#but in retrospect it's SO funny that we were trying so hard to be gentle with each other that we accidentally started making ''guess'

[starsong-dragonheart]

Also! Sometimes folks with autism and/or ADHD do this, too! Even if they have a hard time figuring out what's going on when other people do it! Because learning to communicate in ways that will be understood by those around them, even if they don't "get" it or if it's bad for their mental health, is a form of masking! It sucks SO MUCH for everyone involved!

Source: I'm audhd and live with other people who have autism and/or ADHD, and we all do this at least occasionally, and all of us sometimes have trouble recognizing that we're doing it, and we all struggle to figure out what's expected of us when the others do it. It's fairly common for this kind of thing to get worse when folks are under stress and when we feel (right, wrong, or indifferent) like we're not being heard or listened to.

I can't speak for allistic folks, but for all of my group, unfucking this shit wasn't as simple as "don't do that anymore" or "learn what we/they actually mean when we/they say this." For us, a critical step was working to make asking for clarification less fraught on all sides, because with some forms of "guess" communication, asking if something is a request or just asking about preferences can actually mean anything from "I don't want to/can't, please don't ask me" to "I recognize that you are asking me to do something, but I don't want to, so I want to make sure you know that I'm only going to do this under protest if pushed. Do you really still want to ask me to do that?" Which sucks SO MUCH when you're really just trying to get clarification.

(side note: if allistics get pissed off when you ask for that clarification because this is what they're used to that meaning, it might be worth experimenting with adding something like "I'm not trying to blow you off/be rude/be passive aggressive, I just don't want to answer the wrong question, I know how much that frustrates both of us" - some people are still going to be jerks, but for the ones who actually are trying to communicate with you better, it can be a good de-escalation off-ramp)

Once we got to the point of not worrying that any of us was doing that any more, it got WAY easier to both get clarification when things were unclear, and recognize that if someone has to ask us this, then we'd probably accidentally slipped into "guess" communication - and it's much easier to change a behavior when you actually recognize it happening!

(brain hack: if someone asks for that kind of clarification, it can be super helpful to include in your response a clearer re-wording of your original question, both so that they know they've understood you this time, AND to help re-train your brain so you're more likely to use "ask" instead of "guess" in the future! It can feel ridiculous at first, but it helps.)

Allistic people really need to stop phrasing requests as questions because it's fucking with me

"Do you want to help me cook dinner?"

No, I'm still overwhelmed from earlier and want to stay in my room.

"well fine, dinner will be ready when it's done." And now they're upset with me

And I'm just here like ???????

[intheticklecloset]

