#Trigger warnings for mentions of suicidal thoughts

[kenwio]

Joker's kid! reader : how batfamily would react on them trying to end their life

Route : recovered dove

Please read warnings before reading this one!

If you do not feel like reading it, it's okay! (Spoilers will be at the end of this part) Please have tea or hot cocoa, and read relax 💖 and remember there are people who care and support you 💖 I'll be posting more fluff in future parts

Warnings : heavy topics, mentions of death, implications of self-destructive behavior and suicidal behavior, hurt/comfort, traumatized characters.

Idea for this part from this ask here . I also used this idea for comfort part form here

Author's note : I'm including this part in route: Recovered dove only because I want to show that mental healing of Joker's kid is a long way, it had ups and downs, but in the end they have family who acres about them now.

You don't know what exactly triggered it. Maybe it was the fact that everyone started discussing break out in Arkham asylum instead of the usual breakfast convention, maybe it was how Bruce said he didn't have time for you, maybe it was how Alfred was distant today, so you thought something wrong, maybe it was that Dick ignored you today, maybe it was that Jason's aggressive demeanor when you saw him, maybe it was Tim's comment when you brought him coffee, maybe it was Damian's harshness when you meet him near your room today.

That all made you feel so lost. To see them all being unwelcoming to you again was overwhelming. Is it because your father is free again, and they thought you'd be helping him? Wait if your father is free... he will want you back. You don't want back! No! You don't want to be with him again! You do not want to be experimented on again, be beaten up by him again. You thought it was finally over, that you were taken away from that life, never to return. You thought you found family! Why does he have to ruin your life again? He drove her away from you already, the only person who protected you before Batman and his birds, the only person who was your family before them, your mom ... and now he is doing it again; he is taking your family away again! But were they your family? You thought that Bruce was thinking about you as his own child, you thought that Alfred was proud of your progress, you thought that Dick was happy to spend time with you, you thought that Jason was enjoying your shared reading time, you thought that Tim liked to study with you, you thought that Damian finally accepted you. Were you wrong? Was it all a lie? Did they want to use you as bait for your father? Or did they think you would be able to tell them something about him? Was that a reason why they got close to you? But now that they see they were wrong, and after they made sure you didn't know anything, they decided to drop the act?

Was it all a happy dream that's just ended? If it was a dream, you don't want to wake up to the nightmare of your previous life. You can't take the suffering anymore. You need to make it stop to end it, to end it all.

You didn't know how long you were in you were in your thoughts, when you got up. You wanted to live. The room that became your own, became your safe space now felt like JOKE. You needed to get away from it. You struggled to open the window, as it required much strength from your shaking hands. But you were persistent in your efforts to open it, and in the end window opened. You looked down, it was quite high, and you knew that for your body, which was unlike theirs, weak and fragile, it would be enough. You've seen a grown man die when he fell from his high back in a crime alley, so for you, it will definitely be enough. Oh, crime alley, you don't want to go there. You don't want to return to life with Joker. You stood up on the windowsill, looking at the green grass down, feeling the cold night wind against your skin. Your head felt heavy, ringing in your ears just made it all worse. You took one step, and you felt incredibly calm. You took another step, only to be pulled away from the windowsill on the ground and held up. You didn't register the loud voice, the way someone was shaking you. You just sit there staring at nothing in particular, not even able to cry because of how tired you are.

In the meantime, Damian, the one who pulled you away from the window, had already called everyone and was trying hard to make you snap out of it. Yet it was not helping. When Bruce arrived, he moved Damian, who was looking at you with extreme worry, aside. Bruce recognized your expression; he had seen it before - thousand-yard stare - your own mind was protecting you from whatever you were feeling. As he was trying to help you, holding you against him, trying to soothe you, the rest of the family arrived in your room, seeing scared Damian, worried Bruce, and you... you looked so broken. It was too hard on them all

A few hours later, when you fell asleep after you came to your senses and cried for a while, Bruce and others started figuring out what made you feel this way. And it didn't take long; they are a family of detectives, after all. And this all made them feel really bad, guilty. As it turned out, on this day, you were too unlucky to notice only the bad sides of things.

There wasn't any breakout In Arkham asylum. Turns out, the lead they were investigating turned out to be false. Bruce, indeed, was busy, but he failed to communicate this in the normal way: he only added that he would try to make some only by the time you stepped away, which he didn't notice. Alfred was distant because he had a migraine today, but he still wanted to work around the house; there were too many chores to be done in the Wayne manor. Dick didn't mean to ignore you, he was too tired after his few nights of being up and he just failed to notice your quiet presence, being too busy thinking about his bed. Jason was behaving aggressively because of the lead about break out from Arkham asylum, which was the one that he followed for his case, and since it was false; it took the case he was working on back to square one. Tim actually was mumbling about his case, quietly cursing criminals, and not you; just like Jason, he had too much trouble because of that stupid lead. Damian stepped in at the last second to help you avoid stumbling and falling when you were waking in your room, which resulted in his harshness to you, but you were too deep in your panic to notice that his gaze was more worried than angry. If Damian wouldn't have been worried and decided to check up on you... non of them want to think about it.

They spend night in your room and in the morning, they talked to you, communicating how things actually were the previous day, and expressing how important you were to them.

It was a shock to everyone. Even Bruce thought it was going fine, that your session was working and helping you, that you were feeling safe, and that your relationships with the rest of the family were getting better. And he knew that what happened damaged the whole family because they almost lost you. He regretted that he didn't phrase his words correctly, feeling like he failed to show his care for you. He knew he should have been careful with words, he knows how impactful they can be. And since he said he hadn't got time for you he started making time for you. He wants you to know that he cares for you and he will make time for you wherever you need him. His one daily check-up became 2 check-ups, and when he had more free time, he checked up more. He pays extra attention to you. Even your little sneeze will make him worried to the point of examination in a medbay. He stays with you, and sometimes talks with you, encouraging you to open up and share your opinion and feelings. He tries to lessen the influence of "bad guidelines" (that were with you because of Joker) in your head. He helps you talk through your feelings, helps you show them and process them. He reminds you that you are cared for now. And he promises that he will protect you. After hearing you out, learning your fears and insecurities, and when he learned out that most of all you are afraid to go by your father's way, he promises you that he will do everything in his power to prevent you from taking this way. Bruce wants you to be happy, to make good memories. You already got unlucky with your father, who made you experience hell, but Bruce will try to be the best Dad he can for you.

Alfred felt so guilty. He knew you needed care, but he was distracted. He feels like he let you down, by forgetting how fragile and sensitive you are. He knew you were struggling; he had seen it himself. If only he had paid you more attention. But Alfred, better than anyone else, knows that he shouldn't be focusing on the past; he needs to work on the present, and he needs to make sure you feel better. He makes sure to make you more happy while he can. It's always your favorite tea at the tea time you share, with his cookies, of course, which he bakes with you from time to time. It's always your comfort shows or documentaries on TV when you two watch something. He also makes sure no one dares to make you feel uncomfortable, even if it will make him look around like Hawk. But Alfred understands that he can't always be around; that's exactly why he makes sure that he teaches you at least a few techniques that would be able to help with worry and anxiety, and he practices them with you. You are his little star, who may be really quiet but still efficiently lights up his days, and he doesn't want to lose you. When you share that you are afraid your family will reject you, he personally goes to everyone, making sure that they won't be saying something that contains a message. He wants to see you all grown up and happy in the end; he will work hard to make sure your life in Manor will be good.

Even when Dick just heard how Damian called for help for you, he felt shocked, what to say when he saw and understood the situation. What do you mean his baby sibling tried to make their life end when he was blissfully unaware, sleeping in his old room? How? What he missed? Just a few days before, you seemed on your way to becoming the happy sunshine of a kid, and now that has happened? He is your older brother and he missed all the singes?! He needs to sit down. It's too hard to accept this version of reality for him. The reality is that he can lose another member of the family. He knows what it is like to lose a sibling, and he will never want to experience it or feel this pain again. And knowing that it's you who tried to end your life makes it all worse. He tries to understand what pushed you, trying to see what he can do to prevent this from happening. He also tries to distract you from all the negativity in your life with quality time and different activities. The incident shook him hard, and while he hoped to introduce you to cuddles differently, he had to do it now. He needs to make sure you are close, still warm, still safe, still alive. And it seemed like cuddling with him made you calmer; you didn't even realize how touch-starved you were until then. It became a sort of comforting ritual for both of you, cuddling, sometimes just cuddling, sometimes while watching something. While cuddling he often says sweet words of reassurance to you. And while he knows he can't stay in Manor forever, he makes sure you know that he is always here for you, just a call away.

Jason was mad at himself for allowing himself to snap at you earlier. He feels incredible guilt that he was the reason that you were in that state. For a few days after, he could only watch you in your room or living room until he talked about his feelings and the incident (how he calls it because he can't speak that out loud, it physically hurts him to admit it) with Bruce and Dick. He started slowly approaching you, continuing your reading sessions, but also, sometimes, he decided just to start talking with you. He shares with you his experiences in the crime alley, and you share yours; you both know that only you two in the whole family could understand the full horror of this place, and that's aside from the fact that both of you know the full horror of Joker. He says to you that you'll never become like him, because he sees you are different. Jason tries to comfort you, yet he knows he is not ideal in it, but he is willing to try as much as he can just for you. He can understand that you feel lonely; he can only imagine how lonely you get when all the family is busy with vigilante work. It got him thinking, remembering. He remembers times when he was still Robin, and sometimes, when he got hurt, he stayed in his room alone, and. he hated it. Back when Dick gifted him a plushie of a bat, and now, in another attempt to comfort you, he brings this old plushie to you. He tells you that this plushie kept him company and protected him from everything bad, and now it will protect you, and now you'll never be alone anymore; your family's love will be here for you.

Tim was second after Damian to arrive in your room. This sight horrified him. He just froze, in shock. For once, he didn't know how to act or what to do. After everyone made sure you were okay, and his brain began working again, he started to do what he knew best - investigating and researching to find ways of how to help you, trying them with you in the meantime. Art therapy? He tried to hold a few sessions with you. Special games? You both alredy beating third one. Special music? Here is his player, listen when you want. He becomes more attentive to you, noticing every little detail. He knows as a person who likes studies like him, you would want to learn more about your mental health and how to care about yours. He found a way to explain the basics of it all to you in a way that is easier for you to understand, and only when she reads articles (that he chose, of course) about mental health and coping mechanisms. You want to cuddle with him while reading? Good, he will do it (he is happy that Dick showed you how to cuddle and totally not jealous). You want to stay with him while he works? Okay, sure, he is here for you. He makes sure you can ask him anything; he reminds you that you are safe with him and with others. So when you ask about Arkham and your father there he makes sure to show you that Arkham is hard to get out (even if it's not true).

Damian didn't like how it felt to see you on the windowsill. He doesn't like how it feels to see you in this state. He doesn't like fear. But fear made one thing clear: he cares about you. He hadn't understood how important you became until that incident happened. You are his sibling, and even if he did not choose you, even if he was against the idea of you being in the family at first, now he knows you held a place in this family like everyone else. And now he knows that he will do everything in his power to make you safe; he will protect you even from yourself. He asked Bruce to install precautions in your room. He follows you like your shadow everywhere you go. He makes sure that there is no danger in your way. He checks up on how you sleep after patrols. He makes sure to be nicer when he is around you, and he heads to ask Father, Pennyworth, and Grayson how exactly to behave around you. He joins in Tim the research of ways for you to cope with traumas or ways to comfort you, and when he sees articles about how communicating with animals improves mental health, he brings Titus to you, and when he goes for walks with Titis he makes sure to take you on them too since he also found out that walks improve mental health, and since it's walking with Titus it's beneficial in double. He protects you and he cares for you even if he struggles with proving it

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinion and have a good day 💖

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Tag list :

@socially-embarrassing , @leovergurl , @deathbynarcisstick , @cryptic-arr0w , @lynns-cornerr , @cxcilla ,  @charlotteking23 , @ninihrtss , @lillycore , @pix-stuff , @tfamidoingwithmylife , @linoalwaysknows , @00hellohello00 , @lilithskywalker , @bagofrice , @lenaisaloser , @devilslittlehelper , @camilo-uwu , @l3v1us , @eyeless-kun , @stargazingbutgayer, @wpdarlingpan , @weirdothatreads , @maybea1 @lyla-viper-wayne @amber-content @lizzyzzn

if i forgot to add someone to the tag list, please let me know, and i will add you to the next part

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Spoiler:

Next chapter connected to this (click here) and after that I'll finally write about Joker's kid! reader hair dyeing adventures

[babybeeelle]

Hiii, long time no see. I was writing a different story, but I wasn't satisfied in the direction it was going so this just spouted from my brain. This was based off a request, but I'm dramatic so I amplified it :)

Summary - When Agatha's grief causes her to lash out at the reader, she hurts them deeply.

Warnings - Agatha needs therapy, mention of self-harm scars, near-death experiences, and detailed? suicide attempt.

Word count : 4400+

a/n - Very important Warnings. The is a very detailed fic. Please please please read them and make a safe decision to continue reading💖

What's Said and Done

You didn't intend for your reminiscing of Nicky to trigger Agatha the way it did. You had hoped that maybe the decades upon decades spent grieving together created a safe space to talk about the short, but treasured time you all had with Nicky. You craved to fill the hole his death left with the precious memories that had filled your heart with joy. You wanted that for Agatha. You wanted to mend the corrupted memory of him. He deserved to be cherished.

It was obvious now Agatha couldn't. You knew that unadulterated grief that was entangled into her loving soul very well. You thought her forgiving Rio, inviting her back into her heart after two centuries, meant that she was in a stage of grief where she would want to talk about him.

You had so many memories of Nicky etched into your heart, moments that glowed like a lighthouse in the violent weather of grief.

The day he first came into your lives, his tiny hands were gripping tightly to your fingers as Agatha held him, and his wide, curious eyes darted around the unfamiliar space in the bedroom of the little cottage you shared.

Rio had been cautious at first. Viewing his birth from the door frame, knowing she was going to be the one who would lead him to the afterlife before he could truly live.

Yes, she created him, but she also knew the possible complications of creating a precious life unnaturally. But when Agatha looked at her, tears brimming in her eyes as she nodded her head, she could see Agatha was thankful for giving her the time he deserved. To Rio, the pain would be worth it.

Anyone could tell Nicholas was made from Rio. The resemblance was uncanny as he grew older. His facial structure mirrored hers perfectly, from his sharp jawline to the delicate angles of his cheekbones. His eyes a warm chocolate, filled with mischief, were identical to hers. Even down to the smile lines that shined so brightly with his perfect smile. He truly was a mirror image.

There were the little everyday moments that had became everything.

Rio kneeling in the backyard, dirt smudged on her cheek as she pressed her hands to the soil, coaxing life from the earth. Nicky crouched beside her, his tiny fingers buried in the dirt, eyes wide with awe as delicate petals bloomed before him. Every time a new bloom appeared, he’d clap his hands and turn to Agatha with Rio's smile.

Then there were the nights Agatha loved most. She would sit on the edge of his bed, her hands glowing with a soft purple light as galaxies lit across his bedroom ceiling. Stars twinkled, planets drifted in slow, mesmerizing orbits, casting his room in a cosmic glow. Nicky’s small hands would reach up, tracing constellations only he could see, his laughter light and full of wonder.

It was all the things Agatha didn't want to remember.

Her shoulders stiffened while she was putting away laundry. “Why?” Agatha asked finally, her voice low and clipped.

You frowned, caught off guard by her tone. Feeling the sudden change in energy, you began to rub your scarred arm, a self-soothing habit you picked up when you began to feel on edge. “Why what?”

