#it's more than ok. it makes sense. rage is the proper response to the current reality.

[louderfade]

what we need mental health services to offer is an anger room. where you can go to just scream and break things. like stock it with 20 bucks worth of cheap plates and let patients smash the shit out of them. howl and pound on the walls until they're relieved/satisfied. maybe THEN when my mind is cleared of negative electricity we can discuss the sources of the suffering. like when i did equine therapy (which is the only therapy that ever helped me) they leave you all alone with the horses for an hour and then at the end you verbally process for five minutes. when you're at peace and thinking clearly. smashing objects is a great way to achieve clarity of thought. i speak from years of experience. just ask the holes in my walls.

[goodfish-bowl]

@floralflowerpower here’s the fic you asked for, took me a bit but I think it turned out pretty well! 

based on this post and this headcanon

Summary: Danny had to admit, he’d never thought something like this would happen. Usually, the roles were reversed, and he’d be the one bursting in through warehouse doors, guns blazing, ready to kick some ghost butt. Never thought he’d be the one dangling precariously close to a large vat of somewhat familiar bubbling ectoplasm, while the stereotypical villain paced near the lever that would drop him to his doom. That made him the damsel in distress, a concerning idea. 

 Words: 3530 

Danny had to admit, he’d never thought something like this would happen. Usually, the roles were reversed, and he’d be the one bursting in through warehouse doors, guns blazing, ready to kick some ghost butt. Never thought he’d be the one dangling precariously close to a large vat of somewhat familiar bubbling ectoplasm, while the stereotypical villain paced near the lever that would drop him to his doom. That made him the damsel in distress, a concerning idea.

Normally, this wouldn’t be concerning, but he couldn’t phase through the chain that was wrapped around him enough times he resembled a cocoon rather than a hostage. It must’ve come from the Ghost Zone, with the light glow emitting from the mental links and the lack of burning pain associated with anti-ghost coatings and ectoranium. At least he bought local. He liked the energy coming off of the surprisingly large container of ectoplasm, radiating a glow and mist that bathed everything he saw in green, even less than the idea of being chained upside-down over said vat. He didn’t want to find out why.

Who was this loser anyway? The ghost lawyer? He’d never seen, heard, nor smelled this ghost in his entire half-life. His navy suit contrasted awfully with his green skin, violet eyes, and mint-green hair, and those red shoes definitely didn’t match any of it. What a lame villain, couldn’t even dress himself properly.

“Hey! Looser!” Danny called out, and the lawyer ghost perked up.

“Splendid! You’re awake! It would’ve been anticlimactic if you stayed unconscious,” the ghost remarked.

“Should’ve stayed unconscious, it would’ve kept me from having to witness your crime against fashion. Who are you and how’d I get here? Last I checked you didn’t ask me if I wanted to hang out?” Danny quipped.

“I am Wright, a ghost of due process and order, and your darling Valerie Gray has thwarted me for the last time! I boyfriend-napped you to draw her here! Your doom will serve as her punishment,” Wright exclaimed, like a looser.

Danny just stared at the ghost for a minute as his head attempted to wrap around what was going on, and hanging upside down, wrapped in chains, didn’t help.

“’Boyfriend-napped? Seriously? That’s not even a word, and Val and I stopped dating, like, a year ago!” Danny pointed out.

“Irrelevant,” Wright huffed, ”You still hold her affections, and your death will cause her the same grief she caused me.”

Danny scoffed, “What’d she do to you anyways? She shoots at all the ghosts, you’re not special.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew about her… nightly activities,” Wright stated, and Danny gave him a look.

“Ok, let me get this straight, who am I to you?” Danny asked, confused. Most ghosts were aware that Valerie was the Red Huntress, and Wright had yet to make a remark about having “captured Phantom”.

“Daniel Fenton, the son of the infamous ghosthunters Madeline and Jack Fenton of Amity Park, and the former sweetheart of Valerie Gray, the Red Huntress,” Wright announced.

“Right, ok. What do you know about Phantom?”

“I hold great admiration for the protector of Amity Park! He goes through the process of capturing ghosts with efficiency and never acts without just cause! He’s a powerful ghost worthy of the titles bestowed upon him! He valiantly defends both his haunt and the people who live there, both human and ghost! Truly a pillar of order and process!” Wright gushed and Danny fought the urge to roll his eyes, ”What does this have to do with you, however?”

Danny frowned, fighting off the reflex to claim Amity wasn’t his haunt, but his home. The praise was appreciated, but he really didn’t understand why this ghost held him so high. He was more surprised by the fact that this ghost didn’t know that Phantom and Fenton were the same damn person and that he had just kidnapped someone he held in such high regard.

“What do you mean by ‘order and process’?” Danny asked, just to get a proper definition as to what this poorly dressed lawyer was on.

“He properly maintains a level of organization and protection in Amity Park, protecting the order and in every single fight plays out how it’s supposed to be. A trespasser with malicious intentions shows up, Phantom arrives shortly, they banter and fight, Phantom emerges victorious, and the trespasser is removed from the premises, thus process. Does that make sense to your feeble human mind?” Wright chastised, explaining himself carefully.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Well, aren’t you a ghost ‘trespassing’ in Amity Park? Doesn’t that mean Phantom will he show up to save m, tossing you back into the Zone?” Danny bluffed.

“But we’re not in Amity Park, I may have boyfriend-napped–“

“Please never say that word again.”

“-you from there, but that’s not where we currently are. Red Huntress operates out of Elmertown, and I would never infringe upon Phantom’s haunt!”

Huh, Danny supposed that made sense to a point, he never really dealt with ghosts in Elmertown, since they were usually just low-level specters that usually didn’t mean any harm. If Val was operating out of here, then it made sense that there would be so few ghosts, and also that the ghosts that were afraid or ‘admired’ him like Wright would stick to Elmertown rather than Amity.  

“And Val doesn’t follow your version of ‘order and process’?”

“NO! She shows up, never lets me get through my proper monologue or cause the necessary level of chaos, and then threatens my afterlife, completely uncivilized! What an improper lady! Always shooting first, never asking questions!” Wright exasperated.

“Sorry, but that’s Val’s order and process. Guns blazing and ready to kick some ghost butt.”

Valerie burst in through the doors, with perfect theatric timing, her ecto-rifle poised and aimed at Wright.

“Danny!” she exclaimed, immediately focusing on him before shifting her rage towards the ghost in the room.

Oh boy, did she look pissed. Danny wasn’t sure if he’d ever pushed her to the point Wright currently had. Her suit blazed with scarlet energy, read to fire at the drop of a hat, bright enough Danny could see it over the green haze of the pool of ectoplasm beneath him.  

“Finally! It took you long enough. I left a note and everything,” Wright complained, unmoved by her anger.

“Let Danny go, or I blast a hole straight through you this time, Wright,” Valerie snarled.

Wright sneered, ”You shoot me, and I drop the boy-toy into a vat of concentrated ectoplasm. There’s not even enough distance for you to swoop in and save him before he’s at least partially submerged.”

Valerie looked over to Danny, and he almost smiled in greeting, but he managed to stop himself as a particular detail resurfaced. Fenton didn’t know Valerie was the Red Huntress, that was knowledge only Phantom was privy to. Damn it. Valerie’s eyes were wide in fear under her visor, and her grip tightened on her rifle considerably. Danny couldn’t make a joke or anything, and he was forced to fill his expression with unfamiliarity and panic, like a proper actor. He met her eyes anyways, cool and calm, before gritting his teeth. He trusted Valerie, she would save him, but he also knew her well enough to know she hated playing along. Valerie hadn’t realized that the Red Huntress wasn’t supposed to know Danny Fenton either, so perhaps it evened out in its own way.  

“Dragging a bystander into a personal fight is just like a ghost,” she spat the word, “What is it you want?”

Wright began with a flourish of his arms, “For everything to play out in the proper order of course! For an order to be restored to your haphazard violence! We are going to go through all of the proper motions of this encounter and the winner will always be the hero! We just have to figure out who’s who.”

“I’m not letting you monologue while Da-… while an innocent is hanging over… whatever that is!” Valerie protested.

“I never expected such an aggressive and weak-minded being such as you to understand the importance of doing things the right way! That’s why I needed a hostage.” Wright huffed. “Also, It’s concentrated ectoplasm. like the name implies its densely packed ectoplasm, a powerful source of energy for both ghosts and most of your human anti-ghost technology, but burns through humans faster than hydrochloric acid,” Wright explained, and Danny couldn’t help but pale in response.

Oh… that was bad, and no wonder he recognized it, he’d seen it in small amounts around the lab. Danny also didn’t want to see how he, a half-ghost currently human, would react to it. Valerie also apparently didn’t want to find out, more than she wanted to blast a hole through Wright apparently. Her shoulders began trembling and she grit her teeth, glancing rapidly between where Danny was dangling and where Wright waited patiently for her to make her decision. Danny took a deep breath and called out to her, snapping her out of her internal conflict.

“Don’t worry about me, Red Huntress! I’ll just hang out right here! I’m not going anywhere!”

Valerie sent Danny a look, exasperated and melancholic, most likely due to the pun, before setting her gaze on Wright, who had a large grin on his face displaying way too many teeth.

“Fine,” she spat, “let’s get this over with.”

“Wonderful!” Wright clapped his hands, “As you can see, Red Huntress, I have captured Danny Fenton! And unless you defeat me in the next three minutes, he will get dropped to his doom!”

“Wait, there’s a timer?” Danny asked, and Wright ignored his interruption, hitting a button next to the lever, probably starting the timer.

“Now meet your maker, Red Huntress!”

Wright vaulted over the bars of the platform he was standing on, directly at Valerie. She met him halfway with a crimson blast, energy meeting the sole of his atrocious red shoes in a form of deflection, launching him into the air where he remained suspended. He launched several violet ectoblasts while Valerie charged up her gun again, taking to the air as her hoverboard formed beneath her feet. They began a combination of hand-to-hand strikes and blasts midair, often speeding out of Danny’s view as he craned his neck to witness the fight. There was too much blood in his head for him to focus properly, but there was something off about the way Wright fought.

One, two, three, five ecto blasts, then he switched to close combat, striking 7 times with his fists and ending in a kick to gain some distance before firing ectoblasts again. It was in order…

“Red! He’s fighting in a pattern! Five blasts, seven punches, one kick!” Danny called out.

