#I sincerely doubt you are someone who has attempted suicide | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

clicheyettouche · 2 years ago

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THE SUICIDE NOTE I NEVER FINISHED WRITING.

What I actually wrote today is very sensitive. It's not for everyone. It's about my suicide attempts and my thoughts about it. So, if you're uncomfortable with this kind of topic then please don't bother reading it. I just want to voice out what I've been through.

So yup! If you're wondering about the title, it is 100% truth. There's no reason for me to joke about this. And the idea of opening up about this is actually just because of the sudden deaths. Like, ang dami nag su-suicide talaga. The funny thing is, sobrang timing.

So, I was checking out my old drafts on my old wattpad account the other day when I stumbled upon the suicide note I had written years ago when I was still in college, entitled "moonlight and butterfly". I debated for 10 minutes about opening it and reading it. Kasi it might trigger me or something. Eventually, I gave in. Well, akin naman 'yun so I don't think I can stop myself from opening it. My heart sank when I read every word so, again...tears fell down my face as I read the words I had written.

If you ask me now, I do remember everything and why I felt so desperate and tormented. I know I was dealing with severe anxiety, and that I had lost most of my friends because I never left the house, and I clearly remember how stupid, sad and alone I was. The letter didn't even explain my reasoning for wanting to end my life. All I know is there's a lot of days that I really did contemplate committing suicide on a daily basis, and I'm not sure what will put me over the edge and when. What I wrote was mostly apologetic, and called out some of my family and friends specifically to tell them how much I loved them. But it was still heartbreaking. The words were so sad.

I'll share you the half of my letter...

I have my free trial of life and I want to cancel it before I have to start paying for it. I don't like it very much and it's too expensive. I was never the person I wanted to be. Maybe without the darkness I would have been a better person, maybe not.

If you are reading this, chances are that I've killed myself in some manner. As of the time I am writing this I have not decided on how. I am sorry for how this made you feel. It has been on my brain for a long time and obviously I succumbed. I was so tired and helpless.

Let me start off saying I do not want to be cremated. I don't want my ashes to be kept in an urn, it'll make me feel alone even more. I just want a private funeral, wake, memorial, orbituary or even a cross somewhere in remembrance. I want a lot of daisies around my casket because that's my favorite flower.

I would also really not like the news of this to travel far. I don't want people to feel sad for me or even pity me more. And there are a couple of things I would like to say to some people I cherish the most:

Mommy and Daddy: Please don't be sad. None of this was your fault. So,thank you for raising me with love. I never once doubted that the two of you loved me very much.

5K: This is just my choice. I thought long and hard on this, It is what I want. And I know you guys don't want this for me. I'm sorry but none of your existential quote or words of wisdom can cure this, It won't change anything. Believe me. I did everything to save myself but It just so happens that I am not that strong as you think I am. I sincerely hope that y'all will move on from this and just be happy without me. It's okay. I can say I'm finally free and you don't have to worry. Love you all! xx

You see...

I do not fear death. I fear life. I fear the tortures of my every day. I fear the noise and the vision. I fear what I can do. I fear what I will do. I'm sorry everyone but this world is just not my place. Maybe I was meant to be a ghost who watches people everyday and just wonder why am I here on earth or a lost butterfly in someone else's garden. I am leaving a world to which I never truly belonged or fit in. And I'm sorry if I'm not strong enough. Know that I'm gone because I chose to do so. There's no one to blame.

For once, I finished something I started. For once I was brave enough to go through with something risky and dangerous. I want my peace. I do hope that I can watch you all from the clouds above. And sending down the purest and beautiful butterflies to send you love and comfort.

The act of taking my own life is not something I am doing without a lot of thought. Grabe 'yung pag-iisip ko, sobra pa sa sobra. I'm an overthinker, it's either my thoughts can save me from actually doing it or it can be the cause of my death.

I tried to cancel the free trial, but sadly it didn't work. I attempted suicide three times and I failed thrice can you imagine that? Mas toxic ang thoughts ko noon. I have this situation where I was so numb from too much pain. It was a real madness inside me. No one knows about this story pero I think it's time to open this part of my life.

During my college I struggled with the whole "going no where" thing ever since I was out of high school. There's no one I can be transparent to about what I'm feeling. I feel like everyone is too busy with their own life and I was just a burden all this time. I hate college and I would rather be homeless, I would rather work a shi t job or I would rather lie in bed until I die. Honestly I don't know what is and what isn't for me anymore. Overall I'm so tired and completely lost all my motivation and my brain can't find dopamine to get me to care. It all feels pointless. So that time I have to go to school of course kasi it's weekdays. And I did. But before I go to school I'm thinking ways to do it. There's not a day I don't think about life if I didn't exist. There's not a day I don't stare at the taunting blade underneath our desk, making me wonder how deep do I have to cut until I fall asleep.

I remember meron pa nga akong rope sa kwarto ni lola and I'm the one who tie it into a knot. I'm not sure if they got weirded out or wonder why there's a rope there. What my plan was, I can just do it sa edge ng kama, 'yun bang sa sobrang higpit I will never grasp for air. It's actually how prisoner execute their suicide. Moving forward I had to go to school, and I did. I'm actually standing in front of the school entrance thinking if I should go inside or just end myself. But what I did was I turned around at sumakay ako ng jeep na wala sa sarili. I stare people blankly. And I almost forgot to pay for my own fare dahil nakatulala lang ako sa kawalan. What am I thinking? I'm actually deciding.

I have to decide that time.

'Kung lalagpas ako sa usual na binababaan ko pauwi. I'll probably gonna kill myself. I mean there's a lot of option for me. I can go to MRT, mag pasagasa or tumalon sa building. I mean I'm not really scared of doing it, the only thing na pumipigil sa'kin is 'yung mga taong maiiwan ko. As I was looking outside the jeep. What flashes right before my eyes was my own family grieving and blaming themselves when I'm gone. I truly believe my body would be nothing but dust before anyone would even notice I wasn't around pero I know how painful it would be for them. The awful sickness I feel inside of me is eating me alive from the inside out but I'm not selfish. I care about my family more than I care for myself.

I look cold as ice on the outside but the moment I got home. I did cry so hard. All I did was cry. Dun ako nag decide na hindi ko na kaya, na I don't want to go to college anymore. Hindi naman sa ayaw kong mag-aral, I mean theres more to that. I wanted to but how am I supposed to do that? It's really hard for me to explain. And the most heartbreaking part of that situation was, my own father told me na nag-iinarte lang ako. It hurts me more kasi I'm at my lowest and that's the time that I realised that no one really tried to understand me. I really wish na pag-iinarte nga lang ang lahat so it's a lot more easier for me to deal with. Pero hindi eh. No one bothers asking me why or what happened without giving me judgements and all. Maybe this is the reason why I prefer to just keep it all to myself.

I always tell myself that I am strong. I have always been strong, but until when? How long do I have to keep holding on? I can't see myself growing old or dying of natural causes. During those critical times the only way I can see myself go is if i do it myself. Some nights you feel the void in your heart growing and you wonder if It's going to be like that forever. You become exhausted trying to win against your loneliness, so you just sit in the corner, and passively let it eat you alive. I faced multiple problems everyday.

Money. Motivation. Rejection. Will to live. I also ate insults for lunch from myself. I'm fat. I'm ugly. I'm harsh. I'm insecure. I'm so fucking edgy and raw, that's why I scare myself sometimes. There were specific incident when I went further than I had intended to, or I broke a personal rule or boundary I'd previously set myself, and at those times I was really, immediately, very scared of myself and what I could do to myself. The recent incident was only last year. I cut myself, there's a lot of lines on my wrist. It's getting deeper and deeper every cuts. But my intention was not to cut my wrist anyway, I want to slit my throat or just stab myself. Because I want a sure kill. That's how my mind works.

As much as I try to be a decent, relatively normal person, there is just a dark cloud over me. I'm dissociated a lot of the time. I don't trust people. I love humanity, but I do hate people. There is just this darkness inside of me that is scary. They don't know or understand what it feels like to carry that the whole entire time. What it does to a person. I am not bad and I know that. I was always the sympathetic and empathetic one that saw the good in everyone. I still am. But I'm scared of myself. What's inside me, and what I am capable of. So, I'm hoping na people would understand me. I mean I don't think I'm suicidal. I'm not that person na araw-araw the only thought I have is to kill myself. Hindi pa ako umaabot sa ganon, those kind of idea will eventually come to me kapag hindi ko na alam 'kung sa paanong way ko i-hahandle 'yung situation. Like when something BIG happened to the point na I can't even handle my own thoughts and emotions or I can't control the situation I'm in doon ako nag-iisip ng masama.

Feeling like a contradiction. Wanting connection, but avoiding it. Wanting to friendly or decent, but knowing one could explode at any moment. It's a tough way to live, holding that at bay all the time. This is why I have a butterfly tattoo. It resembles my life kahit papaano. Like, I was in a cocoon that was dark, confusing, and incredibly sad. I was scared of people, and I still am, but not as much as before. I was told that I was troubled, that something was wrong with me, and that I was disturbed. No one took the time to understand me, but they took the time to judge and reject me. Butterfly is supposed to be held for a short time and then let go. It's beauty is not for anyone to possess and if someone tried to possess it, the butterfly ceases to exist. I flit through life and I enter people's lives for a short time, then I fly away. I learn from them, and they learn from me. I'm always sad at the end of my time with them, but I'm happy for the experience.

I don't want to be born as human again if I have a choice. Being a butterfly is not a bad idea. That seems like the good life. Short and Simple. Being a human is just...too complicated and miserable. So many limbs, and digits on this body to worry about. And what am I supposed to be doing this whole time? Walk around? Touch things? Cry everytime? Forget it... I'd rather just fly above everything and observe. It'd be worth drinking sweet nectar from flowers.

And before I die I wish I'm listening to Butterfly by BTS because that's also my favorite song from them and I don't want a cremation! I hate that. Anyway this is not a suicide note...I hope it's not tho. All I know is that the only reason why I'm still alive is I want to spare my family from pain and trauma. Because I felt that.

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wolfstar-in-color · 3 years ago

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July Colorful Column: Remus is a Crip, and We Can Write Him Better.

There is one thing that can get me to close a fic so voraciously I don’t even make sure I’m not closing other essential tabs in the process. It doesn’t matter how much I’m loving the fic, how well written I think it is, or how desperately I want to know how it ends. Once I read this sentence, I am done.

It’s written in a variety of different ways, but it always goes something like this: “You don’t want me,” Remus said, “I am too sick/broken/poor/old/[insert chosen self-demeaning adjective here].”

You’re familiar with the trope. The trope is canonical. And if you’ve been around the wolfstar fandom for longer than a few minutes, you’ve read the trope. Maybe you love the trope! Maybe you’ve written the trope! Maybe you’re about to stop reading this column, because the trope rings true to you and you feel a little attacked!

Now, let’s get one thing out of the way right now: I am not saying the trope is wrong. I am not saying it’s bad. I am not saying we should stop writing it. We all have things we don’t like to see in our chosen fics. Maybe you can’t stand Leather Jacket Motorbike Sirius? Maybe you think Elbow Patch Remus is overdone? Or maybe your pet peeves are based in something a little deeper - maybe you think Poor Latino Remus is an irresponsible depiction, or that PWPs are too reductive? Whatever it is, we all have our things.

Let me tell you about my thing. When I first became very ill several years ago, there were various low points in which I felt I had become inherently unlovable. This is, more or less, a normal reaction. When your body stops doing things it used to be able to do - or starts doing things you were quite alright without, thank you very much - it changes the way you relate to your body. You don’t want to hear my whole disability history, so yada yada yada, most people eventually come to accept their limitations. It’s a very painful existence, one in which you constantly tell yourself your disability has transformed you into a burdensome, unworthy member of society, and if nothing else, it’s not terribly sustainable. Being disabled takes grit! It takes power! It takes a truly absurd amount of medical self-advocacy! Hating yourself? Thinking yourself unworthy of love? No one has time for that.

Of course, I’m being hyperbolic. Plenty of disabled people struggle with these feelings many years into their disabilities, and never really get over them. But here’s the thing. We experience those stories ALL THE TIME. Remember Rain Man? Or Million Dollar Baby? Or that one with the actress from Game of Thrones and that British actor who seemed like he was going to have a promising career but then didn't? Those are all stories about sad, bitter disabled people and their sad, bitter lives, two out of three of which end in the character completing suicide because they simply couldn’t imagine having to live as a disabled person. (I mean, come on media, I get that we're less likely to enjoy a leisurely Saturday hike, but our parking is SUBLIME.) When was the last time you engaged with media that depicted a happy disabled person? A complex disabled person? A disabled person who has sex? No really, these aren’t hypothetical questions, can you please drop a rec in the notes?? Because I am desperate.

There are lots of problems with this trope, and they’ve been discussed ad nauseam by people with PhDs. I’m not actually interested in talking about how this trope leads to a more prevalent societal idea that disabled people are unworthy of love, or contributes to the kind of political thought processes that keep disabled people purposefully disenfranchised. I’m just a bitch on Tumblr, and I have a bone to pick: the thing I really hate about the trope? It’s boring. I’m bored. You know how, like, halfway through Grey’s Anatomy you realized they were just recycling the same plot points over and over again and there was just no WAY anyone working at a hospital prone to THAT MANY disasters would stay on staff? It's like that. I love a recycled trope as much as the next person (There Was Only One Bed, anyone?). But I need. Something. Else.

Remus is disabled. BOLD claim. WILD speculation. Except, not really. You simply - no matter how you flip it, slice it, puree it, or deconstruct it - cannot tell me Remus Lupin is not disabled. Most of us, by this point, are probably familiar with the way that One Canonical Author intended One Dashing Werewolf to be “a metaphor for those illnesses that carry stigma, like HIV and AIDS” [I’m sorry to link you to an outside source quoting She Who Must Not Be Named, but we’re professionals here]. Which is... a thing. It’s been discussed. And, listen, there’s no denying that this parallel is a problematic interpretation of people who have HIV/AIDS and all such similar “those illnesses” (though I’ll admit that I, too, am perennially apt to turn into a raging beast liable to harm anything that crosses my path, but that’s more linked to the at-least-once-monthly recollection that One Day At A Time got cancelled). Critiques aside, Remus Lupin is a character who - due to a condition that affects him physically, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually - is repeatedly marginalized, oppressed, denied political and social power, and ostracized due to unfounded fear that he is infectious to others. Does that sound familiar?

We’re not going to argue about whether or not “Remus is canonically disabled as fuck” is a fair reading. And the reason we’re not going to argue about whether or not it’s a fair reading is because I haven’t read canon in 10-plus years and you will win the argument. Canon is only marginally relevant here. The icon of this blog is brown, curly haired Remus Lupin kissing his trans boyfriend, Sirius Black. We are obviously not too terribly invested in canon. The wolfstar fandom is now a community with over 25,000 AO3 fics, entire careers launched from drawing or writing or cosplaying this non-canonical pairing. We love to play around here with storylines and universes and races and genders and sexualities and all kinds of things, but most of the time? Remus is still disabled. He’s disabled as a werewolf in canon-compliant works, he’s disabled in the AUs where he was injured or abused or kidnapped or harmed as a child, he’s disabled in the stories that read him as chronically ill or bipolar or traumatized or blind or Deaf. I’d go so far as to say that he is one of very few characters in the Wide Wonderful World of media who is, in as close to his essence as one can be, always disabled. And that means? Don’t shoot the messenger... but we could stand to be a tiny bit more responsible with how we portray him.

Disabled people are complicated. As much as I’d like to pretend we are always level-headed, confident, and ready to assert our inherent worth, we are still just humans. We have bad days. We doubt our worth. We sometimes go out with guys who complain about our steroid-induced weight gain (it was a long time ago, Tumblr, okay??). But, we also have joy and fun and good days and sex and happiness and families and so many other things.

Remus is a disabled character, and as such, it’s only fair that he’d have those unworthy moments. But - I propose - Remus is also a crip. What is a crip? A crip - like a queer - is someone who eschews the limited boundaries placed on their bodies, who rejects a hierarchy of oppression in favor of an intersectional analysis of lived experience, who isn’t interested in being the tragic figure responsible for helping people with dominant identities realize how good they have it. Crips interpret their disabilities however they want, rethinking bodies and medicine and pleasure and pain and even time itself. Crips are political, community-minded, and in search of liberation.

Remus is a character who struggles with his disability, sure. But he’s also a character who leverages his physical condition to attempt to shift communities towards his political leanings, advocates for the rights of those who share his physical condition, and has super hot sex with his wrongfully convicted boyfriend ultimately goes on to build community and family. Having a condition that quite literally cripples you, over which you have no control, and through which you are often read as a social pariah? That’s disability. But using said condition as a means through which to build advocacy and community? Now that’s some crip shit.

