#like for real my fucking. inability to settle into a task is getting in the way of things. growls

[macabrity]

getting tired of being unmedicated. Waiting for my antidepressants to arrive in the mail with a perfectly still and focused tail. you know when goku is trying to sense Hit and is just sitting there with his eyes closed? that’s me too but at the mail truck.

[thefanficmonster]

Quarantine On Crack

Until Dawn Gang + Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing, Some underage drinking, A LONG-ASS READ (sorry 😅)

Genre: Fluff, Crack, Humor

Summary: The Until Dawn kids (including Hannah and Beth) decide to go through literal hell - trying to survive each other while being stuck on a mountain, in a lodge together for an undetermined amount of time. It’s really a 50/50 chance of how their relationships will be affected by this much time spent together.

Requested by my dear Until Dawn Anon. This is the first time our babies aren’t suffering yay! Hope you enjoy! Know I had a ton of fun writing. The credit for some of these amazing quotes goes out to you (keep both the requests and quotes coming, I absolutely love them!) Love you, Vy ❤

Imagine what the aftermath of a human tornado would look like. You’ve got an image? Great. Now triple it as though three tornados had ripped through the place. Cause that’s what the lodge looks like right now.

Let me backtrack just for a second so I can give you a proper idea of what’s going on and how it came to be. I’d like to mention this ain’t my first rodeo. I’m not in Blackwood nor am I staying in this lodge with this group of people for the first time. I knew what I was getting myself into when I accepted Josh’s offer to go there now with this pandemic that’s eating away at the world. I knew certain members of the group would be hell to put up with but that quarantine beat staying at home alone with my thoughts, so I gave in. This plan had its perks: since we would be the only ones on the mountains and all of us are perfectly healthy, we’d be allowed to wander the woods and breathe some fresh air. On the other hand, however, I’d have to restrain myself from committing murder. The snowy wood outweighed the possibility of becoming a murderer and that’s how I ended up here with the ten people I’ve been friends with since high school freshmen year. 

We’re on day four so far. Yes DAY four, not WEEK four, and people are already scrapping with one another. Jess and Emily can barely tolerate each other. Mike and Matt likewise. I’ve been done with their shit since day two and am now watching a literal rom-com unfold in front of me. “Will They, Won’t They Squared” is the title in case you were wondering. Why squared? Well we have two pairs of love birds around here that are not official, BUT THEY SHOULD BE. Not naming any names or anything *ahem*.

I probably should’ve mentioned, while I was on the scrapping topic, that I have already managed to threaten Mike at least ten times. Emily and I are trying our hardest to remain civil with each other through passive aggression, and I must admit we’re doing well. 

Another thing that has been going on is A LOT OF FUCKING FLIRTING. I swear we run on hormones and caffeine. And I’m into it.

Jess and Emily were at each other’s throats just moments ago, the argument took so many turns and kept branching out so much I forgot what they were even fighting about. Sam and Josh are sitting in front of the unlit fireplace. Sam’s giving him a hard time about his inability to light a fire. She’s basically doing what I would’ve been doing if Matt hadn’t handed me a cup of homemade cider.

“Y/N.“ He says as he settles on the other end of the couch

“Matthew.“ I reply to his greeting, clinking our cups together

“GET A ROOM YOU TWO!“ Emily yells from somewhere behind us

“We have like three empty seats between us and exchanged two words.“ Matt shakes his head, looking at the staircase over the backrest.

“Oh, sureee.“ Emily replies sarcastically

I can tell she’s about to go on and I’ve already went off on Mike twice today so my argument energy levels are low and I’m not having it. Thankfully, a single look shuts her up real quick and she goes about her way.

Suddenly, a loud scream comes from the kitchen. Everyone turns to look in that direction, but I’m unfazed. It’s Ashley’s scream so I know exactly what’s up.

“Sit tight, guys. I’ve got this.“ I put my cider on the coffee table and walk into the kitchen, grabbing the can of deodorant that I purposely left on the counter for this exact scenario. I pull the lighter out of my pocket and step between Ashley and the source of her terror which is, as I guessed, one of those mutated ass Blackwood cockroaches. 

I waste no time torching it and picking it up with a paper towel before throwing it in the trash. We take the trash out every night at eleven PM as some unspoken ritual, so the corpse can chill there for now. I ain’t going out in the cold just to throw away the dead body of a cockroach.

“Sorry about that.“ Ashley says through a relieved sigh

“Don’t worry, Ash. Everyone’s afraid of something.“ I assure her, putting the can of deodorant where it previously was.

“Even you?“ she asks skeptically

“Nope.“ I respond with a smirk.

“I CAN CONFIRM!“ Josh calls out from his spot in front of the fireplace, “SHE ISN’T AFRAID OF ANYTHING!“

“And a pyromaniac on top of all.“ Chris mumbles under his breath

He’s not wrong. I did teach them the deodorant flamethrower trick.

I notice Jess has taken one of those three seats Matt mentioned were between him and I earlier. The one closest to him, to be specific. Instead of third wheeling, I grab my cup and plop myself in one of the armchairs.

“Is that another point for the ‘Y/N’s burnt cockroaches’ score board?“ Mr. Munroe struts his way into the room.

I hum affirmatively, “Piss me off some more and there will be another point on that score board.” I warn him nonchalantly, taking a sip of my now almost cold cider.

 Ashley, who has safely made it out of the kitchen and is now sitting on the floor by the couch looks up at me and Mike who is now standing behind my chair, looming over me like a street lamp. “Do you two even consider each other friends?”

I give Mike a debating glance, one he returns, before looking back at Ash, “We fuck occasionally.” Mike confirms from behind me.

“That doesn’t answer the question.“ Ashley’s disappointed sigh mixes with Jess’ shocked gasp.

I give Jess an unamused look, “What? Don’t act like I haven’t slept with you too.”

Poor Matt, who’s halfway through a sip of his drink nearly chokes at my words, “Wait, WHAT?”

“OK, show hands everyone who HASN’T slept with Y/N!“ Mike declares.

Chris, Ash, Sam, Josh and Matt raise their hands in the air.

“I’m honestly offended that I haven’t.“ Sam says while raising hers.

“Offended that you haven’t what?“ Hannah asks as her and Beth come downstairs a bunch of board games and puzzles in their arms. “And why are we raising our hands?”

“People who haven’t slept with Y/N.“ Jess quickly explains, grumpily folding her arms over her chest. I can’t help but laugh, nor can I restrain the urge to fluster her even further by winking at her.

“I would raise my hand but these boxes would go everywhere.“ Hannah shakes her head.

“I won’t raise mine because....well, I just won’t.“ Beth blushes, making me laugh.

Josh whips around to glare at me, “Seriously?”

I raise my hands in surrender, “Wasn’t my idea.”

Thankfully the topic is dropped by the time Emily walks in. She sits down on the other side of Jess on the couch, more than happy to interrupt her and Matt’s flirting.

“Oh, finally!“ Sam says as the fire that’s been in the making for a while now finally lights, “I knew you could do it, Josh!“

“We could’ve done it a lot quicker if you helped, you know?“ He narrows his eyes playfully at her, taking the hand she offered to him so she could help him up.

“True, but I was your moral support. You know I like focusing on one task rather than multitasking.“ She teases him, “And now I’ll be your cider supplier. Be right back.“

I give Josh that knowing smirk when I see his ears reddening. You know something’s up when your cheeks/ears are burning hot in a room that’s around freezing - you’re either burning with a fever or a crush. No other explanation.

Hannah and Beth have set the board games they’ve brought onto the coffee table so we can decide what we’d like to play.

“UNO?“ Beth offers while Jess, Josh and Matt look at the options.

War-like flashback ensue when I shake my head, “No! Nah hah, I’ll be tempted to strangle somebody.”

“Over UNO?“ Josh gives me this look that’s between disappointed and deeply concerned

“I’ve been tempted to kill over Rock, Paper and Scissors.“ That statement tells him enough that he turns back around with this stunned look on his face.

Eventually, after a lot of convincing, the whole gang is on board with playing a round or two of truth or dare until one of us decides something more original because we really don’t feel like playing board games.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?“ Emily asks, not giving anyone else a chance.

I smirk, kicking my feet up on the table, leaning back in the chair, “Truth for the first round.”

“Who here is the best in bed?“ she sneakily narrows her eyes at me, thinking she’s intimidating. How cute.

“Dare.“ Why don’t we make things interesting?

Em doesn’t complain, “We still have that cockroach’s corpse?”

“Enough said.“ I get up from my seat only to get grabbed by Mike and pulled back down.

“Easy there, caveman.“ He says, shaking his head, “Just answer the question. This doesn’t need to be gross.”

Chris, Ash, Matt and Jess look mortified. “You were gonna do it, weren’t you?” Matt gathers the guts to ask.

I give him a sweet smile and a nod. “And to answer your question: Me. My turn! Josh, truth or dare?” 

He glares at me intensely, “Dare.”

The fucker knows I’m not the type to give ‘kiss this person’ or ‘7 minutes in heaven with that person’ dares. But I do ask some risky questions. Well...the only way to get him into my trap is to use his hatred for bug against him.

“We do still have that cockroach. So...“ I give an innocent shrug of the shoulders, giving him the chance to put two and two together instead of breaking it to him.

You could pinpoint the exact moment the realization hits him, his face turning in disgust. “You know, Y/N, sometimes I really love you.” He says, very touching of him, “And sometimes I’d love to kill you.” He takes a moment, a moment filled with aggressive eye contact between us before finally giving in, growling: “Truth.”

I think I’m level with Mother Theresa for what I did next. “What’s your favorite video game?”

The relief that washes over him is priceless to see. His answer comes as a sigh that indicates that the whole world has been lifted off his chest, “Metal Gear Solid.”

“Cool.“ I say with a cheeky smile.

Being the college kids we are, we easily get bored after a few more rounds, but not before having to defuse an argument that’s basically name-calling between Jess and Emily. I’ve noticed a pattern: if one of them as much as breathes in the other’s direction - a cat fight takes place.

Thankfully, the group disperses into smaller groups or in pairs. Sam, Josh, Chris and Ash go to the theater. Mike and Jess head upstairs, and I think no one would like to go to that area of the lodge in the next two or so hours. Emily and Matt go on a stroll while Hannah and Beth somehow convince me to play Monopoly.

The round ends with Beth somehow gathering all of mine and Hannah’s territories. After a brief celebration they head on over to the theater to join the others. I turn down their offer to accompany them and go warm up the cider that’s now literally frozen.

“Grab whiskey if you want to speed up the process.“ I’m surprised to hear Munroe’s voice behind me but don’t show it as I refuse to even turn around to answer him.

“I’m saving the whiskey for when things get really fucked up.“

“Smart, I guess.“

I choose to be nice and fill up a cup for him as well. I hop up on the counter, taking a slow sip of my drink while looking Mike, who’s standing opposite me, leaning against the kitchen island, dead in the eyes.

“You know,“ he’s the one to break the tense silence that surged between us, “jealousy is a poisonous thing.“

Intriguing opening, Michael. “I’ve heard, yes.”

“Then why don’t you just drop it? You’ll be happier if you do, trust me.“ That smug look on his face makes me want to pour the hot liquid (Destery Smith, anyone?) directly onto his handsome features.

I hear a pair of footsteps approaching the kitchen. A side glance in the direction the noise is coming from confirms that there are indeed two people coming this way - Chris and Ashley.

“A bold thing to tell me while we’re around so many sharp objects.“ If the eyes are really windows to the soul, I would like to picture his with a bunch of stab-wounds from my glare-daggers. Though my gaze is intense, there is a calm smirk on my face. “I can kill you right now.“

Chris and Ashley walk into the kitchen and freeze - they clearly hadn’t noticed us until it was too late. They are looking at us like a pair of deer caught in headlights - mortified.

Mike jumps at the opportunity to ensure his safety, “You can’t! There’s witnesses.”

Unfazed, I turn to the pair who’s on the fence about what they should do, “Guys, could you please excuse us for a moment.”

They both nod hesitantly, slowly taking a step back. Mike is not about to let them go, however. He straightens up, setting the cup he’s holding aside. “No, no, no! Don’t move! Not another step!”

Their eyes land on me and I give them a reassuring and encouraging nod to exit the room. They both comply easily.

“Guys, come on!“ Mike pleads desperately, making me suppress a chuckle

“Sorry, Mike. But you won’t show up at my house in the middle of the night....“ Chris trails off with his apology when Ashley takes hold of his hand so she can lead him away from the kitchen.

“She will.” Ash finishes his sentence, giving me a subtle wink to which I reply by blowing her a kiss.

“Checkmate“ I say triumphally, turning to look at a somewhat scared and disappointed Mike.

“A FIRE IN THE THEATRE!“ Hannah’s scream startles all of us.

I look at the where I left the deodorant earlier, finding the spot vacant. Oh boy...

“Damn it, Josh! I told you not to use the flamethrower without my supervision!“ 

As Mike and I run out of the kitchen I hear Chris say: “I’m afraid this is the only time this getaway will be lit.”

I hope Ashley gently smacked him upside the head in response to that.

[diamondcitydarlin]

okay quarantine’s got me with a lot of free time and inspo, it seems so here is part two of this growing ficlet that I think will need to be posted to A03 at some point yes? Part one is linked above, I’m not sure this little installment will make much sense without it.

probably goes without saying that this story will have nandor x guillermo endgame eventually, but there’s a lot of interpersonal shit that needs to be dealt with first methinks. A lot. A veritable laundry list of issues.

It’s early, early morning, still very dark outside and the time of ‘day’ when Nandor retires to his slumber. He and Guillermo are going through their usual bedtime ritual, which consists of (some amount of) disrobing, hair brushing, and now, of course, Guillermo’s occasional, quickly stolen glances at his phone. Nandor pretends he doesn’t see, at least for his familiar’s sake, but he does continue to send knowing sideways looks to the camera. The producers know, after all. 

And maybe if there hadn’t been that absolutely uncomfortable conversation with the other roommates he might have said something by now. Made it about Guillermo’s inability to stay focused and on-task or something. 

“Master, can I ask you something?” Guillermo says after a time, to which Nandor startles a bit. “I feel like the others have been...kind of strange lately. There’s a lot of weird staring. Glaring, maybe. I’m a little confused. Did I do something wrong…?” 

The producers are also aware that Guillermo has a secret of his own, and so he shares a look with the camera that suggests he might already have an idea of why he’s been on the wrong-end of so many dirty glances. 

“Staring…?” Nandor repeats, trying his damndest to seem like he has no idea what any of this could be about. “At you? I don’t know. Maybe you’ve misplaced some of their things while cleaning.”  

“Well...see, I considered that too, but they’ve never been afraid to point it out before. Usually in raised voices…” 

Nandor shrugs and insists, “Well, I don’t know, I’m not a mind reader!” 

Guillermo sends a doubtful look to the camera, and pushes with his newfound backbone, “Okay so...you really have no idea why they’ve been doing things like,...watching me from the upper landing while I clean the floor?”  

They both send a look to the all-knowing camera then, simultaneously unaware of each other’s respective panic. Nandor seems to be weighing the pros and cons of just coming out with it, or maybe some revised version of the truth. 

“Uhm...well, it’s just…” he stumbles, to which Guillermo backs away for a moment and watches him with narrowed eyes. Does he know? 

“There was a conversation the other day. It was all very ridiculous.” Nandor sighs, rolls his eyes. “I...noticed that you seem more distracted by your little computer-phone machine lately. I asked them about it. That’s all.” 

He kind of skips over his words as if it’s all of no real consequence, but Guillermo’s eyebrows have risen in surprise. Undoubtedly this isn’t what he was expecting. 

“You...could have just asked me,” Guillermo scoffs a little. “What did they say?” 

Nandor looks like a petulant child being forced to clean up his toys. 

“They...seem to think you’ve-...taken a lover.” But he scoffs too, willing the idea to be ridiculous. Maybe if he pretends enough that it is, it will be. “So, you see, it’s all rather silly. They get carried away sometimes, it-” 

“They think I have a boyfriend,” Guillermo clarifies, flatly. “Well. They are...right. I do.” 

