#before myself even if they don't want me to .... I'm still trying to outgrow that at age 30.

[giantkillerjack]

Catholicism.

[.... oops I accidentally wrote real analysis in the tags lol]

why is he like this

[nitewrighter]

Do you think that the other characters forget Efi is only 12 (I think). Like she and Torbjorn spend the day going over super complicated schematics (and she even corrects him once or twice) then she puts on Power Puff Girl pajamas, watches Bluey while eating ice cream before bed? Could we get some fanteractions between her and the others?

I don't know if I discussed it on twitter or on here, but actually in the novel The Hero of Numbani, one of the things I thought was a really cute little world-buildy touch about how Efi interacts with the world at her age is that she often finds herself in these adult spaces, and the adults around her are drinking coffee, and they're like "uhhhh here" and they keep giving her coffee that's like... 50% milk and loaded with sugar--like it's clear they didn't really expect a kid to be in this situation and they're awkwardly doing what they can to try and accommodate her, and she partially recognizes that and also pushes boundaries and feels this need to prove herself.

Also like, 12 isn't really a "powerpuff girl pajamas and Bluey" age, 12 is like.. the age where you semi-convince yourself that you could probably stop arterial bleeding with your little bare 12-year-old hands if the situation called for it. 12 is when you're in a fucked up simultaneous state of "World is big and scary and my body is starting to do things I did not give it permission to do and I'm not ready" and also "I'm Nancy Drew levels of hypercompetent and you can't stop me." Ideally, 12 is where you're starting to push your own boundaries more and more but you're also kind of struggling with the fact that you are outgrowing things you used to really care about. You aren't quite at that asshole stage of "expanding independence but with very little concept of consequences" yet, but it is an age where you are grasping more and more complex concepts. But also your brain is still struggling to really make a leap into abstract/symbolic thinking, which is why algebra really sucks at that age. But again, Efi is a super-genius so developmentally she's at an even crazier intersection of what she can and can't do compared to her peers.

I got off track. Anyway here's Efi interactions.

----

Sojourn: ...You um, you don't have to stand all the way over there. I don't bite.

Efi: *awkwardly shuffles toward her*

Sojourn: ...

Efi: ...

Sojourn: Soooo---?

Efi: *hoarse whisper* You're so much cooler than in the cartoons.

Sojourn: *snrk* I was this cool the whole time.

---

Sojourn: So, I guess I should say, there's really no pressure here. If you did choose to join us, you would just be here as a consultant, and--*deep breath* Okay, the thing is, with Liao gone, you're actually one of the leading minds in the world on AI learning systems, and the way things are with Null Sector, we need to be better at anticipating their next moves. I don't want to put that pressure on you, but given everything you and Orisa have done for Numbani, your willingness to work with Lúcio before, and the position we're currently in, we would be honored if we could get your perspective on certain pieces of intel we have now.

Efi: ...

Sojourn: I get it, it's a very scary situation, and if you just want to stay with your parents and the rest of the civilians, we'll still do everything in our power to keep you safe. Orisa is proving to be an incredible asset on her own. Really, Lúcio just remarked that you seemed very passionate about protecting your home, so if you would be interested in the chance to do that on a larger scale--

Efi: Do I have access to the armory?

Sojourn: Eh--?

Efi: Oh it's not for me, it's for Orisa.

Sojourn: Uhm...

Efi: :)

Sojourn: *clicks tongue* Um--You know what? I'm going to call your parents because there are about 90 more parameters in this situation I need to figure out.

Efi: Oh! They're fine with me having access to the armory.

Sojourn: Yeeahhh I think i'm going to ask them myself.

[targaryenofrph]

Patterns by Kelsea Ballerini Sentence Starters

Change the pronouns and tense as needed for your verses.

I've got patterns

I'm coming apart at the seams

I like the feeling of the feeling that leaves me staring at the ceiling the morning after

Maybe I'm the one to blame for doing the same old same

It's so much deeper than under my skin

Is this a battle that I'll ever win?

When does it start, and when does it end?

Will I outgrow all these patterns?

Will I unknow all these patterns?

You just made the eggs and turned your head

I know you're not impressed with my lack of sticking to the Bible

Maybe we got into a few fights

So I know it took a little tough love to become the woman that you're proud of

My priorities were out of balance

You told me to go but wished I was home

I wouldn't wanna do it with anybody else

Everything that's heavy, I check it at the door, kind of feel like I don't need it anymore

I got some bones of old skeletons from the old house at the dead end

I got baggage, but I'm moving in

We both slept on a mattress with "I love you" people

So I know the weight and gravity of key chains with same keys

if you want that "Welcome" mat, then roll it out with me

Cause home is when you're with me

I like the feeling runnin' with the wind

That's why I went and did what I did

He and I both had our guns to sling, damn, that showdown was embarrassing

I'm still here brushing off a couple things

It doesn't scare or bother you

Never knew I'd have a round two

Take my heart, but take it slow, 'cause this ain't my first rodeo

Love's the wild, wild west, ain't gotta tell me that

Tell me that it's gonna be alright even though we never know if we're gonna make it out alive

When it comes to me and you, I can't not try

I get existential

I get overwhelmed

Got two hundred seventy-something things to reply to

You put on the boots I like for dinner on Friday night

You say they're uncomfortable but you wear 'em anyway

If I went insane and didn't know my name would you stay beside of me, reminding me?

If I gambled away my money, would you back away?

If my jokes weren't funny, would you laugh?

How much do you love me?

Do I sound needy and dramatic?

We said that it was over, what'd you send 'em for?

Two things can be true

I'll love and hate you

I'll be your best and your worst day

I'll be your blessing and curse

Sometimes I'll cut and ghost but sometimes I'll get too close

You're nothing and everything I got to lose

I wish it was that easy when it comes to me and you

No use in diggin' up bones from the grave

When it's over, it's over

I could take a deep dive in the details

I could hide, I could cry 'til I throw up

It's as simple as "We broke up"

I could call my friends and bitch about it

Tale as old as time, I don't gotta wrap my head around it

Another boy driving off mad in a black truck

I have a nasty habit, leaving before I get left

You'll think my light's on yellow when I'm keeping you on "Read"

Stonewall my emotions even when I wanna cry tears as wide as the ocean

One fight, too many 3 A.M.s, I guess we're broken up

You're like, "This is just a conversation, baby, what the fuck?"

Now I'm screaming, "Goodbye," out like it means "I love you"

I'm better on my own

It's all I've ever known

Wait! Don't go!

I'm codependent with my independence through and through

How stupid of me to think you wouldn't listen

so once again, my head and heart are at war

Can I take it back now? Can we make it last?

Feelings ain't the facts, just the patterns of my past

I'd follow you to the moon

You know I'm ride-or-die for you

But if you want a chase, I won't run

I ain't gonna beg for your love

I wanna go the distance, babe

I can't do it if I betray all the way before you work I've done

If you want "Sorry" on my knees, that can't be me

Is this just way too tough?

Are you not strong enough?

God, you're all I want but not like this

It's almost like I don't care if I even know how to swim

You could save me, maybe I could save myself

If lovin' you is an ocean, then I'm in deep

I grew up wishing I could close off the way my dad did

That man never felt a damn thing he didn't wanna feel

I've burned too many miles trying to ride out all the sadness

You can't outdrive pain, someday it's gonna take the wheel

Can't be alone but don't wanna get close to anybody

Don't wanna bare teeth but don't wanna look weak, it's a tough spot

But I'm afraid you'll walk away when the tears start running

I wanna be the one that you're callin' when you're drunk

When you're dropping every ball, I'll be there to pick 'em up

'Cause that's just what you do when you love someone

That's the choice you choose, when you love someone

No conditions, I'd follow you to the moon, no suit

I would, would you?

If somebody does you wrong, baby, hold my beer

Yeah, I'd still die for you then haunt you when I'm dead

I'll think about these nights when we lost count of all the "That's what friends are for"

I gave hell a piece of my mind

It gave me a hit to my pride

But I came out on the other side

This time, last year, the heartbreak was undeniable

Day by day, I became unrecognizable

Makin' my rounds, shootin' my shot

Standin' my ground, pissin' people off

People thinkin' that I've changed used to be my biggest fear

It's gonna be okay

You'll live to see the day when you're gonna say look at me now

Are you safe on the road you chose?

Did you make it home?

[dinoburger]

hey.

people are dying, but you're giving your cause everything you can. i've seen you work hard to try to help people. you're donating. you're spreading the word. keep going.

keep questioning how you interact with the world and you'll keep gaining richer experiences for it. this is a turning point for many artists, writers, crafters, etc. wherein they realize that fan culture is not giving them what they could be getting by engaging directly with themes and topics and a medium that they personally care about most.

you have to engage with art to get better at art, and fan work can be a great vessel for your thoughts on art. fan work can be fulfilling, but it is also ultimately a sort of self-imposed constraint.

now. you clearly have stories you want to tell about trans men and war and pointless enterprise and they're outgrowing the tf2 framework. they have been for a while. i don't really like tf2, but i *do* like your art and think of you first as an artist who engages with the trans body before someone who partakes in fandom of any kind.

if you decide to take those stories in your own direction, i want to read them and watch them grow. take care.

I have mixed feelings because it's not that I see fan work vs. original work as the dichotomy here, but rather like. A lot of the stuff I do outside of it isn't particularly deep in and of itself but it's still meaningful.

It's funny cuz like, I started getting back into traditional art because I've been painting picket signs. You're not doing that because it's narratively engaging or even to make them beautiful, but to be eye-catching and make a point.

I guess that's mostly what I think about, it's more laterally like, something that can exist without needing to be to that ends.

I don't really think it's a matter of taking the stories I have and restructuring them to add "originality" because that wasn't the point of writing them in the first place, and I'm not going to forcibly take my experiences and try to twist them into a compelling story if they won't fit or shouldn't center me - rather, the work I do doesn't need to be that deep if the context I'm using it for is meaningful already, I don't need to cut myself up for parts.

I want to engage art and culture more in that sense, you know? I think that was part of the joy of making pottery to me when I used to do it, there was always this kind of practicality and physicality that makes it feel significant in ways that aren't simply expressed, regardless of "depth" or branding or anything else.