Haikyuu!! Sentence Starters #31-40

A collection of the Haikyuu sentence starters I've done, compiled for the sake of ease. These are all stand-alone stories.

~~~

31) Lee Suga, Ler Daichi

“If you’re going to be upset, then I’m going to make you laugh,” Daichi said firmly, grabbing Suga’s shoulders and staring him right in the eye.

Suga shoved him away. “Back off. I’m not in the mood for your games, captain.”

“Too bad.” Daichi reached for him again, but Suga batted him away, and thus a short-lived slap fight ensued, which the Karasuno captain quickly turned to his advantage by dropping to the ground and squeezing Suga’s knees.

“Hey!” Suga tried to sound angry, but it came out as more of a surprised squeal, followed by helpless giggles when Daichi prodded the backs of his knees hard enough to make him too weak to stand. Suga toppled to the ground, and the brunette quickly straddled him, yanking his shirt up to reveal his belly button. “No!” He hurriedly pushed his shirt back down. “No, Daichi!”

“Let it happen, Suga,” Daichi reprimanded, shoving the shirt back up. Again a fight ensued – the captain constantly trying to yank the shirt up, Suga always yanking it right back down. Finally, Daichi grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the floor by his sides, taking the shirt in his teeth and pulling it up that way.

“Whoa, hang on,” Suga protested, a pink hue flooding his cheeks. “Daichi, you’re not going to…”

Daichi flashed him a smirk, then took a deep breath and blew a raspberry right over the setter’s belly button, earning a loud shriek and cackling laughter for his trouble.

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! DOHOHOHOHON’T DO THAHAHAHAHAHAT!!” Suga cried, trying to arch his back but finding that only gave Daichi better access to his weak spot. “I’M MAHAHAHAHAHAD AT YOU!!”

“Are you?” Daichi chuckled, taking a big breath. “Are you really?”

“Y-Yehehes I – I AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAM!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

It didn’t take long for Suga to change his mind.

*

32) Lee Kageyama, Ler Oikawa

“Hey, you don’t have to look so scared.” Oikawa looked down at Kageyama, who lay against the pillow and mattress with flushed cheeks and a nervous expression he almost never let free around others. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Kageyama murmured, seeming even more flustered. “I never thought…”

“I know. I didn’t either. But life is funny sometimes, isn’t it, Tobio-chan?” Oikawa brushed some of the setter’s jet black hair away. “What can I do to help you relax?”

“I don’t know…”

Oikawa hummed thoughtfully, then slid a hand under Kageyama’s shirt and gently fluttered his fingers against his hip. “Smile for me, Tobio~”

Kageyama bit his lip to try and keep from doing exactly that, but Oikawa’s fingers were persistent, and eventually he gave in, squirming away from the touch. “Stohohop…”

“Oh, Tobio-chan…you’re not ticklish, are you?”

“N-No!” Kageyama stammered, suddenly on high alert. Oikawa was using thatvoice. The voice that meant he was about to exploit this new weakness for all it was worth. He tried rolling away, but the older boy pinned him in place by straddling his hips and sitting on them, running his hands up and down his ribs and sides. “Nohohohoho!”

“Oh, dear, you lied to me,” Oikawa tsked, shaking his head with a smile. “How rude. I’ll have to punish you for that, Tobio-chan~”

“Wahahahait, Oikawa, p-plehehehehehease dohohohohohohon’t!” Kageyama dissolved into giggles, unable to help himself. The touches were so light, but so, so ticklish. He had no hope of getting away now, and so he surrendered and allowed himself to laugh openly, freely, without any fear of judgement.

They were way beyond their days as enemies, anyway.

*

33) Lee Tanaka, Ler Noya

“You laugh so loud!” Nishinoya giggled, clinging onto Tanaka’s back as he flailed around like he was trying to do some kind of monkey dance.

“Noya!” he squealed, trying to shove him away. “Noya, stohohohohohohohop!” It was true that his laughter was bouncing off the gym walls, but he couldn’t help it! The libero had attached himself to his ribs and underarms, and it just tickled so bad!

Noya hooked a leg around Tanaka’s leg, trying to trip him up and succeeding marvelously. Tanaka tumbled to the floor, which gave Noya even greater opportunity to straddle his back and grab onto his thighs, digging and squeezing.

“NOYA!!” Tanaka screamed, laughter bursting out of his lungs. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!! ENOUGH ALREADYHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!”

“No way, dude! This is fun!” Noya traveled even further down to his knees and scribbled along the sensitive undersides. “Tickle, tickle, tickle!”

“NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YOU JEHEHEHEHEHEHERK!!” Tanaka pounded the gym floor in his ticklish distress, trying to roll over but failing. “YOU’LL PAHAHAHAHAHAHAY FOR THIS NOYAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Noya chuckled. “I’d like to see you try!”

*

34) Lee Kageyama, Ler Yamaguchi

“Why do you have to be so arrogant?” Yamaguchi muttered, turning his back as Kageyama tossed him the ball.

The setter’s eyes snapped to him. “What was that?”

Yamaguchi sighed, turning back to him. “Would it kill you to stop being such a know-it-all all the time?”

“You think I’m the know-it-all? Have you checked who you always hang out with lately?” Kageyama grumbled. “Just serve.”

Yamaguchi considered for a moment. He and Kageyama never really got along per se, but they didn’t usually fight, either. He was content to watch from the sidelines as everyone else put him in his place. But right now, it was just the two of them. So it looked like he’d have to do the job himself.

He tossed the ball in the air toward Kageyama, who got under it, preparing to set as Tadashi hurried toward the net and leapt into the air. As usual, Kageyama set exactly to him, and he was able to spike the ball into the opposite court with ease.

Kageyama turned around to say something, but before he had the chance, Yamaguchi lunged for him, grabbing his sides and squeezing hard.

“He-EEY!!” Kageyama cried, pushing at Tadashi’s shoulders. “W-What – why are you – stohohop it!”

“Hinata always does this when you’re being a jerk, and it works for him, so I thought I’d try it.” Yamaguchi grinned at the soft, held-back giggles slipping from the setter’s mouth. “Feeling a little more humble, Tobio?”

“Shuhuhuhut up!” Kageyama grabbed his wrists, finally stopping the gentle assault. Breathing heavily, he muttered, “No fair.”

“I think it’s completely fair. We should have a way to knock you down a few pegs when we need to.” Yamaguchi smirked, grabbing another ball from the bin behind Kageyama and turning toward the end of the court. “Let’s do another one.”

*

35) Lee Tsukishima, Ler Bokuto

“Are you seriously ticklish here?” Bokuto laughed, pressing his thumbs deeper into the space between Tsukishima’s shoulder blades.

Tsukki gritted his teeth against the mirth that was bubbling inside of him, but he couldn’t stop his squirming. “Y-Yes, now stop it! This isn’t helping!”

The two of them had been practicing their spikes in the gym at camp when Tsukki’s left shoulder had suddenly gone tense on him, making it difficult for him to set or spike with any great force. Bokuto had offered to massage the area which – in retrospect – was probably not the wisest idea to begin with. Either way they were here now, with Tsukki lying on his stomach on the floor and Bokuto pressing into his shoulder blades rather than his left shoulder, too amused to continue the massage properly.

“This is hilarious!” Bokuto went on, switching from kneading to skittering. “Dude, this is great. You need to loosen up and laugh more, anyway.”

“I d-do not!” Tsukki growled, clenching his fists. He hated that Bokuto was planted on him too firmly for him to simply roll over and push him away. “Get off. I didn’t ask for this.”

“You didn’t ask for the massage, either. I offered.” Bokuto moved his skittering into Tsukki’s underarms.

Tsukki jolted, bringing his arms down, wincing at the throb in his left shoulder while also snickering uncontrollably into the gym floor. “S-Stohohop it, that hurts, Bohohokuto!”

“Does it? Sounds more like you’re giggling to me~”

“Knohohohohohock it off!”

Bokuto grinned. “Nah. I think this will work just as well as a massage, buddy.”

*

36) Lee Suga, Ler Kuroo

“That’s sensitive!”

“Well, it’s your most ticklish spot, so I’d imagine so.”

“Not that,” Suga insisted, hissing at Asahi. “The information.”

Kuroo smirked at them both in amusement. “Not inclined to share how easy it is to reduce you to a helpless puddle of giggles? I’m not surprised, really.”

Suga flushed pink and glared at Asahi. “You jerk. Now everyone on the Nekoma team is going to know.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Kuroo offered, “on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You let me see for myself.”

Suga paled. “W-What? No, I…”

Asahi grinned, hooking his arms under Suga’s to hold him in place. “He’s all yours, Kuroo.”

“What?! Asahi, you traitor!” Suga cried, already giggling before Kuroo had even reached him. “Nohohoho, dohohohohon’t!”

“Wow, it must be bad if you’re laughing already,” Kuroo teased, lifting his jersey just enough to find his navel and wiggle a finger into it. “Tickle, tickle~”

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” Suga screamed, tossing his head back and struggling so hard Asahi had to fight to maintain his hold on him. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP IT!! KUROO LET ME GOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!”

“I’m not the one holding you captive, my friend.” Kuroo continued to wiggle his finger, chuckling at the hyena cackles he was getting for his minimal efforts. “Cootchie coo, little setter~”

“STAHAHAHAHAHAP!! DOHOHOHOHON’T TEASE ME!! KUROO – AHAHAHASAHI PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!” Suga laughed and writhed and tried kicking his attacker, but it did him no good, and the ticklish feeling was so strong there, he couldn’t take it. “PLEHEHEHEHEASE NO MOHOHOHOHOHORE!! KUROO!!”

Finally, Kuroo let up, standing up with a big smile. “Adorable. Absolutely adorable. You’ve got a cute laugh, too.”

Suga slumped to the ground when Asahi let him go, blushing hard and trying to hide his smile. “Just shut up already.”

*

37) Lee Kageyama, Ler Kenma

“You’re not as intimidating as I thought,” Kenma murmured in his low, monotonous voice, watching calmly as he made a mess of the Karasuno setter.

Kageyama was on the ground, curled in on himself to protect his most ticklish spot while the Nekoma setter poked and scribbled along his sides and ribs. Just a moment ago they’d accidentally bumped into each other, and Kenma grabbed Kageyama’s shirt to keep from falling, grabbing onto his side and forcing a loud squeal out of the taller boy in the process. Well, much like a cat with a mouse, Kenma pounced on the opportunity and had learned rather quickly that Kageyama – for all of his height and strength and intimidating glares – was incredibly ticklish, and very easy to take down.

So take him down he had.

“Stohohohohop it,” Kageyama begged, trying to stay as quiet as possible. The last thing he needed was for Kuroo or any of the other Nekoma players to know about his weakness. He tried to grab Kenma’s wrists and force him away, but Kenma was quick on his feet when he wanted to be, and in the next moment both of Kageyama’s arms were above his head, Kenma sitting on them to keep them in place and reaching down to scribble in his open underarms.

Now he was even more helpless than he had been.

“Nohohohohohohoho! Kenma!” Kageyama squealed, giggling harder than he cared to admit, certain he had to be blushing by now. Thank god Hinata wasn’t here. “Plehehehehehehease, stop!”

Kenma hummed, reaching under the Karasuno setter’s jersey to scribble directly against his skin, earning an even louder squeal for his efforts.

Nekoma’s brain had gone to work, and there was no stopping him now.

*

38) Lee Suga, Ler Daichi

“You have the loudest, most dorky laugh of all time,” Daichi said, sitting on Suga’s lap and pinning his wrists above his head to the couch cushion at his back. “And I miss it.”

Suga’s eyes widened. “H-Hold on, I didn’t – this isn’t why I’m here, we’re supposed to be studying!”

“You’ve been studying so hard you’ve forgotten how to have fun.” The Karasuno captain smirked, wiggling his fingers in Suga’s line of vision, enjoying the way his cheeks turned pink in response. “If you don’t want to lighten up on your own, I’ll make you, Kou.”

“Daichi…” Suga trailed off, opening his mouth to protest but then changing his mind, looking away. “Please be gentle.” He cringed at himself for saying it, but Daichi smiled, slipping his fingers under his friend’s shirt to get at his belly directly, scribbling lightly.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, “for now.”

Suga giggled, trying and failing to twist out of the way, pinned firmly in place while his friend loomed over him, grinning at his helplessness, making him feel even more flustered. He jerked when Daichi strayed too close to his navel. “Nohohohohot thehehehehere, plehehehease…”

Daichi considered. “But I want to hear your hyena laugh.”

“N-Nohohohohot today, Dai…plehehehehease.”

After a moment, the captain nodded. “All right, I’ll stay away from that spot for now. But you owe me one, got it?”

At the lighter, happier giggling he got as an answer, he knew he’d made the right choice by being gentle for his friend’s sake today.

Suga blushed to his ears but nodded all the same. “Deheheheheal.”

*

39) Lee Yamaguchi, Ler Tsukishima

“Looks like someone’s ridiculously ticklish here.”

Yamaguchi squealed. Tsukishima towered over him, grabbing onto his sides and squeezing rapidly, making the smaller boy laugh despite how flustered he was by this whole situation. He’d always wanted Tsukki to tickle him to pieces like this, and now that it was happening, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He instinctually wanted to squirm and push Tsukki away, but he also didn’t want the blonde to actually stop, so he just awkwardly jerked and flopped around beneath his friend, laughing and sputtering and blushing so hard he felt the heat of it on his cheeks.

Tsukki watched him closely, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re not asking me to stop.”

Oh, god. Tadashi whimpered through his giggles, clenching his fists tightly by his shoulders, fighting desperately against the urge to bring them down and protect his – as Tsukki had put it – ridiculously ticklish sides.

Tsukki chuckled, and the sound sent a cold shudder through Yamaguchi. He gasped when the blonde moved to straddle his waist, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to his sides with his knees. “T-Tsukki…”

“Just helping you out,” Tsukki teased, going back to squeezing and digging into his weak spot, making Tadashi throw back his head and laugh once more. It was so much worse now that he couldn’t even squirm! “Since you so obviously want me to tickle you.”

“Ahahahahahahahaha! Tsukkiehehehehehehehe!”

“Yes?”

“D-Dohohohohohon’t-!” Yamaguchi hesitated, then forced himself to keep going. “Don’t stahahahahahahap!”

Tsukishima grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning to.”

*

40) Lee Kageyama, Ler Hinata

“Get away from me!” Kageyama cried, trying to wrench himself free of the cursed net but failing. Hinata continued his slow advance, wiggling his fingers and grinning mischievously. Kageyama’s heartrate kicked into overdrive. He was stuck. The net was wrapped securely around his wrists and arms, keeping him trapped right where he was in the middle of the court, helplessly watching his friend get closer and closer with every second. “H-Hinata, wait!”

“Finally,” Hinata said, beaming. “Finally, I get to show you what it’s like!”

“What what’slike?!””

Hinata plunged his fingers into the setter’s underarms, scribbling and digging with everything he had. “What it’s like to be tickled to death while you can’t do anything about it!”

Kageyama burst into giggles. He was so ticklish, and being stuck in the volleyball net like this felt like being betrayed by his oldest friend, somehow. He wiggled and thrashed, but nothing helped him. Nothing got him away from Hinata’s tickling fingers, and the redhead was smiling at him, and he couldn’t stand how flustered it was making him feel.

“Hinata,” he wheezed, voice pleading, “stohohohohohop! Please, I c-cahahahahan’t – thihihihihis isn’t fahahahahahahair!”

“And tickling me when I got stuck under the bleachers that one time was fair?” Hinata traveled downward to his hips and giggled at the squeal Kageyama let free. He kept up easily with his thrashing. When the setter struggled so hard his jersey came untucked from his shorts, Hinata held onto his waist and blew the biggest raspberry he could manage on his friend’s belly, reveling in the absolute shriek he got for his trouble.

“Hinatahahahahaha!” Kageyama laughed, blushing so hard he could feel the heat of it running down his neck. “Plehehehehehehehease!”

Hinata blushed, too, mesmerized by how much a little tickling had transformed his normally stoic friend into this unstoppable giggling mess. He beamed. “I think I like tickling you, Kageyama.”

[eternalstrigoii]

Stuck On You

Borra x Dark Fey!reader (Cassia) as requested by @squishy-jellyfish for her birthday

                       The first time Borra tried to kiss you, he never fully reached your lips.

You dropped onto the mossy, mushroom-pocked earth at the edge of the forest with him at your side. Damp with mist from the jungle’s falls, your spread your wings to dry in the muted light of the midday sun. The veins of gold within your plumage glimmered like citrine. You thought, only half-heartedly, of the flowers he’d draped over your hair a handful of days before, and how this flight had to be some sort of repayment for your initial mistrust.

“I liked them, you know.”

“Hm?” His wings were larger than yours already, the desert’s strength at work. A shallow spider’s webbing of decorative marks had begun to form at the junction of his jaw, not far below his ear, and worked their way up toward the apple of his cheek. At sixteen, the boy who loved you was not nearly as lovely as he would become, though it was hardly a labor to look at him. He was lean – strong, but not yet hard-muscled, and not yet as tall or as broad as he would inevitably grow. His horns were not even as tall as they would end up being, though they were by no means unimpressive.

“The flowers. I liked the flowers you put in my hair.” You would’ve liked them better if he hadn’t pushed them through their whole lives so quickly.

“’M glad.” He stretched as though a few laps around the high caverns was some significant strain. His stomach flexed, and you did not realize your eyes lingered there until he rolled onto his elbow to face you. “I didn’t mean to run off on you.”

“It was alright.” Strange, but understandable. Shrike never let you live down the time the first time you grew papayas on your own, and how you’d offered up your spoils only to find out the hard way that they should’ve been left alone for at least a week longer.

It was not the first time he’d grown flowers, though. Even you knew that.

“That didn’t go the way I thought it would.”

You smiled at the canopy, for it blotted out the sight of the naked stone overhead. Every so often, you conjured the memory of your childhood foray out into the night with your father and your brother as though the imagined stars were sufficient in comparison. Borra would’ve appreciated it, had you not been sworn to silence lest word ever work its way back to your mother.

“Am I allowed to give you something else?”

You shrugged. You hadn’t asked for anything, let alone from him. His company was – increasingly, though you’d gone out of your way to avoid putting much thought into why – enough.

That wasn’t an answer. At least, it wasn’t the manner of answer he’d been hoping for. He regarded you in silence for a moment before drawing up onto his knees, as though that might’ve been sufficient display of his height and his breadth and his suitability.

But you disturbed those thoughts like a flock of starlings the moment they tried to land. Suitable. It could’ve made you laugh – he was more than suitable. And in far more ways than display suggested.

“Sit up and close your eyes.”

Oh, thank the Phoenix. Another stupid circlet of flowers. One he didn’t intend to kill, this time.

You huffed out a breath and made a show of rolling your eyes. It was a terrible inconvenience, being asked not to lie on the ground when he was already above you, but you supposed it could’ve been worse. He could’ve laid with you. Drawn closer to you. Rested his warm fingers along the apple of your cheek to keep your head still as he placed them on – carefully, delicately, so they wouldn’t fall into the dirt while you lay still. You imagined the intensity of his focus, the brightness of his eyes as he studied their precarious balance in hopes of steadying them without making you rise – and if you hadn’t had to flick the dirt off of your wings, you certainly never would’ve considered what the proximity warmth of his body might’ve felt like, as close to you as he would be.

You settled on your knees just as he had. Your feet were tucked neatly under you, and you folded your hands not far above the layered hem of your wrapped-skirt. (The dress your grandmother made for your birthday was the color of the sunset, she’d said – a slowly deepening orange that was nearly red where it skimmed the earth over your knees.)

“Close your eyes.”

A few days ago, all you’d been able to focus on were the times the child version of him had asked you to do the same only to drop a slithering wood-centipede down the back of your dress, or put a slug in your hands (as though you hadn’t retaliated by “forgetting” the field mouse you’d brought into the desert, only for it to turn up standing on his chest in the middle of the night. In retrospect, you might’ve been horrible children). What did a friend do if not exploit your trust when it was a safe enough occasion to do so?

Borra studied your face. He had to hold his breath intermittently to keep the wet sound of his beating heart from being the only sound in his ears. Memorizing the shape of your nose and the thin, feathery shadows your lashes cast over your cheeks no more helped than allowing his eyes to linger upon the softness of your lips. He opened his mouth to say something – to ask if this was welcome, warranted, acceptable – and then closed it again. The brush-stroke angle of your cheeks, the perfect leaf of your ear with your fluffy curls tucked behind it. Don’t just sit there, do something!

He leaned in.

It was funny how easily I love you touched the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say it, even as the clasp of your fingers betrayed your tension. I love you. I’m sorry I ran away last time I tried to say it to you.

“Can I kiss you?” is what came out.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Yes. He was supposed to do more than ask for it, wasn’t he? Or was that too old-fashioned? It wasn’t like you needed him to build you a house (not at your age), go through some beautiful, elaborate display…

You nodded. Just a little. Then, just in case it hadn’t been enough, “Yes.”

He didn’t get any closer.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try – he tried. He tried twice before he realized what partial immobility meant, and, when he did, a familiar sort of fear widened and brightened his gemstone eyes. “Don’t ask why, but don’t move your head.”

Oh no.

Don’t ask why was a familiar precursor. Don’t ask why because something was on fire and sand was not sufficient dirt; don’t ask why Ini was tangled in fishing line – don’t ask where they got the fishing line, what happened to the fish, or how close they’d been to shore when they weren’t supposed to go anywhere near the sea-facing entrances, let alone beyond them. Don’t ask why was the graduation from childhood to adolescence, and you knew all too well what it meant.

“…are you stuck?”

Borra knew better than to give you an honest answer. He reached up, instead; felt for the difference between your horns and his, where you might’ve gotten caught up on each other, though you hadn’t the faintest idea how he managed to. His horns sat straight up, for Phoenix’s sake – yours were cocked back. It wasn’t like you were children anymore!

“…stand up slowly?” he replied. You didn’t point out that he had done no tugging – maybe it was as simple as easing back from a precarious position. Maybe you weren’t really—

You put your hands on his arms. Kept your head relatively level, and tried to draw back. There was a marked tug of resistance where, yes, one of his horns somehow managed to lodge in yours right at the curvature.

“Hold on.” He had you pause, as gentle as he could manage with his head cocked that way. “Let me—”

He pulled on his own no differently than he might try to dislodge a bothersome stone from a stream. Hard enough that it made him grunt, even, not that it accomplished anything. He tried to tilt his head, which caused a suspicious catching noise, and drew up off of his knees as though planting himself firmly on the dirt would change the circumstances. “Pull back as hard as you can.”

And if I snap them? you nearly asked. His, you meant, not that yours were in any less dangerous of a predicament. “Borra…”

“Trust me.”

It took him a moment to recognize that you were not pulling because you could’ve boiled him alive with the intensity of your eyes. He’d never actually seen you worried before. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then we come up with another plan, just pull.”

You did. You planted your feet and tugged your head backward, your wings flaring of their own accord. You nearly pulled him off the ground, even as you braced your hands on his shoulders. You cycled through a litany of frustrated thoughts that accomplished nothing – How? How does anyone do this? How did he not feel—?

“Ow, ow, ow, ow! You’ve got my hair – you’re pulling my hair!”

Borra let go of the base of your horns like he’d been burned. Damp earth soaked through the knees of his trousers and streaked his calves. That was one way to carry out a Bonding Ceremony. Your face warmed all the way to your chest. Stupid. Horribly, terribly, don’t-get-ahead-of-yourself stupid.

“Where’s your brother?”

And there went all of  your soft feelings, drained away like fresh rainwater in a desert afternoon. “I would rather be stuck like this for the rest of my life than let you ask him for help, you know that, don’t you?”

He did. Quite well, actually; he was as frequent a partner in disturbing your older brother as Shrike was, and had earned just as pestilent of a reputation.

“Didn’t know you were so fond of me.”

You had half a mind to push him back into the dirt, even if he’d take you with him. You could beat your wings. That might dislodge him, and offer rightful payback for teasing you at a time like this. (Or you could climb a tree, or onto his legs, to get your head into just the right angle to properly dislodge his horns from yours.)

No, not his legs. That was not how you wanted to postpone a kiss. Don’t think about – stop thinking about his legs!

A low, familiar whistle saved you from yourself. “Did we get carried away?” Shrike’s voice came from the canopy above, filled with amusement.

“Pull us apart.” You were trying to keep your voice level, as though the radiant heat from your face hadn’t begun to rival Borra’s natural warmth.

“Really?” she faux-sympathized. “That’s how it’s supposed to fit, you know. Though, you were supposed to aim a little lower—”

“Shrike!”

There was an unusual pinkness to his face. He went out of his way to avoid looking you in the eyes, and that was just fine with you. You hadn’t thought to stop and admire his legs before you were attached to one another, but now that you had, you certainly didn’t want to think about anything else. Especially not what was supposed to fit where, like that, lower than where you were already entangled. Stars above.

A sharp downdraft made your feathers ruffle. Shrike took her sweet time closing the distance between you, as though you couldn’t hear her steps veer toward Borra while she admired the state you’d managed to get yourselves into.

She clicked her tongue playfully, and you imagined she must’ve been shaking her head. Grinning like the owl that snatched up the field mouse. “I don’t know if I can do that, Cass.”

“Try.”

You thought the threat was implicit – try because we both have claws at the tips of our wings and you don’t – though you would be reduced to stabbing blindly, and it wouldn’t matter one bit if she moved out of range. If she was not your closest, dearest friend, you never would’ve been so harsh about it. (If Borra had not intended to kiss you, you probably would’ve done the same to him.)

You felt her grip the base of one of your horns, and assumed she had a firm grip on one of Borra’s. She gave you no warning at all, just started trying to pull you apart. Your feet were planted, and you could do nothing else but keep your head in line with his and wait.

Except waiting implied that she did not start shaking with laughter once the initial moment’s effort passed.

“This isn’t funny,” you tried, though you had grown a bit warmer and Borra, a bit pinker.

���Trust me, it is.” She let go of you for just a moment and concentrated on trying to pry Borra loose.

You wondered how many other people could see you. It was one thing if she did, Shrike was practically blood to you, but you couldn’t very well skim the trees with your periphery. If word never made it back toward your brother – stars knew that mention of him should’ve been enough to summon him with luck like this – you would consider your whole life a success.

“I can’t.” There was far too much delight in her voice for your liking. You had the nagging suspicion that she hadn’t tried very hard at all. “I can’t do it, I’d need a chisel. Conall!”