He releases this knowledge as if it’s a bit agonizing to do so, but not nearly as much for him as it is for Nandor to hear it, as the camera so aptly captures. The latter of them turns on his heel, staring down his familiar, open-mouthed, and so he gapes for a moment before releasing a weak, “....oh….!” and one can see the process he goes through of shock, to feigning that this revelation is fine. No big deal, even. “That’s….nice…for you…!” 

Nandor’s fake smile is less than convincing, and this is cemented in the pause of awkward silence that follows. 

This might have been the point in things that Guillermo from before would’ve let it be, moved his master to retiring to sleep, but this is the Guillermo of now. The Guillermo that has been practicing often with his stake-loaded crossbow. The Guillermo that has been making out on the sly with the leader of a den of vampire hunters. He is not the same.

“Okay,” Guillermo sighs, impatience growing. “But none of this explains why Laslzo and Nadja keep watching me. Like they’re planning something. Or...know something I don’t. Why do they care if I have a boyfriend? I haven’t slacked on my job, I’m still...doing all of the things I’m supposed to do.” 

He says this with some amount of distaste and a look of uncomfortable self-awareness at the producers. Some of the things he’s ‘supposed’ to do would seem pretty god-awful to others in his life…

Either way, Guillermo is clearly backing Nandor into a corner. He didn’t need a stake-loaded crossbow to do that, it seems. 

When the silence continues as Nandor hems and haws for something reasonable to say, Guillermo suggests, “Do...you have a problem with me having a boyfriend?” 

“No!!!” Nandor quickly exclaims, having found his voice all of a sudden. “Why would that be of any consequence to me?? Everyone seems to think I give half a shit when all I care about is your constant distraction with that phone...computer…! Why does he need your attention every second of the day anyway??” 

As has been shown, time and time again, Nandor does not have a gift for knowing when to stop talking. 

Guillermo’s got a glare of his own now, as well as a clenched jaw. 

“Oh yea, I can’t even imagine someone needing my attention every second of the day, that would be insane.” 

Nandor does a double-take. “Are you being sarcastic with me? I don’t care for this tone!” 

“Well, I’m not too fond of this constant prying into the one aspect of my life that’s my own, after years upon fucking years of you demanding everything from me with little to nothing in return, let alone the agreement we made!” 

Both voices are definitely rising in volume now. 

“Agreement…” Nandor scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “More like the only thing I could do to get you stop following me around, begging me like a peasant on the street.” 

It’s possible the producers have never, to this point, captured Guillermo more angry than he is in this moment. They don’t waste the shot. 

“If I was so annoying why didn’t you just kill me?” he rallies back. “Might have saved us both the trouble of ten fucking wasted years!” 

The tenor in volume is now such that the sound guy is likely going to suffer some time of hearing loss, such that this ‘conversation’ will be heard to all corners of the house. 

Meanwhile, Nandor has paused, because...he realizes, perhaps, he’s never really considered why he didn’t just do that. Guillermo has a point. It would’ve been easier. Killing him any time along the spanse of his 10 years of supposed annoying service would have been easier- that is, if anything he’s said in that time had been the truth. 

“I-...!” he starts, then stops again, then settles on the stupidest thing anyone could have said in that moment. “This is a useless conversation. I’m not going to be yelled at by a servant with pathetic dreams of being something more. That’s all you’ll ever be! It’s a mercy that I never turned you! You would have been even more of an embarrassment to the house, to vampires everywhere, for that matter!”    

Something in Guillermo seems to have snapped. He’s working his jaw and trying to fight an urge inside of him that goes unspoken. It’s successful. He instead manages a forced, satisfied smile. 

“That’s fine. That’s all fine, because...I don’t...want to be a vampire anymore.” 

Despite all that Nandor’s just said, the look they capture from him is one of shock. Maybe something else. 

“And what’s more,” Guillermo continues, his words carefully chosen. “I don’t see a point in doing this anymore either.” 

And he throws the brush he’d been using on Nandor’s hair to the floor. 

“Brush your own hair,” he says, looking a bit delirious from all the things he’s holding back from saying, doing. “I quit.” 

And before anything  else can be said or done, Guillermo’s made a sharp turn out the door of Nandor’s room. 

For Nandor, it’s as if the cameras don’t exist anymore. He’s looking at the door like the world’s just caved in from underneath him. 

From outside the door, however, Colin is seen having listened in to the whole thing, and is now very much sated from the looks of it. 

“That...was amazing,” Colin tells the audience. “You ever find a piece of cake in the fridge everyone forgot about? That was a whole cake. Man, I hope he comes back. Let me know if they squabble again, yeah?” 

[wiltedeyesandtwistedlies]

What are the inattentive symptoms of ADHD?

Before I answer, it’s important to acknowledge that not everyone experiences ADHD the same way. I came up with this list through hours of extensive research, but I still explained each one based on how I experience them personally, because I wanted it to be an honest and accurate resource.

Now, I experience every inattentive symptom of ADHD severely. As well as most hyperactive type symptoms, but not nearly as severely. Hence why my explanations are on the severe side. So if you don’t experience every one of these, or you don’t experience them exactly like this, that doesn’t mean you don’t have ADHD.

Most Commonly Known Symptoms:

Inattentive ADHD is pretty much the same thing as hyperactive ADHD but with less hyperactive tendencies. So technically these symptoms apply to both, but ADHD has a few more that won’t be listed here.

• Inability to focus on disinteresting or unengaging tasks even if you need or even want to – As if your brain physically won’t let you. Because that’s exactly what’s happening. There is no, “Just do it because you have to.”

For real. Imagine a video came where you’ve reached the end of the map and there’s that invisible barrier to keep you from going any farther. But all the other players are passing it just fine. They look at you like you’re crazy and can’t believe that you can’t get through. But it’s literally IMPOSSIBLE.

Now apply that to easy individual movements or tasks like plugging in your charger right next to you or washing a few bowls.

• Focusing WAY too much on this single thing whether you like it or not. It’s called “hyperfixating” and it’s both the most exhilarating experience in the world and the most soul crushing. You can watch/do nothing else, consume nothing else, think of nothing else. It’s exciting and invigorating. But as soon as there is no more material/info about it to devour, existence is gray and meaningless. The adrenaline rush and laser focus are like nothing else, but the crash is just as intense.

• Inability to divert attention to something different when you're already focused on something else. (More of a product of the two above, really)

• Inability to organize or maintain a neat system. It’s not that we don’t have a system (because we do, and if it’s altered in the most miniscule way we will know and we will be furious) but that our systems tend to be more about ease of access. It looks messy, but everything is just easily reachable instead of tucked away in drawers or hidden in organizer bins.

“Out of sight, out of mind.” As soon as we can’t see it, or we get used to it and it becomes a background visual (like background noise but for your eyes), it no longer exists. Until we see it again we have never seen it before either.

• Emotions are forceful and kinda scary. Lacking the ability to regulate emotions means violently strong feelings. They can sweep you away and leave you stranded in an uncomfortable predicament. Major highs and lows as well as strong grudges and emotionally based actions.

• Distractability: There’s this stereotype that all people with ADHD are hyper airheads who cut off mid sentence to shout random shit like “SQUIRREL!” whenever they see something remotely interesting. They’re super excited about it and HAVE to let everyone know, no matter what they were doing before. It’s kind of the “cutesie” version that the media portrays a lot. Most ADHDers don’t actually fit this stereotype.

However, stereotypes are often based on true characteristics, even if they have been twisted into a sick joke or a cruel portrayal.

NOTE: There is nothing wrong with this form of ADHD. It just sucks that if you don’t match this stereotype, no one really believes you have ADHD. Also that so many people use it to insult and bully people with ADHD, even if that isn’t how they display their symptoms.

Lesser Known Symptoms:

Basically if these are #relateable, you probably have ADHD.

• Unable to conceptualize time in any way. Will this take two minutes? Three hours? No one knows! You thought this would take a half hour at most and it’s taken three! How?? This was a five-minute task and you’ve just realized you zoned out. It felt like two seconds but it was two hours!

• There is only Now and Not Now. Again, it’s a time thing. The future always seems so far away that it's almost like it doesn't exist. "Time is a construct" is something I often say because I have no sense of time passing, having past, or will pass. People describe me as "living in the present.” But that’s only because I forget that there is a future or that time is moving. I just don't think about it at all and when I try to it's impossible to understand and it feels made up.

• Sensitive to any form of rejection, actual or perceived. A friend texts you back, but they don’t sound nearly as enthusiastic as usual. You immediately tear your message apart to try to find what upset them and how you can make it up to them. Because surely that’s what that nontypical period means? You want to curl up in a hole and never come out, never face the horrible thing you’ve done to a treasured friend. Intense fear and sorrow mingle into all consuming guilt. The kind that makes you wish you’d never met them, just so they wouldn’t have to be hurt by you now. All because they added a period.

Everyone with some form of an anxiety disorder will recognize this. But it’s also a very common ADHD experience. This is in part because anxiety is SUPER likely to be comorbid with ADHD. But we also have Rejection Sensative Dysphoria. Which basically means we’re ridiculously sensitive to the slightest possibility of the barest chance that we maybe might receive a sliver of perceived ambiguous rejection. To the point where we cut off good relationships for seemingly no reason because we’re too afraid to even speak to them again, much less explain our emotions that we know are irrational but can’t help. The guilt and regret are too agonizing, the fear to face them too much.

• Reading is AWFUL. We’ve already established that attention is not your friend. Unfortunately, that makes it difficult to read blocks of boring text. The information could be good, it could be fun even. But if the format is too uniform and plain, it’s impossible to get past the first few sentences. You just keep rereading the same line over and over, realizing every time that you zoned out halfway across. It’s infuriating and very sad. It also makes studying an absolute nightmare.

Many people actually don’t have this experience. They hyperfocus on their reading or their schoolwork so it isn’t a problem. I was the same way until college and now I can’t even read a little recipe card without zoning out. But it’s a very common experience nevertheless so I listed it anyway.

• Ringing ears, hearing electricity. This is one I just heard about. I haven’t been able to actually research this one, but it’s interesting and every ADHDer I know has confirmed it so I’m adding it. ‘Cause I’ve had constant ringing since I was old enough to talk. And I’ve always been able to hear power lines, household appliances, wires inside the walls, all those varying vibrating hums and crackling pops. It’s one of the weird quirks that “run in the family.” Just like Tinnitus and all ADHD symptoms. Apparently, MANY people with ADHD have similar experiences.

• Negative stimming. Things that negatively stimulate your senses. After encountering a certain stim, you feel it physically. It causes a sensation that hurts, in a way. It shouldn’t, logically. But your body’s reaction is to pain. This includes foods you can’t eat because the texture is wrong. Clothing you can’t wear because you can easily breath but no you really can’t because the collar sits wrong against your throat. Sounds that make your spine stiffen or skin crawl. Bright lights or colors that don’t affect anyone else but make your head ache.

Stims and sensitivity can affect any and all senses. A certain smell, agitating fabrics, an unbelievably smooth stone, specific tastes and food textures, certain color combinations, particular sounds/pitches/volumes, et cetera.

• Positive stimming. The other side of the sensory coin. Things that are exceptionally pleasant to your senses/stimulate you positively. For example, the way light shines through a transparent bright blue gem. Watching the light catch and twist so fluidly when you move it takes your breath away. There’s a euphoric feeling to it, and you can’t look away. It’s too pleasing. It’s like a deep satisfaction you can physically feel throughout your whole body, emanating from deep within your chest. You never want to stop that feeling.

Personally, it feels like my chest is somehow much deeper than it actually is. And at the farthest, deepest part is where that satisfaction settles. Nothing else can ever reach that hidden, impossibly deep cavity. It’s so amazing, I never want it to stop. It can feel like that endless pit is starved, and the stim is the first sustenance it’s ever had so it never what’s to let it go.

• Forgetting supposedly unforgettable things. Like where the fuck I parked my car. Also what my car looks like. It’s blue right? It has a hatch. I accidently memorized the license plate (complicated story) but I can’t tell you what model it is?? Is it even in this parking lot? I’ve never parked anywhere else but my memory is obviously garbage so now I need to check every parking lot just in case.

End Note:

It’s important to know that ADHD has many symptoms that overlap with other nuerodivergencies such as autism or ASD. Executive dysfunction can be caused by a number of mental illnesses such as depression and anxiety. Emotional regulation problems can look just like Bipolar disorder and vice versus.

My point is, every symptom could actually be something else. It’s really easy to be misdiagnosed because they all have such similar symptoms. I know someone who thought they had ADHD for years, but it was actually a mix of severe depression and anxiety that fucked with their working memory (as both depression and anxiety do). Someone else I know was diagnosed with manic depression and thought they might be bipolar, but it was undiagnosed ADD the whole time.

[agentdagonet]

Eggsy’s time in the military? Was actually as a high ranking Torchwood agent. And he gets called upon for his expertise by MI5(or the queen or whoever). Kingsman is like ??????

(so, I went and read the top 5 fics in the Torchwood archive, rated by Kudos, to try and get into this mindset. I’ve never written for Torchwoood, and it’s been years since I’ve watched it, so thank you for reminding me of  this brilliant ‘verse. I don’t know what it is, honestly, but I hope I did okay!)

Eggsy was looking at the file in front of him a bit angrily. 

Harry couldn’t understand why, considering the mission at hand- find the source of the missing persons, perform a rescue operation, and return to HQ. It wasn’t a particularly difficult mission as it was a strange one; there were no commonalities between the missing persons that they could identify outside of living in the same city which was truly nothing at all. But the other intelligence agencies were in an uproar about this particular set of missing and reappearing and missing-again people, and therefore Kingsman took an interest.

There were few things that the rest of their neighbouring agencies knew of that Kingsman did not as opposed to the other way around, so this was a gap they were eager to bridge.

But none of that explained Eggsy’s clenched fist and pursed lips. It was certainly not a frustration at the seeming simplicity of the mission, Eggsy had done far simpler with not even a huff of indignation, but something about this had him immediately at odds.

‘Are you comfortable with this mission, Galahad?’ Harry asked, eyes kind but not soft, and Eggsy seemed to deflate like a balloon before giving the file a resigned look.

‘Yeah, ‘s fine. I’ll leave tomorrow.’ Eggsy picked it up and left the room, and Harry watched as he pressed his still-clenched fist into his pocket as the door swung shut behind him.

Curious.

Eggsy loosened his hand, noting the half-moon indents from his fingernails, as he settled himself into the bullet train. It wouldn’t do to start on the wrong foot.

Or pick back up, as it were; he had to jump into the dance as if he’d never left.

Harkness’ presence in even one of those pictures was enough to attest to that.

—

‘You know, kid, as much as I liked you plucky and adventury,’ Gwen Cooper was stood in the doorjamb as if she often frequented pubs in the middle of London, eyeing Eggsy from oxfords to specs with an amusement in her eyes that couldn’t be missed, ‘seeing you all done up has me impressed.’ Eggsy rolled his eyes, but smiled from one side before indicating the other seat at his table, which Gwen took after motioning for a drink from the barkeep.

‘Long time no see- I left, what, four years ago? And the world hasn’t ended for it.’ Eggsy raised his pint as one would to toast, if Gwen had had anything to reply with, and finished half of it in one go.

‘Not for lack of trying, I assure you,’ Gwen lifted her glass in turn, once it arrived, and they exchanged a commiserating look that could only be borne from years of familiarity.

‘Who wanted my attention, guv; cos lemme tell you, they got it.’ Eggsy ignored the ungentlemanly squawk from his specs, easily ignoring Merlin’s confused spluttering in favor of glaring Gwen into submission. She’d been the one to tell him that his family was enough of a reason to leave. That their world was dangerous and based on what he’d said of his stepdad he needed to be there for his sister. She’d looked resigned, at that, and Eggsy knew she’d been thinking of the impossible choices she’d had to make between her family and her career.