There is just a kind of funneling that inevitably happens with engagement and social media. I think acting like I'm totally above it isn't honest, it's now 2 AM as I'm writing this response. I don't think of myself as profoundly removed, more the opposite. I think even if you're aware, you sometimes don't realise how bad it is for you until you start peeling away.

There's a kind of sterile singularity to it, every aspect of how art and identity are engaged here. There tends to be a kind of singular authority people take to each other that shapes the landscape here. And there's very much an "I'm not like that" kind of dogma.

Paradoxically it is like, the thing where the more you argue the point, the more it seems like you're trying to establish yourself as the authority of it, and again it's not like none of these things can be meaningful at all, but there's a kind of undeniable tunnel vision you get sucked into.

I don't think anything I've done for the causes I'm interested in are praise worthy, I try to do what I can. But it's still the most valuable thing I could be doing.

[meaninglessblah-writes]

idk if you're still taking prompts but jaytim+ 1.) "You are enough."

I wondered what it might look like if Tim sought out Jason, after Dick choses Damian to be Robin. Thank you for your prompt ❤️

"Do you ever think about not doing this anymore?"

In the corner of his eye, Jason lowers the pad thai he's been forking into his mouth. It's a few heavy, contemplative beats before he clarifies, "'This' being…?"

Tim waves an aimless hand towards the city beneath them, an orange glow that burns stark against the greying city and the murky clouds above.

"This. Being a vigilante. Being Robin, I suppose."

Jason chews, and doesn't answer for a while. Beneath their boots, the distant sounds of traffic hums through the night.

"It's a lot to give up."

The bleak laugh bubbles over his tongue unbidden, and Tim bites his lips to regain a semblance of composure. "Not as much as everyone else. I became Robin for Bruce, to give him a purpose. I wasn't ever in it to get something for myself. I moulded myself around that need. It's not a legacy, like it is to Dick. Robin is just who I am when I need to be; it's not that much to lose, right?"

Jason's tone is gentle. "A lot of yourself, I mean."

Tim lets that settle against his chest, heavy and close. Jason shifts closer, his elbow knocking Tim's as they stare out over the cityscape.

"It takes a lot to be Robin. You put a lot of yourself into that, and sometimes we forget how much it takes out of us."

Jason rubs his thumb into his palm in deep, slow circles. He watches the horizon, gaze distant. Tim watches his scarred hands.

"Nothing about this life is done in half-measures. When it takes a bite out of you, it takes a whole mouthful. Gotham will chew you up and spit you out if you let it. Sometimes that means standing your ground and saying, 'Don't fucking eat me.'" Jason turns to look at Tim, and Tim holds his gaze. "But sometimes it means knowing when you're outmatched. Sometimes you just need a break from all of Gotham. Sometimes the distance helps you gain a little perspective on everything. Vigilante life included."

Tim digests that in silence, nails tapping against the pockmarked concrete ledge beneath them. The light is beginning to return to the horizon, seeping through the fog of a storm lingering over the city. This high up, it all looks small, and inevitable.

"Do you think any of us ever really walk away from this?"

Jason tilts his head, considering. "You can take the kid outta Gotham, but… You're strong, Tim. You've got your head on straight. And that sense of justice? That sense that drew you to Robin in the first place? That doesn't disappear when you take the suit off. That stays with you. That is you."

He leans his weight back on his palms, inhaling deeply the morning Gotham air.

"So no, you don't walk away from that. But Robin? Yeah, you can outgrow Robin."

Tim huffs a short laugh, chest feeling a little lighter. "Easy for you to say. You got your growth spurt from a magic Pit."

"Maybe you weren't supposed to be Robin," Jason returns, deadpan. Tim glances up at him, the mirth sliding swiftly from his face, but Jason doesn't sound spiteful. "You said it yourself; you were filling a role, a gap. Maybe Robin isn't ever who you were supposed to be."

"But if I'm not Robin, who the hell am I?"

Jason shrugs. "The universe has a weird way of righting itself. A messy, fucked up, fated way of putting us on the right track. Losing Robin, that hurt you. I won't pretend it was good, or right. But the universe doesn't care much for right or wrong. You and me? We've got to set the record straight ourselves. If you want something out of the universe, you've got to carve it out yourself."

Tim shakes his head, trying to parse Jason's untouchable philosophy. "Robin is all I've ever had. If I'm not Robin, who could I even be?"

"You could be enough," Jason answers, looking back out to the horizon. The sun is beginning to stretch towards them, bright and warm. "It's not a matter of changing yourself, Tim. You're exactly who you need to be. You are enough."

His blue-green eyes look depthless, older than his years when Jason turns to smile at him.

"You've just got to tell us what enough looks like now."

Prompt me again!

[mothervvoid]

For the writing ask, 10, 22, 43, and 99! 🧡

for this meme

thanks for the sneak peak at the new bit you wrote for abandon, btw, i loved it! i've said this already so many times before but the way you write obito's dialogue... :chef's kiss: it's just amazing dude.

at what point in the process do you come up with titles, and how easy or hard is that for you?

because of just the sheer amount of failed projects i've had in the past (mostly bcos i started writing fic when i was in middle school and thus very bad at planning) i still associate naming things before they're finished to be bad luck. because of this, most of my fics are named right as i'm about to post! notable exceptions to this include Dogteeth, call me what you like and do it again; and do it again is actually a title i stole from a project i ended up abandoning!! (the concepts are similar tho).

it's kinda hard for me to come up with titles for fics im writing at present bcos i REFUSE to name most of them until they're finished. so then i'll just sit at the post box and glare at it bcos now i have a finished fic and no name. i've got a list in my notes app full of potential titles i think up for this very reason but sometimes none of them fit. and then there's times where i come up with the perfect title! once in a blue moon occurrence though.

describe your writing process from scratch to finish.

okay so, the process:

step one: come up with scenario. typically smth i want to see that i haven't seen yet. or it is something i've already seen i just want to do it myself.

step two: daydream about it. come up with a few vague scenes. i often imagine my fics as movie trailers funnily enough.

step three: keep daydreaming. there's a lot of daydreaming involved in my process unfortunately, about 70% of it is daydreaming and then translating that daydream onto paper. i think in both pictures and words so this is, thankfully, usually easy for me. during step three we've moved past vague scenes and have started fleshing out the meat of the really important scenes and have started on the connective tissue between, like motivations and how everyone got there to begin with.

step four: actually writing. typically this happens after a period of procrastination where i start writing it in my head, and then i write and rewrite it over and over again until i like it. (< this is the part of the process where my unfinished projects will usually die because i will start writing and then become daunted by the enormity of the story i've dreamt up. longfics scare me! there's a reason why even my chaptered fics are short. this is something i'm slowly outgrowing.)

and that's it!

how did writing change you?

it's given me a lot of questionable knowledge on subjects i am not majoring in.

but if i'm being honest? i think writing has helped me through some pretty dark times in my life. the pandemic ruined my mental health, and there's a fic i wrote from 2019 (it's batman & rhato related) where that really shows. i figured out i could express myself through writing and i just kinda ran with it lmao.

i also think it's made me better at expressing myself period tbh.

was being a writer a dream of yours when you were little? or did it spring up when your older? or is it just a hobby? 

i didn't really think about being a writer when i was a kid, i was very much your stereotypical child, i wanted to be a movie star or a singer. then i got older and it sort of sprung up on me--i see this as more of a hobby than a career though. i've toyed with the idea of writing something and trying to get it published, but i'm a little soured on the idea because so many members of my family keep pushing me to monetize something that's been a beloved hobby of mine for years, something i really don't want to turn into work, yk?

[sweetofsin]

i'm hoping that by next year i really can spend way less time on my phone and more time in person, interacting with people, diving into creative hobbies, etc. i think i'm becoming more and more anxious with my phone. which sucks, because i need it to communicate. but also, i struggle to communicate if i'm feeling really anxious. and then it's not just one or two people i have to communicate to. it's about 15 people consistently 🥲 (and i'm still forgetting some...) i love and adore them so much and simultaneously i feel frazzled trying to keep up with connections when most are online and i get more burnt out trying to communicate digitally

these also aren't like casual friendships either. they're all people where we try our best to invest into each other, hear how we are doing, check up on each other... which i really do love. and simultaneously, it does require more energy to maintain and to be able to invest into each other in those ways. but i also wouldn't trade it for the world cause i'm not really a casual connection type of person. i am irl but not really online

it's been a long time coming, to be fair, and last year i was so close to ditching my current phone and investing into a cool little flip phone and removing a lot of media consumption/accessibility. mainly just using it for some communication, photography, emergency. das about it

even when it comes to music and such like, (it depends upon the music) i'm really tired of it all currently. no, i don't think it's all bad. i still do enjoy music. and no, this doesn't mean that i'm going to go completely absent and ghost everyone and never talk to people again. but i believe i've just been outgrowing it more and more. seeing less and less reasons to be on here fr. it feels repetitive, people discussing and talking about the same things over and over, or pretty divisive, seeing people be 'out of touch' with the way the world works from their experiences primarily being online... it's a multitude of things.

for some reason i feel kind of ashamed for feeling this way? or i feel guilty/bad? but i think it's because my generation primarily loves connecting through the digital and/or online connections, so then i feel bad when i'm like... yeah i'm kind of feeling that i need more than that. or at least a mix of both. its really been making me disassociate and feel even more exhausted and burnt out using a screen so much. it's a complete 180 to how i was most of my life, where most of my safe space and the connections i loved were online or only accessible through the phone. i needed the digital world to escape and feel safe, and now i prefer to build my safety and stability in person instead of relying on technology to do so for me. i feel like who i was before 20 would've never seen this coming. i loved connecting with people online and was very terrified to do things with people in person. but now that i have more experiences and my relationships with people have been getting better, it's like... my body has been healing from that and it feels blissful. bittersweet too

like it's giving that i may have to start talking to some people once a month or every few months and give updates... which i feel SUPER bad for. also this does depend upon the connection. there are some connections where we do talk more consistently. but even with them...

