#I’m experiencing a form of restlessness I haven’t felt in years and that might be due to my increased caffeine intake OR

[ninadove]

I missed you Daniel Sempere I missed you Julián Carax I missed you Cementerio de los Libros Olvidados I missed you blue morning fog stretching over the streets of Barcelona that Carlos Ruiz Zafón loves so much he mentions it every three pages

[ilovemesomekillianjones]

Navigating the Storm (1/4)

Summary: Emma Swan navigates the aftermath of Neverland by trying to deal with everything the way she always has, by locking all her feelings away. Between having to share Henry with two other people now, her parents confession in the Echo Caves, her parents pushing her towards a man she has no interest in, and feelings for another man that she never expected to feel, Emma is at the end of her rope. *Post Neverland - No Curse*

Author’s Note:  Thank you to my friend @hollyethecurious for beta reading this story for me! I have had this written for about three months now and have finally put on the finishing touches. This is part 1 of 4 - I will post a chapter a week. Hope you guys enjoy!

Rated M          4.5K          ao3           ffnet          Under the cut, promise

It had been exactly two weeks since they’d stepped foot back in Storybrooke, since bringing Henry home safely from Neverland. Two weeks in which Emma Swan had had very few chances to just be, to just breathe. Each breath felt like it was choked by the need to scream or cry. Two weeks of restless nights and emotionally fraught days; parents urging her toward a man she did not want, her mom wanting a new baby, another mom wanting her baby, not that she held anything against Regina. Henry was as much Regina’s as he was hers, she knew that, but that didn’t mean it didn’t weigh heavily on her soul. And of course there was Neal, who had been an ever-present thorn in her side during the last two weeks. 

Emma wanted to blame everything on Neal, it would be so easy, but she couldn’t do that, there was rarely only one person to blame. She had to take some responsibility, too. He’d been bugging her about giving their relationship another shot, about putting aside the past to make a better future for Henry. Each time, Neal’s words would hit the solid mass of her thick skull and bounce right off, while simultaneously invoking a silent wrath in her being. What the everloving fuck was he thinking? How could the two of them being together be good for anyone? It didn’t help that her parents both still thought Neal was a saint. It didn’t help that each time they unwittingly made little comments about her giving him a chance, it felt like a little more of the world weighed on her shoulders. 

Each morning she dragged her feet getting out of bed, if only to delay dealing with the barrage of shit she didn’t want to hear about or deal with. Of course, if she was honest with herself, she’d admit the reason she was feeling like this was because she was effectively not dealing with any of it. But why choose now to be honest with herself, she’d been content to ignore every other issue she’d dodged in life, abandonment, intimacy, self-worth, why stop now?

Emma hadn’t felt emotional sadness like this since the days between finding out she was pregnant in prison and knowing she would have to give her baby up. Her body felt heavy, her mind felt clouded, and her soul was just… sad, there wasn’t a better word for it. She hated this feeling, and when the sadness became too overwhelming, anger often surged in, and no one needed an angry Emma Swan around. She loved her family and her family-by-extension, but she needed a break. 

As she walked toward Granny’s at a molasses slow pace, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, head down, where she was meeting her parents, Neal, Henry, and Regina for a late dinner, her eyes filled with tears. She struggled to inhale air past the lump forming in her throat. A deep anger rose within her, mostly because she was pissed at herself for wanting to cry. She didn’t know how to make everyone understand what she was feeling and why she was feeling it. No one had ever taught her the healing power of communication, while growing up in foster care. As the anger finally defeated the desire to cry, Emma Swan did what all responsible folks do and locked that shit up, deep inside where no one would see it. 

“I saved you a seat, Ems,” Neal offered as she entered the diner.

 “Yeah, look mom, right between me and dad,” Henry piped in.

Emma glanced at the six of them, one seat between Neal and Henry, no doubt by design and one seat at the other end of the table by her dad. “Uh, I have to discuss a case with David,” she lied. And boy did that make her feel like Shittiest Mom of the Year. “I’ll come back in a few.” 

Taking off her jacket, she sat next to her dad and began speaking with him about the new project they were working on to make Storybrooke Sheriff’s Department digital. There was truly nothing she needed to discuss with him right this instant, but she could not handle another manipulation by Neal, especially in front of Henry, about getting back together. 

“Why don’t you go sit with Henry and Neal,” David whispered, “we can discuss this tomorrow at work.”

Sucking in a deep breath to tamp down the edge of anger that started to creep up on her, Emma realized there was a silver lining here. At least he had whispered.

“I’m perfectly fine where I’m at,” she quietly replied, affecting a sense of calm she didn’t really feel.

“Oh, honey,” her mother began in what was not a whisper, “go sit down there, let me get a picture of the three of you.”

And just like that, there was another brick piled on her shoulders. She understood that her parents really did want what was best for her. Why couldn’t they just magically understand that Neal wasn’t it? She could hear Neal trying to coax her over and her head started to spin. She really did need that break.

As she choked on the sob that wanted to escape, the bell above the entrance rang, and if she’d never experienced what being saved by the bell meant, she was right now. “Hook,” she murmured, just a little more breathlessly than strictly necessary. 

“What?” Snow asked. 

“Hook’s here,” Emma said. “Why don’t you join us for dinner, Hook?” Emma called over to him. He was just the buffer she needed tonight. She didn’t miss the intrigue in his eyes, which he quickly masked with a conciliatory smile that didn’t quite reach those pretty blue eyes.

“While I appreciate the offer, I don’t wish to intrude,” he answered graciously.

“You’re not intruding, we were just sitting down to eat a meal. Everyone has to eat.”

“Well, if all of their Royal Highnesses don’t mind,” he acquiesced.

“Everyone scoot one seat to their right,” Emma instructed, she didn’t expect him to sit next to Neal, not with the current state of affairs. 

Snow stared at her daughter wide eyed and Emma just stared back through narrowed eyes, hoping that her expression conveyed, he did save your husband’s life.

“Ems, I thought you were going to sit with me and Henry,” Neal asked, failing to mask the irritation in his voice.

And I thought I was meeting you with the bag of watches, not the cops, Emma thought bitterly. If Neal was going to use Henry against her, he was going to be sorry. She wasn’t going to stoop to the level of using a child to get what she wanted, but she was also not going to be bulldozed by her ex.

“That’s okay, dad,” Henry intervened. “Mom can sit with her friend. How’s the fastest ship in all the realms, Captain?”

Emma beamed at her son’s cherubic nature. He was truly good. He was innocent and perfect, and she felt like she might cry again as her young son saved her again.

“She’s jolly good, m’boy,” Hook answered merrily, obviously tickled that Henry had asked about his pride and joy. Or maybe it was simply because this boy treated him with common courtesy. Hook had vowed to himself to turn over a new leaf when he’d turned his ship around to help Emma save her son, and although he knew that, most people still treated him like the pirate they’d known him to be. 

“You okay, Swan?” Hook asked her quietly, as conversation started up around the table.

“I- yeah,” she said, slapping on a smile, and even though it was an effort to smile, she found that she wanted to smile for Hook. She also found that he knew she was lying. 

“If you ever want to talk about it, I’ve a never ending supply of rum aboard the Jolly.” 

“I might just take you up on that,” she laughed. And it felt really good to laugh. 

“I thought you said you’d back off,” Neal seethed as he walked over to their end of the table.

Emma looked between the two men before quietly sounding a warning. “We do not need another pissing contest here,” she hissed.

“Contest,” Neal fumed. “There is no contest, I’m Henry’s father, he’s a home-wrecking pirate.”

Emma’s head began to swim again as she listened to Neal berate Hook, as she read between the lines of what he’d said. He felt like he deserved her because they bore a child together. 

“Is everything okay?” David asked.

Emma closed her eyes and weakly shook her head no. She would lose it if her parents got involved.

“Here Neal, why don’t you take my seat,” Snow offered.

Emma shook her head no again, but apparently no one was looking at her. 

“Haven’t you destroyed enough lives?” Neal asked.

Emma’s eyes shot open and she’d hit just about her limit. Her throat felt like it was almost swollen shut as that urge to scream or cry or both, came raging back. 

“Haven’t you done enough damage, Hook?”

“Bae-” Hook started

“Stop calling me that!” 

“Neal,” Hook corrected, “it is not my intent to come between you and Emma. I was merely accepting the invitation she offered. I did say I would back off, I didn’t say I would ignore Emma if she requested my company.”

“Back off from what?” Emma asked, feeling a little annoyed that they’d been discussing her like a - she didn’t know what.

“Swan, I merely told Ba- Neal that I would not interfere if you two decided to pursue a chance at a family with Henry.”

“I think that is very noble, Hook,” Snow inserted. 

“Not now, mom.”

“Well Emma, it’s only fair that you two have a real shot, now that you’ve been reunited,” Snow argued, “and I was just saying that I think it’s noble of Hook to put his feelings for you aside to give you and Neal that chance.”

That was it, that was her limit. Chances? Reunited? FAIR? The lights flickered twice before pitching Granny’s in darkness. Emma stood up and placed both her palms flat down on the table.

“Regina,” Emma said in a ragged voice, barely containing her emotions, which she desperately wanted to contain with Henry present. “Take him home, please.”

“Come on, Henry. I have lasagna at home,” Regina said, without having to be asked again. She could feel the energy of the situation sizzling about, and she knew only too well the magical properties of raw emotion. Of course Henry instinctively knew to listen as well. “Granny’s is closed,” Regina announced, “Mayor’s orders.”  

The several patrons around had the good sense to slap some money on the counter and head out. 

“I love you, mom. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Henry said as he and Regina readied to leave. He came to her end of the table and gave her a hug.

“I love you too, kid,” Emma responded as she ruffled Henry’s hair, and the lights flickered back to life. 

Once Henry and Regina were gone, Emma eyed her parents. She tried breathing in and out slowly. She didn’t want to fight, she didn’t want to hurt them, she didn’t want to cry. But something had to give. 

“Mom, Dad,” she whispered, as she knew her voice would crack if she attempted to speak in a normal voice. “I’ve been having a really-” a broken sob overtook Emma, halting her words. Her face crumbled, tears filling her eyes and falling to her cheeks, as the full weight of what she’d been dealing with overwhelmed her.

“Oh honey,” Snow cried as she stood up to try and comfort her daughter.

Emma held up a hand and shook her head no at her mother. “Please… don’t. I have to do this.”

Snow’s face fell as her daughter rejected her, but she sat back down to comply with her daughter’s wishes.  

“Go on, Emma,” her father said quietly.

Nodding her head, she took another big breath. “I’ve been having a really hard time since we came back from Neverland. I’m happy that you want a new baby, I am, but it also hurt to hear that you wanted to have a chance to experience everything we never got to, and I know that’s not your fault, but it still hurts. And I am happy that Henry has Regina, because no matter what, she really does love him. But it hurts to have to share him with her when we have a third person to share him with now, it’s less time, when I’ve already missed so much.”

“It wouldn’t be if you spent time with me and Henry,” Neal muttered.

“Goddammit, Neal!” Emma yelled, pounding her fists on the table. “You have got to stop that. I’m struggling with my parents wanting a new baby and I am struggling with sharing Henry with you. But my biggest problem, the one that eats away at me every day, is you! I can’t stand the way you try to manipulate me in front of my son, making it seem like I’m the only reason we can’t be a family. You showed up to Storybrooke with a fiancée, don’t act like you came back here to win me over or some other noble bullshit. And I can’t stand that my parents think you should be my happy ending.” Another sob choked her words and she paused to catch her breath. “You will never be my happy ending,” she yelled before leaving the diner. 

Emma jogged down the walkway, unsure of where to go, but knowing she couldn’t remain in there one second longer. She didn’t want to see the looks she’d put on her parents’ faces anymore and she didn’t want to deal with Neal. After an hour of wandering, she found herself down by the icy cold shoreline. She sat down in the freezing sand and folded her arms around her legs. Resting her chin on her knees, she lamented the fool she’d made of herself and the mess she’d made of things. 

“Awfully cold for camping at the beach,” Hook said.

Emma jumped so hard, it hurt her butt when she landed back in the unforgiving sand. “Jesus Christ, you scared me. Are you following me?”

“Sorry, love,” Hook apologized, holding hand and hook in the air as he always did when she went on the offensive. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. And no, I am not following you. I was up on the deck of my ship and saw your golden hair in the moonlight; wanted to make sure you don’t catch your death out here.” He handed her a blanket. 

“Thank you,” she said through chattering teeth, only now realizing just how cold it was. “You probably need to invest in some warmer clothes if you’re planning to stay in Storybrooke for the winter.”

“Is that an invitation, Swan?”

She just rolled her eyes as she held her hand out to him to help her up. 

“Don’t worry your heart, I am plenty hot,” he flirted, extending his hand and pulling her up.

“You are plenty full of yourself is what you are,” she laughed. “I don’t know why I ended up here. I just… I cannot go home. I should probably see if Granny has a room available. Paying her some rent is the least I could do after clearing out her customers.”

Hook scratched behind his ear, his nervous habit that always made Emma chuckle inside, because how did The Captain Hook have a nervous tic? 

“You could stay on the Jolly, if you like. You know, instead of walking back to Granny’s.” 

“Is that an invitation, Hook?” Emma countered.

“Actually, it is,” he said as he bowed deeply, holding his right hand out in the direction of his ship.  

She decided it was probably her best option for the night. She didn’t want to see her parents at the loft, she definitely didn’t want to risk running into Neal at Granny’s, and she was far too proud to ask Regina for a crash pad. So, she followed the direction of Hook’s extended hand and headed to the Jolly. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled as they headed down into the Captain’s Quarters. It was only slightly warmer below deck, and she wondered how cold he got at night. 

“Perhaps a little gratitude is in order,” he smirked, pointing his finger to his lips as he had done several weeks ago.

Emma didn’t even have to think about it this time. She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and backing him up against the wall. She kissed him just as passionately as she had back on that Hell Island, but this time, she had no intent of limiting their activities to just a kiss.

“Swan,” he moaned against her mouth.

“Hmmm?” she hummed as she continued to learn his mouth and his tongue which had come out to play. 

She loved the way his hook felt pressed at her back and the way his hand cupped her cheek before sliding into her hair. She took the opportunity to quickly run her hands up through his chest hair before shifting them up under his jacket to divest him of it. 

“Swan, stop,” he whispered between kisses. “Stop, darling.”

Emma immediately pulled back. Like, what? “What’s the problem,” she asked defensively.

“I apologize lass, it was a poorly timed Neverland reference.”

“A… joke?” Emma’s head began spinning again. One million thoughts ran through her head as her brows furrowed and panic hit her eyes. Her mouth turned down as a strangle hold settled over her... rejection. She’d had one melt down and now she was damaged goods in his eyes. A one time thing, she’d said, and he was the one who was going to enforce it. “I have to go,” she muttered, mind already on auto pilot to the lovely land of orphans-aren’t-worthy-of-love. 

Killian quickly blocked her path to the door. Bad move. 

“Get. Out. Of. My. Way,” she seethed. “You don- don’t want me...”  Oh fuck, she panicked, the tears were going to start again. When would this roller coaster come crashing to a halt? Emma Swan, Dumpster Fire, she mused, it had a truer ring than Emma Swan, Savior. 

“Don’t you tell me what I want or do not want,” Hook reprimanded. “I want you, I have wanted you, far more and far longer than you know.” He stepped into her space and lifted her chin with his hook, until she had no choice but to look into his eyes. “Make no mistake about that, love.” A fire burned between them, something palpable, and only by sheer force of will, was Hook denying himself the pleasure she’d been looking to bring him mere moments before. 

Truth. Truth is what she saw in Hook’s eyes. “Then why are you pushing me away,” she asked, lips still quivering with the threat of tears.

“Because I won’t exploit your emotions, that would be the pinnacle of bad form.”

“What?” 

Hook took her hand and led her to sit on his bed. “Emma, you just confessed major hurt and heartache to your parents. You obviously have unresolved issues with Bae, and you’re harboring a sadness that is ruling your emotions. Despite Neverland and everything that happened there, I have never seen you this close to the brink of despair.” 

A tear slipped down as Hook brought his hand up to cup her cheek. “Look at me, Emma.” 

She sniffled, but complied, as she realized he was not going to continue until she looked at him. 

“You are strong, and you will get through this, but a quick romp in the sack is not part of the solution. I cannot in good conscience let you lead us down a path that you will undoubtedly regret. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to me.”

“If I don’t get to tell you what you do or don’t want, then you shouldn’t get to tell me what I will or won’t regret,” she huffed.

Hook smiled at the fire that lit his Swan, and continued on, “I did promise Bae that I would back off, I thought it was best for Henry, if it was what you wanted as well.”

“I don’t want that,” Emma interrupted. 

“I know you don’t want that. Tonight made that clear,” he assured her. “But tonight also showed that you have some things to work out. I am here for you, Emma, and no matter what our future holds, I will stand by your side and help you traverse all of it. But where matters of our hearts are concerned, I cannot be your port in this storm if you only plan to pack up and set sail when the tide calms and the tempest parts.”

Tears surged forth once more as she lunged at Hook again, but this time just to throw herself into his embrace. She didn’t even know why she was crying, but she knew that this, him, everything he’d just said, this was what she needed. Someone to stand by her side, someone to accept her for her, someone who knew that she had shitty baggage but was okay with it and wanted to help her lighten her load. “I just want to forget, I want five minutes where I don’t feel like everything is closing around me like a vice.” 

“That’s it lass, everything is going to be okay, I promise,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around her protectively. “Let it out, crying can be quite cathartic when you let it.” 

Emma cried a little harder as she listened to his soothing voice. She sat up many moments later when she’d cried herself out. Wiping away her tears, she looked at the man next to her. “How did you get so wise,” she asked in a nasally, I’ve-been-crying voice.

“How’s that?”

“About crying being cathartic.”

“Ah,” Hook chuckled as he blushed a bit. “You pick up some things as the centuries pass. I may have learned that sometimes letting out pent up emotion is better than harbouring it until it blows up.” 

“Thank you, Killian,” she whispered, before leaning in and tenderly placing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“You called me Killian.”

The bit of awe in his eyes made Emma giggle. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Aye, but you know what I mean, love,” he chuckled with her.

She laughed again until she was caught in a yawn that wracked her whole body. 

“Let me get you something to sleep in.” Hook went to an antique armoire and pulled out one of his shirts and a pair of long johns. “These should keep you warm.” After handing them to her, he placed a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll let you get some rest, no doubt your day has been taxing.” Then he turned to leave. 

Before he could make it to the door, Emma reached out to grab his hook. He turned around to see what she needed.

“Will you stay with me?”

His eyes pleaded with her not to tempt him into breaking his word. His good form. 

“I promise I won’t jump your bones, sailor.” She rolled her eyes playfully, but then she glanced away and folded her arms around herself, a vulnerability encasing her whole form before she spoke again. “I just want you to hold me,” she whispered. 

His chest ached for her, for this tender side of Emma Swan that he’d never been privy to. Why would he ever deny her something as simple as holding her? “Of course, love.” After changing into something passable for sleep attire, he joined Emma in his bed. 

“I know this is going to sound sappy, but today, at Granny’s, when you showed up, I was on the brink of losing my mind,” Emma confessed as she lay snuggled against his side, his right arm wrapped around her, making her feel safe. “But when I saw you, I felt like… like I might be able to get through it, like everything would be okay, if only you were with me. That’s why I asked you to stay.”

“And did it help, having me there?”

“All I know is, even though I didn’t say everything I need to get off my chest, I did get through part of it, and I am glad you were there.” 

“Happy to oblige, darling.” Hook craned his neck forward to place a kiss to the crown of her head. 

Pulling the blankets up to her neck, Emma shivered. “Give me your other arm, you’re warmer than these blankets.” 

“My hook,” he said, holding up the shiny version of his moniker. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally harm you.” 

“Then take it off,” Emma responded as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“I don’t think so, love.”

“Why not?” she asked, sitting up to look at him.

Hook took advantage of his freed arm and scrubbed his hand over his face. “It’s not a sight I wish you to see, it’s actually quite revolting.”

“I don’t believe for a second that any part of Killian Jones is revolting,” Emma said, gently pulling his left arm toward her. 

“Swan,” he groaned.

“Killian, you saw me at my most vulnerable today, and you didn’t run for the hills. I won’t either,” she promised softly. “I don’t think you understand that what I like about you is this,” she placed her hand over his heart, “the man you are.” 

Killian placed his hand over hers, where it rested on his chest and brought it to his brace. “Okay then, go ahead.” 

Carefully unfastening the buckles, Emma pulled the entire brace away from his arm. She held his forearm in one hand and ran the fingers of her other hand over the scarred flesh, inspecting the damage. Although Hook was right, it wasn’t a “pretty” sight, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he would have had her believe. “Does it still hurt?”

“Aye, sometimes.”

She delicately massaged in a downward motion, from his forearm to the end of his wrist, and watched his face. He wasn’t making eye contact with her, but rather, watching her ministrations. He looked half panic stricken, like he might bolt, and half enchanted by her touch. She followed the pattern several times until he’d fully relaxed to her touch. “See, was that so bad?”

