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chipper9906 · 4 years ago

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Bound To You - Chapter 5: Different Ways To Fall

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WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 15

NOTE: Pairings and Ratings Will Change As Story Is Updated

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 8,698

Overall Word Count: 34,834

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (5/?)

Chapter Preview:

Getting back into the wheelchair from the Impala was about as fun as getting out of the wheelchair – but at least this time he didn’t end up face-first on the floor, so... Dean considered that an improvement.

Sam walked ahead of him, leading them out of the garage and to the main entrance, pushing the heavy door open and holding it there for Dean to roll through. The door closed behind them with its familiar clang of locks settling back into place, and Sam stepped up to Dean’s side before freezing in place, the two of them staring at the impossibly long looking metal stairs of the bunker.

“...Dammit.”

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Character Key For Telepathic Conversations

'Italic Text' - Castiel

'Bold Text' - Dean

* * *

Dean Winchester glared at the wheelchair they wheeled in for him like it was his worst enemy.

‘Unless you plan to drag yourself everywhere you go Dean, you’re going to have to accept the wheelchair.’

Dean huffed at the sensible words Cas was speaking into his mind, crossing his arms in the hospital bed like a child throwing a tantrum.

‘Doesn’t mean I have to like it.’

‘And I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m only asking that you accept the fact that it’s a necessity for any sense of freedom in your life.’

‘Freedom? Trapped to a chair? How’s that freedom?’

‘Better than being bedbound, is it not?’

Castiel was one hundred percent right, but it’s not like Dean was going to admit that.

Doctor Sullivan stepped into the room, scribbling away at some forms atop a wooden clipboard in his hands. “Alright, Mr. Winchester… You are officially free from our confines.” He finished signing something on the paper, looking up to Dean with an encouraging smile. “I see you still haven’t given the wheelchair a try?”

“I’m a bit worried it’s gonna ruin my look, Doc. Not really my style.”

“I think the wheelchair is a better look than me and Doctor Sullivan carrying you out here by your feet,” Sam pushed himself out of the chair he was sat in, stepping over to where they placed the wheelchair and wheeling it closer to Dean’s bedside. “C’mon, Dean. Just give it a try.”

‘You said it yourself that you wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know I did… Stop using my own words against me.’

‘If you’d really rather not do it, I could take over and get you into the chair. Doctor Sullivan would have to leave the room of course, or at least be distracted while I take over so he doesn’t see the flare of my grace in your eyes.’

‘Nah, it’s… As much as I don’t wanna do it, this is something I gotta do, you know?’

‘Of course, Dean. I understand.’

“So… how do I do this?” Dean directed his question towards Doctor Sullivan, glancing over the bed to the chair beside him. “Would be embarrassing if I fall on my ass trying to get out of bed…”

“You’re going to be relying on your arm strength, mostly,” Doctor Sullivan bent over the wheelchair, applying the brakes on the underside of the chair.

“Got plenty of that,” Dean’s comment elicited quite the snort from Sam, who respectfully hid his laughter behind his sleeve.

“I’ve applied the brakes for you, here-,” Doctor Sullivan pointed to the brakes he had just fiddled with. “You’ll have to disengage them before you move, otherwise – well – you won’t move.”

“Got it.”

“Now, with time, your arm strength is going to improve. Don’t feel disappointed if you can’t do much at once – it’s quite the shock to your arms when they’re used to shift your entire body weight constantly.” Doctor Sullivan said as he stepped to the end of the bed, placing his hands under Dean’s calves. “I’m going to help you turn yourself, okay? I need you to turn yourself, so you’re sat on the edge of the bed with your legs just hanging off the end.”

“Okay…” Dean got his arms behind him, pulling himself up. It was significantly easier with Doctor Sullivan holding his legs up, gently guiding him as he pulled himself inch by inch closer to the edge of the bed. He could already feel his biceps twinging in protest with every movement, chest heaving with the exertion of pulling his entire weight.

“That’s the first step done,” Doctor Sullivan declared once he was at the edge of the bed, gently lowering Dean’s legs down so they were just hanging over the edge. “Now, this is going to be easier to do since the bed is about the same height as your wheelchair. Hopefully, it’ll be the same at your home – otherwise you may need to rely on your brother or another carer to get you in and out of bed.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” Dean already hated the prospect of being such a burden on his brother, especially for something as simple as getting into bed. “I guess I just pull myself into the chair…”

“Essentially, yes.” Doctor Sullivan agreed. “You just need to brace yourself with one arm on the handle, then pull your body over and lower yourself onto the wheelchair. Again, I must repeat how important it is to keep the brakes applied at this stage, otherwise you risk seriously injuring yourself.”

Dean followed the doctor’s instructions, reaching out with his right hand to grab hold of the armrest of the wheelchair. He used his other hand to push himself over to the chair, damn near sitting on the hand he was using the brace himself. It was more of a staggering fall into the seat than it was a graceful descent, but Dean could at least take some pride in the fact that he landed in the somewhat comfortable chair and not on the hard plastic floor of the hospital room.

“And that’s all there is to it!” Doctor Sullivan exclaimed joyfully. “Same kind of method for getting into the bed, and for chairs, things like that.”

Doctor Sullivan reached into his lab-coat pocket, pulling out a few colorful pamphlets and handing them over to Sam. “Any questions you might have, these should help to answer some of them. Plenty of advice in them too, such as exercises Dean can partake in to help strengthen his arm strength and core; things that’ll help make the transition easier.”

“Ah yes, pamphlets. The answers to all my problems,” Dean stuffed as much sarcasm into the words as he could, smiling mockingly up at the two of them.

‘Dean… he’s just trying to help.’

‘You know, you’re slowly turning into my conscience, Cas. Somehow, hearing it through your voice makes me feel more guilty than if it was my own damn voice.’

‘Good to know I’m of some use up here, then.’

“I have plenty of faith in you, Mr. Winchester. You’re going to adapt just fine to this new difficulty, I’m sure of it.”

“Hell yeah I will, Doc. I’ve just gotta mope about it enough to get special treatment from my brother.”

“Like you wouldn’t give me hell for treating you different,” Sam pointed out, folding up the pamphlets and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. “C’mon, we better get you home before Miracle starts missing you too much.”

‘Miracle?’

‘Yeah? Miracle, she’s- oh! You didn’t get to meet her… Oh boy, do you have a surprise waiting for you back home, Cas.”

Sam walked behind Dean’s wheelchair, leaning down to switch off the brakes before grabbing hold of the handles at the back of the chair.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean’s words brought Sam to a stop.

“Uh… taking you home?” Sam clarified.

“Sam… what are these?” Dean asked, holding his arms out by his side.

“…your arms?”

“Bingo. And you see what I just did with them?”

“You… moved them?”

“Exactly. I can still use my damn arms, Sammy. So get your paws off my chair, and let me wheel myself outta here.”

Sam sighed at his brother's annoying sense of pride, taking his hands off the handles and holding them out in front of him in surrender. Dean nodded his head at him, turning his head back around to face forward before placing his hands on the wheels, pushing them forward and sending the wheelchair traveling towards the open door. Sam and Doctor Sullivan stood there and watched as Dean immediately collided with the frame of the door, listening to him curse quietly to himself as he reversed back from the door, then succeeded to go through and out into the hallway the second time around.

“I should probably run after him before he mows down a nurse or something…” Sam sighed, plucking up Dean’s hospital bag from the ground and heading towards the door.

“Wait, Mr. Winchester-,” Doctor Sullivan caught Sam by his elbow, stopping Sam in his tracks. “I didn’t want to bring it up while Dean was still in the room, but… I wanted to give you this.” He passed over a small white card over to Sam, the words ‘Dr. Ward’ printed out in sleek black ink, along with a phone number.

“What is this?” Sam asked, glancing from the card in his hands to Doctor Sullivan.

“It’s the number for a specialist I know. He deals in newly paralyzed patients, more particularly… their mental health. I’m not saying you have to give him a call, but I wanted to give it to you so the option is there. Your brother is good at putting on a brave face, but it’s one I’ve seen many times before. Those that make it seem like everything’s alright are usually the ones that are suffering the most. I’m hoping you’ll never need to call that number, but… challenging times lie ahead for both you and your brother, and there’s nothing wrong with finding help.”

“Thanks, Doctor… I’ll, uh… I’ll see how Dean goes for a while, but… yeah, I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Dean had already made it to the parking lot before Sam had even left the hospital room. That’s where Sam found him, frozen in place in his wheelchair in front of the Impala. Sam didn’t even need to look at his face to know he was staring at her longingly. This… was one of the moments Sam was dreading. The moment that Dean realized…

“I can’t even drive her anymore, Sammy… I’m never going to be sat behind her steering wheel again.”

“You never know,” Sam tried to stay optimistic for the sake of his brother. “There’s always a chance, right? Maybe we can find something to help fix your legs in our research, too.”

“I doubt that, Sam. Besides, that’s not where we should be focusing our efforts. Don’t go distracting yourself with stuff like that; We’ve gotta find a way to get Cas back – that’s the priority.”

‘Dean-,’

‘Nuh-uh, don’t you start with me either, Cas. You’re top priority, and that’s that. My legs can wait.’

“Dean, you know that’s what we’re going to be focusing on. I’m just saying that after we get Cas back and we have another pair of eyes with us… it’s something we can look into.”

“I know you’re trying to keep my hopes up, Sammy. But I don’t want that. Sure, if we find something, then… that’ll be fucking great. But chances are that’s not gonna happen, and I’d rather not have my hopes raised and crushed and like that. So… the sooner I accept that this is my life now, the better.”

Sam looked ready to argue with Dean some more about that, which Dean was absolutely not having. He wheeled away from the conversation, rolling himself over to the Impala’s passenger seat. “Now c’mon, unlock this damn door before I find my own way home.”

Sam shot his brother an incredulous look, but pulled Baby’s keys out of his pocket anyway. “Yeah, how you gonna do that? You going to wheel yourself all the way home?”

“Don’t test me, Sammy. You might just see me rolling down the I-70.”

‘I think he’d be more likely to see you as a red stain on the I-70’

‘Wow, Cas. That’s a dark thought.’

‘I’m just going with the most likely scenario to come from that.’

Sam had jogged over to the passenger side by the time Dean pulled himself out of his own thoughts, grabbing hold of Baby’s handle and pulling the door open for him. Dean waved his brother out of the way when he went to help, rolling himself closer to the Impala until he was lined up parallel with the seat.

“Dean, the brakes-,”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Dean grumbled in interruption. He attempted to lean down, reaching for the brake, but found his body simply wouldn’t allow him to go that far. Sam watched his brother struggle in silence before it became too much, stepping closer to Dean with an arm outstretched. Sam flicked the brakes into place before Dean could utter a single complaint, moving away quickly to avoid a likely swat from Dean.

“I could have done that…” Dean mumbled darkly.

‘No, you couldn’t, Dean. There’s only so far your back will allow you to bend. I can feel the pain you feel too, I know where your limits are. I’m sorry, but you couldn’t have done that by yourself.’

‘Way to bust my balls there, Cas… God, I really am turning into Bobby, aren’t I? Pretty sure Bobby didn’t bitch as much as I did, though.’

‘You’re not Bobby. You are your own man, and the way in which you react to such a traumatic change in your life does not make you any less of one.’

‘Yeah? Then why do I feel like a useless sack of crap…’

‘Because you are the one used to helping others, not being helped. It’s who you are. Always the one to put others before him.’

Dean stretched over to the Impala as far as his weakened back would let him, placing his palm down on her leather seats. With his other hand on his chair, he began pulling himself over, gritting his teeth in pain at the twinge in his back, his arms trembling with the effort. The gap between the chair and the Impala was too large, and Sam could see it happen before it even happened. Dean’s arm gave away the same time the chair tipped over, sending Dean sprawling into the asphalt with a pained grunt, getting the air knocked out of him upon impact.

Sam rushed forward to his brothers’ side in an instant, the fear of Dean’s wound reopening itself or potentially injuring his spine more than he already had springing into his mind.

“Fuck!” Dean cursed sharply, the single word echoing between the cars parked around them. He brought his fist down into the ground in his frustration, feeling the familiar sting of his knuckles splitting as they hit the hard ground of the parking lot. Sam knelt down by his side, one hand on the tipped over wheelchair and the other wrapped securely under Dean’s arm, ready to help him to his feet.

“Dean, please, just let me-,”

“Don’t!” Dean snapped at him, directing his frustration with himself at his brother. “I can do this! I’m not going to be some fucking weight dragging everyone down.”

“You’re not,” Sam insisted strongly, squeezing Dean’s arm tight. “Dean, you’re not. And I know you can do this, but that doesn’t mean you can’t accept my help.”

‘Dean… please.’ It was Cas’s pleading tone in his head, the pain he heard in that usually strong and resolved voice, a pain he knew Cas was feeling because of his pain… that’s what made the anger running through his veins start to simmer.

‘I know you want to prove you’re more than your injury. That you want to show everyone you’re stronger than it. But it’s not something you need to prove. We know you’re more than that. We know you’re stronger. Just the fact that you’re trying, and that you care more about solving my problems than even thinking about finding a way to heal yourself… There’s no one I admire more – and am proud to admire more – than you, Dean Winchester.’

Dean slowly uncurled his fingers out from his clenched fist, closing his eyes and letting out a deep sigh. Sam had remained silent- perhaps sensing that Cas was talking to him – his grip around Dean’s arm loose but still there, still ready.

‘I’m broken, Cas.’

‘No, you’re not. Because you’re most than just your legs. You’re more than your ability to hunt. What makes you – “you” – is all up here with me. And accepting your brother's help, or anyone’s help for that matter, will not change that. You are not weak for accepting help. You are not “less of a man” for admitting you need help. Your brother is not offering help because he thinks you’re weak, but because it pains him to see you hurt yourself like this. He just wants to help, as I would in his position. It kills me to know I can’t help... But one day, you’ll be a master at this. It will become a part of your life as everything else is. But today? Today, you’re still injured, you’re still recovering. You’re new to this. So please… let Sam help you.’

“Alright…” Dean caved, lifting up his arm to rest on the Impala’s seat above him. “Alright, Sammy… help me up.”

Sam took his hand off the wheelchair, shuffling behind Dean and pulling him up to a sitting position. He slid his arms underneath Dean’s armpits, straining with Dean’s weight as he pushed them both up, slowly pulling Dean up the side of the Impala until Dean all but collapsed into the seat. Dean dropped his head back against the seats with a heavy sigh, already feeling his arms start to ache from overuse.

Dean let his eyes close shut, waiting for Sam to finish up folding his chair and shoving it into the backseats (Baby’s trunk was far too cluttered to fit that in) before climbing into the driver’s seat. Sam shoved the keys into the ignition, twisting them until the sound of Baby’s purring filled the air, immediately putting Dean at ease.

“You okay?” Sam asked, glancing over at his brother.

“Yeah… I’m good,” Dean answered, his eyes still closed. “Thanks, by the way… For helping me.”

“Yeah, of course… You know it doesn’t bother me, right? Anytime you need-,”

“I got it, Sammy,” Dean cut him off. “I appreciate it, I really do. I just… I wanna go home.”

Sam’s lips pulled into a sympathetic smile at the exhaustion he could hear in Dean’s voice, nodding at him even though Dean couldn’t see him with his eyes closed. He turned forward in his seat, switching the gear into ‘drive’ and releasing the handbrake, smoothly pulling Baby out of the hospital's parking lot and onto the road.

‘Hey, Cas?’

‘Yes, Dean?’

‘You are helping. I know you think you’re not, but… you are. More than I think you realize.’

* * *

“Dammit...”

Dean couldn’t help it. Something about the genuine annoyance in his brother’s voice at the sight of the stairs got to him, cracking up into deep pearls of laughter that echoed around the bunker, hunched over as far as his back would let him.

“Sorry, Dean... I didn’t think about it,” Sam apologized, scratching at the back of his head as he tried to figure out what to do next.

“Yeah, I didn’t know what to do about that one.” Eileen’s voice filtered up from down below. Sam and Dean peered over the edge of the railing to see Eileen stood by the map table, craning her head up to see them. “I went out and bought some small ramps and set them up around the bunker on the smaller stairs, but... this one’s a bit too long to do that.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” Sam asserted, looking from Dean to the stairs in front of them. “Maybe something like one of those-,”

“I swear to God Sammy, if you install a goddamn chair lift that eighty-year olds use, I will push you down these stairs.”

‘Considering you��re going to need your brother's help to get down the stairs, I wouldn’t suggest that.’

“Well… that might be the only option that works, Dean. Unless you have any better suggestions?”

“Whatever…” Dean grumbled under his breath, cautiously wheeling closer to the edge of the stairs. “So how we doing this? Gonna wrap me up in bubble-wrap and roll me down the stairs? Or just roll me down the stairs and hope for the best?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sam warned light-heartedly, glancing back to the stairs to see Eileen making her way up to them. “Our best bet is just carrying you down in the chair. Can you grab him by the handles of the chair, Eileen? Then I’ll grab him by the front and help steer you down.”

“That still sounds like rolling me down the stairs and hoping for the best.”

