#am i entering my insomnia era?

[permanentreverie]

it is 2 am and i have africa by shakira stuck in my head

[mxdarling]

[“You’re so pretty when you smile.”]

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅• •❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

ೃ⁀➷: summary: some students couldn't accept you enter this college with no magic, luckily deuce is there to your rescue!

ೃ⁀➷: Word count: 884

ೃ⁀➷: Reference/Inspiration: N/A

ೃ⁀➷: Event: [200 followers event]

[note:] If there is anything else triggering here that I didn’t list in the warnings section, please tell me. I don’t condone this type of behavior, this is merely just for entertaining purposes and some sort of coping mechanism for me. If you continue to read beyond this point, ignoring my warnings, I am not responsible for your actions from here on out.

[Warnings:] bad oneshot, lowercase, maybe occ deuce, slight spoilers for prologue, yandere behavior, implied insomnia, violence, mentions of blood, bullying, mentions of deuce's delinquent era, overprotective behavior, implied burnt out, slightly naive reader, people pleaser/'yes' man reader, not-so-strong reader.

[GN reader.]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ :Deuce spade;

it wasn't easy being a magicless student in a magic revolved college, hell it wasn't easy being in a unknown world! you're practicably a stranger here in twisted wonderland. luckily for you, your (best) friend, DEUCE SPADE is there to back you up. sure your first meeting of each other wasn't exactly the best. considering you've only met each other due to ace being a coward and running away from his supposed punishment but you aren't ungrateful for it. that said interaction lead to you guys being the bestest of friends. you wouldn't have it any other way really.

today hasn't been that great for you. first, you woke up slightly later than usual, insisting to snooze in just for 5 minutes, turned into 10 minutes, turned into rushing out your dorm and just spriting to the school grounds. barely even made it to class, you probably looked like a mess when entering the classroom but you were simply too tired to care. dragging your tired self to your assigned seat, placing your head on the table, putting a random book in front of you. hoping your professor wouldn't be notice you sleeping in class. not that it matters anyways you couldn't sleep. the words of your professor went from one ear to the other. wait, did he say there's gonna be a quiz next week? oh god... you're gonna fail his class for sure..

the rest of today felt like a blur, you couldn't remember much of what happened. honestly it just felt like a repeat of yesterday and the day before yesterday. it was just another uneventful week day. was. you don't think you could call it uneventful after that.

you can't really recall how these incidents follow up to the situation you're in. some students in night raven college were still, precisely speaking, 'pissy' about your whole arrival to school. you know you can't help what other people think about, its something out of your control, you know that. yet you can't help but try to change their views on you. most of your efforts end in failure, sadly. but you refuse to give up, not yet at least!

the whole reason why you try to help anyone who needs it. sometimes borderlining doing everything to help this said person. it's unhealthy, your friends have told you countless of times, but bad habits die hard and you're still adjusting to this new world. surely nothing too bad would happened because of this, right....?

apparently, that was very much wrong. you curse your impulsivity for saying 'yes' with little hesitation in wanting to help your classmate with their homework. they asked you so nicely too, unlike some other students who just demand you to do it for them. you were a fool, truly. you didn't think it was a trap to get your alone and cornered at a place where no one really checks very often. you're backed against a wall with no other exists except the one that is being blocked by your classmate.

you stood no chance against them, it was clear as day. you weren't exactly physically strong nor do you have any experience of being a fight before. you shakingly put your arms in front of your face, closing your eyes and bracing yourself for heavy impact yet nothing came. in fact something touched your cheek instead. you slowly put down your arms and open your eyes to a scene you wish you didn't seen.

the classmate of yours all bloody up on the ground, you can even tell it's them anymore. then there's deuce, his right fist all bloody up, you would've assume he got injured haven't it been for your injured classmate on the ground. since when did he get here..? and how did he know you were here in the first place!? you were about to speak up but deuce beat you to it.

'prefect..? a-are you okay?? they didn't hurt you right!?'

he rushed to you with a concern look on his face. despite the violent responses he gave to your classmate, he was very gentle with you. poorly attempting to wipe off the blood from his hand on his uniform to avoid putting blood on you. he puts both his hands on your shoulders, looking you up and down to check if you had any injuries. not that you would have considering he had beaten the person before they took action but you can never be too careful, i guess. he, again, broke the silence once more to speak.

'w-why are you crying, prefect..? d-did something happened while i wasn't here..?'

you didn't even noticed tears were falling down, you tried to wipe them away but they just kept coming back. you knew deuce wouldn't hurt you, you were his friend since the start of first year. yet you can't help but let fear overtake you. you gently try to push him away from you but he wouldn't budge. instead he cupped your cheeks with both of his hands, wiping the tears that are falling down as a way to try and comfort you when really you don't want that comfort from him.

"i really can’t take it when you cry like that… smile for me, alright? you’re so pretty when you smile.."

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅• •❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

[a/n; how do people write oneshots so good, i'm out here crying my eyes out on how do i make this look good😭😭. rushed ending? yes and i deeply apologize for it. my brain juice is definitely gonna run out istg. enough about me complaining, thank you anon for requesting deuce with #7 for the 200 followers event! it's been a while since i've written deuce before so this is kind of a refresher for me lol. sorry again this took awhile exams were taking place and i get real tired after answering them. good thing summer break is coming so more free time for me to write your guy's requests!]

[hawkeyefrommash]

for the ask game, all the questions ending in 4 :D

oh that is Several questions lmao ok

4. whats a rare fear that you have?

i am absolutely terrified. of zombies. idk why but i have literally had panic attacks about it and they aren't even real

14. what’s something surprising about you?

tumblr already knows this but my competitive fighter era shocks people bc i'm mid/plus size now. also i've had a lot of people react in shock to finding out i'm 27

24. have you ever walked into something you shouldn't have?

i have had 'entered the wrong room' and 'walked into an awkward situation' stuff but idk about anything i SHOULDN'T have walked in on

34. how many people have you dated?

"been official" with? one. been on dates with? literally couldn't tell you i have no clue

44. do you believe in life after death?

nope

54. whats your best hottake?

i think that more adults need to read/consume content for adults

64. how do you respond to compliments?

kinda depends what the compliment is? usually just a thanks but if it's about clothing i'll say where i got it, or if it's about my hair (the most common one) i'll say something about that especially if they also have curls

74. how do you sleep?

badly. i have insomnia. but i've recently switched from a Lot of melatonin to magnesium with a little melatonin and it's nice?

84. do you enjoy fast food?

i do . perhaps too much

94. do you like dinosaurs?

i never had a dino phase but i love a natural history museum

[dbphantom]

for the fic thing, numbers 4, 20, 33

Ah thank you!!

The fic writer questions post

I'm sorry in advance, this got really long, so I had to switch to desktop halfway through to format it so it wasn't just a big block of text 😅 Like... I'm sorry. Genuinely, I am really sorry.

4. What detail in [insert fic] are you really proud of?

I'm going to do Alkali [ffxv H2O AU] because it's the one I'm currently knee-deep in. I hope that's alright! Truth be told I'm proud of a ton of tiny details in that fic, but my favorite is the change in what fire represents as the fic goes on to parallel Ignis's feelings about himself and the others. It's one of my favorite little descriptions to 'hide' throughout while I'm writing because there's just so much you can do with it.

Fire is dangerous, but it can also represent safety and home. Also it looks beautiful and provides comfort, but if you get too close it will burn you. Something something masquerading as light and leaving only blackened ash something something. Lux Et Umbrae or whatever. Generic stuff. You know. It's enrichment for me though, so I have fun with it.

I think the point where his view on it begins to pivot for the better is after the diner scene with the TV when him and Noct have a chat at camp that night, because Noct is the light of my fucking life surprisingly good at saying awkwardly nice things. Like, okay, he's actually awful at it, but the sentiment is there. Also fire is actually really important in the backstory fic [hang on, I'm getting ahead of myself-] and there's a similar evolution in its meaning for Celor [Ignis's uncle] as well, though his development with it is a bit more straightforward and... Obvious? I guess XD

If you want something a bit more silly, I've hidden exactly 7 H2O: Just Add Water and 2 Aquamarine references in the parts I've written out so far. And 3 Ariel references in Ardyn's dialogue. Oh, you poor unfortunate soul...

20. If you wrote a prequel to [insert fic], what would it involve?

CELOR. cough. I technically have one fully planned [chapters and all], the catch is I actually have to finish the current fic first and oh boy. This backstory fic is technically split into 2 parts. Celor B.B [before baby] and Celor A.B [after baby]. <- I wish I were kidding, but that's how it's split in my brain. It's a lot of years!

Before is the whole 'King Regis and his sluts the gang go on that funky little road trip during the war' thing, which basically establishes Celor as a character, the Scientias in relation to the royal family, and his relationships with the other OGs [Old Guys]. Basically, it goes into detail of what happened in Altissia that caused Weskham to get injured and how the other guys found out about Celor.

It also details the events of that one throwaway dlc? Like some dude showed up in Insomnia? Idk, it was so weird. U might not remember it [joking. Episode Ardyn, M.E 734]. Celor wasn't there for the main event, so he doesn't! He was off working with Drautos to evacuate civilians and stuff. Which kinda starts off their whole one-sided rivalry because Drautos sees some stuff and is like '🤔' about it. Celor is... well, to put it nicely, an oblivious idiot and doesn't even realize, so Titus is snooping around and everyone in the Citadel is like 'dude stop' except for the guy he's actually investigating. I also believe that Drautos has pretty much always been working with the empire. It's not specified when, but you don't become high commander of an army overnight [stares down Ravus]... Just kinda weird that he had time to pull that while also captaining the Kingsglaive, so I think he's always been allied with the Imperials. I digress.

After this attack is over the kids are all born (or cloned, lol) [basically... give it like 2 years and everyone exists] and we enter the A.B era where Celor proves just how bad of a parental figure he can be. For the record, I don't normally like killing off parents in fics too often but, well, Ignis doesn't have any mentioned in canon, so it feels weird to just have them suddenly exist in present-day... Celor is already toeing the line of being a full-fledged OC because there are TWO LINES in the audio story Parting Ways where Ignis's uncle speaks and then I did ALL OF THIS with him. 😮‍💨

Anyway, Ignis's parents' names are Julia Scientia and Harry [who married into House Scientia and took the name]. I named Julia for one of the OG mermaids in H2O, who likely had Rikki's power, and Harry for Rita's fiance in Mako Mermaids who ISN'T a total jerkface, thank you, Karl, you fuckboy- his sole existence made me distrust Karl MM so hard my first time through lol. Anyway, given their names you can probably guess their stories, but also they both die at the end. As parents do when you're discussing protagonist backstories [stares in Aulea].

Julia is the identical twin of Celor [yes, I'm implying he's transgender, do you think their parents named her Julia and him CELOR? Hell no, that's a transmasc name if I've ever picked one-] and Ignis takes after her, and therefore looks a lot like Celor (a lot of people confuse him as being Celor's son). That's why, in chapter 1 of Alkali, Ignis is standing there musing if the mermaid-looking daemon Noct killed in the arcade game would've looked like him. It's not explained why he thinks that in the text, but there you go. Reasons! Oh, also, Julia and Harry are killed by a mob for suspicion of housing a daemon after Julia is discovered, leaving their house burning to the ground and Celor returning with a 2 year old to... that... [seriously, the civilians in this universe are kind of hardcore and not in a good way...].

Celor takes Ignis back to the Citadel after a lot of [kinda superficial because pretty much everyone knows what happened] questioning and Regis (who is also actively mourning his fucking wife and raising a newborn) is like "whatcha got there, bud" and Celor's like "trauma" and Regis just nods and lets it happen. Not... not actually, but that's basically how it goes. Dude gets it. By god bahamut does he get it. Clarus is working overtime so hard to help them both learn how to be a dad. Anyway, you can imagine Celor's surprise when Ignis comes into his magic and it turns out to be temperature control. AKA this kid can now light stuff on fire whenever he wants. Even more bad when it's emotionally-tied. Celor and Cor, uh, put a lid on that ticking time bomb real quick. Just, fully shoved it in the shoe box and wrapped it in 7 layers of duct tape and buried it in the woods. It's not still ticking. IT'S NOT. [It is. :(]

To make things... a little more clear, Celor isn't a bad parent, he's doing his best, but also he's absent-minded and kinda paranoid about keeping the secret after what happened to his sister. Which, you know, a very valid reaction, but also causes him and Ignis to argue a lot over it, especially regarding Noct, especially after the whole Marilith thing. Celor actually argued against Ignis becoming Noct's advisor at all, but Clarus eventually pushed him into it because the kid's gotta live his life at some point, you know? [You might notice some parallels between Clarus and Gladio throughout, because they tend to be the voice of reason :V (most of the time lol)]. But yeah, after the whole Marilith thing, while Noct and Regis are in Tenebrae, Ignis and Celor get into a huge fight about who gets to know about the secret, Celor takes Ignis to the Lux Et Umbrae museum exhibit to make things up to his nerd of a nephew, and I get to loredump about Solheim and how merpeople came to be under Leviathan :) Of course the museum is a little... off... on the details given they view merpeople as a legend about variants of darkness daemons, but still. Shapeshifters show up on full moon nights to steal the bodies of your loved ones and make you one of them, blah, blah. Celor explains it better from what he knows, and Ignis learns about their connection to Leviathan.