Hook’s face was a deep shade of red and his entire body had broken out in goosebumps. He didn’t know how to answer her question. He had never willingly let another person see his mutilated arm, let alone touch it. On one hand, it was that bad, he felt laid bare before her and he was still dressed. On the other hand, or hook, as it were, he felt something akin to what she had explained earlier, like he would be okay, because she was there. “I suppose not,” he murmured, all the more enamored by this enchanting woman.

“Good.” Laying back down, she wrapped both his arms around her and snuggled into him. “Much better.” Emma slept better that night than she had since they’d come home from Neverland. 

Tagging some lovelies - please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

@laschatzi @qualitycoffeethings @hookedonapirate @wordsmith-storyweaver @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @wyntereyez @hooklineandswan @teamhook @let-it-raines @whimsicallyenchantedrose @spartanguard  @tiganasummertree@apromisednightcap  @xemmaloveskillianx @elizabeethan @cocohook38 @optomisticgirl @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @timeless-love-story @girl-in-a-tiny-box @thesschesthair @galadriel26 @ultraluckycatnd @lifeinahole27 @therooksshiningknight @kday426 @djlbg @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @lfh1226-linda @delightfully-difficult-pirate @thejollyswan @csalltheway @xarandomdreamx @vvbooklady1256 @withheartfulloflove @resident-of-storybrooke @mcakers @gingerchangeling @searchingwardrobes @snowbellewells

[tchallasbabymama]

M’Baku’s Love- Chapter 3

Let me know if you want to be tagged, and make sure you check out my masterlist HERE for chapters 1& 2 and my other stories. 

Also, just so y’all know, the last scene has paraphrased lines from the movie (which you should definitely go watch if you haven’t yet.)

Enjoy!

Word count: 2392

___________________________________________________

The day of the open house was upon them and M’Baku was more than excited to get to work with Monae some more. The workday crept by and as soon as the clock struck 5 he hurried out of his office and down the two flights of stairs to the arts wing. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was going, but he followed the sound of drums coming from one of the rooms. He walked up to the door and peeked in, seeing Monae teaching a class full of children West African dance. He leaned up against the doorframe and took in her graceful form and mesmerizing hips. He could have stood there and watched her move forever until one of the kids turned and saw him off to the side.

“Hi Mr. M’Baku!”

Monae and the kids turned towards him and greeted him. Monae’s smile was the brightest in the room.

“Hello children, Miss Monae.”

She sent him a small wave as the children surrounded him, all talking at once and all wanting to show him their moves.

“Alright, kiddos, lets all show M’Baku what you’ve been working on before you get out of here, Ok?”

“Ok!” 

The drummers started back up and the kids started to dance, the looks on their little brown faces making Monae smile at their joy. She watched her students with pride as they finished the number and took their bows. She and M’Baku both erupted in applause.

“Very good, class! Ok y’all can go on home now. If you come to the open house make sure you stop by and say hi, Mr. M’Baku here is going to be my assistant for the evening.”

The kids grabbed their bags to head home, some of them stopping to hug Monae and M’Baku on the way out to their guardians. M’Baku was taken aback since he had not had enough experience around young children to know they have no concept of personal space. Monae laughed at the confused look on his face, a near permanent fixture he was becoming used to by being in this new land. He was just happy he could make her smile. 

After the last child ran out, almost tripping over her shoelaces, Monae introduced M’Baku to her drummers Kehinde and Rodney. They bonded for a bit before Rodney slid out of the way to let M’Baku play his drum.

Monae couldn’t help but move with the way he struck the beautifully made instrument.. Her feet and hips took on a life of their own and she let the beat carry her however it saw fit. M’Baku already thought her choreographed dances were beautiful, but this? Her natural movement called to him as he moved her body with each stroke of his hands. Neither one of them were sure how long they were going for, but Rodney had to clear his throat to break the trance.

“Hey so I uh, I gotta head out. Sorry to interrupt whatever that was.” He pointed between the two, obviously picking up on the chemistry.

“Yeah, no, y’all get outta here. It’s late anyway. See you tomorrow?” 

“Of course.”

“See ya Monae, byyyeeee M’Baku.” Rodney and Kehinde snickered as they left the room.

“So, what first?” M’Baku asked, still coming down from the high he just experienced with her.

“Woo, sorry, let me uh catch my breath real quick...you’re good.” She gestured towards the drum.

“So are you,” he gestured towards her body and she cracked a smile.

“I’m aware.” She walked around him to the other side of the room to start straightening up the space. He joined in and the room was spotless in minutes.

“So,” she clapped. “I figured since the kids love you so much you’d be great at keeping them busy while the adults talk to me. Nakia brought us a bunch of Wakandan children’s books, so how about you read to the kids? You have to do voices though, if you don’t do voices I’m putting you somewhere else.” She was dead serious.

“What kind of monster does not change their voice to read to children?” M’Baku asked incredulously.

Monae’s mind flashed to two years ago when she asked Derrick to do something similar at the after school program where she volunteered. He just read it straight like it was a speech, and the kids were restless. It was a nightmare.

“You would be surprised. Ok so take a look through these and see if any jump out at you,” she handed him the crate full of books and he thumbed through them.

“I do not see any Jabari books,” he pulled out a small notepad and began scribbling his thoughts down.

“You don’t use the beads like the others?” 

“I could, but it is unnecessary technology for the most part.”

Monae nodded, remembering that the Jabari preferred to live analog. 

“Let me run this by you real quick, and you tell me what you think,” Monae started as he turned to give her his full attention. “I have sooooo many Wakandan beads I need to get rid of, so how about I set up a jewelry station across the hall? Just some beads and string, nothing too fancy. Then over in the paint lab I was thinking of using these extra textile scraps and old magazines to make mixed media collages. For the last station I have like a million gourds for the kids to paint, and I figured they could do that next door. I have three volunteers set up at each station, so don’t worry, you’ll have help with the kids. I wouldn’t just throw you to the wolves like that.” She winked at him as M’Baku nodded along, processing everything she said.

“This is not my specialty, but that sounds like a good plan to me.”

“What is your specialty?”

“I am a man of many talents, as you can see, but I am a warrior above all else.”

Her cheeks felt hot as she tried to quiet the damsel in distress inside her brain. She cleared her throat and changed the subject.

“You mentioned that there aren’t any Jabari stories in here. You don’t have to use the books if you’d rather go off the cuff with it.”

M’Baku’s gap toothed smile shone through as his theatrical side woke up from its slumber. 

“You might regret that later.” 

______

The children loved M’Baku so much they barely touched the crafts Monae had set up for them. He regaled the kids, and the adults, with Jabari folktales about snowmen and giant gorillas and how the Jabari came to be.

“And then the Jabari left for the mountains. For centuries, the Jabari and the rest of Wakanda were angry at each other until-“

“Why?” interrupted a kid with his front two teeth missing.

“Well because the Jabari cared more for tradition and old ways, but the Wakandans wanted everything shiny and new. They argued so much they had to move away to keep the peace, and that is when Hanuman guided the Jabari to the mountains.”

“Who’s Hanuman?” asked a little girl with beaded cornrows.

“The god who guides and protects us.”

“My mama says theres only one god and his name ain’t Hanuman,” she responded with an attitude. Some of the parents and kids nodded along in agreement. 

“Well, you see, your mother is simply wrong-”

“Ok, that's enough for now. Let's give Mr. M’Baku a round of applause for storytime, huh?” Monae interrupted before things got too heated, and the crowd clapped for their griot. 

People wandered in and out of the room for the next couple hours, enjoying the crafts and M’Baku’s storytime. Monae kept everything running smoothly, including refilling M’Baku’s water bottle multiple times to keep his voice strong.  Shortly before closing time T’Challa wandered into the room and sat with the children listening to the same stories M’Baku had told so many times that night Monae could recite them herself. When it was over and the last guest had left the center all the staff and volunteers breathed a sigh of relief. 

“I think that went well!” M’Baku said, his voice hitching from overuse.

“Drink some more. Oh yeah, they absolutely loved you. You know T’Challa recorded your dramatics while he was here? You could win a Tony with that performance.” Monae gushed, proud of her, uh, friend. 

“Who?”

“It's an award for stage actors. I’ll make you a list like the one Captain America had.”

“What sort of list?”

“Of pop culture and historical things you should know. He spoke about it in an interview a few years ago and I thought ‘that’s brilliant, I’d do that too’ but I never had the chance...until now.”, her excitement was palpable. 

“That is a good idea, I will have to commend him on that the next time I see him.”

Monae froze.

“I’m sorry, you know Captain America?”

“Well yes, he and some other Avengers have been to Wakanda a couple times.”

Monae was speechless. She’d had a huge crush on Steve Rogers ever since he defrosted.

“I- what’s he like?” she asked, barely forming words.

M’Baku found her obvious fawning amusing and wondered if this is how she would look if she spoke about him to others. 

“He is nice,” M’Baku said before leaning in a little closer. “Especially for a colonizer.”

Monae cackled and they continued to straighten up the room. Once the area was sufficiently cleaned for the night, the two headed out to their cars. Monae yawned as they packed her little electric car full of art supplies.

“It seems it is past your bedti-” he was cut off by the sound of his stomach trying to climb out his body. “Well, then.”

They broke out into laughter, only subsiding when her stomach answered the mating call.

“Would you like to accompany me to dinner? It will be my treat. I was planning on going to The V Spot for some more jackfruit tacos.”

“Mmm, they have these vegan nachos that I would sell my arm for, but I’m so tired I’ll probably fall asleep on you. Next time?” she sent him an apologetic grin. 

“Next time it is, then.”

Monae turned to get into her car before stopping and turning back around to face him.

“You know what? I think I have one good hour left in me. Let’s meet there.”

_____

Both of them were too tired to speak, especially since M’Baku had done enough talking that night to warrant a week of silence. M’Baku paid for their food and they left, still in comfortable silence until reaching the sidewalk.

“Let me walk you home, you should not be out here by yourself.”

“M’Baku I can literally see my building from here.”

“And? Anything could happen between here and there. I would never forgive myself!”

The butterflies in her stomach were in full flight mode, and her face grew hot. She playfully rolled her eyes at him and turned away to mask her blushing face.

“Ok fine.” She said with faux reluctance. She wanted nothing more than to spend every moment she could with this man, but the ring weighing down her finger made it challenging. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way, but Derrick is always out of town on business and she can feel the relationship slipping away. Even before M’Baku swooped in, her feelings for her fiance had started to dwindle. However, she did enjoy spending time with M’Baku and she figured there’d be no harm in taking the short stroll between The V Spot and her place.

“So, which direction?” M’Baku asked and Monae pointed to the right before they slowly took off down the street, arm in arm, in silence once again before Monae spoke up two minutes later.

“Well, this is me.” 

They both just stood there, not knowing how to end the night.

“I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?”

“Of course...I will say though, where I am from when you walk someone home from a date there is usually a goodnight kiss involved.”

She was stunned at his forwardness, and she could feel her pulse all over her body.

“But I guess this was not really a date, huh?”

“Um, n-no. M’Baku you know I’m engaged.” She said, looking down.

“Yes, but do you?” his eyes narrowed and he tilted his head as stepped closer to her. She didn’t move away, so he took another step forward so that their bodies were almost pressed together. 

“It was date-like.” she conceded.

He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her in tight, closing the tiny gap of space left between the two of them. Her hands found their way to his chest and his other hand came up to tilt her chin upwards before he placed a light kiss on her lips and let her go. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked over his face. She took in his prominent brow and his strong jaw, his pillowy lips and his soft eyes. He was a giant wall of a man and she couldn’t get enough of how he felt up against her, 

“That’s it?” she teased before pulling him back and making him lean down into a deeper kiss. His hands rested respectfully at the small of her back despite his desire to explore her body more, and hers rested around his neck for the same reason. They broke away quickly when the door of the apartment building opened and an older man walked out with his dog, undoubtedly to go on a nighttime walk around the neighborhood before retiring for the night. He looked at them and shook his head before mumbling something under his breath about heathens. 

They looked back at each other and broke out laughing. 

“You should go,” Monae said softly while fiddling with his collar.

“I do not want to,” he whispered.

“I know, but-”

“You are engaged. I know,” he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Goodnight Monae.”

“Goodnight M’Baku, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He waited for her to get inside before turning around and heading back the way they came to make the short journey to his temporary home. The entire walk back, he hummed along to an unwritten love song in his head with a goofy smile on his face. He could still taste her and, by Hanuman, he wanted more.

Next Chapter

[howdytherepardner]

a tale of two fountains or maybe tributes to "great men"

spires of caverns and pits and spikes; all in aggregate seem to suggest that it could not all have been constructed with care yet each one constructed with too much care for one to bear. cascading semi-chlorinated water separated and dispersed through multitude arteries abruptly exposed to the world around it, standing alone in a vernal pool tucked between decadence and the machines driving legacies of wealth and influence. despite the drapings of grandeur and the mythos surrounding it, it is not unknowable. any outside perspective would give you something to remember it by, but the spears are not a strong enough defense to hides its insides. this unrelenting, static chaos holds an eye of stability; not precise to guarantee protection, but enough to assure that anyone brave enough to venture within will know some measure of relief from the world that surrounds it and the world that it is.

~

i wander down an exposed stairwell with my prox and a towel, wearing only a linting mask and old swim shorts. the paved surfaces that my journey follows range from smoother cement to asphalt jagged with berries from trees that would never realize their evolutionary purpose. it is not the first time i have decided to sit under the fountain of freedom ahead of me arriving at it, but it is the first in memory that i have been so prepared. normally, a pair of briefs would get soaked while too many things sat on the stairs anticipating the emergence of my dripping form, which would continue until i made it back to my room. but there i was. i have never been particularly good at meditation, and would only claim to have “achieved” a meditative state a few moments in my life, but media depictions of water falls as a particular source for finding some form of releasing outer thoughts; it seems to work well enough, but perhaps i just enjoy the spectacle. this night, there were only a few pairs that sat along the side of water, so not too much of an audience, but enough for me to wonder what they thought as i hung my towel and mask on “Double Sights” and sloshed my way to the tower. normally i might set myself directly under a narrow cascade or in the eye, but this session i remained at a static point in orbit: my legs soaked and my arms quickly coated by innumerable droplets, but my hair only catching the most divergent skydivers, the back of my neck losing its dryness only to sweat and humidity.

it’s a place of security, your conversations drowned out by incessant waters, and in close enough proximity, your own thoughts as well. that was the aim of my venture up campus. i’ve been struggling to fall asleep lately. my body will be exhausted from interactions and activities (walking to class? inconceivable) enough that i give up on work earlier in the night and pray that an earlier sleep will restore some greater stamina. the mind however is plagued with sensations of the time that i’m wasting THERE ARE ONLY 22 WEEKS OF SCHOOL LEFT AND YOU’RE SITTING IN YOUR FUCKING ROOM WHAT HAPPENED TO THE YOU THIS SUMMER WHO WAS READY TO SEE PEOPLE AND LIVE AGAIN, the regrets i am well beyond amending THIS IS JUST HOW YOU WERE FRESHMAN AND SOPHOMORE YEAR HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING WITH YOUR IVY LEAGUE TRANSCRIPT, and other anxieties I AM FAILING ALREADY. I AM INDEED TAKING IT ALL FOR GRANTED, WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT PRINCETON OPINION PERSON? I AM DISAPPOINTING MY FRIENDS AND EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER INVESTED CAUSE OR CONCERN IN MY SUCCESS AND WELL-BEING. of course, the mind is of body as well, and these permeate through the rest of me. i haven’t felt health for a while THOUGH I’M SURE THAT’S JUST THE COVID THAT I’VE DEFINITELY CONTRACTED AND SPREAD TO MY LOVED ONES or the scattered eating and sleeping schedule compounding into no full restoration. most of the time, this leads to a shirtless run on the towpath (if i’m not doing school work, i might as well perfect this bag of bones), but Ida has eroded many segments to the bottom of the canal, so darker nights may not be the best for it AND MY VISION SEEMS TO BE GETTING WORSE EVERY DAY, SO IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME UNTIL THE BODY SURRENDERS ANY SHRED OF WORTH ENTIRELY.

but that night was not humid, and chilly waters woke me to ensure i was fully experiencing my slate slowly being washed away. worries seem to just slip away from me, like a patagonia in any of the clubs’ coat rooms. i feel the effortless mind of my body switch on the ignition, turning all engines to ensure that i freezen’t in the water, and i can stretch each muscle individually as i am asked to confront the prospect of how this form is treated. and i can breathe again, full and deep, and i feel like i am able to get up and face the world as it comes once more.

~

Scudder Plaza may be the most relaxing spot on campus: you can catch the cooling spray from James FitzGerald’s monumental sculpture, Fountain of Freedom, or be soothed by the sounds of its cascading water. At twenty-three feet high, Fountain of Freedom is one of the largest cast bronze sculptures in the U.S. Inspired by the rugged beauty of the artist’s native Pacific Northwest, the grooves, channels, and spires of the six-ton sculpture—reminiscent of naturally eroded forms—are meant to symbolize Woodrow Wilson’s aspirations and frustrations. … Seven hundred gallons of water are recirculated through the fountain each minute and are sprayed through an intricate system of fifty major pressure valves and more than 1,000 pin-hold jets. (x)

~

but tower 4 is some distance from those 4 towers. and without jets pushing them back, many things come crawling back. i am looking down to the basement cafe with its lights out, wondering if the people coming my way were laughing at my relative under-dress, when i decide that i cannot go home yet. i complete another barefoot walk across campus, and lay my towel down as a seat at my penultimate resting place.

~

its silhouette a vague enough [cardioid of sorts] to prevent any association based on shape alone, your expectations may be higher than what you need. it is a piece of furniture in name and in relativity to form, something regarded briefly in the minds’ eye and then passed by just as quickly. its flows ooze at a steady rate, in synch such that it never appears to be moving at all; the only proof that it is, really, is the shading below coming from beyond the light and the drippings at its bottom hidden from view. those surface shimmers make a soft sound, but on touch simply flow between the fingertips. a single indentation on the surface has received a few stones of the many that live below its form, placed there by hands other than its creator; certainly, they gave their vision the precise amount of care and intent required to manifest it. an illusion that what it emits has eroded it over many years to a smooth shape, but with the truth that it is still very young and remains solid within.

~

it would not feel quite right to sit atop einstein’s table, so i sit on the concrete next to the square of rocks. even with consistent eye contact, its subtle streaming does little to shield spectators from the world outside. a car driving by listening to top hits from summers past, a few pedestrians making their pilgrimage for late night snacks; every little itch on the surface of my skin, and of course, bare exposure to every THIS and THAT in a state of overwhelming stillness. but in all, it comes to pass, and my brain is left backtracking to the overwhelming stillness i have known in recent months. i am nostalgic for my University Mandated Quarantine Walks, particularly one alone in the mountain lakes preserve after my first snow back. i am nostalgic for early autumn days looking at the sun reflected off a pond. i am nostalgic for the waiting to find out where i’d spend my junior year, the waiting to receive messages and letters from friends. restless simplicity, anticipation for better things that, well, i guess are supposed to be the present. it doesn’t really feel that way now. as SENTIMENTS have alluded to, i am struggling to make it through right now. instead of a senior year that serves as the culmination of all that came before, i feel instead trapped in shitty replays of the past 3 years. like a script composed of false cognates, it feels like i understand what is happening right now and it makes no sense.

~

Near the earthwork is “Einstein’s Table,” made of jet mist granite and inspired by Albert Einstein’s theory on black holes. Lin noted that the theory was validated last year during the creation of the table. Outer space and constellations were a source of inspiration for both projects, she said.

During the hourlong conversation, Lin shared details of her process from start to finish, which included many adjustments along the way. “With every artwork there might be six to eight models,” she said. “I’m always teaching myself about the site, so that I’m preparing myself for what it’s going to be like to be on site.” (x)

~

but i think i am mostly wondering about how similarly others are feeling. it appears to me that my peers are sliding right back into the chaos of the now, festive in the face of it all and doing everything i tell myself i should be doing right now. do i come off that way to them? does anyone really know how to express these feelings 100 leagues below the surface, or is it just me? what feels true to me, and what leads me to rise from my seat next to the table and return home, is that i must continue. there is little option now but to follow through on this all until the end of the line, whenever it may come; maybe that comes easier for some people now, but i think i’ll make it eventually. i am not entirely sad and i am not entirely happy, but i am here. i think i want to help people despite not being perfect at it, and i am here. all things for granted or not, i am here. i will continue to get cold under one monument and never deny the temptation to touch another passing by, because i know those are things i like to think. i hope you know you can talk to me always.

[big-bad-ulf]

The Prodigal Wolf Returns || Ulfric & Winn

Timing: Midday, Thursday 4th of June  Parties: @packsbeforesnacks, @big-bad-ulf Summary: Ulfric meets with Winn to discuss what drove him out of town, and consider their next moves.  Warnings: Mentions of assisted suicide, depression, and grief.

