#blame that on stream of consciousness and sleep deprivation

[madbard]

Thinking about how the Stan twins were both taught from a young age that life is a matter of transactions. How they were valued only for the money they could bring their family, and how this shaped their lives in such different ways.

Ford was the intelligent one, and this made him valuable. He knew what he had to offer. He knew he was important. (He had to be. Experience had shown him that love was conditional. He had to earn it. He had to be enough.) When Bill Cipher approached him, he confirmed everything Ford wanted so desperately to believe about himself. Imagine that sense of excitement, of accomplishment, of pride and power and relief. Imagine having that final, unshakeable source of external validation - that this being that knew everything and could have chosen anyone, chose you. Imagine knowing exactly what you could do to please this being and, with the understanding that love is conditional, knowing that you could fulfill the requirements for that love. Imagine knowing exactly how to ensure you would be loved, not just by that being but by the family you uplifted and the future you created. All you had to do was satisfy your own curiosity… all you had to do was build a portal. Is it any wonder that Ford fell for Bill’s tricks?

Then we have Stan, the failure. If love was transactional, he could never pay the fee. He knew people only helped you if you had something to offer. And he had nothing to offer, so why would anyone ever help him? Why would anyone care? Of course he didn’t fall for Bill. He couldn’t. When Bill promised gifts and power and happiness, how could Stan believe a word he said? In a world without altruism, such promises could never be trusted. There was always a price to be paid - and Stan had never been able to pay it.

And so the end of the world was triggered and then averted, all because one brother thought he could earn the world’s love, while the other knew he would never earn anything good.

A+ parenting, Filbrick. Truly.

[ante--meridiem]

I have definitely changed (positively) in the past few years (...well maybe more past few months. Or gradually past few years and then much quicker in past few months) but more in terms of ability to exist in the world as a functional person and not very much in terms of revisiting opinions/ways of thinking or forming new ones. Which is also a bit unpleasant to realise due to gestures at general fear of stagnation. So any actual opinions I express these days mostly end up rehashing the same old shit right now with maybe just a bit more distance/perspective

[my-writings-and-musings]

hello!! i loved your last prompt and and i am also severely deprived of that sweet angst hahah;;; would you mind writing it for either swerve or whirl? thank you!! ❤💙

I take it you mean the oxygen prompt, and please correct me if I misunderstood, but if so I've got them here and I made them extra angsty for you! Fair warning there's some mild alien gore in Whirl's.

For the various posts of this prompt, I'll list the parts below!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: You're Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Swerve

·The two of you often chill in his bar together at odd hours, partially because the ship doesn't technically have a day or night beyond an artificial schedule that affects how bright the lights are, but mostly because you love having the special time just to yourselves and no bot else. You'll chat about earth culture, come up with drink ideas, tell wild stories that lead to even wilder jokes... More often than not you get very little productive done, but Swerve treasures every memory of you laughing atop the bar while he talks.

·It's either late night or early morning, technically, when an alarm briefly sounds before fizzling out. Confused by the lack of follow up commands, Swerve opts on the side of caution when he can't get anyone to respond by communicator, though it looks like they might've just been hit by an electric storm that's briefly knocked everything offline. Still, he follows protocol and seals the two of you inside.

·While the mood has been a little dampened, he refuses to let things get unpleasant, especially with no clear threat to worry about. The two of you decide to chill behind the bar and relax a little bit, as you're both a bit tired but obviously can't get any sleep with things being the way they are, and Swerve takes advantage of the quiet to do even more talking.

·He wants to cuddle with you, but he's way too afraid of rejection to ask, and as a result of that fear your relationship hasn't gone much further than hand holding or a few tender kisses. As even a little peck on his nose incapacitates him, you try to let him take the lead on affection for both your sakes. It's his very hesitation though, that prevents him from initially speaking up when you start nodding off at an alarming rate, nearly tipping over from your seated position on the floor.

·When he has to throw out a hand to keep you from falling back and hitting your head against the bar, he finally cracks. You snap to full consciousness, or as much as you can, to find yourself tired beyond all reason and the air around you stale and unnatural. It had been easy to ignore while focused on the adorable minibot, but now it's alarming, and combined with the earlier oddities you're forced to conclude something is wrong.

·He puts on his bravest face and doubles down on establishing communication, not that he's an expert on that front, but his determination and knowledge in other fields lets him get to work on a makeshift communicator that should be able to cut through any interference. You just try to stay awake and listen, as he talks non-stop while he works like nothing is amiss, but the nervous tremble in his hands gives away his internal panic.

·A brief and flimsy connection to an emergency channel doesn't make either of you feel better, but it does allow you to finally find out what's going on, as the panicked explanation from the other end lays out the chaos breaking out due to an enemy ambush that's not currently going well for either side. Much of the ship's infrastructure has been damaged, and while the invading forces are scattered, it's currently easier to list the systems that aren't malfunctioning. Swerve is too horrified by the mention of an atmospheric generator shutdown and forced expulsion to ask for instructions before the line goes dead.

·There's a full minute of unbreakable panic on his part, and only biting down on his fist prevents him from saying all the horrible thoughts racing through his head. He's a smart bot, he knows that downed atmospheric generators are bad for the ship, but absolutely fatal for you if not fixed fast enough. He's near a full on panic attack when you try to rise and comfort him, only to stumble and fall as the dizziness overwhelms you.

·Though you don't even break skin with your small tumble, he's immediately by your side and frantically asking if you're okay, gingerly lifting you off the floor as you reassure him with far more levity than the situation calls for. Realizing that oxygen must already be dangerously low, and that the shortage is likely responsible for your exhaustion and disorientation, he concludes he's on his own in regards to planning a way out of this. A lack of response through the communication line he rigged up confirms this.

·Still a mess but keeping it together for your sake, he sets you up behind the bar and finds some clean towels, ordinarily used to polish tables, and sets them up as a makeshift little bed for you to rest on. His experience with medicine is unfortunately not going to give him much aid in this situation, but he knows enough to realize you'll benefit from rest and calm instead of panic. He tries to explain this, but you can barely follow the rapid stream of words leaving his mouth as he lays you down, and his worry actually spurrs your clouded mind to try and comfort him.

·For once he pushes away your offered hand, despite loving your tender touch more than anything and having a terrifying inkling he may have limited time left to enjoy the comfort it brings him. Arming his security system, he prays he won't have to use it as he hunkers down and tries to keep you relaxed with more casual conversation, but the words feel meaningless as he looks into your dimming eyes.

·The two of you sit for what feels like hours, and his attempts at distracting you fade into more and more desperate pleadings for you to stay awake. Eventually he takes your hand between two of his own, his large palms gently holding yours between them as he blends begging with apologizing. You're only more confused by this, as the fog of exhaustion isn't enough for you to forget he's not at fault for anything.

·It's in this rambling that he confesses the true depth of his love for you, going on about what a wonderful person you've been to him and how every day since he's met you has been the best of his life... but he was so afraid of messing it up he always hid these feelings for fear of scaring you away. Now he knows that all he accomplished was wasting some of the precious time you two had together, and he promises not to make the mistake again if you get better and he has a second chance.

·In the haze of hypoxia you find the confession unbearably sweet, and smile up at the precious face you fell in love with at the first cheesy smirk. You were beginning to fear he'd never make his move...

·Your last moments of consciousness are lost to a solid banging against the door, one that's quickly overtaken by a not so friendly pounding and the denting of the solid metal by something big and heavy. Security systems primed, he grabs his blaster and prepares himself, suddenly far less afraid and far more angry. He won't let fear prevent him from keeping you safe.

·Aliens of unknown species storm the bar with weapons blazing, and the scene descends into chaos. His security system starts shredding the first of the attackers, but there's simply far too many of them to get them all, and your little hiding spot becomes their target in no time. Despite all your desire to stay awake and help, the oxygen content is just too low, and you slip into darkness while his optics turn one final time to you. The sight drives him to act.

·With everything he has, he opens fire and stands his ground, taking shots himself but hardly feeling the pain. Their numbers are reduced but simply too overwhelming, and he's forced to face them head on when they start closing in, enduring more and more egregious damage as he leaves the cover of the bar to brawl. He wishes he could say he saved the day, but his smaller form is beaten down and he's only able to watch as they close in on you... before Autobot reinforcements burst in to turn the tide.

·He's bleeding and nearing unconsciousness himself when the two of you are carried to the medical bay, and the last thing he sees is you clinging to life in another bot's arms... It should make him feel relieved, but he only drifts off in absolute misery over his failures. He couldn't keep you safe, he couldn't get you help, and he couldn't even overcome his fear to show you the love you deserved until you were at death's door. The feeling doesn't abate when he awakens in the medical bay to find you both alive and the threat defeated.

·Ignoring all medical warning, he drags his still aching body to your side the moment you're alone, tearing up at the sight of you so weak and your beautiful face obscured by an oxygen mask, and despite his relief to see you alive he can only cry. When you wake at the sound he's nothing but shoulder shaking sobs and apologies, and though your memory is blurred you're well aware that the blame he's putting on himself is entirely unwarranted. You use all of your strength to keep your mask on while embracing him from the berth.

·Accustomed to his low self esteem, you refuse to hear it this time, and remind him that as the bot who charged headfirst into enemy fire he's likely the only reason you're still alive. You fell in love with him because he's the kind of bot to always push on, no matter how afraid he may be, and if the two of you are indeed going to be more open from now on... you'd like to emphasize that you love him back. More than you've ever loved anyone. Your words encourage him to heft his aching frame onto the berth with you, where he tearfully returns your profession of love once again, before managing to maneuver the two of you side by side for the cuddling he always wanted. There's a lot you two will have to talk about, but for now it can wait, and you're so comfortable Ratchet can't bring himself to mandate Swerve return to his own berth when he returns.

Whirl

·As he's taken it upon himself to get you battle ready, the two of you are in the shooting range together as you often are, though the activities vary from actual practice to pure shenanigans. On occasion he'll try "trick shots" to show you what combat prowess really looks like, and apparently in his view it resembles standing on his head and trying to nail targets with his chest mounted guns. His level of accuracy would strike fear into the sparks of his enemies but honestly he finds your laughter to be a better reward.

·Being as wary of exterior threats as he is, and experienced at surviving them, he gets the sense of some impending trouble not too long before the alarm goes off. Instructing you to keep your tiny weapon, he keeps his own ready to go and pops you into his cockpit, both for the sake of safety and so you can "watch the show" if he runs in to anything. While he's calm and casual as ever, maybe even a little eager, you know there's a bit of caution holding him back. Otherwise he'd be sprinting down the halls and trying to figure out where the fun is before he misses any of it.

·When it becomes clear communication is being jammed, he opts to drop you off somewhere safe so he can sort things out, and the few bots you pass along the way aren't able to offer much help thanks to everyone being equally confused. In the end he decides his own room may be the safest place for you, as it's not too far and you know it well. Plus, you can always scamper off into the vents if things go sideways.

·You're halfway there before encountering your first enemy; an alien of unknown species who's not too tiny next to the sizable copter bot, and who wastes no time before trying to flee. Recognizing a scout when he sees one, Whirl pounces to take care of the threat, encouraging you to "watch and learn" while he gets a little showy in the headshot he follows up with a decapitation to be safe.

·You've seen him in action enough to expect these things, and while you're ordinarily his top morale booster when he fights, you find yourself a little too sluggish to provide your usual enthusiasm in your praise. Picking up on your lack of energy, he asks if you'd prefer more screaming for the next one, partially sarcastic despite you being fully aware he'll do it if you say yes. You brush off the fatigue and dizziness clouding your head as motion sickness from the ride.

·Ever cautious about your delicate organic nature, he decides to play it safe and see if he can get more information before continuing his blind trek through hazardous territory, though his plans likely won't change much from killing every enemy he sees. A somewhat functioning maintenance terminal at least gives him a chance to check up on the status of whatever is still working, so he pulls up the current readout. What he sees chills his spark.

·They haven't just been boarded by a large enemy ship, the Lost Light has actively been hacked, and the damage extends far beyond the communication systems being jammed. The atmospheric generators have been shut off and air is actively being purged from the ship, which is a slow process due to its size, but the concentration of carefully maintained elements is already dropping. That wouldn't be more than an inconvenience if you didn't need the oxygen being dumped to live.

·Barely able to skim the screen in the time it takes him to soak it all in, you're jostled and shocked when he pivots on his long legs and tears down the hallway in the opposite direction, leaving you in an even more confused fog than you'd been in previously. Though he's prone to unexpected decisions, this feels more like the result of panic.

·Answers to the questions you begin directing his way initially aren't forthcoming. All you get is uncharacteristic shushing or hushed murmurs not directed your way, his path starting and stopping seemingly at random to a destination you're far too out of it to guess. It isn't until you testily demand an explanation that you get one laden with frustration; he's trying to get you to the medical bay without any fighting!

·You're rendered speechless by the very idea. Whirl? Avoiding a fight? His unorganized and circular explanation about atmospheric generators wouldn't make sense even if you were coherent, but as it's getting harder and harder just to sit up, you don't have the energy to argue with him. His running almost makes it feel like you're hovering along, and despite the panic radiating through his frame, you find that the exhaustion weighing you down is quite hard to resist even as you strain drawing breath.

·Every minute he can feel you struggling, his naturally attuned senses picking up your faltering vitals as he would the weakening ticks of a fading clock. For once he's trying to be cautious despite every wire of his being screaming at once, clouding his processor as he tries to take an indirect path that won't involve a fight, painfully aware that you might not survive combat with a multitude of foes attacking him at once. Of course the delay is dangerous too, but what can he do? Keeping you alive is his only priority.

·As he's come to expect though, luck never favors him, and you're just stable enough to see the horde of enemies appear virtually out of nowhere as he closes in on the medical bay. Through the cockpit glass you have moments to process the threat before he growls out a promise; he's going to get you through if it kills him, but if you die before that he's gonna be pissed, so keep that little pump of yours beating, okay?

·Any remaining clarity in your head is gone in moments as everything descends into a bloodbath. Bullets fly through the hallway and blades start cutting in a maelstrom that's brutal even by his own standards, resulting in blood spattered glass obscuring your vision. All you have then is the lurching of his body as he strikes and the cacophony of battle, but you keep yourself breathing through it all, determined not to let him down.

·He's the most brutally effective he's ever been on such short notice, to the point he'd be grateful you can't see what he's reducing these aliens to, not that he's enjoying himself either. His chest is his only concern when it comes to defense, resulting in increasingly grievous wounds to every other part of his body, not that he cares too deeply. Every alien is just a collection of vital parts he needs to deconstruct, and he does so with everything he has available, even tearing his claws into vulnerable weak points when his sword is momentarily knocked away.

·By the time he's up to his knees in corpses he's losing all patience. He could have been at the medical bay by now, could have found a way to rig up some kind of atmosphere scrubber himself if necessary, but instead he's stuck tearing his way through these idiots. Do they have any idea what's at stake for him? What he'll do if he loses you now? As his strikes become cold and automatic, his thoughts drift back to the dark corners he'd only just started to leave behind, and he's left with a familiar feeling.

·He's angry. Not just in the logical sense, it's the raw and primal anger that has kept him alive but haunted for eons. He's angry at these cowards for killing you in a way that you can't really fight. Angry at the very air around you both, and how it keeps slipping away like the delicate tools his claws are too clumsy to hold, taking everything he adores about you with it. But worst of all he's angry at himself for falling in love, and painting a giant target on himself in the process, one he can't tell you how sorry he is for dragging you into.

·The burning will to survive blinds him to familiar color schemes until one is right in front of him, blocking his blade and screaming his name until an optic he didn't know was cracked is able to make out a team of Autobots. Ringing audials blur their words, not that he cares what they have to say. Ignoring them completely, he pries open his cockpit with what he realizes is his only functional arm, and pulls out your barely conscious form to wordlessly request assistance.

·Thankfully Ratchet is just behind the group and, for their sake, knows what to do and moves quickly. You can just make out a familiar optic above you as the final rush to the medical bay proves to be your limit, and you apologetically give a claw a squeeze as you drift off. Whirl only hears the medic say something about how they've been trying to restore communication for this exact purpose, and how they have oxygen ready, and they just need to hook you up...

·The moment he hands you over and medical assistance is offered to him, he refuses with a nearly violent outburst, threatening to make things much worse if anything is done before you're stabilized. Ratchet scolds him for the attitude but otherwise doesn't flinch as he lays your tiny body on a berth and stabilizes you with much needed oxygen. In an almost anticlimactic ending to the whole affair, Whirl is assured you'll survive, and in the haze of the realization it's over he can't bring himself to feel anything at first.

·By the time you come to he's allowed the worst of his injuries to be repaired. Sitting beside your berth in silence, he perks up when he hears you stir, leaning over you to keep the medical lights from hurting your eyes. A tender claw brushes your cheek as he dryly jokes about you being more trouble than a fleshy could be worth, but you can see his spark isn't in it. The entirety of it all rushing back, you hold the tip of his claw in awe at what he's done for you, but also to comfort the fear you know is hurting him. It's almost heartbreaking; how quickly he confesses that this has shaken him to his core. You ask if he's having any second thoughts, and the question seems to act like a jumpstart to his very being. He's not, he firmly assures you, he's only forgotten what it felt like to have something to lose again. It hurts; but every single moment with you is worth that risk, he learned that the moment he fell in love with you. You're worth feeling pain again.

[deancas-fanfiction]

A Daydream Away

Chapter 2/?