“Why do you have to bring him up?” she said, halting the chores. She turned to face you as you stood beside her. Her eyes were trained on yours, unwilling to break eye contact. “Do you think that helps? Reliving every little memory like it’s going to bring him back?”

The words stung, but you took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I don’t bring him up to hurt you, Agatha. I just... I miss him. I thought maybe we could talk about the good times, try to focus on—”

“On what?” Agatha snapped, her voice rising. “On how he was never ours to keep him? How we couldn't heal him? On how everything we tried wasn’t enough?” She slammed her hand on the dresser in agitation causing you to jump, eyes-widened as your breath was caught in your throat from surprise. “Because that’s all I see when I think of him.”

Your heart clenched as you watched her unravel, the grief in her voice morphing into anger. “It wasn’t your fault, Agatha,” you said quietly reaching out for her hand. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she avoided your touch, crossing her arms defensively. “Of course you’d say that. You always have to be the understanding one, don’t you? Always so composed, so...forgiving”

Her words hit like a slap, but she was being unfair. “You’re not the only one who lost him, Agatha. I lost him too. And Rio—”

“Don’t,” Agatha interrupted, her voice cutting through the room. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”

The tension between you thickened as your shared grief and unresolved pain collided.

“Why not?” you challenged, ready to defend. “She loved him too. We all did. And maybe it’s hard for you to see, but she’s been trying, Agatha. She’s been trying to make things right with you.”

Agatha's lips curling into a bitter smile. “Trying?” she repeated mockingly. “Trying to what? Pretend like everything’s fine? Pretend like she didn’t—”

“Like she didn’t what?” you demanded as you cut her off, beginning to believe she had never truly forgiven Rio. “Say it, Agatha. Whatever it is you’ve been holding in, just say it.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her body trembling with fury. “Like she didn't take him from us. He’s gone, and all you can do is sit there and talk about him like that’s going to fix anything.”

You stared at her, a silent conformation of your theory. "It wasn't her fault and you know it. He was our boy too," you whispered in defeat. You weren't sure if she had even heard you. But her response showed you she did.

"It wasn't her fault?"

But before you could respond, she delivered the blow that shattered your soul.

“He was never your son,” she said, her voice sharp as she looked at you like you were nothing to her. “Not you. Not Rio's. He was my son. I'm the only one that did anything and everything to keep him alive, and here you are defending Rio like you always do,” she spat out with a sneering expression.

The words hit you hard. You felt physically sick. Your breathing was shallow like Agatha's words were constricting your lungs.

“No,” You protested, your voice breaking. Your eyebrows scrunched as your eyes shone with tears, searching Agatha’s face, desperate for any sign that the woman you loved hadn’t truly meant those words. “You don’t mean that."

Agatha’s expression hardened leveling down to look you straight in the eyes. “I mean it from the bottom of my heart,” she seethed, annunciating every word. “God, I can’t even look at you. It's pathetic. You have no right to be crying right now.” Pushing past you, she walked to the door like your very presence disgusted her.

You staggered back a step, clutching the edge of the dresser to steady yourself. Your tears fell freely now.

“Where are you going?” You asked, your voice thick from crying, inadvertently pleading for her to stay.

“Anywhere but here,” Agatha bit without looking back.

With that, she stormed out, her footsteps echoing down the stairs. The back door slammed shut moments later, leaving the house in a suffocating silence.

Letting the dam crumble, you clasped your chest, trying to ease the ache that felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside.

Your legs seemed to move on their own, carrying you to the bathroom in a haze.

As you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the reflection staring back at you felt foreign, like someone you barely recognized. You searched your own face for something, anything, that might explain why you weren’t enough. Why Agatha couldn’t bear to look at you.

"How could anyone love you?" that dark, familiar voice in the back of your mind whispered. It had been gone for a while, but it has returned making its mission to demolish all the progress you've made.

You gripped the edge of the sink so tightly that your knuckles were turning white. Agatha's words echoed endlessly.

"He was never your son." "Not you. Not Rio. He was mine."

The venom in her voice, the disgust in her eyes—how could she say something like that? How could she not see how much you loved him, how you would've given everything if it meant saving him?

You couldn't wrap your head around it. She couldn't actually think that of you, right?

The intrusive thoughts came in waves, each one dragging you deeper into despair.

"She doesn’t want you anymore. She'd be better off without you. Rio too." You squeezed your eyes shut, as though it could stop the endless spiral.

The thought of Rio did it for you. Rio’s face flickered into your mind. Her eyes, usually filled with warmth, was devoid of any love for you. She's death, literally. She is a cosmic being, and you are so...ordinary. You didn't have a sharp, captivating aura like Agatha who demanded anyone and everyone's attention the second she walks into a room.

Your love wasn't worth all the pain. You weren't worth all the pain. You're a burden to them.

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You needed both of them. There was already a piece of your heart missing, but Agatha and Rio kept your heart from crumbling. You wouldn't survive that pain again.

You glanced down at the sink, where droplets of water had leaked from the faucet. For a moment, you began to visualize your arm as the faucet, slowly leaking blood.

Your gaze shifted back to the mirror. The self-hatred hit you like a tidal wave. How could they love you? Agatha’s words weren’t just anger—they were confirmation of your deepest and darkest fears. That they didn't need you the way you needed them.

The familiar ache in your chest morphed into a dangerous mission. You opened the drawer beneath the sink, your trembling hands rummaging through its contents until they found what they were looking for. You hesitated for a moment, pausing as you were unsure if this is what you wanted. You had been so good, so happy. Then you remembered what your reality had shifted to.

It was a little purple jewelry box. It once held the ring on your finger from a day you'd never forget. A vow of a love that would be everlasting. But as you opened the box and found the blade hidden within, none of that mattered anymore.

Freeing it from the packaging, you noticed it still had the same sharpness from the last time you used it, and the glint made your stomach twist in anticipation.

The blade felt cool and familiar in your hand as you slowly sank into the cold, empty tub, the icy surface sending a chill down your spine. You hesitated again, gripping it tightly, the thoughts racing through your mind almost convincing you to stop. But one reason kept you convinced: you were doing this for them. This way, you could take the burden of yourself off their shoulders. You were doing them a favor.

With a shaky exhale, you glided the blade lightly across the center of your arm, testing the waters. The first cut was a shallow line that only allowed little bubbles of blood to come to the surface, but the sting grounded you nonetheless.

With more urgency, you pressed down harder, carving another line into your skin. Blood welled up, slowly making its way down your arm like a raindrop rolling down a window.

Taking a deep breath in, you moved the blade down to your wrist where you knew the blood would really flow. As you exhaled, face scrunched, you swiped quick and deep, finally getting to the point where you knew you did damage.

But it wasn’t enough. You craved balance, symmetry. You mirrored the cuts on your other arm, your movements growing more frantic, wanting you're relief to come faster. The tears flowed in rhythm with your blood, causing a hysterical laugh to escape from your throat.

Your vision swam as exhaustion began to set in, your body growing heavy. The pain that had once felt grounding now dulled, your consciousness blurred. It never really dawned on you who would be coming soon.

On cue, a familiar presence filled the room. The usual warmth was now an unwelcoming cold. Her usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by wide-eyed panic as she took in the scene before her.

“No, no, no, no,” Rio panicked, her voice raw and breaking as she kneeled beside the tub. Her hands were trembling as they hovered over your wounds.

“You can’t do this to me. I won't do it. I refuse to take you,” she cried out in anguish as tears streamed down her face, denying her duty as Death, denying the natural order.

Her hands glowed a faint green as she pressed her palms to your arms. A tingling warmth spread through the cuts, knitting the torn flesh back together. She murmured soft reassurances under her breath, though they were as much for herself as they were for you. Her power wasn’t meant for this, for preventing death, but she gave freely of herself, pouring every ounce of her strength into pulling you back from the edge. The strain showed in her creased forehead, but she fought against it because her heart depended on it.

When the bleeding finally stopped, Rio sagged back on her heels, her hands trembling as the adrenaline drained from her body. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears. She stared at you, her vision blurring with a mixture of relief and pain.

Carefully, as though you might shatter at the slightest touch, she reached out and gathered you into her arms. Your body was limp against her, your head lolling weakly onto her shoulder. She could feel the shallow rise and fall of your chest—too faint, too fragile—but you were breathing. That was enough.

She pressed a trembling kiss against your temple, her lips barely grazing your skin as she carried you from the bathroom. Each step was slow, deliberate, as though she feared moving too quickly would send you slipping away from her again.

By the time she laid you down on the bed, the world around you was a hazy blur, shifting in and out of focus. The weight beneath you felt unfamiliar—softer than the cold tub, warmer than the tile floor. A distant pressure tugged at your limbs, grounding you, but your thoughts drifted in a fog. Sounds came muffled, like you were underwater.

Rio’s voice, low and strained, broke through the haze. You couldn't make out the words, only the shape of them, the warmth in them. Then she was gone, footsteps fading, leaving you adrift in the silence.

A moment later, something soft slipped over your head. The scent of lavender and something faintly smoky curled into your nose, stirring something deep in your chest. A trembling breath left your lips, the familiarity of it pulling you back, dragging you closer to the surface of awareness.

Your lip quivered. A whimper—barely more than a breath—escaped before you even realized it. The sweater clung to your skin, warm and safe, and for the first time since your body hit the tile, the numbness began to crack.

“What is it?” Rio asked urgently, cupping your face with her hands, searching your face for any signs of pain or discomfort. “What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you whispered, still dazed, “She doesn’t want us anymore.”

Rio froze, her heart dropping at the words and the hopelessness in your voice.

She cupped your face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that continued to fall while she forced herself to stay calm, to steady her voice. “That’s not true,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “Agatha loves you. She loves us. She’s just... hurting.”

You shook your head weakly, your gaze unfocused, lost in the thick fog of exhaustion and heartbreak. "She said it. She said... he wasn't ours, only hers. She doesn't want us.” Your voice cracked, breaking on the last sentence. “She doesn’t want us.” Your words grew softer, fading into incoherent murmurs as exhaustion pulled you under.

Seeing you like this brought bile up. Your pain was making her physically nauseous. Rio’s arms wrapped around you tightly, as though sheer force alone could keep you from slipping away again. “She’s lost in her grief,” she said softly, resting her chin on top of your head. “She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t.”

But your eyes were already fluttering closed, exhaustion and despair pulling you into an empty, restless sleep. As your breathing evened out, Rio stayed by your side, her hand resting on yours.

For a long moment, she simply sat there, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

She wanted to believe Agatha hadn’t meant it, that the words had been spat out in grief and anger, not truth. But seeing you like this—weak, barely conscious, drowning in the pain Agatha had inflicted—made it impossible to excuse.

“She’s lost in her grief. She didn't mean it," Rio murmured again, this time to herself.

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The argument replayed in Agatha’s mind as she sat on the bench, viewing the garden Rio created centuries ago as the cool night air brushing against her skin. Her fingers pressed against her temple, rubbing slow, desperate circles as if she could knead away the headache forming beneath her skull.

She took a swig from the half-empty beer bottle, the taste flat and useless to distract her from the ache in her chest. Her words had been cruel, sharp-edged daggers thrown in anger. "He was never your son. Not you, not Rio. He was my son." The memory of your devastated expression was seared into her mind.

She’d meant it in the moment. Or at least, she’d convinced herself she did. Grief over Nicky had festered into something raw and ugly, and in her anguish, she had taken it out on you—the person who had only ever tried to love her through her faults. Your love was pure.

While Nicky had inherited little of your features, what you had given him was more personal than any resemblance. Your ability to love someone regardless of their past and all the terrible things they've done is one of a kind. Agatha was sure there was no one who could ever grace this world the way you did. That was what made you stronger than any power she or Rio could ever possess.

But that purity was suffocating. It was too much like his. It was like he had never left. And yet, he was gone.

That was the worst part. Every time she looked at you, at Rio, it was a reminder of what she had lost. Of what she could never get back.

It wasn’t fair that you and Rio were still here with her when he wasn’t. It wasn’t fair that you kept loving her, even after all the ways she pushed you away. It wasn’t fair that you could carry on, bearing his memory with softness, while she was drowning in the weight of it.

Maybe that was why she lashed out. Because she hated that you were proof love could survive grief. And she hated herself even more for resenting you for it.

But now, in the openness of the garden, regret gnawed at her, eating her alive. She wished she could take it back, wished she could go back in time to undo the pain she’d caused. She hated herself for how easily the words had slipped out, sharp and unforgiving. It was a defense second nature to her. It was as unstoppable as her magic siphoning. It relented before she could remember that the people she lashed out at were the ones she loved most.

The sound of the back door slamming and heavy footsteps jolted her from her thoughts.

Agatha shot to her feet, as she carelessly discarded the bottle she had been nursing. She turned sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs as Rio strode toward her. The guilt and sorrow clung to Agatha like a shadow, but Rio wasn’t here to acknowledge her pain. This wasn’t about her.

She didn’t speak at first, only stood before Agatha, her entire body trembling with a rage barely containable as she tried to formulate her words carefully. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her fists curling so tightly at her sides that her knuckles went white.

Agatha froze. The half-empty bottle hung uselessly at her side, momentarily forgotten. Her gaze flickered toward Rio, taking in the rigid set of her shoulders, the barely restrained fury rolling off of her in waves. Then Agatha saw it—dark stains smeared across Rio’s hands, stark against her skin. The realization hit her like ice water.

Your blood.

Her stomach twisted violently. She felt the breath hitch in her throat as her gaze snapped back to Rio’s face. The rage was still there, burning bright, but beneath it—buried just deep enough to go unnoticed by anyone else—was fear.

“You know what you’ve caused?” Rio’s voice was low and deadly, trembling with restrained rage.

Agatha swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I—”

Rio cut Agatha off before she could try to explain. “Do you know what Y/N tried to do because of you?” The words were spit through clenched teeth, but her voice cracked on your name.

“What... what-” she stammered. Once again, getting cut off.

“She thought you didn’t want her anymore. That you didn’t want us anymore.” Rio’s composure shattered, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to find the love of our lives bleeding out in that tub? Because of you? Because you let your grief fester into something that poisoned her?”

Rio’s hands trembled as she dragged them through her hair, her breath coming in sharp, angry heaves. Then, suddenly, as if overwhelmed by the weight of it all, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and let out a harsh, shuddering breath.

Agatha couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Her vision swam, your face flashing in her mind—not the way she had last seen it, but the way it looked utterly lifeless

Tears welled in her eyes, her hands trembling as she clutched at the edge of the bench for support. “I... I didn’t know,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.

Rio dropped her hands, her gaze snapping to Agatha with something close to disbelief. Then she laughed, humorless and bitter. “You didn’t know?” she echoed, voice raw. “How could you not know, Agatha? Don’t give me that pathetic reasoning, Agatha. You know her more than you know yourself. You know how deeply she feels everything. Love. Pain. And now she thinks you hate her.”

Agatha’s tears spilled over, her chest heaving with the weight of her guilt. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just... I didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t know how to-.”

Rio’s expression softened for a fleeting moment, the raw pain in Agatha’s panic stirring something deep within her. But she quickly steeled herself, unwilling to let sympathy distract her from the truth.

"You need to fix this." Her words were quiet. Firm. And final.

Agatha blinked through the blur of tears. She hadn't felt this type of fear since Nicky.

“If you’ve ever loved her, if you’ve ever loved us, then you’ll make this right,” Rio said filled with tiredness and desperation. “Because if you don’t, you’ll lose us both.”

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Rio’s words hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog. Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode back inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a thud.

She had been so consumed by her own grief that she hadn’t realized she had become the very thing she had feared, the thing that had broken you.

Agatha stood there in stunned silence, her mind reeling. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the dirt of the garden, her fingers dug into the soil as though it could somehow anchor her to the ground. The weight of Rio’s words crashed over her like a tidal wave, and for the first time, the full gravity of her actions hit her.