If one could call being the not-so-subtle alien-police could be called a career; and honestly Kingsman’s being unaware of them was more baffling than anything. Their names were plastered all over everything.

Actually, wait a tick, that explained a lot- Kingsman was certainly a fan of emblazoning their insignia on fucking everything as if discretion were a forgotten language. Of course they wouldn’t think anything of such an organisation.

‘Who else?’ Gwen’s voice pulled him back to the present, ‘Jack’s got it in his head that you’re the only one he could make this work with, since Ianto-’ The two shared a grimace and took a pause before continuing.

‘What’s he got, then? I’m guessin’ the missin’ people everyone’s going mad about are actually fine?’

‘Not exactly- they just aren’t fully human.’ Gwen shrugged and Merlin’s spluttering returned after a scoff- he’d barely said what could she possibly- before Eggsy tuned him out.

‘Rift?’ It was said self-deprecatingly, as if they could somehow control or predict what was spat out, but Eggsy’s utter lack of surprise (his vitals hadn’t jumped, he hadn’t so much as blinked after the statement) and quick conclusion had shut Merlin up quite nicely.

‘Rift. Jack wants to get them back home, but you know how difficult that shit is with his pheromones and his attention span.’ They grinned, and Eggsy finished his pint before sitting up proper with both hands splayed on the table.

‘You already knew I was in when I called you up, but thanks for playin’ along- tell Jack I’ll play nice and see him Tuesday.’ Eggsy leant back and made to get up from the booth, but paused, ‘You an’ yours- you make it through V-Day okay?’

‘Lucky for me I was with Jack at the time- he wasn’t affected,’ the obviously was implied and Eggsy bobbed his head in agreement, ‘but I managed to focus on him- no real risk there.’ She shrugged as if unaffected, but he could see the tension in her frame.

‘You keep score? Signal wasn’t running very long b’fore I managed to shut it down.’ Eggsy that is classified information you-

‘Well, he wasn’t fighting back so I don’t feel like it was fair- but I managed it 4 times, by his count.’ Jack’s blase attitude about his inability to die like a normal being had rubbed off on them at some point, and once that happened it wasn’t really something you could unlearn. So they’d just learnt to enjoy it, added it to their catalogue of ridiculous things that happened with alarming frequency in their line of work.

Even now that Eggsy was a Kingsman it was always going to be his line of work, it seemed. Once you learned about the Other you never stop seeing it, or wanting to help- like fucking Men In Black shite.

‘That tips you over me by half- drink’s on me, then.’ Eggsy winked, Gwen rolled her eyes, and Eggsy left the pub with a swagger he’d fought hard to erase after leaving Torchwood.

But, fuck it, what was the point of hiding?

---

‘So, you’re saying that your time in the Marines-’

‘Sham; ‘d been with Torchwood. You think I kept up parkour for shits and giggles? Sometimes all you c’n do is some fancy jumping to make it out alive, yeah- especially if they’re shootin’ lasers at you and y’don’t know what they do.’ Eggsy picked up his coffee and shot Jack a grin. It’d been easy to finish the task, like riding a bike he’d just started and it had all worked out. A few bruises, mostly to Jack’s ego, and they’d gotten everyone back where they belonged.

Overall, Kingsman’s reaction to alien life being not only a reality but a common occurrence had gone over well. The tales they’d spun about world- and universe- ending catastrophes that had been averted in the same chaotic manner as the Valentine fiasco had not done much to ease Harry’s concerns. But the promise of full access to their records, though only if Eggsy was assigned as their point of official contact, had done a lot to settle Merlin’s doubts, at least.

Merlin was deep in conversation with a handful of Archive staff, excitedly gesturing and accent deepening in the way it only did when he was excited. Harry was sat beside him, body a warm weight along where they were pressed together, and Eggsy allowed himself a giggle at the flush Harry sported after Jack’s assessment of his *ahem* assets. 

Eggsy hadn’t wanted to be sucked back in to Torchwood after he’d left, too many memories, and had figured the normal kind of espionage was exciting enough. But now that he’d had a taste of what it was like... he knew he wasn’t going to be leaving again. 

taking Kingsman prompts! I will take a stab at anything, but cannot promise posting speed!

[thesmollestsnek]

Anxiety

So uh... I’m not really sure what to call this. What started as me venting about being anxious about minor tasks turned into an in-depth description of some of my worst panic attacks. The last paragraph is about how I recover from said panic attacks, so it does end on a hopeful note, I guess. Read at your own risk.

I sit, staring at the little line on the screen. It sits there, blinking. Mocking me. Mocking me with my inability to complete even this simple task. My inability to write even a few measly paragraphs, for fear of writing them “wrong”, somehow. Even the knowledge that there isn’t a wrong answer, not really, does nothing. My fear is irrational, so mere facts, however true they may be, have little chance of overcoming it. How could they, when it is not even a conscious fear, so much as it is a vague sense of impending doom, interpretable only through context clues and years of practice. And I sit there and say to myself “this is easy, why can I not do it?” And I receive no answer. There is no reason that I cannot do it. And yet, when I look at the prompt and again begin to plan my response, again I hit it. An invisible wall within my mind, blocking me off from all the ideas that were accessible to me just yesterday. Ideas that are still so close I can almost taste them, and yet so far away in all the ways that truly matter.

And so I give up, for a while. Distract myself. Tell myself that I’ll just take a little break, and try again later. That break ends up lasting several hours. And yet, when I come back, I still find myself paralyzed by that all-encompassing force. Still find myself helpless to that formless beast within my mind. And its silly, I know it is, to let something so mundane control me so, and yet I am unable to stop it. The anxiety may be mundane for me, but it is no less potent for it. After all, a kitchen knife is also mundane, for all it’s sharp enough to kill. And so I try, time and again, to get over myself and just start writing. And I fail, time and again, to actually write. And I struggle, time and again, to ignore that voice in my head that berates me each time I am unable to start. That calls me stupid, that says I should be used to this fear by now, that points out how I had no problem thinking of things before, why didn’t I just write them down then? And each time I hear it, I get a little less sure of myself, and it gets a little harder to try.

Others have told me that I am having trouble with this because I’m anxious about doing it wrong. Like I didn’t already know that it’s my anxiety causing my thoughts to freeze. Like being told that it’s irrational would make it any easier to overcome. It didn’t help. It never does. Not in this, not in anything. I’m fully aware that my thoughts are irrational, that my fears are inappropriate, that there is no reason I shouldn’t be able to do the many things I struggle to do. I know. If such knowledge were enough to keep the fear at bay, I wouldn’t be struggling in the first place. And yet I am. Because the knowledge that I should not be anxious does nothing to fix my brain’s proportions of neurotransmitters. Does nothing to dispel the adrenaline in my veins. Does nothing to help me actually do the thing. Their words can only reach as far as my head, which is already fully aware of the situation. But my head is powerless to soothe my heart, and it is rare for anyone to speak in a way my heart can hear. I could count on one hand the number of people who have managed it. Truthfully, I am not among them, however much I may wish it. The most I can hope to do is wait, with the knowledge that it should, eventually, pass on its own. The knowledge is a cold comfort, then, as a choke on my own tears and struggle to breathe. When my chest aches and I want nothing more than to curl up in a tiny ball where no one can ever find me again.

I feel as though my mind separates from my body, then. I’m still me, still a pathetic pile of limbs struggling to breathe, but at the same time, I’m not. It still hurts, physically, but on some level I cannot feel it. Cannot feel anything, except mild annoyance at the time wasted. My body chokes and I distantly catalog my symptoms, as though I were a scientist observing some other person. Watching, uncaring, as someone else fell apart before my very eyes. And while I still seek comfort, it’s not because I truly want it. It’s just the fastest way to get that helplessness to end, so I can move on to other things. Through my own suffering I am clinical. Dispassionate. The only person I ever seem to struggle to empathize with is myself. And I cannot even find it in me to worry about it, when I’m in that state. After all, it’s only temporary. It’ll pass, just as it has countless times before. I’m… not even sure I can, worry, like that. I never have before, at any rate. Through some of the most intense emotions I will ever feel, I am numb.

The numbness doesn’t feel bad, not really. How could it, when it robs me of the ability to feel at all? No, what really sucks is what comes after. When my body has settled a bit, and I start fading back into reality. Suddenly, I feel all those emotions I couldn’t before, and it hurts. Not like before, when it was purely physical. No, by that point the physical pain has faded, leaving behind a dull hollowness. This is an emotional kind of hurt, and after the numbness I am wholly unequipped to handle it. Sometimes (often), the shock of it sets off round two, and then I’m back off into numbness again. Truly, the cycle only really ends when my body is too exhausted to maintain it any longer. Too fucking tired to do anything but lay there, drained and upset and feeling rather broken. Which is its own kind of awful, really, but at that point I’m so glad to not be panicking anymore that I don’t really care. And I don’t have the energy to care, either, so. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

At that point I’m feeling rather empty, but it’s a relief after everything that came before. After all, if something is empty then it can be filled again. And without any hurt remaining, even a little bit of positivity can feel like the goddamn sun. This is the part where I pull out my phone, and start looking through youtube. Sometimes I want something specific, but often I’m too tired to really care. There’s this one youtuber I’ve been watching for close to a decade, who never fails to make me smile. Silly and nerdy and so kindhearted. He’s pulled me out of some of the darkest corners of my mind, with his bad puns and constant enthusiasm. He’s entertaining at the best of times, and a goddamn lifeline at the worst. His light is bright enough to guide me, when I’ve sunk so deep in my own tumultuous thoughts I can no longer tell which way is up. Even when I am at my lowest, too tired to reach out to my real life support network, he is there. Spreading enough positivity for me to drag myself out of the dark. Helping me recharge, to recover until I’m ready to face the world again.

[birminghamblinders]

baptism by fire; tommy shelby

Business is not an industry which lends itself to possessing an empathetic nature. Business is by design the striving to procure profits, and businesses which succeed do not do so through weaknesses and by making excuses for the shortcomings of themselves or of the various inferiors which make up their labor staff. Businessmen, then, as the main extension of this cognitive, innovative, cut-throat machine, are also not by nature kind-hearted or gentle. Choosing to enter into business means that one must be capable of making very calculated decisions with their own money and with the money of others. They also must see the parts of their company-and to many, employees often registered only as a moving part in a greater machine-as disposable when they are broken. Thus, although business does not generally allow for strong expressions of emotion, Tommy Shelby believed there were “no hard feelings” when he had to release a person from his employment. He held no personal vendetta against the ex-employee, and did even earnestly hope they would realize the error of their focused labor and once again find fruitful employment elsewhere. But conversely, he would note to himself the error of his ways in allowing an employee of less-than-acceptable caliber to be hired, and would remember what traits made that person useless in the future.

Tommy had to let people go and hire new people on a fairly regular basis. He generally believed in hiring younger people to do menial labor, on the idea that they would have more energy and thus be able to execute these tasks over a larger spread of hours. The past month, however, Tommy had fired two young men or about twenty, who had been hired for menial labor but had proven to be prone to slacking off on the job. He bore no ill will to them, and in parting mentioned a shipping company which operated out of dock forty-three which was hiring, in the genuine if not deeply-felt hope they would reform and become contributing members of society.

Besides, Tommy had larger things to worry about than the performance of workers who neared the bottom of the Shelby Company food chain. In merely three weeks, if all went well, he was going to recite his wedding vows to the love of his life in the full and unyielding gaze of their pastor and before the gentle eyes of God. Tommy and his soon-to-be wife endeavored to make their wedding as small an affair as was possible, only extending invitations to those who they actually, truly wanted to he there. Eliminating the menial made the whole thing blessedly easy to plan, and he found himself mainly concerned with planning out the right words to say to his life partner when she arrived at the altar.

—

Thankfully, the wedding went as smoothly as any Tommy had ever attended, and the flurry of the day seemed to end as quickly as it began. When he settled into bed next to his newly acquired wife that night, slipping a gentle arm around her waist, he even entertained the fantasy that the wedding had taken away so little of his concentration from work that he might be able to take a few days and have a honeymoon of sorts with her.

This was not the case, as both the legal and illegal enterprises of the Shelby Company were growing at a seemingly exponential rate. He was no sooner able to take a few days off without consequences as he was to grow wings. His wife, the young, pretty, tough creature she was, shrugged this slight off, and told her husband he had things he needed to do for the good of his family, and that said family also included her now, and so he had better get to work. Guilted by his inability to properly celebrate his wedding with his wife, but also emboldened by her strong words of encouragement, Tommy dove right back into the chaos of the Company, cutting deals on firearms and horse races in equal stride.

Unbeknownst to either man or wife, the two young men who had just a short while ago been terminated from Shelby company employment had not shrugged it off as a loss of low-level job of which there were plenty in Small Heath, but had instead chosen to interpret it as a personal slight and a middle finger directly from Tommy Shelby. As uneducated as their interpretation of a routine firing might have been, they were not so ignorant as to think they could exact revenge on their perceived enemy in a face to face interaction with him. They instead chose to focus on his weaknesses, and despite the whole thing being a low-level affair, there was no one in Birmingham who didn’t know Tommy Shelby had recently gotten married.

—

The two young men whom Tommy had fired were not in possession of any particularly great intellect, or capability to plan a complex kidnapping and ransom plot, but part of the reason they were hired initially was that they possessed plenty of brute strength. It would seem fairly reasonable that considering her relatively high profile relation to the Shelby family that there would be some type of protection for Tommy’s wife, but she had insisted on being allowed to live independently. As often occurs, there was no real hindsight considered with this decision until it had already generated negative consequences. Tommy’s wife did not work for the Company, and after their marriage continued her job as a secretary for the largest newspaper in the city. It was on a fairly cold morning, while she was walking to begin her shift, that the two ex-lackeys of the Company grabbed her and dragged her out of the sight of the few other passers-by that were on the street that early in the day.

On the days which Tommy was not able to finish his workload in time to be home for dinner (which were fairly plenty), he would just sleep in his office, wake up early, and continue. These were all circumstances which the two ex-lackeys were aware of; though the Company employed plenty people, most of them got their orders from Tommy or one of this brothers and were in and out of the office daily, and knew the movements of the main heads of the Company. They didn’t know exactly on that day that Tommy would work late and stay in the office, but they were willing to take their luck.

Due to the circumstances of their both being employed in highly demanding jobs, and sometimes not being able to wake up together or eat dinner together, Tommy and his wife always spent at least an hour on the phone each day. This usually happened around noon, which left the two wanna-be criminals four hours before Tommy Shelby discovered his wife was missing.

They had, it so happened, taken his suggestion, and sought employment at the loading station at dock forty-three. This particular dock mainly handled night time shipments coming in from the United States or Canada, and so the two decided that with a little duct tape over the face, and ropes holding her arms back, it would be as good a place as any to keep Mrs. Shelby.

—

As it happened, the two men, who were not exactly in possession of god-like intelligence, got the timing right. They had her for four hours before her husband realized something was wrong with her. He called her office at noon, and was received by the voice of her supervisor, who told him his wife had not come into work that day.

At the same moment as Tommy leaned back to yell for his brothers, Polly came into the room and absentmindedly remarked that the postman had left something for him as she dropped a letter onto his desk. Dread built up in his chest as he stared at the sloppily folded paper, and he grabbed hold of the letter and nearly tore it open in his haste. The would-be kidnappers were not elegant nor were they educated, and so their ransom note was not exactly a masterpiece of the English written word.

Tommy Shelby, it read,

We have your wife. Come to dock forty three as soon as you get this. Bring ten thousand pounds with you and you will get her back alive. If you call the police we will know. Don’t bring a gun.

The letter was not signed, and as Tommy’s two eldest brothers crowded their way into the room, the middle Shelby son swore loudly and launched an ink pot against the room, where it shattered against the window and left dark black tracks down the glass.

“Some fuckers took my wife,” he informed them in a violently calm voice. “Get your coats and your guns. We’re going now.”