Personally, I love disabled!Remus Lupin. But I love crip!Remus Lupin even more. I’d love to see more of a Remus who owns his disability, who covets what makes him unique, and who never ever again tells a potential romantic partner they are too good for him because of his disability. This trope - unlike There Was Only One Bed! - sometimes actually hurts to read. Where’s Remus who thinks a potential romantic partner isn’t good enough for him? Where’s Remus who insists his partners learn more about his condition in order to treat him properly? Where’s sexy wheelchair user Remus? Where’s Remus who uses his werewolf transformations as an excuse to travel the world? Where’s crip Remus??

We don’t have to put “you don’t want me” Remus entirely to bed. It is but one of many repeated tropes that are - in the words of The Hot Priest from Fleabag - morally a bit dubious. And let’s face it - we don’t always come to fandom for its moral superiority (as much as we sometimes like to think we do).

This is not a condemnation - it is an invitation. Able-bodied folks are all but an injury, illness, or couple decades away from being disabled. And when you get here, I sincerely hope you don’t waste your time on “you don’t want me”ing back and forth with the people you love. I’m inviting you to come to the crip side now. We have snacks, and without all the “you don’t want me” talk, we get to the juicy parts much faster.

Colorfully,

Mod Theo

#wolfstar #disability in fandom #disabled remus #crip remus #please write me some crip remus #I beg of you #fandom meta

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mckennamayfairgoode · 4 years ago

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Show Me the Foothold From Which I Can Climb [Part One]

Billie Dean Howard x Reader

Word Count: 6k

Request: i saw that your requests were open and i wanted to ask if you could do something for billie x reader, i LOVED your other one. -requested by anon

Warnings: Nothing yet, except minor character death, but it will get VERY heavy later on. (Future TW include: addiction, alcoholism, grief, depression, suicidal thoughts.)

A/N: I’ve spent too long working on this, so I decided to break it up into parts and post it instead of going back over the same scenes again and again. I’m not sure how many parts it will be. Probably three or four. A big thank you to @lucyintheskywithxanax as usual for being my plastic duck. You are The Best (no, really, you are). ❤

Song: Mountain at My Gates by FOALS. Also mentioned is I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers.

“Let’s take five minutes, okay? Sorry, everyone, they’re being stubborn today.” Billie smiles apologetically at the camera crew and the sight of it alone is enough to ease the mounting frustration in the room. Shoulders relax and tension melts away as if the atmosphere hadn’t been stifling just moments before. You call it ‘The Billie Effect.’

“Five minutes and we’ll try again,” the director agrees, giving the crew the go-ahead to take a break. There’s a spattering of pleased murmurs before everyone uses the opportunity to disperse around the house or go outside for some fresh air.

You adjust the camera on your shoulder and watch as the director walks up to Billie, his hands moving in animated gestures as he speaks. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can imagine. The long day has not made him any more pleasant to be around. The smile on Billie’s lips is charming as she attempts to sooth his ruffled feathers. It only takes a moment, one hand resting on his shoulder to make the interaction seem more intimate than it is, before he turns away from her with a satisfied expression that makes something inside you tug unpleasantly. Once he turns away from her, Billie’s bright expression falls and her brows pinch together.

You wait for him to walk away before easing up to her side, eyeing his back as the distance between you grows. “Was he giving you trouble?”

“He’s the director of the show, Y/N,” she points out and when you turn to her, you see that her smile has returned, beautiful and real and just for you. Your heart seems to breathe a sigh of relief.

You shrug the shoulder not currently occupied by a camera. “Yeah, well, without you there wouldn’t be a show,” you remind her, annoyance clear in your tone.

Billie laughs, low and husky. “Easy, tiger.” She wraps a hand around your bicep and runs her thumb along the edge of your shirt sleeve, barely dancing across your bare skin and shooting tingles up your spine. “Everyone has their part to play, even him.”

You roll your eyes. “It’d be easier if he played his part somewhere else,” you mutter.

She grins, her big brown eyes dancing with amusement. You watch that familiar teasing glint bleed into them like wine stains into a beige carpet. “Careful there, sweetheart. I’m starting to get the impression that you care about me.”

“And I’m starting to get the impression that you want me to care about you,” you retort playfully, watching the pleased smile morph her beautiful face into something soft and sweet. No one gets to see her like this. No one but you. That smile only lasts a second before her shoulders tense, just barely, just enough for you to notice. Her gaze flicks to the side. You’ve been around long enough to know that she’s feeling or seeing something you can’t. Your voice softens into a soothing tone. “Everything okay, pretty woman?”

Billie startles, her grip tightening on your arm as she steadies herself before she flashes you a comforting smile. “Just fine, sweetheart.” She raises a slender hand and with one long acrylic nail extended, points to a spot in front of you both. “I can feel them right here, but they won’t come out.”

You both look at the space like your combined staring power will overwhelm the spirits and force them to reveal themselves. You don’t realize how close you’ve drifted to one another until you go to nudge her shoulder with your own. “They will,” you say.

The darkness in her eyes eases at the conviction in your tone. She raises an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?” she asks. “We’ve been here for eight hours and have nothing to show for it.”

You resist the urge to move a wayward curl back behind her ear. “You’re Billie Dean Howard. No one can resist you.”

Her smile turns sly. “Not even you?”

You turn to face her and feel your heart stutter. She’s already looking at you, her eyes warm and tender. “Not even me,” you finally say, your tone leaving no doubt that you are dead serious. The space between you is so small your noses would brush if you tipped forward. There’s a split second where you think you might kiss her. If you weren’t in the middle of a haunted house surrounded by your coworkers, if you were alone, and if she was looking at you like she is right now, maybe you would lean in and wipe that sly smile from her face with your lips.

“You ready, Billie?” A masculine voice startles you both out of the moment causing you to jerk away and take a step back from each other. Billie is elegant and composed as usual, but your heart thunders in your chest like you are a storm splitting open the sky. You glance at her lips. Had she been leaning in too?

Billie gives the director a nod before turning back to you. The intensity hasn’t left her eyes. You search them for a moment, find the sincerity there and anchor to it with your heart. A slow grin spreads across your face and you nod to the starting marker on the floor. “Come on, pretty woman. I promise to get your good angle.”

She scoffs, an amused expression lighting up her face. “You always get my good angle.”

“It’s not the only thing I plan on getting,” you flirt. “Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll prove it to you later.”

Billie laughs and tosses her wavy curls back. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweet thing,” she purrs, trailing her fingertips along your shoulders as she passes behind you.

You watch her go and know your expression must be lovestruck. Her presence always makes you feel weightless, a bird’s wayward feather in free fall. You think you might be able to float to the ceiling if you tried.

“You don’t really believe in this bullshit, do you?” a voice asks over your shoulder. You glance behind you to see your new assistant standing there looking perplexed and bored.

You raise an eyebrow, shifting the camera on your shoulder. “Why are you working here if you don’t believe it?”

He shrugs, following you to the mark and standing behind you. “Needed the experience,” he says simply.

You look into the viewfinder, adjusting the angle and shuffling until the sunlight streaming in from the living room window carves highlights into Billie’s cheekbones. She looks like a marble sculpture, like she belongs in the Louvre and not this haunted house in southern California, like she will be cemented in time, beautiful and endless. “Stick around,” you tell him. You pull back, look over the top of the camera, and lock eyes with Billie from across the room. “She’ll get them to show. She always does.”

“Holy shit.” Your assistant's voice comes out in a breathy whisper, barely audible over the rattling sound of wheels rolling along the pavement.

You grin but resist the urge to snicker, because you’ve been there before. Skeptical and unsure, drawn to Billie of course, in awe of her smile, but not a believer in anything you couldn’t physically see. Then she had brought a derelict house to life with light that was not natural and shadows that liked to play pretend and you had watched her speak to someone whose presence you couldn’t even feel. That moment had changed you.

Once upon a time, you had been so very small and fearful of the things you did not understand. Locked in your castle and warned away from the room at the end of the hall, you were protected, but sheltered, and your world had been so very small along with you. Until one day, you met a princess with golden hair and big brown eyes, who was kind and good and could see things you could not.

The princess had taken you by the hand and led you to the end of the hall where she cracked the door open so that you could take a peek into the room you were not allowed in. Inside that room was a darkness and in that darkness was a glimmer of something bigger than you. You’d tugged at her hand to ward her away from the things you feared, but she stood tall and faced the darkness head on.

“Don’t be scared,” she’d said. The princess turned on a light - you think it came from within her - and the darkness shrank back, twisting into shadows that held out their spindly arms but could not reach you no matter how hard they tried. She looked at you and she smiled. “I won’t let them hurt you,” she promised and you believed her. You were a mountain and you were not afraid of anything.

“You’ll get used to it,” you say, reaching the studio van and gesturing for him to help you load the equipment cases inside.

He doesn’t look like he believes you. In fact, he looks like he might lose his lunch right there on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t be the first who couldn’t handle a glimpse of the other side. Ignoring it won’t make it go away, but you don’t say that. Instead, you latch the doors behind you, bid him goodnight, and meander down the sidewalk in the direction of your car.

You watch the van’s tail lights disappear around the bend for only a moment before Billie’s soul inevitably calls to yours and you turn to look for her. She’s still standing on the front porch speaking with the homeowners. Not surprising. Billie hates to leave a job half finished. She nods her head empathetically, places a hand on the man’s arm, and says something charming no doubt. The couple laughs in response, just as you knew they would. No one can resist Billie Dean Howard. You lean back against the hood of your car, tuck your hands into your pockets, and wait.

It doesn’t take long. A few minutes later, she struts toward you like she’s on the red carpet and not a cracked, chalk-covered sidewalk in the middle of the suburbs. Your heart flounders in your chest like a fish on the deck of a boat and you wonder if you will always be this helpless when faced with her presence. “Hey, pretty woman.” You nod to the road behind you. “Wanna go for a drive?”

“And where would you be taking me on a Friday night?” Even across the distance, you can see the mischievousness in her expression. Billie loves to play games, and you are more than happy to indulge her.

You reach in your pocket for your keys, absentmindedly playing with them as you grin. “Sorry, I can’t tell you that. Try again.”

Billie slows to a stop in front of you and tilts her head, eyeing you with a barely concealed smile. She tries to look stern but the glitter in her eyes betrays her. “What are you up to, Y/N?”

You shrug. “I’m just keeping my promises,” you say simply. You reach over and open the passenger door for her with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits.”

“We’re here,” you announce, stepping out of the car and shutting the door behind you.

Billie follows you at a leisurely pace, her head turning this way and that as she takes in your surroundings. She looks out of place up here, like a beautiful porcelain doll left in the middle of the woods. She is your diamond in the rough, your supernova in an empty sky. She burns. You wonder if it’s for you.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes?” you respond, already knowing the question that will leave her lips.

“Why have you brought me to a cliff?”

You laugh and hold out your hand. “Do you trust me?” you ask, serious despite the light tone to your voice.

Billie does not hesitate. She sets her well manicured hand in yours, looks you in the eyes, and says, “Always.”

You have to swallow the lump in your throat to respond. “Good, because I was going to drive us both off the cliff, but there’s a concrete barrier in the way. We’ll have to go on foot and just jump off instead.”

She chuckles, low and throaty in just the way that makes your spine shiver. “Oh, darling. I’m going to need some incentives if you’re going to make me do all that in these shoes.”

You smirk and, mindful of her expensive heels, begin leading her down the smoothest path to the cliffside. “I’m sure I can come up with something.”

“I’m sure you can,” she purrs. Her hand in yours is soft and warm. You have held hands before. Large hands, small hands, the hands of those you love and hands from a distant past that you haven’t held for a very long time but still remember. There had been fingers wrapped around a thumb bigger than yours, hands clasped palm to palm as your brother helped you cross the street, pinkies interlocked to cement promises that would surpass time and age, fingertips pressed together beneath the table in the library with the girl who always laughed at your jokes. They were not like this. Holding this hand felt like coming home. Like you were meant to hold it. Like you have held it before.

As you near the aforementioned barrier, you turn to her with an impish smile. “Close your eyes,” you say.

Billie quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t usually do that on the first date.”

Your heart jumps, excited, happy, hopeful. “You let me bring you to a cliff on our first date?” you ask, playfully appalled.

Her smile grows fond. “It’s starting to grow on me.”

You bite your lip to quell the grin forming and tug at her hand. “Come on, the incentive lies in what will happen after you close them.”

“Well, how can I resist when you put it like that?” she teases, shutting her eyes and trusting you to guide her the rest of the way. You do, one careful step at a time, until you are near the edge. You look out over the view and feel your soul untangle itself from your heart, but it does not leave, not yet. It wants to be free, but it doesn’t want to go alone.

You glance back at her, just a moment, maybe just to check that she’s real and not a vision that lives in your head. “You can open them now.”

She does.

From a bluff overlooking the city, you watch as the sun sets, a jeweled crown that settles itself on the head of a skyscraper, radiant and eternal. Just for her. For the princess in your fairy tale. Almost as if you had willed it into existence all by yourself, lights start appearing in the city. Streetlamps, headlights, lights from offices and businesses and apartments; all of them blink on, one tiny speck at a time, until the whole of Los Angeles is alight with stars of their own making.

You don’t say anything and neither does she. You don’t need to. Billie’s fingers slide between your own, more intimate than any night you’ve spent in bed with another woman, and she squeezes. Just once. Your soul follows the invisible thread between your hearts and entangles itself with hers. They float away together like flower petals on a summer breeze.

You turn to her as she looks off into the horizon. Your eyes follow the shape of her face, from her forehead to the gentle slope of her nose, the curves of her mouth to the jut of her chin, and you wish you were tracing it with your fingertip instead. The setting sun casts a glow to her hair turning it different shades of molten gold and pink and you think you have never seen a more beautiful sight.

When she turns to face you, your eyes meet and your noses touch, much like they almost had earlier that day. Only this time there is nothing stopping you from closing the distance. Your breath hitches, your heart thunders, you are a feather in free fall, but you will not be afraid. Billie would never hurt you. Not your protector, your safety, your light.

You tangle your free hand into her hair and pull her close enough to brush your mouth against hers. It’s soft and tender, flowers grazing in a moonlit meadow, the gentle fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, the ocean lapping against the sand on a lazy, summer night.

Her other hand reaches for your cheek, pulling you closer. You melt against her, breathe her in, think maybe this is what happiness is, maybe this is what eternity would feel like as long as you are with her. She sighs into your mouth like she has been waiting for this moment as long as you have. Your soul ignites as her nails graze your cheek, gentle and revering, like you are precious, like you are important, like you are the flower petal that may float away. Maybe you fell in love with her then. Maybe you have been in love with her all this time.

“Hello?”

“Hi there, sweet thing. Where are you?” Your tired ears perk up at the sound of Billie’s voice, a smile lighting up your face as if it had been waiting just for her.

“Hi, baby. I’m at the studio going over the footage from yesterday. Are you still at the interview?” You glance out of the nearby window. Night has already fallen and rain pelts against the glass like a swarm of angry bees. “It’s late.”

“It ran over by two hours,” she explains, her voice tight and clipped.

You furrow your brows. “You don’t sound happy about that. Did it not go well?”

You hear the flick of a lighter. “If you call four hours of talking in circles ‘well’ then one would say it went perfectly fine.” She sighs. “Maybe I was just impatient.”

“For what?”

“For you.” Your breath catches in your throat. You almost trip going down the stairs but manage to catch yourself in time. “Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you manage to say.

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. “I’d like to see you tonight. What do you think?”

Heartbeat thudding in your ears, you finally reach the main lobby and come to a stop in front of the studio doors. Thunder rumbles through the building, shaking the glass and seeming to bounce off empty corners to echo back at you. You can barely see the street behind the sheets of rain. Maybe Hell has finally frozen over and Los Angeles is in the midst of a hurricane. “I’m thinking it’s the perfect night for a movie and takeout,” you say once you’ve gained control of your vocal chords.

Billie exhales. The sound of it wavers; she’s smiling. “My place is closer; is that alright with you?”

“Yes, of course,” you respond and hope you don’t sound too eager. Even though you are. Even though all you want is to see her look at you with that exasperated fondness that makes your heart melt. You want her to push you away, to laugh, to pull you right back in before she kisses you senseless. You just want to be home.

“Good,” she pauses and you can picture that fond expression in your head as clearly as if it were right in front of you. “See you soon, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, trying and failing to soothe your expression into something calm and collected. “See you soon, pretty woman.” You don’t even bother putting on your jacket before dashing outside into the torrential downpour.

Traffic in Los Angeles is always congested at best no matter where you go. Cars, taxis, and buses stay bumper to bumper until you get further away from the city and closer to Billie’s suburbs. The rain makes it hard to see the road, let alone other cars, so you keep your hands tightly gripped around the wheel and maintain a steady pace as you follow the bright yellow shape of the taxi in front of you.