“Shut up and focus where you’re going,” Sam grunted, stepping around to the front of the chair. He took a single step back onto the first stair, leaning forward and grabbing hold of the handles near the bottom of Dean’s chair.

Eileen disappeared out of Dean’s sight, taking hold of the handles at the back of his chair. “I’m good. You ready?”

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes focused on where the chair was going. “Yep, Just take it slow, alright?”

And take it slow they did. Minutes ticked by as they crawled agonizing slowly down the stairs, inching the wheels down one by one. Even though Dean knew all Sam and Eileen were worried about was him falling out of the chair and hurting himself again, all he could worry about was losing control of the chair and taking the two of them down with him.

It was both relieving and frustrating when they finally made it down to the bottom of the stairs, the concrete floor under his feet never seeming quite as safe as in that moment. Sam and Eileen looked rather proud of themselves for getting him down there, and Dean knew he should be feeling that way, too. Except… he hated everything about all that just happened. The fact that he wouldn’t have been able to go down some goddamn stairs if it weren’t for two other people helping him. The fact that going down a flight of stairs -something that usually takes him five seconds at most - took around five minutes.

“Who woulda thought, eh Sammy?” Dean glanced up at his brother. “From demons, to angels, to scribes of Gods, and then to God himself… my next enemy is going to be stairs.”

“And you’ll kick their ass, too,” Eileen assured him with a pat of his shoulders.

“I think it’s more likely the stairs will kick my ass. Literally. When I fall down them.”

“You gonna keep making more jokes about you falling down the stairs, or you gonna go get that drink you wouldn’t shut up about the whole drive home?” Sam teased as he made his way down to the hallways leading to the rooms, brushing a hand across Eileen’s back in thanks as he went.

“You know the answers both, Sammy!” Dean called after him as Sam went, giving a dismissive wave of his hand before disappearing out of sight.

“Thanks, by the way,” Dean craned his head around to face Eileen. “For being here, helping out… I know things must be weird for you at the moment, what with the whole resurrection thing… again…”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Eileen leaned back against the map table, bracing her arms behind her as she spoke. “You, Sam, and Cas… you’re my family.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re just here for Sam,” Dean grinned at the flush that spread across Eileen’s face. “Seriously, though, you being here? It’s what Sam needs right now. He, uh… he was crushed when you left. He understood of course, but… kid was pining hard for you. Wasn’t the same, you know?”

“Do you ever stop worrying about Sam’s wellbeing?” Eileen asked with an inquisitive smile. “Most people who get injured like to soak up every ounce of sympathy from others… yet all you can think about is others.”

“You said it yourself; you guys are my family. I don’t consider my injury a ‘problem’. Not one high up the list, anyway.”

“Hmm… first on the list goes to Castiel, I’m guessing?”

“We like to take turns. I’ll have a problem, then Sam’ll have a problem… Then Cas… It’s just Cas’s turn to step up to the plate.”

‘Is that some kind of sports reference?’

‘Yep. Baseball.’

‘Oh, right – I think we watched a game at one point, didn’t we?’

‘Yeah, just the one. Jack wanted to know what it was all about - think he got kinda bored with it. Didn’t wanna say though coz he knew we were still watching it… Think the poor kid just wanted to boot up Netflix and keep on binging.’

“Maybe one day you’ll solve the last problem,” Eileen suggested. “Well, the last ‘loved one at risk of death or worse’ kind of problem.”

“With us? You do know who we are, right?”

“Good point,” Eileen's eyes shifted over to the entrance of the hallway, something Dean easily spotted.

“Hey, you know you don’t have to keep talking to me out of pity, right?” Dean brought her attention back. “I’m not stupid, I know you want to go chasing after my little brother. Don’t let me keep you. Besides, Sam was right – I really do want to go get that drink… been on nothing but water and IV fluids for the past few days…”

Eileen huffed out a laugh, shaking her head as she brought her arms in front of her and crossed them. “I can’t imagine that’s what the doctor ordered.”

“Hey, I know my body. A nice glass of ten-year-old malt is exactly what I ordered.” Dean retaliated with a beaming smile, turning his wheelchair around and heading towards the hallway.

“Hey, Dean!”

Eileen’s call brought Dean to a stop, turning the chair back around to face Eileen. “Yeah?”

Eileen looked to him for a moment, the pause in their conversation lingering before she spoke. “Are you okay?”

This was a question Dean’s been asked many times before; Usually when he’s had his ass handed to him by whatever freak they’re hunting that week. Or when he’s fighting something within himself. Or when someone he loves dies – which is too often in their line of work. And nearly every time that question is asked, he’ll plant the best smile on his face that he can muster and say the same line every time – ‘I’m fine.’

This time? This time, with Eileen looking at him like she can already smell the bullshit lie he’s about to say, and with Cas staying suspiciously quiet in his head – listening in more like – he decides…

He’s done with lying.

“No, I’m not,” His answer seems to take Eileen by surprise, her eyebrows shooting up as she does one big blink in shock. “And I’m not gonna say ‘but I will be’ or something cheesy along those lines, coz’ honestly? I got no friggen’ idea if I’ll ever be ‘fine’ with all this. I’m just… dealing with it hour by hour, day by day. Besides, I got more important things to worry about right now.”

The corner of Eileen’s lips lifted in a sympathetic smile, lifting up her hand at chest height, palm down and parallel with her body. “Let me guess; this is where your problem is, and this-,” Her hand lifted up to above her head. “-Is where Cas is?”

Dean clicked his mouth, shooting a finger gun at Eileen. “Top of the list.”

“You know, one day you and Cas are going to have to tell me the whole story. How Castiel went from an angel of the lord, to an acquaintance, then to your best friend.”

“Kind of a long story. Twelve years in the making, you know.”

“Sounds like an interesting one though. From the family of God to the Winchester family…”

“Heh… Nah, he’s more than that. Cas is…” Dean paused, searching for the right words. What was Cas to him? “He’s… huh… he’s a bit of everything. There’s been times where he’s been my enemy, times where he’s gone behind my back… then there’s times where he’s thrown away everything he knows, everything he believes in, to help us. Help me. Everything he’s done, everything he ever does… it was always because he was trying to do the right thing.”

“Sounds like two other guys I know.”

Dean chuckled, dropping his head down. “Yeah… maybe we rubbed off on the guy. I’m pretty sure corrupting an angel is some kind of sin…”

“Considering how Cas is one of the only good angels out there, I think ‘corrupting’ him was probably for the best,” Eileen said.

“Apparently our Cas is the only one we could ‘corrupt’. Said so by God himself. All the other Cas’s stayed in line, but not this one.”

“Do I detect some pride in your voice?”

“Hell yeah you do. You know, Cas is… before I met him, I didn’t think there would be anyone I would care about as much as Sammy. No one else I thought I’d be willing to die for. Then Cas waltzed right in that barn and changed everything.”

Eileen smiled warmly at him. “Yeah… that sounds like ‘more than family’ to me.”

“Exactly. And that’s why he’s top of the list.”

“And probably why you guys get into so much trouble all the time,” Eileen pushed herself off the map table, patting Dean’s shoulder as she passed by him. “I think I’m going to head to bed – and you should do the same after your nightcap.”

“Already planning to!” Dean said in passing, having to resist the urge to punch himself in the face when he remembered Eileen can’t actually hear him.

‘You know, I recall not too long again when Sam and Eileen were being held captive by Chuck that you did something similar. You-,’

‘Yeah I know, I answered her call and started talking. I’m a dumbass. That the point you were trying to make?’

‘Of course not, Dean. You were in a stressful situation and likely weren’t thinking clearly.’

‘Yeah? What’s new?’

Dean carefully maneuvered himself down the matte black ramp Eileen had set up, thankfully not too steep so he didn’t go zooming down at uncontrollable speeds. Even though that sounded kinda fun…

The plan was to head straight for the bottle of scotch he had stored in the kitchen cupboard, pour himself a glass and let the warming flavors soothe him to sleep.

Castiel decided he wanted to ruin those plans, however.

It was quite cruel on his part, in Dean’s opinion. Waiting quite literally to the last second, with the cap of the whiskey twisted off and seconds away from being poured into his favorite crystal tumbler when Cas interrupted him.

‘Dean, I have to remind you of the Doctor’s instructions. They said not to drink any alcohol for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours whilst the medication is still processing through your system.’

Dean groaned out loud at this, placing the bottle down hard on the kitchen island with a loud ‘thump’, very nearly spilling the precious amber liquid. ‘C’mon, Cas… Just one drink isn’t going to hurt me.’

‘Perhaps not – but it’s best not to take the risk. If your body doesn’t react well, there’s nothing I can do to heal you.

Dean eyed the bottle in front of him for a while, letting Cas’s words settle in his mind. ‘Fine…’ Reluctantly, he scooped the cap back up and twisted it back into place. Dean placed the bottle and tumbler back in their usual resting places, staring mournfully at the closed door that contained them.

‘You owe me a drink, Cas.’

‘And… how am I supposed to do that?’

Dean smiled to himself in the quiet of the kitchen, wheeling himself back in the direction of his bedroom. ‘I think I have just the idea…’

* * *

The bar Castiel found himself stepping into was familiar. Usually, it’s quite difficult to name particular bars as they generally all have the same feel; grimy tables sticky with various alcoholic beverages, worn and damaged bar stools, pools of blood and other liquids that he’d rather not think about stained on the cheap vinyl flooring.

This bar was… nice. Homey feeling. Soft rock music floated around the room from the old jukebox tucked away in the corner of the bar, sat upon wooden paneled floors which were spotless, matching the overall wooden appearance of the building. Neon signs advertising the bar's drinks adorned the frosted glass windows which hid the world outside – though Castiel guessed there wasn’t even an outside anyway. The barstools were cushioned and comfortable looking, their red cushions somehow without a single scratch or split on them. And there, behind the beautifully carved wooden bar with a pleased smile on his face and a glass of whiskey in hand, was Dean.

“I’m almost impressed,’ Castiel stepped further into the room, making his way over to the bar. “Seems you’re starting to get some control over your dreams – forcing the location is a good start.”

“Almost impressed?” Dean lowered the tumbler from his mouth, looking almost offended. “I managed to conjure up a whole freaking bar. What’s not to be impressed about?”

“For one, you didn’t ‘make’ this bar. Michael did. It exists as a memory within your mind – which you were able to entice your mind into recreating for your dream. That’s the part that’s impressive.”

Dean took a seat on a stool he had dragged to his side of the bar, taking a seat and gesturing with drink in hand for Cas to take a seat of his own. “So why are you ‘almost’ impressed?”

“Well, If I were to guess, you’ve spent nearly a third of your life in bars,” Castiel pulled the barstool out, dropping himself down and leaning his arms on the miraculously non-sticky wooden top of the bar. “It’s almost cheating to assume your brain wouldn’t create dreams of bars without your intervention.”

“Okay, first of all? Screw you,” Dean downed the last drops of whiskey in his glass, turning around to pour himself another glass from a new selection of whiskeys adorning the wall behind him, missing the tender smile that hitched at Cas’s lips from his teasing. “And second of all, what you drinking?”

“Water’s fine for me.”

Dean turned back around, shooting Cas his most disgusted look. “Wow, Cas, uh, calm down? Don’t go too crazy.”

Cas rolled his eyes, leaning back from the bar. “I’ll have whatever you’re having then.”

“That’s the spirit!” Dean cheered, ducking down to grab another tumbler from under the bar, pouring a drink for both him and Cas. “Could always go the Crowley route, you know? Nice fruity cocktail with one of those little umbrellas in it.”

Dean slid the glass across the bar, which Castiel easily caught with his hand. “Considering I barely have any sense of taste, there’d probably be no point.”

“Seriously?” Dean sat back down on his stool, leaning back against the wall behind him. “I’ve seen you drinking before though? Why’d you bother if you can’t taste it?”

Castiel shrugged, spinning the glass absentmindedly on the table. “Do you drink alcohol just for the taste?”

“Point taken,” Dean raised his glass to Cas, the two of them sharing small smiles as they clink their glasses together. The two took simultaneous sips of their drink, and Dean noticed Cas’s brows raising in surprise, raising the glass up to his eyes and looking at the amber liquid inquisitively.

“Something up?” Dean asked, resting his glass on the bar. “Don’t worry, I didn’t poison you.”

“I can taste this,” Castiel’s voice was alight with curiosity, raising the glass up the dimmed lights that hung above the bar.

“You can? How?”

“Not sure,” Castiel placed his glass back on the bar, done with his inspection. “I have two theories; The first being that, since we now share a body, your memories of the taste of alcohol are accessible to me. So, if I drink or eat in your mind, I will taste it, feel it and smell it in the way you remember eating it.”

“Huh. So, if you tried eating something I’ve never eaten before, you wouldn’t be able to taste it?” Dean asked, crossing his arms and leaning them on the bar.

“Possibly. Unless the reason is my second theory; that this is all a result of my diminished grace. The closer I am to being human, the more human abilities I will adopt – senses being one of them. This no longer tastes like ‘molecules’ anymore. I can feel the warmth as it slips down my throat. I can taste the hints of honey and cinnamon and… I believe that may be apple?”

“Alright, so either way – you can taste stuff now,” Dean raised his glass in the air. “That’s gotta be a bonus, right?”

“I suppose. I do miss the taste of a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich…”

“Well then, you better hope your ability in tasting isn’t based on my memories. Coz from my memory, grape jelly sucks.”

“You don’t like grape jelly and peanut butter sandwiches?” Castiel sounded as if the thought of such a thing was a crime.

“I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” Dean clarified. “But I don’t like grape jelly.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t taste like grapes!” Dean slammed the glass down on the table, this time hard enough for the drink to slosh over the side and onto the bar. “It tastes like… the color purple.”

“The color purple has a taste?” Cas clicked his fingers, effortless cleaning up the spilled whiskey.

“Yep. Grape flavor stuff. The grape-flavored Gatorade? Not grape-flavored, it’s purple flavored. Grape candy? Nope, purple flavor again. It tastes like… sugar and processed crap. Can’t be good for you.”

“Says the guy on his second glass of whiskey – since I’ve been here.” Cas raised a good point. “How many did you drink before I entered your dream?”

“None of your business…” Dean finished off his sixth drink of the night, the narrowed eyed look Cas was sending his way only going to show that he wasn’t getting off the hook that easy. “Besides, what does it matter? It’s in my dreams, right? Doesn’t actually affect my real body?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Cas conceded, still sipping on his first drink of the night. “If you can have free reign of the drinks you have in your sleep, does that mean you’ll reduce the amount you drink when you’re awake?”

Dean’s head jolted back, a half-amused half confused look plastered on his face. “You don’t want me drinking anymore?”

“I know you stopping completely will never happen. But I’d like you to slow down, yes.”

“You gonna tell me why, or…?”

“It’s because… Dean, you’re getting older-,”

“You sure do know how to make a guy feel pretty, Cas.”

“I wasn’t finished,” The narrow-eyed look was back again. “In the times when you were injured on a hunt and you permitted me to heal you… I’d… I’d clear our your system, too. Remove any toxins, heal any damage to your liver, clear out the build-up in your arteries…”

For some strange reason, Cas actually looked guilty to be admitting this. He was practically hunched over himself, staring down intensely at the glass between his hands, ignoring Dean’s burning gaze on him.

“Oh… That was, uh… that was nice of you to do, Cas.”

This at least got Cas to break his intense staring match with his whiskey, risking a glance up to see Dean’s reaction. “I didn’t mean to overstep boundaries, I just…”

“You wanted to help, I get it, Cas. It’s okay.”

Cas relaxed marginally at this, releasing the tension in his shoulders and taking another sip – albeit slightly larger than before- of his whiskey.

“So, how often did you do that?” Dean asked, shifting one foot to rest on the bottom of the bar stool, the other hanging off the edge of the stool. “I didn’t get hurt that often – and you didn’t always heal me for every little boo-boo I got.”

The panic was back. Dean could see the subtle changes in Cas; the brief widening and blank look in his eyes, face set in stone so Dean couldn’t read a single emotion on his face – which was actually what gave him away. This was Cas reverting back to his classic angel mode.

“I suppose I, um… there were occasions where I would try to be… close to you. Standing side by side at interviews, next to each other in the kitchen or at the map table… I would take the opportunity then; A touch of the hand, legs bumping under the table, my shoulder brushing against yours… Any time there was even the slightest of contact, I would send over some of my grace. Heal the minor damage inside that you usually can’t see – or don’t keep track of.”

Now that… that happened a lot. He had long since given up reminding Cas about personal space and just accepted that that was how Cas was. But now he thinks about it… did Cas ever stand that close to Sam? To Jack? To anyone else but him? No… no, he didn’t. It was just something that became the norm for them, it was how they were with each other, and now Dean was so used to it that he didn’t even bat an eye when he felt Cas’s arm against his, or when Cas scooted so close to Dean at the table that he as may as well have been sat in his damn lap. That was just… Cas.

Now, at least, there was reasoning behind it other than ‘just because.’ And it was a logical reason, a kind one even, for Cas to be doing that for him. Except… why did he feel disappointed with the reason? He should be feeling relieved about it, right? That Cas wasn’t invading his personal space for the hell of it?