Her guilt twisted like a knife in her gut. Her sobs were quiet at first, but soon they grew louder, wracking her body with the force of hardened grief. Her pain pulsed around her, a sickness that spread without forgiveness. Her gaze darted around, watching in anguish as the pink azaleas she had once tended with such care now wilting, their petals curling in on themselves as if recoiling from her presence. The energy emanating from her twisted the life around her, black veins creeping up the stems, the poison of her emotions seeping into the earth.

Just like she had seeped into you. It was a silent parallel of how she had poisoned you.

The thought made her sick.

She had always known that her anger and pain had pushed you and Rio away, but she hadn’t realized just how far it had gone until now. The fear that she might lose both you and Rio, it was too much to bear. And for the first time, the full weight of her actions hit her, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn’t know how to fix it, how to undo the damage she’d done. But she knew one thing for certain: if she didn’t try, she would lose you both. And that was a price she couldn’t afford to pay.

[vulcanvampyr]

'the newsreader' season 3 and bpd rep

note: major spoilers ahead. trigger warning for mentions of self-harm, suicide, and substance abuse.

you don't see a lot of fictional characters with canonical bpd diagnoses in media. the illness is usually ascribed to one-off villains in crime dramas, or in the case of movies like girl, interrupted (1999), largely romanticized. a recent exception was rebecca bunch from the tv series crazy ex-girlfriend (2015-2019), who embarks on a profound journey from diagnosis through treatment and healing amidst the show's musical backdrop.

when i started watching the newsreader last year, i picked up on a lot of borderline traits in helen norville. i related to her mood swings, her protective measures to prevent abandonment, and her difficulty identifying, describing, or regulating her feelings. from there i sort of decided in my head that she had bpd, without the canon confirmation. this is nothing new for me--as someone with the disorder, i'm always quick to catch these traits and run with them, since i rarely see canonical representation of the illness. over the years, i've "headcanoned" fictional characters like david rose, ed teach, and bojack horseman with bpd, among others.

-

when helen starts seeing a therapist in the first half of the newsreader's final season, the therapist, marcia, recommends that helen take in her surroundings and employ breath work during times of stress. i clocked this right away as a mindfulness DBT (dialectical behavioral therapy) skill, but figured given the show's 1989 setting, they probably wouldn't "go there."

but sure enough, i watched helen go to the library, look up her therapist's treatment methods. i saw her burst into marcia's office talking about how the disease is incurable: "it's for manipulative, vindictive, narcissistic, promiscuous, hysterical people. and apparently there's no fսcking treatment for it" (3x03). but DBT is an experimental new treatment, marcia says, and it's been met with much success thus far. finally, she says aloud what i'd been thinking: helen meets the criteria for bpd.

helen storms out of the room, tries to escape her reality with alcohol and valium. she's sent out of the newsroom and isolates herself at home. i watched all this unfold onscreen in disbelief, an uneasy lump settling somewhere deep in my stomach because as surprised as i was to see the words--borderline personality disorder--utttered onscreen, i understood, painfully, what helen was going through.

i was diagnosed with borderline in 2018. by that time, i had been exhibiting self-harm behaviors on-and-off since about 2014. i went through periods of extreme, bone-crushing sadness followed by numbness. i oscillated between flippant communications and desperate pleas for validation with those close to me. several textbook characteristics for borderline.

my therapist told me, "don't look it up online," but of course i did, ducking into the office restroom after our session for an immediate google search. i was inundated with exactly the material helen must've seen, if in a different format: bpd is the hardest mental health disorder to treat; many therapists won't even treat folks with bpd; people with bpd are statistically more likely to attempt suicide. there were online listings for a book frustratingly, reductively called i hate you, don't leave me, the only major popularized work on the illness.

these are all things i read on a first-page search many years after the setting of the newsreader. fortunately, a quick search in 2025 looks different, featuring many landing pages on psychiatry websites focused on debunking myths about the illness.

but in 2018, at the age of twenty-five, i thought: this is it for me. it's all fallen into place. i'm broken, i'm broken, i can't be fixed.

-

when helen's former-lover-always-best-friend dale jennings comes to check on helen later on in the episode, what plays out is one of the most beautiful, raw, and validating scenes for someone with the illness to witness.

we watch helen go through the intense back-and-forth of processing her feelings in real time:

i've been seeing this woman, this, um, this therapist, dale, and she's been really good. she's been really good. she's given me, like, all of these kind of, um, ways to...to handle, um, stuff. and then today she said, um, that i... that... that i just am fսckеd. [...] and it's not like, um...like a, um...it's not like i'm sick. it's just my personality. [sobs]

... blaming dale ...

she said it's a personality disorder, and it's...and it's true, you know? it's just true. and...and, i mean, you must have seen it. [...] why wouldn't you say? you're the only person who's ever told me the truth, why wouldn't you tell me? why wouldn't you tell me?

... and then blaming herself.

i could have done something about it. i could have fixed it. i could have done something about it. and now there's no one! [...] i even fucked up with you, my fucking family, and now my fucking job.

i can't overstate the sheer vulnerability displayed by anna torv in this scene. it's a highly realistic portrayal of an initial reaction to getting this diagnosis. there's the instinct to prescribe yourself with inherent wrongness, to cast a cloud of villainy over your whole life to this point.

it's dale's response that seals the deal for me in terms of marking this an effective, empathetic portrayal of bpd onscreen.

"it's called borderline personality disorder, apparently," helen says, "did you see that?" in other words: did you see that in me? and if so, why are you still here?

dale just looks at her and says, "all i see is you."

to hear a character say that to a person with a confirmed bpd diagnosis is frankly revolutionary for television, even in media's generally progressive view of mental illness today. dale sees helen for all she is and still loves her. with the stigma that still exists around bpd, i don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that many folks with bpd would give anything to hear those words.

"all i see is you," dale says, "and i don't think it makes a difference. do you feel different?"

and what a question. this brings things into perspective for helen, and perhaps even for the viewer. this diagnosis doesn't change anything about what came before, or who helen is as a person--namely an inspiring, hardworking journalist and a loyal partner and friend. now she just has a name for the strong emotions that color her world. and with that name comes the power to learn, to grasp, to move forward and heal.

in the months following my diagnosis, as i started working on DBT individually and in a group setting, i slowly began to accept this part of myself. i called it by name, and i told it to the world. it reframes a lot of my behavior, past and present. it's helped me put terms to my emotions and how to handle them. and yet it's not all of me.

so, after the diagnosis, do you feel different? helen's answer is mine, too:

"no," she replies after a bout of surprised laughter, "i fucking don't."

-

after her diagnosis, it's clear helen doesn't take to therapy or DBT right away. she's suspicious, stubborn, and in denial about her path forward.

in 3x04, helen challenges marcia in any way she can, saying her fast-paced career doesn't allow for skill work, and summing up the study of DBT skills as "infantile checklists." marcia stands her professional ground, though: "if there were a pill that treated borderline, you would have it, but there isn't. this therapy requires your full engagement. you know what the alternative is." by the end of the scene, helen reluctantly begins trying again to work with her therapist, ranking different DBT skills and their effectiveness in her day to day.

again, i'm struck by the realism in this portrayal. the show references actual DBT skills with care and detail, despite the newness of the method in 1989. there are four major modules--mindfulness, emotion regulation, distress tolerance, and interpersonal effectiveness--and within them myriad terms and exercises pioneered by psychologist marsha m. linehan. several are referenced throughout the season.

helen's resistance is palpable--DBT makes up a whole book, and i can't say i was thrilled embarking on the journey myself. at first, a lot of it did seem trite--splashing my face with cold water, or practicing box breathing in a room full of people.

but what i had to realize for myself--and what helen does, too--is that these skills are an ongoing practice.

later in the episode, helen calls her therapist in distress after an encounter that brings her face-to-face with the uncomfortable reality of racism in australia and her innate privilege. "this therapy is not about denying your feelings," marcia reminds her, "it's about bringing you to a frame of mind where you can better navigate the situation. and right now, you need a distress tolerance skill, so pick one."

sure enough, we see helen doing laps up and down the stairs--employing the TIPP skill to bring her back to baseline. this is one of the many things i love about the newsreader's handling of bpd: it shows the borderline character doing the work. you don't "graduate" from DBT. i've gone through two group rounds myself, and have worked since my diagnosis with various therapists on individual practice. and still, over 6 years later, oftentimes the skills i need the most aren't readily at hand in high-stress moments. i'll never be done doing this, and that's kind of the point.

-

helen's story arc comes to a head in 3x05, when the press reveals details of her stay at a mental institution as a young woman. helen not-normal, the headline says. helen spirals--this could be the end of her career. she panics, begging for it to be retracted. this loops back to the denial of her condition, her emotions, her very self that plagued her for two seasons (and presumably far before). but this time, her therapy work grounds her:

marcia: helen, what can you control? what can you always control? helen: my reactions. marcia: you control what you do next. and what you do next tells everyone who you are.

so helen uses her journalistic platform to talk about mental health. she goes live on her show public eye with a social worker and former psychiatric nurse, who was institutionalized herself and thus became passionate about revamping the mental health industry: "if community were more accepting of people with mental illness, that would make the biggest difference." facing the camera, helen responds:

having experienced anxiety and depression myself, i do believe that...that it is the shame and the isolation that makes it so unbearable. and perhaps if we could change the way that we view and discuss mental health issues, it might seem less impossible to overcome.

this is just the start of helen's self-acceptance journey--and audiences receive it overwhelmingly positively. public eye is inundated with calls after the show. helen even reconciles with her sister, after years of little contact.

helen's choice to be authentically herself, live on air--marrying her public persona with the very real person behind it--is so important for folks with bpd to see onscreen.

-

the sixth episode and series finale, "the fall," positions helen further getting a handle on emotion regulation. in an explosive confrontation between her and her co-executive producer, bill, helen takes a deep breath in response to his slew of insults. she responds to him calmly, setting a boundary:

i don't want to do this with you anymore. i really tried to protect your feelings. i mean, i blamed myself. i blamed your marriage. i blamed our working relationship. but i'm not going to be punished because I didn't want to fսck you.

later, in front of a group of largely male network executives, she sets her terms for the show going forward, delivering an ultimatum. the network pushes back on her terms, saying, "you do not get to control this." but, oh, she does. in establishing understanding and control of her emotions and her reactions, helen is able to fully harness her power as the queen of australian news.

in the end, helen ends up running public eye alongside her trusted co-producer, noelene, with dale serving as the show's international reporter. she's become herself, owned herself and her illness, and is still a wildly successful newsreader and journalist--not despite her bpd and the work she's doing to manage it, but partly because of all that too. because she knows herself, and unabashedly, she lets the world know this part of her, too--if not in name, then in her continuing to move forward with the candor around her experience with depression and anxiety.

i chatted with my therapist about helen's season 3 storyline. i'm still processing what i watched, and i wanted to reflect aloud about why that was. i had a really visceral reaction to helen's story that i'm still moving through, and one i wasn't expecting. and i think it's because this sensitive, realistic, honest portrayal of bpd and treatment and recovery resonated with my journey. seven years out from my diagnosis, sometimes the behaviors and cries for help i exhibited in my early to mid-twenties feel far away. is that really the "person" i was? was the diagnosis accurate? i realized it had to have been, for this season to have pulled at me so strongly.

and i remembered this is just one facet of who i am, and i've worked hard to learn how to manage it. my symptoms may look different now, less severe--but it doesn't change what happened to me, what i've been through, what i did at my borderline "height"--and the work i've done and continue to do. there's no "cure"--but there is recovery (not linear--no healing ever is). it's so clear in the show's final moments that helen is on her way there, too.

having the opportunity to see what i've experienced mirrored back at me through a beloved fictional character, as well as to reflect on how far i've come, is something i've not really experienced until now. i'm impressed with how the writers handled this aspect of the season, and i want to continue moving through how it resonated for me, and i'm sure for so many others.

helen, thank you.

i am so proud of you. (and i'm proud of me too.)

[ohthelesbians]

✨🌟CURSED ARCANE UQUIZ ❤️ YOUR UNHINGED COMMENTS BEST OF 🌟 PART 2 🌟✨

On that silly "which cursed Arcane character are you ?" uQuiz that I made, you can leave a little note at the end. Here is a Best Of wholesome, funny and worrying comments you guys left there because I can't be the only one to know ✨🌟💫

Link to the uQuiz if you wanna participate to this lovely nonsense 💛🧡❤️

Trigger warning : mention of murder/depression/suicidal thoughts/daddy issues

Spoilers for Arcane season 1 and 2

[my-stories-vault]

Chapter 6 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: English Dean Winchester X English Reader

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, voilence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 6: Out Of Control.

It was nothing like you'd ever witnessed. People roamed in broad daylight, milling about teeming lands of grass, laughing and chatting. The land hugged a castle in the center and then was surrounded by more trees equidistantly from all sides in a circle.

The castle was nothing like yours. While you had been given a towering apartment building that only looked like a castle, this palace was an actual freaking castle. All that was left to make it royal were actual ponies and rainbows and princesses.

Well, you supposed you were sorta a princess now that this place was also technically yours . . .

'Aren't people scared of being zapped by lightning?' you asked premierly. It was only you, and every one on Dean's team in one of the BMWs while the other Leader was in his Baby with the whole of your team. "Bonding" as Sebastian liked to call it; you just thought that he was having way too much fun with the rearranging of people - it was too much power.

'The place is warded,' Raya said. 'And for what wards can't keep out, magic does. Angels don't see anything but a clearing right here.'

'Magic?' you frowned.

'We have in-palace witches, of course,' Dakota said with a smug grin. He was supposed to be the charming fellow.

From what you'd learned till now from this lot was that no one except Sebastian stayed with Dean majority of the time. There wasn't a "team" per se, just various team-ups based on which hunter was free when; for instance, Raya, Reed, and Dakota hadn't been hunting when they were offered this almost month-long "case".

Another uncomprehending discovery on your part was that taking care of Dean was no one's full-time job here. Not even Sebastian's. Everyone was free to do whatever they pleased so long as they finished their hunting quota and didn't disobey Dean if he ever issued an order. It was mostly democratic here, many suggestions were heard before Dean picked one.

Hell, even Dean had a hunting quota. Apparently, he didn't spend much time in one place. Always moving from one place to another, and he was popular for taking the toughest cases and wars. Even when the pager was quiet, he would venture out for the smaller cases alone and finish off nests in the dead of the night - not returning to his palace for months sometimes.

'That's . . . ?' Wrong. But you couldn't say it.

You were prosecuted for giving away a land that was a liability to humans and Dean was trustworthy after using witches on the land that he lived on? How was that fair?

None of Dean's team were unfaithful, was how.

'Cool, right?' Reed said, stoicly - you didn't know if he was being sarcastic. He was a taciturn, grumpy man who was dating the insolent Raya. They had two children out of wedlock in the Hunter's Programme.

'It is cool,' Sebastian said. 'We believe in believing that even monsters are tired of these never-ending wars like we are. I mean, don't you like imagining a world where there were peace?'

'Peace is a myth,' Raya said. 'Do you really think all our problems will go away without the wars?'

'No, but we would have simpler problems,' countered Sebastian. 'Like, what should I eat today? Or should I ask the girl out? I shouldn't be thinking about my will as soon as my first paycheck comes in.'

'If we don't have wars,' you indulged, 'wouldn't we all be jobless?'

'Maybe,' Sebastian said. 'But we would have lives.'

You couldn't imagine that. Your whole life, you'd worked to be a Leader of the wartime. As a hunter, a world without monsters was purposeless to you. You would have no reason to exist anymore - it will all be empty, a complex nothingness.