Which, oops! Because this kid is pretty determined and he near immediately formulates a plan to summon Leviathan and bargain with her to become 'normal'. Hence the necklace. Which, yeah! Iggy's skull necklace is an important part of Alkali. I don't really bring up too often until they reach Altissia. See, the bargain ended up working... for about a month, until Leviathan intentionally meddled with the set rules to get what she wants (as you do when you're a jealous, vengeful god that also wants your other god friend to, you know, NOT nuke the entire planet). Because Ignis even bargained with her in the first place, and due to the rules she set, he basically gives up his half of the bargain to 'save' Noct's life (it was not actually in danger... parallels!) and still has to pay Leviathan back for her half. The necklace is his reminder of that. A literal chain around his neck. Anyway during this whole thing, oops, Drautos sees some stuff and is like '??????' and passes this info on over to Ardyn who is like '👀👀 interesting...' because, you know, he's an immortal bitch with memories from tons of people and also literally Ifrit. Who was there when Leviathan made merpeople because she was jealous. Jealous and vengeful. Not a good combo... But, yeah, Ardyn easily puts two-and-two together. So, when the Titan roadtrip caravan scene happens in Alkali, it should make a bit more sense. It didn't really NEED explaining, because it's Ardyn, but hey. I did. Bite me.

[And, YES, technically Leviathan was sleeping at this time, but it's more of a dream-state of her being summoned than actually her. I... didn't exactly want 7-8 year old Ignis summoning a literal, very miffed god in the middle of Insomnia's bay. If you know the first ever scene of the water dragon appearing in Mako Mermaids, it's something like that. Water and moonlight and rancid vibes. That's actually another plot point in Alkali, because when they're in Altissia Leviathan wants to wake up on her own terms, so she's trying to get Ignis to the Altar of the Tide Mother to wake her up permanently with his blood. Hey... it comes full circle... ... I should write an offshoot of this where it actually works and angst happens. Hmmm...]

Anyway, things happen after that pretty much as written in Alkali already, though this backstory fic would also cover the fall of Insomnia from Celor's perspective and his death :( It's funny because throughout this, Celor goes from loathing fire, seeing it as the brutal destructive force, to seeing it as hope and joy as seen through the eyes of kid Ignis learning his magic [contrast that to how Ignis views his own magic after training lol], and then after Ignis leaves Insomnia, fire goes back to being this awful uncaring force of nature that ends up getting Celor killed. Well, okay, it was mostly Drautos. But fire played a big part in it. And that's Celor's story. Pathetic merman uncle.

33. If you write chaptered fics, what’s your ideal chapter length to write? Is it different from your ideal chapter length to read?

Um, well. If the above showed you anything, I tend to write a lot... Sorry about that. I would say 20ish chapters is normally what I plan, but then everything goes off the rails. I intended for Alkali to be about 15 chapters, then it hit 20, then 30, now we're at 67 in planning and counting. Now if only I could actually write it all XD

And no, I love all kinds of fic!! One-shots, multi-chapters... So long as the premise is good, I'm here for it. I won't guarantee I remember to finish all the fics I start reading, but the chapter length has never held me back on starting them before. I just have a bad memory and never check my bookmarks :( Which I should do more often!!! Maybe I will do so tonight...

Anyway, thank you so much for letting me ramble about this! I really appreciate it, I'm always itching to talk about the stuff that lurks in my brain. 💙💙 I owe you one.

[katsy-kitty]

holy shit I just did so much cleaning

I know my body will hate me tomorrow

I'll probably have to do heavy resting for the next few days

but I'm also proud of myself

but I have also entered my verbose era

and I don't know how to stop

it's 3:30 am and I'm still so hyper

if I don't fall asleep again, it's gonna be a bit of a problem

I don't like these insomnia bouts

[ssssonia]

I’d really love to use this space as my writing’s dumping grounds this year.

Being a SAHM while also living that #2under2 life is not for the weak; and as much as becoming a mother is the best thing I’ve come to be.. im desperately trying to unpack the mental loads it all comes with.

Which is where this abandoned app comes in. It’s a place where I’ve come to know nobody; just that 2 am version of myself constantly day dreaming. Where the only people I ‘know’ are the few visionaries and spam accounts.

I’d love this space to become the place where, (the times I’m not able to pick up a pen and write in my journal throughout the day) could be best option for me to release. Especially during the night between feedings, sleepy baby cuddles and racing insomnia from a fucked up sleep schedule.

So, please don’t mind me… because I’m definitely just talking to myself. But if you find yourself reading more than two sentences.. let me know, send me an emoji or tell me a joke. 🌚

To my first post, and a whole bunch of fucking nonsense to come. I’m entering my Carrie Bradshaw era. Cheers babe. 🥂

02.07.2023

2:34am

[possum-rat]

(Y/n) talks to the dead

Previous 

Next

Normally waking up to the Undead hovering over you would scare anyone shitless. But (Y/n) was slightly less startled. "SHI-WHA? WHO ARE? WHAT?" (Y/n) yelps as they fall out of the bed in a mess of blanket and clothes. Two skeletons stand on either side of their bed staring blankly at the opposite wall. Chain mail armor on the one stationed on the left side of (Y/n), and an odd mixture of gold and neitherite on the right. The one on the right turns toward (Y/n) before crouching down as holding out a hand toward them.

(Y/n) takes it hesitantly staring up at them. "Wha?" They murmur as the skeleton nods a slight smile in place. "I'm Violetta Beaux. If that's what you're wondering my dear." They state simply in a soft tone. Violetta then gestures toward the chain mail wearer and says fondly "that's Isidora Blanc" Isidora merely nods as their mentioned.

"Why are you here? I mean- I don't mean to be rude or anything but..." (y/n) trails off confusion evident in their expression. "Clementine told us," Violetta replies gently. Nodding still confused (Y/n) lets the covers fall from their shoulders. Stepping from the mess of blanket under them they walk toward the bathroom.

--

Staring at the mirror intently they sigh. Their once (S/c) now more grey and sunken. Dark purplish rings under their eyes with a crazed look. Reaching their hand up (Y/n) gently presses the purplish-pink swollen delicate skin. Breathing out in pain (Y/n) removes their hand before testing their nose. Nothing seems to be broken, just a little swollen or painful. Pulling out a washcloth (y/n) dampens it and cleans the dried blood from their face.

Feeling slightly better (Y/n) turns on the shower before heading into their 'Room' and grabbing some clothes: a tan trench coat stopping at (Y/n) thighs, a white collared shirt, grayish-black jeans, and long socks with their favorite boots. (perfect for kicking any super straights)

Once finished with the shower they pull on the clothes in the privacy of the bathroom. Mentally (Y/n) thanks themselves for placing the bathroom into a room with a door away from any visitors. As (Y/n) steps out of the bathroom the smell of freshly baked bread greets them.

grinning to themselves (Y/n) notices that Violetta is beside the furnace pulling out a loaf of golden bread. "(Y/n)? Oh hey dear! I made bread. Here take some!" She says cheerfully as she places the loaf on the small kitchen island. Isidora seems to be slightly more emotional than before as she gazes at the bread. Staring at the bread (Y/n) asks "You can make bread?" Isidora replies gruffly "Best at it. She also makes a killer cake."

As Violetta pulls out a giant Long sword she hums happily as she slices the bread with the sword. The whole sight is comical. As (Y/n) takes a slice of the bread they take a bite and proceeds to melt. You know the kind? Like when you eat something so good you've literally just ascended to heaven momentarily-yeah that's what the bread tastes like.

"Told you," Isidora says simply. By the time (Y/n) ate around half the loaf with the other two they've gotten a message from Wilbur.

<WilburSoot> (Y/n) help. Tubbo and Tommy are on a tangent.

smiling slightly (Y/n) stands up from the chair and makes their way toward their chest. Squatting down they pull out their sword and a few potions. Violetta stops (Y/n) before they leave. "Dear take some armor I have an extra unused she's plate and helmet. Stay safe okay hun? Isidora will go with you." (Y/n) nods and waits patiently-well as patiently as one with horrible attention spans can-

"and here you go, hun." She says as she hands an enchanted netherite chest plate and helmet to them. (Y/n's) eyes widen as the heavily enchanted armor falls into their ownership. "You can't-Are-wha-" they stutter as Isidora takes the armor from (Y/n) and gently places it onto (y/n) making sure it fits snugly. "Come on kid. I'm your bodyguard or some shit today. Come on."

---

as the two of them walk into L'manberg Wilbur freezes staring at Isidora. "(Y/n)? Your aware that there's a skeleton standing beside you?" (Y/n) nods and says "Yup. They're my grumpy bodyguard or something!" Isidora did not like being called grumpy apparently as (Y/n) yelps as Isidora punches (Y/n's) shoulder.

"I- uh okay. Anyway, Tubbo and Tommy are over there mind watching them?" Wilbur asks tiredly as he rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

(Y/n) nods and skips toward them happily. "No, He's always like...Psst hey, kid...wanna buy some content? Do we have manhunts? Or speed runs." Tommy laughs as he does a horrible American accent. (Y/n) chimes in "įⱮ Ⱥ ꝈįͲͲꝈƐ φįϚϚ βȺβӋӋӋӋӋ" Tubbo coughs in audio tune before dying with laughter. Tommy does his famous cackle. "What the actual fuck?" Isidora murmurs as she stands a few feet away. Tubbo frowns tilting his head confused his long brown ears flopping down.

"what? I just heard a series of tapping?" Tubbo says confused. "Oh, she just said " what the actual fuck." She's nice that way." (Y/n) says happily.

Isidora frowns while flipping (Y/n) off. "Yeah Love you too bitch." They call grinning.

Tubbo frowns and asks "Wanna go to the nether?" (Y/n) nods but freezes momentarily as everything suddenly grey. Like a cave. But instead of the normal ruggedness of a cave, it's like a box. (Y/n) shivers as they gaze around at the freezing room. A small Fox is curled up in one of the corners along with a brown spotted cow. As (y/n) walks closer the Fox opens an eye before closing it in disinterested. An arrow sticks out from its coat staining the white fur on its throat rusty red.

"Fungi?" (Y/n) asks in awe. The Fox yawns before nuzzling closer to the cow. The cow opens its down brown eyes before giving a soft content "Moo." Gasping in delight (Y/n) cheers "Harold?" The cow thumps his tail before standing up unsteadily and clopping toward (Y/n).

Harold bobs his head as he moves toward them, stopping infront of them he nuzzles into (Y/n's) outstretched hand. As (y/n's) fingers brush over the slightly rough texture of Harold's fur they blink.

The stone claustrophobic-inducing box is no more. Instead (Y/n) is surrounded by people in chairs staring up at a podium. A Man with curly Horns with various golden trinkets stands there. He's clearly slightly hungover.

"That was pretty easy. And you know what I said, the day I got unbanned from the DreamSMP, and the day I said I was running... an election that I won by the way?" The man's voice booms deep and clear demanding to be heard "I said; "Things are gonna change". I looked every citizen of L'Manberg in the eyes and I said; "You listen to me... this place will be a lot different tomorrow." Let's start making it happen. My first decree, as the president of L'Manberg- the EMPEROR! of this great country-! Is to REVOKE the citizenship of WilburSoot, (Y/n) and TommyInnit! Get 'em outta here! Get 'em outta here! You're no longer welcome!"

All though (Y/n) may not understand what's going on they have enough sense to stand up from their seat and bolt. Isidora stands on the outskirts of L'manberg waiting under the shelter of a tree. Isidora straightens up upon seeing (Y/n). She sighs and holds out a hand. Voices of the deceased begin screaming in (Y/n's) head.

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU LEAVING?

"HELP THEM"

"STAY HOME"

"STAY"

"run"

As Isidora's hand closes around (Y/n's) they're suddenly wrenched from L'manberg, and back home. (Y/n) pulls their hand from Isidora's grip to press their palms into the sides of their head. "Please- make it stop." They whisper. Their eyes claimed shut as they press their back against the wall sliding down. Schlatt's voice echos loudly "Oh, it was so easy! Until further notice... WilburSoot and TommyInnit are merely a memory of L'Manberg. A relic- A relic of the past. A reminder, of the darkest era this country, has ever seen- and I guarantee you all; dear citizens... Tonight, that changes. We are entering into a new period of L'Mangerg- a period, of prosperity! of strength! of unity."

Sitting down for a few minutes they stand up before rubbing their eyes and turning toward the two women and saying quietly "Stay here. Please I don't want either of you to get hurt." they state with a certain authority that none of the three knew (Y/n) possessed. (Y/n) then walks toward their chests before digging out the materials needed. Choosing to take their half-finished crossbow, and sword, along with the armor they were currently wearing, a few potions, and pick along with food, as they walk toward the door they hesitate before returning to the chest and pull out a few End pearls along with their totem.

----

At around 3 am (Y/n) finds a half-assed base. Sighing slightly they duck into the base holding up their hands in surrender as a sword is healed to their throat. It doesn't help that the voices are still shouting. And expressing their distaste or agreement at the current predicament.

"Jesus (Y/n) where the hell have you been?" Wilbur sighs as he makes eye contact with them.