—

Upon arrival at the specified dock, the faded painting sign reading “43” swinging violently in the sudden gust of wind that had arisen off the waters, Tommy gestured for John and Arthur to stand back.

“I’ll call you when I need you,” he spoke quickly, and indicated for them to stand just out of sight of the door of the loading area, still close enough by to be of immediate assistance if needed.

Tommy grabbed the handle of the door and launched it open, bursting into the large, open room with his gun pointed straight ahead. At the same time as he gained his bearings, he heard a pistol cocking, and found he was looking at a gun pressed to the side of his wife’s head.

Tommy had been in the war, and had seen more men die than he ever cared to speak about. He was used to carnage, and hadn’t flinched at the sight of blood in years. At the sight of his wife with a gun pressed to her head, however, his own blood ran cold.

He felt his breath coming in shorter and shorter intervals, and he had to control himself to keep from hyperventilating, as his wife, a gag stuffed in her mouth, started crying at the sight of him, and leaning towards him as if to beg him to get her out of here,only to be grabbed roughly by the neck and shoved back into her chair by another man, who stepped out of the corner only for that brief moment before vanishing from Tommy’s sight again.

Tommy stopped short, only about four feet from the door he had burst from, and was so dazed by the sight before him he had to force himself to focus as the man holding the gun began to speak.

“We told you specifically not to bring a gun. Didn’t you read the fucking letter? Put that shit down. Where’s my money?”

Tommy still found himself unable to fully compute the situation before him, and so fell back on his usual bravado, scoffing at the man’s question even while wildly searching for a plan.

“I didn’t bring your ten thousand pounds. What were you going to spend it on, whores and cocaine? You’re a piece of shit. You’re going to give me my wife back and you’re going to apologize for the trouble you’ve caused the Shelby Company.”

Another man stepped out of the shadows, loudly swearing at Tommy, and he couldn’t believe the sense of these two useless criminals as they both started walking towards him, leaving his wife unguarded and making it far too easy for him to raise his gun once again and expel a hail of bullets on them, aiming for the head and then adding ten more in just for good measure and as repayment for the insolence of daring to touch his wife.

As he turned to face her, still bound to her chair, tears rolling down her cheeks, he felt his heart stop again as he sprinted to her, pulling the gag out of her mouth and untying the ropes from her wrists all while speaking to her frantically, begging for forgiveness.

“I’m so damn sorry, my love, I should never have let you walk around alone, I should have had a man with you all the time, I should have known someone was going to try something with you, I’m so fucking sorry-“ and broke himself off with a sob, curling into her shoulder.

He felt her take a deep breath and wrap her arms around him, stroking his back as he cried like a child into her arms, terrified by the ease at which two bumbling idiots were able to endanger the person closest to his heart.

She began to console him quietly, his sobs still echoing around the empty room, and Tommy could almost feel her grow harder, more tough, more like a Shelby.

[playmakiing]

        It is heavily implied in the show that Yuusaku suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but I also believe that he is autistic as well.  In this post, I will be outlining and explaining these two disorders in perspective of my interpretation of our favorite hacker.  Sidenote, while I do not have PTSD, I have and continue to do research on the disorder in order to have an accurate portrayal in my muse.  However, each person's experiences with PTSD are not universal, so just because this is how I choose to portray this headcanon does not mean it is going to similar to anyone else's personal experiences.  Also, while I am actually autistic, autism is also displayed in a wide variety of ways.  Parts of my autistic interpretation stem from my own symptoms, other parts are from further research.  I will take any inquiries and constructive criticism about these headcanons, but I will not bother with baseless hate.

        So with that out of the way, let's get to it!  I'm keeping this under a read more since it will be a long post.

PTSD

        Due to the horrific nature of the Hanoi Project, Yuusaku developed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder even though he was only six years old.  Once a happy child, Yuusaku returned with severe symptoms of self-isolation, emotional detachment, and sleepless nights haunted by memories.  Even though he was put into therapy, the sessions could only help so much before proving to be ineffective.  In the end, Yuusaku was left with nothing but the loss of his innocence and a couple of coping methods designed by his own, young mind.         For many years Yuusaku was unable to sleep alone without waking up with screams of terror, and the orphanage caretakers soon learned that he was only able to sleep a dreamless sleep during the day when around the other children.         This caused for them to rearrange things to were Yuusaku was rooming with other young boys at night; they also hoped that perhaps he would be able to socialize more if he's constantly around others in this manner.  Sadly, their plan only worked with giving Yuusaku more nights of sleep.  He still refused to talk to others, existing as a lifeless doll for several years.  However, there was one force that kept Yuusaku awake, and that was the existence of his "special person"--aka, the voice that gave him three reasons to survive.

        Skip forward to ten years later, and Yuusaku has yet to move on from his past demons.  It's only at the end of season one when he is able to begin a better healing process, but he will never be "over" his PTSD.

        The main symptoms that Yuusaku current exhibits are as followed:

        -Hypervigilance: he always has his guard up, whether in the real world or LINK VRAINS.  It is very difficult to sneak up on Yuusaku when he is awake, and he is easy to wake up at any moment.           -Social isolation: for the most part, Yuusaku keeps a steady distance from his peers and other people in his life.  While the distance has lessened in regards to specific individuals, he still doesn't have complete trust in them and tries to keep his walls up.         -Flashbacks: these don't occur much when he's awake, but his dreams at night are usually plagued by them.  Most flashbacks center around the times when he lost a duel and was painfully electrocuted as a result.         -Lack of interest: aside from his goals, Yuusaku finds it difficult to see a future for himself, and thus he finds it difficult to partake in hobbies or activities that don't help advance his goals.  Dueling is a task that he has yet to regain any pleasure from, and despite excelling at hacking and computers, doesn't find the activity to be enjoyable.  To him, these are all tools to help accomplish his goals.         -Insomnia and general issues with sleep: these two go hand-in-hand since Yuusaku's insomnia was greatly developed due to the frequent amount of nightmares he dreamt of as a child, which continues on as he ages.  The nightmares' intensity fluctuates depending on the amount of stress Yuusaku is dealing with.         -Emotional detachment: as Yuusaku would describe it, his heart and mind are trapped in an abyss with no means of escape.  He sees no future and time is frozen still for him.  These deep feelings of isolation and fear have caused him to distance himself emotionally from everyone, and he greatly struggles with forming an emotional attachment to anything or anyone.  There are a very select few things that he has an attachment to, one of those being his "special person."

ASD

        ASD, or Autism Spectrum Disorder, has a wide variety of symptoms and behaviors that range from person to person.  While many of these symptoms do overlap with ones for PTSD, I believe there are enough signs in Yuusaku for this headcanon to be distinctive.  Some of these symptoms, however, do not appear directly in canon ( yet ) but are shown through my writing.  Most of those are ones that I find very plausible for Yuusaku's character, and some are ones that I just want to write, and fuck what anyone else says about it.         The symptoms and experiences listed below are ones that I either interpret from Yusaku's character, integrate into my writing of him, or both.

        -Inappropriate social interaction & lack of understanding social cues: while this isn't heavily noticeable in the show, Yuusaku has been shown either "not get" what others are saying, or exhibits behavior that is deemed "socially inappropriate."  Examples of this are early on in the show when Shoichi and Ai make fun of Yuusaku's inability to talk to girls, and he's later shown to be following Aoi around in a rather stalker-ish manner.         -Lack of eye contact: Yuusaku is not one to maintain eye contact.  Not only does the action cause for him to become extremely uncomfortable, but prolonged exposure to forced eye contact will cause a mental strain.         -Compulsive behavior: Yuusaku is one for routine, and rarely likes to break his schedule.  Only events or situations that are dire or insanely important will prevent him from keeping to a schedule.  The older he gets, however, the less strict he is with his daily routines.         -Repetitive movements & words: In regards to words, Yuusaku has a fixation on listing things in threes, and this is usually to calm himself or clear his mind when clouded.  While this technique was given to him by his "special person," Yuusaku was at a young and impressionable age to where this method stuck and he uses it often.  As for movements, Yuusaku's main stims are taps, rubbing against his skin, and pressure.         -Intense interest in extreme specific things: . . .This is so evident in his fixation with the Knights of Hanoi in season one.  Like, literally nothing else mattered to Yuusaku aside from his quest against the Knights of Hanoi.  If that isn't a hyper-fixation, I don't know what is.  While he does lose this interest in season two, with the reveal of his "special person," Yuusaku has a similar fixation on him--it's not quite intense, but it's there.         -Heightened sensitivity: Yuusaku's five senses are more pronounced in comparison to other people.  Sights and sounds are more intense, smells and taste more noticeable, and touch is a pain usually.  Human contact is another sensation that Yuusaku despises.

Misc. Stuff Related to the Above Things

        -A lot of the autism symptoms are helpful in elevating the flashbacks and nightmares Yuusaku gets from his PTSD.  Examples of this are weighted blankets to pressure stim, having a "post nightmare routine" when he wakes up in the middle of the night and repeating relative lists of threes to himself.         -Yuusaku was never one to like foods with overwhelming flavors, and thus prefers milder foods when eating.  He tends to choke on food that is overstimulating.  The only exception to this is coffee, and that was a strongly acquired taste.         -Soft blankets ( as well as heavy blankets ) are a secret pleasure to Yuusaku's touch, and he will collect blankets with favored textures; he has over a dozen at this point, and will often make a blanket nest out of them to relieve stress ( this habit almost dies when Ai appears, because Yuusaku would rather die than be caught in such a situation by someone like Ai ).         -After a while of meeting Takeru, Yuusaku finds it soothing to be touching or to be held by his friend, and he is one of the very few people whose touch doesn't cause Yusaku to recoil.         -Yuusaku is rather touch-starved but hates touch at the same time.  Rest in fucking pieces.

        And that's about it for this headcanon post.  I may come back and edit this post with more information, or simply make add-on posts when new information settles in my brain.

[purplethebunny]

In which I describe the experience of speaking with family members about the engagement and creatively rage against my father’s casual heteronormative bullshit.

 The same evening that I cariño encantador propsed to me, I called the blood family members who should probably know before facebook does – there were a lot of witnesses.

I called my sister first, who was sleepy but congratulatory. She texted me a bit more during the evening to really underline it.  My relationship with my sister is…. complicated.  That said, I expect her to essentially respect whatever boundaries I set about wedding planning or whatever with only minimal interference.  I also expect that she has a greater understanding of the meaning of this in my life.  Like, she’s stuck in her paradigm, her desperate need to be loved and how that affects all of her choices, but she understands enough to at least put a face on it for a minute, to be kind about it.

When she texted me later, she said “aren’t you glad you didn’t kill yourself before you met Ruby?”  She’s damn right too.

I called my mom next, who I also woke up.  I think her husband was a biiiiiit irritated, but I’m sure he’ll survive. Mom said congrats and started chatting with me about her recent tooth problem.  She wanted to make sure I’d called my sister.   This was all a little strange – I really don’t think my mom knows what to say.  I don’t think she views my partner as one who is “suitable” for me, and I really do think it’s partially racism, partially her own never-healthily-fulfilled obsession with big, strong men doing big, strong things. My mother is more easily understood if you assume that she has no concept of the fact that other individuals have vastly different internal lives from her own.

I put off talking to my dad until the next day. My father and I aren’t connected on facebook by my choice. I called him in the afternoon the following day, shortly before I had to leave for another task (intentionally).  I tried to hit his cell phone first, but it was straight to voicemail. I reached him at his store.

My dad initially sounded confused.  He sounded entirely baffled.  I can’t entirely understand why because we haven’t enough of a relationship for me to guess.  It was offputting.  We then had what amounts to yet another awkward conversation where we clearly do not speak the same language.

After the bafflement, he congratulated me and began offering advice.  My father is married to his fifth or sixth wife, and while it seems to have staying power, he’s left a swath of life destruction behind him.  My father exhibits the essential selfishness of capitalism: get the best deal you can out of anyone.  I believe the only kind thing my mother has ever said about him is that he always paid his child support on time.  I wouldn’t even give that (shit’s court ordered yo).

So, when his next statement is “You’ll find real happiness,” I have to swallow my tongue rather than just laugh at him.  “I am happy” I say, trying to communication with the most perfunctory language that I’ve not said yes because I’m bound by some biblical or cultural scripture, trying to communicate that I am happy.  

“Oh no,” he responds, “I mean several years down the line when the honeymoon has worn off.”  It strikes me that we haven’t anything close to the same conceptual understanding of relationships, the importance of them in our live, or neurobiology.  I’m stuck and can’t respond.  What I’d like to explain is that we DID that.  We’ve DONE that.  And that I have genuinely more experience in relationships than he does, in vulnerability and courage, in adoration and foolhardiness.  I have significantly more experience than he does in owning up to my mistakes, in forgiveness and acceptance, in staying through and being stronger for it than he ever has. I want to tell him how cowardly I find him, how disgusting I think his treatment of all the women in his life is, but I’m stuck on my tongue, on how to phrase it without destroying whatever this is. So he keeps talking.

He talks about his wife, how they’ve been together for 18 years and how there are disappointments and battles and things they can’t stand but how they just “get used to it” and are too old to change now.  Like, how do I respond that I could have settled, I could have torn out pieces of me and left them behind like breadcrumbs in a forest of unrelenting dick pics?  How I could have refused any sort of risk, how I’ve done that?  How I already know how to origami myself inside of myself until I am a frog, a bird, a flower, instead of a galaxy? How do I explain that I’m unwilling to settle, that I know it takes courage to be with me and that this is part of what my dear love, shaking and sweating but with his strong voice, offered me when he asked me to be his wife?

I don’t.

I say “Well, I’m glad you have because Judy’s kind of great.”  And she is, for someone I’ve met a dozen times and whom I haven’t had a proper conversation with since I was in my 20s.  She’s fine.

He replies jovially “Yeah, I only really stay with her for the income and cooking.  You know how men are.”  Cue laughter.

I don’t say anything.

Later, when telling my roommate of this (known ‘im since I was 14 and he knows my dad) he laughed and said “Chuck is such a slimeball HERPADERPA BETTER LEARN TO COOK.”  

Later, when I told my partner about this, he responded “HAAA!  He thinks I’m a man.”

Right in that moment I just can’t tell him how incredibly stupid he sounds and, you know, I think we’ve reached the point where the gulf between our experiences and values is too great to bridge without extensive emotional labor. Labor that I do not want to provide because he sees it as his right. Labor I am unwilling to provide because the men in my life deserve better than a crude joke suggesting they have an inability to perform basic functions.

I stay silent and he awkwardly tries to pick the conversation back up.  He asks me to send a picture, which I later realize is because he has no idea who my partner is.

This is the most surreal moment for me.  All of my father’s relationships from my mother onward have had some distinct affect on my life (Judy’s is mostly stability).  I realized that my father has no awareness of who my partner is because he sees my relationships from the lens of teenage romance.  My father is under the impression that “millennial” does not mean “adult under 40”.  My father is entirely unaware that I am an adult closer to mammogram time than I am away from it.  My partner is nearly 40.  Neither does he know my partners name, background, or what is important and beautiful about our relationship.

I send my father the picture, putting us against a rainbow backdrop in my house as the only “fuck you” I can manage.

I feel like a coward, but since I don’t assess this relationship as worth the work or risk it would take to fix it, I don’t think I can do elsewise at this time.  I think this particular relationship is headed for a change.  

[thedeviljudges]

based on @codyrhodesofficial prompt so uh, this literally didn’t turn out how i think u wanted it but fjalskdfa i tried!!!

Steve curses under his breath, twisting the pencil around in his hand. The eraser flies across the page, sprinkles of excess rubber shavings leaving his desk a mess. It shouldn’t be this difficult to write, shouldn’t take him goddamn hours to make sense of a language he grew up speaking. But it is; the words don’t come to him so easily, knowing this is something akin to permanent. Sure, he can erase until he rips right through the paper, but it won’t change the fact that as soon as the lead touches the slip, his brain goes blank, and he feels a little too stupid to even bother trying.

