#as if i haven’t been processing everyone else’s emotions for them

[ourlordandseivior]

Love when my mom gets fucking attitudey with me for tending to my own needs when she and literally everyone else has tasked me with handling their emotions above my own

[luvzshy]

Singer!Reader x Billie the reader is a famous singer dating Billie but they haven’t came out as couple to the public

Billie is on tour and on stage she tells the fans that she a surprise for them and them welcome the reader on stage the reader and Billie talk for a bit and then the sing a few songs together after that before it’s time to leave Billie kisses the reader infrunt of everyone the reader is a little taken back in quickly kisses back obliviously the fans start screaming and losing there Shit and as soon as the shows over Billie and the readers phone is blowing up with edit of them

The Kiss That Changed Everything

The crowd was deafening, their energy rippling through the air as Billie took the stage. You watched from the shadows, heart pounding—not because of the lights or the thousands of eyes trained on her, but because of the secret you two had been holding for so long.

You were no stranger to fame. Your own career had skyrocketed, your name recognized alongside some of the biggest artists in the world. But this—this was different. Sharing the stage with Billie wasn’t just a professional milestone. It was personal, intimate in a way that no one else could understand. The world didn’t know the two of you had been together for months now, tucked away from the relentless public eye. You weren’t ready for them to know. Or at least, you didn’t think you were.

Billie’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd. “So… I’ve been working on something special for you all,” she said, flashing that grin that always managed to make your heart skip a beat. “And tonight, I have a surprise guest.” She turned to the side stage where you stood hidden, her eyes locking with yours in the dim light. There was a softness there, something unspoken but deeply familiar between the two of you.

You hesitated for a second, feeling the weight of what was about to happen. But then you stepped into the spotlight. The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous—a mixture of screams and gasps, the flashing lights of phones capturing every second. You plastered on a smile, the practiced, media-trained one, though inside, your nerves were threatening to unravel you.

Billie met you halfway, her eyes glinting with a secret only the two of you shared. “Welcome to the stage,” she said, her voice casual but her touch, when her hand brushed yours, anything but.

You took the mic, offering a small wave to the crowd. “Thanks for having me,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. You exchanged a few lighthearted words, the kind that would look cute in edits but hid the tremor of anticipation that ran through you. Then, the first notes of the song began.

Singing together felt easy, natural even. Your voices blended effortlessly, like they had been made to harmonize. For a moment, the world outside of this stage, outside of you and Billie, disappeared. It was just the music, the lights, and the woman beside you, her presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos.

But then the last note hung in the air, the crowd already roaring with approval. You turned to Billie, ready to share a quick, relieved smile, when suddenly she moved closer, her gaze locking onto yours. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—determination, maybe, or resolve.

Before you could process what was happening, Billie leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss. It was soft but deliberate, a moment suspended in time as everything around you fell silent. For a second, you didn’t move, didn’t breathe, your mind catching up to what had just happened.

Then, instinctively, you kissed her back. It was brief, tender, but it said everything you hadn’t been able to say publicly for months. The crowd’s reaction hit like a tidal wave—screams, cheers, a cacophony of sound that made the stage seem like it was shaking beneath your feet.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes met hers, searching. You were a little dazed, a little overwhelmed, and completely unprepared for the flood of emotion you saw in Billie’s expression. It was as if she had peeled back a layer of her usual confidence, letting you see the vulnerability underneath. This kiss wasn’t just for the fans. It was for you.

The rest of the show passed in a blur. Before you knew it, you were back in the dressing room, the echo of the crowd still ringing in your ears. You sat down on the couch, your phone already lighting up with notifications. Billie's name and yours were trending, and fan edits were pouring in at lightning speed. Clips of the kiss, of your stunned reaction, of the way Billie had looked at you—they were everywhere.

Billie sat down beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. She glanced at your phone screen and then at you, her voice soft. “I… didn’t mean to catch you off guard like that.”

You turned to face her, feeling the weight of everything that had just happened. “You did,” you said quietly, though there was no accusation in your tone. “But… it was perfect.” And it was. Even though you hadn’t planned for this, even though the public now knew the truth, it felt like a release, like a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Billie’s face softened with relief, her hand finding yours between you on the couch. “I didn’t want to hide anymore. Not us.”

You squeezed her hand, feeling your chest tighten with emotion. “Me neither,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The fear, the uncertainty of what would come next, lingered in the background, but for now, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Billie’s hand felt warm in yours, the way she looked at you like nothing else in the world existed.

Your phone buzzed again, another edit of the two of you kissing, but you didn’t bother to look. Instead, you leaned into Billie, feeling the tension leave your body for the first time in what felt like forever. The world knew now, and whatever happened next, you would face it together.

[zombie-bait]

Full Moon

Ok so I don’t normally post about Helluva Boss but the newest episode touched on an interesting concept I haven’t necessarily seen represented in media. Back when I was on Twitter (derogatory) a few years ago there was this now deleted viral thread where someone discussed how their struggles with mental health affected their relationship with their partner and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. 

This is such a good, short example of how anxiety and depression can play tricks on you. It becomes so easy to envision yourself as a nuisance, a constant burden to those closest to you because they cannot possibly genuinely enjoy your company, right? But in doing so you create this arbitrarily cruel version of the people you love, people who would otherwise never behave like this outside of your own mind.

It's mean. Because your mind wants to be mean to you under these circumstances. It wants to put everyone else's emotions and desires above yours, both in worthiness and validity. And that starts bleeding into your understanding of other people, especially those you care about.

Now. Helluva Boss.

"Can I get a fucking MINUTE to think after everything you put me through you pompous rich ASSHOLE? Treat me like one of your little butler imps, you can’t just dismiss me like that! I mean, you royal fucks think you can do this every time, like you can just play with our feelings because we’re smaller and not as important. Well I’m not letting you, BITCH! Let’s go!" - Blitz

I find it really interesting how Helluva Boss decided to approach this conflict between Stolas and Blitz. Obviously, the difference in power matters. It's the underlying tension of their entire relationship and their lives. Stolas is burdened by the mountain of expectations thrust upon him from a very young age while Blitz is constantly reminded that he can NEVER be part of that world, that he is "smaller and not as important" not just in Hell's hierarchy but in his own life and family. Stolas very literally has power over Blitz (through the grimoire, the arrangement, his position in society) and Blitz uses their relationship as an excuse to reverse those roles. But that power dynamic, in one form or another, never truly goes away. And for Blitz, it's a lot easier to paint Stolas as this manipulative symbol of power and himself as nothing more than Stolas' plaything. It's easier to be angry than to be vulnerable and accept that someone might care about him.

"Dismiss" is the keyword in that quote. All that Blitz has been able to process is that Stolas has decided to end the relationship that they have. He feels ls like a choice has been taken away from him so he lashes out because he's not ready to emotionally tackle what the rest of Stolas' offer might entail. If Stolas hates him, just wants to play with him, then he is justified in his anger, his self-destruction, his isolation. If the world is mean, you're "allowed" to be mean back.

But

In that moment he forgets that Stolas is someone he actually cares about. Someone he's known for way too long and clearly wants to keep in his life, no matter how reluctant he can be to admit it. Someone who is not innately cruel or manipulative but sad and desperate for connections in a lot of the same ways that Blitz is. And Blitz immediately sees that he's miscalculated something.

Somewhere along the way the fictional version of Stolas that he's allowed himself to be mad at and the real one that he's not ready to admit he cares about have merged into something real that he has actual power over. Stolas can get hurt and Blitz can be the one who does it. He has once again allowed his greatest fears (which Stolas so frequently symbolizes) to co-opt his loved ones, to give him an "out" even though he didn't actually want one in the first place.

I'm definitely not the first person to say this but I think this is an example of the miscommunication trope done right. Their individual struggles are what cause them to be unable to connect during this conversation or to even have a proper conversation in the first place. There is no convenient misunderstanding or third party fabricating this rift. Both of them have preconceived ideas of what the other one is thinking but those ideas are flawed and rooted in self-hatred. They also both shutdown in their unique ways when the conversation starts heading in the direction they'd feared it would.

Blitz and Stolas work because they're both fucked up in similar ways, because they want similar things. That's the same reason why they're uniquely designed to hurt one another. A fear of rejection and a yearning for happiness. To borrow a quote that has been used by literally everyone from Spiderman to Evangelical preachers, "hurt people hurt people."

anyway, I really liked this episode.

(twitter thread screenshots sourced from this reddit post)

[anjellaufeyson]

I could treat you better - Bellamy Blake

Time stamp: 1:38

My boyfriend was lovely–his friend wasn’t. Bellamy Blake was the rudest man I’ve ever come across; I only tolerated him for my boyfriend. 

Murphy kissed me before he got pulled away for work, he was doing guard watch. I sighed, why couldn’t Bellamy do this? He always had Murphy doing everything for him, and I’m sick of it. Whenever Muphy comes back to our tent he’s exhausted or too tired to even spend time with me. I left my tent and walked inside Bellamy’s, he was shirtless and a girl was lying on his bed. I immediately left with a disgusted look on my face. 

Soon he came out searching for me, “What do you want, princess?” 

I palmed my face while we strolled together through Arkadia, “I’d prefer if you wouldn’t call me that, Blake. Especially since some people say that when they’re together.” 

He tilted his head, his eyes gazing into mine, he glanced down with a bit of a smile, “Right, whatever you say, princess.” 

The need to correct and argue with him was there but I ignored it for the sake of Murphy. “okay–can you please stop keeping my boyfriend working late? I’m aware of how things are, like it or not I’m one of the smart ones and I think he’s being overworked and–”

Bellamy’s face showed confusion in itself, “Murphy gets off at the same time as everyone else. I work the late nights, I’m who stays up all night, every night.” 

I stopped moving, trying to process my indecision and incoming sense of betrayal. “Wait, you haven’t been keeping Murphy late or hanging out with him late?” 

He shook his head and crossed his arms, his muscles clenching to his tight shirt. His veins popping out. My eyes tore away, my emotions were my only focus. “No, I don’t think anyone has. We’ve been on a lockdown since Clarke went missing.” 

My brain racked everything Murphy’s ever told me since he began ‘working’ late. I thought of the girl I assumed he had a relationship with but when I questioned him, he brushed me off. Out of anger, I took off leaving Bellamy, who ended up following behind me calling for my name. I moved the tent side and immediately saw Murphy and the girl kissing. They stopped once they noticed me and how distraught I looked. 

I backed up and accidentally bumped into Bellamy’s chest, I didn’t cry. I felt like I should cry, my body begged to cry, but when you did here–it made you seem weak. And I’d never want Murphy to see me cry even though my heart did in return. I turned and tried to shield myself with Bellamy’s chest, but hesitantly he put his arms around me. Trying to comfort me but I knew we both detested each other. He never liked me with Murphy for a reason I am unaware of, and I just never liked him. He brushed his hand up and down my back, almost in circular motions. 

Murphy’s voice appeared from behind me but I didn’t dare to look back because I felt so vulnerable, I knew I would cry. “I need to talk with her, I can explain!”

Bellamy stepped in, holding me closer. His voice was demanding, his tone was deep, “Murphy, you should go. Now. If she wants to talk to you, she’ll do it later.” 

I could hear Murphy protesting before easily giving up, he didn’t care to try. I pushed away from Bellamy who almost looked shocked at how quickly I switched up. 

We had to go on a mission, and I found myself in a difficult position. A hand covered my mouth and once I realized I didn’t know the person whose hand it was I began to get a bit scared. I tried to fight them off but couldn’t–it had to be a grounder. 

The grounder pulled a sword on me and dug into my back, but not enough to hurt me but it pierced the skin. He pushed me onto my knees where my friends were–including Bellamy. The whole hunting group was in. Murphy seemed nervous. I guess I should be too, especially since it’s my life on the line. 

“Who’s valuable to her?”

What an odd fucking question–is this supposed to be leverage? Might as well let me die. 

Bellamy not even a second later stepped forward, “She’s with me, that’s my girlfriend.” He spoke so truthfully that even everyone we knew was aware he was lying through his teeth. 

“What are you willing to give me in turn for her life?” 

His eyes almost turned vulnerable, his words coming off as pathetic as his tone came off as pleads. “What do you want?” 

The grounder moved the sword which caused me to wince, “I want Wanheda.” Everyone shared a confused glance, who is that? “Give her to me and I won’t kill her.” 

“Take me instead, she has a better chance of getting through to Wanheda than me.” What is he doing? He’s going to get himself killed–I’m aware he can handle himself but this is almost suicidal. The grounder pushed me into Bellamy’s arms. He squeezed my hand for the quickest second and moved to the grounder who hit him immediately. 

I wanted to help him but I didn’t know how to, Bellamy could’ve attacked but stayed down, taking another punch with ease. I stepped forward but he put his hand up, “Don’t,” he demanded while blood ran down his cheek. 

Why was he willing to do this for me? We’ll never find her, I mouthed. He did a tiny nod. They need you, I mouthed once more. He got kicked in his ribs and I knew I lost his attention but while the grounder was distracted I quickly stole Murphy’s gun and shot the grounder. My aim was good, but I hated shooting, killing wasn’t something I wanted to do. But I had to–for him. 

Without processing what I did I went to Bellamy’s side. I hated his stupidity and I hated how he saved my life. “I hate you,” I said as I helped him up. He spit out blood, “I know,” he said while wincing from getting up too quickly. 

While Bellamy was getting medical from Abby, I was talking with Octavia and Jasper. Murphy approached grabbing my arm, “Were you and Bellamy seeing each other behind my back?”

His breath reeks of Monty’s moonshine, “Are you serious? You’ve been cheating on me, Murphy?”

“Were you yes or no?” 

Before I could say anything Bellamy put his arm around my waist. His hands slipped around my stomach. Holding me tight but just to keep himself steady from behind. “Yes,” he said in a raspy voice, still clearly in pain. I couldn’t turn my head, I’d be too close to his face. He groaned a bit in pain but still managed to keep his posture strong and himself looking composed. Bellamy pulled me in closer to him and that got a bit of a reaction from Murphy. 

“Fuck you both,” he said as he stormed off. Everyone else decided to leave us alone, I was going to Bellamy back to medic. There was a zero percent chance he was let out yet. 

He stopped me from walking, his tight and bloody shirt doing him every bit of justice. His hands took control so easily, “Why’d you do it,” I asked. 

His fingers traced along my neck, “Save you? Or help you?”

“Both,” I spoke breathlessly. His eyes were fixated on my lips and I wondered if Abby gave him painkillers or something for this type of behavior. 

Bellamy stared down at me, tension felt like it was rising, and the heat was radiating off our bodies. He kept one hand on my waist, holding me. His right hand pulled my hair to the side he leaned in, “because we both know I could treat you better,” he whispered into my ear.

[tomriddleslovergirl]

The Fruit of Your Labour

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Wordcount: 1k

Summary: After months of searching, you finally find Mattheo.

It’s been months. Months since you’ve last seen your boyfriend. Months spent on trying to track Mattheo down. And finally, you’ve found him.

You stand on the porch of a small house, staring at the front door. You chew your bottom lip raw, your hands forming fists — crinkling the note with the house’s address in your hand. You shove it into your pocket.

Your heart races. You haven’t seen Mattheo in so long. So many emotions and thoughts have gone through you since he disappeared. You had been scared, wondering what had happened to him. And after finding out that he had run away, you were left with one word in particular running through your head.

Why? Why would Mattheo leave? Why would he leave Hogwarts, his friends, you?