The clearing in the woods was quiet, remote, and neutral. Somewhere they could both feel at home, but that neither could claim ownership of. Hearing footsteps approaching, Ulfric dropped the cigarette stub between his fingers, stamping it out into the leaf litter below to conceal most of the evidence of the bad habit he’d picked up again after Celeste’s passing, though the smoke still lingered accusingly. “I suppose thanks are in order, for coming all the way out here,” he greeted Winn stoically, before finally turning to face the returned wolf. “As you’re aware, I’m not the one who you need to explain your actions to.” He hoped it was apparent he meant Layla and Ariana, but the young man didn’t have the best track record thinking things through to their logical conclusion. “But I’d like one, because as it stands I can’t imagine a scenario in which ‘sparring’ with a tiny human girl while in wolf form was necessary? Nor was fleeing town when you knew others of your kind were in danger.” The older werewolf’s tone was tired, weighed down by the collective suffering of White Crest’s pack over the last few weeks, but an anger borne of disappointment simmered beneath the weariness. 

Winn had been dreadin’ this conversation since he’d figured out everyone thought he’d skipped town. Ulfric was… intimidating, to say the absolute least. Winn could handle teenagers. He could handle folks in his own (relative) age group. And Simon was, well, kind, in a way that he wasn’t sure Ulfric was. But part of the problem was that he didn’t know Ulfric. Didn’t know most of the wolves, really, all friendliness aside. So, worst-case scenario, Ulfirc hated him. Best case scenario, Ulfric thought he was an idiot. As he entered the clearing, smoke tickled his nose. The Full Moon was on them and Winn was pretty sure he’d have smelled it even if Ulfric hadn’t just been smoking, but he stowed the frown. It wasn’t his place to judge someone’s habits; he’d had bad habits of his own. Still had some. “I appreciate it,” Winn said, “but it’s unnecessary. I should thank you, for bein’ willing to hear me out.” He leaned against a tree, scrubbing at his eyes. Reconciling with his father and (part of) his former pack hadn’t helped his sleep, much as he wanted it to and, with Natalia out of town, he was running low on aram. “Talked to both of them. Only one left that knew, I think, is you.”

He weighed what he knew about Blanche in his mind, what he knew about Ulfric, and his newfound fondness for the truth. “Blanche is… like a sister, to me. She’s a trouble magnet. If there’s supernatural nonsense goin’ on in White Crest, I head her way. ‘Cause chances are, if she isn’t already involved, she will be in, like, an hour. I know it was stupid, thought I had better control than I did. After I got a hold of myself, I dipped, for just a few minutes. Came back, told Blanche that I was leavin’ to take care of some things, left a note somewhere I thought she’d find it. Phone had been dead before that, and I figured if she told folks I was gone, they’d know that I’d be back soon and couldn’t really make a twelve-hour drive shorter.” Winn sighed. “That’s usually the part of the story where folks have questions, so hit me. Oh, right. Social media. A shirtless photo of mine got flagged and, since I didn’t have my phone, I couldn’t contest the deactivation. That one was just coincidence. Lady Luck wasn’t in my favor.”

“It was stupid,” Ulfric confirmed when Winn was through with his explanation. He crossed his arms and paced in a tight, restless pattern as he weighed the other wolf’s actions, to decide what needed asking. It wasn’t like he could pass any judgment in an official sense, it would be up to Layla and Ariana and any of the other wolves who felt slighted to decide for themselves how they felt and how they wanted to interact with him on a personal level. But as a more experienced wolf, he felt obligated to address the aspects of Winn’s behavior that had the potential to harm the entire pack, or even their entire species. “I understand this girl means something to you, but we don’t need to be teaching more humans how to fight us.” Not that it was likely a human of average strength would stand much of a chance, even with whatever ‘mind powers’ Blanche supposedly possessed, but that was beside the point, their weaknesses were meant to stay between them. “Learning that would only help her against our kind, and if you’re worried any one of us is a threat to her that’s something that can be dealt with internally… It’s the fact you don’t seem to know your limits that troubles me most, though.”

Ulfric stopped and stood his ground as he came to that conclusion, looking over Winn appraisingly as he remembered the young wolf bragging about having killed a hunter. He’d chalked it up to mostly harmless arrogance at the time, but when he later explained he hadn’t done it on purpose that should’ve raised more red flags than it had. “You don’t seem like you’re that new to this. You should have a better grasp of how much control you do or don’t have. So, I suppose my questions are, do you know what pushed you over the edge? What do you plan to do to ensure this doesn’t happen again?”

Winn tried not to bristle at the half-accusation, pushing himself off the tree and walking towards Ulfric as, hopefully, non-threateningly as possible. “With all due respect, I never said that I was trainin’ her to take out wolves,” he said. And he hadn’t been! Werewolves were just big and so were, what, half of the things B would run into? “She only knows the bare minimum, assumin’ she hasn’t talked to Kaden ‘bout his other job. Ain’t hard for a human to try silver, given only every story about us tends to revolve ‘round that fact.” He took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. “But we can argue ‘bout Blanche later, it’s not like I’ll be sparrin’ with her in wolf form again.”

“It worries me, too. ‘Cause I’ve…” he paused, looking up into the canopy to choose his words carefully. “Let me backtrack. You don’t know much about me, and it might be… helpful. Since you’re the wolf ‘round here with the most experience…” Now, Winn was pacing. “I was turned almost eight years ago. The only turned wolf in a pack of, uh, werewolf fraternity brothers, down south. They guided me through my first dozen shifts, taught me how to be calm. So, believe me when I say: I have plenty of control, ‘specially for not havin’ been a wolf all my life. And don’t get your britches in a bunch, I know that sounds like bullshit, right now.” Winn ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable with the conclusions he was beginning to draw about his time ‘changed.’ “I said I accidentally killed a Hunter… well, that was half-true. The accident was my own — I was sleepin’ with a Hunter, didn’t know he was a Hunter. The killing was on purpose. Self-defense, when he abused my trust, tried to go after my pack.

“After that, I was in… a dark place. That would’a been late 2015. Next thing I remember, I was in Europe, staggering in my human form out of the woods in early 2018. Thought, until recently, I’d spent a year or two in and out of my wolf form… but, I’m startin’ to question that. Couple theories’ve been tossed around, maybe it isn’t true. But when I… attacked B, it felt different. On a Moon, when I let the wolf come to the forefront… even when I was tryin’ to keep us separate, I still knew what was goin’ on. But with B, I don’t remember anything between getting thrown into a tree and pullin’ myself back from the brink. It was, well, dissociative is maybe the closest way to say it. I was there, and then I wasn’t. I’ve never lost control like that. Not even, y’know, when I was still new at this. It’s… it’s like hittin’ that tree pulled something out of me, something from under my conscious. I— Have you ever heard of anything like that? Where a wolf just… wasn’t himself, or even his wolf self? Even if it had been, say, Ariana, I don’t think it would’ve changed it. I still think that… part of me would want to attack everything.”

“There’s no need for that if you’re not going to do it again.” Ulfric agreed with Winn’s statement about Blanche. Truthfully, he did not want to be having this argument in the first place. A good old-fashioned brawl could be cathartic but having to play the role of stern lecturer just made feel weary, worn-out, and old. Running wild together, celebrating a successful hunt, sharing tales of old legends and recent exploits, those were the things he’d looked forward to about being a part of a pack again. Having to step up and confront things that put them in jeopardy was a responsibility that came with that privilege, but not one he enjoyed or hoped to have to take up often.

The older werewolf couldn’t contain a small grimace of disgust upon hearing Winn’s story. The chance that they might be a hunter was one of the many reasons it was a bad idea to get involved that way with humans, but he didn’t bother to voice his opinion on that. The man was an adult capable of making his own choices and he’d also spent a lot of his life as a human, so it was easy to see where that mistake had come from. Besides, it seemed he’d more than learned his lesson on that front.

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to come back from a betrayal like that.” Ulfric replied at last, because the tale was tragic, if difficult for him to relate to on a personal level. “I haven’t heard of wolves entering an abnormal state like that,” Of course, his own ‘wolf self’ was similar in some ways to what Winn had described, an entirely animalistic being, but even then it retained the animal instinct not to attack its own kind without severe provocation and the risk of that side of himself emerging outside of a full moon was very low. “It seems the answers may lie in what happened in those lost years. What are the theories?” Staying transformed for the better part of years… Was such a thing truly possible? Ulfric could’ve almost been jealous of Winn for having that freedom from morals and responsibilities of the human world for so long, if the suffering it was causing him now wasn’t so apparent.

“Have you tried… it could be possible, or so I’ve heard, to bring some memories back through mystical means.” He suggested hesitantly. “I don’t like getting involved with such things, but you can’t just… go on the way you are, not without having to isolate yourself.” And that was the last thing he wanted for any of his kind, regardless of whether he held them in high regard or not. “If something were to bring on this feral state in front of a crowd that would mean disaster for all of us. And I’m sure you know that,” He leveled the younger wolf with a hard-nosed look. “Even if some of your actions suggest a distinct lack of judgment of the more mundane variety.”   

“I— Thanks.” Winn frowned, stopping his pacing as Ulfric spoke. “I have a… friend, who looked into some, uh, wolf causes. Didn’t find much, some reports of wolves stayin’ transformed who went… feral, who couldn’t change back into their human form.” What Rio had told him had scared him, but it hadn’t felt, well… correct. It seemed like even those wolves had the sense to not attack other wolves, that they retained some of their humanity, even if they became more animal than human. ‘Course, many of them didn’t live to tell their tale, and the records that Rio had found could only tell them so much. Some had been written by Hunters, others written by a wolf who had to put one of his own down. But Winn had come back, which seemed to be the wrinkle. No Hunter had ever tried to bring a wolf back to themselves, but not even a packmate could. So, if Winn had been transformed, how could he have come back?

“Given I’m back, though, my friend and I ruled that out. ‘Specially for a bitten wolf to come back from bein’ feral? Seemed unlikely. Not when there was another explanation. Which is, um…” Alright, okay. He could admit this aloud. “My dad is a huxian. He thinks it might be mystical, yeah. Somethin’ taken from me, or somethin’ I gave up.”

He swallowed, mouth dry. “I’m still tryin’ other avenues. R— My friend is lookin’ into… side-effects of wolfsbane. What shit street wolfsbane might get spiked with. I—” Winn scratched at his arms, almost wishin’ that he was wearin’ a shirt. “I took wolfsbane for months, after I killed that Hunter. Blamed myself for what happened to the pack. And I guess I… stopped.” He looked up into the canopy. “But you’re right. I need to figure out my shit, so I don’t put us all at risk. And, short of goin’ back on the wolfsbane — which I’m not gonna do — we really don’t have any leads. If there’s… a part of me, that’s missin’, then I don’t want to go on like this. I can’t. Even if…” Well, there was always this part. Winn looked back down at Ulfric, mouth set in a hard line. “Don’t… I don’t want your pity. This isn’t y’all’s problem, but there’s… well, if I’m missin’ two years, there’s a chance that…” He coughed. 

“There’s this Hunter I know. Luke mentioned him at the meeting. He… If I did somethin’ bad, hurt an innocent life, he’s the one I trust to… put an end to me. But I don’t want him knowin’ about what happened with B, and— I don’t know what could happen, if I get those memories back. No one I’ve talked to so far does. But if he’s… if I’m different, if I try to hurt someone, I need y’all to be willin’ to stop me. If that happens… As the person I am now, I want you… to take me down. If you can’t kill me, let me rot. If I can’t control myself, I am… I am not more important than all of you.” His voice was hoarse, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t remember crying this much in a very long time, but he needed to be firm. “Promise me. Please. I’m sorry, so sorry, to put that burden on you.” He held out his hand, for the other wolf to take, to seal the pact. “But it has to be done.”

As Winn’s explanation continued, it became more and more clear to Ulfric that his actions couldn’t be explained away by stupidity or cowardice. That was a shame really, both of those causes would’ve been much easier to deal with than this mystery of missing memory. Everything Winn said seemed to introduce a new piece to the puzzle (Huxians, wolfsbane, and of course, the seemingly inescapable interference of hunters), but it was unclear how they whole fit together or how much of a threat would be revealed when the big picture came together. When the young wolf came to the end of his speech and what he was asking him to do sunk in, Ulfric’s blood ran cold. Protecting the pack was paramount, but the thought of killing another wolf was profane, it would be the ultimate sacrilege towards the gift his ancestors had bestowed upon him. 

“I’m not going to sit idly by and let you harm other members of the pack, of that you can be certain,” he answered carefully, considering his options. If Winn were to slip into a permanent state of mindless, unbridled aggression, the usual ‘last resort’ of exile would do little to keep him from returning and causing havoc in their territory. Caging was another possibility, but he knew if their circumstances were reversed, he’d prefer a quick death over a life spent in chains, and it seemed the young man would as well. And finally, allowing hunters to deal with him in that state would only further inflame their hatred towards his kind, along with being plain undignified. “If your continued existence poses a threat to their survival, I promise you, I’ll do what needs to be done.” Ulfric accepted after a long moment’s deliberation, giving Winn’s hand a firm, resolute shake, though the clamminess of his palm betrayed his instinctual, visceral reaction against the plan. “Let’s not let it come to that though,” He added, more of an instruction than a hope. “I’ve had my fill of death for the time being.” 

““Thank you,” Winn said, quietly. “But… Agreed. Don’t want it to come to that.” It wasn’t that Winn hadn’t considered his death before. Hell, after what had happened with his old pack, there had been times where he’d… well, where he’d really considered dying. Winn liked to think he was better, now. If not totally well-adjusted, at least pretty solid on the ‘me dying wouldn’t fix the issue’ mantra. Counseling helped that, and learning about counseling only reinforced it. Which is part of why he knew: “I need those memories back, though. Even if it hurts, or if there’s… a reason I buried them. Now that I know they might not be there, it’s like… it’s like I can feel the space where they used to be. They’re a blindspot, sure, but more than that they’re… part of me. I can’t…” He sighed, sitting down on the forest floor and breathing in the woods for a moment before continuing. “As I am now, I can’t imagine what reason I could have had to bury them or… take them? I don’t know anybody who’d have the answers. Plus, there’s all the shit with Luke, and what happened with Ari, and… Fuck, man, I haven’t even asked you how you’re doing. I… I mean, I didn’t know Celeste, but I talked to Ari some, and… I know it’s a cheap question, but are you okay, Ulfric?”

“I think I can understand that. Why you’d want them back.” Ulfric assured him. He was familiar with having gaps in his memory, though he’d never had much choice in the matter. Berserkers had lost the ability to remember most of their actions while transformed centuries ago, and their intentions behind that, if there were any, were shrouded in mystery and myth. He did have a choice, though, between taking the easy way out and walking away from the carnage he’d caused while in wolf form and reconstructing what happened during that time as best he could. Ever since his ill-thought-out vengeance against the hunters who took his younger siblings, he’d chosen to do the latter. Chosen to look at the carnage and accept why it had happened, and that it was a part of him.

 “What we do is what we are,” he pondered aloud, before directing his attention back on Winn more fully. “I respect your choice and wish you luck. You can count on me for… whatever it is you think I can provide.” Which wasn’t much, given his lack of expertise in the realm of the magical. He couldn’t even truthfully say he’d provide friendly support, because he was still too wary of the young wolf and the potential danger he posed to the pack as a whole to consider him a friend. An alliance was clearly in both their best interests though, so Ulfric refrained from repeating his earlier comments about not wanting any help from him when he asked how he was. “I’ll survive, so will you,” he stated simply and firmly instead, almost ordering the fates to make it so. “Any other option doesn’t bear thinking about.” The older wolf turned briskly and took off into the trees. Action was required of both of them, if the White Crest pack was ever going to be able to consider itself safe. They could spare no more time for conjecture and contemplation.

[carryonmywaywardwriters]

Love How You Hate Me - Sam x Reader

A/N: Part Eleven is finally up. Again, I deeply apologize for the wait. I had a good reason, I promise. For now, though? Here we go... As always, feedback is incredible. If you want tagged, please send an ask or message so I am sure to see it. Same goes if I missed your tag. And, I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Mostly Smut. Rushed, bathroom/public sex. A little reference to the movie Focus. Some feelings. Not enough editing. That’s all, I believe.

Word Count: Roughly 3,100

“Dance with me?” You looked up to a little old man. Even though his dark skin was wrinkled and worn, his eyes vibrated with life.

Alice and Bane were having a get together at their place. Something normies got to indulge in. You had gone to help set up. A simple enough task. However, before you could dip out? The guests had begun to arrive, and Alice had insisted you stay. You hadn't even known she knew that many people not involved in the life.

“Sure,” You got up to your feet slowly. Completely out of your element.

“Anyone ever teach you how to salsa?”

“No,” You answered honestly. More than a little weary.“You willin' to teach me?”

“I'd be honored.” His face lit up, making him look ten years younger.

Sam watched as your hand landed on the elderly man's shoulder, and the other on the crook of his elbow as his hands settled on your body. What is she doing? A few minutes later, he couldn't help the smile on his face as he peeked back up.

You were stumbling a little, moving to the beat of the music with a large smile as you worked with the man. A simple, peach colored skirt swung around your legs as you stepped where instructed. The white tank top would have been immodest if you hadn't paired it with a cream colored cardigan. Showing almost more than it covered.

The guy had been sitting by himself for the longest time, until he'd sought you out. Nothing but darkness coating his wrinkled face. Now? He looked as if you'd given him the most precious thing in the world. Helping him find his youth in the small crowd.

Over the past week, a careful distance had been kept between you and Sam. You kept looking at him as if you wanted to try and repair the damage, but never found the courage to make the first move. His pride was still stinging. However, it didn't keep him from being aware of you. Only, this time, it was more than just your body.

He'd zeroed in on everything he'd missed before. The way you chewed your lip when you concentrated. How although you had a mix of modern and classic literature, the classics came off the shelf most often. You didn't have a favorite musical genre. Instead, you listened to whatever suited your mood. A glow spread across your face whenever you saw Ava smile a gummy little grin up at you. More often than not, if you were out? You'd gone down a path that led to a smaller pond to take in the nature. How restless you seemed to be since you'd gotten out on the road again. The way you turned away from your own gloom to entertain an elderly man you'd never met...

“You're still thinking about her.” Cas's voice made Sam jerk lightly as he turned to the angel. “Sorry,” His gruff apology wasn't quite enough to take away the frown on the hunter's face, “didn't mean to startle you. Or listen in.” The last bit was added in as an afterthought.

“You can't help it,” Sam grumbled, turning his head back to the scene in front of him. Then the words sunk in. “What do you mean by 'still'?”

“Almost every time I'm by you? I pick up something about her.” Castiel shrugged lightly. Simply speaking matter of factly. “It's fascinating, really... how many different thoughts there are regarding one person.” That made Sam pause, and turn back to watch you trip over your own feet. Laughing all the while. “I was human for a short time, Sam... It allowed me a bit of insight,” The angel smiled a bit at how foolish you were on the floor. Missing some of the roughness both boys carried. “But, I never got to experience something as...” He paused for the right word, “intense as what you're experiencing.” Sam's hands shoved into his pockets. Despising the truth in the words. “I'm almost jealous.”

“Feel free to take her off of my hands.” Sam suggested readily. Wishing he could escape the flood.

“You don't mean that.” He wasn't as sure as Cas seemed to be over that claim. “Is she leaving with you two?”

“Dean wants to bring her.” Sam shrugged out. Trying to act indifferent. “Hasn't asked her, though.”

“If it helps, Sam,” Cas turned back to his friend. Blue eyes boring into the hazel. Making sure the earnest words sank home. “You're not the only one struggling.” His lips pulled up lightly, “She's thinking about you, too...”

–

Hands came out from the bathroom, yanking you towards a looming figure. Your fist came out instinctively, connecting with the perpetrator before you had processed that you knew those hands. As it clicked, you meekly looked up.

Only to find Sam's wry, pained grin aimed at you,“You have a heck of a swing.”

“You had that coming.” You shrugged, turning to see if anyone had seen you get snatched. When you were sure it was clear, you pushed Sam further in and shut the door. Ensuring that you wouldn't be found with the enemy. “What are you doing?”

“Take a guess,” His eyes trailed over your body. The golden brown in them shined through that day. Full of heat. That look alone had you squeezing your thighs together. The necklace from before was hidden in the swells of your breasts, making his gaze linger there. His nostrils flared lightly as he took in the exposed skin. “I've been dying to know what you have on the end of that chain.” Your hands came up to play with it in response. Unintentionally rising to the bait.

“I figured you were still mad over the word vomiting incident.” You stated, moving over to  the counter to sit. Noting the way he turned with you. Leaving no room between your bodies. He wasn't even trying and you were almost ready to rip your clothes off. “You haven't pulled any sick tricks, lately. Just ignored me.” You sat looking at him patiently. Waiting for an explanation.

