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training4theapocalypse · 1 year

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Finders Keepers (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Eventual smut in future chapters (not this one though sorry), language, sexual themes, homophobia (kind of but it's received by reader as banter)

Summary: It's your seventh year at Hogwarts and you've finally been made Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain. This year is going to be your year... if you can make it through your N.E.W.Ts without being distracted by your new Potions partner.

A/N: The content nobody asked for. But I am begging the Freddie Stroma stans to give Cormac McLaggen a chance. I PROMISE I CAN FIX HIM!!!! Reader is a bisexual 'not like other girls' type of girl but she becomes more bearable as the story goes on. Reader and McLaggen are both 18. Also I just want to say that I fucking hate JK Rowling and will be gleefully bastardising her work.

Masterlist

Chapter 1: Amortentia

Breakfast on the second day of term was a much more rushed experience than it had been in previous years- you barely had time to collect your timetables from Professor Flitwick, never mind eat anything. You hardly noticed the cool September sun streaming through the ceiling of the Great Hall. Gazing wistfully at the breakfast table, you listened while Flitwick reminded you of the importance of your seventh year at Hogwarts.

Marietta was taking much longer than usual to get ready these days, and so, you, her and Cho had left Ravenclaw Tower late. Ever since that Hermione Granger had cursed her, Marietta had been applying a thick layer of makeup to hide the pimples spelling ‘sneak’ across her face and you resented Granger for upsetting your dormmate- especially when that dormmate’s new skincare routine just made you miss your favourite meal of the day.

“What do you think Slughorn will be like?” asks Cho, as the three of you stand at the back of the short queue outside the Potions classroom- your first lesson of the year.

“Seems like a bit of a creep,” you shrug. “Didn’t you hear about his Slug Club? Nonce behaviour if you ask me.”

Cho chuckles half-heartedly while Marietta only deigns to give you a scandalised look. Alicia would have found it funny, you think to yourself, a knife twisting in your stomach when you’re reminded of her.

Cho and Marietta were the closest friends you had at Hogwarts now that Alicia Spinnett had graduated and then unceremoniously dumped you immediately afterwards. Your sense of humour was a little too crude for Cho and Marietta, and this combined with your general disinterest in giggling and gossiping about the boys at Hogwarts made you the third wheel of the group.

The queue starts moving and you file into the dungeon past a cauldron, filled to the brim with what you quickly recognise from your textbook as Amortentia. The powerful love potion is supposed to smell different to each person, depending on what attracts them and you’ve always wondered what it would smell like to you. The three of you step forward - you inhale and it smells simultaneously like the leather of new Quidditch keeper gloves, buttery toast and a spicy amber and jasmine scent that you only vaguely recognise.

The class is considerably smaller than it was last year after several students found Snape’s demands of N.E.W.T level students to be too much and dropped out. Cho and Marietta, predictably sit at a table together leaving you to sit at the desk behind them next to… ugh, Cormac McLaggen. You suppose that you don’t hate McLaggen but you’ve always found him to be a typical Gryffindor- arrogant and entitled.

You give each other a silent nod in recognition as you walk towards him. McLaggen reluctantly moves his book bag from the chair beside him as if it’s inconveniencing him to put his belongings on the floor - entitled. You sit down and have to shuffle your chair away several inches from him because his stupidly broad shoulders take up so much space. Even from the very back of the classroom, the sweet and spicy fragrance of Amortentia reaches your nostrils.

Professor Slughorn opens his arms. “Welcome, seventh-years, to the most important year of all at Hogwarts. Your N.E.W.T.s will take place in just a few short months.” You fidget with your silver cutting knife impatiently- you’ve already heard this speech. Slughorn walks over to his cauldron and continues “Today we’re going to be making something that regularly comes up in your practical exam: Amortentia. Can anyone-”

You practically hear the whoosh of four hands shooting up in the air, the Ravenclaws already desperate to prove their potions prowess to the new teacher. You roll your eyes and catch McLaggen doing the same. Ugh, you don’t want to be associated with McLaggen, who doesn’t even feel like he has to try to impress Slughorn - arrogant - so you lift your hand listlessly in the air.

“My, my!” guffaws Slughorn, observing the eager students around the room. “I see we’ve all had our breakfast today!” Your stomach grumbles. “Can anyone tell me what Amortentia is?” Your half-hearted hand seems to draw his attention more than the keen, upright ones. He points at you.

“It’s the world’s most dangerous love potion, Sir.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh-ho! An interesting choice of words. Would you care to elaborate?”

“It causes intense feelings of infatuation, to the point of obsession. I think it should be made illegal.”

“Here we go,” mutters McLaggen and you feel the tension in the class as they brace themselves. You’re reminded by their reaction that your tendency to be hot-headed was the final straw in your breakup with Alicia. So instead, you take a deep breath and give a more measured answer than you had originally intended.

“MACUSA made Amortenia a controlled substance in 1922 and I think the Ministry of Magic should follow suit. The use of any love potion on a non-consenting person, but especially one as strong as Amortentia, is unethical, to say the least.”

Some of your fellow students shift uncomfortably. If the rumours are to be believed, many of them have used love potions before but you hold your tongue.

“I say!” says Slughorn, looking pleased with the mild discourse you’ve caused, livening up his early morning lesson. “Very well-reasoned of you. And I assume, by your impassioned stance, that it’s your desire to join the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when you leave Hogwarts?”

“Er…” You hesitate, anticipating the usually negative reaction your answer gets you. ��Not really. Well, maybe if I can’t play Quidditch. Professionally.”

“Well, you may end up a tad over-qualified - there aren’t many professional Quidditch players with an N.E.W.T. in Potions, I can tell you that! But take a well-earned point for Ravenclaw for your answer.” He smiles genially. “Convictions aside, we will be brewing this very love potion today. And while they’re not illegal, they are banned at Hogwarts so I’ll be ensuring that you’ve vanished your potions at the end of class.”

Professor Slughorn instructs you all to find the page on Amortentia in ‘Advanced Potion Making’ and to start brewing the potion. It’s one the most delicate potion recipes you’ve ever come across- even compared to the other N.E.W.T. level potions you made last year.

Your cauldron needs to be as hot as possible so you set the fire underneath it and get to work, furrowing your brow and reading the steps outlined in your textbook. You add rose petals to your pestle and mortar and start grinding them into a paste.

“So, what did you smell when you walked past?” McLaggen nods to the front of the room. “The Gryffindor girls’ dorm?”

“Yeah, right, what did you smell? The seat of Harry Potter’s broomstick? Because sticking your nose there is the only way you’ll actually make the team this year.”

He laughs. “I don’t know, I fancy my chances now that a few of the old stalwarts have left. What’s Alicia up to these days, anyway?” He asks, not unpleasantly but your jaw clenches all the same as you grind your rose petals.

“We broke up at the start of summer.”

“Ah well, I’ll put a word in with Katie Bell for you when I join the team. I know how much you like those Gryffindor chasers.”

“Fuck off, McLaggen.” You realise you’ve been mashing your rose petals a bit too hard and they’ve turned to slop. Shit.

“Alright, just a joke.”

“Yeah, well don’t bother.”

While your breakup isn’t fresh, you’re in no mood to talk about Alicia. Minutes pass as both of you stand side by side, stirring your cauldrons anti-clockwise. Your arm aches and your brow begins to sweat from the heat of the cauldron as you count to one hundred and eleven- the correct number of times you’re supposed to stir it according to ‘Advanced Potion Making’.

You stop stirring and drop a moonstone into your potion. The sweet and spicy smell coming from McLaggen’s direction is already much stronger than yours even though you’re a step further ahead of him. You peer interestedly over at his cauldron just as he holds a stone over it, ready to drop it in but your hand flies out to catch it before it can hit the liquid.

“Woah, what-?”

“That’s quartz- not moonstone,” you tut, tossing the quartz on his table.

“Shit, thanks. Good catch- you could be a seeker.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He smirks in agreement as he chucks a moonstone into his cauldron.

“So, how’s your team looking this year?” He asks, breaking the silence as you wait for your potions to start bubbling, watching for the steam to start rising in characteristic spirals.

“Not bad. Most of last year’s squad is still here, including Cho obviously. I just need a new Chaser to replace Davies.” The heady smell is almost overpowering now as you both lean against the table. You start chopping peppermint leaves and he does the same. “I’ve booked the pitch for try-outs this Saturday. When are Gryffindor’s?”

“No word yet. Potter’s not as organised as you.”

“Well, let me know and I might pop down to watch you embarrass yourself.”

He laughs and scrapes his leaves into his cauldron with the edge of his knife.

“I’m hoping to catch him at Slughorn’s dinner party, see if I can butter him up a little.”

“Right, Slug Club,” you say derisively. Honestly, you’d have more respect for Potter if he made his useless friend Gryffindor keeper rather than choosing McLaggen because they’re both in Slughorn’s clique for the Howarts elite.

You tip in your leaves and stir your cauldron counter-clockwise, waiting for the liquid to turn from sage green to pearlescent milky white. McLaggen quickly grabs your arm, his large hand encircling the entire circumference of your forearm.

“Clockwise!” He urges, releasing you so you can start stirring in the opposite direction.

“Fuck!” Making stupid mistakes in Potions is thus far unmarked territory for you. You’re not used to having a Potions partner who distracts you. You watch your potion as you frantically stir the other way, praying that it turns its signature mother-of-pearl sheen. It stays adamantly green.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice- I should have stopped you quicker.”

“And time’s up!” says Slughorn, clapping his hands together.

You look up at McLaggen and he’s looking back at you apprehensively as if you might go off on one- your fiery reputation predecdes you. You take a deep breath and your nostrils fill with the amber and jasmine scent, making you instantly feel calmer. “It’s fine. My mistake. Besides, we can’t all have my reflexes.”

Slughorn walks around the room inspecting the potions and providing feedback. You feel a twinge of resentment when you see that McLaggen’s looks almost identical to the example potion.

Slughorn looks in your cauldron and gives you a small nod. “A decent effort but that should have been clockwise stirring in the final step, my dear.” You purse your lips and give him a curt jerk of the head in acknowledgement.

He positively beams when he turns to look in McLaggen’s cauldron. “Ah, excellent, excellent Cormac m’boy!” coos Slughorn, reaching up and gripping McLaggen’s shoulder congratulatorily. He gestures to the rest of the class to come over and see McLaggen’s cauldron. “Now, this is what we’re looking for. A textbook example. One drop and I daresay we’d all be besotted with you.” McLaggen looks at you intently, you suppose he’s feeling guilty for accepting Slughorn’s praise without giving you any credit. “Class dismissed. Cormac, take five points for Gryffindor and I’ll see you on Thursday night for our little get-together.”

“Yes, sir.”

You quickly vanish your potion, shove your belongings into your bookbag, and leave the classroom to catch up with Cho and Marietta in the corridor. The three of you start making your way upstairs through the throng of students to your next class but you hear a voice calling from behind you.

“Hey!” A heavy hand clasps your shoulder and you spin around. “Thanks for saving me in there,” says McLaggen.

“Anytime,” you say, in what you hope is a casual, and not annoyed tone.

In the busy corridor, someone bumps into the heavy bag on your shoulder, knocking you off balance. McLaggen catches you before you fall, holding you tightly against him and you’re overpowered by the scent of amber and jasmine again. He helps you stand back upright and places a hand on each of your shoulders to steady you. You blink up at him, stunned, meeting his green eyes.

“There. We’re even.” He grins. “My reflexes aren’t that bad after all. Anyway, see you later.” He slaps you on the back in a sporting kind of way and heads off in the opposite direction.

“Are you okay?” asks Cho as you stare after him, speechless, watching his broad figure, head and shoulders above most of the crowd, as he walks away. You feel your heart pounding in your chest.

He smells like Amortentia. Or, says a small voice in your head, Amortentia smells like him.

Chapter 2: Confundo

#cormac mclaggen #cormac mclaggen x reader #harry potter #freddie stroma #ravenclaw #hp fanfcition #harry potter fanfiction #hp fic #hp fanfic #harry potter fanfic #hp fanfiction

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transcriptroopers · 7 months

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I have a tangent, troopers. I am shot-gunnin’ it, hitting like ten different topics. I think I have a point, bear with me.

Something I have found increasingly important to emphasize when engaging with theory is the ability to delineate overlapping types of violence and to clearly define which is a more immediate threat to life.

I have two personal facts to illustrate my point.

First, I recently began using a cane. This has changed my life significantly. I now need more accommodations to perform the same tasks. Even in a hospital, I have to tell doctors to slow down so I can keep up. My cane upsets able-bodied people and makes them nervous around me. There’s no denying that in being a case user, I face oppression.

Yet, in every way, my circumstances are better than someone who uses a wheelchair. Because I’m not sitting down, everything is still at my height. I may be forced to walk in the grass if there’s no sidewalk, but a wheelchair user is screwed. I can still walk and get exercise and not worry about atrophy like if I used a wheelchair. I would be inconvenienced having to use the stairs during an emergency, whereas in a wheelchair your life may be in danger.

We are both types of disabled people who face oppression at the hands of an ableist society, but we still have different experiences, and have different - sometimes competing - accessibility needs. It is not “oppression olympics” to be able to identify when one type of disenfranchisement is a more severe and immediate threat to life; I am not betraying cane users to advocate for better accessibility for wheelchair users.

Next, I’m a veteran of the United States Army. I am also LGBT, and I am being vague about the specifics of that on purpose. There is an inordinate number of people who think this is a good thing – that I am both LGBT and a veteran. Everyone thinks it looks good for #Diversity for there to be #Representation.

I understand where this is coming from, because I used to think this way. Being an oppressed group, LGBT people are hungry to see people like them being portrayed positively, and in the US, the military is almost universally revered. I have never been harassed for being a veteran IRL, always praised; in fact, being a veteran has often shielded me from harassment associated with being LGBT, using a cane, etc. But online, folks will very casually wish for your death in the most gruesome ways, accuse you of crimes you’ve never committed, and block you before you can explain that, actually, you purposely enlisted in your MOS in Air Defense (protection against incoming missiles) because you didn’t want to hurt anyone, and even before drone warfare the vast majority of soldiers will never see combat. And it hurts your feelings, because you’re Me, a sensitive LGBT who didn’t expect the people who I thought were my friends to want me violently killed, Just Like my oppressors did, right??

So, here’s how I got over all that and got to the root of the issue: It’s only online that people are free to unload, sometimes; they are frequently shadowbanned by social media. My material reality is that as a disabled veteran, even an LGBT one, I have innate privileges because I am a soldier first. I have free healthcare for the rest of my life, and if I need it, assistance with legal matters, education, and housing. I could get a 10 to 20% discount in almost any store or restaurant in the country. I could get a placard for my car and it would reduce my chances of being pulled over. I opted for the optional “Veteran” mark on my drivers license to endear any cop who pulls me over. There are like three different national holidays celebrating me where I can get free food. An angry person online who says “veterans kys” hurts my feelings, but doesn’t in any way make my life materially worse.

Meanwhile, I have very much been a victim of hate crimes for being LGBT, both online and IRL. Even in the PNW I was assaulted and encountered actual hate groups like Proud Boys. There are no hate groups against veterans. Even if veterans are high risk for homelessness and drug abuse, (just like for example, idk, LGBT people) it is very clear to me which group is more meaningfully affected by violence.

Like I said, when you’re a rather sensitive person, a stranger gruesomely wishing for your death is upsetting regardless of the reason. Obviously I would prefer that people don’t do this at all, just as I would prefer that there be no kind of oppression at all.

But there is, so they do. And because I have a Critical Thinking Brain, I was able to realize that there was a difference between an outburst from someone with the ability to act upon it and an outburst from someone with almost no ability to act upon it. A jailed prisoner heavily draped in chains yells “I’ll kill you!” A well-trained soldier pointing a gun at you says “I’ll kill you!” Which are you more afraid of?

If you answer “both,” you are being willfully obtuse. You know the prisoner has next to no chance of carrying out their threat, but you know the soldier’s gun is loaded, and they have killed before. We are all capable of understanding that there are degrees of power and violence. I don’t begrudge any person who casually wishes for the deaths of soldiers, even though the soldier is themselves a victim of a kind of violence by the state. In fact, you can read all about the various abuses endured by soldiers on my blog, but the woes and miseries of soldiers are not (and should not be) of consequence to their victims.

Now that I’ve made you read two pages of blathering, guess what this post is really about? That’s right – Palestine. Fuck.

Western colonial nations are responsible for the ongoing genocide against the Palestinian people, and it is with our manufactured consent that the US and Great Britain continue to escalate the violence. Thus, it is more important than ever for us to be able to critically examine the way oppression affects us.

Israel is a settler-colonial state: a group of settlers who have violently expelled indigenous people from their land. This is documented fact; even early on in the occupation, 1948-esque, comparisons to American cowboys were being made, implicitly stationing their enemies as dirty savages on untamed land which was being claimed for use by a pure and righteous civilization.

Unfortunately, even in modern times, US Americans still believe the above rationale for their own displacement of indigenous people. To do otherwise would be to admit that we ourselves do not belong on this land – land that we live and work on and sometimes have “owned” for generations. We choose to believe what matters is Now, and the other stuff is all in the past.

Sadly, it’s true that many Indigenous American Peoples are no more. But numerous Indigenous American Tribes and Nations are still around, their customs have endured, their languages are alive, and they are still working their lands, as best as they can given the circumstances we’ve given them. However far back the atrocities were, Indigenous Americans deserve not only recompense, but leniency for behaviors that we on our high horses may find uncouth but otherwise don’t materially affect us or our privileges.

This is my opinion for other settler-colonial states as well, including those of Great Britain, Canada, Australia, etc. If settlers cannot feasibly “return home,” as will often be the case, then they must at least concede ownership of what was never theirs to take and cease reaping the benefits from their settler status. This would involve returning land and power to their original peoples, (likely not all or even most of it, especially as so much is now destroyed and heavily populated) and laws being rewritten so that they are not settler-centric.

In that case, for me, the Palestinian Genocide has one starting and end point: this is a conflict between the colonized and the colonizer. It is essential to view all further analysis from this lens, lest we lose context and get confused when spin doctors tweak our media, or when our friends accuse us of supporting our own oppressors.