Though you are afraid Mattheo will turn you away at the door, you curl your hand into a fist, about to knock, when suddenly the door creaks open.

Arm falling to the side, you stare at the man before you. His warm brown eyes look at you in the same way. 

Mattheo looks almost the same, except that there are bangs under his eyes and his scar has been covered by what you assume is magic.

He speaks your name, snapping you out of your trance.

“Mattheo.. Mattheo." You speak his name almost unbelievingly. You want to jump into his arms and also slap him. “You left.”

He wears his guilt on his face. Good.

“I-I can explain,” Mattheo says, reaching out for you. You think he’s about to hug you, but instead, he pulls you into the house and shuts the door behind you.

“Does anyone else know you’re here? Where I am?” He sounds frantic and his body language shows it.

You shake your head. “No. As soon as I found out about your whereabouts, I came here.” You grab the note in your pocket and show it to Mattheo as some sort of pathetic show for proof.

He snatches it from you and scans the writing before throwing the paper into the fireplace.

“You can’t tell anybody about me,” he says.

Your brows furrow and your lips form a frown. “Why not?”

Mattheo sighs, though his gaze softens into something more familiar. He pulls you towards him and wraps his arms around your frame. Despite yourself, you melt into Mattheo’s embrace.

“You left,” You whisper against his chest.

“I know,” he whispers back.

You both pull away from each other and he gestures towards the couch. You sit down.

“I’m Voldemort’s son.”

You stare up at him, dumbfounded. It takes a moment for you to process those words. “What?”

He sighs again and awkwardly scratches the back of his head. “Yeah…”

You shake your head, unbelieving, though you know Mattheo wouldn’t joke at a time like this. “But your parents are… Bellatrix and Rodolphus.”

Suddenly, you remember all those times you would write Mattheo’s name in your diary. Mattheo Lestrange Black.

“I didn’t believe it as well. Turns out my mom had a thing going on with the Dark Lord.” Mattheo takes a seat next to you. “Voldemort suddenly found out that I was technically his son a few months ago, and he wanted to kill me. My parents helped me run away before he actually hurt me,” he explains nervously, and glances at you.

You take in everything Mattheo says, on guard.

“How long will you be here for?” You ask, grasping his pale hand and giving it a squeeze.

Mattheo shrugs and interlocks your fingers with his. “I don’t know. Hopefully when he dies.”

The Order of the Phoenix. You want to suddenly tell Mattheo all about it, but somehow keep your mouth shut.

You give his hand another reassuring squeeze.

“Are you going to leave again? Now that I know where you are.”

Mattheo shakes his head. “I don’t want to, and I don’t want to leave you again.”

You can’t help but smile at his words. You feel tears prick the corners of your eyes but quickly wipe them away. “Everyone was so worried about you,” you say, hoping Mattheo couldn’t hear the tremble that laced your words.

His eyes light up as you mention the others. “How are they doing?”

“Everyone was worried when you first left,” You repeat. “I haven’t really been keeping up with the others all that much, if I’m being honest.”

Mattheo nods.

“What if he finds you?” You can’t help but ask. The ‘he’ in questions doesn’t have to be specified.

You listen to the crackling of the fire as Mattheo thinks for a moment. “There are protective charms covering this area. If Voldemort or one of his cronies tries, I’ll be informed. So, I’ll have some extra time to get away.”

Oh. That’s a bit of a relief to hear. You relax and let yourself be held by Mattheo. Soon, you find yourself sitting sideways atop his lap.

“I really missed you,” he says, pressing his face against your neck.

“I did too.” You run your fingers through Mattheo’s dark hair, and gently grip it to force his face back. You press a kiss to his lips, which he returns. He wraps one hand around your waist, bringing you closer, while the other rests on one of your legs. You in turn wrap your arms around Mattheos neck, deepening the kiss.

You wish you could stay like this forever, held in the arms of the person you loved. Love. You  realize you haven't told Mattheo you love him yet.

You break the kiss and whisper near his lips, “I love you, Mattheo.”

He lets out a small breath and your heart skips a beat. “I love you too.”

Mattheo presses another kiss to your lips, and you respond to it in delight. You both press against each other, perhaps in the hope that you’ll somehow be stuck together.

“Stay the night,” Mattheo says breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You would stay with Mattheo forever if you could. But you know that you’ll eventually have to leave so that your family wouldn’t worry. So, you’ll enjoy the secretive time you have with him for now, until he’s safe from the danger that confines him.

a/n: I don't think Tom would be thrilled at the news of having a child, and would view them as a sort of competition, and would end up killing them. So, that kind of inspired me to write this fic. The reader is going to end this war for her man lol🤪 divider creds: @saradika

[awkward-walking-potato]

Logan x gn!reader that can’t feel emotional pain, or js can’t cry in general? Even in the darkest, or sad times, they just can’t cry? And it makes them feel indifferent because others in their past accused the reader of being selfish and uncaring when it’s the opposite. They can express sadness in their face, like grief, but any other kinds of things relating to emotional sadness, and even tears are something they can’t express.

The Tears That Never Fall

Logan had seen grief in many forms over the years. He'd seen people sob uncontrollably, collapse to the floor, and scream at the heavens. He’d witnessed the silent type too, the ones who shut down completely, as if their hearts were too heavy to bear the weight of their pain. But you? You were different.

Sitting beside him on the porch, staring out at the horizon, there was no mistaking the sadness etched into your features. Your face carried the telltale signs of sorrow—your eyes distant, your lips pressed into a thin line. Yet, there were no tears. There never were.

"You don’t gotta hold it in," Logan said quietly, his voice unusually gentle. He was never great with comforting words, but he was trying. He’d seen that look on your face enough times to know something was weighing on you.

You turned to look at him, a small, tired smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. "I’m not holding anything in."

Logan frowned, clearly not understanding. He didn’t doubt that you were hurting—he could see it plain as day—but your lack of tears, of any kind of outward breakdown, made him uneasy. You had a way of carrying your grief silently, and it was something he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

"You’ve been like this a while now," he said, more softly. "Whatever it is, you can talk about it, y’know?"

You let out a long, slow breath, your gaze returning to the view in front of you. "I know," you said. "But it’s not that simple, Logan. I… I can’t cry. I haven’t been able to for as long as I can remember."

Logan’s brows furrowed, his confusion deepening. "You mean, like you physically can’t?"

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. No matter how sad I get, no matter how much I feel it inside… the tears just don’t come. It’s always been like that." You hesitated, biting your lip before adding, "People used to think I didn’t care. Like I was selfish or cold because I wasn’t crying at funerals or when things went bad."

Logan was silent for a moment, processing what you’d said. He hadn’t known that about you. Sure, he’d noticed you never cried—hell, you never even came close, even when things had gotten rough at the mansion. But hearing that it was something you physically couldn’t do? That was new.

"That why you don’t talk about it much?" Logan asked. "’Cause people don’t get it?"

You nodded again, a flicker of something like relief crossing your face. "Yeah. It makes me feel… indifferent sometimes. Like I’m broken or something. People would tell me that I should cry, that it would help, but I couldn’t. It’s not that I don’t feel things—I feel them deeply. I just can’t express it the way they expect."

Logan let out a low sigh, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "You ain’t broken," he said firmly. "People grieve in different ways. Just ‘cause you don’t cry doesn’t mean you don’t feel things. I know you do."

You glanced at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice. Logan was never one for long, heartfelt speeches, but when he did say something, it always carried weight. And right now, those words felt like a lifeline.

"It’s just hard," you admitted, your voice quieter now. "When everyone else around me is crying, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Like I’m missing something… human, you know?"

Logan’s hand found yours, his grip strong and steady. "You ain’t missin’ nothin’. You feel things just as much as anyone else, maybe more. Don’t let anyone tell you different."

For a moment, you stared at him, your heart warming at the simple but profound reassurance. Logan had a way of cutting through all the noise, getting straight to the point without any of the unnecessary fluff. And right now, he was reminding you that your inability to cry didn’t make you any less human, or any less worthy of being understood.

You gave him a small smile, squeezing his hand. "Thanks, Logan. You… you’re one of the few people who hasn’t judged me for it."

Logan chuckled softly, giving a small shake of his head. "I ain’t one to judge, darlin’. I’ve been through enough to know that grief don’t look the same for everyone."

He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as you leaned into him, letting the comfort of his presence settle around you. It wasn’t often that Logan was this openly caring, but with you, it felt natural. You didn’t need to cry, or break down, or do anything other than what you were doing now—sitting quietly beside him, your sadness understood without needing to be spelled out.

And for once, you didn’t feel like you had to hide or explain yourself. Logan got it. He always did.

[wandering-winchesters]

The Weight of Words

Summary: When you reveal a deeply personal truth, Dean's unwavering support proves that no burden is too heavy for him to share. Trigger Warnings: self-harm, mental health struggles, intense emotional conversations, and protective behavior. Requested: Yes, by anon --

Dean hadn’t expected the day to take this kind of turn. One moment, you were sitting side by side on the worn couch in the bunker’s library, sharing stories about your teenage years. Then, you let it slip—a quiet confession you hadn’t intended to share.

“I used to self-harm,” you said, the words barely above a whisper, as though saying them too loudly might bring the memories back to life.

For a moment, Dean froze. The magazine he’d been flipping through slid from his hands and landed on the coffee table with a soft thud. He turned to you, his brows knitting together in that familiar way, his face a mixture of confusion, hurt, and worry.

“Wait… what?” His voice was cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right—or maybe he didn’t want to believe that he had.

You took a deep breath, your gaze fixed firmly on your hands in your lap. “It was a long time ago. Before I met you. I was going through some… stuff, and that’s how I dealt with it.”

Dean was quiet for a beat too long, and it made you glance up at him nervously. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the kind of look you’d seen on him before—when he was barely holding himself together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked finally, his voice low but tinged with an urgency that made your chest tighten.

You shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “Because it’s not something I like to talk about. And I’m fine now, Dean. Really. It’s in the past.”

His scoff surprised you, a sharp exhale of disbelief. “Fine now? Come on, Y/N, you don’t just… just drop something like that and then tell me you’re fine now.”

“I am fine,” you insisted, your voice firmer this time. “I don’t do it anymore. I haven’t in years.”

“But you did,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and softened his tone. “You did, and I didn’t know. You went through that alone, and I… I didn’t—dammit.” He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace.

You watched him, unsure if you should say something or just let him process. This was why you hadn’t wanted to tell him—because you knew he’d take it harder than you did. Dean had a way of carrying other people’s pain like it was his own, even when you didn’t ask him to.

“I didn’t want to burden anyone,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

Dean stopped pacing and turned to you, his expression somewhere between disbelief and anger—not at you, but at the situation. “Y/N, you could never be a burden. Do you hear me? Not to me, not to Sam, not to anyone who gives a damn about you.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to fall. You blinked quickly, shaking your head. “It didn’t feel that way back then. I didn’t think anyone would understand.”

Dean’s face softened, and he came back to sit beside you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and you could feel the weight of his emotions hanging in the air. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but no less intense.

“I’ve been through some dark stuff too,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. “Hell, there were times I didn’t think I’d make it out. And yeah, I’ve got my ways of coping—most of ’em aren’t healthy, I’ll admit. But I had people. I had Sam. I had Bobby. You didn’t have anyone, did you?”

You shook your head, a lump forming in your throat. “Not really. I didn’t let anyone in.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes filled with a sadness that made your chest ache. “Well, you’ve got me now. And you’ve got Sam, and Cas, and everyone else in this crazy life we’ve built. You don’t ever have to go through that crap alone again. You hear me?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I hear you.”

But Dean wasn’t done. He reached out and gently took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m serious, Y/N. You don’t ever let yourself get to that place again without coming to me first. I don’t care what time it is, what’s going on—you come to me, okay? Promise me.”

You hesitated for a moment, the intensity in his eyes almost overwhelming. But you could see how much this meant to him, how much he cared. “I promise.”

“Good.” He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Now, do me a favor and don’t keep stuff like this from me anymore. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” you said, managing a small smile. “I’ll try.”

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You better do more than try. You think I don’t notice when something’s off with you? I notice, Y/N. I just don’t always know how to ask.”

For the rest of the day, Dean didn’t leave you alone for long. He insisted on making dinner—though his idea of “making dinner” was ordering takeout—and suggested a movie marathon to take your mind off things.

As you sat together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and watching one of his favorite cheesy action flicks, you felt the tension in your chest start to ease. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he were checking to make sure you were still there, still okay.

It wasn’t just the words he’d said earlier that comforted you—it was everything he did afterward. The way he made you laugh with his over-the-top commentary on the movie. The way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, as if to remind you he was there. The way he didn’t push you to talk about anything you weren’t ready to share but made it clear he was there if you needed him.

By the time the credits rolled, you felt lighter than you had in a long time. You leaned your head against his shoulder, and he didn’t move away—just shifted slightly so you’d be more comfortable.

“Thanks, Dean,” you said softly.

“For what?” he asked, his tone casual but his expression anything but.

“For being you.”

He smirked, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Damn right.”

But as you drifted off to sleep beside him, you knew he’d take those words to heart—and that he’d do whatever it took to keep you safe, both from the world and from yourself. Tag List: @roseblue373 @hobby27 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers

[aylacavebear]

Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 21

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 7010

Warnings: Dean's "memories" from the night at the bar when he saw her again after leaving after graduation.

A/N: Well, here it is everyone, what Dean was going through over the course of the story. I hope it was worth the wait. Things will pick back up on 10/24 with Chapter 25 and you'll still get next Friday's up on the 25th with Chapter 26. <3

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 21

Dean had been giving her space for the past three days, even though it killed him to do so. It wasn’t that the bunker was small, but feeling her emotions made it feel far smaller than it really was. That was also what made the tension build as fast as it did, like a pressure cooker—every hour she spent avoiding him made the silence heavier, more suffocating. He’d looked for a moment when he could talk to her, but she never gave him one.

By the fourth day, Dean had reached his breaking point. He couldn’t stand the silence, the distance between them, and the way she wouldn’t even meet his eyes was breaking him. Sitting across from her at the kitchen table, he set his coffee cup down with a deliberate thud, the sound echoing in the quiet room. It wasn’t just the cup slamming down—it was everything else he was holding back.

His jaw tightened as he slid into the seat opposite her, his eyes locked on her face. “Okay,” he started, his voice gruffer than usual. “I gave you three days. I’m tired of the elephant in the room. I’m tired of you avoiding me. Yeah, I do have a soulmate, but there’s no guarantee that soulmates find each other. Am I really that repulsive that you’d rather avoid me than us maybe having something together?”Dean’s heart hammered in his chest as soon as the words left his mouth. It was blunt, maybe too much, but he couldn’t take it back now. He just didn’t say that she was his soulmate. That would have been too much right now. He watched her blink, her face blank, like she was trying to process what he’d just said. For a second, he regretted his tone—this wasn’t how he wanted it to go, like he was pushing her into a corner, but he didn’t know how else to cut through the tension between them.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but the words hit him harder than he’d expected. “You’re the furthest thing from repulsive, Dean. Hell, you’re one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. It’s hard to think you’d even want me since you still haven’t told me about your past.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t expected her to bring that up. All this time, he thought she was avoiding him because of the soulmate stuff, not because of everything he hadn’t been able to tell her. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with more than you were already dealing with. I’m—I’m sorry,” he apologized, his words feeling like they weren’t enough.