idk. i just find myself more and more getting anxious and restless with online stuff. really enjoying and missing and craving more experiences of building life and doing communal work with people in person. i don't want to discount what online connections can do though. they genuinely can be so amazing. there's people i never would've met without the internet, that changed my life in beautiful ways. but i'd be lying if i said i'm not constantly thinking about ways life would be so different if we were in person. i feel like a millennial saying this lmao

it's like, if we were in person then we could just simply show that we care by cooking each other a meal, sitting together in silence, cuddling and holding each other, crying on each others shoulders, giving each other room and space to exist and be ones selves together. but online, the main ways you can show you care and work on that is through really good effective communication, and i don't think that's everyone's strong suit. i have friends that are kinda ass at showing they care online/over text, but are much better at it in person. or i've had conflict where we weren't really understanding each other over text, but we met up and talked about it in person and it went much more smoothly.

i've also had the opposite experiences too, where people acted fine with me in person but then felt more comfortable exploding on me online. or people who were primarily used to being able to be affectionate and connect online, but did not really show much of it in person. it's a mixed bag but i do wish it didn't have to be so binary sometimes. i think it's genuinely hard to find connections with that sweet spot of like things being portrayed in person AND online, instead of it being an extreme of either or. but i also understand the nuances and such of the times we live in. i'm too exhausted to get more into details with it so i'll leave this here

[dear-kuka-chan]

retrospection and introspection

it's been over a year. still feels like only a couple of weeks ago we were doing those quiet work sessions together with common music.

so much has changed. I've gotten so much closer to you since then, and you have come to be just as close to my heart as well. but that's not the only thing that has changed. recently we've been having these fights, arguments, discussions, whatever you would like to call it. and I'm really glad that we're doing it, communicating, instead of not. at the same time, i feel myself drowning deeper into the soup that is my head.

not too long ago we had a serious conversation about you not feeling heard in this relationship. about how you have to end up coddling me even when it's you who isn't feeling that great. about how I am often unfair to you. and i wouldn't put it past myself to be any of those, so i do admit i might have been that way - but goddamn it i have been trying so hard to be better.

i want to be able to show up for you without it being at the cost of showing up for myself. but recently in the pursuit of making it a space where your feelings and thoughts are not dismissed, I've been feeling like I'm losing myself in the process. I've started second guessing myself so much that sometimes I'm reluctant to even bring up something that bothered me for fear that i am only being unreasonable and it's all in my head. i do not feel validated or listened to in what i am trying to convey. in fact, when i muster up the courage to talk about something i often find myself facing premature interruptions, lack of perspective, backhanded/begrudging responses, dead-ended replies, and discourse on how I'm being unfair to you. you always encourage me to communicate all the qualms i have, but you also crush most of it down and call me unreasonable. somehow it's always your way which is right and if i disagree i get shut out and dealt disinterested responses. it feels like you don't even bother to engage in some pieces of the conversation if they aren't convenient to you.

it enables my fear of confronting someone in the first place and when i don't say anything I'm tagged as selfish. I'm starting to get afraid to talk to you about whatever bothers me. and I'm starting to get afraid of saying things to you lest you don't take it well. it's almost like in the process of ensuring I'm making you feel heard, I'm often ending up feeling unheard. and i don't want this to happen. i don't want to have to reconsider what i should and shouldn't bring up in front of you, i don't want to be so afraid of you that i hesitate to speak clearly. i don't want a distance to be created between us like that.

i also don't want to pin any blame, nor do I want to point any fingers. all i want to do is convey what I'm feeling and I'm doing it here right now because when i tried to convey it verbally i got shut out without a care or a follow up. all I'm asking you is — please don't simply check out of conversations, please don't leave me out here wondering what i did to deserve this kind of coldness.

today i learned that i must not hold you to a standard of the past that you are trying to outgrow. yet i wonder how many times i have been held to the same. i have my own things to work on, which you have communicated well enough to me, and I'm trying my best to do better at them, but i keep being held to the standard of a previous expectation too, and every time i feel like there is the slightest tangible change you constantly comment on how there is "no change observed". when you hear someone say that over and over to you, you start wondering if they even care to look closely enough to see it. and whatever tiny progress i may have made feels discredited with the words "yes it was admittedly a little better than before but that's really all i can give you" in place of what should be "hey i notice you've done the [problematic thing] much lesser this time and I'm glad/proud, keep it up :)". is it not evident how the latter is so much more positive and supportive compared to the former?

i really want you to know this: when i am trying to talk about something that i am dissatisfied with, something that upsets me or something unpleasant i experienced, in no way is it a direct attack at you. I'm (most of the time) not intending to accuse or blame and let alone hurt you. (and I'm truly sorry for all the times i end up doing the latter)

i do genuinely want to talk about it to understand where it's stemming from and make it a conducive place for both of us to work through it together. ofcourse, as often evidenced, I'm not the best at conveying that calmly enough and i very frequently let my impulses get the best of me and snap, and i say things in a way which would imply otherwise, but i really do want it to be "us against the problem" and not "me against you". and i am sincerely sorry for all the times i raise my voice or get frustrated or give up midway or snap passive aggressively or act snarky/sassy. i truly am. you don't deserve to be spoken to like that and i should learn to be more patient instead of having outbursts. and i will.

but please, at the same time, i would really like it if you remain open to listening instead of getting defensive and nitpicking my words, open to listening without an agenda, without constantly attempting to cook up replies to invalidate my experience/tell me how I'm delusional/wrong/etc. i would really like to be given enough respect that my side of the story is not discredited simply because it doesn't match yours, that if it's something concerning both of us, my experience with the thing is not entertained for favour of your own. i want to be able to say things to you without worrying about how you're going to put me down this time. i want to be able to stand up for myself without being afraid of consequence, without the fear of you becoming aloof and shutting me out and not bothering to take any initiative or follow up in the conversation just because you've said everything you wanted to and don't have anything else to add. i sometimes feel like you don't make an attempt to make sure I've felt heard and understood.

there is such a big soup in my head, so many thoughts just whirling around. so many voices all saying so many different things. i didn't know how else to sort through them hence this huge dump. sorry if it's been a bumpy read, it was merely an attempt to organize thoughts.

and honey, i love you. i love you so so much. you mean so much to me. and i so want to be able to hold your hand and walk through this instead of being at odds with you at every step. i want to do better every day. because you're worth the effort. you're worth staying up till 3am trying to calmly sort through a flurry of thoughts about a relationship. you're my person, my best friend.

and i don't want to throw any of it away.

i miss you.

it's cold tonight.

[the141ghost]

Johnny didn't want to leave.

It was simple, final. And yet, for some reason that Simon couldn't quite understand, his chest felt empty because of it. He supposed he'd been hoping for something more… more.

But, as Johnny stared into his eyes and told him he liked how he acted, Simon decided he was very okay with it. There didn't need to be anything else, ever, not so long as he still had Johnny. He'd sooner die than ruin what they had by throwing a spanner in the works, and that's exactly what his feelings for Johnny were. They would just create problems for them both, and everyone around them.

"I never want you to fuck off, Johnny. When the day comes that you outgrow this place? This job? I've got no fucking clue what I'll do with myself. I don't even really know what I did before we started working together."

It was true. His whole life had been static, then Johnny, and then, when he left, it'd be back to static.

Simon never wanted that day to come.

The laugh that Johnny followed his self-deprecating thought with seemed fake, and the brief quiver in his smile proved to Simon that it was. That wouldn't do, not at all.

Simon made it his goal for tomorrow to find out who exactly had been telling Johnny that kind of thing, and make them regret ever even being born. 

He hummed, moving his hands up just a touch so they sat more on Johnny's waist rather than his hips. His waist was easier to grab, but he missed the softness of his hips. He slid his hands back down to where they were, if not a little further back. They weren't placed indecently, but they were definitely getting there.

"Well, if you are too much, I haven't noticed," Simon replied calmly, once he'd caught Johnny's gaze again he gave a tender smile. "Besides, I get told I'm not enough more often than you'd expect. We even each other out pretty well. Don't we?

Look at what I just told you, Johnny. That's why I don't try to get away from you. If you'd have told me how sorry you were that I had a shitty childhood, how terrible you felt for me? I'd have punched you in the bollocks. And maybe you did want t'say how sorry you were for me, but you didn't say it. An' I can't help but thinking that's because you know me better than I know myself most of the fucking time."

Simon had no idea where he was going with this. It felt like one of those times he'd say lots of little things to build up to one big thing, but what would he even say? I'd let you bend me over this desk and use me like a cheap whore if you asked? Yeah, not a chance.

"I'm a bloody mess, Johnny. I'm sure you pieced that one together yourself. I've seen so much shit that even I'm surprised I haven't stuck a bullet between my eyes yet. And whenever you're around… it doesn't get to me as much." He smoothed out the wrinkles he'd made on Johnny's trousers with his thumbs before he gave his hips another squeeze. "It's still there, always will be. But… I think that I can handle it a little better if you're with me."

Simon paused, eying where his fingers were pressing into Johnny's hips before he looked up again, biting the inside of his lip before he spoke again. "So… no. I don't want you to fuck off. And when you do-" When. Even if Johnny said he wouldn't, he would eventually. Everyone did, and it was for the best. "-I'll wish you didn't."

For the second time in just about as many minutes, Johnny froze. He was glad he'd already swallowed the bourbon, because if he hadn't he definitely would have choked on it, the bluntness of Ghost’s question catching him off guard. Johnny was glad he scrambled to correct himself before he could start spiralling about that one.

The way Ghost’s hands squeezed his hips slightly as he stumbled over his words sent a shock up Johnny’s spine. The skin beneath his hands felt like it was screaming, simultaneously glad for the thin fabric between them and also wanting to rip it off, to feel his rough, calloused hands against his bare hips, his stomach, his-

Okay, not going any further with that thought.

“Bloody hell, Ghost, if ye wanted me t’ fuck off ye coulda jus’ said,” Johnny teased, still grinning. Without even realising, he’d rested his empty hand on one of Ghost’s arms, just casually placed there without a second thought as if it were completely natural. To him, it was.

Ghost’s words did nothing to help the blush that had permanently settled on Johnny’s cheeks. The rushed I don’t want you to go away. The way he was the one to say that Johnny probably knew him better than anyone else.

Ghost didn’t just say things like that. Johnny understood the gravity of his words. He knew he meant them.

Once he’d got over himself, he realised he actually needed to come up with an answer. Fuck.

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up letting far too much slip, say something he would definitely regret. He doubted Ghost wanted all the mushy reasons his mind was unhelpfully supplying.