Why am I putting all of this on my soldier blog?

Because it is us, soldiers, who are complicit with this genocide. Even American soldiers right now are complicit with Palestinian Genocide because it’s with our weapons, aircraft, finances, and strategies the genocide is being perpetrated. I remember being enlisted ten years ago trying to argue for the rights of Palestinians to At Least not be war crimed on a regular basis, and was mocked, because I was arguing for rights for “inhumane terrorists,” and aren’t I a hypocrite because aren’t I LGBT, and don’t I know that Palestines hate LGBT people? It frightens me to see how much worse it has gotten in ten years, and how many otherwise peaceful people have bought into this pinkwashing: using LGBT rights as a cudgel to determine who “deserves” human rights and who deserves violence. Palestinians do not have to be perfect victims to deserve human rights, and I find the thought that a person in any context deserves to die to be abhorrent.

I feel obliged to state here that I am not Jewish, though I have been considering conversion for a few years. I first sought out a rabbi in 2020 and paused my journey due to the pandemic. I still do self-study but don’t consider myself capable of speaking on behalf of Judaism.

I do feel capable of speaking on pinkwashing soldiers, and this is very simple: an LGBT soldier is still a soldier. Being a soldier overshadows all of our other identities, be they gender, sexuality, race, religion, wealth, or ability. This is drilled into us. People tell us to go away and die (if they feel safe to do so) because we are complicit in the overwhelming, overarching violence that is the state. We are no different than cops in this regard. Israeli soldiers, too, are soldiers before they are anything else. Women, LGBT, POC, Poor, Jewish. Often, the oppressor has themselves been oppressed. That's why it's so easy to convince people that their actions are just.

But here we see the same situation as before. The Palestinian, after eighty years of violent apartheid and genocide, bombed, starved, half-dead, says, “I’ll kill you!” The Israeli Soldier, with billions in US aid, who controls the Palestinian’s water, food, fuel, medicine, roads, air, and borders, calls the hospital and tells them, “We will bomb you in sixty seconds.” And then they do, and they want my sympathy because I too am a Soldier, and so I must understand that they have Lost, and it is So hard to lose people in war; so hard.

Of course they have my damn sympathy! I can’t help it; I have plenty of it to go around! Of course I’m opposed to religious persecution, to the killing of innocents, the destruction of culture! That is why I stand with Palestine in the first place! I hate violence, that’s why I joined a strictly defensive branch of the army, and don’t believe in the death penalty even for “really bad crimes" because I know how easily people can manipulate the public opinion against people who’ve committed “really bad crimes” for real this time I promise guys this time. And you don’t have to believe me, you can still tell me to kill myself and that I’m a murderer and I won’t begrudge you for that either.

We are currently seeing an unprecedented rise in antisemitism globally. Indeed, Israel only exists because of antisemitism in countless other nations across millenia. Even the US, Israel’s greatest ally, has deeply embedded antisemitic roots. Unless every other major country in the world immediately and aggressively begins to tackle their own antisemitism within their own borders, something akin to Israel will continue to exist, which in turn makes us responsible for the Palestinian Genocide.

Until that is addressed, we’re left with the original fact: Israel as it exists is a settler-colonial state, built on stolen land amidst an on-going genocide, and because Israel’s military is conscripted, that makes even ordinary civilians complicit in the war crimes of their armed forces.

American civilians cannot allow this violence to continue. We must reject genocidal rhetoric and demand that we return indigenous land not only to Palestine, but all Indigenous Peoples everywhere.

Lacking a punchy ending to this tangent, I’ll leave a list of links to various organizations that you can support in this time.

UNRWA United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Middle East. Currently on the ground in Gaza attempting to deliver humanitarian aid despite bombings.

Jewish Voices for Peace - This was one of the groups who marched on Capitol Hill declaring “Not in our name.” A civil rights’ group.

Palestine Children’s Relief Fund - They specialize in emergency medical care, training surgeons, and even sending children to the US for otherwise inaccessible treatment.

Decolonize Palestine - A basic resource to start with if you want to learn more about why this violence is inextricable from colonialism.

#free palestine #long post

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funkymbtifiction · 1 year

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hey i was wondering - i know IFP and EFJ as judging dominants and also feeling dominants can both jump to conclusions (as described by the EFJ in the previous ask) pretty impulsively - but i also know intuitives in general can jump to conclusions as well, by going off their hunches and intuitions without concrete evidence. how to tell the difference between a feeling dom and an intuitive dom jumping to conclusions? is it just that the intuitive dom will be more speculative, not putting their feelings into it yet? for instance a friend bails last minute and the efj/ifp is insulted before even knowing if there’s a valid reason vs an enp/inj is speculating the reason before hearing it? and will being a sensor mitigate this for a feeling dom?

also unrelated but is it possible to be a 9 but yet be aware of your anger and not really have “issues” around it? i read a lot about 9s having a lot of anger as a part of the gut triad but also being asleep to it, not wanting to fully feel it, finding it disruptive or inappropriate, holding in until they burst. are there 9s who are more aware, know when/if they are angry and have no real hang ups about it one way or another? they just.. get angry when something angers them, notice it right away and it’s fine by them? kind of permissive with their anger whenever it crops up i guess, seeing it as valid/healthy? maybe even a bit quick tempered but also quick to forgive/get over it? is that a 9w8 thing maybe, or would they not be 9s? can it be true of a 9w1 as well?

thanks again!!

Judging dominants typically assert their opinion prematurely, yes. Like "I hate that" without listening to the full story, for example. ENFJs can be extremely quick to leap to a conclusion -- to hear half of something and assume they know the outcome, because their feelings and intuition fill in the blanks. If they are a positive person, it's a positive assumption (good thing), and if they are a fearful person, it's a negative or threatening assumption (this person has bad intentions). Same with IFPs. Sensing types speculate less (Se) or turn to other people and ask what they think (Ne sharing of ideas).

A typical breakfast at my parents house includes my ENFJ father making (according to my ISTJ mother) "wild speculations... you can't KNOW that, how do you think you KNOW that?" He just believes in his assumptions and treats them as real as an ENFJ, and as an ISTJ, she goes there's no proof for this, you can't know someone's inner thoughts and feelings, stop leaping to unfounded conclusions!!!

Regarding 9s... some 9s are oblivious to and in denial of their anger, but other 9s are very aware of it. Since becoming aware of her type, a 9w1 I know told me she has also started paying attention to how her anger permeates her life -- she ignores it but it's there, a brooding pot of angst, resentment, and frustration at everyone and everything. It's her first line of response. That's the crux of gut types and what others notice about them -- how anger is their go-to emotion. Some 9s repress their anger, and other 9s just let it "flow through me" and then it goes away. There's the 9 that broods for a while and is passive aggressive, and the 9 who can't find their anger when they look for it (it flared up and seemed like a stupid thing to get mad at, so I don't care anymore).

The thing about 9 is... their entire life is about finding the easy road through life, and that includes not wanting to be "bothered" by things like anger or other people. Their inner dialogue, even if they aren't aware of it, is "this isn't worth me upsetting myself for." That can include others -- you're not worth me being angry at -- or even their own dreams -- this thing I want isn't worth inconveniencing myself for. The way a 9 grows is to become aware of their anger, own it, and not see it as threatening to their inner peace, but as something that can motivate them to get what they want in life.

Ironically, the only way a 6 can learn to calm down is to move toward 9 and start adopting an attitude of "this isn't worth being upset about." They are a reactive type, so they have to UNLEARN being triggered, upset, fearful, by taking the 9 path of "eh, why should I inconvenience myself by worrying about this? it'll be fine."

#question #mbti #enneagram

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alizardbro · 4 months

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I trust medical science, I believe in treating disease and that vaccines work, but I do not trust doctors. When I was 15 I started experiencing chronic pain in my left foot, shortly after I had a plantar wart removed from that foot. I went to my pediatrician and he said that it was normal to have a little pain after surgery, and he dismissed me when I told him it was more than "a little pain".

Months went by and the pain only kept getting worse, and now it had spread to my right foot. I went back to my pediatrician and told him that it felt like my feet were on fire and that I was having pins and needles almost all the time. He told me that it was plantar fasciitis, and that if I do some stretching it will get better.

More months went by and now I was 16, the pain had spread up both my legs and was only getting worse. Again I went to my pediatrician and begged him to help me, but he told me that I was just overweight, and that if I lost 20 lbs I'd feel a lot better.

Another 6 months went by, the pain had spread to my hips and lower back. It was a burning agonizing pain that was constant, I could barely walk most days and never without a cane. I asked my parents to go to the doctor again, but they pointed out that the doctor said that I just needed to lose weight. I told them that the pain was unbearable, that I needed more than weight loss, but they said that I had a tendency to be over dramatic about illness.

More time passed and now I was 17. The pain was so bad that I couldn't sleep through the night anymore, even with my psych meds I was on to help me sleep. I as passing out and throwing up from the pain now, and it had spread to just below my chest. It was horrifying to feel the pain slowly crawl up my body. I finally convinced my parents to take me to the doctor again, and the doctor told me that he would have me tested for a few autoimmune disorders. I went in for bloodwork, and a week later it all came back normal. My parents and pediatrician were very confused when I got upset at this news, because this meant that I was healthy and that their suspicions of me being dramatic were confirmed.

3 months went by before I told my parents that I couldn't take it anymore, and demanded to see my doctor again. My pediatrician was about to write me off again as just fat, but I told him that I needed a referral or else I would take action. Magically I had a referral to a rheumatologist.

I went and saw the pediatric rheumatologist a few weeks later. He looked me over and did some mobility tests, and diagnosed me with AMPS or Amplified Musculoskeletal Pain Syndrome. I was told to do physical therapy and that if I stick to a routine of physical therapy and desensitization therapy, I should recover completely or almost completely. My dad was very pleased to hear this, a cure for my condition was all my parents wanted, my pain had been inconveniencing and embarrassing them for long enough.

I went to physical therapy multiple times a week, I did the desensitization therapy multiple times daily, no matter how agonizing it was. Eventually I was "done" with physical therapy, my balance had improved a lot, but my pain hadn't. My pain had only continued to get worse. I told my parents this, but it was clearly only because I wasn't working hard enough. "Are you doing your home physical therapy?" "Are you doing your stretching in the morning?" "You just need to push through it"

After I turned 18 I started doing research on my condition, and apart from the pain, none of my symptoms matched AMPS. I told my parents this and pediatrician this, ut again they were very dismissive. After doing a lot of research I've come to the conclusion that I have CRPS or Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. I will never get better, I will never not be in pain, and I knew that, I always knew that.

A lot of pediatric doctors put their head in the sand when I young person (especially a female presenting young person) tells them they're in pain. They tell the parents what they want to hear and don't actually try to help you. As soon as I'm able to, I'm going to find someone who will help me. Hopefully once I get an official diagnosis things will finally get better.

#actually disabled #disability #crps #medical gaslighting #chronic illness #chronic pain

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wafflebloggies · 1 year

Text

3. all sorts of storms

back - next What’s wrong with me?

Antonio stood in the bathroom, gripping the sink in both hands. Black spirals unrolled through the running water and down the plughole. A long dark diagonal gash ran across his dripping face, from his scrunched brow right down to the opposite cheek. It was leaking again already, rivulets of black fluid slipping down his nose and navigating the trickier terrain of his beard. The towel he’d been using to try and stop the flow lay on the floor, half-sodden with glistening ink.

It’s the glasses. Has to be. Shouldn’t keep secrets. That’s not being GOOD, Antonio. That’s being-

-BAD.

When Mark had pushed him down the stairs, that night- almost a week ago now- it hadn’t bothered him too much, and he certainly hadn’t taken it personally. Humans tended to be more than slightly inconvenienced by such things, tended to incur things like broken necks and severe internal injuries, but when you had no real internals to injure, you were more likely to bounce. Then, too, he’d asked for it, he’d pushed, poked, practically begged Mark to do it. It would have been pretty silly, to get his feelings all hurt over it afterwards. It was only attempted murder, one deliberate step up from accidental manslaughter. And that…

Well, that had been exactly the point, hadn’t it?

So it really hadn’t been that much of a biggie for Antonio at all, but it had split his face nearly in two- his human face, which wasn’t supposed to do that sort of thing unless he wanted it to. And of course it had healed up almost at once, but apparently it hadn’t forgotten about it, at least not as easily as he had. He didn’t know what people were usually supposed to do, when their faces were better at holding grudges than they were. He didn’t suppose it was a problem that people usually encountered.

He splashed another double palmful of cold water on his face. For just a moment, his path seemed starkly, blessedly clear. It would be okay. He would tell the new Mark about the glasses and say sorry and everything would go back to normal again and everything would be-

they are not his they are MARK’S.

He looked up, astonished, and caught his own eyes before they slid away ashamed, amazed to find himself having such a thought, small but bright, red-hot and sharp in his mind. He stared down into the basin, at the black goop dripping into the running water and sluicing down the plughole in a busy little whirlpool, the stainless-steel ring staring back up at him like a shiny unblinking eye.

Antonio had never felt anger before. The only equivalent he had ever felt was a much more specific emotion called Mark-is-being-Difficult. It was a fidgety, stressy feeling that got stronger when Mark wasn’t where he was supposed to be or wasn’t doing what he was supposed to do, a feeling that twisted and turned in him like a hot wire when Mark fumbled his lines or dug in his heels or looked at Antonio with that particular Mark-face of dull, obstinate revulsion and refused to say anything at all. It had usually been pretty easy for Antonio to make the feeling of Mark-is-being-Difficult go away, exactly because it was so specific, so neatly tied to cause-and-effect. It would always stop when Mark stopped being difficult, or more accurately, when Antonio stopped Mark being difficult.

By any means necessary.

“Turn that frown upside-down,” he told his reflection, in a forceful, sing-song voice. Saying it out loud helped, a little. He’d said it enough times to Mark – the real Mark – for it to have the ring of something that needed to be taken seriously. In Mark’s case, Antonio offering it as a helpful little bit of pointed advice just before hitting RECORD had usually been enough to prompt a kind of a sort of a sickly half-smirk that lasted for at least the first couple of takes.

It suddenly occurred to Antonio that he would never have to say it again, never see that strained fake smile in response again, and the concept seemed to seriously upset the bug in his middle, because it spread out all of its sharp bits at once and flooded his chest with ice and bile.

Something was badly wrong somewhere, and it seemed to be anchored in his chest but crawling slowly everywhere else, and what really frightened Antonio was that if he knew it then surely, surely, the Muse knew it too. What if the Muse and the new Mark did know that something was wrong with him? What if they knew, and that was why everything felt like a cracked piece of glass, all jagged and twisted-up and dangerous to touch?

He huffed out hard through his nose and forced himself to look in the mirror, full and unflinching, and concentrated, and slowly as he watched the black gash began to thin out and pull together, turn ashy and fade away like a plane-line in the sky. As it settled, his insides slowly settled too, until at last he could splash the sink clean and wipe his face dry on the only clean patch of towel left, and study himself under the light and see nothing except maybe, maybe, a very faint pale line, a tiny bit lighter than his skin.

He looked at the towel in his hands. It was utterly shot, and since he didn’t feel at all like having to explain its soaked and splattered existence, there was nothing for it but to dump it in the trashcan outside. Tomorrow morning was garbage day, he remembered, and his luck made him smile- almost as wide as normal.

“See?” he said, firmly. “It’ll all be A-okay. Everything’s coming up Antonio.”

“Are you a friend of Mark’s?”

Antonio parked the trashcan neatly up against the Mayhew mailbox, and looked up, dusting his hands. Mrs. Hernandez was marooned in her slippers halfway down her front walk, quite dwarfed by her own big green recycling bin, which was somewhat slewed on the path behind her, one wheel sticking in the air, one wheel in the gravel.

He smiled across at her. “Hey there, Mrs. Hernandez. Having problems?”

“Oh, the blessed thing gets heavier every week,” she called, tugging at the bin’s cumbersome handle with all of her might, to absolutely no perceptible effect. Antonio jogged across the road and came up alongside her, hefting the problem wheel back onto the path.

“My daughter usually gives me a hand, but she- oh my Lord, don’t hurt yourself!”

“I got it,” he assured her, and easily trundled the recycling bin around her and down to the kerb. He could just as easily have pitched the whole thing right across the street, sticky wheel and all, but he contented himself with shoring it up against her neat coral-painted mailbox, securely wedged so it couldn’t tip over in the night. She watched him, cocking her head on one side, her brightly-beaded pince-nez glinting in the pale setting sunlight.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” she asked, as he turned back to her.

“I’m Antonio,” he said, offering his hand, politely. Her papery little paw was very light, very small in his. “I’m just over giving Mark a hand sorting through some stuff.”

“Oh, now, that’s nice,” said Mrs. Hernandez, approvingly. One of her lenses was much stronger than the other, and the magnification, along with her sharp, beaky nose, made her look like an unusually colourful species of little-owl with a squint. “Poor boy, it’s so hard going over everything after… well, you know. When my husband passed, it took me and the kids months to get anything done, there was so much of his stuff we didn’t know what to do with.”

“I think he’s getting on top of it, Mrs. Hernandez.”

“Please, call me Elaine.” She glanced past him, across the street, then smiled up at him. “My daughter usually comes over Wednesdays, but she’s on call tonight. Have you got time to come in for some tea?”

Antonio had a polite excuse all ready to go, but something made him pause. He couldn’t have said exactly what it was, or why he felt a strange reluctance at the idea of turning around and heading back inside. He thought about the spore and the cellar stairs and his leaking face, and then he thought about the new Mark’s big sharp empty grin, and a petulant, wormy little barb of a thought at the bottom of it all inched up into his mind and whispered, what’s the hurry?

He smiled back at her. “You know what? I’d love to.”

The really interesting thing about the inside of Mrs. Hernandez’s house, from Antonio’s point of view, was how different it was from Mark’s. Architecturally they were the same, like every other house on the street. The floor-plan, windows, rooms, all were the same in points of space and size, but there the similarities ended. Everything was little and brittle and bright, and sitting opposite Mrs. Hernandez on a violently-patterned cut-velvet sofa, Antonio felt that he might at any second cause a catastrophic domino effect of small tables and spindly tasselled lamps that would bury them both.