“Oh…” Dean shuffled on the stool, dipping his eyes down to the bar. “So, uh… you were doing all that just to heal me?”

Dean could feel Cas’s eyes burning a hole through him now, forcing his gaze back up to meet Cas’s intense one. Intense, yet… almost sad.

“You know that’s not the only reason.”

Cas had uttered the words so soft, so quietly that Dean almost didn’t hear him. Like Cas intended for those words to be heard for him and him alone, even though there wasn’t another soul in sight. And yeah, maybe he did know the other reason. Maybe he’d been keeping it buried down, pretending that it had never happened. That Cas had never told him those things… Because even now, months after he had said them, after Cas had made them his final words to him, even with Cas back… he still doesn’t know what to do with them.

He hadn’t really tried, truth be told. After Cas had died, the pain of it was still too raw, and thinking about it only ripped the wound open further. He thought it’d be easier to lock the memory away, keep it out of sight and out of mind and find a way to... to move on. It seemed impossible – to keep Cas in his memory, yet simultaneously try to forget about him. Clearly, it hadn’t worked. He might as well have had Cas’s smiling, tear-streaked face etched into his eyelids.

Then, with Cas back… it was as if Cas was trying to forget about it, too. Which Dean can’t exactly blame him for. After all, the poor guy had probably assumed he would stay dead after making such a confession. Easier to pretend it never happened than confront it – at least, that was Dean’s personal motto. Plus, with all they have on their plates (again….), it was probably pushed to the back of both their minds.

Which is why none of this makes sense. There’s a part of him that wants to talk to Cas about it, but… he still hasn’t processed it all. Not really. He had no idea what to say to Cas in that very moment, the Empty and Billie breathing down their necks, about to lose his best friend in the worst time of his life. Now, in a relaxed and cozy bar with literally no-one else that can hear them, safe in his own mind… Dean still doesn’t know what to say to him.

But the liquid courage running through his veins sure knew what to do.

Dean downed the last of the drink for that little extra bit of drunk idiocy, turning the glass upside down and slamming it down on the bar with a grin. “C’mon, finish your drink,” Dean nodded his chin at the glass in Cas’s hand, the stool underneath him screeching across the floor as he stands.

“What for?” Cas asked, though brought the glass of whiskey up to his lips anyway, the last of the drink disappearing steadily.

Cas copied Dean’s prior movements, turning the glass upside down and placing it next to Dean’s glass. It was only once Cas looked up at the shy grin on Dean’s face, a single eyebrow raised up as he waited patiently that Dean moved. Cas turned on his stool to follow Dean as he stepped around the bar, coming to a stop in front of Cas and offering out his hand to him. Cas’s eyes flicked up from Dean’s outstretched hand to Dean’s face, still not getting what it was Dean was trying to do.

“Twelve years on this Earth, Cas. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance.”

“…Because I haven’t?” Cas eyed Dean’s hand suspiciously, hand twitching by his side as he resisted the urge to reach out and take it.

“Hmmm…” Dean hummed, inching his hand even closer to Cas. “How ‘bout we change that?”

Dean could see the moment it clicked in Cas’s head. His eyes were wide like a deer caught in the headlights, looking to Dean as if to try and figure out what weird and cruel joke Dean was trying to play on him. There was no joke. There was no ulterior motive. Hell, not even Dean himself knew why he wanted to do this. He only knew that he wanted to. It was kind of weird, it was all kinds of terrifying and definitely not what two guys do in their spare time, but hey – this is just a dream, right? People have weird dreams all the time. It’s not like his minds trying to tell him something or anything like that…

Castiel swallowed harshly, that partly terrified look still on his face that Dean remembers seeing the day he took him to that brothel. Except, this time, Cas was resting his hand in Dean’s, not some random chick that would be throwing stuff at Cas’s head less than a minute later. Cas’s hand was calloused like Dean’s, both of their skin marked by scars and roughened by years of wielding weapons. The warmth of Cas’s hand bled into his skin, his grip around Dean’s hand tight with nerves, thumb resting lightly over Dean’s pulse point. It was strange that, even in his dream, Dean’s heart was pounding hard in his chest like it would if this was really happening – which Cas definitely had to feel from his pulse in the unlikely event he couldn’t hear his heart going crazy.

Why was he so nervous about something as simple as dancing? Sure, he’s no master at the waltz, but it’s not like he’s at some fancy big-wig party trying to blend in with the rich folk. It was just him and Cas, after all.

Well… that was his answer, he supposed. It wasn’t just Cas. It was Cas.

“I… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do,” Cas admitted as Dean led him to the center of the bar, the room spacious and perfect for just this occasion.

“I don’t know about dancing either,” Dean replied with a shrug of his shoulders, lifting up his other hand and placing it tentatively on Cas’s back. “We’ll figure it out as we go. It’ll come natural.”

It did come natural, as it turned out. Almost a little too natural. Cas’s hand rested between his shoulder blades like it was always meant to be there, placed directly over where Dean knows his wound exists in the real world. Cas’s grip had slackened somewhat, his nerves lessening as they swayed together.

From the outside, it was probably the most awkward-looking dance in existence. They didn’t sweep each other across the floor with the graceful movements of a professional. It was more of a… stumbling step and shuffle, a few winces occasionally shared between them as they inevitably stepped on each other's toes.

But… that made it all the better. Moments like that got them giggling quietly in the tranquil space between them, smiles plastered on their faces that would be hard to wipe off as they shambled around the room to the hushed chorus of ‘All My Love.’

Of course it was a Led Zeppelin song.

Of course.

“This is one of the songs you put on the tape you gave me,” Cas pointed out part way through the song, feeling coordinated enough now to dance and talk at the same time. Mostly…

“Another guilty pleasure,” Dean said with a sly smirk. “Dad was always embarrassed to admit he liked these kinds of tracks, too. Guess that passed on to me.”

“Well, I like it.”

Dean snorted. “Course you do. Would be foolish to label the tape “Top ten tracks” if they weren’t the greatest of the great, wouldn’t it?”

Cas broke his gaze away from Dean’s, looking instead to their joined hands held out in front of them, fumbling slightly in his steps as he does so. “Did you mean it?”

Dean frowned at him, racking his brain for what Cas could be referring to. “Did I mean what?”

“When you were talking to Eileen… You told her I was ‘more than family’. Did you… did you mean it?”

“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t,” The answer came surprisingly easy to Dean. He should have fumbled over the words in his head, any logical part of his brain shut down as panic took over. That’s what should have happened, but it didn’t. “It’s hard to say what you are to me, Cas. Family is all I’ve ever really known, the only thing that was important to me. So putting you in there made sense, you know? And you still are there, but… dammit Cas, you’ve been my longest friend. It feels like… it feels like my mind wants to put you into another category. It just doesn’t know what that is.”

Dean had been expecting for Cas to look disheartened after that. He knows it’s not what Cas wants to hear, but… he can’t. He doesn’t know how, all he knows is that he wants his best friend back. He wants for everything to be fixed, for Cas to be shoved back into his body and then… they can go from there. Hell, maybe they will fix his legs. And then maybe Dean will be stupid and keep hunting despite the clear wake-up call, and Cas will tag along even though he’s pissed at him for carrying on because he’ll always feel the need to watch over him.

He wants things back to the way they were. And Dean knows that’s what he wants.

He knows what he wants.

He’s sure of it…

Next Chapter - - - >

#Destiel #destiel fanfiction #Destiel fanfic #destiel fic #destiel fix it #fix it #fix it fic #castiel/dean winchester #Dean Winchester/Castiel #cas/dean #dean/cas #casdean #supernatural spoilers #season 15 spoilers #fluff #angst

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goodnessmarygrace · 4 years ago

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Hi, my name is Mary Grace and I’m new to Tumblr. I made this blog because nobody I know has Tumblr, so it feels like I can be more open about my struggles without drawing attention to myself. Anyways, here goes nothing. This is my story thus far. It’s a long one, so buckle up!

I was diagnosed with POTS last month after two increasingly difficult and perplexing years. You could think of me as being sorta athletic and very ambitious normally if you like. I’m a perfectionist and I have anxiety. I began really feeling and noticing the POTS symptoms about two years ago. For a year, I just always assumed I was out of shape or everybody felt the same way and I was just being a wimp. I was super tired all the time and would get very dizzy with standing up and running. I would get spotty vision and feel the familiar “hot ice” feeling you get when you might faint. These symptoms were not incredibly severe or anything, so I just always hid them so that people wouldn’t label me as “dramatic” or “lazy.” I played basketball, softball, ran track, did marching band, football cheer-leading, scholar bowl, FCA, and FCCLA at the time of the onset of symptoms. I always assumed that I was just stressed out or had a really bad cold and it was nothing to give a second thought about. If anything, hiding my symptoms made me feel like I was in control or tough.

Another thing you must know about me to understand my story is I am a Christian and Jesus plays a big part in my life each and every day. Come summer 2019, I was a helper/counselor at the 5th and 6th grade week at the local Church Camp. That’s when some things really clicked for me spiritually. I realized that my life had been fairly easy. I have a loving family, live in an awesome community, have been blessed with friends and talents all my life, and for the most part, I’d been healthy and hadn’t had to deal with many terrible things. Most of all, I’m free to live for and worship my LORD and Savior.

It’s a life that many crave and would give anything to have. But that week at Church Camp initiated a thought process in me. I realized I had never really depended on GOD because everything in my life had seemed so... easy I guess. I was incredibly thankful for my life, but there came a time when I realized that I didn’t really live by faith or trust or hope. I didn’t completely even understand what they mean! How can you live for GOD without knowing what it is like to completely trust Him with every aspect of your life? My life story was (yes, comfortable and safe) but also a bit empty. It was shallow where it could be deep. And after lots of prayer and some soul searching, I realized my story was shallow because I had hardly ever struggled. So then I began praying dangerously. I asked (or begged) GOD to break me if He had to.

And oh my, He sure answered that one. The symptoms got worse, but I didn’t think much of them considering I had quit (or retired (; ) from softball. (There’s a whole separate story to why I quit softball that I just can’t possibly fit in this post. It was a big developmental step in my life and something that I still am learning from.) I assumed I was just getting out of shape and I should exercise and live healthier. More water, more sleep, better food, etc. Running was getting harder and harder. I was always exhausted, which I blamed on stress and lack of good sleep. Basketball season is what really did it in for me. The first real “attack” or “episode” happened during conditioning week. I almost fainted. I got a migraine and was so dizzy that I couldn’t walk straight. My vision was seriously messed up and that “hot ice” feeling you get before passing out kept washing over me. (I had passed out/ almost passed out before this but always blamed it on being squeamish or something else unconcerning.) I eventually sucked up my pride and told my coach, “I gotta lie down!” It was humiliating. I used to be able to run like nobody’s business. I mean, some people were jealous of my exercising capabilities. It seemed like my fault since I had quit softball and seemingly was so out of shape that I almost passed out. I felt like a quitter. There was so much shame and guilt. I must have forgotten it was actually an answer to my prayers.

The season progressed and I repeatedly had to lie down when it came to conditioning and running. It didn’t help that I got mono for the second time in my life that winter (no, not from kissing) and was so stubborn that I refused to stay home or go to the doctor. I had mono, pharyngitis, and a double ear infection for months, but I didn’t want to rest because I thought people would think I was lazy. We began trying to figure out why I would get the POTS symptoms as well, because my mom started to think that something really was going on. In the end, we decided to blame it on blood sugar. I told people I was hypoglycemia. I brought juice to basketball practice, and when I would drink it, I would trick myself into thinking that I felt better because I was sick of having no idea what was going on.

Finally, when basketball season was wrapping up and track season was beginning, I began believing that maybe I wasn’t “just out of shape.” I had been running and exercising for months, but I still had my POTS symptoms. I was praying and trying really really hard to get past the shame and be grateful for my struggles. The thing is, I LOVE track (and was pretty good at it too.) Running and racing has always been, dare I say, fun for me. I was really looking forward to the first practice of the season. My dreams were crushed to say the least. After running the first 400 meters of a mile, I nearly fainted again. I finished the mile, but was not doing so hot. I remember all my teammates and coaches staring at me with worry and surprise. I was so embarrassed. The headache from it didn’t go away until I went to bed that night. What made things worse, was I still didn’t know what was wrong with me. Doctors said “blood sugar?”, “asthma?”, “hormones?”, “anxiety?”, “arrhythmia?”, “stress?”. When people asked, I didn’t have a definite answer, so just I listed all of my symptoms and the possible diagnoses. I got tired of that real quick.

Now that my track season was in jeopardy, I decided that we really needed to figure out what was happening to me. My mom said to take it easy at practice, but I didn’t want to look “lazy.” (You can tell that my mind runs in a useless circle around the concepts of weak and lazy.) I told my coaches that I needed to take it easy, but then just continued to go hard as I could. I mentally could not get past the mindset I had adopted. I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t trying and I was making things up, so without really noticing it, I told myself that it was in fact all in my head and I was weak. Then came the pandemic.

This is becoming way too long, so I’m going to continue it in a part 2. It sounds crazy, but I’m actually pretty thankful for the mess I’ve been through. More explanation later, but I know there is some growth happening in me that never would have begun if I hadn’t gotten these struggles. GOD has shown me so much through these experiences and He’s made room in my busy schedule for the things that actually matter in life. I don’t chase people’s opinions or expectations so much anymore and have learned to be kinder to myself. Again, this blog is kind of going to be like a way to figure some things out and hopefully become part of the community of people who’ve gone or are going through similar experiences. Maybe then I’ll even be able to help someone else in return.

-Mary Grace

June 4, 2020

#potsie #postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome #my story #jesus is the answer #christianity #a written testimony #break me #savedbygrace #POTS

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ventrue · 5 years ago

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[Short Story] The Act of Existing

Yo!!! I wrote a short story for a workshopping group that’s starting up with a group of friends, and I figured I’d post it here for people to read. It’s been a while since I've written seriously, so any feedback is appreciated as FUCK!!

WHAT REMAINS OF THE DAY is a quickly waning sliver of light that filters greenly through the window. The bright veil is split into two distinct floods right through the middle by a peculiar mountain, stretching up from the ocean and into the sky, narrowing as it climbs up until one can scarcely see the top. When one traces it down all the way to the bottom, one sees the ocean and the red clouds beneath, billowing from the depths and spreading all throughout the sea. From Lysander’s window, he can just barely see the ring of blue that extends from the base of the long, long tower that the city’s platform is perched upon. He pops a plum candy into his mouth, and flicks the paper wrapper off so that it may plummet listlessly into the miles and miles of current carrying it. Though, the wrapper fades into an imperceptible spec long before it hits the water. For a moment, there’s an intrusive thought, the unwanted desire to chuck something of substance out over the edge, just to see if it makes a satisfying plop. But as the sun’s soon swallowed by the horizon, he departs from the window, having to be content not knowing the things he doesn’t know.

As the last of the day sinks into the inner edges of the sky and the sun is swallowed into the horizon, an urn rattles on Lysander’s shelf, the brassy sheen flickering along the crystal light bouncing off of it. A stream leaves the very top, a massless and shapeless consciousness that speaks into the very deepest cortex in his mind. “Mornin’, mornin’, darlin’! If you think you’re gonna’ hit the snooze button on this shit today–.” The voice stops itself mid-thought, then deadpans. “Alright, what gives? You’re up way too goddamn early today. No sleep?”

Lysander slicks a look towards the urn and then to the presence. It is not quite visible, but it is a burly distortion of space, refractions of the world’s Essence that is as present as the very air itself. No one seems to notice it but him, and he can’t figure out why. He hums something absently and relays himself in a cool tone, “I had another bad dream, and there was only another hour until sunset. I went through our notes again.”

“Eh? Why?” The presence smooths over the room and flushes over the bed, coiling around Lysander and flopping his blonde ponytail and bangs with an exertion. “What’re you worrying your pretty little head over? Ain’t nothing more than a snooping session, yeah?”

“I would like to think so, Bram.” Lysander flips through a small notebook, a tiny black thing that he commands with only a motion of the finger to open to the desired page. “But I can’t help but to take precaution. Even the oldest and most stubborn noble families do not ignore the scientific advances of the day. If anything, they see more reason to be paranoid.”

The presence scoffs. “Yeah? And what science explains me, exactly?

Lysander shakes his head. “All the better that we add superstition to all of this.”

A deep, goading laugh, “Is it superstition if it turns out to be real?”

Lysander’s finger’s clench, bending into harsh angles like claws, “Oh my god. This is completely not the point. Let us be on our way, I’ve scheduled a tutoring session with the Vraccas family court mage for initial reconnaissance.”

“This is a helluva lot for exposing some minor corruption.” The presence remarks, slinking along Lysander until the form drapes around his slender shoulders like a scarf. “How much money did you spend on that?”

“Irrelevant. But the public works projects will never get better if we can’t make it clear that they’re being blocked in bad faith.” Lysander says, as he slips on his navy peacoat and wraps a deep maroon scarf around his shoulders. The loops and knots he has to undergo to maintain a manageable length are perhaps a touch too convoluted, but the presence happily slips into the fabric and nudges one side of Lysander’s slim jaw like a wavy appendage. This is enough to coax a smile that is slightly warmer than wan.

