#but i am maintaining a list and i check every so often. so please keep em coming if you think of anything else i might like!

[coquelicoq]

year...2!

i continued my tradition of daily oral french reading this past year and here's what i read:

Voyage au centre de la terre, Jules Verne

La cantatrice chauve/La leçon, Eugène Ionesco

L'enfant de sable, Tahar Ben Jelloun

Le petit prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Gigi, Colette

Vingt mille lieues sous les mers, Jules Verne

Ranma 1/2, vol. 1, Takahashi Rumiko, translated from the Japanese by Fédoua Lamodière

Poèmes, Guillaume Apollinaire

Le fantôme de l'Opéra, Gaston Leroux

Le Robert de poche (1995), ed. Pierre Varrod, Danièle Morvan, et al.

Les oubliés du dimanche, Valérie Perrin

Par amour, Valérie Tong Cuong

Cyrano de Bergerac, Edmond Rostand

Le père Goriot, Honoré de Balzac

Zazie dans le Métro, Raymond Queneau

En attendant Godot, Samuel Beckett

Boule de suif/Mademoiselle Fifi, Guy de Maupassant

Onze Contes: An Introduction to Reading French, Olin Moore & Walter Meiden

La mare au diable, George Sand

in this time period i read a total of 59 books, which is a ratio of about 1:2 french to english (about a third of the books i read were in french and the other 2/3 were in english). which i guess makes sense, because although i don't actually have a habit of daily english reading, of course i can read much faster in english (both because i'm fluent and because i'm not reading out loud).

as you can see, i read more books in french than the year before, but mostly because some of the books that first year were real doorstoppers. i think i've actually chilled out in terms of pages/day; at first i was reading ~20 pages a day but that was cray cray so i'm usually clocking in closer to 10 nowadays.

reading a greater number of books allowed me to diversify my selection, so now in addition to novels and short stories, i've got some plays, poetry, a dictionary, and a textbook of sorts. i also read a volume of manga translated into french. and i should note that i always read the front and back matter, so for any of the classics, there's generally a preface and/or introduction, various commentary by academics, bibliographies, etc.

the only books i had read previously in any capacity were le petit prince (in french) and en attendant godot (in english). i'd also read a few of apollinaire's poems in school and had, you know, consulted the dictionary for specific words from time to time. lol.

this is slightly over half from the 20th century (10 books if i'm remembering correctly), followed by 6 books from the 19th century and three books from THIS century that we are in currently! watch out world!! ranma 1/2 was chock full of slang vocab, which was great (zazie dans le métro also was, but it was older slang and glorb knows my lexicon is old-fashioned enough as it is).

by far my favorite book i read in the past twelve months was the dictionary, which took about 11 months total at a rate of 2 or 3 pages a day. it was also the biggest challenge, because it required a lot of concentration and there was no narrative to draw me along (unless you count related words being near each other, which is indeed very fun). but i did still get a sense of wanting to know what would "happen" next! it was a fascinating experience on so many levels and i think helped me hone my pronunciation (the original reason i started this project of reading aloud in french!) in a way that reading novels wasn't doing as much, both because there are pronunciation notes and because the dictionary forces you to focus on one word at a time, whereas in a narrative you are generally more focused on the sentence as the important unit and can miss some intricacies that way. i feel like i already loved words and the sounds of words and the relationships between words, but reading the dictionary just increased my attention to them exponentially. it's been really fun thinking about words even more than i was previously.

i read les oubliés du dimanche after reading and loving another of valérie perrin's books the year before. it has one of the best, most natural and understated endings of any book i've read and i greatly enjoyed the reading experience. i will definitely read the third book of hers that i have (coincidentally entitled "trois") in the coming year.

the biggest surprise was guy de maupassant - for some reason i wasn't expecting to love his stories as much as i did. i just randomly picked up this book because it was the only french-language book at a thrift store, and i ended up having a blast with it! i've got his novel bel-ami and will read that at some point in the future.

there are several authors i read and now feel like i don't need to read anything else by them, not because i hated their book but because i feel like i've got a handle on their whole deal now and don't really feel the need to pursue it: gaston leroux, honoré de balzac, and george sand. which is maybe unfair of me, but life is short lol. jules verne also falls into this category except i actually read three of his books so i feel like that assessment is more based in evidence. i had been thinking i had reached colette saturation, but then one of the onze contes in onze contes was by her and it fucking rocked, so. rethinking that currently. (if you can read l'autre femme and not immediately dump your boyfriend, wow. kudos to you. the only thing stopping me was i didn't have a boyfriend to dump at the time.)

a few of these were only on my radar because people had recced them to me after last year's post (thank you!!). the people who told me to read la cantatrice chauve and zazie dans le métro were totally on the money because i did indeed love the way they played with language. tahar ben jalloun's style and story structure in l'enfant de sable was super interesting and i'd love to read more by him. please feel free to keep the recs coming - i definitely need to supplement my acquisition strategy of "extremely famous books everyone has heard of" plus "whatever random books happen to be in the french section of the bookstore that i pass on the way to the cash register and really shouldn't be looking at because i have enough books already but i can't help myself".

this year i'm looking to read another reference book or two - possibly another textbook and/or a thesaurus, both of which i already own. to continue my exploration of the mechanics of translation (currently in its baby stages), i'd like to read either something translated into french from an english original that i'm already very familiar with, or something in french but side by side with an english translation. i'm already kind of doing the latter with les fleurs du mal, my current book, because i happen to have an english edition as well, but so far i've only been doing it sporadically. and translated poetry is a whole different beast, so i'd like to do it with fiction specifically.

i'll probably read les trois mousquetaires next, because i am REALLY curious to know if dumas's syntax is actually as tortured as it felt or if that was the result of the 12 years' worth of dust my french had accumulated. probably both. i'll report back. i'm excited to read a couple books i've picked up by senegalese authors who i haven't read before (mariama bâ and mohamed mbougar sarr). i'll probably delay proust and villon for another year, but you never know. it's crazy how many books exist in the world...stay safe out there kids.

last week marked a full year since i started a daily habit of reading french fiction to myself out loud, so i took a picture of the books i finished in the last twelve months to commemorate the occasion!

as you can see, there are nine books total but two of the books (count of monte-cristo and les mis) take up fully half the volume, which makes sense because the first six of the twelve months were devoted to just those two behemoths. full list:

Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, Tomes I et II, Alexandre Dumas père

Les Misérables, Tomes I et II, Victor Hugo

La fin de Chéri, Colette

Le Tour du monde en 80 jours, Jules Verne

Exercices de style, Raymond Queneau (this one i read in both paperback and audiobook; the audiobook is stacked on top)

Changer l'eau des fleurs, Valérie Perrin

Claudine à l'école, Colette et Willy

Candide ou l'Optimisme, Voltaire

Le mur, Jean-Paul Sartre

la fin de chéri was both the shortest book and the hardest to read! there was a lot of vocab i wasn't familiar with, and the syntax was a real challenge. colette LOVES her a comma. like, she uses commas to do so many different things i can never really tell what any given comma is supposed to be doing. she might as well just not use punctuation at all. also, i only discovered this like five months after the fact, but it's apparently a sequel?? i was super confused by a bunch of stuff that seemed pretty unexplained and it turns out there was a reason for that lol (the reason being the explanations were in a totally different book). i also just, like, didn't really like the story 😩 rip me!

cmc and les mis were both books i had read previously in english but never in french. exercices du style and probably about half of le mur i had read for college french (if you look closely you can see the spines of those two are a more faded color because i've had them for 15 years lol). the rest were brand new to me. changer l'eau des fleurs was the only book published in the current century. so much great vocab in that one...i really gotta read more stuff from the last few years. also it made me cry big time.

i think i'm gonna keep up this daily habit, but i'd like to expand to poetry and possibly? even non-fiction?? at some point?? francophones feel free to rec me stuff! i'm trying to work my way through some of the really classic french canon, so next up i'm thinking maybe le fantôme de l'opéra, cyrano de bergerac, and at least the first volume of à la recherche du temps perdu? i also want to read more recent stuff, so i've been looking at winners of readers' choice prizes and whatnot, but suggestions from actual individuals would be grand. i think some scifi could be cool maybe, but i don't know anything about french-language scifi and have no idea where to start...

non-french francophone authors would also be really great if you have any suggestions!

[chronic-invisibility]

Please Read!

Hi, my name is Drew, I’m 26 years old and I don’t want minors to interact with my blog, please. I will block you if you are under 18 or don’t have your age in your bio. Please understand this is a boundary I am setting for your safety and comfort and mine. It’s not personal.

I used to use this blog as a mental health vent blog, but I have other things I like and want to post about and trying to use separate blogs entirely is complicated. So I’m going to make this my main and have sideblogs for my various specific topics. That being said, this blog is still going to have a trigger warning for ed, sh, sui, SA, poor mental health in general. I do my best to tag things appropriately, including specific trigger warnings, but if you need me to tag something specific let me know and I’ll do my best! I can’t promise I’ll remember every single tag I try to maintain on here, but I do try.

My MCR blog is @youmustfixyourheart

My mental health vent blog is @imtheworst-imsorry

My (mostly inactive) Moon Knight blog is @lunarcavalier

I just finished my first full year after going back to school to finish my bachelor’s degree, I am majoring in Museum Studies and my fondest wish is to work at the living history museum my family has visited since before I was born. I had a job in retail pharmacy as a pharmacy technician for 2.5 years but the pharmacy industry is fucked and we had a LOT of turnover and being verbally abused by customers on a daily basis sucks so I quit last October, currently I'm focusing on being in school full time and I’m lucky enough to live with my family so I don’t have a ton of bills rn. I like knitting and crocheting, reading, writing (currently actually working on a very long, self-projecting, angsty fic and just published a shorter fluffier fic for the first time in a few years), art (making and consuming, I actually made a painting for part of my final project for one of my classes that just ended and I forgot how much I like painting so I might try to do that more often), swimming (even though I rarely get the chance), and being with my dog, Henry. I was late-diagnosed as Autistic and ADHD when I was 23, and I have a bunch of other mental health issues, too. I’ve experienced a LOT of bullying, mistreatment, misunderstanding, and sometimes outright abuse from my peers (and some adults) growing up and even into my early adult years (not that I’m not still a young adult, but like, 18-21 were NOT great years for me) in part because of my neurodivergence, and as a result I have a lot of trust issues and anger and sadness and trauma that I’m trying to work through.

My main Special Interests are: mermaids, the living history museum I mentioned (and museums in general), My Chemical Romance, music, theater, and art.

Some of my current hyperfixations include: MCR, Heartstopper, and learning to crochet.

My DNI list is kinda long, and most of it’s common sense, but if you fall into any of these categories, don’t follow my blog or interact with me (I do check blogs that follow me and I WILL block you) and also please fall into the sun and die.

DNI:

Minors

LGBTQIA+phobes/exclusionists

Antisemites

Racists

TERFS/SWERFS

Ableists

Fakeclaimers of any kind

Anti-abortion

Anti-vaxxers/COVID deniers

“All Lives Matter/Blue Lives Matter” people/pro cop/pro military industrial complex

Blackpink stans

JKR supporters

Tr*mp supporters

Kanye supporters

Sia supporters

Dave Chappelle supporters

————————————————————————

I might keep updating this post as my life changes, or if I think of anything new, but hopefully this is a good intro of who I am and what this blog will contain.

[writefightandflightclub]

Disarming (Santi x fem!reader)

Summary: you and Santi - good friends- are Best Man and Maid of Honour at Frankie’s wedding, and guess what? There’s only one bed!

What is this? This is 5/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. The prompt is “We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend”, requested by @woakiees​. Another double trope extravaganza! Hadley, I’m so pleased you suggested Santi for this one, as he immediately came to mind when I was writing this prompt :D Thank you so much for requesting! <3

If you’d like to  read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Apparently I get carried away EVERY time I write Santi. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! :-/

Word count: 7.5k. I’M SO SORRY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Rating: 18+ ONLY (minors out, please, do not read or interact)

Warnings: it gets angsty in the middle. Reader has nightmare- comfort offered. Mentions of reader being “hurt” in the past but vague and unspecified. They have a fight. One or two alcohol mentions- no actual consumption. Food mention. Swearing. Steam leading into smut but not explicit- mentions of masturbation, erections, making-out, one brief allusion to choking kink. Let me know if I missed anything.

Tagging: @isvvc-pvscvl​ @casifer-is-king​ (loads of the tags aren’t working :-/)

GIF: @nathan-bateman​

From the first moment you met Santi, you had simply fallen into step with him. It was effortless, and so, as soon as you found yourself by his side, you stayed there. What’s more, that’s exactly where he wanted you to be.

Despite the man’s hard, no-nonsense edge -which you also appreciated- he was warm and charming. It was easy to connect with him, in a way it hadn’t often been for you. For him too - or so the boys told you - the way you surpassed his defences was a rare thing. It shouldn’t have worked, perhaps. Usually, he was slow to trust and you were quick to love, but on this occasion none of that seemed to apply, the two of you tumbling squarely into a fast-friendship; one deeper and more intense, perhaps, than its duration might suggest. Still, despite the boys’ inferences that you would quickly become an item, and Santi’s continual attempts to blur the lines between this and… something more, “friends” is what you have remained.

You had felt it immediately with him. Something different. You simply... flowed. You fit. It was immediately evident, even on that first night, in the way you orbited around one another, setting up an impromptu beer pong of all things. You moved together with a fluidity and a precision that seems almost tactical- as though you too had run countless manoeuvres in the field with him. You could read him and understand him as though you had drilled his habits and patterns and idiosyncrasies over and over; learning him. However, he was never that much effort - the two of you came naturally to each other, little learning required. You knew each other with your gut.

At that fateful party, when you each escaped to the back porch steps for some air at a serendipitous moment, the conversation had immediately flowed, and not only as a result of his natural, disarming charm. The silence even came easily rightaway – a comfortable thing, the space between you stuffed with contentment, rather than the feeling of a gaping vacuum, needlessly filled. It turned out his best friend was dating yours (the pair to be wed this very weekend) but that almost seemed like the cherry on top, rather than the thing bringing you to each other.

Safe to say, what was true then is true now. You get on so well. You find him fun and easy and generous and you love the man dearly.

…Most of the time.

Those other times, though? Santiago “Pope” Garcia can be a pain in your ass. But that’s another reason you love him, you guess. Keeps things interesting.

“Please don’t kill me,” Santi says sheepishly, and it’s obvious to you he’s laying on the charm - actively trying to be as disarming as possible as he saunters over from the reception desk. For a moment, despite all his training, he looks as though he believes you could pull it off, too.

Your annoyance is already prepped; locked and loaded, as he pads squarely towards the banquette where you are sat - amidst a sea of luggage. You’ve been observing his attempts to charm the desk clerk with interest (his efforts, you surmise, at least partially effectual), and judging from the slight level of desperation in his efforts, you can already tell he fucked up somehow.

“What did you do?” you say impatiently, even as a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

“I booked all the rooms we needed, for all of the wedding guests, right? 13 rooms here, and all 10 at the hotel across town. 4 more in guesthouses,” he recaps. “Got Frankie and Mila a great deal too, remember?”

You remember. And yet, you fold your arms across your chest, looking up at him incredulously. Okay then. Rolling with your attitude, the man takes a different tack. He sits next to you. Smiles. Leans in. Pats your thigh. He’s trying to disarm you too, you realise. It’s going to take more than that - you’re not some flimsy desk clerk who will form a puddle and bat your eyes at the first sign of his charm.

“Well, funny story. I may have forgotten to book our rooms,” he blurts.

Oh? Oh, great. Yeah. This is a grand fuck-up. The whole damn town is booked-out. It’s a small town. No longer amused, your nostrils flare in annoyance as you tug in a slow breath, schooling your tone just a little before you speak. “You what?” Okay, you didn’t manage to school it all that much.

“Look, I already sort of fixed it,” he smooths. That explains the flirting with the clerk. Although, you think, glancing back at her. She’s pretty. That partially explains the flirting with the clerk, then, you mentally correct. “There’s just one, teeny-tiny issue.”

You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes. Well?

“We’re gonna have to share a room.”

You blink at him a few times, in surprise. Well, it’s not ideal. For a number of reasons. But you can think of worse things, truth be told. And he’s not wrong. It is a solution. Still, on his reveal, a succession of emotions and micro-assessments are bounced back and forth between your eyes and his, until you land on resigned annoyance, exhaling a long sigh. That is, until Frankie appears in the lobby, swanning in like he’s walking on air. He probably is, given that he’s getting married this weekend. His face splits with a smile so wide you reckon it should be painful to maintain, and you stand to greet him as he heads over.

You’re glad he’s happy. It means that you and Santi, as Maid of Honour and Best man, respectively, are doing a fantastic job of deflecting all of the stress away from the happy couple. Indeed, that assessment certainly feels true – you do feel stressed. Still, the two of you immediately paint your faces with masking smiles; though, in fairness, it’s hard not to smile while looking at Frankie – his obvious joy is infectious.

Frankie wraps you both in a hug, then rubs his palms together like an excited kid. “I don’t have much time. Just gonna say a quick hello to my parents. Apparently, my mom’s already started crying? Can you two sort some extra tissues for the ceremony or something? Oh, and is everything okay with the rooms?”

“With this guy? Are you kidding?”, you say before you think, throwing your thumb towards Santi. Immediately, his eyes submit a powerful plea to you to keep schtum- it is written all over his face that he doesn’t want to let Frankie down. Not even in the smallest of ways.

Frankie would find his little error funny, probably. But he can find it funny after the ceremony. “Everything is A-OK! This guy? He has every single detail taken care of.”

Frankie grins, his eyes narrowing proudly at Santi as he slaps him on the back, laying profuse thanks on the two of you; then, he floats away again, as if on a cloud. Santi’s brown eyes are big with gratitude when you look at him again, and you can’t help but weaken. You’ll admit, it’s really not that bad of a fuck-up. Besides, you’re tired. Between the drive out here, the wedding rehearsal, and a never-ending list of errands, the day has been long. You just want to get to the room, and maybe even clock a snooze before the rehearsal dinner tonight.

“Fine,” you agree, albeit through gritted teeth. “We can share a damn room.”

Santi looks visibly relieved, and squeezes your shoulder in thanks. You’d even been nice enough not to bite his head off. “Yeah. We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend.” Suddenly, he doesn’t sound quite as certain.

“Sure. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?” you smile nervously.  

He returns your smile and swivels, heading back towards the desk.

“Oh, wait!” you call after him. “Is it a double or a twin?” you ask in horror. Sharing a room is one thing, but sharing a bed?

He turns, looking over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter!”, he winks. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna have to take it.”

Oh. Oh dear.

You’re inclined to agree -you don’t have many options- but when you catch yourself stealing a glance at the man’s shapely butt as he walks back to the desk, you begin to chew your bottom-lip nervously.

Right. Ha.

What could possibly go wrong?

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

It turns out, sharing a room with Santi is resoundingly not bad at all. In fact, at first, it’s as easy as everything else is with him - even between your hurried preparations for the evening, unpacking, shuttling items to the relevant members of the wedding party, and calling down to reception several times to check the logistics for the rehearsal dinner. Even getting dressed, you find an easy flow as you each flit in and out of the bathroom, dancing around each other with ease and only a hint of friendly bickering.

Santi’s respectful too- always knocking and announcing himself before entering a space, and averting his gaze when he needs to, given that you’re rushing around and undressing. You even manage to ignore the fact there’s only one bed for the longest time, parking that specific panic for later. Even then, he has already made reception send up extra pillows and blankets, forming a barricade in the middle of the bed so you two can comfortably separate.

Thankfully, you are so busy that the idea of sharing a bed with Santi doesn’t even cross your mind until you’re finally ready, dressed in your finery. When you step out of the bathroom, Santi -sat on the edge of said bed- stands up, thrusting his hands into his suit trousers as he takes the sight of you in, pulling the material taut -in a rather pleasing way- across his hips and thighs. He ends up slightly slack-jawed for a moment as his eyes trail over you, brewing with a gentle, self-conscious heat. “Fuck,” he says softly, his voice gruff. “You look…” a little gulp trails down his throat as you give him a little twirl. “…hot”, he says, his eyebrow ticking up on the last beat.

“Wait until you see my bridesmaid dress,” you smile, and he returns it easily, those gorgeous creases appearing around his eyes.

Unconsciously, you lick your lips. You can’t help but wonder, vaguely, what it would be like to push him down on to the mattress. Maybe straddle him. Fuck, you should have known this would be a bad idea. A heat rising in your face at that thought of that, you distract yourself by lifting his suit jacket from the back of the chair, holding it out for him as he slips it on to his shoulders, and feeling the luxurious texture of it beneath your fingers.

It’s a grey suit, tailored, and it hugs him in all the right places. The cool colour is perfect against his warm-toned brown skin, and brings out the salt in his salt-and-pepper curls, and in the rough rasp of grey flecked through his stubble.

You try desperately not to notice how good he looks, but this may be your greatest challenge yet.

“Come on,” you encourage, nodding towards the door. “We better head down.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, half-heartedly. The way his eyes are subtly roving over you, though, he looks like he has something entirely different in mind for dinner.

“You’re probably going to spend all night being chased by the single bridesmaids,” you add casually as you collect your purse, and apply a final dab of lipstick in front of the mirror. You’ve already clocked a few members of the wedding party eyeing him up, and you don’t exactly blame them for being thirsty. Besides, Santi is a huge flirt; so perhaps he’ll be the one doing the chasing. You wouldn’t be surprised if he ended the night with his tongue thrust deep in someone’s throat, which -you assume- is typical Santi fashion.

“Isn’t it traditional, anyway,” he smirks cheekily, applying a splash of cologne, “for the Best Man to hook-up with one of the bridesmaids?”

Lord, does he have to smell so… edible.

“Got news for you, man. You fucked up. You can’t exactly bring a girl back to your room now, can you?!” you tease, nodding back towards your shared bed, a wall of pillows already arranged down the middle. You mean it to come out in good-humour, but you can’t scrub the hint of jealousy from your tone entirely.

You feel so silly for being jealous of whomever he may hook-up with. After all, Santi is always the one testing the boundaries of friendship with you. It’s not like he’s ever made a secret of the fact he’s attracted to you- and you are the one here will a firm line in the sand. A line you simply won’t cross with him. Can’t cross. You want to - of course you do, but after being hurt in the past, you have simply built-up far too many defences; or, more accurately, just the right amount of defences, you think, to protect you. So, no matter how disarming the man is, you simply have to keep your guard up; because if he breached your walls, you know everything else would come tumbling so easily down.

You had fallen so easily into friendship with him, and you are certain that you would fall just as recklessly in love with him.

You’re not ready for that.

You can’t take being hurt again. Besides; Santi? He’s an incredible friend. He’s tenaciously loyal and dedicated to his squad. But when it comes to love, and sex, you doubt whether serious is even his thing - and you’re too afraid to ask.

“You ready to do this?” he asks, with a wink.

“Yep,” you nod. “Let’s roll,” and with that, you turn, heading for the hallway.

“Princesa- that dress really highlights your ass,” he praises as he tags along behind you.

“Thank you, it’s true,” you smile devilishly, already beginning to let your guard down, just a little. He’s simply so disarming. “Speaking of, Garcia – did you get your trousers a size too small on purpose?”

“Oh, you noticed?” he retorts, smugly, guiding you through the door with a hand on the small of your back.

Okay. Sometimes you flirt back. After all – look at him.

Especially in that damn suit.

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

The rehearsal dinner goes swell. Frankie and Mila are a picture-perfect, loved-up couple, and they grin their way through the evening as if they slept with coat hangers in their mouths. The speeches are well-received, including Will’s, thus setting a high bar for you and Santi tomorrow. (You may be biased, but Santi’s is ten times funnier, and it’s going to kill, in your opinion.) There are no dramas through the evening- logistical or familial, and thanks to you and Santi overseeing everything with a military precision, it looks as though -so far- it is shaping up to be the perfect wedding weekend.

Finally, once your duties are over for the night, you are able to let your hair down a little, so to speak, and enjoy the food and company on offer. Still, with a big day ahead tomorrow, things wind down relatively early, and -having lost track of Santi at some point- you find yourself back at the shared room a little while before him. You usually burn out more quickly than he does in social situations, but even taking that into consideration, you begin to fret about where he has gotten to. With the way he was flirting his way through the party, though, it doesn’t take a genius to guess what (or who) might be keeping him up.

You try to sleep but you can’t, your mind going to the worst places, so, by the time Santi does return -softly cracking the door, and padding in with his shoes in his hands so as not to wake you- you have stewed in your own thoughts long enough to have become a little cranky. A little… green-eyed.

“Hey,” he greets in surprise when he enters, immediately noticing the soft lamp glow, and seeing you still sitting up in the bed, mindlessly watching the flicker of the tv on mute.

“Hey,” you return, your voice noticeably strained. “Have a fun time?” You find yourself wishing you weren’t sharing a room, then you wouldn’t have to know what he got up to.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, slipping off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. “Did you? How come you’re still up? Thought for sure you’d be wiped out by now.”

So, he did think of you, then?

“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply neutrally, fixing your eyes dead ahead as he begins to slip out of his trousers and shirt too, until he’s dressed in only his tight black boxers. Next, he takes off his watch and sets it at the bedside, and you notice that he smells of perfume. A cloying, floral scent that makes you feel a little sick.

“Just gonna have a quick shower and then I’ll slip in with you, okay?” he says, his voice slow and deep and muted, matching the soft light.

You still don’t look at him. You can’t.

“Do what you want. You usually do,” you bite, the words tasting bitter as soon as they have left your lips, and tears of regret pooling as your anger dissolves.

You don’t blame him if he was with someone – you really don’t. You’re simply angry at yourself; because you wish you could be that person, and you can’t for the life of you seem to find a way.