Your wing jerked before the second round of your father’s name managed to fully leave her mouth. You whacked her in the chest as forcefully as you could manage (though, considering your limited range of vision, you imagined that wasn’t particularly hard). “What are you doing?!”

“Conall!” She crossed her arm over her chest in self-defense. “Cass needs you!”

Mortification came over you like one of the sea’s cold waves. You froze, rooted in place as if your father might not know it was you, there, interlocked with Borra if you stood absolutely still. If Borra empathized, you couldn’t tell – you were rather preoccupied with searching the dirt for a magical fissure that might drop you into the center of the earth.

He didn’t. It was a more appealing alternative than calling out for Eche and Kalan; his friends knew why he’d turned down hunting in the high plains. He would much rather face your father with his intentions laid bare than look to his friends for help when Shrike was a shining example of the help he’d get.

She stood back at a safe distance and brushed the dampness from her lashes. Your face was as hot as Borra’s, and you’d stopped looking at each other as if that wasn’t the most obvious admission of guilt. She didn’t even watch your father land, only glanced away from you to revel in the confusion-turned-understanding that softened his springtime eyes and made you tug on your horns self-consciously.

“That will make it worse.” Thankfully, rather than ask, your father had the decency to address the situation at hand; he closed what little distance remained between him and the both of you, and if he noticed the impressions in the dirt where you’d dug in your heels or the dirt-streaks along Borra’s bare calves, he made no mention of them.

You felt him gently grip the mid-point of your horns, and presumed he did the same to Borra’s. “Lower your head a bit more.”

You both started to. There was an audible note of laughter in your father’s voice as he nudged your back with his wing. “No, not you, Cassia. You stand still.”

You and Borra were nearly eye-to-eye. At the sound of your name, his eyes flickered to your face as if instinct drew them there, and you became painfully aware of his proximity once again. So close. He had been so close to kissing you, and you were so close to wishing that he’d been able to. You’d had your hands on his chest, on his shoulders, and hadn’t thought to revel in touching him the way you had in his fingers as they settled against the back of your arm, just above your elbow. So close, but so far…

“Brace yourselves.” It was only a momentary warning. You didn’t need more than that. Borra dug his heels in, and you reached out to grasp his wrist just in case it wasn’t enough, and – with far less preface or flourish than you imagined – your father pulled you both loose for the second time.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Your father rubbed his thumb over the inside of your still-growing horn, and then over the outside of the other. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, sir,” Borra muttered. His horns were not quite as smooth as yours, and he felt for fresh gouges in them. You never asked if he got the ones he had from roughhousing with the other desert boys, or if he woke up some days and they’d grown just long enough for him to misjudge the distance between his head and the door, but, in event you caused a fresh round of them, you looked his way apologetically, and barely resisted the urge to draw your lower lip in between your sharp teeth.

“Try to be more careful.” If there was any doubt in your mind that your father knew the circumstances of how you’d ended up interlocked, it certainly wasn’t long-lived. Your face heated, and Borra had the decency to make eye contact with the ground. “I won’t always be there to pull you two apart.”

Shrike’s lips quirked. She wanted so badly to point out that next time, you might not want to be pulled apart that she nearly risked the bodily harm to do it. Had your eyes not flashed with a dangerous sort of certainty, she would’ve.

Your father kept his amusement to himself. “You’re both welcome to stay. Dinner is nearly finished.”

“Shrike was just leaving,” you replied, a bit too quickly. Of all the people to be sacrificed, your closest friend knew precisely why you had, and still feigned loud and obvious offense.

“If she changes her mind,” he said nothing of Borra, nor did you.  There was a chance you would never say Borra’s name in front of your father ever again. “There will be room.”

You nodded, though you had no intention of encouraging the extended invitation.

Your father’s understanding bordered upon the supernatural to you, then, as though his courtship of your mother was as effortless as their established union. Never once did you consider that firsthand experience peeled back the translucent husk of pride over your shared embarrassment. You were just lucky you’d inherited his feathers, and didn’t have to molt into your adult colors the way your mother had – but that was a story he would save for another day.

Whichever of you would follow, he left to. Borra still thumbed his horns with a worried expression, and barely looked up from the ground. He didn’t dare ask if he was staying for dinner – he presumed you’d tell him one way or the other.

“Well, that was fun,” Shrike teased.

“I’m sorry,” Borra muttered. Entirely for you, he might add – no one else warranted apologizing to.

“You weren’t hurt, were you?” Your eyes finally lifted, and you might’ve touched the spots he’d been stroking if his face hadn’t turned a fair pink in reply.

“Everything’s attached.”

You nodded, and, again, reached up to stroke the places on yours where his were locked with them. There was no evidence that they had ever been; you would forget, eventually, that they ever were at all, yet that did not distract from the profoundly sacred feeling that they then possessed.

Two out of three of you were at a loss for words. You did not know how to improve the situation, so you lingered for a moment between them only to lean in without thinking. Your lips pressed to the apple of his cheek, soft and fleeting, and then you ran into the woods after your father, as though you’d heard your mother call for you well before she would’ve.

Borra’s golden eyes went wide. All of the mischief, mirth and bedevilment drained from his features like blood from an open wound. The touch of your lips came like the bite of an iron arrow, swift as an ambush and just as devastating.

Shrike whistled. “You’d thank her if she slapped you, wouldn’t you?”

For the first time, the boy who loved you did not rise to the bait. Your lips against his cheek had been almost precisely what he’d hoped for, though he had not expected initiative on your part. He had not expected anything at all. You could’ve laughed at him. Bit your lip in that worrying, familiar way as you lifted your vibrant eyes and told him that you were friends, no one felt that way about their friends. Or, as he had hoped before rotten luck intervened, you might let him kiss you. Might even kiss him back. Softly. Gently. As near to chaste as it would ever be, for he would let you lead. If you’d let him kiss you, he would’ve returned with another laurel of cactus flowers for your hair and kissed you until they bloomed. The brightness of their white-hued buds at the base of your horns, the vibrancy of their color in compliment to your springtime eyes, that was as far as he’d planned.

Because he loved you.

Wholly. Deeply. With everything that he was and everything he had.

You were his friend, and he loved you, and if you hadn’t felt the same – if you hadn’t been ready – he would’ve given you back the lead.

He hadn’t planned for what he might do if you had.

Shrike made a low, fond sound of disgust and flapped her brightly-colored wings in his direction. “Didn’t do enough gazing into her eyes when you were stuck with her?”

“Jealous you weren’t in my place?”

There he was, the sensible, snide Borra you’d grown up with. She never would’ve admitted how relieved she was to see that you two weren’t nearly as far gone as your parents. Yet.

A slow, borderline-wicked smile crossed Shrike’s face as she raised her chin. “You get what you ask for.”

The truth of it made his nerves spark like wildfire. He had, hadn’t he? And, though he didn’t dare ask for more, he looked off into the trees the way you’d gone. The place where your lips touched blazed the fiercest.

                                              ————————- Tag List: @fateischosen, @madlenfireknight, @boxxyass, @mor-ranr, @blacksirenswolf, @swim-reaper, @thetempleofthemasaigoddess, @deathonyourtongue, @squishy-jellyfish Message me if you’d like to be added to the tag list for future fics! Looking for more? Click my icon; there’s a masterlist!    

[the-holy-ghosted]

I had never known love

Statement of Hope, regarding the beginning of his relationship with Breekon.

this is an old fic too but shoutout to my mutual @skelelephant who sits and makes up insane backstories with me about b+h. what would i be doing without them

I did not know what love was. I never knew how it felt to gain something I didn't know I missed. But now that knowledge is with me always, and I suppose I shall share that knowledge with you.

It is only sensible that I start from the beginning. Yes, the annoying beginning. I don't care if you don't want to hear it; you asked for a statement so I shall give you one. I was hardly a tolerable child, just as loud and violent as I am so well known for now. My behavior only worsened as I grew, and oh did I grow. Even as a young lad I loomed over my peers. I was a snarling, feral thing, hungry to terrorize the innocent teenagers forced to be in my presence. But I mellowed slightly as I reached adulthood. The hunger was there, and I was still vicious, but I found I needed only to exist within the space to feed on their discomfort. However, there was then a new hunger. A hunger I could not name settled in my chest behind my heart. I did not think about that hunger.

I did not know what love was, then. I had never understood that warm softness others spoke so wistfully about. What I knew of the world was cold and mean, no room for comfort. I did not know of love, and I did not care to. Until he appeared. I never had a name for the hunger that lingered in my chest. It was not obvious, nor was it particularly strong. But the moment I laid eyes on Breekon I was all but starving. The man we worked for told me his name, though I can't remember it now, and said we were to work together. Partners, so he called us. Breekon had not said a word the entire time, yet he stared me down with the eyes of a hawk, and that hunger in my heart sang so loud.

Breekon was tall, nearly half a foot taller than me. I knew the only reason we were paired together was that they thought he was big enough to steer me out of trouble. He was the only person bigger than me, which you think would have intimidated me, as our overseers had hoped it would. It did not in the slightest, rather, it enraptured me. I was not used to people looking down at me, being stronger than me. It was a fun change. He was not a talkative man. For at least a week I had not heard him utter a sound, no matter how much I chittered or how many questions I asked him. The rabid desire I felt gnawing at my ribcage was maddening and craved his notice so desperately. I was greedy for Breekon's attention, so I would be as obnoxious as possible in the hopes of getting him to just look at me. I would make jokes, and sometimes I'd get a huff. I would get snappy at other people who tried to turn his attention away. I would get into scraps and shouting matches and he would yank me away like a mother cat grabbing its kitten by the scruff. It was childish, but it worked. And then one day he spoke. I was pestering him, as I usually did, but he was not having me that day. My focus locked onto some small, spiffy-looking gentleman, dressed nicely and looking like he was in a hurry. He bumped into my arm as he scrambled past, and I took it as an opportunity to let off energy and I snapped at the man. Asked him where he thought he was going, what he was in such a hurry for, did he think he could just push everyone out the way like that? The poor fool stuttered and apologized, but I was not satisfied. I grabbed him by the shoulder, prepared to break it if I so pleased when Breekon spoke behind me. "Enough." He said, in a growling voice deeper than my own. I stopped dead and turned around with wide eyes to see him staring knives into me. His eyes told me to let go, and I did. I let go of the small gentleman and walked wordlessly back to the carriage and he stared at me the whole way, silent and stern. He got back into the carriage and we wordlessly continued on. For the rest of the day, my heart was silent. Satisfied.

After that I began getting him to talk a little bit more. He still didn't say much, only saying a word or two at a time, but he always answered when I asked him things. I think he saw how it settled me, how I would stop fussing if he said something, and he figured it was better than dealing with my usual annoyances. I couldn't tell you when we started to become friends, but after a while, we were comfortable with one another's company. I didn't feel so ravenous, and he would speak in full sentences. We became a hard-working pair. Although I mellowed out, the hunger never ceased. In fact, it only grew, filling my chest with a deep ache that I could not understand. I was too afraid to analyze it, too afraid to become self-aware of how I truly felt. All I understood was that I felt better when I was with Breekon. I felt better when he was paying attention to me, speaking to me, listening to me talk. It felt so nice... so rewarding. Desiring his notice of me still led me to poor decisions. I would start trouble just to feel him fuss over me and call me a fool and insist that no, he clean my wounds because my hands were unsteady and I couldn't see my face. I lived for those moments, where he cared for me. I devoured them.

He cared for me like that often. It was my fault, of course; I would get into fights I knew I'd lose, and he would feign his concern as annoyance yet still insist I let him clean me up himself. It was almost routine, to be honest with you. His tenderness was what my heart craved so dearly, the feeling of his hands so gently tending to me felt divine. His doting came more often to me after some time. More often and more by his own free will. I think he had the same hunger in his heart, now that I think about it. He just expressed it differently. While I was persistent in getting his undivided attention, he did not beg for mine. Rather, he just stared at me, almost looking like he was trying to understand something, something he'd figure out if he just looked hard enough. He stared at me with such intensity, a gaze that spoke to me in whispered words I could hear in the back of my mind. I know he heard me say things, too. That became a phenomenon between the two of us. We'd move together wordlessly, already aware of what the other was going to do. At first, we didn't speak of it. We didn't want to have an awkward heart-to-heart and ruin what we had going on. But the whispers I'd hear in the back of my mind turned into clear, coherent words as we spent more time together. He heard them too, I could see it in his eyes. We would peer into one another, and we would hear the words, and we would both startle ourselves and turn away. We never spoke of it. There was something deeper, there. Within the words we projected to one another was a reason for the desperate aching need I had for Breekon that resided in my chest, and if I thought hard enough I could unlock it.

I did end up figuring it out, actually. It was quite funny in retrospect, I hit my head after getting my jaw punched out of place. I was in and out of consciousness and felt so incredibly far away from the world. My eyes were heavy and reality was blurry, but when I did occasionally open them, there were fuzzy visions of Breekon's face looming over me. It was not always his face, though. His face would melt into the face of someone else, a few times. In my dazed state, I did not consider it coincidence or just the concussion twisting my vision. I knew it meant something. My mind was full of incoherent thoughts and feelings and memories that weren't mine, suddenly placed in my head with no warning. Memories I had of Breekon, from someone that was and yet was not me. Not really with him, of course, but no matter the face he wore in these memories that were not my own, it was still him every time. My heart ached. It was pounding. It was throwing all these puzzle pieces at me, screaming for me to put them together. Screaming for me to understand, to remember for myself. To wake up. That last part was very clear. A voice echoed in my conscience to wake up. It was not Breekon's voice, though I could hear him speaking far off in the real world. The voice in my head was my own, but at the same time, it wasn't. It was my own voice from a separate entity, an entity that felt the same as the aching in my heart. It felt so angry, so tired, so brutally desperate for me to just wake up. I couldn't understand what it meant. The memories and screaming and feelings were too much to bear at once. I think I must've started to cry wherever my body was, I felt hot tears roll down my cheeks into my ears, I hadn't even realized they laid me down. Through the static mess, I heard Breekon's gentle coo and a thumb brush over my cheek. He hushed me quietly and I felt his breath in my ear. It was incredible how quickly I stopped shaking and quieted down. The voice in my head wanted me to reach for him, to hold him, but it hurt too much to move. I think I must have grabbed some part of him, his bicep or his leg, and I squeezed. He hushed me some more and comforted me in words I couldn't make out. The screaming was still loud, but whenever he spoke, his voice cut through and brought me ease. He must've understood, telepathically or not, and he kept reassuring me until I finally drifted away into sleep.

Can't say I remember much after that mess. I recall being told the guy I got pummeled by was found bleeding out in a horse paddock. It wasn't hard to guess who did it, especially when Breekon came to check on me with bandaged knuckles. He looked after me by himself for the rest of that week. Not a soul was permitted to bother me but him, a very strict rule that nobody was brave enough to disobey. I think I started feeling like myself again near the end of the week. I was throwing little quips at him again, teasing him about his busted hands, half-joking that I'd kiss them better for him. He let me, once. Sometimes I'd whine about him making my cut lip feel better. Usually, he'd just scoff and turn away. He did, though, sometimes. I remembered those.

I still didn't know what to make of my revelation, though. The voice in my head still screamed, still ached, still reached for Breekon, but there was no explanation as to why. It stressed me greatly, and he took immense concern about my behavior. What could I have told him? That I remembered him from what I can only assume is a past life? That something in my soul woke up and threw a fit over him? Would I have told him to wake up? I couldn't talk about it. He wouldn't understand. It was a few days after getting back into work that I realized I missed him. It made zero sense, and yet it was exactly how I felt. How I could miss someone when I spent every day with them was beyond me, and yet my heart cried it out with such confidence. It was sure. He would be right in front of me and still, I thought I missed him. He tried so hard to understand what little I could tell him without sounding insane, but he still couldn't grasp it. I think it hurt him seeing me so distressed but unable to understand why. The concept was so abstract that no amount of telepathy could properly explain whatever the hell was going on. However, I think he felt it too. Maybe he couldn't quite get it just yet, but something inside him yearned just as painfully. He'd hug me a little tighter, kiss me a little longer, search a little deeper into my eyes for some sudden explanation. He probably wouldn't get it unless he hit his head, though. I knew that, but I wasn't preparing to sock him just to activate what we were both looking for. Somehow, though, he figured it out. I don't know how he did it, he never told me, but one evening he ran to me and told me he loved me. He told me he understood, he gets it now, he knows what we are. "Soulmates" was the term I believe he used. I didn't care what word he called it, the screaming that filled my mind came to a crescendo, and I could think of nothing but to tell him I missed him. He understood what I meant, that time, and he missed me too. We spent that evening holding each other and whispering sweet nothings. I understood the gravity of love, then. Looking at Breekon made it make perfect sense.

We were a hell of a mortal duo for a while there. Absolutely nobody could explain our sudden inseparability, and it frightened them a little bit. We liked it when it frightened them. We started speaking in sync together, I would begin and he would finish as we so love to do now. Sometimes we'd go back and forth just to freak people out. They all wondered what went on between us, but we never told them. They stopped seeing us as two people together and instead as one huge, terrifying thing that came in the form of two men. The fear they emitted was intoxicating, and we took it all.

And then I got sick. Of course I got sick, we handled dead bodies, and I would play with and prod at them like they were rag dolls, like it was a joke. Of course I got sick. It felt cruel to kill me that quickly. We had only a few weeks completed together before I caught that dastardly illness. It was a peculiar thing, that plague. Constantly mutating and killing people in new, more disturbing ways. It certainly wasn't natural, what caught me. It was unlike any disease you've heard of. It did not behave like a regular sickness, putting terrible things inside of your body to kill you. It hollowed you. I remember so vividly ripping some poor dead peasant open to feed his pieces to the pigs, and the ax cut through him clean. No blood, no resistance. I pried him open and found nothing but an empty body and his skeleton. That disease was nothing normal, turning your skin thick and rubbery and carving you out like a pumpkin and ripping your vocal cords to shreds. It hurt, too. Oh, how it hurt. It was not a searing pain that causes you to whimper and wail, but a pain so seething and deep you can't even breathe let alone scream. Breekon did not leave my side as I withered away. I would have told him to save himself, but I knew there was no life for him without me there. He wouldn't have listened, anyway. Whatever time he didn't spend laying and suffering with me, he spent looking for a cure. There was none, of course, but that did not stop him. He was gone for a whole day, once. Wherever I don't know, but when he came back, he came back with a book. A hardcover leatherback, with uncomfortably thick paper and writing I couldn't read. To be honest, I didn't think he could read it either. He could, though, and he told me it would fix me, make me new. The only catch was that I had to die first.

Would any sane person have listened to him? No, of course not. But did I? Of course I did. I trusted him with what little life I had. He explained to me what the book told him and how he found it and how it would work, but I didn't retain anything. Something about a new face granting a new life, I didn't care. I let him talk and he gave me one last kiss goodbye, and finally, I died.

I don't quite recall what it felt like to be dead. All I remember is my body feeling numb, so wonderfully numb, and then I awoke. It wasn't sudden, I just woke up as if from normal sleep. My body felt hollow, as I suppose I should have expected. Breekon was sitting in a chair next to our bed, the book in his lap, a blood-soaked knife in one hand, and holding my own in the other. His head rested upon my thigh, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested I must've been gone for a few days at least. It was then I noticed my face felt strange. It felt like it... fit wrong. It didn't hurt, just felt too stretched out and tight. I felt refreshed, though, funny enough. Like a brand new man, if you will. I eased myself up with my free arm and stared down at Breekon. There was blood covering the floor next to his chair, and I think there may have been a human foot poking out from under the bed. My head was empty, however, and I had no mind for what atrocities he committed to bring me back. I reached my left hand over and gently pushed my fingers through his messy, unclean hair. I squeezed his hand to try and rouse him gently. He stirred, and I tried to speak. My throat was shot, and what came out of my mouth sounded raspy and hoarse, yet I still called him my love with as much tenderness as I always do. He awoke, and he turned his head up slightly to look at me. His face was struck with the most subtle horror at first, which concerned me a bit, but his horror turned to joy and tears began to well up in his eyes. We held each other for a little while. He wept into my shoulder and I realized I forgot how to breathe. I had no lungs to do so, so perhaps it didn't matter. Not many things mattered anymore, I was alive.

He told me how he spent three days looking for the perfect face. He wanted to find someone that looked nearly identical to me, to make things easier, and that I could pick out my own face after this was over. I had no idea what he meant, but I listened anyway. He taught me how to read the strange book he found, and how it gave me my life back. I took it in and read it over a couple of times while he slept next to me in bed. I was to replace his face, apparently. Not the most mortifying thing I've done, if you'd believe me, but certainly up there at the time. After a few days of scouting for a face that looked like Breekon's, he started to fall ill. I felt horrible knowing the exact pain he was dealing with, but being able to do nothing to ease it. I could at least soothe his worries of resurrection and tell him it wouldn't hurt. He seemed to take comfort in that. At last, I held him close to me as he took his final breaths and died in my arms. I shouldn't have cried, I knew there was no need. I knew I was bringing him back. I knew he died as comfortably as he could. I cried anyway. I hunted down his doppelganger and killed him quickly. It wasn't simple, dragging a huge, dead man back to our bedroom without anyone noticing, but nobody liked to question us anymore. The ritual I had to perform was simple. I would peel the face of the stranger, and place it over Breekon's. The passage I was required to read from was... quite vague and metaphorical, but in some strange way, it made sense.

He was corrupted. His body diseased and decrepit, eyes so sunken and lips so cracked and pale his face is unrecognizable. As his conscience fades out of existence, he succumbs to The Rot. But an unrecognizable face is not what The Rot desires. The Rot does not care about who you are and aren't. Instead, he shall never look like himself ever again. With a new face comes a new life, and with a new life, he shall take many faces. With a new face comes many new names, and with new names, he loses his real self to the nature of a Stranger, and all he knew will look upon him and say I Do Not Know You.

Somehow the wind was knocked out of me, even though I lacked lungs. I fell back on the floor, covered in blood, and looked frantically at Breekon. The stranger's face had melted with his, looking frightening and uncanny. I stared in awe. Somehow the divine powers of fuck all managed to fuse his face with someone else's. I kneeled in front of the bed and held his cold hand. He didn't move for a long time. It could have been hours, days even, and I stared at him the entire time. Sometime later, his eyes fluttered open and he appeared to be taking in the new sensations. He looked around the room, and his eyes fell on me. I greeted him with a smile, and a kiss hello.

If nobody could understand us then, they certainly didn't now. We walked out of our room however many mornings later and acted as if nothing happened. We knew they would remain confused and terrified, and we adored it. I'm sure you get it now. I became quite fond of changing my face; it felt liberating to look nothing like me. We gained knowledge of the fears but cared not about what gods there were to consume us with love. We loved each other, and that is all we desire.

I had never known love. I never felt the warm embrace of the being the other half of my heart belonged to. But now that feeling is with me always, and I wish nothing but to share it with you.

[purplepalmdelight]

why life is still okay (rambling fic rec pt. 1)

firstly: shout out to @trulyalpha for apparently owning my entire bookmarks page on ao3 (bc i only realised all my favourite fics were written by the same person,,, yesterday. bc im really smart like that) anyway breakdown of why she’s a stoncy saving grace thanks!!!

you ease my mind, you make everything feel fine.

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/13842039)

yes this fic is from 2018. yes i read it every other week. it’s good for the SOUL. jonathan getting taken care of is always just such a good and sweet concept (maybe it’s my intense, undying love of him, but he deserves to be taken care okay) and. okay i’ll admit, sometimes i forget how fucking FUNNY this fic is, but it’s genuinely hilarious, okay? you gotta trust me on this. it makes me cackle at inappropriate times absurdly often. ("Hi." "Hi." "I want you, you fuck." is a top line. i laugh so hard every TIME.) all three of them are so incredibly in character, and somehow this NAILS the fact that they’re all massive disasters pretending to be confident. and i’m not someone that reads ~smut~ often (though it’s more mentioned than described, very non-explicit) but this didn’t make me even the least bit uncomfortable. it felt very natural and in character and made me laugh as much as the rest of the story. all in all, i always come away a little more in love with the characters, and that’s a really precious feeling.