“You’re the boss, darlin’.” The presence says.

Lysander makes his way from the single dorm room and down the halls until he’s free from the building and out on the bricks streets of the Bacchus district. From there, he makes his way past the parked carriages and navigates through crosswalks of busy roads until he reaches the skyrail station. The building stands with grey bricks where the rest of the district blends into a sandy, contemporary shade of tan. Lysander looks up towards the monotype sign and flickering neon rails – pink like all essence – when suddenly his scarf tightens around his collarbones. “Do we gotta’ take the rail tonight?” The presence pleads.

Lysander chews on a thought. “It’s on the other side of town, otherwise–.”

The presence cuts him short. “I know, I know. But you’re a fast walker, aye? It’d be good exercise. Could stop and get a galaxy cup. Oh, oh! You might see a cute dog along the way! Maybe tip a street performer. Please?” The tone tries to play this off in some winsome charm, but Lysander knows the desperation that nips at his heels.

Lysander frowns gently, but concedes with a hand resting on top of the drape. “I’ll walk, but I’ll only have time to do maybe one of those things. This will be cutting it very close.”

“S’fine, baby! You got it, which thing?” The relief in his tone stings at Lysander.

“Galaxy cup. I’m parched.” Lysander murmurs, as he makes off around the building. When he reaches the stall about halfway to the estate, he stops by a cart with bricks of cooling runes scrawled along the bottom. Lysander floats him a few coins and receives a slushy, snowy concoctions that glitters and shifts like a swimming universe threshing with stellar life. This is swiftly consumed before they reached the front gates of House Vraccas.

The hedges are almost as oppressive as the sterling gates themselves, truly. Dotted along the uniform structures of plant life are wreathes of grown amaranthine flowers, enchanted to take life in a deeply purple hue. The meaning to Lysander is starkly clear, an expression of the eternal and reoccurring power of the nobility. As he touches his finger to a runic pad, he signals his arrival with an exertion of his energy, an Essential impulse of his latent power – a baseline level of expression for most people.

The gate lumbers open as Lysander touches the scarf once more. “Have care, Bram. Do not venture any further than I go. I will signal when I feel it is not safe for you to linger.”

The scarf’s end flutters on top of Lysander’s hand. “Worrywart.” Teasingly.

With that, Lysander chuffs and presses onward, where he is greeted by an attendant who graciously shows him the way. Passing through the silvered door, he is taken into halls of pure and pristine marble, blindingly white and adorned with lavish painting and rich purple silk drapes. Where their heels don’t find purchase on lush carpets, there is the chilling echo of clacking heels against marble. But as they make turns, and the attendant slows down, he pushes the grandiloquent aestheticism aside and begins to discern with his proverbial third eye. Color fades from his normal vision and fine details begin to blur as he searches the door frame for any runic wards. He finds nothing, and the door opening reveals no flood of Essential residue.

Bram speaks to him, “Safe to go in?” And Lysander’s answer is a reassuring touch to his collarbone.

Waiting just past the door is a lavish court and dining room, with gold braids hanging and looping from the ceiling, though the head of the table – the seat belonging to Harlan Vraccas – is empty. There are known magistrates and various official idling and partaking in lain out delicacies. Though, the gaze that slicks itself onto Lysander belongs to a mustached man in mage’s robes.

“Target spotted.” A sing-song inflection in Lysander’s mind. “You good if I snoop around for something juicy?”

Before Lysander scrutinizes the court mage, he sweeps the room with his third eye once again only to find nothing. His vision blurs just slightly from two exertions in a row, composing himself and sweeping a hand across his shoulder to signal that Bram may survey their surroundings. The scarf loses tension as Lysander approaches the man.

“I am humbled to finally meet the newest addition to Class VIII.” The smile that the court mage brandishes is oddly warm, though Lysander knows better than to expect seasoned swindlers within the Vraccas family ecosystem to always gleam so keenly like sharpened daggers.

“And the sentiment is shared in equal measure, Magister Halliday.” Lysander affects a minute incline of the head and a delicate fingertip to his own chest. “It has been quite some endeavor to adjust myself to the new curriculum,” He lies, “But I have been shown nothing short of absolute grace by both my professors and my peers.” Lysander flashes his third eye once more and sweeps over the magister.

The Essence thrumming within Halliday is an orderly ecosystem – nothing short of expected, mind – but nothing in the Essence along the man’s eyes would suggest the same anomaly present within his own. Bram is safe for now.

“Of course,” Halliday flashes a fancy flourish of his fingers, fanning faintly for effect. “Helios Academy does so well to nurture the potential within its ranks, and none would so much as doubt the Dean’s judgement in his scarce selections for Class VIII.” He rises from his seat, and gestures towards another door. “But your schedule must be pressing you for spare time given that you requested this so late in the eve.” He begins to glide effortlessly off, “Professor Bateaus was kind enough to provide the slides for his last lecture, we shall go over the sections you have trouble with in my office.”

“Of course. I will give him my thanks after Friday’s lecture.” Lysander says, as he feels a faint stiffness in the coils of his scarf once more.

After signaling his return, Bram chimes smugly, “Ooh-hoo boy! I hit some goddamn paydirt in the other room, found out a couple ‘strates have been talking about lobbying at parliament seats. Some people got some interests in making sure some curriculums in Helios are carefully edited. Gimme the clear and I’ll start digging around.”

Lysander slides his forefinger along the scarf in both approval and affirmation, though there is a tension within the bend. Lysander didn’t make a scan of the other rooms, he didn’t give him the go-ahead to venture off. Hell, he’s not even sure which room he entered or if he went into more than one. While the existence of ghosts is something unprecedented within even the deepest Essential academic communities, he cannot be comfortable with Bram acting outside the scope of any contingencies he can muster. Should Bram trigger any anomalous vacuum behaviors within any of the Essence constructs present in the building, he will be forever associated with the thought-seed of ‘anomaly’ and ‘Lysander’. Should that come to pass, the unique advantages that have been such a boon will slowly and inevitably mutate into his greatest liability.

Regardless, with a cleansing breath, Lysander slips into the office and takes a seat on the oaken chair. The room takes on a different, more personalized aesthetic. Like slipping into a different building entirely, the wood panels exude their own rustic charm. The dark finish and lack of polish communicate rugged earnestness, with décor evocative of a sophisticated hunting lodge rather than the bare and muted prestige of cutting-edge academia. Bram once remarked about these kinds of people, the kinds that go to hunts in flashy outfits, then toss prey of their own design and have hounds ceaselessly trail them the helpless animal is hopelessly tired. Only after fatigue outweighs the tremendous dread is when the self-purported hunter slugs a measured bullet into their skull. This room feels as if the center of a Venn diagram describing the worst aspects of philosopher and warrior kings.

He can practical feel the hostile vibrations making waves in the air, sourced from Bram’s presence. As if responding, Halliday’s smile is thin and wan. Lysander touches his hand to his scarf in an attempt to calm Bram, and he offers the magister a slow and humble smile. “Now, I believe the exact slide where I felt clarification was needed was when Essential energies shift from potential ether to active flux, and the exact syntax required when rewriting axioms to compensate for when it shifts from a pseudo-gaseous state to semi-solid matter.” For Lysander, the process was more time consuming than truly difficult, but the tedium of it will allow Bram to sift through surface level qualities and information so that he can give Lysander the necessary information to help steer the conversation to more productive avenues suiting his own purposes. As well, the repetitive nature of these axioms will allow Lysander the free mental capacity to active his third eye once more, letting his gaze drift naturally about the room so that he can discern any Essential patterns in the airspace.

As Bram sifts about the room, Lysander is sure to activate and deactivate the perceptive trance as per conditioning training as to not overtax himself in projecting his mental facilities, typically in between responses. As Bram snoops about, he slides pithy comments idly, “Hee hee, look at this! He’s got romance novels stashed away. Ooh, comics, too!”

Lysander suppresses the urge to roll his eyes as he continues, remains intent on obfuscating his understanding of the mathematics at play while displaying just enough competence to not frustrate the magister.

“Boring, boring, useless, nada, nope.” The waft of distortion flutters about, visually rifling through the room without sinking into any particular object or drawer. “I mean, if you’re interested in knowing about his taxidermy collection, maybe he snuggles with his kills at night.” Lysander continues to try and ignore him as he sifts about. Eventually, he sinks back into his scarf and waits for a small lull while Lysander writes dummy notes to buy time for the rundown. “H’alright, we got some drawers under the desk. Most are unlocked, but there’s one with a keyhole and another with a rune lock. Give that shit a peep and gimme the signal for what you wanna do. As well, he’s got a family picture facing his side of the desk, but beside him is Gresham Volte, the bootlicker parliament guy. Weird, huh?”

Weird, indeed. But there is no time to speculate. He musters another opening of his third eye and flicks his gaze to where Bram indicated. He searches for the rune’s structure and syntax, and makes sure to respond blithely to another inquiry before trying to cross-reference what he sees with other Essential wards that do not react to Bram’s spectral presence. He mimics needing a moment to write and look through his notes before he confirms that the spell Halliday used was mundane and non-reactive. He indicates to Bram to proceed with a small scratch to his scarf mimicking a subtle checkmark.

Halliday deviates from his explanation of theoretical Essence applications to cant his head and peer briefly into Lysander’s gaze. “Is everything alright, Lysander? Do you require coffee, or should we continue this at another junction?”

Lysander disengages with all other matters and computations as he aims to course correct, “I won’t say no to coffee, but I am merely churning through the theorem. Your insight has spurred quite a bit of progress in my understanding.”

Halliday’s smile is a slow thing for how bright it becomes, chin jutting out just so in equal measures amused and proud. “I am glad to hear, Professor Bateaus has always described you as quietly contemplative. I come to wonder just what goes on in that head of yours.”

Lysander does not like that. He plays it back in his head, tries to run it through several times in an effort to detect anything that might hint that he might mean more than surface level context would imply. “No more or less than anyone else, perhaps. Merely the things on my mind.”

Bram, all the while, is echoing absently as he digs through the contents of the hidden drawers, “Lots of financial shit, not really stuff I can make heads or tails of. Nothing so juicy as a candid photo, either. Pretty lame.” Quietly, Lysander begs him to be serious to no avail.

Halliday continues with his theorem untangling, rotely going over definitions as things start to stagnate.

“Wait! Love letters! One sec, one fuckin’ sec!” Bram pipes up, “Ooh, he calls them mommy. Hee hee.” Lysander groans internally, but the presence goes unfortunately on, “Oh my god, Sandy. Sandy! He gets findommed! He gets mommy dommed into giving away money!” Bram is cackling, he’s practically feral at this point.

Lysander has to maintain his composure at this point, so if Bram doesn’t stop being an insane and incessant goof he might actually try to throttle a ghost.

But Halliday begins again, almost thankfully, so that Lysander has literally anything else to focus on, “So in keeping with the spirit of Class VIII, I will provide a demonstration of the Flux parameters shifting the nature of Essence manipulation.” He splays a hand, utters something in an arcane tongue, and conjures an orb with spinning fractal runes. “I want you to perceive with your third eye and observe the way Essence must be carefully monitored and adjusted as it changes states.”

This is a problem. This will be the fifth time he will need to project his senses once more, and the strain has already proven to pose a challenge with a fourth invocation of the third eye. Should he be caught struggling, he will not be able to play this off as some physical lack from the time of night, it is a different resource altogether that will ignite suspicion if it can be inferred that he thought to use it so extensively.

Bram pipes up, “Yo! Hey, Sandy, I got something!” The presence briefly flutters from the drawer and coils excitedly, “You’re never gonna’ believe what I managed to dig up! So, you see–.”

But before Lysander allows Bram to continue, he languidly, casually, draws a gesture of an ‘C’ over his scarf. A safeword, should Lysander require Bram to cease for one critical reason or another. With silence assured, Lysander has the mental space to prepare his faculties for projection. With no more than a moment, he calls on his third eye and reserves the scantest of efforts in maintaining composure, as if this didn’t take any effort at all.

Easier said than done, though, seeing as Halliday takes his time to carefully run his fingers along the anchor points, drawing over specific runes while he explains, “Essence, being entropic in its nature, rarely goes dormant. When it solidifies and converts into potential energy, it is stored in such a way that creates a high pressure bubble that will create cracks in all known containment measures. Thus, it is critical to maintain focus and a steady diction as you incant, as you reshape the apparatus accordingly.” And it is thus, with Halliday making careful sure to enunciate with attention to clarity and purpose. The flow of energies rapidly shift, like electricity with the intelligence to seek out cracks in the barrier – and more importantly, like it has the intelligence required for an uncompromising desire to be free.

Lysander musters the mental alacrity to speak as he watches, but the dull gray of the physical world comes to fade just a touch as he splits his attention. “This is remarkably similar to the mechanics governing the powerlines of the skyrail.”

“It is, and thus the expenses required to maintain it have a lot to do with requiring an abundance of experts able to maintain the diction and switching out seamlessly. Far, far less expensive than the internal battery system used for auto-carriages.” The orb seems fit to burts even just from the mall break taken to make that sentence, and with the effort taken for concentration he doesn’t muster what it takes to conceal an obfuscation. Bram vibrates uneasily, as if wanting to speak.

“With the use of phoneme incantation, yes. Would not graphene methods be more prudent in maintaining consistency?” Lysander asks, and struggles not to show he’s buckling under the strain.

Halliday frowns, tracing over new burgeoning cracks, “Observe the erratic behaviors of the shifting Essence. The lack of a predictable pattern does not suit the static nature of graphemes. There are simply too many variances for graphemes to accurately predict.”

Lysander considers, has to try and formulate a response that does not put too fine a point on his intentions. He now has to stop and start the third eye strategically to maintain the state with the ease required to escape without suspicion. This is becoming a problem, seeing as he’s starting to make some real headway. “But it is known that graphemes will always be a spell’s natural conclusion. The nature of the spoken word is always imprecise, always in some way terrifyingly improvised, no matter how rehearsed. Perhaps research on shifting algorithmic grapheme matrices could–?”

Halliday cuts him off with a simple raise of the hand. “A convoluted wish-fulfillment proposal by an idealistic contrarian. The practicality has been brought into question with only gawks in response from Magister Sykes.”

Bram suddenly pipes in, which causes Lysander to need to rub his eyes to maintain the perception. “That’s what I was going to say! The dude in the picture is related to the CEO of Auto-Auto!” Autoflux Autoworks, this is making sense. An acceptable deviation from the safeword, thankfully.

Halliday begins to carefully begin retracting his hand, saying, “Now I want you to try and maintain the feedback loop yourself. Remember that precise diction is key, articulate at the tip of your tongue.”

There’s no way this is feasible. He needs this demonstration to end. He’s on the outer limits of what he’s capable of maintaining, to try and run through the mnemonics for equations he needs to process in order to shape the Essence. While Halliday is busy concentrating to time his disengage, he flashes a fleeting, pleading look towards Bram’s distortion. “Got you, dear.” He assures quietly.

Lysander reaches out as Halliday commands, “On the count of five, I need for you to incant as the notes specifically say. Quickness and precision are of the utmost importance, Lysander.”

Lysander gulps quietly, and attempts to pull together the fraying strands of his mind – splitting like images taken in by crossed eyes – and tries to run through the processes to project his will onto the flowing gouts of Essence starting to flow from the cracking sphere. The sphere cracks, failing to hold, and the energy begins to flicker dangerously.

“Just a touch quicker, Lysander.” Halliday instructs. He cannot. He feels like he’s about to lapse into a dream.

But before that could happen, a loud crack resounds through the room, the sound of metal clacking hard against the wooden desk. The lamp crashes through the sphere and sends a wave of kinetic force, the sound like a bell warped through tunnels of light and passed through black hole. Or at least, that’s what Lysander had imagined as before.

Halliday frowns deeply, then squints about. “How in the blazes–?” He cuts himself off, then trails into nothing as his gaze narrows into scrutiny.

Lysander quickly draws a circle with a slash through it on his collar, a covert signal for Bram to exit immediately, and then there’s no sign of him.

“Shoddy fixtures, I will make a visit to the manufacturing plant on the morrow.” Halliday says as he shakes his head and then sets the lamp back where it was, where it wobbles once more. Despite the frown that motion provokes, he maintains his same blandly pleasant tone. “Sincere apologies for this. I know that you might have a sensitivity to…” He struggled to word it.

“The accident.” Lysander says flatly. “I am fine.”

“I am sure you are.” The tail end of Halliday’s statement immediately implies a ‘but’, and he continues, “Have care, do not tax yourself overmuch in your studies. I know Bram van der Meer was someone close to you, but…” He shakes his head. “To see him between the two cars, and to pull them apart as he still took breath–.”

Lysander holds up a hand and stops him right there. “As I am well aware.” Keen, sharp ice.

Halliday looses an awkward breath. “I think we may take the lamp as a sign that the night has grown late. I hope you may find time in your schedule for a timelier tutoring session.”