Summary: After multiple couples go missing from a resort in northern Minnesota, Dean and Cas are forced to pose as a couple to investigate the mysterious entity. As Dean and Cas navigate their fake relationship, it leaves Dean questioning what's real and forces him to confront his feelings for Cas.

A story in which Cas is human, Dean is sometimes an idiot, and Sam acts as matchmaker.

Tags: fake relationship, case fic, sharing a bed, human!cas, Sam ships Dean and Cas, fluff, eventual smut

available on ao3 Read Ch. 1 here

Dean began to slowly stir from sleep. For the first time in years, he awoke feeling well-rested. No pounding headache from the aftershock of a hangover, no repressed memories rattling in his head from a recurring nightmare, and there was no dry feeling in his eyes from sleeping only a few hours. Instead, he felt warm and relaxed as he began to regain consciousness. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep as he took in his surroundings. Morning sun hazily streamed in through the gaps in the curtains and it was perfectly still and quiet. Dean sighed in content and went to roll over to fall back asleep. Except a weight on his chest prevented him from moving.

Dean tensed, realizing Cas was lying across him. His head was resting in the crook of his neck and his arm was flung over his chest in an almost possessive like manner. His right leg was intertwined with Dean's, sufficiently entangling the two so Dean couldn't easily tear himself away. Cas' breath softly fanned against his neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. As if all of that wasn't bad enough, Dean quickly remembered they were both nearly naked, wearing nothing but their boxer briefs. This meant their bare skin was pressed together and that there was only a very thin material of fabric protecting Dean from a very embarrassing situation. He closed his eyes at that thought and focused on his breathing to calm himself down.

It was at that moment that Cas began to stir. Dean silently cursed whatever entity was at fault for this awkward situation he was about to be in. Cas flexed his fingers and he tightened his grip on Dean rather than pulling away in alarm, as he had expected.

"Uh Cas?"

"Hmmph."

"Buddy, I gotta go to the bathroom. Would you let up?" Dean tried peeling Cas' arm off him with that request but was unsuccessful.

"No."

Okay, so Cas was a totally unabashed cuddler. Dean added it to the mental list of social norms that Cas hasn't exactly picked up on yet. He internally groaned as Cas remained plastered to him. As Cas' breathing once again evened out and he fell back asleep, Dean's mind began to race.

He's always been the kind of guy that either completely ignored or repressed the hell out of complicated manners in his life. First, it was his sexuality. It was years of him ignoring his attraction to men and assuring himself it was completely normal for a guy to have a crush on other guys until he finally admitted to himself that yeah, okay maybe he's not all that straight. While it was freeing to finally admit it, he was bitter for denying himself that ability to explore that aspect of his life for so long. Then there were another few years of admitting his sexuality but refusing to actually admit it out loud to anyone. When he finally told Sam just a few years ago and was met with a "yeah, I know Dean," he realized that he did it again. He deprived himself of the happiness of being his true self. He delayed his own happiness due to his own insecurities and hang-ups.

Since they literally defeated God, Dean promised himself that he was done with delaying his own happiness. It was kind of a (for lack of a better term) come-to-Jesus type of moment. He literally died multiple times in the last fifteen years alone and it wasn't until that moment that he truly realized life is short and that he should make the best of it. Of course, it's now a lot easier to do that when there's no world-ending apocalypse or imminent battle with Heaven looming overhead.

While this new outlook on life was pretty great, it has certainly complicated things. Another thing Dean repressed the hell out of was his relationship with Cas. While Cas refers to it as a 'profound bond,' or whatever, Dean has a harder time labeling it. It's obvious they have a different relationship than Cas and Sam do, but it's just so damn confusing when he allows himself to think about it.

He just wishes that Cas was a little more transparent regarding what was going on inside his mind. With time, Dean has improved at reading his minimal facial expressions. The slight upward tick of his lips showed his amusement. His signature head tilt™ meant confusion or curiosity. The furrow of his brows indicated frustration and if accompanied with the head tilt it meant he was about to smite someone. The last time Dean saw that look, it was directed at him and Sam when they may have gotten Jack just a little bit drunk. But really, they couldn't be blamed. It was the night before they took on Chuck, and they were all under the impression it was their last night on Earth. Anyone else would have done the same thing. Well, except Eileen who signed "told you he'd be mad," with a smug look on her face. But that's not the point.

Regardless, Dean had gotten quite good at reading Cas. However, there was still a lot he didn't know. Sometimes Cas would look at him with an expression that was so foreign to Dean that he had no idea how to catalogue it. And it confused the hell out of him. Sometimes the expression would be so soft that Dean would entertain the idea that maybe Cas felt the same way as Dean does. But that look would be gone as quickly as it appeared, and Dean would convince himself he was projecting.

Dean sighed as his thoughts continued to spiral, unable to stop them. Instead, a loud pounding at the front door startled him, bringing him back to the present. Cas jolted awake as the pounding continued. He had a light flush on his cheeks as he removed himself from Dean.

His hair was sticking out in every direction, reminding Dean of that night in the barn when they officially met for the first time. He  wondered what sex hair would look like on Cas, if that's just what his regular hair looks like in the morning. Dean shook his head, effectively stopping that train of thought before it could spiral out of control. The pounding continued, more incessantly this time.

"Who the hell..." Dean grumbled, forcing himself out of bed. He threw on his discarded shirt from the floor and made his way through the living room to the front door. He swung the door open and was met with Sam's annoyed expression. "What are you --"

"Jesus, Dean. Do you plan on actually working the case or are you just going to sleep all day?" Sam brushed past Dean and brushed snow off his jacket.

"What are you talking about? What time is it even?"

"Nearly nine, Dean." He said, pulling his best bitch face. "They stop serving breakfast at 10. I thought you were going to interview guests this morning."

"Well, yeah. We were just getting ready to leave, so chill." Sam looked unimpressed and walked past Dean to the bedroom. Cas was still sitting in bed, blinking away sleep with the blankets pulled around him, effectively proving Dean wrong. "Oh, you were just getting ready to leave? Then why does Cas look like he just woke up?"

"I -- don't you have an interview to prepare for?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I already had it. I start later today."

"That soon?" Cas asked, his voice gravelly and rough from sleep and oh. That sound went straight to Dean's groin.

"Yeah. They're really short staffed. From what I gathered, quite a few employees quit after the last couple went missing a few days ago. It seems like they were pretty freaked out. So now they're really short staffed and pretty desperate."

"Oh, so that's why they hired you," Dean jokes. "They're desperate."

Sam just looked unimpressed. "For the love of God, would you two just get ready and go to breakfast? We have no leads and I need you to talk to the guests. When I'm at the desk this afternoon, I'll sign you up for some activities so you can talk to more guests."

Dean opened his mouth to argue that hey, he's perfectly capable of signing up for his own activities but Sam shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks. "I'll make sure you're signed up for the bourbon tasting, if that's what you're worried about."

"I knew I could count on you, Sammy," Dean grinned. With that, Sam shook his head and headed out of the cabin.

It took equal parts pleading and the promise of coffee to coax Cas out of the warmth of the bed and out into the cold so they could make it to breakfast in time. The morning brought with it a light snowfall, so Dean had to quickly brush the Impala off before driving the short distance to the main lodge where breakfast was served.

Dean and Cas waved to Brenda as they passed the front desk and waited in line to check in at the host stand. Breakfast was served in the form of a buffet with a wide variety of items offered. Dean gave the hostess their cabin number and headed straight to the eggs and bacon. He loaded up his plate while Cas grabbed waffles and coated them with syrup and whipped cream.

"You should be grateful you married me instead of Sam," Dean declared, taking a large bite of bacon as he scanned the room for an open table. "He would have lectured you for all of the sugar you're loading up on."

Cas tilted his head, seemingly thinking that over. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I don't think Sam and I would be very compatible on a lot of fronts."

Dean, meanwhile, flushed at the possible implication that he and Cas are compatible. Cas didn't seem to notice and directed his attention towards a table where a young couple were sitting, enjoying their breakfast. "Should we sit with them? Maybe they could tell us something about the couple that went missing."

"Yeah, okay. It will also get Sam off our back for a few hours." Dean followed Cas as he approached the table.

"Mind if we join you?" Cas asked, good natured. "My husband, here, overslept this morning and it seems we arrived for breakfast at the busiest time."

Dean glared at Cas for throwing him under the bus when it was actually the other way around, but there was no heat to it. In reality, his stomach did that weird swooping thing when Cas referred to him as "his husband."

"Of course!" The young woman smiled at them over her glass of orange juice. "I'm Amy, and this is my fiancé Jake."

"Nice to meet you," Dean turned on his most charming smile. "I'm Dean, this is Cas. We just arrived last night and had no idea breakfast would be so busy."

Amy laughed and shook her head. "We experienced the same thing. We found that arriving at 8:30 is the sweet spot. It's right between the early and late risers."

"Another tip: if you arrive early enough, they have cinnamon rolls. They always run out by 8:00." Jake added.

"We'll definitely remember that. Cas has a sweet tooth, as you can tell by his side of waffles he got with his syrup." Dean joked. Cas just rolled his eyes and happily ate his sugar infused breakfast. "How long have you two been here?"

"Five days," Amy chirped. "We're getting married this summer, so we wanted to have a relaxing vacation just the two of us before things get too crazy with last minute wedding planning."

"We know how that goes. We ended up having a small wedding because the planning got to be too much work for us." Cas paused and chewed thoughtfully. "Wait - so you've been here for a few days. Does that mean you were here when that couple went missing?" Truthfully, Dean was impressed by Cas' nonchalance. While his social skills have significantly improved since becoming human, there were still times that Cas had some social awkwardness. It was endearing as hell but could make working a case a little difficult. But Cas seemed to be holding his own rather well.

Jake and Amy exchanged a look. "Yeah, we actually did a cooking class with Kevin and Raymond. They were so nice and were here on their honeymoon. No one seems to have any idea what happened."

"Did you notice anything weird?"

"No," Jake answered, furrowing his brows. "Like Amy said, they were really nice and gave us a lot of great wedding advice."

"Yeah, they weren't planning on leaving for another few days, so when they were suddenly gone it didn't make sense."

"We thought they had a family emergency and had to leave early or something, but then we heard they were actually missing. It's so sad."

"Did you do any other activities with them?"

Amy smiled wistfully. "Other than the cooking class, we only did the bourbon tasting with them. I have quite the bourbon collection at home, as did Kevin so we talked a lot about that. The tasting was the last we saw of them."

Dean nodded, and steered the conversation towards bourbon and scotch, not wanting to raise any suspicion by asking too many questions.

After finishing their breakfast, Cas grabbed a to-go cup of coffee and they meandered back outside. With the fresh snowfall, the grounds looked serene and absolutely beautiful. A blanket of untouched snow coated the ground, sparkling in the sun.

"Want to explore the grounds a little?" Dean asked. "It may be a good idea to get a good feel of the layout."

"Yeah, I'd like that." Cas smiled in return and pulled his hat over his ears. The wind wasn't biting like it was the night before, but it was still December in Minnesota meaning it was fucking cold. Dean shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and followed the path around the lodge. This led to a large staircase down to the lakeside. Christmas lights were strung along the railing and there was a bonfire roaring near the lakeside, which was tended to by a few guests. Dean and Cas slowly made their way down the staircase, breathing in the crisp fresh air and enjoying the scenery.

Cas quickly finished his coffee and tossed it in a nearby trash can. Then he shoved his hands in his jacket, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a shiver. Dean fondly rolled his eyes at him and held out his hand.

"Give me your hand." He ordered. Cas looked at him questioningly but complied, nonetheless. Dean took his hand and shoved it in his pocket with his own. "Jesus, your hand is freezing."

Now it was Cas' turn to roll his eyes. "I had to finish my coffee," he reasoned.

"We need to buy you gloves."

"I'm fine, Dean."

"No, your hand feels like ice. Sometimes you forget you're human and actually need to worry about things like that."

"That's not true."

"Sure, it is," Dean snorted. "Within your first few days of being human you were dehydrated because you forgot to drink water regularly."

"You forget to drink water regularly, Dean."

Dean paused. "Okay, you have me there. But you also wore your suit and trench coat in 90-degree heat on that case in Arizona. We were in the desert and you were wearing like 4 layers."

Cas lips turned up at the corner. "Okay, you have me there." He echoed. "To be fair, I am getting better. I now dress 'weather appropriate' as Sam puts it."

"Yes, you do. I'm just sure being human takes some getting used to. But in the meantime, you need to let Sam and I help you out." Dean squeezed Cas' hand for emphasis, which was now at a much warmer temperature.

In response Cas smiled his full, blinding smile which made Dean feel warm despite the cold. "Thanks for letting me stay with you both at the bunker."

At that, Dean felt a pang of guilt. He completely mishandled the situation last time Cas was human and that was something he would never forgive himself for. "Cas, I'm sorry for --"

"No, don't apologize. I understand why you did that. You were saving Sam's life. I didn't mean to dredge that up. I just wanted to express my gratitude for allowing me to stay with you."

"You're family, Cas. We stick together." And just like that his blinding smile was back, with a certain softness in his eyes that Dean had trouble interpreting.

They now reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped at the fire to quickly warm themselves. Dean and Cas asked the few guests milling around the fire about Raymond and Kevin, but none of them had any information about the missing couple. Half of them weren't even staying at the resort when the disappearance occurred. After making a few minutes of small talk, they said their good-byes and headed back to the Impala. The cold officially seeped through their winter layers and Dean could feel his feet turning numb.

The walk back to the car was very quick and at last Dean was starting Baby and blasting the heat. He sighed in relief as warmth fanned over his red face.

"We should probably call Sam before he arrives back for work and tell him we haven't had any luck yet."

"Yeah, good thinking," Dean agreed as he pulled out of the parking spot. Cas dug out his phone and dialed Sam's number, putting it on speaker so they could both hear.

"Hey, Cas." Sam answered cheerfully. "What's up?"

Cas dutifully explained their lack of progress on the case and the dead end with the guests. "I know we haven't spoken to more than a handful of them, but I fear it will be the same with all of the guests. What are your thoughts?"

Sam hummed in thought. "I called the local law enforcement this morning while you were at breakfast, posing as a journalist and they said the same thing -- none of the guests had any helpful information. Maybe we need to switch tactics."

"What are you thinking? Cas and I pose as agents?" Dean questioned as he turned onto the gravel road leading to their cabin.

"No, law enforcement already spoke to the resort staff and they didn't get anywhere. I doubt it would be any different with federal agents." He paused as he thought for a moment. "Maybe you two should just really lean heavily into the whole married couple thing and focus on luring whatever it is that took the other couples."

"We're already doing that," Dean responded.

"No, I know. But I mean lean into it. Act so sickeningly in love so you become the obvious target. I'll see if I can get any other information from the staff, but I think that's our best angle at this point. Like I said, I'll sign you up for some couple activities over the next few days and you just need to act like you're madly in love with each other."

"Will you sign us up for the cooking class?" Cas asked. "Jake and Amy mentioned they took that class with Raymond and Kevin before they disappeared."

"Yes, I can do that. Stop by the desk after lunch and I can give you your itinerary. But I gotta go -  I have to be at the resort in less than an hour."

"Are you sure that'll be enough time to style your hair?"

"Fuck off Dean," Sam retorted humorously. "I'll see you guys later."

Cas said goodbye and slid his phone back in his pocket.

Dean chanced a glance over at Cas as they pulled up to their cabin. His brow was furrowed and he was staring out the windshield with a faraway look on his face.

"What's on your mind, buddy?"

Cas' eyes flashed in frustration. "If we're going to make people believe this is real," He said, gesturing between them. "You should probably stop referring to me as 'buddy.' Married couples don't refer to each other as such."

"Right. Sorry." Dean chewed on his lip. Cas was right. If this plan was going to work, they would have to adjust a few aspects of their friendship, this being one of them. "That's a good point. I think we were just fine this morning, but like Sam said, we need to really lean into it. So we'll have to step up our game."

"What do you suggest, we become more physical?"

Dean flushed at the implications. "Uh -- yeah, I suppose. We could hold hands more," He suggested.

Cas nodded. "Or I could put my arm around your shoulder."

"Exactly. Just do what you see other couples doing. Really, we should be fine. Once Sam signs us up for all of the couple’s activities it will be even easier to act the part."

"What about kissing?"

"What about it?" Dean's face was flaming at this point. He shifted in the seat to get a good look at Cas.

"Should we do it? Other couples do it, and it may be odd if we don't." Cas tilted his head, studying Dean's expression. "Unless that makes you uncomfortable?"

"What? N-no, not at all." Quite the opposite, actually. "I mean -- that's fine, Cas. If it feels necessary for the case, then we can, um, kiss." Dean could not believe he was actually having this conversation. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to get his shit together. "Just do what feels natural, alright?"

"Alright." Cas agreed.

"So, we have a few hours until we have to be back at the lodge to meet with Sam. Want to see if there’s anything good on tv?”

A big smile took over Cas' face at the suggestion and he nodded in agreement. They got out of the car and made their way inside the cabin. The fresh snow crunched under each footstep but otherwise it was silent. Once they were back inside the warmth of the cabin, Cas took off towards the bedroom and muttered something about getting a blanket while Dean collapsed onto the couch.

He turned on the television and began searching through the channels, waiting for something to catch his eye. Within seconds he heard Cas’ light footsteps in the hall. He looked up just as he came into sight. Cas had their large comforter in his hands, but Dean was distracted by what he was wearing.

"Are those my sweatpants?"