“Okay. What was that for?” he bristles, reacting defensively, turning towards you. And perhaps it’s because it’s late and he’s tired, or because certain demons feel safer coming out under the cover of darkness, but he doesn’t stop there. Especially when all he gets from you is a stony, pointed silence. “You know what? Actually, no. You don’t get to do this”, he hisses, and it is the first time you’ve ever heard him direct any genuine anger at you.

It doesn’t half sting.

“Do what?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“You don’t get to be mad when I give my attention to someone who actually wants it,” his voice is hushed, but his words rattle through you as if he had yelled them. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Guess what, I’m not yours.”

“That’s not fair”, you snap back, and then things are quickly escalating.

“Isn’t it?” he asks, rasping a hand over his stubble in distress. “I mean, come on. Shit. You know that I want more but I…” he exhales a disgruntled laugh. “You shoot me down, which is your prerogative, honestly, but you can’t have it both ways. You can’t knock me back all the time and then be pissed off when I look elsewhere.”

You meet his face, the planes of it shadowed and angled harshly with anger, suddenly so unfamiliar to you, and it causes your eyes to bloom with tears. You two look the opposite of Frankie and Mila; of a picture-perfect couple. But you’re not even a couple at all, are you?

You see him try. To blunt the emotion which is bubbling up. To soften. But he has uncorked something he now can’t put back in. “Fuck, I just wish that….” he pinches his lips together and shakes his head, planting his hands on his hips and looking at the floor. “If you don’t want me, just put me out of my fucking misery. Just say it. Just fucking tell me.”

Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces at the thought you make him miserable. At the way his voice breaks. At the way he thinks you don’t want him. Maybe you were wrong, thinking that you could be friends at all. Thinking that could be enough for him.

Your lower lip trembles, and your fingers clutch the edge of the blanket. “I… I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that I don’t want you, Santi.”

You can’t because it isn’t true. It could not be further from the truth, in fact.

He puffs out air, an exasperated sound, his hand raising up to tangle in his grizzled curls. Raising his voice a little more. “Let me guess. You can’t tell me the other thing either?”

“I.. I..” You try, but no words will come. You simply shake your head, swallowing a sob, your eyes almost brimming over.

He nods. He nods, his mouth slanted down. “Great. Got it,” he huffs.

You hate this. You hate how much you’re hurting him.

“Santi,” you breathe weakly, but it is too weak to blunt the force of his emotion. To halt his trajectory, and so, resigned, he turns towards the bathroom, grabbing-up a fresh white towel from the counter. Before he closes the door, he turns to you once more, now speaking softly, his eyes as sad as yours. “You know,” he says, his index finger sawing back-and-forth over the stubble at his chin. “For the record, I wasn’t with anyone else. I can’t even fucking think about anyone else but you. I was late back to the room because I couldn’t face it.” His voice becomes small and pained. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just curl up next to you and act like I don’t care.” His eyebrow ticks up, and he adds, with a final flourish. “Guess I should have taken a lesson from you.”

Oh, how it stings, pain flowering in your chest like a bruise, but you hold yourself together until he’s out of sight. Then, when he’s gone, you immediately cave in on yourself, falling on to your side and screwing your eyes shut, clamping your hand over your mouth so that he can’t hear you crying as wet tears spill onto your pillow.

When he comes back into the room, after a long shower, you simply screw your eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. You hear him sigh heavily, and mumble something to himself under his breath, before dragging a few pillows and a spare blanket down on to the floor.

A few more silent tears roll over the bridge of your nose.

You guess you wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him after all.

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

You wake panicked in the night, sitting bolt upright in the bed. A cold wash of sweat over your skin chills you, even though you feel like you’re burning-up.

Immediately, you reach for him, for Santi, calling his name even as your fear strangles the sound in your throat. Your heart is thudding, and your breaths are sawing in and out of you, but your grasping hands find nothing to your side but pillows and blanket.

Unfortunately, you are used to this occurrence, and you quickly realise it was “only” a nightmare. Still, the feelings and images it conjured linger in your body, and around you in the shifting, seemingly fluid shadows of the room.

With a release of tension, you whimper, leaning forward and cradling your head in your trembling hands, and you try to ground yourself. To steady your breath and your heartbeat, like you’ve practiced. As you do so, the shadows to your left shift and change, and, even in the pitch-black you can feel him, a safe and warm presence, instantly travelling to your side, his weight dipping the mattress. His soothing, sandy voice filtering through the shadows and cutting back the tendrils of your nightmare like a Disney prince hacking through cursed vines.

You vaguely remember that he’s mad at you - but you can’t help it. Can’t help asking. “Hold me?” you plead, desperately afraid that he won’t.

Still, without questions or hesitation, you feel the wall of remaining pillows coming down, the defences around you quite literally being dismantled – a figurative wall between you shifting away along with it. He shushes you, and you focus on his voice, until he is close enough that the scent of him wraps around you, before his arms follow closely after.

You reach for him in return. You reach for him in every way possible.

“It’s just a nightmare,” he soothes. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you,” and there is pain in his voice on your behalf, as if he tries to bear the burden of it for you.

“Closer,” you plead, and before you know it, he is shifting you on to your side, slotting his sturdy yet soft body around you, not caring that you feel clammy and hot against his bare skin. He simply loops his arms and draws your back, closer to his chest, becoming your big spoon.  

He calms you, hands enveloping yours and bundling them against your chest, his nose nuzzling into your hair, and his deep steady breaths slowing your breathing as you let his calm and his rhythms overcome you. He holds you, until the feelings pass, not caring how long it takes – and with any anger from before apparently forgotten.

This pain is all too familiar to him, you know. It something that Santi understands. It is your own and it is not the same as his, true, but you know it is familiar enough that he will feel the ache of it echoing in his own chest. You know that he is accustomed enough to bearing his own pain, that when yours is too heavy to carry, he will help you hold it for a while. And so, he holds you, while you are a tender thing, bruised and afraid, and he keeps you safe; with all your walls down, all of your defences collapsed, he becomes your fortress.

You never thought that letting yourself be so vulnerable could allow you to feel quite as safe as this.

As you lie together, Santi continues to usher soft reassurances into your ear, his words like charms and incantations to ward off the ghosts which haunt you. And, after a series of slow, stretched moments, you become more settled, and Santi feels you relax against him.

After a few moments more, he eventually whispers a small question into your hair. In the dark, the question feels safe to come out, perhaps.

“Do you always call for me when you…?” he trails off, thinking better of it. “I’m sorry- forget it, you don’t have to answer that.”

You don’t. You know you don’t. You don’t even truthfully know the answer. It’s likely that you do call for him, though how would you know, when you’re usually alone? But, there is something else you can tell him, while it is safe to come out in the dark. Something you want to tell him, before you build your walls all the way back up.

“Santi,” you begin, timidly, and his fingers skim softly up and down your arms, encouraging you to go on. “I-I’ve been hurt before. And, I want to be with you. I want to let you in but… I’m. I’m not ready. I’m trying so hard but I… I can’t.”

There is a long beat, and you realise he has held in a breath only when he releases it all at once, fanning hot across the back of your neck.

You are afraid. Afraid of what he might say, in response – what he might feel, but you think, maybe, it might be something like relief? And, Santi squeezes you, just a little tighter. A little closer. “Don’t worry about that now, okay?” he soothes, his voice feather soft. “Just… know one thing, okay, Princesa? Whenever you are ready? I’m waiting.”

This time your heart fills with a different emotion, all the spaces in it flooded with contentment, Santi’s words followed by a perfect, happy silence.

A soft smile blooms on your face.

It was not a confession of waiting impatiently, you understand, but an invitation to take your time to arrive at him. He’s not trying to bring down your defences at all, is he? He’s waiting for you to open the door, and invite him in. He’s waiting until you are ready. He simply needed to know that you are on your way, even if your footsteps are getting you there slowly.

For now, though, the thought of it is too much. More than you’re ready for.

So, you simply let him hold you.

To disarm you further.

To walk yourself a little closer toward where you want to be. With him; by his side.

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

In the morning, you wake up tangled around each other, Santi’s arm wrapped securely around your back and your head settled on his chest. He is still snoring lightly – cutely - when you awake, and so, as the night prior comes flooding back to you, you hastily try to extricate yourself from him; even if his bare skin feels so good against yours that you never want to move. You’re apparently not so subtle- or he’s a helluva light-sleeper – as, just when you pull away, Santi wakes up, quickly rushing to prove his innocence.

“You had a nightmare,” he croaks, still trying to peel his eyes open. “You asked me to- “.

“-I know. I remember,” you reassure, sitting up in bed, the blankets tugged to your chest. Santi shuffles, opting to assume the same position on his own side, mirroring you, rubbing his eyes.

You’re still not sure whether to apologise to him or thank him. Or maybe even to wait for an apology from him? Christ. Maybe all of those things or none of them, who even knows? You mentally spin a wheel and land on a casual “Uh. Thank you, for…. You know.”

“Anytime,” he says, turning his head to the side and looking at you earnestly. As if your bickering -your jealousy and his outburst- is all but forgotten. What’s more, you know that he means it.

Admiringly, your eyes wander over him, enjoying a side of him you’ve never quite seen before. Apparently, he’s even more handsome in the morning, with an even thicker, darkened brush of stubble, his grizzled curls dishevelled, and his swooping eyelids still heavy from sleep. Combined, it gives him a sultry, bedroom look. Feeling an involuntary rush of heat in the pit of you, your gaze drops to his corded neck, where, given the special occasion, he has substituted his dog tags for a silver chain, drawing your gaze down over his smooth, brown chest.

Your skin now cooling in the conditioned air of the room, you long for his body heat again, recalling how it felt to be held by him and wishing you had lingered a little longer while you could. Even with your interrupted sleep last night, you have somehow woken feeling refreshed, as though you had slept unreasonably deeply in his arms, reaching a whole new level of contentment - as though you just fit together, perhaps. As though it comes naturally for you to be held by him, and for him to hold you.

There is a silence and it isn’t awkward exactly; more… pregnant, with possibilities. Possibilities you see brewing with a gentle heat in his eyes. So, tearing yourself abruptly away from that line of thought, you lift your phone up from the nightstand, and note that there isn’t long before your alarms sound anyway.

Operation Wedding Day is go.

That should be enough of a distraction for you, shouldn’t it?

“You ready for this, Best Man?” you ask him, with a gentle quirk of your lips.

“Sure. Are you ready, Maid of Honour?”

Ready. Are you ready?

Thoughts of last night swirl in your head.

Well – as Santi flashes you a tentative, disarming smile, with hooded eyes, you certainly feel like you’re getting there. Like soon you could be ready.

“Sure. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Atta girl,” he encourages, folding his arms behind his head as you jump out of bed.

You suddenly don’t care that you’re in nothing but your underwear, as you stretch out your body and track towards the bathroom. “I’ll shower first?”

“We’re sharing a bed,” he teases. “Sure you don’t want to share a shower too?”

You scoff, flashing a mischievous smile right back at him. You’ve always had a soft spot for his flirting, but you feel like -after all that transpired last night- you truly see if for what it is now. You realise why it has never felt like he’s pressuring you - not once. He’s simply reminding you, that as soon as you call for him, he’ll be there. That he’s waiting, when you’re ready.

Reminding you, that as soon as your walls drop, he’ll be your fortress.

“I don’t think you’re gonna get quite that lucky this morning, Garcia.”

You do linger in the doorway, just a little longer than necessary though, so that he can get a better look at you. He’d never look without permission – he proved that yesterday, when you were in various states of disarray- but this time, sensing your invitation, his eyes graze over you slowly, keenly. So, when he strategically moves his hands from behind his head to hide the tenting covers, you don’t mind at all.

You smile devilishly as you slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You’re not sure if he will… take care of himself out in the room – how could you know? But, feeling inspired, you certainly do so in the shower, and it’s a pretty great wake-up call before you face the wedding day.

Maybe sharing a room isn’t so bad. Maybe you could even get used to it.

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

Frankie and Mila get hitched without a hitch.

Santi goes to the ends of the earth to make sure that Frankie has the best day possible- and at some points, he goes even further than that. His speech was moving and flawless, and pretty fucking funny; even if you are a little (or a lot) biased. Not a dry eye in the house, just as you predicted.

The man adores Frankie with his whole heart, and you could barely hold back the glow of admiration as you listened to him, feeling like it might burst from your chest like a beam of gold sunlight. You felt it especially strongly every time his eyes met yours during the course of the speech, and you couldn’t help but smile yourself stupid each time he did so. And, of course, you were overjoyed to see your best friend have the day of her dreams, with the man of her dreams. If you do say so yourself, you think your speech was pretty killer too.

Suffice to say, you ate until your belly was full, loved until your heart hurt, laughed until your sides ached, and danced until your feet ached.

Tonight, unlike last night, you and Santi retire to your shared room at the same time, your arm linked into his, and your shoes carried in your hand to spare your sore feet – there’s a reason you never normally wear shoes like this. Without your heels though, you keep tripping over the hem of your dress almost every few paces, causing you to giggle and Santi to steady you with a warm, rich chuckle, sometimes throwing you an extra hand to assist you.  

You look over at him, furtively, as he recounts some of the more choice moments from the day, immensely enjoying the simple pleasure of hearing him talk and smile and laugh. Seeing him happy. Of course, enjoying how he looks too, you have to admit - even more handsome than he did yesterday (somehow) in midnight blue dress pants, and a white, crisp shirt, now tieless. He’s only grown sexier as the evening drew on too, now with a wide open-collar and rolled up sleeves to accommodate all of the dancing; or, at least, as much dancing as his knees could handle, until he’d simply opted to sit to the side and watch you boogie, his eyes apparently transfixed on you and only you - the advances of the other bridesmaids be damned.

There is something that hits different about the way he looked at you today. His admiration shining deeper than usual. Less like a casual lust, and more like something… serious. You’re not sure why you doubted it before, exactly. Why you have been so inordinately afraid that he might hurt you. You broadly figured him for a smash and dash type of man, which is fine, but you have every reason to believe that he wants more with you.

After all, Santi can be deeply and tenaciously loyal. He has dedicated himself to things deeply and unwaveringly several times over in his life. To his country, to his missions, to his morals, to his squad. And there’s something about the way he looked at you today, you think, that suggests he might dedicate himself to you with the same tenacity. Something far deeper than appreciating how you look in this bridesmaid dress (and oh boy do you look hot). It’s more like the way he looks at Frankie. A little different to that, obviously. But you’re realising he looks at you like he’d never let you down. Not even in the smallest of ways. Like he’d rather go to the ends of the earth -or beyond- than do that.

At least… you think so.

You are sure about one thing though. The way he looks at you? It’s thoroughly disarming.

And so, you arrive at your shared room, utterly wiped out from the day (and night), yet still somehow buzzing with an energy. A gentle suffusing heat under your skin as you watch Santi walk inside and kick off his shoes at the end of the bed, before turning back towards you.

You have entered a few paces behind him, after nearly tripping on your gown all over again by the door, but now, you are quite steady on your feet - aside from that slight, nervous tremble in your quaking legs as he looks at you like that. As Santi looks you up and down, eyes skimming over the contours of your dress and hence everywhere it hugs your figure. Evidently, he likes what he sees.

“Wow,” he breathes, his brown eyes shining as if he’s looking at you for the first time that day, even if his gaze has barely left you all night. “I know it’s the bride’s day, but you look fuckin’ smokin’, sweetie.”

“You think so?” you ask humbly, suddenly feeling unreasonably shy. Flustered even.

“Yeah. I think so,” he nods, positively certain. “Shit, you’re so beautiful.”

You look at him. You look at him in a way which suggests an answer in your eyes instead of a question. A clear intention in your body, instead of uncertainty. But he doesn’t push you. He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t make a move. Instead, his mouth tugs up into a lopsided smile, offering you a lazy flash of teeth, and he shoves his thumbs into his belt loops.

“Well, we’re officially off the clock now, so I’m calling it. Well done, Maid of Honour. Think we nailed it? Made a pretty damn good team?”

A smile lights your face. You did. You flowed. You fit. It was easy.

Fuck. It feels so easy. Why had you ever thought this would be hard?

You nibble on your lip, eyeing him with intention, and a hard swallow trails down his throat in response.

“Off the clock, hmm?” you say breathily. “No more titles or duties? Huh. That’s a real shame.”

“How so?” he asks, his eyes devouring you alive, but his body fixed resolutely in place. Transfixed to the spot.

“Because it’s traditional for the Best Man to get with one of the bridesmaids, isn’t it?”

A slow, disbelieving smile inches over his face, and he looks at his feet, a little bashful. “Gross tradition. Kinda sexist,” he says, and your gaze fixates on his full, curving lips. On his hands, poised and broad at his belt.

“So, you don’t want to make out then?” you ask in your most sultry voice, mere breath.

The man huffs out a quick, broken exhale. “Fuck me. You know I do, sweetie. But only if you’re ready.”

Ready. Are you ready?

“Santiago,” you say, with conviction, your eyes dancing between his. “I’m ready.”

Santi searches your face one last time, just to be certain. He’s sure, of course – has been for a long time, but he needs to know that you truly want this. That you want this now. So, he looks at you, and he finds nothing but permission. Even so, after so long, he still can’t quite believe it. He would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe – or beyond – and, so dammit, he will ask you again.

“C-can I..” he begins, and his voice already sounds choked; hollowed out with need. “Fuck, Princesa, can I kiss you?”

Too long. Too long without moving. Without touching. Too long.

If you were suddenly ready, his kiss becomes even more suddenly overdue.

“You’d better,” you encourage, feeling like vapour. “Unless you want me to do it first.”

With permission granted, you expect him to be on you, with a surge. All at once. But Santi has been patiently waiting for you long enough. He can wait just a little longer, and, when he subtly tips his chin up, ever so slightly, and when he near growls “come here then, honey,” somehow, it is perfect. Somehow, it is a thousand times hotter that he makes you come to him.

You lift the hem of your dress, and you pad delicately towards him, feeling like you are wading through molten honey to get to him, the air thick and sweet.

“That’s it. Come here, baby,” he encourages, with a curl of his index finger beckoning you to him, his voice curling in the pit of you, making you feel weak in the best way possible. Making you feel spent before he’s even done so much as brush you with his hand or his lips.  

You close the remaining distance with your steps, the anticipation too much, and your legs feeling so weak from the reckless lust and the light, liquid softness in his eyes. By this point, you are begging for his arms to reach out and clasp you- to hold you up; make you secure and safe in him. You are begging for his lips to sink down on to yours. But he makes you wait, through a few more slow, stretched moments. Makes you inch your mouth closer and closer until your lips are almost skimming his. He makes you wait until you are moaning his name into the air before he has even touched you.

“Santi.”

And, if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that when you call for him, he is always there to take care of you.

You know he will take care of you.  

With that, his name a plea, he swoops his broad, large hand up until he is holding you, his fingers closing around your jaw and your throat, trailing down your neck. His touch is painfully gentle, but in a way that makes you want him to squeeze, a little harder. In a way that makes you push yourself ever so subtly into his hand. A way that draws a silken moan from deep in your chest, and Santi is moved to dip the pad of his thumb into your mouth, where it meets your wet and willing warmth. When your tongue skims him, humming as you taste his saltiness, that seems to be the final straw, a wrecked groan sounding from his throat, and finally he surges on to your lips, leading with his tongue, thrusting into your open mouth and drinking down every sound and moan he can draw from you, his stubble rough against you. You don’t care if he leaves you raw.

It’s tender, and it’s gentle, but Santi knows all about control, and you can tell he’s holding back. His hands are lethal, and he knows just how to kill you softly; but, you are certain, that if you want more of his power, he’ll give it to you. That he’ll take care of you however you like.

So, he kisses you more deeply, harder, and you go near limp against him until one of his arms wraps at the back of your head and one at the small of your back, making you feel a feeble thing, waning in his arms as his large hands support you. Except; you’re not feeble though. You’re not by a long shot, and you know exactly what you want.

“Santi,” you suspire, letting him walk you back against the wall, pressing his bulging arousal into you as more wrangled sounds and little grunts slip from his parted lips.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, already sounding wrecked for you.

“There’s only one shower. Wanna share?!”

Even as he releases an endlessly eager, disbelieving breath, his eyes keenly search your face, checking you are ready. He watches, enraptured, as your lips curl into a deliciously sinful smile.

“You know. We don’t have to rush this,” he insists, even as he shivers with need, closing his eyes and biting his lip when you angle your hips to brush the tenting bulge at his crotch, ever so fleetingly, his hips bucking into you immediately in pursuit of more pressure.

“I know,” you say coolly, your body an undercurrent of frenzy, but your mind calm and sure. You push him back, with your palms to his chest, making room for you to about-turn into the bathroom, shimmying off your dress as you go and letting it waft to the floor like a sigh. Looking at him over your shoulder, with lust-blown eyes, you leave Santi stood there, entirely dumbfounded, as you reveal all of yourself to him.

You retreat, but once the water is running you call out to him, wondering where he has got to. “Take a hint, Garcia. If you’re ready? I’m waiting.”

And, he doesn’t waste another second before joining you.

THE END

(BONUS: Outfit inspo, if you wanna imagine him in the suits a lil better 😉)

[theramseyloft]

After Ankhou died, I have had a very hard time keeping up with both manual loft maintenance and media work.

Manual loft maintenance is the higher priority of the two, so that's were the energy I have has been focused.

The birds are happy, but I have failed to advertise availability for two months.

The birds currently available do not meet the specifications of anyone on my wait list, and to prevent the loft from getting crowded, we've frozen rescue intake and implemented strict hatch control.

Breeding pairs on the roster are only permitted to hatch their first clutch with another bird also on the roster.

Every subsequent clutch will be swapped with fakes at least until all currently available cocks go home.

As I am not caught up on editing photos yet, I will have to make due with listing the name, parents, and temperament of available birds.

Please message me privately, email theramseyloft@gmail.com, or call/text 706-993-7452 for more information.

1. Raddish

Mia x Cara

Retired. ($20)

Was friendly as a young bird, but has not had the opportunity to express temperament in Qt.

Not to be bred under any circumstance due to one known and a second possible cancer in his blood line.

2. Wukong

Blue Check Chinese Owl cock

Loft Bird $30.

Wukong is an excellent father that will definitely benefit a breeding program.

He's very human shy, unless his mate isn't.

Chances of him bonding with a patient person that will let him make friends at his own pace are decent, but I can't guarantee it in good conscience.

3. Farthing

Pied Almond Blue T-pattern het for Toy Stencil mixed cock.

Betty x Hagrid

Comfortable ($50)

A bit of a himbo, Farthing is one of our better known cocks.

He likes people and often gets in my lap or on my shoulder, when not distracted by being the loft bi-cycle.

He's pretty and sweet, but Giant Homer and Frillback ancestry make him a big boy with long flights and tail feathers that will need a lot of room.

4. Leela

Khaki T-pattern mixed hen

Cody x Rigby

Comfortable ($50)

Leela is a mellow little sweety that likes my lap and shoulders.

She's a great pumper, but chain lays and starts a new clutch INCREDIBLY early! Leaving nestlings well fed, but largely unguarded.

5. Todoroki

Tippler

Sooty Ash Red Bar cock

Rescue ($20)

Todoroki is an EXTREMELY high energy breed that will need a LOT of space to free fly most of the time.

He would be happier in a loft than as an indoor pet.

6. Amiga

Blue T-pattern mix hen

Pippin x Cookie

Retired ($20)

Amiga is going to be a pain.

She hates people to the point of trying to break herself to get away from them, and she cannot under any circumstance be allowed to hatch an egg.

She provides her own hatch control by nest cup dancing on her hatchlings. She has been given two chances to hatch clutches, and eviscerated all three peeps this way.

So she will need to be housed in a loft with minimal interaction other than obsessively switching her eggs with fakes.

7. Dolly

Blue Bar mixed hen

Pippin x Cookie

Loft Bird ($30)

Dolly is her sister Amiga's opposite in almost every way.

She's only retired from my program because she's the hen on the roster that likes people the least.

She is an amazing, devoted mother and would make a fantastic foster hen.

8. Wess

Blue tailmark mixed cock

Wukong x Suki

Curious ($40)

Wess is shy and dislikes being approached directly, but often chills nearby preening my clothing and occasionally hops up on my knee.

He is a TERRIBLE dad! It took him two weeks to start helping Dolly feed their nestlings and never sat on them when they were little enough to need it.

9. Arco

Pied Ash Red T-pattern mixed cock

Vito x Cookie

Loft Bird ($30)

Arco is uninterested in people, but not afraid of them.

He'd be a good partner for a nervous rescue bird, or an absolutely amazing foster dad!

He's devoted to his mate and her nest and doesn't start shit with flock mates once he's settled.

10. Bridget

Blue T-pattern feral cock

Rescue ($20)

This is the boy we found with a broken wing and foot on the sidewalk under an overpass.

He's healed entirely and though flighty and skittish, gets along very well with his flockmates.

Like Arco, he takes a mate, picks a nest, settles, and doesn't start shit.

He'd make an excellent foster or partner for a skittish rescue.

11. Scan

Pied ash red cock

Cherub x Tandy

Loft Bird ($30)

Scan is Cherub and Tandy's first hatch.

I was initially going to keep him, but his brother, Nimbus, has a better temperament.

Scan is a flamboyantly aggressive pain in the ass, constantly starting shit with established pairs to earn himself a spot in the hierarchy.

He'd likely mellow out with fewer birds, but isn't interested in being social with me, so I don't think he'd be the best house pet.

12. Acer

Ash Red T-pattern mixed cock

Pippin x Cookie

Loft Bird ($30)

Acer's classification as a loft bird is maintained by technicality.

He has to come in after repeatedly attacking nestlings.

If he does it again with different ones when he goes out on Thursday, his status will be changed to Retired foe unusually severe aggression.

This seems to be a pattern developing in the Pippin x Cookie line...