At one time, you might have been relieved by his behavior. But, not anymore. The dynamic had shifted enough that the distance bothered you.

“Well,” He moved over to you, letting his hands settle on your knees, “there's two options in a situation like this.”

“I wasn't aware this is something you had experience in.” The teasing in your tone couldn't be denied. You leaned back, supporting your upper body on your hands. Making it easier to look him in the eyes.

“Oh, I don't... The internet, though? It has answers to everything.” He replied seriously. As if he hadn't pulled the answer from thin air.

“The more you know.” Sam tried to keep his face straight, but he broke at your tone as you played along. A small laugh revealed his dimples. The sight enough to melt away the rest of your worries. There'd been guilt, before. For all his rough edges, you hadn't intended on injuring his ego. “So, what are the options? Since you're clearly educated on the subject.” Your lips had turned up at the sound of his chuckle.

“Well, there's the easy one.” His hand started drifting higher. Thumb grazing along the bottom of your inner thigh- just under the hem of your skirt. “We let that be the end, and go onto other partners. Pretend it never happened.”

“And the second?” Your breath hitched lightly as his fingers tightened on the soft skin he'd found.

“We don't stop.” His other hand reached around your back, pulling your body closer to him. Stretching you out more along the counter as he settled in between your legs. His lips dipped down dangerously close to yours. “Keep going til we figure out just what you think is missing...”

“What's your vote?” You asked, bringing your hand between your bodies. Toying with his shirt. Chewing on your lip as you waited for a response. You didn't even care in that moment that your uncertainty had become his challenge to conquer. His hands moved up to your face. Cradling you as he kissed you hungrily. Not bothering to use words. You pulled away from his lips just long enough for one, husky word: “Agreed.”  

His mouth was back on yours in record time. Then trailing down your neck to the tops of your breasts. Kissing. Licking. Sucking. The occasionally bite mixed in. All marks were gone almost as soon as they appeared. But, you were past the point of caring. It felt too right to consider the consequences.

Your hands pulled open his red and blue plaid shirt. Desperate to get down to skin. Rounded nails scratched against the firm flesh. He tugged off your cardigan as his tongue tangled with yours. Nearly ripping the material in his haste. The two of you moved as if it had been years instead of days without touching.

“Please tell me that you're ready.” The husky tilt paired with his lack of breath went straight to your crotch. You just sent him a seductive smile while yanking open his belt. “Thank God.”

The soft material of your skirt was hiked with ease. Sam didn't slow down. Didn't wait for you to lift your hips. Instead, his fingers tore at the fragile lines of your panties. Making quick work of them.

Your own fingers were busy. Yanking at his button. Ripping his zipper down. Before his pants hit the ground, common sense prevailed.

“Condom?” There was no way you were giving up any method of birth control. Sex god, or not.

“Check my wallet.” Nothing. “Damn it.” He growled out, taking it from you to check himself before tossing it to the side. Another heavy, sexually frustrated curse leaving his lips. “Give me a second.” He started searching the medicine cabinet and drawers like a man possessed.

“Oh, this is so wrong,” You huffed out. Leaving all morals aside to hunt down a form of birth control in your friend's home. No luck. “Shit.” You were aroused. More than a little annoyed. A deadly combination to be sure. “Wait!”

“You are not leaving me here like this.” Sam ground out, seeing the wheels turn in your head.

“I'll be back in two seconds.” You promised. Crossing your fingers over your heart symbolically before adjusting your clothing back into semi-decent shape.

“Y/N-” You stopped him by pulling his head down to yours. Kissing the protest right out of him.

“I have more clothing on.” You managed to get out against his mouth. “I get caught? Less of a big deal.”

“Fine.” He said after a second of frustrated silence. Knowing it was that, or a longer wait. “You leave me like this, and I swear...” He trailed off, letting all kinds of disastrous images line your mind.

“While that sounds fun,” Your inner minx couldn't be contained. Cupping his erection in your hand, you continued. “I have much more...pressing issues.” Your thumb stroked over the bulge, making him practically hiss. A quick peck against his lip, and you were gone.

Sam's hand rubbed over his face as he waited. Awkward, now that he was on his own. Wondering if you really would be mischievous enough to ditch him- he knew you could be. Or if you needed him just as badly as he seemed to need you.

It had built throughout the day. Castiel's words only encouraging him further. Goading him until he'd planned on doing something about you that night.

Then, you'd walked by. Innocent fun was the only plan when he'd pulled you into the bathroom. Then, hormones ruled the moment he had you alone. A little foreplay to warm you up. Something that would make the night that much sweeter. That idea lasted until he'd touched you. Fucking the entire plan up.

He sat leaning against the counter with his shirt open. His belt and pants still undone, and a hard on for the ages pressed out angrily. A pair of destroyed peach, lace panties rested by his feet. His wallet was over on the other side of the room. If anyone else stumbled across him, he'd have a hell of a time explaining it. Luckily, you spared the Winchester.

“Got it,” Locking the door was first priority. Something that hadn't been thought of before.

“Where the hell-”

“Your brother is an easy target.” You pulled the wallet out of your top. Knowing right where the protection was stored. “Now...shut up and make use of this.” Dean's wallet was tossed over by Sam's. No longer worth your attention.

It took two steps for him to reach your side, and slam you into the door. His lips sealing over yours again. As the kiss deepened, his hands gripped your thighs. Silently demanding you jump. He didn't hesitate, pulling you up to his waist when you gave him what he needed.

You held on as he carried you. Not breaking contact with his mouth as he moved you back to the counter. Knocking over several toiletries in the process when he tossed you back onto the counter.

It was impossible to keep your hands off Sam. Your fingers got in the way, trying to help him lose the pants. Rolling the condom into a place.

A small squeeze of his erection led to a growl from the man above you. An answering bite to your lip drew a breathy moan from your lips as he moved your hands away. Your skirt was pushed back up. Fingers just barely ghosted over the wet folds as he lined up.

Sam's mouth swallowed your cry when he filled you with a snap of his hips. Your hands tangled themselves into his shirt and onto the base of his neck. Ankles locked around his back, digging your heels into his ass to help set the pace. Hard and fast.

Pulling away your lips, you turned them to his throat. Tasting his skin as he had yours earlier to draw a groan from him. Letting that muffle the sounds he was forcing from your throat.

His teeth held his lip as he moved, rolling his body into yours. Keeping himself as silent as possible. Not wanting to be caught anymore than you did. Wanting the moment to last.

You had no idea how long you two were locked together. Grasping. Thrusting. Whimpering at the rush. Every push and pull sending you closer to oblivion.

As you got close, your head fell back away from the taste of his damp flesh. Your teeth dug into your lower lip harshly, but it wasn't enough. Skin slapped harshly together, echoing through the small room. Then you heard it: voices.

Sam paused. Bringing his hand to your mouth, he covered it gently. Gauging your reaction to his action, as the sounds of your bodies meeting didn't lessen. You didn't complain, letting him protect the both of you two. Instead, you nodded your consent.

Neither of you stopped the push and pull you'd started. Not even when the voices were right outside. Rocking into each other all the while. Eyes locked, you held each other through it. Whoever it was didn't stay long.

You ground yourself against him as soon as they were gone, wanting him to speed back up. To send you over the edge. Needing it.

Luckily, Sam understood. Wanting the same thing, himself. His head buried into your shoulder. Bracing his free hand on the counter, he slammed into you. The once covered whimpers turned to cries as you clung to him. Your body clenched tight as you came, encouraging him to follow you. Thighs trembling all the while.

With every thrust, his rhythm grew more sloppy. Fighting to refrain. But, it was all too much. Sam's teeth sunk into your shoulder to keep his own shout from being heard when he came.

Breathing heavy, you pulled apart as soon as you were able. Almost shyly cleaning up and getting your clothes situated as best as you could. You helped fix his hair while he wiped off the smudged liner under your eyes.

Not much was said. Especially regarding the 'missing piece' that seemed to be standing like a brick wall between you two. That is, until Sam picked up the wallets.

“How'd you get this, anyway?” Dean's leather was waved as he looked at you.

“He was grabbing a beer, and talking to Bane in the kitchen.” You shrugged, slipping on your cardigan. “I walked past, grabbed it out of his back pocket, shoved it in my bra, and got up here.”

“Without him noticing?” Sam didn't buy it. Dean was too good of a hunter to have missed that trick.

“There's a skill to it. You just touch directly while grabbing what you want.” It seemed too easy. “For example,” You touched his bicep while looking at your hand, and his eyes followed. “I touch you here.”

“Okay...” He trailed off in confusion.

“And, I pick this up.” You wagged the wallet that had been in his back pocket in his face. “Easy. Even if the other person hunts? Their attention is diverted.”

“You're nothing but trouble, aren't you?” He grinned, pulling the leather from your grasp. Shoving it into his pocket for the second time.

“All I had to do is tap his arm from behind. Say excuse me. Done.” You unlocked the door. “Take your time, will ya? I'm going to schmooze. Play innocent.” As you walked out, you stopped and looked back at the younger Winchester. Eyes still full of fire, “Oh, and Sam...My door won't be locked, tonight...” You winked when his nostrils flared in response before leaving him alone to over think.

When he finally walked out, he was sure you two had gotten away with it. Another item kicked off of his bucket list. As far as he was concerned, he could die happy.

“How long?” Dean's voice made Sam turn around quickly, towards the other end of the hallway. His brother leaned against the wall. Shadowed, still. Maybe I spoke to soon...

“What?” He tried playing innocent. Shouldn't have bothered. It only made the older Winchester's glower deepen.

“How long have you and Y/N been sneaking around?” Well, shit...

Part Twelve

Tag: @burningmusicmachine​ @missmarrinette​ @sherlockedtash88​ @rathersuspiciousbumblebee​ @sasbb23​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @baby-bunker-pie​ @neii3n​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @malfoysqueen14 @calaofnoldor @hhiggs

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon​ @supernaturalginger​

[bondsmagii]

What’s the scariest paranormal thing that happened to you (that you’re comfortable sharing)? You’re such a great story teller and in this awful month of August spooky vibes are the most bone-deep.

I have a few, but my usual go-to actually has an ask regarding it waiting in my inbox, so when it spits out of my queue you’ll see it anyway! two for the price of one. anyway, for this one I’ll go for another terrifying experience that I haven’t told as often and it still honest to god creeps me out.

in my third year of university, I lived in campus accommodation. the building was pretty creepy-looking as it was: it was quite literally modelled on the buildings of a nearby prison, and said buildings looked like Khrushchev-era Soviet housing. it was split into a bunch of flats, each housing five people in single rooms, a full bathroom, a half-bathroom, and a living room/kitchen area. my room was at the very end of the hall, and the living room door was on the other end, facing the front door. there were no windows in the central hallway, and shortly after I moved in there was a chair just randomly in the middle of the hallway that nobody could account for; it soon vanished just as inexplicably. (this was not too surprising and certainly not as creepy as the place I lived in my fourth year, where I opened my bedroom door after hearing a strange tapping on it, and saw a single red balloon floating down the hallway. I immediately shut the door.)

anyway. this is where we set our scene. at the time of this encounter I had been living there for maybe three months or so; it was the middle of winter and very dark and cold. our flat was on the fourth floor and filled with ill-fitting windows and therefore the wind simply ripped through it, and as a result we spent all of our time in our rooms with the windows duct-taped up. despite the nasty weather, I was and still remain a) a night owl and b) very restless, so I would frequently go out and walk around campus at night in the howling wind, because hey, if I’m going to get murdered by a supernatural entity, I might as well make sure the atmosphere is worthy. my campus was excellent for such things, and my usual walk took me along the foot of a mountain, along the top of a slope looking down onto a loch, and around a castle before heading home. 

up until recently, this walk had been uneventful. that had gradually begun to change, and frequently on my way back, I would feel as though I were being followed. it started as a minorly uncomfortable feeling which didn’t really bother me, because I’m quite used to the paranormal and it takes a lot to unnerve me, but soon it began to grow into something unnerving enough that I would sometimes skip out on my walk, and other times when I braved it I would end up running the rest of the way home. there was a security door at the bottom of the staircase leading to my flat, and usually once I got inside and slammed it shut, I would feel better. one night, this was not the case. the feeling of being watched had been the worst yet, and I had actually felt in danger as I had run home. I got through the security door and slammed it shut, but this time it wouldn’t lock. I tried for several seconds, but the lock just would not twist. I gave up and sprinted up several flights of stairs to my flat, and miraculously the front door still locked. I slammed it closed and locked it before backing up to the living room door; seconds later, something slammed itself against the front door and snarled. I could feel something out there. there were several seconds of nothing, and then the presence abruptly vanished.

alright. a little creepy. not the worst thing I’ve ever experienced but what the fuck, you know? I skip out on my walks for a while, and about a week or so later I’m in the kitchen making coffee at 3am, because that’s how I roll. as mentioned, the living room/kitchen door is opposite the front door. there is a wall separating the living room from the kitchen, but an open archway rather than a door. I cannot see the living room door from the kitchen, and said door has a small window in the top which looks out onto the front door. there is no direct line of sight from the hallway to the kitchen, yet as I make my coffee, I can feel something watching me. something is very much staring at me, and it is coming from the hallway right outside the living room door.

now, momma didn’t raise a coward but she did raise a fool. I decide to go and look. I go to the archway and put my head out. the living room door is about three feet from me. and in the window I can see a head. it is very much at first glance a fully-formed head, but it’s not attached to anything. it’s floating there, kind of rotating on the air slightly. the face is that of an old man and he doesn’t seem to have much hair. his mouth is open and moving slightly as though he’s trying to talk. as it rotates around, I see that the freakiest part of this already very freaky apparition is the fact that his neck and half of his face isn’t actually whole. instead it flakes away from him in tatters, kind of like torn fabric. it is, by far, the creepiest apparition I have seen. I’m not entirely sure what to do, because usually I would see something like this and assume it was a residual haunting and therefore not sentient, or it was sentient but not malicious. such a thing would ordinarily make me think that the spirit wanted help, but there was the small issue of the absolute malice coming off this guy. I mean, for a solid forty seconds or so I was rooted to the spot, unable to move because I was convinced if I did, the thing would come through the door and fuck me up. gradually the disembodied head faded away, and I grabbed my coffee and quickly went out into the hall. no sooner had I done so did something throw itself against the front door again, with serious force.

something about all the doors in our flat: they’re all heavy-duty fire doors (aside from, ironically, the one leading to the living room/kitchen). they are super heavy and slam closed on their own, and it’s impossible to knock on them loudly because it hurts a lot. if my housemates or I wanted to knock on one another’s door, the only way we could make a noise loud enough to get attention from inside the room and not break our knuckles was to kick our shoed feet against the bottom of the door (which made a rattling thud) or slap our open palm against it. the front door was made out of this same serious knuckle-destroying material, and whatever was out there was going absolutely ham. the bang was defeaning. the door was literally jumping in its frame. it happened three times -- bang, bang, BANG -- and then the door went still. somehow I managed not to spill my coffee. I stood there, staring at the door, and I once again I was aware that something was standing on the other side. I had had quite enough by that point, so I hauled ass to my room -- which was, as you recall, at the very end of the long, dark hallway (complete with one ominously flickering light shining out from the bathroom). I get to my room and shut and lock the door.

for a moment everything is fine, and then as I step towards my desk -- bang, bang, BANG. those same bangs, on my bedroom door. once again it’s shaking in its frame, and then stops. there’s silence. said silence stretches on for some time, and then I hear a door open. my housemate in the room directly across from me calls out into the hallway what we’re all thinking: “what the fuck was that?”

we all open our doors and confer. it turned out my housemates all heard it too, and understandably were too scared to check what it was. I don’t tell them about the disembodied head, but I do tell them about the weird presence outside the door -- a presence which two of my four housemates have also felt. we theorise for a bit and crack a few jokes to calm down, and then we all go back to bed or, in my case, fucking around online. the next morning (I’m still awake, of course) my housemate across the hall gets up and slaps on my door, and when I open it he points out several deep gouges in the door that were definitely not there when I came back from the kitchen that night. they’re deep, too, and once again, these doors were made strong enough that I’m sure their only purpose in life was to break bones. we could not for the life of us work out what had caused it.

the presence remained by the front door for several nights, until I put salt down across the threshold and also across the doorways of all the bedrooms in the house. the presence vanished from the front door then, but was still felt outside the security door -- which was never fixed, because whenever the lock was replaced it broke again pretty much immediately. I never got chased home again, nor did I see the old man in the hallway either... but that was because I stopped going out of my bedroom during the hour between 3 and 4am, and kept strictly to that rule for the rest of the time I lived there.

[leonardo-capulet]

Learning To Heal #2 || Self-Para

Summary: Leo continues therapy despite the difficulties of his first session.

Trigger Warnings: You know the drill, there’s a whole load of shenanigans but hopefully only PTSD, mental health, depression, self-loathing, alcoholism, death, etc...

Disclaimer: Please do not read this if you’re triggered by the above... I really try to be careful with trigger warnings, but I might have missed one so... read at your own risk.

If Leo had considered himself nervous for his first session of therapy, it was nothing compared to how he was feeling now before his second session. He had made a promise to himself, he had vowed to give this a try. One session wasn’t enough to make a decision. He hadn’t even gotten through all of the things that had been bothering him. He certainly hadn’t reached the event that had completely derailed him, and he knew that it would be inevitable. Leo had guarded what happened with Alex from anyone and everyone. He didn’t feel like talking about the event and he couldn’t face the guilt and shame. Instead, he had managed to dance around the topic this whole time, but he likely wouldn’t be able to any longer. In order to heal, he would have to give up the details of this one event.

Just like before, Leo found himself in the armchair, fingers drumming away on the armrests as he waited for the session to start. The therapist watched him just like before for a moment. It was unnerving to have someone looking at him, as if they were trying to find faults in his person before he could even have the chance to open his mouth. Even though the act was seconds long, it stretched to feel as though it lasted minutes. Leo shifted in the seat, uncomfortable in his own skin and in the suit he wore, things he was normally quite comfortable with. It had reached the point where Leo was nearly about to confront the therapist when the other man decided it was time to begin.

“So, last time we saw each other we left off at you telling me about your military experience, and how you felt about things. I gave you some suggestions on how to cope with those things... how did that go?”

A deep, frustrated sigh escaped him. “Well, I didn’t start off the healing process very well. I left here and then promptly got myself drunk. Mind you, I’m no fan of seeing others drunk to the point that they require assistance, and yet that’s where I put myself. So, I essentially failed this right off the bat.”

“You thought it was going to be that easy? That you would be able to walk out of here with the things you’ve been battling and struggling with for years now being brought to the very forefront, and that you would be able to cope without mistakes?”

“That’s the purpose of this, isn’t it? To learn how to cope with these things?”

“Let’s get one thing straight. Just because you’ve made a mistake, and just because you fell back to old coping mechanisms after your first session, doesn’t make you a failure. You’re likely going to have plenty more moments where things are difficult to handle, and you’ll have a hard time find a way to deal with them. Hopefully, though, it’ll become easier with time. You’ll find better ways to deal with the difficulties that you’ve faced. Eventually, you won’t be so dependent on the alcohol.”

“Apparently, I won’t be dependent on it at all anymore.”

The therapist looked back at him curiously. “What do you mean, precisely?”

“Well, it appears that my ex has taken it upon himself to rid me of any temptations in my home.”

“Has he really?”

Leo nodded. “While I was asleep. He made sure I got to bed, and then he got rid of it all. Not a drop of it left in my house.” Not even his nicest bottle of wine, he thought to himself.

His therapist nodded with interest. “And is this ex of yours still in your life regularly?”

That was a question he didn’t know how to answer. “I think... I think he’s just trying to be supportive until I’ve got my act together. Pretty sure he’s not trying to make a regular thing of being in my life, at least not... well, that doesn’t matter.”

“Everything you’re experiencing matters, and so do the people you experience things with.” The other man said before changing gears, “Why don’t we move on to what came next after where we left off at our last session...”

That was how Leo found himself explaining how the pressure of everything he had experienced in the military became too much, as he’d stated last time. He continued with how his transition from the military to private security came to be. This shift in careers seemed to be a good decision for him when it all began. At least, he told the therapist that he thought it was a good decision. He still had nightmares, but his career was no longer a struggle. He was good at protecting others from harm and he took pride in it. Leo detailed how he’d managed to build a good reputation for himself, allowing him the opportunity to work with high profile individuals.

“I was restless for such a long time. I’d get a contract to work for and with a certain person. I’d seek new contracts so that by the time I fulfilled my standing contractual obligations, I would have another position already lined up. It wasn’t uncommon for people to ask me to stay. In the end... I realized I was trying to find a home, and nothing felt like home. So, in the end, I went back to where I grew up because it was the only home that I knew, and there was a chance at a job there that I knew I was more than qualified for... probably over-qualified. They were family, however, and they didn’t turn me down.”

“So you went back to Verona.” His therapist said it as more of a statement, rather than a question.

With a nod, Leo affirmed, “I went back to Verona.”

“And then?”