She stared down at her coffee as she spoke again, her voice barely audible. “I know you said you couldn’t talk about it, and that I had to keep what you had told me a secret, but there’s so much you avoid, so… I don’t ask. You know everything about me and… I- I just feel like you don’t want me to know about you.”Dean rubbed a hand down his face, leaning back in the chair, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing on his chest. She wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t told her much—he couldn’t—but hearing it from her, knowing that it hurt her, stung in a way he wasn’t prepared for. The kitchen felt smaller, the tension between them almost unbearable. He glanced up at her briefly, but her eyes were still down, locked on the last bit of coffee in her cup.

The air felt thick, suffocating, and when she stood to refill her cup, Dean just sat there, silent, watching her. His chest ached, his mind racing with all the things he couldn’t say to her yet, and all the ways this conversation could have gone.

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay,” she said quietly, sadness in her voice that tugged at his heart.

Dean swallowed hard as he watched her retreating, taking her coffee with her and heading to her room. She was giving him space now, but that’s not what he wanted. He didn’t want more distance between them—he needed to find a way to bridge the gap.

When he heard her bedroom door begin to close, something snapped inside him. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, his hand stopping the door from shutting completely. He couldn’t let her walk away without saying something.

“I just didn’t want to put you in more danger than you were already in,” he admitted softly, his eyes searching hers.

She looked up at him, her gaze meeting his, and for the first time in days, there was something vulnerable in her expression that mirrored what he felt. “Probably can’t get much worse than being forced to hide out in this bunker for who knows how long,” she replied with a dry chuckle.

Dean let out a breath, managing a small, understanding smile. She had a point. “You know, you’re probably right about that. Can I come in?”

He could see the hesitation in her eyes, but when she bit her lip and nodded, relief washed over him. He stepped inside, sitting down on the edge of her bed across from her, watching as she wrapped her hands around her coffee cup.

Dean leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together. His gaze was locked on the floor, the weight of everything he wanted to say pressing down on him. He knew this moment mattered—he couldn’t screw it up. But for now, he waited, trying to find the right words, trying to find a way to tell her what he could without pushing too much. 

When he finally spoke, his voice felt heavier than usual. “Remember how I told you about that woman who had my name professionally tattooed on her? Well, she also had fake records. The name she gave me was the same as the one of my soulmate.”Dean’s mouth went dry as he forced himself to keep talking. This part of his past always felt like walking through a minefield. He stayed in his hunched position, not daring to look at her yet. He knew she was listening, trying to piece everything together, but it was hard enough just to get the words out.

“It wasn’t until a couple of years later that I found her real ID. Her name was Lisa. She even had a kid,” he explained, trying to keep his voice steady, but it was hard to forget the moment he found out—his stomach twisted as he recalled the panic, the betrayal. “She used makeup to cover up her real soulmate’s name. If I hadn’t found it when I did… she and I would be married right now.”He shuddered slightly, the thought still making him sick to his stomach. “That’s the legal battle going on right now, trying to prove which of the names on her is real and which one is the tattoo. My dad hired a detective and had her investigated. She’s working for the Vaught family.”Dean finally chanced a glance at her, watching as her eyes widened in shock. He didn’t blame her—it was a hell of a lot to take in. The goosebumps that appeared on her skin were a reflection of the chill that settled over him as he spoke. He could see she was putting the pieces together, connecting his story with what she knew from her parents’ letters.

When she rubbed her collarbone, he knew she was thinking about her own soulmate’s name, the one that hadn’t fully appeared yet… his name. Just as he was about to continue, she spoke, and the question hit him like a gut punch. “What’s your soulmate’s name?”

Her voice was quiet, hesitant, but he could hear the urgency behind it. Dean sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. He hadn’t wanted to get to this point yet, but there was no avoiding it now.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he replied softly, finally turning toward her. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulled his shirt aside and revealed the name etched on his shoulder. Her name. The same name that had been haunting him since he’d walked away after he graduated.

He watched her reaction carefully, the way her eyes locked onto the letters. It wasn’t a common name, but seeing it on him seemed to shift something inside her. Dean felt a pull deep in his chest, like the bond between them was attempting to heal, but at the same time, he could feel her anxiety rising.

He quickly covered the name back up and stared down at the floor again, his heart thudding in his chest. He knew what was coming next—he could feel it. And when her voice came again, it was full of the same nervous energy that was running through his veins. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Dean swallowed hard, feeling the knot of guilt tightening in his throat. He’d been holding back for so long, and part of him had hoped they’d have more time—time for her to heal, time for things to settle. But it was too late now. “I was hoping you could heal first,” he admitted, his voice low and almost defeated.

He could see the way her eyes narrowed at him, her anger starting to bubble to the surface. And he didn’t blame her. He’d been keeping things from her, not out of malice, but because of what the Vaughts had done. Sam warned him that he had to tread carefully with her, that giving her too much too quickly could easily send her entire system into shock and possibly a coma. Still, she had every right to be mad.

Before he could say more, she snapped, but he’d felt it coming. “You’ve known this entire time, and you never said anything! You went off with some tramp and let this whole town treat me like I was a plague! Get out!”

Her words hit him like a freight train. Dean had been bracing himself for her anger, but nothing could have prepared him for the sick feeling twisting in his gut. Like a knife that someone stabbed him with and was slowly turning back and forth. He didn’t let her see it, though. She had a right to her anger.

Hanging his head, Dean stood up and walked to the door, each step heavier than the last. He paused, his hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment before he turned and closed it behind him. His hand moved to his sternum, rubbing the ache that had set in at her pushing him away. Part of him felt as though he deserved it, for leaving her all those years ago and letting her face everything alone.

Dean stood outside her door, leaning against the wall, his heart heavy with regret. After what felt like an eternity, he heard her muffled sobs. Every tear she shed felt like a knife in his chest, twisting deeper with every passing second. He should have known that she would put the pieces together, that she’d ask the questions she had. She was curious like that. It was one of her qualities that he adored.

When he felt the pain in her body as if it were his own, he couldn’t just walk away. Quietly, he opened her door. She looked so broken the way she was curled up in a ball on her bed. His bare feet padded softly against the floor as he walked toward her bed, stopping just behind her. Dean’s heart clenched as he watched her, seeing just how much pain she was in.

Without saying a word, he carefully lifted the blankets and slid into bed beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist. He could feel her body tense at first, her breath hitching as she tried to keep the sobs quiet. His touch seemed to make her cry even more, but he didn’t let go. If this was the only way he could be there for her right now, then he’d stay as long as she needed.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Dean whispered, his voice barely audible. He kept his forehead pressed against the back of her head, “Even when I was around Lisa, I could still feel you and what you were going through, at least a little. She’d always keep up the lie, though, whenever I asked if she was feeling that way. I’m so sorry, Sweetheart.”

He felt how his words brought on more tears, but also how they comforted her. It was how vulnerable she felt that brought on a new sense of determination—he was going to help her heal. Dean closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. She was everything he’d ever wanted, and he’d failed her over and over. “After you turned sixteen and you didn’t seek me out, I thought maybe I was wrong. So, I left just after senior year and traveled. It wasn’t until after Sam started in college and found out what the authorities were trying to keep under wraps that he told me. It took him another couple of years to get enough information to do anything.”Dean could feel her trembling beside him, her body racked with sobs. The sound of her crying cut through him like glass.

“Why does it all hurt so much?” she asked, her voice cracking in between sobs.

He let out a long sigh, shifting slightly so he could gently roll her onto her back. She resisted at first, trying to hide her face from him, but he wasn’t about to let her retreat now. Not when she was like this, and he knew he could help her. His hand moved to wipe away her tears, his thumb brushing lightly over her wet cheeks.

Dean’s heart ached at her question. He could offer her the truth—and hope she’d let him in. He gazed down at her, and in that moment, he felt a surge of what he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since that first week they worked together—love. Real, unshakable love. His thumb gently wiped away another tear that slipped down her cheek, and he could see the uncertainty in her eyes as she winced, clutching at her chest.

Dean leaned a little closer, his eyes drifting to her collarbone where the name had started to appear, still faint. “Do you trust me?” he whispered.

Her response wasn’t immediate, and he could feel the fear radiating off of her in waves. He didn’t blame her—she had every right to be. But he needed to hear her say it before he went any further, before he could help her.

“I’m scared,” she whispered back, her voice trembling.

He swallowed hard, giving her a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll never hurt you, at least not on purpose.” He offered her the sweet, familiar smirk that he knew she liked—the one he saved just for her. “Even with you being scared, do you trust me?” he asked again, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hope.

Her breath was shaky as she bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. He could feel the pain she was in, but there was something else—something that told him she wanted to believe him, even if she was terrified.

“Yes,” she whispered, sniffling once more.

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest, relief washing over him as he leaned in closer, their faces just inches apart. His eyes never left hers, searching for any hesitation, but all he saw was the mix of emotions—the pain, the fear, the hope.

Slowly, he closed the distance, his lips meeting hers in a soft, soothing kiss. He could feel the tension in her body, the way her hand gripped the back of his as if she were holding on for dear life. But beneath that, there was a quiet moment of connection—a brief pause in the storm of emotions swirling around them.

The kiss wouldn’t fix everything. He needed her to let him in, to let herself feel the love she kept pushing away for him. And, for a moment, it was there, hitting Dean like a mach truck and a kaleidoscope of colors. He knew it would take far more than a tender kiss to heal the hole in her soul, but this was a start.

The pain in her chest didn’t vanish, but it had gotten bearable, and then he felt her wince as she pulled away. “What?” he asked, concern lacing his words.

She grimaced, her hand going to her collarbone. “My… shoulder… it burns.”

Dean frowned, his confusion deepening as he shifted to get a better look. When he saw the red, irritated skin on her collarbone, a curse slipped under his breath. “Damnit,” he muttered, realizing what was happening. Her mark—his name—was starting to show more, but instead of bringing comfort, it was causing her pain. His heart ached at the sight, knowing that their connection—while real—came with its own share of complications, thanks to the Vaughts.

Without hesitation, Dean got up and rushed to the bathroom. His mind raced as he grabbed the burn cream he’d seen the other day. Sam had warned him this might happen, but he’d hoped it would have gone differently for her. He quickly returned to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Dean gently applied the cream, watching as her skin seemed to cool under his touch. “Sam said this might happen. You’re a true empath, Sweetheart,” he explained, his voice soft but carrying the weight of the situation. He glanced up at her face, only to find her looking at him with that confused expression that always made him want to laugh despite everything.

He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “God, you really are adorable,” he said, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind her ear.

Her cheeks flushed, and that pout appeared on her lips—the one that always got to him. He chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension for both of them. “What’s an empath?” she asked, still pouting slightly, which only made Dean’s smile widen.

“It’s a special kind of person,” he started, trying to explain in a way that would make sense. He wasn’t the expert here—Sam was—but he’d at least memorized the basics. “You can feel what people are going through or feeling, even if they aren’t your soulmate. It’s stronger with people you’re close to. Soulmates have a connection, but you—you can feel people that aren’t even connected to you like that.”Her brows furrowed as she listened, clearly trying to process the information. “So, what does that have to do with why my mark is burning?” she asked, still sounding confused.

Dean paused, choosing his words carefully. He wanted to explain it in a way that would ease her mind, but there was no sugarcoating it. “Because your soul is wounded,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “Everything that happened—the town, the way they treated you—it cut deeper than it would have for someone else. The more your mark comes in, the more it’ll burn. It’s like your soul is healing, but it hurts. And you’re connected to people around you, not just your soulmate. That’s why it’s so hard.”He kept his eyes on her, watching as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. Her silence told him she was processing, and he stayed quiet, giving her space to think. Sam had explained it all to him in detail, but watching her go through it—Dean wished he could do something more. He wished he could take the pain away.

After a moment, she looked up at him, her voice small and defeated. “Why me?”

Dean’s heart sank at the question, knowing how much she was hurting. He wished he had an answer for her, but he didn’t. All he could do was be there for her now. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, his hand moving to caress her cheek. “I wish I did. But I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to go through this alone. You’re not alone anymore.”He watched her closely, hoping his words might bring her some comfort. She stared at him for a long moment, and he could see the war of emotions in her eyes. Now, though, he felt them deeper than he had before. He even heard parts of her thoughts in his mind clearer than they had been. Then, without warning, she sat up and flung her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight.

Dean’s breath hitched in surprise, but it didn’t take him long for him to return the embrace, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. The feel of her against him—so warm, so vulnerable—made his chest tighten, but this time, it wasn’t from guilt. It was from something deeper, something that made him want to hold her like this forever.

He sighed contently, burying his face in her hair for a brief moment. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Dean didn’t say anything, just held her a little tighter. He could feel the tension in her body slowly start to ease, and it made something in him relax as well. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. Her eyes were searching his. He watched her thoughts practically play out in his mind.

Then, the alarm system went off, instantly pulling her attention from him. The moment was gone. Her thoughts were on the monitors, and she was already out of his arms, across the bed, and into the security room before he could even process what had happened. He felt her putting her walls back up. Her mind and heart warring with one another, even subconsciously. 

“Damnit,” he muttered under his breath, scrambling to follow her, feeling like he’d have to start all over again. 

By the time he made it into the security room, she was already seated in front of the monitors, her eyes wide and her fingers trembling slightly as she scanned the screens. Dean leaned over her, hands gripping the back of the chair as his eyes locked onto the flashing red borders surrounding the videos.

There were three men inside the house, and they were moving quickly, methodically. His gut twisted as he recognized one of them instantly—Azazel. That bastard. But the other two were unfamiliar, adding an extra layer of tension to the situation.

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest as he felt her eyes on him, seeking reassurance. He glanced down at her for a second, his jaw clenched, trying to keep his emotions in check. But inside, he was seething. He had a feeling the Vaughts would try something like this—basically kidnap her. The bunker had been a blessing, something the Vaughts didn’t know about it. But as Dean watched the three on the monitors, it was clear they were looking for a hidden room or something of that nature.

“I need to call Jodi,” Dean said, his voice rough with barely contained anger. He straightened up, pulling his burner phone out of his pocket. His fingers tightened around it as he dialed, his eyes flickering back to the monitors to make sure the men weren’t getting too close. Every instinct in him screamed to go out there, take them down, but he couldn’t risk leaving the bunker. It’d put her in danger.

The phone rang once, twice, before Jodie picked up on the other end, “Jodie,” Dean said, his voice low and urgent. “He’s here.”Dean hung up the phone without saying another word, his eyes locked on the monitors. His gut twisted, knowing Jodi would be racing over, but the minutes stretched ahead like an eternity. He set a hand on her shoulder, trying to offer some comfort, even if he felt like ripping those men apart himself.

Her hand came up to cover his, a small instinctive gesture, and it grounded him for a moment. Just enough to remind him that she was safe, for now. “They can’t get in here. You’re still safe,” he said, his voice calm, though he couldn’t shake the anger simmering beneath the surface.

He wanted to be out there—wanted to end this once and for all. But his priority was here, keeping her safe. When she corrected him, reminding him that they were both safe, he felt a small flicker of pride at how strong she still was, even after everything.

They watched the monitors in silence as the seconds dragged by. It wasn’t until the flashing lights of the police cars lit up the screens that the tension in Dean’s body finally began to subside. His heart pounded with a mix of relief and anticipation as the cops surrounded the place, moving in.

The three men scrambled, trying to find exits, but there was no escape. Dean couldn’t help but smirk as he watched them get dragged off in handcuffs. Serves them right, he thought, though the satisfaction didn’t last long. Those bastards could be out on bail by morning.