"Went by my base to grab some stuff we'll need. No, we aren't going to my base." They say as they sit atop the crafting table beside Tommy. Leaning back against the wall they glance down at Tommy. He's visibly distressed. (Y/n) taps the air infront of them withdrawing a potion of their own creation they like to call "Anti-Insomnia, sleep your problems away :)"

Pulling out a small vile of it they grab 2 cups that for some reason Wilbur had. Pouring a few drops into the cups they hand them to each of their accomplices saying "It'll help you sleep. It'll take your mind off of it." Tommy nods and asks "Wait you know Greek mythology right? Didn't you and Techno talk about it?" (Y/n's) lips curve into a faint smile at the memories.

they nod and ask "Yeah. I remember that." Wilbur asks "what's your favorite story?"

they nod before thinking. "Eros and Psyche." The words fall from their lips effortlessly. As (Y/n) begins to ramble they stare at the opposite wall.

"Psyche is a princess so beautiful that the goddess Venus becomes jealous. In revenge, she instructs her son Cupid to make her fall in love with a hideous monster; but instead, he falls in love with her himself." Tommy's head lolls before falling against (Y/n's) shoulder. (Y/n) tenses up slightly but upon realizing that it's only Tommy they continue.

"He becomes her unseen husband, visiting her only at night. Psyche disobeys his orders not to attempt to look at him, and in doing so she loses him. In her search for him, she undertakes a series of cruel and difficult tasks set by Venus in the hope of winning him back. Cupid can eventually no longer bear to witness her suffering or to be apart from her and pleads their cause to the gods. Psyche becomes an immortal and the lovers are married in heaven."(More info: here ) (Y/n) finishes their story glancing down at Thomas.

"hey? (Y/n)? How's Lilith doing?" Wilbur asks quietly. (y/n) freezes before rubbing their face and rubbing the faint scar on their neck. "No clue." Wilbur frowns and asks "What'd you mean?" He asks as he shifts to a more comfortable position. "Haven't seen her since she broke our engagement...rather brutally for my taste. Like I understand sure, I may not be the best person but burning down a house then murdering your fiancé? That's a bit much even for me. Like where's the pizzazz?" (Y/n) laughs quietly as they stand up and pull off their coat draping it over Tommy.

Wilbur frowns. "Wait. You only have one life?" He asks. (Y/n) nods as they rummage in their pocket before pulling out a small simple ring with a frog upon the center. Slipping it onto their finger with the other array of various rings they stretch and turn toward Wilbur. "Jesus Christ (Y/n). You need to be careful!" Wilbur chides. (Y/n) narrows their eyes at him before grumbling quietly "yeah yeah."

---

[radiant-flutterbun]

Mason’s Brightside Part 2

   Part 1

“No Mason, weird dreams are not a symptom of the herb I gave you last night,” Alaria sighed “If you had listened to me you would know the opposite is true.”

    “No dreams is a symptom?”

    “Yes and so are dehydration headaches so make sure you drink lots of water.”

Alaria shooed Mason outside of the healing den and he nearly crashed into Corkscrew, a spiral.

    “Watch where you’re going!” Corkscrew snarled.

    Mason ignored him and went to get something to drink, his mind however was still thinking about that dream. He’d never been a vivid dreamer. Something about it was so unnatural.

    Evan came up to him later in the day and he described the dream to him.

    “Weird right?”

    “Yeah but sometimes a dream is just a dream. Don’t read too much into it.”

    “But it felt so real!”

    “You sure it’s not… Ya know your mind playing tricks on you?”

    Mason glared at Evan “It wasn’t that.”

    “Sorry, sorry I didn’t mean to imply…” Evan coughed “Maybe you’re just not used to a good night’s sleep is all.”

    Mason thought about that for a moment “That… Ok yeah that I can believe.”

    The next night he was given the same herb from Alaria and he found himself right back at the Emperor’s Wake.

    “Good to see you again Mason,” It was the tundra. They were sitting beside him, so close that Mason could feel their fur on him “Are you on your way?”

    “I-” Mason began and then he snarled “What are you doing in my head?”

    The tundra looked back at him calmly, “You can thank our local dreamwalker for that.”

    “Dreamwalker…?”

    “You’ll be waking soon. I don’t have time to explain. Please come here to the Emperor’s Wake. I’ll explain everything. It’ll be much easier in person, I promise.”

    Mason was about to speak when he found himself awake, sunlight danced across his room. 

    He began to pack his things. It didn’t take long. Being formerly dead, he didn’t have any personal belongings from his world. All he had were just a few art supplies Flare had been kind enough to give him, a simple dagger, a water canister, a few snacks and a blanket. Everything fit neatly in a bag he wrapped over his shoulder.

    He trotted down the stairs from his room and into the clan lobby. He made his way to the main exit when Evan found him.

    “Where are you going?” He asked, seeing the bag.

    Mason sighed “The Emperor’s Wake.”

    “What? Isn’t that where that monster is?”

    “Yep.”

    “And you want to go there?!”

    “Correct.”

    “Why?”

    “Because that’s where the dragons in my dreams told me to go.”

    “So you’re just going to listen to random dream dragons now?”

    “See this is why I was trying to avoid you.”

    Evan looked hurt “You were planning on leaving without telling me?”

    “Because I knew this would happen! I knew you wouldn’t understand! Listen, I've been here before. I know that whoever these dragons are, they're not going to get out of my head until I do what they want me to do.”

    “Hey no offense Mason but the last time you listened to some... thing in your mind you ended up hurting a kid.”

    Mason snarled “He wasn’t just a kid. Don’t oversimplify what Muerto is.”

    “I’m just saying, if you knew that was Match speaking to you, would you still have done the things you did?”

    “Yes. Match is just another self centered god, but at least me listening to him, capturing Muerto, weakening him. Getting him to spill his dirty little secrets. At least that did something! You would have rotted away to nothing and we would have all been trapped in that horrible place until we died. I got the gods’ attention. I changed things!”

    Evan took a deep breath “Ok. Yeah you’re right. But I also don’t have to like what we had to do to get where we are now. Maybe this time we can take some time to think about what we’re getting into before we have to hurt anyone?”

    “We? You want to come with me?”

    “I don’t like the idea of being near that monster, but I hate the idea of letting you go alone even more.”

***

    Mason waited for Evan to pack his things. Like him, it wasn’t much so they were off on their journey soon enough. Evan felt bad leaving without a word so he took the time to leave a note for Nike.

    The two took off and soared over the Sunbeam Ruins in the direction of the area now known as the Emperor’s Wake. Mason had a map with him to help him keep track of their journey. As he flapped his wings he noted how natural flight felt to him. It was strange to him how quickly he picked up the skill. His original body was not one designed for flight and never in a million years would he have guessed he’d eventually become a dragon. Sepulchral had taught him to fly after he had entered the Dragon Planet. Sepulchral was a good teacher, and unlike all of the other Selcouth creatures that were brought to Sornieth, Sepulchral actually had wings back in their world, making him uniquely experienced with flight. But even with such an excellent teacher, Mason felt like he shouldn’t have picked up the skill quite so quickly. It only made it more frustrating that relearning to draw was not as natural to him.

    “Sorry about planning to take off without you,” Mason said after a few miles of silence.

    “Hey, it's cool. No big deal,” Evan responded.

    “What were you going to tell me the other day, by the way? I didn’t mean to brush you off like that. Sorry again.”

    “Oh that?” Evan laughed nervously “That was nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

    Mason glanced at his friend “Alright…” He thought about pushing the subject, but decided to let it go.

    The two flew in silence until it got dark. They camped out in a secluded pine forest for the night and took off again when it was morning. 

    Their flight was uneventful until they flew over a patch of land that was scarred in an unusual way. Most of the Sunbeam Ruins were filled with rolling fields of grass and green pine trees dotted with ruins from a forgotten era. But this patch of land was blackened and dead. It was not burned like a fire found it, rather it looked like a perfect circle of the land just shriveled up and died. Below structures that were not ancient ruins were crushed and destroyed like a tornado ran through the community.

    “What do you suppose happened down there?” Evan asked.

    Mason shook his head “Nothing good probably. Let's keep moving.”

    It wasn’t long before the land began to look more like what Mason saw in his dreams. There were tell-tale signs of destruction, but not quite like the shriveled dead land they had just passed. Mason searched the ground below him and nearly stopped mid flight. There on top of a hill covered in ruins was the same rugged tundra that had spoken to him.

    Mason landed beside them with a thud and Evan landed more gracefully beside him.

    “You!” Mason snarled.

    The tundra smiled and waved “Mason! So good to see you in person. And oh look! You brought a friend.”

    “Why were you in my head? How do you know who I am? What do you want with me?”

    “Holy shit,” Evan was ignoring the tundra and instead his eyes were fixed on the horizon “It’s real.”

    Mason heard a roar and looked up. There in the distance was the rampaging beast, the Emperor Luminax. It was even more horrible than it was in his dreams.

    “Terrifying isn’t it?” The tundra asked, following Mason’s gaze.

    “It’s just… Hard to believe it’s real.”

    “I know. Seeing your first Emperor… It makes you wonder what’s real and what’s fake. But that thing is real alright. It’s destroying lives and the gods are doing nothing about it.”

    Mason snorted “Yeah that sounds about right.”

    “Ah, don’t like gods do you?” The tiny bug dragon from Mason’s dream landed on top of the tundra’s head “I knew this one would fit in well!”

    Mason peeled his eyes away from the undead creature in the distance “Ok, no more talking until you two explain why you were in my head.”

    “Ah that would be Karyu’s doing,” The tundra addressed the bug sitting on their head.

    “How dare you!” Mason lunged forward to swat the bug, but they quickly flew away. Mason ended up hitting the large tundra’s antlers instead. Mason’s hand stung and the tundra glared at him.

    “Maybe instead of threatening my friend, you could sit down and listen.” The tundra shoved Mason to the ground. Mason tried to get back up, but stopped when the tundra gave him another glare.

    Karyu flew back onto the tundra’s head and pointed at Mason “That one tortured a kid god, so I guess I shouldn’t really be too surprised. Still, he has use here.”

    Mason’s eyes widened “How did you-”

    “My name is Perryn,” The tundra cut Mason off and smiled “I’m an Emperor hunter, and my friend Karyu here is a dream walker.”

    “And demigod!” Once again Karyu took off from their perch on Perryn’s head. They circled in the air and as they landed they began to transform. Before Mason’s eyes the little bug dragon grew in size. They spun so fast it forced Mason to blink and with that one blink a new creature was standing where the bug disappeared. Its body was unmistakably human to Mason, but it still had some of the bug features of its dragon form. Antennae sprung up from Karyu’s head and insectoid wings from their back. They wore a long robe and their long purple hair touched the ground. They were still small, Perryn towered over them and so would have Mason if he had been standing, but they were no longer squishable. 

    “My mother is the goddess of dreams for this world, and lucky me, I’ve inherited some of her powers,” Karyu walked up to Mason and poked his snout. He snapped at their fingers “You have the most fascinating dreams out of everyones’ I’ve walked through. So many memories are mixed with yours. Some juicy ones too!”

    “No. You didn’t.”

    “It’s just a shame that lately you haven't been dreaming much. I’m guessing insomnia? Well that’s no good for me or my pals here at The Guild of Osiris! I was afraid if your sleeping patterns continued I would have lost contact with you! And that would have been a real bummer.”

    “Which is why Karyu had to bring me into the picture,” Perryn said “We needed you to come here before they lost contact with you and they thought you would listen to me and not them.”

    “And I was fucking right!” Karyu grinned and then leaned close to Mason and whispered “I just thought Perryn would be more your type. I’m gorgeous, I know, but I’m taken.”

    Mason just stared at Karyu. He opened his mouth and then closed it like a fish out of water.

    “Yes. Karyu was right!” Peryn shouted and then coughed “And now you’re here like we were hoping. Karyu has seen a lot of things about you from their dream walking ,which I know may be awkward and invasive-”

    “You don’t think?” Mason found his voice for a moment.

    “But Karyu has a knack for finding those who are perfect for helping our cause. Mason, is life uncertain to you? Maybe you’ll make a good Emperor Hunter.”

[isolemnlyswearpevensie]

In the Woods Somewhere | Caspian x Gender Neutral!Reader

Warnings: None :)

Time/Era: In between Prince Caspian and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Y/N stumbles into Narnia during an insomnia ridden night. Alone and scared, a handsome king comes and rescues them. 

Request: can you do a gender neutral reader x caspian fic where the reader comes to narnia and is wandering the forest lost, and then caspian finds them and takes them back to cair paravel? thanks :)

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! Let me know if you like it!! :) I personally really like this one, and it’s my first Caspian fic! Please send me feedback or other requests, and I’ll happily write for you!

masterlist | read on ao3

Y/N’s room was dark. Honestly, it would be kind of concerning if it was bright, considering it was just barely four in the morning. Y/N laid snug in their bed unable to sleep for the third time this week. They had run out of methods to fall asleep; counting sheep usually worked but Y/N’s head was moving a mile a minute and they couldn’t focus. So in a final chase for sleep, Y/N  settled on focusing on how their sheets felt against their skin. Their pillow was plush, but the cotton of the pillowcase was hot from laying in one place for so long. The blanket clung to Y/N’s still legs. They weren’t the calming type of still, but so still that they hand to focus to not fidget them. They felt rather frustrated and claustrophobic, so Y/N pushed their blankets to the foot of their bed and rolled into the fetus position. Y/N didn’t know what they were expecting from this new position, but it was highly disappointing. 

Might as well get up, Y/n thought, swinging their legs over the side of their bed. They reach the arms towards the ceiling and twist their spine, in hopes that their stiff back would crack. With no luck, they push off their bed and look into their mirror. 

