had with him, barring a few councils in the war, has further reduced his opinion. He’s less of a peacock and more of an ass draped in fine silk; no amount of gold or perfume can cover that stench. The rustle of his sleeves is all the warning he has before Jin Zixuan has drawn his blade, swinging it down toward Wei Wuxian. He presses back, straightening to better shield shijie, but before he can lift Chenqing, there’s a ringing retort as the blade connects with another, far more familiar. “Hanguang-jun?” Jin Zixuan demands, stepping back in surprise. Lan Zhan lowers Bichen but remains just in front of Wei Wuxian and shijie, as if he’s taken up the role of guard. Despite himself, Wei Wuxian is glad for his presence. Before any more can be said, before he can demand Jin Zixuan explain why he just drew a sword on an ally without provocation, there’s the sound of footsteps from either direction and a flock of descending Jin disciples. Wei Wuxian’s hand tightens briefly around shijie’s wrist in a wishful thought of just turning his back on all of them and walking away. “What happened? Zixuan, did Wei Wuxian cause you trouble again? I’ll deal with him,” one of the Jin cousins declares. He looks familiar in a way that means Wei Wuxian probably ought to know his name, but a cursory search turns up nothing in his memory, and he’s too irritated right now to try harder. “Wei Wuxian, what do you want? Why do you keep troubling Zixuan?” the man demands, shoving forward. Leaning back enough to breathe his own air, Wei Wuxian huffs out a breath and turns to face him fully. “Who are you?” he asks. Immediately, the younger peacock stiffens, all those gold feathers ruffling while Wei Wuxian waits with an eyebrow lifted. This is ridiculous. He just wanted to stop idiot Zixuan from bullying shijie and now this moron wants to take a swing. “How dare you not know who I am?” he blurts out. “Should I?” Wei Wuxian returns, breathing out a laugh. “You—!” He’s kept from drawing his own sword and waving it in Wei Wuxian’s face by Jin-furen’s arrival, along with her apricot-robed attendants. She crosses between the men as if she can’t see them, immediately reaching out for shijie’s hands. Wei Wuxian retreats half a step, lowering his gaze. Jin-furen’s always treated shijie well, cared for her like the daughter she wished she had. He’s glad of that, grateful someone else can see shijie for who she is and want to protect her. He just wishes she didn’t look at him the same way Madam Yu did: like he’s an animal brought in from the woods, something diseased masquerading as a pet that might bite at any time. “A-Li, why do you look upset?” she asks. “I appreciate your concern, Madam Jin, but I am fine,” shijie answers with a small smile. She’s not fine, Wei Wuxian wants to say, but he’d never shame shijie that way. Her eyes are still damp with tears that don’t quite fall, and her smile trembles a little. “Did my intractable son bully you again?” Jin-furen demands. She twists around to glare at Jin Zixuan. “Zixuan, what’s wrong with you? What did you promise me before leaving?” It is, Wei Wuxian will admit, a little satisfying to watch Jin Zixuan bow his head under his mother’s scolding. He holds himself on such an arrogant pedestal he ought to be reminded that the same dirt touches his shoes as everyone else’s. Beside Jin-furen, though, shijie has her head dipped and lips thinned in a way that signals embarrassment, her quiet retreat from the trouble she’ll blame herself for causing. Wei Wuxian steps forward and takes her wrist gently. “No matter what he promised, Jin-furen,” he says, “from today on, he and Yanli will no longer have any association with each other.” A little pull and shijie turns with him to leave. “Wei Wuxian! My aunt is your senior. How can you talk this way? Aren’t you being too proud?”

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #yunmeng siblings #wei wuxian #jiang yanli #accidentally wrote this entire chapter yesterday and it's almost 2k longer than intended :|#@me can you not?

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reddogf13 · 4 years

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Escape: Aftermath Ch: 1

Waylon X Eddie

Summery: After escaping the hell that is mount massive, Eddie and Waylon had been patching them self's to fix the damage. Murkoff however is not willing to release patients that easy. A new Murkoff CEO is hell bent on getting their two experiments back.

status: complete

rated: M - fowl language, sensitive topics,

gore, and sex scene ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

previous chap: Escape Ch: 20

next chap: Escape: Aftermath CH: 2

_____________________________________

~Ch:1 A new start~

*early night December 15th*

Waylon and Eddie stared out at the buildings before them. It took them two days to get here and now, they were standing at the edge of the forest just before the town. Both were looking horrible, wounded and scarred like they went through the largest bar fight in history.

Waylon had a large scar going across his left eye and side of his face. Bullet holes decorated his left shoulder and right leg. Multiple gashes or cuts covering him. Blood staining his clothes in multiple areas, dirt attaching to all the sticky blood. Eddie looked no better covered in more blood, and not all of it was his.

Eddie had a massive gash curving up his entire back, crossing sloppily over his spine. Lesions were on one half of his face from the Walrider project, the smaller ones being scars from treatment before the riot. He had three bullet wounds, one on his left side and two on his right arm. Gashes covered his skin and one big one on his jaw that was now mostly healed.

Obviously the two couldn’t just stroll into town, looking the way they were. It would gather attention, police would get involved, and Murkoff would notice.

“We need to find a place to stay.” Eddie said.

“If we search at the edge of the town we might find an abandoned building.” Waylon shivered. He was still soaking wet, the constant rain during their walk not helping either. Eddie shivered from the wet cold, but not as bad.

“Not good enough.” Eddie said, walking towards the town. Waylon's heart started racing, he didn’t want either of them entering the city. Now Eddie was just walking in to make himself home.

“Wait, where are you going?!” Waylon shivered, limping after him.

“To find a motel.” Eddie said, walking ahead.

“You can't stay in a motel! We have no money, and look at us!” Waylon said, struggling to keep his voice down.

“I am not going to ask the front desk.” Eddie said. Waylon's heart stopped, thinking Eddie was bent on killing the desk clerk to get a key.

“Youcan'tkillthemeither!” Waylon blurted out, latching onto Eddie's arm to stop him. Eddie just dragged his weight before stopping on his own.

“I am not going to. I did this a long time before Mount Massive.” Eddie reassured, continuing forward. Waylon still held onto him, no longer attempting to restrain Eddie. Only holding onto him for more reassurance that nothing bad may happen.

“I should have more faith in Eddie. He probably got away with a lot before being caught. He would know what to do more then me, but he's still not right, and unpredictable. I don’t know how he acts in a normal environment where his actions and thoughts are highly frowned upon.” Waylon thought. They walked in the darkened areas of the buildings. The few homeless people that saw them disappeared in seconds.

They stayed hidden for an hour, coming from the shadows at the arrival of a broken down motel. Waylon examined the rotting but somehow still open building. The large sign that said motel was flickering. Waylon couldn’t look at it long as the engine was aggravated. Cracks ran along the white, now tinted yellow, walls. Doors with dents, looking like they had been busted down before from a drug bust. Cracked parking lot and all the lights were broken or burnt out.

“Perfect.” Eddie said, in a joyful tone, as he walked to the farthest room at the second row of doors. Waylon followed a few steps after, looking for any people near by. The only light available to help him see was from the yellow flickering “motel” sign. Eddie brought out his knife to pick the lock.

“Wait, what about alarms?” Waylon asked, stopping him.

“They cant afford them, no cameras either.” Eddie said, the clicking sound of the door unlocking after. Waylon was amazed at how quickly he picked the lock.

“Wow, are locks that easy to pick?” Waylon asked.

“Only run down motels, houses I find are the hardest.” Eddie said, opening the door. Waylon's awed feeling turned to disturbed.

“How many locks has Eddie picked, and what houses may have been invaded?” Waylon thought, Following Eddie inside. Eddie closed the door and made sure the blinds were closed before turning on the light. The room was as Waylon expected. Old looking beds, a crappy small television with old rabbit ear antennas, lamps that looked broken and a small bathroom. He sat on the bed, wincing in pain as everything ached.

“Take off your clothes.” Eddie commanded.

“What, why?!” Waylon questioned, his paranoia rising.

“You’re wet and cold. You need to get out of those clothes and let them dry.” Eddie said. Waylon was about to reply that he was wet too, but shut his mouth at the thought of Eddie stripping down to dry with him.

“I am in a building now, I can dry off with my clothes on.” Waylon said, hoping Eddie would let him keep his clothes, but doubted it.

“You'll dry faster without them. They also need to be cleaned.” Eddie said. Waylon grumbled to himself, knowing he wouldn’t win this argument.

“What about you? Your clothes are just as bad.” Waylon said with a little anger. His anger died down at what he just said, the thought of Eddie stripping returned.

“I'll clean mine later. I am going out.” Eddie said, heading for the door.

“What where?!” Waylon asked, going to stand. His body forced him to stop, having him sit back down with a hiss of pain.

“Getting supplies, don’t worry about it.” Eddie said, opening the door.

“What if someone finds me?!” Waylon asked, concerned about what may happen, and hoping it would stop Eddie from leaving.

“Only cleaners come, and at motels like this they only come once a month. Maybe every six months if the motel is in really poor condition.” Eddie said as he left. The explanation eased some of Waylon's worries and raised others.

He sighed, starting to strip off his clothes. First was his shirt that he removed from painfully sticking to his shredded back. Turns out all that “gravel” at the bottom of the river he repeatedly smashed against was broken glass. The few glass jars of jerky in his bag had shattered when he first hit the riverbed. The next time he hit the floor, the broken shards shredded through the thin bag fabric. All the jerky was ruined, the backpack useless, and Eddie had to pick out glass imbedded into Waylon's back.

When it was off he examined it. Seeing the entire back side was stained with blood and in shredded thin strips. He sighed, wondering if this shirt was even wearable anymore. He painfully stood up to limp to the bathroom mirror. He turned around, examining his damaged back in the mirror. Lots of blood, scrapes, and long thin gashes. It reminded him of a curtain shredded by a cat clawing down it.

“A shower would help this.” he said. Might as well take it while it was available to him. He stripped the rest of his bloody damaged clothes, getting into a hot shower. After he finished showering, his body felt so much healthier. Month's worth of dirt, blood, and scabs washed away. He looked at his back, seeing the long thin cuts more clearly.

They were still bleeding out in small amounts. He grabbed an unopened roll of bathroom paper, ripping it open. dabbing pieces of it on the cuts to encourage healing. After drying and dabbing them, the bleeding stopped. He examined the rest of his body, sighing angrily at the larger wounds that were bleeding onto the bathroom tiles. Mainly his gun shot wounds being the culprit.

Those would need more then toilet paper to heal them. He dried the blood away from the floor and his wound, only having more gush out to replace it. He Grabbed his shirt and ripped a few shreds off, making a patch and wrap for the hole on his leg. The one on his shoulder he wouldn’t be able to wrap.

He left his clothes in the bathroom, wrapping himself with a blanket on the bed. He laid down on his stomach, his back being too delicate at the moment. He closed his eyes at the relaxing fabric. The beds were horrible, but after sleeping on hospital gurneys with restrains or in vents for the past few months, any normal bed in any condition was heaven to Waylon.

He awoke from his sleep, startled by the door opening. He didn’t know when he fell asleep or for how long. Seeing Eddie at the door calmed his nerves, but they spiked again when Eddie carried in a large first aid kit and a ragged backpack. Waylon got up, ignoring the pain in his body, keeping himself tightly wrapped in the blankets.

“Where did you get that?” Waylon asked.

“A truck driver stopped at a gas station. When he left his truck I grabbed them. I broke a vending machine too, if you're hungry.” Eddie said, throwing the backpack onto the bed next to Waylon. He recognized the sound of crinkling bags when the backpack landed. The sound stirred his starving stomach, having him quickly unzip the bag and grab the first bag of chips he saw.

Eddie set down the fist aid box on the bed, opening it. Waylon scarfed down the bag of chips before Eddie could open the kit. He threw the empty bag of chips aside to examine the contents. The box was large, being a two-by-two foot wide box. He grabbed a large bottle of alcohol, gauze, and a large wrapping of stitching wire with needle.

The first thing he dealt with were the bullet wounds. He sanitized and bandaged any other wounds that might have needed it. After he was fixed up, he gestured for Eddie to sit by him. Eddie needed that large gash stitched closed and sanitized. Eddie sat next to him, removing his dingy shirt and vest for Waylon to see better.

Waylon ignored the gash at first, his attention wandering over the layered scars. Many of them were old, some almost completely faded away. He felt a large one on his shoulder blade, being careful when Eddie's skin tensed at the touch. The largest one he saw, he recognized, was the one left after his impalement.

It was a deep, perfectly round scar just shy of being at his spine. An inch closer and Eddie wouldn’t have been saved by Murkoff or anyone else. Waylon stopped himself from staring, grabbing the alcohol nearby and a gauze to dab the wound. Waylon cleaned it and stitched it, being proud of his neat work. He told Eddie to turn around so he could give attention to the gun shots in his side and arms. Eddie obeyed, holding out his arm to Waylon.

Waylon caught himself staring again at the layers of scars in front of him. Seeing another familiar impalement scar on his side. He poured alcohol onto the wounds, dabbing them dry of the pink fluid. He stitched a few closed, not wrapping them, assuming Eddie was going to take a shower.

Waylon was stitching the last gash on Eddie's arm. He had to get close causing him to lean part of his back on Eddie's chest. Waylon was paying close attention to his work, ignoring Eddie when he started kissing his back. Eventually the kissing was becoming distracting as Eddie pulled him closer.

“Hold still.” Waylon said, holding Eddie's arm so he could finish the stitching. It was becoming harder to do as Eddie kissed more of his back. moving him to be closer to his chest.

“Stop.” Waylon said, still struggling to stitch Eddie's arm while he moved. Eddie finally did stop when Waylon was on his lap. Waylon ignored where he was seated, just trying to focus. Eddie started kissing the side of his neck. The affection had Waylon pause, this act of kissing was lasting longer then usual.

He was tempted to slow his work, maybe even undoing the stitches he just worked on. He didn’t though, finishing off the last stitch and cutting off the excess wire. When Waylon tried to put the supplies away, he was a bit annoyed by Eddie's hold on him. He refused to let Waylon leave his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist.

When the final supply was put away, the box snapping shut, Eddie put a light hand on Waylon's neck. he pulled his head back and kissed Waylon, gently holding him there. Waylon didn’t argue, happily kissing back. He felt the nervousness in his stomach, the feeling growing as Eddie slowly laid him on the bed. Waylon broke the kiss, panting, to speak.

“Are you going to shower?” Waylon asked, receiving kisses on his neck. half of him wishing Eddie would stop to go, the other half against it.

“Later.” Eddie said, kissing Waylon's lips again. Waylon closed his eyes with a moan, relaxing into the bed. His eyes opened when Eddie broke the kiss to unwrap the blanket from him. Waylon watched his only covering be pulled away, frozen. His mind was racing on whether to yank it back or let him be uncovered.

He was only uncovered for a second to have Eddie get under. He covered the blanket over both of them, kissing Waylon. He broke the kiss again as he fully laid on top of him. He kissed along Waylon's jaw and neck, wedging himself between Waylon's legs. He thrusted his hips forward to remove the remaining space between there hips. The sensation made Waylon gasp, grabbing the sheets.

The reaction had Eddie chuckle as he kissed along Waylon's collar bone. The vibrations going into his chest stirred some thrill in Waylon. His blood was pumping now with his thoughts racing on how to react. He was worried that Eddie might turn aggressive, excited at what he was doing. He was nervous at what they were about to do, and now wondering if they should even do it. He knew that once they started there was no turning back.

His mind went blank as Eddie grinded between his legs. He gripped the sheets tightly in his hands, moaning as Eddie kissed at his neck. The grinding slowed down, but got stronger. Waylon wrapped his arms around Eddie, clawing at his back. he accidentally scratched the fresh stitches on his back. Eddie didn’t let out a hiss or flinched away in pain. He repaid the pain with a bite to Waylon's shoulder.

It hurt Waylon, having him wince and be more careful not to grab the stitches. The pleasure soon replaced the pain. The bite mark did not break the skin, but it would leave a bruise. Feeling that grinding was no good anymore, Eddie reached down between them to unbuckle his pants. Waylon helped with the removal of his belt, throwing it off the bed.

Eddie removed his pants, throwing them to the side. Now the only thing being between the two was a pair of, now tight, boxers. Waylon moaned again as Eddie rubbed himself between his legs. The hard on he had feeling more noticeable with less layers. Waylon tilted his head back in pleasure, being rubbed against while Eddie removed his boxers. He was going to close his eyes till he saw the boxers go to the ground. He stared at the black fabric on the ground, his blood pumping faster.

“Ready, darling?” Eddie asked happily, kissing at Waylon's jaw while he shifted Waylon's hips. Waylon nodded after the question, not even thinking of what he was just asked. Eddie happily nipped at his neck, kissing it as he slowly pressed into Waylon.

Waylon winced, gritting his teeth as he was entered. At least Eddie was going slow with his body. When Eddie was fully inside, Waylon took a gasp of air. Having been unknowingly holding his breath the entire time. Eddie pulled out slowly, giving Waylon a mix of pain and pleasure. After a few slow pumps, Eddie quickened his pace.

Waylon moaned, entering a pleasured haze. He kissed Eddie, clawing at his back again. He accidentally caught the stitches again, receiving another bite on his skin. Waylon winced, kissing him when he released. Eddie kissed down to his neck, biting again as Waylon scratched into the wound. This one hurt a bit more and when Waylon was kissed, he tasted a little blood.

Waylon decided it was best to move his hands away from Eddies back. The stitches being in the middle would get caught a lot and Waylon didn’t want layers of bites. Eddie grabbed his hands by there wrists, holding them into the mat. He moved forward, getting a better angle at Waylon when he pumped in.

*The next morning

Waylon opened his eyes, annoyed at the light beaming into the dark room. He glared at the light that beamed under the curtains. He turned his head away from facing the window. The body above him shifted at the movement, holding Waylon tighter in its hold.

Waylon smiled slightly at Eddie sleeping above him. He didn’t mind the extra weight on top of him, it felt a little comforting. What he did mind was the way Eddie was holding him. He had wrapped his arms around Waylon in an awkward way that kept Waylon from moving.

It wasn’t something done accidentally, the hold was meant to keep Waylon from moving out from under him. The trapping position wasn’t uncomfortable to Waylon, but it did look like it for Eddie. The hold wasn’t that tight either, just positioned in the right manor.

There were a few times Waylon tested the hold. Anytime he did manage to slip out, Eddie would change his hold to trap him again. It was some kind of compulsion he felt to keep Waylon trapped. Waylon was sure he could easily escape if he wanted to. A simple yank upward of an arm could break or dislocate something. It was a sign that the hold wasn’t meant to be aggressive toward whoever was in it. An aggressive hold would have been much more constricting and uncomfortable for the prisoner.

Waylon shifted a little to reach his hand up and gently rub Eddies shoulder. The position he was in, lying stomach down, made it slightly difficult. The soreness in his shoulders and neck area from the movement reminded him of the multiple bites he received. He had caught the stitches on Eddie a lot, mainly the large ones on his back.

His hand gently rubbed down Eddie's back, stopping when Eddie flinched his shoulder. He accidentally touched the stitches again. Eddie took a deep breath as he awakened, shifting his hold a bit.

“Sorry.” Waylon apologized, gently rubbing his shoulder. Eddie nuzzled into his neck, kissing it. He closed his eyes at the affection, opening them so he could ask a question he wanted to ask since late last night.

“Why do you do this?” Waylon asked, referring to the awkward trap hold.

“Hm, do what?” Eddie asked, not opening his eyes.

“This.” Waylon said, tapping his fingers on Eddie's arm.

“To keep you here. To keep you safe.” Eddie said, kissing Waylon's neck again.

“Have you always done this?” Waylon asked.

“Only one other time.” Eddie said.

Waylon was interested to learn more, but left it there. He started to move out from underneath Eddie, who let out an annoyed groan, tightening his hold to keep Waylon.

“Where are you going?” Eddie questioned.

“I need to take another shower.” Waylon said, rubbing Eddie's arm. Eddie huffed, removing his hold. Waylon chuckled, getting out from underneath him. When he was off the bed he grabbed one of the extra bed blankets to wrap himself. Even though they had sex, he still didn’t want to walk naked around him. Eddie stayed relaxing in the bed, his eyes closed contently.

#outlast whistleblower #waylon park #eddie gluskin #Waylon x Eddie

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transmage · 5 years

Text

If all is going to end in fire anyway, would it really be so bad to give yourself this one moment? To pretend that you’re happy, feeling the rise and fall of Ortega’s chest? It’s just pretend, right?

this is an extremely self-indulgent chargestep fic that was meant to be soft, and kind of is, but damn sidestep makes it so very difficult for anything to be soft... spoilers for retribution! around 2,300 words.

“Are you going to stay the night?”

“No,” you say, surprising no one. “But I can stay a little longer.”

But heavy eyelids and limbs say otherwise. The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, your mind numbing against the backdrop of whatever is playing on the TV and the ever-present hum of Ortega’s static. You’re pressed against him as if you’ve always belonged here — a missing piece to his heart.

Shit.

When had you become so sappy? This romance is doomed, and has been from the start, but here you are all the same, indulging in his warmth, his scent, his fingers running languidly through your hair. A cigarette hangs loosely between your fingers, smoldering and half-finished. You focus on the smoke instead. Faintest wisps of grey, not unlike your eyes, curling upwards before lost to the vast emptiness of air. Pulled apart in a dozen directions until dissipated. You suppose this is the path you’re headed down. Destruction is inevitable, but each day you’re less and less sure who will die in the fallout. Ortega? Chen? Yourself?