Even with the storm raging around you, you feel invincible, like nothing can touch you. Thunder rumbles in the distance, lightning cracks the air, and rain pelts the roof of your car like lead bullets, but you don’t hear any of it. Your mind is a paradise and it is so quiet. Your thumbs tap rhythmically against the steering wheel as you sing along to the song on the radio.

“But I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more-”

You let the music sweep its way into your very being, washing over you and bringing with it a sense of peace. It makes you think of Billie and you realize you’re never not thinking of Billie, not anymore, not since she planted herself in your earth and lit up your night sky with a blazing sun. It feels like she has intertwined herself so closely to you, to your heart, to your soul, to your spirit, that you are no longer sure where she ends and you begin.

Captivated by her smile, enraptured by her kind heart, drawn to the passion that runs through her veins in lieu of blood, lovesick, lovestruck, love, love, love. Every little memory you make with her anew blinks on like a star in a sunset painted cityscape and you want to point your finger in its direction and tell her the tale of how a princess - with light embedded in her soul - saved you from your castle.

You’re thinking about her still when you notice the taxi peel off into the next lane. You don’t see him until it’s too late.

A boy on a bike.

He darts in front of you out of nowhere or maybe he had been there the whole time and you just couldn’t see him in the rain. You see him now. Time slows down to a crawl - or maybe it never slowed at all; maybe you have been on the other side all along.

He’s wearing a blue jacket. You notice it as your foot slams on the breaks, as you twist the steering wheel to the side in an attempt to swerve around him, as your car’s tires screech and slip against the rain-soaked street. It’s navy blue. You hear the sickening thump it makes when you hit him, feel the car jerk as you crash into a utility pole and the airbag knocks you in the face hard enough to make you black out for a second. Maybe two. You’re not sure. All you know is that when you finally summon the strength to open your eyes again, you’re assaulted by the smell of chemicals from the deployed airbag that burn your nostrils when you breathe. Your body aches from where you slammed against the seat belt on impact, your face, your chest - your heart, you think - but you can barely feel it. You are numb.

You blink rapidly to clear the dark spots from your vision, but all it does is serve to make you dizzy. Your head spins, feeling much like the inside of a snow globe after it’s been shaken up by an overeager child. With panic churning inside you like a hurricane, you claw at your seat belt. Your fingers are shaking and clumsy and they don’t seem to work anymore and sobs well in your throat because this can’t be happening. It must be a dream, a nightmare, anything but what you know deep in your heart that it is: reality, the darkness whispers. A tendril of it slithers through the keyhole. It watches you. It is grinning.

“Come on, come on,” you mutter, or at least you think you do, before throwing open your door with one hand and scrabbling for the seat belt latch with the other. You manage to hit the release and go careening out of the car, landing on your hands and knees with a smack against the wet pavement.

A man runs up to you, clutching your arm and pulling you up with large, gentle hands. Rain falls into your already blurry eyes, clinging to your eyelashes like tears as you look up at him and notice he has a full, greying beard. His mouth is moving but you can’t hear him over the ringing in your ears.

You look away from him, searching, wild, crazed. Maybe you are crazy. Maybe you are a lunatic. A crowd has half formed on the side of the road, sporting parkas and umbrellas. Like anxious birds, they flutter around a slumped figure laying unnaturally still on the ground. It wears a navy blue jacket.

You push the man away, stumbling on shaking legs like a newborn foal as you attempt to cross the distance between you and the flock of people. Dread fills your bones, cements itself as a lump in your throat, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Someone on their cell phone tries to reach out to you, but you shove their hands aside. Rain soaks the thin cloth of your t-shirt causing the material to cling to you like a second skin. But you can’t feel it. You can’t feel anything.

You fall to your knees before him, landing with a splash in the puddle beneath you. Your mouth moves rapidly as you speak words you can’t hear: a chant, a plea, a prayer. Wake up! Come on, kid, just wake up. I’m so sorry. Please, wake up. All my fault, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You beg - to gods, to monsters, to spirits and ghosts and the nature of things - but it falls on deaf ears as if you had never spoken at all. You feel for his pulse, for a sign, for anything. There is none. The darkness laughs. It is muffled behind the door but you can feel the vibrations of it running through your veins.

You hunch over yourself, fingers clutching at the wet pavement as you dig your nails into the asphalt, wanting to crawl inside your own body like a cocoon, wanting to feel something, anything. The ringing in your ears is so loud, so intense it fills your head and drowns out every other sound. The woman who has knelt down at your side and put her hand on your shoulder as she tries to speak to you. The thunder you can feel rumbling through the earth beneath your palms. The sirens from emergency vehicles you only know are there because the red and blue flashing lights cast a glow on his motionless form. You have never known another sound. It rings and rings and rings. It is endless.

You want to close your eyes. You want to block it all out, pretend that you’re still in your car, that you’re almost to Billie’s suburbs, and any minute now, she will greet you at the door. Well, would you look at that, she’d say. I don’t remember ordering dessert. Her eyes would glimmer and she would smile, beautiful, radiant, the light inside of her too bright for her to do anything but shine.

Billie- Your mind latches onto her like she is your buoy in the middle of the sea, and just the thought of her will keep you afloat even as the darkness uses its spindly arms to pull you under the surface. You reach for the invisible thread that binds your hearts together and, insistently, desperately, you tug. I’m so sorry, Billie. You force your eyes open. You force yourself to look at him. At the boy you did not see.

His bike lays in the middle of the road, bent and misshapen. The back wheel is still spinning.

From your open car door comes the notes of a familiar song. It echoes through the night, beneath the steady beat of the rain and the high, rumbling noise of thunder, and it is not beautiful anymore. It is haunting.

“Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles-”

You can’t feel anything.

“-to fall down at your door.”

“Will sh- b- okay?”

“Mil- conc-ssi-n, sh- in shock-”

“Try -alking t- he-”

Voices echo around you, so muffled and distorted that you can’t understand what they’re saying. They sound like they’re coming from very far away and the effort it would take to listen far outweighs the energy you have. You feel drained, like you’re sitting in the bottom of a fish bowl and the words bounce off the water to somewhere else. Not to you.

Not until you hear her.

“Look at me, Y/N.” Hands cup your face in a gentle hold, fingers tenderly stroking the skin of your cheekbones. The voice is so familiar. It cuts through the haze fogging your mind and you reach out as if to embrace it, to let it crawl inside your heart and warm you from the inside out. “Come on, sweetheart. Look at me.”

You blink. Billie? Your eyelashes flutter as the world gradually comes into focus, no longer a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. With it, comes an angel. An angel with sunset hair and glimmering eyes and a kind smile. “Pretty woman?” you ask, and you wonder what happened to make your voice sound so raw and broken.

“There’s my girl,” she murmurs, ducking her head to meet your eyes. “Focus on me, baby.” You try to, holding her gaze like you would rather drown in it than face the demon you can feel hovering over your shoulder. She has a furrow between her brows, the one she has only when she’s truly upset. Why is she so sad? Why are you?

“Billie, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, but you can’t remember why you’re sorry. Only that you should be. Only that your heart aches, you smell like chemicals, and it feels like you just went a round with a boxer and lost. But it’s all a blur and you can’t remember why.

Billie reaches up and brushes your hair back away from your face. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be okay.” Her smile is forced and the implication behind it only stirs the panic forming inside you until it spins so fast that it feels like you’re standing in the eye of a hurricane.

“Ma’am, we need to speak with her,” a voice speaks suddenly from the doorway and you snap out of your trance, out of the safety of Billie’s gaze, and find yourself in a hospital room, in a hospital bed with an IV in your arm. The walls are a stark white that hurts your eyes to look at. It’s bare and sterile and impersonal; it feels like you just woke up in a padded cell where you are gradually losing your mind.

Billie looks over her shoulder; you follow her gaze and feel your stomach drop unpleasantly. A police officer stands just inside the door. You become suddenly aware of a bone deep chill pervading your entire body. There’s a blanket pulled up around your shoulders but you can’t seem to stop shaking. Why can’t you stop shaking?

“No, you don’t,” Billie says, the words tense as they leave her lips. The edges are sharp and you know if you were to reach out, they would cut you just as easily as a blade. You have never heard her sound like that before. “She’s still in shock. She won’t be able to tell you anything you haven’t already figured out from the cameras.” Your mind falters. The hurricane intensifies, becoming a swirling mass of wind and rain. It threatens to swallow you whole.

The officer steps into the room and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s just procedure, Ms. Howard.”

Billie frowns, standing up and sliding in front of you as if to shield you from him. “I don’t give a damn. You could drag the Dalai Lama down here for all I care. I’m not letting you speak to her until she knows what’s going on.”

“Well, I’m not the Dalai Lama, I’m an officer of the law and if she’s responsive, I need to take her statement,” he insists, not unkindly. He looks over Billie’s shoulder at you, his expression apprehensive and sorrowful. Something is very, very wrong. You can feel it in your bones. The hurricane lashes out at you, angry and scared. You wonder if the hurricane is you.

Their argument drifts to the background as flashing lights from the window capture your attention. Blue and red. Familiar. The colors start to blur as rain hits the glass pane and you can only watch, mesmerized, as one droplet becomes two and three and then thunder - it rumbles so loudly it startles you and your heart leaps, pounds, races in your chest - and, suddenly, as if it had been this way all along, the hurricane is not inside of you anymore. It is all around you, surrounding you, and you are stuck within, caged like a bird, trapped like a ghost in a haunted house, you are a lunatic in a padded white cell.

And then you remember.

Rain. So much rain. Sheets of it that slick the pavement and thunder that shakes the earth. But you are going to Billie’s, where you are warm, where you are safe, and a little rain is worth it to see the look on her face when she opens the door and sees you standing on the other side. Well, would you look at that, she’d say. I don’t remember ordering dessert. And she would smile and she would shine and you would walk among the clouds like a god.

Something inside you stirs, something troubled, something bigger than you. An exiled giant chained to the mountain pass, a forgotten creature locked in the depths of Hell, the darkness behind the door. For the first time since meeting Billie, you feel afraid.

A taxi, bright yellow, the color of sunflowers and sunshine and that knitted sweater Billie likes to wear in the summer. It veers off; you watch it float away, along the yellow brick road, maybe into the sky to Neverland, down the rabbit hole, it goes and goes and goes. And then a boy and a navy blue jacket and a bike with a misshapen wheel that never stopped turning.

The darkness pushes at the locked door, snaking it’s spindly arms along the edge, seeking for a way out, searching for a weakness. You can feel its eyes on you, watching you through the keyhole.

A mistake, you didn’t see him, you tried to stop, to swerve, you tried to do anything else but what you did, it’s your fault and you know it, you did this. The road was so wet, you could feel it beneath your hands, flashing lights illuminate his body, blue and red, someone touches your shoulder but you can’t feel it, wake up, wake up, unnaturally still, a song, your ears ring, it’s endless, still, so still, blue and red, it casts a glow to his face, but I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk- You dig your nails into the pavement. You can’t feel anything.

You did this. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.

You can feel it the moment the lock shatters and the door swings open. It feels inevitable, like you have been staring into the abyss this whole time, and it has finally decided to swallow you whole. The darkness slithers out and you watch it with bated breath. You have never known a fear this great, the moment you stared into the darkness and didn’t have your light.

Your soul calls for Billie, screams out her name, begs and pleads for her to protect you like she always said she would. You reach out for the invisible thread tethered between you and you tug and tug and tug but your hands are slippery and you can’t hold on. Your fingers brush her sleeve.

The darkness seems to smile. You can feel its amusement, its maliciousness, its cruelty. You are frozen in place as it moves towards you, ensnared like a rabbit in a trap, you are a lunatic in a padded cell. It’s spindly arms reach out. I’m so sorry, Billie. It embraces you like an old friend.

You let it.

#billie dean howard x reader #billie dean x reader #sarah paulson x reader #billie dean howard #billie dean howard imagine #american horror story imagine #american horror story #american horror story murder house #ahs imagine #ahs fic #wlw imagine #wlw fic #sarah paulson #ahs

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stardustincarnate · 4 years ago

Text

CONTROL // Light Yagami x Reader

word count : 1498

⚠️WARNINGS : self-harm, suicide attempt (1st half)

"𝕯𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖘 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖆𝖇𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖞 𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖓?

...𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖓."

In your mind, he wouldn't be happy seeing you like this. But what else could you do? You had nowhere to turn. Nowhere—or in fact, no one, whom you could call your haven anymore.

And what happens when one has nowhere to turn?

They drown into the fathomless darkness. Unable to escape, unable to swim back to where the light shines. Drowning all alone in an undescribable bitter agony.. All alone suffering due to the loss and grief they knew would never end.

You didn't just lose a boyfriend. You lost your bestfriend, your family, your haven, and more importantly, your future. The only one who was able to understand and love you for who you were. The only one you had wanted to spend the rest of your life with. A very important person to you. Your other half. You didn't just lose a boyfriend, you lost a huge piece of yourself, dying as well as he did.

Death is inevitable, something that is obvious.. But why must death come so soon, so early? Why must he come so soon to end the joy that was merely beginning?

It hurt. It hurt like hell. No—it was worse than hell itself. It hurt to have the one you love taken away by death, and we all know that they can never come back to life. Even as we weep endlessly, beg for the heavens, spend so many nights wailing in agony, unable to sleep.. No matter how many times we do that, the pain won't end. It won't bring them back to life.

They can never be brought back to life.

"R-Ry..uzaki..."

You choked, your eyes brimming with tears which obscured your vision that you were barely able to see the object in your hand.

A knife.

With trembling hands you sliced open your wrist, blood hastily gushing out from it. It ran from your wrist, down to your elbows, and to the ground as you lift your arm up. You cursed your quivering hands as it had intercepted you from successfully hitting that certain arterial pulse, preventing you from reuniting your dearest Ryuzaki in heaven.

You thought was your only option to escape the dark. To end it all.

But no.

Unexpectedly, the light had appeared in front of your very eyes. The light which struck you as your salvation from this darkness.

The light that offered you another escape.

"[Y/N] no!"

"S-Shut up, shut up, shut up! Leave me alone!!"

Of course it was futile to say that to the adamant that was Light Yagami. He rushed to you, but halted seeing you firmly pressing the knife harder on your wrist.

"Come any closer and I'll—"

"[Y/N], please don't do this. It's not worth it! Look at me, [Y/N]. Think about the life that you're gonna waste if you do that!"

"Everything's worth it for Ryuzaki!"

You cried, your anger fueled to the brim seeing the suspected Kira. The Kira who killed the love of your life. Why, you thought, on earth would Kira stop you, L's girlfriend, someone who was standing in his way?

You disliked Light with a fiery passion. Mainly because you believed he was Kira. That's what your past lover always said. And you knew he was never wrong.

Right?

If you had other plans you could've plunged the knife into the chest of the man you so loathed. But you would be the evil one then. You would be killing an innocent man because there was no proof that he was Kira.

"Ryuzaki is dead! He won't be coming back! Do you think he'll be happy seeing you like this?!"

Light looked at you straight in the eye. You sought for that veiled malice in his gaze, but found none to your surprise.

He looked so sincere with his worried gaze for you.. He looked so innocent, angel-like.. like an instrument God had sent to you to save you from your woe.

"I—I don't care what you say! I-If y—"

"You have to accept the fact that he's never coming back! You think killing yourself will bring him back to life?! Why aren't you thinking of the people who're alive and actually care for you? Did you even think about how they'd feel if you leave them?! You have a future! Don't waste it on following someone who's never coming back!"

You lost yourself in those honest hazel irides that you barely noticed him taking the knife from your grip, throwing it away and hugging you tightly. Unable to move, you only continued to let the tears fall in silence.

"I've already lost Ryuzaki. I can't afford to lose another friend."

You squeezed your eyes shut and gave up, succumbing to his warm embrace. You cried your heart out, clinging desperately to the only one you could cling to, utterly blind to the venom coated in his words, completely unbeknownst to the smirk forming on his lips as that gentle hand caressed your back.

"You have me, [Y/N]. You always will."

⋆ฺ｡*:･

He wanted to exploit your weakness to fulfill his ego, to satisfy himself even further. And in this game, he was winning. It had been so easy to lure you closer to his side that he couldn't even believe it himself! Getting you attached to him was almost like tricking a toddler. He was so amused at how fate was bending to his will.

He knew you hated him. He knew you knew he was Kira. But where's the proof? Without it he knew he could twist your beliefs. With him being so tender with you, you started doubting your late boyfriend's belief. Of course, you had also considered the fact he'd been tricking you. But you couldn't see it. Anywhere you looked, there was no flaw.

Absolutely none.