The mirror was a full-length rectangle mirror hanging on the back of their door by thin metal hooks. It was cheap too; the reflective surface had a very slight green tint to it and the frame looked like a cheap wooden picture frame. All the same, Y/N peered at their reflection with the light illuminating from their digital alarm clock. Their eyes were sunken in and bloodshot, staring holes into each other from the reflection. Their skin also appeared somewhat green, which was peculiar. It could be the green tint of the mirror, but it could be a result of their oncoming nausea. 

A crack in the glass catches Y/N’s attention; it wasn’t there earlier when Y/N  looked in the mirror. It was only a four-inch-long horizontal line running along the top and it didn’t impede the main part of the mirror, but it still made a sad feeling settle in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. Y/N brought their hand up and grazed the crack with their fingertip. As they do so, the crack grows exponentially. The mirror cracks rapidly, a singular line following the frame in a big oval and connecting to its beginning. 

Y/N stood shocked, glass doesn’t just crack like that. Usually, glass shatters or breaks into chunks, right? Y/N didn’t exactly know the precise properties of glass, but they were damn sure this wasn’t how it was supposed to act. As if on cue, the middle of the oval fell forward and shattered at Y/N’s feet. They had to jump back fast (and mumble a profanity or two) to avoid their feet getting cut. 

Y/N was too busy staring down at the broken glass that they failed to notice the amazing forest in place of the mirror. Y/N kneeled down and picked up one of the biggest shards. Holding it up to their face, they could have sworn they saw a lion flash across the surface. I really must be tired, Y/N thought, and stood up. They were expecting to see the green backing of the mirror when they glanced forward, but he was very mistaken. The cool breeze from the mysterious forest that definitely shouldn’t be in this mirror blew Y/N’s hair and pajamas faintly. 

“What the fuck?” Y/N said out loud. They glance around the room and scatter to their closet to grab some footwear. After tying their shoes haphazardly, they step onto the big pile of glass and stick their hand into the unknown land. The glass crunched and slid from under their shoes, making their body lurch forward. Now, they could look around the surrounding biome. It was early morning there, and the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon. Various trees sprinkled the area and birds chirped brightly. 

Y/N grabs either side of the mirror, careful not to cut their hand, and pushes their entire body into the unfamiliar surroundings. As soon as they do this, the mirror entryway they entered from disappeared into thin air. They were truly alone. 

“Hello?” Y/N calls into the air. They weren’t sure what they were looking for or if they wanted anything to answer. They didn’t know where they were, nor did they know what could be lurking behind the trees. A chill of paranoia ran down Y/N’s back as they fully comprehended their decision. They just had to go through the magic hole in their mirror instead of going to get someone like a rational human being. Y/N pulled their arms around their body (it was quite chilly) and began to walk in one direction. 

The trees started to get thicker and the ground got rockier the more they walked. The sky also got brighter as more time past; the clouds a bright pink in the sky. They reminded Y/N of the nights they stayed awake until dawn and watched the sunset from their bedroom window. 

Time passed slowly as Y/N continued their trek to who knows where. The only other life forms (besides trees) that they saw was a squirrel. There was an acorn a few paces in front of Y/N, and it scurried to grab it. The animal hadn’t seen Y/N at first but once it noticed them, it tilted its head and seemed to size Y/N up. For some reason, this made Y/N feel rather self-conscious. But, before Y/N could fully comprehend what was happening, the squirrel scurried off and Y/N was left alone once more. What felt like hours passed before Y/N heard horseshoes clicking against the woods floor. 

“What are you doing out here?” A deep voice called from behind Y/N. 

“Pardon?” Y/N turned around to see a very handsome man sitting upon a large horse. He had shoulder-length hair that just barely scraped a chainmail neckpiece. The chainmail carried down his large torso and fed into a thick leather belt. 

“I asked what you were doing out here, it’s barely seven in the morning.” The man’s voice held a thick accent that seemed to drip from his tongue like honey. One of his large hands came to adjust a leather strap that fell diagonally across his chest and came together with a brass buckle. Upon further inspection, Y/N discovered the strap was attached to a wooden crossbow that was resting down his back. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not quite sure where I am,” Y/N responds, standing their ground. They didn’t want the man to think they were attacking him and shoot them with an arrow. 

“Well, of course you don’t. How long have you been walking? You’re at least an hour on horseback from the kingdom. What are you doing out here?” At this point, he swung his leg over the side of his horse and jumped off of the saddle. As he approached Y/N, they noticed how sharp his features were. His jaw came down in a straight line and led into a strong clef chin. His nose came to a stiff peak that drew Y/N’s gaze up to meet his kind eyes. The stranger’s shoulders were broad and powerful, too, and the large armor covering them made them look even broader. 

“Kingdom?” 

The man grew close enough to take in Y/N’s appearance. They were dressed in patterned pajama pants that were tied at the waist with a jaw string, a thin T-shirt, and sneakers. They looked very out of place next to the stranger with his armor and horse. Or maybe he was the one out of place, Y/N couldn’t quite decide. 

“You do know where you are, right?”

“Well, if I did, I wouldn’t have told you I didn’t know where I was.” Y/N’s voice wasn’t sarcastic, it was more dismissive and as if they were pointing out the obvious. 

“You’re in Narnia, my friend.” The man seemed to get a grasp on what was happening and his features relaxed visibly. 

“What’s Narnia?” 

“Ah, I have friends that come from your land. I am not exactly sure how to explain it, but the way that they explained it to me is that people from your world come here for a reason. You wouldn’t happen to be from spare oom, would you?” 

“Spare oom? What are you talking about? Are you going to shoot me?!”

“No, no, of course not. I am Caspian. I am the King of Narnia.” His smile is warm and comforting. “I know you must be confused.” “King?! What’s going on?!” While he was extremely attractive, that doesn’t mean he should be trusted right off the bat. King Caspian noticed their uneasiness and took a step back. 

“What, is it that hard to believe that I’m a king?” 

“Well, I mean, you’re not wearing a crown so…” 

“Yeah well, when I meet attractive people in the forest I don’t’ usually like to start out with formalities.” Y/N’s cheeks reddened a little. “Speaking of formalities, your name would be?”

“Y/N, um, so I’m in a magical world? And you’re the king of said magical world?” 

“Well, one of them. There are two other kings and two queens. They aren’t here right now; they had to go back to your world-”

“-I walked through a mirror to get here.” Y/N interrupted Caspian. They quickly remembered that he was in fact a King and that he could very easily shoot them. 

“And they arrived by wardrobe. The first time, anyway. I don’t quite understand how they got here the second.” Caspian kind of rambled, which made Y/N relax a little bit. It was cute. Maybe he wasn’t going to shoot them. 

“Right. How do I get home?” 

“I’m not sure, but not by wandering through the woods, I’ll tell you that.” Caspian mounted his horse again and offered Y/N a hand. They stared at it and stayed in place. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking you back to the castle,” His hair blew in the breeze and a section fell in front of his eyes. “It’ll be easier to explain once you see it.” 

“I really must be tired…” Y/N mumbled to themself before taking his hand. Caspian pulls Y/N up and places them behind him on the horse. The horse took off and carried the pair into the distance. Who knows, maybe something great could come out of this. He did say everyone gets brought into Narnia for a reason, right?

[shinidamachu]

Window - Part II

Summary: so for te first day of @inukag-week I wrote a follow up to Window on InuYasha’s perspective. I did my best to give you backstory so you can read it even if you missed the first part. Also, I dedicate this to the amazing @dyaz-stories. Prompt: opposites.

Word Count: 2089  Genre: angst but like chill  Fandom: InuYasha  Pairing: Inukag  Format: oneshot  AO3 Link: 🌹  Fanfic.Net Link: 🌹

InuYasha struggled to sleep as the war between his pride and the yearn for seeing her took place inside of him. The half demon had seen it happen times enough to know exactly how it would go.

He would end up at her window the same way he had done every single time before.

It had begun — just like everything else about them, it seemed — unpretentiously and unexpectedly that grew into something as natural as the tides: he couldn’t explain how or why, but it existed and there was no restraining it.

All InuYasha knew when he went after her that first night was that Kagome used to spend damn too much time on the other side of the well for his liking and he had developed the frustrating tendency of getting apprehensive whenever she wasn’t around.

An impulsive act was all it took for him to caught himself petrified outside her window, too late then to turn back, too late at night to demand that she went back with him. Although the half demon had no idea of what to do at the time, he knew what he wanted, and it was nothing more than to be with her.

To this day, InuYasha couldn’t tell how he had conjured the courage to ask her to stay, but it was a good thing he did, for she had allowed him to and he had been showing up at her window ever since.

It was a relieving feeling, knowing she was safe and sound under his protection even if her era had proven itself to be relatively safer than his own and the girl had toughen up as time went by. He just couldn’t help it, mostly because the brutal truth was that he missed her. Completely and truthfully missed her.

Maybe she knew it. Maybe that was the reason why she never questioned him about it, but has always left the window wide open afterwards. Maybe she missed him too. The thought alone could still make something deep inside his stomach melt in the most delightful way.

There was something endearing about sharing this secret — and her bed, for that matter — with Kagome. Not that InuYasha had a problem with sleeping on the floor, but the girl made such a big deal out of it that he finally gave in and in spite of his initial embarrassment, he certainly wasn’t going to complain about it.

The whole thing went without saying. She left, he followed. Simple as that. And InuYasha enjoyed simple, he could do simple. But simple never lasts. Of all people, he should be the one with this lesson engraved deep inside his head.

Now “complicated” didn’t even begin to cover it and his frustration increased with every breath he took. In any other day, at this very moment, they would be together and he could actually sleep instead of just closing his eyes and pretending to.

His friends didn’t seem to be striving against the same problem — as their slow, deep breaths made abundantly clear, they had long ago fallen asleep. Good. InuYasha knew pretty well the reason of his insomnia was five hundred years away and he could easily spend the rest of his bad mood without anybody reminding him that, thank you very much.

Their earlier speech about how he should go to Kagome and make things right between them had actually annoyed him into doing the opposite. Of course they would take her side, they always do — which is mildly irritating, to say the least, but the hanyou was used to it by now.

Unwilling to stay at Kaede’s hut any longer, InuYasha decided to go for a walk, hoping to clear his mind somehow. The hanyou got out to the clouded night, not caring slightly for the drizzle that welcomed him. Before realizing it, he was walking the path that would take him to Kagome and sooner than the expected, there he was at her window again, just like he knew he would.

Now the half demon wished he hadn’t come, because for the first time in what seemed to be forever, the window was closed. The rain on her side of the well had been falling for a long while, InuYasha could tell as he let it soak him head to toe, watching the water bath the glassy surface that viewed to her room.

Maybe it’s because of the rain, a little, pathetic voice in his head tried to argue and it almost made him suppress a scornful laugh — the half demon thought he had sealed away that side of him long ago. Hope was a treacherous thing to have.

Still, he tried to open the window, fiding then that it was locked. The ghost of something highly unpleasant formed in his throat and he unsuccessfully tried to swallow it. So Kagome didn’t want him to come. Fine.

From outside he spotted the miko lying on the bed, but the rain prevented him from knowing either she was awake or not. Intending to enter, check on her and leave before she even suspected he went there, InuYasha tried his best to unlock the damn thing without breaking it into pieces, which he was very tempted to do.

“Fuck!” He let out through clenched teeth when it became obvious the gentle approach wasn’t working.

The hanyou was about to give up when the delicate silhouette of the girl slowly walked towards him, stopping only when they were face to face. For an excruciating moment, InuYasha thought that would be all, but as it turned out, Kagome always had a way of surprising him. The sound of a click made itself heard above the incessant rain, her eyes never leaving his while she lifted the structure open.

Silently, the black haired girl turned away. InuYasha sneaked inside, the warmth and familiar smell of the place involving him right away.

“So…” InuYasha began, whilst Kagome headed to the bed. She had been crying and he took no pride on how obvious it was to him after having seen it so many times — and even less pride on being the reason behind her tears. “You lock the window, now?” The half demon regretted the accusing tone as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

InuYasha turned back to close it himself, muffling the rain and the world outside. She sat on the bed, eyes on her lap as he followed.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” It was a good thing they used to keep their voices down when in her room because he would be shouting his exasperation otherwise. Although InuYasha doubted it was necessary this time. He could hear her grandpa’s thunderous snoring and Sota entertained with that strange box of his. Her mother wasn’t home.

“You don’t have to be if you don’t want to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kagome looked him straight in the eyes this time, no space for ambiguities.

“You know what it means.” And as a matter of fact, he did.

“I went to see her and we talked, so what? It ain’t like we get all over each other the way you and that pathetic excuse of wolf do.” Kagome stood up and he involuntarily took a step back.

“That’s totally different.” The very idea she actually believed that was hilarious and outrageous at the same time.

“How, exactly?” But he knew the difference, at least for him. It was different because Kagome didn’t have to smell someone else’s scent on him for hours until it would fade away. It was different because she didn’t have to sit and watch as someone else promised to give him everything she couldn’t.

“I’m not in love with Koga, for starts.” Despite the relief her statement gave him, InuYasha shook his head.

“It’s not like that.” It felt like it didn’t matter how hard InuYasha tried to do the right thing by Kikyo and Kagome, he just kept failing both of them and he knew it.

“Oh, please! You kissed her once. I was there.”

“That was before-” Before I realized how madly in love I am with you. The unsaid words lingered there, an invisible barrier between them that he knew he shouldn’t cross.