Beside him, she moved quickly, making copies of the recordings and sending them off to Jodi. Dean admired her focus, the way she didn’t waste a second. She’d done this before, and he could tell she wasn’t going to let them slip away easily. Sadly, he also knew she was using it to reconstruct the walls he’d barely managed to get through.

When she finally leaned back in the chair and spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tired. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to leave this place?” she asked, her words hanging in the air.

Dean exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to say yes—wanted to promise her they’d get out of this bunker and back to something resembling normal. “One day, yeah. Sammy’ll use this and push the courts,” he replied, though he couldn’t bring himself to sound as certain as he wanted to.

He heard her mumble something about it being six, and he glanced at the clock. The day had passed quickly, given everything that had happened. “What do you say I make us something to eat? I know you skipped lunch,” he said, forcing a chuckle. He wanted to see her smile again, if only for a moment.

Her smile was small but genuine, and Dean was relieved. At least for now, things felt… okay. He headed out to the kitchen, his mind on the moment they had shared earlier. Cooking gave him a moment of peace, a way to take care of her without feeling so damn helpless.

As Dean moved around the kitchen, he could feel the shift in her emotions from the other room. That familiar tension that had clung to her for the past several days was fading, replaced by something softer, more peaceful. It made him smile a little.

His hands worked on autopilot, dropping garlic, stirring sauce, adding spices. He liked cooking—liked the routine of it, the simplicity. It gave him something to focus on other than the constant storm of thoughts and emotions swirling around him. But even as he focused on the task, he couldn’t shake the awareness of her. He could always feel her now, since being in the bunker. Like, somehow it being just the two of them drowned out everything else that would have distracted him from it all.

He felt her approaching, her emotions shifting again—curiosity, comfort, something deeper he didn’t dare name that he knew she was fighting against. “Why do you like watching me cook?” Dean asked after she’d been sitting at the table for a few moments. He could sense her watching him, the warmth of her gaze something he’d come to relish in. 

“It’s calming,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice even before he turned to glance at her over his shoulder.

Calming, Dean liked that. She hadn’t lied to him, and her words matched what he felt from her. He liked that he could also give her some peace, especially with everything else in their world was chaotic.

“You want me to stop?” she teased, her voice light, and for a moment, Dean thought he felt her amusement, that playful warmth settling in his chest. 

“No,” he replied quickly, turning back to the stove. “I was just curious.” After what had happened in her room, her words had more of an effect on him. He’d been able to keep those little things hidden before.

Dean felt a rush of warmth in his cheeks when she called him adorable, and though he tried to ignore it, he knew she’d seen. He could feel her amusement ripple through the air between them, the way it made his heart race a little faster. “You’re adorable,” she giggled, and even with him feeling flustered, it was music to his ears.

He adamantly denied blushing when she asked about it, trying to play it off. He could feel the burst of affection that wasn’t entirely his. He didn’t turn around to face her, though. If he did, he wasn’t sure what would happen—whether he’d be able to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and kissing her again, right there in the kitchen. 

Instead, Dean focused on finishing the sauce, the comforting scent filling the space around them. But even as he cooked, his thoughts were on how he’d need to find a way to keep his distance but still leave himself open enough if she wanted to let him in, trust that he really was her soulmate.

He could feel her mark burning a little. It wasn’t enough to need the cream, so he focused on dinner and setting the table. By the time dinner was ready, Dean felt more relaxed than he had all day. Her presence always did that to him, even if she didn’t realize it. He set the plates down on the table and watched her for a moment, taking in the way she looked at him with that quiet affection. He knew she was trying to figure things out, trying to make sense of everything. After dinner, Dean went to the living room, grabbing one of her favorite movies. He knew she needed something gentle for the evening to help keep her relaxed. When he looked over at her on the couch, seeing how she was sitting on the far side, he felt her insecurity about being closer to him like they typically were when they watched a movie in the evening.

Dean got comfortable on the couch in his spot. He just enjoyed having her nestled up against him on that side because she would always put her hand over his heart. “What, no cuddles tonight?” he asked her with a pout, being playful with her, knowing it made her smile. Her smile always lit up the room, and he just wanted to see her happy.

She didn’t say anything, just chuckled at him and moved so that she was nestled against his side. He put his arm over her shoulder and held her close. Her head rested on his chest, her hair brushing against his arm as she settled in. It was such a small, simple thing—her choosing to sit beside him like this—but it meant more than he could say. He wasn’t sure when it started, but these little moments had become his favorite part of the day.

As the opening notes of Robin Hood played, he glanced down at her, watching the way her face lit up in the glow of the TV. Her smile was soft, content. It reminded him of a happy kid. He could feel her peace, the way it settled over her like a warm blanket, and it made him relax, too. For the first time that day, his own tension started to slip away.

She felt good tonight—calmer than she’d been in weeks. He could feel that, too. He wasn’t sure how to put into words what it was like to feel her emotions brushing up against his own. Maybe it was the soulmate bond that was trying to repair itself, or maybe it was that he had fully accepted that she was his soulmate. Perhaps it was a little of both.

As the movie played, Dean found himself more focused on her than the screen. He caught the way she absentmindedly shifted against him, getting comfortable, and how she seemed to melt into him when a particularly lighthearted scene played out. And damn, it was good to see her like this, relaxed, at peace.

“Thank you,” she’d whispered earlier, her voice so soft he almost didn’t catch it. But he had. And he’d felt the gratitude behind it like a warm glow in his chest. He didn’t say anything back, just gave her a squeeze with the arm he had draped around her. That was enough. Sometimes, words weren’t needed.

But even as the movie ended and she bid him goodnight, Dean couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the back of his mind—the sense that things weren’t quite as peaceful as they seemed.

When she hugged him before heading to her room, he felt something else, something underneath the calm. A flicker of unease, a shadow of the weight she was still carrying. He didn’t need to hear her thoughts to know she was worried about something. 

She left the door open again. It was a silent invitation, one she always left, though she never said why. He knew it was for him—to watch the cameras, to check on her if he needed to. It made his chest tighten a little every time she did it. He was glad she trusted him, but at the same time, it was a reminder that they were still in danger. That at any moment, something could happen.Dean cleaned up the living room and set up the couch, his mind still on her. He didn’t want to leave things unsaid, but Sam’s words kept echoing in his head. He had to find the delicate balance without giving her more than she could handle. He wandered into the hallway, hesitating outside her door for a moment before he quietly moved to the control room, checking the monitors one last time.

Satisfied that everything was secure, Dean headed back to the living room, though sleep didn’t seem likely. He had too much on his mind. He looked up toward the hallway from where he sat on the couch. Dean felt like something was off, a shift in the air, a subtle change in her energy. Her emotions felt… unsettled.

She was still awake—he could feel that much. There was something heavy weighing on her thoughts, something she hadn’t opened up to him about. He caught words here and there as they drifted into his mind, like a soft whisper—soulmate, felt around, emotions, hope, mark. Dean sighed as he ran a hand down his face. He understood why she wasn’t letting him in, letting him get closer, and keeping how she felt for him from blooming further than it had.

She was just as scared as he was.

When he felt her drift off to sleep, her emotions calming once again, he finally let himself go lean on her doorframe, just wanting to see her without worry. She still looked so vulnerable the way she was lying on her side with her back to the door, but her breathing was slow and even. At least she was resting. He finally sighed and headed back to the couch, choosing to at least attempt sleep.

Morning came too quickly for Dean, having been enjoying the dreams that teased his subconscious. They had been of her and him, together, and living a normal life without the worry of the Vaughts. So, he made a pot of coffee, then sat at the kitchen table to enjoy his first cup as he let himself think back on his dreams.

The sound of her scream pulled him from enjoying his first cup of coffee, his heart racing before his feet even hit the floor. He was in her doorway in seconds, his pulse pounding in his ears. She was sitting upright, trembling, her wide eyes filled with the remnants of whatever horror had gripped her in sleep.

Without a word, he crossed the room and sat beside her, pulling her into his arms. Her body was rigid against his, still shaking, but he felt her begin to relax as he stroked her hair.

“It’s okay. It was just a nightmare, Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. But he could feel the lingering terror radiating off her in waves, and it twisted something deep in his chest. She wasn’t calming down as quickly as he’d hoped she would, and that worried him.

“We’re not safe,” she whispered, her voice small and shaky, as if the nightmare had spilled into her waking mind and taken root.

Dean’s jaw clenched at her words, anger flaring up inside him like a fire he couldn’t put out. Not safe? The thought of her feeling that way, especially here, in the one place no one knew existed and shouldn’t be able to get into without the key she still had, made his blood boil. He forced his anger down, though, knowing she couldn’t see the emotions flickering across his face. His focus needed to stay on her.

He ran his hand down her hair again, trying to ground her. “It was just a dream,” he murmured, though part of him had a suspicion of something worse. Something was gnawing at her—something more than just a typical nightmare. He could feel the dread clinging to her, thick and oppressive. So, he held her close, rubbing her back and whispering soothing words in hopes of calming her. 

Her shaking eventually subsided, but he could still feel her unease humming beneath the surface. Her thoughts were a swirling, tangled mess of mixed colors and incoherent words. “Want some coffee?” he asked softly, needing to get her mind on something else, even if just for a few minutes.

“Yeah, she mumbled, barely sounding awake.

Dean pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering a little longer than usual. He stood up, and headed to the kitchen, the weight of her fear still pressing down on him. As he moved, grabbing her a mug and refilling his own, his mind tried to make sense of what had flashed through his mind. This nightmare had been different. There was something darker, more real, in the way she’d screamed.

He could feel her dragging her feet as she entered the living room, her emotions still swirling like a storm on the horizon. The nightmare hadn’t let go of her yet.

Dean settled on the couch and set two cups of coffee on the table, holding his arms open for her. She hesitated for only a moment before curling into his side. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, hoping his touch would offer her the comfort she needed.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked softly, his voice low as he gently rubbed her arm. He could feel her reluctance, keeping the wall up between them, protecting her heart, but he didn’t push. He never did.

“Not really,” she mumbled into his chest, and he could tell she wanted to forget it ever happened. But the tension in her body told him she couldn’t just let it go.

Dean sighed softly, pressing his lips to her hair. “It might help,” he suggested. Knowing she needed to let it out. He could feel how hard she was trying to keep it in, to lock it all away.

She pulled away from him slightly, grabbing her coffee with a sigh. Dean watched as she sipped it, her gaze distant. He waited, knowing she was weighing his request. Then, she began to talk. As she shared her nightmare, his expression remained stoic, listening while his gut twisted at the mere thought of it happening. When she described the man from her nightmare, his jaw clenched as anger mixed with worry within him. His eyes hardened, recognizing the description all too well.

He mentally cursed to himself. Alastair. She had described him perfectly. This nightmare wasn’t just some trick of her imagination—it was more. Sam had warned him about this, about the possibility of her having premonitions, depending on just how much of an empath she was. The pieces were coming together for Dean, and he wasn’t liking the direction they were going.

“He’s a real person, isn’t he?” she asked quietly, her voice edged with fear and a curiosity she couldn’t hide.

Dean sighed heavily, knowing he couldn’t lie to her, even if he couldn’t tell her everything. She’d always been too perceptive. “Yeah. His name is Alastair. He works for the Vaught family as head of security.”

Her hands began to shake again, and Dean pulled her back against him, holding her tighter, trying to shield her from the reality that her nightmare wasn’t just some random terror. “I’m not gonna let them take you,” he whispered, his voice raw with a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. “I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But then she said the words he hated to hear—words that wrapped around his chest like a vice. “You might not have a choice. My birthday is only a few weeks away.”

Dean’s jaw clenched again as her voice trembled. He could feel her fear turning into something sharper—desperation. The kind that led people to make impossible decisions. Her nightmare had rattled her more than she let on, and now, all she could think about was that damned deadline. Her birthday. The day they expected her to marry that bastard.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 22

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If I missed tagging, please let me know. I had a lot of requests for tags for this one. If you'd like to be tagged, drop me a comment.

[waywardxwords]

The Fix - Epilogue

Summary: Everyone has a past, but yours seemed to haunt you. You've tried to move forward with a normal life, but the day comes when that's not possible anymore. When Sheriff Beau Arlen enters your life, you're certain he is going to judge you just like everyone else in town does. But something about Beau is different.

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: Slight language, nothing serious. Fluff!

“Mama! Emily said she’d help me build a snowman. Can I go?” Bailey tugged on her mittens and her winter hat, knowing your instructions before braving the bitter air. 

A small laugh tumbled through your lips as you nodded. “Hold on, let me zip you up,” you set down your mug of tea and knelt in front of her before you grasped the metal zipper. “You remember the rules?” You prompted her. 

“Stay close where you can see,” she recited with a proud grin. 

“Good,” you kissed her cheek and nodded towards the door with approval. She bolted past you with a quick, ‘Thanks, Mama!’ over her shoulder. 

You pulled yourself back to your feet and reached for your own winter coat. After you were prepared for the bitter December wind, you grabbed your mug and headed out to the porch to greet Beau as he walked up the path. 

He ruffled Bailey’s hat a bit as she hurried past, but stopped her to straighten it out so it would cover her ears. 

“Hey, handsome,” you chimed from the front door. His gaze found yours and a wide smile pulled across his lips. 

“Hiya, darlin’,” he crooned. 

It had been two months since Jackson had been arrested and made a deal with the FBI. He was still in FBI custody, but that hadn’t brought you much peace. 

Beau had gone out immediately and purchased trail cameras for every corner of your home, and out on the property as well. He had also insisted you practice firearm training (though you had to admit, it was hard at first but you didn’t mind the closeness to Beau that came along with it). 

Beau ended up crashing at your house nine times out of ten. He said it was safer, and he wouldn’t sleep well if he wasn’t there. You thought back to the first night Beau ended up in your bed. 

“It’s late, darlin’,” Beau had glanced at the watch on his wrist as he stifled a yawn. His eyes were hazy and reddened. 

Your teeth found the inside of your bottom lip as you processed the thoughts that drifted through your brain. “I know, I just like talking to you.”

A chuckle fell from his lips. “I like talkin’ to you, too. But we both need sleep.” He had stood and started to gather the pillows and blankets you had grabbed for his make-shift bed on your sofa. 

“You can’t possibly get good sleep out here on the couch,” you toyed with the idea—it was like putting out a bone and seeing if he would take it. His eyes landed on you and he watched you closely. 

“Do you have a guest bedroom you haven’t told me about?” Damn, he was really going to make you work for it. Heat had risen in your cheeks and you stumbled over some ‘uh's’ and there was an ‘um’ in there, somewhere. Beau chuckled again. “Are you askin’ me to sleep in your bed, darlin’?” The gruffness of his voice made your entire body shiver. 

After a brief pause, your voice was almost a whisper. “Would you want to sleep in my bed, Beau?”

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “I’d like that, if you’d like that, too,” his tone matched yours. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about, darlin’?” Beau’s drawl interrupted your memories as you both sat in rocking chairs watching your daughters build a snowman. Your eyes found his and you smiled. 

“Just how we’ve gotten here. If you had told me this would be my life two months ago, I wouldn’t have believed you,” the cold air stung your eyes as tears had formed. With a glove covered hand, you quickly reached up to push them away. 

Beau had somehow gotten used to your emotions, but he still watched you carefully. “Are you happy? With life, and how things are, I mean?” He asked carefully. 

“Beau Arlen, you should absolutely know the answer to that,” you reached out to brush the side of his face. “I have truly never been happier.” You paused as he reached out to hold your hand in his. “Are you happy? I know we were kinda thrown into this world we’re living in…it’s not necessarily something you signed up for.”