Because I don’t think you’re a prick. I think you’re funny, I enjoy our banter and your terrible jokes and insults.

Because I know you better than anyone else. I know you struggle to express yourself and open up but I know you want to. And I know you do try.

Because despite everything you’ve done and because of everything you’ve been through, I think you deserve someone who will stick by your side, someone you can talk to, someone you can lean on, or just someone you can tell your shitty jokes. I want to be that someone.

Because I think I love you.

…Yeah, definitely not that last one.

“Because I don’t want to,” Johnny shrugged easily, as if those five words could somehow encompass everything he’d just thought, condense it down and let Ghost know how just much he cared without actually having to say it.

His words hung in the air for a moment as he looked into Ghost’s eyes, eyes he knew like the back of his hand, eyes he could read even when they were the only part of his face he could see.

“And I like that you’re a prick,” he added, his tone playful, as if he hadn’t just confessed to Ghost a thousand times over in a thousand different ways inside his head.

“Maybe, I’m the one wonderin’ why you haven’t got rid of me, already,” he turned the question back on Ghost, and even if his smile was still light and playful, something in his eyes was begging to know. “I get told I’m too much at least five times a day. In not as many words, granted, but I know people are thinkin’ it,” he gave a light laugh. His smile only faltered for a fraction of a moment.

[dimbulb0]

Cassie said over the phone that she had outgrown her bra again, but there was something in her voice that hinted she was hiding something. When you got home from work that afternoon, you heard her giggling in the bedroom. "All right," you said. "Let's see what ha--" Cassie was sitting on the edge of the bed--or at least someone with the face of Cassie. She was almost completely naked, save for a few straining stitches of black lingerie. Her breasts had become two globes of flesh that bulged from every angle and had to have been at least a hundred pounds each. Her hips were enormous, so large that they looked like they couldn't fit through the bedroom door without scraping both sides. Her legs were as thick as tree trunks and seemed to go on forever. "Holy shit!" you exclaimed. "Thank god," she said. "You're finally home!" You stared at the woman--no, monster--in shock. You'd never seen anything like it before; not even the most insane pornography videos could come close to conveying just how much bigger your wife had gotten since this morning. Cassie had always been obsessed over her breasts. Although she had proudly flaunted her C cups whenever she could, she had wanted to go up a few sizes for years. The clinic she went to yesterday advertised natural breast enhancement, but this was far from natural. "What happened!? Did you call the clinic?" "No, why would I? Just look how big my boobs have gotten." She patted one for effect. "But… but… you're eight feet tall!" Cassie rolled her eyes. "No I'm not." She stood up, as if to prove her point--and up--and up! You tried to hold your ground, but her sheer enormity caused you to step back as she reached full height. Her head was an inch away from the ceiling. She looked around the room in awe of her new perspective. "Oh! I didn't even notice." "What do you mean you didn't notice? Look at you. How could you not have known?" "You don't understand," Cassie said. "My breasts feel so good every time they grow, it's all I can think about. I guess the rest of me was growing, too." Your brain struggled to process what she was saying. When she came home yesterday, she was noticeably larger chest-wise, but only by a few cup sizes. You both had a good (and sexy) time having her try on her old bras and seeing how much she had outgrown them. Her new bras were all even a little bit too big, but she said that she might still grow a little bit as a side-effect of the treatment. Now, one of those new bras was close to exploding. "Every time? How many times has it happened?" "I tried to hold back, but--" she let slip a small sigh. "But I couldn't help myself. I wanted to wait so you could see . . ." "How many times?" you asked again. ". . . but now that you're here . . ." She tore off one of the remaining cups on her bra, baring one monstrous tit, and groped as much flesh as she could. She grew. Her breasts were already so gigantic that the first thing you noticed was Cassie's head bumping into the ceiling. The whole house shuddered. She gave herself another squeeze and her boobs finally grew enough to completely rend what was left of her top. "Yes . . ." she hissed as she grew bigger in pulsing waves of growth. "More!" You began to back away as Cassie's massive breasts, free from their confines, began to loom higher and higher over you. "Stop! You'll outgrow the house!" Just before you turned and ran, you caught sight of the hungry look in her eyes. "Think of how big my breasts will be by then!" she moaned, crouching down as she gained another foot in height . . .

*****

Made with NovelAI. Prompt: giantess, tall woman, sitting on bed, legs spread, growing bigger, curvy, sexy, torn bra, towering, heavy, filling, squashed, titanic, laughing, too big, squeezing

[nightowlwriting]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

[insomniac-arrest]

I'm about to turn 27 in a week or so and something, something, only hot bitches get birthday depression. Anyway, I am terrified, I've never liked birthdays, reviled them even. I dunno if it's the attention or the burden of feeling worthy of attention or burden of making people celebrate me.

I've always just, hated birthdays so much. I don't like facing that nagging fear that people are being forced to be nice to me even when they don't want to. I don't want to face that nagging feeling that I've failed to make enough meaningful connections in my life. I don't want to exist in sight, in view, in acknowledgement. I want to be an afterthought, not a consideration.

Beyond my paranoia that people secretly all dislike me, there's this existential sickness that grips me each time. I'm 27 and I'm not in a long-term relationship. I'm 27 and don't have a "career." I'm 27 and could never even consider having kids or embracing the adulthood of my peers, like

More than these visible "mile markers," I'm 27 and have less of a sense of myself than ever before. I was 21 at one point and thought I knew everything about myself: driven, fun, creative but an intellectual as well. I thought I'd get a masters or a law degree or move beyond myself, this self, and know what that meant.

They weren't lying when they said there's a hopefulness, cockiness even, to youth that you don't realize until you've past it. There's also an anxiety to youth as well that you realize only later was unneeded. Who knows, in a few years maybe I'll look back on this current anxiety and consider it unnecessary self-torment. "Should"-ing on myself as my therapist would joke.

Still, I don't wholly buy Tumblr's soft-served ice cream argument that "everyone goes at their own pace."

Am I going at my own pace or am I spinning my wheels? Am I taking my time or I am not challenging myself to stand and deliver? Am I thinking deeply in preparation for "becoming" or am I overthinking as an excuse to never move? Is this exploration or fear?

And does it even matter? I grew up with a narcissist and witnessed firsthand the weaponization of preoccupation with the self. "I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up from school. I'm still working on myself." "I'm sorry I couldn't take you to soccer practice. There's something wrong with me." "I'm sorry I made you listen to how much I want a divorce and hate my life. I'm figuring myself out."

We spend so much time considering the self we stop considering the world around us. So does it matter? Does it matter if I'm still caught, trying to grow up when I know whatever adult I manage to become will have holes in her? Does this thought alone, the thought of self and girl and adult, make me just like her anyway? Perpetually looking in the mirror as if that means something.

Am I running out of time? I've seen people get stuck, my mom was stuck in that childhood futility and eternally trying to perfect herself to the point she never learned to help herself. And me, futilely and eternally stuck trying to help her so she might help me.

Even now, if I think about it too much I get so angry, I could scream, I could explode, I could sink into a fury and self-pity so deep I might never come out again. But you let go, you have to, there's no choice, you forgive her because it's too exhausting not to; children hold grudges, adults forgive, adults move on, and I can't be a child if I'm ever going to outgrow her.

Besides, I might as well yell at the clouds for failing me for all the good it would do me, I might as well yell at a puppy or a wall.

God I'm scared. My therapist spent years trying to convince I'd never be my mother, but the mother isn't a person, it's a parasite that eats it's way out of your chest year by year. And here comes another year.

[vfenrirsv]

She left her books, her car, her clothes, and a note

But all she wrote was, “Tonight I'm leaving on a train,”

She said she's headed west, to make it right, for one more night

And, well, I don't blame her if she is

They say it isn’t stupid to stay and fight for a relationship, because love is complicated and messy and people are more than just the sum of their quirks and dirty laundry or bad habits. They say it isn’t stupid to put your all into your relationship, to go all in, to open your heart and love with all of it; knowing that you might get hurt as well. They say there is no limit to love, that there is no mountain high enough or river deep enough…but I guess love only truly lives in song and sonnet, because if love were real then wouldn’t you be in as much pain as I am?

Wouldn’t you be suffering under the knowledge that the person you swore to love with all of yourself for the rest of your life didn’t even act like they want you anymore?

But he thinks it's just one more sunset

And after all, it's her fault if she hasn't caught on yet

So why'd you have to go?

Would you even miss me if I were gone? Would you walk the halls and cry for me? Would you stay awake at night and look to the stars, wondering where I was and how things could have gotten so twisted and turned around? Would you even notice that I wasn’t there? Would something in your soul feel missing or dark? Would you run down the drive and look for me the morning after you realized that I wasn’t coming back? Would you scream and demand that the heavens answer your question of why, why, why?

Or would you sit in front of your television or play on your phone, and mutinously stew in your own silence? Would you go to work every day, nary a disturbance to your life of work-grocery-home-shit-shower-sleep-repeat, going on and on like every other day? Would you look around and continue to ‘have nothing to say?’ Would you even look around at all?

Is there something I could say to make you turn around?

Cause nights like these I wish I'd said don't go

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

I’m already gone, even if I’m still here. I battle with myself about how much more to bend or struggle or argue. When we argue I am the one spilling my guts, crying and emoting and being rung dry while you sit in silence with a quick joke or flirty comment. “You’re so pretty.” You say it’s to make me feel better, but all it does is chip away at what little of my feelings I have left. Do you even care? Have you even realized that I’m leaving, that I’m out the door, that I’m disappearing right in front of you? I’m disappearing from this life, this relationship, from the friendship I thought we had, inch by inch by painful fucking inch.

Have you even realized that I’ve stopped arguing with you, stopped asking you to talk to me; have you noticed yet that I’ve simply stopped?

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

If you were fighting for this relationship, if you were determined to stitch it back together; failures and all, would you argue with me more? Would you get overwhelmed and angry and loud? Would you throw things or slam doors? Would you demand answers and dedication and a second, or third, or tenth chance? Would you get desperate and panic, thinking that everything was your fault, like I do? Would you turn your mind over and over, trying to find a solution to problems that you know aren’t even fixable anymore? Would you lose sleep like I do? Would you forget to take care of yourself? Would you get sick to your stomach like I do?