Lysander affects a deep bow of the head, “It is ia privilege to receive your counsel and tutorage, Magister Halliday. I will endeavor in navigating my schedule with these visits in mind.”

The magister smiles blithely. “As you will.” Final. “He comes to a rise, as beckons Lysander towards the door. “I believe you still yet have a full schedule, and I would not see you lose sleep over matters such as these.” The tone is pleasant, but Lysander searches for ambiguity.

“Until such time. I bid farewell for now.” Lysander departs, and Halliday beckons an attendant to see him escorted from the property.

It is nearing midnight, and Lysander is in a cold sweat by the time Manor Vraccas is far in the distance behind him. “The gall.” He murmurs, having been stuck on Halliday’s treachery for some time.

Bram, now safely coiled around Lysander’s shoulders once more, tightens in support. “Fuck that guy, at least we have our hunches confirmed, eh?”

“None of it immediately actionable, but it is enough to know that we’ve hit a lead.” He speaks quietly as he makes his way through the streets, “Auto-Auto has a vested interest in snuffing out public transportation, and has connections within House Vraccas, Helios Academy, and Parliament. Auto-Auto keeps a stranglehold on public infrastructure with connections to Parliament seats, and exacerbates concerns with the Skyrail by stalling – or even tampering with – research on the Essential properties their technology uses by leveraging their connections with House Vraccas. Thus, developments are stymied on an academic level. There’s no other sense it would make to not attempt to develop past phoneme techniques and into grapheme.”

The loose threads on Lysander’s scarf visibly bristle at the explanation, “Everything’s fucking rotten all the way down to the root, you’re saying.”

“To a degree, yes,” Lysander affirms, coming upon the campus and navigating his way to the dormitory, “But none of the signs show in such a way that is admissible to any official as of yet, if such a thing is even feasible. The missing link, right now, is the individual or individuals influencing the parties necessary for this obstruction.”

Bram flaps both ends of the scarf upon Lysander’s body in frustration, “And will you manage to track the shit-lips down?”

“That remains to be seen, but such will come with time, dearest.” He pats the scarf as he makes his way through the halls, “With my partner on the case with me, we shall ensure this resolution as an inevitability. You are still my rock, after all.”

Bram chitters, “Y’know, one day you’re gonna’ oversleep and I’m gonna’ go out and possess a great big boulder, and I’m gonna’ sit right next to your bed.”

Lysander chuffs, “Break your cover and I disown you, darling.”

And with that, Lysander finally reaches his little dorm room. He’s thankful, at least, that the members of Class VIII are allocated individual rooms. Though not particularly fair, he laments, the circumstances of Bram’s continued presence necessitates privacy. Secrecy was his only chance at ensuring the change required to prevent another tragedy.

Regardless, Lysander tosses off his peacoat and slips off his shoes. Bram leaves his scarf as it’s hung on the rack, drifting off to take over a constructed, verisimilitudinous hand that scampers about on its fore and middle fingers, like they’re little legs. Lysander settles into a desk where he takes out a glass tablet, completely clear until he scrawls a specific rune onto its surface, using what little Essence he still possess this night to activate it. A scant interface fades into view, thin serif letters colored mauve and bright assembling into a journal-like structure. He begins logging the night’s events and finding in a neat, particular order with crisp specificity.

As Lysander is writing, the Bram-hand begins to make something simple with his limited capabilities. He assembles the ingredients for a sandwich of shredded chicken and provolone. He stacks them together on a brioche roll and slathers it with a bottle of buffalo sauce, then sticks it into a glass box on the kitchen counter. Bram makes a show of reading a list of sigils before he draws one on a panel that’s stained blue. The graphene incantation is inputted and the spell is cast, an orange light blooming from the panels of the glass. After some time has passed, he stops the heating spell and pulls the sandwich from the tray and onto a plate. With its mighty thumb and pinky, it balances the plate and skitters over to Lysander, who receives the food with a thankful incline of the head and a casual scrutiny.

“You pile these so high.” An absent remark from Lysander as he struggles to fit the gooey monstrosity into one hand.

A scoff from Bram, “Only ‘cause you get so caught up in studying that you forget to eat, buddy. Lookin’ out for you, you twig.”

“Never once have you complained when you rip me from my desk with ease.” Lysander counters, the lids of his eyes starting to sag with fatigue. Had he truly taxed himself this much with the meeting? He could scarcely feel it within Manor Vraccas, likely from the adrenaline of paranoia like Essential fluid afire in a spell engine’s tubes. Regardless, he does take some time from his extensive note taking to eat what’s prepared for him.

Bram leaps off the desk into a spectacular flip, landing in a stance reminiscent to superhero comics – wide, low, and like a dynamo. He scurries off to prepare Lysader’s outfit for the morning. Though, Lysander will inevitably make edits to the selection according to his own tastes.

When he finishes diagramming possible relationships between entities and parties, Lysander’s body begins to slump into the shape of least resistance as his energy wanes until it’s vapor barely keeping him awake. He tries to do more, to bring up a new page for extrapolation and conjecture, but he dozes off for a few scant moments.

During that time, Bram looses himself from the hand and floats off into Lysander’s comforter. He crawls along the ground and climbs up the chair until he drapes over Lysander’s form, two corners of the blanket conversing over his collarbone in an embrace. One reaches up, firmly nudges his cheek. “Sandy. Saaaandy, I think it’s time to go to bed, eh? C’mon.” And as Lysander’s eyelashes flutter, he numbly struggles against Bram’s attempts to pull him towards his bed.

“There’s still yet more that needs to be done before I sleep.” He murmurs, half sleep-drunk.

Bram doubles his efforts. “You still need to be awake for classes tomorrow, darlin’. It’ll be alright.”

Lysander considers grimly, “No, yes, I’ll be fine. Shh. I need–.” He murmurs as Bram continues his endeavors, “I will rest when this is all over, when you’re–. I just–. While I still draw breath…” He trails off.

Bram the blanket tightens, the shroud pressing deeply into Lysander’s lower back and waist. “I get you, I get you…”

A sob. “It’s not fair, Bram. That you–.”

Lysander feels fabric stroking at his cheek. “I know it’s not. I want to feel this as much as you want your goddamned justice. But please, don’t fuckin’ kill yourself. I knew what I was doing when I pushed you out of the way.”

Lysander shudders, eyes squeezing tightly shut. “Things will be made right.” He insists, toned as if he were contrasting the statement against a perceived contradiction.

Bram considers, then nudges again. “Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. But I’m here, Sandy, with you.” He wraps the ends around his neck and firmly squeezes. “I’m awful lucky for someone with sucker’s luck.”

Lysander heaves out a breath, squeezed out like a deflating balloon. After silence, he lumbers to a slovenly stand and zombies his way to his bed. “Thank you, Bram. You’re still my rock.” He collapses on the bed, and curls into his smallest shape.

Bram shadows over Lysander’s sinking body and clings to him, hard. “It’s what I’m here for. Love ya’, Sandy.”

Lysander clutches the blanket, hugs as tightly as he can. “I love you too, Bram. Good night, my dearest.”

“Good night, my darlin’.” Bram echoes

Then, finally, Lysander sinks deep into the waters of unconsciousness. Bram remains, keeping careful record of every crevice of his partner’s body. The hours before dawn are long, quiet, empty as they are every night. Until, at least, he finally slips back into the urn of ashes on the shelf with the sunrise.

When Lysander wakes up, he remembers the shadow of his late night exchange with Bram. As he settles exactly into the clothes Bram picked out for him, he considers the act of existing as its own intrinsic exertion of power.

#my writing

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ringsofsaturn-heatofmars-blog · 5 years ago

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Thinking About Samuel Arredondo Kim on 7/17/19

We wanted to share a quick story with you. A story about two people on different sides of the world, with different mother tongues, who share compassion for the same subject. In fact, it’s deeper than that, because the “subject” isn’t a subject. It’s a person.

It’s Samuel Arredondo Kim, a seventeen year old boy who’s incredibly talented in music and bringing a smile to your face. He’s a previous contestant on Produce 101, turned solo artist. Even if you don’t know Samuel or you just don’t care for him, we would appreciate it if you would take a moment or two to read this and hear our thoughts about recent events regarding Samuel.

Mars: Also, dude... I think I have an idea for our first posting on Safe With Us. Do you know Samuel, the solo artist from PD101? His father was just murdered. And people are making jokes about it. I think that'd be something we could really speak out about and make some type of stand for. It's not right at all, and I've been crying for the past 10 minutes.

Saturn: What? Oh my God, I didn't check the news.. that's horrible. And yeah, I think we should speak out about it and stand by his side. I'm speechless.

Mars: Poor kid... He's only seventeen. I know first hand the changes that a death in the family has on a person and I'm just... Wow. As you said, speechless.

Saturn: I'm disgusted that people actually joke on it. I lose faith in humanity knowing there's people like that. I know that too and I wanna hug him. He didn't deserve it.

Mars: Precisely. There is something to be said about people who make light of it... We should definitely give thought to what we'd like to say about it, and then we can post it to the blog.

Saturn: Of course. I'm still speechless but we can collect our thoughts and write them down. I hope people who make light of it never get the same treatment and lost someone dear to them. How can they joke about someone's death? And for which reason? Samuel is a kind, talented, hardworking, and precious guy and someone MURDERED his father. And they joke about it. It's disgusting. Humanity? No, people like that don't deserve this title. This is something I really want to say. I hope Seventeen are near to him right now since they saw him grow up.

Mars: I hope so, too. You know... I feel like this is actually a great way to phrase the whole thing. The way you and I talk to each other? It's comfortable and real, so it may be the best way to phrase it. Just talk to each other and put that to virtual paper.

Saturn: I think it IS great. We are always carefree while talking to each other and use this a way to talk to other people is a great idea. Since I haven't saw their joke on this, can you tell me what they have said?? Just to "understand" what kind of problem there's into these people's "brain".

Mars: They said stuff like, "Maybe if Samuel's dad had stanned *insert name* he wouldn't have been killed/wouldn't have died". It's like... It was (reportedly) a HOME INVASION, for goodness sake! His little sister—whom he adores—could've easily gotten seriously hurt or killed herself. It's terrible to joke like that. It's a death of someone; a human being. It should be treated with respect and support for the Arredondo family.

Saturn: Are they fucking serious? Are they fucking joking like this? For what? A fucking group? I'm not blaming the group of course, but these people took it too far. Joking like this.. it's disgusting. Of course if I stan a group I will be immortal, OF COURSE. no one could touch me, because yeah I stanned the right group! My god, their minds.. I can't believe it. They're so childish, ignorant, and rude. I just wanna slap their faces right now. I think people don't care anymore about others, about human being itself. It's just "yeah I'm better than you, lol". Seriously, I hope Samuel and his family are getting the right comfort in this moment.

Mars: Agreed. It's a disheartening situation, for sure. Sometimes, I just wonder how people can be so cruel. I wonder how they don't realize the impact their words have. Especially on the internet! That foot print lasts forever! It'll always be floating around somewhere in the world, and someone will stumble on it again and again. Even if they end up regretting their words, they'll never escape it now. Those words—regrettable or otherwise—are here to stay now, and they can't stop the consequences. This is where the phrase "think before you speak" comes in, people!

Saturn: You know what? They do realize the impact but simply they don't care. Humanity is losing too much. Their humanity, their reason, their hearts. It really scares me if I can be honest. People are cruel, period. They like it, that's the fact. They like insult others to feel better. They LOVE to put shit on others you know why? Because in that way THEY FEEL superior. I feel disgusted. They don't even know that phrase dude, they're dumb as fuck.

Mars: It certainly does feel like that, but I think that's why what we're trying to do is so important. We've gotta show that humanity still has some kindness and sense. We have to show that not EVERYBODY'S first instinct is to judge. I think being some of the few people in the world that care to give support and comfort to someone, even a stranger, is a really important thing. As you've said before: "We're important", so let's do something good with it, yeah?

Saturn: I couldn't phrase this in a better way. You summarized my thoughts and you're right, we need to show there's still someone who really cares about people and others' feelings. I believe that if we can step a little maybe others will follow our steps, I hope so. We have to do our best and we're to do it.

So, the best way to summarize is: compassion is a universal trait which many people nowadays decide not to use. It’s a sad, disheartening thing. If you’ve made it to the end of this, it would be a wonderful thing if you could become one of the people who exercises compassion. Be comfort in the smallest of ways. The world will get a little prettier that way, we like to think.

Maybe you think so, too.

#samuel #samuel kim #samuel arredondo #kpop scenarios #kpop music #kpop reactions #mars&saturn #mars #saturn #lets talk #lets chat #kpop fluff #reaction

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makeste · 6 years ago

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BnHA Chapter 027: The Ol’ Run and Float

Previously on BnHA: Deku won the obstacle course and made All Might proud while pissing everyone else off. Midnight announced that the second event would be a cavalry battle. The kids were told to team up in groups of 2 to 4, and that each team’s captain would wear a headband with a point value based on how that team’s members placed in the obstacle course. Deku found out he was worth ten million fucking points.

Today on BnHA: Midnight explains the rules of the cavalry battle. U.A.’s first years set out to assemble their teams. Bakugou doesn’t fucking know who any of these people are. Iida wants in on this rivalry thing too. Deku gets off to a shaky start, but actually manages to assemble probably the best team out here, thanks in large part to its abundance of girl power, but also because my bird bro Tokoyami decides to get in on this as well.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 51 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

new volume cover!! lots of kids this time! twelve of ‘em!

we’ve even got that steampunk girl. SHE DOESN’T EVEN GO HERE

this is the calmest that Bakugou’s face has been on a cover yet, I think. he’s even letting Kaminari lean all over him. he still doesn’t know how to smile, but at least he’s looking at the camera, unlike Todoroki up there in the corner

and we’ve got Ochako up there in the top left! KICK SOME ASS OCHAKO

Deku looks pretty happy and doesn’t appear to be fearing for his life, so we can confidently assume that this picture wasn’t taken during the sports fest! ahahaha

“the boy born with everything” hmm that sounds like Todoroki to me. could be Bakugou too I suppose, but right now I’m leaning more toward the kid who hasn’t had much development yet and whose mystery dad seems like he might be introduced shortly

I freaking love that... [checks the handy dandy character guide] Hagakure is on the inner cover cheerleading with these two

(ETA: I can’t believe such a cute fucking page was so ruined for me with context.)

okay I skipped past the characters cuz I already know who they are, and definitely skipped past that chapter index. here we go

seems pretty fucked up to me. do they have twists like this every year? if yes, then why do the kids who’ve watched it religiously since childhood (i.e. Deku) not anticipate that and maybe just shoot for top 5 rather than #1?

well Deku, you’re just going to have to continue to be just that damn good, I guess. you’re screwed otherwise

even Ochako omg

he’s still thinking to himself that it was just dumb luck that he came in first. by my reckoning it was actually ridiculously quick and adaptive thinking, more than a little cleverness, no small amount of physical strength and endurance, and a reckless disregard for his own safety bordering on the insane! but sure, call it luck

wonder where all of that GARRRRR energy has gone now. it’s like he was running at 300% for that entire event, and now all of a sudden he’s run out of batteries

okay here we go, some detailed rules

that’s going to be a lot of zeroes for Deku’s team

glad they designed the headbands to fasten with velcro so that these kids don’t go snapping each other’s necks

and apparently once someone grabs your headband, they’ve got to put it on and wear it themselves, so as long as time’s not up, you still have a chance to get it back

so then Deku won’t necessarily be the main target the entire time. ooh, this changes things. I like this game now

that little shithead Mineta might be a problem if his team utilizes his stupid grapes

and Tsuyu could potentially just use her tongue and be snatching up headbands left and right

apparently they’re allowed to use quirks, but not allowed to maliciously attack teams “with the intent of making them fall.” well what are the rules then. is that basically just a “don’t kill each other” rule and aside from that everything still goes? this opens the gates for some inconsistent refereeing. but I suppose these games are just an exhibition match to show off anyway, so as long as everyone gets to do that, it doesn’t matter as much who actually wins or loses

unless your name is Bakugou Katsuki and you went up on stage in front of a hundred thousand people and were all “it’s me I’m the winner”

or if you’re Todoroki “dad is watching and I just made Deku my rival fifteen minutes ago, so I don’t want to lose to him” Shouto

or Midoriya “dad is watching and I promised him I’d tell the world I AM HERE” Izuku

then you’re probably more invested in winning

so should be interesting

(ETA: actually, getting into the round of 16 really did make a difference in terms of who got drafted afterwards.)

time to start forming teams!

Deku already seems to know who he wants!