There was no flaw on the act of his blooming love for you. And you...

You were falling for him.

No, you couldn't. You couldn't fall for Kira! The one who murdered your beloved! There was no way!

But how could the man possessing those precious sincere eyes be Kira? How could the light that guided you back to a safe, warm surface, be Kira?

Light couldn't be Kira. Ryuzaki had it all wrong!

You were suddenly torn in between.

It was like tug of war. And in the end you knew Light had caught you. But you refused to admit it. You refused to acknowledge it.

But it was hard. Each day, Light was always by your side, determined to catch the real perpetrator who killed your beloved. He was always there to remind you of how important you were, always there to give you comfort and warmth, always there to make you feel at home... back to your haven.

And so you began to let go of the emotions trying to control you. You had set yourself free.

Free to adore him.

⋆ฺ｡*:･

Sunset approached, and Light couldn't stop smiling malignantly to himself the closer he got to L's grave. When he did, he looked down on it with superiority, a chuckle rumbling from his throat.

He had never felt so much pleasure before. His satisfaction was immeasurable.

"What now, L? You tried to stop me, and not only did you lose your life... You lost the love of your life to me. Me!"

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until he couldn't anymore.

He stared at the nameless tomb gravely, the menace in his eyes growing darker. He stood there doing nothing but to stare at his dead nemesis' grave for quite some time, until he was satiated. When he was done and about to leave, he saw a familiar figure walking in the distance. His lips automatically curved to a smirk which he soon hid.

"[Y/N]!" He called out gently, and there came you, looking somehow crestfallen, running into his arms.

You looked up to him with your heart pommeling your sternum. You bit the insides of your cheeks, flushing, and called out his name—but then... he kissed you.

Right in front of Ryuzaki's grave.

He kissed you harder as your body eventually gave in. Kissing you harder and harder with his thoughts taking over him. Harder and harder to the point of almost biting your lip as the pleasure inside him throbbed uncontrollably. He was having a hard time controlling and reminding himself that it wasn't time for that part. At least, not yet.

Look at you, body already going limp with just a kiss.. He could sense it, and he could've laughed at how you tried to deny him during the first seconds of it.

Of course, there was no use to when you no longer had control over your thoughts and actions.

You had completely succumbed to him.

#death note x reader #death note #light yagami x reader #yagami light #light yagami #this has become dramatic i swear #lime at the end #angst #light being his usual dickhead self #anime x reader #reader insert #happens after L's death #L is reader's ex.. sorta #x reader

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twstdreams · 4 years ago

Note

The Draught of Sleeping Death ask was so interesting (and kinda angsty but in a good way!)! Could I please request a part 2 for when their crush actually wakes up after? Thank you! (btw i reread the request and you kinda forgot Jack so if you could plz add both of his reactions to when they drink it and when they wake up i’d appreciate it!)

Please reach out to your local crisis line if you experience any suicidal ideation like wanting to put yourself into a coma!

Here is the previous part! I decided to make scenarios that ended being a bit more difficult than I expected, but I’m pretty happy with it. I hope no one is out of character. Here is some more bittersweet moments and angst!

Warning: Suicidal and suicidal-esque ideation, attempted comatose state via potion, poor mental health, long post

Ruggie Bucchi

He waits and waits. Your chest continues to rise and fall as any person would. Each moment is excruciating. Even if you had amnesia and forgot all about him, that would be okay as long as you opened your eyes. Suddenly, you sneeze. Ruggie throws his arms around you. He almost wants to laugh. Of course, you wake up sneezing, not fluttering eyes or a gentle smile but a sneeze.

“Ruggie?” you call out his name gently, surprised to find yourself in his fierce embrace with him clinging onto you so tightly. You ask what’s wrong and he explains your predicament.

“What?!” you shriek, wide-eyed and jaw open. You must have messed up your potion or drank the one wrong because all you wanted was something to give you restful sleep, not a permanent coma.

“Tch, I can’t believe you drank something so dangerous!” Ruggie chides you for being so careless, making a mental note to take care of you to ensure something like this never happened again. He gently pokes your cheek as if to punish you, but the way you respond with a pout fills him with more relief than he cares to admit. Only the conscious can react after all.

“Wait, does... doesn’t that mean you’re my true love?” you murmur. Soon enough both of your cheeks are painted a blush to rival sunsets in the Afterglow Savannah but a smile worms its way onto your face.

“I’m glad it’s you.” You both share the same sentiment. You pepper his face with butterfly kisses while teasing him about being your knight in shining armour. Each peck helps soothe his heart and reaffirm that you are indeed alive and well.

Leona Kingscholar

His tail waves back and forth as he impatiently waits for any signs of consciousness. It feels like the universe is getting back at him, telling Leona that it’s his turn to wait. The more time passes, the more he wants to curse at the world. It gave him nothing. Not the crown, not the understanding of his family, not the adoration of his people, and now it wouldn’t even let him have you. He stares at the window, unable to bear looking at your body any longer. Almost as if he looked away, he wouldn’t have to accept the possibility that you would remain in an eternal slumber.

“Leona?” your voice croaks and he whips around so fast you’re surprised his neck doesn’t hurt.

“It’s you? You love me?” you ask but you’re met with a grimace from Leona. He knows you know. And since you know that true love’s kiss is the only way to break the spell, it meant you purposefully drank the potion.

“Why?” It’s not a roar. It’s not a demand. It’s barely a question. It’s a whisper to the wind but requires an answer nonetheless.

“I just...I just wanted the pain to end,” you reply, voice cracking halfway through, “It was so much. Too much.” Tears begin welling in your eyes. Just remembering your desolate state when you drank the potion out of sheer desperation threatens to spiral your fragile stability.

“Do I look weak? Dumb?” Leona murmurs. You think it’s supposed to come out as annoyed but his words are too thick with emotion to disguise his sadness.

“No? That’s not what I... What?” You can’t understand what he’s saying and the tears begin to fall down freely from your face.

“Then, you should share it with me,” he says firmly while sitting down beside you on the bed.

“It?” you repeat while sniffling.

“Anything, everything,” Leona pauses as if carefully considering his words. He suddenly pulls you into a hug, placing your head against his chest. To your surprise, his heart is hammering and you know you’re the cause.

“Your pain, your struggles,” the words are lodged in his throat and Leona struggles not to clam up. He hates being vulnerable, he despises leaving his heart out in the open, practically begging to be stabbed. But he knows that’s what contributed to this mess in the first place. And it hurts. Your eyes are brimming with tears that he caused. So he forges on even if his words are gruff, “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.” He kisses your forehead to affirm his answer. And then you hold him tightly and cry freely. Your burdens are still heavy and there are some battles you know Leona cannot fight for you. However, you find comfort in his embrace and in the knowledge that he will hold your hand through all the trials.

Kalim Al Asim

“Hey, hey are you awake?” he asks desperately. You have to wake up. How else are you supposed to go on magic carpet rides with him? Didn’t you say you were excited for Bean day? Weren’t you excited to try out that new cake from the café downtown?

He calls out your name again and again while giving your shoulder a little shake. When your eyes begin to open, Kalim throws himself at you. Tears fall freely from his eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re awake!” It’s a mess as he alternates between sobs and exclamations of happiness. You barely have time to react and pat him on the back.

“Yeah, thanks to you,” you reassure softly. It’s not exactly ideal to have Kalim crying but you’re happy to know he cares so much.

“You know, I’m your true love, right?” he asks, staring you into your eyes with his ruby ones. The bold declaration makes you blush but you nod anyway, “So depend on me okay? I’m here for whatever you need! Anytime! Anywhere! If you’re ever worried, we can sing and dance our troubles away!”

“And if singing and dancing aren’t enough?” Your question doesn’t come from a place of malice but Kalim is silent for a moment while digesting your words.

“Then we can eat, or go on a magic carpet ride!” he responds with confidence, “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else! I won’t give up until you smile!” Tears streak his cheeks, his outfit is a mess, yet you believe him anyway. He brings a shaky grin to your lips.

“Okay.” You give your tear-stained lover a soft kiss. “We’re in this together.”

A couple days pass and yet Kalim asks nothing about the incidence. He simply reminds you that he is here whenever you need and that he adores you. You keep waiting for the inevitable interrogation but it never comes.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about what happened?” you inquire one day while on a carpet ride, knowing that your words will only reach Kalim’s ears and no one else’s.

“I want to.” He answers so quickly that you’re caught off guard, but his next words steal your breath away. “I was going to ask, but I didn’t want to make you sad. I know that... that you were really sad and suffering. And that every time someone brings it up, your smile goes away.”

He hums out loud while trying to parse together a sentence to express his feelings. Kalim doesn’t want to be oblivious to your feelings and risk destroying this relationship. He wants to do better this time. He wants to be better.

“I ... I don’t know how to ask without hurting you. So, you can just tell me when you’re ready and I’ll listen!” You feel so much relief. You embrace him in a tight hug and murmur words of thanks.

Jamil Viper

There’s a war in Jamil’s heart. Hope dangerously swells within it, wishing that you would wake up. Doubt creeps on the edges, whispering about how his flimsy feelings wouldn’t shake you from the coma’s grasp. He doesn’t know which half is right and the wait is antagonizing.

Your fingers twitch and he calls out your name softly. He wants you to wake up so badly, he can’t even deny it. The amount of emotion eating away at him is unbearable yet it would all be worth it if you only opened your eyes. You who listened. You who understood. You who offered a hand when asked. You who respected his space. You who lit up with a smile whenever he offered you a dish. You who always insisted on cleaning the dishes as payment. You who would drop by with a thermos of tea or a cup of water to make sure he was taking care of himself too. You, whose name is etched in his heart, even if he has trouble admitting it aloud.

Your hand lightly squeezes his own and he intertwines his fingers with yours. He’s never found hand-holding so comforting until now. You’re tired but you try to bring a feeble grin to your face for his sake.

Jamil has so many questions but he starts with the most important one, “How are you feeling?” Your lips press tightly together and you tear your eyes away from his gaze. He squeezes your hand a little but says nothing else.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice wobbles but your words are sincere. His thumb traces circles in the back of your palm, allowing you the decision to continue or not.

“I...” Words are so hard, but you want him to know. Jamil came to your side, didn’t he? He is your true love, isn’t he? You gulp a bit and allow yourself some time to gather courage.

“I, I wanted control. I hate feeling like I can’t control anything. Like this is the only way I can decide for myself, and ...” But words fail you as tears begin falling from your eyes. It’s too much. You can’t decide if you hate yourself or the world more.

Your words cause his chest to feel tight. Oh he knows, he knows. The desperation, the fear, the anger, the hatred, all emotions that are familiar to him. There is nothing more soul-crushing than to lose control over your own life.

Jamil stays silent, unwilling to offer up empty promises and words laced with pity. Instead, he kisses your tears away. It’s unusually tender, but rather than risk the wrong words, Jamil decides to let actions speak for themselves. He lets each soft peck convey his love, his presence, his commitment. And slowly but surely, your waterfall of tears decreases to a trickle and then nothing at all.

Jack Howl

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!

It’s the only thing he can think of as he stares at your resting form. Jack has never felt so powerless before. No matter how much he trains, it won’t amount to anything because it’s not a magical skill that will bring you back. It’s true love. True love’s kiss. The one thing he doubts he can give you. The one thing no one has managed to give you.

His eyes widen as he hears your breathing begin to increase. Your slow steady pace starts to quicken and his own heart is hammering in his chest. Are you waking up? Jack kneels beside your bed and watches expectantly. Your eyes open to meet your golden ones. Your arms reach out to him tentatively, wondering if he’s merely an illusion. To your surprise, strong arms embrace your body and his hair tickles your skin.

“Jack,” you call out softly and the twitch of his tail lets you know he heard you. However, he says nothing. You expect a couple swift and blunt statements about your idiotic actions but they never come. Instead, with your bodies pressed together, you can feel him tremble. It’s faint, but he’s more shaken than you’ve ever seen Jack. Angry, indignant, confident, embarrassed, and righteous were all emotions you’d seen Jack wear but this was the first time you’d seen him so unsure about someone else.

“Thank you,” you add, unsure what other sentiments you should share. You worry declarations of any feeling deeper than gratitude will end the moment and Jack will shirk away at such strong emotions. You tighten your grip, hoping at least you can relish in this hug and the comfort it brings.

Jack loosens his hold so he can look straight into your eyes. His gaze is so intense that you want to avert your own yet find yourself unable to do anything but look back. Your name leaves his lips, soft but firm and undeniable. You nod slightly and wait for him to continue.

“I ... you ... that is,” Jack clenches his jaw but pushes forward past his uncertainties and lingering cowardice, “You ... You give me purpose.” You let out a gasp. Jack knows it’s dangerous to attach purpose to someone else, to give them so much power over himself. He’s always wanted to be a man with a true core purpose and your slumber made him realize that it was you. When you were under that spell, he fell apart and that’s why he’s so sure.

The weight of his words is not lost on you. It’s nothing short of a confession of love that makes your eyes shine with unshed tears. You’re amazed at the depth of his feelings and how far you two have come.

“I love you.” Your words are simple and clear, delivered with a sincere smile. Even though Jack knows this, you are his true love after all, it still manages to make him blush. You let out a small laugh but before Jack can retort, you seal his lips with a kiss.

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magioftheseas · 4 years ago

Text

Rose Stem Asphyxiation

Summary: In one life, Hilise and Gabrielle try to be sisters.

Rating: T+

Warnings: References to violence, murder mostly fraticide, suicide, child abuse... Canon-typical stuff, tbh, even if this is canon divergence.

Notes: I just don’t get enough opportunities to write fucked up sisterly relationships and if Untouchable Lady is going to give me a dynamic that I think has potential, then I’m gonna go for it. Sorry that there’s no Axion. There’s no male characters at all beyond a couple of cursory mentions. Sorry~

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

“Hiliseeee!”

Gabrielle tackles her arm with innocent glee, but there’s a maid nearby who flinches. Unperturbed, Gabrielle beams up at her. The perfect image of the adorable little sister.

It should be satisfying if not endearing. No matter what Hilise does, it’ll always be Gabrielle who is the darling of the Inoaden household.

And yet, Hilise remembers the first time she saw Gabrielle embrace their father.

The way Gabrielle embraces her right now.

And the bitter resentment that stains her soul burns like a fresh wound.

“Are you going out, sis?” Gabrielle asks, and her bright inquiry snaps her from her dark mood. “I can come, right?”

No, it’s different.

The way Gabrielle squeezes her arm is with a hint of desperation. Unease. Gabrielle’s usually effortless smile twitches at its edges.

“Of course you can come,” Hilise says, watching Gabrielle relax.

Gabrielle who nuzzles against her, giggling all the while.

Gabrielle who has never had to fear their father, but her fear here is quite justified.

Hilise could kill her, after all. Has killed her before, in fact, albeit in a past life.

And she could never quite forget that look of sheer terror.

How Gabrielle cowered, scrambling back pathetically and looking up with those usually bright eyes torn up with hideous tears.

Hilise had let her scream her throat out raw. Begging for someone—anyone—

That...had perhaps been too cruel of her.

Next time, she’ll just snap Gabrielle’s neck first. What good came from saving her for last? If it was meant to be mercy, it was a poor execution.

The two sisters go shopping and it’s overall an uneventful trip.

She already knows there’s no usurping Gabrielle’s status as a darling, but at the very least, she can play the role of a loved older sister. Rather, she can pretend.

Unlike her father and her brother who will never truly love her—will never even pretend to love her, Gabrielle is different.

Gabrielle will give her easy smiles and shower her with easy affection. Gabrielle will offer her jewelry and adornment and this time, it wouldn’t be a mere childish prank. Even now, Gabrielle enjoys treats with her, humming with pleasure.

Hilise smiles at her mildly, but it feels miserable. Doesn’t fit quite right on her face, either. Well. It’s not too bad. Better than her disastrous relationship with Christian. At least Gabrielle lacks the depth to hate this arrangement.

Gabrielle is happy as long as she is doted on and spoiled.

It’s as enviable as it is contemptible.

“So, for the next ball,” Gabrielle is saying. “There’s this dress I really want to wear. You should see it! It’s going to be the start of a new fashion trend!”

She is well aware.

“I’m sure,” she replies simply, meaning it. “However, you are looking to impress Christian Parvenon as well, right?”

“Do you think he’ll like it?” Gabrielle asks, eyes alit with anticipation. She’s so radiant it makes her stupid. “I don’t want him able to keep his eyes away! Oh, but, you should get dressed up too all nice and pretty too, sis.” A touch of discomfort at Gabrielle’s smile. “As long as you don’t distract Christian, then it’s fine...”

Even now, Gabrielle can’t help but be a little entitled. It’s fine. Hilise doesn’t have any interest in him.