A cat had been sprawled half-asleep in Mrs. Hernandez’s armchair, resembling nothing so much as a badly-laundered angora cushion. As soon as it had seen Antonio, it had raised itself into a bristling arch, rheumy yellow eyes wide, ears flat, and with his first few steps into the room it had retreated with surprising speed to the top of the dresser, which had so many decorative plates on it that it looked like a very symmetrically barnacled reef.

Mrs. Hernandez asked him about himself, how he knew Mark, her rabid curiosity for anything new to the street bubbling under the surface of her eager, reedy chirp of a voice. He navigated the conversation easily, frank and light and charming, fielded her questions with cheerful, candid answers. Yes, he was from out of town. Yes, he and Mark went waaay back. College, he was careful to specify, careful not to tread on the toes of a history she might know inconveniently well. Yes, it was so sad about Mark’s mom. No, he’d never met her.

“She was so lovely,” said Mrs. Hernandez, offering Antonio an extremely hefty scone on a tiny, delicate plate. “Everyone’s friend, anyone who needed anything, she’d find them out somehow. Always up and doing. I couldn’t believe it when I heard she was so ill. She was such a powerhouse, you’d never think something like that could happen to her. She fought it so hard, but…” She shook her head, fishing in her many knitted pockets for a tissue.

“These things are just so unfair,” said Antonio, sympathetically. While she dabbled at her eyes, he dropped the scone gently behind his heel and back-kicked it under the sofa.

“And then the Williams boy, too, it’s just been one thing after another. And such a shock, you just feel so helpless when something like that happens right on your doorstep. It makes you almost afraid to sleep in your own bed.”

Antonio looked up at the cat, which was still watching his every move. As he locked eyes with it, it let out a rising warning rumble, tail puffing out like a tatty grey bottle-brush.

“Melia!” admonished Mrs. Hernandez. “Never mind her, she’s all sorts of cranky in her old age.”

“It’s okay,” said Antonio. “I’m used to cats. My mom loves them.”

“I took some posters, of course, I remember I gave them to Esme to put up at the clinic, but nothing ever came of it. I expect it’s a cold case now, or whatever they call it. Such a terrible thing- those two boys were always thick as thieves, I hardly ever saw one without the other.” She looked up at him, her mascara a little smeary and caught in silty little deposits in the corners of her crows’ feet, leaned across and patted his hand.

“You seem like a nice boy, I’m glad Mark has a good friend like you looking out for him.” Her enlarged eyes were wet and earnest. “I’m sure he could do with someone to cheer him up, you know, bring him out of his shell.”

“Well, you can count on me for that, Mrs. Hernandez,” said Antonio, brightly. “I’m a fun guy.”

“I was worried, I feel like I barely ever see him out of the house these days, and he never answered- oh, the kettle. I’ll be right back.”

She bustled out, tucking the tissue into a colourful sleeve as she went. Antonio sat still, looking at the overwhelming multitude of knick-knacks around him. Compared to the relatively uncluttered beachwood quiet of this room’s twin across the street, it felt a bit like being stuck in a very homey birdcage, or at the bottom of a well full of macramé chair-covers and cloth elephants on strings.

Humans just did this, he knew that well enough. Although most of what made them, them, was stuffed into one three-pound lump of pinkish goo, they had an extraordinary impact on their own spaces. Mrs. Hernandez’s life- her family, her history, her interests, her hobbies- filled her two-story home. The kitchen doorway was veiled with a rainbow waterfall of strung plastic beads. A highly-airbrushed Mary stared at Antonio from the place of honour beside the big TV, looking mildly reproachful and exposing a flaming heart which appeared to have been emphasized with glitter-glue.

In the same way, Cecile Mayhew’s life still filled the home she’d left behind. Antonio had never met her, that much was true, but in a way he could have said he did know her; the books she read, the art she liked and the watercolours she painted. Her neat little garden, her collections of music and magazines, her competent but somewhat unadventurous ideas of ranch-style décor, her fierce love for her son.

Eventually, it would all be gone. Eventually, there would be nothing in the house that suggested a person called Cecile Mayhew had ever lived there. It struck Antonio all at once that if somebody with no prior knowledge were to step into Mark’s room the way it was now, they would see very little evidence that anybody had ever lived there, let alone who that person had been. Mark had been as good as erased from his own space, his own home.

Antonio started to feel as if coming over here had been a mistake. He did not feel any better for it. If anything, he felt worse, in a knotted-up patchwork mess of a way he couldn’t even begin to unravel.

The cat let out a long, infuriated hiss, startling him out of his reverie, and as he lifted his head it spat at him from its lofty perch. Antonio, who had had enough of being threatened by something the size of a microwave dinner, snarled right back at it with all six-hundred-and-thirty-eight of his real teeth, and the cat skidded backwards right off the top of the dresser and vanished so fast it seemed to evaporate, barely touching the floor in its terrified, scrabbling flight.

“Good kitty,” said Antonio, pleasantly.

–

By the time he’d finally extricated himself from Mrs. Hernandez’s house, with many thanks and promises to come back with Mark as soon as the two of them had time for a good meal, it was fully dark. Antonio crossed the street slowly and stood by the Mayhew mailbox, looking up at the silent house.

In a universe of ashy-grey, a world untouched by streetlights or moon or stars, the house stood in a seedbed of glimmering gold. Light veils of the Muse’s fibre crept up from below, finespun brightness creeping through wood and brick and mortar, feeling slowly ever higher. It was a beacon, a brilliant signal flare, illuminating the colourless street.

Antonio realised in a chilly bleak way that part of him just wanted to keep standing here, out in the fresh air, with the mailbox and the garbage and the tied-back brittle ghosts of the wallflowers and the flickers of headlights from the distant highway.

Instead, he made his way slowly down the path, let himself into the dark, soundless front hall. The air felt toasty-warm and a little stale on his face as he stepped inside.

There was no sign of the new Mark. Antonio walked slowly through to the kitchen, where the pinkish grease-stained crumpled wrappers and styrofoam clamshells still lay where they’d been tossed, on the counter, on the island, in the sink. Heat was belching from the vent under the kitchen table, where an emergency jury-rigged kindergarten surrounded the spore in its black-splattered plastic bucket. The floor was a mess of wet sheets, stained towels, at least half a dozen of Cecile’s colourful little glass plant misters standing and lying in pools and puddles of grey water, lamps culled from all over the house plugged in wherever an outlet or a power strip would fit, leaned and pointed at fantastic angles with their necks and hot bulbs craned towards the plastic can.

Antonio picked his way gingerly through the chaos, and knelt. Despite the new Mark’s best efforts, the spore wasn’t looking too healthy. Its inky outer membrane looked flabby and dull, as if it was shrinking from the inside, and it twitched arrhythmically as he watched it, fluttering like a strained, struggling lung. He reached out and touched it, gently, and immediately the squishy yielding surface of it started to suck smoochily at his fingers, a tickling raspy feeling like dozens of desperate little snail-mouths, trying to find purchase on his skin. As the spore quivered hungrily against his hand, he started to feel a weak, draining pull in his fingers, his knuckles- a slow needy vacuum with barely any grip- as the starving thing felt frantically through him, through the fabric of him, for something that simply was not there.

“Aw, little dude, that’s not gonna help you,” he said, softly, pulling his hand free and wiping it on his pants as he stood.

ANTONIO.

Antonio jerked, straightening like a puppet from his heels to the top of his head as the voice of the Muse rolled through him in a stupefying knell. There were no words that could answer that voice, nothing possibly even a fraction so important. His own tiny struggling flickers of thought drowned in an instant, obliterated under a vast and crushing tidal wave in the shape of his own name. There wasn’t a him, not while that voice spoke; there was barely space and time, just his hand on the cellar door and his feet on the hollow wooden stairs and the hard concrete and the thick darkness and the radiant light.

And the Muse said, THE SPORE MUST SURVIVE UNTIL A NEW HOST CAN BE SOURCED.

And the Muse said, I HAVE A SPECIAL TASK FOR YOU.

With a clattery, grainy-glassy sound, something small and shiny came rolling slowly towards him across the concrete, stopping when it bumped against his feet. Antonio reached down and picked it up- a dusty glass canning jar, lid screwed on loosely, shreds of its original paper label still clinging to its smeary sides. It rattled as he turned it over in his hands, and understanding bloomed slowly in his mind.

And the Muse said, GO.

#muse arg #dftm #don't feed the muse #mark mayhew #antonio geist #alex bale #the cynical critic #my writing

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gravelgirty · 6 months

Text

Offering Rides

In the hospital, some of us fell into conversation (as you do) and talked about the price of rides like Lyft and Uber and taxis...which still amazes me to survive. What can I say, we can be frank when there's a lot of painkillers in our bloodstreams. Plus, there's a freedom to talking to strangers about a common fear.

Is it ok to offer a friend a ride to and fro medical care?

Absolutely.

Will they refuse?

They might. and...possibly not for the reasons that you think.

During recovery or in a course of treatment, people feel exceedingly vulnerable and it is common to be hypervigilant about your capacity to deal with, bluntly, a bad deck. If you are a long-term masker, this is even harder. We've all been that friend who suddenly found themselves witnessing an emotional collapse and wondered what to do. We've also hoped that moment would never happen to us (because let's face it, we're still more worried about upsetting other people than how we just can't take it any more).

I'm not speaking for everyone, but for my own experience, it took me a long time to accept offers of rides from friends and family. Part of it is my prosopagnosia; if you move your hair part to one side I won't recognize you and I lie about pretending to know people who suddenly walk up and talk to me. But that's my own issues. There are thousands of issues out there. The elderly and infirm can be TERRIFIED of needing help because those little innocent comments of, "Mom, maybe you need more help," can mushroom into Stage 4 level of terrifying comments like, "Grandpa, have you thought of assisted living?"

What if you live with someone in a less than an ideal situation, and there's the risk your ride-friend will offer to walk you to the house? How do you deal with that? That can be anything from a pet out of compliance with the landlord, or an issue with the law, or you could just be embarrassed that your floor isn't clean enough to eat off. No matter what, there's a scary, delicate juggling act between what you need and what scares you.

Asking for help is hard enough; that's why people ASK if friends need a ride. That can be a little easier, and some sub-cultures of Americana can get really, really involved in indirectly asking in ways that save face. They'll phrase things like, "Hey, I'm already in the neighborhood when you're ready to check out. Want to hopalong for the ride?" The really assertive ones will finish with a clarifyer, like, "I know it's rough coming out of the hospital, I've been where you are." (This gently installs a feeling of guilt on the receiver for refusing, and yes it is cheerfully done deliberately. We can only be grateful there are so many taboo topics among Appalachiana because what we do talk about is quite enough burden for all). My personal favorite tactic is, "We'll get you past the gauntlet of Bible-thumpers in the main lobby."

Anyway, it's easy to feel hurt and insulted that your offer to help is rejected because even though it is easier to offer help than to give it, both require some effort. Don't be hurt. Remember people are vulnerable. They are not sure of themselves when they are in recovery and the default is to dial down and stick to familiar patterns. If they aren't ok with asking for help in the past, they may have to fight themselves harder to accept.

How you talk with your loved ones is your business. Find out how to talk to them about these things BEFORE a hospital visit happens and don't make them feel guilty about possibly inconveniencing you. Make it clear that you don't believe in fair-weather friendships, and you value them enough to help if it is appropriate. They'll hear you. They'll appreciate you and treasure the warmth of your concern even if they cannot or will not take you up on that offer.

This has been a very long TED talk, and thank you for listening.

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ask-warlic · 2 years

Note

Do you know the Maleurous? What are your thoughts on each of them?

I am aware of the Maleurous. Honestly, with all of my screw-ups, including that time I forced my will on Fiamme, I am wildly surprised they didn't shunt me into that catagory myself. There's also the matter of being the treasurer of the local evil union, but that's not important right now.

What was I talking about? The Maleurous, yes.

I suppose I ought to iron out my thoughts, I've only recently met two of them so most of this is just surface-level evaluations.

Sinnocence: That poor creature. I don't' know what sick soul made them all that way--I have some theories, some accusations to be levied against a certain Empire in Azaveyr for that tacky appearance alone, but they're nothing more than baseless accusations--but the sheer fact they were a threat to both Paladins and Doomknights alike made them a force to be reckoned with. I can only think that an attempt to combine Destiny and Doom Spirits/Weapons was an attempt at making an Exalted Weapon, but all it made was a mess. Actually, on that note, there's one other person I know who would do such a thing, but it's not right of me to accuse her of things when she's not here to defend herself.

Mr. Nameless: He... wasn't the first toy I've seen animated with human souls, but it doesn't get easier. Let's hope no one looks too close at their commemorative plushies. His sheer magical power, even as a single soul bound to a toy, was fantastic. The sheer scale and control are greater even than some greater mages and wizards. I'd have loved to have seen the spellwork in action. Was it purely a multilayered illusion spell or was it a large scale transmutative spell? I could study the remnants but that's not as good as the first hand spell.

*Ahem.* Heard third-hand through Artix that Sally is still upset. Maybe I should send her something to try and cheer her up. Honestly, I don't know enough about Nameless--Twinkles wasn't it?--to comment on him specifically, another experiment gone wrong, probably of a necromancer. A lot of villains are born from such carelessness.

Voyna: I cannot put everything on her, but the socio-economic and environmental damage the so-called "Angel of Azaveyr" caused by hunting dragons to extinction in Azaveyr and forcing the survivors to flee overseas here to Green Guard (Battleonia), has caused lasting chaos to the many native species of dragons living here. She's caused so much grief. I'm not just saying this because of my ties to the Dragon Priestesses and my ties to the elementals. Seriously. In any other context I might actually applaud her power and tenacity, but she's inconvenienced me so she has to go.

Lock and Key: CYSERO THE BAG OF HOLDING DEVELOPED A PERSONALITY AND FEELINGS AGAIN! (That, probably isn't fair of me, seriously good for you guys, I'm very proud of you, please stop stealing my relics).

MyalOS: An Actual DRAGONOID????? IN THIS ERA????? I am literally so hype about this I might die, think of the things they could teach us, the things they've seen and done--They have memory issues? Oh, yes, I suppose that does follow. Damaged and all. They're still a living legend from another world, I can't not get excited about them. I would have killed to have explored their ruined mecha. Oh, the things they've seen and done. The things we could have learned.

They overpowered the Avatars you say?

What...like that's hard?

I wonder if I could improve the universal controls... but I'd have to ask Cysero's permission first, it'd be impolite otherwise. Oh, where was I? right, right, the fish is next.

Remthalas: I don't care much for Remthalas. I pity him. Being beholden to a higher power, I get it. Been there, done that, t-shirts are ordered but on delay. It sucks. But, really, when you knock on the Devil's door, he'll eventually open it for you. Just don't drag the hero down with you, if you can.

Notha: Notha. Notha Ly'Ehr. What to say about the First and Final Maleurous? Brilliant and dangerous in equal measure. Who trusted you with an orbital nuke? Ah I can't be too harsh, you're really an interesting person. Cloning huh? I can't believe humans have finally reached that point. Will extending your life like that really grant you the answer you're chasing? The real answer. How much time is enough? Does that answer mean anything if you can't keep and protect what you want? What's really your end goal? You want to be free, but do you even know what that freedom means for yourself?

I guess I can't judge too hard, it took me literally thousands of years to get where you kids are, so kudos!

Ah, this wasn't very informative more than just me complaining about them, wasn't it? Hope that clarifies things.

#askwarlic #the Maleurous Saga spoilers #if you close your eyes you can really taste the bitterness

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modgirlyreposts-revamped · 2 years

Note

Kinda sad but kinda funny fact about the CTW YD!AU, YD!Millie, as her nickname "the unfortunate girl" would suggest, has terrible luck and suffers constant misfortune and unlucky/unfortunate events. She brings her favorite ring to school and it gets lost in the first class. She and Dylan spend an extra 30 minutes looking for it and are both marked absent next period before Millie remembers she put it in her pencil bag for safekeeping so this exact situation wouldn't happen. She orders a burger with nothing on it from McDonald's and they put fucking everything on it and she has to get a new bun because she can't scrape the mayonnaise off. The one day she forgets to bring her homework is the one day the teacher checks for it. She's always failing her classes no matter how much work she does. She steps into her Spanish class on the day of the test, forgets all Spanish she knows, starts crying and the teacher has to console her and they agree to do it later when she's in a better place. She trips over fucking nothing. They go to Subway and Millie and Brooke stand in the line for an extra 10 minutes because the employees keep fucking up her order. The cashier forgets to remove a security tag from a sweater she buys and as she leaves it sets off the alarm. Brooke has to cover for her constantly when they go out because she somehow is always just barely below the price she's supposed to pay. She orders a pizza half her flavor half someone else's and they don't do the halves, it's all the other person's topping and she has to pick it off. She has SO much built up minor trauma from constant misfortune she constantly expects misfortune, freaks out at the slightest inconvenience and often responds to things as little as tripping and spilling her drink on the floor a bit with full on emotional breakdowns. She cries and it ruins her makeup and then she cries because her makeup is ruined and she looks like crap.

Definitely unrelated, but YD!Brooke always carries makeup remover and black liquid eyeliner in her backpack, purse or pocket. It's definitely a thing she's always done, certainly not her way of consoling Millie. Not at all, she would never dream of going out of her way and inconveniencing herself to accommodate her girlfriend's severe anxiety because Millie would hate that.

YD!Dylan generally responds to the situation with jokes, not at Millie's expense but at the expense of everything else involved to lighten the blow to Millie's emotional state.

Basically their dynamic:

YD!Millie, after dropping a cup of canned pears from the school cafeteria on the floor: this is my 13th reason

YD!Brooke: *SPRINTS over to give Millie consolation and more pears*

YD!Dylan: *literally starts violently stomping on the pears on the ground for upsetting Millie, slips on the juice while walking away and falls flat on his ass*

YD!Dylan: And this is mine

YD!Millie: *falls from somewhere high onto the ground*

YD!Dylan, as they approach to make sure she's ok: Brooke, I think it's raining cute goth girls.

YD!Brooke, sarcastically: My prayers have been answered. You okay, hon?