Would you dread the thought that you’ve become a complete and utter failure, like I do?

Try as I might, I just can't handle this

I lost myself inside a drunken kiss, and I

All that I wanted was to walk you home

Save a sad song for the sing-along

Would you even recognize rejection anymore?

When I say “You haven’t kissed me today,” and you kiss me on the cheek, do you even understand how sad that makes me; how utterly low it brings me? Instead of dragging me close and laying claim to my lips and stealing the breath from my lungs, you skim my cheek for a millisecond before pulling away. If my love language were affection, you’d be speaking loud and clear. It doesn’t matter that you follow it up with a peck on the lips. “I’m just not good enough for you anymore, am I?” you ask. Truthfully? No, I don’t think so anymore. I am not going to apologize for outgrowing a relationship or a person who had the option to grow with me but stubbornly refused to.

When I tell you “I need you,” and throw myself at you, change my clothes and my under things and my actions, when I come on to you and give you every opportunity to have me in the way that a man wants a woman; you smile at me, call me cute, and feed me an excuse. Do you know how that makes me feel? To know that the only man I want to crave couldn’t care less for a taste of me? Have you even realized that I’ve stopped propositioning you? Your excuses taste like ash in my mouth and sound like static in my ears.

Do you even know the last time you touched me? No? I do. I am intimately familiar with all of the times you’ve left me wanting.

In sixteen days it will be a year. A fucking year. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds, each an opportunity denied. Do you have any idea how the fuck that makes me feel? Do you even fucking care what you’ve done by doing nothing? Are you even aware of the neglect that I feel? That is YOUR fault. I am livid. I have spent money needlessly on lingerie and waxing and short dresses and makeup and have watched more than my fair share of tasteless x-rated cinema to get ideas on how to fucking please you and for what? FOR WHAT? For. Absolutely. Nothing. A fucking year? Are you fucking serious?!

We’ve been married a year and four months, and it seems like I don’t mean anything to you at all.

Oh excuse me, my bad, I pay my share of the bills – so I guess I’m good for something.

And what she'd give for one more smile

And how she hoped he missed her

'Cause, God, she missed how he would kiss her

You know, I lay awake at night and I wonder; would we have been better if we had waited to get married – would we even be married at all? If we had catered to everyone else’s needs, delayed everything, if I had been witness to all of this earlier, would I have been able to foresee how much you don’t respond to me anymore? If I had slowed down and kept a part of my heart to myself, would I be better off? If I had stayed with my job up north, would things have progressed as they have? If I put my foot down about moving down here, was more vocal against moving into this oversized house, more resistant about sacrificing my preferences and wants; would anything be different?

If I didn’t love you as much as I do, would I be better off? If I didn’t believe that sometimes love isn’t enough, would we be better than we are now? What if, what if, what if…

So why'd you have to go?

Is there something I could say to make you turn around?

'Cause nights like these I wish I'd said don't go

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

Who have I even become in this relationship? I can’t stand the person that I have become, and if I don’t love myself anymore how in the world can I expect you to? I’ve stopped taking care of myself, and I’ve stopped taking care of you – but jesuseverlovingchrist it isn’t my responsibility to take care of you. I am not your mother, your maid, or even your mistress. You refuse to take care of yourself? Fine. Then don’t.

And if you won’t love me, then I will just have to love myself instead.

I used to be vivacious, exciting, and adventurous. I would go out to drink and flirt on New Year’s Eve. I’d kiss a stranger, and have fun doing it! I’d dress and make myself up just to turn someone’s head, to catch someone’s eye, to feel coveted. I would pack a bag and go hiking or camping on a whim. I’d get on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle and hold them close and feel the thrill of speed and power beneath me on the highway. I’d swim naked in the sea and sleep in my car on three-day weekends. I’d stay up past midnight to watch the stars disappear and the sun rise over the ocean. I’d make friends of friends, chat up strangers in coffee shops and bookstores. I used to try things for the sake of trying them. There was always the thrill of the unknown.

Now? I stay at home, holed up in a bedroom with paint on the walls and carpet on the floor that I can’t stand. I fucking hatehatehate the color. Who thought that beige-everything was a good idea? I spend all my time reading books and avoiding the world. I can’t even live well in the shadow of my unhappiness. I just eat, and eat, and eat and grow fat and sick of the shade that I cast. I can’t do this anymore.

I’m leaving, and even if you tried to stop me, I don’t know that I’d even believe that you meant it.

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

Yeah, you're walking down a road that I can't go

You're walking down a road that I can't…

Disappearing By Inches, by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

Champagnes For Celebrating, by Mayday Parade

[inspired-by-the-music]

For You: 4 O’Clock

Taglist: @jineunwootrash​ @jamies-kpop-reactions​

Chapter 15: Our Story

The mere seconds that Mom spent staring at me and Taemin, slackjawed in the doorway, might as well have lasted forever.

I think we wouldn't have looked half as guilty if we hadn't flinched lightyears apart from each other at her gasp, but it was our instinct to run and hide. As it turns out, we didn't melt or fade in the light of discovery, but we certainly did burn.

"Oops!" Mom almost giggled as she tiptoed back into the hallway and closed the door with a soft click. Like she had done something wrong, she apologized. "I'm sorry! Lei, I just came to tell you that dinner is ready. Come down whenever you get hungry!"

Before I could speak even in a timid squeak of a voice, I heard Mom's footsteps retreat down the stairs. Because tense silence had fallen over my room, I heard Donghae ask, "Where's Lei? Is she okay?"

And I heard Heechul say, "She's not curled up in bed with her radio crying her eyes out to SHINee again, is she? I thought we were past that phase!"

I went red in the face because I had certainly grown a bit past that phase, but only because I had Taemin— the real-life person— to curl up with. Thinking only that Taemin was a million times more comforting than any CD had ever been-- and that's really saying something since you know well that music was my best friend before Lucas— I glanced at him.

From the foot of the bed where he had tucked himself into a humiliated ball, Taemin sprang to his feet and started pacing around in the dark.

"Oh my God," he wheezed, nearly tripping over his shoes. "She caught us. Your mother— my manager— caught me in your room. She caught us kissing. She caught us kissing in your room. She caught me kissing you on your bed in your room. She caught me whispering into your mouth that I love you on your bed in the dark in your room."

I had been flustered before Taemin became a human embodiment of anxiety. A fact about me: I strive for balance in almost every situation. If somebody (take Lucas for example) is bouncing off the walls, I will sit perfectly still. If somebody is frowning, I am trying to make them smile, even if it's the briefest, dimmest sort of smile. If somebody (like Taemin was that night) is in a panic, I am level-headed.

So when Taemin tugged at his hair, whining, "She's going to kill me. And if she doesn't kill me, she'll make me break up with you, and then that's gonna kill me. Shit, shit, shit."

"She is not going to kill you," I said confidently because I knew Mom like the back of my hand. Granted, I didn't know every detail of her life before me, but I knew her well enough to know that she wasn't angry. Mom never apologizes when she isn't sorry. She never apologizes when she's mad.

I was kind of joking when I said, "If she wanted to kill you, she would have sent Heechul and Donghae flying up the stairs, and—”

"Shit!" Taemin hissed. Profanities didn't suit him. "Super Junior is going to kill me!"

Slightly wavering in confidence, I assured him, "No, they're not. Mom isn't going to say anything to Super Junior."

Besides, I rationalized to myself, Yesung, who would have posed the biggest threat to Taemin's life, already knew that we were together. If Yesung didn't kill Taemin at the Christmas party, I figured that we were in the clear.

If Taemin hadn't been pacing so quickly, I might have tried to catch him in my arms to kiss his worries away as he had done for me. Given that kissing had led to this tension, though, he might not have appreciated the affection. Maybe it's a good thing that I didn't try to kiss him.

Taemin collapsed onto the edge of the bed and buried his face into his hands. When moments passed in silence, I took the chance to say, "She won't make us break up either, Taem. She just-- she was probably just shocked because she didn't know you were here. On top of that, she has always thought that Lucas and I are a thing, so—”

Into his palms, Taemin groaned, "She probably thinks you're cheating on Lucas with me or something! That makes everything a billion times worse!"

"It's more likely that she just realized that Lucas and I were never together. I mean, I've told her often enough that the message was bound to sink in sooner or later." After pulling Taemin's hands away from his face, I laced our fingers together. I gave both hands a gentle squeeze. "I get that this isn't how we wanted Mom to find out about us, but she had to find out somehow."

To tell you the truth, I was relieved that she found out in this private aspect of life and not through a tabloid expose.

"I know that you wanted to keep this-- us-- a secret so we could be roommates on tour, but we couldn't hide in the dark forever."

And to tell you the truth, I didn't want to. I wasn't eager to pen some press release or anything, but I think I was outgrowing that compulsion, that dependence on secrecy and shadows; they didn't comfort me anymore.

From everything that happened over those past few months, I learned that secrets are damning. At least in my own home, I wanted to live openly and honestly. Maybe Mom's unexpected discovery made that possible.

Stunned by my lack of humiliation, slackjawed because, for the first time, Taemin was embarrassed while I was not, I realized out loud, "I think— I think I'm glad that she found out." Drawing a deep breath, the kind that makes you realize that you've been holding your breath for far too long, I admitted, "I think— I think I've wanted her to know for a long time. Maybe forever."

Silence ensued as Taemin breathed heavily. Deeply. Inhale, count to ten. Exhale, count to ten.

My mouth opened, probably to explain that I nearly told Mom all about us on the drive to Grandma's house on my debut anniversary, but Taemin's stare took my voice away. He blinked at me. The spark in his eyes made me think that he wanted to smile at me. In hindsight, I guess he didn't. Taemin always smiled whenever he wanted to smile, and he didn't offer me the smallest grin for the rest of the night.

"I have to go," he breathed before stepping into his shoes.

That deep breath I had just drawn passed through my lips all at once. I said the wrong thing. There is nothing worse than when the truth— the full and absolute truth that rings in the deepest part of your heart— is the wrong thing to say. How can anyone regret telling the truth? How can anybody want to snatch the truth out of the air once it has been released?

"O-okay."

My stutter did not pass unnoticed despite my efforts to hide it with a smile. Taemin sat back by my side, took my face into his warm hands, and pecked at my lips. The kiss was over before I even realized it was happening.