Tsuyu or Ochako, Deku. either is good. both are even better

Iida’s also fast! and loyal! (ETA: HAHAHAHA) but the second that fucker gets distracted, his weird hand gestures will get you dropped on the floor right quick

Bakugou and Todoroki would NEVER!! so let’s not even bother with that

Sero is another one like Tsuyu that would probably be really good at snatching bands

anyways, enough with the hypotheticals, let’s scroll down and see who this thoughtful young man actually decides on

heyyy. booooooo we’re cutting to the security staff

they don’t seem to be doing a very good job

wow. these guys are kind of the worst

“drag others down.” what a cynical fucking take

now they’re talking about how the cavalry battle teaches cooperation. well no shit, just like literally any team exercise ever

these are the most demotivational superheroes I’ve ever seen. the complete fucking opposite of All Might. no wonder he was so desperate to find someone with the right attitude to be his successor

WOW CHECK OUT MISTER POPULAR OVER HERE

OH NOW Y’ALL LIKE HIM, HUH. I WAS HERE FIRST

he seems to have someone else in mind maybe?

wow

“WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE”

wow Bakugou. wow. I may not know all of their names yet, but at least I know... two of their quirks

-- and actually I do know their names! Sato, Hagakure, and Mina! wow! guys! I did it!!!

meanwhile All Might’s up in the stands with his own hot fresh takes on Bakugou, which mainly consist of “he may be a jerk but he sure is talented and that sure does make him popular.” yep. are you proud. he’s still our son, All Might

Todoroki already picked a team while Bakugou was standing there trying to figure out what everyone else’s quirks even are and what exactly is this mysterious “teamwork” thing anyway

luckily he has a good friend who mysteriously loves him for some reason!

even though Bakugou doesn’t even remember his name sobbbbb

to be fair, I sure took a long hecking time remembering it myself

Kirishima is pointing out that he’s the best fit since his quirk allows him to take whatever explosions Bakugou dishes out

wow they really are compatible. this seriously could take over as my main ship, were it not for the fact that Deku has so plainly been in love with Katsuki since he was three years old

but even so! like, I’ll just nab this little KiriBaku tugboat, maybe, and let it puff along next to my main ride

incidentally, Bakugou doesn’t even know what Kiri’s quirk is

and Kiri DOESN’T EVEN SEEM TO MIND ANY OF IT

“Bakugou who should you ride?” “idk someone with a death wish cuz I sure fucking will blow them up you can be sure of that” “no!! me!!!”

that’s the pure kind of unconditional Yamamoto-esque love that can withstand whatever pain and hardship life decides to dole out. good shit

so who’s he gonna pick as his final teammate then

guess who doesn’t care who Mineta picks. me

Shouji if you agree to team up with Mineta you will be cancelled by association until the end of this challenge. it’s not your fault, it’s just the way things are

DEKU WHY ARE YOU STILL STANDING THERE. YOU SEEMED LIKE YOU HAD A PLAN. THAT’LL FUCKING SHOW ME TO ASSUME YOU WOULD EVER TAKE THE INITIATIVE IN LITERALLY ANY KIND OF SOCIAL SITUATION

so then. you’re either stuck with the most desperate peeps, or your loyalest most dedicated besties

eh, I fail to see how punching something really hard one time and then having your body fall apart would inspire faith, though. please note that your fellow classmates, who have seen your quirk, are still avoiding you

oh! I see a “Deku” speech bubble though! only one non-Kacchan person here who calls him that! :D

LOOK AT YOU LUCKING OUT OVER HERE DEKU

this was seriously one of his best prospects to begin with. her quirk would help a lot when it comes to avoiding people, and with him having the highest point value to start with, they don’t really need to go after other people’s points

so if he’s teaming up with her, then Iida is definitely the best choice for a third teammate. they work well together, and I guarantee no one else has offered to team up with him yet lol. just gotta watch out for those hand gestures like I said

but before we get to that let’s just appreciate Deku’s meme face

is this face a meme. if not, my question is how could it not be

yesss. it’s all coming together now. THE OL’ RUN AND FLOAT

now they’re in the huddle and Deku’s explaining the ol’ run and float plan

but interestingly, he doesn’t intend to be the rider? he wants someone physically strong? well there are a few options then, but honestly there isn’t anyone else here who’s actually stronger than you bud

WOW now Iida’s suddenly deciding to be a spoilsport?!

YOU CAN REFUSE MY FOOT IN YOUR ASS YOU TREASONOUS CAD. A POX ON YOU IIDA!!!

apparently he’s decided to make Deku his rival too. EVERYONE, RIVALS. HE HAS ENOUGH RIVALS!!!

“ever since the entrance exam... I’ve been losing to you” well then sure as hell don’t expect it to stop now

he’s teaming up with Todoroki. wow. wow, Iida. you wanna be cancelled too because this is how you get cancelled

I’m not actually mad in all seriousness though, I just gotta protect my sweet Green Tsuna here who apparently has no Gokuderas to fall back on except for Ochako, that beautiful, rule-breaking moth

does the math actually work out so that there’s gotta be at least one person left for him to team up with?

dammit who’s it gonna be

OOOOHH

IT’S THE SMART STEAMPUNK GIRL FROM THE SUPPORT COURSE. I LIKE THIS! SHE’S A WILD CARD. GET IN HERE SUPPORT COURSE GIRL

HATSUME MEI YOU BEAUTIFUL TALENTED BRILLIANT POWERFUL MUSK OX

she says she wants to team up with him so she can be in the spotlight. see, this is what all these kids are forgetting. it’s not really about the points, it’s how well you show off what you’ve got

and she apparently wants to show off “her babies.” her inventions, I’m guessing

PLEASE JOIN US AND BE OUR WINRY ROCKBELL. BE OUR USOPP, MEI

SHE HAS JETPACKS. DEKU!!! DO IT

aww. Ochako don’t be jealous. he needs you, you’re the MVP even if no one else here knows it yet

okay so they’ve got three again. but Deku still seems to think they need one more person

“our formation’s just lacking some power...”

off he goes

who else are you gonna sweet talk into this group Deku

I should probably make a guess so that I can either brag afterwards, or laugh about how wrong I was

he keeps saying power. but most of the obvious 1-A powerhouses are already taken. Sato seems pretty tough, though, and there’s also that rock guy who is like the only guy left in the class who hasn’t done shit. and I think Tsuyu might still be available and she’s a dark horse IMO. my money’s either on her or Rocky Road

okay, this Viktor-looking guy has been making faces and mugging the camera this entire time, and now it looks like he’s actually gonna get a bit of focus here

and he’s acting like class B hung back on purpose. sure, okay. do your thing then; just don’t expect me to learn twenty more names when I only just got done with this first group after 27 fucking chapters

we’d better see who Deku picked before this ends or it’s a waste of a cliffhanger

oh good there’s one last two-page spread

Deku ended up as the rider after all huh

I FORGOT ALL ABOUT HIM! NOW I FEEL DUMB. HE’S FUCKING PERFECT, AND HE ACTUALLY AGREED TO JOIN THEM! TOKOYAMI, FROM THIS POINT ON YOU SHALL BE KNOWN AS “NEW IIDA”

THE SHADOW THING IS GONNA BE SO OP OMG. LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOO

BONUS:

“steampunk-related things” they didn’t even pretend

I’m glad Horikoshi made so many interesting female characters and went against his initial instinct to make several of them guys. class A only has six girls out of 20 people total, so it’s not quite balanced, but it’s better than there being like. four girls. and they’ve all got heaps of skill and talent, and varied and interesting personalities

so the support course peeps are basically the Tony Starks of BnHA

I am so down with this. go on and befriend Deku and make him all sorts of cool shit later on and further enrich the series with your general presence, Mei

#bnha #boku no hero academia #makeste reads bnha #lots of people in this one #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #uraraka ochako #iida tenya #hatsume mei #tokoyami fumikage #I already forgot that class B kid's name again #I remember his copycat quirk but no idea what he's called #and tbh I can't be bothered to look it up again lol

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urfavmurtad · 7 years ago

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What advice do you have for someone who just became an ex-muslim and feels life makes no sense without Islam because that's what the indoctrination said? I feel so hopeless and it feels life makes no sense. I don't know where to start from.

Aw anon this is a depressing ask but I get what you mean. I talk like a hardass on here sometimes but I did have moments when I felt like that as a kid. There was a time in my childhood that I did buy into all of it, and there was a time when I fully believed that going down the “questioning” path would seriously lead straight to hell, in the literal sense. That was a while ago, but imma try to put myself back in that mindset as I answer this for you.

First thing: your life has meaning without Islam. The majority of the world’s population is not Muslim and they manage to find meaning in their life easily enough. Our teachers may have taught us that life is pointless without it, but it ain’t. You have to simply force yourself to accept that.

The second thing you gotta do is build up a moral/value system that does not rely upon Islam (or religion in general if you are so inclined). You are a good person. You have good values. You can still keep all those values, including ones that you associate with Islam, without buying into the faith as a whole. Parts of Islam as an ideology are off-putting and tbh, genuinely bad. But that doesn’t mean that if the Quran says “be nice to orphans”, you gotta stop being nice to orphans just because you left Islam. Keep the good things you were taught, get rid of the bad. Start there. If you can’t tell how you feel about a certain topic–like views of homosexuality or women in leadership roles or something of that nature–try looking at it outside the lens of Islam. Ask yourself, is this thing objectively bad, or have I just been taught that it is?

Once you get a fairly good feel for where your system of morals stands, I guess then you can try to re-build your religious/spiritual life on your own terms, if you want. I am an atheist, but if you wanna believe in some creator god? Or some general spiritual force? Or even another religion? If you wanna believe in some sort of heaven but not a hell? All that is fine. Whatever makes sense to you. It’s nobody’s business but your own. I personally do not find any fulfillment in any of that kind of thing, but there’s no reason why you can’t.

Here’s another thing: if you ever do openly leave Islam, as in leave the “ummah”, there is something you need to keep in mind, and it’s a sense of belonging. I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to have a community and a social support network. Tbh I think that’s one of the main draws of any religion, not just Islam–easy access to people who see you as One Of Their Own and will help you out when you need help, whether it’s emotional or financial or w/e. But it’s not an unconditional relationship, no matter how much people pretend it is… if you openly no longer believe, you are no longer One Of Their Own. So when you leave a religion, even if you’re still in the closet, it’s super important to find a replacement for that sense of community.

And maybe that sounds too formal, idk, but I just mean… having good friends who understand your situation, having people who are not religious around you, being involved in some sort of club or organization, anything like that. One thing that’s really helped me feel happy and fulfilled these past couple of years is pushing myself past my comfort zone regarding stuff like that. I was a little shy in high school, I had like 3 good friends and hated socializing with ppl I didn’t know lmao but then I realized… if I don’t start forcing myself to meet new people, I’m never gonna expand my social circle, and I’m gonna be stuck with the same religious friends (they aren’t bad friends!! It’s just I know they wouldn’t approve of my Life Choices™️) forever. So I joined a few clubs at school and forced myself to go to the meetings and actually talk to ppl and make friends. I started doing a lil charity work (not a Muslim charity) and met a bunch of really sweet ppl who are so nice to talk to. I even joined an all-girls exercise group at the school gym and I am NOT a gym rat lol. All of it has broadened my life so much.

It’s rly hard when you’re shy. Trust me, I know it firsthand. But u just gotta go for it!! Make close friends, get yourself involved in some groups, do work that makes you feel fulfilled. It eats away at a lot of the loneliness. If you feel like you’re making the world a better place even a tiny bit, it can ease negative feelings in general. I’m gonna assume that you’re around my age or younger, and if you’re anything like me, you had a lil depressive spell (or maybe you’re still going through it) when you really, seriously mentally checked out of Islam because you realized how much of your life and sense of identity was tied to it. Not to mention potential future issues with family, which tbh I haven’t really figured out myself yet 😅 (the plan rn is: stay closeted but build up a social network and financial independence while I’m in school, then cross that bridge when I come to it).

But just remember that you’re young af. I’m young af too. We have so much time to rebuild ourselves and find identities that do not revolve around the ideology of a guy who owned sex slaves tbh! Take a year or two or ten to figure out who you are and what you really believe in, separate from all the crap we’ve been taught. And always feel free to message me anon if you’re feeling down cuz sis (or bro), I’ve been there. Stay strong!! 💖 💖

#ask #anon #ex muslim

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Archenemy: Glenn Howerton On Menacing Joe Manganiello

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As eager comic movie fans wait for Marvel to roll out Phase Four, or for Wonder Woman 1984 to hit HBO Max; RJLE Films has a superhero sleeper of its own coming to screens on Dec. 11. Adam Egypt Mortimer’s Archenemy is the story of Max Fist (Joe Manganiello), a one-person crime fighting phenomenon, now powerless and sent to our dimension to live on the streets. Though Max’s homeless life might be bleak and muted, the film is full of colorful and outrageous characters. The larger-than-life menace that looms over Max is “The Manager”. A mustachioed, golden blonde Glenn Howerton (It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, A.P. Bio) brings this 21st century crime boss to life. Think of him as Michael Corleone, by way of Urban Outfitters.

Stepping into the shoes of an overbearing, take no prisoners, big bad is a new venture for Howerton. It didn’t deter him one bit though, as we learned in our exclusive talk with the actor about the difference between living with a character for 15 years (Dennis of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) to having to create a lifetime for one you only inhabit for a short shoot. What follows is our discussion with Glenn Howerton about bringing The Manager to life, and what it takes to create quality entertainment. Oh, and be sure to read Howerton’s thoughts on the Four Seasons Total Landscaping fiasco over here.

DEN OF GEEK: It’s always nice to see you do pretty much anything but it’s great to see you as this fun, out-of-the-box kind of villain.

GLENN HOWERTON: Thank you, I appreciate it. It’s so fun to play bad guys. I know every actor says that but it really is true, it’s just a chance to follow your worst impulses as a human being. It’s like you’re getting to exercise a part of yourself that you can’t in your normal life because you want to be a good person, hopefully.

Well I also feel like this is the kind of the character that you can also create a very large backstory for.

Yeah, for sure. I think it’s difficult when you get used to working in television because with a character, it would be easy to forget that the reason I know how to play Dennis so well (depending on how well you consider I play the character) is because I’ve gotten to live with this guy for 15 years. I also created the character, I wrote the character so I know that character inside and out. I know that if an improvisation were to break out I would know how to answer as Dennis. That’s how well I know the character, because I know how he would react in any situation.

With a film, you don’t have that luxury. Knowing what makes him tick, knowing what his buttons are…you want to know all that stuff so when you show up to the set no matter what gets thrown at you, you can react in character. I didn’t want it to feel like something that I’d done before so I spent a lot of time talking to Adam Egypt Mortimer. We spent countless hours talking about the character and thinking about it myself and just going over it, and over it, and over it, and over it. Which is not something I normally do, but it’s also not something I normally need to do, because most of my work has been in television.

This is also the type of film where you need a certain confidence in the filmmaker, or it’s going to end up on an episode of Paul Scheer’s How Did This Get Made? What gave you that faith in Adam, for all this?

I had faith in Adam for multiple reasons. One, I’d seen the movie that he made right before this, Daniel Isn’t Real, and loved it. I just thought it was beautiful. It was really moving, and horrifying, and scary, and real, and worked on multiple levels. Then just sitting down with Adam and talking to him about this, I was like, “This guy has a vision for this.” The way he talked about the movie, the way he talked about shooting it, the way he saw the script, the way he saw the world, the way he described it – this guy has definitely got a vision for this. It might be really strange and it might be really odd, but I like really strange and odd things. I didn’t get the impression that there was any world in which it was going to be bad.

Adam’s still technically an up-and-coming filmmaker. So it must be nice to work with someone who is at the point where he could really take chances.

I don’t understand where his confidence comes from. Because as you say, he doesn’t have a ton of films under his belt and we didn’t have a lot of time to shoot this movie, or a big budget to shoot this movie.

As a matter of fact, I’ll give you a perfect example. The very first day that I showed up to set, we were supposed to shoot a scene where we pull up, and we grab Hamster (Skylan Brooks), and throw him in the car. Skylan was super, super sick, and couldn’t show up that day. But we couldn’t afford to lose a day of shooting. So Adam, that morning or late the night before, wrote a whole new scene for me and Amy Seimetz to do.

If you’ve seen the movie it’s the scene where we’re sitting in the car, and we’re talking for a while and then at the end of that scene I go and bash Hamster on the head, and that was just Skylan’s stunt double. We had to conceive of something, pretty much in the moment. Then when we got the script on the day, Adam was like, “I don’t think this totally works,” and me and Amy sat and rewrote it. We really had to be on our toes. But I wouldn’t have been able to do that had I not known the character as well as I felt like I did.

We’ve seen you do action and something like a shootout before, but I’ve never seen you do it in such a smooth and kind of serious aspect. Do all those previous experiences meld into this or is it a different type of training you need to delve into?

I think it’s a product of a few things. I didn’t start out in comedy. I always did comedy, but I really started out down a much more dramatic path. So my approach to comedy has always been a little bit more like the Alec Baldwin approach. It’s really no less real when it’s funny, than when it’s a drama. It’s a really just a slight click of the dial one way or the other where that makes it funny, or serious. That can be kind of a thin line between the two. I’ve always come from a dramatic point of view like making the needs of the character, very, very real. It’s just that when you’re writing it or when the conceits of the character are so ridiculous, that’s what makes it funny – instead of doing some sort of goofy-ass performance.

