icedwaters

see the world through your playground eyes (pt. I)

icedwaters — Sat, 14 Sep 2013 20:30:47 GMT

see the world through your playground eyes
part I
779|gen (harry/louis)|warnings for dumb
okay so i'm back in school now and every week or s/t we have to write a story using a list of words we are given and so i was writing and this happened. (i have no regrets)

otherwise known as (yet another) peter pan au!!!!!!
title and cut from s/c/a/r/e/c/r/o/w by my chemical romance

you sit with him in your room. he only visits at night, you noticed it the second time he came. you look out of the window and notice the sky is steeped with stars, like it always seems to be when he's around. there's a tinge of pink on his cheeks, as if he had just ran quite a long way. you think it's beautiful.

there's the familiar smell of rain in the air, but aside from the great quantity of stars, the sky is clear. you know that it's just him, the way he smells. you don't know when he became such an eminent part of your life, but you wait at your window for him every night. you know that it's stupid, that his visits are indiscriminate, but you get hopeful every time there's a starry night.

you only realize he's speaking when he starts to wave his hand in front of your face. you had been watching his smile, so radiant it could win a pageant. you don't think there's a smile in all the annals of the world that's as magnificent as his. you look up at him and realize he is waiting for you to speak. "i can't prognosticate," he says. "you have to answer me at some point."

"what?" you stare blankly at him.

"it's like talking to an automaton!" he throws his hands up, exasperated with you.

"what?" you say again, feeling like you're just compounding the problem.

he looks at you, replete with annoyance. "you're not perceiving anything i'm saying right now, are you?" he asks. your cheeks are already red by the time he finishes speaking. you shrug. "i said i want you to come with me. please? you have to come with me!" he implores.

naturally, you have no idea what he's talking about. as you pause, he takes the opportunity to take your hands, kneeling in front of you. "please, please. you've got to come with me. i don't got anyone else i want to take, just you," he says. you don't understand that. he has such a voracious vocabulary, he says words you don't even know, yet his grammar is so terrible.

you realize, though, that he's talking about his home. he wants to take you back to his home. his wonderful, beautiful home, without technology or drudgery. his home, with flowers and fairies abound. "c'mon please? there's a cafeteria, you won't go hungry!" he badgers.

"why's there a cafeteria?" you ask.

"okay, so there's not.. but still," he juts his lower lip out at you, a childish gesture.

you think for a moment. going with him would be like entering an entirely different realm. an entirely new realm. one with no cares, or school, or bullies, or anything. one where you could be yourself. it would be absolutely amazing.

but. there's a downfall. you wouldn't be able to come back, ever. no more family, or friends. your mum would miss you terribly, you think. she would think you didn't love her maybe, think that you ran away. or maybe something worse, maybe she would think you got stolen in the night. you love your mum. you love your sister, even though she gets you in trouble, even though she makes you sit in front of the mirror for hours while she puts hairbands in your unruly curls. you would miss them. you do not want to leave them.

you think that maybe he was like you once, just a kid waiting at his window. you wonder who would visit him, you wonder who he left home for. you wonder if his boy was as wonderful as him. you wonder if he regrets his choice.

finally, you look at him. his face his hopeful, his blue eyes shining, crinkled at the corners from his smile. you shake your head. "no," you say. "i think i want to stay here."

his face falls. "oh," the simple syllable comes out of his mouth easily, but his expression says something different. as if it were the hardest thing he ever had to say. "okay." he looks away from you. you don't know what to say. he leaves, not saying another word to you.

you shut your window. as you prepare for bed, you notice that all the stars from before are gone. only two are left, one of them shining bright. as bright as the moon.

peculiar, you think.

the next night, you lock your window. you go to sleep early. you do not wait for him. he doesn't come. you never expected him to. but for a moment, just before you close your eyes to sleep, you smell rain.

p.s. blame a certain goatbutt for the second person pov smh
p.p.s there's words like 'cafeteria' or 'grammar' that i have to fit into this story so like some parts might seem a bit silly, i apologize.

h/c bingo

icedwaters — Tue, 23 Jul 2013 20:48:23 GMT

let's do this

hallucinations	loss of possessions	forced soulbonding	nausea	burns
attacked by a creature	homesickness	hypoglycemia / low blood sugar	atonement	forced to face fear
bruises	sex pollen	WILD CARD	post-traumatic stress disorder	headaches / migraines
fighting	forced to participate in illegal / hurtful activity	loss of vision	poltergeist	insomnia
forced marriage	prostitution	arena	telepathic trauma	waterboarding

fic:hero (louis/harry/zayn)

icedwaters — Tue, 21 May 2013 04:38:15 GMT

written for a prompt at the angst meme|past louis/harry/zayn (ot5)|3,532|warnings for major character death

harry keeps his hair in his eyes as he says it. he doesn't look at any of them. "i enlisted."

no one really says anything after that. liam looks up from his book, zayn and niall stop roughhousing, and louis stares intently at harry, but no one says anything. a few long moments of silence pass until finally, louis speaks.

"come again?" he raises an eyebrow.

"i enlisted," harry repeats.

louis stares at him for a few more moments before he gets up and leaves, walks into his room and locks the door behind him. he doesn't come out until the next morning, but everyone hears him and harry fighting around three in the morning. the quiet hiss of people yelling at each other in hushed voices. louis' not there when they wake up.

~

louis is asleep. that's the only explanation. everything is moving in slow motion--liam shaking his head, niall sobbing, zayn fighting back tears. and louis is looking around at all of them, trying to understand what exactly is going on. he looks down to the letter in his hands, the words shaking and sipping. he doesn't realize that his hands are shaking until liam reaches over to steady them. he looks down at the words on the page and see harry's name. the men in uniform repeat their words from before, "we're so sorry."

louis doesn't get it. suddenly everything snaps into place, everything's moving too fast. the men are leaving and louis has a letter in his hand. he doesn't get it. why are they sorry? why did they come here? why? louis had walked in halfway through their conversation with zayn and niall. he didn't hear it. zayn told him to go to the next room. louis didn't listen and now he has this letter and apologies that mean nothing and he doesn't get it.

then it hits him. clarity. clarity in the middle of the jumbled thoughts running through his head. two words ring out in his mind. two. the only two that will ever matter anymore. harry's dead.

and that's the end. it's all over. louis' life is a show and this is the final act. his bubble has been popped. he's falling back to earth from so far up and there's no one there to catch him. there's nothing. his entire being is cracking from the inside out and the first thing to shatter is his heart.

louis doesn't say anything. he has nothing to say anymore. he shuts the door and walks back to his room, drops the letter, curls up in bed. he ignores anyone who walks into his room, anyone who says his name, anyone who looks his way.

~

the rain falls in sheets as louis stares out the window. he can hear the drops falling onto the roof and he counts all of them. he imagines them as drops of blood, pouring out of harry's body. he counts all the ones he can until he reaches two hundred, though he's sure two million have fallen by that time.

"how long are you going to sit here and do nothing?" zayn asks. louis isn't sure when he entered the room, but he doesn't jump at the sound of his voice. nothing scares him now that his worst fears have become reality.

"until harry comes back," louis says quietly, staring at the gray, overcast sky that's starting to feel more and more like the inside of his mind, where a storm cloud has resided since harry left.

zayn just sighs and sits next to him. "harry's not coming back."

louis knows that harry isn't coming back. zayn knows that louis knows harry's not coming back. they both know that this is louis' way of saying he will never be okay. he will always sit here and stare out the window and wonder maybe if he had done a better job at taking care of harry he would still be alive. "i miss him too," zayn says quietly.

louis nods. "i know," he sighs. "i'm sure a lot of people miss him."

"i still love you."