They careened back in front of him, and Val nodded in confirmation. Wright ended with a kick and floated back into the air.

“I’ve seen you figured me out! But it will not allow you to defeat me!”

Wright fired off his blasts, and Valerie easily countered them, now knowing what to expect. Wright came in close again, attempting to rush her. His fist connected to her forearms 6 times, each blocked easily and efficiently by Valerie’s suit, doing practically no damage. She had positioned herself right near the chain that held Danny above ‘his doom’. Wright had one more hit left, but rather than take it he backed off, just as the timer beeped.

“It seems it’s time for us to end this charade, Red Huntress.” Wright declared and broke the pattern early and fired a clean and precise ectoblast behind Valerie.

The chain went slack, and Danny plummeted. Valerie grasped it in desperation shouting something he couldn’t hear, but it was too late, the upper half of his body dunked below the surface.

It was like getting dunked into freezing water, at least before he became immune to the cold. It sent shivers and rose goosebumps along every single point of contact, he saw nothing but green. It felt like the submerged half of his body had fallen asleep, pins and needles piercing his skin, but never actually hurting him. Danny thrashed despite this, desperate to get out the concoction meant to kill him, not realizing he wasn’t in pain as panic swept away any other rational thought.

(page break)

“Danny!” Valerie shouted, grasping desperately for the chain.

It skid in her grip, a yard too late and Danny slipped halfway below the surface. His whole body thrashed sending ripples across the surface but making no sound. She screamed, her voice filling the empty void of Danny’s soundlessness. It was already too late, some part of her mind spoke, but she refused to acknowledge it. As fast she physically could, she tied the chain to the closest bar and launched herself on her hoverboard. She snapped the chain Danny was hanging from with ease and a grief-filled ectoblast, and took Danny down to the ground, careful not to touch the green sludge the covered the upper half of his torso.

Valerie’s hoverboard collapsed back into her suit, and then they met eyes, something that her mind could barely register. Even more than that, she wasn’t looking at the face that had plummeted into the vat. Phantom’s eyes stared back wide, bright green and covered in ectoplasm, stared back on her, while the bottom half remained clothed in jeans and battered red converse. Her mind short-circuited, and she was pretty sure her suit as well from the beating it had just taken.  

Danny… Phantom… whoever the hell she was staring at seemed to finally realize that he was out, let out a cough, rolling over onto his stomach to purge the concentrated ectoplasm from his lung, and heaved a deep breath of air he couldn’t possibly need once they were clear. He rolled back over and sat up, shifting in the chains, trying to get out of them.

Valerie saw red, and snatched the chains, pulling Phantom’s face close to hers, a snarl on her face. Phantom’s eyes widened and he yelped at the sudden tug.

“Is this what you do?! You teamed up with Wright of all ghosts to get to me?!” Valerie cried.

Phantom’s eyes widened, confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about! I was kidnapped!” He yelped.

“Don’t lie to me Phantom!”

Phantom froze, looking like a dear caught in headlights. He frantically tried to glance himself over, writhing in place, still unable to move his arms since he was still chained up. Valerie had no intention of unchaining him now. He caught sight of his jumpsuit and shook some of his soaked hair into his face, catching its color.

“Oh.”

“What do you mean ‘Oh’?!”

“Just learned what happens when I get drenched in concentrated ectoplasm.” His tone was even and quiet and only served to infuriate her further.

“Answer me, Phantom!”

“I didn’t lie!” He shouted right back, “He really did kidnap me!”

“Then where is Danny?! He’s still missing. Does Wright still have him?” She demanded.

Phantom shifted around in the chains again, and Valerie unceremoniously dropped him to the floor. He grunted by was focused on the chains now. Phantom’s eyes flared ice blue, overtaking their normal toxic green, and the chains froze solid. With enough strain, the metal links shattered and clattered uselessly to the floor. He stretched his arms and glanced them over.

There was a line, clear and definable, where the ectoplasm hadn’t touched him. Under the green substance, was Phantom, jumpsuit and all, but Valerie was fixated on the borderline, as was Phantom, where the jumpsuit transitioned into Danny’s iconic red and white shirt. There were no gloves on his hands, and the jumpsuit ceased existing halfway down his arms, and the skin underneath the goo was the same color as Phantom’s face, but the dry areas were the same pale as Danny’s skin.

“I’m right here, Valerie,” Phantom said, looking straight through her.

Valerie scoffed, “I see you here, Phantom, but where’s Danny Fenton?”

“I’m Danny Fenton.”

Of all the things Phantom could’ve said, that wasn’t the answer she wanted. For the second time that night, her mind reeled to a halt.

"You can’t be Danny, you’re a ghost,” Valerie justified.

“And people can die? I just happen to be caught in the middle.” Phantom said, making no sense.

“You died? Danny’s dead?” Her voice came out quietly, almost a whimper.

“I’m more like half-dead.” He had the nerve to laugh. “A bit of both ghost and human mixed together, I can be either-or.”

“What was the name of the flour baby we raised together?” She pressed, looking for a piece of information Danny would know, but Phantom shouldn’t.

“We… we didn’t name it, did we? I’m pretty sure that wasn’t one of the requirements Mr. Lancer gave us.” Phantom responded with a weak chuckle.

Valerie looked at him, really looked at him. Phantom and Fenton didn’t really look that different, in fact, they were surprisingly similar to the point it was eerie. He had always looked freakily familiar, and now she knew why. They had the same facial structure, hairstyle, and even the awful senses of humor lined up. The only difference was that Phantom was a ghost, and Danny was human.

“How can you be half-dead?” Valerie asked.

“Turns out the portal is really dark on the inside, that is until you turn it on from the inside.”

It took Valerie a minute, but then she understood. She fully understood. Her helmet and visor retracted, revealing her watering eyes. Danny was Phantom, and Phantom was Danny.  He wasn’t being overshadowed, overshadowing didn’t look like this, not half-covered in ectoplasm like he was. Danny didn’t make eye contact, choosing instead to collect a bit of it onto his finger, watching intently as his skin sizzled, glowing white and the edges and spreading like a chemical reaction until it reached the edge of the ectoplasm. The skin became discolored, and a bit of white-silver glove appeared, manifesting all on its own underneath the goop. Then he had the nerve to lick it off.

Valerie scrunched up her face in disgust while Phantom seemed to contemplate the taste, still focusing on his finger. The darker skin tone and glove seemed to dissolve away on their own back into pale skin once the ectoplasm was gone.  Danny really was Phantom.

Valerie threw herself onto the ground and punched him as hard as she could in her given state, her suit protecting her from the concentrated ectoplasm on his body that could possibly burn her if Wright was to be trusted.

“Ouch!” Danny complained, rubbing his arm where she’d hit, the ectoplasm spreading to his hand forming the glove again.

“I dated you!” Valerie protested, “I dated you, and then broke up with you!”

Danny’s gaze shifted around, confused and sheepish. “Y-yeah?”

“I broke up with you to focus on hunting you!”

“Yeah?”

“And you knew this entire damn time!”

“Uhhhhhh… yeah.” He admitted, looking down awkwardly and attempting to wipe his hand off on his jeans, but only succeeded in spreading the ectoplasm around. The patch of denim transformed into black rubber.

“You ruined my life!”

“I’ve told you a thousand times! It was an accident!” Danny protested, wiping his hand on the ground again in an attempt to get more off but finally looking back up at her.

Valerie stared at him for a moment, before devolving into a fit of giggles, getting to her feet from where she had seated herself on the floor. Danny looked up at her, even more confused than before.

“You really need to wash that stuff off, or are you going to lick yourself clean?” Valerie teased.

Danny huffed indignantly, climbed to his own feet, and a white ring blossomed around his waist. Valerie watched in awe as what parts were still Fenton transformed into equally an equally familiar jumpsuit and set of silver boots. The ectoplasm that still coated him slowly vanished, absorbed into his ghostly form. The ghostly halo around him grew in intensity, glowing brighter than before. His feet lifted from the floor and he began to float, eyes also growing in intensity. Danny gave a large smile, literally beaming bright enough to light up a good portion of the warehouse all on his own.

“Thanks, Val,” Danny said.

“For what exactly?” she asked.

“Well, you didn’t shoot me when I told you I was Danny Fenton, you saved me from witnessing Wright's awful sense of fashion any longer, and finally for Elmertown,” Danny counted off on his fingers.

"Elmertown?”

Danny put his hands on his hips matter-of-factly, ”Even if I don’t agree with your methods, you’ve been protecting Elmertown from ghosts. So, thank you,” Danny confessed.

He landed on the ground in front of her, boots barely making as sound and bright enough she was nearly blinded by it. He gave her a large, goofy smile, one that she was much more used to seeing on Fenton’s face than Phantom’s, but it only reinforced the idea that they were the same person.

Valerie smiled right back.

[one-abuse-survivor]

hiya, it's me, the milky way

i just read your last response, bc tumblr seems to have eaten the notif, or it got lost when switching phones (yep, i finally got a new phone :D) thanks so much for the reassuring words; even tho i know my mom is just spewing bs, it's hard to solidly believe that, so thanks for confirming that.

a few days ago i talked to my dad (he was even less helpful than my mom) and he's basically putting all of my issues on "puberty" and "hormones" so i obviously asked how to do it better anyway and he said something along the lines of "you'll grow out of it" or "you'll just have to wait it out" so i was like "ok, sure" but he still expects me to do better right now,which just doesn't make sense. it sucks a lot to have my dad constantly blaming everything on puberty and hormones and expecting me to be better right now even though there is nothing i can do against puberty and hormones.

also there's this thing where my dad makes lots and lots of comments and jokes on other peoples costs and most of them aren't even funny and both me and my mom tell him to stop but he still doesn't. also he often calls me nicknames or pet names and i hate it but he doesn't stop even if i tell him to (he usually just laughs it off) and i though about just straight up telling him how much it hurts everytime he does it but i haven't yet gotten to do that.

another thing that just happened today was that my brother broke up with his gf and my parents were like "we saw that coming" and when i asked them how/why, they said something about having noticed changes in my brother's mood and behavior and like, that hurt because for some reason they can pick apart every little change in my brother but my issues just don't exist. i really feel like my parents aren't just subconsciously avoiding my problems but more purposefully ignoring them. and that just fills me with an entire wildfire of rage and anger towards them

yeah, anyways, thanks for making the tumblr search be able to find all the posts, thanks for doing what you do, i hope you're having a great summer so far. for me it's been rain for the most part.