He leaned towards you and you felt his lips against yours. “Darlin’,” he breathed. “I would sign up for this life with you and Bailey every day over again.” You kissed him once more. Beau pulled back for a moment and shuffled through his coat pocket as you heard the buzz from his vibrating cell phone. “One sec, sweetheart.” He pushed the phone to his ear as he answered. “Sheriff Arlen,” he said–the sweetness to his tone dissipated. 

In the two months you had been with Beau, you found it hard to ignore his work calls. Most of the time he got a call to assist with a car accident, or maybe a wellness check on an elderly neighbor. But you could never be certain–you always held your breath in case he got the call; the one where you would find out that Jackson was being released.

Beau stood from his spot on the rocking chair and began to pace, that was your first sign that this was a more serious call. And then his eyes landed on you. When he realized you were studying him, he looked away almost instantly. This call was most certainly about you–or about Jackson, rather.

“Alright, that’s good,” he spoke carefully as he paced. “What’s that mean for…for uh, for the victims?” His eyes wanted to look at you but he couldn’t just yet. You tried to stay calmly seated on the rocking chair, but no longer could. You stood to your feet and glanced back at Emily and Bailey, as if looking away for a second would bring harm to one of them. After a much longer pause than you thought necessary, Beau’s feet stopped pacing and he stood with his back to you. “You’re kiddin’ me,” he breathed. You couldn’t tell yet if that was good or bad–you assumed bad. “Well, damn.” His breath fogged around him and there was a slight chuckle to his words and tone. A chuckle? You wanted to scream out and ask him what that meant, but you knew you had to be calm.

He turned back to look at you again, this time a wide smile on his lips. “Ya know what, Matt Donahue?” Beau’s grin practically touched his ears, and now you had confirmation this call was about your case, as Matt was the FBI agent working it. “You’re not a son-of-a-bitch after all…” he trailed off with a laugh as he stepped towards you. The phone was still pressed to his ear as he listened. “Yeah, yeah, I hope I never see you again, too.” He laughed. “But hey, thanks…thanks a lot.”

He pulled the phone away and ended the call.

“My heart feels like it’s about to explode, please tell me what’s happening,” you breathed as Beau gripped your hands in his just as he stood before you.

“They caught the last drug boss, he’s in the FBI’s custody as we speak,” Beau started. You wanted to urge him to continue.

“So Jackson gets released?” Your heart had already sunk down the confines of your rib cage and into the pit of your stomach; you couldn’t understand how Beau was excited about this.

Beau shook his head from side to side, a gleam of happiness in his eyes. “When the FBI made this deal with Jackson, they had only charged him with kidnapping, felony gun possession and drug trafficking. They didn’t charge him with attempted murder of a law enforcement officer.” He began to explain. You weren’t following. “So the deal was only good for the charges he faced at the time. And just now, the DA charged him with attempted murder of a law enforcement officer. He can’t make a deal on that.” 

Beau waited a minute for it to set in. “So…he’s not getting released?” The words were soft but he heard them.

“He’s not gettin’ released,” Beau confirmed with a smile. You blinked as you processed. “It’s a little bit of a shady practice, but for once, I don’t feel bad about it. We’ll get to prosecute him here in Big Sky. We can’t bring up anything he made a deal on, but attempted on a LEO is a big deal. Dependin’ on if they can charge him with first or second, we’re lookin’ at a minimum of thirty years in prison, sweetheart.”

It felt like you might fall over as your knees weakened. Beau seemed to recognize that as he led you back to the rocking chair. After blinking a few more times, your gaze found Emily and Bailey laughing in the snow as they tied a scarf just below their snowman’s head. The feeling of Beau’s calloused fingertips on your cheek brought you back into the moment.

“Hey,” he breathed with a smile, and for a second, you thought you saw his eyes glaze over. “He’s never gonna hurt you again. He’s never gonna be near Bailey again. This seals it.”

You finally managed to speak. “I, uh, I guess you can go home now.” You laughed half-heartedly as you sniffled–partially from the cold but mostly from the emotion that had overcome you at that point.

“I’d really like to be here, with you and Bailey. If that’s alright with you…” his voice warmed your chest as he spoke, but all you could muster was a nod to refrain from sobbing.

Beau pulled you tightly to his chest and you held on as if your life depended on it; and in that moment, it felt like it did.

That night, after Bailey had gone to bed, Beau had turned on the radio to an old FM station that played smooth jazz and alternative rock, two sounds that neither of you hardly ever listened to. But when the soft piano started to play, he held his hand out for you to take.

You couldn’t help but laugh–while you hadn’t shared the reason for your excitement with Bailey or Emily, the two of you had relished in the feeling together. You could see it in the way you looked at each other all night over dinner, or the way Beau had built a pillow fort with Bailey after Emily headed out to meet a friend at the movie theater, and in the way he had pulled you to him before you put Bailey to bed and kissed you like everything was right in the world.

And now you felt it in the way his left hand held your right, and his other hand found the small of your back. Your head moved to his shoulder and found comfort in the crook of his neck as the two of you slow-danced in the middle of your kitchen to the soft sounds you finally recognized as Coldplay.

“Coldplay? Really?” You practically snorted as you pulled your head from his shoulder.

“Shh,” he hushed you playfully. “It’s a good song, alright?”

“Mr. Arlen, I didn’t think you listened to anything that didn’t have a banjo in the background–or foreground, for that matter,” you laughed. You had done a lot of that this evening–laugh, that is. 

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled. “You gonna let me spin you around this kitchen? I can always put somethin’ with a banjo on…” he threatened.

“No, no,” you quickly hushed with a giggle. “I’ll shut up…”

He returned his focus to spinning you around the kitchen, just as promised. Every time he pulled you back to his chest, his lips left a gentle kiss on your hairline.

You couldn’t help but watch him as you listened to the lyrics. Before you could be too overcome with emotion, your lips found his. When you had met Beau Arlen, you were two partially broken people. And somehow, someway–you had managed to put yourselves back together, and you were grateful for this new beginning.

Lights will guide you home And ignite your bones And I will try to fix you.

AHH, okay - so - I apologize. I realize it is not Wednesday, lol. I really, really struggled with this epilogue. I actually ended up wiping the entire thing on Wednesday and re-writing it because I just wasn't happy with it. I hope this wraps everything up nicely with a pretty bow for you.

I really struggled with the whole "let's be sneaky and screw Jackson on a deal" thing, because honesty and integrity are really important to me. But then I remembered how shitty of a human Jackson is (as a reminder: he beat his wife on the regular, he was trafficking drugs that kill people every day, he shot MO [one of the most beloved deputies with a kind heart and soul], kidnapped his kid, held Beau and his ex-wife at gun point, etc.) and decided to run with it. I hope you don't hate it?

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to all of you for reading, reblogging, liking and commenting on this series. It has really brought me so much joy to read what you all think and over the last month or so. While this is the end of the series, I hope to come back with some one shots associated with these characters in the future.

And with that, this series is COMPLETE!

*Song is "Fix You" by Coldplay

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[heyclickadee]

More Massive Fandom Salt under the cut

If I see one more condescending post about how people who don’t like Tech getting killed off just don’t get it, I’m going to mcfreaking lose it.

Like, okay. I think Tech is alive. I think I’ve been clear about that. If I haven’t, then I don’t know what else to do. I actually even get why taking him off the board for season three could be a good move (give Crosshair time to decompress and Omega time to come into her own and be the hero of her own show, while also maybe setting Tech up for another plot line to come later), and think it’s possible that bringing Tech back later could actually work much better than what I originally wanted to happen. In fact, if it really is a fake-out I think it’s kind of immaculate. And I still get angry reading those posts.

Because, first, a lot of people upset by the handling of Tech from “Plan 99” onwards are upset because Tech meant something to them. It goes a lot deeper than just losing your favorite character. Tech was a fantastic piece of autistic representation and losing that hurt. Losing that and then never getting the catharsis that comes with on-screen emotional processing from the characters, no closure, no real in-show impact besides inconveniencing the others hurt even more. It left a lot of autistic people in the fandom feeling like we were told that we weren’t welcome in Star Wars at all.

And most of us still love the show! The Bad Batch is still my favorite show and I adore basically the entire thing up through season three, right up to the point where everything just kind of stops without resolving anything but Hunter and Omega, and not getting Tech back before the end hit me so badly that I almost dropped Star Wars completely. People are upset for a reason.

Second, I get that it can be annoying seeing criticism of your favorite show. I do. I actually disagree with a lot of criticism of TBB and do tend to get a little annoyed at certain takes. The other thing about the “Tech’s dead and that’s good”/“You thought Tech could come back because you were delusional” posts that makes me want to fight everyone, though, is that they tend to be incredibly dismissive. They’ll bring up arguments people made during the airing of the show for why Tech could come back, or arguments they made afterwards for why they thought he should have, and then either misunderstand or talk right past them.

It gives anyone who made those arguments, or who was upset by the ending, a general sense that we’re not being listened to. That people have already decided we’re irrational and that nothing we say or experience matters, that we saw patterns that weren’t there, or that we care too much about this specific thing, or that we’re being immature. Maybe. Just. I don’t know—consider for a second that a lot of the people who are most upset about Tech belong to the noticing patterns/caring a lot about specific things/dismissed for noticing things that are really there in real life/frequently infantilized neurotype. Again, there’s a reason some of us are upset and having a hard time with fandom right now.

I actually don’t have a problem with people thinking or making posts saying someone needed to die or that Tech “dying” was well handled as a death. I will always disagree, and I think we’re too close to the “bury your disabled” trope with most of the batchers for me to be okay with any of them dying like that, but one person will interpret fiction differently than another and I can’t and shouldn’t police that. I do, however, have a massive problem with the condescending way a lot of those posts go about it. Think Tech ought to be dead? Fine. Call anyone who thinks otherwise a child? Instablock, I don’t need that in my life.

[lightwise]

Hey guys. I know I’ve been relatively quiet on here since the finale, and I wanted to let you all know I haven’t just liked all your posts but not reblogged for the sake of lurking 😅. I had an insanely chaotic week in my personal life/schedule and the finale hit me hard, in some ways that I wasn’t expecting, so I’ve been processing a lot behind the scenes and trying to play catch-up.

I know there’s a lot of opinions, a lot of hurt feelings, and a lot of processing going around, no matter what your opinions about the finale itself. And even if it had satisfied every one of us, it still is hard to say goodbye to our Bad Batch in canon media. I’ve been crying every time I see shots from those last few scenes and the epilogue 😭❤️

I’ll be sharing everyone’s thoughts and my own as I have the bandwidth this week/ongoing. I have a lot of things I want to address:

- How Tech was handled

- Project Necromancer and Omega’s m count

- the death trooper batch and what worked and didn’t work for me

- how Crosshair’s hand was handled

- my reaction to the finale, as well as the pros vs cons of how it was executed

- the pros and cons of the season overall

- potentially analyses on Hunter and Crosshair throughout their arcs

- some posts that I had been compiling before the finale that will now have a very different tone 😅🫣 (you’ll know what I mean when I get there)

- final update on my Crosshair Sighs count

- additional chapters of the Be There one-shots I started at the beginning of the season. I have Hunter and Crosshair’s perspectives, and I will add in Wrecker’s, Echo’s, and Omega’s.

- I still have an upcoming Hunter short fic and my long fic Compass Pointing North (Rex and Echo leading the clone rebellion) that will fill in all the gaps of the last two seasons and potentially more (I have so many ideas!)

In short, I’m still here, not going anywhere, just need some time to process and get my thoughts together. For those of you grieving or feeling let down, I see you and feel the same way about certain things. For those of you ecstatic and fulfilled about certain things, I see you and feel the same way as well.

And lastly—I’ve been seeing and hearing both behind the scenes and publicly making fun of, tearing down, or vehemently shaming people for their various reactions to this finale. I have to say I’m a bit disappointed at some of the backlash that has been happening between fans for holding differing opinions and emotions. If someone else has a different favorite character than you, a different perspective, a level of difficulty that you are not experiencing—do not shame them for that. Do not go on anon and harass them. Don’t try to tell people who are upset that they should just be happy and get over it. And don’t tell people who are really satisfied with what we got that they shouldn’t be expressing that or that they are inconsiderate for feeling that way.

In short, don’t let the end of this show tear apart all of the good and wonderful and fun moments that we’ve built together over these last three years. This fandom has been a special place and a very meaningful place for most of us, I believe, and those who are in this fandom do not deserve to be treated poorly simply for having their own perspectives. Be kind to each other. Please. I know you all are capable of it 🙏🏻✨❤️

[meguemii]

Melancholy.

Synopsis- In which Megumi Fushiguro passes away and reader struggles with her grief, and lashes out on her friends eventually trying to get herself together

warnings- mentions of death and the seven stages of grief, a fair bit of angst. reader uses she/her pronouns but it’s not described what she looks like.

word count. 2.9k

navigation station🚉

megumi fushiguro’s playlist. i recommend listening to it while reading

emi note — i haven’t written a lot of angst and this was a bigger thing for me so bare with me. if it comes off as repetitive i’m so sorry [sobs] this was like half proof read so don’t mind that. LOL. enjoy !!♡

Sometime had passed since the passing of Megumi Fushiguro, and it was hard on everyone. It was hard on you, he was the light of your life, the man you planned on starting a family with. You had never imagined not being with him everyday, never thought he would cease to exist. It was odd, it was painful, excruciating.

Those words of love and promises that amounted to nothing in the end.

07/23/19

“Give him back.” you demanded angrily, pounding on the ground where his grave site lie. Hot tears streaming down puffy cheeks, teeth grit as you took out your anger.

“Give him back to me!” screaming with such a raw emotion. Now throwing a fit on the ground as you sobbed, tears and spit flying everywhere as you roared with negative emotions. Everyone watched with sadness, they had all lost him. They lost their friend, classmate, comrade.. but they knew you lost more than that. You lost a part of yourself with him. You had lost your best friend, your rock, the moon who controlled the tides of your emotions, the love of your life. Your soul mate.

Sad eyes followed your every movement, sad ears bared to listen to your broken words.

“Get away.” you turned around and spat at the people who watched.

“Y/N.. we’re here for you and Megumi..” Nobara spoke softly trying to calm you down as she walked towards you. “Do not come near me.” You yelled still on all fours clenching the ground below. “You don’t deserve to be here. None of you!” The hatred that poured out from your voice, the flurrying sadness in your eyes. Yuji was choking back tears as he bit his lip while it trembled. Nobara stumbled back giving you the space you were demanding.

Did you really want space or did you want everyone to see you. See the way you were hurting.

No one wanted to see you like this, couldn’t stand it, and eventually they left one by one until it was just you. You were the last one to stay by him. You would forever be the last one to stay by him. In your mind at the moment no one else deserved to grieve and mourn with you like this, they may have been his friends but you were him and he was you.

“i hate you. I hate you. I hate you!” Sad and angry lies spewing from deep within your gut. Animalistic. Guttural.

This went on until a hand rest on your shoulder. Head whipping around to look at the person interrupting your grieving. Blue eyes met with your own, they didn’t have the usual spark and familiar joy in them anymore. Eyes were just as dull as yours. “Take your hand off of me sensei.”

Gojo frowned at you shaking his head, squatting beside you.

“This really sucks, doesn’t it?” he softly asked you as he longingly looked at the tombstone that sat in front of the two of you.

A calming wave started washing over you, the anger and frustration slowly washing away with it from your trembling stature. “Yeah, something like that” followed by a sad chuckle.