Cas looked down, almost sheepishly. "Oh. Yes. You always tell me that jeans are not proper attire for movie nights. I assume the rule applies even if it's daytime, so I changed. I didn't bring any loungewear, so I borrowed yours. Is that alright?"

He eyed the pants which hung low on Cas' hips. It left a small sliver of tan skin exposed and Dean could see the sharp line of his hip bones. He inhaled sharply and forced his eyes back to Cas' face. "Yes, Cas. That's alright."

Cas' lips turned up at the corners and he flopped onto the couch next to Dean. He pulled the large blanket over the two of them and sat just close enough that Dean could feel the heat coming off of him, but they weren’t quite touching.

Since becoming human, Cas has taken to borrowing Dean’s clothes. After Dean convinced him to try on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Cas realized just how uncomfortable the suit and tie ensemble was. With that in mind, he began sneaking into Dean’s room and would snag a band shirt and sometimes a flannel, dressing like he’s a Winchester himself.

The first time he saw him in his clothes Dean nearly had an aneurysm. He had grown so accustomed to Cas in his suit and shapeless coat that seeing him in jeans that hugged his ass with the sleeves of his flannel rolled up his forearms was an immediate turn on. Maybe it was also the fact that they were Dean’s clothes on him that caused such a problem. Regardless, Dean abandoned his breakfast to immediately take a cold shower.

And now, seeing him in his own sweatpants that perfectly hug his ass and hang low on his hips was painfully unfair. Dean readjusted himself, ignoring the heat pooling in his gut. Now was not the time for inappropriate boners. He internally groaned and tried to focus on the nature documentary Cas put on but was unsuccessful because at that moment Cas rested his head against Dean’s shoulder and let out a little sigh of content.

This is going to be a long and tortuous week for Dean because it's just pretend.

[lastluvbug]

told you I was gonna come with a new request! =D mind doing another Scarabia, along with a Diasmonia one? The reader has the same kind of past as the one in the last request, but I just wanna see how you would write it in their perspectives. You can make them into one or separate stories, it doesn't matter to me so go ahead and go all out! Oh and if you can make a added part where it was near the time when they found a way to get home, that would be great, thanks so much! =D

Thanks for the requests @sanata101!! I’ll do my best!

Warnings: mentioned abuse and self harm (please love yourself), language, toxic behavior. If sensitive, please do not read!

A Sweet Melody (Diasomnia)

Normally, Yuu would’ve found herself anywhere but here.

The night hadn’t sat well in her gut, long since given the opportunity of relief from its seemingly endless feast upon itself, and as such, Yuu couldn’t manage even a wink of sleep. She was somewhat jealous of Grim, who snored soundly, lost in his sea of slumber. She couldn’t help but envy that he had nothing to prod at his consciousness in the late hours, nothing to worry himself over, or remember.

So, quietly as she could, Yuu snuck away from Ramshackle, and into the brisk wind that whipped at her hair and chilled her skin, still clad in her sleepwear. She wasn’t sure exactly where she planned to go, all she knew was that she sought a way to remove the worm that had been planted too firmly in her ear.

Her skin crawled with nolstalgia, eye tingling with the reminder of the glass that had so cruelly sliced away half her world. She’d merely been a child when her father lashed out one night, stealing a part of Yuu that she could never replace, and as time ticked forward, she did as well.

It came as a shock to her when she found herself standing in the illusive Mirror Chamber of Night Raven College. Of all places to go, she chose here? Yuu had only been brought into the area a scarce few times before, and not of her own accord, having been forced by a too excited Grim to check it out. She wanted to excuse herself, to speed away from the decision that lay in front of her, but the way it bent and warped before her very eyes kept her grounded, the magic visible even beneath a blanket of water.

Yuu shakily reached towards the Dark Mirror, only stopped by the tear that dripped down her cheek. “How could I...? After everything that happened... how could I go back..?!” She thought, clenching her fists as she withdrew her hand. “I shouldn’t be here.” She turned on her heel, tramping back to her rundown dorm, all the while pressing her palms to her head in order to squeeze out the memories that brought a pounding headache along with them.

When she creaked the door to her room open, Yuu suppressed her sigh, finding that Grim was still sound asleep. She tucked herself back into the dense warmth of her bed, grimacing at how the little monster barely even stirred as she lifted him up to make herself comfortable. Her eyes fluttered shut, a finger tracing over her damaged lid with a feather light touch. Ever since that day, Yuu hadn’t had a single peaceful night, any small bump or whistle in the wind causing her to jump to alertness.

A long while later, her consciousness gave way, allowing itself to sink into oblivion.

<————>

Sirens, water, blood.

To Yuu, that was the only thing she could remember clearly, like a movie playing too vividly in her overactive head.

Sirens; the blues, yellow, and reds that flooded the house as the ear piercing screams signalled the arrival of the emergency vehicles. The sound kept her awake night after night, plaguing her dreams that soon flitted away altogether. It sounded like—like the shrieks of her sister, of her mother, the last that their voices would ever create.

Water; streaming down her windows as she sat broken at the sills, stuck in a home that had long since been referred to as such. It wasn’t a home, it was her prison. It carved paths down her young cheeks, one horribly marred by the hand of someone she once held dear to her heart, the only constant that could be relied upon.

And blood; there was always so much of it. Pooling on the white tile flooring, staining the sheets, dripping over mounds of muscle. It was hers that was spilled first, and soon, it was of her sister and mother’s. Long after that blood had been washed away, Yuu often found herself holed up in the bathroom, dragging new trails across her skin with anything she could, whether that be a blade, or a dirty shard of glass.

She couldn’t seem to climb the boulder of self doubt and blame, never gaining an inch before it grew, scheming new reasons as to why she’d never amount to anything more than a guilty murderer.

Yes, that was what her father used to call her. A murderer.

“It wasn’t my fault...right? It wasn’t me!” Yuu screamed to no one in particular, staring at her hands.

“Oh, but it was these hands that led to their demise, wasn’t it?” A deep voice grumbled, grotesque like nails on a chalkboard. “It was you who made that—that noise you were so insistent on creating. Always with that damn harp, strumming away like everything was fine. Look around Yuu! Does everything seem fine?!” Her father growled, and suddenly, Yuu was no longer in the black of her subconscious, rather in that kitchen that reeked of death.

“I j-just... I wanted to make you happy... I was never enough! I just wanted to be enough for you!”

“For him? What about us? Did you forget about me, Yuu?” Her sister cooed, standing in front of her, battered and bruised.

“Did you forget what you did to us? If it weren’t for you, we’d still be alive!” Her mother joined, the family finally complete in all its broken glory.

“I-I’m sorry—I’m so, so sorry! I never meant for this, you know I never—“ Yuu dropped to her knees, clutching her head.

“You can’t hide from your past! You can’t hide from what you caused!” The bleeding mother wailed, each syllable sharp as a prick from a needle.

“You’ll always be a filthy murderer!” They said in unison, Yuu shooting her head up with panic striken tears clouding her half view.

“Take the punishment you deserve!” Her father boomed, raising his hand above his head, a bottle clenched tightly in the meaty fingers.

Yuu could do nothing but throw her arms over her face as the weapon was swung with deadly precision, racing faster and faster on its fatal track until—!

<————>

Yuu screamed as she jerked awake, sweat beads trickling down the sides of her face as she twisted her fingers in the sheets that stifled her with too much heat.

“Yuu? What’s all the noise ‘bout...?” Grim whined, rolling over and peeking an eye open.

She sucked in a shaky breath, raking a hand through her hair. “I-I... I think I–I need a w-walk. Yeah, a walk. Go b-back to sleep, I’ll be back in a little bit.” Yuu said, voice quivering worse than a dead leaf in the wind.

“Are ya sure? You don’t sound like you’re—“

“I’m fine! I just need to get some fresh air, that’s all. See you soon, Grim.” She intervened, giving him no time to respond as she lifted herself from the bed, practically racing out the door without so much as a coat.

The silent night was of little calm to the distressed girl, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone paving the path she walked over. Even as she wove further and further from the dorm house, and away from the dim light provided from the lit lanterns positioned haphazardly around the place, her wire thin thoughts didn’t allow her to notice the guest she entertained as she relived her nightmare.

That was the first vision she’d seen after clocking out in a long, long time. So long, in fact, Yuu had begun to believe that she was incapable of dreaming. The marks over her wrists and thighs tingled, none so uncomfortably as the scar blemishing her face. Out of habit, she hid it beneath a sweaty hand, wishing for the umpteenth time that some magic power would wash away the record of her father’s woes. Of her own failures.

A harsh wind whipped at her hair, rustling through her already thin clothing and sinking ice into her bones as a shiver crawled over her skin. Yuu pulled her arms across her body, hands rubbing her arms as she attempted to create even an inkling of warmth over the deprived flesh. Only now did she notice how far she’d wandered from...the only place she could call home in her twisted wonderland.

“Did you come with a plan for the chill, or are you just a fool?”

Yuu nearly tripped over her feet as she spun, ignited by the hyperactive moon. “Ts-Tsunataro!” She called, startled the appearance of the towering faerie. “H-How long have you been out here? Were you following me?”

“Ah, mortals and all of their insistent questioning,” he chuckled, horns glinting in the moonlight, “no matter. Please, cover yourself with this. You’ll catch your death if you remain dressed that way in this weather.” He shrugged off his blazer, largely oversized for Yuu’s frame.

“A-Ah... of course.” She extended her hand to grab the covering. Just as she was about to pull her second arm through the sleeve, a gloved hand gently took her arm, keeping her from completing the simple act. She kept silent as Tsunataro rotated it to expose the underside, pale and littered in thin ladders of scars.

His eyes widened a fraction of an inch, and he reached out for the other arm, only to have it pulled away by Yuu, who hid herself behind a curtain of hair. “...Why? Why would you do this to yourself?” He asked, and if Yuu didn’t know any better, she would’ve believed that the confusion held in his voice was genuine.

“You wouldn’t understand...” she replied weakly. “...the things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt. I’m as ugly on the inside as am out, I don’t deserve anything more than the dirt on the soles of my shoes.”

The dark haired man froze, still as a statue as he processed the words, her arm still gently gripped in his large hand. Yuu stared at the smooth cement, at her pale feet in the too bright light, refusing to meet his eye.

And, each action executed with an elegance Yuu could never hope to possess, Tsunataro took her other arm, his hands sliding down to envelope hers as he kneeled, only somewhat shorter than she was standing. “I’ve seen many a peculiar incident in my lifetime, some so bizarre they seem impossible, but this my dear, is unbelievably false. You need not hide your face, for such a work of art cannot be praised unless the light frames its beauty.” He released a hand to cup her cheek, tilting her head to sweep away the bangs and reveal her teary eyes.

“Y-You... you shouldn’t lie, not for me. There’s no truth in anything you say...!” She sobbed, making no movements to wipe away her liquid sorrow.

“Once again, undeniably false. It astounds me to see that you fail to notice the perfection you carry within your mere existence. I’ve seen maidens from near and far, all come to win my hand, but never someone as fair as you. You may bear a past laced and threaded with horrors only few are opportune to see, and you may bear the scars and bruises from the times when you fell. But, the very fact that you stand here before me today, bathed in the light of the moon and glittering like a star, is the proof that you not only fell, but you rose to become something greater. I see no truer beauty than that, Yuu.”

The girl was silent, a cascading waterfall dripping to the pavement as she stared at the kneeled man, for once unashamed to show her face in its entirety. She could voice no words as she weeped, falling to her knees as well as pressing herself into the bigger body, hands clasping the fabric of his chest as she buried herself under his chin.

Malleus Draconia was for once at a loss for a plan. So, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around the trembling girl, tracing lines up and down her back to soothe her cries. “I-I—I just...I d-don’t want to be a-alone anymore!” She screamed, voice cracking like the glass of his heart.

“Shh, you don’t have to be. I know what it’s like to take the hard road with no one to guide you, believe me, I know. But you don’t have to be. Tomorrow, look for the people wearing these colors. They will be the ones to keep you company while I cannot.” Malleus instructed, gesturing to his green-and-black armband.

“T-They...will?”

“Yes, I promise it.”

“T-That sounds...nice. Thank y-you, Tsunataro.” Yuu whispered, her cries reduced to pitiful hiccups.

“Whatever you require, my dear. Now, hush, and close your eyes. You must be incredibly worn out.” She listened, noticing how she was, indeed, exhausted. She barely recognized as she was lifted bridal style, a fuzzy feeling raising goosebumps along her flesh as she snuggled closer to the warmth radiating from her savior.

The world faded away, one sense at a time, until the thankfully dreamless slumber rewelcomed Yuu, sweeping her away to a world where naught mattered but the darkness and its tantalizing hand.

<————>

The cafeteria chatter greeted Yuu’s ears as the smell of all sorts of foods mingled in the air.

She stepped into the bustling room, dodging students as she held Grim in her arms, looking down to the band that was tied around her wrist. After she had awoken, she wanted to believe that the encounter the night before had been some crazy dream her mind had conjured up, but was proven wrong by a lime-and-black colored ribbon tied loosely around her wrist, reminding Yuu of the promise that had been sworn.

“Do you see them, Yuu? I just want to get food already...” Grim pouted, crossing his arms.

“N-No, I don’t... I thought Tsunataro said they’d be here...” she faltered, standing on her toes to try and glimpse around the taller students around her.

She jumped slightly, trying to locate the colors that should’ve normally stuck out like a sore thumb. She was so focused, that Yuu nearly tripped over herself when her vision was blocked by two red eyes dancing with amusement. “Woah—! W-who are you?” She stammered, leaping back a step.

She stared a little too intensely, intrigued by how the boy was quite literally hanging upside down in midair, his black and magenta streaked hair falling around his face as he chuckled, uprighting himself and sinking to the floor. On instinct, her gaze was quickly diverted downwards as she tilted her face away from his, hiding her scarring. “Kufufu, relax, young one. I’m Lilia Vanrouge, the proud vice of Diasomnia dorm. You don’t need to hide your face, I know who you are.”

Yuu looked up, seeing nothing but his gentle smile as her tense shoulders slumped, continuing to shadow her eye as Grim stirred in her embrace. “Fgna?! Aren’t you the guy we saw before Leona’s crazy beast mode during the Magift championships?” The monster exclaimed, so restless he nearly fell from Yuu’s hold.

“Hm? Oh, I guess that is true. Commendable job on handling that, by the way.” Lilia congratulated, clapping his hands as he smiled. “Now, I heard from a certain someone that you were in need of companionship, correct?”

“U-Uh, you mean this?” She held up her ribbon. “I s-suppose that’s right...”

“Fufu, no need to be so timid. Come, I’ll lead the way.” Lilia waved his hand, gesturing for her to follow as he disappeared within the crowd.

“I guess it can’t get any worse...” She thought, quickly trailing after the shorter senior.

It didn’t take long for the two to arrive at a rowdy table, Lilia bowing teasingly as she stood, a sweat drop almost visible on her forehead. “Silver! You cannot sleep in the cafeteria! You’ve already woken for the day, what if the young master requires our assistance?!” A boy with pale green hair yelled, gripping someone with chin length grey hair and shaking the life from him.

“Sebek, quite down... you’ll disturb the peace.” He yawned, pushing himself away from the green haired boy.

The latter gasped dramatically, fists clenching as he lifted them into the air. “You dare order me around?! Why I ought to—!”

“Ahem. Sebek, Silver, would you like to explain or shall I turn yet another blind eye to this?” Lilia coughed, staring blankly.

“Lilia-san!” The two instantly straightened out, Sebek’s temper cooling as Silver rose to alertness. “Apologies, Lilia-san. We weren’t aware of the...guests.” Silver bowed his head, completely oblivious to the hot glare Grim sent his way.

“By all mighty... in all my years of teaching you two, have you not learned a thing about manners? Introduce yourselves!” Lilia scolded, wagging a gloved finger in the air as Yuu took her spot at the table.

“R-Right! I’m Sebek Zigvolt, first year Diasomnia student. Very nice to meet you.” Yuu nodded respectfully, fidgeting with Grim’s tattered tie.

“...Silver, second year from Diasomnia, as well. Sorry for the mess you had to see before.”

“I-It’s alright... I’m Yuu, though I’m s-sure you already knew that...” she mumbled, Grim seated on her lap as she ran a hand over her eye absentmindedly. She was only torn from her meddling as silence wrapped around the table, something that from her short time of sitting with the group, Yuu could tell was uncommon. When she looked up, she felt her ears redden to find that both Silver and Sebek were staring at her, sharing unreadable expressions.

“I-Is something the matter?” She asked, a knot tying in her throat.

“N-No! Nothing at all!” Sebek refuted, shaking his head from side to side.

“No offense or anything, but why are you here?” Silver asked matter-of-factly, Yuu flinching at the tone.

“A-Ah, w-well...I—“

“Ms. Yuu here has been awfully lonely, as most of the students avoid her like the plague, the terrible oafs. So, as said by our dear lord, we shall be the ones to provide her company!” Lilia revealed, once again clapping in his oversized sleeves as he took a seat next to the girl.

“What?! Lilia, you do realize she has no magical powers whatsoever, correct? How could we bring her under our wing when—“ Sebek’s outraged voice trailed off as Yuu felt tears sting her eyes.

It was the same thing everyone always said. She wasn’t enough, she was never enough.

“I-I’m so sorry, I should just leave...! I-I’m sorry to have taken your time like this.” She stood to go, breathless as she held back sobs. She was about to storm away, off to her first class, when someone snagged her wrist, keeping her from running.