“I don’t care when it was! This isn’t about Kikyo and it isn’t about Koga, either. It’s about you lying to me.”

“I only lied because I knew you would make a big deal out of it. You always do.”

“I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it if you didn’t give me reasons to.” She stared at him with defiance, their heavy breaths filling the air before they become too aware of their noses almost touching. Kagome was the first to look away. “I’m tired of having the same fight over and over again and I’m sick of feeling the way I do whenever there’s shinidamachu around. So if you want to go, just go. I won’t ask you to stay.”

“And what if I want to stay?” Kagome blinked slowly, arms crossing and lips slightly trembling.

“Then don’t lie to me again. And stop dripping on my floor.” Convinced they were going to be alright, InuYasha paced to the bathroom as silent as possible, barely able to hide his smile.

Once there, he stripped off the suikan — there wasn’t much he could do for the soaked piece, anyway — and with the aid of a fluffy fabric, started to dry himself.

InuYasha was remarkably familiar with good part of her modern utensils by now, specially the ones that composed her scent. The first aid kit, the strange bottles he still hadn’t figured out what were for, the red little stick that makes her lips smell like strawberry and leaves him dying to steal a taste.

Everything about it, just like in her bedroom, was so impossibly Kagome it was both intoxicating and a constant reminder he was the only thing there that didn’t fit.

When he came back, the lights were off and she was already under the covers. InuYasha closed the door and stood there, uncertain of what to do next. He still owed her an apology.

“Are you dry yet?” She sounded sleepy by the minute, so he opted for skipping the question.

“I’m sorry, Kagome.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I mean it. I will never lie to you again, I swear.”

Kagome moved the blanket away to reveal what has been implicitly established as his side of the bed, a peace offer that he gladly took. Sometimes, when the moon abandoned him to his own fortune, it was the only way he would allow himself to rest and on the nights he was really lucky, she would call his name on her sleep. Whenever he laid there beside her, it didn’t feel unfitting at all. It felt like belonging.

There was one thing missing, though, and he waited for it.

“Still mad at me, aren’t ya?”

As if she could read his mind, Kagome sighed before curling up with him, head nestling against his chest — right over his heart — and InuYasha hoped one day she discovered every erratic beat was just for her.

“I’m always mad at you.”

“I ain’t fightin’ you on that.”

He felt more than saw her smile — which only caused his own — and as InuYasha relished on the feeling of having her so close, time passed by unnoticed until Kagome spoke again.

“InuYasha?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do we keep making this so much harder than it needs to be?”

InuYasha contemplated the question for a while. Ultimately, he narrowed it down to one logical conclusion.

“It wouldn’t be us otherwise.”

“I guess you’re right.” Was the last thing she said before drifting to sleep.

As much as he wanted to pretend the whole universe came down to those four walls, InuYasha wasn’t naive. He knew she deserved better than anything he could possibly offer her, that they belonged to different worlds, that departure was inevitable. And he knew the day would come when she wouldn’t open the window anymore.

“But until then…” His eyes closed and he let himself sink into her hair, lips brushing against the black strands, her sweet scent inviting him to relax toward the peaceful torpor of slumber and not for the first time when holding Kagome in the darkness of her room, InuYasha wished for the sun to forget to raise.

A/N: @dyaz-stories now I don’t know if this is what you pictured when you said yo wanted to read a follow up from InuYasha’s point of view but if it isn’t I promise to make it up to you sometime. That being said, I really hope you like it. Je t'aime.

Funny thing: Come In With The Rain started playing while I was writing this piece and now I’ve declared it the soundtrack of this little story until Taylor Nation sues me.

[jade-ngoc-yeshim]

1. The M.O.

Why did I start this blog?  I have no plain and straightforward answer to offer; it’s a coalescence of several factors—some tangible; some I’ve yet to identify; and some rustling around in the pit of my stomach, for which I lack the words to will into coherence.  But I will try my best to explain:

2019—my 25th year of existence—I will always reflect on and refer to as “The Crumbling.”  It was the year when I lost myself to a number of competing forces: work, love, extraordinary circumstances, and the cyclical churn of life.  Those who’ve known me for a long time would characterize me as incredibly stable; risk-averse; always planning for the long-term; cripplingly self-aware; and always doggedly marching uphill towards a set of well-defined, high flying goals.  My tunnel vision was impressive.  My modus operandi clearly articulated.  My drive unflappable.

The inertia behind it all was guilt.  I had guilt about a lot of things:

Firstly, I had access to the full gamut of opportunities that were ripped away from my parents by war and displacement.  I had to make up for this as their only child.  Fuck selfish millennial self-realization.  I had to live for three.

Secondly, my birth-given liminality.  That I, as a second-generation immigrant/migrant/refugee (whatever legal or sociocultural label you deign to ascribe to my personhood), stand at the boundary between homeland and foreign land (cum new “home”), Vietnam and America, past and present.  It is difficult to occupy two spaces; oftentimes, I feel that I am in neither, and that the only comfortable place to inhabit is the hyphen that tenuously connects “Vietnamese” and “American.”  To straddle two identities is to be constantly uncomfortable.  It requires a lot of shifting, recalibration, and a lot of stumbling.  I was never Vietnamese enough, and so others shamed my parents for not doing a good job in raising me.  I was never American enough, and so I shamed myself into invisibility.

Third, being a Vietnamese woman.  The consequences of veering off-course extend far beyond you.  The stories uttered in hushed tones about one’s paternal second cousin twice removed from Cleveland or what have you:  She had such promise.  She had the potential to become an engineer or doctor—to elevate her family’s social status.  But she just had to succumb to the vices of the typical Vietnamese woman:  boys, hard substances, and the cold, hard draw of under-the-table cash from working in auntie’s nail salon.  And so my existence as a young, OK-looking, Vietnamese-American woman in a foreign land with many foreign ideas inherently made me a flight risk.  And so be it.  And so it is.

Turns out, guilt is a great motivator.  It led me to unbelievable achievements at a very tender age:   becoming valedictorian of my high school class; being the first of my family’s generation to go to college; graduating summa cum laude from an Ivy League institution; becoming a Rhodes Scholarship finalist in one of the most competitive districts in the U.S., winning a full scholarship for a master’s program in the United Kingdom; graduating with high marks from the world’s best refugee and migration studies course at the University of Oxford; landing my first real job working for USAID; and having the privilege of serving as a Program Officer for the Syria humanitarian crisis during some of the most tumultuous times in the war’s history.

But what is the point of great material achievement when it comes at the expense of other, more important aspects of your life?  

For most of my adult life thus far, I have foregone love, social engagements, precious time spent with family, and beloved hobbies in the ruthless pursuit of achievement.  I let go of art, music, good men, and good times.  I was constantly hunched over my laptop, producing—worrying my friends and family sick in my permanently crooked state.  And I kept going, motivated by a dangerous cocktail of excitement over how much I was gaining and the eternal damnation of imposter syndrome.  I thought that I can rest only when I become successful, with no clearly identifiable marker or metrics for success.

I get easily carried away, but I am not stupid.  I knew the bubble had to burst at some point.

I just didn’t know how violently it could.

///

“The Crumbling” was a sudden conflagration with a long kindling period.  The first match was struck at Oxford, when my lack of romantic savvy led to my falling in lust/infatuation with a narcissistic, well-networked man who offered me manufactured kindness during a very confusing time in my life.  To put things colloquially, I was “lost in the sauce.”  I was fixated on how much I didn’t belong at my graduate institution and felt so sorry for myself.  I craved validation and understanding; it was the soporific I needed for my weeks’ long insomnia, the Xanax for my constant worries, and the energy boost I needed to wake me from my malaise.  I was emotionally hemorrhaging.  And smelling blood, he barreled towards me.

He raped me when I was drunk in my own bedroom.  He weaponized the insecurities I shared with him against me.  He further emptied me of whom I was, spun a narrative of how I was a pitiful, love-drunk woman who deserved what he done to her; and made my home away from home a fundamentally unsafe place.  And the only coping mechanism I knew was to dive head-first into work—to fill my empty spaces through the only way I knew: producing.  

It was the wrong answer.  But I managed to see myself through to the end of my master’s with it, albeit with a few sacrifices:  Never attending my own graduation out of fear of seeing my rapist again.  A bitter distaste for life.  An inherent fear of men and relationships (and of my own shadow) that went long unresolved.  Strained communication with my parents.  And a further shattered sense of self-worth.

///

Things were fine for a year or so when I was caught up in a flurry of new beginnings: moving to a new city, starting a dream job in a dream organization, and making my first furtive steps into adulthood.  I was occupied with finding my identify as a young professional and invested my heart and soul into my new career.  And on a fateful afternoon in September 2018, I was tapped for my first humanitarian deployment to Adana, Turkey—a three-month commitment that doubled just a month into my stay.  

It was thrilling.  It was exhilarating.  It was empowering to be the face of U.S. humanitarian assistance in northern Syria at 24.  But as exciting as it was, it was also overwhelmingly terrifying to sit at the helm of a humanitarian juggernaut as the trajectory of American foreign policy changed overnight.  From December onward, Turkey was an amalgam of mild PTSD, living in hotels, unpacking and re-packing, armored vehicles, Jack Daniels, furtive puffs of Marlboro Milds, military men, street cats, insecurity, getting rowdy, hardened alternative trailer systems, over-caffeination, and exhaustion.  

I traveled to beautiful places.  I broke hearts, and I encountered love.  I was where the action was.  I was living out my wildest dreams.  I had purpose.  I felt alive, and maybe for the first time.  I sincerely believed that I would always look back at Turkey as my golden era.

/// Wheels down ADA-FRA-IAD.  Enter “The Crumbling” in full force. ///

What does it mean when the “golden era” of your life—the moment when you most felt alive—was wholly illusory?

When you look back several months later, scratch through the vermeil, and find nothing but the shaky foundations underpinning your drawn-out, whisky- and cardamom-scented daydream?  

When the person you fell in love with—the first after being raped, the one who earnestly listened to you recounting your survivor story—ended up emotionally using and abusing you, as well?

When, despite putting in blood, sweat, and tears into your work (quantified at approximately 10-12 hours a day, inclusive of weekends), your supervisor tells you to reconsider whether humanitarian work is right for you?

When deployment is no longer an option for you because of that, and you come face-to-face with the crushing reality that you never built a life in your home base.  (Rephrased:  When there is no escape from the void.)

When the wounds finally start to seal up, and then your grandfather passes away.  And suddenly you’re shoulder-to-shoulder at his altar with the extended family who narcissistically abused you during your youth? (Re: The past rears its ugly head again.)

The symptoms of all of this occurring within a 3-month timespan were:

Losing 20 pounds;

Vacillating between sleeping constantly and not at all;

Your loved ones remarking that the light in your eyes has completely vanished;

Hours and hours of self-help podcasts;

A lot of consolatory chocolate from coworkers who’ve noticed that something is terribly amiss with you;

Near-constant mental haze;

Ostinatos of teary-eyed apologies to your friends, whom you’re convinced you’ve burdened;

Manic consumerism;

Trying to harvest endorphins through prolonged cardio sessions;

Taking a lot of strange vitamins and supplements that didn’t do anything, other than make you dehydrated;

Frequent panic attacks; and

Desperate forays into various branches of spirituality (inclusive of a cheap [actually not cheap at all] psychic who tells you that you’re the victim of both black karma and an inter-generational love curse [!]…but at least she had an adorable cat.).

Tl;dr:  It’s depression.  Horrendous, soul-crushing depression, and constant anxiety over the other shoe dropping.  It’s coming to terms with the daunting reality that the only way out is to roll your sleeves up and start laying the foundations of your identity brick-by-brick.  It’s coming to grips with the fact that you have no sense of self outside of what you do.  What is the point of accumulating achievements when you never pause to appreciate them?  

What is the point of working tirelessly for others, when you make no time to sit with them and to enjoy all of the abundance together?  What is the point of life when it is all prospective?

Do you truly have a sense of self when you have relied on others to give you meaning your entire life?

///

As the thick haze of “The Crumbling” dissipated, I arrived at a bit of clarity:  That what had passed had not happened to me, but for me.  That the shaky foundations on which I rested my already fragile sense of self needed to collapse—that I needed to collapse—in order to build something that was truly steady and purposeful.  

All is not lost.  On the contrary, the ashes borne from the waves of trauma that I endured over these past several months are but the rich inputs for a more fortified way of being.  

I would be remiss to not document the process along the way.  A process I will affectionately refer to as “The Awakening.”

[seromreven]

Pretty weird and its 5AM and my phone is at 3% so excuse me if I type poorly or the concept is too weird but would you be willing to do a story where Paul gets into an car accident or something that makes him essentially forget 1965-1969? I moreso want to see his reaction from learning that John and him split. Basically just Rubber Soul era Paul learning what becomes of The Beatles. Sorry again if this whole thing was weird I can barely type tbh.

oh! it’s perfectly written. especially considering it’s 5AM (what’re you doing up, hon?) and the stress of 3% battery.

it is an interesting challenge and one i’m more than willing to partake! though i didn’t do it as amnesia as such and rather, uh, unexplained time travel. as you’ll see here;

—

January 1st, 1970,

Paul woke up with a massive throbbing headache in stark white sheets with blue horizontal lines. He didn’t have sheets like that, he recalled as he sat with his head pounded as if his life depended on it. A shiver went through him and he shot up in the bed, hizzing at the sudden sharp pain it caused in his head and blinked as his vision slightly blurred for a short excruciating moment.