:)

it's the milky way :)

nothing really changed since the last ask i sent (i believe i sent another one at some point but it might've gotten eaten by tumblr)

but school started again this week and i hate it so so much, there's just so many people everywhere and our timetable is not very well thought out and annoying (lots and lots of walking between classes, even in the short breaks)

i like to think i'm coping well because i have not yet missed any homework and i think my sleep schedule isn't as bad as last year (around 7.5 hours of sleep per night) but i had nightmares in the last 3 nights which kinda ruined them, which makes it so i actually enjoy getting less sleep without nightmares over this.

i also found out that my brother has a therapist (kinda? idk exactly how it works but there is someone getting paid to help him through stuff) and he takes ritalin because he often can't concentrate. so i've come to the conclusion that apparently his struggles are real and he's getting helped while my struggles are not real and i should deal with my shit alone because i've got good grades.

fml i guess

also i'm terrified of relapsing and this year going as sour as last year so there's that

and i got my mom to admit that going to a family counselor would definitely not be a bad idea altho she hasn't done anything about it

hope your day is going great :D

also ps: did you get my last ask or was that really just tumblr eating it?

Hi again!

You're welcome for the reassuring words! I hope you got to enjoy the sun this summer in the end. I've been in a less-than-great mental space all summer, but at least I got to go to the beach often, haha. Also, I'm glad you have a phone again :D

You're right that what your dad says doesn't make any sense—he can't simultaneously tell you you have to grow out of your current struggles because they're all due to teenage hormones and that you should be able to change at will from one second to the next. Yeah, hormones do have a big impact on our emotions, but that doesn't mean your parents shouldn't be helping you navigate your current struggles. The way you feel right now is important to you right now, and that should be reason enough for them to take you seriously. They should be using this opportunity to teach you how to best take care of yourself and to help you solve problems that could still affect you in the future otherwise. Instead, they're choosing to neglect your needs and blame you for struggling with things they can't bother to help you manage.

I think you have every right to be angry that they noticed the changes in your brother's mood and that he's getting proper help while you're being ignored and gaslit about your issues. What they're doing to you is unfair and neglectful and abusive, and you deserve so, so much better than this.

Sorry to hear school has been so overwhelming and you've been having nightmares :( getting a good night's sleep can make all the difference in how you handle everything that goes in in your life, and it really sucks when nightmares interfere with your sleep like that. I hope they get better when you settle into the school routine!

I also really hope your mom goes through with the family counselor idea, and that things go well if she does. And if you talk to your dad about how his nicknames make you feel, I hope that goes well too!

Please know it's not your fault if you do end up relapsing this year. Let's hope it doesn't come to that, but if it does, please be gentle with yourself. You're going through a lot right now. It's okay to not be able to handle it all without help, and while your parents ignore, blame and gaslight you. You're doing the best you can given the circumstances, and you deserve to give yourself all the credit for that.

Sending all my support your way ❤️

[imuybemovoko]

My beliefs now

I set this blog up for a bunch of different purposes including conlangs/worldbuilding stuff, my writing, and my views on religion and maybe also politics. So far, mostly, I’ve ranted a lot about the beliefs I left behind. Now that I’ve let that particular sketchy brand of Christianity, now that I’ve discovered the ways it and my conservative family background were probably turning me into a fascist while I was still in all that, I figure I might as well try to hash out where I stand now. I’m around eleven months out from my deconversion, and a lot has already changed. I might try to attempt a before and after thing but there’s a lot to unpack about how I used to think and I’m not sure I’ve understood everything yet. I think I made the mistake of thinking that not very long before that repressed memory about “Sharon” and her Jonah display came crashing back in March. This is current to late July 2020 and may not include everything. 

So without any further ado, let’s talk background. First, some things I’ve already either mentioned or given more than enough evidence for. I used to be a Christian fundamentalist. (Clearly. I rant about it a lot.) I got into that because I was raised religious, then let myself fall right the fuck into what I’ll call “deep end lite” shortly before senior year in high school. Some local churches in my small town arranged a missions trip thing and the way I agreed to go along felt in the moment like surrendering to a voice that’s been speaking to me all along. In ...a way, it was. Just not the voice I thought. I’m pretty sure I didn’t want this god, at any point like ever, until that little part of me whispered that it would be easier to accept him. I have a megathread document that I’ve stored a lot of my “God stories” from my time as a Christian in. Unfortunately I didn’t remember many specific details of this experience to write down in there, but I did write a bit of a “life-story” thing that reminds me that, chronologically, that happened after a period of focused attempts by the church to indoctrinate me, some traumatic things my family did, social struggles, and feeling like an asshole because of things I’d done in the past. I remember having this growing sense over the previous year that I was approaching some kind of very dangerous breaking point, to the point where (trigger warning: mental instability, school shooter mention. Please either stop here or skip to where it says “in other words” in the next paragraph after this if that’s going to be an issue. It also keeps getting dark from there for a minute. Please, please tread with care if you need to. There is no shame at all if this becomes too much. Take care of yourself first and foremost.) 

when discussing how I came to accept the faith, I told some of my Christian friends that I felt like there was a scary chance of me becoming a school shooter. I think this may have been a post-hoc projection, but I can’t quite be sure of that. I was in a bad place for a bit there in high school. I had a wild temper and some sketchy intrusive thoughts.

In other words, it hit at a perfect moment of weakness. That’s how oppressive forms of spirituality function, it’s how hate groups function... it’s a massive shit cocktail and I found a pretty bad influence in the form of people who promote that whole “born again experience” thing in Christianity. I’d say I’m glad I missed out on being dragged into a fascist ideology this way, but uh... I’m no longer convinced I didn’t grow up around something like that. More later. 

From there I spiraled my way through my first attempts at college through the university’s chapter of the Chi Alpha campus ministry and, peripherally through that, Assemblies of God (holy shit those guys are wild), then through a local Baptist church (more peripherally) and Calvary Chapel (I was a worship guitarist here for like 18 months and helped with their youth ministry for almost as long) closer to home and a CRU chapter at my community college. With each passing year I slipped further and further into this weird shame-induced funk where I got like... addicted to Jesus and hated myself or something. It’s a bit hard to find words that don’t take multiple entire extra pages and I want to be concise, so I’ll simply call it “Jesus-flavored depression” for brevity and because that was enough of a genuinely bad time (and I’m still fucked up enough) that I might need some fairly serious therapy.

Near the end of 2018 I was reaching a breaking point, wondering why nothing ever seemed to change in my life from “sexual sin” (...which in my case literally consisted of being attracted to women and occasional self-pleasure, but they literally teach you to hate yourself for less than that in the spicier churches rip) to my direction in life to how trapped I felt by my family. I also started to have more questions about the violence in the Bible and some of the sketchier doctrines, and that was strongly reinforced by some of the things I saw in a creative writing class I took, including an atheist who shared a story of a profoundly negative experience involving being taught about hell at a very young age. All that led to the absolute disaster that was December 2018. It was my last semester at the community college I went to. Finals week was a fucking disaster, and the week before that too, and my grades were really good but at great cost. I won’t go into a ton of detail because 1. space concerns and 2. this time is still damn painful to discuss, but just know that I’m unconvinced I’d have survived that month without this song. (Yes, that’s Paramore. Shut up xD they’re still good.) I looped it for like three days straight and I think it was just enough to keep me going through what was the third time I had any suicidal kind of thoughts ever and by far the worst and longest period of it so far.

So the next several months (and I won’t go into a ton of detail about this, I intended this post more to describe my current position and I don’t wanna get too in the weeds with background) were a confusing period of questioning, starting with, of all things, my family dynamic. The spiral after the week before finals was ...considerably worsened by some comments my dad made, and between that and some experiences in the past that the creative writing class I took that fall reminded me of, I was exposed to a bit of a deeply toxic pattern. I might discuss that more deeply in another post, but for now suffice it to say that extensive youtube binges and some other research between about January and March told me the situation is probably adjacent to pathological narcissism in some way. I brought some of this up to the church I was attending at the time (a small town Calvary Chapel, if I haven’t mentioned that already) and their responses were ...inconsistent. Some people blamed me, some people said “oh dang your dad is abusive”, and some people took the “your parents are trying their best” tack. In retrospect I think that made me doubt if God’s messaging to these people could really be trusted. Then, in about April, the question of hell came up again. I was helping in the church’s budding youth ministry at the time and we had about four regular attendees between the ages of 12 and 18. There were about three weeks in a row when one of the other adults (I’ll call her Kelly for the purposes of not doxxing; also more on her later) talked at length about how unbelief leads to hell. I remembered that atheist from creative writing, made the connection to these four kids, and thought, “what the hell are we doing?” (Pun not intended but rather convenient.) I immediately backed down from my role in the youth ministry, citing other equally valid but less pressing reasons involving stress from the issues with my dad, and tried to go on with life. But the floodgates were open. 

In late May or early June, I was staring out a window one morning and suddenly a question crossed my mind unbidden: “Is God a narcissist?” I thought back to a relatively recent sermon by the associate pastor in which he explained that the purpose of the world was “for God’s glory”, to some apparent sudden flights of rage, and some other factors in the scriptures, and thought, “holy shit, I need to investigate this, because God is also very adjacent to narcissism.” It took a hot minute for the ball to really get rolling with that, but once it did... I came to a point by late June or early July where I delivered an ultimatum to God, something to the tune of “Ok, either show me how all these questions I have can be answered beyond a doubt or I’m done.” 

There was no answer. 

God was silent during this time, and the people in the church were shocked that I had the questions I did and either concerned or ...rather spicy. I joined an ex-Christian discord server to aid in a proper, thorough investigation. I aired my questions both there and on a Christian discord server. The Christian server was toxic as fuck and the ex-Christians started making a crazy amount of sense. I watched some videos from Cosmic Skeptic and TheraminTrees (most notably the latter’s deconversion story) for new perspectives and, by mid-August, had crashed out of the faith altogether.