you could be the one to make me feel something

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269476/chapters/32912745)

i take back everything i’ve ever claimed. this IS the funniest piece of writing i’ve ever read, and it WILL remain so, probably until the day i die. i honestly... barely have words. my expectations were high when i started it, but in retrospect, they were LEAGUES below what i got. the characterisation, the progression, the dialogue, the story; from the overarching aspects to the tiny details, it’s impeccable. i genuinely read this twice in one day, and then again the next. every single part of it is so good, but in terms of FAVOURITES... the christmas section. hilarious. down to its bones, well crafted and heart felt. it hits me right in the chest every time. the story, from the beginning, has me just as in love with nancy and steve as jonathan is, and as everything grows more intense, so does my investment. it pulls me in and doesn’t let me go until it’s good and ready to see me leave. again, the sexy aspects are so in character and natural that it’s uncomfortable or weird to read and instead just leave me grinning like an idiot. also ( “It did frustrate me, in more ways than one. It’s also a weird plan, like … did you expect me to be so overwhelmed by the power of a boner that I’d just admit my feelings?” is SUCH a funny line, i think about it literally every day. literally. every. day.) the characters are afraid to be messy, to make mistakes, and they all feel so ALIVE that when i leave the story, i feel like i’m leaving a friend. it’s honestly beautiful and honestly breathtaking. this story is better than a lot of published books, honestly, and i’m so grateful for it. so thank you.

i crash my car ‘cause i wanna get carried away!

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131202)

...you really wanted to make me cry, huh? i cried out of grief, yeah, out of the depth of nancy’s guilt and the pure rawness of her mourning, but i also cried out of catharsis as she came to terms, and out of laughter a few times. the bit about total eclipse of the heart as a motif was... that was so well done. i hate drawing comparisons, so please understand that this is criticism of a concept and not a particular story, but in so many stories then nancy’s grief feels... trivialised? that’s not quite the right word. romanticised, maybe. as someone who has lost a friend in the past, it’s just... it doesn’t feel realistic? and that’s okay, because it’s hard to nail something you haven’t experienced, and i wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone. it’s just that stories like this, where i can really resonate with nancy and follow the journey of her recovery WITH her are so rare. this story is a gem, it really is. i don’t love it for all the same reasons as the others, but i love it fiercely all the same.

there’s nothing magic going on, and then along came you

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994137)

sure, you could be the one is the funniest fic i’ll probably ever read, but nothing magic is such a close second. it’s laugh-out-loud, get-tears-in-your-eyes, fall-out-of-your-chair, and it’s also so goddamn SWEET i can hardly stand it. of the several fics i generally group together in my head (nothing magic, you could be the one + its sequels (might have to make an individual post about this series), laugh until we think we’ll die, and got nothing for you; all very similar, yet incredibly unique) nothing magic is the shortest, but that doesn’t mean it compromises on quality, oh no. it just means i can read it quicker, and therefore more often! when it’s late and i’m tired and i need a laugh to calm down before i sleep, i generally go search this fic up. remember when i mentioned the whole “being just as in love with nancy and steve as jonathan is” thing? it’s like that except... almost funnier. in you could be the one, it’s just that the story naturally tugs you into adoring these two messy, silly, sweet, amazing young adults, because how could you not? how else could you possibly feel? but here, they are genuinely just... that funny. they are actually just so funny that you as a reader click with them and find yourself grinning like an IDIOT because oh my god you’re disasters. maybe it’s the inherent relatability of a tired highschooler trying to make it through the summer and hating his job along the way, but this fic hits right in the heart every damn time.

got nothing for you other than love

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596658)

"You trust me," she says.

They both know it's a fact, not question, but he still says, "Of course."

and

By then, his shell wasn't something he could step out of. It was part of him. But that was okay. He didn't need more. What he had was enough.

He always did have trouble with wanting more.

and

"Hey, babe?" Nancy turns her head to look at Steve, touching his shoulder. "Can you buy me a drink?"

"Sure thing. What d'ya want?"

"Surprise me. Not like that time we were here and you snuck out the store, went to a smoothie stand, and came back with a mango smoothie."

Steve grins. "But I did surprise you."

and

"Do you have food in the backseat?"

"The sandwich has only been there for like, two weeks—"

and

"Ugh. Too much cheese. I'm lactose-intolerant, remember?"

"False, you're not intolerant of anyone except people over the age of fifteen with bowl cuts and guys who wear shorts in the winter."

and

"Where are you off to? I'm your only friend," Kali says, frowning.

and

"You good, man?"

"Yeah," he says, his throat dry, "I'm great."

"Yeah, you are," Nancy says, and he is. He is.

and i can’t continue because that’s, like, barely halfway into the fic and i’ve already skipped so many of my favourite lines and i would have to skip so many more. you see what i mean about sathana being funny as hell? and like all the others, it’s not just the humour here. i mean... it is, because it’s SO FUCKING FUNNY I LITERALLY CANNOT SAY THAT ENOUGH but the reason it’s so funny is because it’s so candid. it’s so smooth. the whole thing flows. you’re not left feeling that you’ve missed a piece or that anything was sacrificed; you just feel like you’ve read something incredible. this fic is an experience of its own that i honestly have never experienced before. it’s sweet, and it’s gentle, and it’s just so overwhelmingly good that i don’t think i’ll ever quite get over it. in short? it’s a blessing. my expectations were high, but holy fuck did you blow them to bits.

one more favourite line:

Things are ending, things are starting, and everything looks bright. It won't always be that way. The sun's got to set at some point. But, gazing up at the sky, at the pink bleeding into orange, Jonathan figures it'll have to rise again. No matter what happens, these two things are constant.

"Hey, you look awfully lonely," Nancy calls out, walking towards him, reaching out to him with the hand not in Steve's.

Well. Maybe not just those two things.

that scene, in general, is beautiful, and it wraps the story up on such a genuine note. it feels like a film with how clearly i can picture it. it feels like no fic i’ve ever really read before. it feels... good. i guess i don’t really have the words. it just feels so good.

as an overall statement on why i call her my favourite author... it’s the realism. maybe that’s surprising, considering how many times i said “funny” or “hilarious” in here, but in the end, i wouldn’t be so attached to her work if it didn’t feel so real. i can open a tab and instantly get transported to a home i’ve never lived in. it’s comfortable. it’s sweet. and the dialogue/banter is always perfectly crafted. there’s just never really a downside to her fics, honestly. even if i wanted to search, i don’t think i’d find one. not even one of those “their only problem is that there’s not more to enjoy” kind of comments, because every single one feels perfectly crafted in its own right. it doesn’t need more or less. it stands for itself and it’s goddamn good at it.

i didn’t anticipate having to do multiple parts on this post, but- surprise surprise- i haven’t even gotten to my favourite one yet! so yeah, pt. 2 will be written after i finish the history essay trying to murder me, god knows when that is. in the meantime, please go give her some love and adoration. she deserves it.

[horrible-monstrosity]

mothermom 3 is a baaad animine

part 1: fuck these characters I thought the bit about not being able to go through a certain way because there's ants (that the player can't see) you wouldn't want to trample was going to introduce a theme of kindness and gentleness, but the game sure... tramples that early on by having your oh-so-kindhearted-and-mournable mother trample the fuck out of a sentient talking mole cricket to death right the fuck afterwards. Like, you were just talking to and playfighting with that mole mere seconds ago, and now it's thoughtlessly and meaninglessly dead, and it's supposed to be funny. And then you're supposed to forget all about it when mom dead because care and have emotions for this characters you've barely known for like one minute worth of interactions dragged out over like an hour. ok Then after bumbling along being a hollow little bag of nothing for like ten hours Lucas suddenly proves himself a detestable little cunt by just straight up stealing something he's told was a precious item, a yo-yo belonging to Porky's friend. Because, like... fuck Porky, I guess, in this geame franchise about love and heart and healing there's just this one fat kid we're all supposed to just disregard and piss and shit on and detest by default for no fucking reason just because the game narrative said so. Porky's existence was pretty weird already in Earthbound- he's apparently being abused by his fat parents, and aside from being a bit snotty and show-offy, he does at least make sure his little brother gets home safely at the beginning. He just seems like someone who needs a friend, which... actually makes Ness look like an asshole in retrospect for not just giving him some kind of help. It was kind of fine in that game because he was just a minor character, but making him some supervillain in the next game just because he was some dumpy abused kid is just... what the fuck. But anyway, whenever the plot expects us to care about Loocus and his dumb dead mom I just think about things like the yo-yo and the mole cricket and I lose all empathy. These people are assholes. You're trying to make sympathetic victims out of assholes and an asshole out of a sympathetic victim. Get your meaningless fucking sunflowers the fuck off my screen you bitch fuck

And then on the other hand there's Duster. The character who's absolutely the most deserving of empathy out of all these cunts and we're supposed to see him reembracing his shitty old life as something he should be really happy about. Like for one thing, the entire plot where he reenters the cast is stupid and makes no sense. When we hear he's at the club playing with the band, I could think of a lot of reasons for it- he could be laying low to protect the egg (seeing as how Tamzilly got pozzed and going back there would accomplish nothing), he could have just decided to fuck off and do something he actually enjoyed rather than go back to his shitty asshole dad, he could have somehow ended up far far away from the town and joined the band to make his way back home travelling with them/earn a living so he could get back. But no, before we even get to see him and see how he's acting Strong Female McDerpa Character tells us that he most definitely has amnesia. Because, like, why would he ever give up on his jackass dad and that braindead town otherwise? And then we meet him and it's exactly what we were unceremonously told it was, how rivetting. Then for some reason he decides that if he's really who you say he is he needs to... give up his life as a band member entirely to get the egg back. Can't just come with you to get the egg or until the adventure's over, nooo he needs to abandon his new life forever and ever and just go get fucked and fuck himself. fuck. let my man play guitar and also that "thiefs but good somehow because derp" shit is retarded and I hate it

Finally there's Girl Character who I refuse to even remember the name of because she's... nothing. Even her being kinda cunty about how she's sTrOnG and nOt lIkE ThoSe OthEr gIrlS is just bland. The other girls from the past two games were cute and girly and still credit to team with their strong psychic powers, why the fuck is she like this?

part 2: i've stopped giving a fuck about making this into parts fuck you What the fuck is the story of this game? You spend hours dicking around with a fucking timeskip and a ghost mansion or some shit and the game randomly namedrops the needles at some point, and then... the six or seventh chapter is just titled GUYS THE NEEDLES ARE ACTUALLY REALLY IMPORTANT YOU GUYS. Six or seven fucking chapters in, and we've barely gotten to anything resembling a coherent plot. What the fuck have we been doing up until this point again? Why the fuck do we even need the dragon needles plot anyway? Just have the main cast move from one pigmeng plot to another with things like the thunder tower, slowly working their way up the chain of command until they reach the final boss and his ultimate plan. You don't need to introduce an entire plot worth of fucking shit a third of the way into the game you fucking fuckers

The themes are a fucking dumpsterfire. Just plop some fucktarded work bad money bad bullshit in there and call it a day... Evil monkey man could have given that fucktard anything and got him to hide it in the well and it would have caused a ruckus when he came back and stole it. He could have convinced him to hide his grandma's ashes in the well- would the takeaway from that have been that honoring the dead bad? That's how fucking flat it is. If anything it just comes off as if the people of Tamzilly are just a bunch of mindkilled retards with no defence against humanity's own nature aside from shutting themselves off from the outside world entirely- the slightest contact with normal human interactions like money or having to contribute to society for a living, they all self-destruct. It's not le capitalism that made the old people home bad, it's whoever the fuck actually built it... which, if the outside world weren't basically strawmanned with the le evil pigmans and monkey abuser guy, would have been Tamzilly themselves. Which, because the strawmanning is so unbelievably absurd, makes it seem like Tazmilly is just a retarded place that somehow managed to make the old people's home this bad on their own or some shit I don't know I just can't buy it

Speaking of empathy, the game somehow manages to make the Pig Heil guys endearing even while they're actively working on the thunder tower that's cooking the dumbass town residents. Are they supposed to be abusing the electric catfish when they're cutely telling the things to hang in there and do their best? When Lucas got a jerb hustling the golems around and they managed to make it like a positive thing (the pigmangs encourage you, seemingly pay a decent wage, and even the doggo enjoys running on the treadmill once he gets into it), I thought there was going to be a tweest or at least some nuance, but the absurdity of the nice ol' piglins in the evil tower just makes it seem like it's just entirely unintentional, by writers who just have no idea what the fuck they're doing. The generic braindead modern-bad messaging and the generic brainless funny-characters-ha-ha sides of the writing clash horribly and somehow manage to mangle each other even worse than they already were.

The whimsicality is fucking dead. It's just all so forced and one-note... or, very consistently two-note in every single thing, because absolutely every single monster you meet is just two things funny stuck together. The first two games could glide smoothly between fighting enraged possessed zoo animals and weirdo people, weirdo fucking blended monsters that don't look like anything in particular, and then just sometimes the taxis that're used for decoration on roads will veer off course and engage you in battle. It's simultaneously wildly unpredictable and smoothly cohesive. And it's wonderful. But M3 is just... it leans over, shoves a megaphone down your throat and loudly informs you that "the PIGMEN have FUSED the THINGS toGETHER" and proceeds to beat you over the head with "this thing is THAT thing and THAT thing" over and over again. It's forced, mechanical, hamfisted and just not whimsical at all. And it's not just because the pigmengs aren't Giiigigigigiyasass (which could have been fixed by having them harness traces of Gig's power if that was the problem anyway), because it extends to absolutely everything- the ghosts at the mansion for example are just all absolutely fucking nothing. Like the main big bad boss is just "he's GHOST who THROWS FURNITURE and is BEETHOVEN and plays BEETHOVEN MUSIC". Because Beethoven is old thing therefore old mansion and ghosts, geddit? How fucking pathetic. Oh there's another thing, the weird aliens/conspiracy bent the first two games had is gone entirely. That's something that really helped it feel so wild yet at the same time cohesive... Actually, the game also seems to have done away with the surprise overworld sprite encounters like the aforementioned taxis. ... No wait that's right, they blew their load in the first levels with the rock lizards, which were fucking boring.

The dialogue fucking sucks. just fucking drags the fuck on endlessly for fucking ever to say barely anything, and barely anything you need to actually hear. Did Earthbound ever stop you to inform you that the TAXIS are AFFECTED by GIGUDUGDSAS like you couldn't figure that out yourself? No, they say Gigi's affected shit in a couple sentences near the beginning and let the rest of it speak for itself, pretty much. It's hard to give exact examples because I can't fucking remember any of this shit because it just slides right off my brain like ducks off of water, it's so bland and pointless. The sparrows drone on endlessly with worthless tutorial shit and then take an entire extra sentence to chirp at you and remind you that it's talking animals oh wow wacky!!!!!!! And when Duster decides he really is what you say he is he stands there going "ME IS DUSTER" over and over again like he's fucking Bimpson. You don't have anything interesting to say about finally figuring out who you really are? Okay... There's multiple fucking scenes of slow-scrolling walls of fucking text telling you absolutely nothng you don't already know except that the writers are wanking the fuck off over their own dumbass writing where in Earthbound there was like one scene of this towards the end that really just set up the emotions of the final sequences and underlined how far you'd come and shit and was a good moment of reflection and shit.

I also find it exceptionally intersting that all the people in Tazmilly before the timeskip have names and unique appearances, but anyone who only shows up after is just some generic design called "Man" or "Woman" or what have you. It feels weirdly dehumanizing towards outsiders.

This game fucking feels like the writers just fucking dumped a bunch of absolute shit down like they expected everyone to just eat it up, either because of the success of the previous games or because of the emotional manipulation the plot is laced with. The characters are all either detestable cunts or desperately need to be airlifted out into a better game pronto. And it's unsettlingly... modern in what's wrong with it. The capitalism-bad-tradition-good-mindkill-yourself messaging, the spunky female character(tm) who rubs it in your face how strongk she is (and who keeps talking even when you're controlling her while the other characters all become silent protagonists)... even the weirdly random spite towards characters the narrative has decided aren't "deserving" enough, or characters only being allowed to handle said spite and retain sympathy by cucking to it completely (Duster)... I suppose that's just a sign that these sorts of writing problems and hangups are older than that and have just become more popular/visible in recent times, but it's still really fucking weird to see.

I feel like I should be concerned that the team behind the Earthbound series also started Gamefreak and created Pokemon, though since the split obviously happened before Mo 3 I don't know how much overlap there is between staff members there specifically... seeing as how these exact same sort of writing problems have started to rear their heads in the Pokemon franchise, starting weakly in gen 6 (cough zinnia cough abandoned ship plotline cough) and absolutely fucking exploding in 7 (cough LILLIE COUHG FUCKING TAPUS COUGH AGAG V HIC CUFGH VOMIT AAGHK); I haven't yet fully witnessed gen 8 but everything I've seen of it so far looks no better, except there's no shill character (Marnie is just kinda... there), just suffering. But that's all for another post.

welp time to go watch the remainder of the game until my brain rots off

[sortasirius]

5 or 19 for Destiel. :)

Hello my friend because I have been so bad at writing prompts or one shots you get BOTH

Link to post

Prompt me up!

5. “WHO LEFT THE TURKEY IN THE OVEN?!”

Words: 1053

A Christmas fic???  I guess my brain just wants the year to be over lmao

Three hours, thirty two minutes, and twenty seven seconds. Sixteen minutes and twenty five seconds until his next check.  Dean is not anal-retentive, thank you very much for asking, he just knows that turkeys have about a five minute window from being raw to being like eating sand. It is an exact science that he has perfected over the years.  And that is not going to be messed up tonight.

The bunker’s halls are filled with cheesy Christmas music, the smell of the meal that Dean has literally been working on since dawn wafting into every room.  It’s their first Christmas as a real family, with Jack back and, well, whole.  With Eileen, with Cas.  Dean hasn’t had a Christmas since before he went to hell, and even though he clutched that night to his heart like a precious scrap of paper, he’s excited to have a holiday where they don’t have to worry about the next big bad thing coming to get them, or to have tragedy hanging over their heads. To, you know, be normal.  Well, as normal as you can get when they had all died multiple times and two of their guests were angelic in nature, the other one recently resurrected from the great beyond.

“You need to talk to Cas,” Sam’s voice comes from the doorway, and Dean barely spares a glance in his direction, too focused on his goal to think about much else.  Eileen is with Sam, looking concerned.  Concerned enough that Dean stops chopping onions and wipes his hands on his apron (aprons fucking rock).

“What d’you mean?  What’s wrong?”

“He says he caught wind of a case,” Sam’s eyebrows are knitted in concern, “He wants to leave.”

Dean feels the color drain out of his face, which is a little embarrassing.

“He wants to leave?  Like now?”

“Yeah, he’s grabbing some stuff and getting ready to go.”

Dean stares at them, and then at the oven, where his masterpiece is roasting.  He checks his watch.  Okay. He has about twenty minutes until he needs to take it out.  Well, seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds to be exact.  Dean sways on the spot, torn between his carefully prepared and polished bird and having an empty place at the table he had carefully laid out the day before, with the place next to him being empty.

Neither sound appealing, but one makes his gut twist. He decides to handle that one.

He washes his hands methodically, trying to get them as clean and onion-free as he possibly can.  Approaching Sam and Eileen, he pokes Sam in the chest.

“Watch that turkey.  It’s gotta come out in,” he checks his watch again, “Fifteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds.”

“Okay Dean.”

Dean narrows his eyes and stands his ground, looking between both of their amused faces.

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell you are,” Eileen grins at him, “Please just go get Cas.”

Dean sways again, taking one last sweeping look at the kitchen before stomping towards Cas’ room.  Empty.  Fuck.

He checks the garage, the basement, checks in with Jack in his room, before finally hearing clanking in the armory.  Fucker, gonna take his guns on Christmas Day before he can have his turkey?  Dean doesn’t think so.

Cas is methodical in his movements, checking which weapons he was taking and diligently marking them on a list.

“You headed somewhere?”

Cas’ eyes meet his, and Dean’s hostility immediately melts.

“I caught wind of something, but don’t let me put a damper on the festivities, I’ll be back shortly.”

“And this can’t wait?  You know, until I could go with you?”

Cas’ shoulders sink a fraction of an inch.

“What’s going on, Cas?”

“I’m just not feeling very festive, human holidays always feel strange to me.  So I don’t want to put a damper on anything.”

“So you’re just gonna go?  What about-” he cuts himself off, not wanting to sound like he was begging him to stay or anything.

“Dean-”

“Come on Cas, I,” he takes a deep breath, steeling himself to say the next words, “I didn’t get a lot of, uh, happy holidays growing up. It was just me and Sam and I, I was just excited to have a Christmas with everyone, with a real kitchen and have everyone, I don’t know, have someone.  Sam has Eileen, Jack has all of us, he’s the kid, and then…you and me…”

The words sound closer to the truth than he meant them to.  But Cas’ eyes soften by degrees, Dean could always tell that because they seemed to turn a lighter shade of blue.

“You and me.”

Dean opens his mouth, trying to make his thoughts into words, thoughts that had been buried in the back of his mind for years, literal years.

“You know, we could, be something.”

Cas smiles this bright and blinding smile, something so brilliant that it takes Dean’s breath away, but he doesn’t have time to get it back before Cas closes the space between them and pulls Dean forward by his flannel until they crash together, and Dean searches for Cas lips so quickly it’s a little embarrassing, but he doesn’t really care.  Cas’ lips are soft and chapped and warm and Dean sighs into his mouth, relaxing as the tension between them, pulled taught like a string, finally eased.

Cas is the one to break the kiss, but it’s so gentle that Dean knows it isn’t a rebuke, just a wait til later.  Dean could live with that.

“So no hunt?”

Cas smiles at him.

“I suppose it can wait.  After all, it’s only a spontaneous combustion or two, nothing we can’t handle.”

Dean reaches for his hand instinctively, and it isn’t until he smells a too done smell coming from the kitchen that he starts running, dragging Cas with him.

“WHO LEFT THE TURKEY IN THE OVEN?!”

Sam comes skidding into the room, only barely registering that Cas and Dean are, in fact, holding hands, but grins as he nearly drops Dean’s overdone turkey on the floor in his haste to stop it from burning.

Sam is sufficiently guilty for his transgression, but despite the dryness of Dean’s masterpiece, when he’s holding hands with Cas under the table, he doesn’t really care.  People always come for the potato casserole anyway.

19. I love you more than I love food.

Words: 722

Dean’s never been sure where his love of cooking comes from. Hell, it’s not like he ever had a real kitchen growing up, and he sure wasn’t slinging meals when he was five years old and hunting was just a thing he did for bugs in the backyard.  He had to work with what they had when they were growing up, even when they stayed with Pastor Jim and Bobby, it wasn’t exactly five star dining.  He had come up with foods to keep Sam entertained though, maybe that was where he got it from.  The best thing they had were Funyuns crunched up with hot dogs and ketchup.  Sounds gross, but when the gas mart down the block is the only place you can walk to to get food and you only have ten dollars to get through the week, that kinda shit rocked hard.

Now that he has a real kitchen, and access to a real grocery store or, even though he hates to admit he goes there, a farmer’s market, Dean cooks all the time.  He falls asleep watching food network or The Great British Baking Show, he writes down ideas for recipes on the notes in his phone, sometimes even when he’s half asleep, and then he has to try and remember why he thought garlic and strawberries would ever be good together.

The only thing Dean loves more than cooking?  Eating.  It’s always gratifying to have Sam or Jack or Cas compliment him on his meals, but if he loved his food it was just an extra bonus for his ego.  

Sam starts to notice something though, he notices before Dean does which, retrospectively, pisses Dean off.  Dean doesn’t eat when Cas does.  He always takes a bite in between Cas’ bites, and watches Cas closely for a reaction, good or bad, to whatever is on his plate.

Dean laughs at Sam the first time he tells him this.

“No I don’t,” he rolls his eyes, going back to prepping his bell peppers for the oven.

“Oh yeah you do,” Sam grins at him, “Pay attention when we eat tonight.  You like refuse to eat when Cas is there.  It’s funny.”

Dean tries really hard that night not to not eat when Cas does but…come on, he’s gotta see if he likes the peppers with goat cheese right?

Unfortunately, his inability to eat when Cas does becomes a running gag with Sam.  He mentions it constantly, even getting Jack in on it, but whenever he mentions it to Cas, Cas just cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes.  Him not saying anything makes Dean that much more self conscious, but he tries not to dwell on it.  It doesn’t work.

Dean tries to pretend he has everything under control, until he makes himself and Cas some pretty epic turkey and swiss sandwiches for lunch one day, and he realizes he’s doing it again.

“Sam is right,” Cas points out, looking up from his sandwich.

“He tends to be, more than I’d like to admit,” Dean grins, his eyes scanning the room, landing anywhere but on Cas.