Then to kind of click over into drama – I mean it’s definitely challenging and it was definitely scary. I think the scariest thing for me in doing something this dramatic was the fact that I’m not a menacing person in real life at all. I’m 155 pounds and Joe Manganiello is 200 pounds of pure muscle, six-foot-four, and audiences have to be able to watch the movie and go, “Joe Manganiello’s character has to be scared of that guy.” Or at least within the world of crime…I’m a crime boss I have to be intimidating to other criminals. That was a little scary for me because I haven’t been asked to do anything like that in a long time, but it was fun.

I gotta say, you definitely had the best running in a different direction while shooting behind you pose I’ve ever seen. It was very smooth.

That was one of those things where Adam asked me to do that and I was like, “Oh my god…” In my head it’s like I went back to being a kid and thought about watching you Die Hard or watching action movies and I was like, “Oh shit, I forgot I’ve always wanted to do that.” I’ve always wanted to do an action scene where I get to shoot a gun and run around doing action-y stuff. It was like playing and being a kid again. It was so, so fun.

During these pandemic times do you find yourself honing different skills like that on your own? Getting yourself ready for when things can return to normal.

I don’t know if other actors do this but I’m a little bit insane. When I read scripts, I often find myself acting them as multiple characters. Even if I’m watching a movie, and I’m by myself; I’ll pause and sort of take on the persona of the character. I’m getting very personal here, this is really nutty behavior for the average person. But as an actor, I really do kind of get off by climbing into the skin of somebody else and just getting to think a different way and behave a different way and I’ve always been obsessed with that ever since I was a kid. Just understanding the psychology behind how someone can behave the way they behave.

I talk about the pandemic as if the world seems to be shut down, but obviously you guys are still getting scripts and you’re still writing. For instance, has it led to any delays in the scripts for season 15 of Sunny?

No, it’s not, because Rob has been working on the second season of Mythic Quest. I’ve just been working on other things, developing other projects that I’m excited about, finishing a script that I’m writing with a writing partner. I’m mostly focusing on reading a lot and writing a lot and kind of studying the craft of screenwriting because I kind of fell into it.

I certainly didn’t have any training but when I’m writing I want to live up to … I take what I do very seriously. I don’t take it for granted that I’ve been offered the privilege of being able to write scripts, so I want to be good at it. I want to know what I’m doing. I don’t want other screenwriters who actually studied and worked hard to become screenwriters to look at what I do and go, “This guy’s just kind of sailing through it.” I want to be educated.

I mean that’s the way to do it right? Even when you consider something like, for lack of better term; slapstick. Doing it right means having the training behind it.

There’s of course nothing wrong with being naturally talented at something. There are a lot of naturally gifted actors who can just kind of do it. Or for whatever reason they’re just good at it. They didn’t have to go to Juilliard to get good at acting.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

That was Brando’s thing, right?

Yeah, and there’s nothing wrong with that. What I do have a problem with is if there’s a sort of an inability to acknowledge that it might be easy for you but it’s not just because the craft of acting is easy. I would also argue that you might be an extraordinarily gifted actor naturally without training, but you’re probably only good at one thing. You might be able to be really good at writing comedy but if you haven’t studied the art of screenwriting, you’re probably not going to be able to write a drama. Whatever you lack in terms of your knowledge of structure, you might be able to make up for a lot of that if you’re super super funny and you can write a comedy, but you won’t be able to do that if you’re writing something else. I like to do a wide variety of things. I like to write screenplays, I like to write TV, I like to work in drama and comedy. I like to work in a lot of different genres; so it keeps me on my toes.

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nookishposts · 7 years ago

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Weighting

If you’ve grown weary of mid-life navel-gazing and revelations, you can skip this one; I promise not to take it personally. Caveats are us.

I’ll soon be 56 and in general have found my 5th decade to be kinda neat. I finally appreciate all the menopause jokes first-hand, I’ve gotten better at saying “no” to things I don’t want to do, I’ve stopped feeling guilty about not being able to fix everything and stopped feeling responsible for other peoples’ happiness. Like most females my age, I was raised to compromise and keep the peace, to be a good neighbour and host, to avoid rocking the boat, and so on. Some of those lessons have stuck, others not so much, but a few of the qualities of older woman I have admired through the years are starting to show signs of appearing in me. And that is a good thing. Sometimes. Mostly. I think.

At this age, my bullshit tolerance has gone way down. I have discovered I can get to the point more quickly and still manage to be polite. Whiter hair means I get taken a little more seriously and I am not above using that; its nice to be the recipient of a seat offered on the bus instead of the one offering. I still stand for my elders but if there are youngers around I am content to let them step up first. Youngers expect me to say either wisely profound or naively stupid things and I enjoy mixing them up deliberately. Sometimes something comes out of my mouth that I don’t expect and I find myself thinking; “Hmph..not bad.” knowing I may not remember it tomorrow. A dicey memory has it’s advantages; I can summon a wide-eyed innocent face and hold it for at least 4 seconds before it's obvious that I’m lying. You gotta be quick.

It takes me longer to do most things, the days go by much faster than they once did, and if something has to give it may as well be the BS. The problem is that having learned not to give room to anybody else’s nonsense means I have also been forced to face up to some of my own. Damn, there’s always a catch.

I’m pretty active. I use my body a lot in some of the jobs I do and I am the labour force around the house as well. I have never been much of a runner (don’t enjoy it) and have been an intermittent cyclist (unpredictable knees), but could traditionally walk for miles with or without a dog, swim till my muscles turn to jelly, and dance until the wee hours. I go to the gym 2-4 times per week to do both treadmill and strength training. I volunteer regularly, usually in physical ways. I do yoga on and off, especially in winter. But I am 5 feet 5 inches tall and 275 lbs. (Not even my heaviest) My heart is really strong as are my muscles. But I have gotten away with too much for too long and the BS I feed myself needs to be re-portioned for better digestion and distribution.

The following statements are true:

I am broad shouldered

I carry a lot of muscle

I come from a long line of larger people, female and male

I know exactly how to eat well and exercise effectively. I even taught it.

The next statements are also true:

I avoid mirrors because the chassis does not reflect the sassy; it shocks me every single time I see myself outside of my own head.

I use a CPAP machine because of apnea, my weight prevents me from restorative sleep if I don’t.

I take a medication for pre-diabetes, another for blood pressure and a third for GERD

I rarely dance in public any more because it looks like there’s a litter of puppies squirming around my middle, in my back pockets, and under my chin.

I stopped playing guitar and singing in public because I physically cannot reach the fret board comfortably or breath well enough to hit the notes fully.

I am slowly losing the ability to do some of the things I love most.

So, navel-gazing (and critical thinker that I try to be) has shown me a few home-truths. Some but not all of my behaviours are learned. Think about how we use food to celebrate or punish: “It’s Christmas, have some more boozy fruitcake!”. “If you don’t behave yourself, you’ll get no dessert!” “Its a buffet, better get your money’s worth.” “ Clean your plate, other people in this world are starving.” We all heard and sometimes have perpetuated those messages. We are surrounded by Super-Sized everything, packaged for convenience and crammed with stuff our bodies don’t actually need much of.

And some of my behaviours are totally self-imposed. Tim Hortons cheese tea biscuits and a coffee on the way to work at least 3 mornings a week. Choosing potato chips over a handful of grapes. Not eating enough protein or drinking enough water throughout the day. Slouched in a chair with the laptop, reading nonsense articles. Having one more slice of pizza because I can. Fries on the side of anything eating out. Buttery toast at 9pm. The common denominator is that those choices are easy and fast. No thought, no planning, just unconscious cruise-control laziness. Satisfying the subterranean sugar miners.

I’ve known for years about emotional eating. Mum fed us when we were upset and when we had done well. Lean years meant inexpensive carbs that filled the belly; bread was the go-to, as were potatoes. Mine was the first generation to experience pre-packed, processed foods that meant less time in the kitchen. We were the fast food generation, feeling all modern and chic and powerful in our freedom to have anything on the menu. Those menus created some false expectations and some serious side effect habits hard to break. I have contemporaries who are addicted to diet soft drinks and lite cigarettes, all of them intelligent and capable people.

Raised to be a people pleaser, I learned early to swallow my negative emotions, stuff them down and drown them in something momentarily satiating. I also learned to feed others, to make sure they had plentiful choices and second helpings. I still enjoy cooking, hosting picnics and brunches, and I still over-do. Which means leftovers. Which must not be wasted. Becoming waist-ed instead.

And, like any child, I don’t like to be denied or told what to do, even by myself.

I was reading recently that we carry our heart-aches in the form of extra pounds around our middles., that we quite literally pad our hearts against hurt by insulating them in extra fat. I got thinking about it and realized that that rings some truth for me. I did not too badly until I got married in order to breathe life into an already troubled relationship. We’d been together a decade and it made sense to take that next step as a way of cleaning the slate with a public declaration. Lots of people have done it, and it seldom works. I lived with a person who did not hesitate to express volatile and complicated emotions but could not hear mine. She would graffiti the room in complaints and blame and walk away feeling ever so much better, but leaving the mess for someone else to clean up. Pointing it out, asking for accountability, disagreeing, only made things worse. I had neither the patience nor the courage to stand my ground and insist on equal space. But I developed literal guts by eating the frustrations that the situation left me with. I enabled her behavior and I enabled my own. The fatter I got the more she pointed it out and we both behaved badly in our own ways in response. So, in time and out of desperation, I ended the marriage and ultimately it was the kindest thing I could have done for either of us. But even that I had to do alone. She needed someone to blame and I just needed out.

But here we are all these years later and its only now at this age that I can understand and articulate all of that. I am in a much healthier and much more balanced partnership with someone who loves me for who I am , yet I am still distracting myself from fears and failures with dis-comfort food. The yelling is all internal. I am finally safe enough and loved enough and wise enough to address the real issue, which has always been mine. Its about courage. That’s the key I have come to understand that I am looking for.

There’s the kind of courage which will spur you to rescue a drowning person, pull a child from in front of a car, or march on government in a protest on behalf of human rights. There’s a kind of courage upon which we float our hopes for the inherent good in people eventually winning out against the world’s evils. I think I understand those ones, and can probably call on them as needed.

But the courage I seek is totally an inside job; its that nugget of risk deep in my fears that grows into the courage to change both habits and perspective. It’s the courage to believe that scarcity is unlikely to ever be an issue and it’s okay to not be stuffed beyond the ability to feel and move freely. Its the courage to fail, more than once, in the quest to do better. Its the courage to let go of those nasty looping messages in my memory banks, fed to me by those loved ones and collaterals fighting battles of their own with tools as dull and pointless as mine. Its the courage that understands perfection is not a real goal, but self-awareness and self-forgiveness, and self-appreciation are attainable once the self-loathing and shame are shed like the tired, prickly moth-eaten cloaks they always were. It will take a bit of faith, a bit of discipline, and the determination to just keep trying, no matter what, that even giving up is allowed to be temporary as well as a stepping stone.

I recently began a project of helping others to tell their stories. The biggest and most awkward gift in that process is that I also need to tell my own. Honoring the truth of my history as well as my dreams, knowing that some things can change and will, with or without me. I’d rather be part of making choices on a more realistic and balanced menu than remain a victim of the one I have advertised to myself up to now. With a side of compassion. Hold the B.S. please, I’m adulting.

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burclay · 7 years ago

Text

Be Held -- Chapter 5

“No one would think you were okay, B.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at Faith. “At least I’m cute.”

ao3 chapter 1

The dreaded Scooby meeting did come, of course. After Buffy showered, she brought her food outside to find Kennedy talking to Xander and Giles, and as she came closer, she could tell that they were talking about what to do next.

“What about Cleveland?” Xander was saying.

“If we replace the Watcher’s Council in England,” Giles answered, “we will be able to send Slayers to every Hellmouth there is.” He paused when he noticed Buffy. “Hello, Buffy.”

“Hey,” Buffy said, joining the circle. “Is this the part where we realize we can’t actually sleep for the next three years?”

“Looks like it,” Xander said.

“Where’s Will?” Buffy asked.

“Still asleep,” Kennedy said. “That spell took a lot out of her.”

“Where’s Faith?” Xander asked.

“In the shower,” Buffy said. “Probably avoiding this conversation.”

“Actually, I’ve already spoken with Faith,” Giles said. “I’ve asked her to take a role in educating young Slayers. We have no clue how many there are going to be, and some of them will be coming from difficult and dangerous lives.”

Buffy nodded. “Like Faith.”

“Exactly," Giles said. "We’re going to have to organize, however." He turned to Xander. "Which is why I feel that we should go back to England.”

“That’s why?” Buffy asked. “Nothing to do with how much you miss scones?”

“What’s a scone?” Kennedy asked.

“It’s a British thing,” Xander told her. “Like crumpets, or Queen Elizabeth.”

“I do not want to go back to England because I miss scones,” Giles protested. “Or crumpets, or Queen Elizabeth, for that matter. I simply believe that we will be able to make use of the Council’s extensive resources and the foundation that already exists.”

“Shouldn’t we spread out?” Buffy asked. “We need experienced Slayers everywhere, right?”

“You and Faith should stay central,” Giles said. “As the Slayers with the most experience, we will need you to teach younger girls, and perhaps to step in when things get dire.”

“I’ll go anywhere,” Buffy said. “I’ve gotten over the idea of being able to choose.”

“Your life is yours, Buffy,” Giles said. “Perhaps you should consider taking a break before we start reorganizing.”

“I can’t,” Buffy said. “Not with all these new girls. Maybe when the new Slayers have some experience. Faith can’t teach them all herself.”

“It wouldn’t be just Faith,” Kennedy said. “I mean, I don’t have much experience as a Slayer, but I know stuff, right? Lots of us know stuff.”

Buffy sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I would do.” She looked at Giles. “I think I have to stay with you guys. I hate it, but I have to keep going. I have to help.”

“So, is England definite?” Xander asked.

“Not necessarily,” Giles said. “We will have to speak with Willow first, and Faith. We haven’t had long to recover.”

“Think there are any vampires near here?” Buffy asked. “I think Faith’s getting restless.”

“Just Faith?” Kennedy asked.

“Slayer’s gotta Slay,” Buffy sighed. “Seriously, I would love to just be able to kick back and watch some bad movies or something.”

“Could do some group training,” Xander said. “Get all the girls together, teach them to use their strength.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Buffy said. “I bet Faith’ll be in.”

“In for what?” Faith’s voice came from behind Buffy, and a moment later her arm was snaking around Buffy’s waist. “You can’t be already making plans?”

“Just to do some group training with all the girls later,” Buffy said. “So we don’t all get too restless without anything to Slay.”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Faith said. “Girls won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“No hitting,” Xander said.

“You know what we do, right?” Kennedy asked. “It’s mostly hitting.”

“If we don’t do something to keep these girls active, there’s going to be hitting,” Buffy said. “Trust me, Xander. You want us to do this.”

“Plus, you know, lots of girls bouncing around,” Faith said. “Sounds like your paradise.”

Buffy stared at Faith. “Ew.”

“Seconded,” Kennedy agreed.

“Just telling it like it is,” Faith protested.

“Can we talk about something else?” Giles asked. “Anything will do.”

Kennedy grinned, looking over Giles’s shoulder. “Hey, Willow!”

Buffy turned her head, looking past Faith. Willow was walking towards them, looking far more chipper than anyone had the right to be.

“Hey, Ken, everybody.” Willow stepped around Buffy and Faith to get to Kennedy, putting her arm around Kennedy’s waist the exact way Faith had done to Buffy minutes before. Suddenly conscious of this, Buffy took an uncomfortable step away from Faith. She could feel Faith’s eyes on her, but she ignored it.

“We were just talking about what to do now,” Buffy said. “Since the big evil is gone and all.”

“What, no one new’s shown up yet?” Willow asked.

“I think we’re allowed a day off,” Xander said. “Just the one, though. We’ll be looking out for something coming at us tomorrow.”

Everyone laughed.

“Wow. When did that become funny?” Faith asked. “I mean, I knew I was messed up, but I thought the rest of you were okay.”

“Did you really?” Buffy asked, looking at Faith. “In your heart of hearts?”

“Yeah, good point.” Faith grinned a glorious grin at Buffy. “No one would think you were okay, B.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at Faith. “At least I’m cute,” she said, turning back to the rest of the group. “So, if we continue this conversation, are we going to come up with anything new?”

“Probably not,” Giles said. “But we all need to be thinking about the next step. I, for one, don’t want to stay in this motel much longer.”

“You got that right,” Faith said. “I give it one more night before the girls revolt.”

Buffy looked around. Most of the girls were in various rooms, but a few were in the parking lot, looking through shopping bags and chatting with one another.

“We should clean that up,” Buffy said, gesturing at the bags.

“We should keep the clothes in the bus,” Faith said. “In case the girls want them. Is it unlocked?”

“I don’t actually know that much about buses,” Giles said. “Can they be unlocked?”

“The driver’s got to get on somehow,” Xander said.

“I’ll figure it out,” Kennedy said, peeling away from the group. Willow went with her, holding her hand.

Buffy started grabbing shopping bags, hanging them on her arm. Faith followed, taking the full bags from Buffy and bringing them to the bus, which Willow and Kennedy had indeed gotten open. A minute later, all the bags were on the bus, and Buffy leaned against the yellow metal and pulled Faith next to her.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “And don’t say we have to watch bad reality shows anymore, because I think I’ll explode.”