“...And then I fell in love with someone, truly fell in love with someone...” Leo ran a hand over his face wanting to keep any emotion from showing on his face at the mention of Cristian.

“We’ll circle back to that, but right now I’d like to move forward as I feel that we’re getting closer to the real reason that you’re here.”

A frown pulled at the corners of his lips as he continued on. He had to explain that there was a wild situation involving a man ending up in jail who hadn’t deserved it, and how a plan was formed to help. This was where things became difficult. He’d brushed over Cristian’s involvement in his life to get to this story, feeling that the therapist would find a way to get back to all of it in the end. Although, he wasn’t sure it would be at this particular session.

When they finally reached Alex’s death, Leo had to force himself to talk his way through it, and for the first time in his therapy session, he actually cried. With the death of his family member and friend, he couldn’t hold in the pain that he’d felt over it. In a lot of ways, this had been so much less gruesome, but this one was worse than any others. His fellow soldiers? They’d had a chance because they’d been trained for combat. Alex? He wasn’t trained to do what Leo did. He was an innocent in all of it, and it made Leo feel even worse about the whole situation.

“I should’ve been more careful, and I should have made sure that he wasn’t in the line of danger.”

“There are some things that you can’t predict. Even those who are perfectly trained can’t predict everything that will happen. There are some things that will be out of your hands, like we mentioned in our previous session.”

Leo’s fingers dug into his hair and tugged as he shook his head. “This one... this one shouldn’t have been out of my hands. I should have been able to prevent it. Out of all of them, this one is all on me. Sure, I’ll accept that the others might have been out of my control. Maybe even that I was good at keeping most of them safe. I see where you’re coming from. This? You can’t explain Alex’s death away.”

As much as Leo wanted to find a way past Alex’s death, he couldn’t see a way out. The therapist attempted to explain things in a way that Leo might understand. He needed to find a way to heal from this. The words from the man sitting across from him didn’t seem to penetrate, as if Leo’s mind had put up a block again to attempt to protect him from the pain of everything he’d seen and experienced.

“Leo. Are you listening?”

That caught his attention. “Huh?” He let out a slow breath and shook his head. “No... it’s just...”

“I understand. I think you should talk about it, what happened. You told me you haven’t spoken to anyone about this. I know that you don’t like to share a lot of yourself with people, but I encourage you to find people you can trust, and speak to them about what troubles you. If Alex’s death is the thing that has been hardest to face, talking to someone you trust could help to make things easier. I’m not saying it will be easy... simply, easier. Holding everything inside isn’t going to help anything.”

“Who am I supposed to talk to?”

“Well, for starters, you mentioned your ex who is still around? Maybe start with him. See if he’s willing to listen.”

“And if he hates me after it?”

“Let’s not make assumptions. You need to trust people and you need to give them the benefit of the doubt. Not everyone is going to turn you away, Leo.”

Perhaps his therapist was right, but not everyone had been hurt by Leo in the way Cristian had been. As he left therapy, Leo tried not to think about the increased negative thoughts. This had been the reason he’d done what he did the last time. Leo didn’t know how to cope with his demons. He stopped at the corner of one street, seeing a bar not far off. He could just as easily go there, but Cristian’s words, as well as those of his therapist came to mind.

With a groan, Leo reached into his suit and looked at his phone for a moment. He squeezed his eyes closed and began to put his phone away again before thinking better of it, and acting before he could stop himself. He was teetering the edge again and knew if he didn’t have a reason to stop himself, he would end up at the bar up ahead. Turning his back to the building his fingers typed up a quick message.

Therapy done...

After that was sent, he stared at the phone and then typed one more message.

I need company right now. Please, Cristian.

Whether the submissive would agree to come to his aid was out of his hands. If not? He would have to figure out a way on his own. He would just have to be strong enough to handle this alone. He sighed and made his way to his car, slipping into the driver’s seat. He just had to get to his apartment, and he’d be fine. He’d be safe. He wouldn’t have alcohol. He could be as miserable as he wanted in his apartment where nobody could see him.

[lovehaswonangelnumbers]

New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/a-massive-explosion-detected-in-ophiuchus/

A Massive Explosion Detected in Ophiuchus

A Massive Explosion Detected in Ophiuchus

ByMahala’s Astrology

Ophiuchus has held a special fascination in the Heavens for many people as the thirteenth sign of the zodiac. Here we have an image of a healer with two serpents representing the male and female forces which are the mirror of the Creator’s divine blueprint of life.

In my own explorations of Ophiuchus, I have felt him as a holographic representation of Moses holding the serpents and witnessing the burning bush. You might recall from the bible that Moses had a stutter and had also killed a man – you might say an unlikely candidate to be a primary prophet of God. It is in this part of his journey that God shows him two miracles – his staff turning to serpents and also the burning bush which doesn’t burn, to convince Moses to follow His will. As a result of Moses trusting God he is eventually able to liberate the Hebrew people from Egypt. This story has many metaphoric resonances for our time and if you haven’t looked at it as an adult delve into its profound mysteries.

The Goddess Asteroid Hygeia in my journey also connects to Ophiuchus. Hygeia was the daughter of Asclepius and again the symbol of the two serpents is connected to both figures. Hygiea, as the feminine counterpart, represents ancient lineage of healing that connects to sleep, dreams and altered brain wave states such as sound healing.

The BBC released this story of the huge explosion on the 22nd February 2020 – I’m not sure of the exact date it was discovered but given the numerology this is certainly a key date in which its impact filtered into our Earthly consciousness. 22 is the number in the Gene Keys which relates to the Opening of the Seven Seals. It coincided with New Moon in Pisces conjunct Neptune in the days that followed.

Supernova’s have been known to release incredible new information to human beings. For example, Human Design is said to have come from the Supernova of 1987 – the year of Harmonic Convergence. Many wonderful political events followed such as the Berlin Wall coming down and the end of Apartheid. The system of the Gene Keys then emerged from Human Design and is a system I myself follow and am infinitely fascinated by as it is all about unlocking the potential for light within our DNA.

It is a struggle to find harmony at the moment but that is I feel the essence of the work. In the post-election depression in the UK many people on the more progressive end have completely withdrawn from the media and politics – perhaps not such a bad thing. It is a fight sometimes to reach for love for the ‘other’ voters and for authorities who seem hell bent on harming both vulnerable people and the environment. The new government has started their rule with deporting many people from the Caribbean who have lived here all their lives. There is a hostility towards other Europeans, for example one commentator said how we can all go back to enjoying shopping again once other European’s have left. That is certainly not how I feel, I celebrate living in a diverse humanity. Britain like America is a split society at this time and the parallels are striking,

The BBC and media are also under attack and much like Apartheid South Africa, there are moves to control exactly what the media can and cannot say. Despite this though, the Prophetic side of me hears God whispering hope, knows that Christ is right here – is us all – for those who have ears to hear.

I recently discovered a wonderful audio book of an interview with Brother Gregg who runs an awesome project called Home Boys in Los Angeles, and the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodrin, who I often feel saved my life in the years I was an adoptive mother. The audio book is called Creating a Culture of Tenderness and by the end of listening to it I was right in that place of harmony. The job is to stay there!

Back to the explosion in Ophiuchus that was so enormous at first astronomers dismissed that it could be an explosion at all. It is 5 times bigger than anything previously seen and is more akin to the Big Bang happening again. Using low frequency radio wave telescopes astronomers have figured it out.

What does this mean for humanity? God works in mysterious ways, but I feel sure that perhaps many of us are receiving this download right now. We can certainly tune into it and see what emerges from that ‘void’ space. What has been birthed?

Below is an excerpt from the jovianarchive.comwebsite

Ra Uru Hu was not your traditional mystic: “I was conditioned to believe that science fiction was a genre of literature, that mystical revelation was simply a more antiquated form of the same, and that God, if not dead, was most likely a concept. On the evening of January 3, 1987, all that changed.” Previously a sceptic who didn’t believe in the mystical or even follow astrology, living as a hermit on the island of Ibiza, Ra’s experience changed him dramatically. He spent the next 23 years becoming the world-renowned messenger of the penetratingly accurate, immensely detailed Human Design System, which describes the mechanics of our being.

According to the source of the Human Design System, “The Voice” originated from a supernova – the death of a star. Scientists named it 1987A. This supernova’s last breath bombarded our planet with subatomic particles that transmitted the entire system into Ra Uru Hu, and seeded all of us with its information. One of the first things it told Ra was that the big bang was our universes conception point, and it has yet to be born. (My words – could this be the birth?)

Here is a link to the original BBC report https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-51669384.

Here is a link to the Gene Keys web site https://genekeys.com.

By Alison Dhuanna

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[loveisaviolence3]

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rose is almost relieved when bellamy lets the smile fall. god and everybody – at least christian and laurel and lissa, god knows she’s talked enough about it in their company – knows she loves his smile, but she can almost feel how hard he has to work for it, the effort he’s putting into holding it up. it makes her wonder if he’s doing it for her, if he feels like he has to pretend with her, and that makes her want to reach out to him, reassure him somehow that it’s not the case. it’s hard to hold herself back. she’d almost regret her words if they weren’t so true, if she didn’t feel that he was in such dire need of hearing them – that he might’ve gone his whole life believing something different and is struggling with the repercussions of that now. the last thing she wants is to make him feel like he has to force anything for her, but as she finds herself beginning to worry, there’s something keeping her silent, telling her to stand her ground and wait – wait for him to process, to keep talking, because if she looks closely enough she can see he’s on the verge of it, that maybe he’s heard the sincerity of what she’s said and that’s given him the urge to open up, given him permission to have a single moment where he’s a fraction as gentle with himself as he is with everyone else. 

she’s known since she saw him on the phone that there’s more going on inside him than he’s letting on – since she saw that weary look in his eyes as he talked to octavia and the defeated one afterward, felt a heaviness to him throughout that seemed extreme for the circumstances. her gut tells her it’s the right thing, allowing him to either continue or choose not to without any additional prompting from her, but holding back was hard, just as it was when she’d seen him become more and more strained on the phone with his sister, but she can see the necessity of her patience, and so she finds it within herself. 

once she knows it’s right, it’s not so hard at all to muster. 

it was that distress that had kept her in the room even though she wondered if the right thing would be to turn around. she didn’t know he was on the phone when she’d walked in, and for all she knew this was a private conversation he didn’t want an audience for. just because he liked having her around and seemed to enjoy whenever she did something that implied she felt at home here didn’t mean he wanted her present for conversations with his sister, and while it was an honest mistake, he might not appreciate her hanging around afterward. but she could hear the exhaustion in his voice, and no matter how she tried to convince herself to wait in the living room until he was done, she couldn’t stand the idea of leaving him alone like that. so instead she’d sat on the bed hoping she could lend him some kind of support, that having her there was better than not. it was a risk, one a part of her still worried was taken hastily, but she was glad she was there when it was over, glad to be able to take his hands and try to offer him some comfort. she hopes he’s glad as well, that he’s not wishing he was alone. 

just as the smile disappears she finds herself reliving that last second of it, though, and then understanding outweighs insecurity because suddenly she can almost feel what he’s feeling so completely – so perfectly – that it’s nearly painful, can feel what he’s feeling because she’s lived it before, experienced it herself. maybe not the same thing, not the exact same thing, anyway, but she knows what it’s like to have been given something kind and not know how to hold it, to simultaneously want to hold it close to your chest and throw it away because you can’t possibly deserve it, can’t possibly keep it to yourself. bellamy wants to push it away because that’s what he knows, but he’s trying to hold onto it anyway. he’s trying to cup it in his hands and tuck it away somewhere safe, even if all he wants to do is give it back to her, even if all he feels like doing is sending it far away. rose is inspired by that, will remember that next time she finds herself wanting to do the same, how much it took for him to keep it close and accept it rather than turn it away, but for right now, she’s proud of him. god, she’s so proud of him. she can’t respond to the thank you because she’s so proud of him. 

and she wants to tell him more than anything, but that would be asking too much right now, maybe, so later, maybe, and then he’s talking – he’s talking, telling her things, and all there is in the world is what he’s telling her. they haven’t moved long enough for her to become restless, to begin fidgeting with his hands out of habit, but she lacks the urge. she does squeeze them, though, silent encouragement, the silent tenderness she finds herself aching to give him out loud, to express by wrapping her arms around him. it breaks her heart, what he’s saying. it’d be easy to cry for him, to hold him as if she can somehow heal every heartbreak he’s endured that way, but she knows he can’t. she does let her thumb meet his, though, her way of temporarily staving off the massive urge she has to hold him, to physically position herself so that she’s between him and any threat that could possibly materialize in the doorway because he’s allowed himself to be vulnerable. 

until you. she wants to be warmed by that, but mostly she’s sad, sad because she hates the idea of bellamy having lived so long with this alone, that she wasn’t somehow there earlier to ease the ache. it should be a wonderful, heady thing to be first in this way, to give him something no one else was willing or capable of giving, but her heart breaks again and again for every year bellamy went without something as simple as unconditional love, as safety. for every year he felt like he didn’t deserve love, like he had to earn it, like his worth and value in a relationship was as a caretaker. i’m sorry, she wants to say, because she is, she is, or that’s horrible, because it is, it is, but neither of those things feel right, and neither does telling him her opinion of how he was raised when he’s still forming it himself. something in him is trying so very hard to process that, and she needs to let him, no matter how much she wants to insist it was cruel, so cruel. 

if bellamy decides he is going to resent his mother for what she did to him, for the weight she put on him, she’ll be the first person to tell him it’s okay, that feeling whatever he feels is okay; she won’t discourage him like dimitri did her, won’t dismiss him like her mother has. but he has to get there himself. he can’t be thinking about her anger; he can’t be thinking about her, period.  “ that must have been so hard, ” she does say, so softly it’s nearly a whisper, soon finding herself unsatisfied with the words. hard. the understatement of the century.  “ that must have been impossible, ” she corrects. because no matter what he did, he would have been wrong, or felt wrong. more than anything she wants to say it wasn’t his fault, that he’s not responsible for any of it, but she knows it would be invalidating him, because even if it wasn’t his fault, he was all that octavia had, all that kept her alive. to say he wasn’t responsible is to say that isn’t true, and as much as she wants to cry at the thought of a six year old bellamy trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, that’s not something she can do now. she has to hear him when he says it was all on him, because it was. it had to be because he was all there was. 

“ you’re the strongest person i know, ” she says at that second part, eyes full of truth, of faith, even if a little shiny. it’s clear she means every word she’s saying.   “ even when you’re scared. even when you’re upset. even when you don’t know what to do or say. none of that makes you weak. ”  she’s thinking about the phone call now, this phone call that stirred all of this in him. she can understand now – he wasn’t able to give octavia what she needed, or felt like he wasn’t able to, and now he’s blaming himself because since he was six years old, giving octavia everything she wanted or needed has been his job, his sole purpose for existing. that’s something else she’s going to cry about later, but she’s pushing that away for now.  

“ when octavia was growing up, if anything happened, it was on you. it had to be, because auora wasn’t around and there was no one else. it was just you and octavia, ” she says in a gentle voice, choosing her words carefully. she doesn’t want to overstep, offer unsolicited advice or whatever, but she can’t shake the feeling that he needs to hear this.  “ but that’s not true now. octavia has friends, she has me. ”  that last part is a little tentative, but not because there’s anything she wouldn’t do for octavia, not because she’s not devoted to her – she just doesn’t give herself enough credit, ever really.  “ granted, someone who wasn’t a literal percentage point away from failing most of her classes for most of her high school experience might be better suited to help her with school, but it’s still true. it’s not all on you anymore. you’re always going to be the person that raised her, but you don’t have to be everything for her anymore. you don’t have to carry the weight of that anymore, or the responsibility. ”  and she knows that’s a hard thing for him to accept, so it never stops being gentle, more suggestion than fact. she doesn’t want him to feel like she’s saying he’s wrong, like she’s trying to push anything on him.  “ i don’t think octavia needs you to fix everything for her anymore, ” she says in an even softer voice, if it were possible.  “ maybe she just needs you to hold her hand while she fixes it herself. and maybe that’s hard and messy and takes awhile, but she’s strong, too. and she learned that from you. ”   she lets her forehead touch his in affection for just a second before pulling back to look at him.   “ it’s okay not to have the answers. it’s okay to not be able to make this better right now. that doesn’t make you weak. that doesn’t make you less worthy of love or anything else. ”

[alifeexamined-blog1]

At 105 days, a meditation on sobriety

I've been reflecting on 2019 thus far, and how it's been one of the hardest but one of the most important years of my adult life.

2019 has brought some new lows. I've struggled with suicidal ideation in a way that I haven't since I was a teenager in the immediate aftermath of rape and sexual abuse. And if anything, it's been worse this time, because I would keep thinking, "I’m in my 30′s. Over a decade has passed; my life should be better by now." At this point, I was supposed to have grown out of what happened to me in my youth. I wasn't supposed to be stuck with that trauma's ongoing effects, or trapped in cycles of being re-traumatized by the emotionally abusive relationships that followed. (Because even as survivors of abuse, we often gravitate to the familiar. Control and the diminishment of self by the partners who should care for us is what we know, so it’s easy to mistake that treatment for love. It’s emotional Stockholm Syndrome. And it makes any attempt at healing exponentially harder, because every new relationship like that--and I’ve been in several--opens old wounds over again.) 

I spent the early months of 2019 hysterical with anxiety. I fantasized about suicide. I planned how I'd do it. I’m a writer, so I planned what I might say in my suicide note. (I’ll admit that the part of me who used to like Linkin Park reveled a bit in the emo-ness of this exercise.) It wasn't that I wanted to die. That was the worst part: I very much wanted life. And not just life, a good life, suffused with new and exciting experiences. I had this cliche vision of the “Eat Pray Love” version of myself. Like something out of an Instagram post, this Hannah stood laughing on top of a Colorado mountain that she’d just spent all day climbing, silhouetted against blue sky in a big hat and a sports bra, water bottle in one hand, a joint in the other, glowing with self-actualization. Hannah in a state of hippie nirvana. Hannah breathing in nature, no cares or worries. Just picture-perfect privilege. A juvenile aspiration--like most Internet-inspired fantasies, all shine and little substance--but  if I visualized it long enough, I could almost feel the sunshine on my back. 

But feeling that sunshine was becoming more and more impossible. I'd lost hope. I remember crying on the phone to my mom, "I feel like I have no future." I remember I said that over and over and over again. The simple fact of *being me* was so painful that it seemed unendurable. "It hurts to exist," I also recall saying. It’s a feeling I don’t know how to describe to someone who hasn’t experienced it (and I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone). I didn't see another way out of that pain and I felt sapped of the considerable energy required to fight it. There was little left except pangs of failure and fear and self-hatred, and the compulsion to escape by any means possible. At 31, I felt old.

All the while, I kept up appearances. If I couldn’t fool myself any more, at least maybe I could fool others into thinking that I was fine. I went to work and tried to stay engaged and personable. I attempted to maintain my social life, even my dating life (though the man I’d been sleeping with lost interest after my facade of the fun-loving, bohemian girl in the sunshine became too exhausting to maintain, and he caught a glimpse of my actual vulnerability). I posted selfies on social media, shopped for new clothes, got my hair done. All the trappings of functional suburban normalcy. But inside I was giving up on the idea that I could access real joy and relief again. When I’d try to smile at people, my face felt like rubber stretched into an unnatural shape. The muscles didn’t want to move that way any more.

And so my drinking, which had already fallen into unhealthy patterns--more and more evenings when I fell asleep fully clothed and still wearing my shoes after too many glasses of Chardonnay--escalated. And escalated some more. In a fucked-up way, it was my weapon against the inevitability of ending it all. It was a last-ditch attempt to break free from the splitting awfulness of being in my own brain. Anything to mitigate the stress before the stress took over completely. If I got enough alcohol inside me, I could feel warm and light, at least for a while. If I was lucky, I could even feel a flicker of sexiness, a fleeting chemical charisma. Late one night around this time, a stranger at a bar said she could tell I have "a beautiful soul." I cried thinking about it later, wishing that I could see myself this way. Beautiful was the opposite of how I felt. Even getting out of bed took a grim amount of effort.

It's only been 3 months and a few days since my last drink, but already what I can see is that the day I decided to quit alcohol was the day I chose life. Quitting drinking was a choice to believe that there *is* hope. That I do have a future, that I am a person worth investing in. I've wondered, too, if the incident that propelled me to stop drinking was my subconscious acting on my suicidal feelings. My "rock bottom" was that I drove home blackout drunk from a bar and crashed my car. That could have killed me. Worse, it could have killed someone else. I was lucky that neither of those things happened. (No one was hurt and my car was fine, apart from a few scrapes and scratches.) Despite the deep, deep shame I felt--and still feel--about having taken this dangerous action, it scared me into realizing that I still had fight in me after all. The thought that I could've died filled me with panic, not longing. That made me determined to piece myself back together, no matter how much more hurt I'd have to get through to do it.