So the last time I ever stepped into a church with the intent of attending service (I showed up after once in January of 2020 to kinda let them know and that went pretty badly lol) was about two weeks before I started college again in the fall. I burned all but one of my Bibles and a collection of gospel tracts I never did anything else with and stylized it like my limited understanding of what a satanic/pagan ritual looked like, complete with a chant in my conlang Aylaan for a more personal twist because of course, to feel edgy. (I did a lot of kind of weird shit to feel edgy; that’s one of two of them I’m sure I don’t regret.) And after that, things got ...ah, confusing?

Because of course when the linchpin of your understanding of the world gives way, everything becomes fucked for a hot minute. 

So the first thing that happened was a couple months of anxiety and confusion. I slowly started to deconstruct my inherited political views too. (More on that later.) Then I had this really beautiful interesting moment in late September where I walked past a tree on the way to a class and had a sudden realization that I didn’t have to force the tree into a Christian framework anymore, it was just a beautiful mass of green shit and cellulose. I could appreciate it in whatever way I felt was best. I damn near broke down crying in the bathroom before class, it hit me that hard. So that’s fun xD

Since then I’ve kinda gone through a bunch of funky phases with this, including a couple of months of fairly salty atheism. Along with that process, I started questioning my sexuality in December (more on that in another post in a minute lmao it’s a trip) and literally shredding my politics in the face of Trump being a crackhead in a dangerous position getting away with confirmed illegal shit, COVID-19 and the ...dehumanizing responses of corporations and their sponsored politicians, and then what I noticed about the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd and the fallout from that. (In a nutshell, holy FUCK there’s a huge problem and it’s messed up that people don’t see it.) At this point, I’m socially progressive and pretty left leaning. I don’t know what the hell to do about it or how either other than some of the tense discussions I’ve been having, but I’d like to work against racism and discrimination too. So that’s cool and a lot better than where I was... 

which... I regret deeply.

I don’t know exactly how to define my old political views, and they were marked by considerable cognitive dissonance. I’ll try to illustrate this as best I can but I don’t know what label I can use. Here goes. 

Cursed images aside, I think the best way to explain this is through some background, i.e. what my parents believe, because my beliefs were largely inherited. 

This might be majorly over-simplified and based on what I remember of my own pre-deconstruction views and what I hear them say lately. I’m doing my best, but take it with a grain of salt. Basically, it seems like they walk this weird line between constitutionalist and very authoritarian that I see a hell of a lot of in rural America. Kinda like the Republic party used to before they yeeted into Trump’s mindfuck wholeheartedly. They’re homophobic to a rather alarming degree (more on that in another post soon) and not ...overtly Christian-supremacist but you can tell that their ethics are dripping with it and they’re terrified of Islam and they’d like to legislate some aspects of Christian morality. They also support the second amendment, which is the one thing I still agree with them on that I’m aware of, but they take it to more of an extreme than I’m willing to. For further ...flavor, they also reject the premise that parts of our society are systemically racist (and maybe also the idea that such a thing is even possible because of course), subscribe to the “bootstrap theory” for everything they can think to apply it to, reject climate science, and have been extremely conspiratorial about COVID-19. Also they like making it out like everything is a Democrat conspiracy theory, compare the Democrats to Hitler and Stalin to a weird degree, have on at least one occasion called Fox Motherfucking News left-leaning, and think Alex Jones is wacky but sometimes raises valid points. 

So that’s, in a nutshell, a bit of a look at my past political views, except I think I was a bit more Christian-dominionist than them and I think I had moments of “...does this really make any sense?” for years before I crashed out of everything. The first domino was my Christianity, but once that fell, my entire approach to the world went some places. 

So ...yeah. Oof. I was sketchy as shit. Glad that’s changed. 

So uh... I’ve already mentioned a vague (read: as much detail as I feel confident providing) description of my political views now, but after all this bullshit let’s finally get to the other half of my titular current beliefs. This ...isn’t going to be easy to explain either, but I feel more confident going into more detail. Buckle up :^)

Alright. So except for a couple of months where I was like “there is no god reeee” half because I was sOmE hYpErInTeLlEcTuAl SkEpTiC and half because of trauma from the toxic flavor of Christianity I left and some shitty developments in both politics and my social circles (I’ll talk at some length about “Kelly” in a sec here I think), since leaving Christianity I’ve always been what I’ll call “hopeful agnostic” (I think I stole this term from Rhett and/or Link lol). In a nutshell, what that means to me is “there may or may not be a god, but I hope there is at least one and they’re nice, or like, at least some spiritual thing that has a good aspect that can help me”. I also dabble in shitty rituals where I burn dead plants and occasionally also hate literature like gospel tracts (and, that one time, a couple of bibles) and basically call on “anyone who is listening and gives a fuck, else the placebo effect” for whatever my goal is. Like... witchy-adjacent but I don’t think about it very much at this stage. I kind of enjoy it, and I think for one reason or another it can be good for my mental health, but I’m wary of any kind of commitment or even more serious experimentation, even as I hope to find something good, because ...trauma, and maybe even absent that a desire to not be wrong in a way that’s dangerous to anyone else again. So that’s fun :^)

So if you’ve made it this far through this weird bullshit, thanks, this story is kind of important to me xD and if you couldn’t, and you’re not reading this ending thingy because it got too dark or it pissed you off or something, that’s cool too and you’re beautiful and valid. Whoever you are, I hope you find whatever healing you need. :)

[troybeecham]

Fr. Troy Beecham

Sermon, Proper 11 A, 2020

Matthew 13:24-30,36-43

Jesus put before the crowd another parable: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’”

Then he left the crowds and went into the house. And his disciples approached him, saying, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field.” He answered, “The one who sows the good seed is the Son of Man; the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels. Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!”

In the Gospel reading for this morning, Jesus speaks in very challenging language for contemporary sensibilities. Jesus explains his parable to his disciples saying that at the end of days, God will execute judgement on evildoers. Now, to the ears of his disciples and his contemporary audience, they had no trouble in thinking about God and judgement and evildoers being cast into a furnace of fire. Quite to the contrary, they eagerly desired for God’s judgement to begin because they had obvious evildoers in mind – the occupying Roman Empire. Just like his original hearers, our contemporary identity politics lead us to demand that everyone be accepted and celebrated for who they are because any destructive behavior can be explained away due to their intersectional identity, and no one may be considered an outcast, depending, of course, on one’s intersectional identity. Just like the people two thousand years ago living under the crushing might of the Roman empire, our current philosophy of intersectionality also allows for entire groups of people to be branded as unacceptable and worthy of being an outcast based on their intersectional identity, an identity that is inescapable, ruthless, and able to accommodate violence in the pursuit of “justice”. It is sad and absurd, all in one, how in our drive to excuse ourselves of responsibility for our sins and evildoing we have created yet another system of judgement that brands itself as a system that does away with judgement, unless you happen to be part of a politically undesirable group, of course.

Let’s look at the parable for a moment. If you were a subjugated Israelite living under the oppression of the Roman occupation, hearing that God would execute violent judgment was totally acceptable, even desirable. But is that what Jesus is talking about? Doesn’t he talk about God the Father as the God who is self-emptying love? How does Jesus’ teaching about the Father square with the judgment language in this parable?

Like so many of Jesus’ parables, we are so removed in time and place that we miss how the details open up the meaning of the parables. First of all, today’s parable is a continuation of the parable from last week about the sower of seeds who casts seed on all types of soil. In this parable, the sown field contains both good seeds and bad seeds because an enemy, Satan, has snuck into the field at night to sow the seeds of weeds among the wheat. In Jewish law, any field that had more than one kind of seed planted in it made it unclean, and so a farmer would lose the entire crop for the year. What a disaster for people living at subsistence levels! The weeds in this parable produce a plant almost indistinguishable from wheat unless you know what to look for at close inspection. Even then, it is hard to tell them apart. The slaves in the parable (typically used to signify the rightful landowners whose land had been confiscated by the Roman occupation, leaving them, at best, as tenant farmers) rightly ask the landowner (a word often used to signify wealthy, non-Jewish settlers who had been given land by the empire) if they should go out into the field and pluck up the weeds by hand so that the harvest will not be compromised and ruined, leading most likely to malnourishment or starvation, or to increased debt by asking the landowner for enough food to survive. It’s a completely understandable request in the face of crushing poverty and starvation.

When the landowner says let the plants all grow together until the harvest and then let the reapers separate the wheat from the weeds, he has no care that for his tenants nothing that comes out of that field is edible because of religious law. For the landowner, no big deal. He gets his crop either way, and he gets greater control through the instruments of debt and starvation over his tenants. For the tenants it is a catastrophe. Those who were listening to Jesus preach these things understood, and it would have incited deep anger and hatred for the forces of the occupation. No wonder that Jesus’ countrymen who betrayed him to the Roman authorities used his parables as proof that he was inciting riot against the empire. But was Jesus trying to incite riot and violence?

I don’t think so, and here’s why. In explaining the parable, Jesus makes it clear that he is speaking about the end of days, when the chief actors in the parable are God and his spiritual agents, his angels. Using such apocalyptic language was typical of Jesus’ preaching and teaching. ‘Apocalyptic’ in this sense means revealing the truth of the world, the world behind the curtain, which only a few are able to glimpse and see, and even seeing fail to fully understand. Jesus preached and presented himself as one who not only saw behind the curtain but who understood God and the Truth of creation completely because he knew the mind of the Father, and was God’s appointed representative, the Son of Man. He is teaching us the Truth of creation because God created all things through him.

But because we are not able to fully understand the Truth, we often get lost in explanations that make sense to us. I am not making any claims to greater understanding because I know myself well enough to know that I would have misunderstood Jesus just as deeply as his first disciples. Jesus did say, later after his resurrection, that the Holy Spirit would be sent upon his disciples to lead us into all truth. Because of this, I do think that it is profitable, and by the Holy Spirit it is possible, to do our best to be open to exploring as deeply as possible the parables of Jesus to seek ever deeper understanding, perhaps even wisdom.