“What’s that?”

Quickly, Steve covers his paper with his hand, a loud smack against the wood. He hadn’t known Billy was awake, hadn’t heard a noise from the bed until it was too late.

Steve bites his lip, wondering if it’d be too obvious to smush it into a ball and throwing it away. The paper is dull now, gray and white and unfamiliar from his original scribbles. He’s made a mess of the page, not good enough now for a submission, as if it was ever good enough to begin with.

“Something I’m working on,” he says and hopes that Billy will leave it at that. There are a lot of things Steve is self-conscious about, and there are a lot of things he isn’t. The former is what he feels this time, his lack of mental dexterity a sore spot he doesn’t want provoked. Steve knows he’s not been smart about a lot of things, struggled with some classes more than others, and he thinks that maybe it’s really his fault for not trying hard enough despite the numbers and letters mixing no matter how hard he’s willed it to stop.

“Something important?” Billy asks from the bed. Steve glances at him, mere inches away from the chair he sits in. There’s a mess of curls sticking out from under the covers, two eyes blinking back at him with laziness while his nose remains covered most likely due to the chilliness in the air.

“No, it’s-” He shrugs, not having the heart to lie but also too distraught to bring attention to his misgivings. The joke’s on him though because Billy reads him like a goddamn book – the irony – and it makes him even more uncomfortable under such scrutiny. “It’s really nothing. I thought I had some time to rewrite this.”

“For what?”

Steve’s lips thin, tongue flicking out to wet them. He’s reluctant, at a crossroads because what he has is a mess of a college application paper staring back at him, taunting him for all the things he isn’t and might never be. Steve’s always been good at being decently cool, knows his sports, and maybe it’s easier for him to figure out equations involving numbers.

But this is writing, and it’s the only thing that matters out in that big old world, particularly if he ever has any desire to get the fuck out of town. Sure, money might buy him a spot or two, but it taints his stomach with unease thinking how little he’d deserve that kind of reward if he hadn’t worked for it.

“College application,” he replies simply, can’t take his eyes off the desk and the torturous stationary that mocks every fiber of his being. “It’s a lost cause.”

Setting the pencil down, Steve picks up his words without any delicacy involved. With every intention to crumble it up, he pauses when Billy shuffles out from under the covers with a single grabby hand that makes Steve arch a brow. “You’re not looking at this.”

Billy’s eyes narrow reaching forward just a little more until he’s got Steve’s paper in between two fingers. “You’re sure?”

Steve sighs and lets go, lets a shirtless Billy fall back onto his bed like he owns the damn thing while he slouches in his chair. The two of them have been through enough not to be embarrassed of judgment from one another, but his toes curl against the cold floor, and maybe his heart picks up a little speed as Billy settles down to read the absolute trash that’s become the bane of Steve’s existence for the past several weeks.

“Listen,” he starts, fingers curling into the palm of his hands, nails digging into the flesh. “It’s not worth the read, really. I can’t- I’ve never-”

Billy only hums, and Steve rolls his eyes at the fact that he can’t speak now. So, he leaves it at that, let’s fate take its course while he suffers in silence, holding his breath on an exhale.

It takes all of five minutes before the staleness in the room dissipates, Billy pursing his lips in thought while Steve’s stomach twists into fucking knots. “Nancy said-”

Billy glances at him, eyebrows rising of their own accord. “Oh yeah?” he questions, the annoyance clear as day; he’s never been fond of the girl, especially not after Steve’d randomly let on how he’d has his heart broken after a few too many beers.

He’d also questioned Billy and asked him not to break his heart, too, but that’s neither here or there, and Steve doesn’t have the time nor patience to deal with the flush of his cheeks when he thinks about it. Curse his body’s lack of patience with alcohol, and curse his inability not to be a Chatty Cathy in the most inopportune moments.

“Yes, she said-”

Billy snorts, honest-to-god releases that sound in the midst of Steve’s feelings of inadequacy. “Good thing I don’t give a shit about what she says.”

And that’s certainly not what Steve was expecting.

Furrowing his brow, he stares at Billy, trying to gauge whether he’s really fucking with him or not. Sometimes it’s so hard to tell, what with those goddamn eyes and those lips and how eager Billy is to give him a smirk when he least expects it.

“She’s not wrong, though,” he counters because Nancy’s comments sure as shit didn’t help his confidence. And it’s not like he desperately needed the compliments and for her to lie to him about what he’d attempted, but it was still a let down knowing he tried and failed. What’s worse is that he still doesn’t know how to correct it.

“Did she tell you it was shit?” Billy turns in bed, lying on his side, paper still nestled between his fingers. He glances back and forth between Steve and what’s left of his writing before he gives up waiting for Steve to reply. “Because it is; your thoughts are all over the place.”

Steve lets out a frustrated growl and slouches even further into his chair. “Thank you, captain obvious. I know that, which is why I was trying to fix it.” Immediately, the anger deflates. Like Nancy, he can’t fault Billy either, and deep down, he knew he’d get an honest response. Though, Steve’s not sure if he prefers the way Nancy handled it or the bluntness that comes with Billy Hargrove.

“Look, you’re on the right track.”

“Don’t flatter me, asshole.”

Billy rolls his eyes, but he keeps Steve pinned with his gaze. “You just need some reorganization, make it more seamless.”

“I swear to god if you’re fucking with me-”

“I’m not,” Billy replies, voice rough as it lowers. It makes Steve blink and reevaluate whether he was raising his voice out of resentment of sorts, the apathy he has for this conversation overshadowing his real feelings of defeat.

But Billy looks as serious as he can be, playfulness set aside for something much more raw. It stirs familiarity in Steve’s chest, like an old memory playing on the backdrop of a warm summer night. It coddles him like a blanket, that look, full of genuine care, and rather than it startling Steve, he wraps himself up in Billy’s ability to graze the line between truthfulness and tenderness just when Steve needs it the most.

“If you want,” the other boy begins, gaze fluttering down to the floorboards, “I can help you.”

And now the tables have turned, so slowly and casually, Steve almost misses it. Billy looks just as nervous as Steve had felt, like his offer might not be well received nor appreciated. But Steve, god, does something inside his chest flip: most likely his heart, if he could guess. It dances in waves, like a soft breeze caressing the flowers. “Do you want to?” he poses because Steve has to know if Billy is really willing to take on a task like that, through the grievances and thoughts that encompass Steve’s inability to communicate. “I’m not very good at it; we might be here awhile.”

And well, that brings up another point of contention: for how long is Billy willing to stand his presence until he abandon’s all resolve and leaves Steve scrambling for some semblance of coherency.

“Steve,” he hears, tone falling to the depths of a warning. “Let me help you.”

Reluctantly, Steve nods, not willing to push this into an unproductive argument. Instead, he reaches for a random book, rolling the pencil he’d forgotten about in between his fingers. “Move over, then.”

Ungracefully, he clambers onto the bed, Billy huffing as an elbow and a knee knocks against his bones. Steve doesn’t settle until there’s a pillow behind his back, pressed against the wall while the rest of his body casually lounges across Billy’s lower half. “Okay there, princess?”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek, refuses to acknowledge the heat crawling up his neck and onto his cheeks because he knows how distracting that gets; not just for Billy, himself included. “I’m good now. My ass wasn’t havin’ it much longer on that chair.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Billy says, slowly smiling like he’s got a secret or two to kill. He doesn’t say much else after, but he does reach for the book Steve has in his hand, using it as a solid source to write on. Reluctantly, Steve hands over the pencil, eraser pitiful in its shape.

Seconds later, Billy’s scribbling shit down, and as curious as Steve is, he doesn’t look. It’s hardly from wanting to keep the momentum of surprise and more so his lack of restraint when it comes to criticism on his end. “I didn’t know you liked writing,” he says curiously, not remembering whether Billy had previously shared a love of language with him or not; though Steve is certain he’d remember something quant like that, didn’t question Billy’s ability in school and whether he remained true to the stereotype that all the pretty ones were idiots.

No, that was Steve, and maybe somewhere deep down he’d be jealous if it wasn’t for the amount of appreciation curling along the length of his chest.

“I don’t,” is Billy’s reply, though. It’s quick from concentration, but still as sharp as a knife as if Steve’s stumbled upon a subject Billy isn’t interested in entertaining.

“Oh,” he breathes because well, if Billy is shit at this too, then he supposes this entire session is a lost cause. “You know what you’re doing, then?” But as soon as he asks it, Steve regrets it, winces at the sound of his own voice and the lack of assurance he should have in the one person who’d willingly offered their time and their help.

The pencil stops moving, and Steve suspects that maybe Billy will climb out of the comfort of his bed, leaving Steve the asshole and with a foot in his mouth.

Rather, Billy seems to space out for a second, like the paper and the book and Steve aren’t right in front of him, like they’re worlds away from Steve’s near empty house, to a place where Billy doesn’t know a Steve or the small town of Hawkins, Indiana. “I’m sorry,” he begins, wishing he could slap himself upside the head for being a dick.

But he doesn’t get much more out because Billy is countering his apology with a heavier statement that leaves Steve both breathless and in awe.

“My mother,” Billy says, almost randomly if Steve hadn’t known better, hadn’t understood the context underneath the tone. It drills so deep, the silence that follows, a standstill and confusing. Steve tries to read Billy as much as he can, particularly in such a moment when the boy beneath him is crossing the line of the unequivocal into uncharted territory.

So, Steve doesn’t know what to say, lost in both a detail left unclear and how Billy blinks away a new shine to his eyes. It’s like he expects Steve, so suddenly, to nag him until he cracks further, right down the middle until nothing is left but mushy innards that can’t be stitched back together with titillated words. Which, in all honesty, Steve does have that power, has a magical way of slithering under Billy’s skin without trying too hard. Those wounds reopening something fierce, debris breaking loose the point where it makes Billy re-exam parts of himself he’d long forgotten.

And Steve never means to pry like so, tends to wade in the water until Billy drags him farther in, down a rabbit hole filled with guilt and despair.

So this little revelation, a stumbling block Steve did not, and had never, anticipated is there for the taking. And he’s curious; god is he curious about every part of Billy he doesn’t know: the good, the bad, and everything in between, but some things are meant to be left alone. Steve may not be very good at reading between the lines, or reading in general really, but he knows Billy, and he knows the basis of what makes him tick.

“She loved literature,” Billy says softly under the dim glow of sunlight that filters through the blinds in Steve’s room. His fingers tap against the book beneath his hands, eyes not yet filled to the brim with tears, but glassy and distant like he’s in another time, another world far away from what his life has become.

Steve thinks he can picture it, maybe, a young boy too wild and hyped up on candy every Halloween, climbing trees in the woods near his house, accumulating scrapes and bruises his mother kissed away. A much gentler Billy takes over his mind, and he wonders if Billy misses that kid, if he misses that life and all the promises it held for him until it took away the one thing Billy cherished the most.

“What was her favorite?” he asks instead, would rather not reveal how deep his affection goes. It’s already vulnerable, and Steve partly regrets pulling out his paper to look it over now, not quiet sure if he made a mistake in unleashing memories of a happier time on Billy’s part.

Just slightly, Billy turns his head, finally glancing up from the parallel lines turned baby blue. Upset has never been a good look on Billy, and he’s grateful that that’s not what this is. It’s familiar, those occasions when Billy recalls the nuances he’d left behind in favor of anger and torment. Similar to a setting sun, the pinks and oranges mixing together with the blue from the ocean, designed for a snapshot and a brushstroke until Steve almost snorts at the simplicity. Doesn’t everyone believe that? Majestic as it is, humans have little ability to steer clear of what they already know, and this is no exception.

“I think-” is the voice that breaks through his thoughts, and when Steve studies Billy’s face, it’s all changed again; his demeanor, the depths of his eyes, the crease between his brows like he’s struggling to find something that just isn’t there. Distressed, Steve thinks, as he reaches forward, curling delicate fingers around Billy’s wrist because he knows that’ll get his attention.

It does, and Billy gives a soft smile, emotions fading by the second. “I don’t think I remember anymore,” he says.

Steve doesn’t miss the desolation, the acidity of what that statement means, what it’s dredged up. For the first time in quite awhile, Steve doesn’t know what to do and doesn’t know how to comfort a loss he’d never been apart of. There’d hardly been any rules between them to begin with, each moment a stepping stone together, building boundaries together, and Steve doesn’t have the heart to make that a thing they must do right now; it’s much too soon.

Alternatively, Steve finds the end of a curled piece of hair resting between Billy’s shoulder and neck, twirling it around his finger and letting it fall into a ringlet against his skin. “Will you read to me?” he proposes, wondering if this compromise will be enough for today. If Steve cannot have Billy’s memoir, then he will find another, bringing forth an interest he believes Billy might’ve forgotten he could care about.

“If you want me to.”

Steve nods and doesn’t say another word, lets Billy fall back into writing, erasing, and posing questions when he needs the answers. For now, it’s Steve’s turn to dwell on his misgivings, and it’s then that he realizes exactly why Billy refused to work on his.

There’s a time and a place for everything, and even in their shortcomings, everyone gets their turn. Today is for Steve and Steve alone, and if he thinks too much on it, he knows it’ll leave him breathless.

Instead, Steve thinks about how much he’d like to kiss Billy, leave him just as senseless as he feels. But he waits, he waits a few minutes in this moment where Billy’s voice cocoons him in encouragement and prompts him for details that expose the foundation of his very being.

And by the end of it, even if he may not have a full essay yet, Steve brings his own encouragement to the table, discarding the paper and falling into a natural ease that comes so easily when it’s just the two of them together.

[delos-mio]

Cracking The Code- A Griff Series - Part 1

A/N: Here’s part 1! Let me know your thoughts and whathave you! Love you all bunches and bunches!

It’s always nice to make a good first impression. Unfortunately for you, those seemed to be few and far between. If you weren’t pissing off people immediately upon opening your mouth, you were laughably late- much like today. The heels on your boots clipped against the tiled hallway as you rushed to the meeting place you had only learned about 20 minutes ago. Mix that with traffic and the inability to function without stopping for coffee, there was no way you’d be appearing on time.

You pushed the door open as quietly as you could, but the loud metal scrape gave you away instantly. “Shit. Well, there goes that,” you muttered under your breath as four sets of eyes darted to you.

“How nice of you to show up,” Doc quipped, folding his hands behind his back. You slowly walked over to an open stool next to a broad shouldered man covered in tattoos. Everyone had looked away from you at this point besides him. “Team, this is Cat. Cat, this is Buddy, Darling, Baby, and Griff.”

Darling was planted firmly in Buddy’s lap, her delicate fingers toying with the long pieces of his hair. A very young man, who you assumed was aptly named Baby, was sitting at the far end of the table, shades on and earbuds in. That must mean that man who was still staring at you must be Griff. His dark eyes poured over your body, his sharp jaw setting as he very clearly undressed you in his head. You flipped your hair over your shoulder, rolling your eyes and turning to Doc.

“They always like this?” You asked, vaguely gesturing towards the entwined couple. Griff let out a loud laugh.

“I knew I liked you. Where’d you find her, Doc?” He went to run a finger through your hair, which you quickly slapped back before the tip could even graze a strand.

“Don’t ever fucking touch me. Got it?” You bit back. Griff raised his hands in submission, a wide grin painted on his face.

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” Maybe you made a good impression on at least one person. He was handsome, you’d give him that much. Covered in tattoos, a cropped beard, and a strong jaw- Griff was the prototype of all the boys who’d ever gotten you into trouble before. But you were here for a payday and nothing more; no distractions this time. It was a miracle you even convinced Doc to give you another job, so you had to stay one hundred percent focused.

Doc went on about the details of the job, Darling and Buddy casually listening between playing grab-ass. Griff loudly smacked on his gum, occasionally blowing and popping a bubble. You found yourself fixated on his lips, watching as they sucked the gum back into his mouth. No! Bad girl! What did you just get through telling yourself. You folded your arms against your chest and tried with all your might to focus on Doc and the plan.