Which is going to make the birds afflicted hard to place.

13. Bell

Blue T-pattern mixed hen

Pippin x Cookie

Loft Bird ($30)

Bell is the same intense degree of skittish as the rest of her siblings, but gets along well with her flock mates.

She has the best chance of them of being ok as a house bird, but she'd honestly be happiest either in a loft or with a bird friend.

14. Rusty

Pied Ash Red T-pattern mixed cock

Ginger x Danica

Curious ($40)

Rusty is an energetic boy with places to be and stuff to explore!

He occasionally lands on my shoulder or head, or hops briefly up into my lap

He isn't afraid of people, but not liking to hold still makes him hard to interact with.

He's very fun to watch, though, and would be a good match for any one who wanted an independent bird.

15. Checkers

Pied blue check mixed cock

Ginger x Danica

Loft Bird ($30)

Checkers is less interested in people than his brother, Rusty.

He's energetic, gorgeous, and fun to watch, and would make a lovely addition to a pet loft.

He probably wouldn't enjoy being a house bird unless he had a hen to interact with.

He's very combative with other cocks, and has not yet learned the virtue of "Don't start none, won't be none."

16. Frieda

Khaki tailmark mixed hen

Wukong x Suki

Comfortable ($50)

Frieda, though not super outgoing, is friendly in spite of her shyness.

She often gets up in my lap to loaf, but doesn't like being reached for, even with treats.

If you just want warm, quiet company while you read, watch videos, or do desk work, she'll be an excellent match for you.

17. Berry

Pied blue bar hen

Cherub x Tandy

Loft Bird ($30)

Berry is not remotely interested in hanging out with me. She isn't even curious.

She's not afraid by any stretch, she just would rather do literally anything but interact with me.

With lots of enrichment or another bird, she could be ok inside, or she'd make a pretty loft bird.

18. Shinobi

Black pied mixed hen

Leonard x Elliot

Comfortable ($50)

Like most of her siblings, Shinobi is friendly and interested in people, but too energetic to really hold still for long.

She is sweet and polite about taking treats when she feels like it.

She'd be quite happy as a house bird with lots of flight time.

19. Mote

Blue check mixed hen

Wukong x Suki

Curious ($40)

Mote is shy and reserved, but mostly seems overwhelmed by how many of her older and younger flockmates want to be in my lap or on my shoulders at any given time.

When my lap is free, she will usually hop up unto it and loaf for a bit.

She has a good chance of coming out of her shell as a house pet.

20. Tye

Pied tiger grizzle ash red cock

Ginger x Danica

Loft Bird ($30)

Tye is a drop dead gorgeous little man, the spit'n image of his father, Ginger.

He's not afraid of people, but literally everything else is more interesting.

Being a roller and tumbler mix, he's a delightfully acrobatic flier who is a joy to watch.

He'd be a striking addition to a pet loft, or, with enough enrichment or a friend provided, a great addition to a household.

21. Slate

Dirty, smoky blue bar mixed hen.

Satin x Chiffon

Interactive ($60)

Slate's brother, Cotta, is my new therapy prospect.

Slate is mellow and sweet tempered, happily accepts treats, and occasionally tries to play with my fingers like she would a stick.

She's quite happy to loaf in my lap and occasionally lets me stroke her little neck with a fingertip.

22. Flint

Blue check mixed cock

Nobu x Leela

Comfortable ($50)

Flint is a sweet little man that has started jumping into my lap at every opportunity, and often flailing his way up to loaf on my chest.

He accepts treats politely when he feels like it, but doesn't try to play with me yet.

I told y'all there were a TON of birds available. XD

I'll do my best to update this post as there are updates to make, but 22 is WAY more birds ready for homes than I'm really ok with having, especially with winter on the way.

It's my own fault for failing to advertise that they were available as soon as they became available.

Now I'm just going to have to wait before I can do any more rescue work or hatch peeps out for the people on my wait list.

Back to playing catch up...

[plaid-shirtsandvibranium-arms]

Disconnected (New Series Preview)

Full Chapter 1 has been posted. Check it on my masterlist.

Summary: Faced with a new enemy intent on causing havoc around the world, the Avengers are in need of some help. Tony volunteered a friend he said was perfect with her knowledge of explosives and technology. You were not what they expected.

Fandoms: Avengers, Marvel

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Mutant!Reader, Avengers x Mutant!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: EVENTUAL SMUT. IMPLIED SMUT. SEXUAL BEHAVIOURS. (Do not read if you are under 18), Cursing, Canon Level Violence, Blood, Gore, Mentions of Past Trauma, Abandonment Issues, Adorable Pining, Oblivious Reader, Mild Angst, Fluff

A/N: New series preview! Yay! Contrary to the angst I have been writing against Steve, he is actually my comfort character. And I am in need of comfort right now.

No permission is granted to repost my work. Tumblr is the only place I post my writing. If you see it anywhere else please report it.

Masterlist

1: Unexpected Packaging

Steve Rogers fiddled with his phone as he leaned against the conference table in the Avengers Compound, one hand on his hip and a deep crease on his brow. He was frowning down at the device like he often did. It's been years since he was thawed out and he should be used to technology by now, and he was, but innovation was so fast paced now that by the time he got the hang of one thing there were already three upgrades available. It was aggravating.

"Need help with that, old man?" Natasha smirked from the seat beside him, her legs propped up on the table while she nibbled on a chocolate bar.

He snorted, more than just used to his teammate's teasing. He glanced around, silently doing a head count before he nodded satisfied that everyone was there. Well everyone that needed to be there anyway.

Clint was snoozing on a chair, arms crossed and chin dropped to his chest. His bow sat on his lap, not having the chance yet to put his gear away after just returning from a mission. Bruce was in a corner, head bowed as he read the data on the tablet he held. His hand was alternating between scratching his beard and pulling at his hair, clearly unhappy with what he was seeing. Wanda and Vision were sat facing each other, staring adoringly at the other while having a silent discussion in their minds. A loving conversation privy only to them. In stark contrast beside them was Sam and Bucky, the former much too entertained with teasing the latter who was visibly growing more and more irritated.

He couldn't help the small quirk at the corner of his lips at the clumsy dynamic of their makeshift family. Even as they were preparing to face a new nefarious enemy, he was confident in his team. That was the reason they were all gathered there that afternoon. The Avengers were going against a new organization who was quickly making a name for themselves by strategically bombing iconic sites in multiple cities. They were succeeding so far in maintaining their anonymity and causing chaos wherever they struck. They needed help.

"Stark's late," Bucky grumbled, half because of waiting and the other half because of Sam. Their love-hate relationship was complicated at best, but there was no doubt that they had each other's back.

"Who even is he bringing?" Natasha said, immediately suspicious as is her nature. Steve was apprehensive about that too. He would take the help but he would much prefer knowing everything about a person before he trusts them with having his back.

Before theories and doubts could be thrown around, the elevator dinged signaling the arrival of Tony Stark. They saw him first through the glass walls of the conference room, walking with purpose ahead with a giddy grin on his face. What threw them off was the person who trailed behind him.

There was a confidence in your strut, your strides sure with each step even if this was your first time in the premises. Your shoulders were slumped forward just the slightest bit, in what most would misconstrue as nerves where in fact it was plain curiosity. It wasn't your physical presence that shocked them. It was the fact that you were heavily restrained.

Your hands were fully encased in a wide rounded cylinder that covered up to your forearms. The case was thick and made with black reinforced metal, impossible to get out of. A small screen was on top, blinking blue and displaying information. On your mouth was a muzzle, similar to the one they placed on Loki years ago, but wider and wound around your head.

"What the hell?" Sam voiced what everyone was thinking.

They were expecting a new teammate; perhaps a highly skilled agent like Natasha, an enhanced like Wanda, a genius like Tony. Hell, they wouldn't even be surprised if they somehow pulled out another Hulk. Whatever you were was nowhere on the list of possibilities and at that point they didn't even know a single thing about you. And Tony looked far too happy. It unnerved every single one of them.

Your head turned to face them, sensing the many eyes on you. Through the glass separating you from them, Steve locked eyes with you and the breath was knocked out of him. He couldn't see half of your face but your eyes alone were magnetic; glinting with mischief, deep with intellect, and crinkling at the corners indicating you were smiling under the muzzle.

You were trouble.

When you and Tony entered the room, Steve noted that your eyes quickly flit from one person to another. If he wasn't paying such close attention to you, he would have missed the fact that you paid more than just a cursory glance at his team. No, you had thoroughly assessed each one from head to toe and carefully catalogued what you observed. In the few seconds that your eyes almost maniacally darted across the room, you had analyzed their capabilities and calculated their threat level.

You were definitely trouble.

"Uh, Tony?" Natasha said, carefully keeping a safe distance but a discerning eye on the newcomer who was clearly dangerous to be needing such drastic binds. "What's with Loki the sequel?"

Tony looked at Natasha for a moment, confused at her reaction. Then his gaze moved through the room of superheroes, all with tense looks and poised to jump into action at a moment's notice. Then finally he looked at you literally bound and gagged but looking relaxed as you tilted your constraints up and down in an almost playful manner. He realized his mistake.

"Oh," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I realize now that this looks bad."

There was a chorus of snorts and sarcastic hums in the room while you continued to toy with your god-grade handcuffs seemingly unbothered by the barely contained animosity directed at you. Tony put his hands up a bit and stepped slightly in front of you. Natasha was the most curious at the protective gesture.

"The restraints aren't actually there to detain her," he explained carefully. "They're more for her entertainment."

The loud clang of heavy metal hitting the floor boomed through the room as the device encasing your arms disengaged. The noise had startled everyone in the room and alerted Clint who had slept through the whole introduction. He jolted awake, instinctively grabbed his quiver, and shot straight at you before anyone could even realize what he was doing.

Permanent Taglist:

@alwaysclassyeagle @closetbtstrash

[fenristheorem]

New Era Lance Headcanons

I told myself I wouldn’t do this before episode 4 came out... but here I am.

I originally wanted to wait until ANE episode 4 was out to post any of my own headcanons for Lance, but I know they had a fire at one of their locations recently and that has delayed the release of the episode (my heart goes out to them), so I figured I should just go ahead and post some headcanons because I’ve been dying to do so.

~Headcanons under the cut because these are long~

General:

Twice a year, on their birthday and the anniversary of his death, Lance brings Floppy (because I theorize he adopted Floppy) to visit Valkyon’s grave. Really, this can happen at nearly any time of the year - but seeing as Lance is busy as Chief of Obsidian Guard, he can’t always make time to visit his brother’s grave. However, Lance always makes sure to find time to visit the grave with Floppy on these two special dates. He'll even specifically ask Huang Hua to try and make sure his schedule isn't too busy on these two days. He never says why, but it's not hard to guess.

Lance occasionally talks out loud... to his brother... distantly hoping that - despite the fact that he’s dead - Valk will somehow hear him and by some miracle respond to his brother. He doesn’t do this very often, only when he finds himself caught in a low moment where he feels truly isolated from everyone and the ache to have his brother by his side again echos through him like thunder through a mountain valley, but when he does it means he really needs the comfort. No one in the guard knows this about him; he makes sure that he never does this in public or where anyone could find him doing this. Valkyon’s death effected nearly everyone in the guard, but Lance was still his brother and doesn’t believe most people would understand the full extent of his regrets and, further more, his ways of coping with this great loss.

Lance never visited the re-formed crystal created by Leiftan and Erika. Not once - in all 7 years. He never felt he had the right to because this situation and all his pain was primarily caused by him and, therefore, he needs to bear the pain as part of taking responsibility for his actions. The crystal room became a symbol of hope and forging forward into a new era, and while Lance is grateful for being given a chance to redeem, he's aware that he has a long way to go before he has made up for everything he's done, if he ever could. He feels he needs to find his own hope from within and help guide the guard with it, not rely on the guard and the new crystal to provide him with hope for the future.

Romantic:

Lance is very used to being alone by now. Because of this, he keeps his romantic partner at a distance when they first start off. It’s not that he’s not interested - it’s just that he’s settling into the idea that someone actually wants to be closer to him after everything he’s done, especially the woman he threw off a cliff. He’s not entirely sure how to react to a woman finding romantic interest in him, hell he’s not even sure he deserves it. It's been years since he's allowed himself to consider romantic companionship, so he's widely used to being his own rock. However, once they’ve been together for a while, he’ll trust himself (and her) a bit more and actually allow himself to be a bit more comfortable and minorly impulsive around her. Slowly he’ll allow himself to throw a few jokes around, he’ll allow himself to share his opinion on things around her more, and he’ll find it a little easier to smile each day. Now he’s not one to hide his emotions, but he certainly keeps himself in check to avoid causing damage or pain as he's painfully aware that heavy emotions can influence people. However, this disappears when he begins to trust his partner more; he's less hesitant and more confident that she won't shun him for having strong emotions and opinions on certain things.

Once they’ve been together for a while and his romantic partner has effectively torn down the walls of isolation he built around himself, she’ll find he’s... a bit territorial. After all, he’s allowing himself to become attached to someone for the first time in years; why wouldn’t he be attentive and watchful with his newfound companion? He’s not openly aggressive towards others when jealous or feeling territorial (in the rare case that he is, as he’s learned later on in the relationship that he has nothing to be insecure about), he refuses to bring that sort of disruption to the guard, but he’s certainly not above throwing Guardienne over his shoulder (without his armor on, of course) when he’s reminded of a moment earlier in the day where another man seemed to be just a bit too interested in what she was saying. Pair that with a kind, naive smile from her and a few jokes, and perhaps an encounter with a Leiftan at some point, and you have the perfect combination for a semi-jealous ice dragon who suddenly craves attention from his lover. He’ll take her over his shoulder and saunter over to the nearby bed in who-ever’s room they’re in, lay her gently down and rest himself beside her, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her close to his chest as they settle in to stay like that for minutes to hours depending on how long they have together. She better not hope to leave anytime soon then. Unless they have somewhere to be, Lance is unlikely to let her go for any reasons; he wants her attention and he's going to get it.

Lance is an ice dragon. This is well known by now and he's proud of his heritage. However, with this also comes all the responsibility of being an ice dragon; specifically the instincts. This is also something his partner needs to learn to deal with if they hope to maintain a relationship with him, because he's certainly not about to rebuke himself for having natural instincts (unless it truly begins to become a problem or he accidentally hurts someone). These instincts can range from being very territorial and possessive at certain times and situations, to keeping a special watch on her to make sure she isn't hurt at times where she could be prone to it, or treating her like a living goddess merely because the mood strikes him and he wants to show appreciation for her presence. These are only a few examples. When do these instincts hit hardest? He's still trying to figure that out, seeing that he hasn't been with anyone for a while. However, they can effect him in different degrees. Some days he'll hold her for an extra five minutes longer before she leaves to hang out with Mathieu, Koori and Karenn, other days he'll request that Huang Hua allow him to escort her on a minor mission in the forests surrounding HQ because he wants to do everything he can to protect her and give them time alone together. If they're interrupted on their mission by someone else, Lance will be deathly quiet and still as his partner and the newcomer carry on their conversation, only speaking when spoken too, and he won't be mean, but internally he'll be quite irritated at the fact that their alone-time is being interrupted when he planned for them to be alone for a while. Ideally, his partner will pick up on his distance and wrap up the conversation, and once the newcomer leaves Lance won't hesitate to take his partner by the wrist (gently) and briskly drag her away from the direction of her conversational partner. When he feels they're far away enough, he'll abruptly turn around and press her against a tree, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her neck with a faint growl. The best thing his partner can do in this time is hold him. He doesn't need comfort or reassurance, he just needs time alone with her. However, that's one of the extremes of his instincts. Most of the time he acts on subtle instincts. He'll pull her into a secluded corner of the guard for a few minutes to talk privately and share a few kisses, or he'll be passing by and see something in the market that she said she needed, or perhaps he sees something he thinks she'll look good with or he knows she'll like, and then track her down after purchasing to gift his find to her. At the end of the day, he just wants her to know he appreciates her, and when the sudden urge to do something with or for her strikes he has a hard time letting it go. And while Lance is very independent and doesn't wish to oppress or suffocate his partner, his instincts can become a bit overbearing at certain times. All his partner needs to do is confide in him about this and he'll try and make them a bit more comfortable (after all, his instincts tell him to care for her before anything else) but she will need to try and tolerate this as much as possible, if it's even an issue to begin with. However, Lance is quite confident that she'll enjoy the intimate side of his instincts more often than the domestic instincts, no matter how she feels about the domestic side...

I’m considering making Lance headcanons a routine post on my page - maybe one or two posts every couple of days. I have a few more headcanons that I can post, and I’m sure I’ll have more after ep. 4 is out, but I’m always open to writing specific headcanons upon request.

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

[millenniumblog]

[ID: A chart describing the core values of each of the nine Enneagram personality types with YuGiOh characters correlated to each of the types.]

YuGiOh Enneagram Analysis, Part #1

Please note that this is the “boring” informational post about Enneagram with the Types listed and explained as well as a few other things. The next post is what has the actual, in-depth character profiles promised!

Introduction & Motivation

Over the past several months, I have been trying to analyze my strengths and weaknesses as a writer and learn more. I have been writing fanfiction since I was a little kid, making my first FF.net account in 2003 when I would have been twelve years old. Even before that, I was a lurker and wrote fics to share with my childhood best friend on paper or floppy discs.

YuGiOh came into my life at some point shortly thereafter. I know this, because I spent my thirteenth birthday in a comic book shop, mostly watching some of my male friends play the trading card game. I had some of the cards, but I was never much of a player, unable to keep up with the seemingly rapid rule changes. Besides that, I was always way more interested in the story and characters than I was in the card game. I remember I even wanted to call “YuGiOh cards” “Duel Monsters” instead to make it seem a little closer to tween-y LARPing.

Eventually, I gave up on collecting cards or trying to ply the game. I felt that while my male friends didn’t mind me being around when they played, they weren’t extremely interested in helping me learn or keep up. I felt I had other strengths, so I started carrying around a notebook even more than I already did. I started my fledgling forays into online fandom. And YuGiOh was a big part of the beginning of that.

I can’t remember posting any YuGiOh fic in particular, and I’m sure that if I had it would make me cringe now. What I do remember is reading some and also spending a lot of time lying on my bed, headphones plugged into a small purple stereo, listening to the first of the two American-released CDs with YuGiOh-inspired music on them. In particular, the last three tracks were pieces of music from the original score composed for the 4Kids dub, which is - for some reason - different from the original Japanese music.

During that time, I would fantasize and conjure my own YuGiOh plots in my head, most of which were focused on the Ancient Egyptian and more spooky, spiritual, and horror themes in the show. I was really fascinated with the reincarnation angle, though my understanding of and opinions on how that works have grown with time.

Years went by, and I didn’t think about YuGiOh much at all. Then, something happened in 2018. I don’t know what got in my head, but it was like all the joy I once found in thinking about the YuGiOh characters came back in a giddy conversation with my childhood best friend. Then, for a little while, it wouldn’t leave me alone.

I started writing for the fandom then, and after several detours, I’m trying to get back in the groove of it.

My approach to the tone of YuGiOh-fanning is that it’s a bit serious, but it’s also with a tongue placed in my cheek because of how incomprehensible or silly the plot can be on a meta level. Sometimes, it almost brings tears to my eyes by being so over-the-top about something that, in the real world, would make no sense at all. But the drama, in the context of the universe, somehow rings true.

I think that’s all owing to how most of the primary characters are just... really freaking great characters.

It has often puzzled me. Like, did Takahashi do all this layering on purpose? Is it really there, or did earnest fanon just make it seem like it? And, as a person, I am always here for a good fan-and-canon symbiosis.

This post is going to be, from here on, an effort to match the YuGiOh characters to the 9 Enneagram Personality Types. I am writing this for my own benefit as I continue to work on my pet YuGiOh fanfiction project, It’s Always Sunny in Domino City, which is a mixture of YGOTAS-vibes-and-concepts taken seriously and a sincere take on fanfiction for the actual canon. It’s dramedy about a sizeable chunk of the main cast a few years post-canon with some canon divergence such as the Memory World arc not yet and possibly never-happening. If that sounds like something you’d like, I would humbly request you check it out!

Either way, this will be an in-depth character analysis cheatsheet for all of the characters above, based on my observations, opinions, and feelings. I invite discussion, but it’s fine if we need to agree to totally disagree!

If you are interested and enjoy what’s below the Read More and in the coming second post, then you are welcome to utilize the character analyses to aid you in your own fanwork!

Enneagram

What is Enneagram, and why am I using it?

Enneagram is a personality categorization system that one might compare to the somewhat better-known MBTI. However, in the words of excellent writing-advice YouTuber, Abbie Emmons:

MBTI shows us how we behave.

Enneagram shows us what we believe.

I will be referencing Abbie’s video Using The ENNEAGRAM To Write CONFLICTED CHARACTERS and her free Enneagram-cheatsheet, available in the description of the linked video. Whether it’s before you continue reading or after, if you’re interested in writing, I would highly recommend you check out her channel!

The Enneagram system has nine basic personality types that overlap and interact in really interesting ways. It is not a hard science, and it’s not a horoscope. Instead, it’s supposed to be “based on conventional wisdom and modern psychology.” All I can say is that with every set of characters I’ve tried it with, it works! Once you get the hang of it, it feels kind of like ~✰~magic~✰~!

Below, I will list Abbie’s simplified definitions of each of the personality types, in order:

Type 1: The Reformer

The Rational, Idealistic Type:

Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic

Basic Fear: Of being corrupt/evil, defective

Basic Desire: To be good, to have integrity, to be balanced

Key Motivations: Want to be right, to strive higher and improve everything, to be consistent with their ideals, to justify themselves, to be beyond criticism so as not to be condemned by anyone.

Type 2: The Helper

The Caring, Interpersonal Type:

Generous, Demonstrative, People-Pleasing, and Possessive

Basic Fear: Of being unwanted, unworthy of being loved

Basic Desire: To feel loved

Key Motivations: Want to be loved, to express their feelings for others, to be needed and appreciated, to get others to respond to them, to vindicate their claims about themselves.

Type 3: The Achiever

The Success-Oriented, Pragmatic Type:

Adaptable, Excelling, Driven, and Image-Conscious

Basic Fear: Of being worthless

Basic Desire: To feel valuable and worthwhile

Key Motivations: Want to be affirmed, to distinguish themselves from others, to have attention, to be admired, and to impress others.

Type 4: The Individualist

The Sensitive, Introspective Type:

Expressive, Dramatic, Self-Absorbed, and Temperamental

Basic Fear: That they have no identity or personal significance

Basic Desire: To find themselves and their significance (to create an identity)

Key Motivations: Want to express themselves and their individuality, to create and surround themselves with beauty, to maintain certain moods and feelings, to withdraw to protect their self-image, to take care of emotional needs before attending to anything else, to attract a "rescuer."

Type 5: The Investigator

The Intense, Cerebral Type:

Perceptive, Innovative, Secretive, and Isolated

Basic Fear: Being useless, helpless, or incapable

Basic Desire: To be capable and competent

Key Motivations: Want to possess knowledge, to understand the environment, to have everything figured out as a way of defending the self from threats from the environment.

Type 6: The Loyalist

The Committed, Security-Oriented Type:

Engaging, Responsible, Anxious, and Suspicious

Basic Fear: Of being without support and guidance

Basic Desire: To have security and support

Key Motivations: Want to have security, to feel supported by others, to have certitude and reassurance, to test the attitudes of others toward them, to fight against anxiety and insecurity.

Type 7: The Enthusiast

The Busy, Variety-Seeking Type:

Spontaneous, Versatile, Acquisitive, and Scattered

Basic Fear: Of being deprived and in pain

Basic Desire: To be satisfied and content—to have their needs fulfilled

Key Motivations: Want to maintain their freedom and happiness, to avoid missing out on worthwhile experiences, to keep themselves excited and occupied, to avoid and discharge pain.

Type 8: The Challenger

The Powerful, Dominating Type:

Self-Confident, Decisive, Willful, and Confrontational

Basic Fear: Of being harmed or controlled by others

Basic Desire: To protect themselves (to be in control of their own life and destiny)

Key Motivations: Want to be self-reliant, to prove their strength and resist weakness, to be important in their world, to dominate the environment, and to stay in control of their situation.

Type 9: The Peacemaker

The Easygoing, Self-Effacing Type:

Receptive, Reassuring, Agreeable, and Complacent

Basic Fear: Of loss and separation

Basic Desire: To have inner stability, "peace of mind"

Key Motivations: Want to create harmony in their environment, to avoid conflicts and tension, to preserve things as they are, to resist whatever would upset or disturb them.

Now that you’ve seen all those, what do you think your favorite character is? In YuGiOh or anything else! It works great for original characters and even yourself and your loved ones.

The actual Character Profiles will be in coming post(s), but continue reading if you want me to explain more about how and why the Enneagram is a great personality typing system. #nonspon, or whatever.

The Enneagram Chart

Now, you could just go to the Enneagram Institute’s page on How the System Works, but below I’ll cut it down to only the parts I’m interested in and explain those in a way that helps me.

Unlike in astrology or MBTI, which are both more restrictive in different ways, the relative position of each type matters a bit on the Enneagram chart, because it can be used to visualize a lot of things about a person!

The Basic Chart

The Types are shown in a clockwise fashion with “1″ in the 1 o’clock position on an analog clock. The interior lines mean things, but I have trouble reading it without further delineation.

Centers of Response

Below are two small charts, displayed side-by-side. (If it’s too small, try right-click, open in new tab!)

The chart on the left shows the three “centers.” The “centers” indicate the first ‘processing language’ a person would use to respond to stimuli.

Type 8, Type 9, and Type 1 respond first based on instinct (primal, gut-feeling). If you want to go Freudian, this is from the id.