So, what do I think are some further keys of insight into this parable? How can we inch closer to understanding? First of all, if we read this parable and the explanation that Jesus gives to us and it fills us with a sense that we are being given enough wisdom and authority to decide who is a saint, or the wheat, and someone doomed to judgment, or the weeds, then we have entirely missed the point. If we think that we are wise enough, good enough, innocent enough to walk through the field of humanity and decide who is good and who is bad, then we are showing ourselves to be the most unwise, the most wicked, the most guilty because we are arrogating to ourselves the role of God and his angels. When we try to place ourselves between God and the judgment of evildoers, trying to take the role of judge in deciding who is an evildoer and who is a saint, we are exalting our own ‘wisdom’ and wickedly put ourselves in the seat of God. There is no human system of deciding who is ‘ok’ and who should be excised from society that is holy or wise. We may say that we are being harmed by a person or by society at large, and even turn to the law for redress and protection, but that is a far cry from passing final judgment on others. Only God has the wisdom to discern between “all causes of sin and all evildoers”, and the wisdom to execute justice. Here’s another important thing to ask, because the parable is by nature slippery and leaves us with uncertainty: does the fire that Jesus talks about in this parable represent eternal damnation, or does it signify the refining fire that separates gold from dross, a fire that we all will face so that we might eventually shine like the sun? At this point I think we have simply to say with all humility that only God knows, and that whatever God does is done in love.

In the face of this world’s calamities, of the confusion of our present time, in the face of rage and violence, the only faithful response of a disciple of Jesus in this world is to leave all judgment to God, to never seek vengeance, to love our neighbor – yes, even those neighbors we think of as evildoers, who fail our intersectional system of judgment – as ourselves. Jesus said that the world would know that we are his disciples by the way that we love each other. Do we only love those who share our world view (philia love), or those who are relatives (storge love), or those with who we share the feelings of passion (eros love)? Or will we love as God loves, the love that is self-emptying, that gives all for the wellbeing of others (agape love)? Jesus calls his disciples to this agape love, a love that takes us outside of ourselves and personal desires or hurts, outside our cultural value/judgment systems. He also said that the world would only come to know that he is the Son of God if his disciples are seen living lives of agape love, the love that passes no judgment, that empties itself for the sake of all people, that leads us to serve all people.

Will we be faithful as disciples of Jesus, loving each other so that we are conspicuously different, conspicuously his disciples, so that the people of the world will come to believe that Jesus is the Son of God? This is the one, the true, the only vocation given to us by our Savior Jesus. Have we gotten enmeshed with the judgment systems of the world? Have we allowed the rage of the world to take up residence within our hearts, leading us to believe that becoming warriors of social justice will reveal Jesus to the world? Have we allowed our hearts to judge others? If we answer yes to any of such things, then let us with our whole hearts fall to our knees and ask God to restore us in grace to faithfulness to Jesus, to the Faith he revealed to us. The only hope for the people of the world is to see humility, compassion, forbearance, mercy, and agape love in the disciples of Jesus, a people set apart by self-emptying love and absolute trust in the mercy and justice of the God who is Love.

Almighty God, the fountain of all wisdom, you know our necessities before we ask and our ignorance in asking: Have compassion on our weakness, and mercifully give us those things which for our unworthiness we dare not, and for our blindness we cannot ask; through the worthiness of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

[lalainajanes]

...I totally read your tags for bring it on and omg yaaaaassss a kc au and like I totally wish I could make actual puppy eyes at au to see if maybe possibly some day in the future this could be an actual thing??

It had been an appalingly long time since I looked through my saved prompts and I figured this one was perfect for klarolineauweek!

Like, Totally Freak Me Out

The hallsare nearly empty when Caroline walks in the front doors. A quick glance at herphone has her picking up the pace. Thank god she’d worn flats today.

Carolinewould have given just about anything to have slept in and blown off APChemistry. Her phone had kept her up all night, the cheer squad group chat anever ending fight. Old grudges were brought up (seriously old, like secondgrade playground accident old) and abundant petty digs were thrown, despite thefact that a decision had been made and the endless chat bubbles weren’t goingto change Caroline’s mind.

She’d knownthe squad her entire life. You’dthink they’d have figured out not to mess with her when she’d decided onsomething but, to be fair, none of them had been selected for their brains. Astheir newest member had pointed out yesterday, cheering wasn’t exactly taxingon the neurons.

That littleremark might have been part of the reason Caroline had made the call. RebekahMikaelson was only a sophomore but she’d stared down a table full of juniorsand seniors without a hint of nerves, her chin up and voice cool. Carolinecouldn’t help but admire the poise. And then the girl had pulled out a flawlesstumbling pass that was well beyond the gymnastics the squad’s routinesrequired. She’d been one of the better dancers when they’d split the girls upinto groups too. Her vocals were a little weak and they’d have to work onwiping the faintly embarrassed expression from her face while she performedbut, all in all, Rebekah was a better candidate than Caroline had dared hopefor considering the last minute scramble they were stuck doing all becauseSophie was a moron who’d gotten sloppy drunk and broken her ankle.

Rebekah wasin, she’d decreed, when they’d dismissed the last of the hopefuls. She’d gottensome pushback but there was no way the teeny freshman minion of Vicki Donovan’swas better. Yeah, they could toss the girl to the rafters but she had zeropersonality. Vicki was bitter about not being captain and Caroline had been trying not to rub her victory in herface. Apparently her attempts at civility had made Vicki think her opinion wasimportant.

Which suckedfor her because Caroline was 100% done being nice.

Ok fine.She usually only managed to be nice-ish (on a good day) but pushovers weren’twinners and Caroline had her eye on ending her senior year with a big freakingtrophy in her hand. Rebekah had been a little snotty but she could move. Theycould work on the rest of it.

She’dstopped responding to the chat sometime around midnight but her curiosity hadgotten the better of her over and over again. She’d silenced her phone andshoved it in the back of her nightstand but that hadn’t helped for long.Caroline had tossed and turned and done her best to resist temptation.

For aboutan hour.

Vicki hadstill been at it when she’d fished her phone out, complaining and railing abouthow Caroline had clearly lost her mind. Caroline had made careful note of whowas encouraging the raving (keep your friends close and your enemies closer andall that) and hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep.

In themorning she’d abused her snooze button, rolled out of bed at the very lastsecond. If it were any other teacher she might have taken her chances andskipped but Mrs. Herbert was exactly the sort of busy body to go out of her wayand corner Caroline’s mom at the grocery store and rat out her second day ofschool truancy. It was way too earlyin the semester for an awkward dinner of pointed perp stares and stern lecturesso Caroline had no choice but to make an appearance in class.

Carolinedarts into the room just before the bell rings, offering a saccharine smile tothe disapproving teacher. All the seats at the lab are occupied save for one inthe back corner. She usually likes to sit nearer to the front but it was herown fault for taking the extra time to curl her hair.

As shemakes her way to the back, spies the unfamiliar boy who’s going to be sharingthe table with her she mentally pats herself on the back for the effort.

He was cute.

Stefanhadn’t managed to last a whole weekend away at college without cheating on her(and thanks Valerie from summer camp for tagging the photo of them making out onFacebook so Caroline could see it). Caroline had spent a weekend cloistered inher bedroom with Bonnie and Elena and Ben and Jerry and Jose and The Captain.She’d had a good wallow, cried and raged and burned every stupid present Stefanhad ever given her (watching that snow globe melt like the cheap bit of junk itwas had been particularly satisfying).

It had beencathartic and Caroline was ready to have fun her senior year.

This guy,with his full lips and dark blue eyes (currently locked on her with a healthyhint of interest), certainly looked like fun.

Mrs.Herbert begins her lecture as Caroline settles into her seat. She flips openher notebook and jots down a few notes though it quickly becomes obvious thatshe doesn’t need to bother.

Caroline wasway ahead on her assigned reading, had wanted to get a head start because she’splanned on personally training the new cheer squad member. Mrs. Herbert’s wordswere straight from the text and her voice was a sleep inducing monotone.

Ugh, maybeshe should have slept in.

She pushesthat thought away when a small square of paper lands in her field of vision.She lifts a brow turning to look at her table mate. He’s not looking at her,focused on his own notebook though he’s drawing not taking notes.

Curious,Caroline unfolds the paper. His scrawl is neat, actually legible unlike most ofthe boys of her acquaintance.

Would you like to be lab partners?

She strivesto keep her expression neutral as she considers her response. She tilts herhead slightly to the side so she can see him in her peripheral vision, thinksshe catches a hint of a smile on his face.

Carolinehad to admit that she finds the direct approach refreshing.

Still, noneed to make it too easy.

That depends, she writes, will you torpedo my GPA? I’m banking on some kick ass scholarships toget me out of this town.

She foldsthe paper carefully and tosses it back, listens intently enough to hear thetiny scoff he emits when he reads her words. His reply comes quickly and isequally to the point.

I assure you I am quite competent.

She’s justbending to reply when she tunes back in to what Mrs. Herbert is saying. They’rebeing instructed to break off into pairs, told that the person next to themwill be their assigned lab partner. Caroline supposes she’s stuck with Cute andForward and that she doesn’t really mind.

Fingers crossedhe wasn’t an idiot.

She spinson her stool to face him. He offers her a hand, formal, and she’s a littlecharmed by the gesture (and by the hint of a dimple she spies when he offersher a real smile). “I’m Klaus. I suppose I should be thankful for your latearrival.”

Shestruggles not to react to the accent. Because sa-woon. It’s probably lucky that she’d heard a similar one justyesterday, though it’s far more appealing from his full lips. “Oh, you must berelated to Rebekah!”

He lookspuzzled for a moment and then something like dread creeps into his expression,“You’re not one of the awful cheerleaders she was nattering on about yesterday,are you?”

Carolinebristles, “I was not awful. I’llacknowledge that some of my squad was less than welcoming but they fear change.They’ll get over it.”

“No need,”Klaus says, seemingly unconcerned. “Rebekah’s come to her senses.”

Carolinedid not like the sound of that. “Whatdo you mean?”

“She’sworking on convincing our mother to drive her to Richmond twice a week so shecan train in a proper gym there. It’ll only be for a year or so until she getsher license and Bekah can usually annoy just about anyone into submission so Iimagine she won’t be needing cheerleading.”