In a small admittance of truth, you realize you hope it is yourself. Perhaps it’s the coward’s way out, but it would be the least painful option. Maybe Chen really can stop you. Maybe you’ll let him. Or maybe Ortega will kill you here in this apartment, at your most vulnerable. The thought is almost comforting; it would be no less than you deserve.

You extinguish the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray Ortega placed on the coffee table. Embers flare briefly in a last, bright act of defiance before snuffed entirely.

“Kafka?”

Oh. You’re doing it again. Thinking in circles until your eyes glaze over and your breath quickens and Ortega notices. He always notices.

“I’m fine,” you mumble in response, flashing him a tired smile. “Just thinking.”

He merely hums, and the lack of questions shock you more than the kiss placed on your forehead. You turn your head to see his face, a taunt on your lips that dies the second his eyes meet yours. Tired. Warm. Happy. And oh, despite all the years marked on his body he looks younger than ever. Radiant, even, with a smile like you’re the only person in the universe. You feel your heart flip with your stomach — damn him, damn him, damn him. He really will be the death of you.

“Don’t give me that look,” you say in an attempt to hide the creeping blush up your neck. It doesn’t work.

Ortega’s smile turns smug. “What look?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

He laughs at that, leaning back against a throw pillow and resuming the soft playfulness with your hair. “I thought you weren’t gonna stay the night.”

“Shut up.” You sound embarrassed even to yourself. “I’m not.”

“Mhm.”

You should get up right then, just to prove him wrong, just to prove to yourself that you still have some semblance of control over this. Over your own emotions. But your traitorous body doesn’t twitch a muscle, too relaxed and melted into him. When was the last time you felt this comfortable? It’s a struggle to recall a moment where you weren’t tense and shaking, hurting everywhere, pushing your body to its breaking point… You need this. This illusion of safety.

Your eyes close slowly. All mental barriers had collapsed several hours ago, and you let the static of Ortega’s mind bleed into your own. Not for the first time, you’re grateful you can’t read his mind. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking. You don’t want to risk ruining the illusion that everything between you is okay. That staying the night might not be so bad.

Against your better judgement — against all judgement — you let yourself fall asleep.

***

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

You peel your eyes open slowly, blinking hard against hazy vision, limbs still heavy with sleep. It’s an unnatural feeling — there had been no…dreams? That doesn’t seem right. You always dream. You always wake up from the clutch of a nightmare, chest tight with panic, curling in on yourself. But now you stretch out like a cat, a tired moan escaping your throat. You’re still laying on Ortega. Oh, god, had you spent the entire night like that?

You sit up abruptly, untangling yourself from Ortega’s limbs, double-checking your clothes hadn’t ridden up in the middle of the night. Safe. Okay. Breathe.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is breathless, but the smile is…genuine, for once, as your eyes turn soft. “Sorry for…trapping you all night.”

“I didn’t mind. You’re cute when you’re asleep, you know that? Peaceful.”

“Smooth-talker…”

His laugh is infectious, and soon you’re smiling wide and half-heartedly hiding it behind the back of your hand. He stands a moment later, taking your hand in his and kissing it like it was a perfectly natural gesture.

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For staying the night. I was worried, for a moment there, that if you left, you’d… Disappear forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you lie, turning to hide the way your smile falls, instead picking up the empty glasses from the coffee table to bring to the dishwasher.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Ah. You don’t respond — suddenly the stakes are all too real, and you know you’d be a hypocrite to promise anything. Time to not-so-subtly change the subject.

“Mind if I use your shower?” The second the words leave your lips you kick yourself. Really? How many stupid risks can you take in 24 hours, Kafka? You can even see the confusion echoed in his face, the questions bubbling up to the tip of tongue, the ones he won’t ask out of respect for the privacy you insisted on last night. Ortega’s forehead smooths out a second later, gracing you with another light kiss.

“Of course not. I can even wash your clothes, if you’d like? Since they, uh…”

Another blush erupts over your face. “I — it’s okay, I can just — ”

“Kafka.” You half expect him to roll his eyes. “You can borrow some of my clothes in the meantime, if you’d like.”

You mean to reject the offer immediately, but you can’t deny the discomfort of your pants. “…Okay.”

His eyes widen. He wasn’t expecting this either. You suppose you’ve been checking off a lot of “firsts” in the past day.

You enter his (ridiculously spacious) bathroom with a pile of folded clothing clutched against your chest. Underwear, sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt. Tight on him, which means it should be fine for your smaller frame. You don’t dare risk a collar slipping down your shoulder.

To your great relief, the bathroom door can be locked. You even do a quick scan for bugs or cameras before undressing — overkill, you know, this is Ortega’s own bathroom, but the paranoia refuses to stop gnawing at your conscious until the space is analyzed. Documented. Moved tentatively over to your “safe” list.

You don’t mean to look in the mirror, but it’s appallingly massive. As you step out of the last of your clothing the orange flashes in it, turned almost neon under fluorescent lighting. A familiar sense of nausea tugs at your stomach, urging you to smash the damn thing, before you notice blooms of purple across your skin. Your neck. Your collarbone. Your hips. Your thighs. Even next to one of your nipples, nearly over…nearly over your barcode.

Part of you is appropriately embarrassed. These are from Ortega, after all, as he worshipped your body last night, his lips and tongue and fingers feeling out every scar, every imperfection, every… He couldn’t see your tattoos. But he’d kissed them. Caressed them in his ignorance.

The louder part of you is horrified. If he knew — if he knew what he’d been kissing, what he’d been fucking, would he turn away in violent shame? If he walked through the bathroom door right now, would he throw up in disgust at what he’s been touching? A Re-Gene. A tool. Not even human.

It’s a sour line of thought, one you’ve been dwelling on far too much lately. The hot water scalds your skin and the steam obscures the mirror. You find relief in the pain, in the way your skin turns red as you scrub it raw. Dried sweat and other fluids wash down the drain until the only record of your idiocy remaining are the hickeys. You’ll have to chew him out for the one on your neck — looks like you’ll be living in turtlenecks for the next few days…

With a hand against white tile you shut the water off with a feeling of finality, inhaling deeply, head bent so you can watch the droplets fall from your hair. You can feel yourself beginning to break down again; it’s been happening with increasing frequency. No doubt a direct correlation with each time you let Ortega closer. But you close your eyes instead, forcing yourself the visualize the cracks forming along your mind. Seal them over, tape them together, whatever it takes. You won’t lose it here. You refuse.

Months ago, the clothes you now slip into would have only emphasized how underweight you’d become, but they fill out nicely. You’ll never achieve the muscles Ortega can flaunt (and Chen is a whole other beast), but you’re proud of how strong you’ve become. Another added bonus of being Mirage. You are undoubtedly in the best shape of your life — more so than your Sidestep days, you would guess. Certainly more powerful, thanks to your vastly improved telepathy and Dr. Mortum’s suit. You told Ortega you’ve been trying to get back into shape, and he knows you’ve been training Herald, so you hope he doesn’t find the toned muscles suspicious. Probably not. Given last night, he appreciates them more than anything else. If not for the jarring tattoos and an ugly patchwork of scars, you might even be a model male specimen.

At the very least, you were designed to be so.

That wipes the smirk from your face.

Just once you’d like to go an hour without thinking about the Farm, but you suppose that scar runs far too deep.

“Well, well, don’t you look charming.” Ortega greets your reemergence with a wide grin. He’s making breakfast in the kitchen, a pot of coffee brewing to the side.

The clothes smell like him and you admit that’s enough to take the edge off, but your hands make a grab for your cigarettes and lighter anyway.

“Really the height of fashion, I know,” you toss back easily. He’d been kind enough last night to let you smoke inside, but you know it’s a peeve of his. Besides, you’re not in any danger of flinging yourself off the balcony at the moment, so you open the sliding glass door to a breathtaking view of Los Diablos. Rich red sunlight drowns the city as mid-morning sets in. You should feel exposed and vulnerable — you know all too well that a balcony like this would be a perfect target for an assassination. Long ago, it would have been you behind the sniper scope.

Perhaps you rely too much on your telepathy now. It’s second nature to stretch your mind out across the buildings and feel the hum of the city. Harmful intents are easy to pick out. So are the thought-voids of the Special Directive. Not to mention Ortega’s own paranoia after having his apartment blown up — you wouldn’t be surprised if there are even more hidden, intricate security systems in here. For now, you’re fairly confident that you’re safe. The click of the lighter and inhale of smoke is out of habit more than any immediate need.

“Coffee?” Ortega leans his back against the balcony railing, two cups in hand. You take one with a nod.

“Thanks.”

“Mmm. Stunning view, isn’t it?”

Oh, and you just know he isn’t looking at the cityscape. You roll your eyes and give him a pointed look.

“You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

“What can I say? Who wouldn’t fall in love with a face like yours?”

You nearly choke on your coffee at that, coughing loudly and pounding a fist against your chest to steady your breathing. There’s that word again. Love. He’s never been one to toss it around casually, so the ease in which he does now — in how he did last night — ignites some unknown emotion deep in your chest. It’s not entirely pleasant.

“Don’t say that,” you mumble.

“What, that you’re beautiful?” He’s still smiling. “That you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever — ”

“Stop, please.” A tightness constricts your heart. You aren’t quite sure why.

“Okay, okay, if you insist.” He can’t hide the brief worry that flashes through his eyes, and you turn your head from him. Always worried. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so frustratingly exhausting.

“Let’s just enjoy this?” Your words are barely a whisper. The coffee is a tether to the here and now, so you focus on it intently, on the warmth which spreads through your fingertips and creeps up your veins. A warmth mirrored in the man next to you; in the sun basking the city.

“Trust me, I am.” There is no smugness to his words. You may not be able to read his mind but you can read his posture, the way his face softens and all his lines smooth out. Ortega follows your gaze across the city, a soft hum resonating from somewhere in his chest. In his last act of testing your boundaries, he reaches for your hand. Entwines your fingers together and gives it a reassuring squeeze. You let him. Maybe you even squeeze back.

And for a moment, there is no Mirage. No superheroes or villains. No tattoos carved into your skin. Just you, and Ricardo, and the warmth between your hands.

Blink, and it’s almost real.

#fallen hero #fallen hero: rebirth #fhr #ortega #sidestep #fallen hero spoilers #kafka landau #my writing #nsfwish as it's kind of a continuation of the ortega test scene #this game owns my whole ass #as does ricardo #ngl after rereading this in its entirety idk if i like it that much but i wanted to finish it at least #cause it's been sitting in my drafts forever #and i keep reminding myself that no writing is truly bad writing it's all progress ldskghsdg #one day i'll take all my drabbles & fics for fh and actually put them on ao3

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haunting-kind-of-high · 5 years

Text

Another Brick In The Wall (Part 10)

Masterlist

Warnings: anxiety, nyctophobia, self doubt, self loathing, lots of doubts in general

Tag list: @musicphanpie-b, @imin-loveanon, @ordinary-chaos, @sandersandthesides, @ajumbleofwords, @demonickittykat, @zadi-jyne, @serenefreakgeek, @fandons-mangoes, @leesacrakon, @gayfagg, @tree4life25, @loverofpizzaandallthingssweet, @ilovemygaydad, @kittyboof8, @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2, @sammy-writes-stuff, @storytellerofuntoldlegends, @anxious-but-whatever, @moonstone-fox, @royallyanxious, @thequeensqueer, @myworstdays, @psychotic-paranoia, @apologetically-anxious, @depressed-and-undressed, @words-bleed-on-my-tongue, @coolidontunderstand, @bunny222, @scorching-scotch, @ebony-wolf

He didn’t understand. Why didn’t he remember? With everything that Logan had told him about Pride, with everything he had pieced together himself, there was one logical conclusion. But he didn’t understand why he couldn’t remember. Was he wrong? Or he overlooking something? Why didn’t he remember?

It was driving him crazy. It didn’t make sense. Something didn’t add up. If he was correct, the other sides had been present ever since Thomas was born. Even Anxiety was around before he joined them; only he was on the other side of the mind. That was what he had heard.

Then why didn’t it go for him? Why did he have no memory of anything beyond the past year? He didn’t remember Thomas’ childhood, his teenage years. Why didn’t he remember? What was wrong with him? Why was it different for him?

Why

Didn’t

Remember?

Clearly, he hadn’t figured out everything there was to find out. Clearly, he needed to do more research. Something was missing, but he didn’t know what. And it was driving him crazy.

A few weeks passed, and Virgil noticed a few changes in the other sides. He noticed that they were more careful around him, as if they were too afraid to break him – he wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. He noticed they were mindful of his triggers, and reassured or comforted him if they noticed he acted… off – which he was actually grateful for. But the most noticeable difference, was that Roman was… absent. He was in his room a lot, or he slipped into Logan’s room, emerging a few moments later, holding a book or a binder. It was as if he was looking for something, but Virgil never asked what it was. He was scared that it had to do with him, but… he didn’t dare to ask. He was too afraid of what the answer would be.

Time passed, and Virgil just started to feel more comfortable with the others… knowing. It was a dreadfully slow process, but tiny bit by tiny bit, Virgil was coming to terms with his past, and he was slowly trying to move on. Even though it felt like it was impossible. Every time he thought he was moving forwards, something came along to knock him all the way back to where he began. The others were so terribly supportive, and Virgil felt like he didn’t deserve them, but he was happy they were there nonetheless.

For the most part, that is.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He kept feeling like Roman was hiding something from him. Even when his strange escapades to Logan’s room stopped, even when he stopped hiding in his room, Virgil felt like there was something he was hiding. And it had to do with him. Roman might be a good actor, but there were things even the best actor couldn’t hide. There was something in his eyes every time he looked at Virgil. Something that felt like a mixture of Roman’s gentleness and something like… guilt. But no matter how much he tried, Virgil couldn’t think of anything the prince would feel guilty about. He wasn’t even sure if it was real. Maybe he was just too paranoid. The dark sides did occasionally tell him he was being too paranoid. Maybe he was just too scared of something bad happening.

He didn’t know. A part of him hoped that he was wrong. He hated the thought of Roman hiding something from him. especially about him. The thought alone made his breath get short and uneven and his brain would start thinking about what he could possibly be hiding.

But at the same time, a part of him wanted him to be right. Just so that the dark sides wouldn’t be right about him. If it meant that he wasn’t too paranoid for his own good… then he wanted to be right. He didn’t want them to be right about him. He had spent so much time trying to convince himself that they were wrong. If they turned out to be right…

He didn’t want to think about what that would mean.

One particular night, Virgil was laying in his bed, trying to fall asleep, but failing. His mind was too busy, thinking of everything and nothing. His anxiety had been particularly shitty that day. The feeling like something was off lingered wherever he was, even when he was listening to Roman rambling about the new video ideas the creative side had gotten. Every unexpected movement made him flinch. He was more on edge than he had been lately, and the others noticed. They didn’t say it, but Virgil knew they did.

And even now, when he was trying to fall asleep, his mind wouldn’t give him a break. The shadows the nightlight cast on his walls were terrifying, and for a few moments, the anxious trait considered turning on the big light of his room. But then he realised that it meant having to get out of his bed, and that terrified him even more than the shadows did. Having to get up, walk through the dark to the switch… anything could sneak up on him. So, no. He was going to have to suffer through this.

Virgil wasn’t sure what time it was, but it felt like he had been awake for a century. And still… he couldn’t fall asleep. He looked over at his nightlight, smiling slightly at the first real gift he had ever gotten. Roman really was a nerd, wasn’t he? Sweet and more considerate than he seemed to let on but still-

His thoughts were interrupted by the movement of a shadow on his wall. Virgil tensed up, staring at the wall. The movement had stopped, and everything was back to normal. As if it never happened, but it… did… right? He saw it, he was looking at it when it happened. It couldn’t have been a figment of his imagination, could it?

He could have sworn he felt a breath on his neck, heard a laugh behind him. But there was nothing there. There was no one there. Nothing was out of place. He was alone, and everything in his room was as it should be.

But Virgil couldn’t stay. He hated the dark, but he hated these- these tricks even more, and he would gladly run through the dark if it meant getting away from… whatever this was. Staying in… in this would drive him crazy. It reminded him too much of Deceit and his mind games. And after all this time away from them, Virgil wasn’t sure he could handle this.

So, the anxious side rushed out of his room – but not after mentally preparing himself for facing the darkness. The hallway was silent and dark, and Virgil felt his breath hitching as he looked at it. He nearly felt nauseous when he saw the looming corridor, but he knew he couldn’t stay in his room. Not alone. It was suffocating and terrifying and he wouldn’t be able to deal with it by himself. It was probably stupid to disturb the others in the middle of the night, but he was too scared to face this alone. He didn’t want to go all over this again.

Virgil carefully edged forwards, sticking to the wall – just so nothing could sneak up on him. Every single step he made was frightening, led him away from his relatively safe room. But he couldn’t really… go back.

He had just passed Logan’s room when he could have sworn he had felt a breath on his neck, and he heard a whisper in his ear. A whisper that almost sounded like… Deceit, but…

He couldn’t be here. Right?

Virgil felt his heart thumping* wildly in his chest and he sped up his pace. This was getting too much for him. His mind was playing tricks on him, making him think there were things when there was nothing there. Maybe the dark sides were right about him. Maybe he was too paranoid.

His breathing was speeding up, and he felt more nauseous with every second he stayed here. The feeling of being watched crept up on him and wouldn’t disappear, but there was no one there. He was alone in the hallway, surrounded by only darkness and the vague voice that wouldn’t stop sounding like Deceit’s.

With a deep breath, the anxious trait continued until he stopped in front of Patton’s room, reluctantly stepping forwards to knock on his door. He really hated doing this, but he really needed someone, too. And he didn’t think Patton would mind. He… he hoped he wouldn’t mind.

The knock was soft, but in the silent hallway, it sounded unbelievably loud, and Virgil couldn’t help but wince at hearing this. He nervously waited for something to happen. Seconds seemed like hours and he couldn’t stay here any longer. The darkness was suffocating and he was being watched and the voices still didn’t stop and…

“Anx?” The anxious side flinched as he heard Patton’s soft voice. He hadn’t even noticed that the door opened. “Kiddo, what’s up?”

The moral trait immediately turned on the light, knowing that Virgil would prefer that to the darkness.

“Can I… can I come in? Please?” Virgil carefully looked up at Patton, half expecting the other trait to turn him away, despite knowing that Patton would never do such a thing.

“Yeah, of course!” the other nodded, immediately stepping aside. “Come in! Did something happen?”

Virgil shrugged as he walked in. Patton had sounded so worried, and it made Virgil feel so bad. He hated worrying the other sides, he hated bothering them. He shouldn’t get so worked up over something so stupid, but it just… scared him. It was dumb, he knew that. He wasn’t a fucking child anymore, he should be able to handle this by himself. But he couldn’t and Patton probably thought he was an idiot for knocking at his door in the middle of the night, but he just really needed someone right now so he wasn’t sure he really cared.

As soon as he stepped into the room, Virgil felt a bit safer. At least the whispers stopped, and he didn’t feel as uncomfortable as before. “I just… I didn’t feel… great,” Anxiety whispered, not daring to look at Patton as he did so, as if he was afraid of how the other would respond. And honestly… he probably was. “Sorry for- for disturbing you, I pro- probably woke you up but… but I just wanted to- to…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Virge,” Patton said gently, guiding Virgil to sit down. The door was left open ever so slightly, and Virgil kind of hated it, even though he knew it was for the best. The room wouldn’t affect him as much as long as the door was open. But it still made him super anxious to know that anyone could simply walk in if they so desired. “I’m not upset. I’m here, okay? So… did anything happen? Or just…?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice soft and shaking. “I just… thought I saw something and…” He shook his head as he stopped. Patton seemed to notice that Virgil wasn’t okay to continued talking and crouched in front of his friend.

“Is it okay if I hug you?” Virgil nodded quickly, without even giving it a second thought. Patton’s hugs just had something… comfortable. They always managed to calm Virgil down. It was as if the moral trait new exactly what Virgil needed, and how to make him feel better. Even without him saying a word, Patton knew. And this time was no exception.

Patton immediately noticed that Virgil was shaking badly, and his heart broke again. He loved Virgil so much, and he hated it to see him in a state like this. He was fairly sure that there was something going on, more than Virgil had shared with him, but he didn’t want to push. If Virgil felt comfortable enough, he would share it, and otherwise, Patton was okay with waiting. He didn’t want to force Virgil into doing anything.

“Sweetheart, you’re trembling,” Patton whispered, and Virgil flinched slightly at the use of the nickname. He had gotten more comfortable with them, but they still reminded him of the dark sides, and it was still a… sensitive spot. “Sorry, sorry. Should I get you anything to drink?”

Virgil shook his head immediately, the prospect of being alone again terrifying him. “Can you… can you stay? Please?”

“Of course, if you want me to stay, I will stay,” Patton nodded, gently running his hands through the younger side’s hair. “I’m here for you.”

For a while, the two of them just… talked. Patton tried to make Virgil feel better, and slowly but surely, it worked. Virgil was still anxious, and slightly uneasy, but… better. He even was starting to feel tired.

When Patton noticed the other side repressing a yawn, he grinned. “Getting tired, kiddo?” he asked with a fond smile. “Maybe you should go to sleep.”

But Virgil shook his head, too afraid to go to sleep. He was terrified of what would happen if he went back to his room.

“Well, you can’t stay up, Anx,” the moral trait pressed gently. “You can stay here, if you want to? If that will help?”