"i still love you too."

then zayn presses his chapped lips to louis' cheek and they watch the rain together, count how many drops it takes until harry comes back.

after a while zayn gets up and gets a blanket, wrapping it around louis' shoulders. "you can't just sit like this forever. harry wouldn't want this," he says quietly.

"harry wouldn't want to be dead," louis says just as quiet, not looking away from the steady downpour. he can feel zayn flinch away from the words, but he knows it's true. harry was the liveliest person you could meet.

"harry wanted to fight for his country. he knew this was a possible outcome." zayn's voice is hard and louis doesn't say anything else. he just stares at the drops of water raining down from the gloomy clouds.

he shakes zayn's words away, harry might've known people died at war, but he most definitely didn't think that he would die at war. harry thought he was invincible. hare wouldn't ever have thought death a possibility. harry would've maybe stayed if he thought he would've died. he knew louis couldn't survive without him. louis hated harry for being so selfish, for leaving without even thinking of who he was leaving behind.

"i loved him too, you know," zayn says then. and louis has had enough.

"i hate him. i hate him for leaving. it hurts worse that he chose to leave, even after i begged him to stay. you don't know how many nights i stayed up just praying that he would come home, or call, or send a letter. but there's nothing. i got nothing from him. i got two soldiers at my door telling me they were sorry. so. i'm not saying you don't love him. i know you love him, zayn. i'm not saying you don't. i'm just saying that i hate him. i hate him. and i will never forgive him for leaving me. and i will never forgive him for not coming home. i will never forgive the fucking military for taking him away. i gave them harry, zayn. i gave them harry. and i got nothing in return. i gave them everything, i gave them all i had--" he stops so he doesn't choke on his tears. "i gave them everything, and they gave me their apologies."

zayn stays quiet, tears streaming down his face. after a few moments, he opens his mouth to say something but louis isn't done. so he continues. "and everyone keeps telling me that he died honorably--as if that'll make me feel better. i don't fucking care if he died with honor! i don't want him to be dead, fuck honor. fuck everything. i'm nothing without harry, i would give anything to bring him back. anything."

"louis.. just be happy that you still have us. liam and niall and me and you. me and you, lou. we still have each other."

"i don't want you guys! i don't care that we're all still together! i would trade all of you if it would bring harry back."

"lou, don't-"

"you don't think i would? you don't think i could? because trust me i can. i would do it in a heartbeat if i could. i would give everything to have harry back."

zayn doesn't say anything. louis isn't sure if its because he believes him or he doesn't. louis isn't sure he believes himself. he just wants to hurt him. he wants him to hurt as bad as he is. everyone knew that if they lost harry, nothing would ever be the same. no one knew that if they lost harry, they would louis louis, too.

louis finally gets tired of zayn staring at him, so he leaves. he turns and walks out of the room, out of the house. no one stops him.

it's only when he's sitting on the freshly dug up earth that he realizes his feet lead him all the way to the cemetery. louis debates talking to him. he sits by the unmarked grave, a bottle of vodka in his shaking hands. he hadn't realized he'd brought it. he debates talking to harry. if he does talk, it'll probably make him feel better. but maybe it wouldn't--because no matter what he said, harry couldn't reply. harry would never speak to him again. and maybe that's what hurt the most. he would never hear harry's raspy voice in the morning, asking if he wanted pancakes or waffles. he would never listen to harry's slow dictation of a simple 'i love you.' but maybe that's not what he cared about. he didn't need to hear it to know that harry loved him.

what hurt the most was that harry would never sing to him at one in the morning when he couldn't sleep. harry would never tell a horrible joke just when everyone needed to hear it. harry would never laugh so hard he cried at one of louis' terrible jokes. harry would never do anything again and it was like a giant hole in the middle of louis' chest.

after a while of sitting, louis pulls out the paper that was given to him when the military men came. a letter. from harry. he never got to send it.

louis unfolds the paper slowly, not really sure he wants to see what was written on it. he closes his eyes, his hands shaking as he opens the paper up. he takes a deep breath and steels himself for whatever might be on it. opening his eyes, he looks down at the paper. his eye focus first on the blood spattered across the top left corner then on the mud smeared across the bottom.

dear lou,

it feels weird to be writing to you like this--on an actual piece of paper. they said i could wait another week to call you, but that's too far away. i just wanted to let you know that i'm alright. i know you must be worrying. you always do. well you don't have to worry, okay? i'm just fine. i'll be coming home in two weeks. think you can wait that long? i'm not sure if i can.

the letter stops there, but continues a few lines down. he wrote it at different times. and louis could just picture it- harry sitting there at his camp, focused and tongue poking out as he wrote in his best print.

there's a lot of bodies. i know it's war but there's just so many bodies. so many people dead. so many people who'll never go home to their families. it's sad, isn't it?

louis has to stop because his tears are blurring his vision. and he could just picture it- harry laying there, eyes cold and unfocused. just another nameless person in the piles of bodies another soldier will pass. loud folds up the note and puts it in his pocket for another day.

he curls up in a ball on top of the freshly dug earth and pretends he's at home, curled up in bed. but there's no one to crawl into bed behind him. no one to kiss his hair and rub his sides. harry's gone, zayn's broken.. there's no one. he falls into a restless sleep, stirring when the ground got colder or a bug crawled onto his skin. he wakes up with harry's name on his lips.

~

louis crawls into his bed and sleeps, just closes his eyes and curls up into a ball and sleeps. no harry, no zayn, just a mixed cocktail of loneliness and tragedy. the hours pass slowly, marked only by the clock on his bedside table. eventually niall comes in to sleep with him and louis welcomes the company.

they both sleep curled into one another and wrapped up with niall, emotions flowing freely, is when louis has his first nightmare-less night. he wakes up to birds tittering singing their happiness for the whole world to hear. louis wishes he was a bird.

niall stirs beside him and snuggles closer, mumbling in his sleep. louis holds him close and listens to him breathe, the way he used to with harry. louis' content to just stay there. he doesn't really ever get the feeling to get up and do anything anymore so he just strokes niall's blonde locks and notes all the ways he's completely different from harry. zayn comes in after a while with breakfast on a tray. he leans over to kiss louis' forehead and sets the tray down on his lap. "morning," he says quietly, shaking niall a bit.

"morning," louis mumbles and grabs a piece of toast from the plate. he munches on it slowly, wincing at the crunch between his teeth. he had never liked loud noises.

niall wakes up slowly to the sound of people talking and the smell of food. he rubs his tired eyes and sits up as zayn ruffles his messy hair. "hey ni," he smiles, offering a piece of bacon.

niall takes it gratefully and yawns before taking a huge bite. and it's quiet then. louis too overwhelmed with grief to form words, niall too busy eating, zayn too busy mourning the loss of not one, but two lovers. it's a bit sad, but they're sad together. and that's better than nothing. it's a start. it's the first relatively normal breakfast they have together since that last good day.

zayn starts crawling into bed with him at night, wrapping his arms around louis' middle and whispering words of strength into his hair. louis would be lying if he said it didn't calm him. he settles immediately when zayn's there, nightmares of harry's death fading into memories of him and harry and zayn and warm sticky nights laying on the beach.

sometimes louis finds himself waking up with a smile on his face.