Type 2, Type 3, and Type 4 respond first based on feelings (social or personal desires, the heart). If you want to go Freudian, this is from the ego.

Type 5, Type 6, and Type 7 respond first based on thoughts (analytical rather than emotional, the head). If you want to go Freudian, this is from the superego.

Remember that, of course, every single type and person engages their instincts, their emotions, and their thoughts at different times and to different degrees, and some of these are learned or changed behaviors. This is about what their innate drive toward that would be.

Likewise, the same “centers” can also be used for the chart on the right. You will notice that all three of these are defined by what is typically considered a negative emotion. This is because this is about a person’s instinctive, not particularly conscious emotional response when they are backed into a corner and deprived of something that is core to the needs of their personality type.

Type 8, Type 9, and Type 1 tend to respond to a threat to their psychic well-being with anger/rage.

Type 2, Type 3, and Type 4 tend to respond to a threat to their psychic well-being with shame.

Type 5, Type 6, and Type 7 tend to respond to a threat to their psychic well-being with fear.

Stress vs. Growth

We all know that there are times when a person isn’t acting like themselves, for better or for worse. Usually, “You’re not acting like yourself,” means that a person is behaving badly. Of course, it’s way easier to withdraw and bristle and defend rather than growing in the midst of adversity. However, it is certainly possible to experience character growth in response to experiences, good and bad. Unlike a lot of other personality typing schemes, the Enneagram has a way to display and predict what stress and growth do to a person.

The Enneagram never suggests that any Type is an island unto itself. Every person contains multitudes, but a person’s Type is likely to remain relatively stable throughout their lives, once they have had a chance to develop any personality at all. This means that when a person is stressed or growing that they do not become the type they emulate. Rather, they are more highly expressing that aspects of their personality that reflect those drives and desires but in a way that is either fraught, sickly, or unwell (in the case of stress), or aspirational, flying-high, and incorporating the hard-lessons into who a person is going to be going forward (in the case of growth). The latter, especially, isn’t a sustainable mode, while a stressed person can become more entrenched in their bad habits and defensive coping mechanisms.

Stress

Note the white, directional arrows. Each number has an arrow point pointing to it and an arrow leading away from it. The point indicates that this is the stress manifestation for the Type at the origin of that arrow. The origin of each arrow indicates the Type being described.

Confused? Let me finally give you a YuGiOh example.

When I was trying to identify the Types of the characters, defining Marik was difficult, because he has a “Yami,” or Dark Side, which has its own personality and will but which is not its own separate soul or person than Marik himself. Rather, it’s a kind of fantasy/magic-assisted personality splintering where Yami Marik is a full manifestation of the negative traits Marik needed to embody to survive.

So, for reference:

When stressed, Type 1 behaves more like Type 4. 

When stressed, Type 2 behaves more like Type 8.

When stressed, Type 3 behaves more like Type 9.

When stressed, Type 4 behaves more like Type 2.

When stressed, Type 5 behaves more like Type 7.

When stressed, Type 6 behaves more like Type 3.

When stressed, Type 7 behaves more like Type 1.

When stressed, Type 8 behaves more like Type 5.

When stressed, Type 9 behaves more like Type 6.

Alternatively, you can use these sequences to follow the stress lines:

1-4-2-8-5-7-1

9-6-3-9

Growth

Think of the above-explanation in reverse.

The sequence:

1-7-5-8-2-4-1

9-3-6-9

As a Type 1 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 7.

As a Type 2 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 4.

As a Type 3 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 6.

As a Type 4 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 1.

As a Type 5 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 8.

As a Type 6 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 9.

As a Type 7 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 5.

As a Type 8 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 2.

As a Type 9 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 3.

Wings

The final thing to know about the Enneagram chart for my purposes is about wings. The wing of your personality traits accounts for the complementary and contradictory aspects of your personality. They are the inconsistencies that make you human, predicted and jumped in. Typically, a person is not thought to have both possible wings but one or the other. A wing is one of the two adjacent Types to yours, the number before, or the number after, and it is annotated, for example:

Type 1, Wing 2: 1w2

Type 1, Wing 9: 1w9

Link to Part 2 Here!

[nitewrighter]

Why are people trying to crash AO3? Please dont, it keeps me sane.

Eh probably another, “You’re hosting incest/rape/pedophilia fics!” performative outrage panic. Like... yeah, there are people posting gross stuff on that platform, but I think the more effective method is confronting and deplatforming the people who post the nasty stuff, not attacking the platform.

 Like... look, I work in a library, and most of my job is grabbing holds. Every so often, ‘Mein Kampf’ is on the holds list. Does it make me intensely uncomfortable to pull it off the shelf for whatever patron is requesting it? Yeah. Am I going, “Please be for a research project, please be for a research project” when I grab it? Yeah. But do I think it would be right for us to just axe it out of the collection altogether? Or for me to just go ‘Whoooops! I lost it! I guess you can’t have this book I disagree with!’

No... I can’t say that I think it would be right.

See, at the end of the day, Archive of Our Own is an archive, and as an archive, its function is to be a repository for fan and original fiction: the good, the bad, and the ugly. It is not AO3′s responsibility to be the arbiter of what is “good” and “evil” fiction. It is not AO3′s job to protect you from its own content or to steer you towards what content is good and whole while shunning the evil fic you don’t like. I think, those of us that have positive associations with libraries assume that libraries must cultivate culture and wisdom in the populaces they serve, because they did that for me, so surely that is their job! But... no. A library/archive’s job is to just preserve and catalogue shit so people can access it because they need to know shit. We preserve and catalogue as much as we can for cultural and historical context. Like, yeah an information science professional can help you become more info-literate, help you learn about like, proper sourcing and citations and what outlines a proper study/evaluation of a subject and stuff, but just because archivists are in charge of maintaining these vast troves of knowledge... that doesn’t make it their job to tell you what’s right and what’s wrong. They might be able to tell you what’s patently bullshit if you bring it up to them, but archival work isn’t about ‘preserving the good and eschewing the evil’--it’s just about preservation, period. 

And this also ties into the info science concept of intellectual freedom: You, as a user of libraries and archives, have an inherent right to access the content that an archive hosts, whether it be good or fucking terrible. The keepers of the archive are not your conscience--you have access to this content, so it is up to your judgment to determine its worth. And if it’s nasty shit? Well then, block the fic and call out the writer for being fucking gross. You think seeing ships that gross you out is bad? Sometimes I get requests for Dinesh-fucking-D’souza books! It ain’t my business to ask what the patron is checking them out for! It’s just my job to make sure they can access that part of the collection! This is how archives work, people!!! Unfortunately, terrible people are writing terrible things every day! It’s all we can do to just hope that the people reading the terrible shit can display some degree of critical thinking!! And y’all should do some critical thinking before you go around fucking kneecapping the most expansive, respected, and protected archives of fanworks when we have gone through decades of Anne Rice and Disney Lawyers fucking obliterating our hard work!

[hotpinkrathian]

Kyalin Week Day 6

Prompt Chosen- Modern AU

Now, I know people are tired of hearing about the pandemic, however when I saw Modern Au as an option on there I just had to write Kyalin during quarantine... it was too tempting.

"We have to quarantine at home for two weeks, its mandatory." Kya explained.

"I want even at the hospital, how could I have gotten it?"

"Because I was at the hospital, I could have it, and spread it to you." Lin crossed her arms, releasing a dramatic groan.

"Come on Lin, I know it's not ideal, and I'm sorry, but look on the bright side. We get two weeks off, just the two of us. We could, you know, try that thing you mentioned the other night."

"That was you who mentioned that."

"Well you didn't shoot it down, so its both our ideas now." Lin sighed, pursing her lips and Kya wrapped her in a hug.

"Alright, but as soon as my two weeks are up I'm going back to work."

"Of course." Kya kissed her on the cheek, watching as Lin disappeared into the bedroom. Her eyes panned the apartment, it looked like it could use a clean, so she got to work.

"What are we going to do for food?" Lin asked, staring into the empty fridge.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Kya, we have no food in here." Kya came up behind her, placing her chin in the nook of her neck, frowning at the sight of the fridge light that illuminated nothing but the shelves.

"We eat out too much. I can call Tenzin maybe he can bring us some supplies."

"No, Tenznin will bring us a very selective diet and If I'm going to be in here for two weeks then I need real food. You know Kya, these abs don't feed themselves." Kya raised an eyebrow, moments away from kissing Lin, when the earthbender pulled out her phone.

"Mako? Okay... okay... look, I'm out for two weeks. Try not to start a gang war while I'm gone. I need you to do something for me."

"Tell him to get KitKat!" Kya said, Lin raised a finger, telling Mako to get a pen and paper.

"You ready?" Lin asked him, and began to fill him in on their grocery desires.

"Pretzels too! I could use pretzels right about now..." Lin added pretzels to list of demands. Finally when they were satisfied with the list, they hung up the phone.

"He says he'll be around in an hour. He went to get Asami because he's never gotten groceries on this scale before."

"Smart."  Kya smiled up at Lin, who was checking her phone. "So..." Kya said, drumming her fingers on the counter, "what should we do for an hour?" Lin looked up, putting her phone face down on the counter.

"Well you're practically undressing me with your eyes."

"Am not!"

"Oh yeah?. What color bra do I have.on today?" Kya pursed her lips, thinking.

"White."

"Wrong, black."

"What? No.I remember this morning you-" she stopped as Lin pulled open her flannel, revealing the black bra she was indeed wearing.

"You tricked me." Lin smirked, walking around the counter and planting a kiss on Kya's lips.

"I have some paperwork to get done, call me when Mako gets here." Lin smirked as she walked off, and Kya glared at her, running her tongue over her teeth. Thinking about how there's no one else she'd rather be quarantined with.

Mako knocked, letting them know their things were outside their door, as per standard, they waited until the two kids had left before picking up their things, Lin put four bags on her arms, gesturing for Kya to take the remaining two. She put the stuff on the counter, and watched as Kya took the time to wipe everything with Lysol.

"Kya," Lin said seriously, "are you worried at all? About this whole thing?"

"Like being quarantined? No not all."

"No, not that, I mean more like the pandemic in general."

"Oh. I haven't really thought about it, but yeah, I guess I am. I'm worried about mom, I know she's safe as she could be in the south pole, but this isn't how I want her to go. Are you worried about Toph?"

"Are you kidding me? The woman couldn't die if she tried!" They laughed, and Lin put her hands behind her, gripping the edge of the counter. "In all serious, I'm more worried about the people, the news says the unemployment rate has sky rocketed in the last few days."

"Lin?" Kya asked, putting the wipes down. "We're good right? Financially?"

"Oh dear, of course. I've been working for thirty years, saved up as much as I could not to mention my share of the Beifong fortune... its not me I worry about."

"Mako?"

"Yeah."

"He'll be alright, we won't let anything happen to him. I bet Asami and Korra already have a plan for him that he's completely unaware of in case things go south." Lin smiled and Kya lifted her lips to Lin's scarred cheek.

"Come on," she said, "help me put this stuff away."

The two of them cooked together for supper, and Lin almost forgot what it was like to be home for supper, let alone to cook it.

"Okay I think I got it," Kya said, lifting the spoon to her mouth.

"Kya, that's the stirring spoon you can't lick it and put back."

"Oh yeah? Watch me." Kya drew her tongue over the spoon, maintaining eye contact with Lin and causing her to blush. Lin gulped, breaking the eye contact and Kya returned the spoon to the pot, stirring the sauce again. Lin went for the sink, grabbing Kya's butter as she went past.

"Lin!" She yelped, swatting her girlfriend playfully on the shoulder.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Yeah right!"

"I swear!" Kya narrowed her eyes, seeing through Lin's weak attempt to hide a smile.  Lin set the salad and the bread on the table, ordering the plates and glasses across form each other, lighting a candle in the center.

"Whats going on?" Kya asked, looking at Lin's arrangement.

"I figure, since we're here, I might as well make up for all the date nights I've had to reschedule, or cancel, and never got around to it." Kya looked at her thoughtfully, putting her pot on the table.

"You're telling me I've been on a date this whole time and didn't know?"

"Yep. Surprise," Kya stifled a laugh and sat across from Lin, staring at the other girl lovingly.

"Well, you should know I don't usually go home with someone on the first date."

"Well good thing its not the first date then." Kya raised her eyebrows, her eyes still locked with Lin as she brought a piece of food to her mouth. Lin caught Kya up on everything in her life, the abnormally quiet Pice Chief talked on and on, and Kya listened, absorbing every word of it.

"Kya?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you finished?"

"Oh, yeah,' she said, sitting up. Lin took her plate, and Kya admired her from behind.

"Lin," she said, "put the dishes down."

"What?"

"We'll do them tomorrow. Please, just kiss me already."

"What if you have Covid?" Kya chuckled.

"Then we'll both have it anyway." She pushed herself off her chair, meeting Lin halfway across the kitchen, their lips meeting in an epic dance. Kya jumped, wrapping her legs around Lin's waist and the metalbender's hands found places underneath Kya's thighs to hold her. Lin set her on the kitchen counter, pushing her abdomen in between Kya's legs.

"Been a while since we've done this," Lin admitted between breaths.

"We haven't had time."

"Well, now we have two weeks to make up for it." Kya smiled as Lin's lips clashed with hers again.

"I love you," Kya whispered.

"I love you too."

1 week of quarantine

"Wait so what happened in the last movie?" Kya asked, just to get a rise out of Lin.

"Kya, were you even paying attention? Qui Gon and Obi-wan, master and Padwan head to the desolate planet of Tattooine where they-"

"Lin, I'm kidding." Lin rolled her eyes and Kya cuddle in close, reaching her arm over into the popcorn bowl on Lin's lap.

"Don't do that again or I'll spoil it for you." Kya laughed, pressing a light kiss on Lin's cheek. When Kya had mentioned she'd never seen a Star Wars movie, Lin had organized a rather professional viewing of them all, in chronological order. Kya would much rather be doing something else, but she could see how excited Lin was to watch them with her, so she did. All the good (and bad) the movied had to offer.

"Whos that?"

"Anakin."

"The little boy?"

"Yeah, there's a time gap."

"Wow, he's so grown up."

"Just you wait," Lin said, placing a fistful of popcorn in her mouth. Befoee the movie could get any further, the phone rang, and Lin got up to answer it, letting the movie play for Kya.

"Hello? Pema is that you? Hmm? No we are just- really? Is everyone okay?" Kya sat up, looking over at her girlfriend with concern.

"Theres a breakout at the air temple," Lin whispered to Kya.

Oh no, poor Pema. I hope Rohan is okay.

"Is Tenzin there? Okay, well, try to stay calm, please Pema! Where's Jinora? Put her on the phone." Lin tapped the counter, waiting for the eldest of the Airbender kids to come to the phone.

"Jinora? Is everyone okay? Ikki has it? You need to keep her away from the others, don't let Rohan out of his room, and please, try to keep you're mother calm until your father gets home tomorrow. Yes... I love you too Jinora, good bye, as soon as we can leave we'll come down there." Lin put her phone on the counter with a sigh, and Kya ran up to her.

"We have to go, I can help them!" Kya pleaded.

"No, dear, we can't help them. If we go there we are just exposing ourselves to it, and I don't like to admit but we aren't exactly spring pig-chickens anymore Kya." Kya frowned, crossing her arms.

"Lin, they are our family."

"I know Kya, but we can help them by staying here, and staying healthy. Don't forget we can be incarcerated for leaving." Kya growled, scrunched her nose and Lin reached her hand out on the counter.

"One more week to go, we got this. Remember what you told me, try to enjoy it."

"Pretty sure I said we could try that technique from that movie where I use waterbending to-"

"Well I paraphrased it." Kya's lips formed a smile, and her heart melted at the soft look Lin was giving her.

"Come on," she said, "let's watch this movie." Lin nodded and the two of them returned to the sofa, Kya resting her head on Lin's lap, her hair being tousled by the police chief. Every so often she'd look up at Lin, who was absolutely enticed by the movie, even though she said it was 'the worst one.' She fell asleep before the end, and Lin let Kya stay there long into the night, moving her only once her own bladder couldn't take it any longer, placing her in their bed. Kya groaned softly, rolling over and pulling all the blankets for herself. Lin crawled in behind her, still holding her in her arms.

3 Days until the end of quarantine.

"Kya, I know you've lost all sense of time, but you need to put clothes on."

"Whats the point? No one comes, no one goes. No one sees me. No one knows..."

"If you start speaking in poetry again I'm locking you in the bathroom."

"Go ahead, at least there I hear the voices from the drain." Kya groaned, flopping onto the couch face first. Lin sighed.

"Do you.... need to talk?" Lin almost choked on the words, but it got Kya's attention and she sat upright.

"I've always been an extrovert Lin. Im a people person and now that the people in my life have been removed... I'm just a person." Lin pursed her lips, she hadn't thought about it like that before. She had always been reserved, truthfully quarantine had been easy for her, she did daily workouts, reading... other stuff with Kya. But Kya couldn't be on her phone for more than half an hour without needing a change of space.

"I don't know how to help you with that..." Lin started, "but I can... give you a hug?" Kya smiled sadly and walked up to Lin, forgetting her nudity and hugging her.

"Lets go on the porch for a bit," Kya said, "I need some air."

"You're going to have to put some clothes on then, I don't think the neighbors will appreciate your tits being out the same way I do." Kya laughed, looking down at her torso.

"Oh they would. But fine. I'll put on some clothes, but you better be the one taking them off later."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Kya grinned, satisfied with that, before she could dissappear into the bathroom however, Lin called to her.

"Oh, Kya!"

"Yes sweetheart?"

"Maybe we can try that thing you mentioned last week." Kyas eyes went wide, and Lin smirked.

"This is why, I love you Lin Beifong."

"I love you too. Now go get dressed, we're going to miss the warmest part of the day." Kya sped off, and Lin watched her go, the same gentle smile pulling at the corners of her lips. I could be quarantined with her for the rest of my life, and I'd never get bored. When Kya returned, she skipped onto the porch, and Lin used her bending to extend the available area for the moment. Kya sat at the edge of the concrete, letting her feet hang over the edge, humming a gentle tune. Lin sat next to her, her lips pursed in indecision.

"Kya," she said, drawing the waterbenders crystal blue eyes to her. "When this is over, we should get married." Kyas eyes widened, and for a minute Lin thought she scared her, but then she was pulled into the most passionate kiss of the their relationship, nearly sending both of them to the ground below.

[gumnut-logic]

Thunderfam Appreciation Post

I’m giving this a new post to prevent scroll city, but the original and several reblogs can be found by clicking the above link. Also, it’s an excuse to post a piccy of Virg cos any excuse, really :D

Many thanks to @willow-salix for writing this question list :D

Before I start, I just want to say that I value every member of this fandom. I’m often hopeless at communicating in group settings so I don’t speak to many peeps, but that is my failing, not anyone else’s. You are an amazing group and you have supported me and each other just brilliantly over the last nearly three years that I have been hanging with you guys. Thank you ever so much for all your wonderful support and encouragement. I’ve had so much fun and created so much stuff…you guys are amazing. Thunderfam rock!

Please note that my memory is pathetic and I will fail to mention everyone. Please do not take any offence if you aren’t listed below. That does not mean I don’t value you, I do, it just means I have swiss cheese between my ears.

-o-o-o-

Your favourite writer of your favourite boy.

@i-am-chidorixblossom  You are a whumper and comforter after my soul. You speak the Virg :D @vegetacide I adore your turn of phrase and your description is to die for.

The person who's stories you will always read.

I try to read most fics that come across my dash, but there are a few that have me jumping up and down. @i-am-chidorixblossom , @vegetacide , @tsarinatorment , @scribbles97 , @the-lady-razorsharp , @janetm74 Of course, I regularly fail at this as some of you write a huge amount of fic and I am often playing catch up, but fic!

Who wrote the first fic you read in this fandom.

I landed on FF.net back in May 2018. I immediately ran into @the-lady-razorsharp who I knew from another fandom ten years prior and she was absolutely wonderful, drawing me in and introducing me around. I gobbled up several of her fics in the process.

Person you can talk to for the longest without a break.

I am hard to get started, persistence is required, but once started, it is usually hard to shut me up. @scribbles97 @vegetacide and @tsarinatorment have all discovered that. Dangle a Virg, a plotline and stand back.

Person you can't be trusted to be left alone with.

Um, @vegetacide and I have plotted out the entirety of Warm Rain together…poor Virg. Add @the-lady-razorsharp into the equation and Virgil ends up with a beard, dressed in leather and riding a Harley – that was a hilarious evening.  Between @tsarinatorment and @janetm74 Virgil gets grey hairs and has to go rescue Scott – because Scott inevitably ends up in the story :D  @scribbles97 gets the blame for Gentle Rain – expand your horizons she said ::headdesk:: But then there was the time I left one random line about Eos visiting Virgil in the shower and went to bed. I woke up to hilarity and chaos as Thunderfam took the idea and ran with it! Love you guys :D

Person whose fic made you cry the most.

I know there were at least two fics that made me cry, but for the life of me I can’t identify them. I did cry writing my own fic – Flannel – and don’t tend to reread it for that reason. Purupuss traumatised me with A Quiet Day to the point I had to put it down and walk away for a bit ::wails::

Person whose fic made you laugh the most.

I have no idea. I know there are fic out there and I know I’ve read it, but without a complete list of everything I’ve read, I don’t have a clue.

Person whose fic made you think the most.

Aaaargh, I don’t have a master list so can’t remember everything. Staring at my paltry favourites list on FF.net (which was mostly gathered three years ago and never maintained), Purupuss’ ‘Brothers in Arms’ and her whole Quiet series has me wanting to write a Scott-Virgil telepathic fic (and she has given me permission to run with the idea, I just haven’t actioned it yet). Counterpoint by Swallow and Amazon is amazing and likely contributed to Sotto Voce.

Person you have laughed with the most.

I’m really not liking this ultimate one person idea. I’ve laughed with a lot of people in this fandom. I’ve candy cannoned a bunch of you as well :P There has been mad plot cackling, evil conspiring, fic written to stir pots and delight on purpose. Hell, I’ve even written fic that was purposefully a giant virtual hug because I’m so far away that even if half the world wasn’t in isolation, I couldn’t hug most of you. Sure, I talk with some of you more than others, and there is laughter in those chats…oh, god, so much cackling, poor, poor Tracy boys. But then there are also so many smiles both vocalised and not. Thunderfam is one of my happy places. Bring on the belly laughs :D

Your comfort fic that you'll go back and read again on a bad day.

I will often resort to my own fic when I’m really down simply because it helps me get to sleep :D and it is kinda tailored to me ::grins::  (and my memory is that bad I often forget what I wrote anyway – yes, it is that bad) But there are also a few on my FF.net favourites list. Mostly hurt/comfort in a Virg flavour. Cheesycheese, nhsweetcherry, A Small Rescue by Nalina, Breathe Easy and Under the Weather by @loopstagirl – several of hers, in fact – the Virg ones :D Pretty much anything that has Virg fainting and being looked after apparently :D Chiddi and Veggie fic, of course.

Favourite piece of fan art.

I have never been so honoured by artists before. This fandom has some amazing skills and I have been gifted some beautiful works. You guys are amazing (I keep saying it like a broken record, but you are).

Again, I’m stuck on having to list one and I can’t. I think Fanart Appreciation Month in January pretty much summed up my opinion.

Who have you known the longest in the fandom.

@the-lady-razorsharp followed by @vegetacide both wonderful peeps. I can’t miss out on @weirdburketeer either for her amazing support almost from day one.

Favourite OC.

I have to say that I really enjoy reading about Ray from @i-am-chidorixblossom ‘s fics :D He is so gentle and kind and just ::sigh:: Virg likes him lots :D Selene by @willow-salix is, of course, a major presence in the fandom and amazingly written. @hedwigstalons ‘ Claire is lovely.

Person who supports your work the most.

The Thunderfam? There have been some wonderful people who support all the time. @hedwigstalons  @cg29 @janetm74 @weirdburketeer in particular have been amazing support liking and commenting on just about everything I write. I honestly don’t know how they do it. Plus several peeps over on FF.net and Ao3 who support me over there.

And then there are the poor souls who put up with me in chat and listen to my wibblies and whining and character checks and field random chunks of writing that get thrown their way. @scribbles97 @vegetacide @the-lady-razorsharp  @tsarinatorment @i-am-chidorixblossom @onereyofstarlight @godsliltippy  @willow-salix @janetm74 all have had random passages thrown at them at all times of the day and night by a crazy me begging for feedback. Does this work? Is this in character? Am I insane? What the hell is Scott doing? Is this John??? I give up, tell me what to do? Virgil is driving me insane! So, um, yeah

Person who's progress you are the most proud of.

I love those peeps who appear in fandom who start off poking around commenting and generally being lovely and then all of a sudden get out their own pens and start writing and they are frickin’ amazing! Both @janetm74 and @hedwigstalons come to mind in this department. Like holy cow – ‘here is my first fic and I’m not sure’ ::reads it:: Omigod! Where did you come from? That was amazing. Sit down here now, keep doing that writing thing, bloody hell! I think being brave enough to pick up a pen and join in is a major thing :D

Person who's story you think is underrated and should be read by more people.

If I find fic I like, I reblog it and shout about it. What I like is definitely skewed in a Virgil direction and this dictates often what I’m going to read first. I can’t reblog what I haven’t read. So, this equation will always be skewed by ‘reasons I haven’t read a fic’ which mostly involves either Virgil or the fact I’m juggling RL. So, my answer to this is if I think a fic needs to be shouted about, I shout about it.

Something you think people would say about you.

She’s nutty.

Silliest 'thing' you do with someone.

I’ve been known to write fic on the fly directly into chat windows to try and distract peeps going through shitty times.

Favourite pairing you now Stan because of someone's fic.

Virgil/Kayo because of @vegetacide for reasons I have blamed her for multiple times. @the-lady-razorsharp and @weirdburketeer were accessories to the fact.