She’s notsuper impressed with the snideness but Caroline has a more pressing concern. Ifhe was one of those ‘cheerleading isn’t a real sport’ guys she’d cure him ofthat later. The news that Rebekah was reconsidering joining her squad was notgood. Not good at all. “I need her,”Caroline blurts out. “I fought for her. I have a flyer down and she’s my bestoption for a replacement.”

“Sorry,love. She seems resolved.” Klaus shrugs, clearly not sensing her urgency. UntilCaroline snatches his pencil out of his hand when he makes to return to hissketch. Could he not sense she was in crisis?

“Listen,”Caroline says, speaking quietly but forcefully. A few people glance over butone harsh glare from her and they’re turning away.

Klaus notices,“Impressive.”

Caroline willtake that as a compliment. “I don’t know if cheerleading is a thing whereyou’re from. But here? It’s a big freaking deal. We’re the best, have been foryears. I intend to keep it that way and being the best means I need the best on my team.”

“I’m notthe person you need to convince,” Klaus points out.

“Where’sher locker?”

“Not sure.”

Carolinedraws in a calming breath. “You have a phone, don’t you? Text her and ask.”

Klausfingers drum on the tabletop as he considers her. There’s a calculating glintin his eyes and Caroline braces herself for a refusal. She wouldn’t accept, ofcourse, but she mentally lists a few angles in preparation.

If only she’dworn a sluttier top this morning.

“I’m also notsure it’s particularly brotherly of me to let you ambush my baby sister,” Klaussays.

“Oh,please, I’ve already met her, remember? A delicate flower Rebekah is not.”

Klausinclines his head. “What’s in it for me?”

“What doyou want?” Caroline asks suspiciously. “If it’s something pervy I will stab you with this pencil. Mymother, the sheriff, will totallyback me up if I tell her you were sexually harassing me.”

Klausappears mildly offended. “I was just going to ask your name. Anything else I’llearn.”

“It’sCaroline,” she tells him, only slightly grudging.

“It’slovely to meet you, Caroline,” Klaus murmurs before sneaking a glance at theteacher. “Just give me a moment.” He leans forward in his seat, fishing out hisphone and keeping it out of sight below the table as he taps out a textmessage.

She kind ofwants to toss out something snarky about his ego, his overconfidence, but sherefrains. She’s fairly certain that she’d end up a liar.

[charmingturkeysandwich]

Knock, Knock Ch.24/27: The Aftermath

We’re getting closer to the end, friends! This chapter had more angst than I’ve planned, but I still love it. And I hope you do, too! Question: does everyone know the game Hangman? As I was taking the photo above I realized that might be a regional thing (and also realized how gross the concept is; like seriously why the fuck was I playing this as a child?!). But when I was in the hospital my mom and I played it a lot, hence it making its way into this story. 

If you read, let me know what you think? And thanks to @emmaswanchoosesyou for unintentionally(?) providing a line of dialogue. :)

Read on AO3.

Start from the beginning on Tumblr.

It’s funny how sometimes you just want to reach through your rib cage and rip out your own lungs.

OK, so funny probably wasn’t the word. But Emma was trying to see some form of lightness in her current situation. And, yes, she was failing horribly.

She couldn’t talk, not really. It came out all scratchy and wasn’t really worth the pain, so she’d taken to writing notes. Except her hands had suffered minor burns from coming in contact with hot objects, so that hurt, too.

Just wonderful.

Miraculously she hadn’t broken her legs – Killian did well to remind her exactly how lucky she was to have escaped that particular injury (“why are you calling me the lucky one? I’d say it’s you, considering if my legs were broken you’d have been the person in charge of helping me use the restroom,” she’d scratched out, her voice somehow Julia Child and Morgan Freeman at the same time).

He’d been distant. He was taking care of her, of course – in addition to David, Mary Margaret, and Regina, the three of whom were also tending to poor Belle (alongside a massively apologetic Will).

Belle was doing about the same as Emma, though with fewer bruises, cuts, and sprains (Emma was ever the Princess of Stupid Ideas with Painful Consequences, it seemed).

Sleeping was Emma’s current favorite pastime. Not because it brought much rest – no, with all those wires and tubes hooked up to her, with all the pain and discomfort, all the noises of the stupid hospital, her sleep was never really all that high quality. But it meant she didn’t have to talk to anyone, didn’t have to apologize again for her stupid/heroic behavior, didn’t have to watch the people around her worry and fuss and dote.

It hadn’t been the wrong decision. Despite his fucking crazy, Emma still stands by going up to check on Jefferson. She had to at least try to help. At first it had seemed so minor, so it wasn’t like it was life-threatening. She hadn’t known from the start what she was getting into. And when it escalated, well what was she supposed to do exactly, just say fuck it and let the psycho burn down her home? Yeah, it burned anyway (burned to the ground, nothing left but beams and brick and dust), but she had to know that she’d tried to save it, to save the only place she’d ever really felt OK.

And, you know, other people lived there, too.

Killian didn’t leave the hospital. Ever. The nurses would try to kick him out and he’d always get snippy with them. “Where the fuck am I supposed to go?” he’d growl out, not an ounce of politeness left in him. “My home burned just like hers. I’m staying here.”

After his little outburst, Emma had written him a little thank you on a sticky note and stuck it to his arm. He’d smiled and folded it up, putting it into his pocket before scooting his chair closer to her and laying his head on her bed, time to get some sleep.

She’d run her IV-laced fingers through his hair until his breathing evened out. Whether or not he was actually sleeping, she couldn’t be sure. But hopefully he was faring better than her in the rest department.

Mary Margaret was exhausting. She was pregnant and shouldn’t even be on her feet the way she was (probably? That’s how pregnancy worked, right?), but she was constantly on the go. She’d buy Emma and Belle better food, better drinks (even though they didn’t exactly like putting anything down their throats quite yet). She’d bring fresh flowers and prettier bandages to cover their burns and scrapes. She was absolutely hell bent on providing comfort and relief in the form of material goods and any attempts to make her stop only made her cry. So Emma gracefully (not) accepted each new offering, vowing via notebook that Mary Margaret was making a difference.

David was a different story. He and Killian were mostly still riding the Rage Train.

Jefferson had – thankfully – been moved to a different hospital, air lifted to the city where they had a dedicated burn unit (and a psych unit – just saying). He’d been in bad shape. Obviously. He’d thrown accelerant on himself, had been standing directly in the fire. His burns were the kind that stayed with you. Forever.

(So much for a cleansing.)

His legs had been broken. His pelvis, too, if she were to believe the chatty nurses roaming about the halls. It was a miracle he was alive.

A miracle that David and Killian did not appreciate. The two of them spent time researching how to sue him. They came up with “fantasy” plans for how to kill him and get away with it. They even tried to blame the ex for “not getting him proper treatment” and their landlord for “renting to a goddamn psychopath.”

Emma was pissed at Jefferson, and with every right to be. Duh. But what kind of recourse was going to do any kind of good right now? The man was clearly suffering mentally. It takes a lot of wrong in your brain to resort to arson, to completely dismiss the consequences of your very unhinged actions. She was angry and annoyed and caught in a never-ending why me kind of depression spiral about the whole thing, because obviously Jefferson’s actions affected her. Directly.

But suing him wouldn’t take it away. Even him dying wouldn’t change the past. He needed help. And Emma needed to never think about the bastard again. A concept David couldn’t seem to fucking grasp.

“Please,” she croaked. “Just... pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“But he did this to you, Emma! Your life is just… gone. And all because of that idiot!”

Emma rolled her eyes and shrugged and grabbed her notepad, scribbling in childlike chicken scratch: say his name one more time and I’m going to find an IV needle and STAB YOU WITH IT.

He stopped talking about it after that. Out loud and in front of her, anyway. But his rage, his fury was still permanently etched into his scrunched up face and lifeless eyes.

It was like he couldn’t see that Emma was still here. You know, right fucking in front of him.

(Sometimes anger gets in our faces. It makes us do the wacky. Just like love.)

 She was taking a “nap” (reliving the time travel episode of Castle in her head) when an all-too-cheerful sounding set of heels started clicking on the shabby linoleum floor of her shabby hospital room.

“First you land yourself on the no-fly list, and then you jump out of a burning building? Damn, girl, you’re making my life look positively dull.”

“Ruby!” she practically growled, her voice particularly yucky after a few hours without water.

“Oh, dear lord please don’t do that again. I’ll have nightmares.” Ruby always knew how to lighten a mood, make the best of a truly shitty situation. She and Emma shared that way too soon and highly inappropriate sense of humor and it was just what she needed after the doting, brooding, and outright ignoring of her the last three days.  

Emma grabbed for her notepad and pen, only causing a little pain as she jerked at her IV port, and started scribbling.

What the hell are you doing here???

“Um, my best friend jumped out of a burning building. Did you miss that part? Of course I was coming to see you.”

You sent your love via text through Killian’s phone. With a lot of emojis.

“No emoji is a substitute for this face.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that,” a smooth British voice called from the doorway. It seemed Killian had returned from his hourly walk/excuse to avoid Emma.

“So, Jones, has the fire convinced you that you should move to Seattle? Victor is itching to get you in on his poker night after last week.”

“We played poker?” Killian looked truly shocked by that information, which was particularly amusing considering how much he’d won – while apparently blacked out.

“Oh, you played good, sweetheart.”

The two of them spent some time catching up, Ruby seeming to sense that Killian wasn’t in any mood for joking about the recent incident that was the reason she was visiting in the first place. Emma just listened and smiled and gestured a few times in response to a question.

It was just nice to hear her voice. And to hear Killian’s voice… you know, without the twinge of blind rage or deep depression.

He’d seemed to be feeling far guiltier than Emma could wrap her head around. What exactly could he have done differently that would have changed the outcome of the day? Literally nothing. It all would have gone the same, except he’d be hurt, too. But he was feeling bad and it was making her feel bad and there was just something so odd about feeling the person you want right beside you –

And realizing they don’t seem to be there at all.

-

He needed to tell her.

A lot of things, actually.

(There was nothing like a near-death experience to get your damn priorities in order.)

First of all, he needed to tell her about the step he took without her permission. But, you know, she was probably going to want to slap him. And he owed her that. So he couldn’t tell her that when she was laid up in a hospital.

And he needed to tell her she was wonderful and perfect and all he ever needed in his life.