~

zayn spends his nights alone. he doesn't sleep with louis like he used to. it's not the same without harry pressed between them. it's not the same knowing harry will never sleep in that bed again. he stays on the couch. sometimes niall comes out and asks if he wants to sleep in his bed. zayn always says no. and he knows niall doesn't just ask for zayn's sake; he knows niall needs someone too. but the only person zayn's been able to talk to since the funeral is his pack of cigarettes.

and louis isn't helping. they're supposed to lean on each other for support, for help through it all; but zayn insists he doesn't need anyone and louis doesn't leave his room. zayn doesn't get it. the bed doesn't smell like harry anymore. nothing does, except his clothes hanging in the closet. but zayn doubts that louis has gone in there because he hasn't changed his clothes by himself in a month.

zayn goes in there every morning, feeds him, dresses him, makes him brush his teeth. it's a routine and zayn relies on it even more than louis does. if he didn't have someone to get up for, someone to take care of, he wouldn't get up at all. sometimes doesn't want to. sometimes he almost doesn't. but there's always a voice inside his head telling him he has to. he has to get up. he has to take care of louis.

he doesn't even know how niall's coping, hasn't seen liam in a week. he thinks maybe he went home to deal by himself. though he wishes liam were here. he needs liam. needs his strong, warm embrace; his comforting words; his gentle kisses that can make anyone feel better instantly.

zayn doesn't know how liam does it. because now that he's gone zayn has to take care of everyone and it's hard. it's really fucking hard to keep it all together when everyone else around you is falling apart.

~

"we ran out of milk," zayn says to the empty kitchen. louis hears him from the living room. gets up.

'"i'll get it," he mumbles at zayn as he pulls on a hood. zayn looks at him in surprise but louis just looks out of the window at the overcast sky, trying to decide whether or not to take an umbrella.

"it's okay, lou, i can-" zayn starts, but louis raises a hand to silence him. he grabs his wallet and bypasses his umbrella on his way out. he can feel zayn's eyes on him as he walks down the hall to the lift.

when he gets to the ground floor he has to pause for a moment as he walks out into the crowds of people on the sidewalk to remind himself what he's doing outside. to remind himself why he volunteered to get the milk. he almost goes back inside, but zayn's counting on him. so he continues to walk towards the tesco they live by.

he watches the people as he passes, most of them solemn and straight faces, as if they knew louis didn't want to see happy people. louis almost feels bad for them, the happy people. because he was happy once, too. and he knew they would just be sad later. louis didn't get it anymore. what's even the point of being happy now if you're going to be sad later?

someone greeted him as he walked into the sliding door of the store and louis scowled at him, the fluorescent lights creating harsh shadows on his features. the guy looks completely taken by surprise and louis takes some sort of pride in that.

someone asks him if he needs help and he just waves them away, he knows how to work a grocery store. wandering down the aisles finds him no milk though, and when he finally asks a sales clerk he realizes he's passed it at least five times. he sighs and gets the carton, making his way to the self-checkout line to avoid conversation with a cashier.

he stares at the screen for a while, reading the directions over and over again but for some reason the words don't make any sense. someone clears their throat behind him and he scans the milk, the beeping sound harsh on his ears. he pays with cash, leaving his change in the machine, only taking the paper notes. louis was never a change guy.

as louis walks out, milk in hand, the same guy is there greeting people as they walk in. louis smiles at him this time and obviously the guy remembers him because he looks completely confused. as he walks home, louis counts the number of kids he passes. twenty. it's only when he's about to walk into the flat that he realizes he doesn't actually want to go back.

he keeps walking. past his flat and past the end of the street. he keeps going until one street curves into another and he doesn't recognize the buildings around him. and then he sits on a bench in the middle of the sidewalk, watching the people on the other side of the street as they walk to their jobs or their homes, alone or with others--with children.

he wonders how many of them have family or friends or husbands or wives or children in the military. he wonders how many of them wen MIA or how many of them died. he wonders how many came home.

suddenly, almost as if the clouds were his own personal mood ring, it starts raining. fat, thick drops of freezing rain that started as a light drizzle turn into sheets of water dropping from the sky. the sky is so gray you can't tell one could from another. it was almost as if there weren't any clouds.

louis pulls his hood over his head, as protection from the rain. it soaks through the thin material immediately, but at least it's something. he doesn't move from the bench he'd been sitting on for the past hour. he continues to watch the people, running for shelter or pulling out their umbrellas. he counts al the ones with curly hair, all the ones that could've been harry, had harry not gone to war. sixteen in twenty minutes. sixteen people that could be dead and one that could be alive.

louis goes home after that. he gives zayn the milk and when their hands brush while they switch the carton from hand to hand louis asks zayn, "what's the point of a person being happy if they're just going to be sad later?"

zayn looks at him intently for a while and frowns at him. he puts the milk away and considers this for a moment before looking back at louis. "because they're going to be sad later," he says quietly and louis nods. takes this into consideration. he walks back into his room and takes up his spot by the window. and it's not okay.

it's not happy or pleasant or okay. it won't be for a while. but it's better. not okay, but better. and it'll keep getting better.

skype?

icedwaters — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 04:22:36 GMT

so um does anyone wanna skype me
like
video or not idc
someone skype fic to me that would be fun
(i will love u forever <3)

fic:sweater weather(nick/harry)

icedwaters — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 03:20:06 GMT

a fill for this prompt at the angst meme. basically all i have to say is i'm sorry.

1,127|harry/nick|warnings for established character death and lack of grammar

title and cut from sweater weather by the neighborhoods

harry sits outside of the mortuary. he couldn't go inside, couldn't see him like that. pale and quiet, nothing like what he really was. the morticians try to make them look like they did when they were still alive, but it's impossible. how could you recreate someone as lively and wonderful and loud and beautiful as him?

you can't.

harry runs his fingers over the soft fabric in his hand, counting the stitches over and over again. he wishes that he could pull strands of him apart and stitch himself into the sweater, maybe he could've felt what it was like to be pressed against his body like that. he doesn't know how long he's been out there, counting the stitches in nick's sweater. the funeral ended a few hours ago, he thinks. he's still not ready to go inside. but someone from nick's family comes out and says they're going to bury him soon. so he goes inside.

one thing that makes him mad is the fact that they're putting him in the ground. nick would hate it. he hated staying still, was never still, even when he was doing the radio. he would jump around to everyone's mics, sometimes sitting on their laps. he would always call harry and ask to go for a walk. "my legs aren't used to this not moving" would be his reasoning. harry would always go.

he thinks that nick would much more appreciate it if he was cremated, and his ashes taken out on a cool day and thrown into the breeze. that way he could always be moving, dancing along the coastline and soaring high above everyone's heads. he could even go for walks with harry again when the weather got warmer.

harry walks up and sits in the first row of seats, nick's casket was closed already. he thanks whatever god there is for that, didn't want to see those eyes permanently shut, didn't want to see his hands resting on his stomach like some awkward sleeper. he closes his eyes, he promised himself he wouldn't cry. it wasn't like him and nick were anything other than friends. (they weren't, really. they had kissed a few times before, one time after one of their walks. nick had invited harry inside and harry had said yes, it was chilly and he could use a rest before he walked home. nick made coffee and they watched movies. harry turned and well he couldn't really resist, pressing his lips to nick's like he had any right to.)

once he got himself under control he spoke. "hi," he said quietly. he felt stupid, talking to nothing. nick wasn't really there, of course--couldn't possibly listen to him. "i know i'm late, but i didn't want to look at you. not like.. i mean i didn't want to see you. like you know, dead." harry sighed. he couldn't even talk right in the afterlife. (as if he was dead too. but he supposes he is, maybe. because when he got the news of the accident he swears that's when his heart stopped beating. only no one will know except him and maybe nick, since harry died right next to him in that car that night) "anyway. i brought your sweater. you told me i couldn't keep it. but, i mean i really like it. still smells like you…. it's not like you're going to miss it anymore."

harry thinks maybe he should've came in earlier. maybe he should've looked at what they did to nick; he wants to see if they did his hair up in that ridiculous quiff he always had. "i don't really blame you for being dead, but you can't have your sweater back. i've just decided this. i'm going to keep it. i hope you're shaking your fist at me from wherever you are." he smiles softly, looking down at the muted cream color of the sweater. it was warm and ridiculously huge, even on nick, but they had both loved it the second they set eyes on it. obviously nick had ended up with it, but harry had it now. it was meant to be, he thought sadly; wonders if he and nick were meant to be.