“Wait! Please, wait Yuu.” Lilia called, taking both her hands similarly to the way Malleus did the night before.

“Why...? I-I don’t want to bother a-anyone, I’m sure just associating yourself with someone like me tarnishes your reputation!” Yuu argued, Grim holding onto her leg protectively.

“No, no no. Don’t speak like that. Reputation be damned, I say. Why does it matter what anyone else thinks? Come back, I know those two are a little hectic, but I promise you, once you get through their walls, they’ll be there for you through thick and thin. Just... give it a chance, alright? Do you think you can try that for me?” He asked softly, the busy cafeteria blind to the exchange.

“I...” Yuu took a deep breath, steadying her shaking voice. “I don’t know what I can promise you, but I can try.” She said, earning a cheeky grin in response.

“Come on, let’s go back.” Lilia smiled, letting go of one of her hands to pull her back towards the table.

As soon as the dramatic first year noticed the pair heading back over, he stood, easier to read than a book with the emotions spilt across his face.

“Lady Yuu! I deeply apologize for my previous words, it was wrong of me to speak that way.” Sebek near shouted as Yuu sat back down.

“I-It’s alright... really. Right, Grim?” Yuu noddd, her tears having soaked back to the dam behind her eyes.

“Grr... You knucklehead better watch that tongue of yours from now on! Got it?” He growled, shooting daggers at the much bigger student.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He may be emotional and dramatic, but unfortunately, he’s not an idiot. It won’t happen again...” Silver added before Sebek could reply, yawning as he stretched his arms over his head.

“Silver!” Sebek yelled, slamming his palms on the table.

As the antics continued, and the clock ticked by, Yuu found herself enjoying the jumbled company more than she thought. Her mind was steered away from the reminder of her horrid past, and for the first time since the accident, she forgot about the cicatrice that had disfigured her complexion. And, perhaps best of all, she found herself creating small giggles she had no idea she was still capable of making.

<————>

When the bell tolled the end of breakfast and the beginning of the first class, she was pleasantly surprised when Sebek walked her to the room, finding that they shared the period, as well as many others. Throughout the day, she reunited with Silver and Lilia, whether it be at lunch, or in the never halting progression of her magic filled classes.

Each of them comforted Yuu in their own way; for Lilia, it was through kind words and subtle encouragement. Everytime he notice her falling into the abyss of her thousand pound thoughts, he whispered her sweet nothings, taking her hand and giving it a light squeeze to let her know that she had someone to rely on.

For Silver, it was through soft touches and physical reminders. Whenever they shared a period together, he’d often doze off, slumping onto her shoulder and using it as a pillow. The few times he managed to stay awake, he would smile and use his pen to scribble little pictures and doodles in the corners of her assignments, to which Yuu would grin and return the favor.

For Sebek, it was through firm support and voiced praise. Applauding her when she answered questions correctly, cheering when she rode her broom properly in P.E, he was there to congratulate her on the smallest of things. He even offered to personally escort her to each classroom, guaranteeing that she wouldn’t be messed with by any of the students who dared poke fun at her outward appearance.

By the time the last bell of the school day reverberated off the intricately designed walls, Yuu had to press her cool hands to her eyes to slow the rise of water pooling in the sparkling orbs. It was too much—they were too much. It was all—all too similar to the way her... her family used to be! She didn’t want to lose anyone again, didn’t want to place her trust in those who didn’t deserve it! She’d failed to protect what she loved most once before, and she’d be struck dead before it happened again. Every beating she took, every meal she sacrificed, and for what? So that she would just lose it all in the blink of an eye?

What if... what if they left her too?

What if she was being used, again—

“...uu. Yuu. Hello? Anyone in there?”

The girl in question looked up, startled by the voice. “...Huh...? Silver?” She gasped, noticing how Grim was missing as the grey haired boy laughed inaudibly.

“Sleeping in class is my thing, you doofus. C’mon, I have something I want to show you.” He extended a hand, Yuu taking it after a minute of consideration.

“Where are we go—woah!” She yelped as she was dragged by the agile Diasomnia student, zipping through the halls in a blur of color as the speed brought a grin to her lips.

It wasn’t much, but the wind in her hair and the temporary high of running was enough to spike her adrenaline, in the kind of way that was addicting as opposed to way driven entirely off of fear.

All too soon, Yuu was brought to a complete stop, only caught from tripping by Silver’s sturdy grip. “Huff... w-was the running... necessary?” She panted, regaining her composure.

“Shh... look.” Silver simply instructed pointing.

Yuu followed the direction, and felt her heart burst with adoration at the scene unraveling before her.

Standing at the edge of the courtyard, Yuu stared with nary a trace of malice in her gaze as there, laid against the apple tree, Malleus slept silently, the only sign that he was even alive being the calming breaths that heaved through his chest. Yuu covered her mouth, turning away the laughter that threatened to spill from her pink lips.

Little animals were all over the great fae.

Birds decorated his horns, in a variety of blues and reds and yellows, while critters splayed themselves out over his lap, sandy brown chipmunks and greyed squirrels quarreling over tree nuts nearby.

“Is this an everyday occurrence for Tsunataro?” Yuu thought, stepping into the courtyard.

Silver followed after her, and once she took a seat by the slumbering boy, Silver gave her a little nod before stretching out over the wooden bench, basking in the late afternoon sun that made his hair shine like a newly polished sword.

Reaching out, she gingerly brushed away a few locks of ebony hair, scaring a few of the animals away. Malleus stirred, eyes fluttering open sleepily as he shook off the rest of the little creatures. “Hello...” Yuu cooed, withdrawing her hand and placing it on her lap as she sat on her knees.

“What a shame, really. Lordy here never gets a full night’s rest anymore, always staring at the moon like a love struck puppy dog.” Yuu shifted, falling back onto her hands as the enigmatic vice yet again dropped upside down in front of her.

“L-Lilia? How long have you been here?” She asked, crossing her arms.

“A while. I was the one who told Silver to get you, right, my boy?” Lilia smirked, cackling as Silver grunted and sent a thumbs-up as his approval.

“I’m sorry to wake you, if that is the case the—“

“Young master!” Came the familiar cry of Sebek, who practically raced over to the bench where Silver sat. “I’ve been looking everywhere! You can’t just disappear like that, you’ll put yourself in danger!”

“Oh hush now, Sebek. You’ll scare the doves.” Malleus yawned, exposing his sharp canines for a brief second.

“The doves aren’t anything to be concerned with right now... ah! Hello, Yuu! Apologies for failing to notice your presence sooner!” The green haired guard said with just a touch too much emotion to seem genuine.

“H-Hi...?” She waved timidly, a small but identifiable smile on her lips.

“My dear, I’m deeply sorry for only now making an appearance. Just as the day and night chase each other in a never ending cycle of time, my identity comes and goes. During school hours, I’m needed elsewhere.” Malleus said, Lilia having wandered off to pester Sebek and Silver.

“It’s alright, I figured there’s more than just me to entertain in your life,” Yuu shrugged, smoothing out her clothes.

“Fufu, indeed. Tell me—at the very least, did they behave?”

Yuu watched as the three goofed off, carefree chatter and laughs floating about the courtyard. “Well... Sebek is loud, and sometimes a little overwhelming. Silver is always sleeping, and doesn’t have a very strong attention span. And Lilia... he’s unpredictable, hopping left and right without so much as a plan to fall back to.” Yuu admitted, a pleasant breeze sweeping through her hair.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, but... it’s not all bad. They all—they all remind me so much of my family...!” Yuu felt her voice crack as her tears returned yet again. “Silver—ha, Silver reminds me of my sister! She was so young, and...and she loved to draw. She would always doodle little pictures on my papers, and I’d always get so mad at her for it...” she wiped away the fat beads, sniffling.

“What about Lilia?” Malleus prodded, urging her to continue.

“Lilia-san reminds me of my mother. His smile, the way he quietly encouraged me when I felt like I wasn’t enough... I haven’t felt her embrace in so long, I often find myself wondering if she was real at all!”

“And... Sebek?”

“Sebek? He... well, he reminds me of—of my... my father. Before he is who he is now. I can barely remember it, but I know for a fact that he used to cheer for me whenever I got full marks on a test. I know he used to patch up my bumps and scrapes, he wasn’t always the man who... who sat around drowning himself in liquor!” The tears were so thick, Yuu couldn’t see more than a blurred mess as she hiccuped, rubbing over her scar.

“Yuu. Come here.” Malleus opened his arms. An invitation, to which Yuu wordlessly accepted by flinging herself into him, sobbing her heart onto his uniform, tears dampening the fabric.

“I don’t...! I don’t want to go back! I don’t care that Crowley found a way to get me home! I can’t go back!” She lamented, feeling Malleus tense below her.

“He...what?” It was clear that no one had been aware of this turn events, no one besides the headmaster of Night Raven and Yuu herself.

“Please... I don’t want to go back to a place where I’m not loved. To a place where I’ll forever be subjected to... to ridicule, and mockery. Please, please don’t let me leave.” Yuu begged, unaware of the crowd she had gathered.

Silver and Sebek stood dumbfounded, both gaping as Lilia watched speechless, a dark look shadowing his normally mischievous face.

In that moment, all four boys made a choice. They made the choice of compassion.

Malleus crushed Yuu in a hug, a hand over the back of her head as he pulled her flush against himself. “Shh. You don’t have to leave. You’ll stay with us. You’ll stay here, where you’re safe, and you don’t have to hide anymore.” Malleus promised, dropping the embrace to look Yuu in the eyes, absorbing all of her fractured beauty.

“I... can stay?”

“Dearest, remain here, with us. You never have to be scared again. Not ever.”

Yuu pried herself away from the broad fae, sitting on her knees and for the first time, seeing a picture so clearly, it was as if her vision returned to her after all this time.

She saw the faces of her family in them. She saw the innocent bliss of her sister, the serenity of her mother’s forgiveness, and the pride of her father. She saw the acceptance, the realization that this was now her family.

No more blood. No more tears.

She had a place she could call home, and it wasn’t even a place. It was in the arms of these four people.

Yuu had finally found her lost melody.

Holy wow, I am so, so sorry that this took so long to finish! I’m still working on the Scarabia duo, so keep an eye out for that!

I hope you enjoyed, and once again, thanks for reading!!

Stay lovely!

[ksuew]

The Rookie 2x11 Day of Death

Here is a crazy, sleep-deprived stream of conscious recap of the episode with a few predictions.

Opening scene, Lucy regains consciousness on a table, Caleb is giving her a DOD tatoo. I was so hoping this wouldn’t happen, but it does give the opportunity for a good healing story line and an awesome cover tatoo.

Next, Jackson goes to bring Lucy coffee and she isn’t home.

Lopez and Wesley are talking after she’s found him nearly dead because he’s mixed booze and pills.

There is a news brief from Rosalind

“5 years ago Detective nick armstrong looked into my eyes and Fulfilled his darkest fantasy and arrested me for Playing at slaughter” weird wording. I think Armstrong must have slept with Rosalind...

Nolan and Jackson are discussing the missing Lucy. Thankfully, Harper immediately sounds the alarm. When asked if Lucy just went home with the guy, Nolan says, “Lucy doesn’t do one night stands”. I could tell what Jackson said.

Next we see Lucy taped to a chair.

She’s trying to get into Caleb’s head, but it isn’t really getting her free yet.

Harper and Nolan visit his last victim but get no usable info other than timeline. It would be nice if she and Lucy meet up at some point. They could be a good support for one another.

They talk to Grace about How long it would take to suffocate in a barrel.

Surveillance footage

As soon as they say she’s been taken they cut to Tim. He immediately calls Lopez. She’s on her way. Love that friendship.

Harper knows Lucy is a fighter

Lucy proves that when she gets free, hits Caleb and runs for it. Wish She had beaten him until she saw brain matter, but I get the instinct to run.

I really hated watching Caleb kick her. That was hard to watch.

Armstrong’s pissed, I get it. I think it was right to send Nolan to talk to Rosalind (and he is the star of the show, so he has to play a big part).

Poor Tim, he talks with Lopez. He blames himself for pushing Lucy to go out . He was nearly in tears. “She hesitated and I pushed her right at him.”

Nolan visits Rosalind. I still don’t trust the prison guy, Hernandez, i think he’s in on things. May come up in later episodes. Nolan doesn’t get much, but tries the contraband angle.

Love that Wesley gets to help by finding the contraband smuggler.

Now it’s Lucy being marched to the burial site. He makes her climb into the barrel, has it wired to record. The ring!! Lucy you beautiful genius! She throws her ring onto the ground as she climbs into the barrel. I loved her parting quote, “you’re gonna be dead long before i am”. Gotta say, I’d have ripped those camera wires apart out of spite. No way I would have let him have the satisfaction of watching me die.

The next scene was one of my favorites. Tim and Jackson pull over the smuggler. Tim goes all the fuck out from second one. Jackson looks kinda scared. One of my favorite linesof the whole episode: “I am responsible for a life that is in jeopardy and I will do whatever I have to to save her, do you understand?” The guy doesn’t want to give the info, Tim’s reply, “Because if you don’t I will pull you inside out”. Swoon

Tim takes down the guy he thinks is Caleb and demands “Where’s Lucy?” But it’s not Caleb. Poor guy’s disabled and gets tackled because Caleb stole his identity. So back to Nolan and Rosalind. He really doesn’t get anywhere, honestly, other than finding out she’s after Armstrong

Armstrong is a dummy and lets Caleb take him. Caleb was never gonna help or let her go. Sweet that he would sacrifice his life for hers. Lots of guilt there.

Lopez and sergeant grey find the photo of Lucy and presumably her phone. BUT WE DON’T GET TO SEE HER TIM LOCK SCREEN which had me seriously pouting.

Lucy’s in the barrel. This is so hard to watch. Cut to Tim looking devastated because he thinks they’re out of options but It’s Jackson and Tim who realize credit card statements could lead to Caleb. Then Wesley for the win, figuring out that Caleb will probably take Lucy to a place connected to Rosalind.

So Caleb and Armstrong get to the farmhouse. Caleb is jealous of Armstrong, “there’s so much you don’t know about her. I know everything “. He also told Lucy earlier that he didn’t understand Rosalind’s obsession with Armstrong. Again, I’m Pretty sure they had an affair before he realized she was the killer.

Okay, finally Tim and Lopez use the data Wesley has gathered and find the address.

Now the scene of Lucy singing dream a little dream of me. All we hear is her as everyone rushes to find her. We see Nolan and Harper get re-routed toward the farmhouse and Tim, Jackson, Lopez, and Sergeant Grey getting in a helicopter, but all we hear is her singing until her voice trails off and she presumably passes out from lack of oxygen. I can no longer sit at this point.

Nolan and Harper get there first and Harper shoots Caleb. They try to keep him alive even calling Grace to help, but he was never going to tell them anything anyway. He dies.

Loads of people finally start to show up. Nolan shows Lopez the live stream of Lucy in the barrel. Tim doesn’t really look. Honestly he looks so upset and worried that he might throw up. They decide to just start searching and hope for the best.

Tim pulls it together and starts to search with Jackson, but tells Jackson to go left so they can cover more ground.

Everybody is searching. At this point I’m nearly screaming at the TV, “Come on Tim!!”. (And I’m pacing and getting really close to the tv) My dog gets so spooked she starts barking 😂. I NEED for Tim to be the one to find her. The scene keeps cutting to all the people looking for her...

And then, it all comes together..

He sees the ring catching the sun. Lucy has saved herself that badass queen. He starts digging with his bare hands and calling for help “I’ve got her!”. I am literally dying. PS. Lucy doesn’t wear that ring to work, so he’s noticed it from other occasions. I would so love if that ring comes into play in the future...

So, he’s digging, everyone joins in with hands and shovels.

Tim is the one to open the barrel.

Tim is the first one to touch her and asks for help getting her out (I think this is the first time we’ve ever seen him touch her)

Tim is the one to check if she’s breathing

Tim is the one to give her mouth to mouth and start compressions

Thankfully they don’t leave us in suspense for too long before she starts to breathe again. As soon as she realizes she is out of the barrel and alive, she starts to sob

Tim is the one to gather her in his arms and rock her and tell her it’s okay.

God, I was a mess! They could have let that scene go on for just a touch longer, but I won’t complain. It was so touching. I love how everyone deferred to Tim. No one tried to take over or move in. They all knew it needed to be him.

Cut to the hospital. Lucy is waking up and Tim is by her side reading a ridiculous teen magazine. Tim looks a little embarrassed/unsure (will she want me here? Is she mad at me?). Lucy starts with some playful banter and Tim makes her laugh right away. He looks a little unsure again. Lucy asks him if he’s been there all night. Embarrassed puppy denies it 3 times, which of course tells us he has, but doesn’t want her to know. Her little “um hm” tells me she knows he’s lying.

Grace comes in, says Lucy will be in the hospital for one more day. Mentions that Rachel just came by and will be back later 🙄🙄. Sorry, but can we be done with Rachel now?

Lucy looks to Tim and asks, “How did you find me?”. Just when I think he’ll get to mention the ring, Nolan comes in to claim credit and says it was his policing skills. (I’ll give it to you, Nathan, this show wouldn’t exist without you, so we gotta stroke your ego a bit 😂)

He gives her a big teddy bear, then Jackson comes in with flowers. It’s very cute and sweet. Lucy says the bear will stay in her bed because she’s never going on another date again. Grace tries to object but all 3 guys are fine with that scenario. As am I. The only dates she needs to go on are with Tim after she’s no longer a rookie for at least 6 months. Then he can evict the pink bear.