Sure, she probably realized he felt that way. She probably suspected that he felt the L word for her. But they never talked about it. They’d had some heart-to-hearts, they’d confessed their feelings and whatnot, but there was always the hint of humor, the possibility that it wasn’t all real and important and solid.

He knew it was. And he suspected that she knew he knew that. But why didn’t he fucking tell her? Why didn’t he confess how terribly much he loves her and how he plans to stay at her side every day for the rest of forever? Why didn’t he make sure there was absolutely no possibility for miscommunication?

Oh, because he was scared. Scared she might run or worse, that she didn’t feel the same way.

But she did. She fucking did and he knew it and why didn’t he just take the leap?

Nope, instead he watched her leap – off a fucking building, not knowing if she’d survive long enough for him to spill his guts.

And now he was just so angry at himself and annoyed at her and positively raging at the lunatic who couldn’t handle his own shit and put them all in this situation in the first place. In other words, he was in no state for a mushy, lovey speech.

And she was in no state to hear it. It wasn’t clear whether she was trying to avoid speaking with him or if she was just reacting to his own coldness, but she’d been fairly uncommunicative. She’d reassure him with little notes and he’d keep them close, but he couldn’t control the fire in his chest every time he thought about how she was almost taken from him, about all his own shortcomings, and especially about fucking Bucky and how much he wanted to strangle that bastard with his fucking breathing tubes.

OK, yes, he was overreacting. Emma would lecture him beyond belief if he were speaking out loud (and if she had the ability to talk at length), but he was just so mad. And it was easier to be pissed off at a violent, mentally unstable neighbor than it was to cope with being irrationally angry at yourself.

Ruby’s visit provided some perspective. With Emma not able (and/or afraid) to lighten the mood, Ruby was a breath of fresh air. He was able to forget, if only for a moment, about all the bullshit of the past few days. He was able to feel like he was just sitting in his living room, hanging out with his two very favorite ladies.

But that sense of home quickly vanished when he remembered his home had done just that – vanished. Gone were the couches they’d lounged on, the TVs they’d watched, the video games they’d played.

(Gone were the walls on which they’d knock for communication long before they were face-to-face friends.)

It was all gone.

It appeared he’d gotten a little lost in his dark thoughts, because Ruby had moved on from joking and catching up with him to apparently playing hangman with Emma on the nurse’s white board. Emma had gotten an entire song title correct without a single body part drawn and therefore was celebrating by doing a little dance from her bed.

Which resulted in a tugged wire and a pulled cord and all of a sudden there was a steady beeping and a very cranky nurse storming in to fix everything.

“Damn, Emma, you’re on fire today with your clumsiness,” she joked, Emma raspily chuckling in response.

Killian, of course, was not amused by anything that contained the word fire.

“What, too soon?” she asked him, a look of mock innocence crossing her still-laughing features.

At least Emma was smiling.

 It was the next morning that Emma found out she could be discharged. They needed to check all of her wounds and do a few more tests on her lungs, but everything seemed normal.

Well, normal up until the nurse made the mistake of asking Emma if she was excited to go home.

She stared blankly at the poor lady and then reached for her water, gulped down as much as she could and responded, “Would be if I had one.”

Which appeared to be the moment the nurse realized that Emma had been in the fire that destroyed her apartment. And she therefore had nowhere to do. Not officially, anyway.

She had somewhere to go. She and Killian were both invited to stay several places. Ruby, of course, had offered her flat in Seattle, but that was the first suggestion they steadfastly turned down. Regina, Robin, Mary Margaret and David, even Belle’s family had offered them places to stay. Only Will had forgone extending an offer – and that was because he was so desperately wrapped up in helping Belle to recover the hideousness (and their brief disagreement, too).

“I’m thinking we go with Regina. She’s got the big house, after all,” Killian joked to Emma as he was packing up her (recently purchased) clothing and toiletries.

“If that’s what you want,” she responded flatly.

“Swan, I was kidding. I just kind of assumed we’d go to David and Mary Margaret’s.”

Emma rubbed at the little hole in the crook of her elbow, the place they’d just removed the IV (a sure sign she was imminently free from this hospital hell). “I mean… well, I was thinking that maybe we shouldn��t stay together.”

Her sentence didn’t quite compute. “What do you mean ‘not stay together?’ What else would we do?”

“Well it’s not like we lived together, Killian!” Her sore voice was probably on its last leg, so to speak, with this influx of talking, but Emma showed no sign of wanting to switch to the notepad instead. “Just because we lived in the same building doesn’t mean we have to go to the same ‘emergency shelter.’ Plus you can barely look at me and it’s making me feel like shit. So maybe you should just go work out your anger at me or whatever somewhere else. I’m sure Robin would be happy to have you.”

He got the distinct feeling that if she’d had the ability, she would have stormed off at the end of that sentence (she so very much loved to have the last word). But instead she just plopped back down on her lumpy bed and hung her head.

And he probably should have thought a little longer about what he said in response. But, you know, emotionally charged situations and all – they’re not great for critical thinking. “But we can live together now. I mean… why wouldn’t we? We have to find new places. What’s so wrong with finding the same one? It would certainly make the process a lot simpler.”

The room was uncomfortably silent for the span of two walkers scratching by the open door of Emma’s hospital room – and three announcements over the PA system.

“OK, so you want to move in with me because it would just ‘make things easier?’” Emma put air quotes around those last three words, and that was about the time Killian realized he should have kept his damn mouth shut (he’d been right to not confess the mushy stuff – it certainly doesn’t come out very mushy in his current state). “I’m not interested in taking an important step in our relationship just because it would be less of a headache. Speaking of headache, I have one. And I’m tired. And I’m hungry. And I’d like to be somewhere that doesn’t make me want to commit murder. So could you please go find David for me and, I don’t know, call Robin while you’re gone to let him know you’re coming?”

Emma stood from the bed and hobbled over to the duffle bag with her things, grabbing one of the sweatshirts he’d gotten from the hospital gift shop. She refused to look at him, but as soon as he took a breath to respond, she countered, “Killian, please. I can’t do this right now.”

So he leaned over, kissed her cheek, and left.

-

“What kind of idiot suggests moving in like that?” Emma rasped, Mary Margaret quickly grabbing the empty bottle in her hand and running off to fill it with more water.

“Well, I mean – he does have a point?” Ruby suggested, her voice light and laced with a tone of please-don’t-kill-me-for-stating-the-obvious.

“OK, yes. I mean, he kind of does. We were probably going to get to that stage, anyway. So it does make sense. But he’s barely talked to me since I was in the hospital!” Mary Margaret returned with the water and Emma sucked down half the glass before continuing. “He was cranky for days and distant and I get it, but you don’t go from ‘I’m basically just tolerating you’ to ‘let’s consolidate a life together’ in a few hours.”

“Well, as Belle said yesterday, you also don’t usually go from brunch with your BFF to half-dead in a hospital bed in a few hours, either, sweetie. The situation is pure garbage, and he probably did it all wrong, but you can’t stay mad at him for this.” It was the first time in three days that Mary Margaret had actually voiced anything other than how can I throw more things at you to make you feel better.

Of course, just when Emma was at her low, Mary Margaret decides to stop doting. Just fabulous.

“You know, he hasn’t even said ‘I love you’ yet? Who moves in before you say you love them?” Emma countered, her argument seeming flat even to her own ears, considering it would take being blind, deaf, and perhaps not human in order to not know that Killian loved her.

(Or that she loved him in return.)

“Emma, you’re not exactly the easiest person to please. Or the easiest to know what you want, I should say. I’m sure he was playing it safe. And I’m sure the second he saw the fire trucks, he regretting playing it safe.” Ruby took a deep breath, closing her eyes as if to channel the energy of the sea or some of that floofy shit she’d taken classes in back when she lived by Emma.

“I know I joke a lot. And I know I don’t say too much about Victor. But one day he was on call and he was paged after an accident. It had been some kind of mess between a couple of cars going too fast and a tractor trailer that had fallen asleep at the wheel. Anyway, the passenger of one of the cars looked just like me, apparently. Or enough that Victor’s heart dropped at least. He did surgery on her, but there was no saving her. He had to call time of death on her and he had to tell her brother and her boyfriend that she was gone. It was that night that he picked me up from the apartment building, still wearing his scrubs, and told me in a very matter-of-fact tone that I was the best thing to ever happen to him and he’d like to come home to me every night. He was tired. It was midnight – and not the romantic kind. But it was real. He’d had enough fear of losing me entirely that he was no longer afraid to push me away. Mad at him was better than dead in his book, I guess.”

(Always ending on a light note, that Ruby.)

The girls were all quiet for a few moments, Emma feeling their stares through her eyelids as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to figure out any way she could stay mad at Killian instead of herself. (She was failing.)

“Now can we please call Robin to bring him over? I’d made up the guest room for both of you.” Mary Margaret was scowling at Emma when she finally opened her eyes. Ugh. How did she go and fuck up so quickly?

“Fine, but someone else is calling him.”

-

A strange number popped up on Killian’s phone. Who would be calling him that he didn’t have in his phone book?

That’s when he remembered that Belle and Emma had left their phones in the apartment. You know, the one that had burned down. And rather than trying to rush new iPhones and deal with insurance and all that crap, Mary Margaret had just picked them up some Tracfones from the local dollar store. Meaning they both had new numbers, at least for the time being.

He answered expecting to hear the rasp of Belle or Emma, but instead it was David’s voice on the other line, apparently having borrowed Emma’s new phone. “You’re being summoned, Jones.”

“Summoned?”

“Yeah, the crazy girl has admitted her crazy and requests your presence. And I swear if you refuse I’ll bop you on the head because, yes, she was wrong, but she also almost burned to death this week so how about we give her a pass?”

“Only for you, Dave.”

 Robin had been expecting that Killian wouldn’t stay long, his things already in Robin’s jeep before Killian had even requested a ride to the Nolans’.

“Oh, I figured one of you would crack. Like you could actually be away from each other.” Robin scoffed and rolled his eyes and Killian felt a lot like punching him for his attitude, but then again why would he? It was technically a compliment to his and Emma’s relationship that it was so obvious they should be together.

(Well obvious to everyone except Emma apparently.)

The ride to David’s place was mostly full of idle chat, comments on the football matches he’d missed and on how smitten Will was. It was, again, a relief to have some to just talk to, someone he didn’t constantly feel guilty about lying to or about failing to keep them safe.