Favourite headcanon from someone's fic.

Um, Virgil and coffee? I got that from somewhere and it has infiltrated my fic…a lot.

Ultimately, though, I feel most people I interact with contribute to my fic and how I’m feeling. This has been a wonderful experience. I try to return the support as much as I can, but sometimes it is a juggle between writing more, my stupid fluctuating mood, the demands of RL and my own creative drive. I hope I’ve helped a few peeps, because you guys have certainly helped me ::major group hug::

And yes, I hug a lot, because to be honest, I have no other descriptor to communicate how I feel, so you get buckets of hugs :D

Tagging the Thunderfam. Feel free to grab these questions and run with them. You’re all part of the gang whether you write, read, art, gif, screenshot, chat, babble, stare at Virgil all day...I know I do a lot of staring.

Nutty

(Thunderfam rocks!)

[izlaria]

Someone you like (part 5)

This is the fifth chapter of my “Someone you like” inspired fic. It’s also available on AO3 in case you prefer that platform.

This and the fourth chapter are also inspired by the “Distance” and “Talk to me” animatics by @suerakocy, so please check that out and give the artist some praise. They deserve it so much, because those pieces are beautiful.

Summary: It takes Lance years to come back to the Garrison but, when he does, his friends are there for him.

We finally get Lance pining hour!

Trigger warning: Talk of PTSD and mention of blood, but no description of violence. The story really just starts right in it.

24 and 22 years old

Lance woke up to a dark, quiet room and for a moment he couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. The air felt stuck in his throat, because as soon as he inhaled the sound of his haggard breathing would break the silence and alert whatever awaited in the shadows.

But there’s nothing there, Lance told himself.

He had dreamt of the war, again. In his nightmare, there was another explosion and Lance hadn’t been quick enough to shield whoever was with him in the room. The darkness that followed was oppressing, dense enough that he’d felt like it was water flooding his lungs.

And then the water had turned into blood.

He sat up in bed, trying to control his shaking. It had taken years and a lot of therapy, but Lance had managed not to fall into panic attacks every time such memories made their way into his dreams. Still, he was glad to have built his own house on the farm grounds. His parents deserved a good night’s rest, especially after what Lance had put them through during his time with Voltron.

He reached for his cellphone with unsteady fingers. After their last battle against the Galra, Lance had learned to leave it on during his sleep, just in case he woke up like this: with adrenaline running through his veins and the vague sensation that something was terribly wrong.

He hesitated over his contact list, before finally scrolling down and pressing call. It didn’t take long for the other person to answer.

“Is anyone hurt?” was Keith’s greeting.

“No.” Lance swallowed once, trying to erase the grit from his voice. “Nightmare.”

There was a second of silence and then the rustle of sheets. “Okay.” He heard Keith exhale harshly, but Lance knew it wasn’t in annoyance. The whole team had gone through this more times than they could count. “Okay.” Keith seemed a little calmer now. “Are you all right?”

“Not really,” Lance confessed. He leaned against the headboard and pulled his knees up. It was easier to concentrate on his breathing when he wasn’t lying down. “It was Sendak’s first attack, again.”

“You’ve been thinking about that one a lot lately.” Keith’s observation made Lance grind his teeth. It was true, but he didn’t need to say it.

“Could you call her?” Lance breathed out. His voice sounded pained and he winced, thankful that only Keith was privy to it.

“Lance, we can’t keep doing this.” His friend’s tone was weighted with his own share of hurt. “If you want to know how she is, then you need to call Pidge.”

“I do call Pidge. Just not…”

“Not when you are feeling vulnerable?” Keith sighed into the phone, sounding more tired than normal.

“You weren’t sleeping, were you?” Lance latched onto this realization. He felt stupid not to have recognized it earlier, with how quickly Keith had answered the call.

“Don’t change the subject.” The reply came harshly and it only served to confirm his suspicions.

“I’m not! We made a deal to call one another if the flashbacks started again.” He lit up the lamp on his nightstand and frowned at the pictures he kept on the opposing wall, as if it could make the real Keith feel his irritation. “Would you have talked to anyone if I hadn’t called?”

“My mom is here with me,” Keith admitted after a moment. “She and Kolivan have kept me company while Xitry is away.”

Lance let relief replace his anger. “Are both Xitry and Acxa on a mission?”

“Yeah… My leg still isn’t completely healed, so I couldn’t join them. Acxa will take another phoeb to come home, but Xitry should be back in a few days.” Keith paused and there was the sound of other muffled voices. “Mom says you should call Pidge.”

“You are a traitor and a hypocrite.” Lance scowled, despite how no one could see him.

Keith scoffed and Lance could feel the mockery in his expression even so many miles away. “I have called my partners every day they’ve been gone. Can you say the same?”

“Pidge is not my partner!” he protested, feeling heat rise up his neck.

“No, she’s just the first person you think about when waking up from a nightmare and then you call me, because if you called Hunk he would just spill it to her first chance he got.” Lance did not appreciate all the sarcasm Keith was giving him.

“I just want to be sure that she’s okay!” He frowned down at his knees, picking at a piece of lint that stuck to his pajama pants.

“Then ask her yourself!” Keith, too, was being too loud for the middle of the night. His vexation almost felt like a victory to Lance. “Pidge is smart, she can tell there’s something strange about my calls.”

“How are you a spy with this kind of acting skills?” Lance chastened.

“I’m no longer a spy, remember? I’m part of a humanitarian organization!” He heard Keith take a deep breath. “This would be much easier if you just told Pidge you’re in love with her.”

The words gave him pause. Lance didn’t yet know how to describe what he felt for Pidge. She was one of his best friends, the person who had stuck around the most after the team went their separate ways. Shiro had his own family to rebuild, and Keith and Hunk had a whole universe to help stabilize.

Pidge and Lance had found their own goals, but staying on Earth allowed them to check in on each other much more often.

“She doesn’t see me like that, Keith.” Lance hadn’t meant to sound so defeated, but it came out that way.

“Yeah, well, neither did Allura, but you wore her out.”

The reminder didn’t bring the same pain it would have a few years earlier.

Lance knew that he would always love Allura, but his feelings had settled into a more comfortable kind of affection. With the privilege of hindsight, Lance was able to see that their relationship didn’t have the same base as his friendship with the other paladins. Even if she had lived, Allura would have left to be queen, too invested in the rebuilding of Altean society.

And Lance would have stayed on Earth. That had never been in question. He had put his family through enough suffering while with Voltron.

He had seen the greatness in Allura when he was only eighteen, but that also meant he would have stepped aside if he thought their relationship was putting a strain in both of them. He didn’t regret the time they’d had together, but her continuous rejections had also taught Lance to value himself.

Keith’s voice snapped Lance out of his thoughts. “I didn’t mean to bring up Allura.”

“No, it’s fine.” Lance rubbed his eyes. “I just… I don’t want Pidge to think of Allura if I ever do ask her out.”

“I can’t promise you that.” He respected Keith’s honesty, even though it did nothing to calm his worries. “But she will never see you as a romantic prospect if you don’t make things clear to her. As far as Pidge knows, you’re still in mourning.”

Again, Keith was right. Lance had been ruminating this notion for quite some time. There were times when he still felt indebted to Allura, like he was the one responsible for maintaining her legacy, but the years had given him enough maturity to understand that was a burden Allura would wish on no one.

It was difficult to take the first steps towards a new future when he’d spent so long wallowing in the darkness of the war. In the middle of it all, Pidge had been a beacon of light, a safe port for him to rest his mind. It was no wonder that he had fallen for her.

“I’m thinking of going back to the Garrison.” He swallowed thickly, the fear of this confession rising up to knot at his throat.

The line went silent for a moment. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Lance chuckled. “I’ve been working with Shiro and Doctor Holt, because the quintessence Allura left in me allows me to interact with Altean technology a little better than most. And since I’ve put my pilot license to good use in my travels, Shiro said the officers are ready to reinstate me.”

“That’s amazing, Lance!” It was weird to hear Keith sound so enthusiastic.

“I think that’s why the memories are coming back again, actually.” His next exhale came out shaky and forced. “I keep thinking of the Garrison and I just – I’m afraid that I’ll get there and it will be too much.”

“The place has changed a lot since the war,” Keith assured him. “Even if something happened, though, Shiro and Pidge are there to help you through. This could be really good for you.”

Lance snickered at his directness. Keith didn’t hide his opinions, didn’t coddle him like so much of his family. “So you think it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s the best idea you’ve ever had.” His friend’s voice was blunt, without the dramatics that Lance himself would have added to such a statement. “Which is not saying much,” Keith teased.

“Hardy har har.” But Lance felt a smile pull at his mouth. “Does that mean you will call Pidge for me?”

There was a groan from the other side of the line. “Lance, no. I’m putting my foot down.”

“What? Why?” he complained and, with his movement, one of the pillows slipped to the ground. Lance glared at it.

“Because I’m sick of watching two of my closest friends dance circles around each other.” Keith sounded increasingly exasperated. “Talk. To. Her. Pidge is a tough girl, but she has grown a lot. She won’t be mad at you for calling.”

“I know that!” Lance grumbled.

“Then do it!” Before he could disagree, Keith had already hung up the phone.

Lance stared at the screen in discontentment. The display told him it was just before 4 am in Varadero, meaning that it wasn’t even 2 am in Arizona. His talk with Keith had distracted him from the nightmare, but now that Lance was alone with his thoughts images of it had begun to flash in his mind.

Against the dimly lit wall of his bedroom, he could almost see the silhouette of Pidge’s younger self, her body contorted by the force of a blast Lance hadn’t been quick enough to protect her from.

His need to know Pidge was safe overrode his anxiety over disturbing her sleep.

The phone rang more times than it had with Keith, which was a bit nerve-wrecking, but also a relief. Lance hoped she was having a better rest than he was.

“Lance?” The breathiness of her voice made him swallow. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replied, at a loss of what else to say.

“Nightmares?” From her low volume, Lance could tell that Pidge must have been at her parents’ house. He felt bad for disturbing them.

“You’re okay, right?” His words were jumbled together. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, but– You are safe, aren’t you?”

“I’m safe, Lance.” He closed his eyes, feeling the last of his distress leave him with the sound of her voice. “I’m glad you called, actually.”

He tilted his head back until it hit the headboard. “Were you dreaming of me, Pidgey-Pidge?”

“No,” she cut him off brusquely, “but I imagine you were dreaming of me.”

“Why would you think so?” He grimaced at how strangled his voice sounded.

“Because I know you have had Keith calling me for the past couple months.” Her no-nonsense attitude made Lance feel like a deer-in-headlights.

“I can’t believe he ratted me out!” Once again, Lance directed his glare at a photo of Keith on the wall. “I have some choice words for that half-alien tattletale!”

“Keep your words, he didn’t say anything.” Pidge heaved a sigh. “I just know you two. As soon as he mentioned the explosion Sendak caused, I knew he was acting on your behalf.”

Lance winced, but didn’t protest. He should have realized that Pidge couldn’t be tricked. Not only was she a certified genius, but her loyalty to her friends often translated into being more observant than one might like. She and Hunk had that in common: the uncanny ability to get involved in other people’s business.

“Keith dreams of Shiro or his father. When I do appear in his nightmares, it’s usually about not being able to grab me when we were in Honerva’s mindscape,” she went on. “That dude still harbors a displaced sense of responsibility towards us.” Her tone shifted into accusing. “Which we should not be exploiting.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to do that.” Lance slipped on the sheets until he was lying down again.

“What’s going on, Lance?” Pidge sounded concerned. “Why didn’t you just call me?”

There were many reasons, but none that he felt comfortable sharing. It had been a year since Lance had realized how much of an effect Pidge had on him, how happy he was to hear her voice, how warm his chest felt when she visited the farm. It wasn’t even a new development. He had loved her for as long as he could remember, so he couldn’t really define when it had gone from platonic to romantic.

Maybe the roots of it had always been there, hidden by the flashiness of other infatuations.

A part of him had resisted the urge to call Pidge because, despite how she probably knew him like the charted universe, he had hoped she would see strength in his recovery. Lance still wanted to be perceived as the hero who survived the war with a smile on his face and his psyche intact, no matter how far from the truth that might be.

“Shouldn’t it be easier?” he asked, so low that he hoped Pidge couldn’t hear him. “Shouldn’t I be over it?”

“Lance…” Even the way she sighed his name sent a shiver down his spine. “No. It shouldn’t be easy. We’ve talked about this.”

He had heard this from a number of therapists, as well as every other member of the team, but it was difficult to go against the ideals he’d created in his head.

“But you’re doing good,” Lance argued and his gaze fixed on the ceiling, without really seeing it.

“So are you, most of the time.” When Pidge said it like that, full of confidence, he could almost believe it. “When I feel like the memories are hurting me, I reach out. I come to see my parents, I stop by Shiro’s office.” She paused to take a breath. “I call you.”

Lance turned on his side, sticking the phone between his ear and the pillow. He badly wanted her to be there. They had slept side by side once, though he couldn’t remember the details of it. Even then, what had stuck out the most was the softness of her presence and the calm she provided.

He closed his eyes and focused on Pidge’s voice. “I really miss you.”

“I’m right here, Lance.” Like this, he could pretend she was in bed with him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

--

“I can’t believe you put a firewall to keep me out of your virtual diary, Pidge. It’s rude that you would think so low of me.”

Lance stopped short. It wasn’t the content of the conversation that surprised him, but the fact that it was Hunk’s voice, coming from the laboratories. His best friend had been on a diplomatic mission of two months and was supposed to contact Lance when he stopped on Arus to refuel his ship.

“I was clearly right, because you wouldn’t know of it unless you had tried to hack in.” And this was Pidge, sounding more incensed than he’d heard in quite some time. “I learned my lesson during our Garrison days, Hunk!”

“Shouldn’t you be buttering me up? You called me for help on this aircraft, young lady.” Lance almost snorted at this. He could already imagine the indignation on Pidge’s face.

“If I had known you’d be like this, I would have found a way to neutralize drag simply to negate your role here!” she spit back. From behind the glass walls, Lance observed the redness of her complexion and how her freckles disappeared into the color.

He expected Hunk to back down, but the man crossed his arms stubbornly and looked down his nose at Pidge. “You’re only saying that because I’m right.”

Lance knocked against a metallic frame on the door, which had been open.

“Team Punk is back at it?” He raised his hands in mock despair. “I knew I should have stayed home.”

“Lance!” Hunk rushed over to him, engulfing Lance in a hug. Over his shoulder, he saw Pidge hang back, but the anger had melted away from her expression. “Sorry I didn’t call you earlier, man. This little menace caught me on the way back from Firilar and she wanted me at the Garrison ASAP.”

“Yeah, I regret it now,” she retorted with a glare.

Hunk let Lance go in order to direct another exasperated look at Pidge.

“Hey there, Pidgeon.” Lance scratched the back of his neck, unsure of what to do. She didn’t move from her spot on the workbench and he approached almost without thinking. “Long time no see.”

As soon as he was within reach, Pidge pulsed on the balls of her feet and threw her arms around his neck. Lance’s arms were around her with no hesitance, holding her up against his chest.

“Hello,” she muttered into his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the Cabul complex with Shiro and Curtis?”

Even as she talked, Pidge didn’t give up her grip on him. It made laughter bubble up Lance’s throat. He’d been all around the world, assisting the Garrison centers in completing Earth’s first fully functioning planetary defense system, so it had been months since he’d last seen Pidge in person.

“I flew over once the installation was done. They needed me to activate the shields with quintessence, but then Arizona called.” She slowly slid down back to her feet, putting some space between them. “Something about needing their star pilot to test a new jet.”

He watched as first confusion, then realization dawned on Pidge’s face. To the side, he could see that Hunk was also grinning.

“Are you back? Don’t you lie to me, McClain!” She pushed at his shoulders, but there was excitement in her eyes.

“I’m back. I got the go-ahead earlier today.” He felt awkward under the combined stares of his two best friends. “I do remember telling you I wasn’t ready to retire. Guess my vacation ran a bit long.”

“Oh, man, we’re back together! The last time it was just the three of us in the Garrison we were still cadets.” Hunk jumped in, waving his arms widely. “I still couldn’t go on a simulator without getting motion-sickness! Lance still thought Pidge was a guy!”

“Yeah, I’m not making that mistake again.” Lance gave Pidge a cheeky once-over, making her flush.

She had let her hair grow out again. It was tied back in a long braid, but some strands had already escaped and framed her face in a reddish halo. She looked pretty like this, but Lance thought she was always pretty.

It had taken her some time to find middle ground between the androgyny of her adolescence and the femininity of Katie Holt. Lance hadn’t always been the most tactful during this period, but Pidge had known he meant well and that he was supportive of however she felt like expressing herself. It was nice to see her feel good in her own skin.

Pidge socked him on the arm. “We’ve talked about this, loverboy. No flirting with me unless you want a new bruise.”

“But, Pidgeon,” he put a hand over his heart, “this is how I show my love.”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Hunk put a hand on their shoulders. “We don’t want to start a fight right next to the billion-dollar prototype.”

“Fine,” Lance drew out his vowels, making a show of it. “Honestly, though, you two look good.”

He wasn’t just saying this. Coming back to the Garrison allowed him to juxtapose the images of who Pidge and Hunk had been with their current selves.

Hunk hadn’t grown much taller and he had maintained the same robustness from their first meeting, but the anxiety that had followed him as a teenager now gave way to self-assuredness. He didn’t curl into himself anymore when going past other groups of students, nor did he cower in the face of Garrison officers.

They were all still young and maybe a little broken up after Voltron, but it had also taught them a lot about themselves and their worth. It was nice to see.

And then there was Pidge. With her long hair, her high-tech glasses, her unconventional wardrobe. She was nothing like what younger Lance had thought he wanted in a girl, but that didn’t stop her from occupying all of his thoughts.

“You do too!” Hunk exclaimed, clearly a little embarrassed. “I haven’t seen you this excited in years.”

“Yeah.” Lance chuckled, unable to stop himself. “It feels good to be back. We’ll see how things go with the other MFE pilots, but I’m not too worried.” He wiggled his brows at Hunk. “I’m pretty sure I can charm the pants out of them.”

“And if that fails, you can always count on Shiro and I to intimidate people,” Pidge cut in, a teasing smile on her face, but there was a deeper current of truth to her words. They had his back and Lance was grateful for it.

“I’m pretty intimidating myself.” Lance smirked. “We just need Keith and then the gang will be completed: the Garrison bad boys, who stole a prisoner and disappeared into the night!” He made a motion in the air, like a ship cutting through the sky.

“I take it back, I don’t want to be associated with you.” Pidge’s dry comment earned a laugh from Hunk and a pout from Lance.

“Oh, come on, Pidge!” He draped an arm around the girl to pull her closer, but Pidge didn’t react as he’d hoped. She leveled him with unimpressed eyes, making no move to acknowledge their proximity. Lance found himself as the one feeling flustered and hurried to mask his discomfort. “You could at least say you’re happy to have me around.”

“Of course I’m happy, Lance,” she conceded with little fanfare. “That doesn’t mean I feel like contributing to enlarging your already massive ego.”

Pidge was looking at him over the top of her glasses. Uncovered from the greenish tint of the lenses, the honey brown of her eyes appeared strangely expressive. There was an emotion in them that he had seen a lot through the years, when they were on video calls at night, by themselves, but that he hadn’t had the opportunity to see in person yet.

Lance felt his own expression soften as he stared down at Pidge.

Before he could figure out what to say, Hunk, who had been preoccupied with a series of beeps from his communicator, had turned towards them and snapped his fingers. “We have so much to show you, now that you have the clearance!” His smile was even more contagious in person than through a screen. “I don’t know how much Veronica has told you–”

“Told me?” Lance interrupted with a laugh, trying to seem as innocent as possible. “As if my sister would spill transnational secrets.”

Hunk’s mouth twisted disbelievingly. Pidge, too, shook her head.

“I know how it is to have a family in the Garrison, Lance,” she admonished, slipping out of his hold. “Everything is confidential until something slips out in the middle of Sunday lunch.”

“Well…” Lance squinted at the LED lights on the ceiling. “If something did slip out, like the existence of a certain wormhole-jumping craft that is supposed to make teludavs obsolete, then you couldn’t really blame Ronnie.”

“Especially since the only one with a high enough rank to know about that is Shiro.” Pidge groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “A lifetime in the military and he’s still the most trusting person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s not like he’s broadcasting it to the rest of the coalition,” Hunk pointed out good-naturedly. “It’s just Lance.”

Pidge didn’t look appeased. “I’ve seen Lance reveal all our identities because he wanted to impress an alien groupie.”

Lance grimaced at the memory. It had been a little after the war, when the Garrison was still arranging diplomatic meetings with the liberated planets. As a result of his words, he and the other paladins had been mobbed and Coran had to create a diversion to get them back in their ships.

“That was a long time ago,” Lance whined. “Besides, the so-called groupie was a child and you know I can’t resist children!”

Pidge fixed her glasses, her expression a mixture of aggravation and amusement. “If you ever have kids, you’re gonna spoil them rotten.”

Lance had to bite back his immediate response. His mind had come up with an image of what his and Pidge’s children might look like – brown haired and brown skinned and too smart for their own good – and the idea warmed him to the core. He had almost said that his kids would be fine, because of their mother’s genius.

His thoughts must have shown somehow because Lance caught Hunk looking at him with a smile that promised no-good.

Lance cleared his throat. “What were you two fighting about, anyway?”

“Hunk has been trying to access my daily annotations,” Pidge explained, moving to one of the nearby computer monitors.

Over her head, he and Hunk continued to share looks and mouthed words. He couldn’t really tell what his friend was trying to say, but Hunk pointed at Pidge, then at the computer, making exaggerated facial expressions that would have been comedic in any other circumstance.

At their apparent silence, Pidge’s fingers paused over the keyboard and she whipped around to look at them in suspicion.

“She means her diary,” Hunk interjected quickly, only to receive the brunt of her glare. “How am I supposed to know what’s going on over here if you won’t let me read it? I spend half my time out in space!”

“Can’t you just believe the things I tell you? Like, I don’t know,” this Pidge grumbled with a sour look on her face, “a normal person?”

Hunk snorted. “You want to talk to me about being normal?” He glanced at Lance, as if to ask if he had actually heard her correctly. “Pidge, we had to build you a dorm in the Mecatronics Advancement building, because you kept falling asleep in the lab.” Hunk turned back to Lance and pointed a thumb at Pidge. “She would be passed out with the new Rover just constantly knocking against her back.”

“So what?” She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin in defiance. “I like what I do. At least I’m not a busybody!”

Lance could feel a new fight brewing. Or maybe it was fairer to say that it was an old fight, one that every paladin had already had with Pidge.

“Katie.” His use of her given name made Pidge’s attention snap to Lance. “We’ve talked about this. Your therapist has talked about this.” He put a hand on her shoulder, then slid it down until their fingers intertwined. “I know you like feeling useful, but we’re not at war anymore. You can rest.”

“Exactly.” Hunk sighed, thankfully not making a big deal of Lance’s touches. He reached out to ruffle her hair. “We worry, girl.”

Pidge let go of Lance to bat Hunk’s hand away from her braid. The smile she gave them was tight-lipped but fond. “Then just say that, you idiot.”

“Why should I?” Hunk shrugged, sending her a sly look. “You only seem to believe it when it comes from Lance.”

He was saved from Pidge’s cold fury by his communicator going off. It sounded more like an alert than the normal message, filling the lab with high-pitched beeps that could have awoken even Pidge in her days of all-nighters working on the lions.

“Shoot!” Hunk frowned at the device. “I have a meeting on the other side of the complex!” He looked around with wide eyes.

Pidge picked up a folder that rested on her workbench and thrust it into Hunk’s chest.

“I hope you’re late,” she said in a deadpan, making both Lance and Hunk laugh.

“I’ll see you in the taxiway later, right?” Hunk asked, already half-out of the door.

Lance gave his friend a thumbs-up. “And we can go into town after the demonstration!”

When he turned to face Pidge, she was back at the computer, shaking her head at the screen with a smile still on her lips. He leaned against the table and simply stared at her as she worked, knowing full-well that part of her attention was still on him.

“What?” she caved after a few seconds. Lance batted his lashes at her. “Ugh, stop! If you want me to go into town, then I have to finish this calculation.”

“Eight years since we were cadets here and you’re still a stick-in-the-mud.” He watched her roll her eyes. “Please, you gotta come! I don’t know any of the cool spots anymore and Hunk has been off-planet!”

“As if that could stop Hunk from knowing the good restaurants,” Pidge muttered under her breath, frowning at something on the computer. She clicked one final key, before fixing her gaze on Lance. “Also, it’s actually been twelve years since we were cadets. Time might not have gone by for us, but things here certainly did change.”

“Quiznack, don’t even remind me of that!” Lance ran a hand across his face. “Rachel has finally shut up about how we’re the same age now.”

“Did she?” Pidge raised a brow at him, leaning her hip against the workbench in much the same way as Lance had. “Cause she still called me hermanita the last time I visited the farm.”

“Yeah, you ain’t getting rid of that nickname.” He chuckled. “It’s better than mami and pop-pop calling you Palomita, though.”

Machines whirred around them, a distant sort of sound that barely registered in Lance’s mind. His thoughts were stuck in the contentment displayed across Pidge’s features, like talking about their adventures on the farm filled her with as much warmth as it did him.

And maybe it did. The paladins and their families had grown closer during the years following the end of Voltron. They had all needed support in ways that only those who had also gone through the same grief could understand. His mother had talked to Colleen and Krolia multiple times, looking for advice on how to handle his PTSD, and Lance himself had reached out to Matt when he didn’t feel like speaking to his siblings or to the team.

It was odd to look back and remember how lonely he would feel back in Castle of Lions, when there were so many people now who he loved and who had gone to the ends of the universe for him.