"I love you, baby," Taemin promised. I swooned less at the affirmation of what I already knew and more at the variation of his name for me. He tucked some hair behind my ear. "Go down to dinner, and I'll talk to you later."

Rising to my feet in time with him, I said, "I love you too. Forever, Taemin."

Because I didn't want to watch him scramble out of the window, because I was at great risk of begging him to stay for dinner with Mom and Donghae and Heechul and Lucas— my family— to once and for all drag our remaining secrets into the light, I walked away. From the vanity, I grabbed the old photograph that I had yet to return to Donghae. I don't think I closed the door behind me on my way out of the room.

I tiptoed down the stairs, quietly hoping that Taemin would follow. Or maybe I was hoping that I would return from dinner to find him waiting on my bed with open arms. In the end, I was disappointed, but I didn't feel like a fool for daring to hope.

. . .

It turned out that Lucas's description of the rivalry between Donghae and Heechul was not all that dramatized.

Sandwiched between the two men at the dining room table, Mom looked nothing like the fairytale queen I imagined she would become in her happy ending. The squabbling must have gotten under her skin, etched those lines into her forehead, weighed down on the corners of her lips, and sharpened the glare she hurled at Heechul for a (probably offensive) comment that I hadn't heard over my thoughts as I reached the foot of the stairs.

"Lei!" Lucas cheered, pumping two fists into the air, because he was no longer alone with the adults. "Where've ya been?"

I couldn't narrow or roll my eyes at Lucas. He had no way to know that I had been kissing Taemin all day. He didn't have any clue that Mom just walked in on the most intimate moment of my life.

Blushing slightly under everybody's stare— smiling only because Moms smiled first and reminded me that everything was okay— I hummed, "I was just counting the stars."

As I sat in the seat next to Lucas and across from Donghae, I sat the picture frame onto the table. I met Donghae's gentle gaze and nodded. "I believe this belongs to you."

"I believe it does!" Donghae beamed and took the photograph into his hands. "Is this a new frame?" He asked as his thumb traced along the infinity symbol.

"Yep!" I omitted the fact that I had broken the original frame on that night I peeled his poster off the wall. "I— I hope you like it." I would have bashfully dropped my gaze onto the table if Donghae were the kind of person anyone could look away from. He looks right through the soul, you know, and I was finally comfortable with that.

While he untied one of the white threads around his wrist, Donghae swore, "I love it, Lei!" He motioned for me to hold out my wrist.

I watched, smiling, as Donghae knotted the infinity bracelet for me. All I could think about was my ribbon around Taemin's wrist. All I could think was that Donghae's thread bracelet was a ribbon too. We were tied together. Soulmates. Forever.

Then, my eyes were drawn to his red thread ribbon. Mom wore-- wears— one identical to that. They were tied together too. Soulmates. Forever.

So don't fault me for disagreeing with Taemin's belief that everything was falling apart with Mom's discovery of our kiss. It was clear for anybody to see (if they knew where to look) that happiness wasn't contingent upon the idea that everything will be okay. Everything was okay. Everything is okay. Happiness had arrived.

Except it wasn't happiness. The warmth spreading through my chest and painting life-- which had gone from dull shades of gray to pale hues with Lucas to sporadic brilliant bursts of color in the night with Taemin— was named joy. I read once that joy is forever, and I believed it then, and I believe it still. So, for the first time in a long time, as I looked at Donghae and Donghae looked back at me, I was not afraid for the sun to rise. I was not anxious because the sun had risen.

"It's not fair!" Heechul shrieked, pounding his fists on the table. "I practically live here, and the girl still favors Donghae!" Staring at me so intently that I thought his eyes might pop out of his head, Heechul demanded, "How come we never exchange gifts at the table, huh? I've been crashing on that couch for however many years, and you've never given me so much as a high-five!"

I raised my hands in total sincere surrender. "Look, I'm not picking favorites. I love you both. And if you start getting annoying and demanding me to pick favorites-- well-- let's not get into this again."

Donghae pouted into his glass of water. "You mean Yesung is still your favorite?"

And Heechul groaned at the ceiling, "Why am I not surprised?"

And Lucas chirped, "You gotta love Lei's unfailing loyalty!"

As I started forking through my dinner-- a salad because a.) my mouth was entirely too sensitive to the spicy noodles everyone else could slurp without watering in the eyes, and b.) I was trying yet another diet-- Mom caught my eye. She was watching me, smiling knowingly, determined to see me blush.

Uninterested in attracting any of the boys' attention, I subtly raised my eyebrows, trusting that Mom wouldn't say anything to expose my intimate information.

"You're not busy tomorrow are you?" I swear, she winked at me and I almost choked. "I was hoping that you could meet with me tomorrow. Nothing too serious, just a quick check-in on that project you've been working on."

Obviously, there was no project. Mom was just trying to tease me a bit and ensure that I made time to tell her about the events that led to the kiss that took our breath away.

Donghae and Heechul didn't know any of that, though, and they started pestering me about the project— "Is it a new song?" Heechul asked, and Donghae guessed, "Is the agency letting you write a ballad?"— while Lucas watched me through eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Would you two hush?" Mom hissed at Donghae and Heechul. "Just let Lei keep her secrets for now!"

Mom and I laughed together and the others looked at us like we were crazy. That's okay, though. I didn't mind their stares. I was too happy that Mom saw me; I was too happy that there would be no more secrets between us come tomorrow morning. If I had it my way, I decided, there would never be another secret between us for the rest of our lives.

"I always have time for you," I told her through a grin. "Just name the hour, and I'll drop everything for you."

I had until 9 o'clock in the morning to decide what I wanted to tell Mom. Once I walked into my bedroom, I flipped on the overhead light, nabbed an empty moleskine notebook from the bookshelf, and sat at the desk I hadn't used since the long past poetry-writing days. Having grown significantly since then, I had to pull that little lever that lowers the rolling office chair.

Several of the pens that I dug out of the top drawer had gone dry, but I finally found one-- a dark almost-black blue-- that worked. I used it to map out the constellations, everything that happened before the kiss. Debuting with SuperM, giving Taemin my ribbon, the first game of Truth or Dare, crying that night in the garden, falling asleep with Taemin every night in America, the NCT Dream VLive incident, the Great Come Apart in Grandma's dining room, the roller coaster that was the Christmas party, visiting the wishing fountain where Baekhyun gave me a flower crown, kissing Taemin throughout New Year's Night and into New Year's Day.

I poured all of myself into that story, this story. On these pages, you can find me: my fears, my dreams, my hopes. I hope you love me as much as I love you. I know you do, Mom. I know you do.

By the time I lay me down to sleep, it is 4 O'Clock in the morning. Now, I wait for the sun to rise so I can share everything.

[ryan-spinel]

CHAPTER TWO

“Perri's Letter and Spinel's Revenge”

It was another boring day at school. Today I avoided Steven and Connie, at least until things cool down. Now Perri and I are walking to her house, later going to see Lexi. I suggested we go right after school, but poor Perri had a meltdown when that phone addicted bitch Sophie teased her about liking Lexi. Saying “A spaz like you can't date someone like Lexi Joel. You have a better chance at hooking up with your catnapping psycho of a friend.”

I would have said “go fuck yourself and stuff your mouth with a dumb jocks cock.”But I kept silent to avoid more trouble. Even though she's a threat to my relationship with Steven, she went too far attacking my wittle buddy. After today, she will pay.

“So. How you feeling bud.” I comforted

“A little better Spinel, thank you, for walking with me.” Perri lamented

She didn't seem any better, so I stopped walking and placed my hands on her shoulders. She jolted a little bit, she does that when someone touches her without her knowing, I need to stop doing that.

“Perri, please don't worry about Sophie. She will never bother you again.” I reassured Perri

“You don't know that Spinel, you can't just make her disappear.” Perry doubted

The truth is I can, and I will.

“Just, please trust me okay. She won't hurt you anymore.” I asserted, starting to get annoyed

“I-,hmm. Okay Spinel, I trust you. Now can we please go to my place.” Perri faltered, noticing me getting annoyed.

Even though Perri and I been friends for a while, there were times I lost my shit. One time in elementary 5, Perri had this cute green alien head chewy. Back then Perri would chew on the collar of her shirt, so Brooklyn got it as an alternative. Later, a boy by the name of Ronaldo ask if he could play with it. Perri didn't say anything, she looked away from the fat little shit. He started to get annoyed and grabbed her arm. When I saw tears running down the poor kids face, I said. “Don't touch my fucking friend, she doesn't want to share. So piss of you bitch-ass comic book reading fat pussy.” After I stand up for my nerdy buddy, the little shit started to ball his eyes out. So I got detention for the weekend, and then Grandmother Whitney put a bar of soap in my mouth. She's an amazing Grandmother, but if you push her buttons she can be a mean old hag.

We finally arrive at Perri's place, it's a cute little cabin-like house. With a more rustic style unlike my home, a traditional Japanese minka. Once we walked to the door, we were greeted by the outgoing Brooklyn Fitzgerald. A fierce and friendly soul, who looks out for her friends. She works as a lumberjack at the local saw mill, fell in love with the stubborn lawyer Pearl Harpor and once one first place in the wood chopping competition at the county fair. Brooklyn was always that person you feel comfortable around, she is a great role-model for Perri and always wants the best for her. She's like the cool aunt I never had, and the only adult I feel comfortable around that isn't my family.

“How you doing kids, I made a tray of onigiri for an afternoon snack.” Brooklyn greeted

“Thanks mom, we're here just to get a bite to eat, spinel and I are going to a study group at the library.” Perri replied

Perri doesn't lie often, but she's surprisingly good at it. It's scary if you think about it.

“Well okay Perri, but remember. Always have your phone, come back home before six, and don't walk in Black Hawk Clan territory.” Brooklyn directed

“Well of course mom.” Perri acknowledged while to two of us walk inside

Their house interior was like one of the those shacks in the movie Friday the 13th. Brooklyn kept it very well maintained, she may be a lumberjack but she's a amazing carpenter.

“I'll be back Spinel, I'm just getting some things from my room.” Perri called, going to grab the letter

“Alright Perri.” I concurred while eating some homemade onigiri

“So, umm. Spins, how's Perri doing.” Brooklyn worried, she's not always the serious type. But when she is, you need to listen and shut up.