Anxiety carefully looked up, staring at Patton for a second or two as he considered this. That might actually… help. Patton did always have a comforting effect on him. so maybe… he could try it? “Is that- would that be okay?”

“But of course!” Patton nodded. “I wouldn’t suggest it if it wasn’t okay.”

“Alright,” Virgil whispered, looking away as he did. “Alright. Yeah, sure.”

And that’s how the two of them ended up curled up in Patton’s bed. Virgil found that Patton’s heartbeat and the sensation of his arms around him was greatly comforting. As if the other side protected him from any bad feelings and mind games that might be trying to get to him. He had never felt as safe as he felt right then and right there. Even Patton’s familiar scent felt… safe. And in that feeling of safety, he quickly managed to fall asleep, not haunted by any dreams or worries.

#sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #mercy's writing #abitw

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impishnature · 7 years

Text

Comfort

Rating: G Summary: Prompt from @ghost-soda-blog ‘Your smile’s not as bright as it used to be’ AN: This one got huge and then my pc deleted it ;A; I managed to save about 4000 words and just got back round to writing the other 1000-1500. Fingers crossed it’s as good as the first version!

It was a quiet day in the Mystery Shack, a peaceful lull in amidst the usual daily visitors and the exuberant bursts of activity that only the Pines family seemed capable of.

Or at least it was quiet, the early morning sunlight filtering through the window, the air soft and hushed as the family inside slowly awoke from, for once, blissful dreams. It was a quiet, unusually normal, morning for the household, tranquil, warm and frankly calming in nature.

That is, until there was a sudden loud clatter from inside an open doorway, a cloud of dust escaping to billow out onto the landing along with a string of curses that quickly cut out into a coughing fit.

"God, this- hack- this place is a mess." Ford flinched back quickly as another plume of dust puffed out of the box he'd been elbow deep in. He hadn't meant to cause quite so much damage, the grit and grime of the room cementing onto his skin irritatingly, gaining another layer with what felt like every movement. It made him want to instantly leave and have a shower, maybe return with cleaning materials instead of making any headway into the job at hand. Procrastination reared it's head as well as he stared at the upended boxes that he'd managed to knock over, wondering about tidying them up, cleaning up after himself or continuing in his mission to find the precious childhood boxes that, even whilst angry with his brother, he hadn't had the heart to throw away.

He steeled himself as he visualised the boxes, cleaning and tidying could wait, a shower could wait, until he had found what he was searching for. He turned back to the open one he had managed to pull from the pile, the scrawled words across the side giving him hope as he trawled through it for the items he desperately wanted to find.

Anything to help with Stan's memories. Anything at all.

The fervour spurred him on, a small pile of items forming on the floor beside him, glittering memories to show him. Yet at the same time it had to contend with the nerves tugging at his heartstrings, the whispering, niggling voice in his chest that told him even now it was all for nothing. So terrified that the blank stare would come his way, the apologetic frown and guilty eyes that could so easily morph into self-loathing if Ford didn't school his disappointment quickly enough.

He wasn't sure he could take it. He needed Stan to remember him, but the thought of trying and getting nowhere... he didn't know if he had it in him not to break.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember."

It was hard to listen to his brother apologise so earnestly. It just wasn't like him.

None of this was like him, not the Stan that he remembered.

He sighed deeply, brushing the thoughts aside as he got to work, ignoring the steadily growing doubts. He couldn't just stop trying, that wasn't an option. Sure it hurt like hell, and his chest ached with every failure, but something had to give at some point. Something- anything at all, would at some point open the floodgates and let all the memories back in.

It had to.

So therefore, he couldn't just give up. Not when his brother was trying so hard, not when the kids had already shown it could be done.

He gave a high-pitch squawk, thoughts derailed as another item wedged behind a box became dislodged and fell at him, quick fumbling motions pushing it back upright and tilted to the wall. His hands hovered over it nervously, waiting for it to move again for a few more seconds, his eyes narrowed reproachfully at the inanimate object for stopping him in his efforts. He knew it was just a distraction, but he found himself latching on to it, anything better than his looming thoughts at that moment as he went back to the box, words slipping off his tongue to push back the silent darkness brewing and keep himself centred in the here and now. Right where his family was, right where Stan was. That's where he needed to be, right now. Right by their sides and ready to risk everything to stitch their little family back together again. "Honestly, Stan, is this really how you store things? This room's a death trap." He gave an exasperated but endearing huff as his eyes scanned the small storage room that clearly hadn't seen the light of day in years.

Nor had it seen a vacuum, or a duster, but Ford didn't really know if he was one to talk on that front.

"I guess I can't say anything. I let this place get the best of me when..." His eyebrows furrowed as he went back to looking in the box, his thoughts slipping back into the sapping gloom. His tangent of a distraction had ultimately led him to another set of memories that made his heart twist again, his stomach sinking as a myriad of emotions engulfed him. Sadness, guilt, regret, the sharp tang of shock and betrayal still so poignant even after all these years, after all the time in the world to accept that it had happened and heal.

They always said 'time healed all wounds' but Ford had yet to find the truth in the words. Blunted the pain, maybe. Dulled and scarred it back into a semblance of health but it was never truly gone, still there for all to see.

And so the thoughts slipped in even now, years later, filling him with a cold, cloying shame. Just how badly he had sunk into his frenzied paranoia. How much he had relied on Fiddleford before he ran from their project and left him to fend for himself and deal with the consequences of his actions... how busy he had then been focusing on thwarting Bill's plans that everything else had gone out the window. His health, his home, nothing else had mattered other than fixing the damage he had done by believing that Bill was his friend.

Never mind the house, I must have looked an absolute state by the time Stan met me.

It almost left him wondering how much tidying and cleaning Stan must have done before the Mystery Shack- Or was it the Murder hut back then?- could actually function as a profitable tourist trap.

He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts. "Still, Stan obviously tidied up, lord only knows what state the kitchen was in..." He snorted to himself, the thoughts of possibly sentient experimental foodstuffs giving Stan a shock as he opened the fridge amusing him to no end. "So is this just where all the clutter went? Packaged up and dumped in here." The thought entertained him enough to slow his movements, mind drifting to images much more reminiscent of his brother, of 'cleaning' being moving things to where they were a lot less noticeable instead of putting them where they actually should be kept.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The warm nostalgia dissipated as quickly as it had blossomed. The stark possibility that these items were hidden away because they were just too painful to look at bleeding through the cracks to join the more ironic and dismal present day circumstances that they now found themselves in.

Even more out of mind now.

"And that's why we've got to show it all to him again, that's all." Ford went back to his work with vehement energy, hands reaching desperately to grasp around a large heavy hardback book at the bottom of the box. "And we should be grateful it's all somehow still here, undamaged after everything that the Shack's been through during Weirdmaggedon." He paused, a mental note quickly filed away, one to come back to later, questioning what anomaly could have caused that particularly fortunate feat before continuing with the task at hand, tugging the book out from below it's peers. "So now that I know where all this stuff is, I can do something about fixing things. In sight, in mind, that's what we're working towards."

"I'm not sure that's how that saying's meant to go."

Ford yelped, a sudden presence behind him and softly spoken words making him jump out of his skin. The old box crumpled beneath his weight as he fell forwards, a soft groan escaping him as he found himself face down, book somehow still held aloft as if even subconsciously his brain had worked towards keeping it safe against all odds. He propped himself up, grimacing at the mouthful of dust he inhaled as he breathed in before turning to the now sheepish, and quietly trying not to giggle, girl staring back at him.

"Whoops, my bad." Mabel bit her lip, her mouth twitching into a full blown smile as she tried to look at least slightly apologetic. "If it helps- I think I like your version of the saying more?"

"That does help my bruised pride, yes." Ford smiled back at her, sitting up and shaking his head. He chuckled as her giggles intensified, bubbling past her still tight lips, a raining halo of dust escaping his hair as he moved.

"Your hair's even greyer now."

"I bet."

"Looks good though."

That really did get a snort, and a raised eyebrow at his niece.

"OK, maybe not, but I was trying to be nice." Mabel shuffled slowly into the room, slippers scuffing as she yawned and scrubbed at her eyes. "What ya doing, Grunkle Ford?"

Ford ignored the question, focusing on the sleepiness still permeating from the young girl. "I feel like I should be asking you that. There's no need for you to be up yet."

Mabel fixed him with a pointed look, smug and cheeky. "Yeah well... you're kind of loud?"

"Oh. Oh, of course, I'm sorry-" He hadn't even thought about how far the noise would travel around the house. What was he thinking looking through the storage room in the early hours? "I didn't mean to wake you, you should go back up to bed."

"Nah, I'm much more interested in what you're doing." Mabel leaned over him, looking into the now partially destroyed box. "Anything interesting hidden away in here?"

"Quite a few things actually." Ford nodded towards the small pile of items beside him, though his hands stayed trailing reverently over the book in his hands.

Mabel gave a passing glance to the pile before following his movements, the dots connecting as to which item was the more interesting. She sat cross-legged in front of him with arms outstretched, hands making curious grabbing motions. "Can I see?"

Ford grinned brightly, the smile mirroring on to her face quickly, happy to see him happy. "Yes! Of course." He looked up and down between her face and the book hesitantly, hands tapping against the cover. He wasn't worried that anything would happen to it, more just plucking up the courage to let go of it so soon after finally finding it once more. He struggled for a few wavering seconds before handing it over to her, brushing the nerves aside when he saw her patient expression. "Here."

He couldn't help but feel warmth spread as Mabel took the book slowly and surely, her face filled with concentration. She had obviously noticed his small distress at parting with it and wanted to be sure he knew he had nothing to worry about.

The book was in safe hands, that he was sure of.

She looked back up at him with a quizzical smile, hand laid flat on the front cover. It took a few seconds for him to realise she was waiting for an explanation before she looked inside. "Oh! Right, so this box here has-" He gestured behind him before giving a sharp bark of laughter. "OK, scrap that, the box is out of action now. This box was given to me when I moved out of college, my parents were throwing a lot of stuff out and said as I had my own place now it was up to me whether I kept any of it." He gave a sigh, remembering the gruff unimpressed words spewing from his father's mouth as he'd stowed the boxes in the back of his car. I don't know why you'd want the reminders, myself. They're not worth anything to anyone. If it's just to appease your mother feel free to throw it all away before you even get out of town. Good riddance to the lot of it. "A-anyway-" Ford smiled, awkward and not quite genuine as the words battered away inside his head, a small vicious battle looming as he argued them back to the recesses where they belonged. "I won't go into too much detail until later when Stan's awake. But that right there?" He tapped the cover of the book, her gaze following the movement. "That is a particularly special photo album of ours."

Mabel blinked a few times uncomprehendingly before an impossibly bigger smile blossomed across her face at the knowledge slotting into place. "It's a photo album?!" The words were exuberant though hushed, as her eyes snapped back to the front cover, glad to have waited for him to speak before she opened it now. "It doesn't look like a photo album. Why doesn't it look like a photo album? Is it you and Grunkle Stan as kids? We need more photos of you two as kids. What's special about it? Why is-"

"Whoa, whoa there, too many questions at once!" Ford held up his hands, batting away her questions with bright amusement before gesturing for her to open it. Her excitement was a breath of fresh air, brushed the brewing thunderclouds from his mind, the looming worries that it all wouldn't be enough to bring Stan back to them. "Why don't you have a look inside and tell me what you think is special about it?"

Mabel squealed softly, rocking from side to side as she did as he asked, her enthusiasm almost tangible in the still air around them. He didn't need to peer over her shoulder to see exactly what she was seeing, the book still a vivid fond memory even if, for some time, he hadn't been able to bring himself to look at it.

The first page was a sketch, scribbled and crude against what he could now achieve but he knew he'd been proud of it all the same, at the time. It was after all the first day in a myriad of bright memories that even then he had know were somehow important. It covered both pages, that drawing, a double page spread of a small shipwreck, white and shining, a stark beacon in the middle of a shadowed, mysterious cave.

There was a note beside it, not written by himself, one he had trailed his finger along countless times and was embedded into his memory as clearly as the voice he could still hear saying it. His brother's first addition of many to what he could probably say was his very first journal.

One day, Sixer, us and the Stan'O'War will be out there where we belong!

One day.

He had begun to hope for that again himself recently.

The musings vanished along with the turning of the pages, a little gasp here and there as sketches became photos, an old camera that wouldn't sell in the pawn shop becoming their joint birthday present that year. They were both thrilled, the Stan'O'Wars restoration becoming photographed at every milestone they could afford, with either one or both of them somewhere in the mix as well.

The best photos were the ones when they'd managed to intrigue their mother enough to come and have a look, her snapshots of them both beaming proudly aboard their project some of his favourite images of all. He still had one, nestled tight in the pocket of his trench coat, that had survived the harsh journey through the portal and brought him comfort on homesick nights when Earth seemed just so far out of reach.

He smiled off into the distance for a few seconds, as Mabel lost herself in the book, his thoughts turning more optimistic. It was the perfect trip down memory lane, the Stan'O'War so ingrained in their childhoods-

Stan had to remember that once he saw the photo album.

... He just had to.

His smile dimmed as the nerves crept back in, those hissing thoughts that even this might not work latching back on, to tear and claw at his resolve. He dragged his gaze back to the present in the hopes that Mabel would kick the malaise away once and for all that morning. He needed it gone before he saw Stan, not wanting his own doubts to eat away at him too. Stan didn't deserve that, it would manifest as anger, self-loathing for disappointing Ford and he couldn't have that.

So who better to push all the doubts away than his little shining star?

He shifted forwards, smile forcefully pulled across his teeth, eyes squinting with the force he was exerting as he went to ask her what she thought of the album, hoping against hope that her usual expressive nature would brush away the remaining fog clouding his own head-

Only his words got lodged somewhere between his brain and his tongue, slipping out of his open mouth to scatter amongst the dust that littered the floor.

His little star didn't seem to be shining.

And he hadn't even noticed.

He gulped, his mouth suddenly dry as he shuffled awkwardly where he sat. Her face was so... hard to read, her usual expressive emotions so easily distinguishable nowhere to be seen. Instead there was just a small puckered frown, her mouth twisting down and her eyebrows furrowed but he couldn't quite tell if it was in sadness or in deep thought. There were no tears, not like the heartbreaking moment when Stan hadn't recognised her, nor the stark movements of her determination once they were home and she refused to give up.

This was so much... hollower, colder than anything he had seen from her before.

There were no tears, no loud bursts of anguish or denial, no optimistic chirps or that giggle that never failed to make him smile along with her.

Just her gaze locked to the picture in front of her, finger trailing across their faces as if she was seeing something he had no way of knowing. Silent and thoughtful, her face somehow impossibly sad and yet closed off all at once.

He didn't like it, not one bit and he liked even less that he might have caused it.

"Mabel? Are you OK, sweetheart? Have I done something wrong? I, uhh- oh, please don't look so- I never meant to upset you. I just thought you'd, oh, I don't know, like to see these old things- or s-something like that?" He couldn't come up with a cohesive sentence, his brain shutting down slightly in a cacophony of confused concerns. He tilted down lower to try and be at eye level as she blinked and seemed to come back into the room.

She shook herself, small hands jerking away from the book to pull her circling finger back into her tiny fists, held to her chest. She smiled up at him, still shaking her head. "I wanted to see, I really like seeing this, thank you."

"But?" Ford couldn't help but push, her smile was back but there was something unsettling about it, so almost perfect that he was even more keenly aware of the absence of her true smile.

"But..." Mabel's smile faulted, growing sad and understanding, levelling him with eyes that were far too old for her face. His heart thudded painfully, his own smile glued to his face in a semblance of normality even as he wondered just what toll this summer had had on the young girl.

She'd grown up suddenly- too suddenly. She shouldn't have needed to grow up so fast. Shouldn't be looking at him with a look that said so much and so little all at once about what was going on behind her sad shining eyes.

"....Your smile's not as bright as it used to be."

"Oh... I-" Ford sat back at the words, not having expected that as an explanation. Mabel let the book drop slightly so he could see the image, a copy of the one that he kept close to his chest at all times. That day when they had been so proud, so ready to go off on an adventure and take the world on, just the two of them.

He envied their smiles, he had for a long while. He'd envied the bond that had been broken when he had stared at it on many an occasion, wished for nothing more than his brother and his best friend back beside him once more, wished that he could go back in time and pretend again that his brother was the person he'd always thought he was.

The one who had always had his back.

But it had all gone up in smoke, everything turned on it's head that night when he'd felt so completely and utterly betrayed by the one person he never thought would hurt him. He'd envied his younger self's ignorance more than anything else, the bond before it had been torn to shreds and he'd been left doubting everything he thought he'd known.

Wherever we go, we go together!

He'd envied the lie.

And now? Now he envied that smile, that bright nostalgic moment for far different reasons though their components mounted up to the same conclusions.

Wherever we go, we go together!

Now he envied the truth.

That Stan had never meant to hurt him, not like that.

He'd told himself so many times that everything his brother had said must have been a lie, that he'd never been the person he'd grown up thinking he was, that he'd actually started to believe it himself.

Now... Now he just wanted his brother back again.

He hated that where his brother had gone, he couldn't follow.

He hated that he couldn't keep their age old promise.

But... the photo gave him far more hope than it once had.

Because maybe now, with it's help, he could bring his brother just that bit closer to being himself again.

Ford gave a soft smile, the worry that had begun to manifest as he went silent easing from Mabel's face with the expression. "A lot has happened since then, unfortunately."

Mabel nodded, understanding and reassuringly, though still sad. "Yeah, I just... wish it hadn't?"

Ford watched as Mabel's hand lightly trailed over Stan's face, soft and hesitant as if scared that by touching it, it would all vanish, and with the motion his heart sank just a little bit more.

A lot had happened since that photo was taken.

Both him and Stan had changed.

He might have lost his smile, but they had lost far more when it came to Stan. "Mabel-"

Mabel shook herself again as he spoke, hand once again pulled away quickly as she smiled up at him. It was closer, a soft sincerity to it, even if it wasn't exactly what had been expecting from her in that instant. Anything that gave her back her optimistic attitude was OK with him, however. "But! But- it's getting much better." She pointed at his face with obvious happy scrutiny. "It's already a lot brighter than it was when you first came back through the portal. And I mean, it's not surprising with all that weirdness going on that, well you know-" She gestured uselessly, frowning at her inability to word it. "But whenever Grunkle Stan remembers even a little bit more you get this big smile on your face." She nodded to herself, still appraising him, punching a fist into her other open hand. "So I bet we can have it this bright again when we get the last few of Grunkle Stan's memories back... right?"

He liked that she used the word 'when' instead of 'if'. That alone made him nod along with her, his smile soft but genuine.

"Yes, true, very true. We'll both get there."

"That's the spirit! And I bet we can get Grunkle Stan's smile just as big as well when he sees this and remembers all the great times you two had."

Ford could feel some of the tension lifting, her exuberant spirit rubbing off on him. His gaze grew more determined as he turned back to what was left of the box behind him, hands at his hips as he got himself ready for another dive into the dust cloud. "I can't argue with that. I think it's time to get back to it and see what else I can find. What do you think?"

"I think that's a great idea! Is it OK if I keep looking through what you've already found?"

"Of course it is, I always welcome your company, sweetie."

The was a strange tension to the air, it ebbed and flowed in waves across them and Ford found himself faltering, unsure as to what to do about it all.

He had dived back into his work with vigour, letting Mabel's chatter keep him focused in the present. Asking questions and pointing out bright shining photos that she thought would be the best examples to show Stan first. It had worked well, the pair of them in tandem, Mabel's presence a bright spark to keep him from sinking back into his thoughts or letting the dirt and dust get the better of him.

All this had a purpose, he could get cleaned up later, each new find an accomplishment as the pair gathered a now growing pile of assorted memories ready and waiting to be brought back to the forefront.

Each one brought a new set of questions, a gleeful chirping as Ford reminisced, arms gesturing widely with the stories he was spinning and half the time accidentally causing more cascades of boxes in the cramped quarters.

...The exuberant conversations didn't always last long though.

As soon as he went back to continue his endeavours, as soon as she thought he was zoned into his work, Mabel's voice dropped away from his peripheral. The atmosphere grew colder, quieter as she went back to staring at the book in her hands. It was like a switch flicked whenever she thought he couldn't see her, her bubbly optimism a mask that she wore to make sure he didn't worry. But he noticed, as much as she didn't want him to, he noticed as her words tapered off, caught out of the corner of his eye as her smile cracked and fell away, her eyes losing the spark of happiness he had grown to love.

And then the smile would be back full force, her words blossoming back out as she came back into the room and asked another question.

And for a while, Ford could doubt himself, could distract himself with the hope that he was just worrying too much and she was fine, that he had been seeing and feeling things. That he had projected all of his own doubts and nerves on to her and that was all it was.

For a while, the light would be back in the room, the clouds dispersed as they both distracted themselves and carried on moving forward, their little world turned ever onwards and they carried on pretending that everything was as it should be.

But then they'd run out of things to say again.

And the room would grow colder.

And Ford couldn't pretend he'd been seeing things any longer as the world went off kilter and his little star's glow grew faint and distant.

He didn't know what to do, what could he say? Was there anything that would actually help matters? He didn't want to lie to her, he didn't want to give her false hope but he didn't want to let her lose hope either.

Her hope had given them Stan back, she hadn't been able to give up on him and he'd never be able to thank her enough for what that accomplished.

He just hoped he'd be able to do the same when the time came, put together the last few pieces of his memories so that the person they all knew and loved could finally stand beside them whole again.