maybe they were. after a few more midday walks they would end up professing their profound likeness. (not love because nick didn't do love. he fucked people. whether he fucked them over or just repeatedly depended on what his mood was that week. harry would've taken either.)

but maybe they weren't. because nick wouldn't be dead if he was supposed to be on his oversized couch making out with harry, would he?

harry sighs. why did nick have to be dead? why couldn't he have stuck around a little longer, just so harry could see what they could've been. instead he's sitting in a sad, dank room, wondering about their few kisses and if they could've had more kisses. he's holding onto a sweater that nick should be nagging him about. "when are you going to give it back, popstar?" he's holding onto the last memory he has of nick, laughing and dancing drunkenly in the back of a truck at a party. he's thinks that maybe if he would've just asked nick to stay with him, maybe they would still be curled up at home. maybe they would be drinking hot chocolate or tea or anything other than this cocktail of sadness that harry's drowning in.

he gets up and puts a hand over nick's closed casket, the sweater dragging onto the floor. "i would bury it with you, but then such a wonderful sweater would've gone to waste," he said quietly. "i know you'll understand." harry turns around and makes his way out of the morgue, holding the sweater close to his chest. he wills the tears brimming his eyes not to fall down his cheeks. nick wouldn't want him to cry, but harry's always been the sensitive one. "celebrate my life, don't mourn my death." but how can he celebrate when the party ended so quickly? he showed up so late, he didn't have enough drinks. the only party harry's going to be attending is a pity party, for the sad and lonely sweater that never really had an owner. a pity party for their short-lived relationship, limp and horribly put together, a few stitches of summer walks and sloppy kisses by the fire.

he puts the sweater in the passenger seat of his car and fastens the seatbelt over it, as if giving nick a second chance. he could recreate that night and stop time for a moment, he could bring him back. how do you save someone who's already paid for their mistakes?

you don't.

icedwaters — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 17:14:46 GMT

psa i'm really sad rn because my favorite band broke up so i'll probably post really sad fic (maybe) and this is a warning

i will try to make you cry as hard as i am right now

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

fic:you can't be stronger in the dark

icedwaters — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 03:34:05 GMT

gen/2,430/warnings for rape, attempted suicide, and lack of grammar.

this is for a prompt by anonymous over at the angst meme. 'A crazed female fan drugs Louis with a drug like Viagra and rapes him. Louis keeps it a secret and tries to go on with his life, but starts to suffer majorly from depression and PTSD. Everyone notices it, but no one really knows what to do. Finally Louis breaks down and tells someone on management what happened. The person laughs and tells him on no uncertain terms that women can't rape men. The next day Louis attempts suicide.'

title and cut from the light behind your eyes by my chemical romance

louis remembers that night in bits and pieces, random snippets of laughs and jokes turning into blurry stumbling and slurred pleas. he thinks back to liam telling him it was a bad idea, but he doesn't really remember why. until he does. until he remembers that his drink tasted funny, too tangy, his feet felt too heavy for a while. but then he was lifted. she supported him and helped him out of the club. she smiled at him. her hands were cold.

louis runs to the bathroom so he doesn’t get sick all over the living room.

~

its too dark, no streetlights, and louis is being half dragged somewhere, he doesn't know where. so he asks where they are. he doesn't get an answer. louis decides that he's dreaming because all of the sudden they're in a an apartment and he doesn't even know how they got there. it smells dirty and musky, with a fog of incense hanging over the entire place. he can see cigarette burns on the carpet and feel paint peeling off the walls from where his shaking hands are pressed against it. (a part of louis reminds him that dreams are never this clear.)

skip forward and he’s being pushed onto a dirty mattress in the middle of an empty room. he looks around but sees nothing. he’s enveloped in darkness and it smells so rotten he feels like throwing up. (maybe that’s the drugs in his stomach.)

"what’s going on?" he asks the room.

he doesn’t get an answer.

louis must have fallen asleep because all of the sudden, he’s jerked awake. he tries to rub the sleep away from his eyes, but his hands are tied behind his back. his head feels heavy, and his eyes still droop.

~

harry’s the first one to ask. a mumbled ‘you okay lou?’ and fingers pressed against his hipbone in between photo shoots. louis told him he hadn’t been sleeping well. he wasn’t lying. (he was just choosing among truths.) harry nods and drops a kiss to his shoulder.

the day goes on.

louis calls it quits after the third interview. he sits down on a couch in between breaks and doesn’t get up; sleeps until someone comes to get him and tells them to piss off when they shake his shoulder. he buries his face in between the cushions of the sofa and has nightmares about the pretty girl with the cold hands.

then harry comes back, sits on his back and refuses to move. "lou you know i’m only doing this because i love you."

louis imagines someone on top of him, pushing him down so he can’t move. he hears grunts in his head and feels a palm on the back of his neck. louis whimpers and shifts under them, trying to get away, but they’re too heavy. he’s trapped. (again.)

louis shoves harry off as hard as he can, sending him to the floor. he pretends he doesn’t hear harry’s soft whimper and the others' whispers, pretends he doesn’t feel harry’s eyes on his back.

louis throws up when he gets back to his flat.

~

when niall asks, pulls him aside during twitter questions and whispers into his ear, louis has to smile and laugh like niall just told him the funniest joke ever. (but isn't it funny? how everyone can tell that he's not okay, but they can't really do anything about it?) he pats niall on the back and nods, "im fine, mate, thanks," then goes to do something to harry that he'll get in trouble for later.

but instead of violating harry's personal space mindlessly, pinching his nipple or rubbing his face against harry's shoulder, louis finds himself stopping halfway between harry and niall and wondering why. he feels eyes on him, thousands of eyes, but he can’t move. he stands there and he wonders why and he feels an overwhelming plague of sadness wash over him.

“louis?” and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he remembers to smile and put on a good show.

“sorry, lads, where were we again?” louis says, wrapping his arm around liam’s waist.

he’s fine. he’s shaking and pale, but he’s fine. (he has to be)

~

louis can feel eyes on him. he’s sitting on his bed in the fetal position, rocking himself gently and jumping every time he hears her voice in his head. he’s alone. (but he can still feel her, dragging him up the stairs. he can feel him, forcing his hands still, shoving his pants around his ankles.)

harry’s not home. he went grocery shopping with liam. louis remembers the exact moment that his life ended. he could describe the exact way the walls in his head crumbled to pieces if anyone were to ask. but no one did. all anyone wanted to know was if he was okay and of course he wasn’t but how do you tell someone that you don’t know how you got home a couple of weeks ago? how do you tell someone that there’s a big chunk of the night that you can’t remember? (how do you tell them that you have nightmares every night that are starting to feel a lot more like memories?)

louis gets up and walks to the bathroom—as if staring at himself in the broken mirror would make him remember. maybe if he stared long enough he would stop seeing things that weren’t real in the middle of the night. he doesn’t know how long he stays there, just knows that when harry finds him later his feet hurt and his eyes are tired. “lou?” harry asks, wrapping strong arms around him. “are you okay?”

and there it is again. are you okay? did no one really know the answer to that question? as if louis would tell him no. of course he’s okay, he’s not getting paid to not be okay. he has to be okay. why wouldn’t he be okay? nothing happened for him to not be. (right?)

louis curls up around himself when harry sets him on the bed. he closes his eyes and tries not to sleep. because sleep means remembering. and remembering hurts more than he’d like to admit.