It was weird. Losing someone was weird. You were angry? sad? Amused? Nothing right now made sense.

Silence enveloped the two of you as you sat by his grave. It was more so both of you processing your emotions and not being able to fathom any words. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Megumi was supposed to stay forever, he was a calm summer breeze. The breeze that soothed the summer heat when it got hard to deal with. The breeze that made you stop and enjoy life while taking a breather.

“He was your son, I cannot imagine how you feel Gojo.” finally speaking up. “Satoru.” he corrected you. “right.. I cannot imagine how you feel Satoru” neither looking at the other. Eyes still glued to the writing on the tombstone, it just didn’t feel real to anyone.

“He was my son, and he was.. is your sun, he is the love of your life and I’m sure this is and going to be just as hard for you as it will for me” he replied placing a hand on your back.

“It’s not gonna get easier kiddo, but he’ll be here watching you. Making sure you’re okay. He loved and loves you so much.” Gojo said with such sadness winding through his words of.. comfort? Standing up and dusting himself off.

Taking one last look at Megumi and averting his eyes to now finally look at you. “Don’t forget that.”

10/12/18

He was right, it didn’t get easier. It got harder. You had gone through a few stages of grief. Anger was long gone, bargaining had hit you like a truck. Wishing it was you instead of him but your friends had helped you through with that. Denial and Guilt is what you were going through now. Feeling guilty for how you had treated the people who just wanted to be there for you and Gojo, and feeling guilty for not treating Megumi as good as you possibly could have.

Wishing to go back in time and be more grateful for him, more grateful for his patience, his loyalty, the way he remembered everything about you. There was so much more you wish you could have done and you felt like throwing up all the time.

You were also constantly in denial thinking you’d wake up in the morning turning over and hoping when you opened up your eyes that he’d still be there to say good morning and call you love. Asking what you wanted for breakfast. It’s what you guys would do every weekend when you didn’t have classes.

You asked Nobara to stay with you on weekends so you weren’t alone. You hated being alone. But it was almost just as painful waking up to see Nobara instead of an empty spot in your bed.

You started hearing his voice everywhere and all the time. Dropping whatever to go and look for him and being disappointed every time. Dreaming about him all the time and waking up in tears. It was hard trying to find the inner peace he left in your mind and soul.

You guessed you could cross off loneliness off your list although that would forever be carried along with you for as long as you live without him.

12/17/19

Christmas was nearing and everyone seemed to be in the holiday spirit as they decorated the dorm building. You sat on the couch watching. A world of hurt and sadness was really all you felt, this was the first time in awhile you had left your room to actually spend time with everyone and do something. You wanted to help out but it would just be painful and you also didn’t want to put a drag on everyone’s cheery mood. You smiled at them in envy, wishing you could get over it by now. It’s been months and you just can’t catch a break.

Christmas was your favourite holiday and now it just sucked. Inumaki had put on the fake fireplace video from youtube and played Christmas music. Listening to that and everyone’s chatter as well as laughs was a nice ambience that clouded your thoughts. The only person who wasn’t participating in decorating was Yuta, he sat beside you smiling at everyone who was hard at work, turning to you and asking why you weren’t doing the same in which you replied “I could ask you the same thing” with a snort and a playful eye roll. “Touchè Y/N” you scoffed at the word ‘touchè’

“What’s on your mind?” He asked already knowing the answer but he wanted to let you get it out. You paused, you knew you wouldn’t cry. You were past the point of tears just an empty feeling now. “I just wish he was here..” It was a vague answer but it said everything that needed to be said at the same time. “It’s tough.. and I’m sorry you have to feel like this and deal with this. I wish I could still grieve like you are.” he paused to think as you looked at him puzzled. “I feel guilty for not mourning his death as long as you have but don’t get me wrong! I wish you didn’t have to feel like this!” He apologized realizing how his statement could have come off. You laughed at him. First time you had laughed in a while. Reassuring him that you got what he meant.

Getting up from your spot and standing in front of him, extending your hand for him to get up as well. “Let’s decorate some stuff, they can’t do anything without us” Trying to feel like yourself again. Baby steps is all you could do right now and distracting yourself by doing minuscule tasks like this would suffice for now. Yuta took your hand giving you a bright smile while getting up.

A little bit of time had passed and eventually everyone had started to retreat back to their rooms except for you, yuta, inumaki and nobara who sat on the couch showing each other stupid tiktok’s. You and Yuta were chatting, you had felt better than when you had earlier.. feeling a bit more fulfilled. Checking the time seeing as it had gotten pretty late you said your good nights but before you got up you made sure to thank Yuta for helping you.

12/25/19 8:30am.

Christmas had rolled around fast. Once again you had been sat on the couch as everyone exchanged gifts, you had a bitter sweet smile on your face knowing he should have been there. God you had wished to see his locks of spikey black hair, his deep blue eyes and that half smile, his angsty demeanour that surrounded him everywhere he went.

You had gotten him a gift knowing he would never be able to open it but it was okay. “Y/N! I got you a really great gift I know you’ll love!” Nobara said as she gushed handing you a present. It snapped you back from your thoughts and you smiled warmly at her. Carefully unwrapping the paper around it, finding what looked to be a box that jewelry would come in. You opened it to find a pearly necklace with a gold hearted locket in the centre. Opening the lock you could see a picture of your best friends and him, as well as you. All big smiles on your faces except for his, typical. You laughed as you got up and hugged her, some happy tears escaped your eyes but it was okay. Thanking her you turned around and lifted your hair so she could put it on you.

Sitting back down and wiping some of those stray tears you felt okay. You felt good. Everything would be okay. You were starting to accept that he was gone but his memories and memories of him would always be with you and everyone else. Christmas would be nice.

As everything was finishing up Gojo had tapped your shoulder and smiled as he hid something behind his back. “I got you something too Kiddo, I hope it doesn’t put a down on your mood but I know these are one of your favourite things” you looked at him confused as you never confided in him for really anything. He handed you a bouquet of white lilies and your gaze softened and your smile fell to a weaker one. White lilies, the flower of purity and rebirth.“Thank you sensei” taking the flowers and giving him a half hug. pulling away and looking at the flowers knowing what you would do with them.

“Y/N, I got you something as well!” Yuji chimed in as he approached you. “Here. It’s a photo of you and Megumi” A photo of the two of you from your beach trip eating ice cream. You hadn’t even know that the photo had been taken, you smiled at Yuji giving him a half hug as well thanking him profusely. Taking another look at it, it was framed by a beautifully stained wooden frame. The dark grainy wood with two initials engraved in it, an M and a _. You knew what you would be doing with this as well.

Excusing yourself from everyone and bringing all of the gifts you had received from everyone back to your room.

12/25/19 3:20pm.

You sat at his grave as you talked to him as if he were still here. It helped ease that aching feeling that never truly went away when you were by yourself. “Gumi, I got some really nice gifts today but I thought you should have them.” turning to your back and pulling out the picture frame and putting it down where he rest. “Yuji got this for me. I didn’t even know he took this picture” an asymmetrical smile tugging at your cheeks lifting them slightly. “Merry Christmas Megumi”

Reaching to open your locket and look at the photo “Nobara got this one for me, it’s beautiful, huh? I also have one more thing” reaching back into the bag to grab the flowers. Pausing as your finger tips grazed the petals.

Tears quickly flowed from your eyes, what was even the point of this. Why were you talking to someone who wasn’t even here? All that lay below was a pile of bones in a suit and a tombstone that read his name, birthday and date of death. “This bites.”

Loud sobs filled the air as they usually did here. Every time you came it always ended up like this. Feeling stupid for talking to a grave, feeling stupid for not being able to pull yourself together as well as get your shit together and stand on your own two feet again. This feeling of loneliness and vacancy. “I wish you were here, I wish I could physically talk to you, physically hug you. I wish I could physically see you again.”

You couldn’t even hear the sound of snow crunching as someone walked up to you until you felt a tap on your shoulder again just as you did that day. Turning around to look up at whoever disturbed you, red and puffy eyes. “Hey kid” he greeted quietly as he crouched beside you like he did before. “It hurts. I didn’t want everyone else to see me break down again. I’ve been acting too depressing around them as much as it is, and doing it in christmas would be such a selfish thing to do” you sniffled, stuttering over your words trying to calm yourself down enough to speak, with every word you felt your throat burn. “They would understand, I promise” he resssured. “But I also get where you’re coming from. It’s been a rough few months for everyone and everyone’s been off, just trying to get through it. You’ve been taking it the worst though.” Once again your broken sobs filled the air as you hugged him grasping at any sort of comfort. “I wish I was as strong as them, as strong as you. as strong as him. He would have gotten his shit together so long ago” Gojo paused for moments trying to find the right words to say and he held you. “You are strong, just as strong as everyone else. Y/N you have to deal with all of this and holding onto him is the strongest thing anyone could do. You are taking your times coming to terms with this shitty hand you’ve been dealt and acceptance doesn’t have to come right away.”

It felt like time had stopped as you continued to cry into Gojo’s shoulder. Snow flakes fell as your tears started to stick to your face from the cold. You felt pathetic as you snotted all over Gojo, the fact that he had seen you like this too many times but it was nice you could rely on him. He was the closest you’d get to your late boyfriend and it was comforting knowing you could be like this around him without judgment. Finally pulling away and wiping your nose as you laughed sadly apologizing.“No worries kiddo, i’m always here to be your snot rag.” he ruffled your hair and gave you a smile. Even without seeing his eyes you knew his had pain searing throughout his as well.

“I know he’s gone but it’s so lonely. I’m always surrounded by this weird feeling I can’t put my finger on. It’s whenever I think of him, think of our memories, our plans we made.. I feel this.. this?” You paused trying to find the right word. “Melancholy. You feel melancholic.” You turned back to the bag and grabbed the white lilies Gojo had gotten you and laid them on top of Megumi’s headstone and started at it and sighed longingly as well as relieved knowing you could finally put a word to the feeling. “Yeah.. Melancholy.”

Snow still lightly fell as you and Satoru Gojo had started at his name leaning into each other. Acceptance. He was gone and that was okay, you would be okay, he would always be here whether it was physically or not.

“I‘ll see you again Megs”

A warmth embracing you almost like he was there hugging you saying that he can’t wait.

I hope this wasn’t like crazy awful because I was actually trying LMAO. in the christmas spirit i present you all with hard hitting megumi angst. don’t hate me. Like I said I only half proof read and over half of this I was stuck listening to my friends rage at cod LMAOO.

We love dad! gojo, being so supportive of the reader, i was afraid it would seem inappropriate that him and reader were hugging but like he’s just comforting his sons literal girlfriend who lost just as much as he did and he STILL stayed strong her HER. We also love Yuta for being her first big push to getting her back to being herself

reblogs and comments are vv appreciated ٩( 'ω' )و

Much love from emi!!🩷

tag list— feel free to ask to be tagged in future fics :3

@kasumitenbaz

[melisnonstop]

𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂

↳ 📱𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚞 (4/)

TikTok Video – Alex’s 2nd Chance Review of *Brideshead Revisited*

@acd.chronicles

(Video opens with Alex sitting on his couch with the book in hand, this time marked with tabs and notes. He smirks a little, clearly referencing his earlier statements)

Alex

"Okay, so last time I talked about *Brideshead Revisited*, I... wasn’t exactly kind to it.

(He chuckles softly, flipping through the book’s worn pages)

Alex

“I said it was a story of rich people being sad in castles, and honestly, I stand by a lot of what I said.

"But—Henry, you got me. I reread it, and yeah, I noticed more this time. I have... thoughts."

Alex

"So first off, I’ll admit, Waugh’s ability to write emotional nuance, especially between two men, is something I didn’t appreciate as much the first time around.

“There’s something undeniably beautiful about how Waugh captures queerness through subtext.

(He opens the book to an annotated page)

Alex

"'Perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond languages scrawled on the walls of caves.'

“And honestly, it’s kind of... heartbreaking, seeing how much is left unsaid because it had to be, for so many reasons."

(Alex pauses, nodding as if considering the layers more)

Alex

"But here’s the thing—while I can appreciate the beauty and complexity of these relationships, I still stand by what I said in my first video.

“We do need to look at these stories critically, especially classics that were written in a different time. *Brideshead* unequivocally centers on the lives of wealthy, white, privileged characters.

“We can appreciate the artistry while also recognizing the limits of who gets to tell these kinds of stories and why they’re still held up as ‘the best we’ve got.’

“It’s important we keep pushing back on this idea that classics should be held up without critique.”

(Alex sets the book aside and smiles, wrapping up on a lighter note)

Alex

"Anyway, shoutout to Henry for making me rethink things, and I’ll admit, this second read gave me a lot to think about. Peace and love, y’all.”

↳ 📱

TikTok Video – Henry’s Review of *The City We Became* by N.K. Jemisin

@SonnetAndSpice

(The video opens with Henry sitting in a cozy setting, soft lighting, with a cup of tea steaming beside him. He smiles warmly at the camera, adjusting the book on his lap before glancing back up with a calm but enthusiastic expression)

Henry

“Hello, everyone. Welcome back to *Fox and Folio*—though today, we’re taking a bit of a detour into the future. And by ‘future,’ I mean N.K. Jemisin’s *The City We Became,* which… well, Alex might’ve just introduced me to a new all-time favorite.

(Henry chuckles softly, holding up the book with an unmistakable glimmer in his eyes, his expression like he’s still processing how much the story resonated with him)

Henry

“So, for those who haven’t read it yet, *The City We Became* is this brilliant mashup of urban fantasy, science fiction, and social commentary. It’s—well—it’s a lot of things, but most of all, it’s alive.

“It’s about New York City becoming alive—literally—and how each borough has its own avatar, these human embodiments that represent the city’s diversity, its grit, and honestly, its soul.

“The way Jemisin creates this rich, living tapestry of New York, while also exploring themes like gentrification, systemic racism, and community—it’s nothing short of genius. It feels… urgent, you know?”

(He takes a thoughtful sip of his tea, as though collecting his thoughts for a moment, then continues with a softer tone)

Henry

“The characters aren’t just representing the city—they’re *fighting* for their boroughs, for the identity of their communities. There’s this brilliant quote in the book: ‘Cities are not people, but something else altogether: cities are alive.’

"And what Jemisin does, beautifully, is show us that cities are made of the people who care for them. The ones who’ve been here the longest, the ones whose voices we need to hear most. That idea just… stuck with me."

(He runs a hand over the book's cover, a brief pause as he looks down, processing the weight of the subject)

Henry

“I’ve only been here a short while, but every day I’m more aware of how the city’s history, and its people, shape it into what it is. How painful it must be to see it change—forcefully, and sometimes, without care.

“And to be honest, it’s something I think about constantly. I’m… aware that I’m part of that problem, just by being here.”

(His voice grows a bit quieter, more introspective, as he acknowledges the weight of his own role in the city)

Henry

“This book doesn’t try to tell you how to feel, but it does ask you to *see*—to see what’s really happening, and to be mindful of your place in it.

"Jemisin doesn’t preach—she just opens your eyes. And... I think that’s the kind of narrative we need more of."

(He leans back slightly, his usual calm demeanor returning, though there’s an undeniable intensity behind his words. His passion is clear, but it’s delivered with a gentle grace)

Henry

“I genuinely think *The City We Became* is one of the most exciting, thought-provoking books I’ve read in years. If you live in New York—or even if you don’t—it’ll change the way you look at cities, at communities, and at identity itself. It’s just... something I can’t recommend enough.”