That didn't help him now though, not when it was Mabel that needed comforting.

He stood up from the box he'd been blindly rummaging in, biting at his lip as he wondered how to broach the subject.

And in that moment, her own words came back to him, his shoulders relaxing as an idea formed.

"Hey Sweetheart?"

"Yeah?" Mabel looked up from her spot, head tilted as she stared up at him with doleful eyes. She smiled at him, inviting him to continue but Ford could see right through the crafted expression, the light not quite reaching her eyes, even as she consciously shook away whatever it was distracting her.

"Your smile's not as bright as it used to be." Ford crouched down in front of her, face concerned and understanding as he regarded her now shocked expression. Her little face wavered, her lip wobbling as she opened her mouth and shook her head against whatever it was that was now bubbling up. He could see it, plain as day on her face, but she was still struggling so desperately to deny it, to keep on smiling, keep on pretending that everything was OK because that was what was expected. Part of him worried he was pushing but her mouth opened again as if the words wanted to flood out before she pressed her lips together in a thin line, her expression shamefaced and guilty.

She didn't want to worry him, she didn't want to say whatever it was on her mind because she was the positive one and she had to keep up the facade.

She thought she had to be strong.

That wasn't her burden to bear.

"Do you want to tell me what's troubling you?"

The words came out in a soft rumble of concern, reassuring and comforting in their warmth and in his willingness to listen. His heart broke when he saw the exact moment her willpower crumbled under the weight of it all, as if his words had opened the floodgate to all the things that had been festering away inside her without any outlet to disperse from. Her nod in return was almost lost beneath her sudden lurch forward, the book slipping from her knees as she buried herself in his chest. He fell back into a seated position, arms wrapping round her instinctively and protectively as she shook and sobbed into his shoulder, her words unable to slip through the overwhelming onslaught of emotions that had abruptly descended.

It had been a long trying time on all of them, these last few days, of course she needed a moment to let it all out.

He was only too happy to help, anything to get that smile back where it belonged.

Her proper smile, that is, not the mask of optimism she was so intensely trying to maintain.

Her smile, her bubbling attitude wouldn't just bounce back like she was trying to pretend it could but he was sure with time, with her family all around her, they could bring it back.

He shushed her firmly but gently as she hiccupped, a half mumbled apology on her lips that he refused to accept. She had nothing to apologise for. He rocked her gently from side to side, one hand running soothingly through her hair.

"It's OK. I've got you. Everything's going to be OK."

He didn't want her to pretend she was fine when she wasn't. She didn't need to apologise for needing help.

That's what he was there for.

He needed her to know that, needed her to know that they were all there for her.

He pulled her in even tighter, glad when her little arms followed suit around his neck, tightening as she burrowed further into his warm embrace as if glad for the grounding presence as she let all the emotion out.

"We'll all get there, I promise. Just you wait, I'll make sure of it."

The words became a mantra in the quiet room, a small safe bubble whilst the rest of household slept on.

"I've got you. We're all going to be OK. I promise, everything will be OK."

AN: And done. This prompt was just too good to choose who said it to who so both of them said it! ^o^

#gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls #grunkle ford #mabel pines #stanford pines #fic prompt #prompts are now closed

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fnafredux-blog · 7 years

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Inverted Fate: My theory of how the genocide run will play out

Right! After about three hours, I’ve come up with a slightly convoluted theory of how I believe Inverted Fate’s genocide run will go. (Read the comic first at @invertedfate, as this will contain spoilers for it.)

First off, I think the “six major campaigns” in genocide will be (in order) Sans, Alphys/Undyne, Mettaton, Napstablook/Papyrus, Toriel, and Flowey.

Now, some of these (like Sans) are fairly obvious, but others, such as a combined Alphys/Undyne and Napstablook/Papyrus (and especially Napstablook, of all people) fight, might raise a few eyebrows. Patience, children, just read my theory and you’ll see.

Ruins

I don’t know how or why Frisk starts off genocide, although a post that I can’t be bothered to go back and cite implied that Flowey would push Frisk into doing it. Whichever. Moving on, Frisk kills monsters. So sad. Anyway, for the parts of it that happen in front of Asgore, he is either completely oblivious or passes it off as self-defense. Napstablook observes Frisk level-grinding and is horrified, and off-camera runs to Mettaton and tells him that there’s a human in the Ruins that is killing everything in sight. Naturally, Mettaton takes this information to Undyne, who immediately takes it to Toriel. She is skeptical, what with there being only one eyewitness, but gets parts of the Fort Aquarius guard to mobilize in Snowdin and notifies Alphys and Sans. Alphys’ paranoia leads her to put Waterfall on total lockdown, while Sans tells Papyrus to go to Waterfall to keep him safe and starts turning all the puzzles into death traps.

Frisk keeps going and killing everything. Nothing really changes from what originally went on in the Ruins up until Frisk arrives at Asgore’s home. Since Asgore is much less isolated from the monsters in the Ruins than Toriel was, he confronts Frisk outside his home, demanding to know the truth about whether they really killed anyone, and leaves himself open, giving Frisk one last chance.

It’s the last chance he’ll ever give them.

The hit Frisk lands on him takes his health down by about half and solidifies his determination to stop them from going any farther, all the while begging them to stop. He dies in about four or five hits, and Frisk raids his house for supplies before moving on.

Snowdin

Instead of a wacky skeleton, the entire K9 unit (and maybe a few reinforcements from Waterfall) confront Frisk at the bridge. While Sans told them that if they all work together they would be able to kill the human, the truth is that he just sent them as cannon fodder to stall the human long enough to evacuate Snowdin. (And Sans would do this for the greater good, don’t tell me he wouldn’t.) Using his scientific knowhow, Sans turns all of the puzzles, as well as Papyrus’ invisible-glass-thing, into death traps, and they are very dangerous, sometimes even instakilling Frisk. Frisk beats down any opposition they face along the way, possibly with Flowey’s help.

Papyrus disobeyed Sans’ orders and came back to Snowdin, hoping to turn the human back to the light with the power of friendship. He confronts Frisk at the entrance to Snowdin Town just as the evacuation is wrapping up and tells Frisk that he believes they can still be a good person, leaving himself completely open to attack. Like with Asgore, one hit takes down about half of his health, and he throws weak attacks at Frisk while continuing to try to turn them back to the light. Undyne taught him how to defend himself, and so he has a 3/4 chance of blocking an attack with a set of crossed bones which he summons. Just as Frisk is about to deal the final blow, Sans jumps in the way to take it for him. Blood leaking from his vest, he looks up… and smiles.

And this is when his golden armor, more precisely the ketchup inside of it, becomes a Chekhov’s Gun.

It was explicitly noted that there were ketchup packets hidden inside the golden armor. Now, Dorklet is a very smart person, and I don’t believe she would have included this unless it was going to have some future relevance to the plot. Considering how much she pays attention to details and integrates them into the storyline later, I doubt she would stick some ketchup in his armor just as a moment so everyone can laugh at what a goofball Sans is and how he doesn’t take his job seriously. About half of the fandom seems to think that Sans bleeding in genocide is just ketchup, and while I don’t know if this is Dorklet’s headcanon on the matter I do think that she might decide to borrow this idea.

Sans chucks aside his golden armor, which has a huge impact wound on it from the blow and is leaking ketchup from his secret stash inside of it, and tells Papyrus to run and warn everyone in Waterfall and Hotland that the human is here… and here’s where I can’t decide which outcome is more likely.

Either Papyrus stays behind to help Sans fight the human and try to appeal to their better nature the whole time (which would explain the large amount of Bonetrousle in One Shall Prevail) or he obeys Sans and flees for Undyne’s lab.

Regardless of which happens, Sans is killed after a long, drawn-out battle that’s about twice as difficult as his canon genocide battle and, if we’re going with the first outcome, Papyrus flees in shock to the one person whom he thinks will be able to set things right: Undyne.

Waterfall

The part of Waterfall before Aquarius is on total lockdown, with members of the Guard/mercenaries patrolling in teams of three or four, making “random encounters” extra hard and practically unavoidable. Dohj will probably put up a fight at the entrance to Fort Aquarius but die in five or so hits. Frisk rampages through Fort Aquarius without any help except for Flowey helping them climb across the walls. Alphys confronts Frisk as they try to leave Fort Aquarius, and although she puts up a decent fight, not holding anything back since she knows in her heart that this human will destroy everything, she ends up dying after about ten hits… or so we think. (Astute viewers would notice about a pixel’s width of HP left.) Alphys says that she told Undyne to continue the evacuation and to wall off New Home and make it impassable for the human. As she’s saying this, however, Undyne arrives, clearly out of breath. Alphys expresses shock that Undyne is here and is naturally quite confused. Undyne replies that she had to go get some “supplies” that might help the two of them to prevail against the human together, and she either reveals that she stole two of the human souls from the Queen or just gives herself and Alphys a shot of determination. Regardless, the combined Alphys/Undyne fight is one of the hardest in the comic simply because, well, it’s two warriors, both of whom are weebs raised on a steady diet of kickass anime battle scenes who either have a human soul each or a lot of determination. When they die, it’s together, and they confess their feelings to each other just before melting into two puddles of congealed dust in a very anime scene.

Hotland

Mettaton is waiting in Undyne’s lab and tells Frisk that when Undyne left he watched on the cameras, broadcasting their valiant fight to the refugees in a hope to bring up morale, but when they died the refugees panicked and fled. Being their shining star and presumably having received a huge ego boost from hanging around Undyne, he decides to broadcast his own fight to the death with the human to motivate his fans and unveils the Mettaton NEO analogue.

Off-screen, Napstablook watches the fight hopefully along with Papyrus, and the instant Metta dies, something happens.

With nobody left now, Napstablook has nothing to fight for and nothing to lose, and angrily vows to kill the human if it’s the last thing he does. Papyrus, on the other hand, thinks more practically and calls Toriel, telling her to absorb the human souls and warning that although Napstablook can’t die and he has been well trained in defensive maneuvers, he feels that Frisk will somehow find a way to kill both of them. At this point, he isn’t full-fledged Disbelief!Papyrus, as he still feels that there is some good in the human, but he’s ready to kill them if it’s necessary to stop anyone else from getting hurt.

Napstablook and Papyrus agree to ambush the human, with Papyrus acting as a distraction and trying to get them to see the light one last time, and after a few minutes Napstablook attacks them from behind, spewing bullets every which way out of his eyes. Papyrus isn’t holding anything back and uses blue mode, bones, platforms, Gaster blasters, etc., and since Napstablook can’t die and Papyrus blocks every hit it’s the hardest battle yet.

Since neither of them can be hurt, what Frisk needs to do to beat them is focus on Napstablook instead of Papyrus. I can see two ways that they kill the ghost: either they use ACT and keep making depressing comments to Napstablook until his depression reaches the point where he starts actually dealing damage to himself from his sadness (and we know he can lower his HP manually, although this time it’s for a different reason), or they pull a John A. Pence (see @anomalycycle) and land a precise hit on his SOUL, shattering it. With his ally who wasn’t supposed to be able to die gone and having been worn down extensively by his attacks/blocking, Papyrus is starting to get tired and blocks less and less until he finally is killed.

Nothing is left in Hotland or the CORE asides from a few random grinding sprees until the elevator to the capital.

The end

Frisk uses the elevator and arrives at the Queen’s castle, only to discover to their horror that she has absorbed the human souls and has become a goddess. If Undyne stole human souls earlier, they survived and returned to the Queen. This is the final battle, the hardest one of all, where two hits results in death and once Frisk dies, with Toriel having more determination at this point, it’s permanent. My headcanon has always been that you can’t reset to before the point where you gained a large amount of determination, but it doesn’t seem to be a very widely spread one and so maybe Toriel does reset everything back to the beginning. And in the new timeline, she isn’t taking any chances, and deals out one human soul apiece to herself, Sans, Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, and Mettaton, and the six of them go to the Ruins to kill Frisk before they can even start genocide.

On the other hand, if Frisk does kill Toriel on the first time, Flowey finally realizes the monster he’s created and desperately tries to set things right again. The six souls escape unscathed, and Flowey absorbs them along with Toriel’s soul. (Maybe he also took Asgore’s soul back in the Ruins when Frisk wasn’t looking. Who knows?) Anyway, Flowey Is the final boss and about as difficult as Toriel, but he will reload after each death just to kill Frisk again, which will eventually lead to his downfall.

After Flowey is killed, Chara shows up; however, since they remember the previous pacifist run they’ve been driven completely insane by the genocide run and go berserk, screaming and raging about why humans have to be so evil before destroying the timeline and taking Frisk’s soul without giving them a chance, then resetting to try again and hopefully make the next timeline a better one.

That about wraps it up. I hope everyone enjoyed this theory (I know I enjoyed writing/overthinking it). Although I don’t expect every single part of this to be a 100% accurate summary of what IF’s genocide run will be like, I’d like to hope I got at least some things right. Of course, we won’t know for certain until neutral and pacifist are over and genocide begins, but it’s fun to speculate.

Until next time!

#invertedfate #inverted fate #inverted fate genocide run #inverted fate genocide theory #fnafredux overthinks things

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eeveelutionsforequality · 7 years

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I have depression and anxiety, I was diagnosed about a year ago. But I tend to be mostly alright I have periods of time where its worse than others and, I guess I read the posts on tumblr that talk about it and read how much others are suffering because of it and than look at mine. I know I shouldn't compare illness is different for everyone but I feel like I shouldn't talk about my illness since others have a harder time.

Okay, I've never told anyone this story before (to my knowledge) but it's one that has shaped the way I view the world and I feel like you need to hear it. I'm gonna omit details and names for the privacy of those involved.

Trigger warning for talk of drugs, self-harm, death, abuse... in fact, pretty much everything, this is a pretty dark story and I'm gonna talk a bit about how my disordered mind viewed some things in a romanticized way, which really isn't the way you should view those things.

I've mentioned before that my parents were pagan (well, mom and one step-parent), and when I was very young we rescued a sick and potentially dying momma cat and her kitten - the momma cat took to me and healed quickly, but she had a hole in her nasal cavities and when she sneezed it went everywhere. It never bothered me and I always carried tissues (still do to this day) so that I could clean up after her. She went everywhere with me and trusted me like no cat and human ever trusted each other, especially after her daughter went missing and never came back. My mom told me the cat was my familiar and we had the same soul, so I viewed this cat as the closest thing to me on the planet, and truly believed that she was magical. I thought she'd live as long as I did. On my thirteenth birthday I had meningitis but I refused to go to the hospital, partially because I was scared and partially because I didn't believe it and partially because the cat was sick. She died lying next to me when I could barely move, and as she was dying she put her paw in my hand and clawed on, and I held it gently the entire time.

I was diagnosed with depression and suicidal ideation at seven, but it was after that incident that my mental health symptoms went from thinking that the entire world was magical, being adept and energized to the point of mania almost constantly, thinking of death as an escape into a magical world, and generally thinking that there was something better than reality out there, living in my head with only the occasional angry outburst, to all out anger at the world, to almost constant memory loss, to severe depression, to no concentration, to psychosis that I recognized was psychosis and not just hopefulness, to self harm and alcoholism. It genuinely felt like the magic had been ripped away and the awfulness of reality came crashing down on me.

A few years later, when I was still a teenager, my father broke the restraining order and tried to contact us on Facebook, I saw his face and once again things kicked into overdrive. A lot of memories came back, I found out things I didn't want to know, I became more aware of the alters, the memory loss went from the past being blurry and dreamlike to waking up on rooftops in other towns with knives and vodka. I was also in an abusive relationship (he abused me sexually, emotionally and physically), and when that finally ended I became completely unstable, hypersexual, pyromaniac, I dropped out of college repeatedly, I set myself on fire in public, I hallucinated people's faces changing, I took drugs. I was kicked out of my house and was on the streets and sofa surfing for a little while. I even ended up in hospitals, solitary confinement and police holding cells.

I was one of those people who everyone thought was the lowest a person could get, that I was crazy, that I was beyond redemption and dangerous.

But I had this friend. She knew how to use a razor blade far better than I did, she'd been locked up for far longer than I had, her abusers had done worse things to her than mine had to me, she drank and smoked and took more than I did, she freaked out worse than I did. I looked at her arms and it was like the face of a jagged cliff because of the thick bone deep scars atop scars, all ridged from stitches and scratching during the healing process, and mine just looked like a spider had dipped his toes in red ink and danced on my arms and legs. It was an awful way to look at things, but I was sick, and I was caught between envying how powerfully she could express the anger that I could never seem to get out, and feeling like a worthless fake for having the audacity to even use the words "abuse" and "self-harm" to describe my problems when they were nothing compared to what she'd been through. Sometimes I'd listen to her talking about it like a student listening to a teacher, learning how to cut deeper.

I had another friend who was so skinny she looked like she was going to blow away in the wind, and her abuse was ongoing, and I felt that same mix of jealousy and self-hate that I felt when I thought of the other friend, because I wanted to be that skinny, I wanted to be tiny and fragile, but how dare I call what I had an eating disorder when I was suffering nowhere near as much as her.

And then two very strange things happened.

One day I was sat in a café with the second friend, and she told me that she felt bad for complaining about her problems when she felt that I and others had it so much worse. She said she wished she could be as strong as I was, she sometimes envied me and the things I could do, she felt like her struggle was nothing in comparison to mine. She felt the way about me that I felt about her.

Another day, I was sat in a tree with the first friend, and I told her about how I felt, about the jealousy and the self-doubt and the self-hatred. She told me that she felt the same. She hated that other people had it so much worse than her and doubted that she even had the right to feel as bad as she did. She talked about seeing people who'd gone through so much worse and how her problems seemed minor to her in comparison. She said that everyone feels like that - there's always somebody worse off than you... always. She didn't give me some hippy stuff about pain being relative, she was the kind of down-to-earth, practical person who felt that some things genuinely were objectively worse than others - but there are, in her words, "billions of fucking people on the planet, fucking 'course someone out there has it fucking worse". "But so fucking what?"

We all felt the same way.

To people around me, I was the worst you could get, yet I could see people far worse off than I, and those people could see others even worse off, sometimes even thinking I was worse off than them.

We sat there in the tree talking about how it doesn't matter if there's someone out there going through worse shit than you, because you're still going through shit. We didn't need someone telling us that pain is relative or that we're valid or any of that, which for some reason unbeknownst to me everyone seems to think is the solution to that doubt - because it doesn't change the objective, real fact that I could look at her arm and then look at mine and go "her's is deeper". We needed to tell each other that it didn't matter. That she didn't care if I was abused one way and she another, that she didn't think it made my complaints silly or petty, that we were both going through shit and that comparing that shit, whether legitimately or just out of paranoia, would solve absolutely nothing and inevitably just make us both feel worse.

We concluded that it doesn't matter. That someone out there is dying of starvation and we couldn't change that by doubting that we had the right to complain about shit that happened a decade ago.

And that's exactly how everyone you're looking at now feels too. That's how we all feel. That's how every human I've ever spoken to about this feels - "Someone has it worse". And that's something we can bond over not suffer with in silence doubting ourselves.

Someone does have it worse than you. Someone has it lesser than, equal to, even worse than you and looks at you doubting that they have the right to complain. Someone looks at me and doubts it. Someone has it worse than me.

None of us sit there thinking "I have it worse than you". None of us sit there thinking "How dare you complain, after everything I've been through", we all know exactly how you feel and we all feel it too.

I've tried to remember that since that day, and I think back to it every time I find myself feeling like that. I think back to the girl who thought I was worse than her and the empathy in her eyes. I think back to the sound of the leaves shaking in the tree as someone I'd thought couldn't possibly feel like this, knowing what horrible awful things she'd been through, told me that she felt like this. I think back to the conversation we had and the realizations that sunk in. And I think "Yeah, someone has it worse." When you've lost your hand in a car accident, and you see someone missing both of their legs, it doesn't make your hand come back, it doesn't stop you bleeding, it doesn't make the pain go away. And one day they'll be looking at you thinking "They have it so much worse, at least I can still write."

So try to focus the energy on two things: Empathize with their situation, care for them, support them. And look after yourself, empathize with yourself as you would a friend that was going through this. Because you wouldn't tell a friend "Someone has it worse, stop complaining!" you'd tell them that their situation is terrible and they have every right to feel down, you'd care, and you'd help them find solutions.

You're the only person who's seen all of your shit first hand, all of your horrible experiences, all of your painful thoughts, and you are the only person who's been with you 24/7 getting you through that. Treat yourself like the life-long, reliable friend that you are. And remember that you know as little about everyone else's shit as they know about yours, that living through it can make it seem normal in a sense, can make it seem benign compared to the shock and unrealness of it when others hear it from you - and that it's exactly the same the other way around.

In my experience, and maybe I'm generalizing, everyone thinks their shit is lesser. But emotions aren't something to be compared and contrasted and weighed out on scales - especially when our own perspective from inside our mind warps our view of ourselves and prevents us from ever truly viewing others as they view themselves. So don't give in to those thoughts, don't let them control the way you view the world, the way you speak and what about, because honest to god the rest of us don't think that our experiences trump yours, and we don't want you to feel like that, we don't want to be the thing that causes you to feel like that, and we want to hear your thoughts, and we want to help you.

The world is hell, and it's about time everyone started supporting each other through it, because none of us can do this alone. The first part of that is speaking out and seeking help. We all know that some of the leading causes of suicide and other terrible incidents caused by mental health are failures of the mental health industry to act, isolation, the person not coming forward or being taken seriously soon enough - so if anybody, ANYBODY, tells you that you're not allowed to speak about this... and that includes you, they're actively contributing to the problem. You are allowed to speak about this, everyone is - in fact, we need to do a lot more speaking about mental health.