“I...” She doesn’t... “I don’t really care about getting a husband.”

“You don’t?!” Gabrielle gasps, aghast at the idea. She’s just too naïve to not be sincerely surprised. “Do you not like anyone?!”

“No.” There is no use in hesitating or drawing it out. “I’m not.”

“You should let me introduce you,” her sister says, already excited. “There are plenty of handsome bachelors from good families! I hear aaaaaaall about them!” She brags, proud of the social life she has that Hilise was never allowed. “I know all the gossip, too! I’ll make sure not a single scandalous guy enters the equation! You can count on me, dear sister!”

...the thing is that Hilise doesn’t doubt it.

That’s the thing, isn’t it, that Hilise never doubts a word Gabrielle says.

Gabrielle can play pranks, but like this, Gabrielle would never lie. In fact, she offers up answers without even needing to be prodded. Hilise nearly needs to sip her tea like so, and Gabrielle is already chatting up a storm about the aforementioned gossip. Quite spiritedly, at that.

She’s so eager.

So desperate.

As if this is life or death, when it’s just another vapid method of filling space and passing time. Something to do as Hilise waits for the end of this loop.

How shall I attempt dying this time?

She considers, for a second, pushing Gabrielle into it. But with how Gabrielle is still yapping away, Hilise thinks it would be too tedious an avenue to pursue.

It’d be a change of pace, but she’s not like my father nor my brother. She doesn’t have the bloodlust nor the blood running through her veins.

(Or so she thought.)

“Sis!” Gabrielle exclaims, realizing that she is not being listened to. The indignance has her cheeks puffing out. “Are you paying any attention?!”

“I am,” Hilise says simply, thinking of puncturing those perfectly round cheeks with thorns. “It’s just—that I’m not interested. Sorry.”

“Why not?!” Gabrielle demands, more out of confusion than frustration. “Don’t you want to...?”

“No.” Hilise doesn’t care to hear the rest. “I don’t want to court, much less marry.”

There’s no point. I won’t be loved either way.

“Y-You can’t just stay alone forever,” Gabrielle points out shakily. “I mean, that’s just...that’s really... Hilise...”

Oh?

Is that pity?

Is that sympathy?

Is Gabrielle sad for her?

Hilise straightens up. She sets down her cup. She folds her hands into her lap. She stares, bores holes into Gabrielle’s twisted-up face from her trembling downturned lips to her downcast eyes.

Gabrielle is at a loss for words for once.

It’s quite the sight.

“Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle perks up immediately. Attentive. Outwardly anxious. Adorable. Precious.

“If I have you,” Hilise says smiling. “I won’t ever be alone, right?”

Gabrielle doesn’t smile back.

Not at first.

When she does, it’s clear she has to make an effort.

“O... Of course...!” She trips over her words. “You’ll always have me...!”

I think...

“I’m glad,” Hilise replies, still smiling. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Gabrielle insists. “We’re sisters, aren’t we? Obviously, I’ll always...”

When I get bored of this...

“...be with you...”

I’m going to throw myself off the roof without a bed of roses to embrace my fall.

She had dreamed of having a normal family once, but it was always a distant, childish dream. Even when given other chances, she had known on some level that it was impossible for her. That she wasn’t meant to be loved by her father and brother—it just couldn’t be helped.

As for Gabrielle, well—Gabrielle filled the void of beloved little sister and daughter. Even if it wasn’t Gabrielle’s fault, that was the simple fact of the matter. At least she was still innocent, Hilise thought.

And Gabrielle could be swayed and won over with such ease. What was the harm, then, in indulging a little? What was wrong with wanting some familial love? Even if it was shallow, it was Gabrielle.

Gabrielle was innocent and lovely, right? Everyone loved her for a reason. Even if Hilise couldn’t be her, she could be with her and pretend, if only for a moment, that Gabrielle loved her.

Gabrielle was bright. Gabrielle was lovely. Gabrielle—was never going to understand.

“You’ll die for Gabrielle’s sake, won’t you?”

Whatever sisterhood she may have wanted, had wanted dearly at that, was just another pipe dream.

There wasn’t much point in wanting it. Not when she was never going to get it no matter what she did. Illusions were always meant to fade and the loop was always going to restart.

“It’s fine, you can come back, so it’s fine. Just bear with dying one more time.”

Her father was always going to hate her. Ricardo was never going to love her. And Gabrielle, well—she was too innocent of the world. Even when she snapped, she was going to be sheltered and protected. Gabrielle could be persuaded to love her, but they weren’t ever going to inhabit the same world. Not when one of them only knew love and the other...knew nothing of the sort, even as she longed so much for it.

Whatever.

Just.

Whatever.

I think I’m done with everything, with both love and family, Hilise thought tiredly. I don’t even care anymore.

The truth is that I could have been fine never being loved. I just wanted someone to worry about me. Did I ever have that, even for a moment? Or was that just a delusion?

It didn’t matter anymore.

It didn’t.

She couldn’t do this anymore. Because regardless of the end, they’re never going to care about her.

Trash till the end, Hilise thought, exhausted. Still...do you want to know something? It wasn’t too bad to pretend for a bit. Thanks for that, Gabrielle.

But I’m still going to throw you away with everything else.

#Untouchable Lady #mahwa #Hilise Inoaden #Gabrielle Inoaden #Magi fics #Idk what to tag this

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cerastes · 4 years ago

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Nothing negative (it’s positive, if anything), just work (and life) related so under a cut so as to not clog the dash.

I am very, very lucky that my boss also happens to be my mentor. I understand the mentality of “your boss is not your friend” and I don’t invalidate the mindset, in fact, I think it’s a very wise mindset to have and one that ensures your safety, but I do think that different life experiences and no doubt a different culture breeds another conception and a different culture, I mean, I come from a small mining town, as I’ve mentioned before, everyone knew each other and the zeitgeist was very brutish but sincere: You do me wrong, I beat you up. You do us wrong, we beat you up.

It’s far from civilized and I am not saying this should be the norm everywhere, absolutely not, but... It worked for us, you know? Small communities have that sort of advantage, midst its endless pros and cons. No one that had the intention to really could afford to play dirty because everyone knew where each other lived, pretty much, bwahaha. Vivid memory from my teenage years, but someone once got wind that burglars were going to break into their house, so they called a ton of their friends, myself included, to lay in wait and beat the shit out of the burglars when they broke in. And we did. And the cops just laughed it off. Man, the more I think about it, the more I realize how brutish we were. I don’t have any regrets about that, though. Of course, it’s not all roses and laurels since small communities, again, have a lot of negatives to them. Anyways, I digress, the thing is, I consider myself fortunate that no boss of mine has ever been bad to me. I chalk it up to luck, context, and my personal qualities, but I’ve had productive experiences all around.

Which takes me back to the initial point: I’m thankful my mentor hired me and is my boss. What kind of boss sits down and makes a couple of videos to teach you and train you more on the job to do something you’re technically hired to do, and thus should find out how to do on your own? I don’t know, it’s kind of very moving, I said I have no bad experiences with bosses, right, but my life has been a series of “figure it out” and “sink or swim” situations, not to get grim, but I’ve had to kick my legs very damn hard to avoid sinking in the mud for years, only half exaggerating by alluding to the fact that it could’ve costed me my life had I not kicked hard and frequently enough. I can’t count on my hands the amount of times I’ve had to somehow figure something out or face dire consequences with no one to help me. Sure, it ingrained into me a strong sense of individuality and, eventually, confidence in my own abilities, but at the cost of other things I now have the maturity to admit I do not have. So to have a mentor/boss who goes out of his way to make videos on his own time to better explain something to me so I learn to properly do it and stuff, like, stuff worth money and time, acts and knowledge he definitely is under no obligation to bequeath unto me, I don’t know how to react, man, it’s foreign to me, it’s definitely not what I expected. It’s good, it feels good, I don’t know how else to put it, I’m extremely thankful, and it also puts into perspective, like, just what kind of life I had been living until 2020 that a gesture like this is enough to pull at my heartstrings. I’m not at all the type that needs or wants intimacy but god damn if stuff like this doesn’t pierce right through me, because it’s tangible, it goes beyond mere good wishes, and it’s fueled entirely by good intentions turned into something you can feel and grow from.

I’m just kind of overwhelmed by the turns my life has taken. I have no debt, I finished my major and magister’s without taking a loan, a combination of scholarship and frugality (because no fucking way I was going to get involved in student debt), endured a lifestyle that I hated with every last inch of my heart for years, rarely was able to get stuff for myself because education is expensive and I had to put most everything into it, struggled with suicidal depression and a number of attempts (as you can see, I was thankfully not successful, because I am unkillable and have too many lifebars), and one by one, those problems were destroyed by These Hands. I reverse order to the order I wrote them, in fact, now that I read back a little. If you take anything out of this, it is that your problems are, in fact, vulnerable to your efforts, and that you can and should kill them before they kill you. Things do get better. In any case, point is, I’m just shocked that life has become so... I don’t know, I’m just really enjoying it and I feel like good things have come my way. It’s not like 2020 was the year in which all became good suddenly, obviously, it’s just that, if you ask the me from 10 years ago, from 2011, when I was at my lowest, what’d they think I’d be doing 10 years from then, my answer would’ve been either dead or “I don’t know”, but that was also when I made the conscious decision to say fuck everything, this cannot go on, and to start fixing my trainwreck of a fucking life, bolt by bolt if I had to, so 10 Years Ago Me was actually cool as fuck, I think.

10 years later, I think I can say that I did a pretty good job.

But anyways, point is, it’s just weird to have a helping, teaching hand. It’s good, it just catches me the hell off guard. In a good way. It also puts me in checkmate in a way because if the help and care is provided out of nowhere, I don’t get the chance to polite decline it, bwahaha. Well, anyhow, lots of work needs to get done so I’ll get back to that now.

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spectrumed · 3 years ago

Text

3. sadness

Don’t be like that. Be like this, or be that other thing. Be unique, but don’t be too unique. Fit in, but try to be a rebel. Be a renegade, but don’t rock the boat. Don’t know what you are supposed to be? What? Do you have imposter syndrome or something? Just be yourself, but, y’know, sand down the edges a little bit. Be friendlier. Be the kind of person everyone likes. Be the life of the party! Don’t be some shut-in, some crazy cat-lady with absolutely zero social life. Don’t be sad. Don’t burden others with your sadness. Work to maximise the total happiness of your community. A smile goes a long way. Can’t smile? You really can’t help but being a sourpuss all the time? Well, I guess maybe that if you can’t help but stay in a perpetual bad mood bringing everyone else down… then maybe you should just stay isolated? Better stay alone, away from others. You’re toxic. You’re just so damned sad. You really must be quarantined.

I am sad, a lot of the time. Are you? But, no, you can’t just admit that you are sad. Don’t be a buzzkill, try to inject a little humour into the things you say. You can admit you’re depressed, if you do so with a joke. Don’t let others know you’re being sincere. Ironic jokes work the best, don’t they? They let you confess your secret gloom to everyone around, but they’ll never know just how serious you’re being. With a wink of the eye, any candid expression of your inner turmoil can become a hilarious post-modern gag. Are they or are they not telling the truth? Oh, I’ll never tell! And it will all work out excellent, up until the day you commit suicide. But every comedian’s time in the limelight has to end at some point, right?

This blog is supposed to be about autism spectrum disorder, why am I suddenly discussing depression? Well, I suppose that it is time we bring to the table this little thing called comorbidity. Psychology is messy. Some would argue that it is barely even a real scientific field (I tend to think that it is the best thing we have, but I acknowledge that in places, psychology is fundamentally flawed.) You may have thought that you’d get just one diagnosis. One simple label that you can work through and overcome. You’re bipolar, now go deal with it! But instead, you find yourself with a whole fistful of diagnoses. What to hear my proud list of diagnoses? Oh, please, don’t think because I am listing them this one certain way, I put them in order of relevancy to me. I love all of my diagnoses equally.

My diagnoses are:

Generalised Anxiety Disorder (GAD)

Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD)

Agoraphobia

Possible Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

Asperger syndrome (AS)

No, I was never officially diagnosed with depression, but largely because, at the time I received these diagnoses, my depression was so blatant that it felt as if I was walking around with a cloud of miasma surrounding at all times. Imagine me as Pig-Pen from Peanuts, but instead of being covered in dirt, I was covered in the funk of melancholy. And whatever treatment I would eventually go on to receive (and still am receiving to this day,) would go about treating my anxiety first, and hopefully, the depression would give in alongside the anxiety. It has, for the most part, though, I still feel the presence of that black dog from time to time. I also got only a half-hearted potential diagnosis of OCD, but later, during a trial of an antidepressant that had a freakishly negative impact on my psyche, it blossomed into a fully-grown attention-craving condition. Turns out that OCD can be a real hog for the spotlight, really not allowing any of the other diagnoses to take their turn on stage. Thankfully, when I got off that particular antidepressant, those symptoms stopped, but it has led me to be far more aware of my internal obsessive-compulsive thought patterns. For me, OCD largely lacks physical compulsions, but my mind is ablaze with intrusive thoughts, and I will routinely force myself to repeat certain phrases in my head to make them go away. The funny thing is, I never realised that wasn’t normal.

Diagnoses are an attempt to map out a spiders’ web of problems. Things come hand in hand. While I’m no psychologist, I can speak from the perspective of someone who has been through the psychiatric process, which I suppose, lends me a certain kind of expertise, doesn’t it? Maybe it really doesn’t. Maybe I’m just throwing words out there, thinking that I could serve a good purpose, but instead all I am doing is contributing to this great onslaught of digital disinformation we’re all suffering under. But I’m probably just too doubtful of myself. I am speaking about myself, after all. I’ve got first-hand experience in being myself. I know exactly what it feels like to own this skin, these bones, this heart, and this mushy brain of mine. I’m not claiming to know everything. I’m just claiming to know about this one sad individual writing this hoping it might allow someone to reblog my posts with the hashtag “relatable” one day.

Anxiety runs in my family. The neurosis demon gets passed down from generation to generation, only occasionally skipping a beat. My mother and I share many of the same neurotic quirks, though, she has for the most part of her life not had it to quite the excessive degree that I have it. I really took that genetic predisposition for anxiety and ran with it. And while I’m the only person in my family to have gotten diagnosed as being “on the spectrum,” there are a few members that I kinda sort of in a way actually quite seriously suspect might also be here somewhere on the spectrum. Still, as always goes with diagnosing, there’s no point in doing it unless the person is in need of some kind of treatment. I wholeheartedly believe that most people on the planet belong to one spectrum, be it an autism spectrum, a bipolar spectrum, a narcissism spectrum, even a schizophrenic spectrum, but diagnoses should be exclusively reserved for those who need psychiatric care. The world is a spectrum, and it’s worth noting that the terms “sane” and “insane” do not alone capture the complexity of the human psyche. A person can appear perfectly sensible, yet at some point in their life, they may have been a real silly little bugger who thought that their pet hamster was the reincarnation of the Buddha. Just as with physical health, one can struggle with one's mental health for one period in their life, only to later on in life feel utterly and entirely mentally healthy. Or, well, sadly in a lot of cases, people who were perfectly mentally healthy may suddenly become diagnosed with dementia. But that’s really sad, so let’s not talk about that.

Is it all genetic? Well, no. Or well, maybe? In regards to autism, I am pretty sure that, yes, it is genetic. While, yes, I do admit that I’m just a dummy on the internet, so what do I really know? And the brain is such a complex bit of mushy meat, so I could always be proven wrong. Though, I tend towards thinking that there most likely is principally a genetic factor to conditions like autism, or attention deficit disorder (and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder,) or things like bipolar disorder. But with anxiety, quite frankly, I can’t say how much of it is nurture and how much of it is nature. I mentioned that my mother and I share many of the same neurotic quirks, so that would imply that there is something in one's genes that can make some more prone to anxiety than others, but my mother does not struggle with agoraphobia, nor does she seem to have any obsessive-compulsive tendencies. In fact, in my family, even those that exhibit some element of heightened anxiety, they don’t seem to show any milder symptoms of this kind. I can’t help but feel as if these conditions I gained through that tortuous period of every boy’s and girl’s (and boy-girl’s) life is called puberty. I hate to conform to stereotypes but I did indeed hate being a teenager. Believe it or not, I wasn’t a jock, and no, I didn’t go to parties. I mostly spent my time crying.