“You won’t eat when I do.  Why?”

Dean is afraid to see accusations in Cas’ eyes, or worse, understanding.  Understanding of something that not even Dean really understands.  Well, he does if he really thinks about it, but he doesn’t want to think about it, sue him.

“I don’t know.”

“Dean.  Look at me.”

Dean does, and then he’s under the force of Cas’ eyes, and he has a really hard time lying when he’s looking at Cas.

“Why?”

“I guess…I don’t know.  I love you more than I love food.”

Cas seems momentarily stunned by his words, but Dean thinks it’s a pretty good comparison, even though he, you know, said the “l” word. That’s fine, he won’t think about that until he has a spiraling panic attack late at night tonight.  That’s a future Dean problem.

“Well I also love you more than I love food,” Cas side-eyes Dean with a playful smile on his face.  He thinks he might be being teased.  And he’s not mad about it.

“That’s not fair, you’ve never cared about food.”

“I care about yours.”

Dean grins, still staring at the table.

See this, this is why he loves cooking.

[thwip--thwip]

do you trust me?

“Ow!” Peter’s voice climbs an octave, shocked out of the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack. Tony’s forehead is still pressed against his own, the only real way Tony can comfort him. Peter manages to wiggle his hand up enough to push at Tony’s face, and the man pulls back, eyeing him seriously. “What was that for!”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?”

“You can’t just headbutt me.”

*

Written for the prompt 'pinned down' for Whumptober 2019.

Read here on AO3 | Or below the cut!

In retrospect, maybe running into the collapsing building wasn’t his brightest idea.

It’s just that Peter has these instincts, and sometimes he can ignore them (like when Flash throws a spitball at him - it takes effort, but he can let it hit him), and sometimes he just can’t. Sometimes, he finds himself in front of the bus without really thinking about it, because he just has to catch it. There isn’t another option - he can’t just let the bad thing happen.

So when Tony is hovering in front of the five-story parking deck, coordinating the team’s movements from above, and Peter’s senses scream at him to move move MOVE HIM RIGHT NOW - there’s no other option, and Peter finds himself swinging across the space to tackle Tony out of the way before he can even consciously make the decision to do so.

The first charge blows, and Peter’s already not fast enough.

The building comes down on them, and Peter latches on to Tony’s chestplate just in time - were it anybody else, without Peter’s sticky fingers, they’d be thrown clear off. They tumble, the Iron Man suit knocking the breath out of him as they go down in a tangle of limbs and metal.

Peter’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second there - one minute, he’s crashing down hard, clinging to Tony, metal and concrete knocking him around like a bowling pin - and the next, he’s blinking up at Tony’s panicked face hovering way too close to his own, ears ringing from what is probably a mondo-concussion.

“Kid? Kid!” Tony’s yells sound distant, and Peter shakes his head, as if to make the ringing stop (it doesn’t, and he regrets the movement an instant later with a visible wince). “Jesus, Peter, what the hell were you thinking - “

“You were - the building - ow.” Peter says dumbly, vaguely noting that Tony is bleeding, from the temple. The blood trickles down, disappearing somewhere underneath the rest of his helmet - while the faceplate has retracted, the rest of the suit still appears to be in tact.

“Yeah ow. No shit, ow. I’m in a suit, Peter! A suit a helluva lot beefier than yours, that can withstand this sort of thing. You should not be jumping in front of collapsing buildings!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Peter snorts dryly, and the look on Tony’s face gets even more furious (he didn’t think that was possible but, uh. Whoops?)

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tony looks like he’s two seconds away from strangling him, but Peter can see the fear behind his eyes (he always looks so afraid; Peter wishes he could stop him worrying but he knows it’s a lost cause if he ever saw one.)

“It means this isn’t the first time - can you back off, a little?” Peter shifts uncomfortably, trying to sit up, but Tony shakes his head with a minute whirr of the armor.

“No, kid, I can’t.” Tony shifts minutely, to give Peter as much space as he can, but he can’t go very far. “We’ve got about ten tons of concrete bearing down on us.”

Ten tons. No. Not thinking about it. We can’t get out. We can’t get out. Do we have enough air? What if we don’t have enough air for two people? What if we suffocate? What if it’s too heavy? What if they can’t get us out? What if we get crushed while we’re waiting? What if we get crushed while they’re trying to dig us out? What if what if whatifwhatif -  

“I need to - I need to breathe.” Peter manages to get a hand up, fingers scrambling to push his mask up, over his mouth. Tony frowns down at him with concern, and Peter blows out a slow, shaky breath.

He’s just not going to think about the concrete on top of them. It isn’t easy, with the weight of the Iron Man suit bearing down on him - the only thing between him and being crushed - nope, no, not going to think about it. See? Do you see him not thinking about it? He’s not.

Tony doesn’t look any less worried.

“They’ll get us out, Pete.” Tony promises quietly, and Peter cuts his gaze back up to him - not the broken concrete and plaster all around them nope nope nope - trying to focus on Tony, on his heartbeat he can hear all too clearly in the enclosed space. It’s too fast, too fluttery - is he hurt? Does it hurt him, all that weight bearing down on the suit?

Of course it does, Peter thinks, because he’s held that much weight before. His muscles screamed - of course it hurt. Oh God Tony was hurt -

“I can’t. I can’t do this. I have to - I have to get out.” Peter stutters, choking on the panic, but he can’t move, this isn’t like the last time, he’s trapped. Tony is holding him down, he’s pinned, he can’t get his legs underneath him and push them out he can’t he can’t he can’t -

“Pete! Peter, look at me. Look at me bud, focus up.” Tony’s voice is a soothing balm through the haze of his panic, but it doesn’t help that the air is getting hot in the enclosed space, with all of the carbon dioxide Peter is expelling, breathing in and out too hard, too fast. It just heightens the feeling of being trapped, with nowhere to go, no more air to be had - they’re going to dig out bodies -

“Peter!” Tony’s voice is sharp, and the Iron Man helmet retracts - for a split-second, Peter thinks everything is going to come down on top of them even more - and then, well.

Tony headbutts him.

“Ow!” Peter’s voice climbs an octave, shocked out of the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack. Tony’s forehead is still pressed against his own, the only real way Tony can comfort him. Peter manages to wiggle his hand up enough to push at Tony’s face, and the man pulls back, eyeing him seriously. “What was that for!”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?”

“You can’t just headbutt me.” Peter splutters, and Tony raises an eyebrow - he has a red spot on his forehead, and Peter’s too bewildered to laugh. Even though it’s kind of funny (it has no business being that funny. Tony is ridiculous.)

“Hey.” Tony tries again, voice lowering into something a little more gentle. “I’m here, kid. You’re going to be okay. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Boy Scout,” Peter refutes accusingly, but it lacks bite. Tony smiles and it doesn’t reach his eyes (he always looks so worried where Peter is concerned, and he hates that he’s the cause), but he chuckles under his breath and nods anyway.

“No, can’t say that I was. You got me there.” He tilts his head a little, still studying Peter’s face for any more signs of panic. “You good?”

“No,” Peter admits, flexing his fingers - he still can’t move, can’t get up off his back, like he’s a turtle or something. He can’t help but wonder if it feels like an iron tomb to Tony, locked inside the suit. “No this is - kind of my worst nightmare.”

“Okay,” Tony says smoothly, keeping his voice calm. Peter closes his eyes, letting out another slow breath. “That’s a pretty reasonable nightmare. Better than any of mine. Tighty-whities at a board meeting, you know, a classic. Snakes on a plane. A ham sandwich with no mustard.”

Peter huffs out a soft laugh, feeling something in his chest ease, at least a little. He knows that’s not true - that Tony probably has nightmares worse than Peter does, ones that keep him up for days on end - but the attempt at distraction is nice. It’s kind.

“I’m trying not to think about it. But I can’t - I can’t stop.” Peter hates how small his voice sounds, and he grits his teeth, refusing to open his eyes, but he can feel how trapped they are - how stale the air is, now, how he can’t hear anything but the broken pipes buried somewhere to their left - but nothing from above, nothing from their comms, which are buzzing with low static. They wouldn’t know if someone was coming for them - and they wouldn’t know if someone wasn’t coming for them.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Tony assures him. “Have you tried thinking about something else?”

“Something else?” Peter repeats dumbly, and he can feel Tony nod, even if he doesn’t see it.

“You can’t just tell yourself to not think about something. You have to give your brain something else to focus on. So...think about something, anything. Think about May.”

“Uh.” Peter’s a little thrown by the suggestion. His brow furrows, eyes still closed, and he tries to conjure May’s face. Soft brown hair framing those big, bug-eye glasses she’s had since forever. The sound of her laugh, the scent of her strawberry shampoo - the kind she insisted on getting from the Korean beauty store on the corner. The old Korean ladies pinched his cheeks every time he went in there to buy it for her, and gave him sweet rice cookies.

“What about Ned?” Tony prompts gently, and May’s face morphs into Ned’s in his mind’s eye. Peter can still feel his heartbeat thundering in his chest, but it feels like it’s getting a little easier to breathe.

Ned - his big, toothy smile. A variety of hats that would have looked dumb on anyone else (Peter could never pull them off, he’s never even thought about trying), but Ned, he always looks good. Dauntless enthusiasm, his unapologetically nerdy best friend. Ned gave the best hugs in the world, and he was never shy about it - tackling Peter after a Decathlon match, patting him vigorously on the back and shouting excitedly.

“And that girl you were telling me about, Pete?”

MJ is pretty. She’s so pretty. Peter can’t help the way his heart flutters when she looks in his direction, and he knows that’s stupid - knows she’d probably call him out for being a total dork, but he doesn’t care because he knows she’d be smirking (as close to a smile as he can ever get out of her, but that’s just MJ) while she does. She’s smart, so much smarter than he is and he doesn’t mind at all, he likes it; her humor is like a finely-tuned whip, witty without even trying (even though she is trying, they all are; they’re teenagers, bumbling awkwardly through adolescence, but MJ is sweet and soft despite her prickly exterior - )

“Oh.” Peter says quietly, opening his eyes. The lenses of his mask shift to adjust to the light again, and he finds Tony watching him, trying not to let the worry show (it always shows, but this time it makes Peter feel warm, makes him feel...touched, that Tony cares) - and Peter’s breathing has slowed. His heartbeat is still a little quick, but it doesn’t sound like a runaway train anymore.

“You good?” Tony asks again, and this time Peter nods. They’re still trapped but - but he feels okay. He’s okay.

“Yeah. Thanks. Thank you.” Tony’s mouth quirks, as if to say, don’t thank me, kid. Peter smiles back, just a tiny one, but it’s something. “I’m sorry I’m - kind of useless.”

“You’re not useless,” Tony shakes his head, looking at Peter seriously. “You’re Spiderman, kid, you’re not useless.”

“Yeah,” Peter repeats slowly. “Spiderman. I’m Spiderman.”

I’m Spiderman.

“I have an idea.”

Tony tsks, shaking his head again. A bit of rubble crumbles down, dusting into the man’s hair, making it chalky, a mimicry of grey yet to come. “Am I correct in assuming from your tone that I’m not going to like this plan?”

“Not at all.” Peter confirms, hint of a grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. “But it’ll work.”

“Lay it on me, Spiderling.” Peter can almost see the gesture Tony would have made if he could move his arms. Instead of answering, Peter wiggles, shifting the Iron Man suit inch by inch - he gets the rest of his arm free, pressing his fingertips to the flat concrete next to Tony’s face. Tony raises an eyebrow questioningly, and Peter can see the pistons in his brain firing a mile per minute.

“I can get us out.” Peter tries to project confidence in his voice, despite the fact that Tony just helped him down from a panic attack. “I need you to retract the suit.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Tony points out, and for once, Peter thinks he might have surprised him. “The suit is kind of the only thing holding this building up.”

“Tony,” Peter uses his free hand to pull his mask down, back over his mouth. “I can get us out. I can lift it.”

“You can lift this?” Tony looks dubious, but Peter nods once, firm. “Peter…”

“Do you trust me?”

Tony stares at him for a long moment. Peter blinks, lenses adjusting, and finally, Tony nods. “How do we do this?”

“Count of three.” Peter puts his hand back up on the flat piece of concrete, his other arm pinned somewhere beneath Tony’s chestplate. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Tony has the briefest hesitation in his eyes - but he’s ready. He’s decided to trust Peter, and Peter tries to let it fill him with confidence. “One, two - “

Tony retracts the suit, nanobots crawling back into the housing unit quickly, and Peter feels it as the rubble begins to bear down on them. He strains to hold it up with one arm and, as soon as he has enough leverage to do so, uses his other arm to flip Tony over. Positions reversed, the weight of the building rests on Peter’s shoulders.

Tony’s eyes are wide - there’s nothing between him and the ten tons of twisted metal and brick but Peter - but Peter manages to get one foot underneath himself, his other knee driving into the ground.

“Come on,” Peter mutters to himself - he can do this. This isn’t like last time - he’s not hurt, not terrified, and he’s not alone. He can do this. “Come on Spiderman.”

“Yeah,” Tony clears his throat, and Peter thinks he sees something like awe in Tony’s eyes. Pride. “Come on, Spiderman. You’ve got this.”

Peter strains, pushing up - he gets up onto both feet. There still isn’t enough space for Tony to sit up, but he’s getting there. Peter yells, grits his teeth so hard it feels like his jaw might pop, and pushes.

The rubble shifts; Peter can feel it as the raw strength surges through his muscles - strength he doesn’t often tap into, strength he usually tries to control, to be careful - but this pushes him to his limits.

Sunlight filters down through the chunk Peter’s lifted, and he lifts it up over his head, creating enough room for Tony to get up. The man does, slowly, carefully, as if one wrong move could bring it all down on their heads.

“Get out.” One look at Tony tells him that’s not going to happen. The man shakes his head - there’s no way he’s leaving Peter here holding up a building. “Tony, you have to climb out. I can - “

“Eight ball says no way in Hell,” Tony cuts him off, running a hand through his hair. He can’t activate the suit again - there just isn’t enough space. Peter’s not sure how long he can hold it.

“I’ve got it.” Tony says suddenly, and Peter can practically see the lightbulb going off over his head. Tony unlatches the webshooter from Peter’s wrist, moving to clasp it around his own.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, breathless with exertion. Tony eyes him seriously.

“Do you trust me?”

Peter only hesitates for the briefest second - he nods, and Tony calibrates the web setting with a quick turn of the dial. “Count of three.”

Tony nods, turning towards the light. Something in his jaw is tight, determined. And Peter doesn’t feel afraid.

He shoots the web, which latches onto something outside with a wet thwap. Tony tugs on the line once, testing the durability. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Peter takes a deep breath, shoulders flexing. “One, two - “

Tony yanks on the web, and Peter latches on to him, letting go of the concrete. Tony’s aim proves true, and they narrowly make it out before the hole Peter created closes, caving in with an unforgiving crash.

They land hard - Peter shoots another web as soon as they’re free enough, swinging them to the ground as he clumsily counters their momentum. Peter manages to torque them so he takes the brunt of the fall, protecting Tony as much as he can. Tony coughs and rolls over, flat on his back, staring up at the sky. Peter settles next to him, exhausted.

“Let’s not do that again,” Tony jokes with a soft wince, rubbing a hand over his face. Peter pulls his mask up over his mouth, reveling in the fresh air.

“Yeah, I think I’m good.” Tony laughs, free and honest, and Peter smiles. He wants to bottle that sound and keep it in his memories, right next to May and Ned and MJ. Tony lifts a hand, offering a fist, and Peter slowly meets it with his own gloved one, bumping it.

“Good work, Spiderman.”

And for once, Peter can’t help but agree.

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

His Smile Will Keep You Safe - Chapter Ten

Word Count: 3 051

After the disastrous concert followed a total of four days without any shows or interviews, meaning there was loads of time for everyone to relax a little.

Dallon had taken the first flight in the morning, going home to see his family. While Lisa and you decided to accompany Bill and Lucas to the next destination, Baldwinsville, everybody else took off into different directions, visiting friends or family.

It was strange, being only four people on the bus, and you caught yourself thinking that you already missed Ryan, who took the free time to visit a distant relative, and a couple of friends in the area. But you pushed the thought aside as soon as you had climbed out of the bus in front of the new hotel.

Lisa and you were sharing a room again, as so many times before, and you decided to use the time to bond a little more. After all, you were the only two women on the crew, meaning you had to stick together, even though tour would soon be over.

The first days you spent wandering around the city, exploring whatever there was to see. You took long walks in little forests, and talked about anything that came to mind. Retrospectively you almost felt ashamed for having thought Lisa to be a little shallow sometimes, because the better you got to know her, the more she revealed of the complex personality she had. It fascinated you, listening to the stories she told you of her childhood, and you enjoyed discussing philosophical problems with her.

While she spent most of the time on your trips looking at things closely, you did the same through the lens of your camera. It was fun to try out photographing in nature again, which you had not done since college, and when Lisa randomly mentioned over dinner that she had worked as a model during high school, you had an amazing idea.

The next day was spent searching places all over town, in front of which you took pictures of the young girl. Of course these were not the usual “look everybody, I am a tourist”-photographs. Far more they were delicately chosen angles that allowed you to play with the natural light, the stream of the soft wind as well as fore- and background.

Lisa was wearing a flowing white dress with small pink flowers scattered all over the fabric, her long blonde hair effortlessly falling over her shoulders in gentle waves, and tiny freckles added an interesting factor. It had been years since you had taken portraits, but you found that you remembered surprisingly much from college. In the evening you got cheap fairy lights in a dollar store, and once the daylight had faded, you continued playing around with the camera back at the hotel.

One of your favourite shots of that day was Lisa, sitting on her bed, the windows in the background looking out over the city. She held the lights in the palm of her hand so that the small light sources themselves were invisible to the camera, but soft, orange light spread from her hands over her face, making her brown eyes glow warmly, and her delicate skin glimmer mysteriously.

After the extensive photo session, both of you decided to settle in a park close to the hotel the next day, where you edited the pictures together. Since without Lisa these pictures would not have been possible, you asked her for opinions concerning the colours and contrast for every picture, slowly but surely creating the perfect mixture between your two styles.

In the afternoon you walked over a small market of craftwork, where you bumped into Charlie, who was looking at some jewellery.

“Isn’t that Charlie over there,” Lisa asked excitedly, tucking your arm.

You turned to see who she was pointing at, but she had already started dragging you towards the man, who indeed turned out to be the bassist.

“Charlie, hey,” Lisa cheered, and Charlie grinned, giving both of you quick hugs.

“Hey guys, what are you doing out here,” he asked.

“Just looking around, and you,” you replied, your eyes scanning over the display of rings he was standing in front of.

“Oh! Are you buying a ring for your girlfriend,” Lisa asked excited, already eyeing the rings curiously as if she could find out what kind of girl he was dating by looking at the jewellery.

“No, I- I don’t have a girlfriend,” Charlie laughed.

Your eyes flickered over the display again, and suddenly you noticed the musician fidgeting around with his hands. Was he nervous? The rings he was standing in front of were not for women, but judging by the thickness and designs, made for men. Actually they reminded you more of Luis’s style than of Charlie’s. Was he embarrassed that you had caught him buying a ring for himself?

Whatever it was, he did not seem very comfortable in his own skin, so you decided to do him a favour and distract Lisa, who seemed not to have heard the last sentence since she was already gushing over a small ring with a rose crystal that she insisted would look very nice on his girlfriend, whoever she was.

In the end you caught Lisa’s attention by suggesting going for a coffee, and almost immediately she had forgotten Charlie’s inexistent girlfriend, and together the two of you went to search for the nearest café, leaving Charlie with a thankful smile, before he turned back to the display of rings.

~*~

While Lisa and you were still out Ryan and Dallon had arrived at the hotel almost at the same time. Lucas had accompanied them to their room, where they had discussed the details for the next two weeks. Lucas was just about to leave the room, when Ryan took the courage and decided he needed to ask for something which he had been thinking about for the past weeks, but especially these last four days.

“Hey, one more thing,” he stopped the tour manager from leaving, “I was wondering… what does the label think about (y/n)’s work?”

Both Lucas and Dallon turned to Ryan, surprised by his question. Lucas let go of the door handle he had already been holding, and gave Dallon a short look before answering.

“They’re very happy with her work, why do you ask?”

Ryan felt nervous, as he uttered the next words, but he knew that it was important, that he had to at least try, no matter what the others thought of him.

“I mean… I guess we all really get along with her, don’t we? And she takes the most incredible pictures, obviously, so I was thinking, maybe, if the label is okay, we could ask her to be- you know- our regular tour photographer, so she can always go on tour with us?”

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest but he did not care. Instead he looked over to Lucas carefully who had furrowed his eyebrows in a considering manner.

“I think it’s really funny that you suggest that,” he eventually spoke up, “It was supposed to be a surprise for you, and I wanted to ask her first, but the label already suggested the exact same thing.”

To say that Ryan’s chin dropped would have been a very accurate description of his reaction. He felt like a barrel of fireworks had erupted in his stomach, and he grinned widely.

“Did she say yes,” he asked immediately, having a hard time containing the excitement.

“I haven’t asked her yet, I’d like to wait with that until tour is over,” Lucas explained, “But if you like, why don’t you suggest it to her, after the last show?”

Ryan nodded happily, already starting to make up sentences with which he might be able to tell her the great news. Dallon had witnessed the exchange with a sly smile on his lips. Ryan really had fallen head over heels for the young photographer, and Dallon loved watching the two of you slowly but surely realising the romantic feelings you were harbouring for each other.

~*~

Buffalo was rather cool and rainy this time of year, but nobody in the crew seemed to care. It was about six pm, still two hours until the show would start, and you had settled down comfortably on one of the sofas in the changing room of the bands. Ryan was sitting closely next to you.

After having been apart for four days, it seemed your bond had only grown stronger, and almost nothing was able to separate you. He had flung his arm across the back rest, therefore almost wrapping it around your shoulders, and you were sitting turned towards him, gesticulating wildly as you told him about the time that the bus, which was supposed to get you and your class to a trip, had crashed only fifteen miles outside of Salt Lake City.

Ryan tried to listen to your story as good as possible but found himself distracted again and again by the way you smiled and talked with such enthusiasm. In the flickering light of the bare light bulb that dangled from the ceiling, your eyes glowed with passion, and he smiled, merely thinking about potentially getting to go on so many more tours with you.

Your passionate rant was interrupted by the door flying open. Lars came walking in the room, and shot the two of you a glance before he spoke.

“Lucas needs you, (y/n),” he declared.

The happy smile faded from your face, and your lips pulled into an apologetic one.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, and quickly got up, but not without gently running your fingers over Ryan’s shoulder before you left the room.

Ryan sight quietly. As soon as you were away from his side the world seemed boring and dull to him. Stretching his arms over his head, he leant back into the cushions of the sofa, and took a deep breath before letting his arms fall back to his side. Looking up, he found Lars was still standing in the room, staring at him.

“You know she’s only using you, right,” Lars asked, making Ryan furrow his brows.

“Who?”

“(y/n), obviously. She’s using you.”

A chuckle escaped Ryan’s lips, and he shook his head in amusement.

“Nah, I don’t think so mate. I’ve seen girls who tried to use me, she isn’t one of them.”

“Not to get famous or anything,” Lars disagreed, “She’s trying to make me jealous.”

Ryan’s smile slightly faltered, but he tried not to admit it.

“Come on, think about it, man,” Lars tried to explain, and walked a few steps closer, “We’ve been together before. It’s fate that we ended up on the same tour. And she still is into me, I can tell. She’s only spending time with you to make me jealous, to pretend like she moved on from me.”

“And you’re getting her hopes up,” Ryan challenged.

He did not want to believe the other man’s words, but something inside of him started clinging to the idea that he should have known everything was too good to be true.

“Of course I’ll take her back, don’t worry,” Lars chuckled, as if this was what Ryan wanted to hear, “But it was her who dumped me back then, and now I want her to suffer a little before I relief her of her struggles.”

Ryan just stared at Lars. He could not possibly be telling the truth, could he?

“Just think about it man,” Lars insisted, walking towards the door, “She’s not really into you, it’s just a game for her. She’s not the cute innocent girl you want her to be. She’s just fooling you.”

And with these words he walked out of the room, leaving Ryan spiralling down into a circle of worries.

Of course it made sense that you wanted to get back with Lars. He was attractive, tall, clever, and you two shared a past, a past and memories Ryan had not with you. Lars had a self-confidence about him, which probably made him even more attractive, a kind of indifference, that made it hard to tell if he cared about someone or not. And you probably loved to challenge that.

And even if you were not intending to get back together with Lars, how had Ryan even so stupid to believe for one moment that you could have some genuine interest in him?

He was not exceptional in any way. He had blue hair, great, so he was thirsting for attention. He played drums, always hiding behind his set, he had ordinary brown eyes, was neither very intelligent, nor funny, nor attractive, and to make everything even worse, he was a nerd who played in a band which’s name was the quote of one of his favourite geeky movies. Not childish at all. Oh, and he was completely obsessed with not only multiple different movies and tv-series, including the Back to the Future movies, but also with bands, like Green Day, and the Beatles. Not to mention that this was one cluster-fuck of a strange mix, it made him feel like a twelve year old boy again.

He almost felt ashamed for the things he liked, but only almost. He liked these things for a reason, and they had all been a big part of the person he had become. But the person he had become was not somebody that someone as perfect and funny, and talented, as you could ever fall in love with.