~

louis watches the clock move slowly. the second hand seems to be stuck so louis counts the seconds by himself. thirty more minutes of this dinner means 1800 more seconds. he can do this. he’s fine. he doesn’t pay attention to the boys or to simon or to anyone else. he watches the clock and he counts. (45…46…47…)

“aren’t you going to eat, louis?” niall asks from across the table. (80...81…82…)

“not hungry,” louis replies. (103…104…105)

everyone at the table exchanges looks. louis knows what that means.
(137…138…139…)

they hold a band meeting when they get back to louis and harry’s flat. liam’s the one to start it off, always the brave one.

“honestly lou, we know you don’t want to talk but we’re not sure what to do anymore. you’ve stopped eating,” he says, his hands folded in his lap. he’s trying not to let his emotions bleed through, louis can tell. “you can’t focus..”

he goes on but louis doesn’t pay attention. he doesn’t care. he’s fine. louis looks at harry, who’s looking at his feet. he looks sad.

“louis? are you even listening?” liam asks. louis looks up at him and shrugs.

“I wasn’t hungry,” he mumbles and gets up, going to his room. he ignores their yells of protest and locks the door behind him. he’s not interested in what they have to say anymore. he just wants to be left alone.

~
it’s a tuesday when louis finally admits to himself what happened. he tried to find so many other explanations for it; bruises on your wrists could mean assault. (but bruises on your thighs?) he really thinks about that night, the giant time gap that he only remembers a third of. he remembers cold hands in places they shouldn’t have been, a darkness that he’d begun to associate with being blindfolded, filthy words whispered into his ear. he remembers crying.

~

things spin out of control pretty quickly from that point. weeks pass and louis gets worse. he rarely comes out of his room, they had to cancel a few interviews. no one ever asks him whats wrong. they all know he’s not okay but they keep asking if he is. they don’t know what to do. louis doesn’t really know what to do either. he has permanent bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. he stays awake to avoid the nightmares. he leaves the light on to avoid darkness.

he’s devolved into a child. afraid of the dark and the cold eyes lurking in the shadows, afraid of people, afraid of being touched. he’s devolved into a mess of nerves and depression. he can't eat he can't sleep he can't function. (he can't admit that he was ruined.)

the voices in his head are starting to sound less like voices and more like moans of ecstasy and sighs of pleasure. he covers his ears as if he could block them out. but you can’t block out memories. it’s like louis’ at the theater and the feature film is the epitome of his downfall.

louis screams into his pillow for the better part of his night, harry’s warm hands on his back not enough to stop the nightmares playing on his eyelids.

~

it’s a friday when louis sneaks out of the flat to meet management. they’d tried to contact him plenty of times before, but louis was finally ready to talk. he was sick of everything and if anyone could help it was them. they could get things done.

“so what brings you here today louis?” a woman in a dark suit with cold eyes asks him, but she doesn’t really look like she cares.

“i..” louis looks up at her but quickly looks back down at his lap. making eye contact is a thing that physically hurts him nowadays. “you guys keep asking if i’m okay, and when i’m going to be okay. i’m not. okay, that is. something happened a couple of months ago and i’m just.. i’m really not okay.”

she almost looks concerned, but any emotion is quickly wiped clear from her face. its a man who replies to him, the woman already pulling out her phone. “what happened, louis?” he asks softly. he is supposed to be the good cop part of their duo.

“i mean i don’t really r-remember, but.. see i have these nightmares… i mean,” louis sighs and takes a deep breath. “i was raped.”

both of their eyes widen and for a second louis actually believes they're going to help. until she smiles. she smiles and laughs. she actually laughs. louis felt what little fragments he had left of his spirit disintegrate. “raped?” she asked. “are you sure?”

“what do you mean? of course i’m sure.” louis is broken. he's broken and battered and completely destroyed, but he still had the audacity to come here and admit to them what he had barely admitted to himself. and now he's being laughed at, and questioned, and it hurts.

“erm, louis..” the man looks uncomfortable. “i don’t think-“

“men don’t get raped.” the woman says, plain and simple.

louis’ cheeks burn with anger. he got up and left without another word. he could feel eyes on him as he stumbled home, tears on his face. he heard the clicks and flashes of the paparazzi, he could see the headlines in his mind. ‘louis tomlinson spotted after months of hiding’. he didn’t care. he shoved into his flat and collapsed onto his bed, the familiar smell creeping into his nose. he almost threw up. he's not okay.

men don’t get raped.

as if he chose to stumble and crawl all the way to that woman’s apartment just to have the shit beaten out of him when he tried to leave. as if the bruises all over his body were lovemarks sucked onto his skin by someone he just met at the bar. as if the words that were hissed to him that night are now engraved into his mind by his own volition. who would choose this? who would choose to drown in darkness every time the sun went down? who would choose to flinch every time their best friends tried to comfort them? who would choose any of it?

men don’t get raped.

louis stayed up for hours, staring at the wall and trying not to breathe. what used to smell like home now just reeked of broken heartstrings and despair. the voices in his head started to sound less like voices and more like laughter. (cold, evil laughter that twisted his insides in knots.) he watched the shadows on his wall move and change as the sun rose higher into the sky. louis closed his eyes, tired. he hadn’t slept in what felt like years. he just wanted to sleep. (going to sleep wasn’t scary anymore because waking up is the real nightmare.)

louis got up and walked over to the bathroom, searching in the medicine cabinet for something (anything) that would make him sleep. he found three various pill bottles. the first were white and small, the bottle was half filled. the second were big and red, the bottle only filled a third of the way. the last bottle had little purple pills filled up to the brim and louis took all three of them back to his room. he opened the bottles with shaking hands and poured them all out onto his bed. he was fine though, because men didn’t get raped. he wasn’t raped.

he found a paper and pen and wrote down the words that had haunted him for the past twentyfour hours. men don’t get raped. satisfied with his little note to himself, he changed into pajamas. he was just going to sleep.

ten purple pills later and louis was okay. three red pills later louis was fine. ten more purple pills and louis was smiling, he couldn’t remember why he had been so sad in the first place. he had just needed some sleep. five white pills later and a red pill he couldn’t quite swallow had him scribbling down the echoes of words that pushed him over the edge.

harry came home to a broken boy and a page filled front in back with four words that he didn’t understand.

fic:tweet (sam winchester/lucifer)

icedwaters — Sat, 02 Mar 2013 21:42:32 GMT

idk this is just a samifer hs!au where they all have twitters isn't that great

"Everyone has one now, Sam, just do it," Dean is saying. He's been trying to convince Sam to make a twitter for a month, now, but Sam isn't having any of it. It seems stupid, and what would he even do on it anyway? They only had one computer, and Dean was always on it, tweeting his life away. He would never even get the chance to do anything. But there's Dean again, typing in his email and giving him a username, so what choice does he have? "Look, Sam. Just fill this out and then you're set. I'll do the rest, besides tweet for you, of course." Sam looks at Dean dubiously. What is it with this website?

"What's so great about twitter, Dean? If people want to know what I'm doing every second of the day, why don't they just ask?" Sam looks at the settings page anyway. Name.

"Sam no one wants you to know that they want to know what you're doing all the time. Plus, it's more than that, you can tweet whatever you want," he pauses, "within 140 characters." Sam rolls his eyes and types his name in the box. Location. He skips that one and looks at the next one, Bio.

"What do I put there?"

Dean shrugs. "Whatever you want. W-"

"Within 140 characters, I know," Sam waves him off, "but what should I put?"

"Actually, It's 160 characters for the bio." Sam hits him in the arm. "Ow, okay. I don't know, just put something about you. Or not about you, you could put song lyrics there. Literally whatever." Dean thinks for a second. "But I don't suggest putting song lyrics there, that's gay."

Sam rolls his eyes and types out, "My brother made me do this." Dean, reading over Sam's shoulder, grins.

"Perfect." There's one under that that says web, but Dean just says to ignore it and choose a profile picture.