“Think the room’s big enough to spar?” Faith asked.

“If you want to explain to the front desk that we killed their lamp, sure,” Buffy said. “I guess fights in the parking lot are frowned upon.” She looked around. “We really do have to get out of this motel.”

“We’ll find somewhere to go,” Kennedy said.

“Possibly England,” Willow added. “Lots of room in England.”

“Have you been there?” Faith asked.

“Yes, actually,” Willow said. “I spent a while on a very nice farm. There were horses.” She paused. “I’m actually not the biggest fan of horses. But it’s the thought that counts.”

“So,” Kennedy said, “what’s going on between you two? Because my lesbidar is tingling.”

��Your what?” Buffy asked.

“She’s making fun of me,” Willow said. “And being rude about things that are really none of her business.”

“It’s okay,” Buffy said, grabbing Faith’s hand. “Isn’t this the sort of thing I’m supposed to tell my best friend about?”

“Hey,” Faith said. “Don’t I get a say?”

“Sure,” Buffy said. “Say something.”

Faith looked at Willow. “I’m gay for your best friend.”

Kennedy snickered. “You ever need tips, let me know.”

“Tips on what?” Buffy asked.

Willow pushed Kennedy. “Stop it!”

Faith laughed. “Don’t worry about us, Kennedy. We’re doing just fine.”

“I need new friends,” Buffy groused. “Maybe even a new girlfriend.”

“Too bad,” Faith said. “You’re stuck with me.” She slung her arm around Buffy’s shoulders. “Chosen two, remember?”

Buffy looked around for Giles and Xander. She didn’t see them, so she let herself kiss Faith’s cheek.

“Can’t forget.”

She looked back to Willow and Kennedy, who were giving each other a decidedly knowing look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Willow said.

“I called it weeks ago,” Kennedy said.

“Faith wasn’t here weeks ago,” Buffy said.

“Feels like weeks,” Willow said.

“Fair enough,” Faith said.

“Do we get to do group training now?” Buffy asked. “I can’t just sit here.”

“I’m in,” Faith said.

“Me, too,” Kennedy agreed.

“Not for me,” Willow said. “I’m no Slayer.”

“You’re free to watch,” Kennedy said. “I’ll get the girls.”

Training with one Slayer had always been fun. Training with twenty Slayers was astounding. Twenty people, moving with power and synchronicity, all following Buffy and Faith, all drawing from the same energy, was beautiful.

“Imagine when we have hundreds,” Buffy murmured to Faith, forearms locked in a choreographed combination.

“Doubt we’ll have them all in the same place,” Faith answered, throwing Buffy’s arm to the side and kicking her. They each reset their feet.

“I think I like leading them,” Buffy said, attacking.

Faith blocked. “Me, too.”

Buffy kicked. “Good to hear.”

They reset their feet.

That night, Buffy was the good kind of exhausted, the kind of exhausted that came from safe exercise and not a fight to defend the fate of the world. She ate the food Giles had gone to get while they were training, and she took a good long shower, and then she pulled on a random T shirt and stretched out on the bed while she waited for Faith to do the same.

When Faith got out of the shower, Buffy was on her stomach and doodling on a notepad she had found lying around. She looked up at Faith, in a loose shirt and wet hair, and sat up, putting her doodle aside.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Never better,” Faith said, sitting next to Buffy.

“Really?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not saying much.” Faith sighed. “I just keep thinking about the girls who died, you know? All those Slayers. Their energy has power. But--”

“There could be more,” Buffy said. “I know.” She wrapped an arm around Faith and pulled her close. “That’s why it’s hard being in charge. Even when you save the world, you lose something.”

“Yeah. We should do something,” Faith said. “You know, for all those girls. A memorial.”

“We should. When we get settled we can put something together.”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence. Faith laid her head in Buffy’s lap.

“So what do you think about England?” she asked.

“I’m not wholly opposed to tea,” Buffy said, fingers twining through Faith’s hair. “I mean, Giles likes it, so I might as well try it.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s far from home,” Buffy said, “but home isn’t an option anymore.”

“You know,” Faith said, “we could hang out at Angel’s hotel for a bit. He’s chill, and he’s got rooms.”

“We should suggest it to Giles tomorrow.”

“I’ll call Angel in the morning.”

“Cool.” Buffy leaned down. “Has anybody ever told you how soft your hair is?”

“I don’t let them get close enough,” Faith said.

They stayed like that for a while, Faith’s head in Buffy’s lap, Buffy’s hands in Faith’s hair, until Buffy leaned over and turned out the light and laid down, pulling Faith to a more comfortable position. Suddenly, Faith rolled over to the other side of the bed, facing away from Buffy.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy whispered.

“I don’t know,” Faith’s voice said. “I’m not good with the hugging.”

In the darkness, Buffy could see her curled in on herself.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?” Faith asked.

“Not running.”

“It’s no big, B.”

But Buffy, rolling to face away from Faith, thought maybe it was a bigger deal than Faith would ever admit.

“Night, Faith.”

“Night, B.”

Buffy fell asleep quickly. She woke up to an empty bed and rumpled covers.

#myth-spoken #btvs #fuffy #writing #be held #i should probably post the first four chapters on tumblr

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jeonwhipped · 8 years ago

Text

The Arousing Nature of Shampoo Bottles

Pairing: Jihae (OC) & Jeongguk

Genre: slight smut, CRACK

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Jihae now remembers why she never listens to Jeongguk.

A/N: HELLO!! After so many broken promises of “I swear I’ll get it done today!” IT’S DONE!

A/N 2: this is actually a repost bc i was on tumblr mobile like 2 minutes ago and it turns out the “delete” button is dangerously close to where my thumb scrolls WHOOPS

Prompt: “Omg u should write Crack where u slip while having shower sex ahhaha”

They were known as the Notorious Fuckers around the friend group, meaning that they were pretty nondiscriminatory when it came to exactly where to have sex. The bed was almost solely for sleeping, so they utilized every other space in their apartment to do the fucking do. This is mostly thanks to Jeongguk’s ridiculous sex drive and his openness to trying new things, and the only reason why Jihae goes along with him is because he’s a great fuck, and always ensures she finishes, too. They also have incredulous conversations during their time together: sometimes Jihae will tell her girlfriends about a wonderful epiphany she had the other day, and when they ask, “what brought this on?” she shamelessly admits riding Jeongguk’s dick, talking about every kind of philosophy there was.

When I say “nondiscriminatory,” I mean, like, actually everywhere. Against walls, on the floor, the kitchen counter (this one was Jihae’s personal favorite), pressed against the glass sliding door overlooking the city, in public, for fuck’s sake …. You get the idea.

But there was also one other place they never tainted.

The shower.

Now, there’s a reason for this, too. In addition to all the things that could go wrong in the shower, Jihae thought of it as a sanctuary - the same idea as a bed. It’s good to have at least one place in the house that’s untarnished, right?

But you’re about to witness one of the few times Jihae complies to his wishes and regrets her decision immensely.

Surprisingly, their schedules are aligned enough where they both leave at the same time in the morning (around 7am), and neither of them have to wait too long before the other returns in the evening, too. And what perfect way to save a few bucks on their water bill than to shower together in the morning?

Today was no different. After her alarm rudely disrupts her deep sleep, Jihae dragged herself and an equally groggy Jeongguk into the shower, where she turned the water temperature to scalding and sluggishly stripped naked, Jeongguk following suit. She then shuffles over to the sink, where she blindly fumbles for their toothbrushes (how she’s able to navigate the house with her myopia amazes her boyfriend) and shoves hers own into her mouth after she places a hefty amount of minty toothpaste.

“What did you dream about?” she asks, leaning against the glass wall of the shower. Condensation is slowly working inside the enclosure.

“Hmm,” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eye. “That we all suspected Taehyungie was an alien trying to sabotage Earth. Like a spy. But when we went to perform some tests on him, it turned out that he was human. You think that means anything?”

She’s genuinely surprised at hearing this. “People aren’t always what they seem?”

“Or that Taehyung is hiding something,” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows. Noticing the growing humidity in the room, he opens the glass door and gestures her in. “Maybe he’s a bigger skank than the both of us combined.”

“Whaaaat, that’s practically impossible.” After he steps in with her, she swings the glass door shut. They both stand under the water for a few moments, continuing to brush their teeth. “Okay, maybe not impossible,” she admits, turning to face him again. “It could explain why he gets lost when you guys are traveling together. Or why he suddenly leaves the room sometimes.” She spits down the drain. “He comes back looking disheveled every once in awhile, no?”

“Are you suggesting he has secret hoes lurking in every corner of every building?” He laughs, mimicking Jihae to rid himself of the the built up saliva. He takes their toothbrushes and deposits them in the cup standing on the rack.

“Maybe! You never know,” she shrugs, suddenly reaching out to twist his nipple, earning a squeak from the male. “He’s probably the raunchiest of us all.”

“Topping us? No way. He probably has hoes, male and female, lined out his door. But in terms of raunchiness?” He returns her jab two-fold, sharply twisting her own breasts, one in each hand. “He’s no comparison to us. Which reminds me, actually.”

She slaps his hands away. “What.”

“Why haven’t we had sex in here before?” he asks nonchalantly, grabbing a shampoo bottle and squeezing the gel onto his hand. “Come ‘ere a sec.” Jihae takes a step closer to him so he can lather shampoo in her hair for her. “Think about it -”

“Because you’re getting a hard-on from the shampoo bottles, right? I know, Jeon. They’re enticing. But you must exercise self restraint.” Right as he opens his mouth to retort, she immediately cuts him off. “Look, I just think it’s nice to have one spot in the apartment where I haven’t sucked you off. Alright?”

He lathers the soap in her hair so much that it goes almost stiff molding her hair into silly shapes. “Then I’ll just eat you out until you come, like, thrice,” he giggles. Rising his hands from the soap, he grabs her apricot facial scrub from the soap stand.

“I think you missed my point.”

“Listen, noona. There’s many perks to shower sex. Close your eyes, please.” She obeys once he spreads the cleanser on her face. “One: it’d wake us up in the morning. You like being groggy in the morning, or what?”

Jihae’s sass is still sharp, even if his hands are all over her face and she can’t see anything. “I don’t like being crippled in the morning, thank you very much.”

Rolling his eyes, he gently guides her body into the water stream to rinse of her face first, then her hair. “You talk as if we’re gonna slip or something. Have some faith in me, will ya?” He uses his hands to wipe off the excess microbeads from her face. “Two: we’re already naked. Sure, it’d add probably another 20 minutes to our routine, but you’ve gotta admit, it’s pretty convenient. Turn, please.” She spins away, waiting for him to smooth conditioner through her long strands of hair. “And three: you always have a good time when you’re with me. What’ll be from all the other times?” He squeezes the conditioner onto his hand. “How about we try it out today?”

She almost gives herself whiplash turning her head around to glare at him skeptically. “Now?!”

Putting his fists to his face, he gives her the best aegyo he can without making her vomit, pouting his lips in the process. His eyes must have looked like a puppy’s, honestly. If this were an anime, he’d be gushing two-dimensional flowers right about now. “Please.”

Jihae narrows her eyes into slits, obliging. “Fine. Only if you promise me that if I don’t like it, then we must have table sex. Also if you stop your stupid rendition of moe.” She tosses one of her pinkies over her shoulder. “Deal?”

But even as he laces his pinkie with hers, murmurs “deal” near her ear, and plants a kiss just below her ear lobe, Jihae isn’t 100% convinced that this could end well. There’s so many things that could go wrong….but … fuck it, right? She trusts Jeongguk enough. Nothing terribly embarrassing happened during all the other times they had sex (well, excluding that time when they were getting frisky in their parked car, and Jihae accidentally leaned too far back and sat on the fucking horn for a few seconds, probably disturbing the entire complex), so, honestly, what could go wrong? Actually, don’t answer that.

“Hang on, Jeon,” she says, halting his trail of kisses by spinning around to face him fully again. “Fuck the foreplay this time.” Without warning, she wraps her hands around his neck, hops up, and folds her thighs over his waist. He barely has enough time to place his hand on her butt for support, and in surprise, walks forward until the cool tile is flush with her back, before she ground her groin against his.

“Oh my god, how long have you been hard!” Before he opens his mouth to respond, she jokes, “those damn shampoo bottles, isn't it.”

“Ugh, noona,” he complains, taking one hand off her bum to line his dick up with her entrance. “Keep talking and I’ll get soft again.”

She fucking cackles at this. “You were hard ever since you woke up. Now hurry u- ah -”

To put it simply, the stretch is a bit much. Maybe she shouldn’t have fucked the foreplay, honestly. Water wasn’t a great lubricant, either. But she thought she could do it - with how often they have sex? Like, Jeongguk should have been able to sheathe himself in her with no problem. AND had room to spare.

But she overestimated her capabilities, much to her dismay. As soon as he pushes forward just a centimeter, the friction became unbearable, and she holds flings her hands out to brace against his massive shoulders. “S-sorry. I - it hurts. I miscalculated. Bad judgement. I’m sorry. I should have just -”

“Let me eat you out, right?” he finishes, then smiles a shit-eating grin. “It’s not too late -”

“No, no,” she cuts off. “Too much extra work and positioning. Can you - can you just talk dirty to me or something? Maybe the juices will start flowin’.”

“Of course.” He clears his throat and looks her dead in the eye with a seriously sultry expression. “With a great dick comes great responsibility.”

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

“Did you just use a pick-up line on me?”

His incredulous look is incredulous. “What! You said -”

“I know what I said. But - god. Never mind!” she whines. “Put me down. You’re no help! I’ll just finish by myself.”

“What!” He’s so surprised that he accidentally leans forward entering Jihae even further. It feels like she’s being ripping in two, it hurts so much. Although he immediately apologizes when he sees her wince, he’s still disgruntled by how their sexy time turned out. “But I always let you finish, Jihae-noona!” He pouts a very convincing pout. “Don’t do this to me.”

“I don’t want to touch your dick right now. Slip out, damn you.”

He runs a frustrated hand through his wet hair but doesn’t budge, even as Jihae squirms in every which way. “What are you even going to get off to?! I’m right here, for fuck’s sake!”

“You want honesty?” She taunts, stilling. “I could come right here and right now with just the thought of Park Jimin, with his newest dance routine in a blindfold -” For emphasis, she clenched around the few centimeters inside of her, making Jeongguk splutter. “And his recently dyed black hair -” she closes her eyes and scrunches her face like she’s about to cry. “True art,” she weeps, a few tears escaping from the corner of her eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re actually crying. Over a boy who doesn’t even know you exist! I’m out.”

But Jeongguk forgot that the only thing keeping Jihae suspended was himself, and the wall behind her. So when he removes his hands from her butt and steps back completely (and slipping out of her, too), it takes all but half a second for . . .

“FUCKING HELL!” she yelps as she crashes ass first onto the wet porcelain floor with nothing to break the impact.

And Jeongguk’s actually like struck with how irresponsible he is. You had ONE job, kiddo, but look what you did.

Sadly, though, the only person Jihae has to be angry at is herself. Whatever possessed her to actually listen to Jeon Jeongguk has only made the most plausible outcome a reality. What was she expecting? Something romantic and hot?

Thank the fucking lord he has enough tact to shut the water off, sweep her up bridal style from the ground, kick the shower door open, and seat her on the sink. After retrieving her towel and gently drying her and himself off, he hauls her over his shoulder, stalks over to the bedroom, and lays her down easily, supporting her head as it meets the pillow.

“I’ll call the school today,” he murmurs, tucking the blankets over her naked body. “Tell them that you -”

“Fractured my dignity?”

He smiles apologetically down at her. “I’m sorry, Noona. I’m sorry for dropping you.” Kneeling on the floor, he digs under the covers until he finds one of her hands with both of his, squeezing it reassuringly. After leaning down and kissing the lump created by their intertwined hands, he asks, “How can I make it up to you?”

Her response is immediate. “Table sex after I’m able to walk. I think I genuinely busted my ass, Jeon.” She roll to the other side of the bed to make room for him, wincing all the while. “And if we go the fuck back to sleep, please.”

Without hesitation, he flings the covers up and quickly slips under them, arms wrapping around her frame and pulling her back to his chest. After placing a delicate peck on her temple, he mutters, “I just wish you slipped on my dick instead -”

Too worn out to even glare at the male, Jihae opts to ignore the remark and slowly closes her eyes instead. “That’s the last time I’m listening to you and your goddamn ideas.”

Jeongguk’s nose crashes into the nape of her neck and nuzzles it. “Even if I suggest table sex?”

After a beat of silence, she sighs, “You are so lucky you’re a good fuck,” but opted out of adding on to her sentence, “excluding the scene we had just four minutes ago.”

a/n: thank u for taking time to read this mess lmao. have a gr8 day lovelies

#writing #jungkook #jungkook scenario #jungkook fic #jeongguk #jeongguk scenario #jeongguk fic #crackfic #i had ten whole notes before it got deleted so lets see how many more i can get #i guess???#should i tag this as bts??

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