~ Vape

#Mod Vaporeon #tw #trigger warning #tw everything

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spobyfanfictionarchive · 7 years

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A Bleeding Heart: Chapter 12

AN: Okay so I'm awful for taking this long to update but I've had a paper due for my class and it took me like 20939348 years to edit all this. I broke it up into sections, so some of it I edited days ago. So forgive me if there is typos, please. I'm going to stop apologizing now for all the delayed updates because I'm pretty sure that's all my author's notes for the last five chapters.THANK YOU, BABES FOR STILL READING. LOVE YOUUUUUU. (It's exactly 4:34 in the morning, forgive me for being exhausted and loopy.)

When she woke up the next morning, bright and early, at the brink of six am, Toby was already awake and staring at her. His eyes, blue as the sky and the sea, filled with adoration and tender affection.

“Hi,” she croaked, her voice still hoarse from the events of the day prior.

“Hey, baby.”

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, roughly clearing her throat and rubbing her eyes.

“About an hour,” he shrugged, his fingers running through her hair softly.

They'd fallen asleep in their usual position, him spooning her, his arm tucked over her waist, his face buried in her neck. But somehow in the night they'd ended up rolled over and facing each other, his arms still flung across her middle, her legs both between his.

The events of last night still flickered across their brains, like a movie that never evaporated.

The brunette’s embarrassment was still present, her indignity still evident in her demeanor.

He didn't comment on it, hoping if he let it go and moved on, so would she.

“How do you feel?” he asked, bringing her hand up to kiss gently, his lips pressing themselves down her palm, over her wrist and forearm.

“Achy,” she murmured, a slight element of surprise in her tone. “Faint. And tired. How long did I sleep?”

“Ten or eleven hours.”

“What?” She lunged up, despite the way her body protested the action. “How the hell was I out that long? I never sleep more than four hours. Five, if I'm lucky!”

The cop chuckled, sitting up too, kicking the covers back and climbing out of bed, still bleary, despite being awake for an entire hour prior.

“The meds are probably just keeping you out longer,” he assured, offering his hand to help her up.

“Tobes, I'm fine,” she swore instinctively, her knee jerk reaction.

“Are you sure?” he asked, studying her face carefully. She threw him a sardonic look, causing him to, wisely, backed off. “I’ll go take a shower,” he murmured as she climbed out of bed, more awkward than him, but still steadier than she’d been in a long time. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I’ll just flash you the bat signal if I'm dying,” she promised wryly.

“That’s my girl,” he smirked as he headed towards the bathroom.

She followed behind, needing to relieve herself after eleven hours of sleep.

She made it parallel with the television set before the room began to twirl. “To-Toby,” she tried to call out but all that was audible was a faint whine, too high pitch to be recognized as her raspy alto.

Her legs trembled and gave out. She heard her impact with the wall before she felt it and she braced herself for a brutal landing to the carpet.

Instead she felt two sturdy arms wrap around her, just a second before collision, a second too late to completely prevent the fall.

Instead, she toppled over on top of her very loving, but also very solid boyfriend. It wasn't the most comfortable landing, feeling akin to landing on top of a rock, but it beat smacking the back of her already contusioned head on the ground.

“Toby!”

“Are you okay?” he asked first thing, before even making sure he, himself, wasn't hurt.

“Fine,” she assured, a little breathless, scooting higher on his torso so that she could brace her elbows on the ground. “What about you? Are you alright?”

He chuckled. “I’m fine, Spence. I'm the one who should be worrying about you, not the other way around.”

The brunette snorted, resting her chin on his chest and looking up at him through her long eyelashes. “Try and stop me.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, wrapping both arms around his girlfriend suggestively. “This is a romantic position, isn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmured, kissing her nose.

“You should probably go take your shower,” she suggested evenly, as she pulled herself up and off him, hanging onto the wall as she hobbled towards the table and chair, where his laptop sat. “I’ll wait out here for you to be done.”

“Do you want to join me?”

She shot him a mordant look. “That’s not going to help the sex issue,” she pointed out grimly, her mood taking a dive.

He sighed, the lightness dispersing from his expression. “Spence, please don't be embarrassed-”

“I’m fine,” she waved off, adverting her eyes to the cop’s laptop in front of her. “Seriously. Go, shower. I’ll be okay for twenty minutes.”

He made a face. “Twenty minutes? What exactly do you expect me to be doing in there?”

She shrugged, fighting a smile now. “I just figured since we weren't having sex, you’d need-”

“Spence,” he cut off, laughing now, somewhat baffled by the innuendo.

“Sorry, just trying to be sensitive to your needs.”

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “I’ll be in the shower,” he called over his shoulder.

“Twenty minutes is your limit!”

“Goodbye, Spencer.”

“Oh, wait!” she halted, remembering something. “I almost forgot. Last night I was thinking I should send thank you notes to all the people who sent flowers to me in the hospital.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, waiting for the inquiry. “That sounds like a nice thing to do.”

“Except I don't have everyone’s address,” she explained.

His brow furrowed. “I doubt I would if you don’t?”

“Well, do your parents still live in that same house?”

“Like they would ever leave,” he laughed humorlessly. “They’d get their groceries delivered if they could.”

“Did Dean say where he lived?”

“No, but I’m sure your mom would know.”

“And what about Mrs. Ackard?”

“I think it’s the same as it was five years ago?”

She took in a deep breath as subtly as she could, anticipating his reaction to her next question. “And where do Yvonne’s parents live?”

Just as she imagined, the name alone changed his manner completely. She couldn't help but narrow her eyes, the brunette’s entire attitude shifting as well.

“I’ll make you a list in a bit,” he promised finally, his voice now strained as he turned to walk back into the bathroom, avoiding her eyes.

“What is it, Toby?” She demanded, her voice akin to a frustrated groan.

He spun around to look at her. “What?”

“Why is it that every time Yvonne’s name comes up, you get this look in your eyes,” she trailed off, volume fading from her voice as she lost her nerve a bit.

He stared at her for a long moment, speechless and startled. “What’re you talking about? What look?”

“This dejected look. You get this sad, miserable expression that . . . that I used to only see when I was hurting,” she admitted, her gaze abating.

She didn't want to admit it, though it was beyond obvious to both of them now, that her words were fueled by envy, no matter how irrational it was. Toby was here with her. He’d just about adjusted every single aspect of his life, just to be with her, to cater to her needs above even his own. And yet, she couldn't shake this feeling every time the raven haired beauty’s name came up.

It was embarrassing to own her jealousy of another girl. A girl who could have been his wife. A girl he looked at with so much warmth and respect and infatuation. A girl who had all of her good qualities and not a single of her bad.

A girl who was essentially everything she wasn't.

“Spence,” he whispered, his eyes now even more forlorn than before.

“Why is she such an elephant in the room between us?” She pressed, her tone even. She was trying to be understanding but the quiet frustration in her voice was unmistakable.

“She isn't important,” he persisted, visibly working to make his voice convincing.

That sparked a fired inside Spencer. “That’s exactly what people say when the person they're talking about is important!”

He shook his head, struggling to find a rebuttal. “That isn-”

“Do you still love her?” The brunette beseeched, holding no inquisition back now. “Do you miss her? Do you wish you and her were still together?”

She was posing the questions like atrocious scenarios truthfully, had he said yes to any of them, as searing of pain as that would have caused, akin to ripping her heart out of her chest, she would have still understood. She would have understood if he chose Yvonne over her, even on the brightest and most brilliant day of her life. There was no question who was better suited to give him the life he deserved.

And she wanted that for him. She wanted him, so badly, to have a life full of blissful happiness. She wanted him to never see the dark side of the world, ever again, after all that he had already endured in his twenty-four years. After everything he’d been put through. All the pain and suffering, all the heartache, and neglect and abuse he’d survived. He, if no one else she knew, deserved to have a joyous, carefree life. She wanted him to thrive and get everything he’d ever dreamed of and never be forced to withstand the things he had as a teenager.

But she also wanted him. She wanted a life with him. She wanted him fully and completely and as selfish as it was, she wanted him to want a life with her too.

But she knew she wasn't equipped to give him that life. Even before her abduction, even before she became a character straight out of Girl, Interrupted, she was far from what he truly deserved.

She was so lost, so deep, inside her self-deprecating thoughts that she barely noticed how Toby’s expression had shifted.

He looked as if he was staring dead in the face of a stranger, so baffled, so confused, so bewildered, it almost made her retract her statement altogether. She contemplated the notion for a moment that she’d imagined the whole thing, that this was just paranoia and exhaustion from all she’d been through as of late.

But she knew, deep inside her bones, that this wasn't in her head.

“Do you?” she asked again, and her voice was entirely void of the earlier fire. All that remained was an unsteady, half-broken murmur.

“No,” Toby refuted with unexpected vigor. “No, no, God no, Spence.”

Relief filled her stomach, his reaction alleviating some of her insecurity.

It didn't answer any of her questions, didn't quench her curiosity, didn't lessen her need to pry the truth from his stubborn bubble gum pink lips, but it gave her a sense of calamity that she was afraid to ask for.

“Spencer Hastings,” he breathed again and this time he propelled himself forward, dropping to his knees so they could be at eye level. “I-I can honestly say that I have never, ever loved anyone like I love you. I don’t-how could you even think-”

His watery blues, his heartbroken gleam popped the words out of her mouth. “Because,” she sighed, almost afraid to admit the words reeling around inside her brain, even after all they'd confessed as it was. “You’re always looking so heartbroken whenever she comes up. Sometimes, I don't know,” she adverted her eyes downwards, failing once again, just like she did every time she said anything vulnerable or exposing in his presence, to look him in the eye. “Sometimes it just seems like you’d rather be with her.”

He sucked in a shallow breath, his eyes narrowing incredulously. “Babe,” he whispered, but couldn't maintain his voice, the breath disappearing from his lungs with the heartbreak that came with every new word she uttered.

“Just. . .when you hear her name, it’s like a light goes off and she changes you. Like the idea of not being with her cripples you.”

The cop absorbed that, not speaking again for minutes on end. He stared straight ahead at her lap, not angry, not irritated, but trying to find his footing as he took in her words.

Her head snapped towards him as he finally broke the silence. “All I feel towards Yvonne is absolute and undeniable guilt,” he confessed, raising his head to meet her gaze.

“Guilt?” Her brows knit together, wholly confused what he meant by that.

She knew he felt bad about breaking the darker girl’s undoubtedly fragile heart. Toby felt bad about killing spiders, for crying out loud. But this, this remorse, was incomprehensible to her. How could he feel that guilty about dumping his ex?

As if, like she’d thought yesterday, they held a telepathic connection, he knew what she was thinking. “Not guilt for breaking up with her. Not exactly,” he explained, his voice growing stronger as he gained momentum in his speech. “I feel guilty for exactly how happy I am every single damn time I look into your beautiful eyes and kiss you. How ecstatic I am to hold you in my arms again and think how I never have to let you go. Okay, Spencer, even in the absolute worst circumstances imaginable, I have never felt more in love than I do right now. I love you more and more and more every day and I feel so fucking contrite because I have no regrets for a single thing I've done. I put you above her and I can’t help but be thankful that I did. And it makes me feel like a horrible person, because she didn't deserve to spend years of her life with someone who could do this to her-”

“Toby,” Spencer cut off, her eyes so full of love, her mouth completely disconnected from her brain as she processed his words, let them seep into her brain. “Babe,” she whispered, fervently, and without preamble, without warning, without any indication, she flew at him and folded herself into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he swore, both his arms wrapping around her so tight, the air was squeezed out of her lungs. “I am so sorry. I never thought you would-I didn't realize I was giving you that ide-”

“No,” she cut off, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

He pressed his lips to the gash on the corner of her mouth, moving upwards to her cheek, trailing to her temple. “I love you,” he whispered against her skin. “I love you more than anything.”

She didn't respond verbally, instead choosing to bury her face in his shoulder, pressing her mouth to his chest, one, two, three times, four.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” he whispered again and before she could halt any more apologies, he was murmuring more. “I’ll do better, alright? Please. I swear, I will be better. Give me another chance to prove to you-”

“Toby,” she gasped, pulling back to look into his crystal blue irises. “Y-you don’t think I'm going to leave you, do you?”

Some girls would have been delighted to see their boyfriend beg and crawl like that, see them cry and plead for a second chance. But that wasn't appealing to Spencer. It didn't make her feel happy or satisfied to see him beg for forgiveness, and it never had.

She wondered in her head, when did he become so repentant? He’d always been more than apologetic on the rare occasion when he’d done something wrong, even unintentionally, but he’d never been so gravely desperate for forgiveness, and it left her feeling bizarrely guilty, like she was turning him into an abused dog who cried even when he really didn't pee on the floor.

“I love you,” she whispered back, fervently pressing her lips to his, despite how sore her mouth was now the medication was officially wearing off. “I’m right here. I’m not going to leave,” she vowed. “I promise you. I never will.”

They stayed in that position, cuddled together, her entirely in his arms, on the rough, piercing carpet for more than an hour before both of them moved. Toby wordlessly took her hand, guiding her towards the bathroom, the issue of sex nearly forgotten in both their brains as they discarded their clothes, and quickly showered under the hot cascading water.

As they were drying off, a loud chirping filled the room and Spencer eyed the cop, confused. “My cell,” he offered, pulling on a pair of jeans and heading out of the bathroom to retrieve the device.

“If it’s my mother, I swear to-”

He shook his head, attempting to hide his instinctual discomfort. “It’s Ali.”

“Ali? What is she calling for?”

“I don't think she knows you have your phone back.”

“You think it’s for me?”

He gave her a derisive look. “It’s definitely not for me,” he assured, pressing the phone into her hands and picking up his wet towel from the ground.

“Hello?” The brunette greeted, her tone still hesitant.

“Spence!” Alison’s voice called through the speaker.

“Hey.”

“I haven't talked to you since. . .you know. I feel so awful for ignoring you. How are things?”

Spencer shut her eyes, knowing her circumstances were truly dire if Alison Dilaurentis was being so sugary sweet.

In truth, she loved Alison more than she led on. The girls had a long and a very tremulous history but for some reason, Alison was one of the people she’d never been able to completely detach from. She was a part of her family, even when she hated the girl with every fiber of her being.

But, though the blonde had changed significantly from the mean girl she’d once been, she was still incredibly inconsiderate at times and inherently self-centered. She would do anything to protect her friends but she would also ask them to chew off their left arm if it benefited her in the end.

That’s why her seemingly sincere concern for Spencer’s well-being and her remorse for being preoccupied in her own issues, caught the brunette completely off-guard.

“I. . .I don’t know?” the brunette answered honestly. “Things for me have been chaotic.” And that was putting it lightly.

“Same,” Alison agreed and Spencer realized the blonde wasn't the only one caught up in her own problems.

“Oh my god, Alison! How are you?” She reverted the question. “How are you doing? The girls said-”

Hanna and Emily hadn't actually said much but it didn't matter, as Alison cut her off then, “that my aunt-sorry, correction-that my mother’s twin sister that I never heard of in my entire life, showed up out of the blue?”

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Yeah, that was my reaction too. Evidently her and my mom didn't have a good-or even civil-relationship. My mom got her sent away to Radley.”

“What?” The brunette repeated, her eyes widening further as images of the outdated, archaic hospital filled her mind.

“That’s not all, Spence. Mary knows your dad.”

“What?”

After an hour of talking straight, Spencer torpidly ventured out of the bathroom, still clad in her towel.

“What’d Ali have to say?” Toby asked, glancing up from his laptop.

She shrugged, still reeling, as she pulled on the shirt he’d worn yesterday. “A lot. Her family is. . .” she trailed off, making her way over to him.

“Hmm?” he hummed as he closed the laptop and reached for her waist.

She sat on his lap, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Jessica’s twin sister, Mary Drake, came to town right around the time I was in the hospital. She apparently never met Jason or Ali or-”

“Wait,” he cut off, a hand squeezing her arm lightly. “Mary Drake? The woman from the file we found on your mom’s Election Night? With Mona? After I power sawed through a wall?”

“Um, excuse you, I power sawed through a wall, thank you very much.”

“Spence.”

She sighed, digressing. “Yeah, I know. It’s weird,” she agreed.

He narrowed his eyes, wrapping his arms tighter around her waist. “Why would she come to town right after we found her Radley file?"

“I don’t know. All I know is she is apparently Jessica with brown hair.”

“Brown hair?” Toby picked that word. “No one in that family has brown hair.”

“Maybe the Drake’s do.”

The cop shook his head. “That’s so bizarre.”

Spencer laughed humorlessly. “It gets worse, babe.”

“How?”

“Apparently Mary knows my dad.”

Toby’s mouth fell open, much like her’s had an hour prior. “Your dad had an affair with Mary too?”

“Alison doesn’t know for sure, but. . . she thinks so.”

“Oh my god,” he shook his head, baffled. “How many hidden secrets can one family have?”

The brunette snorted. “And I thought the Hastings were messed up. Imagine if you were dating a Dilaurentis.”

“Technically a Drake,” he amended dryly.

“It’s my job to correct others, not be corrected.”

A loud laugh fell from his full pink lips. “I would love you no matter who you were related to,” he promised, rubbing her arm for emphasis. “Besides, I come from a. . .”

“Jackass father?” she finished for him when he trailed off.

He smirked. “And somehow, you manage to love me anyway.”

“Of course, I do. How is your dad, by the way?”

“He’s fine,” the cop answered too quickly.

She studied his face for a moment. “When was the last time you two spoke?”

The sandy brunette shrugged, his eyes on his pointer finger tracing circles on her thigh. “A couple days ago. I returned his call when you fell asleep.”

“What'd he have to say?” she pressed gently, her eyebrows drawing together. She always approached the subject of his father with caution. He was Toby’s only living parent and despite how much she detested the way he treated his only son, she knew it hurt Toby when she openly bashed him.

He shrugged again but his sad, guilty eyes gave him away. “My dad never really says too much, Spence.”

“He thinks you're ruining your life by getting back together with me,” she guessed, her eyes narrowing now. “He told you I'm nothing but drama with a stuck-up family, holding you back and that I'm an awful person that’s sucking the life out of you. Didn’t he?”

Toby swallowed, about to refute her assumption but it was too late. His face read like a book. One second of eye contact was all the confirmation she needed.

“You always look sad when you lie,” she noted, quietly, shifting her eyes to avoid his.

The fact that his dad disliked her wasn't new, per se, but it still wasn't anything she easily got used to. The fact that the man, who had given life to the person she loved most in this world, detested her elicited a deep, involuntary ache in her chest.

Toby watched her expression, watched her try to mask the hurt she felt, and he pressed a delicate kiss to her cheek, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Sweetheart,” he whispered gently, “what my father thinks doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does,” she disagreed. “He’s your father.”

The cop stared at her face, his turn now to study her expression. “Remember when you first got out of the dollhouse? Whenever someone would say something rude or insensitive or careless and I got angry, you would swear up and down that what strangers thought of you didn’t mean anything. Spencer, you taught me that.”

She offered a half smile, knowing he was right on all accounts. “I guess,” she met his eyes, his sensitive, expressive blue eyes, “I guess, it depends who’s talking.”

Toby squeezed his eyes shut before he dropped his face into her neck, nuzzling her gently. “Don’t do that. Don’t give him free rent in your brain. He doesn’t know you. All he knows is what Jenna and her mom tell him.”

She nodded, accepting his words, knowing he was right. “What do you say? When your dad says those things about me?”

The cop pulled back, bringing his head up to touch his forehead to her’s. “I tell him I'm in love with you. That you are the most important thing in my life and if he can’t accept that, he can save his minutes.”

At his statement, a ghost smile appeared on her face. Still, she insisted quietly, “I don’t want to be the reason you and your dad stop speaking.”

“You’re not,” he promised. “He still calls every so often to make sure I'm still alive. And to criticize me.”

“What does he say when you defend me?” the brunette inquired, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself even closer to him now.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” she repeated, perplexed. “He critiques me and then when you defend me, he has nothing to say back?”

“My dad doesn’t know what to say,” Toby stated evenly. “He can’t relate to how I feel about you. He’s never loved anyone more than he’s hated himself.”

“Get dressed,” Toby commanded, smacking her butt as he walked by, causing her to jump.

They hadn’t even been in the same room a minute ago, him still at his laptop, her brushing her teeth in the bathroom, both distracted by their own individual tasks.

“Why?” she asked, her voice gargled by toothpaste.

He ran a washcloth underneath the faucet before wringing it out and running it over every inch of his face, soothingly. “Because there’s an open house I just saw for an apartment.” His eyes met her’s, catching her staring as he set the wet rag down. “What?”

“You’ve always done that,” she noted, gesturing with her chin towards the washcloth, a nostalgic twinge in her voice. At his expression, she elaborated, "You’ve always wiped your face with a damp rag before we went anywhere.”

He looked downwards, his smile mirroring her’s. “I can’t believe you still remember that. You always looked at me like it was so weird,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“I didn't get it,” she defended, chuckling. “I’ve never seen anyone else do it.”

“It feels good!” he insisted. “Remember when you were sick that one summer and I ran a damp cloth across your face to get you fever down? And you said-”

“Yes, I remember,” she interrupted, still smiling in spite of her playful eye roll. “I just don't know how you even got in the habit of that.”