(Henry shifts slightly, a playful smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he continues, making sure to credit Alex)

Henry

“Of course, credit where credit’s due—thank you, Alex, for pushing me to read this. I don’t think I’d have picked it up on my own, but I’m *so* glad I did.”

(He smiles softly, a bit sheepish but sincere, his gratitude genuine)

Henry

“And thank you, N.K. Jemisin, for writing a story that feels so deeply resonant. You’ve truly created something remarkable.

“As always, let me know if you’ve read it—and what you thought. I’d love to hear your perspectives on this one.

"Until next time—happy reading, and cheers."

(The video ends with Henry leaning forward slightly, giving the camera a final, knowing smile)

[wallwriterstuff]

Fault lines ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 5

Warnings: This is a fairly accurate representation of a Child Planning Meeting used to assess need and put supports in place for children who are struggling at home and/or at school. Swearing. Trauma responses. Mentions of violence and mental, emotional and physical abuse. Discussion of child services. Mentions of mental health and learning disability diagnoses.

Words: 4836

Summary: As John tries to put support in place to get Simon into school (and back to some sort of normalcy), the push back he gets shows just how much Simon is bottling up.

<-Part 4: Paint Over The Cracks

John hasn’t been in a place like this for decades, but the place smells familiar. The varnish on old wood and the faded, aged paint chipping off the wall in places throws him back to a time that he knows he lived through but feels separate from. John Price knows he went to secondary school, but the Jonathon Price who excelled at being mediocre in his classes feels very far away from the grizzled SAS Captain whose best asset was always his mind first, his weapon second. There’s this hum of noise that occupies the building, rumbles through the walls, a vault of stories waiting to be told and lives waiting to be lead that’s bursting at the seams. John remembered that feeling well; the feel of being confined by four walls and a test grade was etched into his marrow, fed that itch that had spurred him into the military when his parents had pushed for a University application.

It was the feel of a prison cell.  

“Mr Price?” The receptionist is middle-aged, smiles kindly, is overly polite, but her eyes scream at him to fuck off and let her work in peace. The documentation required to transfer Simon to this school had been a pain to collate and fill out, but John had painstakingly triple-checked every detail before handing it over to her for processing today. Simon’s about as settled as he’s going to get right now and the school’s have taken a while to get back to him about his application for a place, so Price considers himself lucky that he’s only had to wait a little over a month to enrol Simon. Old instincts flare when a sudden flood of people enter the corridor with him. Pupils spill from classrooms as he’s lead along a corridor and up some stairs, the loud chatter and laughter of raucous teenagers gossiping and laughing and loving and hating keeping his head on a swivel. It’d be easy to disappear in a crowd like this.

I can’t let Simon slip through the cracks.

“Oi Robocop! Gi’us your hat yeah?”

“Andrews! That’s not how we talk to visitors. Grow some hair and you won’t need someone else’s hat.”

“Ooohhh!”

“Mr McKay that’s well savage.”

Price shakes his head, ignores the little snotter and follows the receptionist into a meeting room. A tall, lean man with tired eyes and a cornflower blue tie stands to greet him and shake his hand. He’s got a laptop open in front of him and the lady across from him has an Ipad open in her lap. She’s blonde, bobbed hair and cappuccino eyes set in a young face that he thinks Simon’s demons will eat alive if given half a chance. The only other person with them is an older gentleman with laughter lines deeper than a canyon and the kind of gentle smile Price has learned to distrust over the years. He’s too cynical to believe everyone’s good at heart anymore. He tries to be more open-minded.

“Afternoon Mr Price, it’s good to meet you face to face. I’m Owen Croft, we spoke on the phone.” Price is glad when the head teacher finally stops shaking his hand – the clamminess was starting to irk him. He gives a polite nod to the two other members of staff in the room before taking his seat, pulling off the beanie and ruffling his hair a bit to let it settle. He’s been in a Child Planning Meeting before but, well, the last few kids he’s fostered haven’t had quite as large a history as Simon does. He pulls his own notepad and papers from his backpack and watches the way the older man’s eyes flick to it briefly. He can almost sense the relief in them, like the fact that their sitting there with someone who has actually has a clue is a rarity. Price gets a sneaking suspicion it is.

“Right, we’re going to start off by introducing ourselves and then we can talk through a plan to help integrate Simon into the Littlewood Academy family.” Owen Croft is far too cheery for the subject matter he thinks. “I’m Owen Croft, and I’m the Headteacher here at Littlewood Academy.” He turns his eyes next to the blonde woman who gives another one of those friendly smiles that his cynicism hates. He tamps down the irritation and mentally prepares himself for whatever the next hour might bring. He’s hoping it brings the biscuits down from the shelf behind Owen Croft.

“I’m Michaela Morris, and I’ll be Simon’s form tutor this year.” Price gives a nod of acknowledgement.

“I’m Thomas Edwards and I’m Support for Learning at Littlewood.” The older man tips his head towards him and Price gives another nod, feeling his own gut tighten.

“John Price…Simon’s foster carer.” It feels strange to acknowledge it out loud. He’s known from the start of course, but he’s been so busy being in the thick of it with the kid that he’s never really took the time to acknowledge his role in Simon’s journey. Owen smiles encouragingly and Price resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. He’s no unruly teen that needs a guiding hand anymore. The years haven’t been kind, and he sits before them now an assertive and grizzled old man ready to fight on a different kind of battlefield, the bureaucratic kind. Just you try and stop me helping this kid, just try.

“Okay. What we’re trying to do in this meeting today is establish a plan for enrolling Simon to our school. Today’s meeting is going to be focused on creating an accurate profile of his needs so we can support him the best way possible. So, John, can we start with a bit of background about how Simon came into your care and what’s been going well for you at home so far?” Owen has his hands folded near the laptop, poised and ready to type but giving the impression he’s fully listening. Price weighs each word in his mind carefully. There’s a lot to tell since Laswell’s last visit and he’s not really sure where to start with it all. Maybe the phone call that brought Simon to him?

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it. Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the last 24 hours.”

Owen takes diligent notes, as does Thomas, and Price finds the feeling addictive. It’s a lot, to hold someone else’s trauma, and it spills over one edge into the next like a champagne tower cascading from him to them. Perhaps it’s the not the phone call he needs to start with but everything leading up to it. Maybe he needs them to know Simon starved to feed his younger brother when poverty kept food on store shelves and not in their kitchen cupboards. Perhaps they need to know of the level of abuse his father subjected him to, from bringing dangerous animals into the house to making him witness overdoses in seedy bathrooms at concerts a young boy should never have been at. Maybe it’s the manipulation of his relationships with Tommy, a brother he loves so dearly doted on by their dad until Tommy became just like him and bullied him to.

No, no the separation of the siblings is another issue. Price’s head spins with it all. They only need to know the labels, not the specifics, he thinks.

“He er, he found his mother after she was murdered. Dad was taken into custody for it and the boys got placed into foster care. Simon came to me, his younger brother was placed with another carer. Investigation since has turned up evidence of a lot of mental, emotional, and physical abuse towards both boys, but mainly Simon.” His answer is polite, professional, but inside he’s straining under the weight of holding it all in. They don’t need to know everything, just the challenges and working supports, he reminds himself. Simon’s story is compelling to tell and he wants to shout it from the rooftops, condemn Thomas Riley for everything he ever did to his sons and make the entire damn country wake up and realise what’s happening to its kids behind closed doors. It’s not his role or place to do that though. His job is to advocate for Simon, not use him as some moral fable or example of a failing system to force change.  

“He has a younger brother?” Michaela, is tapping at her Ipad to and the clacking of keyboards pounds like war drums in his head. Simon would hate having these strangers know all of this but it’s the only way to get him the support he needs. It still feels like a betrayal and it makes Price’s gut clench.

“He does.” He confirms.

“Is there a family plan in place? Visits?” Owen questions, eyes probing. Price slowly shakes his head, mind drifting back to Laswell’s recent visit and the meltdown it had caused. He thinks it would have probably been easier to tell the President World War 3 had been declared than it was to tell Simon that he wasn’t able to see Tommy again for a while. He’d not seen Simon as the emotional type before that night; the boy kept his emotions neatly tucked away, all compartmentalised with a daily rota of which emotion he could display and when. Laswell telling him he couldn’t see Tommy had a similar effect to tectonic plates slipping against one another, the grinding friction building and building until it exploded into an earthquake that shook his whole house. Well, the doorframe perhaps, after Simon slammed the door hard enough to crack the wood. Maybe the floorboards to from where he’d thrown the furniture about.

“No. Social services have decided it’s in the boys best interests to remain separated for now.” Price said.

“Of course they did,” Thomas shook his head, looking pitying, “It’s ludicrous how many siblings get split when there’s evidence that shows siblings have better outcomes when they’re kept together.” Price feels his face pinch and before he can stop himself he’s on the attack, a vicious guard dog coming to Simon’s defence. He’s only 8 minutes into the damn meeting. It’s a new record.

“Unless welfare concerns stipulate otherwise. Their relationship was completely pathologized. Tommy was favoured by their dad and became exactly like him. Simon took on caring responsibilities for Tommy and was so blinded by that side of their relationship that he couldn’t see his brother was abusing him just as much as their bloody dad. So no, it’s not in their best interest to keep them together. Simon needs a chance to be a kid, not a carer, and he’s done his time as a moving target.” There, that should set the record straight. Thomas is silent enough that Price thinks the point definitely hit home. It feels almost cathartic to have someone take the brunt of his anger, and he is angry, so angry, that Simon had to live through any of this bullshit.

“The night we picked them up Simon was trying to keep Tommy away from their father, but the kid wouldn’t leave him be, talking about how “the bitch had it coming” and mocking Simon about the fact he couldn’t cry to her anymore whenever he was mean to him.”

“Fucking Christ Laswell…what a little psychopath.”

Maybe not his most professional response but if the shoe fits…

“Okay so, things that have been going well at home?” Owen gently guided the conversation to something better and Price glanced to his notepad. His chicken scratch was barely legible and Simon had snorted when he’d seen it. The conversation had been…interesting. Simon didn’t give away much, but he’d told him a few things he liked about living with him. Price wasn’t sure if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought he wanted to hear but it made him feel better to think he was serious. For all of his personality traits it was Simon’s observational skills he somewhat admired most, born out of vicious necessity tragically but giving him the comfort to know that Simon was never going to be played by any old idiot.

“We’ve established a good routine. Dinner at the same time, lights out, calm time before it. I spoke to the doctor’s a few times to and Simon’s got melatonin to help him sleep, so he’s getting a full nights rest now. There’s been chronic bed wetting but we’ve found ways of managing it. Simon said he likes his yes basket for all his snacks to and playing with my dog, Riley.” Price glanced about as more tapping echoed in his ears. There were other small wins but he kept those to himself, little successes to cherish that didn’t need boasting about at this stage. They’d painted together just last week. Simon had willingly let him into his space, been open to spending time with him, and they’d talked a bit as they worked and got to know one another more. It was one of the first real conversation Price felt he’d managed to have with the boy. He’d left feeling better about his ability to cook anyway once Simon had declared his Bolognaise was the best he’d ever tasted. Sure, the kid was comparing it to a microwave meal but…well he’d take his wins where he could get them.   

Challenges were of more interest to the staff members though. He could see them all perk up like hungry dogs salivating at a steak. Simon wasn’t a steak. He admired it, the thought that they could be the one to turn this kids life around – hell he’d once thought the same. The truth was…trauma had no timeline. Some kids would make no progress despite every support and the best will in the world for the next 20 years. Others might flip on a dime and heal quite a lot in 5. It wasn’t about any single one of them at that table but the team they were creating. Simon didn’t need a hero, he needed an army, and Price would be damned if he didn’t spearhead it. If Simon looked back in 20 years time and remembered him fondly then he’d have done his job right.

“Simon’s not big on talking but the few times he has his language gets…colourful. I imagine that’ll carry into the classroom. He prefers to be isolated in his room a lot, likes the quiet, so I think he’d benefit from having a breakout space.” Price pauses, wondering how to word the latest meltdown he’d had as Owen nods along and types like the cat that got the canary.

“A breakout space is something we can definitely provide. Thomas’s support for learning room is also used as a Quiet Hub for our young people who need time to regulate on their own.” Owen informed him.

“I run a lunch club there to so if Simon finds the playground tricky, he could come and eat with the small group I’ve got going.” Thomas piped up, smiling genially. Price almost scoffed at the hopeful look on his face, knowing full well that Simon wasn’t going to be his best bud just because he had a table and probably those bean bags that were never quite stuffed full enough to be comfortable. He could safely say with certainty right now that Simon was probably going to hate Thomas Edwards – the boy didn’t do bullshit smiles and probing questions into his emotional state.

“Is there anything else you can think of specifically that will need supported? Any diagnosis perhaps? I know you mentioned that there’s a PTSD diagnosis in the works but I’m thinking other things like autism, ADHD etc.” Owen questioned and Price paused a little. He tilted his head.

“There’s no official diagnosis for any of those things, no, but…I see some traits of ASD.” Price admitted.

“Like what?” Michaela asked.

“He thrives on a stable routine, he’s at his calmest when he knows what’s happening. Struggles to hold eye contact. Seems to have a thing with textures for food as well. Doesn’t like the lights on full blast. Of course those could all be byproducts of his trauma to. Difficult to tell.” Price shrugged. Michaela nodded, Thomas humming a bit. With a quiet sigh, Price added, “I’ve only seen it once but he…got physical, last week. His social worker visited with updates on his case and he had a total meltdown. Furniture tipped and lots of throwing stuff with a complete lack of regard for the safety of himself or us. Shoes at the lightbulbs kind of dangerous. He didn’t get physical with us but…I wouldn’t have put it past him to try, once he feels more comfortable with me. He got quite confrontational.”

Price hates the way that Owen types all this up. Paperwork is a necessary evil and he knows it, he’ll never get anywhere with helping Simon if they don’t have all their ducks in a row, but words on a page and actually getting to know the kid were two different things. It felt definitive, having it written down, that somehow he’d formed this image of Simon in their heads that they were going to perform to, whether that image was the same as the boy in front of them or not. Deep down, he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. He wanted them to know Simon as the kid who loved dogs and plants, as someone who had such a big fucking heart and showed great care for everything he was given because he knew the value of things better than most kids did. He wanted them to know the Simon that loved unconditionally, even when people didn’t necessarily deserve it.

“So one of the big things we’ll need to focus on for Simon then will be relationships. It’ll be the cornerstone of everything we do going forward. He needs to know he’s got consistent, reliable people he can turn to for comfort and for help when he needs it. As his form tutor and foster dad, John and Michaela are going to be an integral part of that.” Owen reasoned. Price tried not to role his eyes and simply nodded along. He’d done plenty of training before he was allowed to become a foster parent and knew the importance of being trauma-informed. He’d had the 6 principles of nurture practically seared into his brain. He was just waiting for one of them to say all behaviour is communication.

“Remember that there are times Simon may well struggle to cope, but when he’s dysregulated we need to look beyond that to what he’s really showing us. All behaviour is communication.” Ah. There it was. Check that off the bingo card.

“Perhaps we could also give him a buddy? A point of contact that isn’t an adult.” Thomas’s suggestion had Michaela nodding.