The question that no doubt plagues every movie psychiatrist to no end is what kind of trauma must a person undergo to make them go mad? Abusive parents? Abusive uncles? Abusive teachers? Abusive dogs? Honestly, to be an adult raising a child must be rough, considering how any mistake you make might suddenly turn your little babe into a future serial killer. Now, there’s no doubt that there are some seriously terrible parents out there, and that a lot of people have mental woes that definitely came about due to their parents and their abysmal lack of parental care. But generally, how much can you actually blame on your parents? We know the cliché, let’s go sit down on the sofa and complain to our Freudian hack-shrink all about those times as a kid our dad missed the big game, or that time our mother embarrassed us in front of all of our friends. I have plenty of things to complain about my parents, like I believe we all have. Our parents are flawed, messy human beings, of course they occasionally made mistakes throughout our upbringings. But is that nearly enough to turn a person mentally ill? Putting up with an at times really embarrassing mom? No, I don’t think so. And of course, there are some real awful parents out there, I’m not doubting that. Trust me, I’m a fan of true crime, so I’ve heard some real grizzly stories of what some kids are forced to grow up with. But I am thinking that those instances are more rare than they are common. Most people with mental illnesses can most likely not blame their parents.

How ‘bout bullies? Yes, them bullies. Them awful mean bullies that made all of our lives so painful. It’s funny, it seems like every school had their own fair share of bullies, and yet no-one as an adult ever comes forward to admit that they themselves were the bullies. It’s almost like as if no-one ever thinks of themselves as being a bully, even when they are throwing rocks at that weird chubby kid with blonde hair who happens to be named Fredrik and who just wants to be left alone. Was I bullied? Well… yes. But I can’t say I got the brunt of it. I got bullied, but overall I’d say I only ever had it slightly worse than most people. I was still quite tall, typically taller than my classmates growing up, and for the most part I could roll with the punches. If you really want to talk about a kid I knew growing up that got bullied, let me tell you about this kid who knew all the right dances for all the right Britney Spears songs. He was gay, I think. Not quite old enough to have come out, I suspect, but, well... He liked all the female pop stars, but not in that way of wanting to kiss them and fondle their boobies, but in the “I want to sound just like them when I grow up” sort of way. I don’t know what happened to him (or them, or her, depending on how they identify now,) but that was real bullying. Like most folks, I found myself stuck in that limbo of seeing others get bullied far worse than me and being too cowardly to intervene, in fears that I’d end up taking their place. Yes, isn’t school just a marvellous place? It’s a wonder any of us turn out okay.

No, I think that, fundamentally, the problems I have arose with myself. This, blaming myself, is not something that I am unused to doing. I have a long history of blaming myself, that’s really the problem. As a teenager I knew that I was different, and I was frightened and scared of being exposed. I didn’t even really know what it was that was different about me, I just knew that I didn’t fit in. I felt as if I didn’t deserve to fit in. The older I got, the more intense these feelings got. And I started taking it out on myself. I started hating myself. And I really mean furiously hating myself. It wasn’t some casual self-loathing, it was searing self-hatred. I did not physically hurt myself, but I did engage with self-harm. I kept repeating the mantras of “I hate myself,” and “I am pathetic,” over and over again, with the ultimate goal of making myself cry. For a period, I couldn’t go to bed without making myself cry first. I began taking days off from school, pretending to be sick. Well, I suppose I was ill, but not physically. I began failing most of my classes, I only ended up doing well in art. I stayed away from school for whole weeks at the time. Once, when I shame-facedly returned to school some of the meaner boys came up to me and said that they were surprised to learn that I was still alive. They were surprised, but also a little disappointed.

This was a time in my life when I really needed psychiatric care. This became increasingly obvious to my parents, and my teachers. I was clearly suffering from depression. Not just some teenaged angst, but full-blown, wholly insidious, depression. But, well, I didn’t get the care that I needed. Oh, I did go to see a psychologist a couple of times, but she saw no reason for me to continue seeing her. I don’t know why she felt as if I wasn’t in need of help, frankly, I can’t fathom why she felt as if I wasn’t in need of help. I suppose I avoided telling her the truth of what went on inside of my head, but I feel like as if any good psychologist would have been able to tell that the kid sitting across from them was clearly suffering from something a tad more intense than just some common concerns about puberty. At most I was able to confess was that I was feeling ashamed over myself for getting so fat, but it should have been clear to anybody that I was only using that as a hook to hang my self-hatred on. There very clearly was some underlying condition that I had that should have gotten addressed. But it went ignored.

At most I can think to explain this is the fact that I wasn’t “problematic.” Not in the way some kids are, when they’re struggling with their mental health. I did not act out, I did not take drugs, and I was certainly not violent. Even to this day, though I have at many times suffered from suicidal ideation, I am a real low-risk for actual suicide considering my intense fear of dying (yes, that’s an odd combo to have.) So, I’ve come to realise that the only way I am getting treatment is if I actually seek out treatment. And back then, I was just as placid as I had previously always been. I was quiet and introverted, just desperate to get back home so I could go and hide in my room. Many teenagers are like that. And it is easy to ignore them, because they want to be ignored. They just don’t want to exist. When you are desperate to be left alone, eventually people will leave you alone. I would go on to receive psychiatric care later on my life, but only after several years passed. I did have a better time living in my later teenage years, but like with a bone that heals wrong, I needed someone to come in and sort me out. I was sad as a teenager, but I would become really sad as a twenty-something. Hopefully my thirties will be jolly.

#neurodiversity #neurodivergent #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health

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the-moon-prince · 4 years ago

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The Last Of us~Kurapika x Reader ~Chapter VI

AN: Hi my lovely fellows!

I’m glad to deliver the sixth chapter of my story! I want to thank you, from the bottom of my soul, for your support. It really means a lot to me!<3

I wish you a pleasant read, and I hope you’ll enjoy the new chapter of my story. (Chapter I) (Chapter II) (Chapter III) (Chapter IV )(Chapter V) (Chapter VII coming soon!)

Paring: Kurapika Kurta x GN! Reader

Word count: 2 449

TW: None!

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The buzzing sound of the alarm loaded Kurapika's ears.

This time it was not a "Tic-Tic" sound. It was an unfamiliar tune. Starting with sonsy drums and trumpets. The music was in crescendo with a chorus that sang "love, love, love" until a male voice sang

"There's nothing you can do that can't be done~"

"Nothing you can sing that can't be sung~"

A cheesy way to start the day. It was different from the rest of his mornings. It felt warm. Only it wasn't the kind of heat he habitually woke up wilting from a nightmare. It was the feeling of homely warmth and tenderness. Remembering the comparable emotion you have when you are unwell and your mother hugs you.

He sensed something twirl beside him, he began to open his somnolent eyes. That fatigue was not the usual either. Instead of a burning and stinging in the eyes, he felt a comfort he didn't want to abandon. The movements continued until they extended to the covers that surrounded him, to ultimately calm and recover a state of calm. The music ceased as well. It wasn't his pillow, it wasn't his bed, and the chamber was alien to him. It surprisingly smelled distinct. The first item he saw when his sight adjusted were frizzy (hair color) (curls/waves/strands). (Y/n) was standing on the left side of the bed. They had a bed-hair. He certainly wanted to see that goofy bed-hair very more often.

"Shhh shhh, sorry I disturbed you."-their voice was crispy.-"Go back to rest, I'll return a touch later to nudge you."

Kurapika allowed himself to a defeat and laid his head back on the pillow. Some seasons had passed since he had a restful night. He was able to hear the sound of an opening door for it to immediately close, followed by the flow of water. The door was opened again, and an extra further door gave a short crack noise. Kurapika doesn't quite recall how long it lasted, but (Y/n) returned to the room. They placed a cup of hot black coffee on the night table.

"What time is it?"-Kurapika groaned and tried to rejoin.

"Good morning sunshine, and it's 4:23 am"-they answered, sitting in bed with another cup in their hands.

"Why are you doing so early? Not even I arise that betimes."- He stirred early, he had to. But this seemed absurd.

"I must be in the psychiatric ward. I have patients who rely on me. I'll be exiting the home in a moment."-He was shocked at how composed they were, considering the events of the night before. They continued their routine impassively as if nothing disagreeable had occurred.-"Would you desire for me to drive you to the Nostrade mansion?"-(Y/n) suggested to him with a smile. He almost forgot he had to work that day.

"I will get prepared for the moment,"-He sat, resting his back on the bed frame, reaching for the coffee.”And your proposition would be convenient." The caffeine intake helped him shake the drowsiness off his mind.

"I would be amazed to propose to you something to eat, but I only possess chocolate robots at the moment. You don't exactly appear the type of person to have that for breakfast."-they provided an apologetic smile, half-joking half-ashamed.

"Do you ever eat something besides sweets?"-It was agreeable to joke a little in the mornings.

"I ate the flowers you gave me."-(Y/n) answered with the most solemn voice they could deliver. The first time in his 19 years of life that Kurapika heard something of that bearing.

"You ate them?"-Although it was evident that it was not a joke, it seemed so outlandish that he did not see another explanation.

"Yes! Peonies and carnations are edible! Although they taste sweet and fruity. So it might count as sweet." they affirmed smiling.

Sometimes the sincerity of that person perplexed him. They could say the most unthinkable things in the most sudden moments. Above all, with an enormous naturalness. He even wondered if they were even conscious that they did.

The handy part of sleeping dressed was that getting ready was rather quick. Once he put on the black jacket, the wrinkles on his shirt were hardly noticeable. Though, as much as he would love to stay and talk to (Y/n) all morning, the depart ended up arriving. What if the two of them could skip work with an excuse? It was possible. However, both were stiff with their obligations, so it was not feasible. Kurapika was going to show up pretty early for work, he didn't care if it meant to spend more time with (Y/n).

During most of the voyage, he stared at (Y/n) driving and chatting.

"You always use the same earrings." He remarked, staring at the drop-shaped pearl pendants dangling from their ears. They turned to see him and agreed.

"You also wear your red earrings every day."-they were getting close to the Nostrade's residency.

"You're not wrong."-Between spending the day with Neon or with (Y/n), he preferred the latest option by a lot.

"I rarely am, dear. I wish you a good day!"-Kurapika no longer remembered the last time someone wished him a good day in the morning.

8 pm, another day had passed. If Neon's attitude hadn't improved since the beginning of her therapy, Kurapika had no idea if he would still put up with her whims. Whoever worked for her without attempting against her life was a saint. However, his crusade hadn't ended yet, remote from that. The advantage of that specific job brought was being able to maintain close contact with the flesh trafficking industry. Kurapika was finally exiting through the vast gate of the Nostrade mansion. Being able to get to work on his vendetta again.

"Kurapika!"- a voice he knew fully squealed. He turned in the direction it came from, to make sure it wasn't a dream. He had his suspicions about working for Neon for so long that it gave him some variety of brain damage. Luckily not. It was (Y/n), running towards his direction, nearly stumbling in the middle of the path. If they were coming to him like that, something serious must have happened.

"(Y/n)! What are you doing here?! What happened?! Aren't you supposed to be on guard? Why didn't you call me? "-the blonde interrogated packed with worry.

They were panting laboriously, as they inclined on their legs to catch their breath and raised their index asking for a moment.

"I'm presumably to be on my pause, plus you weren't answering your cell phone..."-their face was darker due to the lack of oxygen-"I received information regarding a pair."- they murmured to be prudent. To avoid malicious overhears, they continued their chat in the car.

"I had a proposal from an acquaintance to purchase a pair of scarlet eyes!

The only setback is that it has to be tonight because he has another interested. For my part, with the ward, I'm available. I told the nurses that I would use my recess and would be back."- It was explicit that (Y/n) had already taken charge of organizing the plan so that it could be implemented immediately.-"Reasonably, I haven't confirmed the purchase yet. As the principal concerned I judged proper to tell you first."

"This is a fabulous opportunity, thank you (Y/n). Confirm our attendance."

It was agreed that the purchase would take place at 9 o'clock, In a black market shop located in YorkNew's downtown. The pair would cost 1,450,000 Jennys.

Although the connections and information of (Y/n) were trustworthy and had been valuable until the present day, Kurapika still wanted more information regarding the plan. He wanted to prioritize their safety.

"Where do you know the individual from?"- Kurapika hinted, trying to obtain information without directly doubting the references.

"I have... I've purchased articles from him before. I am a frequent customer, he maintains me abreast of his inventory as well as offers."- they informed.-"In those commerces, information travels at great speed. As I've been seeking information on the scarlet eyes, he found out."-He could then conclude it was a credible provider.

Since the dilemma was solved, he could ease a bit.-"In the first instance, when I listened to your voice, I believed I was hallucinating, and working for Neon for a prolonged amount of time had caused me brain damage!"-Kurapika laughed

"Oh! But it's plausible."-they did not understand it was merely a joke-"Chronic Stress produces autophagia in neural stem cells. Normally autophagia is a process to protect cells from unfavorable conditions through the digestion of inner cell materials. However, under certain circumstances, this survival method degenerates into self-destruction. Essentially, the neural cells commit suicide, concluding in brain damage. Plus, chronic stress enhance the risk of neurodegenerative diseases like Alzheimer's disease."-It sometimes was bothersome to date a psychiatrist...-"Even if it was only a pun, I'm a tad concerned about you, Kurapika."-At the end, they got the joke, they were just being a doctor.

Kurapika couldn't decide whether to be frustrated for his joke or flattered that (Y/n) cared so much about him.

At the accorded place an hour, they entered the shop. An old man with big glasses and a suit greeted them.

"Mx. (Y/n)! It's always pleasant to see one of my favorite customers!"-his voice was croaky and rusty.-"I'm glad you accepted the offer."

The elder was very polite towards (Y/n).

"Helle Mr. Richard, I may say the same. I brought Kurapika with me, my bodyguard,"-the same strategy as the previous times.-" he will accompany us."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr.Kurapika."-the rusty voice spoke once more.-"Since we are dealing with a more elegant object, it is stored in the back room. Be so kind to accompany me there."- the so-named Richard pointed at a big wooden door at the back of the store as he directed it.

He opened the door for them after they were all inside, closed the door again. Richard sat at the end of a big ornamented oak desk. There were also oak chairs with padding on the other side of the desk. The man motioned for them to sit down. He continued to pull out the vials with the pair of scarlet eyes.

"Both of you can confirm that they are authentic. And the agreed price was 1,450,000 Jennys"-The white-haired senior placed the vials in the middle of the table and reached out his hand, waiting for the money.

(Y/n) took out of their customary side-bag an envelope to deliver it with both hands. The elder took it and pulled out the cash and began to count. All the actions were carried upon the table and in the view of all presents.

"Everything is perfect, as always. Thanks, always a pleasure to do business with you Mx-"

The sentence was interrupted by a loud crash.

The wooden door had been knocked down, and a group of armed men began to enter the place. With the loud noise (Y/n) swiftly took the vials with the scarlet eyes and pressed them protectively.

"What is happening here, what is this intrusion into my establishment?!"-Richard exclaimed, his voice sounding even rustier.

"These two attacked one of the associates some time ago."- One of the men, presumably the head of the gang, spoke. He had a sloppy beard and reeked of cheap tobacco. He also had a disastrous taste for fashion. He wore a tacky shirt with half the buttons unbuttoned, garish orange fishnets that didn't match at all, and a vulgar red hanky that was sticking out of his shirt's pocket.

"Both of you, don't move. The information runs around here."-the men approached to talk directly to Kurapika and (Y/n).-"We learn that a pale man with blond straight hair wearing a suit and a (skin/color) person with (hair color) (curly/wavy/straight) hair who dressed pretentiously with flowers, both searching for scarlet eyes, attacked one of our sellers. What do you think, we were not going to find you?"-the pestilence was even more intense up close.-"The boss is not far away. You'll see, duo of idiots."

The situation was complicated, Kurapika couldn't use most of his chains if it wasn't against the Spiders. (Y/n) could only use Misericordiae, since they did not know the attackers adequately to use their distinct technique. Plus with the one they had available, they couldn't kill. There was the possibility of a melee attack. Only it was the least viable option. Kurapika would have to use his scarlet eyes or (Y/n) use their feline form. It involved putting their identities in jeopardy, and they still didn't know if the circumstance was desperate to get to that point. The best choice was to divert the group of men to head to the window and jump to escape. The reversal was that to minimize the damage from the shattered glass, they would have to shield themselves with both arms.

"(Y/n), leave the eyes. I'll use my Dowsing Chain to move the enemies aside and leave by the window."-Kurapika bossed after a moment of reflection. It was still the option with the highest probability of success.

"No, these eyes belong with you. I'm not leaving without them."-(Y/n) growled. They had a look of pure completion, almost as if that judgment contained all their credos compressed.-

Kurapika couldn't avoid conjuring "This is the worst moment to unleash their stubbornness."-"(Y/n), listen to me!"-he was starting to lose his patience.

"No! I have an approach. Trust me please."-(Y/n) glanced down at their left hand, laced with white ribbon. It was gradually diffusing across the carpet.

Before any action could be taken, a man, much properly dressed-The leader of the deluded men's ball, most likely.- entered the room yelling with a deep crusty voice and a foreign intonation.