As much as he was looking forward to seeing Emma, to hopefully holding her and allowing the tension of the past few days to dissipate, he was also dreading this. They were going to have to talk. They’d both need to apologize, or something in the general vicinity of apologizing, and they’d both need to be honest. Her own honesty would probably be fairly minor – probably just admitting she was scared, which, you know, duh. But his? She really could hate him for making such a decision for her.

Robin opted not to come inside, citing the fact that he and Regina actually were planning to watch a movie together that night (Oh, now I see why my bags were already packed), but he did ask that Killian pass along his well wishes to Emma.

And, of course, he wished Killian good luck.

(Which he’d need.)

“Killian! Fancy seeing you here!” David called out the front door, waving a bottle of beer at him to usher him inside more quickly.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if I stay,” Killian groaned. He probably should have told Robin there was a chance he’d end up crashing his date with Regina. Just to give him fair warning and all if Emma were to kick him out. Again.

“Oh, you’re staying. Probably for quite a while, I’d imagine. My wife has already hung pictures in the guest room to make you both feel welcome while you’re sorting out your living arrangements. So you’re in this for the long haul.”

“Shouldn’t you two be focused on the baby and not us?”

“Well at this point you two need about as much supervision as children, so we’ll call it practice.” David clinked his bottle against Killian’s, took a sip, and wandered back into the kitchen.

“Ah! He’s here!” Ruby shouted as she bounced out of the living room, a glass of wine in her hand.

“Should we really all be drinking when Emma can’t?” Killian questioned.

“She can tolerate us all better when we have a buzz. Now, Mary Margaret and David and I are off to do some baby shopping! Leaving you and your lady all alone. But the kind of alone where you talk, not the kind where you get kicked out of airports. Savvy, pirate?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Ruby looped her arm through Mary Margaret’s and the two mumbled their goodbyes to Emma as they joined David out in the kitchen. There was some shuffling and talking and the scuffle of shoes before the outside door creaked open and shut.

And he was alone in the house with Emma.

She was perched on the couch, her less-bruised elbow leaning on the armrest, one leg curled toward her chest and the other extended across two of the three cushions.

“Can I sit?”

“If you can fit. I’m not moving my leg. It hurts like a bitch.”

“Shouldn’t you be icing it? Or taking pain killers or something?”

“Nah, I’m toughing it out. You know me.”

“That I do,” he mumbled, tipping his head away from her so he could roll his eyes without her seeing.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, mister. I know I’m frustrating but, you know, it’s been a bad week for me. Being on fire and all.”

Her voice was still hoarse and weak, but he could sense the smile, so he turned to meet her eyes as he sat down at the opposite end of the couch. “Yeah I suppose I could cut you some slack. But, you know, you only get to use this so many times.”

“No way, buddy. This one’s good for the rest of our lives. Very little can trump burning building. I’ll always have that card in my pocket.”

It was uncanny how quickly they could fall back into their easy, joking manner. He reached out and put his hand on her ankle, running his fingers along the bruises.

“So. The rest of our lives. That’s a thing you think about?” Easy joking was nice, but unfortunately, it was time for a Real Talk.

Her response was not only shocked, but almost offended: “Of course I do! It just kind of seems like… you don’t. Didn’t? Or something. I don’t know.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well why wouldn’t I?!”

It seemed they’d come to an impasse. Apparently when you were both just supposed to know that you were Serious (not just boyfriend and girlfriend but actually going somewhere else kind of serious), there really were significant chances for miscommunication.

“I love you,” Killian finally said, reaching out for Emma’s hand. “I love you so much it apparently makes me stupid sometimes. I shouldn’t have been so angry at the hospital. I mean, I was never angry at you, but I’m sure it was hard to watch me be angry near you. A lot. And I’m sorry that seized the worst opportunity to ask you to live with me. And I’m sorry it took you jumping out of a burning building and spending four days in the hospital for me to tell you I love you. So very much. Basically from the first time you yelled at me, in case you were wondering.”

Emma smiled and squeezed his hand tighter, shifting her leg forward so she could scoot closer to him. “I love you. Definitely not since I first yelled at you. But I still love you all the same.”

Little fireworks went off in his chest. Despite already knowing how she felt, despite the fact that none of this was a surprise, just hearing the words made him do a little happy dance all the way down to his soul.

And that’s when his voice of reason woke up from his nap and gave him a little tap, tap, tap to the brain.

Better tell her now, buddy.

Deep breaths. He needed to take some deep breaths.

“Would you still love me if I did something big and somewhat life-changing without your knowledge?”

“Did you already buy a house? Because I swear to God, Killian, if it’s ugly I will smack you.”

“No, no. Um. OK, so you know how I had meetings with the insurance guy and my lawyer and all that?”

“Yeah? Obviously? That was only a few days ago. And miraculously I didn’t suffer any memory loss from my recent… incident.” Emma smiled and giggled a bit (as much as she could when she sounded like what he imagined a talking bulldog would) and it made him all the more ashamed of the imminent confession.

“OK, yes, you remember. And I told you why I was going – but only part of it. The papers are in my bag and I can show you later, you know, if you don’t kill me – which, at this point I would understand if you did and – ”

“Killian. Spit it out.”

He paused one last time, exhaling out and preparing for the worst.

“I made you an equal partner in my business.”

Emma’s eyebrow shot up and her eyes roved the room as her mouth fell slightly open. After a few more seconds of silence passed, she started physically looking around the room like a leprechaun were bouncing around with a damn pot of gold in his hands. Maybe she had been taking more medicine than he’d thought?

Then she finally spoke: “And?”

“And what?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“Equal partner in the business, right?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That’s what I’m asking you!” she growled, choking a little from raising her voice. She reached for her glass of water and downed a little bit before turning back to him.

“Did you sign a contract with the devil for my soul in exchange for half your business?”

“Um. No?”

“Then why the fuck are you freaking out?”

“Well why aren’t you?! I asked you to move in with me a few hours ago and you reacted like you were going to run me over with a car. But I give you half my business and you’re just cool with it?”

“Well I do half the work. Why wouldn’t you give me half your business?”

This fucking woman. Just when he thought he knew her enough to predict her reactions, just when he thought he’d prepared himself for all the worst…

She goes and gets all understanding and reasonable on him.

“So you’re OK with it?”

“Did you not want me to be?”

“Well I assumed because I did it without your permission – which was stupid, yes, but I was scared you’d say no – that you’d be really angry.”

“I’m a little weirded out that you could do that without at least, like, my signature? But I’m not angry. I mean, not at you. I’m a little angry at the fucking universe because these injuries and this obnoxious voice are both messing with our schedule. Summer is almost fucking here. We need to execute our very well-crafted plans!”

Her frustration was palpable. She really was all-in when it came to the business.

And apparently also with the relationship.

How weird was that?

(His favorite kind of weird, of course. The kind named Emma Swan.)

[imagine-ikebukuro]

Hi I really love your blog! I was wondering if I could ask for headcanons on what sort of texts Izaya and Shizuo would send to their s/o a lot?

Izaya:

I picture Izaya texting his s/o a lot. When I first thought about it, I assumed he might not be too big of a fan of it, since texting doesn’t allow him to immediately catch the reaction of his s/o when they read his text. But on the other hand, I bet it’s fun to him to interpret their responses – or even just a Read 8:13AM – in a psychological way too.

Speaking of Read 8:13AM, Izaya’s a light sleeper and basically lives off of coffee. More than often, his job requires him to stay up late at night or even skip a restful sleep entirely. He’s gonna spam his s/o throughout these entire nights. They should expect casual 2-5AM messages.

His texts have a large range of variety regarding his style of writing, depending on the current topic he’s talking about.

Generally though, he’s pretty eloquent and types A LOT (in a sense of many short messages over one large one)!!!

The amount of emojis and emoticons he’s using should be illegal. Not only the amount either, sometimes it’s hard to make out why he uses certain emojis for certain texts, they’re confusing and seem way too random at times.

Nevertheless, he never uses short forms and always uses proper grammar. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to that.

Now, naturally, there’s gonna be occasions where the topic is rather serious, for example. In cases like these, he sends a wall of text, using zero emojis whatsoever and remaining 100% mature and serious throughout to an extent where it’s almost creepy.

Moving on to what kind of stuff he’d send his s/o: random af things

Memes, links to silly videos, ALL THE GOSSIP AND DRAMA and most importantly, selfies. So many selfies.

Randomly talking about his day “Haha, I just ran into Shizu-chan and used my stealth skills to record a video of him meowing back at a cat!” as if stalking someone like that would be any better, Izaya.

“COFFEE DATE!!”

“(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧”

“Namie brought this amazing coffee to go from this new place nearby!”

“Let’s go there!”

“Meet you there in an hour. (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*)”

Sexting. So much shameless sexting.

And giving his s/o all the petnames, ranging from adorably sugar sweet to kinkshame worthy downright sinful ones.

Shizuo:

Shizuo rarely ever sends text messages. He thinks they’re pretty silly and prefers to have a face-to-face conversation with someone, especially with his s/o.

Nevertheless, he does admit that he’s pretty thankful for high technology allowing him to stay in touch with his s/o even during work shift hours or when they’re currently far away from each other, i.e.

His texts are awkward though. It’s because he really does feel awkward and keeps overthinking what to write.

So, generally, it’s his s/o initiating a little chat conversation through text messages.

Even then, it takes Shizuo so long to reply, because he rethinks his answer approximately a million times, at least.

You couldn’t tell he puts much thought into it though, because he never sends back texts longer than three-word sentences at most.

“Sure.”

“OK”

“Alright.”

“Why not”

You could almost think he’s pissed or something, but really, it’s just because he thinks anything else would be overdoing it or not cool enough. Poor boy.

The only time he ever spams something is when he’s really pissed off. One time he was in a raging fit when his s/o texted him and he used all caps to tell the entire story with so many cuss words it could fill 3 swear jars at once.

One time he asked Tom for advice on how to send a loving text message and he sent this really long text filled with him expressing how thankful he is to have them in his life, followed by a “sorry, this is so cheesy… I love you.”

Blurry selfies. Or any blurry picture, he can’t take proper ones.