And it does hurt. I've moved through the intervening days feeling like a weird exposed nerve. My emotions are heightened and all over the place. Not to mention that I feel a gnawing restlessness, stripped as I now am of the usual outlet for my self-destructive impulses. It’s hard not to feel manic when you’re struggling for peace against ongoing sensations of frustrated hedonism. The other day I was walking in the woods and first I was smiling because the landscape was beautiful and then there were tears in my eyes because I felt so privileged to be there experiencing it. Profound awe and gratitude, mingled with profound sadness and a loneliness that pervaded every part of my body. And that's probably how it's going to be for a while. 

Quitting drinking hasn't fixed everything overnight. I still often feel at war with myself. I push against the weight of constant anguish just trying to fulfill my basic responsibilities. But sobriety has reminded me that I have agency and that it isn't impossible that I will one day be able to accept myself. Not an Instagrammable, FOMO-inducing, obvious form of self-acceptance, but a quiet feeling of confidence that’s deep and unshakable. Because if I can do this hard thing and stick with it, what else can’t I do? I've been rewatching early episodes of "Game of Thrones," and there are those scenes in the first season where Arya's taking sword-fighting lessons with the Bravosi dude and he tells her, "What do we say to the god of death? Not today."

Deciding to get sober--and, shortly thereafter, seeking professional help to improve my mental health--has been my way of saying to death: "Not today."

[fedoraowl]

The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth

Happy New Year everyone! And here’s a little present from me. It’s last year’s Senmei Christmas short stories. I started working on this translation last year but got too busy to properly finish it so I picked it up this year. So here it is! I hope you enjoy reading it! I’m  warning you, though, it’s quite lengthy haha

The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | 1

“How do you usually spend New Year’s Eve every year?” Ewan asked Lawrence while the two of them were having simple dinner and received a brief reply, “At home.”

“Now that I think about it, didn’t you live in the student dormitory before coming to the castle?”

“Yes, and I would go back to my adoptive parents’ home during winter holidays.”

Lawrence, the leader of a chivalric order now, was a mere student just half a year ago. Thinking about this, Ewan became overwhelmed with emotion, so he gazed at the figure clad in simple chivalric order uniform before his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing, just thinking that the Emperor Cup’s undefeated swordsman spends his holidays with his family like any ordinary person.”

“I’m always ordinary, though…”

‘I think you’re out of the ordinary…’ thought Ewan to himself but didn’t voice it, and smiled obscurely.

To the boy who was raised in the outskirts of an island situated far from the center of the empire, the spreading fame of the young swordsman was dreamlike and dazzling, and Ewan looked up to him as if he was a legendary hero.

Remembering that this very hero pledged his sword to him, Ewan’s head suddenly became dizzy so he hurriedly changed the topic.

“By the way, I don’t think I can give everyone a vacation this winter, after all.”

Lawrence nodded understandingly.

“I think everyone was prepared for this, considering the phase of life we’re now in.”

Ewan himself was - to a certain degree - prepared but he didn’t think they’d be busy for such a long period of time.

“You know, I’d thought I’d be able to go back to Mare Island for Christmas.”

“Speaking of which, we haven’t met your brother yet, Ewan.”

He’d exchanged numerous letters with his brother and childhood friends, who were back on Mare Island, but they hadn’t had their reunion yet.

“I’ve always thought an emperor was someone who could travel different places more easily…”

“That will come by eventually.”

“That’d be nice. I want to visit your native Owlard someday, too.”

When Ewan said that, Lawrence’s face relaxed a little.

“I’ll be your guide.”

Lawrence’s little brother Fay was currently staying at their home in Northern Owlard, and that wasn’t just for homecoming. Because of Lawrence’s rejection of the title of one of the seven lords, Owlard was presently without a feudal lord at the helm. Although at the moment it wasn’t in the state of disorder, Fay was asked to travel back and forth between the imperial castle and Owlard quite frequently.

Lawrence stopped eating and said while looking out the window, “Apparently, Fay is going to celebrate New Year’s at home.”

It was already dark outside, and the silhouettes of the two young men quivered in the candlelight on the window glass. On the other side of the window, the branches of the trees in the garden formed a mesh-like pattern against the dark sky.

Lawrence was probably thinking back to his hometown. Owlard wasn’t far from Solem; however, it was said to be mostly covered in snow already.

Ewan thought that if both brothers weren’t home, it would make the Ackroyd family feel lonely so it was nice that at least one of them, Fay, was supposed to be home for the holidays. From what he heard, Lawrence’s adoptive parents were sweet people, and it would be bad to make such nice people sad.

“Could it be that you actually want to head home for New Year’s, Lawrence?” That was intended to be a light question but Ewan was slightly surprised at Lawrence’s uncertain hesitation to answer.

‘Does he want to go back home so much? Or could it be some… circumstances…?’

Lawrence looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it, so that day Ewan couldn’t ask anything more and retired to his bedroom alone.

It was their first winter since everyone had met half a year ago. There were plenty of things they didn’t know about each other.

‘Lawrence’s birthday is on New Year’s Eve, and I’ve been thinking of giving him something instead of vacation… But isn’t vacation still better?’

‘I have no idea what everyone is wishing for in the first place…’

Irritated at his flaws, Ewan spent quite some time that night deep in thought.

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | 2

“Did you fight with Lawrence or something?” August asked so Ewan shook his head in panic.

“No, not at all.”

“Then why are you all restless?”

As soon as August threw some documents on his office desk, his hand retreated back into the muff.

Today he was wearing a silver fox fur stole over a dark green dress, matched by a muff made of the same fur. Several fluffy decorative pompoms were dangling down from the silver fox hat, some of them hiding in August’s curls.

Clearly looking like a younger girl dressed like this, August, in fact, was a full-fledged man, and five years older than Ewan, at that.

“Hey, wearing such clothes inside… Are you cold?”

“Of course I’m cold! That Mister Cold-blooded Chancellor’s stinginess extends to even firewood for the fireplace!”

“Messiah’s not cold-blooded… Rather, he’s stingy because he’s hot-blooded.”

The office was, indeed, spacious, and with the fire in the fireplace so weak, his hands were growing painfully numb.

Because of this, he was working very hard just so to finish his work earlier, that’s why Ewan thought that a cold room wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“I didn’t have the slightest idea… So you’re super sensitive to the cold, August!”

“I’m not super sensitive. Just the usual sensitive, and we’re not talking about me right now.”

He peeked at Lawrence standing by the entrance to the room and lowered his voice.

“What happened?”

“I think Lawrence is acting like usual. It’s just… I can’t ask him about something directly.”

August tilted his head questioningly and it was visible that his lips were turning slightly purple. Ewan felt sorry for poor August who kept up the conversation even though he was fighting the cold, so he answered rapidly.

“Lawrence’s birthday is soon, and since I can’t give him a vacation I started thinking if maybe he would want something different instead.”

“Something he wants…” August pondered while shifting from one foot to another since he probably got colder from standing still.

“In a sense, he is now in the position to obtain almost anything. And he already got a lifetime treasure this year…” he muttered looking at Ewan, who was the one to ask questioningly, “What?” this time.

“No, nothing. He’d love some imported sword or a rare horse tack, I’ll try sounding his family out. Will that do?”

“Wait, really? But I don’t have any money on me right now and I can’t pay for something expensive…”

To such an answer August replied with, “You can pay me back later,” and sighed, shoulders dropped.

‘I’ve no idea how to pay him back, though…’ Ewan was thinking to himself, deciding to embrace the generous offer.

He’d help someone from the castle with their work and hopefully, that would eventually cover the cost.

“It’s nice having Messiah help out with the financial affairs, however, I don’t want my emperor to feel economically poor… You’re my emperor, after all.”

“I don’t fell poor or anything.”

“I guess it doesn’t feel like that to you.”

August was the son of a distinguished family for whom buying the whole Mare Island wouldn’t pose a challenge. Ewan, on the other hand, was someone who used to go to school and take care of poultry daily. Ewan couldn’t wrap his head around the gap between them.

“There must be nothing you want to receive then.”

“What I’d love right now is a trip to a southern country!”

“But I told you a vacation is impossible for now!” Ewan got all the more puzzled while saying that.

Lawrence’s gift was more or less taken care of but Ewan had to anguish over the New Year present for August now.

“Okay, see you!”

Ewan’s eyes followed August’s petite back until he trotted out of the room and the boy, again, got lost in thought.

Back on the island he hadn’t had to worry about what gifts to give. Someone wanted chicken hatchlings, others collected embroidered ribbons, and someone else needed their shoes repaired. In such a small community people knew each other very well.

Ewan groaned and Lawrence, standing in the distance, threw a concerned look at the boy, but Ewan reassured him with a wave of his hand.

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | 3

“We cannot have that,” said Messiah so Ewan objected in turn.

He knew that in the end, Messiah would always be right but he couldn’t help opposing him this time.

“Lawrence spends his birthday with his family every year, but this year he can’t… I think it’s the right thing for me to want to do something for him.”

“If you insist, I won’t be stopping you anymore.”

Messiah’s response wasn’t angered, it wasn’t a blatant refusal either, it was somewhat gentler than usual, and that made Ewan fall silent.

Would overly serious Lawrence really be happy about Ewan, the emperor, devoting great effort solely to him when their country was experiencing hard times?

That was what Messiah was wondering and he voiced his concerns.

‘It’s true…’ Ewan thought. ‘To be honest, I wanted to do something for him personally, but I still don’t know what he wishes for.’

“I understand… I’ll take my time thinking about something for Lawrence. By the way, can’t we give August a vacation or something? He might die of hypothermia at this rate.”

“He is not going to die,” Messiah replied, in a cold manner this time. “I’m sure he himself understands perfectly well that if he takes a vacation at an impossible time it will backfire later. It will cause even more trouble so you should leave this matter alone.”

“Then I want you to at least kindle the fire in August’s fireplace a little stronger instead.”

“Is it that cold there?”

Ewan frowned as if saying, “You’d never understand, Messiah.”

“I believe every room is warm enough. If you insist, how about making his room smaller?”

“A bold idea, as usual, and a commoner-like approach…” Ewan sighed, not sure if August would like that idea.

“Could it be that you’re not at all sensitive to the cold, Messiah?”

“It’s not that I’m not sensitive… Although it may be true. It’s much colder in my home region this time of year.”

Messiah was from Iska, which was indeed famous for its low air temperatures regardless of the season.

Geographically, it was located not far from the Imperial region, and, on top of being an inland region not facing the sea, it was situated in a high altitude area, which made winters last longer in some parts of it even compared to Northern Owlard.

“By the way, how did you use to celebrate New Year’s at home?”

“There was no such thing as holidays in the educational institution I was raised at.”

“And what about before the institution?”

“Usually… I spent it with my family, as far as I remember,” Messiah’s violet eyes took on a bluish tint.

Messiah showed a rare calm and gentle expression (probably unknown to himself) so Ewan couldn’t help but be entranced.

‘Where is your family now?’ Ewan wanted to inquire but couldn’t.

There was no way such a capable detective as Messiah hadn’t investigated his parents’ whereabouts and now that he bore such a title there was no way they hadn’t come into contact.

However, up to now this topic hadn’t come up in any of their conversations. Perhaps he couldn’t talk about it for some reason or, perhaps, it was a delicate reason he couldn’t talk about.

At Ewan’s silence, Messiah looked downward to hide his expression and the corners of his lips tugged up.

“Even though I’m from a town of miners, it turned festive sometimes, too. We were poor so we couldn’t prepare anything special…” He stopped for a moment and twirled a quill pen in his hand. “That reminds me, my mother made small snow huts lined up outside of our house.”

They were lit up by a short candle placed inside.

Once night fell, he liked watching them from the window, those running garlands of light marking an otherworldly path.

“My mother used to say they led to some other place.”

“To some other place…”

Where did young Messiah think those rows of lights led to?

When Ewan lifted his glance, their eyes suddenly met.

Messiah had called Ewan his “dream”, but was he really making that dream come true even now?

When Ewan thought about it, he felt an unpleasant tug in his chest.

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | 4

“I personally approve of the idea of making the room smaller,” Gideon raised his eyes from the documents and lifted both arms in an approval pose. “All rooms in this castle are just too big.”

“What? Making large things small requires money, too. And much more money than for additional firewood, you know!” August banged on the desk.

“Calm down, August. Do not take everything Gideon says seriously,” Zan said quietly, his brows knitted. “He is joking again.”

“For your information, I’m not joking.”

“I don’t care anymore, who needs an old man’s opinion!”

“Be quiet, we’re in the middle of a Privy Council meeting,” Lawrence, who was standing silently behind Ewan, finally spoke up.

It was a meeting in name only; Titus was away on a trip to his region, the chairman Messiah who tied them all together was also away tending to another matter, so, in the end, all seven lords couldn’t gather, and, naturally, everyone grew lax.

“Everything is the fault of that mister Heartless Chancellor who wanted to cut down even on fuel expenses…” August pursed his lips.

“If you’re that cold, how about wearing something different than those frilly clothes of yours?” Lawrence suggested coldly.

“Just so you know, these are way warmer. How many petticoats do you think I’ve got underneath?”

“I’ve no idea about your underwear, and on that note, I don’t really want to know.”

Lawrence was a man of few words but when it involved his cross-dressing childhood friend, he was exceptionally sharp-tongued.

‘We won’t get organized today,’ thought Ewan with a sigh.

It was at times like these that Messiah’s binding presence was irreplaceable.

“Let’s wrap it up for today. Messiah is unlikely to return, and we’re going nowhere with this meeting. And about the room issue, it’s all glib talk, don’t take it to heart,” said Ewan and August rose to his feet nodding.

“Well, a visitor is waiting for me so I have to go, bye!” August ran out the door, his heavy petticoats swinging. Ewan also gathered his materials and was about to stand up but was stopped by Gideon’s voice.

“Sorry, is it fine for me to work here for a while?”

“It’s fine, why?”

“It’s just I get restless with no one around.”

“Is it easier to work with people around you?” Ewan sat back in his chair.

“Well, constant buzzing around you may be a bit too much…”

“It is true,” Zan agreed, surprising Ewan.

“Now that I think about it, don’t you two sometimes stay behind at the breakfast table to work?”

In Zan’s case, he would first ask his secretary to read out the documents, afterwards he went on to office work while being engaged in a conversation and he liked to stay overtime in the breakfast room to the point that he would call up his secretary there.

Gideon didn’t seem bothered by the conversation and was concentrated on his work.

“In my case, before coming here, it had been natural for me to always be surrounded by people.”

Apparently, for the activist Gideon to draft speeches while teaching children from the working neighborhood, or to write numerous letters while drinking with everyone at the bar was common practice.

“Whenever it is overly quiet around me, I start to feel anxious about any distant noises.”

Zan had frequently moved around from one town to another due to his job, he was accompanied by a theatrical troupe and an orchestra and upon his arrival he was surrounded by local people. In the midst of this hustle and bustle he managed to write poems and songs one after another.

“The mansion I have received from you, Ewan, is very quiet, which is why it is quite welcoming in itself; however, I tend to prefer to work in a lively environment.”

“I see… Well, it’s fine if you choose however is best for you. I’d love to work here today together with you but I have to go back now…” Ewan said and received a hand wave from Gideon with the words, “Feel free to join when you feel like it.”

Leaving the meeting room, Ewan quickly headed to his office, humming and shaking his head.

‘Instead of a vacation… Confined space… Warm… Lively…?’

“I think I have an idea,” Ewan whispered. Lawrence, who was walking alongside him, glanced at Ewan with an unreadable face.

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | 5

“Wow,” said Ewan taking in the sight of the object carried into the hall.

He had never seen something this big in his life.

“Did you make your soldiers carry it all the way here? Such a waste,” Messiah said bluntly, unimpressed.

“It’s not a waste!” Titus said. “Look, even Ewan is amazed with it,” he added putting an arm over Ewan’s shoulder.

“You’re so dumb that it makes me amazed. To think that you have carried this gigantic tree all the way from your region.”

The tree that was brought into the entrance hall of the castle was so tall it could easily reach the fourth storey of the castle. The fir tree, its easy boughs stretched out, was fully adorned with colorful ornaments.

“I mean, it’s a present, I couldn’t just leave it there,” Titus pouted.

“So it was a present,” Ewan uttered, his eyes widened, and Titus nodded twice, his whole face alit with a smile.

“I’ve got lots of fans, y’know!”

“Are there only fans and enemies for you, you bastard?” asked Messiah with venom, well justified.

In the first place, Titus went back to his region to put an end to unrest. Lumen was currently split in half between those who supported the present regime and those who opposed it, causing political skirmishes to break out. The opposing group didn’t favor Titus, whereas the supporting group wholeheartedly backed him.

“But it’s also Ewan’s present.”

Titus’ words surprised Ewan.

“When I told them I’d bring this present to the emperor, they brought all these ornaments and that’s how it ended up like this.”

On closer inspection, all ornaments turned out to be different shapes. The stars and animals hanging down from the tree were clumsily made, and there were dolls that very much resembled Titus and Ewan.

“I wonder if the one made of blue yarn is Lawrence.”

When Ewan pointed at the blue-haired knight doll, Lawrence, standing on guard next to him, looked up at the fir tree.

“If Ewan likes it, I don’t mind if you carry it into the castle. However, I mind it being left here.”

As Lawrence said it, Titus put his arm familiarly around his shoulder this time.

“We can’t bring it anywhere, with its height and all. It should be okay, right? It’s not like it’s a bother.”

“It’s very much a bother. If we barricade the entrance hall, there won’t be a place for our visitors to wait. Moreover, it hinders the defense.”

“Hm… Just as Lawrence says, we can’t leave it here for much longer…”

Ewan pretended not to hear Titus’ booing.

“Where in the world are we bringing it? Do you have something in mind!?”

Horses were carrying a gigantic tree tied to several wagons along the forest road. In one of the wagons, Titus stood on his feet, and let out a growl.

They were slightly less than an hour’s distance away from the castle. Although the Imperial region forest didn’t look neglected, it didn’t seem well-maintained either. Sometimes they had to stop to let the horses rest, which is why the column advanced so slowly.

Ewan together with several knights was leading the procession.

He didn’t let Lawrence accompany him like usual because he didn’t want him to see the ultimate destination yet.

“By the way, how would you usually spend the New Year’s, Titus?”

“We would enjoy boisterous merrymaking until we couldn’t stand upright anymore,” Titus said, smiling, although he looked somewhat lonely. He wasn’t together with the friends he used to spend every minute of his life until last year anymore.

“We didn’t care what would happen to us tomorrow. That’s why we were so reckless.”

Titus’ degree of “reckless” was much more extreme than the degree of the usual “reckless”. His friends from their thief gang were at Lumen’s prison now. Despite the recommendation for a pardon, none of them could regain their liberty.

“That prick Messiah keeps telling me to ask people I can trust for help with governing, y’know. Well, that’s irrelevant, but if this keeps up, I won’t be able to take it anymore.”

“It will take some time, though,” Titus whispered. The wish for amnesty wouldn’t reach this faraway land. ‘That’s because I’m powerless,’ Ewan thought bitterly.

“Look, it’s a bit farther on, Titus.”

‘It’s the best I can do for everyone.’ When they approached the present, Ewan looked it over and thought, ‘That’s as much I can do.’

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | The End

“It’s twice as fast when travelling by horse,” Gideon said while getting off the horse.

“How many centuries ago was this thing built?” August asked looking appreciative.

“Is this object that antiquated indeed?” Zan tilted his head. Ewan grasped his hand and urged everyone to the gates.

“It’s old but quite well-maintained.”

August stood still in the middle of all that snow gazing at the building as if he completely forgot about the cold.

“It’s emperor’s property, after all. There’s no way it would’ve been left to grow dilapidated.”

It was a small manor house situated in the garden of the Imperial castle. It had been a century and a half since it was first built. Apparently, it was built by the emperor from exactly five dynasties earlier, a copy of the building from his hometown; therefore the style of it was even more antiquated and outdated than that of the period it was built in. After yesterday’s snowfall, the mansion was covered in thick piles of snow, as though they transferred to a solitary cottage deep in a fairytale forest.

“Are the other guys not coming?”

The first room was a modest and warm hall with a staircase leading to the second floor, the banister engraved with rustic apple and wild bird designs.

Gideon looked around the hall, his fingers tracing the banister in joy.

“Messiah will come after taking care of business, or so he said. Lawrence and Titus are already here,” Ewan answered, heading for the living room, when he heard August’s shout of joy.

“What’s with that, there’s so little space here!”

“Eight living rooms of me and my brother’s house could fit in here, you know… Also, it’s warmer here than in the castle.”

There was a big fireplace on one of the walls, and, although the fire in it hadn’t been roaring for long, the room had already pretty much warmed up.

“It’s heaven compared to that freezing office! Okay, this living room is perfect for dealing with documents. I’ll stay here overnight, too.”

“Then I think I’ll stay here, too. I’m bound to catch a cold if I keep sleeping on sofas. And if such a loud source of squealing is close by, work is likely to go smoothly,” Gideon said pointing at August.