“What are you thinking about?” Pidge tilted her head to the side, her eyes glinting with curiosity behind those glasses.

“About the team,” he answered, because it was partially true. “About how long we’ve known each other.”

Pidge nodded, but her gaze had shifted to the ground. Hesitance furrowed the line of her brow.

“Does being here–” She paused, then seemed to gather her courage. “Does being here remind you of Allura?”

The question caught him a little off guard. It was inevitable to think of Allura when looking back at their time as a team, but Lance hadn’t expected Pidge to focus on that. Keith’s words from a few months ago echoed in his mind, that Pidge couldn’t know he had finished mourning for Allura if Lance never told her.

“A little, I guess, but it’s not bad.” He made a humming noise, considering what to say. “It feels strange to realize we’ve been without her for longer than we ever knew her.”

She pushed away from the table, just a little, so that they were facing each other. “Time doesn’t have to limit how significant a person is to us.”

“I know, but no matter how important Allura was to me, I know now that she wasn’t the love of my life.” Lance let Pidge catch his gaze, willing her to recognize that he wasn’t lying. “Because my life goes on.”

“Which is why you’re here?” There was doubt in her tone, as well as something that Lance wished he could call hopefulness.

“Which is why I’m here,” he repeated with more certainty.

[mymegumi]

GLORY

pairing: suna rintarou x gn!reader

summary: for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of god

genre: far cry five au, enemies to not-quite lovers, darker themes, villain au. tbh not really a ship fic </3

word count: 3.7k

warnings: heavy talk of religion, cults, cultish manipulation, dubious morality, use of guns, bad characters, haikyuu!! characters portrayed as villains, fake drugs, mentions of abuse, torture, injuries, implied noncon drug use and swearing

notes: i want to preface this by saying this is much darker than the content i normally write. it is not my normal content, and i am hopeful that i tagged everything properly; please tell me if i didn’t! also i dipped a bit into a character study of the main character’s fetch quest idea, in which you do all the work that other’s in game easily could! nonetheless, if you still wanna read—i hope you enjoy!

Hope’s County was a desolate piece of shit.

It was filled to the brim with cultists that seemed to think the Coming was approaching, in which the Lord would cast down those who did not repent for their sins. Truthfully, you weren’t even all that religious, but finding out about the self-proclaimed Sin family had turned you off to the idea even more, turning your back on the faith of a warped version of Christianity to instead focus on your job.

Called into the deteriorating county, you were a simple deputy—a rookie with barely a few years of work under your belt. You weren’t too keen on your police work, often finding the job as systematically fucked as the government officials that decided to turn a blind eye to the Sin family since the youngest of the bunch had more money to wave around than you did to pay your monthly rent.

“Rook,” an unfortunate nickname that’d stuck around against your protestations, your superior—Daichi was nice, if not a bit too optimistic—called out to you, waving you over to the map of Hope’s County, red marker furiously drawn all over, “you’re still new: y’remember what I told you about Suna?”

“Second oldest of the brothers, he’s considered the least of a threat due to the fact he’s often working in the Bliss fields.” You poke your head out the window a bit, eyes searching over the high reaching tops of ficus trees, “It’s not really known if he ingests the drug and experiences the hallucination of his followers, but it can be assumed that he doesn’t, to maintain the power over those that do.”

Daichi nods his approval at you, and you feel a flare of resentment somewhere deep in your belly. You try not to, really you do, you’re a good person who’s good at your job, and sometimes you go to church when it’s Easter, but in the same breath, you don’t remember the last time you’d ever even considered confessing your so-called sins to a Father.

The number one sin on your list, so Atsumu had taunted to you as he held a knife to your throat, was apparently Pride—too prideful of your supposed Savior of Hope’s County title you’d been given, pride thrummed in your veins after every member of his Father’s cult you wiped out. You don’t really remember what had happened after that, vaguely that his younger twin brother had to all but pry him off of you, reminding the blond of their Father’s purpose for you.

It was the only reason you were still alive, the Father’s so-called purpose for you—the fact he saw in his visions a future where you were a key piece, the final chess piece moving to keep a king in check. Even despite the list of sins Atsumu insisted that you followed, pride seemingly the one that harbored the most space in your person.

You, however, knew what your sin was. It flared red and angry whenever Daichi talked down to you as if your some odd years in the force were wiped clean, and you were a true rookie yet again, no smarter than a civilian to the dark ways the world worked. It made heat run through your body whenever Kita, the Father of the Sin family, called you his greatest masterpiece as if he had any say in the way you were slowly turning into a war machine—plowing through his followers with scary ease and accuracy.

Your greatest sin reared its head whenever you faced Suna, too laid back, too uncaring, and the antithesis of everything that you stood for.

Wrath, you learned, made your hands shake when he smiled at you, edges looping as if the Bliss he grew just poured from every pore of his body.

“Not that one can really want to ingest bliss,” Daichi murmurs into his palm a bit, leaning over his map of Hope’s County, “It’s more you get too close to it and the fumes of it will get you.”

Bliss was, just as the Sin family was, something you’d never even come close to encountering before. It was a drug that they’d found, or crossbred, and it had hallucinogenic effects on whoever inhaled the product it released.

Batches of it were found all over the county, but the root of the source was in Suna’s valley of the land, affectionately known as Heaven Valley by those who couldn’t remember the name, or didn’t try to. You’d seen more than one group of people in hazmat suits having to clear out fields of it, and just watching them made your head dip and spin with the would-be effects if you’d gone any closer than you already were.

Bush of full, green leaves with seemingly innocent white flowers on it, the plant itself was harmless, and yet when allowed to convert carbon dioxide, it made a lethal gas that made anyone who got too close go mad. It was said that the family had even begun experimenting with grinding it into a powder or melting it down to its liquid state.

“Bunch of fucking crazies,” You mutter the words to yourself long after you’d left the solace of Daichi’s office, somewhere out in the valley and far out of earshot of anyone that might wonder which group of people you were referring to—the ones producing cult members at a daily rate that was intensely concerning, or the ones trying to stop them, “God, I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“Hey, there, Dep, hope you’re tuned into my channel,” You could honestly groan, but you’re trying to make sure no one finds you on your perch in a tree somewhere, your 308 carbine’s scope not exactly focused on anything in particular, but at the ready. Suna’s voice is light and airy over the radio attached to your hip, though the sound is tuned to the earpiece you’re wearing, “Just wanted to let you know that ‘Tsumu’s missing you an awful lot. Says you left before he could have his fun, won’t stop pouting about it.”

You’re smarter than answering to a taunt that Suna sets out in front of you, and yet you can’t help but feel as if your lack of an answer is him winning. Maybe his so-called brother was right about the sin he’d tried carving into the flesh of your abdomen.

“You’d look real funny if I hadn’t picked up just now, Suna,” you whisper, eyes straying from the scope to the button that’s meant to be an answer to the other person on the line.

Suna’s laugh is a little grainy on the radio channel, but it’s not taunting like it usually is, joy written into the edges of his laugh, “And yet you’re on the other end of the line, answering me, dear Deputy. So who really looks funny in the end, hm?”

Fuck. The brunet had caught you, the lure of an unanswered challenge too much for you to pass up for your pride, a sin in and of itself. Maybe you should offer yourself up to Osamu and Atsumu again to get pride carved into your skin because apparently, your wrath wasn’t enough.

“Touché,” You start to climb down from the tree, slinging the gun over your shoulder as you huff into the receiver of the microphone. Your feet catch in the knots of the tree, and your hands start to blister a bit when you lose your footing, and yet Suna stays silent on the radio.

“Going silent on me, what was the point of the call—just to talk about your brother’s unfortunate hobbies with me?”

“Can’t a guy call out into the void and not expect someone to respond?” His smile is almost palpable over the radio call, however many times he flickers in and out of the call, “You’re always welcome to come visit my cabin, Dep.”

“Not in a million years,” feet now firmly planted on the ground, you have to right yourself a bit in orientation before you head towards the ATV you’d taken out to this part of the woods.

“I wouldn’t say that so definitely.”

Suna, of the Sin family, was often on the radio with you. He wasn’t always talking directly to you, no, sometimes he was just talking about idle parts of his day and there was a part of you that wondered if there was a part of him that just needed someone to talk to.

You always had to push the thoughts aside, however, tucking them somewhere deep into your chest so you wouldn’t sympathize with him. He was the cause for the murder of a multitude of people in Hope’s County, the root of the drug trade that went outside of the otherwise isolated county, and sometimes the despite it all, you sympathized with the man.

The Sin family was notorious in Hope’s County as not only being the leading members of the cult but because of their immigration status. Cast out of Japan in their early teens for following a faith so incorrectly, they found solace in the soil of a town in need of a direction, no matter how far off the beaten path it would take its members.

Kita Shinsuke, also known as the Father by those following their twisted version of Christianity, was the head of the operations. A prophet of fallacies or of forthcoming events, no one truly knew, and yet he claimed the words of God followed him in his sleep, that he couldn’t leave the Lord’s words unanswered.

The next of the group was often on his own, Ojiro Aran an isolated member of the family that preferred to stay in his section of the woods, away from the chaos that seemed to follow the youngest members of their little family. Ojiro was often known as the zookeeper, both for keeping the rowdy Osamu and Atsumu in line, while also because of his secondary role in the family—the trainer and breeder of wolves that were often used as indicators of one’s faith.

The Miya twins seemed to cause the most upfront issues for the Hope County Police Department, causing more than one silo to explode on the otherwise neutral farmlands. They seemed to have a flair for the dramatic, with their sins written on their bodies as if the Lord would accept their souls, rather than just their vessels. Sloth was scrawled across the younger of the two’s chest, with a matching Pride across the other’s, letters both a bit off-kilter.

The final member, of which enjoyed causing you, personally, the most trouble, was Suna Rintarou, genius beyond words and yet lazy beyond belief. For what he lacked in motivation, he made up for in creative and almost barbaric forms of punishment. His words were sharp around the edges, and yet they made everyone listen to the sermons he preached, like a moth drawn to the flame.

“My dear, sweet Rook, you seem to forget that this territory is mine,” you ignore the way he inflicts his claim on the land you’ve no right being on, and yet it sends something akin to fear down the lines of your spine, “You walk among these trees as if you’re hidden, and yet I always know where you are.”

“Sounds less like you know your territory,” you start, always willing to put up a fight with the brunet you’d not seen in at least a week, at this point, “and more like you’re stalking me—got a crush, Rintarou?”

“More like an infatuation,” his voice is just a purr, too velvety to just be jest, and yet there’s a part of you that knows you can’t trust a word this man says, “take what you want from that, darling, I’m not the one going to be thinking about it all night.”

Perhaps Atsumu had gotten your sin wrong, and perhaps there was a second option he’d never even considered—your human nature was multifaceted and ever-changing, and perhaps your sins were available in multitudes, rather than a singularity.

If he catches you again, you’d love to see his reaction to you saying you’d be willing to let him carve lust into your skin with his knife—love it even more if he asked who it was for.

Suna doesn’t say much more after that, just his usual spiel of the fact you need to atone for your sins, and that Osamu’s always willing to wash them from your skin in the river. You forget to mention your latest one isn’t one so easily erased from your skin, too deeply embedded in your bones, and you wear it like a second skin at this point.

That’s why you struggle, sometimes, against the Sin brothers and their outlandish claims of paradise meant for those who atone. You struggle because you know the weight of each sin you’ve ever committed—a book added to an already overflowing backpack of crimes against God.

Suna Rintarou, most of all, makes your blood simmer white-hot with unbridled rage—yet you’re not even sure why. It might be the lackadaisical smile that’s ever-present on his face, edges sloping and curving over his face as he taunts you, knives glinting in the sunlight of day. It might even be the way you want to press as close to him as possible, and run as far away from him as possible at the same time—ever the perfect contradiction, a paradox of which you’ve been unable to solve for your time at Hope’s County.

Perhaps the Sin family is right in the unmaking of the world, but your only proof is that God smites you by making Suna one of the most undeniably attractive men you’ve ever met.

Confident in a way that carries in the gait of his walk, and the way his shoulders settle on his frame, Suna knows that he’s got his claws deep in your skin—gripping you to keep you at a distance, and yet not letting you get any further away from him. As if you’d let him get away, your hands would be wrapped around the column of his neck—intent to kill or to offer pleasure, you’d just have to decide when the time came.

“Howdy, stranger.”

These woods must twist your sense of mind, pushing and pulling at the seams of your existence and the fabric that makes the foundation of your realities—the air must be contaminated. You’re not where you thought you were going: you’d been headed towards the Miyas’ territory with the sole purpose of destroying the sin of wrath that had been crawling its way up your throat, trying to escape at any chance.

Yet, you’ve ended up in Heaven’s Valley, and straight into Suna’s hand.

He stands before you, hands tucked into a pair of dark beige cargo pants with a loose leather vest as his only top, smooth skin covered in scars and tattoos on full display. For all that Atsumu spewed of repenting for your sins, confessions meant to be curled into skin with a blade, you had to admit that he was one hell of a tattoo artist.

Suna’s tattoos were unlike the harsh angles of Osamu’s, forgoing the looping script of the English language for the smooth strokes of Japanese. It was a harsh juxtaposition to the jagged letters of ‘greed’ splayed across the expanse of his lower belly, the bottom of the ‘g’ dipping underneath the waistband of his pants.

“Rintarou, what a surprise.” Your words slur a bit at the edges, and you’re not sure if it’s just from stepping into his land or being in his presence, but there’s a sinking feeling in your gut that Bliss dances in your system, “Can’t say I’m disappointed to see you.”

“How honest, sweet one,” his smile resembles a wolf, you come to the conclusion because despite the Sin family being described as a pack of foxes, there’s a carnal look in his eyes as he stares at you, “I like when you’re honest with me.”

“I like when you don’t shoot me on sight,” you vaguely remember a pistol at your hip, your carbine left behind in favor of a shotgun, “makes our little talks seem more personal.”

His laugh is clear, a bell in the fog that is your mind, “Do I often shoot at you, sweet one, for I believe it’s you that shoots first.”

“Mm,” you let your eyes flicker to his before you feel a crease form between your brows, “you still shoot back.”

“I never let a favor go unpaid, darling.” He’s closer to you now, a hand sliding along the curve of your arm, before resting just above your pulse point. His hand is warm, opposite of the cooling night air, “Yet you’ve done a favor for me I’ve not yet given anything in return for.”

“What?”

Your confusion is palpable even without your verbal input because Suna’s thumb is smoothing it away from your brow with his free hand. His eyes are darker now with the sun down, only the moonlight illuminating the outline of his face and there’s something about the sight that makes your skin rise, goosebumps lining your arms.

“Deputy,” the moniker is like a velvety purr against the exposed skin of your nape, “I’m a bit hurt that you don’t remember our very first meeting. It holds such a sweet spot in my heart, so for you to forget it cuts me deep to my core.”

You wrack your brain trying to remember the first time you’d met Suna, all those days ago at the beginning of the summer, when you’d been unscarred and unafraid of your allegiances. There was still a hopeful part of you, then, that had been so sure you could be the savior of these people.

“I don’t…” your voice trails off as you watch Suna walk back in front of you, his face calm as you worry at your bottom lip.

“Of course not,” a knife flickers in his hand, the silver blade gleaming in the pale light of the moon, “you were much too blissed out to remember, but there was information you provided that proved most useful.”

His hands trail along your arms, leaving goosebumps in his wake as you lean closer to him, drawn in as if connected by an invisible string. Suna’s leaned in closer now, close enough that you can feel his exhales fanning across your face gently; can see when his eyes flicker and dance on the lines of your features.

“Pretty little thing, too pretty to be fighting a war you never signed up for,” he muses softly as the back of his hand eases across your cheek, “my darling deputy, you told me you wished for an escape from the pressures, the responsibilities that the locals had forced upon you. You are but a single piece, yet you’re burdened with the work of a hundred pawns.”

You take a shuddering breath in, and you let the tension leave your body that had settled along the weight of your shoulders as soon as Suna let his presence be known. You let the need to shoot him rest, because despite this man being the suffering and cause of so many downfalls—he understood.

He understood your wrath, the feeling of it tingling in your fingertips whenever Daichi asked you to do a job that could easily be done by someone else. You were just a person who’d stumbled into Hope’s County at a precipice of change—down on your luck and thrust into a job and title that made you feel like an imposter. He knew your fists clenched whenever another civilian came to you, begging you to save their farm when indeed, it would do nothing in the end for the resistance.

Maybe he knew that underneath every mundane task that you helped others with, there was a vexation that ran along the lengths of your body at their inability to do things on their own. You loved the citizens of this county, you swore to protect them when you became a member of the police force, and yet an undeniable thrum of rage would flood your body when they leaned on you more than the other members of the resistance.

How lovely it was that someone else understood you, even if it was Suna Rintarou.

Why were you fighting them so hard? Your mind supplies this thought too easily, like shrugging on a hoodie on a cold night, and it flits around your brain and fills in the empty spaces that Suna keeps tearing in your psyche.

You remember the end of the sermon that Kita had spoken when you first went to arrest him, all those months ago when the summer was licking at spring’s heels. He’d been haloed in the rays of the evening sun that filtered into the partially broken down church, hands spread with a rosary wrapped tightly against his left hand.

“For all have sinned,” he had spoken softly, eyes locking with yours as soon as the doors opened, and you felt panic strike you still, Daichi pressing on your shoulder to make you continue walking, “and fall short of the glory of God.”

If you were a sinner already falling from His good graces, why not enter hell with a list of sins that made the Devil take a breath in? Were you not already marked for damnation—what good would siding with Suna Rintarou and his family of fucked up prophets do for you?

“Rintarou,” his name leaves your mouth breathlessly, “if I’m going to hell, I’m going to drag you and your family with me.”

His eyes flash with something you can’t quite place your finger on, and yet the feeling it gives you runs along your spine with a chill, “You’re making a mistake. My family and I will find you, no matter where you are, and no matter what trouble you kick up.”

You press a kiss along the curve of his jaw, not missing the way his hands clench at his sides, “Then come catch me.”

There’s a part of you that hates that Atsumu was right because pride sinks into your bones with the fact that you leave with the last word. The last laugh is yours as you leave Suna in the dust of your exit, not knowing if there was another way it could have ended, if you’d just taken the hand he’d extended to you.

t.list — @nekomabvc

[hiotisa]

Best Apps for School (Mac, Chrome Extensions, and iOS)

Something that I have loved doing is keeping my school work digitized throughout my entire high school and college experience, and there is a method to my madness! First of all, in the real world, as much as your teachers say that writing helps you learn more, for me, I have learned it to be a tremendous waste of time. When you work for organizations or you do personal work, it is more common than not to perform at a digital level. It is personally more effective and more efficient for me to digitize my life. Although hand writing notes and doing handwritten homework may scientifically make you learn more, I have learned that there are ways to expedite the process so that you can save time doing other things and save time by being focused on the computer.

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1. To-Do Microsoft (Mac, Chrome Extension, iOS)

This application was formerly Wunderlist, but it is a pretty convenient app. If you work best using and checking off lists, this is a highly functional tool in which you can not only make lists, have deadlines, reminders, etc., but you can also share lists with your peers. This can be an effective way in getting group projects done and delegating tasks.

2. Notability (Mac, iOS)

This app consistently comes out as a winner. You know why? It can be shared across platforms (ios and mac) and it also has the capacity to color code your notes, maintain organization for classes, insert pictures to abbreviate notes.

3. Zotero (Mac, Chrome Extension, iOS)

This app saves lives. I never did a single bibliography in college because I had this app as well as the browser extension. Not only will it do a works cited at the click of a button, but you can also do in-text citations easily in a word document or google doc. There is a function in which you can link your google docs or Word documents, and it will completely transform your life. Stop wasting your time on doing bibliography and in-text citations!

4. Kindle App (Mac, iOS)

Some of you may be wondering, why would you put the kindle app? First of all, even though you may like physical text, you read quicker on technology. It saves you time in the long run from doing some of those dreaded reading assignments for textbooks. Also, it is easier to interact with text through the Kindle App. Highlighting functions, note-taking, and other functions of this app make it very easy for students. You can make flashcards from your note-taking, and you can easily export annotations. Additionally, in college, a lot of professors require textbooks. It is often cheaper to rent or buy kindle book even for some high school lit classes. Plus, something that nobody tells you about is that your local library often has e-copies of books that you may read in your literature classes etc in which you can access through your kindle app.

5. Forest (Chrome Extension, iOS)

This is buy far one of my most used apps in college. It helped me stay productive by not using my phone. It is the only thing that kept me from not using my phone. It costs $1.99, but it is the best money you will ever spend to stay distracted from your phone. The concept is that you plant trees every time you stay focused for a certain period of time. You earn coins to grow different trees or you can put your coins towards planting real trees! Super dope if you ask me. You can also be productive with your friends by downloading the app together in a mode called plant together. It’s very aesthetic and lovely. You can also listen to different sounds like in the forest or you can just listen to the music of your choice.

6. Momentum (Chrome Extension)

This is an absolutely free extension in which is aesthetically pleasing, but it is also very functional. It gives you the ability to form a to-do list, customize your opening page, connect your accounts, and set daily goals. I really love this browser extension because it keeps me organized for my personal life.

7. iStudiez Pro (Mac, iOS)

This is a game-changing app. It does so many things for you for free like show your weekly schedule, create teacher information profiles, put due dates on your homework etc. Not only did this app keep me organized, but it enhanced my academic experience. I was able to know my teachers office hours from th click of a button. I could anticipate deadline more frequently. I am a physical planner girl, and it takes me forever to organize my work because I like to color-code everything. Plus, planners are expensive, so students on a budget will find this app extremely refreshing from this perspective.

8. Your Local Library App (may vary)

If you don’t have a card with your local library, the time is now. Save money on so many things like books, movies, and audiobooks. My library app let’s me access pretty much anything! If the resource isn’t available online, you can always place a hold and pick an item up at the library. I wish I had used this resource more often in high school, but I used it more often in college and it saved me a lot of money. Also check with your school or local library because they often have textbooks or can order textbooks that you may need for school!

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I hope this list can help in virtual learning as well as in-person learning. Just because your teacher or parent doesn’t teach you about these awesome resources doesn’t mean that you should make your life any harder without these tools! Good luck and happy studying!

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part eighteen) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±7450 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part eighteen: A week later Dean and Y/N are training for the Flagstaff Horse Show, a last repetition for Congress. They are enjoying the honeymoon phase of their relationship, until Bobby calls Dean into his office. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music:  ‘Little Boy’ - Barns Courtney (scene Singer house), ‘The Farm’ - Thomas Newman.  Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: I’m excited for this one, y’all! Thank you @kittenofdoomage​, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ and @winchest09​ for helping me. You girls are awesome betas and friends. 

Ride With Me Masterlist

     “More leg, Y/N. Keep rhythm in that circle!”      Dean has climbed up on the fence of the large arena. His hands are folded together and his elbows rest on his knees, the heels of his cowboy boots hooked behind the lower bar. He watches a horse and rider in front of him from under his hat, picking up even the tiniest flaw and highlighting what’s done well.      As her trainer gives directions, Y/N pushes her calves a little tighter against Meadow’s flank, her right hand outstretched towards the mare’s ears as they finish their circle at speed. Elevated in her stirrups slightly, she makes sure the circle stays perfectly round while maintaining the constant one-two-three beat of hooves drumming against the earth. She can hear Dean’s strong and clear voice above the noise of the wind.      “There ya go. Nice one!”  

     It’s 6.45 AM and the sun has just risen, its early rays of daybreak warming the headwrangler’s back. The nights are getting colder, even in the valley, so the warmth is pleasantly welcome. Summer has come to an end, which means the ranchers are following a different work schedule now. Downside; their midday siestas are no longer a thing, at least not until spring. Upside, they start an hour and a half later in the morning. When he says ‘they’, he means ‘everyone but him and Y/N’, because they have been training for Congress every day. 

     The perfect final repetition for the big event in Columbus is a local horse show in Flagstaff, coming up this weekend. Gold Canyon ranch is going there with a truckload of horses and both Jo and Dean are competing. The head wrangler  convinced Y/N to sign up as well. They can test the new freestyle and see how Meadow does in competition, since it’s been a while since she last showed. 

     Pleased, he observes the woman who was born to ride. They are ready, no doubt about that. He knows it; the only person who needs to believe it now is Y/N.      “Wanna practise a few stops and call it a day? Wouldn’t wanna overwork her,” he suggests when her horse comes past in a slow canter, or a lope.      “No spins?” she checks, not confident with leaving such an essential element out of her training.      Dean smiles at her eagerness; ever the perfectionist.      “I’ve never seen you two screw up a spin. Don’t worry, they are solid,” he reassures.

     She nods while looking over her shoulder, then straightens her back, following the movements of her horse. When she reaches the short end of the arena, she steers away from the fence, bringing Meadow onto the straight line out of another perfect circle. Y/N doesn’t get the chance to give aid to pick up momentum, because before they are fully straightened out, her partner speeds up already.       “Circle her back. Let her wait,” Dean instructs.      The cowgirl tilts her pelvis slightly and sinks deeper in the saddle, before swerving away from the line. She shakes her head disapproving. Come on, Y/N, you can do better than that.  

     “She keeps taking over,” Y/N ponders, slowing down when approaching her trainer.      “She’s a smart horse. Most of the time that works in your favor, sometimes it doesn't. She wants to anticipate instead of letting you do the thinkin’. You don’t wanna discourage her enthusiasm, so what you gotta do is keep her busy. Give her something to do, vary your patterns. Throw her off her game a lil’ bit,” Dean explains to his pupil, who listens intently.      “Ride down the line again, but don’t do the usual sliding stop at the end. Don’t speed up, don’t even think about the stop, okay? All you’re gonna do is let her wait for your call.”      Y/N nods, feeling a little bit more confident after being given directions. “Okay.” 