“She's, okay. Why do you ask?” I denied, having a good feeling what she's going to say.

“I got a call from the school, saying that Perri had a meltdown.” Brooklyn took a deep breath and continued. “Spinel, I know your aware that Perri is a little different than the other kids. She thinks in a different way and does things differently.” Brooklyn fretted

“I think you are aware of this Spinel, but Perri has Autism.” Brooklyn said looking that she's not finished speaking.

I was aware that Perri isn't like other kids, that why I like her. I love that she would ramble on and on about robotics, AI and Elon Musk. I love that she has that burning passion to expand her learning, even if it's just one topic. In a way, Perri's like a little sister to me. I love her because she's unique, not mediocre like those bimbos at school. She's her own person and doesn't follow a crowd.

“There were many incidents that kids would tease her because she's on the spectrum. They would tease her for being jumpy, they would pick on her because she wouldn't play with the other kids. And let's not forget the time a student grabbed her over a god damn chewie.” Brooklyn bawled, on the verge of tears. Even someone as strong as her can feel defeated sometimes.

“I'm scared spinel, I'm scared that my little girl will get herself hurt. After the diagnosis her father couldn't take it and left. Saying that he wanted a normal child with a normal life. Pearl has a hard time dealing with Perri sometimes, but she still cares about her. All I ask is Spinel, please look out for her.”

“Brook, things won't be like this forever. There's a lot of people with autism and live great lives. Overtime they grow and learn how to cope, Perri's still a kid. She's going to be an amazing person one day. Building robots or something. The point is that sometime people outgrow these problems, it's sometimes doesn't bother them or they cope with it. Your very lucky to have a daughter like Perri. You just have to remember that every successful person had those days that they want to give up. But they keep pushing until they reach their goals. Just like Perri.” I monotoned

“You maybe right Spins, Perri has been growing up. It just seems like yesterday she didn't need her chewy anymore.” Brooklyn hoped

“See, everything's going to be okay. Sophie won't bully her anymore, I promise.” I concluded

“Alright Spinel, lets go to the library now. ” Perri intrupted

“Be safe girls, look out for one another.”

It took us 30 minutes by bus to arrive at the Black Hawk clan's main nest, I don't know why they would call it a nest but whatever. Their nest was a giant old warehouse outside of town, it had a barbed wire fence all around the headquarters. Like those fences you see in prisons. There was a giant chain link fence for the entrance, two bikers were guarding it carrying AK-47s.

“Yo what the fuck, you can't be-, ohhhhhh. It's the catnapper. What business do you have with the Black Hawks.” Thug one marveled

“Is that what they're calling me now, it was psycho bitch last week. We don't what any trouble, we just want to see the road captain.”

“Wait are you talking about, Lex. Hah,well Spins, we can't let you just see the road captain. You have to talk to the founder first, she decides not us.” Thug two announced

“Oh for the love of god.” I whispered to myself

“Well, can we see. Fucking, Jasper or someone.” I badgered

These biker act so tough and fearless. But really, their just a bunch of leather-wearing douches.

“Ahhhhh, if it'll make you shut the fuck up then sure. ” thug one complained

The two annoyed thugs opened the gate, Perri and I walk cautiously into the nest.

Inside the warehouse wasn't any better than the outside. On the left side, there was a bar with tables, chairs and stolen arcade game machines. The right side was their business operation, with safes, factory equipment and a security system. Every biker gang has their source of income. It can be drugs,weapons, cigarettes or anything valuable on the yami-ichi.

The Black Hawks are the kingpins in the drug industry, but they don't just sell any type of drug. They created their own drug that is booming in the Japanese black market. It's called Menohoyō, meaning eye-candy in Japanese. Menohoyō is made just like regular eye-drops, because it is eye-drops. The only reason why it's addictive and illegal, is because it's made of 45% of diethylamide. A main chemical component to make LSD. There's been cases all across the world, reaching places like Brazil, United States and even Russia. There has been many gangs and drug cartels trying to replicate this drug, but all of them failed. Today, the Black Hawks dominate the drug industry, even bribing politicians to keep their business running. It's greasy business, that's why I want Lexi to get out when she still has the chance.

In front of us are the three masterminds of the whole operation.

Jasper Alder, the founder of the gang. Sitting on an old puke green recliner and smoking a five inch Pyramid cigar. She was born in Tokyo and was a target for bullying because she has vitiligo. Due to the bullying she became a mean bitch, once she broke a kids arm because she called her giraffe. Later in life, Jasper got into bodybuilding and motorcycles. Causing her to follow the wrong crowd. She got involved in a lot of crazy shit involving rival gangs. Once she turned twenty-three, she created the Black Hawk Clan. She called it that because one day, her father and her were hunting hawks. A giant common black hawk attacked her father and scratched his throat, causing him to bled to death in the middle of the woods. Jasper manage to shot the hawks wing and flew off. For three nights she was searching that hawk. Later found it on the ground near an old Japanese Wisteria. Jasper chose not to put the bird out of its misery, instead she watched it bled out for three minutes. So long story short, she's twenty-five and runs a drug cartel now.

On her left was the president of the clan, Eleanor Monsoon. She was Jasper right-hand gal, those two used to rob gas-stations when they were teens. Eleanor was also known for her great grandfather being in the Imperial guard divisions during WW2. That's where she gets her fierce comanding attitude.

On the right was the Vice President of the clan, Persephone Windsor. Nothing to special about her, all I can say is she's a snobby bitch born in a very rich family, she supply's most of the equipment and weapons. She's a narcissist and a manipulator who will destroy lives to get her way.

“(Puffing a smoke) Well, I didn't expect to see the pip-squeak and the catnapper today. ” Jasper snarled while inhaling on her cigar.

“Let me do the talking Perri, I got this.” I whispered to Perri

“Hi Jasper, hows the gang and so. Also can we talk to Lexi.” I urged, trying to convince the butch

“(Puffing a smoke). Well Spins, if you have business with the road captain you have business with me. Now spill the beans crazy.” Jasper chided

“It has nothing to do with.Business. We want to see Lexi, because-”

“Because I want to get to know her better, and hopefully she'll get out of this dirty, greasy motorcyclist club you call a business.” Perri interrupted me and dared Jasper

Thanks a lot Perri, we're fucked.

“How dare you, a worthless pest like you speaking to the founder like-” Persephone chastised

“Wait. Hold on your saying you want to hangout and bond, with the black hawk clan road captain. Out of all the nerds at your snobby school. You choose an angsty, hot-headed, with drugged up parents and possibly slept with more guys than you know how many bones are in the human body. So tell be spaz, what makes you think a nerd like you, can ever be with someone as fucked up as Lex. Because honestly, you can do better.” Jasper insulted

I saw that Perri was starting to get upset, but instead being sad, she got mad.

“You, you don't know anything. How dare you talk to someone like that, your not any better you, you, you f-f-fucking clod.” Perri exploded

It would take a tiny miracle to get us out of this shit.

However, the three bikers looked at each other with confusion. There was a silent pause, until.

“...............Haaaahahahahahahahaha.hhaaaaaaahaaahahahaahahahahhaaaahahah.” The three clan leaders burst with laughter

Perri expression turned back to sadness, trying to hold in her tears.

“Hahahaaahhaa, is,haha, is that the best you got tiny,hahhahaha. That's fucking pathetic, hahaha. Oh look at me, I WUV Lexi, hahaha.” Jasper mocked

I could see Perri starting to sob, I wanted to say something but that would be a suicide mission.

“Perri and Lexi sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-” the three clan leaders laughed and mocked

“What the fuck is happening, it's like a fucking circus in here. ” Lexi interrupted

Thank God she's here

“Perri, Spinel. What are you guys doing here.” Lexi gasped

“We were going to see you, until these donkey's stop us from doing so.” I explained

Lexi then turned her attention to the brainy-baby.

“Hey, hey, hey. Perri, my dude. I'm here, it's okay.” Lexi tried comforting Perri

“(Whimpering) it's good to see you again rockstar.” Perri sniffled

“It's good to see you to buddy.” Lexi sympathized

Lexi then turned her attention to the three douches

“What the fuck did you three do.” Lexi accused

“Lex, know your place. You do not bark at me, or I'm sending you back on the streets like the runt you are. ” Jasper retaliated

“Well I guess you have to put be back on the fucking streets, because no one talks to my friends like that.” Lexi condemned

It warms my cold heart to see Lex care so much for Perri, it's so sweet.

“Ah you fucking bitch, alright. You can see your, friend now.(inhaling on her cigar).” Jasper said in defeat

“Come on Perri, is there something you wanted to tell me.” Lexi adviced

“One second Lexi.” Perri protested

She turned her direction towards me, running up to me and giving me a hug. It was a tight hug, like a bear hug.

“You are the greatest friend in the world, I'm so lucky to have met you.” Perri chirped

I still didn't understand this platonic affection, this is the second time in a row, and I don't feel anything. My heart feels heavy and silent, there's no emotion. Why am I like this.

But to make her feel better, I hugged her back.

It lasted for 3 minutes, everyone in the warehouse was staring at us. But I didn't care, as long as she's happy.

She finally let go and walk towards Lexi, both of them waving goodbye to me. I guess it wasn't such a bad day after all.

“Hold on Spinel, just a minute.” Jasper asserted

I spoke to soon.

“Even though I'm letting your friend hang with the road captain, you still have to do something for me in return. ” Jasper decided

“Jasper. I can't be your drug mule.” I stated

“Don't worry your panties off, your not delivering drugs. I've chosen something that you may like. Do you know Sophie Turner.” Jasper explained

“What about her.”

“She hasn't been paying her IOU's for the Menohoyō's she's been buying for her parties. She keeps saying “My dad is rich, I'll get your money, stop bugging me, bla bla bla.” So because of her I'm losing money, she's my top buyer in Akuma no tochi. So what I need you to do is, take her out.” Jasper offered

Well isn't that pure irony.

“I think I can do that Jasper, but I'm going to need some equipment.” I demanded

“Sure, anything. You just can't tell the clan was involved.” Jasper added

“I need a hacksaw, trash bags, bleach, cleaning supplies, nails and the key to the saw mill.” I listed

“Done. Go to our SGT at arms, Ruth. She'll get you what you need. Remember Spinel, this never happened.” Jasper concluded

Once I reached the exit, a familiar voice called out for me.