Your mother disapproved of these notions as well. She had encouraged Seth to chase a monster that would lessen the problems of humanity, but wouldn't eradicate them. She believed in playing smart. Just like she approved of B/F because B/F had selected a strategic monster.

The couple had awed everyone for their large achievements, and they had saved about a million lives, only not the world.

This was also the reason why Dean peeved her. Because he saved the world by murdering Amara. While those words won't ever see the light of the day, you could clearly see her mouth twitch at the corner upon Dean's name.

It was an expectation you had to make true too; you had five years for it, based on the loose timeline your mother had given you.

'We are here,' Reed said, as the car pulled to a stop in front of the proud castle, amongst the abundantly stretching greenery. The double doors were set apart from the driveways by a graceful staircase.

Raya and Reed were holding hands as they hurried out of the car and sprinted up the staircase as if the car was on fire - you assumed they were just that happy to see their children. The staircase was already occupied with people coming out of cars before and after yours, and some others who were going to and fro between the castle and the grounds. Dakota took his sweet time unloading his bags and then headed for the group of girls chatting across, on the staircase.

Your people were collecting at the tail end of your car, with their bags, huddled, waiting for your instructions. Sebastian was waiting for you to get off so that he could park. Your three cars had followed Dean's Impala to get spots in the garage just around the corner.

'I know what you're thinking,' Sebastian said. He could guess that any person would be nervous or intimidated.

You sighed. 'If they'd given the New Law before we traveled cross-continent, they would have saved our time.'

He snorted. Okay, he didn't know you were thinking that, but then he should've known you'd think little beyond work. 'Right. Well, we can only focus on what time we do have now.'

'True. But they also wasted resources,' you frowned.

Sebastian was about to politely ask you to suck up when it struck him - your definition of resources.

It wasn't money or weapons, all the Leaders were inherently filthy rich. You were talking about people as resources. As he tried, he found the thread of your trauma and pain laid under layers of weathered masks.

'That's always a tragedy,' Sebastian said soberly. He took your shoulder and squeezed making you almost jump out of your seat. You blinked yourself to a glare.

'That's right,' you said, brushing off his hand, not so subtly; Sebastian realized his mistake.

You left Sebastian to mull you over while you retrieved your bags.

You already knew the rooms and the ways to reach them, courtesy of the blueprints Sebastian lent to you. You would make good use of them since there weren't maids to tend to people exactly like they had done at your place.

You set your jaw before you could bring yourself to knock next to the nameplate. Sebastian's cheerful face peeked out and then his half-naked body greeted you as he let the door open. You tried not to gasp at the inappropriateness.

'Come on in,' said the towel-clad man.

You checked the hallway to see if you could drag someone else in. When you found no scapegoat, you opted to leave the door open when you took three measured steps inside.

'What's up?' he asked, in front of the mirror, drying his hair with a smaller towel. The rest of his body was still dewy after his apparent shower.

You averted your eyes to the full-length windows that oversaw the balconies. 'I-I-I didn't see any Offices on the blueprints.'

'Oh,' he threw his hair towel on the bed that was already cluttered with various objects. Your mind was already trying to decide how you would clean the place if the room were yours; the hand towel would go in a hamper for one.

'I'll take you in five,' he said, walking to the bathroom to hopefully dress up. 'Make yourself at home,' he said over his shoulder before shutting the door.

Your gaze swept over the room - it didn't make sense that a Governor would own this. You contemplated taking his words to heart and cleaning the area. Your dignity immediately vetoed the idea. You settled for closing the door and waiting outside.

'Have you ever seen a shirtless man?'

Your wide eyes met his curious ones. 'Excuse me?'

Sebastian shrugged. 'Beside me.'

Could you have him arrested too?

'I will not be answering that,' you huffed.

'You kinda just did,' he said.

'Do you have no manners?' you were exasperated.

His lips curled, 'Table? Sure I do. Social? Iffy.'

You rounded on him, squaring your stance. Your heels allowed you to reach a little above his chin, but he still had to look down at you.

He pressed his lips to not chortle.

'Listen, Mr Slay,' you said with the edge of a threat, 'I don't know how you operate with Mr Winchester, but you will treat me with the utmost respect from here on forth - is that clear?'

Sebastian wanted to add, "Or what?" but he decided that he'd played with you enough that day. If he was going to annoy you, he might as well let you grow a gradual immunity to him. Matter of fact, that was how he got Dean to like him.

'Yes, ma'am.'

It took him another minute before he could get you to the trailhead at the edge of the forest behind the castle.

'You go straight for five minutes and go left for another ten minutes. Yours is the one on the border.'

'You've made Offices in the jungle?' you asked, feeling horrified.

'Sets the tone,' he said casually. 'I'm going to go eat. If you see a monster, you've gone too far.'

You were too prideful to ask for better guidance, so you watched him jog away while you unslung your bow.

You didn't think you were lost, you knew the way back, you just didn't know the road forward. You'd been walking for twenty minutes and to no avail, there wasn't a single house in sight. You didn't reach the first person until ten more minutes of mindless excavating, it was around the time you'd been considering giving up and heading back anyway.

'Hey,' you said, trying not to be too expressive of your relief. 'Hi, I'm with the castle. Could you tell me where the Offices—?'

The woman in front of you curled back her lips in a growl-cum-hiss, her monster teeth descending over her make-believe ones, her eyes synthesizing into snake-like slits that were feral from going hungry for days.

You slid to your knees when she charged and you easily stabbed her with your arrow into her heart, the silver twisting with your wrist. You got out from under her to be jumped on by someone from behind. The forest floor smacked into your cheek and you grunted, but your hand had found your dagger and it was already inserted backward into her body, you twisted it to let the second, partnering Vetala crumble atop you. You crawled out from under her, dusting your dagger off from her caved-in chest cavity.

You sensed the presence before the hand encased your shoulder. You whipped about with your weapon raised, and it clanged against another sliver-iron blade before it could decapitate . . . Dean.

His eyes looked beyond you and on the two dead bodies. He seemed impressed; Vetalas were superior in strength, and agility, and had a great venomous bite - if you didn't act fast, you would never act at all. Besides silver, you learned that ravenous hunger was also a weakness for them, as it was for most monsters in this warring world.

'You're a good fighter,' he said.

'You don't have to sound so surprised,' you gritted, adding more weight to your evenly curved knife to prove your point. It didn't budge Dean's strength but he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

'Duck,' he calmly said. And you released all energy from your feet to fall even before you'd fully processed his words. You heard the shriek above your head as Dean used his silver sword to impale the newcomer. You were more focused on Dean's feet though, there was another set behind him, in an attacking stance, gaining on him.

Your legs swept out Dean's from under him. He lost his balance and fell backward right onto the monster, knocking the male to the ground. You used your momentum to somersault diagonally over Dean's frame, your faces aligning a foot apart for a second before you were straightening and plunging the dagger down so that the rousing Vetala would never wake again.

'Was that completely necessary?' Dean groused as he sat up.

'No; just as your surprise wasn't,' you said, feeling smug. Your expression fell when you heard more unseen hisses follow.

'How big can a Vetalas nest be?' you asked.

'With our economy and luck?' Dean scoffed; shouting: 'Run!'

He was on your tail, his sword flashing dangerously. You kept an arrow nocked in your bow even if you planned to use your daggers primarily - since if you shot a Vetala, they'd need the weapon twisted into their hearts to fully die anyway.

Dean was shouting instructions from behind you until you reached a rope ladder. You started climbing at a run. Dean forewent the rope and was clawing his way up the bark, somehow faster than you were.

By the time you reached the top, Dean was kneeling with his sword raised, his eyes trained under you. You scrambled to get your legs on the platform that was made over the branch of this tree. Dean's sword swished inches below you and got stuck into the Vetala's heart that had chased you up. Dean let it go with a twist and it fell atop its partner who screamed in grief and horror. You cut down the rope ladder so none of them tried to climb up again.

With delay, you noticed the railing; it was a watchtower that Dean had shooed you onto.

'Help me dismantle this thing,' Dean ordered, already striking blows on the screws that held your platform up with a pocketknife.

'We lost them!' you exclaimed in alarm.

'We compromised our position,' he said, nodding towards the trees beyond the enormous trunk of the one you were on. 'If we leave this place, they'll track us back to our treehouses.'

You couldn't argue with that logic no matter how much you'd've liked to. Even now, the Vetalas were clamoring under your position for a drop of blood and the flesh of your meat.

'I,' you swallowed with difficulty. 'I don't know how to swing away.'

'I know,' Dean said, untying a knot around the trunk. 'I remember.'

It took you a moment to stare at his profile to understand that that was the exact reason he'd left a rope ladder for you to climb up with; no one else from his side knew about your climbing problem yet. You pulled yourself to your feet and started working on the other ropes.

'How long were you watching me walk off the wrong path?' you asked, unable to keep disdain from your voice.

He shot you a "get-real" look. 'I wasn't. I saw you from my window, and then I saw the monster. I brought you here instead of the offices so we wouldn't lead them in.'

'How did you know it was a monster?' you demanded next.

He gave you a wan look. 'No human walks on the ground unless it's enchanted, Y/N.'

He said it so obviously that you felt like facepalming. If you see a monster, you've gone too far.

Monsters are usually kept away from human civilizations unless they've gone feral. Or unless you walked into their territory. You were so used to owning the lands that you didn't realize that all the humans would be on the trees here. If you'd run back, you would've easily exposed all the treehouses to the Vetalas, so Dean had given you a lucky break by saving you.

'Thanks,' you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up. Dean either didn't hear you or he ignored you; either way, you were grateful.

'Do you trust me?' he asked when all the ropes and screws were undone. He held up a hand for you to latch onto, his other hand grasping onto the single last rope that still kept you uplifted on the teetering platform. You had your own hands clutching the bark of the tree as if that would keep you from falling the thirty feet. Heights never made you nauseous until they resembled death.

Between death and Dean, you would gladly choose the latter; 'No. But I don't have a choice.'

His lips curved into an almost snarl, he shook his head. 'You're unbelievable,' he said, guiding your hand around his waist so that you were holding him from behind.

'Thanks,' you said pettily. You didn't see Dean's eyes roll.

'Hold tight,' he said, checking your grip.

You had to stifle your yelp of terror when he let go of the rope and the construction under you unravelled. But you were already flying. Dean's hands changed branches, and your eyes squished shut, holding onto him like a vice. Wind rippled your pony in short bursts and every rise and fall made your stomach swoop with fretful adrenaline.

'Alright, get off,' Dean tapped your hands, panting from exertion. You opened one of your eyes like a cartoon character and glanced around him to check that it was indeed safe to let go. You then pushed away from him like he was made of hot coals.

He turned with a sigh and a hand through his hair. He laid a critical eye on you while he caught his breath. He wouldn't be winded normally, but with the added weight, he'd felt the strain in his arms and the roughness on his palms.

'How do you not know how to climb trees?' he demanded.

You frowned, 'You didn't care before.'

'I didn't know you were a Leader then,' he pointed out.

Your lips curved further down. 'I'm a quick study, Mr—'

'That wasn't my question,' he cut you off, stubbornly waiting for the correct answer.

You exhaled sharply, your eyes veering over his shoulder. '. . . We didn't think it was important.'

'We?'

'My mom,' you sighed. 'In her defense, we didn't think I was going to ever be deployed.'

'You were next in line after Gordon,' he reasonably said. 'You were the most significant candidate. Even Seth knows how to climb trees.'

You crossed your arms. 'That's different. He's a Firstborn.'

'And you were first-in-line. It would be acceptable if you didn't know how to make ground-level construction, or even underground, for that matter. But you were an heir to Europe - you should know about treehouses!'

Ground-level houses were a feature of Asia and underground was a strong suit for America. Treehouses were a proud European quality. So on and so forth. While all the Firstborns were compulsorily made to learn all forms of living, the first-in-lines were given the education of the Continents which they may or may not rule one day.

Your parents just found that a waste of time and energy, especially on you. They were gamblers of sorts, risk-takers for a better word - and they took the risk of never educating you about treehouses, letting your skills instead be used on the battlefield just because there was a large chance you'd never leave America and instead serve as a hopefully valuable hunter to your brother for the rest of your life.

'I'll learn it,' you assured Dean with a taut jaw.

'That's not the point,' he said, exasperated with you. 'You almost got yourself killed.'

You winced at the accusation. 'I understand that I threatened the sanctity of the Offices. I'll refrain from entering until I learn—'

'You're not listening to me,' he said, an octave higher as if you weren't physically hearing. 'You almost died.'

'I know. That's bad rep, I get it.'

'No!' he threw his hands up in frustration. 'It's like talking to a wall,' he turned away, telling no one. Your fuse sparked as it often did around Dean.

'Excuse me?'

He met your steely gaze. 'Is anger the only way I can get you to speak human?'

'If you mean irrationally, then you're on the right path,' you said, your hand on your dagger that you barely resisted the urge to pull on him.

'Do you ever listen to yourself?' he got in your face despite noticing your hand on the offensive.

It was with a magnanimous effort that you kept your mouth shut. You felt like your head would explode with the veins throbbing in it.

He was your superior. No matter how much you hated it, that was the truth now. And you couldn't talk to a superior the way you would talk to everyone else . . . 

'Sorry,' you bit, lowering your eyes. It was a blow to your ego.

He took a literal step back in surprise. A wave of disturbance disrupted his fury. It was exactly what you should've said, but it was exactly what you wouldn't.

His brows creased. 'I'll . . . Let me drop you back at the compound.'

'As you wish, Mr Winchester,' you obliged.

He hid it from you, but his face fell. You had been his last interaction that didn't treat him like he was always right; you weren't supposed to treat him so formally, like he was so separate from you, so far removed. He felt like an alien again. His loneliness hit him square in the chest again, like the last person who could've understood him, failed.

It's your fault. Must be; he pushed you too far. He shouldn't expect anyone to get it, anyway.

No one needed you.

You were under the impression that the whole day, you would work with the people and then, at night you could practice on trees.

So far, Dean had left the palace for a high-profile case, in unspoken words, leaving the palace in your hands. But no one seemed to need you.

For example when there was a problem with the supplies; someone called Sebastian, even though you were standing right across the room. A supply run was organized and no one asked you on it.

All the major meetings were happening at the Offices. All of them were impromptu. By the time the news could reach you at the palace, they would already be done with it, and be gone on their separate ways for different cases.

Everyone kept going and coming back like waves of the ocean, chatting among themselves happily. Since your team's rooms were on a shared floor with some of the hunters, they'd been included in the hunts. But there was no place for another Leader.

You considered taking a case of your own, but as luck would have it, Dean banned you from cases without a treehouse skill. Something which you contemplated storming over to him about - but that would only make him angrier with you, you'd decided. He was your superior, and he could do what he wanted with you.

You tried to sway some of the crowd in your favor by going to a weekly bonfire. Not only did people refuse to talk to you properly, but they also talked behind your back, literally, and you heard several of them spreading ill-meaning rumors about you. You didn't bother showing up to make friends or save face again.

As a last resort, you dedicated all your hours at the camp to the safer side of the forest where children aging from five to fifteen would learn the skills to be hunters. Technically, they didn't have a category for you either, or any equipment to teach you. So, you picked a tall tree you liked, requested for nets from Salem, the instructor, and started learning on your own - experience was a better teacher than any human, anyways.

Benny's gifted gloves were stashed in the drawers of your room, so you were operating with the torn and abused training gloves from the basket they had at the entry of this little training center. They were abysmal: they stunk your hands and would occasionally slip on the rope—but you didn't want any reminders from the night Lay died.

You'd refused a harness from a concerned Salem and told her that a net shall suffice you. You would not be treated like a child.

If you wanted to be respected, you needed to earn it.