Tim totally sets up his own gift to her by asking Lucy if she’s hungry. She says yes, and as she’s about to say what she’d really like to eat, he’s pulling out a bag with her favorite veggie burger, extra pickles and French fries (as a romantic song plays in the background. I can’t find it yet, but the lyrics were “I’ll come and find you, come rain, come shine) Who won the gift name now, suckers? Better than a bear or flowers any day 😉.

She says, “you know me so well”, he smirks, goes full heart eyes, and says, “Too well”.

And that’s some endgame set-up awesomeness right there!

I would have been fine if the episode had ended there, but there was a bit more.

Wesley has gotten some perspective because of Lucy’s ordeal and is ready to go back to work. I think there are more setbacks to come for him, but it is a good first step.

Cut to Armstrong and Sergeant Grey. He invites Armstrong to his house to watch a game. He hopes Armstrong can cast out his demons and move on... foreshadowing!

Nolan goes back to speak with Rosalind to tell her she (and Caleb) failed and now all she has is her cell. She tries to barter a secret about Armstrong. I’m sure that will come back to haunt us. Like I said before, I’m pretty sure Armstrong slept with her at some point, but there is something else. Season finale kinda something else.

Overall, this was such an excellent episode of television. It literally had me out of my seat on several occasions. I feel like Tim knows he’s got serious feelings for Lucy but will try his hardest to suppress them because she is his rookie, and a fellow cop, and he feels like her abduction was his fault. I think that will become a bigger and bigger issue as the rest of this season progresses.

I think (and hope) that Lucy working with Harper will be a one-episode thing, but they will probably pull pretty far back on The Lucy and Tim relationship for a few episodes. The scenario was very similar to A Bones episode from season 2. Brennan was buried alive, Booth moved heaven and earth to find her, she did something brilliant that caught his eye when it seemed like finding her would be impossible. He dug her out and held her, but it was still a good 4 more seasons or more before they got together. I hope we won’t have to wait THAT long, but I don’t think they’ll be together by the end of this season. I do think that this episode is signaling that the show runners are definitely going to put Tim and Lucy together eventually, which makes me very happy.

For now, I just hope they’re back as partners in the same shop soon. I need to see them together because they’re the best part of the whole show. I want them to allow Lucy to process her trauma. I want a conversation between Lucy and Tim about it not being his fault. I would hope Tim would end things with Rachel. I want the ring to come back into play at some point. First because i want Lucy to know that what she did was a big part of what saved her, and I want a pining Tim to hang onto it like a talisman.

[eternalstrigoii]

Your Own -- I

Mildly Canon Divergent, Self Indulgent “This But With Meat And Bonding” Maleficent: Mistress of Evil retelling (the Dark Fey parts, anyway).

(Reader)Maleficent/Diaval; Maleficent/Conall; Diaval/Maleficent/Conall*; Borra/Maleficent if you squint**, others

              When you awoke, the realization that you had did not immediately take hold.

Your head was fuzzy. Your thoughts swirled in strange and dreamlike ways – the memory of your daughter as an infant, crying helplessly in her cradle without attention, mingled with the memory of her on her knees on the stone floor, one of her little pink blooms having fallen from her hair, begging you to awaken the king whom you had not touched.

Aurora.

She is often your first coherent waking thought. The last twenty-one years made it so. She is barely twenty-one, you thought, too young to marry. Too young to rule a mortal kingdom, especially after what happened in Perceforest. Your daughter, the beautiful little fool. You were so angry with her, and now…

You blinked.  Exhaustion made you blink again.

You were so angry with her. Betrayal had been a hot wound in your heart, and you meant to take off for home. Let her know the pain she caused you. Let her see that you were innocent. She’d become less of a child these last few years (though that didn’t erase the concern that still gripped you at the recognition that you had abandoned her in Ulstead). You meant to let Diaval soothe your wounds until she returned to you or you returned to her, whichever came first. You would’ve solved the king’s sudden collapse with her. You would’ve done everything in your power to protect her from suspicion – to keep that foolish boy and his even more foolish parents from blaming her for whatever befell the king.

But you had been shot. And the pain of it…

God, the pain of it.

Like Stefan’s blade to your wings.

Your hand crept over your side. There was still a feverish throb of pain there, iron-hot and much too deep. You focused on it as a way to stamp back the wave of memory that would’ve consumed you. You sat up – slowly, trying not to agitate your wound – and drew your wings in closer to yourself.

Your dress was mutilated. You curled in a bit closer to yourself, warily testing the strength of your muscles. The pains you expected to find, and did not.

Because you were not in a castle.

Recognition came to you slowly. You were nowhere you could identify, though you knew, inherently, what it was – the candles tucked away on ledges of stone, the pile of fresh, cloth bandages near a bowl of salt water. The soft down beneath you, inviting you back to sleep, and the twig-nest it had been built upon. You were in a nest, and these were not your clothes. Gone was the long dress from the royal feast, the one you had been shot in; gone was the wrapping around your horns. Your hair fell loose over your shoulders, and the skirt you wore was uneven. You felt particularly vulnerable, half-undressed, though the cloth bandages covered your skin. Who had seen you bare and dressed you? Diaval? Who had tended your wounds when your consciousness failed you?

The sound of great wings passed overhead. Not Diaval, then.

They almost…sounded like yours.

You drew yourself out of the nest-bed slowly. The floor was just as soft with shed down, lined with it all the way from the bed through the tightly-woven hall. It was large enough to accommodate you and your wings without issue, which sparked some familiar understanding that you hurried to tamp down. Wings and horns larger than yours.

Voices. Low, at first. You heard them but couldn’t fully make out their words. They rose from a hole in the floor – a flight passage, you knew, and concern mingled with anticipation in a wild and unpleasant way.

Wild like the green eyes of a man whose face was cast in moonlight.

She will lead the way to peace.

You paused near the edge of the flight-path’s entrance. The pain in your side made you doubtful that you could continue, and yet the sharpness of the responding voice gave you little hesitation not to.

They shot her!

You took a deep breath, which your side protested, and you stepped into the cavernous dark.

You thought your wings would catch you. They didn’t. They flapped, responding better to your pain than you thought they would. You landed on your knees in another tightly-woven hall, the age and dryness of whatever it was made from softening it enough not to scrape your palm as you fell. Pain echoed through you, made your muscles clench, and yet you pulled yourself to your feet.

The humans will find her. A forceful, collective exclamation like the sound you’d just made at your hard landing.

It was impossible, all of this. Others. That you were not alone. Truly, horribly, cruelly impossible, and yet the impossibility faded with every painful step.

She is one of us, yes, I agree that we found her for a reason. The voice that spoke of peace was low and warm, patient in the face of unrest. They were talking of you, then.

If Conall hadn’t found her, she’d be dead.

Conall. The green-eyed man, bathed in moonlight? He wasn’t a trick of your pain-addled mind after all. No – because if he was, then all of this must’ve been, and you were aware of the shift in your steps between the tightly-woven flight passage and the cool stone beneath your feet and pinfeathers. Light from above streamed into the cove, for that was what it must’ve been. Ages old, with steps that functioned like risers for the crowd that gathered.

You were not alone. Not even close.

You would’ve tried to count how many of them there were, but in the darkness of the shadows, you couldn’t be sure. But you could see several of them in the pool of distant sunlight, especially the man at their center. He was the one with the low, harsh voice who’d given Conall a name; you watched him stalk in a slow circle like a wild animal. He had tall horns like an antelope and straw-colored hair that contrasted sharply with his dark plumage.

“They tried to kill her with this.” He held the iron bullet up to the glint of the sun, though your blood on it seemed baked into its grooves. His skin sizzled, actively burning, and yet…and yet, there was no wound. No hesitation.

He let them all see it, baking between his fingers, before he brought it down beside his leafed ear. He cocked his head as though listening to whispered words, just as you had above. “Do you hear it?”

He lifted it again, ensuring that they all saw. “Do you hear it, huh?! It’s a message from the humans. I hear it loud and clear. Time for us to die.”

A low murmur ran through them. You noticed a few of them, though your reeling mind could hardly recover from the idea of them; a beautiful, white-winged man dressed in robes like new-fallen snow. A woman in grey-leather armor with chiseled features and hawk-like eyes. Another in red, smaller than them, but her hard stance gave her a much more powerful appearance.

“Humans have used iron against us for centuries,” the voice you presumed was Conall replied. He, too, was in the shadows, depriving you of the comfort of knowing just what it was you faced.

“And we are almost extinct because of it,” the pale-haired fey replied.

Almost.

You were almost extinct.

You and your parents on the moors had not been the last.

You wished it brought you relief – or that the breath you released in response gave some relief to your searing side, but the voice you believed to be Conall spoke again. “Killing peasants on the moors will only lead to more conflict, Borra.”

Killing…

For a moment – for a brief flicker of your power before the pain in your side quieted it – you felt as though you could’ve hurt him, the pale-haired fey. Borra. He was why they’d shot you. Wasn’t he? The queen blamed you for the deaths of mortals, though you knew not yet if Conall simply believed Borra to be responsible as the queen regarded you.

“They’ve pulled the iron from the earth. Made their swords and shields and drove us underground, but this?” He flung the iron bullet in the direction of Conall’s voice – not with any real force, not to injure the other fey, but to display the offending weapon with intent. “This will finish us.”

“Our people are safe here for now,” Conall replied. You heard the soft sizzle of flesh on the bullet again, and the sound began to make you sick. How long had it cooked inside of you that way? Was that why your pain was so severe? What manner of damage had it done? – it would have killed you when the fall did not.

“But for how long? The humans will find us, they will not stop.” Borra returned his attention to the group, his gestures as sweeping as his wings. “I call for war. I call for war right now.”

They exclaimed in unison again. In agreement.

“There are too many humans.” The bullet was cast across the room to ping musically off the stones. “Too many kingdoms.”

“Conall, they will keep finding new ways to destroy us.”

So the voice was Conall. And, as he stepped into the light, your relief temporarily alleviated the throbbing in your side. He was the green-eyed man from your not-dreams. He was tall and broad, with horns that curved and wooden plating down the front of his well-decorated chest. His wings were darker than Borra’s, they had less contrast. They were like yours, great and black. He had skin like newly-tilled earth, decorated with markings that you had yet to make sense of, long, tightly bound hair, and a lush beard, just as you remembered him.

“We can’t win.” He spoke to Borra first, his tone near and even before he emerged further into the pool of light, gave his companion his back and called to their people, “We can’t win.”

His voice reverberated through the chamber, and something inside of you stirred. Your magic, tamped by your wounds, as though it had leaked into the water in your blood. It was still at your fingertips, provided you felt the right call.

His gaze returned to Borra. “Not this way.”

“You’re wrong, Con.” You noticed the way Borra’s sweeping wings canted, the quirk of his head as though he knew something you did not. As though he knew something even Conall did not. “We have something they didn��t plan on.” He turned, then, and held out his hand in your direction. “We have her.”

They all turned toward you, then, and you froze like a rabbit in the fox’s field. Your wings instinctively pulled tighter toward you, shielding your already-wounded body from the possibility of further attack.

“She holds powers none of us possess.”

Conall looked at you, and you knew that it had been him who tended you. You knew he saw you, the fold of your wings in defense of yourself, the bandages around your chest that left you feeling naked in their presence, and his eyes apologized well before he could out loud. “She’s wounded, Borra.”

“Who are you?” you put more strength into your voice than you had, with your hand resting on the smooth-worn stone for support.

Borra sensed that. You saw in the way he shifted, the flare of his wings. You saw it in his smile, which made your vulnerable chest clench around magic you could not harness.

Those broad wings carried him off the ground to the stone steps at your feet, until there was little distance between you. Had you been stronger, he never would’ve managed to get so close.

He made a low, animal sound, and made a show of scenting you; getting closer until you were sure he could feel the brush of your wings as a barrier between you. Warmth radiated from him, and you began to notice details that you’d missed from afar; there were cracks in his skin like well-worn stone, and his eyes were golden, like wheat, or a shifting sandstorm. They flickered over you, only furthering the tension in your stance. (Unpleasant things danced in the periphery of your thoughts, though you had no need for them; drugged wine and iron knives and horrid pain and searing wounds and fear.)

“You reek of human,” his voice was low. Even. If he was confronting you, it was on his own terms. There was a reservation to it that you weren’t used to – human men made direct threats. “Maybe I was wrong about you.” You? The word sprang to your mind before it reeled back to his defense – she is one of us, yes, Conall had said to them in response. The sharpness of his voice when he pointed out that you’d been shot. “Maybe Conall should have left you for dead at the bottom of the sea.” He didn’t mean that. Your eyes flickered to Conall anyway, to the way he looked at you as though prepared to intervene. You were reeling and you hated it; you never let anyone take the upper hand away from you, but there you were, you knew not where, poorly dressed and at the mercy of other creatures – other people – just like you.

Borra’s lips quirked. He made a show of searching your face, too, those eyes like shifting sands taking in your horns, your hair, your set teeth. “No. It’s there, isn’t it? It’s inside you.”

Your magic bubbled to your fingers with the same effort it once caused to make it boil over. It wasn’t entirely out of your grasp; for that much, you were newly grateful.

Then he laughed, and you pushed him, and it burst from you in a wave that sent him much further into the stone room than you’d anticipated.

He tumbled and landed hard on his back on some of the higher steps. Like a band of rubber, your magic recoiled back into that place within you where it still flowed just out of reach. You breathed hard, your wings no longer folded around yourself.

You weren’t sure whether the concern in Conall’s face was for him or for you. For the moment, you couldn’t believe in both.

Even stunned, Borra laughed. He looked to Conall, and you saw the fierce delight in his expression. “You see?” He was no threat to you. He baited you, but he meant you no harm. “You see what’s inside her?”

Yes, they whispered like a chorus of ghosts.

“That is what will save us all.”

They took off, then, their sounds and their agreements overlapping like the calls of a flock where no two birds were the same. It was so much to take in: their colors, their numbers, the sight and sound of them. You didn’t even notice Conall had joined you until he was at your side, and he looked at you as though ensuring your movement hadn’t caused more blood to flow under your bandages.

“You saved me.” You believed the question of why was implicit in your tone, but he must not’ve heard it.

He offered you his hand. There was a leather cuff around his wrist, etched and ornamental. The wrap draped over his shoulders was either blue or green, you couldn’t tell, and he wore more jewelry than the ones made out of wood.

You caught yourself shaking your head.

This time, nothing was lost in translation. He let his hand fall, and his voice was gentle. “Come.” He walked toward the flight-path where the others fled. “Let me show you who we are.”

Like it was nothing, he stood with his back to the open hole, and he let himself fall.

He believed you strong enough to follow. Some part of you wanted to call to him in protest, that you didn’t believe after what you’d done that you’d have the strength to keep your wings, but its silence wasn’t a product of your pride. He was a stranger to you, Conall, but he had plunged to the bottom of the sea to save your life. He saved you. The both of you had been soaked when he carried you through the clouds, heavier than you should’ve been. You were limp in his arms, you offered nothing of benefit.

And he had not let you fall.

He trusted you, whether or not you trusted him. Whether or not he should’ve. The part of you that whispered in fear (drugged wine and iron knives, viciously, like a prayer) steadily grew quiet.

At the very least, you could trust him not to allow you to fall again.

You followed. Your wings didn’t fold neatly on the descent; they beat against it just a little, trying to slow you from the cross-wind your body anticipated before it hit. They fanned out on either side of you when you broke free of the woven tunnel, slowing your descent so abruptly that you cried out softly with pain. However unprepared you were to endure this physically, emotionally, it was much worse.

But it was beautiful.

You flew high over a rocky canyon somewhere cold. Snow flecked the air and patched the uneven ground. People flew through the air like great birds below you, and, as your eyes swept the caverns all around, you saw more and more of them – coming to stand at the ledges, with clustered, tightly-woven nests insulated against the snow.

“We’re dark fey,” Conall called to you over the gently whipping wind. You caught his eyes in your descent, and canted your wings to follow his lead. “Same as you.”

On a ridge in the sheer cliffs, another gathering of nests cropped up. Several fires were lit between them, and you heard a baby cry. One of its parents, dressed in downy warmth, passed their well-swaddled child to their delicate, beautiful mother. Fresh fallen snowflakes glittered in her white hair, and the whispering voice inside of you went silent.

“We’re all that remain. Unseen here, far away from mankind.”

The frozen cliffs ebbed into mountainous forest. A man whose horns reminded you of branches stood guardian over a pair of children playing with roughly-fashioned dolls. They would have loved some of Aurora’s, you thought without recognizing your temporary apathy to the circumstances that brought you there. They laughed, and one of them exclaimed in surprise when they saw you pass by.

“As more human kingdoms emerged, we went into hiding from every corner of the earth, doing what we had to to survive.”

It grew denser, more deciduous. You recognized familiar patterns of fallen logs, like battlements but less dense. Nests, you realized. In the trees and on the ground. A green-dressed woman and a brown-robed man approached their high points to see you, and the tilt of their horns, the shade of their wings, struck even more familiar to you. They were your people. Yours and Conall’s. The people of the forest.

“But many were lost.”

The greenery grew denser still. Brighter. The sun was stronger there, and the rocky outcroppings were lush with plant life. The humidity was higher, and you watched as a trio of people with tri-colored wings like Borra’s communed with two of the tundra, drumming around a bonfire at which a brightly colored elder headed the song.

You swept around a peak at his side, and the wind beneath your wings caused a great stirring in the tall, frond-like trees. Tightly-woven nests hung from them, just as green, though their people were all manner of colors.