"Dean, seriously?"

"I'd put the one of you in the hoodie, with your hair all windblown. You look nice." And then, "In a little brother way, of course." Sam laughs and walks away from Dean and the computer.

"Maybe next time Dean," he says over his shoulder, "I don't think twitter is my cup of tea."

"Loser," Dean says back.

~~

"Sam why did you make a twitter, you don't even tweet."

Sam looks up from his phone. He'd been playing tetris. "What?"

"Your twitter account is just sitting there, taking up space. You never use it."

"Dean, I didn't make a twitter." He'd filled out the profile page, but he'd never saved it. Or even been serious about it. In fact he told Dean he didn't want a twitter.

"Yeah you did, that one day. You even included me in your bio, sort of." Dean smiles sheepishly. He'd saved the account after Sam walked away. How lame. Sam sighs and looks back down at his phone. A tower of tetris blocks had formed and there was no way he could fix it. He groans and exits out of the game, standing up and moving over to the computer.

"Dean, you're stupid." He says as he opens up the twitter webpage. He types in the username, but pauses when he gets to the password. Dean never told him what it was. Dean didn't even let him choose his password. "What's my password?"

He shoots a glare at Dean, who smirks and says, "Dean is the best brother ever."

Sam nearly sprains his eyes from rolling them so hard. He can't even fathom how stupid his brother is. "Idiot," he mumbles and types in the super-long, super-annoying password.

When the page loads, there's a bunch of little 'tweets' on his 'timeline' from basically everyone he knows. What. "Oh yeah," Dean says, "I took the liberty of following people for you. But only the cool ones. My baby bro can only interact with cool people."

"Yeah, because Cas is such a cool cat, right?" Sam rolls his eyes.

Dean makes a face. "Don't say cool cat."

"Cool cat, cool cat, cool cat." Sam gets up and pulls out his phone again, getting on the tetris app. "And delete that, would you? I don't need a twitter."

~~

"Did you know you can get the twitter app for your phone?" Dean says, resting his chin on Sam's shoulder.

"Really?" Sam looks down at his smartphone, a way for him to be on twitter without worrying about Dean wanting to be on twitter at the same time. Not that Sam wants to be on twitter.

"Yeah, its cool. And easy. I was hanging out with Cas after school yesterday, and he told me. That's how he tweets." Dean rolls over the back of the couch and into Sam's lap. Sam shoves him off.

"What is even the point of twitter, Dean?" Sam goes to the app store and types 'twitter' into the search bar.

"To stay connected."

Connected to what? Sam downloads the app anyway, though, and leans against Dean. “You happy now?” he asks. Dean smiles and nods. “This is gonna be awesome,” he says.

~~

Sam feels a bead of sweat run down the curve of his back. It's so hot. Mid-August is always the worst. The loud drone of the lawnmower outside keeps him anchored, otherwise he'd float off and become one with the sun, he's so hot. He wants to yell at someone to turn the cooler on, but he knows they can't, money's too tight right now. So he just counts to thirty and pulls his shirt off.

He pulls out his phone and plays Tetris for a while. He faintly hears the sound of his dad coming home, hears the sound of liquor being poured into a cup, hears the TV go on. Sam focuses on his game, his dad is a lost cause.

~~

Sam hates Luc. Hates him. He wants to text him or call him and say everything and nothing all at once, but he can't. He can't say anything. He's just laying there in the grass, waiting to see what Luc says next and hating himself for it.

He's staring at his phone--literally staring. Just waiting for the little notification thing to pop up. Waiting to see what's gonna happen. /I'll come to you. And on you./ The words are swimming through his mind, diving and dipping, making his head hurt from all the stupid. He's drowning. He's drowning and all he can do is look at the life-raft floating at arms length.

"Beach party this weekend, anyone?" Luc tweeted. He's having a party. At a beach. And it sounds awesome, but it doesn't because Luc will be there with his smile and charm and Sam can't deal with seeing him hit on girls. "Bring towels. Sand gets in.. places." Who gave him the right? Who said he could be okay when Sam wasn't?

Minutes pass, hours pass, Sam isn't paying attention. He doesn't care. He really doesn't care about anything right now. THe sprinklers come on, the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground. Otherwise, he thinks he'd float away and become part of the atmosphere. He doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to walk home , or talk to Dean, or look at his Dad. He doesn't want to deal with anything, which is stupid and immature but he's fucking fifteen so why does he have to be an adult all the time? He calls Dean.

Ten minutes later he's in the impala, engulfed in silence. He shivers and looks over at Dean, but Dean is staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. He doesn't say anything, for which Sam is grateful, but he also doesn't turn on the heater, which sucks. The drive is short, but feels like an eternity with the silence stretching out on the dark pavement in front of them.

Finally, they pull into the driveway of their house. Dean kills the engine and, when Sam makes to get out of the car, locks the doors. "Sam," he says, staring straight ahead, "who is it?" Sam exhales loudly, slumping down in the seat. His head is full of ideas, things he could say, reasons he could be so sad, but in the end it wouldn't matter. Dean would have to know eventually, why try to hide it any longer?

"Dean, I-" his words get choked off by a sob and immediately, Dean is by scooting over, pulling Sam into his arms. Sam buries his face in Dean's chest. "I love him," he cries, saying it out loud for the first time. "I really do." Dean just shushes him, pulling him closer and rocking him in his arms. Sam feels like he's five and just scraped his knee, but it hurts worse and Dean's arms are so much stronger now.

~~
*random little snippets of things i might incorporate into this fic*

Because how do you tell someone that you’re a year older than everyone else because your dad was so depressed he couldn’t dress himself? How do you tell someone you have to work every second you can to have enough money for your house? How do you explain that you have a low self-esteem because your dad comes home and verbally abuses you every day? How do you tell someone that you hate yourself, your life, and everything that happens to you because of the death of one person?

“We are never going to work out Luc, because you are never going to stop being an arrogant dick.”

icedwaters — Sat, 16 Feb 2013 23:32:46 GMT

can i just say that i'm ready for a new round of the 1d olymfics
im serious
im so upset that i missed the sign ups and shit

1dacts list

icedwaters — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 01:40:22 GMT

this is gonna be awesome, everyone should do this yay 1dacts

okay so yeah here :)

1. bad boys (you could do like bad boy zayn in leather jackets and good guy liam whos on the honor roll and shouldnt be hanging out with those "low lives" but liam just likes zayn and being around him and hanging out with him and zayn wants to show liam that his world isn't as bad as people make it seem, zayn isn't a bad boy he just likes leather jackets)
2. punk au (wherein the boys are all tattooed up and have piercings and maybe are in a rock band but who even cares i just want tattoos)
3. biting (louis is too pretty not to leave marks all over his collarbones and/or neck)
4. drugs (someone is addicted and the others know but what can they do besides be there. points if theres a big confrontation/intervention scene. if it's canon maybe they /actually/ get the intervention show or s/t. or rehab. idk. no i just want drugs)
5. wing!fic (they can all have wings or not whatever, the only thing that i really would like is if one of them(or all) is obsessed with one particular persons wings. like they can say all of their wings are great, but his is the best or something you know yeah okay)

pairings: zayn/liam, harry/louis, louis/zayn, niall/harry, ot5

fic:ink my skin

icedwaters — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 07:04:23 GMT

Title: ink my skin
Pairing: liam/zayn
Word Count: 1002
Disclaimer: these people aren't mine, but the story is

its one of those nights. (the nights when the butterflies in his stomach are too much and the murmuring of voices from the venue are too loud.) liam feels like he’s submerged in water. maybe he would feel better if he was. he hears niall talking to him and he sees himself taking pills from the blonde, but it’s like he’s on autopilot. he knows he took the pills, but he doesn’t remember taking them. he sees louis coming over to ask him if hes okay, but he cant make himself respond. Its like he’s curled up fetal position inside of his mind while someone else does what he knows he should do. he hears harry’s slow voice flow into his ears, reminding him to “just breathe,” and relaxes a little because yeah. its an hour before a show, their show, on their world tour. a fucking world tour. liam should be having the time of his life, laughing and singing and screwing around with his friends, not throwing up backstage while his friends worry about him.