     She moves her reins over Meadow’s mane, turning her around, gently aiding her to hustle forward in an easy canter. When she’s back at the short end of the large pen, the rider lets her horse roll away from the fence and onto the line again. She can feel the power under her, so much energy waiting for a release and ready to bolt.      “Steady... Just sit and relax. Let her figure it out,” Dean calls out, loud enough to reach his student’s ears several yards away.      A little confused Meadow pulls at the bit slightly, but Y/N does exactly what she’s supposed to do. Instead of punishing the behavior, she ignores it and lopes down the line, repeating the exercise. The second time around, the American Quarter mare already has her ears perked at her rider, waiting for a cue.      “Change leads. Try the same thing on the right hand.”       Trying to sit loose in the saddle, moving with the thousand pound animal under her, Y/N guides her horse onto the diagonal line and crosses the arena. Normally she would do a flying change in the center, a transition from left to right canter during the brief moment of suspension, almost like the horse is skipping. However, this time the rider decides against it, making Meadow wait until she reaches the other end, where Dean is watching his pupil closely from the fence.      “Smart, well done! That’s riding, Yankee,” the head wrangler compliments.

     With a smile on her face she continues the exercize, working on her horse’s assertiveness and patience instead of the actual pattern. Dean has a point; she can ride the test blindfolded. Hell, blindfold Meadow too and they would still be able to nail it, but only if the mare is willing to wait and follow her lead.      The third time Y/N canters up the simple straight line, the bay mare relaxes, lowering her head a little more and calmly keeping a slow and steady rhythm. It’s exactly the response Dean was hoping for.      “Next straight you do the sliding stop,” he says, just loud enough for the rider to hear, as if he’s worried the intelligent horse might pick up on it and understand what he’s saying. 

     Calm, Meadow turns the corner to the straight line, her breaths even, loose muscles rolling under her damp skin. This time Y/N can give the Quarterhorse an aid before she increases speed, which she does with powerful strides. When the mare is going down the line full throttle, Y/N counts down. Three… two… one…

     The rider sinks deep into the leather of her saddle, pushing her stirrups forward and braces for the sudden stop. She can feel Meadow’s hindquarters lower when she plants her hocks into the soil of the arena. They slide several yards, leaving skid marks in the sand, and when the combination has come to a complete halt, Y/N moves her weight slightly to one side and takes the reins with her as well. The eager horse performs a rollback, a movement right after a stop during which the horse turns on her hind quarters and canters forward in the direction they came from.      “That was awesome!” Dean exclaims. “Cool her down; she’s done for today.” 

     Pleased, Y/N lets her precious four legged friend transition to an easy jog, patting her on the shoulder. She feels beyond relieved that her training went so well. With her former trainer Marcel, the final repetition before a show usually meant bootcamp, pushing Meadow to her limits. But Dean treats her differently. He thinks things through, looks beyond the pattern itself and can really pinpoint what they need to work on, and often it’s not the routine itself, but the preparation and the foundation of horse riding.

     “She felt really good, huh?” Dean looks up at the rider, seemingly content, as they exit the arena and walk back to the tack up area.      “She did. I’m excited for tomorrow,” Y/N returns, halting under the Joshua tree. “Have you seen the starting order?”      Dean nods as he glances up at her, narrowing his eyes when the sun peeks under his hat and blinds him. “I have.”      “I’m fifth on the list,” the cowgirl mutters, not happy about her draw. “Any good riders in my class?”      The head wrangler reads his student carefully, who is clearly fishing for answers. He’s very much aware where this is coming from. It’s a trait of hers, one that used to be much more evident, yet still surfaces every so often, especially in a new situation or uncertain times; she’s insecure.

     “Does it matter?” her trainer reminds her. “Eyes on the ball, Yankee. Flagstaff is just a practice run for Congress.”      “Sure, but I still want to win,” Y/N counters, matter of factly. “Oh, talking about Congress…”       She looks down on Dean, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. “I booked our room.”      His brow perks up, staring at his girlfriend for a second. That seductive look in her eyes is giving him all sorts of ideas. “Our room?”       “Yeah, most hotels were fully booked, and this room is one of the few I could find,” she adds, teasingly, swinging her leg over the front of her horse, making sure her spur doesn’t hurt Meadow’s neck. “And you know what? There’s only one bed.”      “You don’t say,” Dean smirks, stepping closer and running his hand up her denim clad legs slowly.      She nods, not dismounting her horse just yet, but taking off her western hat and hanging it on the horn of the saddle. Instead, she seductively keeps her eyes locked on his green ones, the sunlight bringing out a hint of amber in them. “We don’t have to worry about squeaky bunk beds, or waking half the ranch…”      “Or Garth taking a piss,” Dean recalls.      She laughs, leaning forward now and slipping from the saddle smoothly, but Dean catches her, holding her up.

     The cowgirl folds her arms around his neck. “You know, I read this research paper on how sex actually increases dopamines, which results in the athlete performing better.”       “Interesting,” Dean is barely able to stop his trademark grin from showing, the effort creating dimples in his cheeks. “Would you like to test that theory?”      “I booked us a suite with a queen size bed. What do you think?” she chuckles, so comfortable in his arms.       “Well, in that case I’m more than willing to go the extra mile for my favorite student,” he grins, lowering her to the ground, after which he kisses her sweetly.

     Meadow turns her ear towards the pair when Y/N’s back brushes against the saddle. She doesn’t take advantage of her owner being distracted and waits patiently, even though she’s not tied up to the pole yet. If the cowgirl didn’t know any better, she’d claim her horse has been their matchmaker all along, casually walking a little closer to Dean’s horse whenever they rode side by side, even taking a liking to the wrangler, despite that she has never been a huge fan of men. 

     Dean reels the cowgirl in, letting his hand roam over her hips as he deepens the kiss. He can’t get enough of her, especially now that he has surrendered in the battle he was fighting with himself. Ever since he let his guard down and submitted to the feelings that lay deep, the weight he was carrying seems a little less. To have someone to share his life and his passion with, knowing that she’s his and no one else’s, it’s something he never expected to find. It’s certainly not something he feels like he deserves, but he has managed to push that denigrating voice to the back of his mind. They are in love with each other, that’s all he needs right now.

     Dean watches Y/N after he parts from her, in awe by the joy that radiates from the girl who has such a hold on him. He has seen her beam before, when she’s amongst the crew, when he makes her laugh. But he hasn’t witnessed this level of bliss and fulfillment yet. She’s glowing, and damn, it looks good on her.      Y/N blushes when she notices his captivated stare. “What?”      “You look happy,” he comments, leaving a short kiss on her lips again.      She smiles, her gaze drifting away as she lets her hands slip from behind his neck down his chest, analysing this contentment that she’s experiencing. She’s somewhat stunned by the conclusion; Dean is right.

     “I feel like - like I’m finally at a point in my life where things are coming together,” she realizes. “I spent years of my life in books, riding as much as I could aside from classes, just to get better. I tried to find that ‘click’ with so many horses, fell off, failed...”      She huffs, thinking of all the times she almost gave up. Overwhelmed, overworked. School, ride, sleep, repeat. All while Granddad tried to find her the perfect horse.      “Then Meadow crossed my path.”       She rubs the mare’s withers, earning an appreciative purr as the horse glances over her shoulder. The head wrangler watches the two, the unbreakable bond, the friendship that will last a lifetime. It’s an indescribable feeling to have such a strong connection with an animal, one he knows well. 

     Turning her attention to her horse, Y/N undoes the leather strap under Meadow’s chin and removes the bridle, replacing it with a halter. Meanwhile, Dean takes her hat off the horn and places it back on her head, earning a chuckle. He then continues to loosen the sinch and removes the saddle, humid clouds of warm air coming from Meadow’s back.       “I couldn’t believe it when Grandpa bought her. You should’ve seen me; I went out of my mind,” she says, reminiscing while taking off Meadow’s leg protection.      Dean chuckles at that, able to picture it perfectly. Her reaction to qualifying for Congress offers a good indication. Before he turns the faucet on, he hands the hose to Y/N, noticing the smile fading from her face.      “But then he died. It took me a while to get back from that,” she admits, glad to have something to do to keep her mind occupied. Often the tears still prick in her eyes when she talks about her grandfather, but today she manages to keep them at bay.      Mesmerized, Dean listens. He had guessed before that her granddad had passed away, since she used the past tense whenever she mentioned him. He never pushed her to talk about it, though, knowing that if the roles were reversed, he would appreciate the space too.      “You got back up, though,” he says, hoping she can recognize the willpower it took.       She nods, smiling faintly as she puts the hose aside. “I figured that after everything that he’s done for me, the least I could do was make him proud. I won State, I graduated a year early and cum laude.”      “And then you ended up in this dump,” Dean fills in, trying to lighten the mood.      She chuckles at his joke and shakes her head, untying Meadow.

     “Actually, ending up in this ‘dump’ is probably the best thing that could’ve happened to me,” she states, leading her horse to her box, Dean in tow. “I’m learning a lot here, and not just about ranch work. It has grounded me. Plus, I met this very handsome cowboy, too.”      Dean smirks. “Did ya?”      Y/N hums, turning after she shuts the stable door. “Why do you think I can’t stop smiling?”

     His eyes bounce between hers, only now realizing that he has a big part in her happiness. It humbles him, knowing that he makes her feel this way. Never before has he stood where he is standing now, in a relationship, let alone in a relationship with this one hell of a woman. Most of the time he has no idea what he’s doing, his gut feeling his only guidance, but apparently he’s doing something right. She has a spring in her step when she walks, her eyes shine when she laughs, and he is the reason. 

Wanting to tell her she is his reason too, but not knowing the words to that song, he takes off his western hat to fit under hers and wields his lips to hers. The kiss is less playful than the ones earlier, but all the more meaningful. Her lashes brush against his freckled skin, her hands cup his face, fingertips tracing the stubble on his jaw. The cowboy’s heart grows warm, rising in his chest, the sensation having him light headed. She is everything he never knew he needed, and he’s never going to let her go. 

     They hear footsteps coming around the corner, but both the wranglers are too occupied to pay attention, until a familiar voice puts an end to their private moment.      “Really? Could you not? I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” Jo puts her hands on her small waist and halts when she notices the couple. “This is a lot to muster on an empty stomach, y’know?”      Y/N chuckles after breaking away from her boyfriend, Dean rolls his eyes dramatically at his cousin.      “Get lost, Jo,” he scolds, ignoring her request.      “I’d advise you to get lost, because my dad is hot on my heels,” she returns smartly, before opening the door to the cafeteria, which is situated next to Meadow’s box.

     The cowboy’s eyes grow wide as he quickly distances himself from the woman he held in his arms just a mere second ago, before Bobby turns the corner. Awkwardly, Dean fidgets with the brim of his hat as Y/N straightens out her shirt and wipes her hands on her jeans, hoping her tan will hide the blush that heats her cheeks.       “Mornin’, Bobby,” Dean greets, trying not to act suspicious.      His uncle looks at them now as if he only just noticed them, his weary eyes lingering on the intern for a short second before they focus on Dean.       “Can I talk to you in my office?” he asks the head wrangler, even though it sounds more like an order.      “S-sure,” Dean stammers, gulping nervously.      “I’m getting my coffee first,” the ranch owner announces, before he disappears into the cafeteria. “Meet me there. You can let yourself in.”

     Dean takes an apprehensive breath when the door closes, the tight feeling in his chest not so pleasant now. Y/N’s observing him; he can feel her eyes burning in the side of his head.      “Why don’t you just tell him?” she sighs. “It’s been over a week.”      “I think he might be on to us already,” he says, clearly not at ease with that presumption. “I just wanted to ease him in when he’s not… you know, cranky.”       She frowns at that. “It’s Bobby; he’s always cranky. I thought Ellen--”      “- Ellen said he was gonna be fine with us being together - yes - but Bobby specifically told me not to mess around with you,” Dean recalls, returning his gaze from the door to Y/N.      “Well, I hope what we have going on here is a little bit more than you ‘messing around’ with me,” she returns with a tone.      “Of course it is. Hey...” He lifts her chin up with a curled index finger, pleading to look him in the eye. “This, us… It means a hell of a lot to me. Please tell me you know that.”      Her expression softens. She couldn’t be mad at him if she tried.      “I know. I just wish we wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore,” she admits.       “I’ll tell him.” He presses his lips to hers quickly, glancing at the door before he does, making sure they will not get caught. “Save some bacon for me, will ya?”      “Will do,” she promises, pushing him off gingerly before she opens the door to join the rest of the crew for breakfast.

     He watches her leave, holding on to the sight of her as long as he can. She’s right; he needs to come clean. It doesn’t feel right to go behind Bobby’s back. Plus, with them leaving for Flagstaff this afternoon, he wants to be able to say out loud that he’s spoken for, aware there’s gonna be a few girls who might want to make a move on him. Not by any means is he worried he will not be able to resist the temptation, because as far as he’s concerned, there is none. But he doesn’t want to have to hide their relationship just because his uncle isn’t aware yet. 

     Dean puts his hat back on as he steps outside into the sun, which is steadily rising in the morning sky. Going over different versions of his announcement, he jogs up the stairs of the house, pulling back the screen door before he steps inside. Out of habit, he kicks his boots off and hangs his Stetson on the coat hanger, like he was taught when he moved in with his aunt and uncle at the age of fourteen. 

     The house is quiet, Ellen cooking up breakfast for the crew in the cafeteria at the stables. He crosses the living room and strolls into the kitchen, taking a glass from the cabinet and pouring himself some milk from the fridge. This place still has the same homey feel to it, it even smells the same as he remembered. He still knows his way around, even though he hasn’t slept under this roof since he was twenty. At a certain age, he wanted to be amongst the crew, hang with Benny and the other guys, and have a little more freedom. Jo joined them in the bunkhouse a couple of years later when she got rebellious and never really left, even though she still has a room upstairs. 

     Dean leans against the counter, taking a few gulps of milk. A smile forms on his lips when he notices some of the old photos on the fridge. Ellen always mixes them up, taking them out of albums and putting them in frames, some ending up on the refrigerator or pinned to the board in the office, others are on display in the saloon and in the cafeteria. One of the pictures portrays him on one of the first mustangs he trained, and next to him Jo on her pony, a little fellow called Ghost. He must have been fifteen or sixteen at the time, his cousin not older than ten. There’s another one of him and both Ellen and Bobby at his uncle’s fiftieth birthday; Dean was twenty-one then. The first birthday besides his own where he was allowed to drink, but he has never been a saint. God knows how many times he and Benny and Gabe started the Saturday shift hung over, before he reached the legal age. He grins at the memory.

     His eyes glide over the photos, all seemingly normal snapshots, freeze frames of a country boy’s upbringing. But that’s it, isn’t it? It wasn’t normal to Dean. His life made a complete one-eighty when his aunt and uncle took their nephew in. They did it without question, never once asking for anything in return. They reminded him what it’s like to feel safe, loved, what it’s like to be a kid again. 

     It took him awhile before he could get past the years of worry, fear, and guilt, but eventually he found his way again. Has he forgotten about his childhood, the time he spent with his father and his little brother? Hell, no. He’ll never forget what happened, how the situation escalated and how everyone gave up on family except him, until there was nothing more the loyal son could do to stop the Winchesters from falling apart. But after all the trauma, the lesions on his soul, the nightmares, and endless regret, he found a place he calls home and is surrounded by people who, by blood or by heart, are his family. 

     The hinges of the screen door squeak and rattle when Bobby enters the house. Just like Dean did moments ago, the old man steps out of his boots, knowing very well that his wife will scold him if she finds dirty footprints on the wooden floors when she returns. He hobbles into the house, noticing his nephew in the kitchen.      “Comin’?” he says, nodding at the office, further down the hall.

     Dean empties his glass and leaves it in the sink, following his uncle. When he enters the room, he notices the stack of papers on the desk, open folders littering the flat surface. There’s an open filebox on the floor, numbers and letters scribbled in a notebook. Bobby has never been the person to keep his office tidy, especially with all the extra paperwork that comes with not owning a computer, but right now it looks like a bomb went off in here.       “Take a seat.” Bobby circles the desk and puts down his coffee mug, closing the blinders to prevent curious eyes from peeking inside. 

     Dean does as told, a frown edging lines between his brows. The vibe he is picking up isn’t a pleasant one and he’s sensing this talk will not be about his relationship with the intern. Carefully, he reads the ranch owner, who sits down, rests his elbows on the oak desk and forks his calloused hands together. Bobby doesn’t look up at him, and it’s only now that his nephew notices how the circles under his eyes seem a little darker, his head hanging low between his shoulders, which carry so much weight.       “We’re taking two of the youngsters to Flagstaff,” Bobby announces. “I need you to decide which ones, so I can send in the information to the auction committee.”      “Whoa, what?” Dean says, confused. “I’ve barely haltered a handful. I thought you wanted them under saddle before we sold them?”      “There’s no time for that.”

     His uncle adjusts the worn baseball cap on his head, still not looking at the young man on the other side of his desk.       “What do you mean, there’s no--” Dean stops when Bobby glares at him from under the hat, silencing his nephew with just a look.       “Pick the two who you reckon would go for a good price. And I need you to compete two extra horses as well. The palomino stallion, you think you can show him in the four year old class?”      “Yeah, I - I guess,” Dean says, realizing that riding five horses in competition is going to be a challenge, especially when it comes to time management, but he doesn’t have the courage to contradict the ranch owner.       “Good. I don’t expect them to come home with us,” Bobby acknowledges, picking a folder from the file case next to his desk, flipping through ownership certificates and taking out a file. “I contacted some buyers.”      “Which one’s the fifth you want me to bring?” Dean asks, carefully.      “Joplin,” Bobby states. 

     Dean closes his eyes briefly, cursing internally. He knows Y/N has grown fond of the feisty mare; it’s gonna hurt her to see the little dark horse leave.      “Joplin ain’t the easiest to ride and I can’t use her for the tourists; she’s the obvious choice. She’s good for ranch work and with the cattle, so I’ll sign her up for the cutting competition.” The ranch owner takes out Joplin’s file as well, adding it to the small stack in front of him. “The intern did some cattle work with her, right?”      Dean nods. “Yeah, rode her on the trail too.”      “Y/N can ride her then, they seem like a good fit. Discuss it with her, let me know if she wants to,” the old man decides, looking up at his right hand when he stays quiet. “I contacted Jody Mills; she might have some clients for Joplin.”      “Bobby, what the hell is going on?”

     Dean’s worried eyes study his uncle, an unraveling stare boring through the rancher’s tough armor, who is unable to hold his gaze. The weariness seeps through the cracks when Bobby rubs his forehead, leaning back with a sigh, the old desk chair creaking.      “We’re in bad waters, ain’t we?” the wrangler realizes.      Bobby still doesn’t look up, but nods quietly, admitting to the painful truth. He seems ashamed, as if he - the head of this family - is failing. The man opposite of him can feel the pressure his uncle is experiencing; he knows it well. Just the sheer thought of the ranch being in much more trouble than he originally anticipated has him anxious, his heart rate picking up. These lands, the company, the horses… could they all be at risk?

     “How bad?” he asks firmly, even though he’s not sure if he wants to hear the answer.      “I just ordered stable bedding, hay and pellets without havin’ paid for the last bulk. I can’t pay you or the boys by the end of the month, unless we make a profit in Flagstaff,” Bobby admits. “Then there’s the mortgage, bank loans, taxes...”      Dean leans his elbow on the armrest of his chair, rubs his temple. “What happened to the money we earned on the livestock you sold Rufus?”      “Used it on the electrical bill I was behind on and paid the city and the bank. I owed Caleb a lot of money too.”      The wrangler’s eyes flick up at his uncle again. “So it’s all gone?”       Bobby nods again. “Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

     Troubled, he reaches for his coffee, taking a sip of the hot brew, wishing it was whiskey. From under his cap he watches Dean process the information, the knowledge doing a number on him, even though he acts tough. Bobby knows his nephew. Hell, he’s been living on his land for so long, he considers him a son. He knows how he values this place and the people and animals living here. He knows how much he craved shelter when he stood on the doorstep fifteen years ago. That’s exactly what this place is for him: his safe haven. And now that a storm is coming, now that his world threatens to cave, he’s losing his footing as well.

     Dean leaves his chair, paces up and down the small room twice, his arms crossed and pondering on a solution.      “You can keep my salary,” Dean says, “I know it’s a drop in the ocean, but I’ve got a roof over my head, that’s all I need. I have some savings too--”      “Dean, I don’t want your money,” Bobby makes clear, his voice less stern. “This ain’t your cross to bear.”      “Hell, it ain’t!” he exclaims, raising his arms up in despair. “This is my home too, and I’m not about to lose it!”      “Do you really believe I’m givin’ it up that easy? It’s my life’s work, damn it!” his uncle raises his voice to level with Dean’s, but tones it down when he continues. “No one is losing their home. We’re just gonna have to save and make money before this spins out of control, stay afloat until business picks up again. That’s why we’re gonna bring more horses to Flagstaff, see if we can make some deals.”

     Dean calms down slightly after his outburst, but is nowhere near at ease. He places his hands on his sides now, focusing on the floorboards. After a deep breath he collects himself.      “We can take the large Pinto and the red dun Mustang for the auction,” he determines.       “Alright,” Bobby writes it down, picking up the phone to make the call. “We’re still leaving at three?”      His head wrangler nods, burdened, taking the que and turns towards the door.      “Son?”       Dean halts in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the man who has been more like a dad to him than his own father ever was. A few strands of light squeeze through the blinds, illuminating the mess they are in, the rest of the room dark, shadows looming over his uncle.       “We’ll figure it out, okay? Ain’t the first recession this ranch survived,” Bobby reminds him, before he dials the number he wrote down earlier. 

     With a forced smile Dean watches him for a few more seconds before he leaves the office, the mask dropping from his face the moment he’s out of sight. With the unsettling information still mulling over, he puts on his boots again and takes his hat from the hall stand, walking onto the porch. He needs a moment to collect himself and let’s a heavy sigh escape his lungs, his eyes wandering over the scenery before him. Gold Canyon Ranch: sacred ground, their harbor, his church. The barn with the high doors through which he walked countless times, the Joshua tree that has watched over the horses for centuries. The saloon where on a good night laughs roar and beer flows. The bunkhouse, the crooked little prairie shed where he has a room and a bed of his own. And the Singer’s residence, where he knocked on the front door in search of refuge when he was fourteen years of age, standing in the exact same spot where he’s standing now.

     The sun hits him when he descends from the steps, the source of light warming the earth rapidly, despite autumn approaching. A faint headache is throbbing behind his eyes already, the conversation getting to him much more than he wants it to. Bobby tried to lessen the blow and reassure his nephew, but he knows very well it’s ten minutes to midnight. He dismisses the possibility of losing everything all over again; he can’t think like that, it will only slow him down. What he can do is think of a way to prevent this train from derailing. 

     He attempts to leave the worry behind, because he can’t let the rest of the crew know just how grim the situation is. Thankfully, the guys have already started their workday. He can hear the tractor pulling up behind the barn and there’s a wheelbarrow in the stable alley. Garth whistles to a country song on the radio as he empties a box with large scoops, while Jo leads a saddled horse to the arena. A quick glance through the window of the cafeteria tells him Ellen already went to the saloon, probably to start on lunch for the group of eight tourists that are currently accommodating the guest houses, but he does spot Y/N, who’s wiping down the table. When he pushes open the door, a bright smile comes his way, her light burning away the dark clouds hanging over him.

     “Hey! I risked my life defending your bacon, but I managed to save you some. Scrambled eggs and two buns too. Want me to heat it up real quick?” she asks, busy putting away the cutlery and dishes she washed.      “Nah, that’s alright,” he says, slumping down in the chair where Bobby usually sits.       “Here.”       She puts the plate down in front of him, the smell of crispy meat filling his nose. He’s not all that hungry anymore, but he starts cutting the bread either way, knowing she made an effort to make sure he had something to eat.

     “How did he respond?” she wonders after a moment of silence, drying off the frying pan.      Dean was about to take a bite when he freezes, only now realizing what she’s talking about. Shit, with everything going on, it completely slipped his mind why he wanted to talk to Bobby in the first place.      Y/N notices the hesitation, followed by a pair of shameful eyes coming her way. She sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Dean…”      “I know. I’m sorry.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose while he shuts his eyes, feeling like an idiot. “Something came up. He didn’t call me in because of us.”

     The cowboy glances up warely, noticing her disappointment. If anything, he doesn’t want her to think he just forgot, or worse - that he chickened out. But business is blending with personal life here; he’s not sure if he should share with her what his boss just told him.       “Why did he call you in then?” she wonders, unable to hide the discontent in her voice.      “He, uh - he wants me to take more horses to Flagstaff,” he says. “To sell them.”      “Oh…” Y/N puts away the pan in one of the lower cabinets. “Which ones?”      “Two of the youngsters we brought in earlier this month. Bon Jovi - the four year old - and...” Dean hesitates, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “And Joplin.”

     In shock the cowgirl turns to him, staring at the head wrangler. “Bobby is going to sell Joplin?”      “I wish it could’ve been different,” he half apologizes, feeling sorry for Y/N. “I know you like her a lot.”      She hangs the dish towel to dry and turns to lean on the back of the chair. Her airway is closing, but she swallows down the lump that builds. Dean is right; she grew fond of the little dark Quarter. Not everyone can handle her fiery spirit, but the cowgirl could, forging a strong bond between them within a short period of time. Somehow, she never expected Joplin to leave the premises.       “It’s not your fault,” she says after clearing her throat. “I’m the one who gets attached to horses who aren’t my own.”      The wrangler observes her, well aware she’s trying to be professional about this.      “Bobby hoped you could show her at the competition,” he continues.      “I can do that,” she agrees, keeping her voice steady.