“Only a few generations ago, our kind roamed every part of the world.”

The woman you’d seen at the council, dressed in red, appeared below you. She did a deliberate turn, showing off where her thick, red plumage became gold and then a vibrant, sky-lit blue. Her armor was leather in places, but you couldn’t tell the material of her streaming skirt or woven bodice. Beads of stone and bone decorated it, though, that much you were certain of.

“The tundra, the forest, the jungle—”

In one of those hanging nests, you saw a family. A family. Another fey with scarlet hair and pointed horns cradling a baby against her chest, a small child leaning out of the open entryway to see you, and their father rising as though to keep them from falling out.

“The desert.”

The desert lay just beyond the forest, among more stone-bridge crags and crevices. There was nearly no vegetation there, only dry, red stone and the erosion-yellowed sand that clung to it like dust. The lower points of the cavern contained large bonfires, and you thought they must’ve been the coldest, even though the heat was as strong as it was dry.

Borra lived there, you realized. You saw him among them from afar, and your eyes drifted over the few of them on land with him, the others soaring above like human condors. There was a child. A couple in a cave-nest whose doorway was adorned with dangling stone that shone brightly in the pale light, and carved, dyed bone. Their nests were also tight-packed like the tundra, though made from sticks and earth like robins.

“Our only refuge is here, in this cave, our nest of origin.”

For what you’d seen of it, it had to be. Nothing else made sense. The way your people mixed and intermingled, the varied plumage on their children. You thought them all warriors until you saw the musicians, the elders – the white-robed tundra fey from the council, perched on one of the outcroppings with a gaggle of fledglings at his sides and several spectators.

“Listen,” he said, patiently, his voice soft like the new-fallen snow. “Fly in the wind.”

You didn’t ask him to stop and hover with you to watch, but that was what Conall did. His great wings fanned out beside yours, and the current almost held you steady.

The littlest of them, a jungle girl, had the tundra fey’s gentle hand on her back. “Go!”

She huffed and dove.

You watched her little wings flounder with bated breath. She was in free-fall, you thought, and you nearly began to dive after her when she righted herself. Her wings flattened, and she rode the curling breeze through the gaps in the stone, weaving and diving, twirling with her laughter echoing off the steep cavern walls.

You laughed too, the relief in your chest unmeasured.

The other two children with their caregivers followed suit, the boys older and easier to teach. You watched them while Conall spoke, his flattened plumage rustling at your side. “Those children should be soaring over the trees and rivers, instead they’re raised in exile.”

“I can protect them,” you replied. You could imagine, too easily, teaching them to leap from your nest in the peaks. How easily they could right with the winds; how you’d stay by their side until they did.

“How?” He glided toward you, pausing to hover before you as though you stood on land to speak. “By waging war against the humans?”

“I’ve been at war with them my whole life,” you replied. It would’ve been no different if you welcomed your people into the moors. Your people, you thought with a sudden surge of satisfaction – you had people. You weren’t alone.

“Not all of them. There was one you raised as your own.”

Aurora.

Aurora, your truest love. The child you hadn’t wanted, daughter of the man you hated most. The one who’d told you that he loved you and then tried to steal your power to gain his own. His death was supposed to balm your wounds – and for a time, it had. Aurora was an innocent child caught in the crossfire of her father’s betrayal; her blind trust in you saved her life, and yours.

Until it nearly ended it.

Drugged wine and iron knives. No different than Stefan.

Your daughter, the child you raised as your own, loved a boy. She had for the last several years, but now she was nearly grown. Was she so far from the age…the age at which her father’s betrayal stole your wings? She’d been so willing to hand you a scarf to cover your already-wrapped horns. To let you…let you what? Refine an appearance of cowardice? She’d nearly begged you to allow their insults at dinner. And then she chose them. She believed them when you had done nothing – when they attacked you unprovoked.

She refused to leave them. With tears in her eyes, she’d begged you to undo something you’d never done – something she should have known you would never do. Not to her. Not when you knew it would’ve made her so unhappy.

Had she known they shot you?

Did she protest? Or did she trust them as she trusted you? Was your daughter an unwitting captive, or had she given the order to fire?

“Maybe we don’t have to hide from the humans. Maybe we can exist without fear, and war.” Conall tried to reclaim your eyes, to press the gentility of his belief against your hesitation like salve. “Find a way together.”

There was a tightness in your chest that hadn’t been there a moment before. Your muscles tensed, and you let your hand fall involuntarily to your side in response to a new ripple of pain. “That will never happen.”

You set off for one of the cliffs, but he went ahead of you. He offered you his hand again, as though prepared to carry you the rest of the way. The pain was building and his touch was as light as the brush of shed down.

You took the hand offered, and you let him lead the way. You presumed it would be to return to the room and the bed you’d been placed in, but that was not the case.

There was a hollow high up in the forest where a red glow cast fire-like shadows upon the outward-growing branches of a sturdy tree.  It was there you landed, together, and the throb under your bandages steadily increased. There were tomb-blooms around the base of the tree growing out from the cliffside, scattered in clusters here and there in the earth. Some sinking part of you suspected that not many of your kind made it back from whence they’d come. The tomb-blooms were not the origin of the unearthly glow as they were on the moors – the very cliff was filled with giant bones that smoldered like the embers of a dying flame.

“The phoenix. It is said the dark fey began with her – evolved over centuries. You are the last of her descendants. Her blood is your own.” He paused, and you presumed it was to ensure you made the connection between the power you could not grasp and the ones Borra claimed no one else possessed. “You are her.”

Even if you were, that hadn’t done you much good so far. Your phoenix-powers couldn’t stop you from bleeding out. They couldn’t magically reveal to you whether or not  your anxieties had merit, or take away the voice that danced to the rhythm of your pulse: drugged wine and iron knives, Aurora’s out to get your wings.

“In your hands, you hold the power of life and death. Destruction and rebirth. But nature’s greatest power is the power of true transformation.” He walked around you while you gazed up at the bones, doing everything in your power not to grit your teeth and fold in the presence of someone you barely knew. “You transformed when you raised Aurora,” there was no hiding the emotion in his voice, the connection to your love for her that you didn’t understand. What could he have to gain by encouraging you to go home to your daughter? What could he have lost to make him feel that way? “When you found love in the middle of your pain.”

There was a girl near the phoenix bones. She wasn’t much younger than Aurora, but she was. She looked like the woman in the jungle nest – red hair, green clothes, green plumage. You were beginning to wonder if they grew their colors in later, though the sight of her as she ascended still filled you with a familiar and moderately less painful ache.

You missed her. Angry as you were. Suspicious as you were, pained and tired. If she returned to the moors, if she sent Diaval, then you would know this had not all been for nothing.

“I’m asking you to take all of your fury, all of your pain, and not use it. Help us broker peace with the humans. Because peace,” he paused, nearly as close to you as Borra had been, and turned back to the phoenix with the sort of reverence people spoke about but never showed, “could be the dark fey’s final transformation.”

As though he’d waited for that precise moment to descend, Borra landed in the shadow of the phoenix.

“The moors are our last true nature on earth, and yet you named a human as queen,” Conall continued. “The daughter you cared for.”

And if this is a trick?

Drugged wine and iron knives, can you even trust the ones who look like you? Can you trust their motives when some of them openly call for war? He may tend you, he may touch you with the same gentleness as Diaval, but they all know you, and yet, you don’t know them. If you can’t trust your own daughter, you cannot trust them.

“I have no daughter.” The ice in your voice did not match the rawness of your heart. “She has chosen her side.”

He lingered behind you for a moment, and you thought he might try to press the gravity of your collective situation upon you further, but he did not. A gentle breeze stirred with his wings, carrying him away from you to give you the space necessary to breathe. To think somewhat clearly.

You would find out everyone’s motives when you were well enough, that was your consolation. Until then, you would remain with them – with your people, from whence you’d come. If Aurora abandoned you, if Aurora betrayed you, at least, this way, you would not be alone. If they sought war against your daughter, at least you would know.

Though your plans stalled out beyond the revelation.

“We’ve just heard.” Borra’s voice was much too fluid; he made no effort to keep what he spoke of to Conall from you. “There’s going to be a wedding at the castle in three days.”

No.

She wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t, but she had.

“Humans will come from all over.” The roughness in his voice returned, and you supposed it may have had something to do with the set of your shoulders, the apathy you hoped to display even as your heart pounded. “That’s when we attack. We’ll kill the king and queen of Ulstead, and their young prince.” He made no mention of her. For your sake, perhaps – or, perhaps, because Aurora was your obligation and your obligation alone. “Their kingdom will fall, and the fey will rise again.”

You never turned to look at them. You knew they could hear the frequent beating of your heart, and you hoped they couldn’t tell that your breath was beginning to hitch, your lips pressed together in attempt to keep what strangled your throat – sob or sound – contained.

Conall believed you were descended of the phoenix, though in the same breath he said you all were. When he spoke of transformation, it was regarded as a sacred process, so profound it could’ve been divine.

You had seen enough transformation in people that you loved to stop you from believing the same.

Drugged wine and iron knives, Aurora’s shot her mother from the sky.

[ftkd-arts]

Pay Attention (Poem by Me/@pastelglitchesxx about my adhd)

All this overstimulation and burnouts and shitty education

Has got me in a way

Let's escape the world for a day

But no no no

You can't finish that episode

You have work to do

Discourse to resume

'Cause you said something mean and bitchy to one of your faves

And now you have to watch it blow up in your face

You make the worst decisions

And blame it on sleep deprivation

Even as your embarrassment and guilt tells you

"Your insomnia and adhd is just an excuse"

Just because you don't understand things and get frustrated easily and you can't remember yesterday and you're feeling some type of way when you haven't done anything

It doesn't mean you have adhd

You're just a fucking idiot who needs to pay attention

Stop focusing on focusing and just pay attention

Put down your phone and just pay attention

Stop daydreaming and just pay attention

Stop playing with your earrings and just pay attention

Stop forgetting how to breathe and just pay attention

Stop raining on your own parade and just pay attention

Stop planning the playlist to the pity party you'll throw yourself when you have to turn off the lights for the night and just

Stop blaming your short attention span and just

Fucking pay attention

You'll get it if you focus

Don't fixate on your emotions

If just for a moment

Do you think I'd get it if I watched my live classes

I know I still wouldn't understand it

I'd hate it

My stupidity would be branded

On my shaking knuckles

And angry eyes

I'd want to cry

Because I don't know how to pay attention

No one ever taught me how to pay attention

I can't remember how to pay attention

Why the fuck can't I pay attention

I just want to process this information

I just need to do this simple assignment

What was the assignment?

...

Why didn't you pay attention?

- all written within 10 minutes as a stream of consciousness type deal at 4 am

[sasorikigai]

🗣️💼❓ (for all ur boys and their Modern AU)

Send a Symbol for a specific Headcanon || @sonxflight​ || accepting

🗣️ - A language/voice related headcanon

Hanzo’s voice is baritone, smoky in intonation that has slight tinge of sadness. However, the orotund and resonant nature of his voice is perfect for authority, trust, and seriousness. In any form of his profession - as the right-hand hitman of the Syndicate or the SWAT Commander working for the law enforcement, leading the most decorated squadron in the law enforcement -Hanzo has served in a leader’s position, so there is going to be that assertiveness coming from his tone as well. Because Hanzo is used to intoning more sadder or formal contents rather than being particularly urgent or animated (his personality is not known for exhibiting such traits), he is one of those people who benefit from having a slower, calmer pace, as he does take his time speaking, especially when his profession is concerned. His timbre is often polished and eloquent at work, while more crude and blunt in his personal life. 

💼 - A work related headcanon

His professionalism is unparalleled; his work ethics is top-notch, and he hasn’t missed a single day, unless he was incapacitated and unconscious at a hospital, recovering from a grave injury. However, it’s still really difficult for him to form an inkling of intimate connection other than strictly professional (except Jack/Ryou), because Hanzo thinks that his sole existence in the squadron will eventually become the testament to what Hanzo’s own life had been, and he most definitely fears failing his squadron, and he couldn’t bear any of them getting injured or even worse, be killed. He’d already been through so much loss and death, so he feels obliged to keep them safe, even though it means sacrificing his own life for it. 

❓ - A random headcanon

He rarely sleeps in the bed, especially when he is alone; he would rather opt for the futon in his office that would continue to have the mold of his own form and scents, or the sofa in Ryou’s apartment, unless Ryou is physically next to him in bed. He cannot bare to dream of Harumi all over again, as it would always start with their entangled, naked forms in a tight embrace, in a peaceful sleep. Each downward spiral of his nightmare would cause her to be pronged and bleed, her arterial spray erupting in exsanguination as Hanzo would desperately attempt to futilely stem the profuse bleeding. The cogs of the clock would jam, and the bramble of the slowed time will probe his heart and prevent him from saving her. It’s been more than a decade ever since the gruesome murder happened, but Hanzo is susceptible of having panic attacks and severe, chronic insomnia whenever he’s reminded of the most happiest times with her. 

🗣️ - A language/voice related headcanon

Unlike in canon where Kuai Liang’s voice borderline becomes baritone and base, for he has probably the lowest intonation of Mortal Kombat roster, Kuai Liang’s pitch in the modern verse is much more meek and gentle in comparison. Unlike Hanzo, and even Fujin (Shinjiro in the modern verse), Kuai doesn’t have much of a combative role, and he doesn’t necessarily have to come across as assertive and dominant. It doesn’t mean that he isn’t self-confident and proud of himself - he’s solved more cold cases than anyone who has been in the field, even someone with significantly more experience. Because of his PTSD and trauma of the past (not so unlike his canonical assumption that life as Tundra would have been akin to hell on Earth, it wasn’t any different with Bi-Han as he descended into criminality, while Kuai delved into being a quiet, reticent bookworm who excelled academically), he just comes across as overly gentle and soft with his deliverance with the vocalization.  

💼 - A work related headcanon

He tends to sleepwalk quite a lot. Mostly, it’s caused by environmental and physiological factors; due to the time-sensitive and highly volatile nature of his work, and how intensively and extensively he could get become involved in his work, sleep deprivation and chaotic sleep schedules is something Kuai perpetually struggles with, along with his underlying PTSD and panic attacks, caused by his childhood/adolescent abuse from the orphanage, along with his depression. It’s literally double-edged sword for his profession, for in these episodes, Kuai Liang will often either dream or reenact the crime-related things on his own or even talk to an intangible being in his dreams to gain more depth and revealing what had been undiscovered all along in his assigned cases. However, it severely hinders him from having normal socializations, because he considers himself ‘abnormal.’ 

❓ - A random headcanon

Shinjiro was the first one who saw through Kuai Liang’s burning. That he was relentlessly pushing himself towards the finality of death without him even knowing, because he was so caught up in a trial of his own grief. Even when Kuai had no guilt in Bi-Han’s own descend towards criminality and disappearance - Kuai Liang still doesn’t know the fate of his elder brother, and this very reason served as the catalytic fuel for him to become a special crimes profiler and investigator - he blames himself for being such a taciturn introvert who buried himself with his studies. And the psychiatrist was the one who reminded Kuai that his life may have been complicated, but that never diminishes his own worth. 

🗣️ - A language/voice related headcanon

Even when he happens to talk to his friends unrelated to his profession, or even strangers, Shinjiro’s voice would settle comfortably into a rhythm, his signature sound. This has been his greatest strength, ever since he was beginning to be recognized as a good psychiatrist. He would often use his rudimental and inherent softness to approach someone without threat, without insistence. But he would often back it up with a hint of gravitas, to give credence to the seriousness, to empathize and come across as sympathetic and kind. He would keep his intonations smooth, calm, controlled, to offer security. In fact, he often mixes his humor and his gravitas smoothly, as he would often snark and joke around. 

💼 - A work related headcanon

As a psychiatrist and therapist, listening to the stream of people’s thoughts and deepest worries, Shinjiro has always wondered about what it means to be skillful in his practice, to succeed in helping his patients. And over time, he has found that the tune of his own “instrument”, the key of his voice, has buffeted the language he uses, highlighted the nonverbal cues of connection with his patients. As Hanzo Hasashi’s subordinate, he didn’t find the intonation of his voice something he had to work on; all he had to do was to follow order, follow the squadron’s needs and fulfill what was required of him. Over time, Shinjiro found his voice a crucial tool in the process of earning the patients’ trust, for they would seek him often as a last resort, and it wasn’t something he wasn’t even consciously molding. But it began to unfold itself out of compassion and need, the tones that adapted to a patient’s state of mind.

❓ - A random headcanon

He often appears as if he has reached a transcendental threshold of human emotions. Shinjiro perceives how anger and sadness feels like, but he seldom feels negative emotions himself. Even when he experiences such moods, they are only ephemeral, as he would never be soaked in such emotions longer than possibly an hour. He would almost appear to be emotionless, even though he would wear a benign smile most often times, or even expressionless when he happens to be lost in thought. 

[seekthemist]

Ronsey with 29 pretty please? 👀💞

“If you can’t sleep…then how about we have sex?”

Mist says Rare Pair Rights even though I, too, should totally go to sleep!Partially under the cut because today it seems that everyone blabbers (very frankly E-rated but not hardcore).

From this prompt list!

Four o’clock in the morning was a time that existed outside of the realm of God,  men and general sanity, even more so when was had already been awake for twenty-four hours straight.

It wasn’t the time to shower, but Ronan had reached the point in which his own blasting music was making him dissociate, which was too close too sleep, so he sat under the shower head and let the water run over him.