Once his sight was regained; he looked around the bright room. It quickly became clear to him it was part of a hospital. A private room, he guessed, as his bed were the only one in the quaint room. The radio was playing at a low volume and he could barely make out a song he did not recognise.

What was he doing here? He had just been in a minor accident. And on a moped of all things. He felt only slightly banged up, with the headache to boot, and he could feel his chipped tooth poke sharply at his tongue as he felt his upper row teeth with his tongue.

He heard a small constant beeping that had first begun when had woken up and he groaned at its sharp ear piercing tones. He desperately wanted it to stop as it did no wonders in stopping his damning headache but he had no clue as to where it was coming from and he yelled out towards the open door in hopes of attracting the attention of any nearby nurses.

Quickly came the familiar tapping of high heels on hard flooring and in the open door entrance appeared a young looking nurse. She stopped suddenly on her way into the room as her eyes met his. She looked shocked, but not the way Paul had grown familiar to from… ecstatic fans. Rather, it looked like genuine shock. Like she was taken aback, but not from excitement but rather confusion. But not a moment later; she shook her head and continued ‘till she stopped just short of his bed.

“You called, Mr McCartney?”

Her well-manicured hands were neatly folded together on the back of a clipboard as she looked down at him, politely though creases lined her brown reminding him of the appearance she made only seconds earlier.

“Yes, uh… where I am?”

He was embarrassed to ask but he had to for he had no clue as to his whereabouts. Last he remembered was him looking at the moon as he carelessly rode on his moped with his good friend Tara Browne close behind him on a moped of his own. And then losing control and smacking his face down unto some pavement. Hardly the worth the trip to the hospital, right?

“…,” she hesitated and he felt a rush of warmth reach his cheek at the apparent stupidity of his question, “London Hospital, sir.”

“London?” he asked in a volume louder than what he had meant for it to be. And with a frown he stated to the young nurse, “but I crashed in Liverpool.”

Her confusion equalled his as she looked down at him. Certainly, he wasn’t wrong? Had been visiting his family in Liverpool for Christmas and crashed on his moped one of the nights he was there. That was what happened!

“…I,” she started but was soon interrupted as the door to the room (that she had closed upon entering it earlier) suddenly opened and in it appeared a moustachioed man with shaggy hair that reached his jaw. Paul narrowed his eyes in disbelief as he looked at the man with focused concentration; it was Ringo! He looked vastly different from when Paul last saw him.

Paul whispered his dear friends name as he came to stand next to the nurse. The next thing Paul noticed about his friend was that he looked so tired. Had he not slept? What had kept him up? Surely not Paul. His injuries weren’t so severe to cause insomnia in people, right? He felt only bruises and a slight cut on his upper lip and brow.

“Oh, they shaved you,” Ringo said with a slight smile as he looked down at Paul who still sat in the hard hospital bed. He was getting pretty restless. He felt only slightly worse for wear and not at all like he should be stuck in bed for the rest of the day. And, what? They had shaved him? For what purpose? He didn’t have a beard. Not even a moustache. His hand subconsciously came up to touch his jaw. It was stubble free.

The nurse had gone to the door and stood watching the two for a short second and, in her mind, she probably thought she wasn’t perceived, before finally leaving.

“Ringo,” he whispered. He was still confused. But he was starting to think that maybe it was a side effect of his accident… or something. It wouldn’t be uncommon to be confused after a crash, right? But some things just didn’t add up. He knew for sure he had been in Liverpool. And would Brian really have let Ringo grew out of the mop top and have a moustache too? It looked too different from the rest of them.

… The rest of them. Thinking of John and George, he suddenly got nervous. If Ringo had changed appearance; wouldn’t they have too? Paul would be the odd one out. And where were they?

“It’s good to see you awake,” Ringo patted him gently on the hand that rested in his lap, “I’ll go tell the others,” and then, with a smile that Paul thought to look rather sad, he left.

Paul waited for the door to close completely before he crawled out of the bed. His legs wobbled slightly as he stepped out on the cold floor with his bare feet and he quickly supported himself on the edge of the bed with an unsteady hand as he waited for balance to return to him. He did not know he was supposed to be out of bed or not but nothing was connected to him (IVs and the such) and he felt well enough to walk. So that’s what he did.

He first went to the window and parted the drapes to look out. It definitely was London. But several things made no sense to him. There were fashion and cars he did not recognise. He felt a rush go through his head as he looked down at the streets and stepped back from the window.

When did he last had something to drink? His hands were shaking.

He went to the small sink that stood near the door and, seeing no cups or anything like it, he bent down to drink directly from the small faucet head. It was wonderfully cold and just exactly what he needed. He continued to drink with an eager need and pulled away from it with a sigh of relief. He still felt slight pain stinging the front of his head but getting out of bed and having had something to drink relieved the tight tension a little.

He looked up from the sink and his eyes met his tired reflection. He looked as he had half expected. A visible cut on his lip. A slighter one above his right brown. And he opened up his mouth and was met with the chipped tooth he had felt poking around. Nothing he felt was worth a hospital check-in but maybe he was worse for wear internally than he was aware of.

The door opened again and Paul turned to face whoever would enter the room. He was beginning to feel slightly self-conscious now that he stood out of the bed with no protection from the blanket. The hospital gown would leave little to the imagination if he turned his back to anyone.

It was a long-haired man, somewhat the same length as Ringo had been but with a lot more volume, and he was facing the bed Paul once had been in. He felt a sense of calm looking at the man though he could not see who it was as his back where facing Paul. The man’s body tensed and he turned around and with a frown finally saw Paul.

It was George! Though Paul almost hadn’t recognised him. He looked much older than how he looked last Paul had seen him. His hair too wasn’t a mop top and he also had a moustache. So his worry had been confirmed; if Ringo and George had changed their appearance too so would John, right? But it made no sense. He could hardly imagine Brian liking this look.

“What’re you doing out of bed?”

He was asked by a worried George who stepped over to him by the sink. Paul was too overwhelmed by all that seemed to go and just shrug at George who now stood at the side of the sink, his hands resting on its cold metallic edge. Paul swallowed deep and finally got himself to ask, “what day is it?”

His moped accident was on the 28th December and all signs pointed to the fact that time had passed. Ringo and George had grown out their hair and moustache. How long would that have taken? Could he have been in a coma? Surely not! It hadn’t been that bad of an accident!

“… the 1st,” George said with a furrowed brow and a rather concerned look about him.

“Of January?”

George nodded and stepped closer to Paul to gently place on his shoulder, “are you feeling well?”

This time it was Paul’s time for his brows to knit close together. So he had only been out for a few days. Past the new year which would make it 1966 but that was hardly enough time for Ringo and George’s hair to grow as it had obviously done.

“Yeah… I think. ‘m just confused, y’know.”

He lightly shook his head and went to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. It was then he finally noticed the calendar that hung on the wall. It was pin up one of various American ‘bombshells’. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out if John had been the one who had brought it here. But what really stuck out to him was the year of that stood next to December written in bold, fat, text. Who shot back up from the bed and tore off the calendar from the nail that it hung on.

It said 1969!

He very quickly turned to face George and waved the calendar at him as he muttered words he could not properly connect in his panic. Was this correct! It couldn’t be! It should say 1965! Not bloody 1969!

George looked at him in what could be pity as he continued to wave the calendar at his old friend. He stammered and sighed and sat back down unto the bed’s edge and looked at the calendar as he held it in his lap. The month’s bombshell was a blonde woman dressed in a rather skimpy Santa Claus type dress. It felt mocking and he placed it next to him on the bed.

He burrowed his face into his hands, willing away tears as his fierce headache returned. The bed dipped slightly and he removed his hands to see George sit next to him. He seemed to be studying Paul. A look was in his eyes that Paul just couldn’t quite place.

“You’re not from this time, are you?”

Paul blinked at what George said. His friend seemed wiser and much mature than what he had known of him. And not the twenty-two year old he had been. But how could he not be from… ‘this time’? He just had a slight crash on his moped. Nothing pointed to him having been in a coma for well over four years. Especially not with what George just had said. So the only thing Paul could think of doing was a mix of shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head in complete silence.

Nothing of this made sense. Nothing of this should be possible. How did he miss four years?

He licked his lips slightly and looked at George. Their eyes met and Paul blinked. It was going to take time to get used to George’s different appearance. But it suited him well. Paul nodded slightly to himself and finally asked a question that had pushed and pushed to get out;

“Where’s… where’s John?”

He dreaded something had happened to his great friend. If four years had passed; was else could have happened?

“On his way, most likely. Ringo left to get him and Yoko from the airport.”

Paul frowned in confusion at George and he continued;

“Oh, Yoko’s his wife. He and Cyn divorced two years ago.”

Divorced? He supposed that in a way made sense. John’s relationship and feelings for Cynthia seemed unstable at best. But, divorce? What about Julian? And what had Brian’s thoughts been about this? He arranged their marriage to begin with. And a divorce would certainly go against the Beatles brand.

“And… and was that okay with Brian?”

He was hesitant to ask but the situation was just puzzling. The entire bloody situation felt like a dream. He was yet to see if it was a bad one.

George visibly hesitated and looked away.

“He’s, uh… he’s dead. Died before John even met Yoko.”

Oh. Oh.

“He’s… dead,” Paul repeated in quite a monotone way and nodded slightly to himself. Tears welled up and he swallowed hard and rushed to the sink. He shook. He was shaking. Fuck… fuck! Brian was dead? What… “how?”

It came out to barely a whisper. George didn’t hear. Paul had no idea how to react. How could he? How do you react to something like that!

Paul felt sick. More so than before. He turned to find George staring down at his hands… Right, the hospital gown. Probably had given him quite a show. He turned back around. He drew a heavy sigh and stared hard at his own reflection.

In the mirror, he saw George stand back up and come to stand near him, a hard pitying look in his eyes.

“This can’t be easy for you. And I don’t know how to help you,” he said in a calm voice and Paul nodded carefully as they looked at each other in the mirror. “John will be here soon. I’ll let you be alone,” he said and patted Paul’s back before leaving.

And he was right. Almost as soon as Paul had sat back down on the bed, his hands still shaking as he breathed heavily still trying to make sense of the situation; John entered the room alone.

He too looked vastly different from the John he knew in 65’. Skinny. Long hair. Longer than the two others. He wore small round glasses and had a full beard. A wild look in his eyes as he neared Paul on the bed. “Paul!” he yelled out on his way through the room and stopped just short before bumping into his knees.

“George told me everything,” he said and looked down at Paul. His hair almost covered his face completely as he leaned forward.

“And you believed it?”

He shrugged, “had no reason not to,” and he sat down next to him. The same place as George had.

“You’re not the Paul from last week. Or last month. It’s visible to the naked eye. You’re two different people.”

Huh. Paul wasn’t sure he completely understood what he meant. This was all just… heavy. A heavy situation. There was no sense in any of this. How could he have gone through four years? This wasn’t Doctor Who. Not some H.G. Wells novel. And where did George intuitive ability to just… kinda sense all of this? Brian was dead. John divorced and married again. What else was different?

He swallowed deeply as he realised the question he had to ask, “how’s… how’s the band?”

He looked to John who was fidgeting with his hands as they quietly looked at each other. Paul sensed the news would be bad. Of course, it would. Nothing else had seemed to be right within this predicament he had come into.

“We’re done, Paul. Finished. No more.”

Even if the answer had been expected; it stung. Hard and painful. That it had come to this. Brian dead. The Beatles having ended. What was he to do in this strange universe he was somehow in? God, he knew it not to be a dream but, oh, how he wished it to be.

It was useless to sit and cry. But what else was there to do. The intricate downfall of his personal life couldn’t possibly be the only thing to have gone through a major change. The world, from the small glimpse he had given himself, was unfamiliar.

But this was home now, it seemed. The long relationship he had with John was done if The Beatles was. He knew this much. That it wouldn’t have taken something drastic for them to have come to such a point.

He sighed, deep and hard. Acceptance of this would come slowly, he knew.

He resisted the hard urge to yell. To cry. To throw a fit. Instead; he laid back on the bed, John staring down at him in silence. And breathed in the air of the year he didn’t belong in.

[andmynewlymeltedheart]

Tears of Tenderness

He hadn’t loved her as he did now on that name day all of those years ago. He hadn’t even thought of loving her in such a way until many years after that first dance.

A Pierretasha Wedding Fic (I don’t have an AO3, so enjoy the read more.)

Tears of Tenderness

The night before the venchanie was agonizing-- Pierre stayed awake for hours, fear and anxiety pressing against his broad chest, threatening to suffocate him, the sheets of his bed surrounding him in uncomfortable warmth. He laid there a while, the sound of his breath loud and uneven, quieting every now and then, with a listening ear checking for intruders. Pierre always became paranoid at late hours. Unable to withstand this particular bout of insomnia without action, he decided that he might as well make something of his time. He wrote a few letters that needed sending, walked the grounds three times over, checked on the pigs, and finally returned indoors and tidied up his study, a place which, Natasha had once remarked, always had the feeling of having been ransacked just moments before you entered. After gathering a final few papers, which had been strewn about his writing desk, Pierre looked around the room, tried and failed to come up with more mindless tasks to occupy himself, and sat down in his armchair. Finally, he began to doze off.