His smile changed then, morphed into a slightly more dismal expression. His tone grew wistful, the dull ache of a badly healed wound evident. “My mom,” he said, his glance flitting across the bathroom, unsure how to maintain eye contact when speaking about the life he’d had with his mom, before Spencer was even a whisper in his brain. “She used to wipe my face every time we went in public anywhere. I was kind of a messy eater and. . . you know, old habits die hard, I guess. When she wasn't around anymore, I thought if. . . if I kept doing it. . .”

“I know, baby,” she whispered, reaching out and taking his hand in her’s, lacing their fingers together. Without another word, he pulled the brunette towards him, gathering her small frame to his chest. She inhaled and exhaled through her nose, absorbing the smell of cinnamon and wood and aftershave. Pressing her lips to his chest, exactly where his heart laid beating, she whispered, “Your mom would be so proud of you if she could see you now, Toby. She’d be so proud.”

“Oh my god, look at that wooden side panel, Tobes!” Spencer exclaimed, trying to keep her excitement subdued, though it was nearly leaking out with every action. “And look at how the trim on the ceiling fades perfectly into the color of the walls and how it matches the closet door.”

“I see,” the cop chuckled, his spirits elated from witnessing his girlfriend so happy.

Her smiles were few and far between lately, and though he knew it had nothing to do with him, though he knew that their reconciliation only brought her happiness and strength, he couldn't help but feel like his heart was being ripped out with every tear that coursed down her cheek.

“Look at the curtains!” she pointed, practically dragging him with her as other potential leasers moved aside, seeing the two of them coming. “And the color of the window pane matches with the carpet.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair, as she continued to point out every single detail she liked.

“Are you sure we can’t get in any sooner?” the cop heard, from the main room, sharp ears being a feature he’d attained over the years in his law enforcement career.

“No, sir, I'm sorry. Not for a least three more months,” the realtor-a seemingly inflexible man-stipulated.

His voice was low and rang out clear enough that even Spencer heard him over her own excitement.

She abruptly cut herself off. “Oh,” she murmured, her demeanor deflating like a popped balloon.

He met her eyes with a heartbroken gaze. “Spence-”

“Its fine,” she waved off, hiding her disappointment unsuccessfully. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a stupid apartment.”

“You love it,” he fought weakly. “I knew you would. I knew it was a perfect fit. That’s why I jumped on the ad as quick as I did.”

“Tobes, it’s okay. We need to find a place to move in sooner. Alright, we don't have the money to live in a motel for that long and it’d be stupid to move into somewhere else for only a couple of months,” the brunette reasoned.

He gave her a pitifully, forlorn smile, knowing she was trying to put on a brave face for him.

She had been doing so much of that for so long. She’d tried to always remain strong and secure, a backbone for everyone she loved to lean on, even when her own heart was crumbling or her mind was destroying her from the inside out. Spencer had always put others before herself, no matter what it cost her.

And she had been through so much, especially lately. The fact that it seemed like she couldn't have one good thing, one thing that made her happy, literally burned a fire inside of him.

Without preamble, without pondering the action, Toby grabbed Spencer’s hand and headed towards the realtor in the living room. “Excuse me?” the twenty four year old addressed.

Spencer stared at him, completely caught off-guard, by what he was doing.

“Yes?” the older man raised an eyebrow, a false smile spreading across his lips. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Toby kept his voice even and pleasant. “I’d like to know when the soonest possible date we could move in is?”

The answer was rehearsed and automatic. “In about four months,” the graying man informed, smiling still as if they were old friends. He reminded Toby of one of the people he met when he accompanied Spencer on dinners to the club with her family.

The cop used the skills he’d learned over the last few years and pretended those words were a surprise. “Shoot, we need a place to stay sooner than that,” he looked at Spencer, playing his part.

She smirked up at him, catching on. Her eyes stayed on his face, softening by the second, in total awe of his dedication to her. No one else had ever done so much, just for her happiness. That was all he wanted, her to be happy. It was incomprehensible to her that he was even real sometimes, let alone that he existed in the direst circumstances.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the realtor’s face fell ever so slightly, his facade slipping down a little. “I can’t permit a new tenant until the old ones are out and they said they needed a few months.”

“And what if we pay double the first and last month’s deposit?” Toby challenged, causing his girlfriend’s mouth to fall open.

The man blinked once then twice before sticking out his hand, surprised by the offer. “My name is Martin Kayn,” he greeted evenly, eyeing the couple now.

“Toby Cavanaugh,” the sandy brunette took his hand with his free one that wasn't resting on Spencer’s waist. The older man's eyes changed subtly as the name seeped in, something unintelligible flickering in his gaze.

“And you are?” he asked, turning to meet Spencer’s chocolate orbs.

“Spencer,” she offered simply, leaving out her last name altogether, aware of the chance of recognition.

Martin cleared his throat, turning back to Toby. “Well, I'd have to present the offer to the current tenants, but there’s a strong possibility this could persuade them.”

The cop’s face morphed into a grin as he felt Spencer’s hands tighten around his arm, her chin resting on his shoulder.

A small, minuscule part of him felt somewhat like Peter Hastings, throwing money around to get whatever he wanted. But that small, minuscule part of him that felt uncomfortable and disturbed was muted by his girlfriend’s smile, the light filling back into her eyes, the ease in her body language. If this, even for a split second, gave her peace, gave her something to look forward to, something to be happy about, then he'd do whatever it took to make it work, no matter how awkward it felt to him.

Because she, above everything else, was what mattered to him.

“I’m going to go look around, babe,” Spencer whispered into his shirt, pressing her lips there.

“Okay,” he murmured, loosening his arm around her waist as he kept his eye on the realtor, now engaging in a conversation on his cell phone.

She held onto his hand as she headed into the opposite direction of the house, until the distance was too great and they had to let relinquish their hold on each other.

The brunette found strange comfort in seeing the near dozen people, scattered across the house, a few shuffling in and a few shuffling out, every couple minutes. It gave a strange boost to her confidence and it dawned on her rapidly why.

Her parents and Dr. Barnes both stated she couldn't be in large crowds, because it may trigger her after the large amount of people in the massacre.

They were wrong. They thought they knew everything, they treated her like an inept child who didn't even know herself, they treated her like an inferior, and here she was, proving them wrong.

She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face, in spite of the fact that she was in an open house full of strangers and was currently wandering room from room, completely alone.

“Ugh,” an aristocratic woman in her mid-fifties groaned, motioning out to the window.

“What is it?” the man next to her inquired.

“Look at that,” she pointed disdainfully.

Spencer crept up towards the window, peering out to see what the woman was going on about.

Outside stood two males, about Spencer’s age, early to mid twenties. They looked like they were just talking, their expressions unreadable, until one swung back and aimed for the other, narrowly missing the jaw.

Unlike the woman next to her, the brunette found the spectacle amusing. This apartment complex was in a higher class neighborhood. The residents were members of the same club as her parents, they were active members of the congregation and they probably all were invited to Melissa’s baby shower.

And yet, no matter where you go, there were immature men, fighting as if no one else was watching, as if there were no consequences, as if violence was always the answer.

She pursued her lips, thinking about Toby, thinking of all the things that had been done to him, all the hurt he’d suffered, all the maltreatment and yet, he rarely resorted to violence.

The brunette’s eyes stayed indolently on the two men, aiming unsuccessfully at each other, when she was ripped out of her thoughts at the sight of a punch finally making contact and one of the men smacking the concrete.

She was running down a hall, an empty, dark, unnerving hall. She was sprinting as if her life depended on it.

It did.

“Get back here,” she heard a man growl, his voice familiar. So familiar it twisted her stomach painfully, forcing her to come to a halt to keep herself from gagging. “I said, get back here!”

“No,” she gasped, her tone completely and entirely hopeless, as his hands gripped her forearms. “Please, don't hurt me.”

Without a response, without an acknowledgment, she was thrown straight into the ground, her hands flying up to protect the back of her head from making impact with the cold tile floor.

She shut her eyes as she felt him come closer, towering over her and she felt her stomach drop as she registered all he could do to her in that position.

Her breathing hitched as she felt him creep above her, his hands so close now she could practically feel them on her skin. “Please,” she cried one last time, as she felt him yank her upper body off the ground, like a lifeless rag doll, whatever she’d been previously drugged with still flowing through her system.

She glued her eyes shut, her natural, uncontrollable reaction to forced trauma, unintentionally allowing herself to be caught off-guard as he pulled back and swung, landing a harsh punch straight to her eye.

Her scream was muffled by her fraught, powerless cry. She’d never felt like this. She’d never been this far out of control, this far away from the ability to save herself. She’d never been this helpless before in her life, not even inside the dollhouse.

Her howls were still filling the room as he stood up again, taking a step back. She knew he wasn't done, not by a long shot, but she didn't have time to brace herself for the impact, to pry her injured eye open and make herself see what he was doing.

She couldn't even stand to look him in the face, knowing who he was now, knowing what he’d done.

Her body recoiled before she truly felt the harsh kicks, numerous kicks, straight to her abdomen.

Her loud, tortured scream erupted into the air, deafening anyone within thirty yards. Her throat protested in response, feeling like it was being ripped apart, like it was going to gush blood any second now.

Even in her wholly petrified mind, she wondered why no one outside this building could hear her, why not a single soul was coming to see what was wrong, why no one was calling nine-one-one.

“Shut up!” he ordered, his voice rising to try to muffle her’s.

But she refused to be silenced. If she was going down, she would never go without a fight. It wasn't who she was and it wasn't who she would ever allow herself to be. She wouldn’t let him to take from her.

If she never made it out of this building, she was going to die fighting.

When she refused to comply, refused to stop her harrowing shrieks, refused to be silenced even minimally, the man’s tactic changed and suddenly, without a hint of a warning, there were hands wrapped around her throat, pressing down.

“I told you,” he murmured, his voice as lethal as his actions, “to shut the fuck up.”

His hands tightened and breathing became an unfeasible task. “Please,” she tried to beg, attempting to raise her hands, attempting to plea for her oxygen.

But it was all futile. He wasn't going to let up until he, himself, decided to let up.

Black spots filled her already impaired vision, the need to cough overwhelming but the ability nonexistent. She felt her face growing hot, her limbs numbing and the world around her moving in slow motion.

And all she could see was him.

He was the ringleader.

He was the one in charge.

And he had a knife in his hands, ready to kill.

“Spencer,” Toby exclaimed, grasping both of her shoulders.

Somehow, someway, she’d ended up flat on her back, laying on the ground of the apartment, strangers all around her, staring at her in horror.

She heard a loud cry, a desperate, cacophonous wail, loud banging against the wood floor and she wondered who she’d frightened.

It took her next to no time to realize that those sounds were coming from her.

She didn't realize she was thrashing until Toby had her wrapped up in his arms, folding her so tightly she couldn't move if she tried.

Her ears popped and she heard her own screams of fear, with crystal clarity now. “Toby,” she sobbed and he squeezed her even tighter to him.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“What the fuck?”

“Someone did call nine-one-one, right?”

“Is she epileptic?”

“No, you idiot. She’s schizophrenic.”

“Be quiet!”

“Is an ambulance on its way?”

It was Toby’s voice though that really shocked her. “Do not call nine-one-one or anyone else,” he ordered through clenched teeth, his arms still wrapped protectively around Spencer’s shaking form.

“What the hell just happened?” Martin Kayn pressed, stepping out of the crowd.

“Back away from her,” the cop commanded, bypassing the question altogether. When it came to Spencer, when she was in trouble, no one had the power to intimidate him anymore. His timidity instinctually paled when it came to her needs.

“Toby,” the brunette cried again, swallowing hard, feeling her throat as if for the first time, trying to erase the feeling from her brain of someone strangling her.

“Take your time, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft and low, only for her. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

She heaved, narrowly choking back the urge to vomit.

Not here, not now, she thought to herself. She was humiliated enough as it was, screaming and crying and spazzing out in the middle of the open house.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, her vision still swirling. “I’m so sorry.”

It took her a minute to realize she was apologizing to Martin, the man whose open house she’d wrecked. There was no way anyone would want the apartment where they'd watched a girl lose her fucking mind.

“Spence, it’s okay,” Toby whispered in her ear, pressing a kiss there. “Just calm down.”

Embarrassed by her breakdown, embarrassed by her still quivering limbs, she burrowed into her boyfriend and tried to pretend that no one else could see her right now.

The concept lasted a total of fifteen seconds as the realtor spoke then, a sudden recognition entering his voice.

“You’re the little girl from the news?” Martin Kayn stated, utter disbelief obvious in his tone. “You both are,” his said again, his eyes sweeping between the trembling brunette and the cop holding her. “They did news stories on you two.” he continued.

“Okay, enough,” Toby halted, his voice desperate and fierce and almost unrecognizable as the shy, altruistic cop he’d once been, before her problems had dragged him through the muck as well.

“You were one of the girls kidnapped and tortured in a bunker when you were younger,” the graying man continued as if the twenty-four year old hadn’t spoken. “They did a two hour special on 20/20 about you. They showed you two hugging after you escaped that place and they’ve been showing on every news station him carrying you out of the building-”

“Stop!” Toby yelled, the level of his voice shocking all their onlookers and stealing the voice away from the oblivious, inconsiderate man.

The second the words left his mouth, his head was turned downwards again, as if looking away from her for a second ached.

“T-Toby,” she whispered, her voice a shell of what it’d been a half hour ago.

“Yes?” he breathed, his eyes somehow both tender and alerted.

She opened her mouth to speak, to explain that the world was still blurred all around her, to explain that she needed help to move because she couldn't stop shaking, to explain that she couldn't even see straight, that she could feel every single eye on her, that she just wanted to flee this places and all the stares and just go, when abruptly, just like it had happened before, her stomach retched and suddenly the contents were displayed on the ground.

She didn't speak the entire way back. She didn't say a word as Martin Kayne stared at her, open mouthed or as she received an outpouring of sympathies from complete strangers or as her boyfriend wrapped her up in his arms and got her the hell out of there as fast as he could.

She didn't say a word all the way back to the Edgewood Motor-Court, despite the fact that Toby was the last person who deserved the silent treatment. The way he showed her nothing but understanding and compassion was awe-worthy at this point, for the fucked up mess she’d become.

Her shaking had dissipated, her screaming had stopped, but the tears still ran down her cheeks, without reprieve.

She hated herself. She hated how she couldn't get a handle on her attacks, how the smallest things triggered her, how the more and more time passed, the more she proved the doctors and her parents right.

She hated, above all else, how Toby felt guilt for her episodes. “I’m sorry, Spencer,” he whispered at a stoplight, reaching out to wipe her tears with his thumb.

Once they'd arrived back at the motel, Spencer didn't wait for him, throwing her door open and breaking nearly into a sprint, wanting to get inside the room as quickly as possible.

It didn't even occur to her that she was moving, without a single stumble or trace of dizziness at all.

She hadn’t been off-balanced in hours.

The small fact that would have delighted her not long ago only brought her minor pleasure now, in light of the chilling memory that’d just came back, the awful recollection she had now that she couldn't make sense of, couldn't even begin to understand.

This was different from every other memory that had come back to her. It wasn’t as if she was seeing something for the first time. It was as if she were reliving it.

She remembered the feeling of knowing who the ringleader was, remembered they were male, remembered the feeling of betrayal and humiliation and hurt. She remembered everything she felt in those few minutes that had resurfaced in her brain.

But she couldn’t see the face. It was as if she were staring through a piece of stain glass, completely indefinite and undistinguished.

She couldn’t retain the voice or the touch or the smell or any identifiable thing. It was as if she had lost all her senses while trapped in that building.

She heard her boyfriend come into the room, in no hurry to race after her, clearly aware that she was in her right mind again.

How did he know these things about her? How could he just sense them? How could he understand her, like she was an extension of him, when she couldn't even get a grasp on herself?

“Baby,” was the first word that he uttered, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed.

Without warning to her brain, her mouth ejected a small whimper, more mortified than frightened.

No, her terror didn't have a sound. There was no resonance that the human mouth could elicit, no noise a brain could conjure up that would be able to convey how she felt, every single time she was taken back to that night.

What made it so much worse, was that she was alone in hell. In every other situation she’d encountered in the past, even the most frightful and ghastly of them, she had always had the girls as a support system.

She didn't blame them for not being there. How could she? This wasn't high school any longer and they all had their own adult lives. This wasn't the -A that had been after them before. This new person wasn't one for a continuous game, a constant cat and mouse chase.

No, this person wanted a big impact. They planned out their big attacks and then allowed the after effects to run their course, knowing that mentally isolating them from everyone surrounding them, that psychologically tearing them apart, that obliterating their lives, aspect by aspect, was much more effective.

Spencer realized then, that she had been forgetting one person in all this equation. She wasn't alone. Not if she didn't force herself to be. Not if she didn't punish herself for things beyond her control, shut down and close herself off.

She had Toby. She had someone who loved her, more than was humanly conceivable, more than was healthy. She had someone who would do absolutely anything for her, no questions asked, and she was allowing this entire ordeal to push him away.

She felt his fingers run through her hair, gently, gradually working his way up to touching her. He was feeling her out, seeing where she was and what she needed in that moment.

She needed him.

“Tobes,” she whispered, as his hand moved to cup her cheek. He didn't say anything, his eyes just boring deeply into her’s, filled with captivated compassion. He was there, willing to do anything for her, willing to be anything she needed him to be. She turned her head and pressed her lips to the palm of his hand. “I love you.”

He made a sound akin to a choke and she wondered why those words still elicited such surprise in him. “I love you too,” he promised, swallowing hard on a lump in his throat.

She didn't realize until then that she had one to match. “I’m sorry I ruined that for us,” she mumbled, barley able to keep eye contact.

“No,” he disagreed sharply, his voice nearly breaking. He couldn't stop himself then, and his arms coiled around her, pulling her to him. “You didn't ruin anything, Spence. Nothing that happened back there mattered.”

“They all think I'm off my rocker,” she contested and couldn't help but remember his words for only hours ago.

“Since when do you care what other people think?”

She didn't used to. It didn't matter if people, just random strangers, gossipy lowlifes or nosy meaningless neighbors, believed a bunch of lies about her.

It mattered if what people thought of her, was actually her new reality. It mattered if there really was something wrong with her. If she was crazy or certifiable or demonic. It mattered that she no longer held control over her own life, over her own psyche, her ability to keep herself in check. It mattered that she had no choice, no warning, no power when she fell apart.

“And they’re probably right,” she added, her voice muffled as she chose to bury her face in his chest.

His hand rubbed her back, massaging the tension out silently, allowing her to relax into him, let her body sag against his. Finally, he murmured into her tangled hair, “What other people think doesn’t matter. Not to me and you.”

She laughed once, humorless. “It’s still not fun being the town freak.”

She was surprised when he stiffened and stopped kneading her back. “Spence,” he started, his tone shifted, giving her a look.

“What?” she matched his expression, her distress momentarily put aside. “Why are you looking at me like I have three heads?”

He laughed now, incredulous. “Because you and I have always been the town freaks,” he pointed out, shaking his head. “You were a girl who tried to frame her brother-in-law and I was the boy who everyone crossed the street when they saw me coming. And we got together. We’ve always been something to talk about.”

His words, so blatant, so unconcealed, so forthright, it elicited a genuine chuckle from deep inside her chest.

He continued, feeling in her body language the tension slowly seeping away. “Everyone thinks we’re weird, babe. Nothing we do, one way or the other, could change that now. And you know what?”

She glanced up at him, narrowing her eyes playfully. “What?”

“It doesn’t even matter. Let them think we’re weird. Let them think me and you are two psychos or that we’re both on our way to the funny farm. Because what a bunch of redundant, chatty snobs like our parents think of us isn't our problem. It never was and it never will be.”

Her mouth, which had been set in a permanent frown only a matter of seconds ago, involuntarily turned upwards. She leaned her forehead towards his, resting them together. “How do you always know how to make everything alright? Even when things were are awful, even when I'm scared out of my mind, even when I don't think I can keep going like this, somehow you always make it okay. You never give up on me. Not even when I give up on me.”

His eyes changed, gaining a reflective gleam. “How could I? You’re not just the person I love, Spencer. You’re my entire family. I couldn't give up on you if I tried. I wouldn't know how.”

Before she could even get a grasp on herself, before she could remember the shameful events of the day, she was kissing him and his hands were on her hips and she was climbing onto his lap, and their tongues were twisting together and nothing else existed until this moment.

The kiss started out as a thank you.

It turned into exactly what they’d both been craving for longer than they could even remember.

They don't kiss long before their clothes are discarded, tossed carelessly aside in piles on the roughly carpeted floor. They don't take the time to realize what they’re about to do, they haven't done in three years. They don't think about the fact that there’s no condom or birth control in sight.

They only think about each other. The feel of the other’s skin pressed against theirs. The way words aren't necessary. When they're together like that, they can feel what the other is thinking. The way sex provides both of them with the calm, the serenity, the euphoria that they lack in every other section of their lives. The way the other looks at them, as if they are an angel on Earth, as if they are the world’s greatest treasure.

Maybe things are rough. Maybe for them they always will be. But they both know as long as they have each other, they’re never going to be facing it alone.

#spoby #pll #pretty little liars #Spencer Hastings #Toby Cavanaugh #fanfcition #fic #story #my stories #stories #spoby stories #My writing #ableedingheart

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theconservativebrief · 5 years

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For as long as I’ve followed climate-change politics, a debate has raged among advocates: go bipartisan, or go left? Seek compromise with the right, or cut it loose and accept that progress will only be made where Democrats can amass unilateral power?