And knowing that he had honestly though that you had, that was what he felt ashamed about, so ashamed in fact, that he had to forcefully wipe away the tears of anger and disappointment, when Dallon entered the room a couple of minutes later, searching for his backpack.

~*~

It was around noon of the next day when you eventually noticed that Ryan behaved strangely around you. After packing up after the show the previous day, everyone had gone to bed quickly, and after a quick breakfast at the hotel, you had climbed on the bus without exchanging many pleasantries with anyone.

But during the drive to South Burlington, you found that Ryan avoided looking at you, not to mention that he had not even spoken a single word with you so far. Sitting on one of the benches by the table in the tiny kitchen, you watched him sitting on the sofa. He was staring into the distance, not paying any attention towards the game of cards that the others had started around him.

Concerned you noticed how tired he looked. Deep dark circles were under his eyes, his skin looked exceptionally pale, and the fragile rim of skin around his eyes was pink, as if his eyes were watering all the time.

He seemed to have noticed your inquisitive look, because he looked up but as soon as his eyes meet yours, he turned away, looking out of the window. Perhaps he had just had a bad night, was tired, and did not feel up to any socializing, you thought to yourself, so you decided not disturb him, in order for him to be able to relax.

But his behaviour had not changed the next day either. The past times he had often sat next to you, watching you editing countless pictures, but not today. You felt hurt, but told yourself that you could expect of nobody to sit and watch you work for hours on end.

But even during lunch break and before the show he avoided you. Things even went as far that he left the changing room every time as soon as you entered.

And that was when you really started to worry.

By now it was not just an accident anymore, or a coincidence. Not even the different excuses you had made up in your mind did stand any of his behaviour, and by the end of the day you had to admit to yourself, that Ryan was in fact going to great lengths to avoid you.

This obviously posed the question of the why. Had it been something you had said, or done? Had he felt like after the night in the hotel, cuddled together, that you were not what he wanted in his life after all? Had that night made him feel uncomfortable? But the days after, even after the short break, he had seemed absolutely fine; he had even sought out your company actively!

So what had happened since Sunday that had turned his behaviour around by 180 degrees? What confused you even further was that he made no move to try to clear things up with you. During the past weeks he had always seemed like he was a person who rather solved a problem, even if it was uncomfortable, then to leave it eating away at him, at everybody. Had you given off the impression that you were not open to an honest, even if criticizing, conversation?

All of these questions piled up in your head, which caused you to come to the obvious conclusion that if he refused to talk to you, you had to talk to him.

Which turned out to be a lot more difficult than it sounded. For two days straight he managed to always either slip away as soon as you seemed to have him cornered, or he found somebody to distract you with, some convenient “Lucas needs me”-s, and quickly started conversations with anybody else. Which taught you one thing for certain: he avoided talking to you at all cost, and there was nothing you could do against it.

So, with heavy, broken heart you decided to lay low for a while. If you stopped chasing him, maybe he would stop running, and eventually try to explain what the hell was going on.

Of course you had not the faintest idea that Lars, who was watching both of you very closely, was secretly having a blast. If he did not get to have you, then so should neither anybody else. And who knew, maybe your heartbreak would eventually drive you back into his arms.

But that somebody could be this malicious would not have occurred to you in your wildest dreams.

[autumnfanfiction]

6.

After sneaking back in the hospital after their date, they exchanged numbers, and Chris found himself loving her company more and more. Nothing was forced, and it seemed so easy to talk to her. He didn’t know much about falling in love, but he knew that true love laid in friendship. He was going to marry his best friend so there would be no denying how solid their foundation was. He was going to get her the old fashioned way. He was going to court her and do all the things that were necessary to be the only one to give her that feeling. That feeling of love. He would give her a vibe she couldn’t find anywhere else that she had no choice but to believe he was it for her. That he was home and being that home was where the heart was, she’d always come back to him. But she would be so wrapped up in warmth, there’d be no reason to leave in the first place.

He picked his phone up ready to call his Mother to tell her about the date but she beat him to it, and he laughed at the enthusiasm he knew would be on the other line. “Hey, Mama. I was just about to call you.”

“I have great timing, as always. So... how was it? I’m dying to know.” She sipped her tea awaiting the details, and Chris laughed at her before telling her what she wanted to know.

“Mama... she’s intelligent, pure like her spirit is infectious she’s so warm and kind-hearted, fun, funny like I’ve never laughed so much with anyone as much as I did with her and...”

“Pretty?”

“Gorgeous! She’s got these eyes that I’ve never seen before that just... and her accent? Wow. Her lips are heart shaped, and I swear I just... and her laugh...” Chris sighed smiling boyishly imaging that Robyn was in front of him. At first glance, he knew she was beautiful but getting to know her? It’s just been a pleasant experience.

It was now his Mother’s turn to laugh. “This sounds like love Angel.”

Chris blushed. “I don’t know Ma. I know I definitely like her and I can see this going far, but she’s afraid Ma. I can tell, and it doesn’t help that we both have cancer either.”

His Mother gasped. “Oh, baby...”

His demeanor switched. He felt a dark cloud was cast over him trying to rid him of the sunshine that’s illuminated his life since getting to know her. “Mama, what if... I mean, what if we don’t make it? What if we do fall in love and that’s when—–“

“Baby, don’t think like that.”

“How can’t I? It just hit me like why find love when it’ll just be hopeless in the end?”

“Christopher you both are gaining something by falling in love. Both of you fear that death may come sooner, and because of that, it's blinding you from what's important. It's scary but do you really want to miss an opportunity at love with her?"

“No.”

“Exactly so I’m going to need you to remain calm, okay? Do anything to get your mind from that sort of thinking and focus on what’s important.”

“Okay, Mama. Thank you.”

“I’m always here for you, baby. I should be coming to see you soon, okay?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “You’re obviously coming to see Robyn.”

“So? You’re not far from the top are you?”

Chris laughed. “Bye Mama. I love you.”

“I love you too Chris.”

Even with the reassurance from his Mother, he felt he needed something stronger. He would never say they were wasting their time because these have been the best two months of his life, but for how long? How long before the only person he found himself liking was snatched away from him? He couldn’t help but wonder, and he needed some answers from somebody.

-

Robyn couldn’t stop the thoughts of Chris from running through her head. All she was able to do since their date was smile and if she kept it her face would probably permanently be that way. He was just something different from all the other men she’s met and been with. He was like a breath of fresh air, and for the past few months, she had desperately been waiting to exhale.

She was bound to falling in love. She knew it and felt it because the feelings she felt for that man was stronger than what she had for her previous boyfriend. She didn't want much; in fact, she wanted very little. Sincerity, sensual kisses, sheltering arms, laughter, and to love and be loved in return. She always loved harder than the person she was in the relationship with, it's just how it was. She wanted love so bad; she feigned for it, craved it. She was such a hopeless romantic that she looked for love in the wrong places, but the tides have changed.

She always had her own view of what love should be, and since crossing paths with Chris, she can say he's changed that narrative. With all the conversations she had with his brilliant mind and being able to see into his beautiful soul, she found another way of making love. She finally felt like she found someone that could love her to the capacity she needed. Perhaps, overcapacity, and she couldn't figure out whether that was a good thing. In retrospect, it was because he reminded her of Autumn leaves and Spring; gentle, golden, with a glow of the sun and a lively soul reminiscent of sunshine. There was nothing about him she didn't like, but she had grown accustomed to being alone, so distant from love that she wasn't sure she could handle what he had to give her. Unsure of how to deal with that, how she should go about it. What she's been wanting is finally here, and now she's stuck too afraid to jump at the opportunity. Why now? Why when they're both sick? Why not a few years ago? It wasn't fair to her, it wasn't to either of them.

She sighed texting the person that could put her mind at ease.

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Pooh!

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: Wah gwan Forehead

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Don’t play me you gave me a skull fracture just by putting your forehead on mine

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Cinder block head ass

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: And you put a dent in mine

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: Cement mix head ass

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: Should call your shit the concrete jungle

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Your head looks like it’s ready for lift off

Baby Girl 💋❤️: To infinity! and beyond! Head ass

Baby Girl 💋❤️: You skinny twig

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: That’s cute

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: You carry the whole block on your shoulders

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: “I got trouble on my mind” head ass

Robyn was laughing so hard her chest pains came back. She wouldn’t admit that to him though. She saw the text bubble and couldn’t believe he was being so relentless.

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Stop typing 😭😭😭

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: Moses parted the Red Sea, your forehead can part the city SUPERDOME head ass

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Wooooooow

Baby Girl 💋❤️: Don’t text me bye

Pooh Bear 🧸😍: Okay bye

She crossed her arms and pouted. Her head wasn’t that big, but she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the knowing smile on her face. He was annoying, but she loved it.

She felt her phone chime and saw she had a notification on Instagram.

@breezythepooh: Wah gwan gorgeous, yuh single?

@honeycombrih: Chris what are you doing? 😂

@breezythepooh: Yuh say no text so mi dming

She laughed and rolled her eyes at him before hearing her door open.

“Wassup Buttercup.”

“Best friend, what are you doing here?”

“Sneakin’ into yuh room,” he came over and asked if he could get in the bed with her and she made room for him. He laid on top and wrapped his arms around her before staring up into her green orbs. “Yuh look good best friend.”

“Thank you, but what’s up with the accent?”

“Mi spend too much time round yuh, no?”

She giggled. “You are so annoying, you sound nothing like me.”

“For now,” he smirked, “I will when I get you on my taste bloods.”

“Why are you like this? I hope you get caught in here.”

“We’re not doing anything inappropriate I just came to see my best friend after giving her ass a nice roast session.”

Robyn rolled her eyes. “You think you’re cool, but you’re just room temperature.”

Chris laughed and Robyn soon joined him. She began soothing her palm over his curls. “Pooh?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to start calling you Reeses.”

“Oh, because I called you Buttercup? That’s cute. We can carve it on a tree somewhere.”

“I’ll still call you Pooh sometimes.”

“You gonna give me some of that honey, honey?”

Robyn took a pillow and hit him over the head. “You need to take your corny ass on somewhere.” Chris stuck his tongue at her before tickling her side causing her to laugh. He returned to his original position and Robyn went back to rubbing his curls. “Reeses?”

“Hmm?”

“You laugh like a horse.” Then mocked his laughter. Chris gave her the straightest face he could manage and Robyn slowly bit her lip to keep herself from laughing.

“So one round wasn’t enough? You want more?”

“Depends on what kind of rounds you giving out.”

Chris’ eyebrows shot up before he waved her off. “Please, you ain’t ready for this pressure. Give you a headache from hitting it so good. Fuck around and have your ass laying in a coffin after I kill it and drill it.”

"Pssshh I'm dripping gold, ok? Make you become mute. Have you in tears and cross eyed. Fuck around and have you speaking in tongues, have you thinking you caught the Holy Ghost."

Chris tried stifling his laughter before they both broke out into fits of laughter. Robyn poked his dimple looking at him in admiration knowing this is what she was missing for so long. Chris seemed to pick up on her thoughts because his expression mirrored hers.

“My Mama wants to meet you,” He said softly “I want you to meet her too. I know she’ll love you.”

“I’d love to meet her. My Gran Gran can’t wait to meet you, long before I even met you strange enough.”

Chris had a feeling why but he didn’t say anything. “I can’t wait to meet her either. She did a good job at raising you, so I know her heart has to be just as pure.”

Robyn sighed. “Yuh jus wanna get cuffed, huh?”

Chris just smiled and rested his head just below her chest.

"Buttercup?"

"Reeses?"

"You'd be nice to come home to." He said quietly

Her smile was radiant as she looked down at him. He had a knack for saying the sweetest things at the most random times, especially after they went silent for a few moments. It's like he never gave anything a second thought when it came to expressing his feelings towards her.

"Aww, yuh like mi?"

He looked up at her and smiled. "Yeah."

"What yuh like bout mi?"

He bit his lip before smiling, which made Robyn blush. "You fine."

She playfully mushed his head before rolling her eyes in the same manner. "You are such a nigga."

His laughter was uncontrollable at her comment, and she laughed with him. She joked about how funny his laugh was, she loved it. It easily made her laugh every time she heard it, she couldn't help the feeling her heart swelling at the fact she caused that. That he found her just as funny as she did him. It might've been silly, but it was how she felt. There was a balance within their budding relationship.

The rest of the night was filled with love. Their eyes shiny, gleaming with happiness. Laughter complemented the eyes, and dimples complemented the smiles. Cuddling. A possible, I love you coming from one of them, but it didn't matter because it fit the moment. More hearty laughter causing them to clinch their stomachs, the jokes and teasing being endless. Comfortable silence at some moments. They felt like they were in Heaven and if they could freeze time they would.

[ikesenhell]

Shapes

This is Chapter 5 of I See Starlight. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTE: SPOILERS FOR TO HONOR AND PROTECT. If you have not read it, please go back and do so before proceeding. THIS WAS A LIVEWRITE! … at literally three-four in the morning. A very special shout out to the trio that hung out and line edited my work: @velociraptor-detective, Brie, and @stardust-and-ashes​

Mitsuhide often forgot that he couldn’t open his eyes anymore. Masamune told him this might happen. In the first few moments of bleary consciousness, his first instinct was to try and crack those eyelids apart from his cheek and the jolt of pain as he rediscovered the fused skin. That woke him up pretty well.

But this morning was unique. A rumble of something against his chest roused him first, and then came the familiar ritual with his eyes. What the devil was that? He stroked his fingertips gently downward and explored the topography of this strange new land. There was the softened ridge of her shoulder. He felt the cool drape of her hair in his fingertips, working his knuckles through it, following the river over the valley of her waist. And there--there was the offending rumble. Hideyoshi emitted a soft snore again, rolling his head to the side. Mitsuhide nearly laughed. Instead he just cupped his hand around the man’s cheek and felt the sound with his own hands. It vibrated off his skin and up his arm.

And the weight was… comfortable. When was the last time he woke up with someone else, let alone two? The question took him back far enough that he stopped trying to remember and settled instead for nuzzling his mouth down into the cold silk of her scalp, resigning himself to the melody of breath and the calming cry of sea birds outside the window.

Mitsuhide was well acquainted with his own feelings. He’d been alone with them often enough to really dig in, to crush them and use them and manipulate them to his whims. In the fragile stillness of the morning, he allowed himself to really feel them. No one was awake to watch the run of thoughts on his face. Pensive and uncertain, he walked his fingertips featherlight down the length of her arm and Hideyoshi’s neck, relishing the weight of them on his ribs despite himself.

They deserved more than this. Didn’t they? He was only half-surprised at lumping Hideyoshi in with that particular train of thought. In retrospect it wasn’t that unexpected. Not that he’d spent much time courting the company of men, exactly, but he’d never shunned the advance either. Either one suited his purposes from time to time.

But he wasn’t using them--not for services he couldn’t get elsewhere, at least--and that part had him thinking more than anything.

Hideyoshi snored again, jolting him from his thoughts. That time he did laugh. His chest jostled her enough that she stirred in his arms, rolling against him and settling her mouth against the curve of his arm.

“Mitsuhide?” She murmured sleepily, and he wondered if he’d ever heard anything better in his life. He found the curve of her cheek with his thumb and worked his hand over her face, memorizing every curve and line. Her nose had a slight ridge, only upturned the tiniest bit at the end. Her mouth was full and small (which was a trend on her in general, it seemed), her jaw soft. Without prompting, she planted a kiss into his palm and his heart surged so hard it caught his breath in the crossfire.

“Hush, little mouse,” he managed. “Comfortable?”

“Mhmmm.”

Now Hideyoshi grunted awake. His awakening was far less graceful. A snort; the familiar inhale of someone who wasn’t quite sure where he was and a long stretch. Mitsuhide imagined he’d been sleeping in that distinct Hideyoshi way: arms crossed tight over his chest, head rocked back as if he were still the bandit sleeping against a tree. “Huh?”

“You hush too,” Mitsuhide snickered, his laugh jostling her head once more. Apparently that felt funny, because she giggled too. “You’re warming my legs nicely down there.”

“Hng.” Hideyoshi grunted and made to move, but Mitsuhide worked a languid hand through the other man’s hair and he stilled again, dropping his head back onto her waist. “That’s not fair. I’ve got PT.”

“Kenshin can come and get you himself. I’m quite content being here. As for fairness, I didn’t even realize you had a thing about your hair, my friend.”

Heat radiated clear up through Hideyoshi’s scalp and Mitsuhide tried not to laugh again, utterly failing. She twisted and tried to bury her smile into the cushions, but now it caught to Hideyoshi, the familiar puff of breath he always released when grinning despite himself floating in the air. “And you’ve got a thing for people laying on you. I guess fair is fair.”

“Do I? Do I have a thing?”

“I don’t know, Mitsuhide, you’ve got two people putting your legs to sleep, no doubt.”

But the three of them lay there a long while yet, stretching in turns and waking with gentle slowness. Mitsuhide wrapped one arm over her hip and the free hand through Hideyoshi’s hair, wondering if it was half bad that he only had the touch of them to luxuriate in.

---

The three of them walked the cobblestone streets to the library. Hideyoshi carried the braille machine in his arms, its weight barely anything to him--especially with all the wild thoughts circling his mind.

What did last night mean? What did all that fond caressing mean? Was that just Mitsuhide being classic Mitsuhide, or was that something genuine? Had he overstepped his bounds with the half-awake Princess, or was she as unphased by it as she seemed? She blushed easier now. Was that good or bad? Was this going to be a reoccurring thing, or had it been a one off? If it was--

“Hideyoshi?”

He blinked at the hand in his face. She peered intently at him, her head cocked. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m just fine. Did you need something?”

“I asked if it was heavy. I can carry it a little.”

“Heavy?” He repeated, realizing he sounded less like a person and more like a parrot. “Oh, no, it’s not really heavy at all. Besides, I wouldn’t dream of making you carry it.”

Mitsunari was alone in the library today. He glanced up at the trio as they entered, a sweet smile on his face. “Hello!”

“Where are the glasses?” Hideyoshi asked, realizing all at once that the silver-haired man wasn’t wearing them. “Does the ocean suddenly have perfect vision?”

“Apparently!” Mitsunari grinned so wide that it made his eyes crinkle into little crescent moons. “I wouldn’t have guessed it myself. Maybe it’s less about being the ocean and more about coming back, but I don’t have any particular evidence either way.”

“See, this is why this whole ‘magic’ business completely throws me.”

Mitsuhide snickered and set his staff on the table, scooting it on his own toward the shelving for space. Hideyoshi almost went to help, but a gentle eyebrow raise from the Bookkeeper stilled him. The crash he feared never came; instead, Mitsuhide stopped just short of a collision, clapping his hands matter-of-factly. “Shall we?” “We shall!” Mitsunari flipped open a book, searching through the pages until he found something in particular. “And in fact, I think you’ll like what I’ve got in store today.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“Would you mind terribly if I didn’t tell you until after?”

Hideyoshi wondered for a long moment if he ought to press the issue, but Mitsuhide just shrugged. “I’m in your hands.”

“Aren’t you too tall for that?” The Bookkeeper quipped, realizing a second too late what she’d said. Her whole face turned a bright pink, but Mitsuhide laughed out loud.

“Such as it is. Shall we?” ---

Truthfully, he was a little anxious at not knowing exactly what he was doing. The bones of it felt the same: feeling his will inch through his body, taking charge of each muscle, the center of him surging like the glow of a lightning storm. Mitsunari guided him expertly through a world he didn’t quite understand with his words alone. All the sound of the library fell away, the familiar footing of ground lost to him.

It felt like infinity.

He’d been blind before, but it was so much worse now. Never before had he been so unseated. The urge to scream welled up in his throat, to reach out, to take something solid to moor him in this alien world. He wanted a hand. Desperate for a measure of comfort, Mitsuhide dug into the well of his memory and conjured the weight of her head on his ribs, Hideyoshi’s body draped over his legs, the ghost of a breeze over his face, the swell of his heart--

And then it was all over. Mitsuhide felt the floor beneath him again and he staggered, dropping to his knees and heaving. He felt Hideyoshi and her run to him--

Wait.

“Hold.” Mitsuhide waved his hand and they both stopped only feet from him. How did he know that? Curious and calm again, he reached out with his mind and groped along the floor, the table, the books in neat ridges along the shelving--

“I know where things are,” he gasped. “I know where everything is.”

“Uh…” Hideyoshi paused, then lifted his hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four. Your left hand, specifically.”

A pause. Mitsunari knelt by his side and pat his back. “Are you alright? I know that couldn’t be pleasant--”

“Great.” Mitsuhide croaked, fastening that smile on his mouth. “I know where everything is. I’m bloody fantastic.”

“I’m behind you,” Hideyoshi muttered. “How did you know how many fingers? Can you physically see?”

“No.” He struggled to his feet and brushed himself off. “Hideyoshi, draw your sword.”

“What!?”

Mitsuhide reached to the side and stole Mitsunari’s with a long shnnk, raising it to a battle-ready stance. “I’m serious.”

“You’re--I--Mitsuhide.”

“If you don’t draw it, then this’ll hurt.”

The Bookkeeper gasped and dashed back against the table. Hideyoshi barely managed to parry the blow, the crash of steel on steel ringing through the library. Mitsuhide laughed with reckless abandon.

“I saw that,” he managed, “I saw that!”

Hideyoshi dropped his sword and closed the gap, wrapping him in a tight hug. Mitsuhide accepted it and they stood there a long while, rocking back and forth in the middle of the library, and for the first time in an eternity, Mitsuhide wondered if he might cry.

---

Kenshin put him through his paces with such gusto that Hideyoshi nearly ate his lip off with anxiety. Mitsuhide had never been their most stellar swordsman (though Mitsunari was always worse, despite their best efforts), but even with months off practice, he held his own. Every swipe, swing, thrust and riposte he anticipated, meeting the onslaught with a passable defense.

“You won’t die,” Kenshin pronounced at last. “Which is improved.”

Mitsuhide’s familiar smirk was a glory to behold. “Generous as always with your compliments.”

Masamune snorted. “Well, fuck. Hit me up with some of this magic bullshit.”

Yuki scowled. “I still don’t like it. Are there drawbacks?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Mitsuhide twirled the sword experimentally in his hands. “Mitsunari expects I’ll have terrific migraines from time to time, but we will have to see in the long run.”

“Is it reversible?”

“That I can’t say. For now, it works. That’s all I’m concerned with. I am the test subject, after all.”

Hideyoshi almost missed helping Mitsuhide navigate the world. It was bewildering to see him walk blind through the kitchen as easily as could be. There was plenty he still couldn’t do--anything flat still threw him through a loop. He was as reliant on his braille as ever.

“I can see the shape of things, not the texture or color or what have you. Even that is a little fuzzy. I have to focus.” Mitsuhide stretched in the library, playing his hand experimentally over the bookshelf a bit at a time. “And I still won’t be able to shoot. I can’t ‘see’ but a certain distance out.”

The Bookkeeper smoothed her satin skirts, settled in her desk chair. “And these… these migraines. How often do you think they’ll happen? How bad will they be? That would be a real drawback in a serious situation.”

“I’ve worked through some very severe circumstances before.” Easily as could be, Mitsuhide caught a chair under the lip and dragged it up beside hers to sit. “I can’t imagine a migraine that would put me out of commission so readily.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

Mitsuhide grinned and teased his fingers under her chin. “Little Mouse, you don’t need to worry about me so much. You’ll start getting Hideyoshi’s eyebrow wrinkle.”

All at once, Hideyoshi realized he was wearing that exact expression. “I mean, you can’t blame us for being interested in your well being.”

Apparently their Kitsune had nothing to say to that. He just paused, cocking his head ever so slightly. “We shall see, won’t we?”

Despite Mitsuhide’s confidence, Hideyoshi still settled into the library with them. He wasn’t as invested in reading as the other man, so he watched the Bookkeeper and learned his way around her blueprints, slowly getting the hang of the drafts and measurements. Afternoon passed into night. Content with her progress on the braille machine’s final draft, she settled onto the couch beside Mitsuhide with a book, and Hideyoshi decided to occupy himself with cleaning his sword.

“So,” Mitsuhide asked at last, his low voice soft in the library. “I’m assuming we’re not all going to form a puddle again tonight?”

Silence reigned again. Hideyoshi and the Bookkeeper exchanged glances, a creeping blush overtaking both of them.

“I mean,” she started.

“Well--”

They both fell quiet and tried again at the same time.

“I didn’t--”

“If you were suggesting--”

Mitsuhide grinned like the devil and the Bookkeeper dipped her face into her hands, too embarrassed to continue. He teased a hand through her hair. “I’m only asking because I was rather fond of the setup.”

“I--” She took a deep breath and blurted out the rest of her sentence as one run-on. “I’m very self conscious because I think I like both of you and I don’t know what to do about that and it makes me think there is something wrong with me.”

Well, there it was. Hideyoshi wondered if saying nothing or everything was safer. Throat dry as the desert, he looked at Mitsuhide and imagined what it would be like to admit it.