This was the line you would repeat every time you fell into the net with a force that would punch the air out of your lungs. The net was so hard that it also started leaving a small patchwork of bruises across your skin. It would have been good fodder for children to laugh at, had you gone in front of them - but you weren't leaving the training center without climbing a significant fucking portion of the tree.

'Lady L/N?' Salem called up to you. You were one-fourth of the way up on the tree.

'Yes?' you called back. Your body was hot and burning from the exercise that day. Your head was slightly faint from falling and from being forced to climb in a horizontal manner all day. Your fingers seemed to be developing ulcers. And the worst of all was the sweltering sweat that seemed to ooze from every available pore of your skin.

'We're closing!'

The students were sent home around seven but Salem tended to wait back until eleven. For the first time that evening, you looked up and saw the night sky.

You remembered having lunch at four, with the other children of the centre. You also remember how you took a plate, flustered with all the points and whispers in your direction, and ducked into Salem's cabin to have a quick quiet scarf down before you headed back to your training post - the tallest tree in their program.

You dared to look down now - it made your heart drop to your stomach when you actually saw the height difference. You swallowed, focusing on the mini Salem Rodriguez on the ground.

'Hand me the keys,' you said, like every day. You would be locking up.

She nodded. You tightened the hold of the rope around your right hand and prepared to let go with the other. She stepped back and made a motion to throw the object high into the air (at least seven feet, attributed to how tall the tree was).

A moment later, the keys came sailing across the air and you pushed off the bark on the swinging rope to catch it mid-air. You had to slide down a few paces and swing more to the right before you could reach it with a hand in the air.

You were so happy that you simply caught it that you forgot you were hurtling back towards the tree. Your right side slammed hard into the thick wood, your knuckles scraping harshly against it to make you lose your grip. And you fell.

Face-first, this time. The net hit your left side and you moaned in pain.

Salem wanted to rush forward like she did with all her other students - they would wear a harness and rarely fall on nets which hurt - but she knew how you would scold.

You took a minute before you shakily pulled yourself up, groaning. Some sweat got into your eye so you had to blink harder.

Salem gasped, 'You're bleeding!' She couldn't control her mother-hen instincts now; she walked, gracefully on one of the thin tightropes, balancing herself flawlessly.

You glanced down, but couldn't find a wound - then again, your eyes weren't focused. Your free aching hand reached your forehead brushed away the sweaty hair, but came away with blood. Your temperature was so warm from the exhausting day that you didn't feel a difference between the two.

Oh. A head wound, you frowned.

'I'm fine,' you protested as Salem crouched over you. She examined you despite it.

'It's not deep,' she breathed out. 'But you're bleeding a lot. I think I have a first-aid in the office.'

'Please,' you exclaimed. 'I don't need your help.'

She seemed to disagree. You silenced her by raising your hand.

'Shut the place,' you handed her the key back.

What a wasteful night, you thought. With much more effort and much less elegance, you walked out of the net.

You were brisk as you fled the center and practically ran across the safely marked trail back to the palace. You burst out of the trees and took the backdoor into the palace.

You were anxious to get to your room without any encounters - you didn't need anyone to know that you were injured even without going to any hunts. None of them would get hurt tree-climbing.

In your haste, you crashed into a large wall-like body. You cried out when it affected your right side this time. You stepped away holding your right hip.

When your eyes shifted from the chest your face bumped into, your eyes found the boisterous Sebastian.

'Sorry,' he laughed in amusement, but it died out soon. In the dark, it wasn't apparent, but when his eyes raked over your body, he stiffened.

'I wasn't looking,' you said, your own way of apology. You dropped your hands to the sides to not appear weak.

You made to rush past him when his hand caught yours. You hissed in pain when it tugged on your throbbing left side. He dropped it immediately.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'Nothing,' you emphasized. 'If you could please keep this to yourself . . . .'

He raised his hands in surrender.

'Should I send Selina to—?'

'No!' you half-yelled. 'I can take care of myself!' You almost ran after that. Away from these meaningless concerns, away from this annoying and senseless small talk.

The hot water beating your body felt so much better. The whole time, you were fighting tears of frustration. Fighting, and succeeding.

This was just a minor setback, right?

Of course. Even if you had your own palace, you would have to learn treehousing and tree-climbing at some point.

People would need me there, your irritation barked back.

You hadn't done a single productive work in two weeks since you arrived here. Nothing noteworthy except the tree lessons.

You tried to console yourself by considering how well you were doing with the hammocks - the first lesson in treehousing. If you could sleep in a hammock all night without falling - it would be a success.

That happened once a week, at the center. The one time you'd gone, you'd managed your four hours without meeting the net they'd set under the trees. Of course, the real challenge would be to sleep much longer in there, like all the children were supposed to - but you were an adult, sleep was foreign to you anyway.

After that one night, just to make yourself feel a bit better, and to practice, you'd been constructing a hammock in your bedroom every night and sleeping in it in spite of having a perfectly well-constructed, largest-sized bed they could find.

You ruffled for something comfortable in your walk-in closet. You wouldn't admit this to anyone - and no one needed to find it out either - but you liked sleeping in shorts and a loose top.

The only advantage of less workload right now was that you didn't fall asleep atop a pile of books or papers, and certainly not in your work clothes. Now, you actually had time to change and time to choose where you wanted to fall asleep.

You picked the satin shorts and the buttoned shirt that was two sizes too large on you - it was your brother's, and when it got too small on him, you stole it. It was old enough that the print had been stripped after multiple washes. It was the only piece you owned of his; it comforted you on dismaying nights as such.

You also treated your wound and downed a painkiller along with a granola bar from your nightstand to avoid acid reflux from the medicine.

You were trying to decide whether you would read a political book or a monster book in bed when there was a knock on the door.

You froze first, in surprise. Then, you were annoyed.

Sighing, you headed for the door and hid yourself behind it, only letting your face pop out.

It was Sebastian.

'Are you decent?' he asked.

'I'm in my night dress,' you gritted out.

'So decent,' he pushed your door in, forcing you to open it wide.

You huffed, 'How dare—?'

'I see you bandaged it,' he pointed to your head. 'Good.' He suddenly shone his pocket torch in your eyes, 'Doesn't seem like a concussion.'

You batted his hand away, 'Mr Slay—!'

'Did you eat?' he cut you off again. 'You must've taken an Ibuprofen.'

'What does that have to do with your invasion of my privacy?' your voice was razored, and your eyes were daggered.

'I'm hungry,' he said innocently.

It threw off your anger. Just like Dean, Sebastian was another person who dared to play with your anger. At least you could scold Sebastian for it.

'I'm very close to filing a complaint that will blotch your reputation darkly, Mr Slay,' you warned.

He pressed his lips. To you, it seemed in fear. But he was actually suppressing his smirk because he thought it was funny.

'Maybe I phrased it wrong,' he said. 'Would you like to have dinner?'

You blinked in bewilderment.

Of all the things, you did not expect a dinner invitation.

'The kitchens are closed,' you pointed out. 'The cooks have gone to bed.'

The last dinnertime was ten o'clock. It was eleven-thirty now. You usually missed dinners these days because you would stay out till midnight to practice. In the mornings you would be ravenous with your breakfast - going in during the first slot at six while most hunters couldn't be bothered to be drug off their beds until ten.

There, Esmeralda, the Head Chef, and the only person native to this palace you could somewhat tolerate besides Salem, would whip you up something special before you made your way to the center again as the first student around eight - again, most kids wouldn't show up until ten.

'Aw, I think you'll like our new cook,' he said, with a grin that made you suspicious.

You debated the consequences of your actions before your curiosity won you over in Sebastian's favor.

He only gave you enough time to put your fluffy slippers on before he was chatting your ear off all the way down. You barely heard a word because you were fuming at him for not letting you change, and throw some make-up on. He said the food would get cold and that that would hurt the chef's feelings—something you didn't want to risk.

Inside the large, cavernous space of the kitchen, a single station was making the sound of pots and pans. One half of the room was dedicated to five hundred stations for cooks to either help the Head Chef cook food or to help themselves - after all, the palace consisted of about a thousand people.

Not all the stations were always used, with one-third of them leaving for hunts almost daily. But it was very useful in the days of balls and such.

The other half of the room was long tables of the mess which was only full to its capacity in peak hours. Other times, it was groups of people scattered about, laughing and chattering at the only time of the day when none of them had to worry.

Now, the room was empty. Emptier than the mornings. You never came to kitchen except in the slots because you didn't know how to cook - so, you'd never seen it like this before.

There were about five or six groups of people sitting wide apart, having cooked for themselves. Their disheveled appearance indicated that they'd returned from hunts. You envied them for that.

Sebastian led you away from the mess and towards the only working station on the other end. As you drew closer, you wanted to run away that much farther because you recognized the face.

'Hey,' Sebastian greeted. You wanted to clap a hand over his mouth because you still hadn't decided whether you should run or not.

A point that ran moot when the "chef" spared a glance from his skillful work.

Was there something this man couldn't do?

Dean's eyes locked on yours, and he stilled for a second.

'Hey,' he said, suddenly wary. 'What's she doing here?' he didn't look away from you.

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you. His eyes danced down your figure and you became extremely conscious of your clothing choice.

To make matters worse, 'Cute shorts,' he smirked tiny.

Sebastian chuckled. 'You don't mind feeding another mouth, do you?'

Dean shrugged. 'So long as she tells me what happened there,' he gestured to his own forehead.

Another deep blush took root in your face. You were trying to remember a time more embarrassing than this. Both the boys were looking in your direction for an answer.

'I fell,' you said, your voice so low that the sizzle of the pan ate it.

'What?' Sebastian said.

You frowned scathingly. 'I fell during tree-climbing, okay?' you ground out, bracing yourself for depreciating laughter.

. . . None came.

'Too bad,' Sebastian said, leaning against a counter. 'So, we were on this pagen God case,' he started, and launched into a detailed narration of his recent-most case with Dean, with animated hand gestures and all.

It happened so fast that you needed a second to process it - he switched topics so quickly as if it didn't matter to him. How could this not matter to him - this was fuel against you - this made you non-perfect to be a Leader . . .

Dean only paid one ear to him, adding a comment or two to tell you the real version instead of Sebastain's exaggerated one.

You didn't know what to do with yourself. You weren't comfortable enough to lean against a counter, so you settled for standing stiffly still, with your hands by your side, as if in attention, about to start a march.

Dean added food to three plates when he was done and gave one to Sebastian, allowing him to take a breath. He gave you the other plate and walked away without a word.

'C'mon,' Sebastian enthusiastically said. 'And then,' he resumed, somehow still with some energy, 'Dean, the hero, saved the child by swinging over the inferno and grabbing the child by one hand. He threw the kid in the water and then swung back only to kick the monster in the chest and poof!' he made waves of fire with his free hand to indicate the incineration of the Feral.

'I'm not a hero,' Dean interjected, grabbing the first seat on the first table of the mess he first came across.

You didn't say a word. Once again, you were envious. Hunting sounded like such a blast and a good vent. It made you scowl harder at the food as you took your seat against Dean's.

Sebastian hovered for a second. 'Anyways, bye.'

Panic seized you, and you snapped your head up in alarm. Dean seemed to have the same reaction: 'Where are you going?'

'Oh, I promised I'd drink with the B2,' he winked. 'You know, Boa and Baz,' he explained when he saw the uncomprehending look on your face. 'Thanks for dinner, boss,' he saluted mischievously. And he walked away with his plate.

You never thought you would be upset with Sebastian leaving.

Now you were alone with Dean. He seemed just as upset as you. So he focused on his food, grumbling some curse words for his right-hand man.

You decided that if you shoved food in your mouth, it wouldn't have a place for your foot to go in.

First bite in, and you almost moaned. Your decorum held up, but you were flabbergasted by how delicious the meal proved to be. While you disliked the cook deeply, his culinary skills were extraordinary.

You tore off a few more bites of your scrumptious burger, wishing you could have good meals like this every day.

You loved Esmeralda, but she was an excellent European cook, and Dean's taste seemed to be more American. It reminded you of your homeland . . .

'Is it good?' his voice startled you for no reason. There was a thread of insecurity in his eye as if your response would matter.

You gulped your mouthful and nodded slowly. 'Yours is the second-most tasty burger I've ever had.'

He seemed equally offended, amused, and curious. 'Who's the first?'

You hesitated but he had so kindly cooked for you. Surely, you could repay in answers. Even if they were very personal.

'My father,' you admitted.

He looked surprised.

You offered a friendly smile, 'He cooked once for me. Well, if we're keeping count, he's cooked fourteen times for me.'

Dean tried hard to keep his poker face. If he knew that he could get you talking with food, he'd have done it a long time ago.

You seemed pensive. 'They were my rewards. For doing well in my training.' You mused then, 'Clearly a hard man to please.' You chuckled sadly then. 'I wonder what I did to get this,' you lifted your plate to show him with a self-criticizing smile as if that was supposed to be a joke.

His heart took a hit.

'I can cook for you as many times as you want,' he blurted out before he could think about it.

It confounded you. Your eyebrows raised, 'That's not necessary, Mr Winchester. I'm sure you have better things to do.'

Your walls had gone up again.

He couldn't stop himself, 'Can't you just take it when someone's being nice to you?'

'You don't have to do me a favor,' you repeated, getting more defensive.

He realized that the moment was lost. It made him sad and frustrated. And the most annoying part was that he seemed to care. For an inexplicable reason, he couldn't help but feel like he needed to care about you. And it was very vexing that you wouldn't let him - that you made it so hard for him.

'Fine,' he mumbled hotly.

With the atmosphere ruined, you both ate in silence.

He was getting up after he practically inhaled his food when another group passed by.

'Hey, D-dawg!' one of the men uttered.

'Hey, Sonny,' Dean grinned.

'Some of us are heading to the waterhole to kill some wraiths and have some dives. One day job. You in?'

'Hell yeah,' Dean said. 'Meet me out in twenty.'

They all approved in murmurs and exited lazily, laughing and cheering. Dean also felt excited, his previous tiredness disappearing.

His quota for the week was done, but he wouldn't say no to some extra adrenaline. Plus, it had been ages since he got time to swim at the nearby lake. It would be a good way to wind down after the Leviathan fiasco which was just calming across his continent.

It struck Dean that it would be a simple hunt. Despite his earlier anger, he turned to extend that invitation.

Only to find you had slipped away.

He saw you at one of the sinks, putting your plate in the dishwasher and then scuttling out of the kitchens without another look in his direction.

He sighed. If you wanted to be difficult about this, he couldn't help you. Slightly miffed, he cleared his own utensils and went to grab his hunting duffel.

You didn't see Dean for another month.

Mostly because you changed your schedule a little, allowing you to avoid the castle outside of the five hours where you needed to sleep for four and do the shower stuff for the other one. You were putting in extra hours at the training center because you were pissed about being benched on hunts. You'd even requested Esmerelda to store some food in the fridge for you at night which you could heat up in the mornings before anyone came to the kitchen - running a microwave was as far as your culinary genius went.

You were now proud to say that you could climb the trees - slowly, but without a freaking rope. You could construct a treehouse alone even if it took you a little more time than the natives to make and find the raw materials on your own. You could swing amazingly, lifting your own body weight gracefully; it was the best part so far.

Today was the first day at your Office after Salem had officially cleared you.

You adored your treehouse.

It had two windows for cross-breeze, and a desk with a chair that had excellent lumbar support. You had your own coffee maker. And even a little material to make your own hammock if you decide to sleep over. There was a short balcony with a railing that faced other treehouses in the area; you could see the Offices slowly filling with people who yelled platitudes to each other.

As the first one there, from four in the morning, you saw it all unfold in front of you, observing more than interacting. You also kept your door open as a sign of welcome . . . even though no one took you up on that.