YD!Millie: I'm alright.

YD!Dylan:

YD!Dylan: Well, if this was your prayer, you guys had better move, 'cause my prayers were for a Cadillac.

It's funny how well the three's coping mechanisms for attachment and shit bounce off each other well in this AU. Dylan copes with his own trauma through joking, and his jokes help Millie loosen up when she's anxious by bringing light to her situation. They also help Brooke, who often feels a need to care for those around her, to stop feeling so responsible for every situation, because if it can be laughed at that's a good start, and it's often then under control. Brooke's caring nature helps Dylan address the serious side of the trauma he jokes about and is extremely comforting to Millie who feels super lonely and unsure of herself. And Millie attaching herself to those two and doing her best to repay their kindness gives them both a rock, someone who will care for them and return the favors they give everyone else because she knows they give those out because that's what they need given back.

GHDFJGFJDKGDFHKJGFDFD HELP MY HEART, THEY ARE SO PRECIOUSS-

My babies, they're all supporting each other and all bounce off of each other so well, I love them sm-

#they are so cute together <3<3<3<3<3 #asks #answered #valleyfthdolls

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genericlameusername · 1 year

Text

When People Who Gave You No Closure Reach Out for Closure

01.02.23

There are billions of words and an infinite number of ways to arrange them into a sentence, but I don't think any of them would be able to describe how tired and done I feel.

Something always sends me back into the spiral. Sometimes is something very small, sometimes it's big. The small things are messages and memories; things that remind me of other things.

A few people from my past have reached out at the least opportune moments for me over the years. They reach out when they decide they need closure, there's never much consideration for the years I went without it. I found my own closure, I closed that chapter on my own, and they decide to reopen it years after the fact.

Ptsd is a wild thing. I don't think the typical average person would be able to see how something so simple as a text would send someone into a cyclical downward spiral.

It's not the message itself that sends me free falling. It's the person's presence. I had to suffer by myself in part because I chose to but also because I wasn't often given a different option to choose from, why should I give them the satisfaction of finding closure directly from the source if I never got the same satisfaction?

I decided closure was convenient to me the moment we were on bad terms, and I had to find it on my own. They decided closure was convenient to them years after the fact, and they try to come back into my life to get it after I've already tried to heal. How's that fair?

The people who were mildly inconvenient to me - the one's who ghosted, or who I ghosted, or we stopped talking on bad but not horrible terms... they upset me far more than the one's who caused me actual harm and distress. They pull me back to that time frame when we'd talk. It's as if I'm living in that time all over again and I can't come back to where I know I physically am. I'm not upset with them, I'm frozen and stuck in a place that I'm not physically in, and I'm mentally inconvenienced at the patheticism of it on both sides of the story.

This time... after two years of being stuck in a freeze, I started to slowly pull myself out of it. I didn't have the spark of motivation to do it this time. This time differs from the others because it was a feeling of need to do, not the motivation to want to do it.

I need to stop being seclusive, I need to start exploring again, I need to work again, take care of my health again, care about my appearance, my emotional state, and living in general. I knew if I didn't pick it back up I'd let it go on for so long I'm not sure if I'd ever get out of it.

So I started trying to talk to people again. It was going slow, but it was going alright. Within the last few weeks I started caring about diet and health again. I started to write again. I started taking selfies and caring about my appearance again....

Again, though, always someone.

Someone I hadn't spoken to for six years reached out to me. I don't even remember why we stopped talking, but I know he did nothing that actually hurt me. I didn't even know who it was when I saw the name, I had to google the name to figure it out. If he did something that upset me, I would've remembered. It didn't matter how little I knew or remembered of him, I was still enraged.

I was enraged because he decided, six years later, that he was ready for himself to have closure. He waited so long that I don't even remember the things he asked my forgiveness for ever happening. I don't remember why we stopped talking. But I do vividly remember everything else that was happening in my life when we were talking and what the familiar feeling of absence felt like when it was done, and it's like I picked myself back up for nothing all over again.

I know that's an irrational way to think and that I honestly don't have a choice but to keep trying again and again, but I can feel myself fighting to not fall again. It feels like there's a rocky cliff that runs through my whole body, at the bottom of the cliff is a substance that will suck me in if I fall, and I'm desperately trying to hang onto the side of the cliff so that I won't drown and disappear again.

I'm fighting to not go back to the time period when we'd talk. It's so pathetic because he did nothing that upset me until he reached out when he decided it was convenient for him to have closure. Even that part of it isn't terribly upsetting, it's just annoying.

I know I'm slipping because I found my wall again. The wall I put up long ago, that stops me from thinking about things, and interacting, and feeling... It's so comfortable to be disposable. It's easy being comfortable with being disposable. I don't have to worry about interacting in a way that pleases others, I can be myself, I don't need to worry about talking to the right people, and there's no chance I'd be disappointed, rejected, or somehow let down by my interactions because I went into it already knowing I'd be disposable and that it won't last.

That's the wall. Make no ties, build no bridges, burn the bridges that were built, and be alone. There's no chance of pain and disappointment when you're alone. The only one who can disappoint you there is yourself. For me, that's comforting. It's too comforting to the point I will burn every bridge I've built at the slightest hint of a red flag, whether the flag be in others or in myself. I know how to be alone too well it's almost an aversion to interaction.

When I was talking to this person I was dealing with some heavy shit I don't think I've ever or will ever fully heal from. Every time something like this happens, the wall breaks and I feel my mindset shift back to the past and slip back into seclusion. This time, now that it's a need to do rather than a want to do, it felt like the wall cracked and I'm holding it together with duct tape to avoid it completely crumbling.

I've tried to respond to his long message explaining what he's asking for forgiveness for and what he's been up to. I've tried to text the new friend I've made. I've tried to respond to my emails and unread messages. I tried to do the things I've been doing for the past month that have been helping me work towards an actual effort to exist normally, and I'm freezing again.

The red flag is within me this time. I don't hold it against the guy for texting me after all these years, I know how closure feels and works. I understand, but it still doesn't stop me from feeling this way. Like I'm fighting to stay present and especially fighting to not burn my new bridges and crumble back into seclusion completely. It's entirely irrational, but I guess that's ptsd.

#ptsd vent #ptsd tw #ptsd thoughts #living with ptsd #trauma #mental illness #complex ptsd #vent #rant #story #mental heath support #mental heath awareness #mental health #tw depressing thoughts #depression #mental health matters #diary #journal

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writemyaceattorneys · 3 years

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Widget Anon here again!! because I did also want to send in a request ghsndshbfds,, could I ask for headcanons for Athena, Gumshoe, Maya, and Sebastian with a very emotional s/o? (totally not projecting, shhhhh) like, they just see a dog and they're like "yes, my day has been made!!!!" but at the same time if something even remotely sad happens it's just straight tears (real story, was watching spirited away and when chihiro cried in the garden I started crying too hngfhdsa)

You know what Widget Anon, I very much thank you for this because now I can project as well, I COMPLETELY get what you mean and these need to exist so thank you for giving me the opportunity to make these Headcanons exist.

Also sidenote, Gumshoe is actually one of my comfort characters at this point 😭👍 I love writing for this man so much he’s actually just so cool, he is the OG Himbo in this series and he deserves everything good in this world, istg.

🎇Athena Cykes🎇

🎇First of all, Athena Cykes can read people’s emotions plus she’s really empathetic so putting her with an S/O who is also very prone to heightened emotions would make it more likely that she would also absorb those emotions so she’s going to be very compassionate and caring towards S/O.

🎇So whether S/O is feeling absolutely overjoyed over something that they saw that day or bawling their eyes out over a film or something that inconvenienced their day, Athena is going to be right there alongside them, picking up on those emotions and responding appropriately.

🎇Athena would absolutely strive to make S/O happy, especially knowing that due to their emotional sensitivity, when they are happy they are truly at the peak of positivity. So she’d make them lunch and take them out on dates and seeing just how truly overjoyed S/O is in those moments is absolutely worth it to her. If S/O did start to cry due to this kindness, Athena would be there for them straight away. She truly cares so much about S/O.

🎇If S/O wanted to return this kindness to Athena, she too would be absolutely amazed and would be sure to make the appreciation that she feels crystal clear to S/O (although with Widget’s habit of verbally stating how Athena is feeling, she won’t have to do too much in order to make S/O know how appreciated they are).

🎇On the flip side, being prone to more heightened emotions means that when something bad happens, no matter how inconsequential it may appear to other people, it can just really get you down. So if S/O had a particularly bad day and came to Athena on the verge of tears, she’d be so worried about them and would be quick to sweep them up into a tight hug.

🎇You can bet anything that she’ll do all that she can to cheer a highly emotional S/O up, she’d make them dinner, give them a hug while under a ton of blankets on the couch and put a nice film on for them that wouldn’t make them more emotional.

🎇If someone in particular did something to intentionally upset S/O, you can bet that Athena would absolutely tear into them, and if they refused to apologise she would send them flying (hopefully not hitting any bystanders while doing so). “You want to make S/O cry?! Take this you heartless fiend! Hyahh!”

🍜Dick Gumshoe🍜

🍜This man. THIS👏 MAN👏 (Mod Miles approves of Gumshoe very much and sees him as a comfort character 😩👌) He just gets along with everybody and is a massive himbo. I love him so much.

🍜He’s also very sensitive! But he’s also ridiculously loyal to those he cares about so he’d absolutely do his darned hardest to be supportive of S/O if they were very more sensitive to their own emotions.

🍜He’d absolutely make lunches for S/O every day with whatever ingredients he can afford on his salary (it's mostly gonna be weenies and rice) which is already going to be so flattering to S/O, however, if he saved up for a couple of months in order to splurge out on some other ingredients then he can probably expect to have S/O be so overwhelmingly happy when they meet up after work that evening. He can expect a massive hug and an even bigger bunch of “thank you”s!

🍜Another thing! Gumshoe is training Missile the dog so at some point he’d introduce S/O to Missile and it would absolutely make their day. They’d be so overjoyed to see this little Shiba Inu and would be sure to give him a ton of scratches. Fully expect to find S/O buying Samurai dogs especially for him.

🍜Of course though, S/O could be made particularly upset by something, maybe they happened to read something that upset them or watched a film or TV show that turned out to be really sad so they’d naturally go to Gumshoe in a pile of tears, unable to fully put into words what has exactly caused them to just start crying. They can expect to be pulled into a big Gumshoe hug. He looks like the type who’d be really good at giving hugs, he’d even take off his lucky detective coat and drape it over their shoulders if he thought it might cheer them up a little bit. “It’s okay pal! Don’t cry, we can talk about it later if you want to.”

🍜If somebody did something that hurt S/O’s feelings, he’d be pretty angry. He’d ask them to apologise (“pal”) and if they refused to then he’d get pretty frustrated with them and give them a firm talking to, he doesn’t care who it was that made S/O cry, he’s going to teach them a lesson! (If the person who upset S/O happened to be Miles Edgeworth then he can probably say goodbye to that month’s salary 😭😳)

🔮Maya Fey🔮

🔮Maya is pretty childish! Although she’s also someone who is fiercely loyal and who looks out for the people that she cares about. So she is the perfect person who will indulge S/O in positive situations and comfort them when something has upset them.

🔮Maya will do her darned hardest to make S/O happy every time she sees them so S/O will soon come to associate Maya with free serotonin. She’ll take them out for food (Ramen? Burgers? Ramen burgers? All of the above? Who cares!) and will be sure to indulge in their interests, although if S/O is also a massive Steel Samurai fan then fully expect Steel Samurai marathon dates at every opportunity.

🔮S/O might come to her one day and just tell her just how much she makes their day better and start sniffling because she’s just so lovely all of the time. Maya will be sure to pull S/O into a tight hug and tell them that she doesn’t plan on stopping because making them happy is her favourite thing to do. She might lightly tease them for being emotional but she loves every moment of it.

🔮It would be an absolute shock to Maya if S/O came to her while really distressed and upset about something. She’d be quick to drop whatever she was doing and just pull S/O in for a hug before taking them off somewhere private to talk about things. Whether someone had upset them or something that in retrospect might be a silly inconvenience had happened, she’ll reassure them the best that she can.

🔮Anyone that upsets her S/O will soon find themselves facing the wrath of the angry 5ft spirit medium and they will regret every minute of it. She knows when and where to pull her punches in terms of dissing people and she won’t spare anything for anyone who hurts S/O’s feelings 😤

🔮She’ll tell S/O that if they ever want to talk to someone who has passed on, she’ll channel their spirit any time (and for free 👀) if they just want to say their last goodbyes, S/O would definitely appreciate this if they had a family member that they never got to say goodbye to.

🔮Overall, Maya is just a supportive girlfriend who will do all she can to make S/O happy and will be there for them whenever they need her. Maya is best wife 😤👌

🎵Sebastian Debeste🎵

🎵Let’s not lie, Sebastian is probably just as emotional and sensitive as S/O. Their relationship is going to be built on the two of them building each other up and supporting each other at their high and low points. (Mod Miles approves of this relationship)

🎵He’ll do his darned best to impress S/O, he’d probably show off in front of them but would still be very surprised when S/O finds what he does to be really interesting. He’d appreciate that they don’t treat him like an idiot as well.

🎵Sebastian and S/O might go on a walk one day after work and if they see a dog while they are walking, the two of them are gonna be clinging to each other while trying not to freak out about how cute it is. They’d definitely talk about it all the way home and he’d just be in awe at how kind and gentle they are.

🎵If S/O and Sebastian watched a sad film, S/O might find themselves getting upset, so Sebastian would be quick in pulling them into a secure embrace and reassuring them (although if S/O looks closely, they’ll see tears brimming in his eyes too). He might start another activity with them as a distraction if it’ll help and then once both of them are feeling less upset, they’d probably talk about their feelings for a while.

🎵If somebody willingly upset S/O, Sebastian would probably get so frustrated himself! Seeing S/O being upset would be enough to trigger Sebastian’s own sensitive emotions, he’d run up to S/O bawling his eyes out just as much as they are while wrapping them up into a hug. If they happened to be sitting on a couch, he’d have them sitting on his lap while he cries into their shoulder and tells them that it’ll be okay.

🎵The next day, Sebastian would probably go to Miles Edgeworth to get his advice and support to go after whoever made S/O upset. He might not have the courage to do it on his own but if the person that he looks up to was there too, he’d feel a lot more courageous. “Hey! You-you leave S/O alone, I won’t let you hurt them. Apologise right now!”

#Widget Anon #ace attorney x reader #x reader #athena cykes #athena cykes x reader #dick gumshoe #dick gumshoe x reader #maya fey #maya fey x reader #sebastian debeste #sebastian debeste x reader #emotional S/O #ace attorney #Mod Miles is an emotional wreck themselves so this was too good for me to write #i hope this is coherent

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zevlors-tail · 3 years

Note

Hi I feel really bad for sending in an emergency request but bakugou, deku, or kaminari comforting and helping a reader who is going through a major depressive episode with suicidal thoughts. I’m so sorry I feel really bad for asking

A/N: I could not have gotten this at a more convenient time. I just want to say thank you for requesting this, and please don’t be sorry for asking about this. If you want to talk my dms are open, but I hope this helps! This was extremely cathartic for me to write. I only did Bakugou for the moment, but I fully plan on coming back at some point to at least add Denki (and also Deku eventually). Bakugou as a secret comfort character for me? It’s more likely than you think.

TW: Suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, suicidal reader, depression. PLEASE DO NOT READ if these things trigger you. It’s extremely descriptive and emotional!

Bakugou Katsuki

“Hey...are you okay?”

You barely snapped out of your foggy trance as you slowly blinked, your coworker’s face coming into focus eventually as you gathered your surroundings you had long since forgotten about. Your response was immediate, familiar words strung together with little effort after saying them over and over again. No longer did they drag you down and taste like lies in your mouth; now they were just the ghost of a feeling you struggled to remember, an empty shell with hollowed out meaning.

“Oh, yeah...just tired,” you drawled. And you were.

There weren’t too many days anymore that you didn’t feel drained, didn’t feel like the weight of the world was sitting on your shoulders. You felt heavy- both mentally and physically, like there were weights tethered to your arms and legs. It made you feel utterly exhausted at the end of every day and stole your motivation to get up in the morning. Your bed never seemed more comfortable, and your sheets never seemed so warm. If you had the choice, you would allow yourself to lie there forever, to skip work in favor of sleeping through the whole day, because what good was there in being awake, anyway? Lately it just seemed like everything was a waste.

“Are you sure? You just seem...down.” Your coworker gave you a concerned look, and you thought it ironic that the day you felt you might snap was the day everyone chose to finally ask if you were alright. Maybe she could see it on your face, or maybe you finally looked how you felt inside. Whatever the case, you didn’t care. In fact, you hardly cared about anything; it was hard to care about your life when you felt there was no value to it.

“I’m fine! Just really tired,” you repeated without hesitation.

“Okay, if you’re sure.” She seemed to take the explanation without any further question, shrugging and turning around to get back to what she had been doing before. “Just make sure management doesn’t catch you staring off like that; I think they’re in a bad mood today.”

Logically, you knew you were dealing with depression. Depression was not something new to you; this had happened before, and you had managed to dig yourself out of your own hole each time, but this time was...different. Logic didn’t stop the thoughts rampaging through your mind, didn’t quiet the voices that told you others would be better off without you. You felt like a burden to everyone, a walking problem that caused trouble everywhere you went. Just this morning at work you had dropped something accidentally, and it had spilled all over the floor and under the tables, the mess reaching into the cracks and crevices of the tiles where it would be harder to get to. You had done the best you could to clean it up, but in the end, the janitor had to step in and clean up the mess that you made. Maybe it was just an accident, and maybe you didn’t mean to spill your food, but you couldn’t see past the fact that you were always like this. Always spilling things, always causing problems for others, always inconveniencing everyone you came into contact with. Maybe...it would be better if you had stayed in bed all day instead of coming to work.

Maybe it would be better if you had never woke up in the first place.

...No!