“Let’s say I feel much the same about that sentiment,” Mitsuhide crooned. Hideyoshi waited for his face to light on fire (which it didn’t, and he frankly wasn’t sure if the distraction might have saved him). “If that were the case, Hideyoshi, then might you be on board?”

“Yes,” he managed. “Yeah. Probably.”

And that curling smile emerged. “Then let’s figure the rest out later. For tonight, I’m content just to have a few accomplices in a good night’s sleep.”

---

Mitsuhide woke in what he assumed to be the middle of the night. No birds disturbed the sweet ocean air. The icy chill of the northern wind struck to the core of him, but her head on his shoulder and Hideyoshi on his other warmed him enough. If it were a dream, it was good enough for now.

Silent and gentle, he worked his thumb over Hideyoshi’s cheek. The other man roused ever so slightly.

“Mitsuhide?” He croaked. “You need something?”

“No. I was just awake.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything? You feel a little cold.”

A surge of affection took hold of him. He tapped a hand under Hideyoshi’s chin and guided him forward, half-expecting a fight or protest. None came. Instead he felt the warmth of lips against his, a brush of breath over his chin, the staccato shock of a man in the middle of a kiss and unsure what else to do aside from enjoy it.

“Nothing,” Mitsuhide murmured. “Nothing else.”

She stirred on his other shoulder. Obligingly, Mitsuhide combed a hand over her head and she tilted her face back. The same desire swelled inside him, and he planted a kiss on her forehead, nose, and mouth. She hummed against him and it felt so sweet that he caught the edge of her lip between his teeth, relishing the shiver of her spine.

“That was nice to wake to,” she sighed, settling back down on his chest.

“And nice to go back to sleep to.” Mitsuhide lay his head back against the pillow. “So back to sleep. Both of you. Tomorrow is another day.”

[happysmilebtr]

hello, hello! @jaewwoo tis i, auntie anna aka your secret santa for this event! ^_^ it has been an honor to be your secret santa (even if there were some minor bumps here and there hehe) i do hope you have a fantastic christmas if you celebrate it along with a happy new year! you are seriously a sweet person that is funny and lovely to talk to (go and follow them btw c;) i do hope we can chat some more in the future! 

so here is your christmas gift, two in one! the first is this lovely moodboard that i hope you like! :) you mentioned yuta being you bias (for now lol) so i went ahead and centered around a soft christmas moodboard with prince yuta himself! not gonna lie, it was tricky! i wanted a very specific theme based around yuta’s picture so finding christmas aesthetic pictures to fit that wasn’t easy but i think it turned out lovely and does fit well with your second gift, a small lil written work hehe. enjoy the two in one love and merry christmas! ��

drabble inspired by these two prompts; “Muse a being a butt and putting their cold hands on b’s warm neck” &  “would you like some hot cocoa with your mountain of marshmallows oh my god are you TRYING to put yourself into a sugar coma?“

                                                    ❅❅❅

Sometimes the Christmas holiday’s plans aren’t always the most traditional. Sometimes, sometimes for the holiday's you just have to do something unexpected. Do something out of the ordinary. For example, go out for a drive and watch the snow fall from the inside of your car. Sometimes, that's just how the holiday's can be

Fio's Christmas was just that this year. It wasn't the typical get dressed up for the family is coming over. No, this year's Christmas was a last minute plan that involved a close friend that goes by the name of Yuta. Less then 24 hours ago, the lad had decided to go ahead and strike up the suggestion on if the idea of a small road trip would be something she would be interested. She had agreed but what she didn't expect was to have this roadtrip happen on Christmas! Fio had truly expected this to be some new year's bucket list or whatever people call it these days for Yuta and honestly it sounded appealing. Not often she has the chance to travel of any kind really. However...Christmas? And at 7 in the morning of all times!?

Oh Yuta should be counting his stars that Fio had a generous heart. That she wasn't kicking him out to the curb and instead dressed herself up for this plan of his

"So, still hate me my darling?"

Fiorella glanced over to the other side of the car when hearing the sickly sweet voice ring out, followed by an innocent smile. Letting out a faint sigh while shaking her head a bit "oh shove it" was all that she had mumbled. Even though the female beauty was indeed, quite annoyed at the fact of how this idea of a trip was planned out -that and also her precious sleeping was screwed over thank you very much. Goodbye good sleep- the gal wasn't entirely disappointed with the turn events

Key word, entirely.

"If by that, you mean am i interested in shoving my foot to your pretty face for the lake of beauty sleep? Yes, yes i still hate you Yuta" Fio replied with a faint snort, smiling softly when hearing the laugh from the male himself

"Ouch, i never knew you were such an evil person?"

"There's alot of things you don't know about me Yuta" the female beauty answered, flicking -and failing- her hair dramatically

An eyebrow arched up behind the male's bangs as he stared at the female "mhm...like?" he asked. Curious to see what Fiorella would tell him and what fun fact was he going to learn about her. At that, she shifted herself around in the car seat to get more comfortable and folded her hands on her lap

"Like how i am a fantastic comedian and before you argue back mister, i actually have a joke prepared to prove my comedy skills" the female quipped "what is barbie's favorite sauce?" she asked, watching as the dark blonde male shrugged his shoulders at the question

"barbi-que sauce!" she exclaimed, grinning at the joke she had made -while possibly trying not to laugh at her own joke- and awaited on the reaction from her friend who simply just made a face of confusion. Probably a bit unsure if he should laugh at the poor attempt of a joke or pretend it was never said

"Get it? Barbie...sort of sou-"

"Maybe leave the jokes to the professional's"

At that, the gal huffed and threw her beanie at the male who chuckled, "rude. that joke is brilliant that even the world's greatest comedians would approve of that" she mumbled, sticking out her tongue out childishly. Sadly, this little action had turned into one of a fight so to speak between the two. In retaliation, Yuta went ahead and poked her sides gently. Earning a small squeak from the female. Fio went ahead and returned the gesture with poking him back, thus their poking fight began. Pair these two together and it's like maybe watching a 'Tom & Jerry' episode sometimes.

Children stuck in grown up bodies

But someone had to put the stop to the poking war that was ensuing within the car. Who was brave enough to do such a task? Someone that holds the name Nakomto Yuta of course. "Hey, is that a deer?" was the first step of Yuta's plan. Easily this distraction had worked cause Fiorella had turned her head to try to spot this so called deer the male claimed to have spotted. Next, came the action

While distracted, Yuta quickly placed his hand behind the gal's neck. This action may have seemed, well, lame in retrospect. on the contrary, it was the perfect plan to get the upper hand in the situation...cold hands for the win.

At that spine chilling feeling on Fio's neck, she jumped in her seat, mumbling a string of colorful words and started to swat and smack the male's arm to try to get the source of the cold. Yuta? He was donning a Cheshire smile on his face.

"Get your ice cold hands away from me you jack frost!" hissed the gal. Sending a laser glare over at her friend

"Alright, alright. How about a cup of hot coco? Call it a peace treaty if you will"

Fio stared at the dark haired blonde while he reached out from behind him, pulling his hand off her neck to grab ahold of the thermos that contained the pre-made hot chocolate. Shaking it in his hand for a moment in question. The female clicked her tongue once as she crossed her arms in front of her. Still sending him a stink eye no doubt

"Seriously?"

"Seriously"

"You've got to be kidding me here? Do you truly believe that I would go ahead and let you off the hook for doing that? I could have gotten frost bite from that you know!"

Ok, no she wouldn't have. Still doesn't wash away the fact the male and his hand was far too cold my dear friends!

Yuta snorts at the reaction and rolled his eyes, "Fio...overreacting a bit there?"

"I am serious here mister!"

"Yeah, yeah and I'm sorry for my kind of-"

"Kind of? More like hella lot"

"As i was saying...do you want this hot coco that i have worked hard for?"

Fiorella narrowed her eyes for a brief moment, not saying anything as if she was trying to come up with a decision to this very crucial decision -note the sarcasm-. "Are there marshmallow's as well?"  

"Of course!" Yuta commented and scoffed, placing his hand over his heart "I'm hurt, how would you think i wouldn't include something as important as marshmallow's?" the male had replied. The female simply shrugged her shoulders and held out her hand, making a 'gimmie' motion with her hand. Yuta simply chuckled and poured the liquid into the cup

"Enjoy m'lady"

"This better be the world's best hot chocolate Yuta"

"Oh it is, i poured my blood, sweat and tears into this coco for your information"

The female beauty snorts at the dramatic comment made by the male, shaking her head. Boy did like to be a bit dramatic at times, sometimes it can be confusing though because there are times where she stops to wonder whether or not Yuta is actually serious or not? You can never be too sure with him

She took the packaged of the squishy sweets after she placed the cup on the dashboard of the car so it wouldn't spill while opening the package. Any normal person would grab a few droplets of the marshmallow's but Fio...

Oh boy

Instead, what the female had done is she went ahead simply grabbed a handful of it. Not once, but twice handful of marshmallow's! Sure, this did make a mess inside the car considering that amount spilled over the cup though she didn't care because she was content with what she had done. Yuta, he stared in disbelief at his friend and what he was seeing

"Women!"

"What?" Fiorella asked innocently, picking up the cup as if nothing had happened

"You know what! Fio...child...you cannot just simply have a cup full of marshmallow's with hot coco"

"Says who? Who said there was a rule for this anyway?"

"No but that doesn't mean you have to put yourself into a sugar coma or something!"

Fio giggled at her friend who was truly worried over the amount of sugar she was about to consume "Aww, I'm flattered to know you are worried about me Yuta but I'll be perfectly fine" she assured the male, reaching out to pat his knee to calm his worries. Ok sure, maybe the mountain full of marshmallow's is not the most...healthiest option right now but you know what they say. There can never be too much sweets in the world right?

"I swear you are going to make me lose my mind one day" Yuta mumbled

Fiorella hummed softly and popped a marshmallow that was overflowing into her mouth before she reached over to place a gentle kiss onto his cheek

"Hopefully it would be in the Christmas spirit" she mused

At that action, Yuta's eyes widened for a brief moment a bit too comically and cleared his throat. Nodding his head a few times while shifting in his car seat. This was...a bit rare to say the least. To see a flustered Yuta. Usually the male never really shows a crack in his appearance like being nervous fully, covers it up with his confidence but it seemed like a kiss was enough to make the male be red in the face like Rudolph himself -but she will spare her friend and not tell him that...now at least-

"Uh-you know what? It's bit warm in here, let me open the window a bit. Yeah?"

"Yeah, sure Yuta" Fiorella replied with a small chuckle. Throwing a marshmallow puff at her friend with a small smile

How cute

"Thanks though"

Yuta turned back at the female and furrowed his eyebrows for a moment "For what?" he asked

"For this Christmas roadtrip of yours...this is nice Yuta" she smiled. It was different than the usual holiday plans but it was something new. New doesn't entirely mean something bad afterall. New can bring in memories to think back later on in time. Plus, the holiday's are about spending time with loved ones isn't it? Yuta fits that description afterall.

“Heh, and you originally wanted to chop off my d-”

“Oh shush now!”

[sunstriderling]

The princess and the hitman Au for Gency? Or maybe just a fluff of Genji confessing to Angela ^^

+ @nappi​‘s request for sick!Angela & caring!Genji. :> Writing this took 7 000 years but to be honest I’ve been really sick myself for three weeks straight and my brain’s ability to put together coherent sentences was non-existent, so, uh, here we are.

( AO3 )

It’s late, well past ten in the evening - after a mission, most of them would be in bed at this hour. Yet here they are, both her and Genji, in the medical bay; the cyborg busying himself with the drink dispenser, the day’s newspaper, and a blanket-covered chair as if he’s set to move in, and Angela, well, cross-legged on the elevated hospital bed with multiple plush pillows piled behind her back. It’s uncomfortable. Unbelievable, really; it’s as if she’s forgotten completely what it feels like to be ill. All these years she’s tended the sick and the wounded and truly, she’s seen it all, but a mere cold, at worst a flu, something so ordinary and mundane and, most of all, survivable, now feels to her like she’s dying.

How long has it been? Fifteen years?

The puncture wound in her lower back aches like a gunshot wound, only so much smaller, like the infected bite of a mosquito or a horse-fly. It throbs with her fever-stricken everything, a drumming inside her brain and bones, an ache in her muscles, and she sniffs idly with glassed-over eyes, finding the whole situation… ironic, almost amusing. No, whatever was in that dart wasn’t poisonous. It did nothing but stunt her body’s artificially improved regeneration rates, her boosted immunity system, perhaps in the hopes that she’d get shot or just break a bone, leaving her vulnerable or, in the best case scenario for Talon, dead. What she’d actually become was just… sick, like her stellar immunity collapsing on her meant nothing to the lurking germs sticking to her but the open opportunity they’d waited for for a good half of her lifespan. Suddenly, it was as if her basic, unmodified biology no longer knew how to handle a simple virus.

This was a flaw in the design of the regenerative design she’d previously regarded as a succesful experiment. She’d realised it the first thing after noticing the aches in her joints, the thickness in her throat, and the slowly growing soreness everywhere. She’d have to fix that, this sudden immunity collapse syndrome, at once when she wouldn’t be shaking madly with the sickness anymore. When her brain worked again. When something worked again.

Everyone had been quite concerned. They couldn’t recall ever seeing her sick and even though surely they had, they may have not noticed it; sickness had never stopped her from working, she’d just chosen projects that didn’t risk her patients on those days, or her colleagues. Sickness made her antisocial, brought her mind back to the workings of her own body, what it was going through, and how she could turn this intimate knowledge of the process of the illness in her and the stages her body took towards recovery into the building bricks of medical science. Even now, that was where her mind had been, and perhaps it was that fact that had calmed the team down in the end. They’d all gone to bed, hadn’t they? She’d told them she’d be fine self-medicating and sleeping the fever off in the medical bay, and they’d told her they’d see her in the morning, wished her a swift recovery, and disappeared into their little holes inside the Watchpoint like a strike team of exhausted foxes.

Everyone except Genji.

He’s got tan lines over his cheeks and forehead, Angela notes as he sits on the side of her bed, offering her a steaming cup of hot chocolate from the dispenser. It’s summertime, and after settling in, after growing comfortable with his companions once more, he’s spent quite some time outdoors with his visor off. She wonders if sunlight still hurts his modified eyes; she didn’t quite know how to fix that after the repairs, after the improvements. She simply told him to get used to it.

Retrospectively, she always felt guilty about that, yet - he doesn’t seem to squint as much anymore, if at all.

“I am afraid it is not Swiss. I keep disappointing,” Genji says with a hint of a grin.

She chuckles, rolls her eyes and lets out a gentle cough that masks the desperate pressure in her throat demanding a much bigger, much sharper relief. She’s not holding it back for him as much as for her own body’s sake; she’ll cough hard when it helps some, but for now, the only thing it does is bruise her from the inside out.

“Silly. I wouldn’t be able to taste it, even if it was Swiss - my body will hardly know the difference,” Angela huffs in response, bringing the cup to her lips and taking the smallest sip to try how hot the drink is.

Quite.

Genji chuckles.“Are you telling me that there are no magical healing qualities to Swiss chocolate, Angela? For all the praise you’ve had for it…”

“I am telling you that, yes.”She thinks it over for a moment before taking another sip and placing the mug between her crossed legs, over the baby blue blanket thrown over her.“You do know that I will do just fine on my own, Genji. Go to bed.”

“No,” Genji replies casually, picking up his own blanket; it’s fuzzier, and sand brown; “I’ll stay here. I know you would do just fine on your own, Angela, but it is a special kind of loneliness, being alone when you are feeling under the weather. So I will be here and accompany you, so you can focus on getting better. It is what a friend would do, is it not?”

She smiles. Then, slowly, she nods.“I had forgotten all about that. I never let myself have it; my career left no time for sick leaves, and it left very little time for friendship, too. So I worked while I was ill and… the kindness you’re showing me is like remembering something from childhood. All those nights as a little girl, with my mother or my father bringing me cold medicine or soup to eat.”

It takes her a moment to get back to the present day, but when she does, she sees Genji tilting his head with a gentle expression on his face.“Tell me more,” he prompts her, “I have never heard you speak of your childhood.”

A quiet chuckle escapes her and she shakes her head, lowering her gaze to her steaming drink on her lap. She waits for some time, perhaps for her mind to start working again, to form a thought one way or the other, but it seems - feels - as if there’s some technical issue with her functions, the whole of her mind reduced to a blank state of white noise. Finally, she brings the mug up to her lips again, shaking a little at the contrast of the hot drink touching her otherwise so cold-feeling body.

“There is not much to tell, Genji. Or - perhaps there is, but it all seems quite mundane and so distant that I wouldn’t know what to talk about. Surely you have similar experiences. Surely nothing I had was that special. I had a mother and a father once, and I was small, and I was cared for and sometimes I was sick, and my mother would sit by my bed singing me lullabies, my father would read me lighthearted poetry from children’s books, and I - would fall asleep and have nightmares. I had a lot of nightmares as a child, from fevers, I remember that being the worst part of being ill. Strange dreams, that you wouldn’t think were scary; objects from the real world beginning to spin around the room, levitating. Impossible things. My blankets and bed turning to thorns. Those dreams scared me then, but I grew out of them.”

She lifts her gaze and examines him.

“What about you? Would you share some memories from your past with me, too?”

Genji’s eyes narrow, but the lingering smile on him is both thoughtful and a little bit amused, as if she’s challenged him.

“When I was a child,” he begins then, “being sick was the only time when my brother would stop pushing me around. Literally. I was our father’s favourite as a young boy - he gave me much of the attention he would not give to my brother, who had to be raised tough for the future of our bloodline, you see. So maybe I was raised like a little girl, too. I did not care for poetry, however. I remember playing video games and being bored out of my mind through illnesses, my body going through phases of fever chills and floods of sweating… Funny, I have not recalled these things in a long time. I have not had to.”

He eyes her, and a small chuckle escapes him as well.

“I suppose that is on you, Doctor Ziegler?”

Angela nods slowly.“Your body’s regenerative abilities -”

“I understand.”

They’re silent for some time, and Angela leans her sore back into the pillows, rests her head and breathes deep, as deep as her itchy lungs allow her from the spasms in her chest threatening her with coughing fits. No, not yet, she tells her body and relaxes; all of that will come soon enough.

“I quite missed your company,” Genji tells her then, his voice softer, quieter now, as if he’s either not quite sure how to approach this subject, or if he’s not sure if she’s asleep and doesn’t want to wake her up.

She peers at him lazily through a partially opened eye, then closes it again, nodding. The nod compresses her throat and she coughs unwillingly, but it passes quickly, letting her relax again.

“It seems strange, all those years we exchanged letters and yet I feel as if I am just now meeting you for the first time,” the cyborg continues.

“It is all quite different since we last met, face to face,” she mumbles, cheekbones burning with fever and most her attention directed towards the fact, “Much has changed; we are older, but we are also very different people. You are no longer lost, and I am no longer an overgrown child.”

“Was I lost when we last met? Were you an overgrown child?” Genji asks her, his voice amused.

“Would you contest either of those claims?” she asks him back.

He thinks for a moment.“No,” he says then; “With confidence, I can say that I was lost. And perhaps I saw you differently then, but now that I have met you once more, you are indeed a woman. I am not quite sure I saw you that way before. You were my doctor, but you were very young, and you seemed out of your comfort zone, even when you were the most experienced person in the room, doing what only you could do.”

“Precisely. I have grown since, Genji. Not quite like you have, and yet, if I could meet my younger self from those days, I would have much advice to give that silly girl.”

They look at each other, and there’s warmth in Genji’s eyes, acceptance, and somehow, Angela realises she needed to see that. She smiles at him before reaching for her hot chocolate again.

“Back then it seemed absurd that there is merely a year or so between us,” she says then; “in my eyes you seemed - immature. Boyish, as if you were stuck in the worst of your teenage years. And I was not done growing up myself. I quite never gave myself the chance to experience youth, and I suppose that made me young for a very long time in the developmental sense. I thought I could bypass the nonsense that other teenagers got caught up in, so that when I turned 20, then 25, all that unspoken rebellion and most of all the confusion and insecurity that I’d never worked through was still there. Yet I still thought of myself above you, because my way of carrying myself was so controlled, so pretentiously mature, and you were caught up in your unpredictable moods like you had no skills in fighting them. Trauma does that to people, and yet I allowed myself to think that this was simply who you were. A silly boy, to project away the truth that I was also a silly girl inside. I hope my words don’t offend you.”

Genji shakes his head.“No. If you’d spoken them to me then, I would have become very angry, but I see the truth in what you say today. I was very lost and I was very afraid, Angela. Perhaps I took much of that out on you.”

“You were angry at me very often.”

“You were safe to be angry at. And you had that annoying professional smile every time that just made me more frustrated. I hated that smile, the way it implied that you pitied me, the way it highlighted how unstable I was, how it made me aware of my behaviour. I hated it, and I knew that you wouldn’t leave me if I showed just how much.”

She nods.“You are not angry anymore,” she says.

“And you don’t give me that professional smile either,” Genji tells her, his eyes twinkling.

She laughs, a careless act that leads to another cough. When she recovers, she nods again, barely noticing the man’s fingers touching her arm with concern and affection. 

“Trust me,” she says to him, “I am even more capable of giving that look today than I was back then; that pained look covering up my frustration with a difficult patient. I give that same smile to my male colleagues who think they can outperform me by the grace of their XY chromosomes as well. I have practiced it, Genji, and I have practiced it long and hard.”

He lifts his brows, looking playful.“Which must mean that I do not frustrate you anymore. Am I wrong?”

“You are quite correct. In fact, I find myself quite fond of your company. I was nervous to meet you again after all these years; what if we wouldn’t have the kind of a - how would I describe it? That kind of a connection that was so apparent to me through our letters. I waited for them so eagerly each time, but the thought of seeing you in person after being separated for such a long time…”

“The fear that the person you were in writing would not be the person you were in flesh, I understand. I felt that too. I had butterflies in my stomach when I landed here, in fact, and the worst of them I felt when I had to shake your hand.”

Her smile softens, turns quite strangely gentle. She feels it linger on her lips even when she runs out of words, as if he’s said everything there is to say.

“Angela,” he begins then, if only to prove her wrong; “I have a confession to make.”

“And what would that be?” she asks him, sipping her drink with her eyes never leaving his.

He seems more confident now, but there’s a tension in his act of relaxedness, a relapse to that nervous tension he described before.

“There is another reason I was so nervous to meet you once more. It is a long story but I think the sum of it is very short indeed. Would you mind if I spoke it now, or would you rather sleep off the fever, and talk with me once you are in a clearer state of mind?”

Angela squints at him, then shakes her head.“My mind is quite functional. I would not work with it, but when it comes to mere interaction, I am not that far gone quite yet.”

He smiles at her, but his smile shivers and shrinks fast, and he seems to second-guess his intentions before regaining confidence.

“That boy you knew years ago, Angela, grew quite fond of you. He would always wish that perhaps we would have a chance to meet again under different circumstances, when he wasn’t quite so angry, and when you wouldn’t see him as that bed-bound project that he felt like then. After all, you were a girl, and he was a boy, and you spent much time together outside the professional framework. He enjoyed those times and when he left this place, those were the times he regretted losing the most.”

Her breath hitches a little, matching the inconvenient pause between her heartbeats, but she says nothing; the cold that grows in her fingertips, her toes and the tip of her nose has nothing to do with the fever chills now.

“That’s why he sent you the first letter,” Genji continues. “Over time, that boy became me, and his affections became my affections. I don’t feel the same way about you as he did, for many things changed since, and the girl he knew is not the woman who sits before me tonight. And yet, the affection is still there, and like myself, it grew over time, and as I learned more about you, it seemed to feed off all those new, wonderful things that I discovered. This is an awful time to ask, Angela, but I was wondering if, once you are feeling less ill, you’d like to have dinner together, or perhaps watch a movie with me? This - I promise you I used to be much better at this, but I also promise that I am doing my best, and yes, I am asking you out for a date. Of course if you’d rather do these things only as friends I understand and I would not mind, and -”

“Genji.”Angela closes her eyes, slipping deeper into her bed; the pillows rub at her raw back and her throat feels sandpapery and sickly, but for the time being, the dizziness, the cold, and the frantic beating of her heart aren’t connected to the illness.“I have a lot on my mind right now, but the first thing I found myself asking while listening to your rambling was that I can’t quite believe you are looking at me like this, with my swollen eyes and red nose and disheveled hair and dry lips, and yet decide to ask me out anyway.”

He gasps a little, physically pulling back from her.“Oh,” he says clumsily, “I - I understand, I should have waited, I don’t want it to look like I’m trying to pressure you while you’re not feeling up to it, I’m… very sorry, Angela, that was not my intention.”

She throws a bored look at him, her eyes unfocused but judgemental.“Calm your nerves,” she tells him, but there’s a hint of amusement to her harsh tone, “Like I said, I am quite in my right mind. What I am not is in my right anything else; I am a sniffling, sneezing, coughing, gooey mess of sweat. And yet, you see this, and you think, yes, this is still the woman I would like to take to movies with me.”

Genji’s quiet now, quite still; she enjoys the confused, yet increasingly hopeful look on his features.