Until noon, that is.

A lean, muscular figure trotted in.

'Hey! You're working!' Sebastian said as if cheering.

You shot him a dirty look.

'Hi, Lady Y/N,' Selina said, pleasantly, and much more formally. She subtly nudged Sebastian to behave.

As if Sebastian would ever change.

'Ms Doll,' you acknowledged, 'Mr Slay.'

'How have you been?' Selina asked softly.

'Good,' you smiled, meaning it for the first time. 'Did you climb up?'

She seemed to blush at that. 'Mr Slay was kind enough to offer a ride.'

'Ah,' you nodded. Selina or Sal or Lay hadn't needed to learn the tree-related stuff, and Boa and Baz knew how - they'd taken classes with Seth before joining your team. Most warriors knew how, yet as there had been a large possibility (according to your mother), that you would only be a wife to someone and not a Leader yourself, she had told you to learn it (when) if it was required.

You had stopped telling her that even if you were never a Leader, your chances of becoming a wife were slim to none. You had seen enough marriages to know how that shit ended.

'How can I help you two?'

'Well, I've been looking for you,' Sebastian said. 'Do you know we're hosting a fundraiser?'

That sent a jolt through you.

'Excuse me?'

'Tomorrow night, actually,' Selina gently said. 'You've been so busy at the center that we weren't sure you knew.'

So that was why you shouldn't avoid the people you don't like; it comes to bite you back in the ass.

'Well,' you paused, trying to swallow that pill. 'Thank you,' you said, mannered even if you felt like a deer caught in the flashlight of the hunter who would murder it.

'I don't think you feel good anymore,' Sebastian said. Selina nudged him again.

It nettled you enough to compose yourself. 'I will be there.'

'With whom?' he asked back.

Selina hurried to add, 'The theme is a masquerade. Everyone's with a date.'

'A theme?' You'd never had a theme before!

'Hunters like fun,' Sebastian shrugged. 'It was my idea,' he added, probably just to annoy you.

You scowled furiously at him.

Dressing was not the problem. The date thing was.

As if grasping for straws, 'What about Boa and Baz?' They were celibates. They'd sworn off dating and marriage and in general everything like that because of their magnanimous commitment to their Continents. It ran in their family.

'They're coming together,' Selina said. 'You can go with anyone platonic as well.'

'Would you like to go with me?' you asked, earnestly and relieved.

She turned tomato red. 'I, um, I—'

'She's going with me,' Sebastian said to her. 'As a date,' he had no qualms about declaring it.

Of freaking course.

It was all you could do to not let your face fall.

'I see.'

'I'm sorry,' she comforted.

'Please don't be,' you quickly stopped her. 'I'm happy for you,' you meant that, with like five percent of your heart. The other ninety-five was judging her choice.

She seemed to know your heart, but she gave you a tentative smile.

'Anyways,' Sebastian said. 'Dean hopes you'll show.'

You couldn't figure out if he was lying or not.

'We'll leave you to your first day. We hope it's good,' Selina said. You were grateful for her.

They turned to leave, Sebastian guiding your Chief Medic off to the grounds.

You sullenly twirled your dagger in your hands. You didn't want a date, but you didn't want to be the only person who showed up without one either.

Then again, you loathed the whole notion and concept of needing another person to do anything.

Oh, how Sebastian found new ways to torment you.

That same evening, you noticed the lights flicker on in the treehouse right in front of you. The closest one to you, and the farthest from everyone else's. In fact, even yours was a bit ways away from the others'.

People walked from one treehouse to another on ropes. There was a single rope to walk on, and two to hold at the midwaist level while you did. Only a few treehouses had planks to cross with. Most people swung away if they could. All child's play for natives here, of course.

You didn't know who the treehouse belonged to until a tall man walked out to light his lamp; you hadn't even known he'd been in there the whole day in the first place—he must be stealthy despite his large frame. You gazed at him, slightly distracted, impressed by his broad shoulders and bowlegs that went on for days, a lean waist, and a muscular build.

It wasn't until the soft glow of the fire that lit up his face that you realized you knew the man.

As if sensing your eyes, he looked up to catch your stare.

You couldn't look away fast enough. You pretended to get busy with the files on your table - you'd been given a stack from the treasury to distribute income amongst the hunters. You were on the eightieth file. The ones done neatly stacked by your feet. You would ask Boa to pick them up the next day.

When you sneaked a glance up, he had disappeared inside. You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding.

Don't be a coward, your mind yelled at you. You had to talk to Dean anyway to tell him you were ready for hunts.

Grabbing a fortifying breath, you marched across the tightrope - or well, you trembled on your feet like a toddler walking for the first time, with a death grip on the side ropes. You were very happy when you reached the solid ground of his balcony.

You knocked on his door rhythmically.

When it swung in, he paused, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

'Y/N,' he said, a shiver ran down your spine, seemingly affected by his deep baritone.

Maybe there's a nip in the air, you attributed it to the climate.

Anyhow, it should be annoying that he would call you by your name. Formalities are necessary in colleagues.

As if demonstrating, 'Mr Winchester. Hello.'

'Hi?' he asked, more than said.

'I would like to discuss my joining on the hunts.'

'With me?' he quirked a brow, stepping in.

'Yes,' you told his turned back. You wished he would talk face-to-face. 'Who else?'

Sebastian, Dean thought.

'Right,' he didn't put up a fight though. 'How good do you fight?' he asked, retaking a seat in his chair.

'Well,' you said. 'My record is a nest.'

Dean opened his mouth but changed his words last minute. 'Are you gonna come in?'

You were reluctant. 'You didn't invite me in,' but at least you stepped inside.

Dean sighed. This woman.

'I don't care, okay? You can walk in any time you want.'

'If that's what you want,' you folded your hands in front of you.

He hated that posture of yours. He moved on.

'How big a nest are we talking?' he asked.

'Thirty in vampires, or seven Wendigos,' you smirked. 'Give or take.'

Dean liked those numbers. 'A night?' he confirmed.

You shrugged, but he could feel the smugness radiating off of you. 'Solo,' you added.

He nodded, sold. 'Alright. You can start when we have a hunt for you in the foreseeable future,' he told you. 'Or you can join a group that's going.'

'Oh,' you said, shoulders drooping. 'I thought, uh, I could start after the fundraiser?'

'Look, you and I - we only get cases no one else can take. If it gets too much for me, I'll let you have one, okay?' Dean said. 'For now, I'm good, so maybe you can entertain the idea of joining others.'

That diminished your hopes further. Dean took extra cases with people because he finished his own with bonus time; he was that good.

As for the other people: after that bonfire, you knew you weren't welcome.

He was essentially saying that you would never be hunting.

Figures, your heart panged; they never have needed you - only because you can climb now, doesn't mean that they'll start needing you. They must have far better people who can replace you here.

'Thanks,' you said with a tightness.

You looked beautiful.

A crimson satin gown that hugged your figure exactly, it had a sweetheart neckline so it perched at the end of your shoulder blades delicately. It touched your skin till your knees, curving to your body curves and slanting smoothly towards the floor. After your knees, it flared out backward like a train and grazed the ground from there. It was frilled, giving the gown a passionate look. It had white gloves that came up to your elbows.

Your hair was done up in curls, a few left out, purposely messy, that framed your face like curtains. And the make-up made you look like a doll.

These people didn't fail to make you feel like one too—like you were breakable and replaceable.

Patriarchy, one; you, zero. These were the same Governors who had wanted your advice back at your castle - in your jurisdiction.

With Dean's strong presence, many conversations had turned to compliment you and never returned to what actually mattered.

What was even more degrading was that they started to woo you. It was different to bring it up during the Debutant Ball; it's a devious occasion where everyone can unofficially court you. But this is a fundraiser, and you are not up for fucking auction - if only someone could tell these horny, lonely bastards.

You flounced out to the balcony with your third drink in your hand. May Lay forgive you from the Heavens above - but you were getting slammed if this is how everyone was going to treat you for the rest of your Leadership.

Your hopes to be alone and have a pity party were squashed when you saw Dean on the balcony, doing what you were going to.

Before you could turn around and hide in another corner, he noticed you.

'Y/N, hey.'

You silently cursed the Universe.

Your smile was strained as you walked towards him.

'Mr Winchester,' you said.

'Having fun?' he asked, dully.

You were about to lie through your teeth when you noticed that his attention was already elsewhere. He was looking at the moon, eyes lost, and expression contorted with . . . grief.

'. . . Are you?'

He snorted, sipping from his flute. 'Yeah. I'm the life of the freaking party.'

He was; everyone wanted two cents of his time. You wished you could be in his lieu. What was his problem? He had everything.

'What's wrong?' you pried.

He took a deep breath. 'I can't stand it.'

'What?'

'The fanfare,' he frowned. 'Doesn't feel like much time has gone by since Jess—' he couldn't finish the thought, so he finished his drink.

Okay . . . you were wrong - he didn't have everything. You had to remind yourself that people cared about more than their work.

You had just the one response but saying "sorry" had gotten you nowhere last time.

'Handling grief is the only thing that practice can't perfect,' you said.

He gave you a strange look for that.

'You sound experienced.'

'Aren't we all?' you gave him the ghost of a smile.

'You're doing a really bad job of comforting me,' he claimed. 'If that's at all what you're doing.'

'It gets easier, if not perfect,' you shrugged.

'So give it time?' he scoffed. 'That's your big brilliant advice?'

'No,' you said. 'Forgive yourself, it'll get easier.'

'What does that mean?' he stood straighter.

'Everyone doesn't move on for a different reason,' you said. 'You have survivor's guilt.'

'You don't know anything about me,' his jaw clenched.

'You're a survivor,' you informed him, 'like me.'

A buzzer cut his answer short. He fished out a pager, already distracted from you.

'I need to go,' he murmured seriously.

He rushed away before you could ask him if you could help.

You hadn't even finished your drink when you sensed a presence behind your back.

'Everything okay?' you asked, turning, expecting Dean.

But it was the French Governor: Neel Simone. He was a hateful fellow who had taken an apparent fascination with making your life hell.

'Lovely night, yes, Lady?' he said or sneered.

'I've had my fill,' you said, gesturing to the gorgeous scenery from the balcony. 'I'll let you have yours.'

He blocked your side-step. You shot him a glance of caution.

'Cut the shy girl crap,' he definitely sneered this time.

Your brows shot up.

'This is all your fault,' he accused. He stumbled a few steps towards you which was when the stench hit you, making you cringe immediately.

'You're drunk.'

'Well, I was supposed to be the Leader,' he snarled. 'But then you come along! Older by a fucking month!' he spat at your feet.

A piece of information floated to you.

'You're a Secondborn.' One of his ancestors was once a Leader, you recalled. His older sister had passed away when she was young.

Complicated and stupid rules dictated that only a Firstborn man could replace your Leadership. You were a Temp only till that time when a Firstborn man turned mature. Even a Firstborn woman won't take your place because what was the point of replacing a woman with another when they could wait out for a man on the horizon?

Unless of course, any woman, Firstborn, or Secondborn, or just off the street - whoever she was, if she married a Firstborn man already in the ruling, then no one could replace her.

A Secondborn won't ever replace you now because it was too overwhelming to shift between Leaders, man or a woman. The only way another Secondborn would replace you was if you were fired, or if you died.

You grew wary as you got the feeling as to why Mr Simone was here.

'They send a wussy like you from America - this was my only chance!' he yelled drunkenly, advancing on you.

Your weapons are in your purse, sitting next to your date's, Esmeralda's, purse, along with the damn masquerade masks. (Yes, you asked your sweet, sassy, widowed cook to go with you platonically.)

He had over three inches on you. With your heels, you covered that difference and then some. His inhibitions were lowered which would make throwing him off the balcony easy if you placed a kick right.

But then, like an arrow it struck you, Not my jurisdiction.

'Walk away while you can, Mr Simone,' you requested, as sternly as you could. He may not be able to kill you, but people will believe him over you, no questions asked.

'You're threatening me!?' he grabbed you by the shoulders. His bad breath hit you full force and you tried to step back, but he had an ironclad hold on you. You were extremely uncomfortable with proximity to this man.

'A weakling like you - how dare you - how dare they!?'

You were surprised his cries weren't drawing out any people; the ballroom was adjacent to this balcony. Then again, the music and chatter were booming from the inside, and the translucent glass was vibrating in celebration the last you'd seen it.

'I'll show them I'm worthy,' he bared his teeth. 'I'll show them I belong instead of you! You can't even lift a fucking finger against me!'

To your shock, he didn't attack you the "traditional" way. You realized with a shudder of horror that he was talking about assaulting you as another way to prove his manliness. His lips zoomed towards yours like a smelly insect you'd never want in your mouth.

You did what any woman would to a freaking rodent - you smacked him - across his cheek, making his skin ripple there.

His hands on you loosened.

'You bitch!' came his cry; to you, it sounded afar. Your ears were buzzing with anger - all you felt was disgust.

You didn't let him come any closer after that. Your kick landed on his family jewels, and he let loose a shuddering screech, falling to his knees.

You grabbed him by his hair and dragged the man forward to the edge, raising him to his knees by his joke-worthy strands, twisting them painfully.

'This is why I'm the boss, bitch!'

'I'll have your job!' he gritted out.

You were afraid of that. You smashed his head on the cement railing, breaking his nose. You gritted your teeth when his blood stained your glove.

'Say that again,' you dared him. 'In fact, go ahead. Tell them you got beaten up by a girl,' you teased. 'The one you're supposedly good enough to replace.'

His bloodshot eyes watched you with hatred.

'Here's what you're going to do,' you said. 'You're going to go in and pretend this never happened. Make a weakling's excuse for your nose.'

'I'll file a complaint,' he said with a watery smile, trying to assert his dominance even when he was on his bony knees.

You snorted in amusement - men never learn, do they?

'Go ahead,' you encouraged again. 'Then, I'll have no qualms about killing you like your most tormenting nightmare. And I won't make it easy either - I'll haunt you to the ends of the earth until you are begging me to take your pathetic excuse of a life!'

His eyes widened in realization.

'You attack me, I attack you,' you explained to his alcohol-addled brain. 'Even-Steven. You have my job . . . Well, nothing's stopping me then, is it?'

Suddenly, he started laughing.

It made you nervous.

You heard a sound when you realized that the music had halted. There were whispers behind you.

A terrifying prickle on the back of your neck gave you a clue.

Your hand released his head. As if in slow motion, you whirled about.

Officials were staring in your direction with disapproval, all their lips set in frowns. Dean, in lead of them, had donned his mask back on, but he had a grim look in his eyes, his jaw clenched in an anger you'd never seen on him before. He must realize what a huge mistake he'd made vouching for you to Mr Singer and Mr Turner now - and he must loathe you for breaking his unsaid trust.

Your previous threat was null and void to Simone because you'd just been found on the scene of crime literally red-handed. Now, whatever way the man twisted the story, they would believe him - because what proof did you have?

Your stomach seemed to fall out of your body, in fact, it felt like you were free-falling yourself. Tears started to corral in your e/cs.

You were doomed.

Your hands came to hold you up, crossing in front of your chest. This time, you wouldn't stop yourself from crying, even if you would go do it alone.

Because you'd just cost yourself your career.

If only you'd run instead of . . . .

'Excuse me,' your voice wobbled.

For the first time in years, you were crying openly—without covering your face. Tears were streaming down steadily, and you could only pay so much attention to know where you were going. You were also vaguely aware of people parting to make way. You heard your name being called, but it chased you away faster.

You thought of going to your room, but your heart had other ideas. Your legs carried you away towards the forest.

To the training centre: The Treexcel School.

You saw the lights on at Salem's treehouse, so you ducked out of that path. Heading, instead, for your tree. You didn't know what you would do there - it wasn't like this contraption of a dress would allow you to climb anything.