You shook the thought from your head, doing your best to ignore it and focus on something else. Come on, you told yourself, focus on your job. But your mind remained hazy as you continued on with work, and it only served to cause more problems for you. By the end of the day, you had accidentally dropped a couple more items, slipped on some water and fell face first to the ground, and towards the end of your shift, just as you were clocking out, you bumped into an unruly customer who was clearly having none of it today. Hands reached out to shove you away and you stumbled, tripping over your own feet as you tried to get a grip and regain your balance.

“Watch where you’re going, god! Are you blind or something!? Jesus!”

For any other person, it might have just made them upset or angry, but it would have been passed off as a bad day, a bad moment in the grand scheme of things that would go away with time. But for you? For you it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Whatever motivation and will to live you had left, it was gone within the instant, replaced with a numb, empty feeling. What was the point in all of this? If this was life, if you were constantly going to cause problems and get in people’s way, what was your purpose here?

If nothing was enjoyable anymore...you just wanted it to end. It was too late for you anyways; you felt too far gone to be saved. And honestly...what was even left to save? You felt like a shell of your former self.

And that was how you left the store, feet dragging against the ground as you numbly walked to your car to go home. It took you a while to collect yourself, so you sat there for a few minutes in the parking lot, keys stuck in the ignition and hands resting loosely on the steering wheel. Finally, you worked up the will to actually start the car, and then you were on your way home. Home...where you would probably just lie through your teeth again and go lay in bed for the rest of the night.

Bakugou was in the kitchen making dinner when you padded through the foyer and announced your arrival, the smell of spices overwhelming rather than inviting or enticing. But then again, you didn’t have much of an appetite lately, and you found the thought of sleep to be more appealing than the thought of food anyways.

“I’m home.” Your voice was quieter than usual, your tone flat and monotonous. Bakugou didn’t respond for a minute, and you wondered if he had even heard you over the sound of something sizzling in a pan.

“Y/N, that you?” A head poked out from around the corner, red eyes meeting E/C. “How was work?”

“It was work.” You blinked and kicked your shoes off haphazardly, your body already caving in on itself as you made your way to the bedroom. If Bakugou noticed the change from your usual demeanor, he said nothing about it, only going back to what he was doing in the kitchen when you retreated to your sanctuary for the night.

Finally alone with your thoughts, you crawled under the soft sheets with your work clothes still on and curled up, eyes already shutting even before your head hit the pillow. At some point you must have managed to fall asleep, because the next thing you knew you were being shaken awake by Katsuki, a sweet and savory smell drifting through the air. Your stomach rumbled, and though it felt empty, you still didn’t feel like eating emotionally. The only thing you seemed to feel now was a heaviness settling on your soul.

“Y/N, come eat.” Either you were imagining things or Bakugou’s normally gruff voice was more gentle and relaxed as he woke you from your slumber.

You protested with a whine, your face scrunching up in annoyance from being woken up. “Tired...” you mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you haven’t had anything since you came home from work, babe.”

“That was only an hour ago...” you started, your voice still thick from sleep. But as you looked towards your alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed, you were surprised to find that the little digital numbers read 11:58 pm. You’d slept for a little over five hours since you had arrived home. “Shit-!”

That seemed to do the trick, and you were scrambling up and out of bed in no time, panic and confusion washing over you from your prolonged nap. Had you really slept so long? You hadn’t meant to, but it did feel nice to have a small break from everything you felt when you were awake. And again, you caught yourself wondering if maybe the world would be better off if you never woke up. Eventually the haziness of your dream state faded, leaving you with the same reality you had been facing earlier in the day. You wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and curl up in your state of melancholy, but you were up now, and Katsuki would worry if you didn’t eat anything.

The two of you made your way to the dinning room table where a plate of reheated leftovers sat along with some silver cutlery, a cute little holiday napkin leftover from Halloween resting next to it. You stared at the pumpkin covered paper for a while before picking up your fork and stabbing at whatever dish Bakugou had decided on for dinner. Lately he seemed to be on a vegetable kick, though a healthy dose of fruits and meats were also thrown into the mix for balance. You mindlessly chewed, not really paying attention to the flavor if there was any at all. In fact, it felt like you were chewing cardboard. You didn’t enjoy the taste or feel; you only ate purely out of habit and need to.

“Do you not like it?” Bakugou pulled you from your reverie of thoughts, your head snapping up in his direction when he spoke.

“Huh?”

“The food. You’ve barely touched it in the last ten minutes.”

Ten minutes? Since when had that much time passed? Looking down at your plate, you realized he was correct. Over half of your food remained untouched, bits and pieces of it spread around from your fork and pushed to the side as if it was your least favorite meal. You hadn’t even noticed you were playing with it, and you wondered how long you had been just sitting there scooting food around with a blank look on your face.

“No, it was good.” Liar. You’d hardly been able to taste it. But it wasn’t just food that had lost it’s merit to you, if you really thought about it. The world just didn’t seem as lively; colors seemed washed out and faded, food held no taste, and music just didn’t sound the same. Nothing was enjoyable for you anymore.

“Y/N. You know you can tell me if there’s something going on, right?” Bakugou’s eyes bored into you while you just stared at the brightly colored napkin.

“Yeah, I know!” you chirped back, eyes briefly flickering up to meet his gaze before returning to orange pumpkins.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” It sounded like a question, but really it was an invite. He knew there was something going on with you. Asking you was his way of giving you room to explain yourself before he decided to pry. Usually he was mindful of any boundaries you might have had, but Katsuki was never a fool, and you tended not to open up easily. Sometimes a little pushing and prodding on his part was necessary.

“Not really? Just work, but it was the usual. I’m just tired.” Even as you tried to pass your unusual behaviors off as a bad day at work and exhaustion, you couldn’t hide the sour note that slipped into your voice along with the visible scowl you made. But the emotions were short lived, and you were back to feeling defeated and down within mere seconds.

“Hey...” You felt compelled to look up at him when he softened his voice even more, but everything in you told you to hold back and keep staring at those damn balls of orange on the napkin. Why, you weren’t sure- maybe it was to keep from crying, or maybe it was to suppress the feelings that were slowly surfacing within you, or maybe it was just because you no longer cared. “Are you alright?”

You visibly winced when he asked. Suddenly everything hurt; everything was a mess, it was all wrong, all of it, and you just wanted it to stop. The pain, the numbness, the thoughts- everything. It felt like you hadn’t been able to catch a break since the day you were born. Day in and day out you lived like that, and no one would ever ask if you were okay. No one took the time to check on you properly; no one seemed to notice when you felt like you were at your worst. Well...no one except Bakugou. He’d been your rock for a long time now, but lately everything had gotten much worse, and you had kept certain things from him so as not to burden him with your troubles. In your eyes, he had enough of his own problems; hero work was already rough on him as it was, so you kept things to yourself so he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed.

“Why does everyone always ask that when it’s already too late?”

The words tumbled uncontrollably from your mouth as your brows furrowed, a pained look clouding your dull eyes. Bakugou took a moment to process what you said before responding, eyes still locked onto you.

“What does that mean?” He already knew. You could hear it through the apprehensiveness in his voice, see it in the way he gritted his teeth anxiously. “Y/N, what does that mean?”

You glared at the blurry orange shape below you (were you crying...?), refusing to look Katsuki in the eyes. You were afraid of what might happen if you did. “I’m just...a waste of space.” There was a strange conviction to your voice, as if you’d made up your mind about something. Bakugou did not miss this. You, however, did miss the flash of fear in his ruby eyes as you spoke. “I cause problems for everyone I meet. I’m just a giant inconvenience to the world, and everyone would be better off without me. I don’t matter.”

“Y/N.”

“Would anybody even care if I was gone? I mean really, what difference am I making here?”

“Y/N, look at me.”

“It would be better that way. People wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore, and I don’t have to deal with all of...this.” You made some sort of gesture with your hands, your voice cracking as you held back hot tears. “Life. It’s just...it’s so exhausting. I’m so, so tired of having to wake up every day and drag myself out of bed and live. Nothing is fun anymore, and it’s hard just to breathe. I mean, seriously!? Come on, ya know? I didn’t ask for this, I don’t want to live like thi-!” You choked up, silent sobs wracking your shoulders as you buried your faced in your hands.

Across the table, Bakugou slid from his chair and made his way to you, feet thudding against the floor as he quickly closed the distance and kneeled down to your level. “I knew something was wrong, but...” He gently cupped your face in his hands, palms warm against your tear stained cheeks. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

You struggled to remember when this all started. Minutes turned to hours, hours to days, and days to weeks that blurred into months eventually. Time blended together, and you couldn’t recall the last time you felt able to get up in the morning without feeling like it was a chore. “I don’t know...” you answered honestly.

Bakugou rubbed his thumbs against your face carefully, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he brought you into an embrace against his chest. You didn’t fight it, instead leaning into his touch while crying, and the two of you stayed there for quite some time before Katsuki spoke up about how he was feeling.

“You may think that you don’t make much of a difference here on this earth, but that’s just utter bullshit, Y/N. You make a hell of a big difference to me and everyone else around you, and you would be sorely missed and grieved over. Don’t you dare for one second think that you’re not important or loved, because you are; you are so, so loved.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” you cried.

“I know, babe. It’s hard to see it right now, I know. Your mind is telling you the opposite. But believe me when I say you are the most loving and caring person I know. You’re always reaching out to others, maybe even a little too much, and you’re always checking on them. You’ve made a world of difference to everyone. Your friends need you, your family needs you, and I need you here. And I would be devastated if anything were to happen to you.” It was hard to believe anything he said. You wanted to, you wanted to so desperately. But you weren’t sure of anything anymore, and the most you could do was cling to him like a koala and hope that what he said was true. “Let me in. Let me be there for you. Trust me, please.” You’d never heard those words from Katsuki before. They sounded odd coming from his mouth, like they didn’t really belong on his tongue. But you listened because it was Bakugou, and you wanted to trust him. You wanted to be able to feel okay, and he’d always been there no matter how much you’d tried to push him away.

“Okay,” you murmured against his chest, your tired eyes drooping shut in exhaustion. Your shoulders followed suit as they slumped downwards, and you gave in and crumbled into his arms.

“You’re not a waste of space. You’re extremely important to me, and I don’t tell you that enough. Every day when you leave for work, I miss you. I love when you come home and greet me, and I’m a better person because of you. Y/N, you’ve gotten me through shit I didn’t think I was going to make it out of. And you know what? We can do this. We can do it together, and it’s going to take a lot of work, but we will do it. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” You couldn’t help but to smile at that. “And I know you feel like a burden, but you’re not. Your problems are never a bother. People are here for you, they want to help support you and listen to you. I want to support you. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Everything’s gonna be okay. I love you.”

You couldn’t stop the fresh tears from falling, quiet hiccups taking over you as you cried into his shirt. “I love you too,” you managed somehow.

Bakugou rubbed a hand over your back, his chin coming to rest on your head as he sighed. “I’m not going to let you give up on yourself, no matter what.”

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugou #katsuki #bnha #mha #tw suicidal thoughts #tw suicidal ideation #tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: depression #tw depression

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years

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All his life, Jaskier has only wanted to be enough. In forty years, he’s found a lot of people he can't please no matter how hard he tries, but never any who are willing to try in return. He's too loud, too annoying, too much. There are also a startling number of people who want him only as a placeholder - a bed warmer, an entertainer - before quickly ushering him from their lives once they've had their fill. As a child, it was devastating every time he was told to be quiet or to find someone else to talk to. As an adult, he thought he'd grown numb to disinterest or fleeting interest, but then he'd met Geralt.

With Geralt, he thought he had finally found someone who might keep him. Even if it wasn't perfect, even if Jaskier still found himself longing for more, Geralt allowed him to stay. His jabs didn't hurt the way others did and after some time they even started to sound fond coming from his Witcher. And he was truly happy for the first time in a long time.

But good things are not meant to last. Not at least, for Jaskier. And on the top of a mountain north of Barefield, Geralt had proved without a doubt that Jaskier wasn't numb to heartbreak.

But that seems like a lifetime ago, now.

When their paths had crossed again, it was by complete accident. Jaskier had been in Oxenfurt over the winter to regroup after a difficult autumn and he'd headed back out into the wilderness late. It was a routine of sorts, setting out on the road after winter, and he'd followed the Pontar east, heading nowhere in particular. The last person he had been expecting to come across was his Witcher.

But there they both were; Geralt with his child surprise in tow and Jaskier with nothing but the lute on his back and a notebook overflowing with verse after verse of heartbreak. Ciri, at least, had been happy to see him, but it was plain to see Geralt didn't share her enthusiasm. She is the reason for their (somewhat forced) reconciliation, not some change of heart or some grand apology; just a lost little girl clinging to whatever sense of normalcy she can find. And an unwilling father trying to give it to her.

Lucky for him, Jaskier is a familiar face to the young princess and Geralt had agreed when Ciri had asked for him to come along with them. And it's not all bad; travelling with companions is much less lonely than travelling alone and he and Geralt have made things work between them, enough at least, for Ciri's wellbeing.

But there's a feeling Jaskier gets right before he's ousted from someone's life, a tingling sort of ache right in the pit of his stomach, and he's been feeling that for months now.

Spring has faded into summer and their little group carries on. They keep to the path most nights, camping amongst the trees or tucked away under a shelf of rock or in an abandoned cave. Jaskier doesn't know the whole story, but he knows Nilfgaard is looking for Ciri and as good a protector as Geralt is, he's unlikely to defeat an entire Nilgaardian troop should they run into one. So he keeps them away from town unless they need to replenish their supplies or the weather is too bad to allow for sleeping outside. On those occasions, they prepare in advance. Geralt will go ahead and ensure the room is ready and whatever else they need, while Jaskier will wait behind and do what he can to disguise Ciri. She's the most important thing in Geralt's life now and if he can't make amends with the man himself, he'll do what he can to help Ciri. At the very least, it gives him a sense of purpose and keeps him from feeling quite so out of place with them.

Tonight is a camping night. Geralt is asleep already and Ciri appears to be if she isn't, but the grass is damp and cool beneath them and Jaskier can't get comfortable. In the morning, their bedding will be damp at best and that means packing damp bedding and sleeping on it again tomorrow night. He's mulling over the idea of hanging his bedroll over a tree branch and lying directly on the grass - at least it will save him one night of discomfort - when Geralt stirs across from him.

Jaskier looks up, instinctively alert, but Ciri is still peacefully asleep and there doesn't appear to be any sign of danger. Geralt's face is twisted though, pinched tight in pain or fear and Jaskier recognizes the expression. For years, he'd been there to soothe Geralt’s discomfort, to curl up against him and run a hand up his chest until his breathing evened out again and the pain eased from his face. Geralt’s nightmares have never been uncommon, but since joining up with him again, Jaskier has noticed a marked increase of uneasy nights for the Witcher.

But he's no longer in a place to soothe him and so he watches regretfully as Ciri blinks awake and props herself up to look at him. She crawls from her own bedroll and in a practiced motion, slips between Geralt's arms, pressing herself up against his chest. She whispers something that Jaskier can't hear and he squeezes his eyes shut as Geralt hums sleepily against her hair.

He aches to fill that space against him once more, to be able to soothe the turmoil in Geralt’s heart, to give Geralt anything. He used to be the one who could ease his pain, but he's been replaced. And he can't blame Geralt for it; he was never a very good travel companion, but he did try and he'd like to be able to try again, but that doesn't seem to be the way things are going for him.

"Who is she?" Ciri asks, only just loud enough to Jaskier to hear her. "Who's Renfri?"

"I don't know," he breathes, low to keep his voice steady, "Geralt met her before me and he doesn't talk about it."

Ciri makes a disappointed sound and Jaskier doesn't have to be able to see her face to know she's scowling at the man wrapped around her. He would be too. Geralt does so much to protect the ones he loves and yet refuses to accept anything in return. Jaskier understands the frustration and once upon a time, he'd developed a method of tricking Geralt into doing things for himself, making it seem like it was for the good of someone else. He makes a mental note to tell Ciri about it.

Once Ciri and Geralt are settled once more, Jaskier slips from his bedroll, picking it up and hanging it in the hopes that it will dry some before morning. He's awake now, his head swimming with things unsaid and what ifs and he knows he won't sleep any time soon, so there's no point in trying.

He crosses the camp as silently as he can to where the horses are tethered and he settles himself between the thick roots of a tree, leaning back against the trunk. Roach leans down to him, nudging his shoulder and Jaskier looks up to find both of them looking at him, Jaskier's own horse with her head over Roach's back to see what he's doing. She gives a snort of confusion and Jaskier just looks up at her with a forced smile that does apparently nothing to appease her curiosity.

For some time, he just sits there, wondering where exactly he went wrong in his life until eventually, cold and emotionally exhausted, sleep overtakes him.

At first, Jaskier had hoped that this distance between them was just a side-effect of Geralt adjusting to parenthood and he tried to help in any way he could. But he can't teach Ciri to fight and Geralt knows more about herbs and how to use them than he does, and otherwise, Ciri is mostly self-sufficient. Other than her magic, which Jaskier soon learns, she's being trained in as well.

Yennefer blows back into his life in a big way on a sunny afternoon in mid-summer. She seems softer than the last time they'd seen each other and she smiles when she spots Ciri practicing with a wooden sword next to the river. Jaskier has learned well enough in the past not to disturb her, so he keeps quiet and continues with his task of gathering firewood. He hadn't understood at the time, why Geralt had wanted to make camp so early in the day, but it seems clear now that this was an arranged meeting place and he doesn't suspect they'll be leaving again before morning.

So while Geralt is busy with Yen and Ciri, Jaskier may as well make himself useful. Maybe he can't be emotionally available to Geralt the way he used to, but he can still help. So he sets off deeper into the trees, intent on finding enough wood to keep them going for the evening. But when he returns to the smell of smoke and a crackling fire, his heart sinks. As he sets his gathered firewood down, his only solace is that no one seems to have noticed him and he's able to slip away again quietly.

Yen travels with them after that. She doesn't seem concerned about Jaskier's presence and, on occasion, she'll even speak to him without sounding inconvenienced. It's more than she's ever offered in the past and considering his tenuous position with them, Jaskier's almost pleased about it.

But with Yen comes more training for Ciri, this time in magic, which means she has less time to listen to Jaskier play or tell him about her adventures with Geralt. Which is fine; she's still young and she needs to be able to understand her power as much as she needs to be able to fight with a sword. So Jaskier takes another step back.