Proponents of the former strategy make the reasonable point that no comprehensive federal climate change legislation (or federal legislation of any kind, really) is possible without at least some Republican cooperation. Every major environmental law of the last several decades has passed with bipartisan support. And Democrats are unlikely to have a filibuster-proof Senate supermajority any time soon.

Proponents of the latter strategy respond: Well, that’s nice, but it’s just not happening. Republicans have have made their opposition to serious climate action extremely clear, repeatedly, and they are only getting more ideologically extreme. In recent years, tangible climate progress has happened where (and only where) Democrats are powerful enough to force the issue. The unilateral model is the only model showing any success, albeit not nearly enough.

Jerry Brown, getting ’er done at the state level. Rich Pedroncelli/AP

Since compromise and cooperation are off the table for the time being, the only way forward, they say, is for Democrats to go for broke. That means: fully champion decarbonization, make it a winning political issue, cobble together coalitions at the state and city level, and eventually force Republicans who want to compete for young or POC voters (should they ever again want to do so) to come to the table. Make them scared not to. That might work; persuasion hasn’t, and won’t.

Whatever your feelings on that debate, political reality in the US seems to be weighing in on the side of the latter strategy. Opportunities for bipartisanship are shrinking. On climate, as on most major political issues, the Democratic Party is moving left and the GOP is moving right, a trend the midterm elections only reinforced.

But elections also put Dems in a better position to pursue the go-for-broke strategy, to abandon the project of persuading Republicans, take full ownership of the issue, and simply grind out victories on climate and clean-energy policy wherever power aligns makes them possible.

We will get to that strategy, what it might consist in and how it might play out, in a moment. First, though, let’s have a look at how the midterm elections reinforced the deepening partisan divide on climate change.

Consider how the midterms affected the much-vaunted (yet thus far inconsequential) bipartisan Climate Solutions Caucus in the House. The caucus was designed to have an equal number of R and D members. They were up to 90, with 45 Republicans, before the elections.

At last count, somewhere between 22 and 26 of those GOP members were either defeated or are retiring this year. That’s more than half the caucus.

Among the losers was Florida’s Carlos Curbelo, the leader on the GOP side of the caucus, who had even proposed a carbon tax bill. He lost (by 1 percentage point!) to Debbie Mucarsel-Powell, who racked up several endorsements from climate hawks. They made the calculation that a Democrat with a reliable vote for clean energy is more valuable than a Republican whose commitments on climate change are mostly symbolic and who has no hope of prevailing in his party.

Debbie Mucarsel-Powell AP Photo/Wilfredo Lee

One by one, remaining GOP quasi-moderates — Mike Coffman in Colorado, Barbara Comstock and Scott Taylor in Virginia — fell to Dem challengers.

Among its other effects, the loss of all these GOP quasi-moderates dims the prospects for bipartisan cooperation on, say, carbon taxes, like the much-discussed carbon tax proposal from the Climate Leadership Council, backed by several (retired, moderate) Republicans. Such prospects were not particularly bright to begin with; now you have to squint to see them.

All of this reflects larger political trends. The remaining moderate Republicans in the House are moderates because they run in purple districts. But that makes them the easiest ones to pick off, while the true believers remain in office. “When Republicans lose elections,” Brian Beutler writes at Crooked Media, “the ones swept out of office tend to be from closely divided districts and states, which means those who survive are, on average, more reactionary than the previous class of Republicans.”

When they win, conservatives are emboldened. But when they lose, they are still emboldened. They double down on resentment and paranoia, to freak out their increasingly homogenous, increasingly paranoid white suburban and rural constituents and get them back to the polls. That’s what the Tea Party was.

“Every incentive points the same way,” Beutler writes. “The answer to every strategic doubt is always to lie more and stoke more ethnic division in order to protect tax cuts and corporate deregulation.” The tax cuts and favors for wealthy donors ensure that the movement well-financed; the lies and ethnic division serve as cover for the tax cuts and favors. It’s a self-reinforcing cycle and electoral defeats alone will not dislodge it.

The grim implication: even if they lose in 2020, the GOP is only going to get more extreme in the short- to mid-term, on climate change and everything else.

And sure enough, as McKay Coppins reports, the immediate GOP response to midterm losses was to double down on Trumpism.

Meanwhile, Democrats are heading in the other direction.

Clean energy and anti-fossil fuel state ballot initiatives got crushed by fossil fuel money this year, including a carbon tax in Washington state. But those defeats happened within the context of a fairly strong year for clean-energy Democrats.

First, start with the obvious: Dems took the House. That alone is seismic, for climate and everything else.

There is no chance Democrats will be able to pass any aggressive climate legislation as long as Republicans control the Senate, but they can use control of the House to stop the bleeding and institute some oversight (more on that in a second).

Second, there are lots of Democrats with bold clean-energy ideas among the incoming freshman class. Rising superstars Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Antonio Delgado in New York, along with Ilhan Omar in Minnesota and Rashida Tlaib in Michigan — a notably young and diverse group — are part of a growing bloc of Dems supporting the latest big climate idea on the left: a Green New Deal, a large-scale package of government investments in clean energy jobs and infrastructure. (At Huffington Post, Alexander Kaufman has a good story on this topic.)

Noted Green New Dealer Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Rick Loomis/Getty Images

Another solid addition to the clean-energy bench: Sean Casten, who beat Rep. Peter Roskam in Illinois’s Sixth District. Casten has a STEM background, used to run a waste-heat capture company, and is well-versed and clear-eyed on the subject of energy transition.

(A side note: long-time climate change denier Rep. Dana Rohrabacher of California lost his seat, which is not the most significant result of the elections, but is a source of deep, schadenfreude-y satisfaction for climate advocates.)

Third, there were numerous clean energy champions elected at the state level.

As my colleague Umair Irfan wrote, Dems won seven governorships away from Republicans, with candidates who ran on clean energy. Jared Polis in Colorado, J.B. Pritzker in Illinois, and Janet Mills in Maine all ran on plans to target 100 percent renewable energy by 2050 (Polis by 2040!). Stephen Sisolak in Nevada (who supported the state’s successful initiative targeting 50 percent renewable energy by 2030), Michelle Lujan Grisham in New Mexico, and Gretchen Whitmer in Michigan all beat Republicans with clean energy as a key part of their agenda.

Michigan’s new governor, Gretchen Whitmer. Bill Pugliano/Getty Images

Democrats have eight new majorities at the state level and a “trifecta” — governor and both houses of the legislature — in 14 states, representing a third of America’s population.

At Grist, Eric Holthaus singles out six states as potential climate champions, some, like New Mexico, not the usual suspects. I would add the three west coast states, which strengthened their existing trifectas.

California and Oregon now have climate-friendly governors (Gavin Newsom and Kate Brown respectively) wielding Democratic supermajorities. And in Washington, Democrats will expand their majorities in both houses; it opens up the possibility of a legislative climate solution to compensate for this year’s failed carbon tax initiative.

One other state win worth mentioning: Stephanie Garcia Richard, who won her race to become New Mexico’s first-ever female state land commissioner. She ran squarely against the fracking industry, staring down almost $2.5 million in opposition money from Chevron.

Finally, it’s important to remember that state attorneys general have played a crucial role in fighting Trump’s environmental and energy agenda in court. More Dem states likely means more crusading AGs.

Add it all up and Democrats are now in a position both to slow down Trump’s anti-environmental initiatives at the federal level and to accelerate the blossoming of ambitious state energy policy.

We gained 8 new Democratic majorities – the most flips since 2006!@thedlcc and state Democrats have flipped nearly 400 seats from red to blue – the most in a generation!

8 New Democratic Majorities: CO Senate MN House NH House NH Senate ME Senate NY Senate WA Senate CT Senate

— Jessica Post (@JessicaPost) November 9, 2018

Climate hawks who favor bipartisan cooperation have fewer and fewer Republicans to talk to, as the last remaining moderates are picked off. The GOP climate caucus is in danger of becoming spectral, mostly existing in think tanks, advocacy groups, and op-ed pages. Trump’s unstinting support for fossil fuels is federal Republicanism for now, with shrinking exceptions.

There may be opportunities for bipartisan cooperation on clean energy at the state level (here’s an example from 2016), but those typically come when economic incentives align and Democrats are operating from a position of strength. Focusing climate-change advocacy efforts on Republicans is beginning to seem pointless.

So what would it mean, then, to go the other way — to go for broke?

As I see it, there are three prongs to that strategy, which I will get to momentarily. But the unifying thread is a change in attitude.

Dems have always approached climate change from a defensive crouch. Even now, every time one of them opens their mouth about it, the first thing they say is some version of “I believe it’s real.” This is not a preface they use in comments on, say, Social Security, or the housing market, or Yemen. We all know those things exist. Why would you bother to say so unless you viewed it as an open question, an ongoing debate? Unless you were trying to convince yourself?

The key is to act like it’s real (because it is). It’s going to get worse and worse. It’s going to be a bigger and bigger political problem. The world is plunging headlong into an energy transition of unprecedented scale. Time is short.

Flooding in Florida is probably not going away. Joe Raedle/Getty Images

In hockey great Wayne Gretzky’s words, smart players skate to where the puck is going, not where it is now. Climate change and clean energy are going to be top-tier political issues across the world for decades to come, more so with each passing year. That’s where the puck is going.

For Democrats, claiming and owning those issues today — the way Republicans claimed “strong on national security” during the Cold War — is a way to plant a flag in the hopes, industries, and jobs of the future.

Just as Democrats spent years chasing after Republicans, crying, “We’re tough on national security too!” so too will Republicans eventually come running: “We’re strong on clean energy too!” It is enormously valuable political terrain, upon which Democrats have an almost uncontested early claim. Maybe they should quit trying to share it!

More than anything else, what would motivate a go-for-broke strategy is confidence — confidence that the science on climate change is accurate and the time for incremental measures is past. And that it’s the morally right thing to do.

All right. Say Dems fully embrace climate and clean energy, forget about begging Republicans to join them, and push forward on all fronts. What does that look like? Here are the three prongs of the strategy:

1. Grind it out in Congress.

Mark my words: There will be no legislation. Nancy Pelosi may talk like she thinks an infrastructure bill is possible (remember Infrastructure Week?), but … color me skeptical.

At the very least, there will be no substantial climate or clean energy legislation, so House Dems shouldn’t pretend otherwise. This isn’t to say they shouldn’t develop or propose legislation — more on that in No. 3 — but they shouldn’t fool themselves that it’s passable. They can block legislation, but they can’t hope to pass any, so there will be none.

No, Dems’ practical efforts are best directed toward bottling up Trump’s headlong regulatory rollback and attendant gross corruption.

With control of the House comes control of key committees. New Jersey’s Frank Pallone, a noted skeptic of Trump’s efforts to bail out aging coal and nuclear plants, will now lead the powerful Energy and Commerce Committee. Arizona’s Raúl Grijalva, a long-time environmental champion, will chair Natural Resources. New York’s Nita Lowey will have Appropriations.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Zach Gibson/Getty Images

With control of committees comes subpoena power for investigations. Trump’s collusion with industry has already proven a minefield of corruption; there are still Pruitt scandals to investigate, along with newer Zinke scandals. And there are plenty of questions to be raised about the administration’s attempted coal bailout, its meddling with EPA science, and the process whereby it axed regulations on everything from methane to coal ash to carbon dioxide.

The regulatory rollbacks have been so crude that they are already beginning to founder in court. Now Dems can begin holding hearings, gathering testimony, and strengthening the case that the rollbacks were not well considered, as required by law.

And control of committees also comes with agenda-setting power. Dems can hold hearings on the IPCC report, the need for long-distance electricity transmission, the danger of methane leaks, or whatever they like. It is never easy to wrest the media’s attention from Trump, but control of the House will at least give Dems a foothold.

2. Get funky in the states.

As I mentioned, Dems are now very well positioned to start pushing bold energy ideas at the state level. A growing number of cities and states are targeting 100 percent clean energy, following California’s lead — it’s practically the default Democratic position these days, and spreading fast.

Carbon taxes may have foundered for now, but regional cap-and-trade systems are still going strong. Virginia is just about to join the Regional Greenhouse Gas Initiative in the Northeast.

States control electricity distribution systems and several have already embarked on innovative plans to modernize their grids and utilities. They also control their own fuel-economy standards, with the option to join California’s more ambitious targets. They can empower cities to encourage density and multimodal transportation. They can start the long work of shutting down fossil fuel production and distribution.

There is enormous room to run in the states where Democrats gained power.

Oregon Gov. Kate Brown has a rootin’, tootin’ Democratic supermajority in her legislature. Natalie Behring/Getty Images

For the foreseeable future, Democrat-controlled states will be the laboratories where climate and energy policies are tested.

But that doesn’t mean a big, ambitious federal plan should be completely off the radar.

3. Look to the future.

Ambitious federal legislation is a pipe dream for now, and will remain so for as long as the GOP a) is bananas and b) holds at least 40 seats in the Senate. Changing either of those two things could take a while.

Nonetheless, it is incumbent upon the left — nay, upon humanity — to develop plans to meet the climate threat with the response it actually warrants, even if political reality limits the application. Which is to say: Dems need to figure out their Big Idea on climate. (As Emily Holden reports in the Guardian, they currently lack one.)

There will be institutional venues in which to do this work — Pelosi is said to be talking about reviving the late, lamented Select Committee on Energy Independence and Global Warming, or at least some contemporary version thereof — but the key is not to get confused about what the process is meant to accomplish.

The process should not be aimed at developing “bipartisan legislation” meant to actually get votes and pass. Again, no climate legislation will pass in this Congress.

So there’s no need to pre-compromise, to concoct some bill designed to please the imagined good-faith fiscal conservative. There’s no need to accept crusty myths about balanced budgets and “pay-fors” and the sanctity of markets. There’s no need to bend over backward to line up a few token Republican sponsors, to impress the nation’s editorial pages with how bipartisan it all is. Those kinds of concessions gain Democrats nothing — no credit, no respect, no leverage, and certainly no legislation — so they should stop making them.

It’s not a bill to pass. It’s a big ideas bill, to show voters what Democrats believe in, to inspire a sense of hope and national purpose, and to orient future political organizing.

For once, Democrats should start not with the question of what can pass, but at the other end: What does the problem demand? What does a real solution look like?

As I said, the energy on the young left today is around a Green New Deal, a large-scale program of national investments in clean energy projects and jobs, perhaps coupled with gradual drawdown of fossil fuel production. The details remain fairly nebulous (I’ll be looking into it more soon), but the idea behind it is simply that climate change is a true national emergency and requires an emergency response, a mobilization of national resources that is, in Jimmy Carter’s words, the moral equivalent of war.

On the other side, centrists still prefer the pursuit of bipartisanship, which typically means a policy approach centered on carbon pricing. There’s going to be a battle in coming years over who gets to define ambition and “realism” in climate policy.

But it’s important that the left not devolve into factions again (as in 2009), each clutching its own favored policy, each unwilling to critically examine its own premises, each convinced of the other’s irrational maleficence. There’s no time for that.

With federal legislation off the table for the time being, the next few years mark a crucial opportunity for the left to step back, shake off the cobwebs of old ideas and the shackles of old failures, and do some blue-sky thinking about what climate policy ought to look like in the 21st century. It’s important to develop a courageous, inspiring vision of a sustainable future, even as everyone slogs through the current muck.

As the midterms show, the partisan divide is only getting wider, on climate like everything else. But that, like all things, will end some day, and when the rare opportunity for bold action finally rolls around, it would be good for climate hawks to have a shared vision in place, ready to be adopted.

Until then, climate progress in the US will be a matter of Democrats grinding out victories, mostly on their own, where and when they can. It’s not ideal, and it will never be enough, but for now, it’s all there is.

Original Source -> After the midterms, US climate politics are even more polarized. Here’s how Dems can move forward.

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

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survivorathena-allstars · 6 years

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Episode #9: “I Don't Want to Play Duck Duck Goose Anymore; It's Time to Play All Stars” ~ Emily

WE MADE MERGE BABY

I just PM'd everyone from the other tribe I am SO happy for merge. This came at the perfect time! Now I just have to make sure I win immunity and hopefully get pulled into an alliance or something. I don't even know who I want to WORK WITH!! But I'm glad that there is a possibility to get numbers. Seriously I don't think I've ever PM'd so many people at a merge before, I usually wait for people to come to me but NOT TODAY BUCKAROOS. it's time to show that i can be a social queen and get myself out of some sticky situations that could be coming my way with the old ata la la la la de dah tribe.

Merge! Woo! We are going into this merge split 6-6 even for tribal lines on both original tribes and swap tribes, which is kind of incredible. I don't know who I want to trust. I just know that if ruthie was willing to vote Lily before, she'll do it again. And that's the tea.

i'm bad at naming things um I DON'T KNOW BUT I NEED TO BE QUIET I'M SPILLING WAY TOO MUCH TO THESE PEOPLE AT THIS MERGE PARTY. I'm about to let it slip to Will that my old tribe has an alliance 0:)

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO WE FUCKING MERGED!!!! LETS DO THIS YALL!!!! Okay, so here's the status of things. Obviously, I'm glad to be united with a few people again, but I'm already starting to form a potential boot order in my head. It clearly won't work this way for real, but there are a few people that I don't want to see getting much further. Ali is definitely one of them, for two main reasons. First of all, he's a challenge beast that is not at all to be doubted, and if he went on an immunity streak, it could throw not just a wrench, but an entire toolbox into the rest of my game. So he's got to go for that alone. But also, he's being so unreasonably bitter? Apparently, this doesn't apply to just him, but Emily and Owen both said that he was refusing to talk to them because of their challenge performance. Y'know, the challenge that was an entire day ago. You really would think they'd be a BIT less bitter at this point, but alas... apparently not. Dana and Will could be logical next boots after that, along with Ashvika. Not sure about that order, though. And... As much as I love Cameron, I don't know if I'd want to work with him. Every time I work with him, it never ends up going right, and he betrays me by relaying information to another alliance, never voting with me, or something of the sort. So he might be on that list earlier than my out-of-game self would want. Kevin could also be a boot opportunity early on, as his paranoia is so hard to deal with, and it makes him as unpredictable as going on Omegle's video mode. I don't know where I stand on Ruthie, though. It's hard to put an accurate gauge on where I want her in this game, as she could possibly be brought onto my side as an ally, but the Autumn vote may have ruined that. So I'll have to let that sit for a while. Ideal F3 (if it IS F3) is me, Emily (hehe), and Zach. Ideal F2 is me and Emily (duh <3). Ideal F1 is me.

I'm so sad about Jack going I'm like really sad. I miss him wtf I wouldn't have done him so dirty BRING BACK JACK 2K18

Merge time means tea time, which means everyone gets a little too comfortable and says things they shouldn't! I love how Ruthie is so willing to throw the other tribe under the bus and flip to our side, we LOVE a queen and we LOVE a Will warrior like her. Owen....idk what you were thinking siding with Emily and Lily when you had literally the perfect opportunity to take them out but ok work. Like I genuinely don't care if y'all felt bad for Lily feeling left out, that's the game we're playing. You need to check your feelings at the door or you will not win this game. As far as I'm concerned, Lily or Emily is next to go - whoever doesn't win immunity is gonna be gone. A good split vote will work there too just in case of an idol, but it's time to cut the threats loose and let the non-recruits take control. Sorry about it! ________________________________________________________________ And when I tell people it's gonna be a bloodbath, know that I'm not gonna be the one bleeding - I'll be the one left standing.