“…And that’s where you come in, Cat. We’ll need you to take down the cameras at exactly 8:17 am. Not one minute after,” he stated pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

“Consider it done,” you nodded.

“Excellent. Get a good night’s sleep and be here at 8. Don’t make me wait,” he concluded and stepped away from the table. Buddy and Darling stood up, still practically attached at the mouth, and made their way toward the exit. Baby followed close behind, moving his head along with whatever was coursing through his earbuds. You picked up your large leather purse and began to clip for the door. You felt another body behind you and you knew immediately who it was. There was no way you were going to turn around and give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him. Instead, you got into the elevator and leaned against the back wall, never taking your eyes off the panel in front of you. Griff got in and leaned next to you, also looking straight forward. The heavy metal doors snapped shut and started moving you down the building.

“You really gonna make me work for it, huh?” he asked, still smacking on his gum.

“Not sure what ‘it’ you’re referring to, but yeah, suppose so,” you shrugged. He chuckled next to you, finally breaking first and turning to you.

“It’s a real early morning tomorrow. We should probably have a sleepover…you know, make sure we get here on time,” he suggested, giving you a very convincing puppy dog face. For a moment, when you looked back at him, it nearly worked. That was, until you remembered the promise you made yourself and shook your head at him.

“Nice try, but I don’t think so. Besides, aren’t you not supposed to mix business and pleasure or however the fuck that saying goes?” you smiled, not noticing you’d leaned in closer to him. He smelled like cigarettes and amber and it was overwhelming your senses. Being this close made it nearly impossible to stick to your guns.

“So you admit there’d be pleasure?” he asked, coming around the front of you and placing his palm against the wall behind your head, letting his frame tower over yours.

“You miss my point.” You bit down on your bottom lip, willing yourself to behave.

“No, I understood. I just don’t care,” he grinned. “C’mon sugar, it’ll be fun.”

“I have a lot of coding to do before morning and you’ll just distract me,” you said firmly.

“I will sit and watch you work and be on my best behavior,” he said, reaching out with his other hand to try and touch your hair again.

“Thought I told you not to touch me,” you smiled. He moved his hand back and raised an eyebrow. “Fine. But my house and you watch me work. And sleep on the couch.”

“Deal.” His face was dangerously close to yours, so you were thankful at the ding of the elevator doors parting. Griff stood up straight and gestured for you to exit ahead of him. You could feel his eyes on your ass as you walked to your cars. You walked up to your door and called back to Griff.

“You can follow me. It’s not far from here.” You smiled and ducked into the driver’s seat, not waiting for him to respond.

----

Griff had pulled in just seconds behind you. He was quiet as you climbed the stairs to your apartment; he was still conveniently walking behind you. You unlocked your front door and invited him in. The space you kept was very tidy and simple art hung on the walls. Griff kicked off his boots and softly padded around the perimeter of your living room, taking in every detail. You dipped into your bedroom, quickly changing into yoga shorts and a loose tank before going out to the kitchen.

“What, you casing the place?” you asked from the fridge, pulling out a bottle of Riesling. You heard Griff laugh from the other room.

“What makes you think I’d rob you, sweetheart?” he asked, taking a seat on the couch and perching his feet on the coffee table. You walked back to him and sat down with two glasses and the bottle. His eyes were fixed on your legs as you approached, something you noticed immediately.

“Probably the fact that it’s kind of what you get paid to do,” you smirked, filling each glass and passing one to Griff. You raised your glass lightly, “To a successful job tomorrow.”

“I’ll cheers to that.” He clinked his glass against yours before lifting it to his full lips. Once again, you found yourself mesmerized by his mouth and had to shake yourself out of it. You set your glass down and pulled your laptop off the table and into your lap. You also handed Griff a remote and powered up your computer.

“Watch whatever you want, make yourself comfortable,” you instructed and tucked your legs under you, perching your laptop on the bend in your knee. Griff looked noticeably confused, his brow furrowed as he looked down at the remote you had put in his hand. “Pressing power turns the TV on,” you sassed, pointing at the screen in front of you.

“Smart ass,” he scoffed, smiling a little. “But I thought we could maybe get to know each other. You know…” he began, but you were quick to cut him off.

“No. You agreed to watching me work. So here I am, working. You can do whatever you’d like,” you scolded, “but I will be making sure your ass doesn’t get caught tomorrow.” You turned again to the small screen in your lap, clicking open the programs you needed. Griff sunk down on the couch next to you, clearly pouting. He clicked on the TV and settled on the Falcons game.

It wasn’t long before he was tired of listening to the harmony of the sound of your typing and the clash of football players. You were clicking away when you felt the weight of his head on your arm. Griff was looking up at you with his big, brown eyes, silently pleading with you to entertain him. You kept your eyes on the task at hand.

“Can I help you?”

“Whatcha doin?” he asked playfully. A smile broke on your face. Sure, he was forward and annoying, but damn if he wasn’t charming. And handsome. No, you still had work to do.

“Well, right now I’m granting myself access to the bank’s security system and disguising myself as personnel,” you replied sweetly as he looked at your screen.

“Man, I don’t know how you make any sense of that. Just looks like a bunch of numbers and dashes and slashes,” he mused, scooching the rest of his body closer to yours.

“I mean, it is just a bunch of letters and numbers and symbols, really. But see, like this section here--“ you pointed to a chunk of code toward the lower right portion of your screen, “this tells me who all is authorized to use this software. And this bit over here--“ you pointed to another section just above it, “tells me that there are only 8 cameras online at the branch at any given time.” Griff listened intently as you gave him a crash course in hacking. There was something really endearing about him watching as you wrote code. Mostly, he was quiet while you worked. He just watched your fingers dart across the keys and the way your tongue peeked out of the corner of your mouth when you were working on a particularly tough string of code. Occasionally, he’d ask a question about what you were doing when the screen would change. You’d smile and give him an answer and he’d go back to laying on your arm, eyes fixed on the screen.

After a while, Griff noticed your fingers slowing down. He tilted his head up to see what expression you had; perhaps you had encountered a tricky spot. But instead, your eyes were closed, lips parted just slightly. You had fallen asleep in front of the computer like so many nights before. Griff smiled to himself and closed the top of your laptop. He gently placed it back on the table before scooping you up into his arms. With ease, he carried you down the hallway to your bedroom and laid you down, tucking you into your covers. As per the deal made, he retreated to the living room and camped out on the couch, letting his thoughts about the girl he just met carry him to sleep.

Tag: @pathetically-inlove

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

ars goetia

This is a (partially) system-agnostic magic system, to model the medieval conception that magic was carried out by spirits at the behest of the magician. Instead of doing whatever you normally do for magic, when you want to cast a spell, create and bind a daemon.

Your stats as a magician include your Will and Mind stats. (In D&D, these are probably Wis/Cha and Int; in CofD, probably Resolve and Intelligence; in the Modern Magician, probably Will and Intellect. Different games may weight the stats differently, which hopefully reflects that game’s views on power and the disposition thereof.) The stats of your daemon are its Traits and its Power. You cannot give it more Traits than your own Mind, but you can increase its Power as high as you like. However, if you make it too strong you’ll probably get eaten. Furthermore, a daemon must have as many Banes as it has Traits, which you can decide when you create it. If you don’t, then the first few times it comes up against resistance of any sort it has a chance of gaining a generic Bane such as petrification in sunlight or inability to cross a line of salt. It would be unfortunate if your assassin daemon was suddenly unable to enter a house uninvited!

When you create a daemon, spend some time (if your game is a game that has the concept of “scenes”, some scenes) designing and naming it. This name is the capstone you will place on chaos to draw forth a daemon. Then, in a dramatic ritual, call it forth for the first time and bind it. A ritual must have trappings at least equal to the daemon’s Power. Trappings are things like particular geometric designs and sigils, candles of a certain color or incense of a certain scent, enacting the ritual at midnight or a full moon, etc. Roll your Mind; on a failure, you have done one of the trappings wrong and your daemon may be freed. On a success, the daemon appears before you. Roll your Will against its Power three times. If you win twice, it is bound to your service for either the duration of a task or for a year and a day. If it wins twice, it is free to do whatever it wants. You may automatically win a roll with a suitable sacrifice: the lifeblood of a virgin, rare gems, or your own soul. The daemon may be able to roll again if you command it to do something against its Motivation, or force it to encounter its Banes.

When you create a daemon, consider the following:

Look. Is it tall and hulking, slender, skeletal, sinuous? Is it clockwork or disturbingly biomechanical or made of assembled flower petals?

Aesthetic. Is it an angel that evokes light and holiness and purity? Is it a devil covered in blood and filth and hellfire? Is it a hungry ghost with a needle-thin throat and a distended belly and a maw filled with teeth?

Motivation. Does it want to kill and drink in blood and gore? Does it want to rearrange lives to put on a satisfying show for itself? Does it just want to play the harp, despite the fact that its playing liquefies bones and curdles blood?

Purview. Is this a daemon of the winds, able to unleash violent blasts of cold? Is it able to double in size and unfurl enormous bony wings? Does it swallow light and vomit darkness?

Bane. Is it a daemon of fire and therefore afraid of water? Is it exorcised by the sound of bells because it loves silence, or because it loves noise, or because a bellmaker was slain in its creation?

Name. This is the most crucial part of a daemon, and ideally you would be versed in several ancient languages most appropriate to your tradition. As it is we’ll settle for vaguely Lovecraftian.

List of Traits:

Armor

Wings

Claws

Strong

Possession (living, inanimate, corpse)

Invisible

Enthrall

Fast

Spirit World

Inconspicuous

Shapeshift

Whisper

Second Sight

Blink

Weapon

Energy

Shadow

Spawn

Madness

Climb

Foresight

Curse

Terror

Weather

Hungry

Illusion

Pestilence

Scrying

Vitality

Shield

List of generic Banes:

Can’t cross a salt line

Reflection reveals true form, or no reflection

Shadow reveals true form, or no shadow

True form visible to children or animals

Burned terribly by fire

Can’t cross running water

Can’t enter a home uninvited

Hurt by daylight

Afraid of the holy

Repelled by certain herbs or metals

for anyone whos ever wanted a tatterpig of the bartimaeus books

i spent a lot of time ripping my hair over the fact that some games have a willpower stat on par with normal attributes and some... dont

dont fucking ask me how this would work in fate or whatever

should probably have some limit to the number of daemons you can have bound

assuming a game of like four PCs each with like three daemons to control thats. a lot

maybe ill write an actual bartimaeus tatterpig where youre all spirits and the magician is the gm

sorry this one is real shit i wanna go back to reading arms of the chosen

[awfullyhorriblybadfantrolls]

i know hell

i heard you liked cihuco ;) oh god

(this is super long because i get p i s s e d about a tenth of the way through about the misrepresentation and romanticization of mental illness so it’s under a cut. be wary of the discourse i’ve inevitably started)

-

When she wants she can become 2, both of her personalities taking a body. I realize she looks like a dude…she’s made to look like me…and since I look like a dude…yeah…you sound very uncertain about that The shirt symbols were tribal designs I found forever ago and tweaked slightly…i feel like that might be offensive and here’s what it says behind them.

Potens sidera pateris me Dilamino Mortem et Vulture Duae solae Duae aequalia Eodem sensu Duae corpora Iterum Which translates from Latin into Powerful stars allow me to Split in two Death and Vulture Two separate Two equal Same mind Two bodies Once again

i had my friend who’s learning latin translate this for me and he got

“My strong star father. I split death and the vulture in two [or “i’m split in two. death and the vulture] two alone two of the same a sense of purpose two bodies again”

he also added that it’s very badly translated and has no proper declension or cases and vulture isn’t a word in latin apparently

“they definitely used pateris when they shoulda used poddiderit”

-

you’re welcome hey also? there’s more. 

cihuco: i know i’m weird cihuco: i know my blood makes you sick cihuco: i know i’m not normal also cihuco: can you accept me for me now because i just told you all of my problems

Pesterchum name: bonesbloodSkullprotect excuse me

Typing Issue: uses txt tlk & symbols b/c she tends 2 tlk kinda fast, however if she’s perfectly calm she will spell things out completely unlike Morgan. she only capitalizes names & sometimes I’s…sometimes not. i don’t know why i hate this so much

Font Color: After finding a way to alternate between Fire Red and Water Blue water isn’t blue asshole she keeps it on so 1 sentence will be red, the next blue. However, if she’s really pissed it goes completely red and if somehow she’s completely and utterly calm it will go completely blue. i have more of an idea why i hate this so much but i do

Cimi (Death, Transformer, Worldbridger. 6th Mayan day sign) what

what is this in reference to

Symbol: skulls of any kind, so the design on her shirt changes constantly. usually the skull is White (which is the color of Death in Mayan astrology) and Red (which has come to symbolize Death now not really) Sometimes the skull will have a vulture on/near it. As the Vulture is the foe of Death, this presumably means she is her own greatest enemy. …that’s actually kind of cool

Mythological entity named for that’s a really specific category: Aztec goddess Cihuacoatl (Partly a fire goddess …….cihuacoatl was a motherhood and fertility goddess?)

and was associated with midwives and, uh, sweatbaths

and the Celtic goddess Acionna (Partly a water goddess) are you saying both goddesses are only partially affiliated with fire and water, respectively because cihuacoatl is not at all associated with fire as far as i know and acionna is only associated with water

Blood Color: Metallic Cyan…? Or…possibly between Cyan and Topaz…hard to tell when it turns to crystal not long after being (over) exposed to oxygen or any other chemicals in the air. what the fuck kind of blood Naturally the air born air born. born from the air chemicals effect how big and dark the crystals are. 

God Tier: Witch of Rage

Duel horns match her dueling personalities. duel horns. her horns fucking fight all the time. her personalities also duel. they engage in fisticuffs every other tuesday She’s Bipolar or Schizo…or both…i was gonna draw a reaction image but my tablet stopped working again so i’m just gonna have to settle for a firm “STOP. FUCK YOU”. also, i’m not really sure you understand what bipolar disorder or schizophrenia actually are. also also schizo is considered a slur because of the derogatory nature it’s used in. bye sweaty as such her personality changes instantly and usually without warning. i was right

listen up kids lemme give you a lil fuckin lesson on these two mental illnesses that are portrayed very very badly and overromanticized by this person:

“Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity levels, and the ability to carry out day-to-day tasks.” (nimh.nih.gov)

this does not mean someone with bipolar will “change personalities instantly”, it only dictates mood changes, so fuck you on that

symptoms of bipolar include: periods of unusually intense emotion, changes in sleep patterns, activity levels, as well as unusual behavior. these are called “mood episodes” and vary wildly from person to person.(manic episode) being very “jumpy” with increased activity levels, prone to agitation, risky behaviors, talking really fast about a bunch of different things and feeling as though they can do many things at once, (depressive episode) feeling dead inside, as if you’re heavy and have no energy to even move, perhaps at the same time empty and unfulfilled with no desire to do things you usually love, sleeping too much or too little, frequent thoughts about death/suicide and probably making plans about it

to quote myself, “bipolar […] only dictates mood changes, so fuck you on that”

let’s get to probably the most self-dx’ed and romanticized mental illness now

“Schizophrenia is a chronic and severe mental disorder that affects how a person thinks, feels, and behaves. People with schizophrenia may seem like they have lost touch with reality.”

where are you seeing personality change. i’m not seeing personality change. schizophrenia is, very over-simply, an inability to tell what’s real or not anymore.

symptoms of this disorder include: hallucinations, delusions, “flat effect” (reduced expression of emotions through facial expressions or tone of voice), reduced speaking and enjoyment in life, troubles focusing or paying attention or executive functioning (the ability to understand and use information to make decisions) or working memory (the ability to use that information immediately after learning it)

so ? honie ? where. literally where. i am abridging this but i guarantee i’m not purposefully leaving out “personality changes instantly and usually without warning”. you know why? 

because it’s not fucking there

what a surprise someone is romanticizing and at the same time not understanding and yet still undermining the struggles of mental illness

a little personal here but i’m friends with a girl who’s bipolar and buddy it’s not fun for her. her three moods are hypomanic, prepared for death, and panic attack. there is no personality change. only genuine struggle because mental illness isn’t pretty or a decoration for your self insert oc

bye sweaty,,,,,

Generally she can control the voices in her head inaccurate…………………, unless someone pisses her off. When she’s pissed off her eyes change from the normal (for her) golden with red spots to red swirls with icy blue as well. her pupils are actually dark blue. Because of this mutation, she usually wears super sweet red glasses with 3 points on each lens (most likely to represent 6, as in the sixth Day Sign). what does any of this mean in any capacity When she’s alone she argues with herself a lot, rather then keeping the voices bottled up…sometimes they’re her only company, after all… how fucking lonely do you have to be to argue with your voices jesus i almost feel bad now The only good thing about the dueling personalities is it allows her to control both water and fire. dueling personalities……………….