After the mountain incident, Jaskier had hoped someday that things might go back to normal for him and Geralt. Now, despite Yennefer's improved attitude toward him, their relationship seems tenser than ever. And after a couple of weeks travelling with Yen, Jaskier starts to wonder if he really fits with them anymore.

But he can barely complain, what with Ciri having lost everyone she ever knew and loved. And Yen's history. And Geralt's inability to enter certain towns without being shouted at and called a monster. In relation, Jaskier's problems are not that bad. It doesn't stop it from hurting, but it stops him from talking about it because he doesn't really have a good enough reason to be upset. And his relationship with Geralt is already strained at best, he doesn't want to make things more complicated between them and end up losing Geralt again, maybe for good this time.

Only keeping things to himself is harder than it seems because Jaskier constantly feels unwanted and unneeded. Because Geralt has Yen and Ciri, Ciri has her training with both of them, and Yen never really much cared for him to begin with. So where is he supposed to fit in with that? What can he do for them that someone else isn't already doing? Everything he used to do for Geralt has been taken over by someone new and as the days drag on, Jaskier begins to wonder if he's not just hindering them by tagging along.

But where would he go without him?

They're all sitting around the fire one night after Ciri's gone to bed and Jaskier's writing in his notebook, trying to force the lyrics to a ballad that just doesn't want to come. He has the tune, but he can't quite get the words right, so he hums under his breath, trying to work through it as Geralt pokes at the fire.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts and Jaskier looks up at him, surprised and a little nervous. "Be quiet, Ciri's asleep."

"Oh," he says, "right."

He shuts his notebook and measures his breathing, trying to keep from getting too upset. It makes perfect sense that Geralt would ask him to be quiet, Ciri doesn't sleep well a lot of the time and he shouldn't disturb her when she does. It still hurts, but he packs his things back up and turns in for the night.

Geralt seems unfazed but Jaskier lays out his bedroll right at the edge of their camp and settles in. He doesn't know what else to do with himself; whatever he and Geralt once has is clearly gone now, everything is about Geralt and Ciri now or just about Geralt, off on his own to provide for a child he never wanted. There’s no room in his life for Jaskier now that he has Ciri.

As he lies down, he tries to think back to before Geralt, but he doesn't remember what he did with himself back then. He was young and foolish and a very different person than he is now. And even after, when he and Geralt were separated but still friendly, Jaskier would write about him or sing about him and tell stories about their adventures together. But it was all about Geralt. For two decades of his life, everything centred around Geralt and now he's faced with the prospect of losing him completely.

Geralt is a simple man; he needs food and coin and sex - most nights he won't even blink at sleeping out in the rain. Jaskier can offer him none of those things when they're staying away from towns, so why is he still here? He wants what they used to have when he could at least keep Geralt company during the long nights. Now, he can't even offer him that. Things can't go back to the way they used to be because Geralt has Ciri now and Yen is back in his life and Jaskier just... is.

And every time he tries to think about what he did wrong, he can only picture Geralt's face on the top of that mountain, how angry he sounded when he told Jaskier he wanted him gone.

Jaskier looks at Ciri, curled under Geralt's spare blanket, and he knows Geralt blames him for this responsibility that he never wanted. And maybe it is his fault because Geralt never would have been at the banquet otherwise. And maybe Yen leaving was his fault, too because Geralt never would have met her if Jaskier had just left the damn djinn bottle alone. Maybe all of this is his own fault. Jaskier lays his head down, fighting back tears as he wonders how he could have single-handedly ruined the one good thing that life ever gave him.

Summer fades into autumn and things only get worse.

Yen joins them again when the air starts to cool and Jaskier finds the only thing left for him to do is to distract Ciri when Yen and Geralt disappear off on their own. He doesn't want to think about what they get up to and he's certain Ciri doesn't want to know. The pair of them share a tent, which Jaskier is thankful for only because it means he shares with Ciri and he would prefer that to sharing with either Geralt or Yen. Ciri trusts him and when they're alone she still likes to sit and listen to him sing, plus the one perk of travelling with a sorceress is extravagant magic tents.

When it starts to get really cold, Jaskier's thoughts turn back to Oxenfurt. If he's going to go back for the winter, he needs to leave soon before it gets too cold to travel. He knows Geralt is taking Yen and Ciri to Kaer Morhen with him and he doesn't think he could stand spending the entire winter with them, even if he was invited.

He gives it a couple days' consideration before deciding he can't bear this any longer. He'll go to Oxenfurt for the winter and come spring he'll just have to figure out how to move on with his life because all of this is too much. Ciri has both Yen and Geralt now, and if he thought being in love with Geralt was hard before, it's nothing compared to how it feels now.

He's in the middle of organizing his things for the long ride out to the coast when Ciri finds him. She comes up and plops herself next to him, peeking over to see what he's doing.

"We're not leaving yet," she says, "why are you packing?"

"I have to go."

"You aren't coming to Kaer Morhen with us?"

"No."

He doesn't elaborate because he can already feel his chest contract and he has to be able to hold it together for a little longer. Ciri huffs and as she walks away, Jakier's hands still on his pack. He doesn't want to leave her and he feels bad about it, but it will be better for all of them in the long run.

Jaskier finishes packing and getting Buttercup saddled and he's just about ready to leave when Geralt approaches him. Jaskier hasn't spoken to him about leaving, but since he and Yen rarely talk to him, he didn't think he had to. But Geralt rests a hand on his forearm and when Jaskier turns to look at him, he seems conflicted.

"Ciri wants you to come with us," is all he says and Jaskier deflates a little. He was so close to making a clean break, but Ciri has lost so much and if she wants him there, who is he to deny her a little familiarity? He doesn't say anything to Geralt, but he unslings his lute from his back and leans it up against the tree and it seems to be enough.

But they travel to Kaer Morhen and once Jaskier is over the stunning scenery, it's just more of the same only warmer. The guest room in the keep is spacious and the fireplace is more than enough to keep him warm, but he stands at the top of the stairs and as he looks around, his shoulders slump. He and Geralt have always shared a room, even when an abundance of coin would have made it easy to rent two rooms. Jaskier didn't really expect to be sharing with Geralt after everything but knowing it wasn't even a thought hurts.

He reminds himself that he's doing this because Ciri wanted it and urges his feet to move, crossing to the bed in the centre of the room. At least when he needs a place to escape to, he can come here and not want for warmth or inspiration. His balcony has a beautiful view of the valley and so long as he's willing to fill it himself, there's a large tub to one side of the room. He's stayed in much worse places all in all, and he's grown accustomed to spending a lot of time alone. Maybe it won't be so bad.

But once everyone has arrived, he realizes he was wrong. The Witchers are friendly enough, even the two from other schools who Jaskier has never heard of before. Ciri tells him one of them is Lambert's boyfriend and it was a big scandal last year when he showed up. Jaskier's heart just sinks, realizing even Ciri is included in all of this and he knows nothing of them. He's not even sure which one Lambert is because Geralt has never been a very descriptive person. It’s just another reminder of what he’s lost and he forces a smile to keep from showing his feelings.

Watching them all finally gathered together in the main hall, Jaskier realizes he's made a mistake in coming. He felt like an outsider with their little group travelling the wilderness, but it's nothing to the way he feels now. Like an intruder, an interloper who's snuck his way in when no one wanted him. Even the reminder that Ciri asked for him doesn't help now because Geralt has his old family and his new family and what could a bunch of Witchers and a sorceress possibly want with a bard?

He has enough rations left in his pack that he skips supper the first night. He can't bear to listen to Geralt talking to everyone when Jaskier can barely get a few words out of him these days. Some things just aren't destined to be. Sometimes it's better to let something die than it is to suffer meaninglessly.

Jaskier slips away up to his room and goes to sit on the balcony. The weather is still fairly decent, warm enough that the cold doesn't get to him until after dark. It's only when he returns inside that he realizes he only has one lit candle and it's too dark to look around now. So he strips out of his clothes and climbs into the cold bed, blowing out his single candle before curling in on himself and shutting his eyes.

In the morning, Geralt and Eskel set out to clear some mine or other of kikimores. Jaskier doesn't come down from his room until later that evening and the only joy he gets from it is catching the tail end of Eskel's story about the mine. But that doesn't last long, so he makes his way down the halls because if he's going to be staying here a while, he might as well get to know the place.

But barely half an hour into his exploration and just as his nerves are starting to settle, Jaskier comes upon a room with an open door. He doesn't look in, but he hears Geralt's voice, grumbling about something or other and then Yen mumbling, just get in the damn bath so I can wash this shit out of your hair and something inside him that was just barely holding on shatters.

That one hurts more than anything. It had taken him years for Geralt to be comfortable enough to let him stick around while he was in the bath. Longer, even, to let Jaskier take care of him the way Yen apparently does now. Something sticks in his throat and as soon as he rounds the corner, he slumps against the wall, choking back a sob.

All he ever wanted was to love him, in whatever way Geralt would let him, but this is almost worse than being told to leave. This time, Geralt won't even do him the service of telling him he wants him gone, this time he'll just replace him slowly but surely, finding someone new to do all the things Jaskier once did for him. This time, Jaskier doesn't need to be told to leave; he can tell when he's not wanted.

He waits three days, ensuring he has enough supplies, before seeking out Yen. She won't care enough to tell anyone right away, but she cares for Ciri, so if Ciri asks after him, she'll know. Plus, if he tells Geralt he’s leaving, he'd have to see the utter lack of emotion on his face, and he couldn't bear that.

Jaskier makes his way down through the courtyard without interruption, stopping at the stables to bid farewell to his horse. He hasn't had her long, but she's been good to him and he hopes she'll be just as good for Ciri.

For hours, Jaskier walks, recalling the path from memory, then just as it gets dark, it starts to snow. And once it starts, it doesn't stop and he's forced to take shelter in the first place he can find. It's cold and hard to trudge through the deepening snow and he didn't consider how hard it would be to find food up in the mountains. But none of that matters because the only place he can find to sleep is a cave, the entrance just barely visible to him in the dark, and when its resident comes home, he's liable to be eaten before he has to set out again.

He tries to build a fire, but the only wood he can find are the small trees just outside the mouth of the cave and they're soaked from the snow. Bitterly, he thinks that it's never this difficult for Geralt and at once, something clicks into place.

This isn't his life. The reason he doesn't fit is because he doesn’t belong. He tried to make it work and maybe for a little while he did, but he belongs in the city, not out in the wilderness. The reason he doesn't fit is because he's trying to be something that he's not. He's a bard, not an adventurer.

With a sigh, he sinks to his knees and wonders if he'll make it through the night. Maybe he should have waited at the keep until spring. He's never been out on his own like this - not so far north in unfamiliar territory -, but even now the thought of staying up there with Geralt and Yen makes his stomach turn. So he pulls his knees up against his chest and wraps his blanket around him. He tries to sleep, but the wind howls and snow blows in through the mouth of the cave and he just ends up damp and cold and miserable.

Jaskier hadn't realized he was asleep until a sound near the mouth of the cave wakes him. Assuming it's whatever lives here, he's thankful that at least the cold will no longer be a problem for him. He doesn't want to die, but being eaten by a monster is better than slowly freezing to death. But when he opens his eyes, there's a person at the mouth of the cave, not a monster. The first thing he thinks is who the hell is out in this storm? but it doesn't take long before he has an answer.

"Jaskier?" Fuck. "Jaskier, are you in there?" He wonders if he's quiet if the monster might come back and eat him after all.

"Yeah," he mumbles and it's all he can manage, but he knows Geralt will hear. And he does. And he pushes through the snowdrift, breathing heavily as he drops to his knees before Jaskier and hauls him into his arms.

"What were fucking thinking?" he growls and Jaskier winces at the anger in his voice, but then he's being pulled forward against Geralt's chest. "Idiot. You're frozen."

"Snow," Jaskier mumbles, not quite sure what to do with his arms. He doesn't know what's happening, but it ages before Geralt moves again, though he never stops telling Jaskier he's an idiot. That much, at least, feels familiar.

When he does finally pull away, Jaskier can barely see him in the dark but he knows Geralt can see him. Which means he can see his puffy eyes and he probably knows how scared and confused he is right now. And he hates it. He wants to push him away, but Geralt is warm and Jaskier is freezing and he finds himself swaying back toward his body. And after a quick once-over, Geralt lets him.

Once he's apparently satisfied that Jaskier isn't in immediate danger, he settles against the wall of the cave and pulls him into his lap.

"Why didn't you light a fire?" he asks and most of the anger has left his voice, replaced with soft concern.

"Couldn't get it lit," Jaskier shrugs, "wet wood."

For a while, Geralt is quiet again, tugging Jaskier's blanket up around him and just holding him. It doesn't occur to him until much later that Geralt is trying to get his body temperature up.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Hmm?" Jaskier had nearly drifted off, wrapped in the warmth of Geralt's body, but the question startles him awake again.

"Why did you leave without telling anyone?"

"I told Yen," he offers, but he knows it's weak.

"You told-" Geralt scoffs, exasperated and Jaskier can't figure out what the big deal is. No one wanted him there, anyway.

"Why are you here?" he counters, "why didn't you just stay in the keep?"

Geralt stills and Jaskier turns to look at him, knowing he won't be able to see much in the dark, but it feels better having this conversation face-to-face.

"Why the fuck do you think, Jaskier?" And Jaskier just looks at him because he doesn't know. He can't fathom what brought Geralt out here in the storm. Because even if he did come to retrieve him out of some kind of sense of responsibility, surely he wouldn't risk leaving Ciri without a caretaker. When he doesn't answer, Geralt gets very quiet.

"Where were you going?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oxenfurt."

"You'd die before you got there," Geralt exclaims, the anger returning to his voice with a vengeance.

"I brought provisions. Where's Ciri?"

"With Eskel and Lambert. Why would you just leave without telling anyone?" Geralt asks and Jaskier realizes in this context, that anyone means me.

Jaskier pulls away from him, irritation winning out over the desire to be warm. "Because I didn't really think anyone would care," he says "I don't belong anymore, not since-" he sighs and readjusts so he's sitting across from Geralt. "What happened on the mountain can't be fixed, Geralt. And I told Yen, I figured she'd pass the message along."

Geralt lets out an exasperated laugh and Jaskier wants to slap him for it. He never should have come up here in the first place.

"Jaskier, if anything from that day is irreparable, it's my relationship with Yen. We only travel together because of Ciri, because it's beneficial for both of us."

"So why do you keep me around then? What good am I?" He doesn't mean for it to come out, but it does and he holds his ground, hoping he looks more determined than he feels.

"You're my friend, Jaskier. And Ciri loves you. You're the only one who feeds Roach those little sugar cubes she likes so much. You know, she gets snippy with me now if I don't have them for her. I even think Yen is beginning to enjoy your company." Geralt's voice softens and he reaches out, tentatively brushing Jaskier's hair away from his face.

"What about you?" Jaskier asks, trying to keep the unsteadiness from his voice.

"Do you really think if I didn't want you around I would have let you follow me out of Posada? Roach could easily have outrun you if I wanted to." His hand slips to cup his cheek and Jaskier barely resists shutting his eyes. It feels too close to intimacy, but he knows Geralt better than to think this is anything real. But he's forgotten what it feels like to be touched so softly and when Geralt bundles him back into his arms, Jaskier sinks into it despite his reservations.

"Jaskier," he breathes right next to his ear. "That day on the mountain, I was angry because Yen was right about me and I didn't want to face it. I had to take responsibility and then you-" he exhales deeply, tucking his head into the crook of Jaskier's neck. "I was struggling with my… feelings. I felt like I'd somehow forced you to stay with me the way I did with Yen. I couldn't bear to hear the same things from you so I-"

"Pushed me away?" Jaskier asks.

"Hmm,” Geralt says and his voice is tense with understanding. “You left tonight because of me."

"I didn't think you wanted me around anymore," he mumbles and it's not until Geralt shifts that Jaskier realizes he's got both hands fisted in his cloak. "I thought I'd save myself having to hear it from you. I didn't want anyone's pity."

Geralt hauls him up into his lap so the only way for him to sit comfortably is to wrap his legs around Geralt's waist. For a moment, that ferocity is back, but then Geralt tugs the blanket tighter around him, holds him closer.

"Why wouldn't I want you around?"

"You have Yen and Ciri and the other Witchers, what could you possibly want me for? Everything I used to do for you-" he chokes on a sob and curses himself for it before burying his face in Geralt's shoulder. "Everything I did for you, someone else does now."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just... everything. All the things I used to do for you. When you don't sleep because of your nightmares, Ciri goes to you. When I tried to get wood for the fire it was already done when I got back-" he sighs and shifts away from Geralt a little. "The other night in the bath, Yen-"

"Yen?"

"I heard you," Jaskier says, "you don't have to hide it now. I know. It doesn't matter that much I just... I don't know what I can do for you when everyone else is doing what I used to do."

"Jaskier you don't need to do anything. You're my friend. And Yen- that's not what you thought it was. "

Jaskier isn't quite sure what to do with any of that, but when Geralt tugs him close again, he lets himself be held and buries his face in his shoulder. Geralt allows it, letting one hand slip up between his shoulder blades and bringing him closer. They stay like that for some time and Jaskier's heart aches for more than he should want. This is so much more than he ever expected but now with Geralt wrapped around him, he wants more.

When Geralt finally pulls himself away, he regards Jaskier for a moment before running a hand down his arm.

"Are you warm enough," he asks and Jaskier nods because even if he wasn't, he can't take much more of this before he breaks and says or does something he'll regret. "We should get you back to the keep and into a warm bath."

The idea of a bath is tempting, but more so is the idea of staying here in Geralt's arms for as long as he's allowed. Stil, Jaskier lets himself be pulled to his feet and led toward the mouth of the cave.

Their return to the keep is quiet and Jaskier isn't sure anyone else even realized he was gone until Geralt pauses and doubles back on himself, heading toward his own room rather than the guest room.

"Eskel's got a bath ready," he says by way of explanation.

"How did he-" Jaskier starts but he realizes the answer before he can finish. They were probably keeping watch, waiting for Geralt to return.