“There’s a piano, too.”

After Ewan guided Zan to the piano, the latter seemed genuinely happy to stroke the keys.

“Have you prepared this for me, Ewan?”

“Actually, I found it in the storeroom and had it moved to the living room. It has been tuned, too.”

“Well then, whenever you do not mind me playing…”

“I’d be happy to listen to you all day,” said August. Although not as zealous as Titus, he was a big fan of Zan, too.

Gideon opened the French window in the living room, walked out to an old stone terrace, and let out a cry of surprise.

”What is going on here.”

Past the terrace was a garden surrounded by stone walls, and in the middle of it stood Titus’ gigantic tree. The ornaments were off, replaced by countless lamps.

After finishing placing the last piece of decoration, Titus jumped down on the snow.

“What do you mean what, I’m making it flashy.”

“We couldn’t keep it in the castle but I wanted to place it somewhere it could be easily seen… It’s proof that there are people supporting us.”

And the ornaments demonstrated that. Ewan couldn’t bear to see them being buried in snow so he had them all collected and stored in the mansion.

“Although I still don’t understand what all of you wish for but it’d be great if we could take our time and talk it over someday. That’s why I’d love to spend time with you here whenever you feel like coming to this place.”

“It is a nice idea, Ewan. Just this is enough for me,” Zan smiled back at him from the terrace.

“I have a feeling even work can be pleasant here,” Gideon added.

“It’s warm, too!” August walked into the garden and was looking joyfully at the gigantic tree as if he once again forgot that he was standing in the middle of snow.

As the sun was setting, a shadow fell on the tree, and countless lamps gradually began to glow.

Ewan looked up at the building. There was a light coming from the corner room on the second floor. Over there Lawrence was having a very special moment. Messiah should arrive before long, too.

Their first Christmas together should be, perhaps, not so much about celebration as it should be about working. However, they could still make happy memories.

Ewan was certain of it.

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | Lawrence Ending

Lawrence was going down the stairs from the second floor.

Ewan, who was passing the hall holding a blanket, hurried to the bottom of the stairs as soon as he noticed him.

“Ewan”.

When their eyes met, Lawrence stayed silent searching for words and handed Ewan a key.

“This… You don’t have to return it. I want you to keep it, Lawrence. I think it’s best if only you can open that room.”

When Ewan said that, Lawrence nodded and gently placed the key in his breast pocket.

There was a reason why he acquired this exact building. The previous emperor Elbert, who was assassinated, spent most of his private time in this space.

Ewan succeeded his office and his room in the castle and was initially surprised by the lack of Elbert’s personal belongings there.

However, a great number of items he had been using in his lifetime were left in a corner room on the second floor, and when Ewan discovered that, he immediately shut the door.

This is because he felt he shouldn’t be the first one to see it.

“I had some chances to meet him, however, I don’t know this person that well,” muttered Lawrence. Although the cold was chilling them to the bone in the darkened hall, Ewan paid it no mind.

“What kind of person he was… In the end, I couldn’t completely grasp it even after looking at his belongings.”

“I see…”

“I believe my family is the Ackroyd couple and Fay from Owlard.”

Ewan nodded quietly. It was unusual for Lawrence to talk about himself.

“However… Now that I can’t receive a vacation and go back home, I realized something. I… started to think that this was an essential component in order for us to be a family.”

“In order to be a family…”

He wasn’t necessarily wrong. Sometimes you need to work hard to remain a family.

However, most likely… Lawrence still hadn’t realized by now that while thinking and caring a lot about his adoptive parents, he continued working hard with all his heart, Ewan thought.

“When you asked me if I wanted to return home, I caught myself thinking that I’d rather stay here and, to be honest, I faltered.”

Right now there was something more important to him, right there.

To Lawrence who had been working so hard for his adoptive family this would be, in a sense, akin to betrayal.

“I probably asked you something I shouldn’t have,” Ewan replied and Lawrence shook his head.

“When I’m with you, Ewan, I come to notice so many things around me.”

Ewan was baffled at such words. He had only showed his insolence by not considering the other’s circumstances or feelings.

“Are you fine with what I did?”

“I don’t really understand why you think you’re in the wrong…” said Lawrence. “First, I definitely need to report something,” he added. “There were two portraits in that room. One of them was of me when I was five; I have a vague memory of that. My adoptive parents invited an artist all the way from Solem to have this portrait painted.”

It could be that Emperor Elbert requested them to send a picture of him, Ewan thought but didn’t voice it.

“And another one… was of an unknown woman,” Lawrence lowered his eyes a little. “I realized she was my mother at once.”

“Your…”

“Actually, I’ve never seen her face but for some reason I just knew it. But I don’t know why.”

“Yeah.”

Ewan didn’t remember the face of his mother as well. But he felt that he would definitely recognize her at a glance.

“I have to make sure that I meet my brother next year.”

He was talking about his brother back in their hometown whom he hadn’t faced since he learned that they weren’t real brothers.

“That’s the right thing to do,” Lawrence nodded and prompted Ewan to head to the living room.

Just as they were about to leave the dark hall, Ewan heard a whispered “thank you”, and a warmth slowly spread deep in his chest.

 The Gift of the Thousand-Year Labyrinth | Messiah Ending

Having wrapped himself in the blanket he had brought to the living room, Ewan looked out the window.

The lights on the decorated Christmas tree in the garden, dusted with snow, enveloped the living room with a gentle glow. August was sleeping quietly on the sofa.

“He’s taking his sweet time.” Titus, who was standing next to him, peered into the darkness beyond the garden.

“The castle is in the opposite direction, you know,” Gideon pointed in the direction of the entrance hall, surrounded by past account books he scattered on the floor.

“I don’t think he can find the way here in that darkness,” Lawrence lifted his face from the pile of chivalric order reports.

“Shall we go meet him on the way here?” Ewan asked, and the free men who were still awake shook their heads.

“What are we going to do if you get lost? After that, I’ll go searching for you, right? Then, Lawrence will have to set out to go after the great but somewhat disoriented me, won’t he?”

“Just so you know, I won’t go after you.”

Ignoring Lawrence’s remark, Titus continued. “And then, it will be Gideon, and Zan, and August… Before we realize it, it’ll end up being an ‘and they all were gone’ situation!”

“Even so, we can’t just leave him there.”

Ewan took off the blanket. It was gradually getting later, the snow was piling up here and there; it was agonizing.

“It’s fine, sit still for a bit.” Gideon sat up on the floor. As if trying to stop Lawrence who got up ready to go to Ewan’s side, he explained, “If we let you wander off into the woods at night in the middle of winter, Messiah’s going to kill the rest of us.”

“Well, no need to worry about that guy.”

Titus opened the French door.

“More importantly, if the snow gets heavier, we won’t enjoy this scenery anymore. Take it in as much as you can now. That guy’s gonna be here in no time,” he said pointing at the lights illuminating the garden. Ewan nodded reluctantly, and went outside instead of sitting all cooped up in the living room. Content with the current state of things, Gideon and Lawrence went back to work.

Standing on the terrace, Ewan and Titus breathed out white clouds of air and gazed at the dark sky. Snowflakes were swirling down one after another.

“How can you be so sure that Messiah will safely arrive here?”

“He can’t afford to make such an embarrassing mistake as to freeze in the woods a couple of kilometers away from the castle.”

“I think so, too, but, after all, Messiah is only human.”

“Nah… Sometimes I end up thinking he might not be.”

“Woah… Me too, to be honest… ‘Who in the world is Messiah’… that sort of thoughts.”

“Who could I be other than human, I wonder.”

The two jumped up, surprised by the voice they all of a sudden heard ahead. Amidst the heavy falling snow stood a lone figure clad in a black coat. Appearing outraged, Messiah looked at the two and swiped off the snow that had piled up on his shoulders.

“If you’re gossiping behind someone’s back, how about lowering your voices a little…”

“You bastard! When did you get here!”

“I apologize, I didn’t know the way so I ended up running late.”

“I’m so glad you arrived safely!”

“I could see this even from afar.” Messiah looked up at Titus’ Christmas tree. “When it’s bedazzled like that, it’s hard to miss even if you wanted to.”

“That means what, you arrived here in one piece thanks to the great me?” Titus grinned.

Feeling no need to reply to that, Messiah pointed at the ground.

“Like that, I came closer to here and saw a different source of light…”

He meant tiny snow huts bulging out from the ground. Ewan had built them just before the sun set. They were buried by the everfalling snow, but the faintly wavering light of the candles inside of them continued illuminating the ground. The light path that Ewan had created was leading from the terrace right into the deep woods.

“By following the lights, I ended up coming here without even realizing it.”

“I see… But you did just the opposite. I wanted you to look at them from inside the house…”

“So what if I did the opposite.” Messiah said taking off his hat. “I chased the dream lights and arrived here, after all. It must be a place where dreams live,” Messiah smiled.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! Please like the original tweets (if you hadn’t already, of course! 💕) and check the rest of the amazing illustrations to these short stories while you’re at it! (*´꒳`*)

[01] [02] [03] [04] [05] [06] [07] [08]

[kiran-wears-science-blues]

So tonight is the three year Andrew anniversary, which is awesome!!! But I’m also letting it go. 

Now that I’m hanging in one place for 4-5 years I want to try to start dating seriously, and since I’m looking for something monogamous for now, it’d be unfair to be engaging with real emotions for someone else, regardless of how fictional that someone else is. Andrew can still be a favorite character, but anything that would be inappropriate with a real life ex would be inappropriate with him, which includes self-insert fantasies. 

I mention this here because I have a lot of wonderful anons who engage in the Andrew stuff with me, and my birthday is coming up and in past years I’ve had wonderful people drown me in Kiran/Andrew stuff, but I’m asking to not receive that anymore as I’m trying to move on. I absolutely love everything you guys have given me, but it’s time to let go. (If anyone forgets, that is a-okay, I’ll just reply privately.) 

But thank you all so much for all the support you have given me over the years of this whole Andrew thing. It means the world to me. This was a fantastic journey and I loved every second of it. 

I wrote one last self-insert thing to see this out. 

Andrew’s hands are soft as they brush my hair behind my ear, but I can feel the rough callouses of physical training on his fingers. I lean into his touch, my eyes closed.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

I nod once. “Will be,” I murmur back.

---

The first time I dreamed of Andrew, I dreamed of his pain. He was quiet and distant, troubled thoughts keeping his eyes downcast. I reached to him. He was startled by my touch, but accepted it – in time he came to seek me out when he was overwhelmed, would tuck his head into my shoulder as he melted into my hugs.

I dreamed I lay down to nap with the afternoon sun warm on my bed. I was drifting when a shift in the mattress woke me. Andrew had lain beside me, his back pressed right up to my chest, sadness a tension running through every line in his body. I slid my arm around his waist and held him close to me. He relaxed. I felt warmth suffuse me as I pressed my face against his neck and felt his hair tickle my nose.

I woke to reality – a cold, empty bed, but that warmth still radiating throughout me.

Dreams are not reality, and yet they usher in emotion as vivid, as tangible, as any waking feelings. Dreams are not reality, but they are moments of experience all the same -- gifts that do not have to follow the rules, where fiction can be made flesh and bone and wrapped in a hug.

---

I curl up into a ball on the couch, fleece blanket draped over my shoulders. Andrew brings us tea -- mine in the Star Trek mug with the likeness of Kirk and Spock emblazoned on the side; his in the mug painted in a facsimile of R2-D2. I cradle my tea in my hands, and the scent of chamomile wafts up to me.

---

I wonder what Andrew would smell like. I like to think of cedar and cinnamon – they go together, and they call to mind the earthiness and homely comforts I associate with him. Cedar and cinnamon. But it’s only a romantic, poetic phrase that would never capture the nuances of a personal scent.

It was late summer in Montreal. I pressed my face into a sweatshirt and a pillow and an old stuffed animal and imagined them Andrew. The sweatshirt smelled not of much; the pillow of me; the stuffed animal of the milky muskiness of an old childhood toy. The window was open, letting in the scents of thunderstorm. My roommate had lit a candle; it smelled like pine. My feet were propped up on one of many boxes stacked around the emptying apartment, and dust tickled my nose.

I was on the cusp of a move, of letting go of a home that breathed happiness and trying to rebuild all that on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to leave almost everything behind. I was nervous and excited and wary and hopeful, and the feeling of being caught in the currents of life was so strong it was almost overwhelming. But Andrew was coming with me.

It was all so fucking tangible – the feeling of change of hope of growth of life, and of Andrew being there. He’d be coming with me in the form of a pillow and a sweatshirt and a stuffed animal and a whole lot of imagination, but it all tangled together and he felt real. I could almost feel his warmth, could almost see the scrunch between his eyes as he thought. I could almost smell him.  

I tightened my arms around the pillow and inhaled again.

----

“You wanna watch something?” Andrew asks, as he scoots onto the couch next to me.

I pull my knees up so they’re resting in his lap. “Sure. Surprise me – something I haven’t seen yet.”

Andrew quirks a slight smile. It’s that awkward, asymmetrical kind of smile, the one that so wonderfully suits the restless energy he has even now as he snuggles up close and pulls out his phone.

Andrew talks in references the way others talk in idioms. Sometimes I get them. Sometimes I stare blankly at him, and he catches my bewildered expression. “Oh man, you’ve never seen that? It’s going on the list.” Then it’s times like now the list comes out.

“I’m sorry; I can’t decide,” he declares after a moment, and pushes the phone at me. “What do you want?”

I skim the list. “How about Indiana Jones?”

Usually the thought of Harrison Ford would make Andrew light up, but when he smiles this time, it’s sad. I find his hand and give it a squeeze.

“Okay,” he says.

---

I started the list based on the references in the show or the comics that Andrew would make and I didn’t know. It grew to references he made in fanworks; then the list grew to include anything I simply thought he’d like and I hadn’t seen.

Star Wars, James Bond, Ghostbusters, Men In Black, Jurassic Park.

It began in Montreal, movie nights in the apartment softly lit by multicolored fairy lights. Friends passed around “Andrillow” as the pillow-sweatshirt-stuffed animal conglomeration had been named, laughing, hugging, hiding behind his mass of fluff when dinosaurs jumped out of the shadows.

Later, on the other side of the ocean, it was just me and the pillow. But movie nights with a pillow can be surprisingly healing when you’re struggling to adjust.

Back to the Future, Battlestar Gallactica, Footloose, Mission Impossible, Jaws.

I curled up against the plush of Andrew’s chest and propped the laptop up in front of us. One of the sleeves of his sweatshirt tangled around my arm. I felt a rush of softness, and I thought of the hormonal changes one undergoes as a result of experiencing reliable social support and fondness and love – increased serotonin and oxytocin and reduced cortisol in response to stress. I wondered, if one were to sample my saliva, what would the effects be of pillow hugs and sharing in the interests of a fictional character?

Maybe a test would find me aptly in love. Maybe there would be measurable effect on my hormone levels, but not as strong as it would be with a flesh-and-bone partner. Maybe there would be nothing at all. But in Leeds, where underwhelming days melted together and movie nights with a pillow were a regular heartbeat of happiness that kept it all alive, I had to think there would be something.

---

Andrew usually has many opinions about the movies we watch. Oh, he’s good about not talking over the movie; he would never want to compromise a movie-watching experience like that. But I can see his reactions in his body language, in the way he tenses or relaxes or leans forward or shifts his weight.

Today, he’s barely watching. When I try to hold his hand, he fidgets restlessly; we finish our tea and he goes to make more without pausing the movie.

“What did you think?” I ask when the credits roll.

---

Andrew’s not real. I know that, of course. I feel his unrealness most in his silence.

Andrew is so defined by his words, by his passions and opinions and stories. But to hear them, I write – contemplate his perspectives on media I know only tangentially, painstakingly word them in his voice. There are only so many words I can write for a storyteller before I make him obsolete. I write and create and imagine and examine, and the more I build Andrew’s character in my head, the less real he feels. He is no longer his own; he is an entity of my imagination and biases. That is not whom I love.

But then there were comics that wrote him in a pen other than my own, and in the smallest details I would never have considered, I fell in love again. I wouldn’t have given him polo shirts or boaters shoes – and oh, the watch! I was so bowled over by that watch; such a small detail, so not me. I could imagine it was pure Andrew, and I loved him for that damn watch.

There were of course the out-of-character moments, but there were also just the moments that pushed my expectations, and how I loved him for each. In Pieces on the Ground tells me we’d argue about the merits of media piracy. I’ve considered what moments of tension we might have, but what a gift to have an unexpected disagreement. I’ve cried over new issues in which Andrew appears, because those are the moments where the realness of Andrew would be the most poignant; one short appearance of a handful of panels would protect him from being consumed by my own imagination for months.

I still ache to hear him talk. To hear him ramble, to see his eyes light up as he tells me about the nuances of comics I’ve never read, to hear his opinions, to learn more about him. For him to teach me who it is I love.

But he is not real.

---

We fall into a heavy silence. Our second cups of tea are finished; the television is dark.

I feel my chest ache. I’ve anticipated this moment, but it still sucks. My eyes prickle at the corners, and I squeeze them shut. I lean into Andrew’s shoulder; he wraps an arm around me.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.

“We always knew there was an expiration date,” I tell him. “It could never be forever.”

“I know, but…”

He trails off. I twist a hand in his shirt. Fuck, I hate to let go of all of this. To let go of this source of joys, of inspirations, of support, of tenderness. My head spins with all the points of my life he has touched: hundreds of thousands of words of writing, a novel, drawing, embroidery, baking, secondhand joy at the Star Wars merchandise in every grocery store, friendships –

I exhale. “This was an incredible run. I don’t regret a damn thing.”

“You’re going to be great.”

I nod haltingly, then pull back and let Andrew’s arm slip off my shoulder. “Thank you. I really did love you.”

“I know.”

I give him a small smile and squeeze his hand.

It’s time to let go.

[sgtxpreacher]

headcanon: jake + mental illness/specifically cyclothymia (aka this is almost 1500 words and it doesn’t even cover everything)

part i. the meta of how i even wound up with this headcanon

so mental illness I’ve covered a lot before on this blog re: Jake + PTSD and Jake + alcoholism, though more in general blog content than particular headcanon posts. but, in case you’re new to this blog and haven’t had time to swing over to my about page, let me catch you up quickly: Jake has PTSD connected to his time spent fighting the Cybermen, and his already heavy drinking habits turned to alcoholism after he returned to London. (he insists, if pressed, that he’s a functional alcoholic, but that also depends on how you define functional. can he hold down a job? yes. is part of the reason he can hold down this job because Pete Tyler is lenient when he disappears on a bender for two days? yes.)

however, something’s been nagging at me since... pretty much the first iteration of this blog, I think. I think I originally tried writing Jake as having comorbid PTSD and depression, but I don’t think that worked very well, in part because I was relatively young when I started writing Jake and was still learning how to write effectively and respectfully about mental illness, and in part because it simply didn’t fit with how I wanted to portray Jake. he had depressive episodes, but not to the extent that would seem to fall under clinical depression. early on in this blog, I toyed around with the idea of Jake having ADHD; it seemed to fit some aspects of how I wanted to portray him, but again, it seemed like I’d be adding in symptoms to go “look he has ADHD!!” rather than letting them arise more naturally from the character. which may sound like a weird thing, but having written Jake off and on for four years, I feel pretty set in my characterization of his behavior, even if the details of backstory, likes, dislikes, etc. may change. and writing him as having ADHD still just didn’t feel right, especially since it felt like I would be constantly forgetting about it and having to think about it almost as a separate concern from the character – which just doesn’t feel like the write way to write about mental health to me. (and if you keep forgetting about a major headcanon, it’s probably not a very strong one.)

so, back to the drawing board. for a long time now, i think my mental picture of jake’s mental health has gone something like ‘PTSD + alcoholism + ??????? generally unhealthy coping mechanisms ????? other forms of addiction ?????’ i occasionally (quietly) tossed other headcanons at myself to see if they stuck, but nothing did.

and then i remembered that cyclothymia exists. it’s not as well-known as some other mood disorders and is easily misdiagnosed or underdiagnosed, but it’s one that i’ve grown up seeing in members of my close family (though i didn’t know the official diagnostic label until a few years ago,) and i decided to do a little research. and, rather than feeling like i was adding additional symptoms onto my portrayal of jake to fit a Specific Diagnosis, it felt more like something that helped categorize and explain headcanons i already had, and help me realize other places in his characterization that might be expanded upon. maybe that’s a weird thing. i don’t know. but i think i’m keeping this headcanon.

part ii. so what is cyclothymia, you may ask the college student using this post in part to procrastinate on doing her homework

since people don’t always know what cyclothymia is, let’s explain it a little. (please keep in mind i’m not a mental health professional; the research i’ve done draws on personal observation, reading first-hand narratives of dealing with cyclothymia, and official diagnostic manuals/medical sources i’ve managed to find on the internet. i’ve tried to make sure they’re reputable, but i can’t make guarantees. if there’s any part of this post you think is wildly inaccurate or offensive or something along those lines, please let me know.)