Suddenly, he awoke, breathing heavily, and felt a great amount fear begin to swell in his chest once more. The terrible dream that had awoken him from his short slumber had caused him to believe that he had slept through his own wedding, an action (or rather, inaction) for which he would never be able to forgive himself. Pierre looked frantically for the clock, and upon discovering that it was only four in the morning, began to calm himself. After taking a series of long, low, deep breaths, he decided that comfort was what he needed, and so he began to search his many bookshelves for something to read. From the shelf nearest to his desk he drew Candide, which had always had the power to ease his apprehension. As his glassy eyes scanned pages upon pages of Voltaire’s familiar quips and biting retorts, Pierre felt the weight begin to lift from his chest. After some time, the sun began to peek through the small crack under the drawn shade over the window, and so he closed the book and decided to get ready.

He gathered his clothing in one arm, sweeping it quickly from his closet, without fear of wrinkling the fabric in the crease of his elbow. He considered calling a servant to help him dress, but eventually decided against it. He had to keep his hands busy, or they would begin to shake, just as they always did when he was nervous. He pulled on his trousers and dress shirt, and stretched his suspenders over his great, burly shoulders. They were a little small, and dug tightly into him, though he didn’t mind. The slight discomfort he felt would eventually fade, lost in the excitement of the events of the day ahead. Finally, he pulled on and buttoned his waistcoat, the last piece of his bridegroom’s ensemble, and having finished dressing, decided to leave for the church. While he acknowledged that he still had hours until guests would even start arriving, he reassured himself that his exceptional punctuality would only be to his benefit. If I am there early, he mused, remembering his nightmare, then it will be impossible for me to miss it by mistake.

As he opened the great wooden doors leading into the cathedral, Pierre saw a man sitting in one of the front pews. Upon hearing the loud creaking that echoed all around him, Nikolai Rostov turned, and smiled at his friend.

“Ah, Bezukhov!” Nikolai said in a jovial tone, “Tasha said you would show up early. She asked me to come and sit with you until we start. She said it would put you at ease.”

“I find that I am a little intimidated by the accuracy of her predictions. She seems, sometimes, to be something close to all-knowing,” Pierre chuckled. He hugged his soon-to-be brother in law, and took a seat next to him in the pew.  “How is it that she knows so well of these things?”

“She knows you, Pierre. She has always known you.” Nikolai paused for a moment, remembering, and then continued. ”When we were growing up… she would talk of you so often. Her description of your character always had such pinpoint accuracy. We would always joke that while others studied maths and literature, she studied music and you.”

Pierre blushed, thinking of Natasha, and smiled to himself. He had never thought of her, or anyone for that matter, thinking of him or talking of him when he was not present. He had always imagined that, in others minds, he had ceased to exist the moment he left a room. Knowing now that Natasha had remembered him (and took pains to do so) filled his heart with a magnificent feeling that he could not express with words. He inhaled sharply.

“What is it?”

“Oh...nothing...nothing.”

“Come on Pierre. You are going to be my brother soon. Brothers can confide in each other.” “No really, Nikolai. I’m fine.” Pierre sat for a moment, and Nikolai’s eyes bore straight into his. The Rostovs, Pierre believed, shared a unique ability to pull out one’s truest feelings with a simple, piercing look.

“I am terrified, Nikolai.”

“Terrified? Of what? Of Natasha?”

“No…” Pierre trailed off, remembering every frightening thought he had throughout the night, “I am terrified that...that I will not...be enough for her.”

Nikolai, uncomprehending of the intention behind this statement, chuckled heartily, leaning forward onto the pew.

“Well, I don’t know you’ve got... experience, eh? I remember your youth almost as well as I remember my own. You were not always the picture of virtue, my friend...” Nikolai cleared his throat, and continued. “I am not sure that I want to be the one to give you advice on this subject. All I can say is that...I’m sure that you’re going to be... just fine, Pierre.”

Pierre, realizing the misinterpretation, blushed heavily, and worked quickly to amend it.

“No! No… not… not that. I mean, I am a little concerned about-- no!” Pierre felt his face getting hotter by the moment. “You see, you misunderstand me. I...want nothing but her happiness. What if her happiness does not lie with me?”

“Ah. I see. Bezukhov,” Nikolai said, his eyes betraying nothing but absolute sincerity, “I have never known her happiness to lie so truly in anyone else.”

Pierre, unable to find words, let out a long breath.

Nikolai patted Pierre reassuringly on the back, and the two men sat in silence, a quietness which Pierre appreciated, for at least this time it was filled with good company. After a while, Nikolai checked the clock, and noticing that it was almost time, began to usher Pierre to the back of the church. Looking over the many empty pews, Pierre took a deep breath. Relax, Bezukhov.

Though he tried greatly to take his own advice, Pierre could not help his nerves as he stood at the entrance, waiting. He searched the room for a distraction, anything to put his mind at ease. Family and friends filtered slowly into the room, a low hum echoing throughout the old church. Pierre began to take note of the splendid architecture of the place in which he now stood, a glimpse of a bygone era still standing tall. He took notice of the buttresses, cracked but sturdy, and the immaculate stone carvings that accompanied them. He studied the twisting stone vines caressing the structure, in awe of how such art could come to be, and pitied the artist, knowing that these sorts of things were often overlooked in the presence of religious practice. He began to observe the sunlight, casting the brilliant blues and reds from the stained glass windows over the faces of the guests, making them look as though they were paintings in a museum. After studying these effects for some time, his distractions ran out.

Suddenly, Pierre began to feel it again-- the great fear creeping through his veins, turning his blood to ice and stopping his breath; the fear that he would remain in this church just as he was now: alone. He shuddered at the thought. It was not so difficult to imagine. He had heard of men abandoned at the ceremony, victims of the cold feet of would-be wives, and while he never placed blame on either the bridegroom or the bride for the dissolution of a union, he had always had a lingering fear that it would soon happen to him. 

He would understand if she left him, and would not think her cruel. He had always felt unworthy of Natasha’s love, for, even after all of her mistakes, she was the height of humanity in his mind, and he was a model for all of its faults. How could she love me? He thought, but he never dared to ask, for he feared that even posing the question would cause her to realize how superior she was to himself, and she would finally gain sense and leave him for someone better.

As the minutes passed, the fear grew stronger, and Pierre began to feel his face burn. He looked down, worried that tears would well up in his eyes, and took a deep breath. She will not abandon you. She loves you. She loves you. After a long moment, he felt a hand lift his face, ever so softly, and he suddenly realized that every last bit of air he had just taken in had vacated his lungs. She looked into his eyes, and forgetting everyone else, he let his tears begin to spill over his eyelids. A wide smile began to spread across his face, and the only thing he could see was her, his Natasha, standing there with him. The light glanced off of her cheek, making her own tears shine.

Pierre took her hand, and unable to contain his joy, firmly kissed the back of it. He held her hand over his heart, and reached out with the other to wipe away her tears. She did the same for him. Their eyes were fixed on each other.

“Pierre. Oh my dear, sweet Pierre. You know that if you cry, I shall cry too.” He laughed and felt a rush of warmth overtake his body. “My heart is racing so terribly!” 

“Mine, too.”

“I’m so...I don’t know. I feel as though I cannot breathe.”

“Are you alright?’ Pierre asked in concern.

“Oh...oh I’m sure I’m just fine. Oh goodness Pierre, how could you want me? I wonder all the time why you should want to marry me when I panick so easily at everything.”

Pierre, hurt that she could ever wonder about how truly he loved her, began to stroke her cheek with his thumb, and Natasha placed her hand on his, looking up at him.

“Because, my dear Natasha, there is nothing in this world or the next that could persuade my soul that it did not need yours.”

Natasha took a deep breath, smiled softly, and held tightly to his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I love you,” she breathed, holding back a fresh wave of tears.

Pierre exhaled, having the wind knocked out of him by her once more. She had a talent for it.

“It looks as though it’s time,” he whispered, still very much out of breath. Her gaze bore straight into his eyes, glassy yet focused, and she nodded, breathing heavily.

The priest began by blessing their rings, handed to him by Nikolai and Sonya Rostova, Pierre and Natasha’s respective svideteli. The priest told them of what their union would be-- the betterment and completion of two souls, incomplete on their own but whole and strong together. Pierre had never felt stronger than when Natasha was by his side, and he felt a particular warmth and fondness for this statement.

“You will now exchange the rings.”

Natasha took the ring from Sonya and placed it carefully on Pierre’s finger. He felt a tear fall from her face and onto his hand, and felt his own tears begin to gather again. He took the ring from Nikolai and noticed that his hand was shaking. Natasha reached out to steady him, and with another reassuring squeeze, helped to guide the ring onto her hand. The priest joined their right hands, making them one, and instructed them to keep them together for the rest of the ceremony. Pierre could not think of anything finer.

The crowning and everything after passed in a blur, until Pierre realized that the priest was giving the final blessing. He looked quickly at Natasha, who was already looking at him, and realized that it had happened. 

They were married. He and Natasha Rostova. Natasha Bezukhova. Just a few hours before, he had feared that he would spend his life alone, and now she was here. Now they were each other’s. Overwhelmed with joy, he kissed her, as if by doing so he could prove that he was not, in fact, dreaming. In the abruptness of the kiss he caught Natasha by surprise, though she reciprocated quite enthusiastically. Pierre could hear Nikolai’s soft laughter behind him. Everyone could see them, and he did not care. After all, he was kissing his wife.

********************************************************

The ballroom was the brightest he had ever seen it on a winter’s night. All rooms are brighter when she is in them, Pierre thought. He had often wondered what this kind of happiness would feel like. For so many years, he had lived in dimly lit rooms and kept to himself, reading and letting his life go by in an indistinguishable, drunken rush. But now-- things were vibrant, fresh, new. When he was with Natasha the world simply seemed better.

He watched her float through the crowd, from person to person, talking animatedly and receiving their most sincere congratulations. Pierre himself was caught up in some conversation about the developing United States, but found the topic dull in comparison to the bright light of Natasha Rostova. Bezukhova, he reminded himself, smirking slightly. He was not sure he would ever be used to that.

Distracted once more from his conversation, he saw Natasha speaking with Sonya, the two women bubbling with excitement. They hugged and held each other’s hands, exchanging knowing looks and whispering to each other whenever something new and somewhat scandalous seemed to be afoot. Every once in awhile, they would look over at Pierre, and he would become somewhat uneasy, but in a way that one does when teased by family. The looks were joyful and loving. After some time, Natasha hugged her cousin and returned to Pierre’s side. She took his hand.

“I am sorry to do this to you,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye, “I know your disdain for it, but I find that, on my wedding day, it is a requirement of my husband to dance with me.”

“Tasha…” he muttered, pulling back, “Tasha you know how awful I am.”

She pulled his face close to his and spoke at a level that only he could hear.

“Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov, you could step on my feet all night and I would still choose to only dance with you. I would like,” she said, her warm breath dancing on his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, “to dance with my husband. And so I shall.” Natasha pressed her lips firmly on his mouth, and held their kiss for a long, sweet moment. While he was lost in cheerful bewilderment, she lead him onto the dance floor, and a waltz began. After a moment, Pierre realized Natasha’s treachery, and could not help but to be impressed. He reluctantly but graciously obliged her.

Just as she had done as a young girl, Natasha helped Pierre and guided him through the steps. “This one is quite simple,” she’d say, though no dance ever seemed simple to Pierre. However, seeing how happy it made her, he put his best foot forward. He looked at her with wonder as she showed him through each piece, gracefully explaining what he was to do next. He felt so much younger when he danced with her, and forgot is hatred for it almost at once.

He remembered her name day all those years ago, when he stopped by unannounced to offer his well wishes. That was the day they danced for the first time. The dance, of course, was entirely innocent-- he did not love her then as he did now. But this dance was different. Each turn, each step, every last movement of every last muscle was entirely electric.

He hadn’t loved her as he did now on that name day all of those years ago. He hadn’t even thought of loving her in such a way until many years after that first dance. Until after he realized it was too late. After Hélène. After Andrei. Upon the last few thoughts, Pierre felt a pang of guilt, as though by their misfortunes he had received blessings he did not deserve. He pushed the thought aside. He was happy, he had to let himself be happy, for after everything they had seen, everything they had faced, after all of the wasted time, Natasha and Pierre were here, dancing as husband and wife.

********************************************************

Pierre helped Natasha into the carriage, taking her hand while the maidservant helped her with her dress, and he climbed in after her. They waved out of the window to their families as they left. Natasha’s mother was in tears, as was Sonya. Denisov smiled joyfully, and Dolokhov nodded as a man and woman he had not remembered inviting to the wedding draped themselves on his shoulders. Mary and Nikolai waved and smiled, and Pierre could swear as they passed him, Nikolai gave him a wink. Pierre pulled himself back into the carriage, blushing a deep shade of red.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” Natasha asked, concerned.

“Oh...nothing,” Pierre cleared his throat, a great many thoughts flooding his mind, “Nikolai. Something funny he did, that’s all.”

“Ah, Nikolai. I love him dearly, but I do not think I wish to speak of him now.” Natasha paused as she moved onto his side of the carriage. “All I want to hear of is you, Petrushka. How are you my love?” Pierre blushed even more as his wife put her head on his chest, which, now that she was near him, was moving much faster. He put his arm around her and gently kissed the top of her head.

“Petrushka, your heart is beating so quickly!” she exclaimed, running her hand up to feel the quickening beat within his chest.

If this continued, his face would soon turn the color of a beat.