"I told him to," Geralt says, approaching the door and stepping back so Jaskier can enter the room first. It's darker than the room he's staying in, but there's a balcony off the far wall that lets in a little light, and candles placed on every surface. The bath is at the right side of the room and Geralt guides him toward it.

"It shouldn't be too hot," he says, "so it doesn't shock your body, but there's more water boiling by the fire if you need to warm it up."

"Thank you," Jaskier whispers. Guilt curdles in his gut and he pulls the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. He's still cold and eager to get into the tub, but more than anything he's dreading having to get undressed in front of Geralt. Luckily, he's spared that embarrassment.

Geralt claps a hand on his shoulder, lingering just a moment too long. "I'll find you something to eat," he says, "try to warm up."

Jaskier nods dumbly, waiting until Geralt has left the room to let the blanket slip from his shoulders. To say he doesn't understand would be an understatement. He's never seen Geralt like this, not even with Ciri, and a part of him wonders if he didn't freeze to death in that cave and this is some sort of weird afterlife. But the water is hot against his skin, a little too hot to begin with and his skin tingles as he slips into the bath and shuts his eyes. And Geralt's hands felt real, right down to the callouses. But it all seems a bit off.

Jaskier has been hypothermic before, more than once, and it wasn't like this. He's left Geralt in much worse ways than this and it's never ended with him in a bath drawn especially for him. But Jaskier isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he warms himself up without even having to use the extra water and upon getting out of the tub, realizes all his clothes are cold and soaked.

Frowning, he looks around the room and spots Geralt's pack dumped on a chair in the corner. Surely, Geralt wouldn't mind if he just borrowed some of his clothes. Just for a little while. Jaskier is the one who washes them anyway - or he used to be. His heart sinks again, but he pushes away the feeling, crossing to pull clean clothes out of the pack.

They fit him surprisingly well and they smell like Geralt which is both comforting and nerve-wracking all at once. The blanket is wet now too, so he hangs that with his clothes where they won't drip on anything important and heads down to the kitchen.

Geralt isn't there, but he can hear him shuffling around on the opposite side of the fire, so Jaskier settles himself at one of the tables to wait patiently. He doesn't hear Eskel approach, so he must already have been there, talking to Geralt, but their conversation suddenly gets louder before something crashes to the floor.

Jaskier keeps quiet, trying not to listen in because he knows it's not his place, but they're arguing in earnest now and Geralt sounds passive and ashamed in a way that's very unlike him. Then there's a grunt from Geralt and Eskel says, "you didn't fucking tell him," like he’s only just realizing this. Jaskier focuses very hard on a knot in the tabletop.

It's an accusation, not a question and it's followed by heavy footsteps coming toward him. He tenses up, not prepared to deal with an angry Geralt, but it's Eskel who comes through the door. He pauses when he sees Jaskier, gives him a sympathetic sort of look and mumbles something that sounds like goodnight before continuing onward up the stairs.

Jaskier sits and waits and eventually, Geralt appears through the doorway with two bowls of stew and rolls. He sits next to him, pushing one of the bowls toward him and Jaskier tries not to show just how hungry he is. They sit in companionable silence, which is more than he can say for the last few weeks and Jaskier settles. When they're finished, Geralt is the one to speak first, angling his body so he's facing Jaskier but not looking directly at him.

"It's getting late," is all he says but Jaskier understands. He moves to take their bowls away but Geralt rests a hand on his wrist and takes the bowls from him. "I'll meet you upstairs."

Jaskier nods slowly, not quite understanding. He makes for his own room, climbing up as far as the staircase goes and pushing the door open. He's quite frankly exhausted and doesn't even think to get changed before climbing up onto the bed. The snow on the balcony lights the room well enough, but he fumbles with a candle for a few minutes anyway before giving up on that idea. He's alone in the dim room for a few minutes before Geralt knocks on the door and Jaskier mumbles for him to come in.

Geralt comes to sit on the side of the bed and Jaskier's heart feels like it's pounding out of his chest. He doesn't know what to say or even how to process what they've already said, but in his need to fill the silence, he blurts out, "why do you and Yen share a tent?" And it's the last thing he means to say and he does want to know, but this is not at all the time.

Only Geralt smiles. It's a small thing, barely a quirk of his lips, but it's there and for the first time in forever, Jaskier feels comfortable in his presence.

"Because Ciri asked to share with you. You're a good memory for her, one of the few she has of home."

"Oh."

"Before you came back, she shared with Yen." Geralt looks down at him and the almost-smile turns to confusion. "You're wearing my clothes."

"Mine were wet, I can change if-"

"No," Geralt interrupts and Jaskier can feel his eyes on him, taking him in, "it's fine."

"Oh. Right. I'll wash them in the morning then."

"You don't have to, they look good on you. You should sleep now, though. Goodnight, Jaskier."

Jaskier's heart thuds. He doesn't want to let Geralt go before he gets a chance to finish their conversation from earlier. "Geralt?" he asks and the Witcher turns back to him in the dark. "If it's not too much to ask, could you stay? Just for a little bit?"

Geralt doesn't say anything, but he comes back, pulling off his boots before climbing up onto the bed next to him. He lays still and Jaskier doesn't reach out and touch, as much as he wants to.

Geralt is the first to move, shifting onto his side and reaching into the space between them.

"Can I-?" he asks and Jaskier nods without hesitation, unsure of what's being requested. Seemingly pleased with his consent, Geralt's hand slips over his side and around his back, nudging him a little closer as he gets comfortable. Jaskier doesn't know what to do with himself.

It's too much and not enough all at once and he wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to break this moment of trust. So he pushes through, presses into the touch and tips his head down to keep Geralt from seeing the mess of emotions that are sure to be plain on his face. Not that he wouldn't be able to feel them anyway, but still.

"I'm sorry things have been different since you came back," he breathes. "Sorry if I made you feel..."

"Unwanted?" Jaskier offers and Geralt winces at the word, his arm pulling just a little tighter around Jaskier's back.

"Mmm."

"Are we... okay?" Jaskier asks tentatively, finally risking a glance up at Geralt's face.

"As long as you don't do that again," Geraly mumbles, "you... scared me tonight. I've been thinking so much about how to protect Ciri that I didn't consider losing you."

"You won't," Jaskier promises. "I won't." He moves closer, testing Geralt's limits, but his guard seems to be down tonight; Jaskier presses right up against him before Geralt so much as moves. And then, it's only to hold him closer.

He must have been genuinely worried, Jaskier thinks, to allow this right now. Which is the only reason he says the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

"I didn't mean to worry you," he says softly, slipping one hand up to cautiously rest against Geralt's chest. "I didn't think-" he shakes his head, pushing away the thoughts, "well, I didn't think you would come out after me. I'm sorry."

"Maybe..." Geralt starts then turns his head away like the words are difficult for him. Jaskier braces himself for something he doesn't want to hear, trying hard not to pull away defensively, but Geralt surprises him. "Maybe we both need to be better at saying what we mean."

Instead of drawing away, Jaskier slips his hand up to rest against the side of Geralt's neck. This is absolutely uncharted territory for them and he's not quite sure what to do here. What do you do when the least communicative person you know says you should talk about things more. But he's not wrong and Jaskier's touch seems to relax him a little, so armed with that information, Jaskier presses forward.

"You're right," he says. "So if we're going to... say what we mean, I should tell you that all of this with Ciri and Yen and everyone up here - it scares me, Geralt." Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but Jaskier just shakes his head. "Please just let me finish. Yen is a sorceress. Even if your relationship with her is over, she will always be a part of your life. Ciri has powers I can't even begin to comprehend. Your brothers and the others- they're Witchers, Geralt. All of them will be with you for years to come and all of them have been with you - barring, Ciri - for years. How can I live up to that? How can I possibly find a place in your life when soon I'll be gone and they'll just-" he chokes on the last word and can't bring himself to continue.

Words are his livelihood and yet when he needs them the most, they seem to fail him entirely. Luckily for him, Geralt is accustomed to non-verbal communication and understands. But in the faint light of the room, he looks like he wants to retreat, to pull away and forget everything he said before. He doesn't and Jaskier realizes this is just as difficult for Geralt as it is for him.

"Jaskier," he shuts his eyes and Jaskier holds his breath. For one awful moment, everything is silent, then Geralt speaks again, quiet and soft. "Everyone else in my life has been brought to me by forces outside of my control. I never chose to become a Witcher, to be brought here as a child as raised with dozens of other boys who would never make it to adulthood. I never intended to bind myself to Yen - Djinn are tricky and bend wishes to their own amusement. And Ciri- how was I to know Pavetta was already with child when I claimed the law of surprise?"

Jaskier wants to remind him of the multiple other occasions in which the law of surprise has gifted someone a child, but he doubts this is the place to bring up Geralt's mistakes.

"But you," Geralt continues, speaking slower like each word is pulled unwillingly from his lips. "You came to me on a whim. I could have left you in Posada, ridden away and left you in the tavern." He sighs, tips his head up so his forehead presses against Jaskier's. "But I chose not to. I chose to let you come with me. And I regretted it, in the beginning."

"I certainly hope you said nicer things to Yen when you found each other again."

Geralt huffs a laugh, just the fainted sound in the dark, but his breath is warm against Jaskier's cheek. "Let me finish."

"Do you promise you'll say nicer things about me?"

"Hmm, maybe."

"Fine then, finish your story."

"I regretted it, in the beginning, but it was still my own choice, mine to regret. Over time I grew... attached. That first time you left me was the first time I really felt lonely since undergoing the trials."

"You leave your brothers every spring," Jaskier says, an attempt to mask the hammering of his heart.

"I do, but so is the life of a Witcher. It's the way it's supposed to be. There's no room for loneliness. There were no rules attached to you and so when you left it seemed too quiet."

"Are you... are you saying you like having me around?" Jaskier asks, the hopeful tone in his voice a backdrop to the thudding in his chest.

"Yes," Geralt replies, "I dread the winters when I come up here alone."

"Then why do you? And why did you say Ciri wanted me to come?"

Geralt makes a noise that sounds something like embarrassment and Jaskier's sure if he could see properly, he would be blushing.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "I couldn't ask because if you said no I- but I knew you'd never say no to her. She told me you were leaving and I knew if I let you go I wouldn't see you again."

"You idiot, you could have just asked me. I follow you into swamps and monster dens and worse- why would I say no to spending the winter here?" He shifts to run his fingers along Geralt's jaw and sighs. "You're my-"

"Friend?" Geralt offers and the sound of that word on his lips makes something warm swell in Jaskier's chest, but he remembers his promise to speak plainly.

"More than that" he admits. He ducks his chin, unable to look at Geralt while he speaks, this time. "I tried so hard to just be a good friend to you, but it's always been more than that. I don't expect anything from you, of course, but you said we should-" He's cut off by gentle fingers tracing the line of his jaw and he shuts his eyes, waiting for the inevitable downfall. But it doesn't come.

"Jaskier," he breathes, "if you're worried about your place in my life, this is it." Geralt tips his head up and their lips brush against each other just for a second, but Jaskier is certain his heart stops beating altogether.

"Geralt?" he whispers but it comes out as an uncertain whimper. Geralt hums in response, shifting to cradle Jaskier's head in one hand, and he presses in again.

This time Jaskier knows it's intentional. The lips against his own are warm and soft, whispering silent promises and asking for the same in return. Jaskier responds tentatively, but as soon as he does, Geralt is gathering him up against him and his uncertainty vanishes.

He's seen Geralt kiss before, but this is nothing like that. Geralt kisses him with a passion that speaks of years of repression and guilt, begging for forgiveness for something Jaskier hadn't realized he was even doing. And Jaskier forgives, tangling his fingers in Geralt's hair and submitting readily when Geralt rolls him onto his back.

Geralt gets a knee between his thighs and Jaskier's breath catches as Geralt's hand slips under the hem of his borrowed shirt. He'd be more than happy to lay here and let Geralt kiss him senseless, but when Geralt's teeth graze against his lip, Jaskier groans, effectively shattering the moment.

Geralt draws back, looking down on him and Jaskier slips his hands around the back of his neck. "Do you mean that?" Jaskier asks, “about me belonging with you?” Geralt nods.

"Of course, if you want to leave, I'll take you back to Oxenfurt, but I'd prefer if you stayed here."

"Right here?" Jaskier asks, sprawling under him against the mattress.

"Right here," Geralt confirms with a soft smile. "With me."

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #rex writes

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monsterfloofs · 3 years

Text

The Ghost in the Parlor (Sfw and anonymous protagonist!)

It was one in the morning when you rose from bed, sliding on a pair of slippers and feeling your way through the dark to exit your room. The sound was faint, barely audible, but you knew. . .

He was playing tonight.

As you weave your way towards the stairs, you could hear the chords beneath you, the stirring voice of a piano pulling you through dark corridors. As you stop and peer over the banister. You can see from up above, candles alight with a ghastly blue fire. Their light casting eerie wisps of shadows to dance upon the floor. In the middle of this spectral scene was a luminous form sitting at the old grand piano. His spindly fingers like spiders upon the keys, procuring the tune that wafted up the stairs. The sound is sweet and melancholic, mourning things that have been lost, and the ever present march of time. Always moving, never relenting.

You knew all this because you had asked him, it was his favorite tune to play. He played it often and there were times where you could almost feel his deep rooted bittersweet sadness. Tears would spring to your eyes and you would have to mop your face with your sleeve. Tonight the song felt especially lonely and with careful footing you crept down the stairs, your shadow timidly trailing after.

"Have I disturbed you?" His melodic voice intones as you sit down beside him. "No, I came to hear you play, if you would have me as company mister Sterling." "Sleep is for the living" he sighs wistfully, "You should be asleep, dreaming sweet dreams of tomorrow."

He talks to you but his hands, ah his quick and nimble hands keep playing. You watch them sweeping across the keys, mesmerized until he stops. You blink and look up at him. His face is turned towards yours, an eyebrow quirked inquisitively. "A little distracted, were we?" You smile sheepishly, "Ah, yes, I'm sorry, but your hands do work magic. What had you been saying?"

He gives an embarrassed huff, "It's late is it not?" They pale eyes staring at you unblinkingly from beneath round vintage glasses. "Well yes," you reluctantly agree, "But I have missed your nightly performances. And I was hoping you could give me another lesson tonight." You say softly as he flexes his long spindly fingers. "Ooh. . . perhaps. You have always been kind to me. Letting me keep you up at odd hours of night with my prattling."

"You know I would stay even if you didn't give me a lesson. Your music is beautiful." He turns his head away from you, but you can see a hazy pink color introduce itself onto his countenance. When he turns back the color has all but bled out, except for some swirling traces. "I have had nothing but time to perfect it. Though as despairing as it may be, to watch seasons pass without being able to participate in the world, I still have my music. I wonder, is it what holds me here? Is my comfort my cage? Alas-- Dear, aren't you going to put your hands to the piano? You did ask for a lesson you know."

You look up at him before doing as he asks. Aligning your fingers to the keys, "I thought you were still deciding. . ." "Oh," they respond absentmindedly, "Don't mind me, I'm particularly lost in my thoughts tonight, death, life, it's all just one big mess. . ." Sterling rambles on talking about music as you sit together playing chords and sections of songs. As you are still learning the basics he keeps things simple, most of the time you are echoing his voice on the piano or remembering notes and chords. But he has seems to have become happier with having someone he can talk to, rather than to stew lost in his own thoughts.

"You are doing quite well," A pleased smile tugging on his lips, his crinkled eyes twinkling. "Have you been practicing?" "A little. . . Not as much as I would like though." You slid your hands onto your lap and smile. "Thank you for the lesson, I appreciate you taking the time to sit with me and do that. I hope I'm not inconveniencing you."

"Of course not," he sniffs, "I. . . am very fond of your company." There was something with the way he said it, that stirred your heart. You can feel your own face grow a little warm, "I'm glad. . . haha." He glances at you, his hands poised to begin playing again. You swallow hard and press on, "Though I h-have to admit, I am more than a little fond of you."

--BADOOM His hands slip hitting the keys too hard and causes a loud blunder of noise. Practically falling off his chair, Sterling’s hands shielding his face in embarrassment. "I-I. . .WHAT?" He stammers, your eyes widen that he reacted so dramatically. "I just meant that, I c-care about you a lot--" The candles snuff out around and you are suddenly plunged in darkness. The ghost has left the building.

Your head flops into the piano, a few keys playing as your face presses into them. You give a groan of defeat Dammit! Way to go, you probably just killed him. . . AGAIN. Despite his usual stuffy demeanor he can get easily flustered. He tries to hide it under a punctual and proper air, but was a much shier person than he let on. You liked that about him though, there were little things that he did that just enchanted you. He was a deep thinker, and he always took the time to explain things and be patient with you. So of course, you had to go and fall in love with a ghost. You had been trying to gather the courage to tell him your feelings for about a week now. Slowly working your way towards the right words you say. But like music, timing was just as important as the notes. To be honest you had gotten so nervous you are sure you had fumbled in both regards. You sigh heavily, best head to bed, perhaps you can try and talk to him tomorrow.

You slink away in defeat, retiring to your chamber until sunlight streams through your window. Leaving a dappled trail of light and warmth inside your room. You grumpily turn over in bed, refusing to move until you have properly sulked for just a little while longer. Trying to wrack your brain how you were going to approach the ghostly pianist now. With Sterling being so shy, you weren’t sure if his reaction was bad or good. Only time will tell, but in the meantime you're up and making breakfast. Then busying yourself with doing chores around the house and trying not to let your mind settle too much into last night. You go about whiling away the hours until sunset. That's when Sterling becomes active inside the house. You don’t exactly know where he goes during the daytime. You have attempted in the past to nonchalantly snoop around in the basement but to no avail.

Before you know it, the sun is setting in the sky. Golden light filtering across the floor, flooding the rooms with dying light. You peer into the parlor, and step inside. Running your hands over the black and white keys. You can feel a faint prick on the back of your neck, you turn around and You startle, coming face to face with the musically inclined ghoul. You put a hand on your heart. "Oh my goodness!-- Sterling!" you sigh weakly, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. “Hello,” He murmurs faintly, you look up at him, feeling suddenly shy. All this time you had been waiting to talk to him, and now only an awkward silence fills the room. Both of you starting to speak at the same time.