The many wonders of Monmouth meant that it was too hot at times, too cold at others, and brutally sputtering. Also the smell of the questionable blend of tea Gansey was brewing mixed in a revolting way with the lingering smell of White Musk or whatever the fuck of the shower gel.

“The water flow is really shit,” Ronan considered, looking idly up and against the flow of water. His eyes burned less, when this wet, but still there was something that pulled at his temples.

“I’m afraid that’s limescale, I should really go around changing that completely.” Gansey didn’t even have to look to reply, turned three-quarters away from Ronan but still stupidly close, given the arrangement of the room. 

“Is this bullshit for your sake or mine? Because I really don’t care.” But then, almost with the same breath, he went on saying, “You really shouldn’t drink that shit,” with his head tilting towards the teapot. 

That didn’t much follow the not-caring policy, but consistency was also very low on Ronan’s priorities.

“Why not, it’s a psychic brew. It must have some correlation with supernatural amount of focus.” Gansey was staring at the inside of the teacup with too much intent and at the same time no intent at all, leaning heavily with his hips against the narrow counter. 

“Do I need to comment?”

“I’m even out of glue for the model…Maybe it will help me sleep.”

“Yeah, the eternal fucking sleep,” Ronan growled, getting up from the shower and closing the water with a hard slap. “If you can’t sleep, how about we have sex?”

It was a delirious question, in a delirious time. But Gansey tuned to look at him–emerging from the barely closed shower–and blinked at Ronan with bleary eyes. Delirium must be contagious.

“Yeah, that sounds nice. Come here.”

Ronan narrowly avoided hitting his forehead against the corner of the fridge, at the reply. The ease of it was particularly disconcerting, even more so when paired with the lack of the usual Gansey-stream-of-consciousness discussing the whereabouts of each and every arrangement and its implication. 

Jesus Mary, Gansey was fried.

But even if he was, it was a fried that came with an extended inviting hand towards Ronan. And Ronan had never been particularly good with temptations–no matter how much his Father confessor insisted the effort, too, was a gift for God.

He took the hand and let Gansey drag him forward by the wrist, just over the leather bands. With the other hand, Gansey’s touch expanded on the slippery skin of Ronan’s waist–and just like that, Ronan was getting hard.

“It sounds very nice,” Gansey reinstated, and surged up in a way that didn’t leave Ronan any choice but bending down to meet his lips halfway. 

Kissing Gansey had a messy, familiar quality that only late nights in a recurring, secluded environment could have. It made Ronan want to bite him, but he only ended up flicking their tongues together when Gansey’s hand left his wrist and wrapped back around his cock. 

Gansey treated it with the same distracted competency that he had reserved to the teapot. It made Ronan hard–all the way, than harder.

“Shit, fuck…” he stuttered, breaking their kiss. 

For a second, he was afraid of having been too eager, because Gansey let him go almost completely. The next, he was getting turned to face the laundry machine, and his confusion lasted the time it took Gansey to press between Ronan’s shoulders and push him to bend forward the appliance.

Ronan’s stomach flipped, so impossibly turned on in such a short span of time, and he murmured something incoherent.

“Is it okay like this?” Gansey asked, maybe in reply to something in the murmur, maybe just following whatever white rabbit his sleep deprivation was offering him.

“How?” Ronan exhaled out, swallowing hard under the sound of Gansey’s trousers unbuckling and fabric getting dragged down.

With a surprising lack of loquaciousness, Gansey pushed Ronan’s left thigh against the left and rocked against him from behind. 

Ronan closed his legs together, tight, before even decoding fully the sensation of Gansey’s cock nudging between them. 

“Yes,” Ronan wheezed.

“Good,” Gansey grunted, with a couple of distracted push and pulls until he seemed satisfied with the angle and reached forward, grabbing on the back of the laundry machine to use it as a leverage and thrust with more purpose.

Gansey was very hard–hard enough that the press against Ronan’s sac, dry and persistent, was maddening. Hard enough that Ronan’s ass clenched in sympathy of something he would never be able to get–let alone in this impromptu fashion.

“Sh-shit.”

Gansey bent down and kissed between Ronan’s shoulder, making him shiver all over–so embarrassingly close, over virtually nothing. 

“Uh, this smell is so weird,” Gansey considered, distractingly, even biting down on Ronan’s back in exactly the same way Ronan hadn’t dared inflicting to Gansey.

“Blame…ah…blame your fucking tea.”

The laundry machine creaked against the wall in the same hard-suffering way it went through the centrifuge cycles. Only this time, Ronan felt stuck in that same centrifuge–and with no dignity to hold on to, this close to coming.

He reached back and grasped at the top of Gansey’s thighs, encouraging him further and reassuring himself that this won’t stop in the middle, no way, if Ronan had any say in it.

In turn, Gansey lifted from his back and grasped at Ronan’s ass, right on his right cheek, and spread.

It made Ronan hot, almost squirming–so exposed, even with his thighs clenched dryly around Gansey’s cock. 

“Gansey…” Ronan uttered, broken around a moan.

“This is very nice,” Gansey told him, reflexively, and even though Ronan hadn’t been looking for reassurance the sentence coursed through him like lightning.

“Ah!…ah…” Ronan swallowed hard, rocking back against Gansey in a pointless pursuit of distracting himself from the building tension along his abs. “I want a finger.”

Ronan realised the sentence a second afte it was already out. He stuttered, wishing amend it in some impossible way, but Gansey adjusted his grip and rub his thumb at Ronan’s entrance.

“Here?”

“Yeah…Jesus fuck…ah…yes.”

Ronan’s face burned red at Gansey’s leaving his grip–and he would have thought he had said too much, if not for the increased vigour with which Gansey thrusted between his legs. That, and the slick sound that followed–straining to watch behind, Ronan caught a sight of Gansey, licking at his thumb. His face burned even hotter.

Gansey looked back at him with a little smile–entertained, involved, and so ridiculously exhausted. Ronan had the unfair need of insulting him–but he didn’t, he couldn’t.

He flinched when the hand came down again, the thumb rubbing again–this time wetter.

“No, relax,” Gansey directed, like an afterthought in his laboured, invested breathing.

There was barely a second pause, before this thumb pressed with more purpose, all the way inside.

The sensation of his own body giving in and then fluttering against the invasion was what tripped Ronan over the edge–a seizure, almost, and then his cock spluttering, untouched, against the porthole of the machine. 

He moaned for it, between clenched teeth. And then keened, low, under the bite of Gansey’s teeth at the shell of his ear as Gansey kept fucking him, and fucking him, between his thighs. It was way past his orgasm, past the prolonged aftershocks of it. Right onto the point when everything Ronan could feel was the digging of the laundry machine edge on his hips and the heat of Gansey all over his back.

So close. Ronan closed his eyes against the feeling of it and reached up–one hand on top of Gansey’s, right where he was still gripping for purchase, with a thumb still wiggling distractedly in his ass.

Gansey’s breath broke over, no words and just mumbling sounds of pleasure in his voice.

At the end, he came too, spreading over the inner part of Ronan’s thighs and over them–on top of Ronan’s own spent.

“Jesus Mary fuck…” Ronan swore, pressing his forehead against the hard surface of the washing machine, while Gansey gingerly slid his thumb out of him.

Gansey’s weight pressed all over his back more fully, while Gansey caught his breath against Ronan’s shoulder. “So nice.”

“Don’t sleep now, asshole, I’m not dragging you to bed.”

Gansey hummed, noncommittally, and rubbed his face at the bent of Ronan’s neck, for all he had lamented of the mixture of smells before.

They both knew Ronan would carry Gansey wherever he needed, especially in a time like this at night, the closest thing to a dream within the day to day reality.

[externallydying101]

Jung Hoseok (J-Hope):

Jin | Suga | J-Hope | RM | Jimin | V | Jungkook

Hoseok’s powers were the ones that were the most linked to his emotions, and unlike most other PowerBorns, this continued long after early childhood. Unfortunately this also made him the most dangerous, and made everyone around him, including himself, scared of his abilities. Hoseok’s powers gave him the ability to manipulate temperature, but as his powers were so intertwined with his emotions, they only proved to be a danger to both him and others around him. And the more scared he became, the less control he obtained over his powers. This led to his family to eventually say that they couldn't cope anymore, and decided he was too dangerous to be around.

Hoseok spent the next few years living on the streets of Gwangju, learning how to use his powers only as a necessity to his survival. As his powers were closely linked to his emotions, he tried to keep himself away from other people, too scared of hurting them to reach out for help. But this only made his situation worse. As he became more and more depressed, his powers made him physically colder, like a fire was slowly dying out within his soul, which made him more susceptible to illness. Whenever he grew angry at his situation, the air around him began to spark with the intensity of the heat radiating from him. On days where he managed to find happiness, his body finally returned to a normal temperature, but quickly plummeted the next day as he slipped back into his depression. And yet, in the midst of this internal chaos, he never blamed his family for their decision, as his experiences had only taught him to hate his life as a PowerBorn.

Late one night, as Hoseok settled down for the night in a discarded cardboard box, he was approached by a young woman. She claimed to know a place where they gave out free food and shelter to the homeless and Hoseok, too sleep-deprived and hungry to think straight, followed her without question. She led him towards a nearby forest, Hoseok's mind still too foggy to understand the seriousness of his situation. Finally, when she felt that they were far away enough from anyone being able to find them, she turned to him, smirking. Only then did Hoseok’s mind catch up to his body and he became aware of himself - he had just followed a complete stranger into a dark and desolate forest. Who does that?! But before he could mentally scold himself for his stupidity, the Rogue attacked him. Suddenly Hoseok felt the ground beneath his back, and pain erupt throughout his body. Fear flooded into every corner of his body, making him turn colder and as he grew more and more panicked. Suddenly the Rogue hissed in pain and promptly rolled off of his body, his skin being too cold to touch. She looked at the teenager lying on the ground, and decided that no one would find him here and left him alone, not finding the motivation to properly finish her hunt.

A few hours later Hoseok’s adrenaline had completely worn off, and tears steadily streamed down his cheeks as he tried to cope with the pain. He heard footsteps approaching him, and felt his temperature drop further as his fear levels rose. But instead of the bloodthirsty Rogue, he made eye contact with a lone wolf. The wolf looked at Hoseok with curiosity and sympathy, and howled long and urgent, its howl carrying on the wind until it echoed everywhere. The wolf then lay down beside Hoseok, apparently trying to offer some kind of comfort to the injured teen. Hoseok could feel his grip on consciousness slipping, and just before he blacked out he glimpsed four more wolves coming towards him.

He next woke up on a soft bed, with an old man tending to his wounds. But he felt no fear; for some unknown reason he felt safe and looked after. He made eye contact with the old man, who introduced himself as the Mage, and felt a sense of security that he hadn't felt in a long time. The Mage finished cleaning his wounds, and sat down to explain what had happened, what is happening, and what will happen to Hoseok. He listened patiently, taking in all the information about his new life. When the Mage told him about the loss of his powers, he felt a huge sense of relief fill his body - knowing that he wouldn’t hurt anyone due to his lack of control made him the happiest he had ever been.

Hoseok was nineteen when he was attacked, and lived under the Mage’s guidance until his unexplained death five years later. Hoseok now runs with the Bangtan Pack, having understood and accepted his new life as a werewolf. He knows that with their help and support, he can keep both them and himself safe from harm, and prays every night that harm will come to none of them ever again.

[imaginexmeintheuniverse]

Jason Todd ❤️

14 Day OTP Challenge

Day 10: Building IKEA furniture

A/N: I could only imagine this ending in a disaster…

“Jesus- fuck—”

“Jason, are you okay?” You ask your new next door neighbor, knocking onthe wall that separates your apartments.

“Yeah,”he answers, although you can hear him kicking a few pieces around out of frustration.“I just- these goddamn instructions- this stupid IKEA bed!”

You let outa giggle, having the perfect image of your long-time friend, whom you alreadyknow has been fighting crime for some now, being bested by IKEA furniture thatyou helped him pick out. He decided to move out of the luxurious Wayne mansion afteryou had told him the apartment next to yours was available, and when you wereprepared to help him assemble the aforementioned ‘stupid IKEA bed’, he insistedupon assembling it himself.

Not sayinganother word, you set your book aside and make your way over to his door, noteven bothering to knock as he’s always had a tendency to just barge into yourplace, albeit you keeping your door locked. You know that Jason would neveradmit that he needed help with this and you didn’t like being kept up all nightby his endless stream of curses, so you walk straight into his room where helooks like he’s about to break the piece of plywood he holds in his hands.

“Y/N-what the fu—”

“Justpass the instructions Todd.” And he complies, not daring to protest when youhave that look in your eye. “Hopefully we can get this done beforetomorrow.”

As youbegin examining all the parts that have been scattered all over the floor, youdon’t notice at first when Jason leaves the room.

“Notwithout this we’re not,” he announces, and you look up to see that he’sout of breath and holds a coffee in each hand.

Two coffeeslater, it’s hours past the time you had hoped to finish by, and you and Jasonhave just about had enough. Out of the two of you, you have the most patienceso you have to keep it together for the both of you.

“Allright we just have to screw on this last piece, and then we can flip the frameand put the mattress on it,” you say hopefully, glancing at Jason wholooks like he’s ready to tear his hair out, and judging by the way it sticksout at awkward angles it almost looks as though he’s already tried.

“Good,I’m so over this fucking piece of shit IKEA trash,” he grumbles and youchuckle at his juvenile demeanor. The man who could single-handedly take downmultiple Gotham villains in one night, was bested by IKEA furniture.

Afterhaving lifted the mattress onto the bed frame, neither you or Jason bother toadd the sheets and blankets before collapsing onto it.

“Youknow,” you drawl, turning on your side to face him. “This wasactually pretty fun, I’m kinda looking forward to your dresser.”

“Fuckthe dresser,” he groans, hiding his face in your shoulder. You blame thecoffee jitters and sleep deprivation for the way your heart rate picks up whenyou feel his warm breath fan over your neck. He’s always so rough and brash,and generally pissed off by the world, but there’s something about being aroundyou that turns him so soft. He doesn’t notice that, but you do and you feelyour cheeks heat up when he lifts his head, hoping that he’s oblivious to thefact that you were looking at him. “I think my clothes look fine on thefloor.” Your face gets even warmer thinking about those words in adifferent context.

The two ofyou lay there, side by side, in silence as you start to slip in and out ofconsciousness. When your eyelids start to feels so heavy that you can no longeropen them, you let yourself melt into his arms that have subconsciously madetheir way around your smaller frame.

And that’show you woke up with your limbs tangled with your long-time friend’s on a baremattress of the IKEA bed you spent hours helping him assemble the night before.You’ll have to thank the company for making their instructions so crappy.

Tags: @coltcas

Masterlist

[myvoicenottheoneyougiveme]

1 of 3 Sept 4

[not talking about the person I work with and see every day, just FYI, though this last round of rage is certainly disconcerting... no it’s the pull me aside and tell me everything you believe I want to hear on top of some things yesterday that have been lobbed my way which I didn’t put much thought to at the time. And in that tell me what I might want to hear, true or not, it was the added bit to the overall theme since the other day, putting a gun to someone’s head. An “or else”. It was out of character, and even if I don’t like the guy (and he’s given me plenty of reason) who would be displaced, going that extra distance for effect as a play like the timing of some of these "encouragements”, it’s like what are you trying to say right now? On the whole over a long period of time a pattern seems to have emerged, and this breach has tipped me to wonder about a lot else. This was all set against the backdrop of my sentiment concerning what’s happening to me. Here, let’s be super encouraging and simultaneously “incept” a reason for you to not set your sights on wanting to sign on here in this line of work. Whatever the case, cause there’s always some angle, always some game being played (just a few other dots since them came in to actually reframe that exchange) the following stream of consciousness has got nothing to do with choice of job or career or what might be miserable or not about this or that. The problem I have, has got nothing to do with any of it or with anyone in particular but rather the person creating “this” “storm” in the first place in the blank spaces between people directly out of sight. It’s the “game” I have a problem with. It’s how not what. It’s the antithesis of communication. I’d refer back to that video about toxic relationships where coercive/manipulative ways of interacting create confusion. Actually post 3 of 3 incoming.]

From the edge of consciousness something has clicked and I am now awake 2-3 hours earlier than normal without actual incident or old attempt to simply deprive of sleep for god knows why...

And where I was at a moment “encouraged”, I now read the situation decidedly differently.

It’s low. It’s all of it so very very low. But still I know better than to blame any one person. ...You scream “to arms” or “crisis” or simply allow a thing to run its own course and maintain that you’re only here to “help things go right” while pretending to be very hands off.

Where do the lies end and the truth begins? And even with any actual standing with any one person or group of persons being in such a state of decay, it’s still far better than every new stranger you read into “this”. You still pretended to give a damn about the truth or finding the truth when I first came to this state. Every new person or group of persons or... you know it wasn’t the absolute destruction to isolate and control or to have me for yourself or whatever the hell you want to call “this”.

I’m getting closer to the point here and how you’ve adeptly completely sidestepped the issue to make it about something else and get the whole world to follow suit to further and deepen the schisms and create further dependence on you to “intervene” for the lot of us.

“Spit it out”, I, me, or anyone would say to me at this moment, but I’m completely taken back by this. But now I can reframe the instance in light of many other weird coincidences involving this person, and not know what’s bullshit and what’s not. ...I just, I’m at a loss for words. Am I someone you have to tell grandiose lies to? For what reason? “For what reason” might suggest an answer to what’s just happened. It’s the string from which I’ve reverse engineered the entire thing now, even going back months.