“Spinel, Wait. I want to talk to you!”

Well what do you know, I thought Ryan was the last person who would talk to me here.

“Listen Spinel, I did some thinking and wanted to apologize about yesterday. I took my frustrations out on you, it was wrong. I should have never called you runner-tits, your a beautiful, smart girl. One day, some very lucky guy will meet you. I'm sorry.” Ryan apologized

I didn't expect someone like Ryan to say that, it took a lot of guts to admit something like that. I respect that.

“I forgive you Ryan, no hard feelings.”

“Thank you Spinel, I'll let you go now. But remember, the Black Hawks have your back.” Ryan thanked

“Your welcome, I'll see you around.”

It is time, time to give that bitch what she deserves. Good thing I didn't give all that birthday cake to the meow-meows.

I finally arrive to Sophie's place, no ones home but her. I have everything I need to silence her for good. And it all starts with a piece of cake.

I walked to her door and placed a small pink box on the doorstep. I knocked on the door and hid behind a bush.

“Hello, is some out there. Justin you better not be fucking with me.” Sophie cautioned

“Oh, what's this. (opens the box) aww, it's a piece of cake. I guess Justin isn't a dick after all. ”

Sophie picked up the cake from the box and went back inside, without locking the door. I quietly snuck in behind her, when I found out that she took the bait. I always make the best cakes, thanks to Momma. But for this special occasion, I added my secret ingredient.

I saw her take the first bite, then the second, and finally the third. Until she took her fourth bite.

“Mmmh mhhhh- ACK,ACK. Gahh. Barf.” Sophie said while gagging and puking blood

That's right, the secret ingredient os nails. I placed a couple of small nails in the sweet-treat, hoping it would tear her esophagus apart.

“Aww, did poor wittle Sophie bit off more than she could chew.” I teased her while kneeling down beside her.

“Who's a spaz now bitch. I would have came for your ass later. But you had to pick on my wittle buddy. That's one step to far.” I rasped

I looked at her in disgust while watching her struggle to breathe. This was the first human I ever killed, I'm tired of releasing my pain on cats. Taking them from their owners, putting them in a bag, and slamming that said bag onto the concrete floor! Who ever knew inflicting pain on someone like her can feel so, pleasurable. Reliving. The pure horror in their eyes fills my desire, my desire to butcher these whores that stand in my way. I shouldn't have done this sooner.

“ACK ACK ACK, gahh. Fuck youu, you psychotic cun-(pukes blood). Barf. Huff, puff, huff, puff. Huff...ack....ack...ack.........ah.” Sophie cried her last words.

“Just so you know, it's homemade not store bought.” I joked

Well that took longer than I expected. I had to saw her in ten part, bag them, clean the floor, bleach the floor, dispose any evidence, take the body parts to the saw mill and shred them up. I also had to burn my cloths as well, at least I brought a spare set. But it all ended smoothly. I got my revenge, and now only five more rivals to go. Perri can now see Lexi anytime, I hope they worked out, they'll make a cute couple. Even though school sucked ass at least it ended on a positive note. Now time to go home, and great my amazing famil-.

“Hey. Spinel.”

Okay who could that be.

I turned around wanting to know whose behind me. And oh fuck I wish didn't. This day was perfect for Perri and I, and she's the last person I wanted to see, God damn it!

“Hello Spinel”

“Hello. Connie.”

To be continued

[iammamenow]

🔮Dream Snippet💤

This Evening: 'Karl Satan', featuring Misha Collins

My friend and I are avid metalheads. So much so, in fact, that we concluded that if we'd have known each other before our officially meeting in college, we would've led drastically different lives for the better. Our music tastes made us the quintessential outcasts throughout our childhood, in our differently placed yet all too similar environments of the unforgiving grammar school setting. And if we'd have been together, instead of rebelling alone? Hell. We would've been fucking merciless; scaring off all those who tried to subdue us with 'Slipknot'.

Luckily, we didn't miss each other entirely. It was she that managed to get tickets to our local Knotfest, and since then we've practically been inseparable. We have a whole list of other acts we NEED to see. Jinjer, Cherry Bombs, System of A Down... Killswitch Engage is one of the more recent ones added to the list.

And it keeps on building from there.

Blame the die-hard fan in me, but I even go so far as to dream of the concerts we'll see, and the bands that'll be headlining it. Very rarely is it ever as detailed with the opening number.

So you can only imagine my surprise when this little nightly fantasy in particular came in and dropped kick the bomb on me from up close instead of merely from up high.

Because as much as I love metal, Supernatural comes in at a very, very close second.

Onto the dream! That way you'll see what I mean.

My friend and I are already at the venue. We gave up the idea of seats and smuggled our way into the nearest pit where there was already a circle forming, whirling in rhythm to the revving up of the amps testing out the guitars. It had been years since I'd been in one. I jump in, just in time for the wave that comes our way. My friend decides to watch from the sidelines. To my chaotic, she is the zen. Even at a metal concert, where we both inevitably lose our shit, but in our own way.

Soon the tests of chords cease from the guitars, the rhythmic hits from each individual drum and symbol cut. That long drone of bassy silence fills the entire place with that unsaid but solid presence of a queue - someone's about to go on.

The crowd cheers. My friend and I - along with the whole circle pit - turn to look at the stage and do the same. Naturally. No matter who's up there, you cheer. It's a metal concert, for Satan's sake. More than likely, every fucking band is gonna knock your ass out. I haven't been proven wrong if that yet.

And I certainly wasn't in my dream.

The five souls that come walking across the stage are oh so gothically dressed, it warms my heart to it's original sad core. The drama in the abundance of buckles, glinting a brilliant gold in the overhead stage lights; then the overall theatricality of the fact that their whole theme just mirrors that of my favorite horror movie 'Hellraiser' and it's main antagonists, The Cenobites. I was ready. I was waiting, already wanting the onslaught of their sound that I just knew had to be fucking brutal. I mean look at the way they're dressed! We were in for it.

Oh, we were.

I was.

The one stopping in front of the mic had an elaborate coverall mask on, save for the bottom half of his face. And when he took it off to reveal the rest of it, everyone cried out in bloody shock and praise.

I just went quiet.

My friend yelled out for me the "holy SHIT" that was already on my lips and screeching in my head when the now unmasked figure introduced himself as none other than the angel in a trenchcoat. The man that plays him, that is.

Misha Collins

I couldn't tune out the world around me if I tried. I didn't want to. Not even if I was in absolute shock. I do not allow myself to fade off into some haze or other ethereal realm when it comes to events like this. I want to be there, in that moment; one that I made it all this way for. For all concerts generally. For metal concerts specifically.

I just need to be there. All there.

And man, in that moment, was I fucking glad I was.

After making himself known, Misha turns to the band and introduces them as 'Karl Satan'. I know there was a deeper joke in there, i just know it. But I was too busy laughing at the name alone to even dissect it any further. Frankly, so was the audience. Such a hearty chorus brought a smile to Misha's lips.

As he readied the mask to be put back on again, he made one final claim as himself to say that he formed this cover band to try his hand at "this music shtick", just like the rest of his cast mates from the show. Personally, I never had any doubt that he had something like this in his artillery; something akin to a band or music act. But like this? Hell no. Hell. No! Hence making it all the more lovely of a surprise.

With that, the mask went back on, and he sent a nod the drummers way before the lights faded out, leaving us in an anticipating darkness. Almost as quickly as it set in for us did it get fucking shot with the sharp bash of the symbols, joined by the aftershocks of the snares.

It's starting. Holy fuck, it's starting!

The rhythm was classic, dangerously revving up to what you could literally taste to be a sweet drop. Above all, it was familiar. My friend and I were in perfect sync with Misha, when through the mask he screamed through gnashed teeth:

"THE YEARS I PUT INTO THIS!!"

His leadership was seamless; effortless. Without question, you would believe that he had done this before. With the headbangs intertwined in the thrumming veins of both the percussive guitar riff and the drums, he would channel his power back and forth. First he would go, then the audience.

The circle pit was a whole world of it's own. No. It was a black hole, sucking in other fans who caught a glance at it, and soon as they did, wanted to join the fray. I even got my friend to come in and join me in the air, where they hoisted me up once the center of the circle started to disappear with the amount of people swallowing up all the empty space. We were floating orbs in this fanatic atmosphere. Two circulating asteroids in the midst of a hailstorm of meteors, heading straight for the center our universe - the stage.

It was fucking AMAZING.

And so utterly filled with Misha-esque quips of humor and theatricality, making it feel all the more REAL. For example, as the opening number progressed, he would add little bits of harsh criticism of his own voice and caliber of scream. Then after the next song, he would transition with a story on how he auditioned to play a demon for Supernatural in the first place, and has since taken the rejection hard. "Can you tell? I started singing about it! Singing? Screaming? You get the idea. Yeah, you get it. I know you do". He then laughs suddenly, throwing his head back. He brings the mic up to follow that of his mouth, facing skyward. "Wait, wait! How shitty would it be if I would've actually gotten that fucking role if I'd have just done THIS?! Just SCREAM AT THEM?!" Like second nature does his Castiel voice come out. He even took of the mask again so that he could throw on the whole audience that quintessential doe eyed gaze of the angel's, complete with the head tilt. "Would you call me an angel then, Dean?" His own guffaw, bringing Misha back. "There you go. That's how Cas got his voice. He kept screaming into the void *Castiel voice* and came back out with this... As for the others, I can't speak for them. They wanna speak two octaves below their normal voice, who am I to say anything? Trick question. I'm the one who can't say anything because I'm too busy getting a sore throat all the time. Thanks, Cas. Love you, too. That bitch".

Forget what I said. AMAZING doesn't cut it. It was fucking GOLD.

And above all, it was a fucking DREAM.

I woke up eventually, and here I am three or so days later writing about it, still reeling from it.

I have only to conclude that the two things that make me happy are what seems to be a mirror with it's two sides, representing one thing in the reflection: the one thing that made me happy back then, and the one that makes me happy now.

I thought I had to outgrow one. Just like I think currently that I'll soon have to outgrow the other.

But do I? Do I really?

They go so well together.

Perhaps the real question is, what if they both don't wanna leave?