“I’m sorry, what were you going to say?”

“N-no that’s alright, please, continue”

“Aaah-- why don’t you go first, I was the person who upset you last night”

A hand flutters anxiously to the glasses upon his crooked nose. "You didn’t upset me. You, w-well surprised me. I was flattered, but I don’t think you truely want anything to do with this old goat." "H-huh? What do yo--" He cuts you off with a flourish of his hand. "I'm an old man dear, not just old, decrepit. I died in 1839, my bones are buried outside, wouldn't that bother you?" His face flushes an eerie pink and he splutters in embarrassment. "I mean, it should bother you. . . " A light bulb blinks on in your head and you stare at him with new found insight. "Y-you, like me too, don't you. . ." "I beg your pa--" "It was you, wasn’t it?" With a rush of feeling, you practically jump a foot off the ground from excitement. "I was always wondering about those poems left on the door step-" your mouth goes agape. "And those flowers!" His eyes dart back and forth in a panic, his mouth wobbling. "W-what??? Me? I don't know anything about that!" You can tell he's wanting to bolt and you make a grab at one of his translucent hands. Surprisingly your fingers successfully curl around it and his shoulders jerk up. Trying to calm yourself down before trying to talk to him. You were spooking him, a novel thought, but not what you had been intending to do. So you take a different approach, "Why. . . didn't you ever tell me?" The specter is sweating bullets now, he mops his brow with a wispy handkerchief. "I-I” he groans in defeat, “A ghost cannot do romance! A ghost cannot do much of-- of anything! No matter how I felt, I couldn't keep you here, you deserve to be free, to experience life to the fullest. Not to be shackled to me and this house." You flush, truly surprised by his answer. "But, I don't want anyone else, I like you. . ." Tentatively you take his hands and hold them gently in your own. His expression quivers, looking down before he gently pulls away. His fingers wisping through your skin before reconstructing themselves back together. He puts a hand into his breast pocket before he pulls out an envelope with a flowery wax seal. He looks away from you but hands you the letter, his expression flushing as that same red color is introduced into his normal pale blue complexation. You look up at him searchingly before you gently take the letter. The smooth paper has a fragrance like all the rest of the notes you recieved, like roses and vanilla. You carefully peel back the floral seal, opening the envelope.

You watch Sterling lights the candles at the table in the parlor. It has been a week since the two of you had become a couple, and you cannot remember a happier time, then the hours you have spent together. “Didn't you say, a ghost cannot do romance?” You tease him with a smile, your eyes crinkling as you watch him with a loving gaze. He huffs softly, "That I did, and I wish more than anything I could take you to a fine dinner out of this house. . . " He pinches the wick of one last candle, and when he removes his hand, an enchanting blue fire flickers to life. “I think a candlelit dinner at home is just as lovely.” He looks at you for a moment, before he gives a little smile, “If you say so darling.” “I do.” He bends down to give you a chilly peck on the forehead before he sits down at his piano, flexing his fingers before he begins to play. The blue lights of the candles flickering to the sound of his haunting melody. But the tone has changed, no longer lachrymose. You can hear something happy stirring in the song that projects itself out of the house, and into the starlit sky.

#monster x reader #ghost x reader #fluff #sfw #ghost x human

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 3 years

Text

The Olive Branch

Author's note: Here is a modern AU one-shot I wrote for @maggiescarborough 400 follower challenge. My prompt was breaking up. Congratulations hun and thanks for letting me take part! It was something completely different for me to write and I hope everyone enjoys!

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Fem:reader

Word count: 3400

Warnings: Angst, language

Your relationship with Ivar had run its course. You had known it was over the moment you overheard him talking about you in his office to his brother. What had begun as a sweet gesture to surprise your boyfriend for lunch had ended with you sneaking back out the building before he could find out you had been there. You still didn't remember most of that escape, as you had been too busy forcing yourself not to cry or scream from hurt.

It was a Tuesday, and you were fortunate enough to have a day off from work. You decided to be spontaneous, picking up soup from your favorite deli to surprise Ivar with for lunch. His job didn't always allow him the time or luxury to stop to eat, but today you would make sure he was looked after.

You and Ivar had been seeing each other for nearly six months, and you felt that in that stretch of time you had made it past any difficult hurdles that could turn a relationship sour. It wasn't perfect, but little arguments and disagreements had to be weathered in any relationship, and you got to a point where you were both comfortable with each other's faults and tendencies. When you had met one another's families without hassle, you figured that was as good a sign as any that this was something special.

You didn't go to his place of work often, but you knew your way around well enough to find his office. He worked for his family's exporting company, a numbers game that consisted of suits and ties, and corporate gatherings. Ivar had once described them to you as ass-kissing at the highest level, and after attending a few black-tie affairs by his side you understood his point.

You made your way down the brightly lit corridor that was all freshly polished floors and heavy oak doors with gold inlaid nameplates. The designer of the office had spared no expense on the finishes, and you felt underdressed compared to the expensive attire of the workers.

As you rounded the corner to Ivar's office you could see his door was ajar. He was speaking with someone, and as you neared you recognized Ubbe's voice. It didn't sound like work talk, it sounded more like Ubbe was discussing his family. You were about to walk in to interrupt when your name was suddenly brought up.

"So, how are things going with (Y/N)?" Ubbe asked.

There was a long pause before Ivar answered, and that filled you with dread. "Okay, I guess."

"You guess? I thought things were going great."

You understood Ubbe's point. You thought things were working out well between you two.

"I don't know. Recently I've been feeling that it's run its course between us. I don't think there's a future there."

Your heart was in your throat, and you thought you were going to be sick. Ivar could be distant, but you had no idea he was at the end of his rope when it came to your relationship.

"Really? Ubbe sounded as confused as you felt. "What brought this on?"

"It's whenever we do something in a social setting. She's not a bad girlfriend, but she's too shy for any of my work functions, and she isn't spontaneous enough."

"Right, as opposed to Freydis?" You heard the crunch of leather as Ubbe took a seat. "You're still hung up on her."

"I can't help it," Ivar shot back. "She was perfect for me. She fit in with my lifestyle. (Y/N)'s a good person, but she's too simple. I'm...bored when I'm with her."

A good person. Those were the only kind words he had to say about you, after dating for months. You knew about his relationship with Freydis in little detail, and only that they had broken up because she moved away for work. Maybe he should have gone with her. You were feeling bitter and used, and you couldn't listen to any more of the disparagement. You even felt guilty about eavesdropping, but you wondered how much longer he planned on keeping this from you if he was so miserable.

Your feet started in the opposite direction, reaching the elevator with your head down and the lunch you had brought hanging loosely in your grasp. Your breathing had turned labored in your attempt to keep the tears at bay, and you kept pressing the button to shut the double doors before you were forced to endure a long ride down to the lobby in the company of one of Ivar's coworkers.

The moment you were on the ground floor you began fast walking to get outside, and you threw away the lunch in the first trash bin you passed. Your eyes stun when the chilly wind brushed your face, and you knew the tears you had struggled to hold in were beginning to fall. You hoped to God people weren't staring, and you kept at a brisk pace in the direction of anywhere. You and Ivar didn't live together, so you at least had your own space to hide.

As you approached the train station, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from Ivar. You wondered what words Ubbe had plied him with to get him to reach out. Usually, a message from him when you knew he was at work would have been a delight, but now you were already into second-guessing. It was a simple invite to dinner, but you knew you wouldn't be able to sit in a restaurant and pretend everything was alright. You replied with an excuse.

Sorry, I'm not feeling well today. Raincheck

Ivar's reply was quick and to the point with a simple 'okay, feel better'. But you wouldn't feel better. Your relationship was over, he just wasn't privy to the fact yet, and you didn't want to end it with the embarrassment and disappointment still so fresh…

ooOOoo

And that's how it was for the next two weeks. You distanced yourself from Ivar while gaining clarity about the situation. The hurt turned into a dull throb, but you also accepted that it wasn't his fault for feeling the way he did, even if that was cold comfort to you. It was best for you both if you ended it and moved on.

"I think we should break up," You finished saying to Ivar as he had tried to gift you a diamond bracelet. He had dropped in unannounced again, a habit that had started after you blew off the dinner. Your visits consisted of sitting in silence on opposite sides of the sofa, and you could barely bring yourself to kiss him when he would leave.

He must have sensed something was off the past few times you had seen each other, and the bracelet was his way of trying to bridge this new gap. Now he was giving you a blank stare, trying to play catch up on whatever details he had missed that led to this behavior from you.

"Alright," He started slowly. "Can I ask why?"

Because you're bored with me, your mind shouted, but you swallowed the bitterness and forced a smile. "We've been growing apart for a little while now. You must have felt it too."

"I've felt that you've been brushing me off," Ivar said as he fell back into the armchair across from you on the sofa.

"What do you mean?" You tried to act surprised by the accusation, but your voice raised a tick. You had never been a good liar.

"Well, just now when I tried to give you the bracelet, you looked disgusted. I might as well have been giving you a can of surströmming."

"That's not--" You started to say, but he cut you off.

"Not true? No, I think it is. And what about that dinner last week? Were you even sick?"

You felt small under his strong gaze, but you weren't about to let him spin this whole thing back on you when you knew the truth. "No, I wasn't sick. I guess I just didn't want to go to dinner with you because I felt it was pointless."

"Pointless? If you'd decided that, then why did you wait until now to break up with me?"

"I've never broken up with someone before," You admitted, the first truthful thing to come out of the conversation. It was always you getting left behind, and it felt strange to do it to someone else. You still had feelings for Ivar, which didn't make it any easier knowing he didn't feel the same, and possibly never had. "I thought you'd be relieved anyways. You must have felt the same, that we were drifting apart."

"I didn't realize you felt that way," Ivar replied, frowning at his lap. "Ubbe didn't say anything to you, did he?"

You tried not to react, but your blood froze in your veins and your heart trembled. "No, why would he?"

And then you realized Ivar suspected you knew about the private conversation with his brother, only he mistakenly thought Ubbe had blabbed to you about it.

"It makes sense now, why you've been pulling away. He told you, didn't he?"

"About how I'm a good person, but that I'm too shy to fit in with your social circle," You blurted out, your anger rising.

Ivar was stunned by your abrupt attitude change. You never raised your voice for anything, even when you'd argued. "So he did tell you."

"No Ivar, Ubbe didn't tell me anything." You rose from the sofa and turned your back on him to stare out the window. It was a beautiful day. You let out a mournful sigh. Too bad you wouldn't get to enjoy it. "I came to see you that day, to surprise you with lunch. I guess you wouldn't consider that spontaneous enough though."

"(Y/N)," Ivar started and over your shoulder, you could see him pushing himself up from the chair with his cane.

"I don't want to hear it," You interjected with your hand up. "This is why I didn't want you to know I knew about that. I didn't want to hear your excuses."

"That was a private conversation you weren't supposed to hear."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Ivar frowned, and he seemed annoyed with you as if you learning the truth had inconvenienced him. "No, but I should be the one upset with you for trying to break up with me without telling the truth."

"I'm not trying to break up with you, I'm done with you, Ivar," You told him, and your blunt tone caused his face to fall. "Maybe I shouldn't have listened to that conversation, but I'm glad I did. It spares me from being in a relationship with someone miserable and bored when they're with me. Did you expect me just to not say anything and carry on as if nothing had happened?"

"We could still talk this through." His voice sounded timid, and you didn't think he meant it.

"Talk through what? You're still in love with someone else, and I won't be your poor replacement." You strode to your apartment door and held it wide open. "Please leave."

You half expected Ivar to stay put and want to argue this through further. He was nothing if not confrontational, and while you admired his inner strength, you did not want to find yourself on the receiving end of Ivar Lothbrok's ire. But in the end, he didn't say anything. His cane thumped down the hallway to the door, and as he strode by you, you kept your head down holding your breath. You don't know if you were hoping he would do something to change your mind, let you know that it had all been a misunderstanding, but that wasn't the case. Ivar left, and you found yourself closing the door long after he had gone.

Now that it was final, you didn't know how to feel. The past few weeks you had been preoccupied with internalizing your heartbreak. You had held it in for so long, that now your well was empty. Your relationship was over, and if you were going to move forward you would have to cleanse your life of Ivar. Grabbing a box from your closet, you began to pack away anything he had ever given you.

ooOOoo

It was such a cliche, the expression about missing something after it was gone, but it was currently how Ivar was feeling. A month had passed by since your break-up, and time had slowed to a crawl. He hadn't seen or heard from you since he had left your apartment that day. You had returned a box of his things when he had been away at work. Hvitserk had been home to retrieve them, and Ivar had asked how you seemed. His answer; fine.

At the top of the box was the bracelet he had bought you in a last-ditch effort to try and save the relationship. You hadn't even worn it. He didn't know why he had put in the effort to save the relationship since at that time he had convinced himself it was no longer something he was invested in. Perhaps Ubbe had gotten through to him, but by then it was already too late. You had heard everything, and it had led to a devastating end.

Ivar knew why he had second-guessed being with you. He knew from the moment you met that you were the complete opposite of Freydis. You were timid, and your interests lied in things you could do independently as opposed to a social setting. Not like him at all. After growing up different from his disability, Ivar made sure he thrived in large groups as an adult, no longer wanting to be the one isolated in the corner of the room. Being with you had reminded him that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and he never thought you were weak as a result.

But then he had seen Freydis' engagement announcement online, and he was suddenly mourning the loss of his past. Never follow an ex on social media, that was Hvitserk's advice, and he should have listened. He and Freydis had said their goodbyes two years ago, though more reluctantly on his part. She was everything no one thought he would ever have in a partner. The beautiful blonde had chosen the cripple, and his ego had soared to new heights.

Food tasted better, the air was cleaner, everything was different from his supposed view from the top. Ubbe had reminded him that it hadn't been as perfect as the memories he clung to. During that time with Freydis, he had abandoned much of his ties to his family, and he had picked up the bad habit of spending money to the point of debt. When she had left him for new career goals, he had gradually returned to earth with the other mortals and realized he had been an asshole.

He had a momentary lapse back into that spell all because of one picture online, and unfortunately, it had bled on to you. Now all he could think about was how much he had hurt you, and with no real excuse good enough to justify such atrocious behavior.

A knock on his door came, and he threw the bracelet back into the box of his belongings that had made their way from your home and now back to his.

"Hey, you want dinner?" Hvitserk asked, poking his head in.

"Not hungry."

"Still feeling sorry for yourself, huh," Hvitserk said as he leaned upon the doorjamb.

"If I didn't, nobody else would," Ivar grumbled petulantly.

"And how do you think (Y/N)'s feeling?"

"I don't know, you said she was fine."

Hvitserk ran a hand down his face. "I was covering. If anything she looked...disappointed."

Disappointed in him more likely. He was a disappointment, and not because of his legs as he always feared. When the news of his break-up with you had spread through the family, they all were annoyed with him for making that choice. None more so than his mother. She had been vocal over the years of her dislike for Freydis, and while Ivar knew his mother would have a difficult time accepting any woman he brought home, she had come to reluctantly welcome you into the fold. The rest of his brothers didn't hold back on hurtling their own brand of criticism, each as unique and harsh as they were creative.

"What should I do," He asked aloud, and Hvitserk looked startled by the question. He was the last one in the family anyone looked to for advice, but Ivar already regretted not taking the bit about exs and social media to heart.

"Apologize. That's the only thing left, even if it won't be enough to remove the hurt right away. She needs to know you regret what you've said."

For the first time in a month, Ivar felt a smidgen of hope. "Do you think there's a chance we could start over?"

"I don't know about that. If she holds onto those things you've said as the truth, then she might have a hard time trusting you again. Those relationships never work out," Hvitserk said with a shrug.

"Maybe I should go over there and talk to her," Ivar said, already rising from his bed.

"I wouldn't," Hvitserk replied looking guilty. "Thora's over there now, and she's still pissed at you for hurting (Y/N). If you don't want to end up in grievous harm, I'd stay away for now. Sorry."

Ivar sighed as he plopped back down. "No, I get it."

"Try reaching out slowly, and work your way from there," Hvitserk suggested.

"You're surprisingly not as dumb as you look," Ivar taunted, and the first grin broke out on his face. It felt good to use those muscles again.

"I know, I'm brimming with knowledge and ready to impart wisdom," Hvitserk said with a laugh. He stood up from the door and looked ready to return to the sitting room. "You sure you aren't hungry? I haven't ordered yet."

"I think I could eat. Just give me a moment, I need to finish putting this stuff away." He indicated to the box, and Hvitserk nodded in understanding before closing the door behind him.

Ivar pulled out his phone and searched for your name. All of the things he had to say couldn't be composed of one text message, but he could extend an olive branch and hope it didn't come back as ashes.

I know this is probably coming too late, but I need you to know I'm sorry and I miss you. If you want to, I'd like a chance to meet and explain things, that's it -- Ivar

He hit send before he started to ramble or worse chicken out entirely and not send the thing. He didn't know if you would reach out right away, and he didn't want to know. Getting up from his bed, Ivar hobbled on his crutch, leaving his phone behind in his room to join his brother for dinner. Hvitserk must have sensed his change in mood, but he embraced it rather than asking, and they didn't bring you up again. It was the first time in a month he felt like himself, no heartache over Freydis and no self-pity over losing you. After a late-night of buffoonery, and pizza and beer, the brothers returned to their rooms.

Ivar ignored the phone sitting in the middle of the bed, avoiding it as if it was some cursed thing. He went about his nightly routine, all the while he felt the pull to check if you had replied. He hoped you had. Even if it was just to tell him to fuck off, something was better than no answer. After getting his legs settled beneath the covers, he lied down in bed and shut off the lamp on his side table. Before going to sleep it was time to check if you had seen his olive branch. The glow of his phone lit up his face, and his breath hitched. You had replied. His eyes flitted back and forth, tracing your words to make sure they were real.

I miss you too. Let's talk soon.

Ivar fell asleep right after, with renewed vigor in his heart. He would work to earn your trust back. Whether that meant as a couple or just as friends would be up to you, and Ivar would respect what you decided. So long as you were still in his life, everything would be alright.

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