liams laying in a ball on the backstage couch, tugging on strands of his hair and beating himself up for letting himself get like this when zayn comes over and sits closer than he should. “liam,” he says, dragging the vowels out so liam’s name sounds more like “leeyum”. liam doesn’t say anything, just shifts so his head is in zayn’s lap. zayn runs his bony fingers through liams hair and tries not to move so much. “youre going to be fine, you know,” he says quietly, just for liam. a few moments pass in silence (not really silence, because harry’s still yelling at louis over hair products and nialls still trying to chat up a tech girl and the stage manager is still the stage manager) until zayn tells liam more secrets. “youre my favorite, you know.” “I try to sing like you sometimes, you know.” “you shine the brightest, you know, brighter than even me.” liam doesn’t believe zayn for a second, but he can tell zayn means it. and he feels better.

“do you have a pen?” zayn asks him after a few more minutes, still carding his fingers through liams hair. liam shakes his head because even though theyre the ‘biggest boyband in the world’ he doesn’t carry a pen with him ever, never has, but he knows he should. zayn mumbles a quick “be back in a minute, love” before delicately lifting liams head off his lap and jogging off, most likely to get a pen.

liam watches harry and louis make eyes at each other from across the room and smiles to himself. he wonders how he ever got stuck with these guys, wonders how he got to live his dream, wonders if any of this is real, wonders because sometimes everything gets a little foggy and it feels like one day liam could wake up and he’d have to wake up early to make it to uni on time. liam cant think of anything worse than not being with these five guys (kids) every second of his life. (maybe not every second of his life, because there are times when liam likes to be alone, when he likes to think or play piano or talk on the phone with his mum without the boys constantly picking at his hair or clothes or face)

and then zayn is back and hes sitting on liams stomach and pulling liams hand into his lap and he obviously found a pen because hes trying to draw on liams skin with it and liam forgot to count how long zayn was gone for so he could tut at him for being late. “what’re you doing” liam pulls his hand away gently, but zayn just tugs it back and waits for liam to give it up.

“’m drawin a thing, leave me alone,” he says, and liam could swear that zayns cheeks are tinged with a soft pink but then its gone and zayn is inking liam on that little piece of skin between his index finger and his thumb. the tip of the pen tickles a bit on liams skin, but then its gone and zayn is smiling softly and just for liam. “there”

liam looks down at his hand and sees a perfect little heart where his thumb joins his index finger and thinks oh. zayn is just watching him with the same little smile on his face, and liam can feel a blush crawling up his cheeks. but then they’re being called onstage and he can’t really say anything as theyre running towards a million voices can he? liam smiles at the crowd, though, goes through the songs, doesn’t miss a note, gets lost in the music and then its twitter questions (they’ve always been his favorite). its when harrys in the middle of a (horrible) impersonation of susan boyle that liam looks down at his hands and sees it again. a perfect heart drawn on the skin where his index finger meets his thumb.

liam cant help the grin that spreads across his face. he knows he shouldn’t, really knows he shouldn’t, but he walks over to where zayns standing anyway and pulls him into a hug. louis ‘aww’s into his mic and niall 'whoop's and harry doesn’t say anything (he has this little smirk on his face) but liam doesn’t care because zayn may be the best and liam honestly should have seen it sooner but it will have to do that hes just noticed now. when he pulls away zayn is looking at him like what did you do that for, and liam will explain better later but for now he just smiles and says “because youre shining the brightest right now, zayn.” zayn just looks and liam knows he gets it and he feels the butterflies in his stomach again but theyre good (oh so good) this time and liam thinks he’ll never get tired of this.

fic:feel you in my bones

icedwaters — Wed, 28 Nov 2012 05:48:36 GMT

liam never thought death would be like this. he pictured all white and maybe clouds and a sense of peace, belonging. right now theres just black and a faint beeping and liam vaguely thinks that maybe hes in hell. but then theres a pounding in his head and if hes dead why does he still feel things like the warmth on his fingers and the need to breathe? liam looks around for something other than the black surrounding him but theres nothing. he cant even see his hands in front of him, but when he double checks he finds that his hands arent in front of him. he cant even feel his hands other than that warmth in his fingers and liam doesnt understand why he still has to breathe to keep his head on straight.

he tries to stop, just to see if it matters, but his chest tightens up and the beeping gets louder and more frantic and then suddenly everything comes into perspective. liam takes in a deep breath and tries to open his eyes because he realizes that hes lying down in a hospital bed and that warmth on his fingers is a hand, someones holding his hand, but his eyelids wont lift. they feel so heavy, so does the rest of his body really, all he can manage is a weak wiggle of his fingers. the hand gripping his already so tightly somehow gets tighter, tenser, and liam so badly wants to see whos worried for him, whos been sitting at his sickbed just waiting, waiting for him to wake up. theres some mumbling, a shuffling of feet, he can feel the anticipation building in the air and he wants to open his eyes so badly it hurts. (but that may just be because his entire body hurts.) but then liam hears him, liam hears zayn. he hears hope and sorrow and dismay, but he hears zayn. "liam? can you squeeze my hand? i felt you.. earlier, i felt you move."

liam tries, he does. and it hurts so bad, but he cant. he tries and tries, but each time he feels his energy slip away even further and further, and he feels zayns hope slip away until he cant feel anything anymore. sleep drags him back into the black.

-

liam hears the beeping first, becomes aware of his heart beating. thumping tenderly against in his chest. he thinks he groans or grunts or maybe makes a little whining noise, but the pounding in his head is too loud to properly hear anything. still, theres a warmth in his fingers and liam tries to squeeze them again. he tries until hes worn himself out and then he tries again, but it results in nothing. no one tries to say anything, assuming hes still asleep, and liam tries to scream, tries to yell at them that hes there, hes alive. if they could only hear him.

liam was close to just going back to sleep again, staying awake was too frustrating, too much work. but then he tunes in on a conversation, "...miss you.." someone is saying, but theyre getting no reply. "..going mad just staying here every day, watching you sleep.. or whatever you do. i dont think harrys spoken since the accident, i think he feels responsible sort of. i keep telling him youll be fine, i mean you moved your fingers last week right?" last week. liam had slept for a week. "try and wake up for us mate, please" niall. niall is talking, his words are slightly slurred, but his voice unmistakeable. liam tries to open his eyes again, manages to blink a few times, but the white is so overwhelming he shuts them again tightly. "liam?"

niall calls for the others, tells them that liam was waking up. he feels warmth in both of his hands, two hands holding his own. he tries again, just barely squints his heavy eyelids open, lets the light in gradually. "oh my god" he hears feet on linoleum, sniffly noses, and little mumbles. liam finally just opens his eyes as wide as they'll go, the light almost blinding, and all he can make out are shapes and globs of color, but he opens his eyes.

fic:not thin enough (louis/harry)

icedwaters — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 06:19:24 GMT

this wasnt planned but i was feelin i lil angsty so this happened oops louis has an eating disorder also warning im american so if they dont say fucking bandaid or whatever iM SORRY BUT SAYING PLASTER AND NOT BANDAID IS WEIRD AND IM NOT DOING IT ITS FANFICTION NOT A BOOK
ok sorry about that anyway read on also okay ps idk what the average weight for a 20 year old male is but yeah idk so im using weights that seem underweight if they arent who cares oops this isnt coherent neither is this fic i hope you guys cry

this is also louis/harry i dont know how that happened oops

louis looks at the pale skin of his stomach in the mirror. it's stretched tight across his skin, outlining each of his ribs, but still he sees too much. too much on his thighs, too much on his stomach, too much on his arms. theres so much everywhere and he can't get rid of it, no matter how long he goes without eating. he prods at what little stomach he has left and frowns at it. he looks down at his wrists, now the size of a 12 year old girls, and sighs. he could barely see the blue of his veins spidering out to his hands. not good enough.

he throws a handbrush at the mirror, not thin enough.