cyclothymia (also known as cyclothymic disorder) lies on the spectrum of bipolar disorders, and could be considered a milder form of bipolar i and ii (though it’s important to note that milder does not mean mild. while some people can manage their symptoms without a therapist or medication, that doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily easy to live with.) it’s characterized by hypomanic periods and chronic periods of mild-moderate depression (also known as dysthymia) that occur semi-frequently (though i’m still trying to work out exactly what’s meant by ‘semi-frequently.’) 

here’s a list of some symptoms to start us off with, though of course not every person with cyclothymia experiences all these symptoms or all in the same ways. (and i grabbed this from the mayo clinic website for purposes of expedience.)

hypomania

An exaggerated feeling of happiness or well-being (euphoria)

Extreme optimism

Inflated self-esteem

Talking more than usual

Poor judgment that can result in risky behavior or unwise choices

Racing thoughts

Irritable or agitated behavior

Excessive physical activity

Increased drive to perform or achieve goals (sexual, work related or social)

Decreased need for sleep

Tendency to be easily distracted

Inability to concentrate

dysthymia or depressive symptoms

Feeling sad, hopeless or empty

Tearfulness

Irritability, especially in children and teenagers

Loss of interest in activities once considered enjoyable

Changes in weight

Feelings of worthlessness or guilt

Sleep problems

Restlessness

Fatigue or feeling slowed down

Problems concentrating

Thinking of death or suicide

i’ve also seen a couple of first-hand accounts mention that the depression experienced in cyclothymia tends to be atypical depression rather than melancholic depression. so, a tendency for excessive sleep rather than insomnia, increased appetite rather than loss of appetite, and still experiencing mood reactivity to environmental circumstances – mood reactivity being a major differentiator. something good happening can still cause a positive uptick in mood, but when the mood drops again, it drops into a depressive state rather than what one might consider the baseline mood (if i’m understanding this correctly; if you know otherwise, please feel free to shout.) there are a couple of other symptoms (increased sensitivity to rejection, a physical feeling of being weighed down or paralyzed, etc.) but that probably sums it up for our purposes.

part iii. so how does this actually tie into actual headcanons, raptor???

taking into consideration we’re (in this case) talking about a fictional character, and given that people (fictional or no) aren’t just a walking list of symptoms, how does this tie into the context of jake’s life? i wrote down some thoughts. 

jake’s been living with cyclothymia since he was a teenager. it runs on his father’s side of the family to varying degrees, but none of them have ever been given an official diagnosis. it’s just common family knowledge that simmonds men (some simmonds women, too, including jake’s aunt evie) have a “switch” in their head that sometimes just flicks off or on.

has never been diagnosed with cyclothymia, nor does he know that it exists (he’s got a pretty vague idea of mood disorders in general)

the same therapist who diagnosed him with PTSD misdiagnosed him with depression. he was put on antidepressants. they triggered a hypomanic episode. he stopped going to therapy and taking medication (partially in an instance of “i’m fine, i don’t need any help” fueled in part by his general stubborness and reluctance to accept help, fueled in part by exaggerated feelings of his own well-being.) in the grand scheme of things, it was not a good time, and it contributed to his eventual decision to quit therapy and quit medications.)

instead, he self-medicates with alcohol and nicotine. (in university, he also smoked weed every once in a while, but he kicked that habit in jail.) alcohol continues to not mix well with his brain chemistry, and can trigger (usually short) depressive episodes. he usually dismisses these as really bad hangover blues.

most notable major depressive episodes have been after returning to london at the end of the cyber wars, and after journey’s end. both were triggered (in part) by feelings of Well, The World’s Safe, What Point Does My Life Have Now? the first one was exacerbated by being wheelchair-bound and recovering from major injuries; exercise is a really important part of his routine and helps ground him, so being left without it at the same time as a major depressive episode hit was not at all good. not to mention feeling like the cause he’d spent years of his life working for – and risking his life for – was suddenly being dismissed by politicians who never bothered to speak with anyone directly involved in stopping the cybermen. the second one, post-journey’s end, was exacerbated by the major shake-up to his support system that mickey leaving caused, then further exacerbated by the bender he went on shortly thereafter. the first time, and possibly the second, he had suicidal ideations, though he’s never made an attempt.

his struggles with mood stability became worse in general after the war; he attributes this to PTSD.

during hypomanic episodes, his sleep habits fall to shit. (i mean, he doesn’t sleep well most of the time, but it’s particularly pronounced then.) he’ll feel well-rested and alert after four hours of sleep, wake up, go on a run, look over case files from work, go on another run (generally with a camera to do some photography in the early-morning light,) get distracted flicking through his photographs in the middle of making breakfast and end up with burned eggs, etc. he’s more likely to go out clubs than he usually is (which is... already almost a weekly occurrence, so it does not do good things for his rate of alcohol consumption)

alternatively, there’s that fun combination of irritability + poor judgment + extreme optimism, which in jake’s case leads to things like bar fights, getting on pete tyler’s nerves, dangerous motorcycle driving, and picking a fight with his friends over relatively minor issues. (he usually ends up apologizing for the last one, though sometimes only a week later.) (also ought to note that jake doesn’t just get into fights when in a hypomanic period; it would happen anyway, even if he didn’t have cyclothymia. jake’s mental health issues may affect or compound upon the ways in which he expresses aggression, but they’re not the root of him being prone to aggressive behavior. this has been your reminder that equating mental illnesses with violent behavior is gross and stigmatizing.)

more headcanons will probably end up coming up later, but these are the main things i wanted to talk about for now! if you read through all this, i congratulate you. if you have any feedback, i would love to hear it! especially if there are any places in this where the language that i’ve used is inaccurate or disrespectful; i’m continually learning, so please let me know if there is anything i need to improve upon!

[spineandprose]

Chasing Slow | February 2018

Friends, welcome to our 2018 reading year! I’m excited to kick off our discussion with Erin Loechner’s Chasing Slow. Did you read along? It feels like forever since we last “met up,” so I’m anxious to hear your thoughts and insights.

I’ll break up my review based on the themes I found in the book. There was a lot in there: career, marriage, faith, minimalism, social media, recipes, and more. I pulled a lot of quotes for my review, simply because she is a great writer and presents ideas in a sweet and often times (though not always) way that I believe to be true. I have so many thoughts in my head that I honestly don’t know where to begin. Wish me luck and hope this makes sense! ;)

Minimalism

And here is what I want to say, then, about amassing: It is not powerful. It is simply a waste—of space, of time, of earnings.…Power is not to be found there. Joy is not to be found there. Love is not to be found there. Page 151

Though I don’t have a capsule wardrobe or a true to form minimalist house, I do tend toward minimalism. I love a neat and tidy environment free of clutter, where everything has its own place and there are lots of clear surfaces and rest for the eyes. While shopping is a fun, rejuvenating activity for some, it stresses me out and puts me in a bad mood. I am a huge fan (sadly...?) of the ease of ordering on Amazon.

I admired her thoughts on minimalism and largely agreed with her approach and lifestyle, but nothing she detailed inspired me to change my life when it comes to my possessions and how I use and think about material items. I feel I’m in a good spot there, so a nod to her for how she does it and a high-five to myself.

Do you have a minimalist lifestyle? Have you created a capsule wardrobe? Did reading Erin’s book inspire you to make any changes to your possessions?

Faith

It’s interesting to see Erin’s thoughts on her Christian faith from the bird’s eye view of a finished book while I comb through ideas I underlined. When reading throughout the book, I was frustrated at how she would propose deep questions and then never complete the thought with biblical truth. It felt as if she almost closed the circle—and although verses were used to help provide closure—I wanted more of a direct “this is how Jesus changes my heart in minimalism/motherhood/marriage/etc.” I felt a restlessness from her when she described her struggles, as if she came from the standpoint of knowing what is right but not trusting that it was right—and ultimately overthinking it too much.

Overall, I think Erin’s faith discovery throughout the book was a struggle with accepting grace, accepting Christ for sufficiency in all things, and that she (we all) contribute nothing to our salvation or good works. Seeing the quotes I pulled all grouped together here (again, that bird’s eye view), it actually creates a fairly logical path of belief in Christ. From the struggle of being a good person to accepting God’s gift of grace, these quotes seem to provide the pathway of faith that Erin is experiencing.

When you’re raised in the church, it is likely your faith will manifest itself on a souvenir shelf....Will my souvenirs be enough? Can they be? Page 43

I live daily in the hope that if I work hard enough, if I paddle fast enough, I might out swim the sadness....Surely I am strong enough to overcome it all? Page 47

Oh, but it sounds so tidy. It sounds like if God helps those who help themselves....We get to interchange good works with any works....We get to nearly guarantee that this God we believe in, this God who helps those who help themselves, will flood down our due blessings as long as they’re earned. Page 88

We all deserve very little, nothing at all, because if gifts were based on merit... Page 138

God’s version of grace is this: You did this wrong, but look, I did this right. You have everything you need now. Follow me in peace. Go now in freedom. Walk now in abundance. Grace is giving yourself a free pass and realizing that it isn’t free at all. Grace is giving someone else a free pass and realizing God has already passed his along. To all of us. … We’re too much and we’re too little and we wonder if we’ll ever be enough. If we’ll ever deserve favor. We’ve been tried, and we are guilty of it all. Surely we don’t deserve goodwill? But goodwill is not what we have been promised. What we have been promised is grace. Page 218

It is difficult to be patient…to offer grace…to offer forgiveness…to accept all of it—the love and the grace and the everything else—when you have failed. Page 263

And so here is my beef with surrender. What happens when we do it? What happens when we release the control, when we allow the inevitable, when we shed the protective layers we have tricked ourselves into believing we don? Who, then, do we get to blame for the wreckage? Page 275

From these quotes, it seems as if Erin is working out what trusting in the Lord and accepting his grace looks like day to day, task by task, emotion to emotion. It’s a life-long journey!

Motherhood

“Can you try feeding her again?” Ken asks. “I just fed her!…” … Do not bring up anything important, if you can help it, until the baby is six months old. It will not end well. Page 174

Those statements above hit so close to home for me. When Oliver was a newborn, I had to tell Kyle not to say, “I think he’s hungry” or “Could you feed him again?” because although I would (and did!) I had just fed him. Oliver’s cries were signal enough for me to feed him again—I didn’t need another person to ask the same thing on top of it. Instead, I needed a moment to breath and set my heart and pick up my baby to nurse again.

I also happened upon that six-month discussion advice either right before Oliver was born or just slightly after. I’m so glad I did! Because when month four comes around and you feel as if you and your husband are living on different planets (and how did everything get so difficult?), it’s refreshing to remember that advice and hold to it. It’s advice I used, have given, and will use again when our daughter is born. You just need time to let your family settle and six months seems to be the sweet spot.

Motherhood is hard in a way that you must learn to sweep cereal bits off the floor without sweeping your own self right out the door with them. Page 192

Yep. Anyone else?

Recipes

The “Love Your Kid Unconditionally” Smoothie Page 227

I’m curious: did anyone create a recipe from Erin’s book? I made the “Love Your Kid Unconditionally” Smoothie and oooh boooy was it tart. Made me pucker and hunt for a sweet but healthy alternative. I settled on a chocolate smoothie that I made up. It provides varying degrees of satisfaction—never a bomb, likely rare to be a hit—but works for those afternoon chocolate cravings.

Beth’s Chocolate Smoothie 1 ripe banana (not frozen) 1 tbls. sunbutter (or your choice of nut butter) 2 tsp. cocoa powder 5 ice cubes 1/3 cup chocolate coconut water

Blend and serve with a straw!

Friendship

Math Lesson 015 // Stress + 20 minutes with a girlfriend + Truth = Perspective Page 222

Yes.

Personal Growth

No additional thoughts on this theme, but here are my favorite quotes around personal growth (which really could fit into the theme of faith as well).

I sometimes place this time period, this brief year and a half, in a category of immense personal growth. It’s a humiliating quantification because I realize that when it was over, when everything had changed, when we had all become different, I was still a deeply selfish person. Page 105

It was simply a difficult time and sometimes we confuse difficult times with bad times. Page 121

When it’s time to tally up, how many wrong decisions will I have made? Hundreds? In one day? I am a wretch. … I do not yet realize that, without grace, pursuing the slow life is just as exhausting as pursuing the fast one. Without grace, minimalism is another metric for perfection. Chasing slow is still a chase. Page 158

I used to think the opposite of control is chaos. But it’s not. The opposite of control is surrender. Page 179

“We’re all fools,” said Clemens, “all the time. It’s just we’re a different kind each day. We think, I’m not a fool today. I’ve learned my lesson. I was a fool yesterday but not this morning. Then tomorrow we find out that, yes, we were a fool today too. I think the only way we can grow and get on in this world is to accept the fact we’re not perfect and live accordingly.” -Ray Bradbury, The Illustrated Man Page 213

I don’t want to have it all. But I realize, …that I do want to have what I used to have: control, freedom, predictability, confidence, time, energy, flexibility. Page 223

…the imperfection lies only in my perspective. I see that a messy pantry is cause not for a reorganizational purge but a prayer of gratitude for plenty. Nourishment. Page 232

Beauty

My Real Eight-Minute Beauty Routine, On Most Days Nineteen minutes later… Page 116

I laughed at her honesty here! Loved reading that it took her nineteen minutes to complete an eight-minute beauty routine.

Marriage

Phew boy. Her reflections on marriage hit me whole-heartedly in a season of marriage that has been hard (moving, pregnancy, making friends, finding a church, starting a new job, etc.). I’m glad to have read these words and yet I’m struggling to put them into practice. Anyone else? (Currently taking marriage advice.)

I haven’t yet learned the value of service, of selfless sacrifice, and am still operating with a give-and-take mentality. … And so it goes: he says something true, she says something imagined, he says something practical. …he said the first kind thing in the middle of unkind things, and that’s all it takes. It takes one kind offering. One kind word. Page 72

When we serve from this place, from a place of expectation, of mutual back-scratching, of deeds for praise, it is not true service. When we decide that “Got it—thanks” does not properly reflect the effort we have put into an act of service, this is not a place of true sacrifice. … And this is where I am on a Tuesday when I’m finding it difficult to pick Ken’s socks up off the floor without a resentful tsk-tsk in my mind. Page 182

It takes strength to pick up his socks from the floor, softness not to mention he should know better. … No, the answer to a happy marriage is the same as the answer to a happy life. It is simple, and it is not at all simple: Give freely. … Service doesn’t require a willing recipient. Love doesn’t either, really. … “Freely you have received; freely give.” Matthew 10:8 Page 186

Social Media (and An Honest Life)

The definition of inspiration is the drawing of breath, an inhalation, a gasp. A filling-up that offers an abundance of energy for your day, for the task, for that project, for this life. … I love the eucalyptus branch in the shower! You will not explain that you have added the eucalyptus branch in the shower for the photos alone, that it does not remain there on the regular… Page 137

One of my 2017 resolutions was to check social media only on the last day of the month. And I did it—and loved it! So much so that now the last day of the month arrives without my anticipation, celebration, or day-long scrolling. It arrives and I don’t notice and so I don’t check and it feels lovely. My Facebook and Instagram accounts are still there for when I’d like to use them, but my use is increasingly conservative.

But over the course of the week, I stop taking photos altogether. I find that I can observe the beauty without capturing the beauty, and that I don’t need to keep the memory for later. It is the moment and it is fleeting and it is lovely and that is that. Page 250

Years ago Kyle told a friend that taking a photo ruins your memory of that moment, and the quote above reminded me of that idea. What are your thoughts? How photo snappy-happy are you?

Final Thoughts

Overall, I was less impressed with the book than I was hoping for. Though she brought up great ideas and struggles and realizations to multiple spheres of life, at the end of the book I was left restless emotionally. I would give the book three stars: beautifully written and at times insightful, but largely just a circling round of questions and hesitations that made me feel unsettled. However, as evidenced above, there are some wonderful quotes I was able to pull from the read if I’m ever needing a little inspiration.

How did you enjoy the read? How many stars would you give it?

P.S. Did anyone watch her HGTV.com series? I did and it is so interesting to think of her life at that time! Also, has anyone read her blog? In truth, I used to enjoy it more prior to reading her book.

[daddyslittlejuliet]

Deciphering Dog Stomach Noises

This was an entirely new definition of “dog-tired.” Slumped in my exam room was a mussy-haired mother of three with a dynamic Dachshund dancing around her legs. She looked pleadingly at me and said, “I need your help. I haven’t slept for two nights due to this …” Her eyes trailed downward, landing squarely on the beaming brown fur baby at her feet. I was confused. Was her dog, Becca, barking, restless or not sleeping? Maybe she was vomiting, had diarrhea or was experiencing pain? Of course, it couldn’t be that simple. “It’s her stomach. It won’t stop gurgling and growling! It’s so loud we had to leave the bedroom, so my husband could rest. He’s sleeping like a baby, while I’m not sleeping a wink!” It can take some fine-tuning to decipher dog stomach noises.

The fancy medical term for all that intestinal agitation is borborygmi. If the word sounds funny, it’s because the Greeks composed it to sound similar to the “rumbling” they heard. That’s fine, but all my client wanted to do was turn it down.

Possible causes of dog stomach noises

Are those dog stomach noises cause for concern? Read on to find out! Photography © JZHunt | Thinkstock.

The most common cause for stomach noises is an empty stomach. When the stomach growls, we associate it with hunger because the body has initiated a set of chemical and physical reactions to signal the brain to eat. The noises emanate when the empty intestines and stomach are triggered to contract (“Feed me!”), squeezing air from one section to another. While the “food tube” is squishing around, a waterfall of liquids and enzymes is washing down the tract, further amplifying sounds. Think of it as the body’s power plant revving up, awaiting raw materials to turn into energy. Becca had been fed for her entire 10 years each night promptly at 6 p.m., when her dad returned from work.

Intestinal parasites, infections, indigestion, gastritis, colitis and diet can all lead to blaring borborygmi in dogs. Inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) is another source of excessive stomach noises. In this case, irritated and inflamed bowels contract forcefully, generating loud sounds. Foods that are poorly digested or produce increased amounts of gas can also cause sleep-stealing sonorities. Dogs that gulp food and swallow lots of air may also experience a rumbling tummy. In this case, no loose stools or excessive gas was reported, making IBD and diet a less likely culprit for Becca’s brainteaser.

Finally, in rare cases, certain forms of epilepsy can be associated with borborygmi. This is most likely due to the increased intestinal motility and secretions that may accompany epilepsy. I’ve seen a couple of dogs whose only clinical signs were staring blankly into space for a few minutes before “coming to” and then had loud stomach noises. Becca had no evidence of any behavioral abnormalities, but I encouraged the exhausted mom to keep it in mind.

How to treat dog stomach noises

We performed a basic blood screen, urinalysis and fecal evaluation. Everything was normal, so I suggested a quick X-ray of her abdomen to make sure we weren’t missing a growth or anatomical anomaly. Both radiographic views were perfect, indicating no obvious intestinal tract issue. What could we do to help Becca’s mom get some sleep?

3 initial treatments for dog stomach noises

A highly digestible, hydrolyzed (where the proteins have been broken down into their component amino acids) or home-prepared diet. I wanted to eliminate any potential digestive changes, and a 12-week diet trial would help us identify any hidden problems, including IBD.

Divide her evening meal into two feedings. My rationale was if the stomach noises were due to hunger, feeding a small amount of food before bedtime might quiet things down.

Increase Becca’s activity, especially after her main evening meal. In addition to the multitude of health benefits walking provides, I’ve seen digestive ailments in cows, cats, goats, horses and dogs cured by simple strolling.

The next week I was pleased to see Becca and her mom spring into my office, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It was still too early to declare which treatment was helping the most, although that didn’t matter a bit to Becca’s mom. She reported that the noise had silenced two days after our visit, and she felt restored and rejuvenated. She even offered our team a fruit basket with a sleep mask to remind me how I’d helped her out. Six months later, and all was quiet on the Wiener Front. It turned out the split feedings and extra activity helped the most, so that became Becca’s regular regimen.

If your dog has a noisy stomach, let your veterinarian give it a listen. Chances are, with a few simple changes, you and your pooch can rest peacefully without resorting to earplugs or being stuck on the couch.

Thumbnail: Photography ©absolutimages| Thinkstock.

Dr. Ernie Ward is an internationally recognized veterinarian known for his innovations in general small-animal practice, long-term medication monitoring, special needs of senior dogs and cats and pet obesity. He has authored three books and has been a frequent guest on numerous TV programs.

Editor’s note: This article appeared in Dogster magazine. Have you seen the new Dogster print magazine in stores? Or in the waiting room of your vet’s office? Subscribe now to get Dogster magazine delivered straight to you! 

Read more about dog stomach issues on Dogster.com:

Decoding Dog Gas — When Is It a Problem?

Dog Diarrhea — At-Home Treatment and When to See a Vet

Can You Give a Dog Imodium, Kaopectate or Pepto-Bismol for His Upset Stomach?

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