“That...that is always the pace of my heart when you are near,” He paused a moment, taking everything in, and continued, answering her original question, “I am very well, Natasha. The best I have ever been.” Natasha looked up at him, kissed his cheek, and put her head in the exact place it had been only a moment before.

They sat in silence for a long time, and Pierre began to realize how exhausted he was. He was sure this was the first time he had sat down since the ceremony, and was beginning to feel how sore his legs were. He was not used to dancing as he did tonight. He looked down at Natasha, who had now fallen asleep, and he realized that she must feel as tired, if not more so than he did. He gently rubbed her back with his hand, and she snuggled in closer to him. Tears, which had been so present in him on this day already, began to fill his eyes once more, and he took a deep breath to calm himself, an action which roused his drowsy wife.

“Are we home Pierre?” She said, a sleepy gruffness coating her voice.

The question excited him. There was a “we” that now belonged to this home. A “we” that had not existed before this morning. The “we” that he had only ever dreamed of before. He looked out the window of the carriage as it began to slow.

“Yes darling, we are.” Pierre exited the carriage first, and upon helping his wife down, he swooped her up in his arms while she squealed with delight. He laughed heartily and carried her over the threshold, through the entrance hall, up the stairs, and over the threshold of his room...their room. He sat Natasha down on the bed, and he sat next to her.

Natasha looked into his eyes.

“Hello, husband,” she whispered, cupping his face with her hand.

Very suddenly, he began to cry.

“Oh my goodness! Pierre? Petrushka? ”

“Natasha…”

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing Tasha, nothing is wrong,” he said, working furiously to stop the rush of tears streaming down his face, to no avail.

“Have I done something?”

“Tasha...you’ve done... everything.”

Pierre noticed that his last remark had struck something in Natasha.  

“My dear, no, please. I should rephrase,” he said, clasping her small hands in his, kissing them feverishly, “You’ve...done everything for me. You’ve helped me in ways that I could not have ever foreseen. You. You are everything dear Natasha. I think what is wrong is that...nothing is wrong. Quite the contrary. Everything is as right as it can be, and I do not feel as though I am worth it.”

“Oh Pierre…”

“Natasha…” he said, and he paused for a long time, wondering if he should continue. “I...to believe that you love me. To… believe that any of this is real. That I am worthy of any of this...you don’t need someone like me. I am not worth it.”

Natasha looked into her husband’s eyes, hurting so terribly for him as he had for her this morning, hating that he felt this way, looked at him for a long moment, tears now rolling down her face. She stroked his cheek, warm and damp with tears, and reassured him.

“Stop,” she said quietly, heavily. She held his gaze. “Pierre... my Pierre...I must tell you that though you may not believe it, this is true of me, too: there is nothing in this world or the next that could persuade my soul that it did not need yours.”

Pierre looked at Natasha, his breathing returning to normal. They both smiled, and began to laugh, softly, understanding each other perfectly.

“My dearest love…” he said, and pushing back her hair, he kissed his Natasha, every bit of longing he had ever felt for her now validated in this perfect moment of bliss. The Bezukhovs were quite content.

[meiilan]

How sound became my space-suit

Okay, this sounds like a weird sci-fi novel thing, but it will make sense in context. I had some thoughts today on my own mental health and what it’s affected by and how I came to be, where I am now and so on. And I figured, it might be beneficial to write some specific thoughts down, if only for the sake of having shared them at least once.

I put most of it under a read more, because it’s a bit of a brief life-story and so I reckon it’ll get quite a bit long. Also it’s going to mention several of my mental health issues, which some people just might not want to read about.

For as long, as I can remember, I have been particularly affected by sounds, especially music. Now don’t get me wrong! This is not going to be a “How I became a Musician” story, because truth be told, I’m as musically gifted, as a piano that was tuned with a sledgehammer. I have a very bad sense of rhythm, can’t hold a note for the love of it and have never truly learned, how to read sheet music, or play an instrument. The only instrument, that I could produce decent melodies on, was a harmonica, I got when I was still in kindergarten. I taught myself to play simple nursery songs on it, by likening the sounds, I could make on the instrument to the notes, I heard when the songs were being sung.

But music and sound has always had an important part in my life and in how well I did, or did not function around people. Up to the point, where the mere thought of loosing my hearing, terrifies me. I’m not much afraid in comparison of loosing my sight, as long, as I will still be able to hear and yes, I had thought of that, too, because the gradual loss of eyesight is kinda a thing in my family and it has already started within me as well. But I’m pretty sure, I could deal with being blind one day, just as I know, I could absolutely not deal with loosing my hearing. Music and sound is just too fundamentally a necessity for my own well-being...

For example, up until I entered elementary school, I always insisted that mum sings me a lullaby before bed and I think, at least during the first grade of elementary school, I still requested her to do it sometimes. It was always the same song, of which she couldn’t even remember the whole text, let alone hit the high notes. But the familiar melody, together with the voice of my mum were an important requirement for me to actually calm down enough to be able to fall asleep eventually. Which might explain, why I started to develop serious insomnia and other sleep-related problems for a couple years, after we stopped that tradition.

The first music aside from mum, that I can remember affecting me, was the soundtracks of The Jungle Book and The Lion King. I had both movies as audiobooks on cassettes back in the days. I don’t know which came first, but I do know, that I replayed them over and over again, until they broke, or the cassette recorder ate them. But I didn’t replay the entire audibooks. I had perfectly memorized, how I had to rewind, or fast forward in order to reach specific songs, which I wanted to play. I don’t remember singing along to them, but listening to them was really important to me.

Which so far doesn’t seem all that unusual yet.

But then, when I was about 8 or 9 came the era of the walkman. It was around that time, that I also started to subconsciously realize, that the place the society around me had shaped for me, didn’t quite fit me. I just didn’t fit in. In social groups outside my family, I had always been a bit of an outcast. I only ever had a very limited number of friends as a child, which usually consisted of outcasts like me and children with too weak a will to push me away, when I came up to them, boldly demanding their friendship.

Okay, that last part sounds a bit shitty on my side, but it’s not like I was at an age, where I truly realized that. I was just that desperate for friends. Everyone outside of this small circle of friends and family members seemed to have a problem with me. The teachers thought I had a learning disorder, because I got distracted and bored in class, the other kids picked on me, up to the point, where the class had me against a wall, with my hands over my ears. The world outside my safety bubble just seemed super hostile and what was worse, was that I didn’t understand why. I felt literally alien out there. And that’s where the walkman came in.

I clearly remember a holiday camp I went to around the age of ten or so. I had a walkman by then and I had a cassette with mediocre covers of superhits from the 90s. And one of the biggest hits at that time was “I’m blue” from Eiffel 65. Now I didn’t have the original, but I had this pretty catchy cover of it, which I played up and down on my cassette recorder during the entire camp-time, up to the point, where I actually performed a sort of blue-painted alien dance during the children disco with a camp-friend I made there and never saw again after.

Whenever the other kids started talking about whatever was IN back then, or grouped up in little play groups, I wasn’t invited to, I pulled out my walkman and listened to that song. It was simply easier than trying to understand, what all the kids around me where up about.

And no this isn’t me saying I was a special child (tm) or I wasn’t like the others (tm). It’s just literally my experience. I failed to understand other kids. Music was easier. Music didn’t need to be understood. And I really didn’t understand it, because my English-skills at that age were still pretty much basic-level. All I understood from that song was, that the singer was blue, as in the color.

I had such a bad understanding of the kids my age, that my teachers demanded of my mother, that I was to see a psychologist, because I was clearly antisocial and maybe even underdeveloped. The psychologist, I went to, thankfully debunked those accusations and diagnosed that I simply had developed other parts of my intelligence, than most kids do at my age. I wasn’t very emotionally, or socially developed, but I had a keen understanding of logical problem-solving and of language and thus verbal expressiveness. I also somehow was clumsy as shit, because of that ill-balanced development, but that’s neither here nor there.

After the walkman, came the CD-player and the portable CD-player and the trend of pulling out the headphones only increased, because the world around me had become more hostile. Mainly because everybody started to hit puberty and I didn’t understand that either. It was around then, that I figured, that I was probably bisexual (disclaimer: that realization was bound to change a lot within the following years) and I wasn’t very secretive about it either. Which of course made me only more the focus of bullying by my peers and the invention of the first MP3-player came like a blessing from heaven to me, because it meant, I didn’t need to carry a hefty CD-case on top of my also hefty CD-player anymore. Music from then on was always available at a single press of a button.

I became so dependent on my mp3-player that I became incredibly moody and insufferable when the batteries ran out, or my headphones broke and I had to walk to school just one day without music. Thankfully, although my mother didn’t understand it, she didn’t punish me for it either, but simply made sure replacements were made in due time.

A lot of bad stuff happened during my puberty and all the way up to now. I developed psychosomatic stress-disorder from the excessive bullying, eventually started to even cut myself and became so unstable, that I fainted every second or so day of school, unable to attend. I used my MP3-player and later my phone more and more often during the day, up until the only time, I hadn’t headphones stuck in my ears, was at home (not always, though), or during classes. And I was seeing a psychologist again and somewhere in this time, I realized, I might be pansexual, instead of bisexual, but the biggest revelation I had during therapy, was when my psychologist asked me, if I ever considered, that I might be transgender.

Fast forward a little. A lot of stuff happened from then on too. Not all of it was bad. I came to terms with the fact, that both my gender-identity and my sexuality are a lot more confusing, than what I thought as a teenager. I found new friends, got two lovable cats, have had several relationships and several jobs, but my mental health kept declining, up until I had to be hospitalized. The diagnosis: Severe depression.

I suffered badly from insomnia by then and only medications and the discovery of MyNoise.net, a free website that provides hundreds of calming soundscapes, from instrumental to natural sounds, helped me fall asleep. I still use MyNoise.net, even though, I usually don’t use medications to sleep anymore. When I leave the house alone, I always cover my ears with headphones, music accompanying my every step. When I’m alone at home, music is playing from my pc. When I have to go to town and ride the subway, music helps me fend of a panic attack. When I’m in exhausting social situations, I put on my earphones to tune out all the people around me. I’m awake roughly 10-12 hours a day. I’m pretty sure, I’m not exaggerating, if I say at least 8 of those hours, I listen to soundscapes or music.

It is, as if I’m living in a world, where the air is too hard to breath, the surrounding environment is too hostile for me to survive, constantly attacking my mental and emotional stability. Putting on my earphones is to me, like putting on a space helmet. Only when the music starts playing, can I actually breath.

[lilylovelace]

Fluctuating. / 062117

I just finished Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen and i liked it. I find it just quite difficult to understand. English is not my main tongue, though i can speak fluently, i found that the ‘era’ has a different way of constructing sentences and phrases from now, which makes it needing an extra effort from me (to pull out my phone and check websters). I am on to Sense and Sensibility next.

My boyfriend asked me to paint him something. He was too generous and supportive of my hobbies (slash my passion for Art, drawing, watercolor, whatever you may call it) that he bought me an entire watercoloring set and two watercolor pads of quality.  He told me it’s because he wanted me to be busy so that i don’t spend too much time inside my head and to not dwell miserably on things i should not. But i don’t think i can paint properly. I bought instructional books already but i seem to mess up all the time.

To be honest, i don’t know what state of mind i am in. Few days ago i was one step into drinking all my Anxiolytics in one go. Now,i seem to have accepted the fact that my entire life would be just bad. I lost all the care in the world.Though, i know that at the back of my brain it will come back. I am on a constant fight against my head. I look at myself and i see what i’ve done. All of those series of bad decisions, sprouted into physical symptoms, my Anxiety, my stress hives (AKA chronic urticaria) and at times self implicated injuries. My insomnia, or maybe lack of sleep because i don’t know if i can call it insomnia already, is getting terrible. I kept reading and reading to make me fall to sleep but at times it’s been five chapters already and i’m still not sleepy and the clock just struck quarter to three in the morning. I wake up early too. Usually 8 or 7. No panic attacks at the moment, which is good. But i can feel it at the pit of my stomach, sometimes calm, sometimes boiling too bad, especially in crowded places.

I have been thinking, should i tell my father that this becoming a doctor , doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t enjoy any of it. I don’t see the point of becoming one anymore, and as i look forward it just gives me more anxiety. I don’t have any plans. When i think twice, to tell myself to stay, all that i have in my head is ‘you’re gonna like it soon, maybe, ‘ or ‘you’re smarter than that, and to make such stupid decision, such a waste of money!’ I scold myself, which means i’m hating myself even more for thinking that way. I hate myself already for deciding to enter medicine. Such a rush and emotionally fueled decision. I hate doctors more than i’ve hated before. They, most of them, are not what i want to be. And though i tell myself that if i become one i will never be like them, those robots,  I just can’t bear the thought of working with one. I already am working with some. The air of confidence the have, the way they walk and wear their stethoscopes around their necks as if they’ve known enough but all they know is Anatomy and Pathology. I don’t eel like i deserve to sport such. I don’t feel i deserve all of this to be honest. Not to boast, i may have difficult times in academics but i hardly fall beyond the line. I strive heard not to (bec it’s the only reason i have to stay, passing with a lot less effort than the others.). But in my head, i do not want this. Not this. I’d rather scrub the sink of the kitchen of a fivestar restaurant in London, or work as a physical therapist in any country but mine.

This is quite long, but i have to have an update. Anyway, i’ve been spending money the past few days and we bought board games, books, mainly, and food. I can feel my hands trembling now. I can feel my anxiety dancing at the pit of my chest. I wish i could write a happier entry than this.