"Okay pack of idiots. That in the end, you did your silly duty. Where are the two rats?".-The man was flat and plump. He was middle-aged, with a round face, almost bald. He was dressed in a semi-formal, dark gray suit: he wore a geometric patterned tie and matching tissue in his vest's pocket. He entered taking big steps and turned to Kurapika and (Y/n).

At the moment he saw them, his eyes widened, and voiced full of shock.

"(Y/n)?!"

#kurapika imagine #kurapika #hunter x hunter #kurapika kurta #kurapika hxh #hxh #hxh x reader #kurapika kurta x reader #kurapika x reader #hxh scenarios

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galaxythreads · 4 years ago

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Thor (Thor: TDW)

Muted.

Thor in the Dark World is muted. I don’t mean this in a negative way. Thor has undergone a brutal beating since his first steps onto MCU.

When the movie opens, we’re seeing the aftermath of Thor’s family in ruins. Thor has disowned Loki. Maybe not verbally, maybe he’s not even aware that he’s done so, but Thor has denounced his brother. His best friend. Closest confidant. A person he could rely on for decades.

And this leaves him utterly miserable.

He’s trying to distance himself from everyone. He won’t talk to the Warriors or Sif, he barely speaks with his parents.

Odin keeps handing out unhelpful advice about romance, as if trying to throw Thor into functioning again by making him care for a woman. Odin could have cared less about Thor’s romantic interests in Thor 1. But when we arrive here, Odin is suddenly all over Thor/Sif. (And yes, I absolutely believe this is Odin also attempting to sway Thor away from a mortal. He wouldn’t have called Jane a goat otherwise.)

But Thor and Sif’s relationship has always struck me as more of a brother and sister thing than romance. And Odin trying to get them “together” must have been awkward and uncomfortable for both of them. (Small side note, but Sif avoids Odin the entire movie. Even in the middle of a battle, where she is a general in the army, she avoids him.)

How is Thor supposed to discuss anything he’s feeling with a mother who’s focused on his sibling, and a father who could care less about said brother, but also him? Odin’s attempt to “help” is assuming he knows everything. Including how to fix Thor’s problems.

There’s a reason Thor says “my father doesn’t know everything.”

Thor’s main motivation, main joy is his family. The “death” of Odin destroyed him in the first movie, and Loki’s suicide left him broken. Thor’s purpose for a thousand years was utterly obliterated in three days.

Loki arrives in the Avengers, and Thor makes an attempt to reach him. When Loki doesn’t reach back (can’t, because of the Other, but Thor doesn’t know that), Thor tries to keep a distance after their initial conversation, and keeps that mindset well into the second movie.

We are not told whether or not Loki was allowed visitors, but it’s safe to assume that he wasn’t.

If this is the case, then Thor wasn’t even legally allowed to talk to Loki, and get his side of the story. And without that perspective, Thor can only make assumptions. Disownment, was, I think, the easier path for him. It doesn’t hurt if it’s not his problem anymore, right?

So he delves into distractions to avoid how his family has broken.

Helping maintain order in the Nine. Doing anything to avoid Asgard and Loki.

Even Jane, to an extent, falls under this. His concern for her is, I think, is sincere. I also think that he thinks of himself and Jane as his most “ideal” life right then. When he was with Jane, thinks weren’t great, but they were better. It’s almost like Jane is his comfort daydream.

But rather than approach her and talk, he maintains a distance. How can Thor think of Jane, be with Jane, without thinking of this:

“If you destroy the bridge, you’ll never see her again!”

Because in the middle of their falling out, in the middle of Loki’s attempt to get Thor to kill him, he has to stop and think about Thor’s happiness.

Thor must have been rattled, later, when he thought about this. Because I doubt that Thor doesn’t think about this day often.

So he shuts down emotionally in an effort to survive. Thor can’t even cry at his mother’s funeral. He barely smiles at anything, even seeing Jane, the first woman we’re aware of that he sincerely loves, fails to cause him joy.

He’s emotionally closed off, almost half-dead in his responses in TDW. The terror he feels at the thought of getting close to anyone whispers through his every action. In avoiding Jane, Darcy, and co. In pulling away from his family, and his friends.

And because of this, the Warriors and Sif are so protective of Thor in this scene:

“If you even think about betraying him...”

This, I think, has very little to do with Loki physically harming him. This is them inadvertently saying, Thor is fragile right now. Thor has barely spoken to them in the movie at this point, but even they recognize that Thor has been emotionally crippled.

And Loki spends almost their every minute from when he leaves the cell trying to get a rise out of him. Mockery, jibes, anger. Anything to get him responding. Loki, I believe, thinks that Thor’s apathy is used to punish him, but this is Thor’s only coping mechanism. To have someone push him from there is as scary as it is a relief.

Because this is when Thor starts responding. Living.

This says so much about their bond, broken and jagged edges at this point, that the simple fact of talking to each other, even in anger, seems to offer so much relief as much as it does pain.

And it’s here, in this scene, that I think that Thor claims Loki as his brother again. Not in so many words:

“I wish I could trust you.”

I wish we could be what we were. Do you remember? When we were brothers?

And Loki doesn’t miss a beat. “Trust my rage.”

Things can’t be the same. But I will still help you.

Thor realizes here that his family isn’t gone. Loki calls him brother frequently. Thor may have lost his mother, his father in every what that matters, and Asgard is under threat, but he still has Loki.

The relief of this causes Thor to start living. He’s far more animated after this scene than the earlier part of the movie. Thor starts reacting. He cries when Loki dies. He mocks Malekith and goads him into battle. When he leaves Asgard, he goes to Jane.

He allows himself to be emotional vulnerable with her.

He’s gone full circle.

Closed off to tentatively opening again.

Thor 2 is Thor’s weird bounce and hop around the healing process. This is where he recovers from the emotional weight of the Avengers and the first Thor. It is, I think, the first time he processes everything that’s happened.

An emotional shut down to a hesitant opening again.

#marvel #thor analysis #mcu analysis #thor #loki #the dark world #odin fam #thor feels #jane/thor #jane foster #loki's suicide Thor 1 mentioned

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samwpmarleau · 4 years ago

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What do you think causes some targaryens go mad. I go with the theory that it has to do with the blood magic that they were doing

It’s a common misconception that “Targaryen madness” is a thing. Targaryens have no more “mad” people in their family than anyone else, it’s just that they are much higher profile than anyone else due to being monarchs. In fact, they really should have a much higher count and a whole lot more deformities, given that the IRL families they’re based on — primarily the Ptolemys and the Hapsburgs — had a lot of that.

In 300 years of known Targaryen history, there were only a handful who could be considered “mad,” and almost all of them were in part or in whole a result of trauma:

Maegor

Was likely conceived through some dark magic by Visenya, or was possibly just a psychopath.

Helaena

Victim of Blood and Cheese. They killed the guards at her door, took her and her three young children hostage, forced her to choose which of her sons would die and if she didn’t then her daughter would be raped and all three children would be killed, so she ended up choosing her youngest son who was too young to know what was happening but they killed her eldest instead.

Then she was held for half a year in captivity and finally committed suicide (or was murdered) at age 21. I’d go “mad” too, wouldn’t you?

Aegon III

Grew up in the midst of a civil war. At the age of just 9, he fled with his younger to Essos, but their ship was attacked by pirates and the only way to escape was on his dragon with Viserys left behind. The dragon died of injuries once returning to Dragonstone and Aegon never rode one again due to the experience.

A few months later, his brother led an attack against the people who took Viserys and died in the attempt. A few months after that, another brother was killed in a riot in King’s Landing, which Aegon witnessed.

After returning with his mother to King’s Landing later from Dragonstone, he saw charred corpses of Rhaenyra’s loyalists hanging from the gates, cried out for his mother to flee, watched her guards get slaughtered, and then witnessed her get devoured by Sunfyre, her dragon.

Ascended to the throne and had to deal with an endless parade of would-be regents who were scheming, plotting, and assassinating.

In 133, lived throug the Winter Fever that killed many, including his Hand of the King. This all happened before the age of 13, at which point his wife, Jaehaera, committed suicide or was murdered.

He eventually died of consumption (tuberculosis) at age 36.

Baelor I

Peaceful, forgiving, and kind to the smallfolk, though did lock up his sisters in the Maidenvault to prevent temptation.

Brokered peace with Dorne to bring them into the Seven Kingdoms without bloodshed.

Became a bit more loony later, but that could be due to all the snake bites he endured while rescuing his brother in Dorne. Eventually died of fasting when Daena gave birth to a bastard.

On the fence whether he was some kind of religious extremist or whether he was just Like That.

Rhaegel

Called mad, but not really. He had some kind of intellectual disability, yet a) he was still regarded as “sweet” and “gentle” (not that those traits are necessary to being “not mad”) and b) had three children with his wife who all appeared to not inherit his condition, in addition to three brothers and their children who also did not show signs, therefore suggesting it was not something he inherited or passed down, merely a fluke.

Aerion

Likely mad. Though interestingly, for a very long time he was just a supreme douchebag; it wasn’t until he was 40 years old that he did the whole thing about thinking himself a literal dragon and dying by drinking wildfire.

Maelys Blackfyre

Vicious, brutal, and incredibly strong. Possibly mad...or could just be a beefier version of Tywin.

Aerys II

Obviously the Targaryen most people cite as the first example of madness. For good reason, of course; you don’t burn people alive and brutalize your wife if you’re sane.

...however.

Was married off to his sister, neither of whom was fond of the other, at just 14 and Rhaella was 13. Became a king at the pretty young age of 18.

In his youth, he was charming, generous, resolute, and ambitious. He liked music, dancing, and masked balls, though was not the most intelligent person, which was partially why he relied so much on Tywin. Of course, there was also the incident with Joanna Lannister (not rape, as many believe, but certainly groping).

The madness started to appear with each successive stillbirth, miscarriage, and child death, to the point where he would behead Rhaella’s wet nurses and then his mistress, though after all that he changed his mind, did a walk of repentance, and swore to be faithful. In short, he was an asshole and sometimes ruthless (again, it should be noted: is any of that much different than Tywin?), but certainly not yet the monster he would become.

Then came the Defiance of Duskendale, wherein many of Aerys’s guards were killed and he was taken hostage for six months with constant threat of execution. This ordeal led to him sequestering himself in the Red Keep for four years and his mental state deteriorated quite rapidly from there.

So, was he mad? Absolutely, there’s no denying that. But at the same time, I’m not so sure that he would have become quite so monstrous and tyrannical as he is in canon had it not been for the trauma of Duskendale.

(Also, I know he has a reputation of paranoia and all, but is it really paranoia if lots of people are out to get you?)

Viserys

The only evidence we have for Viserys showing signs of madness as a boy is Barristan’s statement that is done 20 years later in retrospect. I sincerely doubt that a 7-year-old child was some mini-Aerys and that like a lot of Barristan’s statements and thoughts, he is not being truthful.

Growing up, he was forbidden to be alone with his mother and witnessed at least some of his father’s atrocities, though Rhaella tried to shield him from it. Likely had little interaction or bonding with Rhaegar, who was 17 years older and an extreme introvert, so he was functionally an only child.

At the age of 7, learned that his father, brother, sister-in-law, and two infant cousins were killed, and fled with Rhaella to Dragonstone. Eight months later, Rhaella died in childbirth and he, baby Dany, and Willem Darry fled in the night to exile in Essos.

Five years later, when Viserys was 13, Willem Darry dies, the servants steal what little money they had, and Viserys is left to fend for himself with a 5-year-old sister in tow. They end up having to live off the generosity of others, all while being pursued by Robert’s assassins. Eventually the people who put them up turned from them and they had to sell their possessions, the last of which was Rhaella’s crown: “the last joy had gone from him, leaving only rage.” To add insult to injury, people started calling him the beggar king.

We know the rest, of course. Though his and Dany’s relationship was warm at the beginning, he began to blame her for Rhaella’s death and took out his anger and their plight on her.

So, was Viserys mad? I think that to a degree, we can say he was. But again, while his actions towards Dany are NOT excusable, I think they are explainable. Viserys suffered extreme trauma from a very early age and throughout the rest of his life, and that would have a profound impact on anyone. It’s my belief that had that not happened, Viserys would have not have been the rageful, abusive person we see in canon.

In sum, unless I’m missing someone, there are a grand total of nine Targaryens who are often deemed “mad” or “addled.” Two of those — Aegon and Helaena — are most definitely trauma-induced. One — Rhaegel — had mental issues. Two — Baelor and Maelys — are up for debate. Two — Maegor and Aerion — are I’d say pretty definitively mad. And two — Aerys and Viserys — are a combination of both.

To answer your question, no, I don’t think the madness is from blood magic (other than Maegor), both because of the circumstances and because to my knowledge no one was practicing blood magic. I think the handful of Targaryens who are “mad” is just luck of the draw.

#house targaryen #asoiaf #maqois

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alltingfinns · 4 years ago

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Part 2

John crestfallen at what looks like another sign of Sherlock not caring. Except Sherlock obviously sees it differently, time is of the essence and this is probably not the first kidnapping case he’s seen.

He looked through the fairy tale book probably because it was noticably out of place.

“Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment”. So close to Jim’s method.

Oh God. Sherlock telling the John mirror that they’re better off avoiding relationships since at least one attempt involved a master criminal. At this point John is avoiding relationships but will soon enough meet “Mary”. Also worried about his interest in Sherlock who has the air of menace drawn thickly around him.

Did that sentence even make sense?

The modern equivalence to ACD Sherlock knowing the origin of soil samples.

“Thank you John” “Actually I’m just his mirror”

Keeping a sharp eye on John so the mistake seems more psychological than visual.

He looks upset when she says she doesn’t count. Just because he doesn’t like her romantically it doesn’t mean he doesn’t value her as a friend. He’s just really bad at valuing his friends. But also she might be so long gone on him that his lack of reciprocation is seen as an all out rejection.

Oh God the quick shots of the kids eating the poisoned chocolate. That’s my fill of horror for the holiday.

“Not be myself.”

Collar goes down.

I wonder how Jim faked a Sherlock to traumatize the girl.

We know Anderson’s theory on that from TEH, latex perfection.

Sherlock being subjected to the “they’ll think you’re crazy or lying if you say anything” quick show of “I O U”. Also known as the dancing frog effect.

Sally fishing for a reaction because she needs a bit more than a hunch and a screaming child to go on. But keeping it subtle enough that you have to be Sherlock Holmes to fully pick up on it and deduce what she might be thinking.

John being snubbed but it’s like other times. Sherlock is going into danger and needs to keep John out of the firing line. Not the first or last time he pulls this stunt.

Next on fairy tales with Richard Brook: The Story of Sherlock and His Very Bad and Downright Awful Evening.

Wonder if being found with a dead body is going to compound his situation? I mean, obviously he didn’t have a gun and the guy was shot from a distance, but at this point it’s the rumors that matter not the facts.

Been a while since I saw TPLoSH, but wasn’t that the one where dust was part of his filing system?

“Can’t kill an idea”

The breaking point. The wrong conclusion I wrote in the last post. Here it is.

He thinks what would upset John is being duped by Sherlock into liking/praising/admiring him.

I want to write a bigger thing about it, although I can’t imagine that the subject has gone unexplored in the fandom.

Sherlock is the one doubting in this scene. Doubting that John sees him for more than the Persona.

Remove the Persona, and John’s affection goes with it.

But John isn’t just there for the clever man in The Hat. Coat collar up or down, he cares for Sherlock.

The doubt will unfortunately not die here, or The Hat wouldn’t have such a pronounced presence in future episodes.

Are English gingerbread men always that thick? Then again it’s possible we just generally bake them thinner in Sweden, judging from a couple of German cookie cutters I have that doesn’t quite work on the level of thin we usually bake.

John standing up for him throughout this scene while Sherlock just quietly accepts it.

Am I even going to make it to the rooftop?

Both John and Sherlock get such good smash cut scenes in this episode.

“A good friend bails you out of jail, a best friend sits next to you and say ‘We fucked up.’”

The way Lestrade underreacts to the situation is amazing.

Once again on Gun Safety with Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade’s face in his hands. Sherlock’s very tired dad/babysitter.

“Now people will definitely talk”

Priorities, John!

They’re going to need to coordinate. Good thing that they at least can do that in life or death situations, because they’re terrible with it otherwise.

“A lie that is preferable to the truth.” Also known as every straight Sherlock reading, because people can’t deal with their hero being gay.

Interesting that the guy got shot just as Sherlock lowered his gun. As in after he got the information. He wasn’t shot by one of the others. This is the work of Moriarty’s shooter.

I thought from the look on Sherlock’s face when John mentioned Brook that he had an idea who it was. But apparently not.