-

harry knocks again, calling out for louis to open the door. louis stopped answering his phone when he was 100 pounds, stopped opening the door when he was 90. harry never lost faith in him, even when louis lost faith in himself. the boy just opens the door with his key, like he always did, and lets himself into the flat. he sees the shattered mirror almost immediately and starts cleaning it up. he throws the glass into the trash, asks louis what happened. louis continues chewing on his ice, an arm hanging off the side of the couch.

"will you talk to me, lou" harry asks, like he always does, and carefully moves louis' legs so he can sit on the couch. harry touches louis so carefully, like louis will break if mishandled. and maybe he would, maybe he should come with "fragile" stamped onto his forehead.

louis stares blankly at harry, his pink lips and green eyes, he blinks once, twice, wishing that harry would just somehow get it. louis wants to talk to him, he does. he just cant open his mouth without messing everything up. he cant even think without messing everything up.

harry nods and absently rubs circles on louis' legs, like he always does, "i still think youre beautiful, you know."

louis chews on his ice.

-

louis stretches the skin on his arms, pulls it back so he can see veins, imagines that he's finally as thin as he should be. he smiles but it feels strange on his face. his lips stretch too wide and his cheekbones stick out too much. not good enough. his skin slips back into place, covering the blue green that he wishes to see so bad.

louis thinks about harry as he lays in bed, how harry never stops coming back. harry always comes back, every single time. he always holds louis in his arms, always tells him that he's beautiful, always fixes him a sandwich, even when he knows that louis wont eat it. somewhere deep inside louis wishes he could get better for harry, that he could eat for harry, he could smile for harry, he could be beautiful like harry always says he is. but then deep inside louis tells himself that he is. he's getting better for harry, he's dropping weight for harry, he's getting thin for harry, he's getting beautiful.

he looks into the new mirror harry brought him as he chews on ice. he can see his spine against his sweater, pushing out patterns in the fabric. he tugs on a strand of hair and rubs at his hipbones. he pushes his stomach into itself to get rid of the hunger. he'll stop being hungry when he reaches his ideal weight. but right now he can't be hungry. food isn't something he can think about. he presses his fingers against the mirror, he feels the cold and imagines all the ice he eats freezing him from the inside out. maybe he wouldnt have to worry about food then. maybe he wouldnt have to worry about his weight. right now hes just not thin enough

-

louis pulls a big sweater on over his shirt, to hide all the excess fat on his body and pulls his belt to one notch tighter. harry takes his hand, tells him niall says hi, reminds him that if he wants to go home at any point, they can. louis nods, doesnt tell harry that he doesnt really want to leave in the first place, doesnt tell him that its going to be useless, doesnt tell him to just give up already.

"its going to be great" harry says

im going to be sick louis thinks

"youre going to get better" harry says

im perfectly fine right now louis thinks

"i love you" harry says

why louis thinks

fic:time (dean/castiel)

icedwaters — Sun, 18 Nov 2012 00:48:01 GMT

Title: time
Pairing: dean/castiel
Word Count: 779
Rating: teen
Warnings: angst?
Disclaimer: dean and cas aren't my characters, but this is my story
A/N:for kiana because i love her a lot and she's gonna draw me some art for this bless her soul
Summary: castiel has to memorize dean, he just has to.

Castiel has always had a fascination with humans. Well, he’s had a fascination with one human. More specifically, he’s had a fascination with Dean Winchester. The way Dean’s eyelashes fan out across his cheeks when he sleeps, the way his freckles are placed across his nose and cheeks, as if one of his brothers spent hours kissing each spot. How his eye color matches the green of the treetops in heaven that Castiel loves so much.

Castiel watches Dean when he isn’t looking, when he is looking, when he’s sleeping, whenever he can. He watches Dean when he’s on hunting trips, when he’s standing right next to him, when he’s eating. Castiel watches Dean from heaven. He wants to know Dean, he wants to see him and know exactly what’s happening. He wants to learn Dean and his body and his mind, he wants to know everything before it’s too late because sometimes Castiel blinks and a year has gone by.

Time has never been a problem for Castiel. He may never run out of time. He’ll live forever, if he forgets to do something one day, he has the rest of the century to fix it. An angel never has to worry about running out of time. But now Castiel does. He has to count every second to make sure one doesn’t slip away without him making the most of it. Without him memorizing another piece of Dean’s life.

Maybe he won’t be able to memorize everything by the time everything is done and over, but that won’t stop him from trying. He’ll run his fingers across timeworn hands and brush his lips against all the scars gained from countless hunting trips. He’ll kiss the hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck and trim them when they get too long. He’ll count each and every haircut and toothache and every single cold. He’ll measure the days in bags of fries and cups of coffee.

Before Dean, life was insignificant. Who needs to live, when there are battles to be fought—a higher purpose to serve? Before Dean, love was a past time that humans created so they didn’t get bored. Now it’s everything he is, everything he will always be. Love is Dean and remembering stitching the broken man back together in the depths of hell, reaching him when he was unreachable, pulling him away from himself. Love is memorizing the curve of Dean’s lips, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, which is a whole new type of love in itself. Love is making Dean laugh, love is holding him when he wants to cry, love is giving everything to make sure he’s safe.

Saving Dean wasn’t supposed to be some kind of suicide mission; it wasn’t supposed to get this out of hand. But Cas is too far gone to fix it, and too selfish to stop. So he won’t stop. He won’t stop until he knows exactly how to make Dean squirm, he won’t stop until he has every little detail of Dean down to a science. From his freckles to the way his heart beats a little faster when he can’t see Sam during a hunt.

Castiel can feel his time running out, though. He can tell that the days are wearing thin. Soon the last grains in the hourglass will fall to the bottom, and everything will be done. Dean will fall back to earth from the pedestal that Castiel has put him on and it will break him. He’ll shatter like glass, break into a thousand pieces, and Cas won’t be able to glue him back together this time. Maybe Castiel himself will fall, from heaven to earth. Maybe he’ll break too, and find little pieces of himself as he wanders the earth alone. Or maybe nothing will happen to Cas. Maybe he’ll live on without Dean, without Sam, without even the Impala to cling onto. He can’t imagine anything worse.

That’s why he has to get this done. He has to find all the obscure freckles hidden on the pale skin most people don’t get to see. He has to count all the shades of green in Dean’s eyes. He has to listen to the way Dean’s heart beats when he thinks he’s alone, when he believes all is lost. He has to remember all the times Dean bites his nails, he has to figure out all the things Dean hides even from himself. He has to watch him so he won’t miss anything, because he’s going to miss everything when Dean’s gone.

Maybe he won’t be able to do it in time, but he’ll definitely try.

introductory post

icedwaters — Thu, 15 Nov 2012 03:31:19 GMT

hi i'm sierra and i like one direction and supernatural
that's it.
I'm just kidding, but seriously. I'll probably post more about my life on this account, and I guess sometimes I'll post fanfiction when I write it. I'll probably write destiel, ziam, and larry and that's it maybe some frerard (frankxgerard from mcr) but yeah. Maybe i'll post some of my writing that isn't fanfiction like i write poems and little story thingies, too.
I don't really know what else to say. I like tea. Okay bye! uwu