     Dean absently eats his bacon and egg sandwich while Y/N tidies up, giving her hands something to do while she processes what he just told her. He watches her rinse a cloth and clean the kitchen counter, rubbing over a spot to make a stain go away. Not sure if he should say anything, he focuses on finishing his plate, but it doesn’t take long before he can’t stand the silence.      “You okay?” he checks, concerned.      “I guess,” she turns to him, finally taking a second to sit down. “How about you?”      Dean wipes his hands down his jeans to get rid of the crumbs sticking to his fingers and looks at her, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m used to horses being sold.”      “That’s not what I mean,” Y/N returns, not at all surprised that he acts like there’s nothing going on. “What’s bothering you?”

     She reads her boyfriend carefully when he looks at her, dropping his gaze the moment her eyes reach too deep into his soul. For a few short seconds he seems to consider telling her what’s going on, but then he shakes his head. Worry swims in circles in her stomach, his inability to open up once again having her question herself.       “It’s not us, I promise,” he says sincerely, reaching for her hand across the table when he notices her doubt. “And I wanna tell you, but I can’t discuss this with anyone other than Bobby or Ellen.”      “Business related?” she guesses.       When Dean nods, it clicks in her head.       “The ranch isn’t doing so well, is it?”

     As if he got caught committing a crime, his eyes shoot up to meet hers. Shit, has he said too much? She might be his girlfriend, but she’s also the intern. She works for Bobby, for God’s sake! This isn’t information he’s supposed to share with anyone.       Unsure of how to respond, he averts his gaze, but she squeezes his hand to call him back.      “Dean, this is kind of my field, remember? I can see the tell-tale signs,” she reminds him. 

     The head wrangler holds his breath, catching his bottom lip with his teeth, but then exhales burdened, accepting she has figured it out. Self-conscious about his own vulnerability, he runs his thumb over the back of her hand as he stares at nothing in particular, focusing on the motion. Bit by bit, the curtain is pulled back, revealing just how much this newfound knowledge worries him.      “Bobby says we’ll figure it out, but things are bad,” he admits after a long silence. 

     She nods slightly, acknowledging his statement. Honestly, she’s not surprised. She wondered how the ranch was able to run on a handful of tourists and trail rides. With only three horses in paid training, it’s impossible to generate an income that covers the dozen others owned by the family, which can’t be sold for a fair price now that the market is at an all time low. She cannot imagine the mortgage on this enormous place. There’s employees who depend on a salary, animals which need to be fed and cared for, machinery that needs maintenance. Selling stock and letting go workers; they seem like desperate measures to her, measures which will not cut it during the economic crisis this country is currently suffering from, one that might drag on for years. It’s a postponement of execution.

     Dean swallows thickly, allowing her to have a glimpse of his crippling concern. He feels weak to admit it, to admit to her that the walls around him are crumbling. But a joke and a laugh cannot save him this time, there is no way he can dance around the fact that he has zero control over the financial situation, and it scares the living hell out of him.      “If we lose the ranch, I wouldn’t know what to do,” he confesses. “This place is all I have.”      Hell, this place is all that I am, he thinks to himself. Because, let’s face it, when you take away the horses and strip him from the opportunities he’s offered here, he’s nothing but a highschool dropout with an old pick up truck. 

     “That’s not true,” Y/N dismisses. “You’ve got family, ranch or not. And you have me now.”      He carefully glances up at her, taken aback by the comfort in her voice. A pair of soft eyes wait for him, strengthening her words. He mirrors the small smile she’s carrying, eased by her promise.      “What if I take a look at the books?” she offers. “If Bobby is okay with that, of course.”      “You - You’d do that?” Dean returns, stunned, his eyebrows raised.      “Yeah, of course. I mean, don’t expect miracles by any means, but I can shed some light on it. Maybe get an overview of the assets and liabilities, set up a balance sheet if there isn’t one, etcetera,” she states, making it sound like it’s no big deal. “I analyzed several large companies for my thesis.”

     Impressed, the head wrangler takes in the young woman who is so wise for her age. He only now realises the intern might be the one who could steer this ship away from the massive iceberg they are heading towards. Of course she can’t magically make money appear out of thin air, but he doubts Bobby has the skill set of someone with a master’s degree in business.      “You’re awesome, know that?” he huffs.      “Don’t you forget it.” She grins at him, getting up from her seat and taking his plate.      Before she can rinse it and reach for the dish brush, Dean’s arms snake around her waist and pull her against his chest, hooking his chin over her shoulder. He kisses her on the cheek, leaning his head against hers and ignoring his western hat when it tilts to the side.      “Thank you.”      She smiles. “You’re welcome.”

     Y/N turns in his arms, trapped between him and the kitchen counter. She looks up to meet his admiring gaze, adjusting the Stetson on the cowboy’s head and letting her hands linger, wrists crossed behind his neck.      “I’m beginning to understand just how much the ranch means to you. And frankly, this place is starting to mean a lot to me too,” she admits.

     The morning light sheds diagonal beams through the set of four square windows, highlighting her hair and her beautiful smile. Dean drinks her in for a couple of solid seconds, before he dips down and kisses her.       How she is able to vanquish his inner panic, just by offering her full support, doesn’t cease to amaze the wrangler. He’s not getting his hopes up, he knows the financial problems are bigger than she can fix with a run-through and a few budget cuts. But she’s trying. She’s doing her part. She’s here to help, not only the ranch, but him as well. And just like that, the future seems a lot less grim than it did a moment ago. They will figure it out and things will be okay, as long as he has her by his side.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part nineteen here

[deathonyourtongue]

They Would Try

Summary:  The color has washed out of everyday life, and it’s the routine that keeps him going. Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader Word Count: 2.2K Warnings: HEAVY angst. Description of some palliative care procedures. A/N: You know the drill. Sorry in advance. Bring the tissues. The song for this one is The Wisp Sings - Winter Aid ____________________________________

Let me sleep I am tired of my grief And I would like you To love me, to love me, to love me

Men deal with grief in different ways. Some choose the path of anger and violence, lashing out at anyone and everyone, bringing about their own demise because they cannot release their hearts. Others choose to martyr their feelings, vowing never to love again, forever shutting the door in the wall they’ve built around their hearts. Rarely, a man will choose persistent kindness. 

Having suffered the great blow to his heart, he will treat others with unfailing gentility, understanding that everyone has their plight and that everyone, in some way, is grieving. It’s the sort of kindness that makes it clear the man providing it is permanently broken, his heart shattered. Most who are privy to it, are able to feel the anguish coming off such a man in waves; I’ve been hurt before, please do not hurt me again, for I cannot take another blow. The kindness in and of itself is a shield, a way of pretending to be okay when one is clearly not. Of all the ways to cope, it is the most heartbreaking.

His days are routine now, a small comfort in a world that no longer truly holds any interest. The color has washed out of everyday life, and it’s the routine that keeps him going. Knowing the things he must do, make it possible to get out of bed every morning. 

When the alarm goes off quietly, he rolls over, eyes still closed, willing himself to make it through the day without tears. Happiness has long since removed itself from his vocabulary, and it’s rare that he does not find himself wiping his eyes either due to constant, dull ache in his heart or at the sight of something that sparks a memory of a time when he could laugh and smile. Mostly, the tears come in the quiet hours, when there’s no one watching with concern pouring out of every fiber of their being. He does his best to cry in private, but sometimes it can’t be helped and he finds his shoulders shaking as he nuzzles into your shoulder, the tears always silent. One of the doctors said it was best to not be upset, lest it aggravate the situation, and it’s something he’s taken to heart ever since. 

A quick shower is the first must on the to-do list. In and out only to maintain basic hygiene so as to pass the inspections he knows are always being conducted, even if he’s told to the contrary. Fresh clothing completes the ritual, leaving him free to take care of more important matters. 

The curtains are opened along with the windows to circulate the air lest the room grows stale and once a week, the sheets are changed. The birds singing help him remember better times and often, he has to stop in his tracks and curl in on himself, heart aching for what it can no longer have. 

His hair’s grown substantially since that first day, and though he’s perpetually asked to take a day for himself, to go get a cut and a shave, he can’t bring himself to leave. His full attention is required and nothing can get in the way of that, least of all something so self-serving. 

It’s been two years since he came home to find you in Nightingale. Two years since he learned the horrors of what you went through on your own. Two years since he came home to find the bed soaked in your blood. 

Two years since he last heard you speak. 

Henry’s best friend is growing impatient. It’s been long enough. Too long, if you ask him. 

“Don’t you think it’s time you moved on, mate? I mean, you’ve given up your career, you rarely leave the house, and at family things, you’re a downright stick-in-the-mud! It’s time for you to let go, to let her be taken care of by professionals somewhere, and go on with your life!” He vents to Henry one morning, having barged in shortly after breakfast. 

Henry looks stung, words unable to describe what he truly wants to say in his heart of hearts. He doesn’t need to speak, however, as your nurse, Kathy, hears the whole thing. Incensed, she has to take a moment to collect her thoughts before stepping into the room. 

“Pardon me, Jonathan, but did I just hear you ask Henry to let go of his wife so he can, what, go back to whatever life it is you approve of better? Shame on you. Have you no heart?”

“Of course I do! I just...He’s wasting his life laying here next to her, crying himself to sleep and wishing for things to change, when it’s clear they won’t. She’s not coming out of this-this catatonia or whatever it is. She’s a vegetable that can breathe, that’s it. He...I just don’t want him to spend the rest of his life moping here next to her, willing things to go back as they were. It’s not healthy.” 

“Would you say the same if it were your own wife, sir? Or heaven forbid, your mother or sister?” Kathy asks, eyes wide in disbelief, her hands shaking in ire. 

“I would, yes! It’s not like he’s even doing anything. He just lays there all day, gazing sadly at her. All her care is provided by you, is it not? He’s wasting the prime of his life, all because he--” 

“Actually, sir,” Kathy interjects, clearing her throat and blocking what she knows will be too painful a sentence for anyone to hear. “Mr. Cavill does 99% of her care on his own. I only visit once every two weeks to update her chart and help with certain dressings that are hard to manage on one’s own.” 

“Dressings?” Jonathan balks, not understanding in the slightest. 

“She gets bedsores, despite...Despite my best attempts,” Henry finally speaks, his voice hoarse from lack of use. There’s shame in his eyes and even as Kathy rubs his shoulders, it’s clear that it’s a touchy subject. 

“Mr. Taylor, why don’t you sit a while? Keep your friend company so you can better understand what he does all day,” Kathy suggests through gritted teeth, her tone making it clear that it’s a demand, more than an invite. Henry manages a small smile of thanks to Kathy, hoping this will put any protests as to why he’s chosen to put his life on hold, permanently to rest. 

“When you’re ready, son,” Kathy nods, watching as Henry moves to your side, kneeling next to you on the bed. Tucking his head down, he whispers to you tenderly, his tone apologetic and full of regret. 

“We have to change your dressings, love. We’ll be as quick as we can. I’m so sorry.” Henry’s snuffles, his voice pinched with emotion and when he lifts his head again, tears fill his eyes, though they stubbornly refuse to fall. 

Jonathan is appropriately horrified when he sees what’s beneath the old dressing on your lower back; Your groan of pain certainly doesn’t help matters. 

“Looks much better, Henry. It should heal completely within the week,” Kathy says softly, her smile encouraging and understanding. Henry only nods, his breathing shallow and erratic as he waits for it to be over so he can tuck you back in. 

“Everything’s in order, love. Do you need me to stay?” Kathy asks, eyeing Jonathan with disdain, not trusting him to open his mouth and say something utterly heartless after she’s left. 

“We’re all good on this front, Kathy. Thank you, as always.” Henry shakes his head, giving her the same smile that breaks her heart each time she visits. Kind but filled with anguish, the feigned happiness never reaches his blue eyes, and she thinks of her own son, vowing to check in with him when she gets home. 

Henry smoothes your hair away from your face with a gentle hand, a soft kiss to your forehead following after. He takes a moment to collect himself before moving off the bed and around to the side closest to Jonathan. 

“W-what are you doing?” His friend asks, leaning forward in his seat, trying to see what Henry is pulling out of a mini-fridge that now serves as your nightstand. Henry doesn’t say a word, knowing Jonathan’s question will be answered in time. Two syringes, one pre-filled with saline and the other with a pinkish-brown liquid, are set on top of your sheets, and Henry pulls a chair close to your bed, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves after pulling the sheets down far enough. With the utmost care, he inserts the second syringe, the procedure becoming apparent to Jonathan by the look on his face. 

“She can’t eat on her own. We tried assisted feeding for a bit in the beginning, but it didn’t work,” Henry explains, his tears gone as he focuses on pushing the contents slowly through the tube that had long ago been inserted directly into your GI tract. When your meal is done, Henry flushes the line with saline, and covers you back up, albeit momentarily. 

By the time he’s done your morning routine, which includes two more procedures Jonathan couldn’t imagine doing, not even for a loved one, Henry’s friend is beside himself, tears of regret streaming down his face. Henry takes it in stride, knowing that no one, save maybe for Kathy and now Jonathan, truly understands what it takes to keep you alive and relatively healthy. 

“I’m sorry, mate! I’m so-so sorry!” He blubbers, hugging Henry tightly, his initial stance shattered by what he’s seen. Henry cups the back of his head, offering comfort to what he knows is a shock. 

“To answer your question. I couldn’t let her stay there, in that cold place, where the staff just go through the motions. She’s my wife, she’s my responsibility. In sickness and in health. I love her too much to let her waste away in a place like that, Jonathan. Even though...Even though life is not like it was before, she’s still my love. Still the other half of my heart. Do you understand?” 

Jonathan nods hurriedly, sobbing quietly and knowing full well he’s never had that type of love, nor given it. It makes him feel ant-sized and foolish for even thinking that Henry could just give it all up.

It’s well past lunch by the time Jonathan leaves and having skipped breakfast, Henry eats only because he must. It’s the bare minimum, but enough to keep him going another day and that’s all that matters. 

He tries not to look into mirrors much lately; the man that looks back at him is foreign. Gone are the muscles he’d been known for, the bright eyes and beaming grin. Gray creeps further and further into his beard and hairline now, and the hollows of his face are far more prominent. His sallowness always spooks those that visit, and if he’s not ready for it, it scares him a little too. Today, he looks, tries to find any remnant of that man that once was. There’s always a bit left, but as time goes on, it gets harder and harder to find. Today, he doesn’t see it, and it terrifies him. He has to keep hold of that man, if only so that if the day comes that you should wake from your condition, there may be something familiar for you to grasp onto.

In the small hallway that gives way to the room the two of you still share, Henry slides down the wall and curls up, sobbing softly, closer than he’s ever been to giving up. He allows himself a meager five minutes to wallow before wiping his eyes with the inside of his shirt and padding back into the room, knowing there’s more to be done. 

He bathes you, washes and combs your hair, and sets to work on your physical therapy, intent on keeping as much of your muscle tone and mass as he can. By the time he’s finished, he’s emotionally exhausted and physically worn out. 

Crawling into his usual spot at your side, he holds you close, sniffling. Today is one of those rare days, one he knows may do you more harm than good, but Henry’s always been honest with you and despite everything that’s happened, that will never change. 

“I miss you, my love. I miss you s-so much,” he stammers out, the tears coming easily, pooling on the pillow next to your shoulder as he reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together. Henry lets go of the burden in his heart, knowing full well you wouldn’t want him to keep it in any longer than he has to.

“I lo-love you so m-much, darling. Please-please, come back to me. I n-need you here wi-with me!” His sobs soft, he shakes more with each rattled inhale; it’s a condition that hasn’t gone unnoticed by him or Kathy or indeed his own family, but one he’s willing to ignore so long as he can continue to provide you with care. 

It prevents him from feeling the first sign of hope in two years; your fingers slowly curling around his, squeezing weakly.

And so the day goes on, Henry’s list of musts growing smaller with each task he completes, until, come dusk, he finally finds himself curled up again, this time to sleep what few hours his mangled heart and tortured mind allow, hoping for the strength to wake another day and do it all over again. 

[rebelscum-2187]

So after nearly 22 years of life on this planet, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am high functioning autistic. I believe I fell through the cracks of an early diagnosis for the following reasons:

1.) I am Female (I learned how to mask myself very early on)

2.) I have a gifted IQ (above 130) and was classified as such in 4th grade so no one considered that I could be both ASD and intellectually gifted.

I am in the beginning stages of unmasking and am currently seeking an official diagnosis. Right now, I’m trying to write down everything I know about my neurodivergent experience so here’s a list of things I’ve experienced and believe to be relevant. If you can relate or you understand please comment and share! I’m new to this community and it feels so good to finally meet people who understand and can relate. Ok, Here we go.

“So the general population doesn’t memorize scripts to movies or watch the same one every day for a year?”

“People think it’s weird that I prefer to have subtitles on when I watch stuff, even though I don’t have damaged hearing”

“I watch movies with subtitles because I won’t understand what’s said if I don’t read it. I have no hearing issues.”

“I cannot hear/understand someone if I have one ear bud in and one out. Too much sensory input at once.”

“I thought I had a hearing deficit because I literally could not understand people at church or parties or other places with a lot of background noise, and I was so confused when they told me my hearing was normal.”

“I love star wars. Not just love but I could tell you what planet each character is from and what kind of ship they use, what model droid that one is and I will gladly talk about it all day if you let me. Everyone now gets me Star Wars stuff for my birthday and holidays”

“Eye contact is so uncomfortable for me that sometimes it ‘burns’ to maintain it, but then I overcompensate and stare too intensely. Over the years, being female, I’ve forced myself to make eye contact for a certain number of seconds and then look away a certain number of seconds but I’m concentrating so hard on that, that I don’t remember anything that was said to me.”

“Giving me verbal directions is a special kind of hell. I need it written down.”

“I can memorize pictures of things and exactly where every kid sat in my 10th grade US history class as well as my 9th grade geometry class.”

“I never fit in anywhere, in my childhood, most of my adolescence, except the swim team and my new church.”

“Team sports are the worst. I can’t communicate fast enough, I’m bad with hand eye coordination and keeping track of a ball. I excelled in individual sports and fell in love with swimming.”

“I often found it much easier to make friends with older kids because I could have intelligent conversations with them and their good social skills could make up for my lack of social skills.”

“But, I had a few friends that were considerably younger who I could still play imaginatively with dolls when I was 13 and one particular friend was 9. I had a lot of trouble getting a long with her sister who was the same age as me.”

“It physically pains me to hear someone mispronounce a word, spell something wrong, or make a grammatical mistake. I corrected my cousin A LOT when we were kids, she frequently got mad and I couldn’t understand why. My grandma would tell me to stop because correcting people is rude.”

“One of my special interests as a kid was dolphins. I was 5-6 years old and I remember being so excited when my mom let me check out like 10 books from the library and I read them quickly and multiple times.”

“I corrected a teacher one time about dolphins. She said dolphins weren’t whales and I knew FOR A FACT that ‘dolphins were a type of small whale’ because I read it in one of my books. She laughed at me and so did the rest of the class and I felt stupid even though I was right. This led to me suppressing my knowledge and real self and ultimately more masking.”

“As per that last one, my memory is impeccable.”

“I had another special interest in dogs when I got a bit older. My mom bought me a book with every kind of breed of dog, where they came from, their temperament, their size, everything. I can still, to this day, tell you the breed of dog just by looking at it.”

“I always wanted a best friend but never had one. I had groups of friends but never someone who would call me their best friend. When I got a boyfriend in high school, I was so excited because he called me his best friend and he was mine and I finally had that feeling reciprocated. He also had a gifted IQ and dyslexia, ADHD and a few other things so we understood each other quite well.”

“I can’t tell if someone is flirting with me because I can’t read between the lines. I also don’t know how to flirt because if I like a guy too much I get soooo nervous and I stumble over my words and it’s a disaster.”

“When I liked this guy (last year, 2019) I would freeze up so bad when I talked to him that I rehearsed every conversation I wanted to have with him so I wouldn’t mess it up. I would write topics in the notes section of my phone before hanging out with him so I’d remember what to ask him. It made for very awkward and forced conversations and probably drove him away.”

“Sarcasm and jokes almost always go over my head. The boyfriend I had in high school was very funny and outgoing but used a lot of sarcasm and it always caused disagreements because I took him seriously when he was being sarcastic.”

“I talk slowly and very monotone.”

“I have no difficulty reading in my head and can read/comprehend it well, but reading aloud is difficult and I often stumble over words and mess up.”

“I need directions repeated multiple times before I understand.”

“I went to the beach to hang out with some church friends yesterday. They all play spike ball and are so confused as to why I sit there and don’t play. I’ve tried playing spike ball but it involves way too much hand eye coordination and I’m so bad at it that it’s embarrassing. So I don’t play.”

“That same night, a group of them said ‘let’s play uno!’ And I was so happy to play something familiar that didn’t involve a lot of coordination. Then they said ‘we’re playing SPICY uno, right?’ And immediately my heart sank because I knew they were playing a different way that I wasn’t familiar with. Again, receiving verbal directions was hell and I didn’t understand it. I was so bad at it and wasn’t getting it, and in the middle of the game I had the urge to cry. I wanted to cry because I couldn’t even get this right. I suppressed the urge, of course, so they wouldn’t think I was even more weird than the already suspected. Another group of people that I wouldn’t fit in with.”

“Making friends has always been so difficult. Once I make a good friend I hang on to them for as long as possible even if they’re not very nice because I’m scared I’ll have to make a new one if I lose them. And we all know how hard making new friends is for me.”

“I’m a perfectionist. Especially with my art projects. When I took a painting class I realized I do it the wrong way. You’re supposed to paint layer by layer over the entire canvas and focus on small details at the very end. I work on one small area at a time and do small details too soon. I often spend way too much time on small details before I realize that the larger shape of the object isn’t proportionate and then it’s too late.”

“I won’t even attempt tasks if I know I can’t do them perfectly.”

“I have perfect pitch. I don’t know if that has anything to do with autism or that I just started music lessons when I was young. I can tune instruments perfectly without a tuner or reference note and I never understood why my orchestra teacher had me play the A key on the piano over and over again while she walked around and tuned everyone’s instruments when I could do it without any reference. I can hear it in my head.”

“When my parents got me a keyboard at age 7-8, they were impressed because I could sit down, without listening to any song and find the notes of a song I liked by ear. I still do that today but my piano is very out of tune and it bothers me.”

“Autistic boys tend to isolate and not care about concealing their stims or weird behavior but girls don’t. I am a ‘loner’ and always have been but I want so badly to belong and have friends and socialize, but I’ve always been so bad at it that I strike out every time. I often drink at social gatherings because it helps me loosen up and talk more freely. I guess it helps me lose the mask for a while.”

“I HATE people touching me. I’ve always hated it and still hate it to this day unless it’s someone I’m super comfortable with. I’ve been told I have the ‘dead fish hand shake’ and I’m an awkward hugger. My friend picked me up from behind and carried me for a few seconds because we were all goofing off and having fun but afterwards I was so mad at him I got really quiet and didn’t talk for a while. I told him later on the ride home that if he did that again I would slap him. “

“Everyone thinks it’s weird that I don’t like touching people, and some of my friends who also don’t like touching people were abused and I always thought, ‘there had to be a reason, maybe I was abused as a kid and repressed it.’ It’s been so long and I’ve finally realized that maybe it’s just because I have Aspergers or ASD. “

“When I make sarcastic remarks or jokes I often have to clarify because I say them in such a monotone way that people think I’m serious.”

“I’ve always joked that I’m just really clumsy and uncoordinated, and chalked it up to being tall and lanky. That’s why swimming was the perfect sport for me. Little to no risk of injury and not much hand eye coordination needed to be good at it. Just hours of practice, technique and endurance.”

“I also injure myself quite a lot because I’m ‘a klutz.’”

“Stims: I scratch my head and then smell my fingers and I will do this for hours if I am able (I know that one is weird so I only do it at home) popping my knuckles a ridiculous amount of times when I feel uncomfortable and don’t know what to do with my hands. I twirl my hair constantly (that one is pretty socially acceptable so I do it in class nonstop). I tap my foot or bounce my leg, I make weird facial expressions and forget to hide those. People notice but they often think it’s funny because I’ll make a face if someone says something dumb and make an expression that people seem to relate to. I scrunch my nose if I’m uncomfortable or just whenever.”

Special interests: Star Wars, Disney (I know every word to every Disney song and I watch animated Disney movies over and over again, like literally every night) dolphins, the ocean, dogs, theology/the Bible.

“With my art work, and other things, I will get so focused on a painting that I will work non stop for 8-9 hours (all day basically) and not eat because I’m so focused that I forget to eat.”

“I think I slur my words a lot and sometimes my friends will laugh and be like ‘did you just say ____.?!?!’And I’ll clarify and they will continue laughing and say ‘oh it sounded like you said this.’ I hate when that happens.”

“Loud noises really bother me. I jump if I hear an unexpected loud noise and I hate people yelling, even if it’s not directed at me, it makes me want to cry. “

“I loved the color blue so much as a kid (I still do) but my entire wardrobe was basically different shades of blue t-shirts. I also only ever wore baggy t-shirts and baggy cargo shorts (I kinda dressed like a boy) because it was comfortable and I didn’t like getting comments if I looked “cute today”. I hated the attention. I also never ever wore my hair down to school. It always had to be up in a tight pony tail. I still don’t like my hair being in my face to this day and wear it up almost every day.”

“The other day, I was hanging out with a friend and she was trying to tell a story but I kept getting distracted and interrupting her. She said, ‘Emily, you kind of interrupt people a lot.’ At first I was hurt, but then I realized it’s not entirely my fault and it’s an autistic thing.”

“I mask so much that I have rehearsed responses to social interactions and will often get so nervous or start speaking from the script before I realize I’ve said the wrong response. Of course I’ll think about it all day after that and think of ‘well great, so and so thinks I’m weird now.’”