I suppose duel personalities may not be the right word no, it’s not. you mean dual personalities…as she it literally 2 different trolls stuck in one body…both Death and the Vulture live within her, Death being dominate. y tho She has the ability to seperate into both of these trolls for short times. HOW THO When she does Death becomes red, takes on the fire part of her powers, and uses only red psyonics psyonics in addition to taking the top horns and the red stripe in her hair. Vulture becomes blue, takes on the water, bottom horns, blue hair tips, and uses blue psyonics. It’s also worth saying her psyonic abilities are almost completely unusable to her just…in general. They generally show up without her knowing or control. “The only good thing about the dueling personalities is it allows her to control both water and fire.” …..???

She is incredibly good at video games, always coming just short of Sol when they play she gets points for not being BETTER THAN SOL XD SHE’S SOOOOO GOOD AT VIDEO GAMES but five points don’t help your current score of like -928374929871…there is one genera

“there’s one principle taxonomic category that ranks above species and below family, denoted by a capitalized latin name she’s better at though”

she’s better at though. She’s better at Horror games then he is because she is “very attune to death, whether it be real or virtual”. not all horror games have death also what does this even mean. i’m so confused She and Sol do a lot of gaming together and the main problem with her duality is that Vulture likes Eridan and Death like Sollux…however, seeing as Death is the main personality she get’s 1st pick…this has caused Vulture much annoyance and caused her to try taking over more often. uh

-extra info not needed-

Relations:

Aradia: BFFs do NOT bring my spooky wife into this. stay the FUCK away from my ghost girlfriend

Aaron and Morgan: Auspices between them. She describes them as constantly fighting as a serpent would with an eagle…they have no idea what she’s talking about. they’re dumb af have u ever seen an eagle pick up and consume a snake

Morgan: Good friend, as Death is the friend of the Serpent. i have no idea where you heard this but okay

Aaron: Good friend, as the Vulture is friends with the Eagle which she believes he would have been born under if he was born a troll. …there’s an eagle constellation? also vultures are friends with eagles? oh shit there actually is an eagle constellation it’s called aquila Her being good friends with both is why she’s also a good auspice. auspice would be a verb. the noun is auspistice

Jenny: Moirail

Vriska: probable Kismasis KISMASIS, the only thing they can agree on is they dislike the spider. since when did vriska dislike spiders

Other Humans: Takes to usually helping them randomly and with no warning ……….??????????

Other Trolls: Iffy, as they used to avoid her at all cost because of her mutation. However, because some of the others now are known to have mutations they don’t care as much. dude i’d fuckin care. her metallic blood makes me sick

Jaslusolo: a combination of jaculus (Snake)

and pervolo (to fly).

Her lusus, managed to escape just before the reckoning but couldn’t get to Cihuco in time to bring her as well. cihuco would’ve fuckin died?? if the reckoning wasn’t stopped the session would become null She is a feathered, winged serpent which resembles Cihuacoatl.

…..winged serpent who ?

With her help she is able to actually fly back in time what the fuck and to what she calls her “true home” on earth back with the Mayans. earth doesn’t exist yet bicht She speaks their language fluently as well, 

which one

and she is the one who told them of the end of the world. no, the mayan end of the world was predicted by the mayan calendar and the popol vuh, a compilation of the accounts of creation of the k’iche’ maya. the popul vuh states that the gods first created and failed at creating three worlds, then placed humanity in the first successful word. in the maya long count, the previous world had ended after 13 b’ak’tuns (around 5,125 years) and december 21st, 2012, was when the mayan date struck 13.0.0.0.0 which they believed to bring about the destruction of this world and the formation of a new one, this starting the cycle again. try again hunty 

Jansin Aciona: Dancestor, can’t stand her. yeah i can’t stand you either she’s named after Jowangsin, the Korean goddess of fire.

who

oh sorry do you mean jowangsHin, goddess of the kitchen?

She was relatively good friennds with Nivnaj…not as good as you’d expect though. She was Cronus’ matesprite. ok bye

The Poet: that is definitely not eight letters Ancestor, most likely deceased. Was matesprits with The Wisest. still not eight letters Aporev: Close friends

Strife Portfolio: X2Whipkind, X2Bladekind sure whatever

Fetch Modus Setting: Pictionary Advanced -The advanced just means she can draw what happens with what’s on the card and it happens. ughhhhhhhhhhhhh like if she wants it to shoot out and hit someone- then what. please do tell. the suspense is killing me

Age: 7.4 Alternian Solar Sweeps (16 earth years)

Planet: Land of Pulse and Haze (Original planet destroyed. Presumably she started in The Land of Tents and Mirth, which is associated with the Rage part, but liked LOPAH better so claims it as “Home”) THAT AIN’T YOURS BITCH PUT IT BACK

Name Breakdown (Troll) : “Acionna was a Gallo-Roman water goddess, attested in the Orléanais region.” -Wiki. which one Not much is known about the goddess other then she was most likely representative of water. This is where her last name came from. “In Aztec mythology, Cihuacoatl was one of a number of motherhood and fertility goddesses.” -Wiki …..if you knew this then…….y tho

Name Breakdown (Pesterchum) : Acionna was thought to be protection, Cihuacoatl supposedly helped make the current race from ancient bones and blood of Quetzalcoatl (Who mainly gets the credit). Skull is the symbol for death. The other reason the trolls avoided her was because she showed literally as [BS] which is what they thought she was full of are you saying she’s not? until Sollux started saying the same thing a long time after. Perhaps because the goddess she was named after, Cihuacoatl, she was not named for any goddess her name was incoherently gurgled out of her winged snake goddess-that’s-she’s-supposedly-named-after of a lusus supposedly created the current race…she had a stronger connection psychically to happenings…the problem is sorting what’s true and what’s not from the voices in her head.

Info on her Mutation: This is what happens when a troll falls in love with a local. love is love but this thing is disgusting don’t do it again It is unknown who exactly they were, as the blood is to diluted to guess who they could have possibly been. ????????? look i’m no med student but i’m at least 98% sure that’s not how blood works  This…sorda leads to say that it was mostly the local’s (whatever or whoever it was) blood taking over. wait i thought it was too diluted by……other blood, i guess?? what the fuck even is this It is probable, it seems, that one of them was able to wield fire and the other water, thus resulting in the duel personalities. why do i hate this sentence so much

Personality(s?) Qualities: Issues with anyone who tries to tell her what to do, she tends to sometimes contradict herself and speaks in riddles which are always hard to figure out except when they’re not and they’re easy. wow thanks had no idea She hosts qualities from both Death and Vulture, and they are as follows. Death is “open to ideas and willing to make sacrifices for the greater good…sensitive to endings of any kind, and it can be hard for (her) to accept losses. Practical, Oversensitive, Fragile.” While the Vulture is “very self-aware and concerned about (her) status in the world. (She) places a high value on life experiences, wanting to learn as much as possible from the triumphs and challenges they offer. (She) can appear a bit jaded and ruthless to others, but that is because (she) sees things as they are and thus tend to be cynical. (She) dislikes being judged, and if (she) feels under scrutiny (her) self-esteem takes a blow. Knowledgeable, Wise, Challenging, Jaded, Cynical.” -Horoscope.com oh my god

Rules Broken: all of them. all of them? every single one. not the naming rule though. but only for the troll herself. everyone else can go suck a dick

Fantroll Rating: look i started working on this blazing heap of trash at around 1915 now it’s 2058. what the fuck man

[arzani-fuchsia]

12 and Silverflint?

390 Prompts

12.  “Before I do this, I need you to know that I have always loved you.”

// ModernAU in which Flint is a cop and Silver is worried. I hope you like it, because this got a little out of hand with over 3000 words.//

„I don’t careif it’s just a graze. I don’t care if you’re telling me it doesn’t hurt andthat I shouldn’t worry, because I do! I DO! I do every single time and still,you walk straight back into the fucking lion’s den. I’m sick of it, James! I’msick of worrying, I can’t cope with it anymore. I can’t… I just can’t.”

What hadstarted as just a raised voice had turned into a frenzy of screaming. James’heart clenched at the sight of John shouting at him, each word another slap, poisonedwith guilt. With his black curls flying around his face, as he shook ofdistress, and clenched fists, his husband looked almost as if he was goinginsane. Maybe he was and James couldn’t blame him. He knew that his job was dangerous,every cop lived with danger constantly lurking around the corner. But a part ofhim, James knew, couldn’t give it up. It was a constant nagging that told himhe’d be less without the fight. That the victims had been too severe, too great,to give up now.

Cautioussteps moved him closer to John and he wrapped his hands around his husbands’ones. Held them softly, but firmly, to try and be an anchor. James wished hecould embrace John, but the way he was looked at, James knew right now Johnwouldn’t let him.

“It was attraining, John, a ricochet gone wrong. It’s why we do have to attend traininglessons, so it won’t happen in a real operation,” James tried to sooth theshivering mess in front of him. It didn’t work. Instead of calming down, Johnstepped back and ripped his hands out of James’ grasp. The blue in his eyessparkled with unshed tears and he bit his lips, when his gaze wandered over thebandage around James’ head. It looked worse than it was, but that wasn’t athing for James to say out loud, as well. Not now.

“Training?!No one should be harmed in a training lesson! It’s not reassuring, it’s not,”John keened, his chest heaving with sucked in pants.

“I know -,”James tried to argue but John cut him off.

“No, youdon’t know! You always tell me you understand but you don’t! You keep fightingand for what sake? For the sake of fighting. If you understood, you’d stop.”

The wordsrung in James’ ears and suddenly John’s voice was layered with Miranda’s. Eventhough it was years ago, he still could hear how she accused him of the verysame thing. To keep fighting for the sake of fighting… and where had it gottenhim? Her? She was dead, shot by who they believed was a friend, by someone whothey believed could help them find the murderers of Thomas.

Thomas, whohad tried to change the country by getting a law through court that would allowminorities in prison to have solitary confinement to keep them from beingbeaten up every day for either being homosexual, or black, or whatever provokedviolence these days, and help them with settling back into society after theirsentence was finished. It never had come to it, because some gang leaders hadshot him on open street. By now James knew it had been an assassination arrangedby Thomas’ father Alfred Hamilton, and even though Alfred Hamilton rotted inprison (and not in fucking solitary confinement) James still felt helpless. Hehadn’t been able to stop it, any of it, and only meeting John had prevented himfrom committing suicide after Miranda’s death.

He lovedJohn, more than he could put in words. The man was everything to him, eventhough their start had been, well rough. Yet, he had fallen for him, and nowJames couldn’t imagine his life without John by his side. Whenever he came homehe was allowed to look into John’s crystal clear blue eyes shining withadoration. Sleeping next to him kept the nightmares at bay and kissing his softlips was like breathing.

A part ofJames had kept going to avenge Thomas’ death, but as he looked at John now, herealized he was still a cop because of him. John had come from an abusivefamily, had been surrounded by violence, drugs and darkness. That he’d notsuccumbed to it was a miracle, and James wanted to keep it that way. He wantedto protect him, like he hadn’t been able to protect Thomas. The world was fullof darkness, but if James could make it a little brighter with his work, forJohn, he’d do it.

Yet, totell him this was not the right time either.

Sighing,James closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired, exhausted of this fight, thatwent on between them for what seemed like ages. John wanted him to retire andJames couldn’t. But his walls crumbled under the constant onslaught ofarguments, and he was getting old. He felt old, certainly. Maybe he shouldconsider it. Maybe he should quit. But not today.

He openedhis eyes again and sat down on one of the stools surrounding their diningtable. His day had been long, he was forming a headache and he was tired offighting. All he wanted to, was to snuggle up with his husband and enjoy theevening, “Listen John, I’m sorry you worry about me. I lo-,” James said wearily,but declaring his love seemed to be the wrong move, because again he was cutoff.

“Don’t youdare… don’t you dare say it now,” John threatened and his voice wavered. Itwavered so much, the anger spilling over in a way that revealed more about hisfear and worry than any word could ever convey. But before James could processit, the whole amount of anxiety that must have built up over weeks and months,and react, John had turned on his heels.

The timeJames needed to stand up had been enough for John to move to the hallway andreach for his shoes. Tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes when he lookedup. James stood in the doorway, unable to say anything.

“I need…you… I just need air,” John whispered with a stricken voice and no matter Jamesdidn’t understand it, he accepted it. When the door clicked shut, the silencewas too loud. Staring at the polished wood of their front door, James bit hislips and tried to keep the overwhelming feelings at bay.

He knewJohn worried about him. How could he not, when James risked his life on a dailybasis? But the amount of fear he must feel, to force him to such a drasticmanner, had went past James. Was his job really worth risking his marriage?

No answercame to him. Instead everything in his head swirled.

The call came several hours later and by now the clock showed it was almostmidnight. Over the argument James had almost forgotten about the drug dealersthey were working on. It was a big fish, and Eleanor Guthrie, his young andeager boss, had found an opening in their shipping schedule, apparentlytonight. They would storm the hideout, get the gang into prison and confiscatethe drugs. If everything went according to plan not one bullet was about to beshot. James doubted all went according to plan. It never did.

He wasstanding in his bedroom, John and his bedroom to be more accurate, and for the umptiethtime James checked the watch, just to shake his head and focus on the task athand. No sound was audible. No clicking of a key opening the front door. Noheavy steps, no mumbling, no cursing. God, James would even take drunkenshouting to replace this maddening silence. Where was John? He couldn’t do thiswithout him.

But thehouse remained empty and James keep on unwrapping the bandage around his head.By now the wound had closed. A red streak spoke of what had happened, but James’reflection in the mirror showed he had been right. It had looked worse than itwas. Not that any of this was reassuring now. What he was about to do, where hewas about to go, it was dangerous. A fight was not what he wanted John to haveas a last memory, if something was about to go wrong.

Resigningseemed more and more tempting with each passing second. John was right. AsJames kept looking at his reflection and saw the exhaustion written in hisface, he realized John was right. Gray shimmered in the red of his hair andbeard, wrinkles surrounded his eyes and mouth, and he looked downright tired.It was time to resign and he would…

A clickmade James’ heart jump and he rushed to the front door. Instead of throwing hisarms around John, though, he stopped in the doorframe again. Sweeping John withhis eyes, he took in the tousled state of his hair, the blue of his lips and hisshivers. It wasn’t autumn yet, but summer had passed and it wasn’t warm outsideanymore. John hadn’t taken a jacket and James got cold by just looking at him.

Biting hislips, he searched for John’s gaze, who had raked his eyes over his appearancejust as James had. It was obvious were James would go, with his shirt bulgingslightly over his bulletproof vest and the holster on display over his waist.

“It’stonight,” John said flatly and the lack of emotion in his voice made James’shudder. It was the last straw he had needed. The very last push to make himrealize things had to change. So he stepped forward and clasped John’s hand inhis. It was freezing, but he intertwined their fingers nonetheless. Maybe itcould warm him, the love of his life. Maybe his words could.