So the money was good enough that he’d risk jail time but still not enough that he wouldn’t risk the wrath of his ex-employer, the master criminal, for what she could get him? Sherlock was right on the money in his analysis of her. Not smart or trustworthy, just hungry.

Oh her look of pity to John. Like he’s the one that was duped.

A folder with printouts. That’s her big cache of evidence?

For Christ’s sake, her character in The IT Club is smarter than this!

And to top off her character she does a pathetic repeat of Sherlock’s insult to her and then John brushes her aside.

Wrap up a lie in the truth. There are way too many good lines in this episode.

“If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, that I think I am, would you still help me?”

So close to the actual question he has for John but will never ask.

Mycroft doesn’t actually believe in the key code nonsense, does he? Both Holmes brothers can’t be this blind on matters of cyber security.

This scene was at the end of THoB, which doesn’t have to mean anything timewise, granted. But I sincerely doubt a hypothetical key code was of concern.

Are there any updated versions of M theory around? I think I saw some new idea about Mycroft being in charge rather than Moriarty, but I still get the impression that these scenes happened even if no key code was involved. So why did he really have Moriarty slapped around?

“Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and you have given him the perfect ammunition.”

Wasn’t there a theory that Mycroft manipulated John into Sherlock’s path because he thought the doctor could save his brother?

Jim used the code to change his identity in the records. You seriously think Kitty checked the records, rather than taking him at his word and printouts?

Even then, Jim has worked with someone who knows what the record keepers like. No need for a magical key code.

Ah yes, about ten characters of binary. The ultimate key code!

“No. Friends protect people.”

People is John.

I personally love coming up with names with hidden meanings, so that’s probably what I would have picked too.

On the one hand he brought back the scary SUDDEN SHOUT he terrified me with in TGG, but on the other hand he used it to say “doofus”.

“Ordinary Sherlock”. This scene must have been fun to act.

Mrs Hudson assuming that John’s back because Sherlock did something clever and made it alright.

“Police! ...sorta”

Sherlock has already set Lazarus in motion, but the possibility of not having to leave John if he can get to Jim has to be explored.

Faked suicide like the bride. I don’t blame Sherlock for not seeing it. He’s running on no sleep, more adrenaline than blood in his veins and someone just seemingly shot himself in front of him. Not to mention the overall pressure he’s under.

The little laugh when he can’t make John doubt him.

Everything’s blurry.

“I researched you”. Subtle slam at Elementary?

Oh God their hands reaching.

“He’s my friend” with his voice breaking

“Say it now.” “I can’t.”

Mrs Hudson outangering John is the levity needed now.

“Stop this.”

Things are blurry again.

Risked being seen just to see John one last time and hear his words.

And I need to wash my face.

I also remembered that Sherlock talked of a lookalike in TEH, but I’m keeping my musing on Sherlock faking for transparency. Also I’m too lazy to go back and edit.

#rebecka’s sherlock rewatch #sherlock #johnlock #tjlc #sherlock meta #save john watson #m theory #the Holmes brothers need to learn a bit about databases and programming

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nahalism · 4 years ago

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Im about to be 32 in the upcoming weeks. For the past three years i was in and out of psychosis. I lost everything my job, my girlfriend, my art and creativity, my very way of thinking and interfacing with the world at large. I have never been so unhappy and frustrated in my entire life. I dont want to attempt suicide again at the moment because my last attempt was unsuccessful and only complicated my life. I dont know what to do anymore, what should i do?

i can’t tell you what you should do, thats something you have to answer for yourself — but to be completely frank, the only thing thats ever helped me pull myself out of dark spaces was the knowledge that no one was coming to save me, and that whilst people may be fond of me and care for me, my suffering is only ever experienced by me, and so can only ever be my suffering. if i go, the world keeps spinning. and even if it was the world that caused my pain, it would be my negligence of myself, my dreams and the things that capture my truest attention, that caused my downfall, not the hand i was dealt or the circumstances that shaped me. now whilst im sure that sounds harsh, i find liberation in that. first in choosing to be accountable for all aspects of my life, and second in knowing that the world does keep spinning. and that everything that matters so deeply to humanity as individuals, is completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. the world is in process, it is in creation: and whilst the past may set a precedent, the present has no need for the past, and actually, in order to remain in a space of creation may do well to relinquish it completely.

so, the same goes for you. if you were to start anew, unburdened from the weight of your memories, or from the expectation and comparison built up off of who you are, who you were, who you could have been, what you are yet to become: what would you do? who would you be? | and those questions and that thinking formed the basis for a mental role play id put myself through each day. ‘if i were to end it all in exactly an hour from now, what would i fill that hour with? what would thrill me? what would give me pleasure, even if only momentary? who could i be? what could i do?’. and at the end of each hour, i’d go again. at first, it was bucket list stuff. skydiving, rollercoasters, bungee jumping, maybe even just good food, a walk in the park, the smell of petrichor: but one day, that hour marker slipped and turned into, ‘what will i do today?’ then, ‘what will i do this week, this month, this year’. and before i knew it i was making whole plans for my life, finding myself in unrecognisable situations (cause even though rollercoasters arent hard to go on i had no verve to get up and put myself in the place for it to happen), and eventually you wind up imagining yourself in roles and positions that you had once lost all faith of yourself ever being in. thats how dreams begin. so whilst anhedonia may make that challenging, i highly recommend that exercise or exercises that provoke and challenge the imagination.

so yeaa, it is important to feel and process what once was, even how past events may have impacted your perception of yourself and the world: but once acknowledged, accept it for what it is, & begin the process of forgiving both yourself and the people who had a hand in how things panned out. break all cycles of animosity, doubt and regret by making space for inner harmony to emerge and for the child in you to play and be excited by real life and what the real world, not our constructed one, has to offer. get on one accord with yourself, show up for you, do the small work, and do it proudly. speak to yourself as both a parent, sibling, friend, lover, saviour and child. respect your vision and the unique intellect your life experience has gifted you with. know that that which can be lost or threatened has no place by your side. dare to take the first step in the direction of what feels true, even if you dont know what that is or where it leads to, and trust that as you tread your path, it doesnt matter if you can only see the next two steps, the rest will illumine itself in due time. have faith, have courage, and i sincerely hope you decide to stay here with us, because there is a magic that comes from people who have known suffering, and who have not only lived with it, but found redemption in it. and one day, there may be someone who feels as you once did, and who needs to see your example, hear your voice, your words, your story. remember that.

sending you buckets of love, and rooting for you <3

#apologies for the time i took to reply but as always it was necessary to mean it. feel free to dm me at any time xx #ask

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kaesaaurelia · 4 years ago

Text

here’s your shining sword and spear

For @whumptober2020 day 19: "Broken Hearts” (and incorporating all three suggested themes, “grief,” “mourning loved one,” and “survivor’s guilt”)

Allusion to Satan/Crowley, brief mention of an ill-fated OC / OC pairing, and an OC having a one-sided crush on Michael.

This fic has a companion piece about Crowley here that focuses more on Satan/Crowley and what Hell was like just after the war, but you don’t need to have read that to read this.

Content warning for discussion of a failed suicide attempt, and for Heaven being a toxic work environment.

"It's not too late to stay here," Vehuel said, hopefully. "I'll go for you and that way you can just do whatever you want until we get back."

"No, no, I have to go, Lucifer wants me there," said Gadreel, glowing with pride. "I'm his favorite."

Vehuel bit back a remark about this; they'd had this discussion too many times already, about how Lucifer treated his favorites, and about how Gadreel deserved better than that. He could be as proud as he wanted of what Lucifer said to him, but Lucifer was careless and cruel, and used flattery very deliberately, and Vehuel hoped very much that he would be remade into a better version of himself after all this. Perhaps a version with less authority over Gadreel. A version that would grovel in apology for the deeds of his predecessor, and would never make anyone tremble with fear because they'd made a very small mistake with gravity that hadn't even been permanent, and that would also maybe stand still while Vehuel punched him. That seemed fair; it wasn't like Vehuel could hurt him, after all. But it would be cathartic. "I'm sure he wouldn't want you to get hurt for his sake, then," Vehuel lied. "Since he likes you so much." Gadreel's wings flicked in irritation, because he knew that wasn't true, but he didn't dare call her on it.

"I'll be fine," Gadreel insisted. "And besides, I'd love to see the look on that wanker Gabriel's face when we storm in and take Heaven. Aren't you looking forward to that?

"Yeah, I guess," she said. She did kind of want to see Gabriel's face when it turned out she'd been the one to save all of Heaven from Lucifer's poorly-thought-out plan. (Gabriel would not be there; he and all his underlings would miss the entire war for a lengthy meeting of the Human Design Team. He would never see Vehuel as anything but a troublesome and suspicious remnant of Lucifer's forces.) "I'm just worried something bad will happen to you," she said.

"You're always worried something bad will happen to me and it never does, Vehuel, I don't know why you think I can't take care of myself," said Gadreel. Vehuel stopped herself from reminding him of the time he'd almost licked a raw singularity. She would regret that restraint later. "Besides, God told you not to worry, didn't She?"

Vehuel snorted; she knew he was being difficult for difficulty's sake. "I thought we were disobeying Her now?" she asked, with an ironic twist of her spirals.

"I'm just saying," he said. "Anyway, why don't you lend me some of your eyes? Then I could see trouble coming."

If he saw trouble coming, Vehuel knew, he'd leap right into it. "I really don't want to, sorry," she said, drawing her wings over herself nervously, to hide some of the glow of her halo. At least Gadreel wouldn't doubt her sincerity. He didn't know she had the mysterious thing Michael had given her, the Weapon. It ought to have made her more confident, but it frightened her that Michael thought she'd need it. "I'm kind of worried I won't be able to take care of myself?" she admitted.

"What?" he asked, sounding almost outraged. "No! Why? You're bigger and meaner than me, I need the eyes more."

"No, you're definitely meaner than me," she said. "Remember what you did to poor Len?" She'd been very sad about Len breaking up with her, sure, but it wasn't really his fault she was clingy and annoying and didn't love him enough.

"He deserved it," said Gadreel. "It was justice. It's not really meanness if it's deserved, is it?"

"I don't think anyone really deserves to be tied to a comet and left for a few million years until he's missed at the next all hands meeting," Vehuel said.

"Sure they do! Anyway, you're still bigger than me."

"By a smidge, Gadreel, it won't matter if either of us has to fight -- I don't know, Michael or someone like that." She prayed Gadreel would have the good sense never to fight Michael, and knew in her heart that Gadreel would never have any good sense. "Listen, how about you stay in front and I go behind you and watch out for anyone trying to sneak up. We'll work together." They always worked well together, even when they weren't getting along.

"Oh, fine," he said, rolling his (apparently insufficiently numerous) eyes. "But you'd better pay attention."

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you!" she said.

"You'd better not," he warned her. "I won't let you forget it if you do."

"I know, that's why," she said, shoving him. "You'll be fucking insufferable for eternity otherwise."

"I'm going to be fucking insufferable for eternity anyway," he said proudly.

Gadreel might be an idiot, but he was her idiot, and even if she was planning to betray the rest of them, she would never let anyone hurt him. So when he'd lunged at an archangel like a nitwit as soon as they got to Heaven, she pulled out the strange, sharp Weapon that Michael had given her to deter Lucifer from hurting her. If it could deter Lucifer from doing something cruel, of course it would be able to deter Gadreel from doing something stupid.

Michael had neglected to mention, however, that it would carve through his spirals like he was nothing but a dust cloud, cutting him nearly in half. He looked back at her, terrified and betrayed, and then some stupid seraph knocked Vehuel out of the way to get at somebody more important, and though she looked for Gadreel the whole time, she didn't see him again.

Vehuel was just being released from the hospital when the Archangel Michael came to see her. This would be her third set of wings; the first had been sheared off by a comet Lucifer hadn't warned them about, and the second had burned up in a supernova she'd thrown into the middle of the battlefield. She wondered how long her third set would last.

"We've decided to give you a metal," said Michael. "For your bravery."

It hadn't been bravery. It had been pretty much the opposite of that. "Thank you," she said, curling tightly in on herself. "What... um, what does that mean exactly?"

"It's a new concept," said Michael brightly, and Vehuel couldn't understand how Michael could be so cheerful -- how everyone, really, could be so unceasingly positive. She hadn't felt a single negative emotion off of anyone while she was here, but she was miserable. No one seemed to notice, though. They kept calling her a trooper.

She didn't want to be a trooper. She wasn't sure she wanted to be anything.

But now Michael was explaining about metals, and electricity, and reflectivity. "I know what metals are. The substance. I know those," said Vehuel, who had worked with them before. She'd had to jury-rig her own out of helium, even, when she and Len been tapped to build those two gas giants. "What I mean is --"

"Oh! Oh, of course, the part about giving you one," said Michael. "It's -- well, it's sort of decorative. It's to show everyone that you're a hero. It was very brave, what you did out there with the supernova. Saved us a lot of time, and maybe lives. How did you know you'd get out?"

It had not been brave in the least, but Vehuel had lied to Lucifer, and she knew she could lie to Michael. "It was a calculated risk," she said, trying to make it sound carefree, like it had been nothing to throw an unstable white dwarf into the battlefield. She tried to make it sound like she'd known she would probably get out all right. That maybe she hadn't expected her wings to catch fire, but that the sacrifice was minor in the grand scheme of things.

She tried to make it sound like she'd been planning to get out all right in the first place, and not that she’d panicked and regretted her choice as soon as she’d made it.

"I heard I didn't get Lucifer, though," she added. "Is that true?" He was the only one she'd wanted to actually... end. Or make different, anyway. She didn't know if she had wanted to end anyone, really. It hadn't occurred to her that people could stop existing.

"No, I dealt with him later," said Michael. "Don't worry, though, he's far away."

But he still exists, she thought, and as for being told not to worry, Vehuel had never obeyed that command.

"Do you want your metal now?" Michael asked.

"Um. Okay?" said Vehuel, who didn't know how this was going to go. Michael extended one of her hands, and suddenly Vehuel's whole being felt warm and strange, and she saw that in among the whorls of blue and purple that made her, there were specks of gold, like stars.

"Isn't it nice?" Michael asked brightly. "I thought the gold would go nicely with your eyes."

"Ah. It. Um. I. Guess?' said Vehuel, her halo flaring. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her wings, because it would hurt like anything, but for some reason the idea of the Archangel Michael having noticed her in an aesthetic capacity was terrifying and thrilling all at once and she didn't know what to say. What did you say to that?

But Michael was already moving on. "Rest up! We're going to need you for the rest of the stars," she said, and Vehuel was both relieved and disappointed. She wanted to talk to Gadreel about it, only he would have made fun of her. Or asked her how exactly this was any different from the way Lucifer behaved. But Lucifer had been doing it on purpose, and Michael surely wasn't, and also, she would never be able to talk to Gadreel again, because he was gone forever.

Vehuel went right back to work after as soon as they'd let her, because she felt like, for the very first time, her mind was empty and echoing. There was nothing for her to worry about anymore. The worst had already happened. She had made it happen.

So she drifted into the outer reaches of Earth's solar system -- also very empty, but not, thankfully, echoing -- and she filled it up with little things. On her best day, she made a weird oblong object that looked like a potato -- or, rather, several millennia later, when she first held a potato in her hand, she would think My god, this looks just like Haumea! But at the time, she'd only thought, This looks so stupid, I love it, before giving it two tiny moons and sending it hurtling end over end on its eccentric way.

On her worst day, she tried to build a fitting memorial for Gadreel. She remembered that first conversation she'd had with him, playing with gravity and sparks; she remembered how beautiful she'd found that tiny binary star system they'd ended up making by accident, and how much care and creativity they'd put into making it out of real starstuff in real space, and she tried to make something like that out of rock and ice, but she kept adding onto them, trying to make them the same size, and eventually the bigger one was nearly as big as a real planet, and the little one kept going unstable and breaking little crumbs of itself off when she added to it, so she gave up. They would have to be close enough.

She wondered why she was here. She couldn't imagine that humans would ever come here or see these things she was making -- they were such fragile, helpless little things that apparently a little bit of hard UV could knock them right out of commission forever.

But eventually, once she'd done all she could in the Kuiper Belt and was back in Heaven filing shitty paperwork for shitty archangels, a posting on Earth happened to open up -- well above her rank, but then again, she had the metal Michael had awarded her, and she hoped that would count for something. So after calling in some favors with the physics office and making very sure that her halo wasn't the wrong kind of UV, she put in her application. Maybe she could find a new thing she was for. Maybe she could be good at protecting someone. Even if it wasn't Gadreel.

#whumptober2020 #no.19 #broken hearts #grief #mourning loved one #survivor's guilt #good omens #oc #(kind of both???)#fiction #suicide #also sorry guys pluto was never a planet #kaesa op #disaster principality vehuel #text #michael good omens #anthony j crowley

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