But you found yourself curling up at the base of the tall grace of nature. Sitting on the ground felt nice - natural. None of that swaying in the air, holding on for your dear life.

You missed underground activities.

After tonight, I might get deported. There, problem solved.

Your parents won't even accept you back in America after the stunt you pulled and Europe won't want to see your face now . . .

It was as if a dam snapped in you. The weeks of suppressed toils and troubles came a-knocking, knocking your heart down. Loss and grief ravaged you - all that journey, all that wasted time and hopes, all those lives . . . And it's all on you.

Despite having lost people along the way, you couldn't help but fear your mother's looming disappointment the most still. It was as if someone was squeezing your breath out as if your lungs were articles of washed laundry someone was twisting.

You hid your cries in your knees when your legs came up to your chest - helping you keep yourself together because it felt like you were falling apart.

And you let it happen because it may be the last time you're allowed to feel it.

A/N: What an ass, that French dude 😑. Btw, how do you think Dean will react 👀?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

[shadowthescarecrow]

I made myself sad thinking that if the plan of destroying the planet worked Shadow would probably take off his rings and allow his own chaos energy to consume him into oblivion, my boy was so prepared to die he actively asked Sonic to finish him off, you can't convince me he hadn't already planned his own death...

[degeneracyismylegacy]

I hate that BPD and other cluster B mental illness are so "girl coded". Where are my BPD boys at ? My unstable dudes rep ? My guys with female rage, who have ED, who self harm ? Who have so little representation of their disorders and personnality that they are fans of fictionnal girls BPD coded wishing they could have the same characters being boys ? Who headcannon their favs as transmascs ?

I swear to god, I have all the love in the world for transmascs and trans men who struggle with cluster B disorders, who are unstable, addicted, suicidal, self harming, who have ED. Because we never are seen. The little representation that exists are girly girls most of the time. But you are in my thoughts. I see you.

[allowed-to-take-up-space]

Something I've been thinking about a lot is the way my father would critique and stereotype every single person he saw, yet still insist he wasn't judgmental.

We are in the car, my dad driving, me in the passenger seat. I am a child, maybe 11 years old. My father points at the girl standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. "Yikes. Good thing she's out walking. Looks like she needs it. Bet she's hoping she'll fit into the outfit she's wearing someday."

"Dad, that's not a nice thing to say about someone."

"It's fine. She can't hear me. I would never say something like that to someone's face. You know, MY dad was homophobic and racist, so at least I'm better than that."

Maybe that girl on the corner didn't hear my father. But I did. And I've never forgotten it. Or the time I finally admitted to him - after YEARS of being a suicidal teen - that I was extremely depressed, and he told me I was one of those kids making shit up for attention, because HE had been in a car crash at one point and experienced REAL depression.

And yet I always ponder, now, how I could possibly be so insecure. Why I cannot just accept myself and move forward. Why I look at myself in the mirror with disgust.

It's HIS voice that echoes in my head. It's HIS nasty remarks that I remember. It's HIS judgmental opinions that I have to rid from my brain, every single time they pop up, because I KNOW better.

Even though I haven't spoken to my dad in several years now, the way he treated myself and others invades my mind constantly. His negativity has shaped so much of me - of my LIFE - and last time we DID speak, he still refused to take any accountability for the multitude of ways in which he hurt me (this specific topic not even covering 1/10 of the ways in which he did).

Furthermore, this makes me think about all the people who utter "harmless comments" about others when they don't think someone who might be hurt by that is listening. I've been privy to many conversations that have left me feeling hollow, without the folks making those judgmental comments realizing that what they've said applies to me. And I don't often feel safe enough to stand up for myself.

I wish folks could realize that openly passing heinous judgment on strangers is a gateway to passing judgment on people you care about.

"I would never say something like that to someone's face."

You said it to mine.

[fightingalgth8rs]

Sneak Peek from my Detective AU (Yes I've started writing and no I still don't have a title).

trigger warning: mention of suicide and murder

The summer the Mapplethorpes were killed and my sister drove her car off the bridge was sultry and languid and I didn’t know what I was doing in Little River. It must have been a Friday because the smell of fish crackers that my neighbour fried every Friday, as if it were some sabbatical ritual, in the same old ‘reused’ oil could’ve woken this guy up. That is if he wasn’t dead as hell. He lay on the floor in his pyjamas with his brains scattered all over the rug and my gun in his hand.  

“We’ve cleared the premise, madam.”

It was six forty-five in the morning. I didn’t tell anyone that I was going to Three Mile Creek to kill myself.

I figured that was more information than people needed, plus it might interfere with my travel plans if anyone found out the truth.

“Forensics are sweeping the area madam. It’ll take about an hour.”

Six forty-seven. I should’ve been lying dead in a rain drenched ditch. Now there was a dead man in my apartment. What a day!

“Madam?” DC Wallace Wilson’s voice came cutting once again through the channel of my thoughts. An hour ago I was hoping I’d never have to hear from him again.

“Madam? I-”

“Yes I can hear you Wallace. Thank you.”

“You do understand madam that this can have strange consequences for you. I mean he was found in your apartment. And the gun. And th-”

“I said thank you Wallace,” I held my arm out, welcoming him to leave my presence as soon as he deemed fit.

“But don’t you think-”. His smirk was sickening.

“Honestly Wallace what do you have against me?”

He rubbed his greasy palms together. “I’m sorry you feel that way about me Sylvia. I only want what’s best for you.” He leaned over and I could smell his strong masculine body spray that unnerved every cell from my nose to my brain.

Something about this man unsettled me to the marrow of my bones. And it was strange because only my mother had ever been able to that to me.

“I’ll see you at the station.” I turned away and shut the paling wooden door behind me. The hallway loomed endlessly in front of me. The sounds from the gathering crowd outside prised their way through the plaster in the walls and crashed at the shores of my senses. Coupled with the silence of the corridor, the aching moan of the old building and the murmur of the forensic guys, the rustle of their plastic bags and latex gloves, made by breath hitch up in my throat.

Little River had found yet again to keep me at home.

🌞Meena. x

@reloha @do-angels-dream-of-starry-seas @dtmsrpfcringe @literatemisfit @helpits4am

@aq2003 @princeloww @davidtennantgenderenvy @suburbia-and-brentwood-market

[elementaskylos345]

Urik's Journal

A series of stone tablets that carry the weary words of one man isolated at the top of the Watcher's Spire, struggling to survive and struggling to keep his mind.

This is written specifically with a humanized au in mind, so don't freak out when things have bones

!!Trigger Warnings in tags!!

Higher beings these words are for you alone.

Not really, but it feels like only higher beings can survive this madness. For those that find this journal collection in the future I am Urik, assistant to Lurien the Watcher. So much has happened over the last few months and everything is so overwhelming right now. So. I've decided to begin journaling to gather my thoughts and keep myself sane.

So, day 1, I suppose. I'm trying to keep quiet so the husks outside don't claw at the door. Thankfully the stone of these tablets is soft enough to chisel and not make too much noise. I don't think I'm in any real danger but I hate that noise. Knowing they were once my friends and coworkers makes their shambling and mumbling and feral clawing utterly unbearable. I can't stand that I know it's them out there.

Despite everything the king has done, sacrificing so many, the infection remains. it was all in vain. I can only hope that this infection is not happening in other kingdoms.

•••

Day 2

With the telescope in this room I can watch the ground even from this great height… I hate it. I wish I could put an end to this. So many people die every day. I can't see fine details but I can see enough. I don't know if I can say I'm lucky, trapped at the peak of the tallest building in the city but at least I'm safe. I don't think I'll be watching the ground below.

On a vaguely related note I'm beginning to run low on food. Though this may only be the second day of the journal I have been stuck in Lurien's room for what I think is a few months now. I'm down to just a few bags of the rations that were handed out. Thankfully it's pretty nonperishable so I can stretch it out over a week or two I think but I need to figure something out quickly. Getting food last time nearly got me killed. I'm no fighter, I'm just a man.

•••

Day 4

I've skipped day 3 as nothing interesting occurred but I eat fresh meat today. I managed to lure a vengefly inside using some of the dried mushroom and managed to cage it. I still need to actually kill and prepare it but I still managed to catch something! Vengeflies don't fly this high up enough to make this method consistent but this is still progress.

I will need to venture outside of this room and possibly outside of the tower. If I keep my distance I might be able to get by without conflict but I don't count on it. The husks outside still seem to have some function of the mind left. They speak things on rare occasions, calling on Master Lurien or even myself.

•••

Day 5

By the king I miss seasoning. But I live another day and feel better than I have in weeks. Maybe it's in my bead but the fresh food feels good. However, I still need a consistent source of food. If I can get down to the bridge or just above I could set up a few traps there. I'd need to make traps and get past the guards but it seems a decent enough plan. I'll think of some back-up ideas but that one feels very plausible.

•••

Day 8

The plan did not work. I made a few traps that worked somewhat consistently in tests and caught one vengefly but when I made my journey down to the bridge I was attacked by one of Elite Guards. I lost the traps and now have a nasty gash across my back. I think I can treat this and prevent infection but this is bad. I'm sat against Lurien's resting podium. He cannot help me but his presence is comforting…

I dread what might happen in the coming days.

•••

Day 10

I am in a great deal of pain.

Day 11

I stepped out onto the balcony today. I intended to wash the wound on my back but I stood outside for a good while feeling the rain fall on me. I wept. My situation is bleak. I am alone, I have dwindling supplies, there is nothing but death, and there is no end in sight. I feel the infection swimming in the back of my mind, tempting me closer. I hate this. I hate it all. So much death and so much pain all from one angry and spiteful god. I can't help but ask why. Why us? What crime did we commit to warrant this violent reaction?

I think I'm going to sleep for a while. I'm so tired. I know it's risky to dream but I'm not sure what I live for at the moment.

•••

I've lost track of the days. The timer system in the tower broke down and I've not the skill to repair it. It has been at least 3. I am out of food. I've tried to trap a vengefly but with no luck. I'm not exactly sure what to do. I'm scared to leave the room. I'd pray to the Pale King but he won't answer. He can't help me. He's already failed his kingdom. What could he do to help me?

•••

I need to do something. The rainwater is plenty abundant and rich in minerals but it simply isn't enough. I could sneak into one of the floors below. I need to. I will bring one of the candle holders as a weapon. If I perish… oh well I suppose

A few hours later. I was unsuccessful but I did fend off a Lance Sentry and steal her weapon. It's not food but I guess I'm better prepared for a dangerous encounter? I'll try again soon. Maybe. I'm exhausted mentally so I might go hungry another day.

•••

I'm going out again. It is the next day I'm pretty sure. I'm going to get something.

I found some dried mushrooms near the Watcher Knights. It's not much but I'll take it. I'm beginning to regret hiding up in the tower and not attempting to flee while there were enough people between me and the husks to attempt to break past the walls. But I couldn't abandon Lurien. He may not need me now but I feel I have a moral obligation to remain at his side. I still need to hunt for food since I ate all I found. Hopefully I can lure in a vengefly or something.

••▪︎

Ask and you shall receive. Captured and cooked a vengefly. I feel energized so I might go down to try and retrieve the traps I dropped. In hindsight trying to set the traps up so far away was a poor decision. They might catch something but they're pointless if I can't reach them. It may not be the best source of food but I might set the traps up either by the telescope or balcony. I'll try the balcony. Hopefully the infection has made them less intelligent and they won't avoid this area after some time.

I have returned. One of them was destroyed and one was damaged. That leaves me one functioning trap. I think I can repair the trap but I'll do it later, I need to set the first one up

•••

Same day, different journal. Retrieved my broken traps and set up the one working trap. I have to admit writing and planning my survival has kept my mind busy. The infection whispers to me but I can mostly ignore it. The voice does grow louder and the light in my dreams brighter but I don't feel myself getting lost just yet. It's certainly inevitable that the infection will claim me but for now I survive. For who and for what sake I still can't say. Maybe I don't want to leave Master Lurien. He's all I have right now. I swore I'd watch over him… that's probably it. I live for him

I'm not sure if he's even aware in his eternal sleep but I will be here and I hope he knows that.

▪︎••

I've repaired the second trap and set it up. I've also scraped a bit of bone marrow out of the tiny bones of the vengefly and ate that. It tastes surprisingly good for being uncooked. The other bones have sat too long to be safe to eat but I'm taking note of this for the future.

Unrelated but I'm glad Lurien had so many stone tablets laying about. I was never a fan of the silk parchment. The humid air and wet conditions make keeping them maintained rather difficult, especially now. They may be easier to write on but they won't stand the test of time.

Back to my survival. The traps are set up and I can continue to scavenge. My wound is healing and I think I've grown used to the pain, it certainly makes getting around a bit easier. I can at least stand up straight again. I will go out and look for food and supplies after I sleep for a little bit. I have learned how to avoid the husks up here so they have become a non issue.

•▪︎•

A few scraps.

I shouldn't be surprised I'm struggling but I'm still frustrated. Food was tight before the infection got this bad so it's only logical food is tight now but this feels absurd. I know the other residents and guards had to eat and the places where the food was stored is behind danger. I'm just complaining. Of all the places to be trapped I feel like the city is probably the worst. Most of the food came from outside the city. But the king sealed the gates. He only trapped us all here. He sealed our fate.

I wish these fucking birds would just take the bait. I'm not eating nearly enough.

•▪︎▪︎

I apologize for my vulgarity in the last journal but I feel my frustration is justified. I've nibbled on one of the canvases just to lull the need to chew on something. It will not satiate my hunger and I think I just feel worse now but it felt good in the moment I think. I moved one of the traps to the telescope. Maybe them being farther apart will increase the chances I catch something - anything. I might need to do something drastic at this point

▪︎▪︎▪︎

Before I write on the subject of this journal I want to preface - I am ashamed of what I've done. I am desperate and in a situation most bleak but this does not make what I did any better.

I now have food for a few days. The way I acquired it is awful. His name was Elgor. He was in charge of overseeing the guards' scheduling in the spire. He was a kind but stern man before the infection claimed his mind. I often shared lunch with him when our schedules allowed it. I did not target his husk out of any hatred or any reason other than desperation.

I used the lance I acquired from the Sentry I fought a while ago and attacked him. He slapped me around with a surprising amount of strength but I ended the encounter as quickly as I could. I never thought I'd ever need to butcher a man let alone eat one. I had to cover his face with rags to not look at him while I did it. I question now if being a mindless husk would be better than this. At least the husks seem to be protecting each other.

▪︎▪▪︎

I am still reeling from what I've done. I hope to write a full biography for Elgor from this. I feel dirty. I feel as though I've defiled his corpse. I've noticed the husks up here seem more anxious in his absence which makes me feel worse. I'm questioning if I should've just starved. I've apologized to Elgor countless times and I can only hope some part of him somewhere knows I did not want to do this and that I regret it.

Despite my feelings I can't bring myself to ditch his body. I killed him to eat and at this point I should go through with it. I've already started. I'll give him as proper a burial as I can when I can.

•▪︎•

It has been several days. Elgor has sustained me and I've dedicated the energy he gave me to preserving his memory as best as I can. I've wrapped his body in cloth and hope I can bring him to ground level soon. I think I've made peace with what I've done, I'm not quite sure. I'm not sure I feel a whole lot right now.

I have caught one vengefly and have decided to wait until I kill and eat it. I have far more energy now so I can begin my search for a stable food source once again as I am NOT doing what I did to Elgor to someone else. I refuse to. I can't.

••▪︎

After a few more days I've finally made progress. I've gathered a few days worth of rations from one of the guards’ rest areas. This isn't anything sustainable but I'm so, so happy about this. I thank Elgor for giving me the energy I needed to get to this point. I'm also getting better at avoiding the husks.