“Of course I’ll join you for a dinner, or a movie, or a dinner and a movie, once my condition improves. I would like nothing better, Genji. As friends, or else; we will have to find out about the details later. Who knows? You are charming, and I’ve more than occasionally felt weak in your presence, or inspired, or yet something wholly different. I didn’t think you might feel something like it too - I never let myself linger on it, thinking it inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Genji lets out, and by the sound of it, the word is his first exhale in a very long time.

She nods.“Trappings of my profession, I fear. I quite simply don’t see myself as… dateable. Psychologically speaking, I think that may be something I need to work on in the future.”

A breathless laughter escapes the cyborg, and he shakes his head.“Trust me,” he says, his eyes playful once more as he looks at her, “You are quite dateable indeed.”

[loveump3]

jams meme: best of 2017

@blotthis tagged me in a jams meme!! thank you :D since it’s the new year, i thought i’d do a little retrospective of some of my favorite songs to come out of 2017! so here we goooo

“i wish” by wjsn

this song came out literally 3 days into the new year, but as soon as i heard it i knew it would be one of my top tracks of 2017. and i was right!! i loved “happy” too, and “happy moment” was one of my favorite albums this year, but i’ll always be especially weak for wjsn’s spacey concepts. this song is so pretty and light and pink, and the mv is a lisa frank dream, and the choreography is so whimsical and charming… great on all fronts. all hail the rookie pop princesses.

“wanted! wanted!” by mrs. green apple

mga have become one of my top favorite bands after i discovered them earlier in the year. i love how sweet and fizzy and fun their music is, and i love their lead singer motoki’s voice (i’m not sure what it is about it, but it makes me so happy). i feel like this song is a great example of their particular super-hyper brand of pop. this is a good one to blast in the car :o)

“vanilla” by fickle friends

another band that’s shot to the top of my list of favorites after finding them this year! their sparkly-pool-water 80s vibe is sooo up my alley. i love the percussion and the bright guitars in this song, and i have such a crush on natassja’s voice. (i’d also highly recommend “swim,” which has been one of my top jams this year and is also my favorite fickle friends song, and which i would have included, but it it came out in 2016, lol.)

“the song” by zion.t

i loved this song the moment i heard it. zion.t has one of my favorite voices not just in kpop but in general, and it sounds sooo nice and smooth here. and the simplicity of the song is so good?? it’s nothing frilly or explosive, it’s just a pleasant little tune. i like that the lyrics reflect that too—i love the “i’m not trying to write a hit song, i just want to write you something sweet” attitude. also for whatever reason i think the line “let’s stick together all day like alley cats” is so cute? and the mv is so wonderfully bizarre (the colors are sooo good). the rest of the album is great too; got me through a lot of shifts at work.

“when you love someone” by day6

i really thought “dance dance” was gonna hold tight to the title of Emma’s Favorite Every DAY6 song, but then “when you love someone” came out and immediately took its place. this song like the aural equivalent of a warm hug and a hot drink and it makes my heart feel so at peace every time i hear it :( also the lyrics are a complete K-O. those first few every day6 releases were SO ANGSTY, and even though i loved them i was like “will poor youngk ever write a happy relationship song???” but then he started releasing shit like this and it killed me and i immediately regretted ever asking. (also not to be a bitter betty but i’m still cheesed that we never got resolution on sungjin and wonpil’s story!!!!!!!! @ jyp i still have questions)

“we find love” by daniel caesar

“freudian” has become one of my new favorite albums. it’s so perfect for the winter—daniel caesar’s woozy gospel sound is so warm and cozy. there’s not a song on the album that i don’t love, but this one is particularly soothing and comfy. with the harmonized background vocals and the gentle piano, it sounds like something you’d hear on the radio late at night when you’re tucked into bed trying to fall asleep while the snow is drifting down outside. and daniel’s voice has this… i don’t know how to explain it. he sounds so assured and smooth when he sings, like he’s been doing this forever. i can’t get enough.

“cut to the feeling” by carly rae jepsen

2017 was the year that i remedied my worst mistake of never having listened to the power-pop gem that is carly rae jepsen’s 2015 album “e•mo•tion,” and is it too hyperbolic to say that that changed me as a person?? her brand of fizzy fluttery 80s-inspired sugar is everything i didn’t realize i needed. i’m dying for a new crj album, but in the meantime, “cut to the feeling” has done a good job of holding me over—it’s all the shout-about-your-crush-from-the-rooftops euphoria that miss carly does so well. extremely good for car rides, especially when the bridge kicks in.

“praying” by kesha

kesha has been my other pop queen this year. i liked her before, but then i listened to “rainbow” and cried like three different times while doing so, and i fell in love. every single song off of “rainbow” is great (the range of style is amazing, she goes from acoustic to pop to rock to country and back, and each one is just as great as the last), but “praying” is so raw and special; it doesn’t matter how many times i hear it, it hits me just as hard every time. i love how it builds—from the simmering power of the first chorus, to the stomp of the second (those pounding piano chords really get me), to the fireworks of the last (that fucking whistle note!!!!!!!!! also the way she sings “some say in life you gonna get what you give, but some things only god can forgive” with those horns behind her in the bridge…….i get shivers every time)… every second of it hurts so good. you can feel all that anger and pain, and also the euphoria and the healing. i’m so glad that kesha is finding herself again; she deserves the best.

“mic drop” by bts

i thought “baepsae” was my favorite “kiss my ass” bts banger, but then “her” came out and “mic drop” fuckin beat “baepsae” to a bloody pulp. the original and the desiigner/steve aoki remix are both sooo good: i love the dark grungy slink of the original, which sounds like it could play during the trailer for a movie about a scrappy gang of crime syndicate underlings who are sick and tired of being underestimated just because they’re all so young, so they’re ready to go off the books and pull a heist so big, no one will ever underestimate them again; but i also love the extra shot of adrenaline in the remix—desiigner’s verse is like whiplash (seriously, how does he manage to rap that fast???), and minimizing that bouncy little riff in the verses to focus on the vocals and the beat makes the chorus hits so much harder (also the “hella thick”/“hella sick” echoes are so much FUN to sing along to (and of course yoongi’s “baby watch your mouth” is…great, to say the least)). i really couldn’t pick between the two versions; although they share a teeth-bared-knuckles-bruised attitude, they’ve got unique vibes to me and i love them differently. that said, i’m linking to a performance of the original version because 1) yoongi and hoseok’s undone bow ties are really fucking me up; 2) apparently the reason why yoongi doesn’t do the last line of his verse is to prove to people accusing them of lip-syncing that they don’t use a track when they perform, which cracks me up because that’s such a yoongi thing to do; and 3) whoever wrote the captions added some little personal notes of their own and they’re so CUTE and funny.

“beautiful” by monsta x

idek what to say about this song anymore; it’s been 9 months and those opening bars still make my heart race. “beautiful” has become not only one of my favorite songs of 2017 but one of my favorite songs period. i’m a mess for mx and i love everything they do, but this song is really something else—rap line are in top fucking form, vocal line kill it (minhyuk’s lines are a Blessing), and the choreography is still one of my favorites from this year. i’ve listened to this song so many times i really thought i was gonna get sick of it, but i haven’t yet, and i don’t think i will.

“baby” by astro

i’m surprised my teeth haven’t rotted out of my skull after how many times i’ve listened to “baby” this year, because this song is like pure sugar. i love the snappy percussion and the bouncy bass and the bright melody, and astro have such sweet vocals to boot (especially mj, oh man ;___;). and the choreography is so!! good!!! it’s got this old-fashioned swing to it that i love. ugh. it’s all perfect. i remember a few months ago i was having a bad day for whatever reason, but after i watched a few live stages of this i instantly felt better.

“new fears” by lights

“skin&earth” was hands-down one of my top favorite releases of 2017—it’s the gritty post-apocalyptic cyberpunk album of my dreams. i’ve loved lights since like middle school, and it’s so amazing to see how her music has grown and changed; this is my favorite work from her so far. “skin&earth” has SO many good tracks, but “new fears” is probably my favorite. i love the eerie beginning, and the heavy beat in the chorus, and the lyrics!!!!!! they nail that feeling of “i would give myself up to keep you safe” in such a raw and heart-wrenching and beautiful way. just reading them gives me chills. the idea of getting new fears when you start really caring about someone……i never would’ve thought of it that way but it’s so true. UGH! lights if ur reading this i love u

“do it” by masc

god am i glad i stumbled across this one night when i was catching up on mvs, because masc have become one of my new favorite groups. i love the retro vibe, their vocals are so good (heejae’s voice…i’m weak), the choreography is SO freakin cute (i’m still not over the superman move in the chorus), and the mv is so colorful and goofy (two of my favorite things!)… truly a dream. the fan service dance practice and honestly any of the live stages are also a delight.

so there’s some of my faves! happy new year everyone!!! 2017 you kinda sucked sometimes but thanks for at least bringing some sweet jams. i’ll tag @anyhao @shinwhoohoo and @onlyoongi if you’d like to share some of what you’ve been listening to lately!

[somethingmemeworthy]

Things I love about you:

The way you’re always there for me

How when you find something funny and relatable and your eyes get kinda big and you get this big goofy smile on your face and your voice gets a little deeper and you say “me” let me tell you that makes me so fucking happy

The way you compliment me randomly 

The way talking to you makes my whole world brighter

When you tell me you're proud of me

The way you put up with all of my bullshit all of the time

The way you constantly insist I’m not bugging you

Those nights when we stay up talking until two am

When you read and you get really into whats written and you start to rock back and forth like a mental patient

When you sing to me

Those nights we stay up just text and its not about anything in particular but its amazing 

That we’ve been friends for the past two and a half years and you’re still able to tolerate me

Your low key racism

When you call me babes or love or anything else

When you call me mom

The way you make me feel so loved

When I get really sad about the future and my life and you’re there to calm me down and talk me through it

The way your head pops up and you start singing when I put on la vie Boheme 

When you read to me

When you get super mad when I’m on my phone and you’re trying to show me something

How you’re the best older brother in the world

How hopeful you are (sometimes)

That I can actually be myself around you

How happy you get over the little things

The eyeroll and subsequent hang up when I make a pun

How you actually make me cry so easily because of how much I love you

That you would actually like to plan to meet me despite everything being in the way

When I get a text from you while I’m asleep and I wake up the next morning to see it and you’re the first thing I wake up to

How kind you are

How smart you are

All the times I have almost gone off the deep end that you’ve helped me back from

When I get sad and you’re always the first person I can talk to

how much you love Sophie

When you sing and it gets too high and you just like say “fuck” and stop trying 

When you don’t respond for hours because you were with your puppy and she’s the most important person in your life (which is good)

That you call Kyle your best friend

That you tease me

When you move your hair the wrong way and it looks really stupid and you don’t notice because you’re in the wrong tab

That you call people on their bullshit

That you don’t have a lot of friends because I’m so much friend it’d be bad if you were super popular

When you get really passionate about something (which you do every few months its really cute)

That you’re really good at making cards

Your bracelets (especially the one I gave you)

When I genuinely get to make you laugh and you look really happy at least for a second

Your super dramatic reenactment of rent (“what are you staring at?” Are still the favorite words you’ve ever said to me)

Your jokes

When you laugh over really stupid shit and I’m pretty sure you’re actually mental or some shit 

Just because

How proud you are of your leg hair

This may be kinda sad but that one night we were face timing and we were talking about ******* and you said that you thought you were in love and in retrospect it was really wrong and sad and shit but in that moment you looked so happy and your voice was faded just like it does and you looked really nice and it was just a really nice moment the way I remember it 

Im gonna get arguments on this one but how attractive you are

How you always say you’re going on a diet and then. Week later never do

When you let me know when you’ll be busy because you don’t want me to freak out

When you let me buy you things and spoil you because I genuinely do love you and want you to have things and be happy

That despite feeling like this you’re trying to hang on and you’re planning a future and you’re honestly trying as hard as you can

When I try to text ****** again and you get mad at me and tell me how bad she is for me and I know I protest but It makes me know you really want whats best for me

That day you refused to talk to me till I had eaten because you knew I needed to same reason as above

The asian jokes we make about you

I almost forgot how proud of me you are when I do something like when I graduated or when I got accepted and you were so proud 

That you’re honest with me about when something is wrong rather than hiding it to spare my feelings

How into video games you are

Your persistence (when you want something to get done, you’ll do it)

The dorky little peace signs you do in selfies

All the confidence you have that I don’t (this is not physical but like online and cussing and shit which I don’t really do)

Every “when we meet” scenario

Your underwear collection

When you say you love me

When we’re talking and you just go silent and I’m like talking and I realize you’re replying to someone and I just trail off and say random things to keep the mood until you pay attention again

; )

That you know me so well to call my grandparents Mahmah and papa 

How you get pissed when I tell you I had gluten or some shit

You’re basically the light of my life and I never expected it 

Even when Im terribly depressed, talking with you cheers me up enough to the point of basic human functioning

Your truly fucked sleep schedule that makes it hard for me to gauge when you’lll be up in the morning

How easy you are to read

That you let me talk shit about everyone to you

Your bracelets and how they’re os significant to you

When you’re feeling down and we go into deep philosophical talks bout life and the universe

Just being with you on the phone- neither of us have to be talking, its just nice.

Your love of miranda Cosgrove

That you know more about me than any of my friends/ siblings/parents

That you would be the one person I might ever let touch my phone

Sharing secrets

You always try to HELP me whenever possible. When I failed a test, instead of saying “oh that sucks” you ask what I can do differently next time

Throughout the past 2.5 years you’ve been my strongest advocate

I really see you as the most prominent male figure in my life

Your handwriting is shit but in a cool way

I would pick you over a dog any day

How you’ve influenced my life (in particular my political and social views- definitely for the better)

Having someone to come to about the maddy situation

Being able to say definitively I have a best friend

You make jokes at the most innapropriate times

However many days you have left on earth, knowing you’ll be able to spend them with me is enough

How pretty your eyes are when you get excited about something and they sparkle and scrunch up

How much you love New York and how fondly you speak of it (it really warms my heart)

Being able to cope with my self hatred and my own problems while also managing yours fairly well

Basically stepping in as my dad while also letting me be there for you in a parent way

Dreaming big

when you call me babes or love

Complimenting my art when we both know its shit

When you randomly text me throughout the day which you don’t normally do

Your love of haddock

The spur of the moment facetimes when one of us is feeling sad 

You’re the least judgmental person I’ve ever met (of me at least) and one of the kindest 

the pictures of us I have on my laptop

You’re one of the most self sacrificing people I’ve ever met

The little things that you remember about me that you bring up that make me realize how much you really listen

How funny you are

When we talk and we go off on those little tangents and start calling each other sweetie and it basically one of those skits

“stoop”

That night I was in the hotel and I snuck out of the room so I could talk to you and boy oh boy was that a nice night bc we planned a trip, talked all night, and even though there were plenty of tears on my end, it's still one of my fondest memories of you

Same night, when the mean receptionist lady yelled at me and you had left and I was panicked crying in the room and upset and you called back and you were just so gentle and caring and talking to you automatically cheers me up

Low-key trying to set our siblings up

When you're singing to me and you literally pause to burp

That one time you joked that we should get married and I said “will you marry me?” and you got super freaked out and were trying to let me down easy that was really funny but also just really a nice moment because you're so sweet

this is some super straight shit and probs no one is gonna read it but bottom line is people see you from a completely different perspective. When you see yourself what you may see is all negative, but someone else sees you in a completely different light. All those weird quirks you don't notice or don't think anything of make someone else’s day brighter. You are all loved by someone. 

[auroraaboraaborealis]

The New York Times

The Queen of Change

With “The Artist’s Way,” Julia Cameron invented the way people renovate the creative soul.

By Penelope Green

Feb. 2, 2019

SANTA FE, N.M. — On any given day, someone somewhere is likely leading an Artist’s Way group, gamely knocking back the exercises of “The Artist’s Way” book, the quasi-spiritual manual for “creative recovery,” as its author Julia Cameron puts it, that has been a lodestar to blocked writers and other artistic hopefuls for more than a quarter of a century. There have been Artist’s Way clusters in the Australian outback and the Panamanian jungle; in Brazil, Russia, the United Kingdom and Japan; and also, as a cursory scan of Artist’s Way Meetups reveals, in Des Moines and Toronto. It has been taught in prisons and sober communities, at spiritual retreats and New Age centers, from Esalen to Sedona, from the Omega Institute to the Open Center, where Ms. Cameron will appear in late March, as she does most years. Adherents of “The Artist’s Way” include the authors Patricia Cornwell and Sarah Ban Breathnach. Pete Townshend, Alicia Keys and Helmut Newton have all noted its influence on their work.

So has Tim Ferriss, the hyperactive productivity guru behind “The Four Hour Workweek,” though to save time he didn’t actually read the book, “which was recommended to me by many megaselling authors,” he writes. He just did the “Morning Pages,” one of the book’s central exercises. It requires you write three pages, by hand, first thing in the morning, about whatever comes to mind. (Fortunes would seem to have been made on the journals printed to support this effort.) The book’s other main dictum is the “Artist’s Date” — two hours of alone time each week to be spent at a gallery, say, or any place where a new experience might be possible.

Elizabeth Gilbert, who has “done” the book three times, said there would be no “Eat, Pray, Love,” without “The Artist’s Way.” Without it, there might be no adult coloring books, no journaling fever. “Creativity” would not have its own publishing niche or have become a ubiquitous buzzword — the “fat-free” of the self-help world — and business pundits would not deploy it as a specious organizing principle.

The book’s enduring success — over 4 million copies have been sold since its publication in 1992 — have made its author, a shy Midwesterner who had a bit of early fame in the 1970s for practicing lively New Journalism at the Washington Post and Rolling Stone, among other publications, and for being married, briefly, to Martin Scorsese, with whom she has a daughter, Domenica — an unlikely celebrity. With its gentle affirmations, inspirational quotes, fill-in-the-blank lists and tasks — write yourself a thank-you letter, describe yourself at 80, for example — “The Artist’s Way” proposes an egalitarian view of creativity: Everyone’s got it.

The book promises to free up that inner artist in 12 weeks. It’s a template that would seem to reflect the practices of 12-step programs, particularly its invocations to a higher power. But according to Ms. Cameron, who has been sober since she was 29, “12 weeks is how long it takes for people to cook.”

Now 70, she lives in a spare adobe house in Santa Fe, overlooking an acre of scrub and the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. She moved a few years ago from Manhattan, following an exercise from her book to list 25 things you love. As she recalled, “I wrote juniper, sage brush, chili, mountains and sky and I said, ‘This is not the Chrysler Building.’” On a recent snowy afternoon, Ms. Cameron, who has enormous blue eyes and a nimbus of blonde hair, admitted to the jitters before this interview. “I asked three friends to pray for me,” she said. “I also wrote a note to myself to be funny.”

In the early 1970s, Ms. Cameron, who is the second oldest of seven children and grew up just north of Chicago, was making $67 a week working in the mail room of the Washington Post. At the same time, she was writing deft lifestyle pieces for the paper — like an East Coast Eve Babitz. “With a byline, no one knows you’re just a gofer,” she said.

In her reporting, Ms. Cameron observed an epidemic of green nail polish and other “Cabaret”-inspired behaviors in Beltway bars, and slyly reviewed a new party drug, methaqualone. She was also, by her own admission, a blackout drunk. “I thought drinking was something you did and your friends told you about it later,” she said. “In retrospect, in cozy retrospect, I was in trouble from my first drink.”

She met Mr. Scorsese on assignment for Oui magazine and fell hard for him. She did a bit of script-doctoring on “Taxi Driver,” and followed the director to Los Angeles. “I got pregnant on our wedding night,” she said. “Like a good Catholic girl.” When Mr. Scorsese took up with Liza Minnelli while all three were working on “New York, New York,” the marriage was done. (She recently made a painting depicting herself as a white horse and Mr. Scorsese as a lily. “I wanted to make a picture about me and Marty,” she said. “He was magical-seeming to me and when I look at it I think, ‘Oh, she’s fascinated, but she doesn’t understand.’”)

In her memoir, “Floor Sample,” published in 2006, Ms. Cameron recounts the brutality of Hollywood, of her life there as a screenwriter and a drunk. Pauline Kael, she writes, described her as a “pornographic Victorian valentine, like a young Angela Lansbury.” Don’t marry her for tax reasons, Ms. Kael warns Mr. Scorsese. Andy Warhol, who escorts her to the premiere of “New York, New York,” inscribes her into his diary as a “lush.” A cocaine dealer soothes her — “You have a tiny little wife’s habit” — and a doctor shoos her away from his hospital when she asks for help, telling her she’s no alcoholic, just a “sensitive young woman.” She goes into labor in full makeup and a Chinese dressing gown, vowing to be “no trouble.”

“I think it’s fair to say that drinking and drugs stopped looking like a path to success,” she said. “So I luckily stopped. I had a couple of sober friends and they said, ‘Try and let the higher power write through you.’ And I said, What if he doesn’t want to?’ They said, ‘Just try it.’”

So she did. She wrote novels and screenplays. She wrote poems and musicals. She wasn’t always well-reviewed, but she took the knocks with typical grit, and she schooled others to do so as well. “I have unblocked poets, lawyers and painters,” she said. She taught her tools in living rooms and classrooms — “if someone was dumb enough to lend us one,” she said — and back in New York, at the Feminist Art Institute. Over the years, she refined her tools, typed them up, and sold Xeroxed copies in local bookstores for $20. It was her second husband, Mark Bryan, a writer, who needled her into making the pages into a proper book.

The first printing was about 9,000 copies, said Joel Fotinos, formerly the publisher at Tarcher/Penguin, which published the book in 1992. There was concern that it wouldn’t sell. “Part of the reason,” Mr. Fotinos said, “was that this was a book that wasn’t like anything else. We didn’t know where to put it on the shelves — did it go in religion or self-help? Eventually there was a category called ‘creativity,’ and ‘The Artist’s Way’ launched it.” Now an editorial director at St. Martin’s Press, Mr. Fotinos said he is deluged with pitches from authors claiming they’ve written “the new Artist’s Way.”

“But for Julia, creativity was a tool for survival,” he said. “It was literally her medicine and that’s why the book is so authentic, and resonates with so many people.”

“I am my tool kits,” Ms. Cameron said.

And, indeed, “The Artist’s Way” is stuffed with tools: worksheets to be filled with thoughts about money, childhood games, old hurts; wish lists and exercises, many of which seem exhaustive and exhausting — “Write down any resistance, angers and fears,” e.g. — and others that are more practical: “Take a 20 minutes walk,” “Mend any mending” and “repot any pinched and languishing plants.” It anticipates the work of the indefatigable Gretchen Rubin, the happiness maven, if Ms. Rubin were a bit kinder but less Type-A.

“When I teach, it’s like watching the lights come on,” said Ms. Cameron. “My students don’t get lectured to. I think they feel safe. Rather than try and fix themselves, they learn to accept themselves. I think my work makes people autonomous. I feel like people fall in love with themselves.”

Anne Lamott, the inspirational writer and novelist, said that when she was teaching writing full-time, her own students swore by “The Artist’s Way.” “That exercise — three pages of automatic writing — was a sacrament for people,” Ms. Lamott wrote in a recent email. “They could plug into something bigger than the rat exercise wheel of self-loathing and grandiosity that every writer experiences: ‘This could very easily end up being an Oprah Book,’ or ‘Who do I think I’m fooling? I’m a subhuman blowhard.’”

“She’s given you an assignment that is doable, and I think it’s kind of a cognitive centering device. Like scribbly meditation,” Ms. Lamott wrote. “It’s sort of like how manicurists put smooth pebbles in the warm soaking water, so your fingers have something to do, and you don’t climb the walls.”

In the wild.CreditRamsay de Give for The New York Times

Ms. Cameron continues to write her Morning Pages every day, even though she continues, as she said, to be grouchy upon awakening. She eats oatmeal at a local cafe and walks Lily, an eager white Westie. She reads no newspapers, or social media (perhaps the most grueling tenet of “The Artist’s Way” is a week of “reading deprivation”), though an assistant runs a Twitter and Instagram account on her behalf. She writes for hours, mostly musicals, collaborating with her daughter, a film director, and others.

Ms. Cameron may be a veteran of the modern self-care movement but her life has not been all moonbeams and rainbows, and it shows. She was candid in conversation, if not quite at ease. “So I haven’t proven myself to be hilarious,” she said with a flash of dry humor, adding that even after so many years, she still gets stage-fright before beginning a workshop.

She has written about her own internal critic, imagining a gay British interior designer she calls Nigel. “And nothing is ever good enough for Nigel,” she said. But she soldiers on.

She will tell you that she has good boundaries. But like many successful women, she brushes off her achievements, attributing her unlooked-for wins to luck.

“If you have to learn how to do a movie, you might learn from Martin Scorsese. If you have to learn about entrepreneurship, you might learn from Mark” — her second husband. “So I’m very lucky,” she said. “If I have a hard time blowing my own horn, I’ve been attracted to people who blew it for me.”

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/02/style/julia-cameron-the-artists-way.html