“Oh I know just the boy! We could pair him with MacTavish. Friendly, quite popular so can connect him to other friends. I’m sure they’d get on great.” Her suggestion was made with enthusiasm and Price had to fight the urge to disagree. Simon absolutely needed a buddy but…well…he had the attitude of the grim bloody reaper didn’t he? Did they have any kids who were willing to put up with silent, probing stares and an aura so cold it could freeze the first ring of hell? Maybe they should interview for applicants…

He leaves with a foreboding feeling and the promise of another meeting to “touch-base” in the next 6 months. As they walk down the stairs they’re met by the Deputy-Headteacher, who looks perturbed by the intense presence that is Simon beside her. He’s put his mask on again, eyes dead and hollow as they glare out at everything around him in the foyer, clearly not happy about having to be here or the tour she’d led him on.

“There they are. We had a lovely time touring the school-“

“No we didn’t.” Simon cut in. Price had to swallow a laugh at the startled look on the Deputy-Head’s face as Owen tried to make things better.

“That’s a shame. Not even one thing you look forward to doing more of when you join us?” he probed. Price had braced himself for the answer he knew was coming but it still took all his willpower not to grimace.

“Going home.” Simon’s scathing reply has Price sighing quietly. The staff members blink, unsure how to handle him and his bluntness. It was a stupid question really, Price thinks, Owen had set himself up for that one. He meets Simon’s eyes and sees he’s at his limit, fists balled up in the pocket of that green Hoodie that’s not been washed since he came in with it weeks ago. It’s got a lingering smell that’s just the wrong side of unpleasant but Simon refuses to wash it still despite another subtle talk about hygiene the other day. Price is going to have to be the bad guy soon and stop him from wearing it out in public lest anyone think he’s neglecting him.

“Well…we’re looking forward to welcoming you to the Littlewood family, Simon. We’ll see you for your first induction day next week.” Owen offers him a smile and gets nothing in reply. Simons as stoic as ever, unmoving, stone-faced. He might as well have tried smiling at a brick wall. Price nods a bit and grunts out a thank you as he passes, giving Simon the permission he needs to head for the front doors and get the hell out of dodge.

“I’m not going there.” He’s quick to refuse once they’re outside.  

“Unfortunately, that’s not a choice. I can’t break the law by not sending you to school and this is the only one with space.” Price informs him as they reach the car.

“I’m not fucking going.” Simon repeats.

“Half a day. Your induction next Tuesday is over by lunch time.” He reassures him.

“I’m not, fucking, going, old man.” Simon grouses. Price has to take a deep breath, meets him with calm and collected cool.

“Simon, I’ve given you my answer. By law, you have to go to school. This one has space. It’s a choice that’s out of my hands now and won’t change.” He keeps his voice even and tunes out the venom in Simon’s voice as he continues to needle at him over and over. He hasn’t even put his seatbelt on yet and Price doubts he’s going to. There’s a slightly manic gleam in his glare that makes him think he’s been hovering at tipping point since Laswell’s last visit, and something as simple as visiting his new school is enough to push him over the edge.  

“I said I’m not fucking going! It’s not my school and you’re not my dad! You’re pathetic!” Simon spits.

“Put your belt on, thank you.” Price ignores the insults.

“No!” Simon snarls practically, sitting with his arms folded in the front seat and spitting curses at him.

“And how does that choice help keep you safe?” Price questions.

“I’d rather go through the windshield than spend half a day in that shithole!” Simon snaps. Price knows he can do nothing but ride out this storm, let Simon spew fire and spit acid until he’s burned out. Simon’s beyond listening, beyond words, so Price just doesn’t talk, even when Simon tries to provoke him to. It’s a strange dance really. Simon’s confident enough in knowing Price’s response that he can shout and swear at him till he’s red in the face, but he keeps his arms rigidly folded, his body physically trembling with the effort of holding back physically, because he’s not quite sure where the line is. Price knows it’s what he’s pushing to find, that line in the sand that tips Price from calm to furious, to shouting at him and proving he’s just as bad as his father. Price won’t let him find it, won’t let that be his life anymore, so he stays silent. It’s the only response Simon gets for the 15 minutes that he stews in his fury. It’s like sitting too close to a lion, makes Price’s adrenaline spike and though he feels the spitting on his cheek from gnashing teeth he doesn’t flinch, knowing better than to give a predator the satisfaction. There’s a quiet click of his seatbelt being buckled up.

“Thank you. We need to get home to help Riley.” Price says coolly, aiming for distraction to deescalate the situation further. Simon doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t say anything either. By the time their home he’s amenable to taking Riley for a walk to the local park, the stubborn silence making it an uncomfortable walk for Price even though Riley’s having the time of his life prancing through the leaves autumn has dropped onto the floor. Dogs are clever little things and he’s sure that Riley can sense the tension, but he weaves through the gap between them and nudges at Simon’s hands all the same until the boy reluctantly pets him.

“I don’t want to go to school there.” Simon says as they walk.

“What makes you say that?” Price keeps the conversation light, open, not shutting him down even though he knows the answer will have to be tough, it’s where you’re going.

“I wanted the other one.” Simon keeps his eyes forward on the pavement at his feet. Price thought back to the other school they’d toured and hums slightly. The boy played his cards close to his chest and there was never any indication that he’d preferred that one more. Had he missed a twitch of a pinky finger or something? Even if he had they’d said the best they could do was put him on a waiting list only.

“What did it have that you liked better?” Price paused at the edge of the park, reaching down to unclip Riley’s leash and letting him go run off some energy. He doesn’t want to push him to far but it’s good Simon can acknowledge what had triggered him, even though Price knows it runs deeper than that.  For Simon it feels like he didn’t get what he wanted, but subconsciously Price knows that moving to a new school, away from old friends who had previously supported him perhaps, where he has to return to a home that probably still doesn’t feel like his every day to a man who isn’t his family, has him feeling at a total loss. It’s a decision made for him, a change he can’t control with too many unpredictable factors, and predictability meant safety. Where things weren’t predictable, they weren’t safe, and that feeling meant Simon was constantly on edge, always on the verge of being tipped into a meltdown at the slightest provocation. He’d just hidden it well until his brain recognised Price was safe enough to show his inner turmoil to.

“Pool.” Simon’s reply was short, but it made Price smile slightly.

“The swimming pool, huh? If you’re interested in swimming, we can get you a membership for the local pool. Did you want to swim for fun or join a team?” Price is met with silence for a little while as Simon mulls it over.

“Just liked it, I guess.”

“Well, the offers open anyway,” Price assures him, “Littlewood may not have a pool, but it does have space for you there, and a form tutor who’s excited to meet you. Did all that shouting and swearing at me change the outcome?” Simon huffs a bit, clearly not happy at being called out for his behaviour, but there’s a slight glimmer of frustration in his eyes that Price can tell isn’t directed at himself. Simon keeps such tight control over his emotions that the outburst has probably upset him more than it did anyone else.

“No.” he grumbles under his breath.

“Exactly, no, it didn’t. Sometimes, as an adult, I will have to make decisions you don’t agree with but are in your best interests. You’re allowed to be angry with me for that, but what you’re not allowed to do is let that anger hurt other people. We find other ways to channel that kind of emotion, alright?” His lecture is met with an eye roll and hunched shoulders. Price doesn’t push further, knowing that’s as much of a restorative conversation as he can get today, so instead, he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and offers it to Simon. “Want first throw?”

Simon channels his rage into getting Riley to fetch as far as he possibly can, and Price inhales the fresh air to try and remove the sour feeling that this is only the beginning of a very long road.  

[btheleaf]

For PemLin “Please eat.”

TW major character death

Pema stopped at the door only partially remembering the last few minutes... hours... days.

Time wasn’t moving the same way it had before.

Someone had been wailing at the dinner table again. Strange that it wasn’t her this time. Two weeks had gone by, two weeks of constant sobbing. Waking up numb this morning had been a relief from the pain.

She frowned down at the plate in her hands. How this task had fallen to her she didn’t fully understand. She felt nothing, but knew something needed to be done. She knew people needed to eat. Why had no one noticed? Did no one else care? Did she? Two weeks ago, she would have cared. Maybe. Nothing made sense.

She knocked anyway.

“Go away,” the quiet voice sounded through the door.

The words didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. She was getting too used to the fact that nothing made sense, which made even less sense. She thought about leaving the plate on the floor, but that didn’t seem right.

Pema searched her memory for how she got here and realized it had been Kya who was sobbing. Bumi had pulled her from the table, but the aching wails could still be heard from her room to the dining room. She needed to get away.

There was someone missing from the head count she took at dinner. Well, there would always be someone missing now, but there were two missing. Her husband and the dark cloud of gloom. She moved without thinking to gather a plate of food and ended up at her door. She knocked again and there was no response this time.

She entered.

People needed to eat.

Lin sat facing the door with her back leaning against the bed. A pile of crumpled tissues rested by her leg. Her posture was terrible. She didn’t even look up.

“Get out of here, Bumi.”

Another thing that didn’t make sense. At least she knew she wasn’t Bumi, so the request surely wasn’t for her. Pema stepped inside and closed the door. Lin finally looked up, her eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them puffy and swollen. The anger on her face quickly switched to confusion when she saw who was in her room.

Everyone else in the house was related to him by blood, but Lin and her were the only two people who had loved him by choice.

“What can I do for you, Pema?” Lin asked, her voice worryingly calm and devoid of emotion.

Pema looked down at her blankly, the fog in her mind couldn’t process the question. She didn’t need anything Lin could give her. Did she? She was fairly certain she had came here to give Lin something. The weight in her hand was her reminder. People needed to eat.

“You’ve been skipping meals,” her voice was hollow, emotionless in an entirely different way. Where Lin was masking, she was incapable of sounding like anything else.

Lin looked at the plate and frowned. “I haven’t been hungry.”

Pema moved and sat next to her, putting the plate in Lin's lap.

“People need to eat.” Of that, she was sure.

“I’m not hungry,” Lin whispered.

The tears came so suddenly. The trait wasn’t unique by any means, but everything reminded her of him. He couldn’t eat when he was upset either. Sobbing. She hated sobbing. Where had the numbness gone? The numbness was a relief and now it left her. It was probably gone forever, just like him.

“Please eat,” she huffed out between her cries and shallow, unsteady breaths. The family couldn’t take another loss. “You need to eat.”

A trembling hand held out a tissue in her watery vision and she took it out of instinct. Her arm fell to her lap though, what was the point of wiping away the tears? There would always be more tears. She could drown in the amount she’d cried since she saw his body still strung up to the pole on the stage. Why had he killed him? Wasn’t he just supposed to take his bending?

Lin hadn’t died.

Why did he die?

Nothing made sense.

The tears would never stop.

Weight shifted, ceramic tapped the floor, someone was holding her. They were sobbing too. Was that Lin holding her tightly? It must have been. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. That’s where the tears came from.

Pema pulled the body in closer trying to stop her shaking with the force of pressing someone against her. This certainly didn’t make sense. Lin didn’t cry, and she definitely didn’t give hugs.

Especially not to her.

[beautifulterriblequeen]

TDP rewatch: autistic Soren?

I spent a lot of time going along with everyone else saying that Soren was a big dumbass. And for that, I would now like to apologize. I don’t think Soren’s dumb. I think he’s autistic. 

As an autistic person, I feel bad for not spotting this earlier. But, like Soren, I do have a tendency to believe what I’m told, especially when everyone is saying the same thing. And this may not be canon, ever, but that’s okay. I see Soren in a new light now, and I know that light. (Gods, S3 is really gonna wreck me now)

He doesn’t get sarcasm. He takes Rayla’s “obviously” sarcastic comment at face value. He’s also not good with metaphor, taking a long time to grasp “butter them up.” Once he’s figured out what he should do--lie about the king--he does a very bad job of it because the emotions he needs to embrace to sell the lie aren’t familiar to him.

He’s very good with rules. A father who needed a son who was rooted in the narrative of strength could easily have trained an autistic child to bind himself within those rules form a young age. It’ll be very hard for Soren to question rules that he consciously chose to follow himself.

He doesn’t understand the shifting of loyalties. First he’s a loyal Crownguard, and then he’s supposed to detain Callum because his dad asked him to? Soren’s genuinely confused.

He still chooses to protect Callum when the assassins attack, even shoving him to safety from Runaan’s arrow, because those old rules of loyalty to the royal family haven’t been shifted.

He’s also slow to react to the arrow striking him. He takes precious reaction time to study it closely. He’s probably never seen a Moonshadow assassin’s arrow before. It telescopes in three places. It’s green. It probably smells faintly of poison. Soren’s possibly also never been shot before. All these physical details are hitting him at once, all with equal force, and it takes him a moment to sort through them, process them, and remember that the arrow means the assassins have arrived.

He spends time and effort trying to speak others’ languages, but he doesn’t always get it right. He knows Claudia’s nose trick but he can’t perfectly replicate it. He misinterprets Rayla’s angry intent as personal interest. He really tries to connect with his dad by offering his “see-saw” comment (which is actually right on the money as far as the show’s themes are concerned). 

He’s oddly focused on the difference between a prince and a “step-prince.” Not in a mean way, though. He thinks it means he’s paying attention to small details, which people often like. Not particularly in this case, though.

He really does just want to fit in. He does whatever Viren says because he wants to be accepted, not just as Viren’s son but as a not-weird, not-useless person.

Claudia’s the one who makes the jokes. He happily lets her lead on the mission to Mount Kaelik and has no ego attached to being in charge of her.

He’s really awkward with his brotherly feels when he calls her “weep-ridden” and offers to help by punching Callum. Autistics can struggle with language, especially in unfamiliar emotional territory and under stress.

He hyperfocuses on being a Crownguard, though, which is why he’s so good at it, and why he’s in charge. He does nothing but train. He loves being a Crownguard. He knows that role inside and out. He knows when to order men into position, and he knows when to shut up and hand the king his sword.

He insists that sweeping the leg is not a thing, though, because it’s outside his training. None of the Crownguard instructors taught him that, and so it is outside the rules. 

When he votes that Corvus is a traitor and gets Claudia to vote with him, he’s reinforcing the rules that he learned. The black-and-white shield on his armor isn’t just an indicator that he’s straddling the line between good and evil and will one day have to make a choice. It’s showing the way Soren sees the world: everything is either inside the rules, or outside them. Soren doesn’t see gray areas. But he might learn to very soon.

He’s cheerily cold-blooded about lopping Runaan’s head off and trying to kill Rayla because empathy is a strange animal for autistic folks. Sometimes it’s really high, and sometimes it’s nonexistent, even within the same person. Between a low empathy for elves and his Crownguard training, Soren legitimately doesn’t see any problem with killing them, even at the age of 18.

He knows the rules on how to deal with dragons: you fight them. And he gets a whole town torched. He was entirely unprepared. But his ego wasn’t in this fight. He freed Corvus because he understands that a Crownguard’s job is to protect Katolis, and that includes the townsfolk. And he admitted his mistake to Claudia because filters are hard under stress, and the truth just pops out like that.

When he’s paralyzed, Soren has no ego attached to remaining a Crownguard, either. His hyperfocus has broken. He was growing increasingly stressed by his dad’s secret mission. And he immediately seeks a new hyperfocus: poetry. He gives it a shot, and he’s terrible at it. He hasn’t actually internalized any poetry rules yet. He’d become a good poet pretty quickly, if he had the chance. But Claudia came to heal him instead.

As S2 ends and the siblings head home together, Soren has no plan anymore. He has no rules for what’s gonna happen, and he can’t anticipate Viren’s reaction but he expects it’ll be bad. He asks Claudia for help in understanding what his parameters should be, because that’s a long trip home, and that’s a lot of time spent worrying over scenarios that he has to consider because he can’t narrow it down--every possibility is a legitimate possibility to him.

[unfinished tdp meta]