Though the light is getting brighter, it's getting louder. She calls me by name. I'd almost forgotten my own name. I'm torn between hoping for my continued survival or giving Elgor the burial he needs. There's no way I'm getting to the resting grounds but perhaps I can send him off into one of the rivers that flow through the city. I doubt it would be the burial he'd want but I don't have much to offer.

•¤▪︎

The infection rings in my mind. I'm thinking about it more and more. So I risked it and took Elgor to the ground. It had been so long since I was on solid ground. I found a somewhat secluded area And watched his body disappear below the surface of the water. I stayed there for a while and wept for him. I feel terrible. Just a few days before the infection becomes a bigger issue I cannibalize what was left of him. The husks do not speak anymore, the only word I've heard is “attack” from the Flying Sentries, but this doesn't make things better.

I'm going to spend time with Lurien. I really need it right now.

¤•▪︎

My mind feels not my own. I fight to regain myself. All in vain. All in vain. The king failed. The king failed us all. He killed us all. I just want to go back to the way things were. I wish I could see my friends’ eyes full of life, I wish I could speak with Lurien again, I wish I could be happy again, I wish the light never descended upon this land. I miss the peace, I miss my friends, I miss my life. I'd give anything to go back to that.

פ¤

Lost all of them. Lost all. Lost. Master's given life for naught. Not worth. The cost too great cost too great. Lost all kingdom life light. None left left to grieve. Non left to give. How much more must we suffer?

¤¤¤

Master, light calls.

•°×

I'm not sure how but I still remain. This journal comes many days after the last. Maybe even weeks. Time eludes me. Reading over my last three journals and am astonished the infection didn't take me.

It is very hazy but I sat by Master Lurien and I think I was trying to fight it off. Perhaps I was thinking of what remains and how empty the future feels because I remember giving up. I so clearly remember it because that's when the infection backed off. It still rings like windchimes In my mind but it's less overbearing. I don't understand. Why am I still alive? I've never seen anyone get so close to the edge but pull themselves away.

Even as I write I don't fight it. I don't have anything to fight for. I'll update my journal series if I'm still aware and I deem it necessary I suppose.

×▪︎°

I ponder if being infected would be better than this. There is nothing for me here. There is nothing for anyone. This place is no better than the wasteland outside of the kingdom borders. At least with being a mindless husk I would not need to feel this pain. it's not even the physical pain it's the mental anguish. I cannot put into words the despair I feel

It's indescribable

I want revenge but seek revenge on a king that abandoned us. I want things to change but they will never change. I want to be happy but this hellish place will not allow that. Master Lurien, I'm sorry, but I don't know how much more I can endure. How much more I can despair. How much more I can hate. I crave a death deeper than that of the body - I don't want there to be an afterlife. The gods of this world are unbearable and I want naught for them to hold my soul. Let me fade. Let me become nothing.

*▪︎+

It has been a very long time since I've written in this specific series. My words are written elsewhere. I am in a much more stable position and state of mind. Still not a mindless husk. I acquired some edible fungus from the edge of the city and have started a small farm. I recently relocated the traps to a lower floor as I'm far more adept at navigating the spire and its dangers. I've also made more of them.

I've picked up many hobbies to keep myself occupied - painting, carving, crafting, singing. I've also explored some of the city. Most of what I've seen has been completely destroyed. I don't explore often. Not much to see unless I want to depress myself. I've fallen into a consistent routine and found a reason to continue living.

I swore myself to Master lurien. I'd be forever at his side. I think I've mentioned this in previous journals but I've decided my days will be spent preserving him and what he did for this fallen kingdom. The bastard king may have failed us and sacrificed so many, including Lurien, for nothing but Lurien was loyal to the end. He sacrificed his life for that fool. So I'll make sure his name, who he is, and what he did is not forgotten. I hope Herrah and Monomon have someone who would do the same for them as well.

×*●

Much time has passed and I once again return to my journal. I feel I need to on occasion to remember who I am and who I was before the infection became an issue. I had forgotten my name. Urik. It feels so foreign. Disconnected. I had to dig around for my first journal just to find it. This series of tablets has been discarded to a corner almost entirely. Perhaps I need to focus on myself some to reconnect with who I am.

But perhaps not. I don't think I'm that important anymore. I will live here, preserve here, and die here. Simple as that and I am at peace with and find comfort in that. There's nothing else for me so why concern myself with things that won't matter in the long run. For all I know I will be nothing more than a corpse in a month's time. It changes nothing. I've written all I can about Lurien. This will likely be the final entry in this series since I am not what matters here in this spire. What matters is my master.

@●¤

My past self is a damned fool for not realizing just how much time “the rest of my days” could be. The time gaps between these entries keeps getting longer and longer. I'm certain the time frame between the last two was almost a whole year. No clue how long it's been since I last wrote since it feels like eternity. I can only write, watch, and read and paint the same damn things over and over and over and over again until I need something new.

The infection has become something of a friend to me, one of the few constants of my life. It tells me things and I acknowledge them. Its influence over me fluctuates. Some time I am in a daze and some time I am barely affected by it. But despite everything it's done I can't see my life without it anymore. I'm definitely just lonely and borderline mad but I've nothing else to share to the no one that will read this, so.

@#■

Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above. Years alone. Years above.

●¤°

What the hell was I on last entry? I don't remember writing that and just stumbled upon it in Lurien's Journal room. Maybe I was having some kind of infected bout or something. Oh well I guess

#■•

I have not experienced fear this intense in an eternity. Someone entered the spire. Someone bested the Knights below. Someone sought to hurt HURT Lurien. I managed to convince them otherwise sending them off to a strange sight I found below the city. I've locked down spire from the Knights room to up here. If that THING BASTARD comes back they aren't getting to him. To one will hurt Lurien. The seals must remain. They cannot be broken. They will not break. Never break.

@◇>

The ground shook with a might I have not felt in forever. A deep bellowing roar from the waterways. At least we're safe up here. Never breaking seals. Lurien is safe. Forever safe. The light is gone and my mind is empty. It's quiet. Quiet. Too quiet. I hate this. Why is it gone? Gone from me? I can't stand the silence. Empty empty silence. Loud and far too quiet. I need to fill the void. I can start in darkness but I need the background noise I can't stand it can't stand it can't stand it CANT STAND IT

The anger has returned. DAMNED KING

He killed us all, trapped us all, doomed us all. Nothing left for us because of him. No more life no more light. No more. Nothing but empty. Empty. I can't understand why Lurien was so loyal to a fool. A fool that used him. Doomed him. Killed him. I suffer in silence. Silent. My mind is empty, my will is shaken, and my voice is meek. But I remain. Remain at Lurien's side. Never leave. Never forget. Never abandon.

[gayregina]

Put the demons to sleep

A fanfic by gayregina

So hi. This is the story of Armand from his early life made into an one-shot switching povs from Armand to a outside narrator(you understand I don’t condone certain actions but present them through Armand’s clouded judgment). It’s based mostly on the books but I had Assad in my mind the whole time so you understand the geographical differences. That being said, be aware of all trigger warnings that come with Armand’s tragic background. English isn’t my first language so I am sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes. Enjoy:)

-

This story is a lullaby hauntingly hovering above the dark skies of Venice. The tale of a small boy so angelic, they say he was a dream. His bronze skin glimmering under the sunlight, inviting all to gaze upon him. His black curls so beautifully framing his soft features, shielding his neck and ears. The deep brown eyes were like pools of honey; alluring and once you stared into them you were deliciously trapped within the sweetness. Sometimes they resembled a crystal clear mirror, other times they were your largest secrets whispering back to you, unraveling your very being in quite a humbling way.

With the charm of a little girl, he got his way around the city. His master was never seen beside him watching the crafting of the ships. Never became witness to the easy smile his lips would settle on. The curious and unbothered demeanour that early teenage years required. In those moments, he was allowed to be a free and careless boy named Arun. Always full of dreaming. Instead, Amadeo had a place in his master’s bed, victim to the twisted love he learnt to be grateful for.

Arun had been a slave and Amadeo was bought to worship. His inexperienced hands trembling on the rough unfamiliar skin. His face plastered on walls and ceilings and canvasses, his master’s depiction of the boy being one of angelic beauty. Always being praised for it, always being craved because of it. His body captured begging for affection at the feet of the elder and now forever displayed for the strange to see.

Amadeo would grow up eventually, his maker whined, no longer a cherub but a young man. He would rid himself of his naivety and leave the venician home behind. Disregarding the ticket that granted him a spot in the arms of his master, his beauty lost to time. So Amadeo bargained with his master, bargained with the devil. His life was given away and Amadeo was no longer. Lover of God he could never be again.

Now only Armand remained and he resembled the boy only on the outside. But even his eyes were no longer welcoming. Instead, they seemed like little fires burning far away inside his head, rearranging it or perhaps freezing it to preserve it from the damage of death. He didn’t recognize a home anymore, if he ever had. His mind now forever closed off to his maker, their bond forever changed. He could only drag his perpetual body through the mist of the unknown and hope he wouldn’t drown.

Endless nights followed, accompanied by powers rooted so deep within him yet so unfamiliar, they frightened him. A twisted thing he became, hiding away in the darkness of Rome’s underworld. The only need of his that was met was the blood and only that sufficed. Now the luxuries of his past life rung so far away in the distance like they were once a mere figment of his imagination. No sunset he ever saw again, its rays no longer hugging his body but harming it. Only enduring he knew those days, hard and filthy. Forever cursed he felt in the body which had once been the very reason he was spared. No person was enough to pull him out anymore, not if he wasn’t willing to give up the control, to give into the light.

Arun was once heard laughing through the maze of tea plants nearby his family’s home. Amadeo could be heard moaning through the hard walls of his master’s bedroom. But no one would hear Armand screaming if he threw himself into the flames that were calling to him to join the children of darkness that perished before him. A pile of ashes his maker would find in the morning and a single strand of hair abandoned further off. A souvenir from enduring, he would think. A reminder of the innocent, if you will. Would he be missed? Would his maker grieve the loss of his child? What place would await him after? Would he get a glimpse of the pearly gates or was he always meant to suffer in a prison?

A child, a juvenile and a monster he had been. A lover, a whore and a hunter he had played. Who was he if not a role he had been given? Who was he outside of people’s shallow perceptions of him?

The boy was never seen again. They say he surrendered to the illness, his body now traveling in the water of the Mediterranean, cold and stoic. His face a mirror of pain and his eyes closed off in shame. None would witness them again, no one would be drawn by their spell. His loose curls floating around his face, almost creating a soft pillow for his eternal sleep. His numb hands crossed over his abandonment, the life slipping through their fingers agonizingly. His pale skin sickened his form and sucked the charm out of it. A single tear of regret rolling down his cheek, alone and bitter. No rest for Arun, no salvation for Amadeo. No place for Armand in the new world. And so he became a legend and a mystery, his essence always lingering around the paths he had chosen and the sheets he had been offered.

Only a madman had once sworn demons were near, the eyes of a beast he vowed he had seen. Amber like the morning sun, he had said, tempting him to taste the fire. The young boys of the town listened breathlessly and stricken by the story, they whispered it around the neighborhoods. The devil is here, they had said, because the tale of something horrific is the kind they always sought out. But the men, mature and thoughtful, knew who it had been, the ghost of his short lived existence back again to haunt the dark streets of Venice. Amadeo, they hummed as they walked, the familiar lullaby still fresh in their minds. They prayed the spirit wasn’t angry at them, they prayed for his soul to cease its search and find its place.

Arun’s laughter could still be heard around the decks, Amadeo’s body still lost in the abyss. And Armand, known to none, a faceless boy masquerading as a gentleman was hiding around the corners, humming along the rhythm of his life story, a stranger now to its twists and details. He stood, waiting. Forever waiting.

-

I would love to hear your thoughts!

[saebaragi]

wrost therapy session ever. i should kill myself to prove a point real quick.

[thethingything]

I just realised that since my fursona is an insect and those have to be filtered on Art Fight, I can't actually put him on our team card if I want to then put the card on our profile which like, I get it, but it is kinda frustrating.

it's also frustrating that for the set of phobias that need to be filtered, you can't specify which one you're filtering for and it all just gets put under "sensitive content" which isn't really helpful because like, there is stuff in that category that I want a warning for (like needles) but also stuff in that category that I'm totally fine with (like insects) and there's no way to tell which one it'll actually be without just clicking the image. it's not super helpful as an actual warning because I have no idea what it's warning for

[lil-playful-pup]

new years resolution

die or have a good time trying

[lotus-ignis]

I don’t want to be. I don’t want to live. I don’t want to die.

I just don’t want to be.

I don’t want to die in a suicidal way. I want to die in a stopping way. I don’t want to die because death seems better, I want to die because life seems worse.

Every day there’s something new, everyday there’s someone new.

Every day people live, every day people die. Would it be so bad if I became one of them? My parents are stressed; I am stressed; everyone’s stressed.

I don’t want to partake in life; I don’t want to be bothered; I don’t want to be alone.

I don’t want to do anything; I don’t want any help.

I am my own person; I am dependant on everyone.

I hate everybody; I have never loved more.

I feel like I’m in the wrong spot; I don’t want to leave.

There is more to life; this is life.

I want to see the world; I don’t want to leave my room.

I love my mother; I have never hated anyone more than her.

She is a wonderful mother; She is a terrible mother.

The sky is endless and the ocean is endless and life is endless and everything is finite.

I want to eat till I’m fit to burst; I don’t want to eat a morsel.

I feel so very loved; If I died nobody would care.

I’m underestimating myself and my ability; I am nothing.

I am being dramatic; I am being me.

I am calm; I am filled to the very brim with anger.

I want to carry and warm the world; I want to tear it to shreds.

I love myself more than anyone else; I absolutely despise myself.

I want my mother to have the best life that there is; Sometimes I think I wouldn’t care if she’d die.

I want to be on my own; I’m scared of being alone.

I am completely normal; I am weird.

I want to be in a city, constantly surrounded by people; I want to be in the woods constantly alone.

Don’t talk to me; Don’t ignore me.

I want to keep going; I want it all to stop.

I am filled with motivation for change; I have never felt more drained.

I want to cry; I can’t cry.

I want to be vulnerable; I can’t show weakness.

I want to express myself; If I tell them they’ll laugh.

My parents love me; My parents think I’m a laughing stock.

I want to make people laugh; I don’t want to be laughed at.

I don’t want to be mocked.

I don’t want to be belittled.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to life.

I don’t want to sleep.

I don’t want to be awake.

I don’t want to eat.

I don’t want to starve.

I don’t want to love.

I don’t want to hate.

I don’t want to be.

Who cares what I want?

[bittersweetblasphemy]

.

this might be kinda out of the blue but

with everything going on, and the fact that this is coming at me immediately after my mother telling me what a failure and a disappointment i am for my birthday

at least i'm fucking alive. yeah things suck, but at least i have that. if i had listened to my family, maybe id have a degree that i took out of pressure. maybe id have flunked out from my unmedicated adhd that they knew i had but didn't tell me about. maybe i'd have gotten a somewhat reliable job because of whatever degree i got. if i got that far.

but it wouldn't have lasted. between the pain im in from the disability they dont believe i have, the toxic environment, current events. i have no doubt i wouldn't be here.

the simple reality is that, despite every mistake ive made, or plans that didn't pan out due to events outside of my control, im still here. and im still glad to be here. i havent thought about offing myself once since i moved out from under their roof.

idk i just had a minute to myself in the middle of everything and tried to think for a minute what my life would be like if i'd listened to them. and no matter what way i looked at it, i know that there just wouldnt have been a life anymore.

i know that comes off as really dark, but it makes me feel really grateful for what i have right now, and it makes me want to fight that much harder for it.