Okay merge time! Lots to confess on! Firstly, I am so ready for Sandra Diashvika Twine winning again, like wooOoOoOO! Otherwise, I am..... conflicted about who I wanna work with from atalaia. The majority on their tribe was Emily/Owen/Zach as a core group, with Lily and Kevin as 4th and 5th and Ruthie firmly in the minority. I definitely want to work with Ruthie, she clicks well into our group since she is a self proclaimed Will Warrior. The issue is however that I don't know if I can then work with Ruthie and then also Zach/Owen/Emily, because that leaves us with voting out Kevin which I don't think I necessarily want to do and Lily who I do want to go, but I don't know if Emily will. With that said, I think my goal boot order for the merge going forward would be: 12th = Lily 11th to 9th = Preferably maybe Zach > Emily > Owen as an order? That gives us a top 8 of the six from Loronha + Ruthie/Kevin. That might then (unfortunately) be the opportunity to turn on Cameron/Dana/Will as right now I feel like I'm probably number four in that alliance? I wanna really assess that because I do feel good about going really far with Dana,Cameron and Will provided I'm not just the clear cut 4th in that alliance. AHH, we will see eek. I think the four immediate targets should be Lily 1st, then Emily,Owen & Zach. The issue is however, is like a fool, Emily knows about my alliance, so if I do want to get her out, it needs to be a _major_ blindside, so if Lily wins immunity, maybe Emily needs to go? I love murdering my own children

merge!!!! thank god i was not going to survive another round in that tribe so i'm reunited with my favs Cameron and duncan. i just went on a call with dunc and received a PIPING cup of a tea from him: 1. first of all i spilled the beans to him on what happened at our tribe pretty much instantly. i also spilled the beans to will because keeping a secret to myself? not familiar with that concept #RatsOnly 2. apparently i played in lazio with duncan and he was bitter at me for 3 months??? skdkdkd 3. duncan and i want to be a #dynamicduo bc we think no one would expect it and since we haven't actually been on a tribe together we'll have different connections which will allow us to get more info and do stuff with that 4. duncan has a treehouse hideout thing which allows him to skip a tribal up until f10. also Cameron has an idol??? okay 5. some BITCHES on LORANHA apparently threw my name and lily's name out as easy merge boots. which is honestly realistic bc i haven't been in any alliance so i'm like the hali of this game but not as hot. but like...am i a threat??? neaux sir. i couldn't hear what duncan was saying but i think he said Cameron threw my name out???? not sure. whoever it is is a RAT. duncan suggested voting out ruthie instead which will like be chill i guess. anyways i need to try hard in immunity i guess

Owen snatched immunity before I could even get started

I'm a flop hi! I'm confessing I'm being a good castaway I promise! I did like twenty puzzles in total which took maybe a total of three hours... I fucking hate puzzles. But of course Owen won. He's here to PLAY. I'm just really concerned for Lily and I at this point. I KNOW that people are going to target us at some point because they've already started? I think people are just coming for my friends like Madison? Gone. Jack? Gone. Lily? Almost gone thank god we saved her in that tie revote. I dont understand??? Don't come for my boys tho. Protect Ali, Zach, and Duncan AT ALL COSTS!!! Also I have no clue why I have such a HARD ASS TIME trusting Owen? Like there's just.... I CAN'T TRUST HIM! He's proven to me time and time again that he's trustworthy but for some reason... HE'S NOT! I'm just happy to be back with Ali and Duncan though because like... I trust them a whole whole lot. A whole lot. And they have powers! Duncan has that hideaway he needs to use soon and he also has an idol. Ali has an idol. Also me thinking back to that idol that Ali and I didn't get after having to be quiet in the time chat for forever... I think Will has it. Sneaky sneaky snake that Will. I love him, but he's a SNAKE!!! OH speak of the devil he just messaged me fdjkfjaksdfa I LOVE WILL I PROMISE I just haven't gotten to be on a tribe with him yet and like I don't know where his head is at or his allegiances and stuff. Also Zach hasn't talked to me in a while and I DON'T WANT HIM TO ABANDON ME I love Zach!! And I literally wanna go to final three with him!!! Heck!! talk TO ME also I don't buy that not talking in the tribe chat is like ... only a disadvantage. I played this game before BUDDY!!! It got me nothing but I think it's gonna get him something so fajsdkfjasdkf UGH anyways I'm gonna go get Greek food this is the end of my confessional bye

Checking in as the worst player in all stars. I am mad at myself because I'm literally making all the same mistakes and am in this messy spiral that I can't get out of. Emily knows about my idol, which gets tricky for voting out her or Lily, Duncan knows *everything* including too much I said about Cameron, when I was still assessing whether to work with him and I've just boxed myself into a tricky spot. I'm literally making the same mistakes, like I'm just bad at this and it makes me so sad. I'm gonna get dragged to the end as a goat again and that makes me so sad, ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I wanted to rewrite my Athena experience, but instead of playing a terrible game without realising like last time, I am playing an even worse game but this time i can tell and it makes me sad. I cant wait to be dragged to the end as a goat again, this is gonna like crush my self-esteem even further into the swamp ajlfkajldfk. god I hate myself, and these games makes it so much worse

Ladies... we merged! I am honestly so happy I made merge, and that's my first of three goals, the other two being jury and 100 days. I really like everyone on our tribe. Like there's people who I worked with and will continue to work with, such as Emily and Owen, then there are people who I haven't worked with, that i'm excited and hopeful to work with, such as Dana, Cameron and Will. Overall everyone's great! There's only a few people who'd I enjoy seeing leave. Kevin - we don't have a superior connection. Sure, he's friendly and nice, but compared to my other conversations it's just... dull. Sweet kid though. Lily - I like Lily and would love to work with her, but she's close with Emily, has many advantages and similarly to Kevin, we just don't connect. Duncan is fine too. I like him and would love to work with him, and Dana said there's beef between him and Will so keeping them both in the game keeps us under the radar. Ashvika's a queen, and I love her. Ruthie's sweet but also like kind of AFK. Ali? A legend. If I had to, right now, predict a final three, it'd be: Ali, Will, and either Ruthie/Dana. We'll see how wrong I am sometime!! WOOH!! Also i can't talk in chats right now i'm so sad.

I'm.... literally the worst player left I'm screeching. Everyone is talking strategy and like I'm very out of it, like its interesting seeing Zach say (admittedly it wasn't exactly shocking) that he is close with Emily and Owen, as well as Dana & Cameron. Like... that's a lot of people, when me/Zach/Emily were a three person alliance, like.... yikes. Anyways, I am trying to see where I stand rn. I think I am still number four in the Dana/Will/Cameron/I alliance, so I'm thinking if I can get down to the nitty gritty with Ashvika/Duncan like that's actually a solid workable opportunity. I think I'd like to go to F5 with Ashvika/Duncan/Kevin/Ruthie? I just like the sound of that, and then I can figure it out from there... We will see I think I really want Lily out this vote, and then just one of the extended numbers for my L.A.W.D alliance, just so they can't flip away from me. I just feel really uncertain right now, so I wanna start eliminating numbers that are gonna cause issues for me, and Lily is the prime target for that. I really feel like I'm the worst player in the game and wanna try and resolve that somehow, but like... you can't fix a player as terrible as me hsjkdfajsdfa ________________________________________________________________ Who is ready for ali the goat the sequel! I sure am ________________________________________________________________ me: cries about telling too many people about my idol me: tells two more people making the number of people that know now equal 6 but its fun, and the aim of these games is to have fun and leaving sad confessionals isn't good, so lets just have fun with it.

Honestly, please self-vote out of this game if you're "close with Emily." If i have to hear that phrase one more time I WILL choke. Stop playing this game like you're close with Emily because unless you're me NEWS FLASH LADIES you're close with Emily!!! Her name is literally starting to sound weird to me because I'm hearing it so much. Like am I jealous of her? YOU BET. How do I make my mist as strong as Emily. I am sick of pacifying miss Emily. Ok on another note, my main bff Ali Bee told me he HAS THE IDOL that I told everyone Lily has and honestly im wigged. I'm so happy he has the idol. Also Cameron told me that someone good had an idol the other day, and I confirmed tonigt that this person he told me about was Ali so yee we love tea! The other good thing about that all going down as it did, is that later down the line (assuming I don't get murdered) I can be like "Will Ali and Cameron are vv close, Cameron got idol tea before us!!!" and use that as leverage. Right now apparently all the names out there are Ali, Lily, Ruthie, and Kevin. Owen, I just don't trust, and I really tried to sell my loyalty to him on call and if Owen were 5% less smart he probably would have bought it. I delivered an outstanding an emotionally confusing performance tonight and she deserves recognition. Also I would like to thank everyone for nominating me for the role of village idiot of the season. It means a lot to me accepting this award. I'd like to thank Cameron for helping me really sell it to the people that i'm an illiterate meme just looking 4 a home amongst all these intimidating players I can't keep up with. Like UTR whommmm. Me? It's unlikely but apparently also working. Like i don't want people thinking it's worth their time to vote miss me out of this game when all the scary smart people are around. Keep me around for jokes and fake drama pls.

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this was like before immunity results were even posted ________________________________________________________________

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Alright team, here's the deal: merge boot, it can either be simple or it can be a mess. And this time it's gonna be a grade A mess. We have 6 people from each of the swapped tribes, and 6 people from each of the starting tribes, which means there's a whole messy web of connections between everyone going every which way. I have my core four of me, Ali, Cameron, and Dana (which has an even stronger core of just me and Dana) and we have connections with Duncan and Ashvika (the Loronha squad/Charlotte's Angels), with Owen (from the Elaenia days), with Zach (our cracked king) and with Emily (because who the fuck isn't connected with Emily). The thing is, EmiLily NEEDS to get broken up and everyone knows it, but we have people literally saying they won't vote Emily out until F5 but....guess what? If we let her get that far, she's LITERALLY GOING TO WIN like are you KIDDING ME. So since nobody wants to vote out Emily right now, and we need to break up that duo, the obvious target is Lily. But again, people are SO worried about burning Emily as a potential ally that they won't vote Lily. Like honestly props to Emily for literally smothering everyone with her mist to the point where they won't even try to play the fucking game anymore. We can't just vote out the outsiders forever, like we're at a point where the only "easy vote" left is Kevin (sorry king) and, according to some people, Ruthie (love u queen) - but the thing is, why would you take out an easy vote NOW when you have a chance to take a shot at a big threat? And honestly, I don't even know if Lily is really a threat to win this game since she doesn't speak to anyone when it isn't right before tribal so like....I'm talking about taking a shot at Emily by taking out Lily. If you wanna overthrow the queen, you have to take down her loyal aide first. Dana, Cameron, Ali, and Ruthie are the only people that seem to have completely detached themselves from the idea that "we need to play with our friends and we need to go for the easy votes" because let's see... what happens at F10 when you've taken out Ruthie/Kevin and all your "friends" are left? It's Survivor, you have to burn someone at some point. If you don't burn someone else, you're the one getting burned. I think I can convince Owen that it's better for his game to burn just Emily than to burn all three of me, Cameron, and Dana but... I really don't know. I love Zach but if he's saying he won't vote out Emily until F5.... then do you really deserve to be playing this game? If the jury really does start tonight, I also need to start playing a selfish game and figure out how I can get these people that we're gonna be voting out to vote for me. I have a lot of plans and big ideas, but I don't know for sure if or how they're gonna work. Right now we need to get at least one or two people onboard with voting out Lily...like that is going to happen tonight I am going to make sure she goes home.

Tag yourself I’m me exposing my whole friend group as friends but not including myself as a part of it #wig I love strategy!!!!!! No I don’t I’m just stupid

Everyone's so fucking dumb they act as if there aren't only 12 people on this tribe (10 technically since Lily never speaks to anyone apparently and nobody knows who Kevin is) like you can't be like "omg I only heard it was Ruthie" and not expect that I already heard your plan to divert from Lily going home by throwing Ruthie's name out there like what the fuck lmao

Okay so yesterday the options for voting were like Ruthie Lily and Kevin. I did not want to vote any of these people because I wanted to work/reconnect with the first two and the third person is me. BUT it appears the options are Ruthie and me so...my hand's been forced. I wanted to try reconnecting with Ruthie after that last tribal but I guess not hm. If I survive this tribal it'll be the third tribal in a row I've received votes so that'll be cute! I don't know who the source of my name is, I don't know if I want to know but I'd appreciate the information so I don't go rattling all my secrets to my own killer!! Wish me luck!!! :,)

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DUNCAN WHAT THE HECK WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO VOTE ME OUT??? WHY ARE YOU THE ONE PUSHING ME, I DO NOT GET IT, WHY???

Everyone is being super shady rn I don’t understand who started with wanting ruthie out but I don’t trust lily and I’m working on flipping the vote that way. Also wHY is everyone so concerned about defying Emily?? People wouldn’t be down to vote Emily rn so it’s imperative we vote out lily bc they’re close

If anything, the way people are acting about this vote is VERY telling about how they're playing this game and a lot of people? Aren't playing very good games. Shame, isn't it?

yeah so....this is a lot. a lot a lot. A LOT. First of all, when we merged let me just say I was so happy to be with that whole other tribe again. DUNCAN AND ASHVIKA and I? legends only. Ali? A king. BUT MY TRU BBYS DANA WILL AND Cameron??? A++++++++++++++++++++++ holy SHOOT. I love everyone in this game and it's so nice to be working with those people again. I had some explaining to do about the tied vote and the autumn vote....so that was fun. idk. the real fun started later. first of second of all, the fucking immunity challenge. ruthie and I were talking before it got posted and I was like hahaha I hope it's a puzzle!!!!! hahahaahahahahahahahaHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA man i rlly fucked up with that wish, huh? :') puzzles are my thing so when I saw it was puzzle comp I was like YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!! it was my time to shine. well.... :) hehe :) be careful what you wish for in the athena series, folks, bc this genie is a savage :') i came into the comp just wanting to be cute. i wanted a fun time and all I got? cramps. and FATIGUE. and torture. i was so paranoid ali or emily would stay up all night doing them but seems like was the only one truly crazy enough to ignore the fact that I had school starting the next day fakjsfjk but oh well. a win is a win, and the further I went the more I told myself that if I didnt win all the work would be for nothing. SO I DID IT! second of second of all, boy has this tribe gone to shit. lets get all the he said she said out of the way first. so I went on call with Duncan, he said he didnt wanna do Kevin and didnt wanna piss emily off so he landed on ruthie. he wants ruthie gone I was like ok. then i got on the call with will and he and I talked about maybe doing the easier thing like ruthie or kevin. then I get on call with will dana Cameron and,....fajskhjfk Cameron doesnt wanna do kevin or ruthie bc that's too easy. Cameron wants lily out as a move first, and I was ok with that, so were dana and will. basically like...we don't have sny reason to vote zach or ali yet, they dont wanna do emily yet, and duncan/ashvika didnt really come up as targets which left kevin ruthie and lily, the usual suspects. but then I talked to zach and he said he'd much rather do kevin. ok wig. then I talked to emily today and she wants to do kevin too. but then apparently lily found out from DUNCAN her name coulda gone around. I talk to lily aqnd first lily wants to do ali???? ok mood. but then fkasdhfkjds she was like everyone is doin ruthie. SO NOW, lily, duncan, and presumably ashvika were gonna do ruthie, emily doin ???? maybe kevin maybe ruthie, and will dana Cameron zach ruthie myself doin lily, and idk what ali's doin he told me he's thinking about going vegetarian and that's the biggest move he's told me about so far this round so fkshdfj ok ali. but like......uhg idk. ashvika doesnt want ruthie out, but ashvika apparently knows ppl are voting lily? god. GOD. third of all! some of my actual thoughts about all of this huge ass info dump..... I really really still love Dana, Will, and Cameron, but looking down the line, I am worried they will all be closer to each other than to me. They spent a lot of time together on that other tribe, and of the four of us they might pin me as a threat and kick me out. Cameron and I called privately as well and I told Cameron some additional things and he said that the other two might be a little sketched out by me rn but that if I vote with them it'll be fine. I also still....really love Will bye :'( what a king. I have talked to him a lot one on one about everything going on, and I just hope he trusts me too. It's just that of the four of us, I have a lot of the connections like outside ofour alliance (emily and lily, zach, duncan/ashvika, etc) which is GOOD FOR ME but also....playing both sides is not gonna be fun when sides come, and also I don't want them to freak out about my loyalty. I also still REALLY want to work with Zach and he might even be one of my closest allies rn as well. I don't want to be on a separate page from him. he's good. and he still really wants to work with emily too. NOW. I messaged Ali a lot about how like he might be seen as a threat down the line and that I might start to be one too and that we should have each other's backs and he agreed. He claims he doesn't think of himself as a threat and also like every time he speaks it's something about how he thinks his game is awful.... fskjdf i wish he would spend more time talking to me about his thoughts this time around and not his thoughts about how he played in emathia but! that's ok. Cameron also apparently has some tea on him....? That he didnt want to tell me.... Could Ali have an idol idk. Also it's really clear that Ali and Cameron are VERY close after that swap. But I like them both and want to move forward with both of them. I also called Emily one on one and told her the same thing - we're both gonna be threats soon, and we need each other. And I think that's true. So when I look ahead, it doesn't make sense for me to get Lily out at this vote. There's going to come a time when everyone who loves each other is gonna blow tf up and start targeting the threats. Which is why I'm trying to build mini-groups outside of my core alliance. My group with Duncan and Ashvika is good. But my group with Lily and Emily is another one. If Kevin left, then I would literally be good with so many people and they'd all be hopefully targeting each other. Emily and Lily are targets over me, Will wants Duncan out pretty bad and Duncan wants Will.... idk where Zach and Dana fit in but I love them and I don't think Zach would turn on me yet. But the closer it gets to voting, the more Will wants to do Lily, and I'm really at a crossroads here bc I don't want to make Emily mad or anything... Basically my main alliance wants Lily gone bad, which isn't necessarily bad for me but it's not best. And the people outside that alliance are split between Ruthie and Kevin and idk. If I really want to come out and say it, I could try to get dana Cameron and will to vote kevin. but they're just gonna think it's bc I wanna work with lily which is....not necessarily wrong. idk there's just a wheel that keeps spinning and I don't know when or where it's gonna stop. right now I'm thinking Lily. but how do I move forward from that? how am I going to get to the end of this game? I don't think I can unless I get to a point where I can win out. idk yall im still a mess rn but isn't that what we were all expecting dflfdk at least it wont be me. ________________________________________________________________ in other news will and I will be going as wario and waluigi for halloween so watch out

it's over luigi i'm going home tonight duncan was like "well most people have said ruthie" and that's like cool or whatever but then i'm like "well who said my name" bc i don't wanna like talk to the wrong ppl and then duncan has gone SILENT sjsjs if i survive it'll be a miracle sent from god our father

Wowowowow this is a mess. Here's how i presume the vote going down tonight.

We (oh good l.a.w.d) are trying to save ruthie and kill lily. We have us 4 plus ashvika and ruthie, which is 6. I believe owen, zach, emily, and lily will likely vote kevin. Thats 4. I think kevin and duncan will probably vote ruthie. Thats 2. Lily goes, barring further complications. Bless up.

I love starting the plan to get lily out and securing votes and then having someone else come tell me that we’re voting lily tonight!

90% of the time I have no idea what the fuck this tribe is talking about. Okay, so, picture this. It's around 6:30, I've been talking with Cameron and a few others, and what I hear is that the vote is for Ruthie. I think this is alright, and I set my phone down, diverting my attention towards the delicious tacos I prepared for myself. At 6:55-ish, I get back on Skype, and now Cameron is telling me that everyone is voting for Kevin! I don't know about y'all, but it seems a BIT suspicious that the vote would change like that in less than a half an hour with no explanation to it at all! It just feels like this is some elaborate ploy, so that people can get me distracted with these two options and just blindside me. I thought this would be unanimous, but Perhaps The Fuck Not, My Good Sirs

this is how i'm looking at everyone in this tribe rn I trust NO ONE. Cameron told me "oh yeah the majority's voting ruthie" and so did duncan and then i talk to some people to whom i say "you know i'm voting ruthie probably" and then they're like "oh okay cool haha you do you!" which is the most blatantly transparently WISHY WASHY response you could give like they'll say "well who knows what could happen" like you might as well stab me because that'd be more enjoyable than this!!! and then i talk to lily later and lily's REAL with me and she says the majority WAS to Ruthie but now it seems like everyone's voting me?? and then i talk to emily and she's like "oh the majority's voting ruthie" and i'm like WHAT RHE FUCK IS FOING ON. Cameron says he has no idea what's going on. tonight's mood is paranoia, betrayal, and utter confusion to sum up my mental state in one word...fuck

This is going to be a fun one

This is a letter put in a time capsule for Dana, Will & Cameron. I just want to confess about how much I love you three. Dana, you always describe yourself as upsetting, but in reality I think you are one of the funniest and most genuine people in this community. Your pep talk you gave me on call was so nice, and its been a pleasure to actually work with you this time alkjdfa. Will, you are TOO HARD ON YOURSELF. You put so much energy in helping me build myself up, but remain too critical of yourself. You don't realise how popular you actually are and how much time people have for you. Cameron, m'fave. I love you so much, you and Captain are the most iconic duo (I'm done waiting) and I think you are the best. anywho, soppyness over. I felt they deserved that because on call yesterday they were so nice to me and I wanted to return the favour. ________________________________________________________________ OKAY SO THIS VOTE. I.... highkey have wanted Lily to be merge boot since we merged, so this is going a way I support. Also, I am forever an Ashvika warrior, we have decided to stan forever. Right now, Me/Ashvika/Dana/Will/Cameron/Ruthie are all voting Ruthie, which is 6/12. It looks like the other 6 aren't gonna be united or one of the 6 is gonna vote with us, so it looks like Lily is going. Unfortunately, that requires upsetting Emily, so I'm trying to very delicately clue her in that Lily is in jeopardy. Its not even that I wanna lie to her, Im more just concerned about upsetting her. Its a mess! whewie whewie whew. owenlol fkasdjhfkjsdhfkjs so now like I'm confident Lily is going, Ali, Ashvika, and now Ruthie are all voting her even though Zach isn't, but it now comes down to whether or not I tell Emily and idk. I just wish Kevin could gtfo because he's not a number for me. I'm hating my life rn fskjfhjds but ! oh well! maybe I'll just vote kevin and deal with it later.

whatever it isn't the end of the world I don't think....but damn if Lily has an idol now would be the time to play it huh

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people are voting for lily apparently or something i'm too young to think this much idk

There's nothing better than playing the absolute DUMBEST when shit hits the fan, thank you Queen Dana for telling Emily it was gonna be Lily, because now Emily thinks I'm just as confused as she is. We love a good ruse.

EMILY WHY. I tried to like subtly clue you in (as did Dana) and you just sent everyone's pms everywhere askjdfafaf I love you so much but Lily is a sinking ship and you are drowning with her

But for real, Dana leaking like that accidentally and creating the last minute chaos is really an Ashley's Idol 2.0 because I may be able to lie my way through this and hold onto Emily's trust at least for one round...or so...Who knows!

I recorded both of these before the vote and I just uploaded them

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I recorded another one of me going crazy but honestly it's not cute and y'all would fear for my sanity so i'm not uploading it

Lily becomes the 9th person voted out of Athena All Stars in a 8-3-1 votes. You can see Lily’s preseason interview here.

After being voted out and placed on the jury, Lily decided to walk from jury. Charlotte, being the more recently voted out player, became the first member of the jury.

#NotAllFunAndGames

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