...Speechless, and not knowing what goes out the window with it. Do I even bother addressing what you’ve just managed to do here in the null spaces between everyone?

It’s no matter of pride or ego (as the story probably reads) as much as false hope or anywhere near as much ...believing that despite everything and all this time ...it’s got nothing to do with a job or careers or ...anything. Just a rapport, a relationship of sorts, what might have been “friend”, feels to me like something built of rotten wood that isn’t anything I once believed it to be.

And I suppose, I still suppose ...though quite faintly, whatever rotten state of decay anything is anymore, it’s nothing compared to every new person indoctrinated without my own person as a frame of original reference. And you sit there “ready to take me back”, after the world has been mean to me just like you planned it. [insert image]

After you’ve done your absolute best to destroy and burn down and leave ruin, you stand there around the corner or over top of me with a satisfied smile on your face, the kind of glee of someone in absolute control over a life and who is salivating at finally getting everything exactly the way she wants it. And he’ll crawl back to you, and you’ll live happily ever after. After you’ve broken him, his soul, his spirit, like an animal to be tamed, to be owned, you will finally have the horse you always wanted for your fairy tale ending.

...I don’t even know where to begin because it’s so large and spans so much time now. I’ve been touching the edges of it, but this deflection, this latest suggestion, it’s an adept sidestep, an evasion of responsibility, and a pinning on me as the one with a problem and how unfairly --how wrong I am to hold anyone responsible for the part played in what’s happening.

We’ve been round this block before. If the message was “if you don’t like it here, you can always go somewhere else” I didn’t think much of it because we’ve already been round this block before.

Truth is, I’ve never demanded or expected anything from anyone except the simplest of common decency. The actual problem however obscured now has been sidestepped and we’ve made this all about something completely different. Oh, how you’ve managed my life for me. Gonna tell me what I want. ...getting off track here. ...Off track, too many threads over too long a time involving too many instances and people.

I’ve never demanded or expected anything except common decency. Let’s just leave telling me what I want or what I can have or should have in life and a career and whatever else aside, ...that may sound misleading, but fact is there are multiple layers to this from many different directions. I made a resolved decision, for myself, cause I’m a big boy now, you came back with “why are you gonna do that if you don’t really want it?” I responded with “because it’s my best option, and seeing also how you’ve barred every other path forward or every other space I’ve ever tried to exist in, my own skin and own personal space for fuck’s sake, I don’t have time for aspirations. This is about survival”. I went on to say, “and what’s more... you know I’d do just about anything if it freed me from your grip.”  The unanimous callback was in essence, “if you’re so miserable here and feel so trapped, why pin all of your hopes on a make or break of any kind here at this institution?” adeptly sidestepping the actual issue at large, as though there were absolutely nothing wrong with what’s been done to me in my life for 11 years.

Too many layers and angles, I should just state where I stand and not try to address any of the implications and seeming attempts to make the real problem about anything other than what it’s about.

My life, is not my own. It’s hers. I have been enveloped. My lived experience of it, it’s an iron maiden. It’s a person shaped chamber with inward facing spikes or knives or protrusions. I can’t put it any simpler than that. ...And if I may zero in on it, your queen, our queen has made it abundantly clear to me ad nausuem that it doesn’t matter where I go, she will get there before I do.

What is my aspiration in life? What drives every decision I make? Taking back the life stolen from me in every way shape or form by whatever shred or scrap of it that I can.

You can’t just make this about me like what’s happening to me isn’t actually happening to me, while shoving off and evading any responsibility in the outcomes I’m ever reaching for to that end, that aspiration.

It doesn’t matter if it’s here, another school, another job, another state, another videogame, another show, another computer, another house, another room, something without networking capability, life out in the middle of nowhere where at least I know it’s physically impossible to follow stalk me digitally... It doesn’t matter where, it doesn’t matter who, “THIS“ will remain the same. What’s being done to me will remain the same.

I already moved across the country for a lot of good reasons but a plus being leaving all of “this” behind. “This” bled out like ink, like a stain, like blood on paper, corrupting and contaminating slowly but surely as you played more of a saint to work your way in initially. A helper, healer, whatever the hell, your aggression has always been proportional to the amount of power you feel you have. Always. When you feel like you’ve got the knife in, you can never help showing the glee with which you would twist it despite what you need to maintain in the mirror before your audience. Your civility and goodwill goes about as far as you feel you have to. Tentative, you have to make sure not to let it show through at least initially. Secured, the act gives out for what you’re actually here to do... aggrandize yourself at my expense and to exert power over me.

It doesn’t matter where I go. This is the literal translation. I mean let’s just refer to that one content creator who went out of his way to say it. Oh, man, these Skoolies these bus conversions are so cool. And as I really started to sink my teeth into the possibility of freedom from my present living situation, the message next was in essence, “this isn’t going to solve your problems.” “You can’t get away from your problems.” “You won’t solve anything with this lifestyle.” The lifestyle in question here was what most do with a “home” of this variety and that’s travel while working from “home”. Telling me what I’m actually trying to do or trying to tell me what I want, and then coming back with what was in word and has been 100% in action over the course of “this” the message to me...

it doesn’t matter where I go.

Every action ever taken is to send the message to me, that you’re in control, and it doesn’t matter where I go. It doesn’t matter what I do. Give up

Every action, every orchestration. Surrender. Surrender to you.

I already moved across the country and found “this” waiting for me, already here, but not initially. It happened in the blank spaces and slowly over time. You like a worm, eroding--consuming--weaving yourself into the ether.

You can’t now say there are lots of other places and opportunities and paths in life.

Places and opportunities are one thing, that’s the external--the world. Paths in life is internal, between self and state of being. Not only are you out there salivating, ready to wrap yourself around whatever you can like a great snake, but you’re in here, in my personal space ready to punish and exert control over my very being.

Everything you’ve ever done, everything, everything, everything, everything... has been to this end. This person or that person or you oh, Queen, you don’t get to come back now and shove it off onto me like I’m being unreasonable to hang all my hopes like “this” were a final stand. ...Because it is.

It doesn’t matter where I go. If it’s here or it’s there or somewhere else. “This” will remain the same. And if I ever thought “this” was bad with anyone that had an initial chance to see some shred of me apart from the person you paint of me, every new person, every new relationship, every new friendship, the verdict has already been cast. You’ve accelerated. You have accelerated the ways and the means and the number of strangers to whom I am nothing but what you say I am. Every new semester and class of peers has illustrated this absolutely. Where at one time you feigned “science” and people were given the chance to come to their own conclusions, those interactions went too well for me and you didn’t get the result you wanted. Some even completely rejected the shit you were trying to sell because they could see for themselves that you were full of it. You don’t allow that possibility anymore. They come armed for bear shooting from the hip from the first second as you probably say something along the lines of what a devious and crafty and manipulative person I am. It’s right back to master manipulator secret agent spy that can pull the wool over anyone’s eyes as you totally project that onto me despite that being everything you ever do here.  You don’t allow the possibility anymore, for me to ever seem or appear to be anything but what you want me to be. There is a narrative and it’s indoctrinated and drilled into a person before ever even meeting me now. And you’ve done everything you can since to corrupt and destroy whatever other connections I had made here with any of the tentative others who were read in while you were still feigning objectivity and even handedness in your “investigation”.

It doesn’t matter where I go. It doesn’t matter if it’s here, or somewhere else, another job, another career, a different place, different people, different personal space, different computer, air-gapped computer, ...you can’t now say as some kind of evasion of responsibility that there are lots of other places and opportunities and paths in life and that if I don’t like this or that or what you’re doing to me that I can just go somewhere else.

No. I can’t. I can’t go anywhere.

And I can’t aspire. I’m not even allowed the personal space to exist, much less feel anything anymore that isn’t absolutely shutting down in the face of a never-ending assault from every direction at the same time as though the purpose were to ensure destruction, much less allow the room to breathe even in the slightest.

How much more so the gauntlet with every new “jury” (as you all are to her in effect) than in a place where there still exists (at least I believed and am believing it less all the time) a measure of good will and (at least in terms of employability) where I’ve made a good impression or earned a reputation that becomes me in a particular line of work.

This is my final stand because “this” situation, the one where I am enveloped and owned by the god-queen, remains the same regardless of location, regardless of my own presence in my own shoes and in my own skin, and regardless of relationship (friendship, work, life, romantic, or generally).

How many times should I just start over? How much of my life do I have to surrender? How much has to be destroyed before I’m shown abundantly that it doesn’t matter what I do or where I go or who I meet, that “this”--she--is already there waiting for me more aggressive and more destructive all the time?

This fight, this stand, is every stand. And it’s the last. I hold no expectations about possible advancements or whatever ruses are on the menu today. I’m simply going to make decisions for myself to better myself and to put myself on firmer or more solid ground financially so as to secure greater independence at least in one small but large aspect of my life. If that’s remaining at my current station or finding a new door open up over here or over there, understand that every decision I’ve made has had one motivating factor, and it’s been to the securing or reestablishing of the simplest of basic human needs...

...the peace and safety of a home, in whatever form that may take. A place where when I shut the door for the night, a psycho stalker has not already invited themselves in. If I can’t have the simplest of basic human rights in this regard, to not be abused in this way in at least one small shred or space in my life... absolutely nothing else matters. Absolutely nothing else matters. The homeostatic border between me and my attacker is punctured and rended and I don’t even have room enough to breathe much less thrive and lead a life.

What’s being done to me is cruel, and it’s criminal, and I will not spare you that reflection in the mirror I am holding up--the reality of my lived experience that I will not surrender ever again. 

This fight is the same fight as every fight in every place. My last stand is here. There are no more lines in the sand for me to surrender. To abandon one hostile environment for an even more hostile one in another place with people you’ve indoctrinated like you’ve never indoctrinated before... This is the cliff, this precipice, you will own me oh, Queen, have me for yourself, how you want me, the way you want me, having your way with me and everyone around me as you stir up and create drama about and around us, or I can just take a long walk off that short cliff. If I don’t like it there’s the door.

...duly noted

[metalanguageforlife]

I just returned from spontaneous and surprisingly invigorating voyage amongst synapses of my hippocampus  (or wherever memories are encoded in the brain)... I was thinking back to about 10 years ago, trying to remember something that happened and remember why.

If you ever want to really submerge yourself in a previous era of your existence, recall not just the events, but how you felt, and the reasons you made certain decisions... I highly recommend sleep deprivation.

Anyway... I was just skipping along from one memory to the next, enjoying the nostalgia, amused by how much my perspective and understanding of myself and others and the world in general have changed.  (Side note: Can’t wait to look back on myself now in another 10 years from now and laugh at how dumb and oblivious I am, here at 32 years old)

Allowing the largely forgotten narratives of my 2008 self just stream into consciousness at their own will, suddenly a very particular individual from my past jumped on screen, and stayed there for a while. After all, maintaining a presence in my psyche always seemed like a high-priority mission of hers, circa 2004-2009. 

Jess!  She was my own personal bully. I admit I did dread her, and was aware of the potentially-significant detriment to my reputation that she threatened to have. She did, after all, make countless attempts to monger rumors about my ostensible secrets... (I think she went overboard, though. Too many exaggerated details, and overzealously and perpetually bringing it up, making it the trademark of her own impertinent conversational style).   I always pitied her for dedicating so much emotional energy and time out of her day strictly to plotting ways to ruin me, i.e., ways to transmit all her self-loathing onto me.  

It’s just so interesting that I had TOTALLY forgotten about her, despite the fact that her inextinguishable malevolence ran like a red thread throughout those five years, intertwining like cancer with every experience I dared to have while living in Oxford. 

I hope she’s doing well and has gotten over whatever the fuck it was that she blamed me for. Sending love and peace to her.... and all the bullies out there. 

[ghghdosfi]

when i was 6 i twisted my ankle in PE. this was perhaps my first experience with oblivion. i so consumed by physical pain i considered nothing else. i sat on the floor in the corner of the lunch hall convinced i had broken myself forever. as i tried to rationalise what had happened and what should subsequently happen, i realised one thing: no one could know. despite the swelling and my inability to walk i convinced my mother nothing was wrong. i informed her my limping was an april fools joke as my eyes water and i ground my teeth so hard to cope with the pain i was almost unable to speak. and for four years my ankle continued to hurt, likely as a result of the my medical treatment i deprived myself of at the time. the all encompassing agony of the sprain was replaced with feelings of guilt about lying. for years i wrestled with my conscience, unable to pinpoint the root of my self-indignation. the misery it caused me was inexplicable. i felt trapped and thought constantly of how i could escape the self-inflicted mental and physical torment. i knew how it felt to be suicidal before i even understood my own morality. what a funny little paradox.

when i was 7 i agonised over getting 7/10 on a spelling test. i cried as i felt the weight of failure tugging on every particle of my being. my skin stung, tears streamed down my face and i felt my micro-cosmic world crumble. i kept the extent of the defeat to myself unable to articulate why it was so significant. this was the only assessment i faced where the results were comprehendible to me. the mark out of 10 i received at the end of the academic week was the only unit by which i could rationally decipher my self-worth. in a class of 30 children and in a world of 7 billion people a 7/10 was a bad omen. it alluded to all the failure i would experience for the rest of my life. i thought i couldn’t cope with this feeling ever again, but knew i would inevitably experience it. i didn’t know how to deal with this realisation. i indulged in the same irrational form of self-pity when i achieved 2A*s and and A in my A-levels instead of 3A*s. i didn’t get out of bed for three days.

after years of being plagued by misery which i credited to a seemingly arbitrary situational unpleasantry which invariably changed over time when i realised the thing i was obsessing over was futile, i had a epiphany. these were not reasons; they were excuses i was always going to be dissatisfied and sad, i rationalised these pre-existing feelings by blaming one of the short-comings in my life. i convinced myself if one thing changed i would be happy. but i wouldn’t. the problem was internal. it was at this point i understood the meaningless and dissatisfaction of existence and finally accepted the inevitably of death. this became my new thing was think about. i was saturated with ennui and engulfed by loneliness. i was 9.

when i was 13, things got a bit more cliche. i started worrying about things normal people of my age worried about. like why i wasn’t as pretty as my friends (genetics and poor dress sense), why boys didn’t like me (genetics, poor dress sense and poor conversational skills), why i had sex dreams about girls (hormones and latent bisexuality), academic underachievement (adhd and laziness) and why my parents didn’t understand me (hormones, poor conversational skills and adhd). it was then i began my love affair with self-harm. god she was good. the most bizarre thing was this was at a time when i felt quite comfortable in my cynicism, everyone was depressed, adolescence i was warned was a struggle and i would come out the other side better off for it, with boobs.  

in fact i sit here writing this with the white lines i etched onto my forearms with the optimistic vision of self-improvement now accompanied by a trail of fresh cigarette burns. old habits die hard. to purposefully damage one’s own body defies the voice your head that prioritises survival at any cost. its the voice of your primal nature, that outlasted all of human evolution because it was what enabled your ancestors to live long enough to reproduce. it is a driving force behind every emotion we feel and every impulse we are inevitable to. the message “stay in optimum physical condition at any and all costs” plays through our minds so ferociously and so persistently, it is white noise, white noise with powerful subconscious influence we are not aware of. physically harming ones self for no reason other than for the art of self-destruction itself makes a mockery of it. it feels like a means of escape from our pathetic primality. yes i want to fuck everyone and would be somewhat satisfied to see my female friends, or in evolutionary terms my reproductive rivals, perish (if by perish you mean get fat and started wearing crocs to social events), but look! i carved the word ‘why?’ into my thigh with a razor blade so fuck you, instincts, i subvert you

i was 17 when i first encountered my new muse: ritalin. now she knew what i wanted. i was skinnier, sharper, motivated and i excelled academically. i also punched my brother in the face on a come down and broke his nose while he was recovering from a  bone marrow transplant. hey, the course of love never runs smoothly. finally i could collect my thoughts and articulate concisely and effectively, the downside was this was very addicting. not the sensation of euphoria i felt when it was kicking in or even the feeling of invicibility i experienced when i was able to work for 8 consecutive hours without eating or sleeping. i became addicted to my new found efficiency and productivity. they say ignorance is bliss and i was no longer oblivious to my potential. i never wanted to go back. and when i had to, when the pills ran out, the weight i gained seemed to me the perfect metaphor for my natural lack of self-discipline and wasted ability. with drugs i could be thin, sexy and clever, why should i deprive myself? drugs in general opened me up, alcohol, nicotine, weed, MDMA and valium showed alternative ways to perceive the illusion we call reality. brain chemistry is mutable. why not mute the bits that don’t serve me in any way? drugs are amazing and that’s why they have the power to ruin your life. people who love drugs are precisely the people for whom its best not to experience the enlightenment and mindfulness they give you. people who are inherently dissatisfied with consciousness in its standard form find it hard to step back down to reality.

i’m 19. i think i’ve changed a lot. i haven’t really. this personality has evolved and manifested at different stages in my life in the most predictable way possible. i have a confused and inconsistent relationship with sex. i have a confused and inconsistent relationship with almost every person i know. i don’t have a plan, but i do have a fairly big ego. i don't have any asperations but i do have a lot of scars. i have experienced failure and success sometimes simultaneously, love and apathy often simultaneously and happiness and melancholy always simultaneously.

what can be said for me in the long run? well ‘in the long run we are all dead’

the end seems nye, but ‘i don’t pay attention to the world ending. it has ended for me many times and began again in the morning’