“Listen,John,” James murmured and felt the lump in his throat more than ever. Gulping,he cleared his throat, to make his voice steady. “I know you are mad at me, andyou have any right. I am sorry for what worry I made you go through every timeI head into a dangerous operation. And I am sorry that I will make you worryfor another, last time. I can’t leave now, I can’t let the team go in therewithout me. I prepared this operation, I’m the one with the most intel and Iwon’t risk my team’s lives… and I know you understand it. But before I do this,I need you to know that I have always loved you. My love for you… your love forme, it’s a gift and I wanted to make your world better. There is so muchdarkness from where you come from. I know, despite the inability of you tellingme about your past. It’s enough for me to have you by my side, and it wasenough for me to want to protect you from it.”

He took abreak, and clutched John’s hand a little tighter. They shivered, by now both ofthem did, and James could see how John’s eyes had widened. No tears flowed, butthe way his lips quivered was telling enough.

“But Irealized what I need to protect is us. I love you and I promise you, firstthing I’ll do after this is over, is to go to Eleanor and tell her I quit.”

Next thingJames realized was how John drew himself into his arms. Hugging him, Jamesbreathed in the faint smell of coconut from the oil John used on his unrulyhair. It smelled like home and something in his heart settled.

“Promise me,”John mumbled against his chest. A faint smile stretched on James’ face as hepressed John a little tighter to himself, to feel him through his bulletproofvest. He needed the soothing warmth of John’s body heat on his skin, to go outthere tonight.

“I promise,”he said and it was the truth. Someone else could save the world. James hadenough of it.

It was past midnight and John knew it would be hours before James would be backhome. He had been told to go to bed, and when he woke up James would besleeping next to him. Yet, he was too agitated to go to sleep, the confessionstill reverberating in his ears.

James wouldquit. He would finally quit and stop risking his life. It was such areassurance to know it was the last time John had to worry about his husband.When they had married, John had promised to cherish and protect James, to stayby his side and be there for him. Every time James went to an operation as hewas doing now, John felt like failing his vows.

When he hadgotten to know James, the man had been on a constant verge of death, either byrisking too much in his job or by taking an overdose of medication. It hadchanged and John knew he was the reason it had changed. Their friends andcolleagues knew about James’ past, his loss and the overcoming of it, butlittle knew of John’s own darkness. About the anxiety, the nightmares and hisfears.

John hadnever had anything until he had met James, and while pulling his husband out ofthe darkness, he had pulled himself out, too. Or, well, James had pulled himout. They had pulled themselves out together. The thought alone to lose Jameswas unbearable to John.

But it wasover. No more storming warehouses, or gangs, or seeking out murderers. No morerisky stunts, no more working as an officer. They could lead a… well maybe notnormal but at least safer life.

Johndecided to celebrate it. Buy a bottle of champagne tomorrow, maybe even takehis husband out. Take James to bed for sure. Use those handcuffs for something elsethan locking up criminals.

With a yawnand a smile John pushed the book he had tried and failed to read away. Actually,he had wanted to stay awake, but he realized his eyelids were dropping. Good hewas already in bed, so it didn’t take much effort to turn off the bedside lampand sleep…

… he jumped awake when his phone rung.Blinking blearily, he reached for it and checked the time. It was a little pastfour thirty and he wondered who the fuck had the decency to call in the middleof the night. Then his eyes darted to the caller’s name and his heart stopped.

For amoment, he tried to convince himself that it was a dream, but the phone didn’t stopringing and the name wasn’t vanishing. Eleanor Guthrie was calling, which onlycould mean one thing…

He turnedhis bedside lamp on and accepted the call.

“He’salive!”

The usuallybusiness-like voice sounded strained and exhausted, yet, there was nothing elseJohn had wanted to hear from the woman, he only ever had met on Christmas partiesof James’ department. A heavy weight dropped from his shoulders and he suckedin a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A silent tear slid down hisface.

“John?” thevoice asked, when no answer came and finally John realized he should speak, toannounce he was even on the phone.

“Yes, yes,I’m here,” he answered and he could hear Eleanor Guthrie’s heavy breath throughthe line.

“Good.Listen, a shot hit James’ shoulder, but he’s alive and in hospital. They didn’twant to tell me too much, because I’m just his boss and no relative, but I toldthem you would come and I convinced them that the hour doesn’t matter. So, packsome stuff and get a taxi to the Central Hospital. We’ll cover all costs.”

“I’malready on my way,” John replied and pushed himself out of bed. The spare lightof his bedside lamp wasn’t much, but it was enough to take in the room and findthe traveling bag he always used for business trips. While he made up his mindwhat James would need, he only partly listened to Eleanor telling him she wouldvisit tomorrow morning, and ended the call.

Half anhour later he was closing the door of the taxi that was taking him to hishusband.

“Finally,” James sighed, when the doctor left the room. The explanations how totreat his shoulder had taken forever, or so it had felt. As if James didn’tknow how to take care of a bullet wound. It wasn’t his first, though he hopedit would remain his last. His decision to quit had only heightened in the lightof last night’s events.

Fingerssnipped against his temple and James tilted his head, looking into his husband’sbright blue eyes, who regarded him with raised eyebrows.

“What?” heasked defensifly and John rolled his eyes.

“Have youeven listened to what the doctor had to say?” he asked James, who shrugged hisshoulders, only to wince. What a stupid idea to do so when a member of a druggang had shot you just hours ago. “You haven’t.”

“I havelistened,” James defended himself but faltered under the look he was given. “inthe beginning.”

“You’reunbelievable,” John said indignantly, but the amount of relief in his tone washard to miss. The last night had been one hell of a ride for both, especiallyas John had arrived just when James had returned from surgery. In his defense,no one looked good coming straight from the operation room, not even James.Especially not him. Yet the open worry on John’s face and the way he refused tolet go of James’ hand had reassured him doing the right thing to resign. All hehad left to do was tell Eleanor.

As if thewoman had read his mind, the door opened to reveal a head of blonde hairpeeking in. She even knocked against the door frame, no matter she was almostinside.

“Can I comein? I just met your doctor outside,” she said and James nodded in confirmation.A faint shot of pain rushed through him and he cursed his luck. The wound wouldgive him trouble for at least another few weeks. Of course, this had to happenon his last mission.

“How do youfeel?” Eleanor wanted to know, walking in and sitting herself on the freestool. John sat on the bed next to James.

“Likesomeone shot in the shoulder, I guess,” James answered, his tone a mix ofsarcasm and amusement. Most people didn’t get his humor, but John next to himsnorted, covering it in a cough. He’d probably enjoyed the joke, if it didn’tring too much to the truth. James squeezed his hand, knowing he had a lot tomake up for.

“Veryfunny, Officer McGraw,” Eleanor said flatly and shifted slightly. “The doctorsaid I can’t expect you back for the next six weeks or so, but the operationwas a success, so I guess-“

Out of thecorner of his eyes James saw John’s mouth open to say something, but before hishusband could, he stopped him by shaking his head slightly. Pressing himselfaway from the headboard he was leaning against, James caught Eleanor’sattention, who stopped in the middle of her sentence.

“MissGuthrie, I won’t come back.”

“What doyou mean, you won’t come back?”

The surprisewas genuine in Eleanor’s voice, but it was John’s smile that made Jamescontinue speaking. It was like a torchlight in the night and James realizedJohn had not quite believed James would resign until now. Squeezing hisfingers, he added, “I quit. I’m too old to get shot and I have worried Johnenough. Once I can write again, you’ll find my letter of resignation on yourtable.”

Silencestretched between them, before Eleanor stood back up from her stool andsmoothed out her shirt over her jeans. She was dressed in plain clothes. Likealways she preferred practicability over femininity, as she preferred actionsover words, much to her father’s chagrin. James hoped she understood, andwaited, mortified, for her reaction.

Yet, allthat came was a nod. “I see. I won’t lie, I’m surprised and I’m not happy, you’remy best officer after all, but I guess I understand.”

“Thank you,Miss Guthrie,” James replied, relieved his boss, or well, ex-boss now, wasn’tmaking a fuss. It made his decision easier. Not that it would have changed anythingshould Eleanor have disagreed, but it was appreciated, that she understood.James had always respected her.

She noddedagain, and said her good-byes. “Get better soon, James. John.”

With thosewords, she left the room and the moment the door closed, John’s head sunk downinto James’ lap. Slipping his fingers into John’s curls he softly played withthem.

“Are youokay?” he asked, a little worried, as he couldn’t see John’s face. But the smallyet bubbling laughter reassured him.

“Yes. Yes,I am,” John said and James believed him. Things were okay. He had a woundedshoulder and just given up his job, but for the first time in his life, Jamesknew with all his heart that things were going to be okay.

[condomglitter]

“You’re a part of my family.” //austerre - FUCK ME UP PLEASE.

  @austerre​   EAT SOME FEELS you asked for this

        Family.     What a foreign concept.

     She knew what one was, of course – she wasn’t stupid. She had seen it in commercials, in movies and shows… and, briefly, when she visited the Werners, and other childhood friends. Yet, she had never quite known how it felt. Without the resentment and the blame, without having to beg for a love that seemed to others so freely given. So it made sense, then, that she had not noticed that feeling when it blossomed within her heart. 

     Poring over homework with Mokuba as they waited for Seto to come home, laughing on Sunday mornings as she and the elder Kaiba returned from their jog to find the dark haired boy making a delicious mess of the kitchen – they were moments she should have recognized from the weeks she had spent with Bryna and her brood of so many children, and yet, it had never quite occurred to her. Not until it was already true, so undeniable that it hardly needed saying. 

     They were a family. Not by blood, not all of them, but even still – a family. 

     No one quite called it so, though. Not when Natalie was given permission to pick Mokuba up from school, in lieu of their traitorous bodyguard. Not when she urged Seto into following chocolate eggs around the house, in search of where she’d hidden his laptop and other work items that could wait an hour for Easter to be had. Not even quite when the interior decorator dubbed her the lady of the house. Seto hadn’t corrected him, but it wasn’t the same as hearing it from his lips, as she did now. 

     She hadn’t expected to be included in the photograph, meant to hang above the mantle – she had organized the photographer and even set Seto upon the path of having some less posturing photos taken – but not once had she considered the possibility of herself being included in but a few, perhaps candid, shots. It was a portrait for the Kaiba mansion, after all, destined to loom in view of the select few who were allowed to visit. So, she thought, it was meant to contain only the Kaiba’s within it’s frame. Which was why, as the photographer and her assistants bustled about the room, readying the shot, she settled herself tidily out of everyone’s way. 

     She’d been focused on reviewing the schedule for the day when she had heard Seto’s footsteps approaching, notably clipped in comparison to Mokuba’s rolling gait. Sharp and sure, as with everything else he did, he stopped before her with a questioning expression that she had not been expecting. 

     “Sir?” She blinked, closing the calendar on her phone and lowering it beside her on the chaise. Quite frankly, at this point, she was as confused as he seemed to be - both because of the oddity of his tearing his focus away from the task at hand, but also because of the strange look upon his face. “Do you…need something?”     “Why are you sitting all the way over here?” She still couldn’t identify the odd note in his voice - had it been any other situation, she would have called it hurt, but… why would he have anything to be hurt about, here? In a different person, she perhaps would have wondered if he was nervous, but… that wasn’t possible.     She’d never seen Seto nervous in her life.

     “Well, I can’t be over there. The photographer is setting up the lights, and I most certainly don’t want to get in the way of that.” She chuckled and rose from her seat, abandoning her phone on the cushion in favor of busying her hands with his tie. The knot was impeccable, but she still fussed, straightening it and smoothing the broad silk swatch that rested upon his chest. “I’m just checking the e-mails to make sure that everything is running smoothly at the office. Something you said that you would leave to me, you know.”     That had to be it. He wanted her near so he could micro-manage and work from home, which was far more believable than him being NERVOUS. She was quite pleased with her deduction and tutted to herself, treating him to a teasing grin as she let her hands fall away from his front.     “There’s nowhere I can sit where you can read the e-mails and be in the photo, Seto, so don’t bother trying. Go on. They’ll be showing you options on where to sit, soon.”

     His brows furrowed at her words, though not with their usual half amused annoyance. It was confusion, paired with annoyance, and… still, that strange something that she couldn’t quite name. That brought her own confusion back to the forefront of her mind, and she struggled to sort out what, exactly, it was that he wanted from her. 

     “We’re taking family photos.” His tone was short, but still some semblance of patient, as if he were trying very hard to explain something to her. Their usual seamless communication was clearly lacking in this moment, though, as she found herself staring dumbly (and with no small amount of sarcasm) back at him. 

     “Well I’m glad you read the schedule, at least. Would you like me to take some on my phone, and upload them to your social media? I thought it would be better to send a few we chose to the PR department and let them decide which ones – “     “Natalie.” Her full name from his lips in such an exasperated tone was more than enough to make her stop, and turn away from where she’d been reaching for her phone. His hands reached forth to clasp hers gently within them, urging her to face him properly once more, as if that hadn’t been what she was doing in the first place. She had meant to ask him outright what was wrong, and what he wanted, but the look on his face stole those words from her lips, and left her without breath. 

     Even she, privy to the sides of Seto Kaiba that few within the world were able to see, rarely saw such a tender vulnerability on the CEO’s face. It was hurt that she had seen, though she had no idea what it was that she had said to make his face crumple so. At least, he seemed to see this, squeezing her hands and offering her a soft smile. Not the sort that promised cold amusement at someone else’s impending punishment, but the kind that was touched by a tired chuckle, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was this dense.

     “We’re taking family pictures.” He repeated, his voice low as he bowed his head downward, until his forehead but hovered an inch away from resting against the ginger curls that crowned her forehead. This time, she didn’t interrupt him with her own quips or queries, instead soothed to silence as his thumbs circled gently upon the backs of her hands as he seemed to search carefully for his next words. After a moment of silence loaded with everything he could have said, he decided simply upon the words that struck her - truly - at her core.

     “You’re a part of my family.“ He whispered, finally lowering his forehead to hers and resting it there, yet not moving closer for a kiss. “It wouldn’t be right if you weren’t in them with us.”

     Her stunned silence had to have brought back the hurt from before, which she now understood came from a fear of… rejection. He made it quite clear as he searched her eyes imploringly, regret threatening to swallow him whole as a tone entered his voice that she doubted any had heard since he’d been first adopted by their vicious so-called ‘father’.     “Do you… not want to?” 

     She could hear him begging for the answer to be anything but that fearsome rejection, and couldn’t even find it in herself to believe such a fear ridiculous. She could hardly blame him, after all, when she herself had not the nerve to admit or ask of what this life was called. Mokuba, him, and herself…     A family…

     “Oh… Oh, I – I didn’t realize –“      Why was he blurry? Dear GOD, were those… were her eyes watering? Goddess above, they were – threatening to turn into true and real tears, her dark eyes were welling despite what she could only call happiness in her heart, a phenomenon she didn’t quite understand. Furious with herself for it, she lifted one hand and pressed it against her eyes, only further deepening the confusion in Seto’s face. He didn’t seem to quite know if he should apologize, or not, standing frozen in front of her like a terrified statue. He need not have worried, though – and despite her inability to find the words to explain that, at first, she tried to tell him so by leaning up on tip-toe to press her lips against his. 

     “I would love to be in the photos.” She whispered, unable to stop herself from smiling – even if she was mortified at having cried (for no reason, too!) and even if she was certain that at least one of the other people in the room was watching them, she was grinning and blushing like a tittering school girl. How could she stop, though, with such a lightness in her chest? Her lungs felt like they would expand out of her, and her entire body felt as if it could float. 

     He didn’t need more acceptance than that, from her, gently swiping away the wetness from her eyes with two steady thumbs and offering her yet another rare smile of his own. Only once he was certain that she had collected herself did he pull her gently forward, returning to the awaiting chaise with her hand held within his steady, reassuring grip. For a photo that, to the surprise of the photographer (and all who saw it, really) contained more smiles than really expected in the austere manor. 

     A part of the family… Who could have thought ?

[christopherrichardpoir-blog]

Transformer Man: The Time Neil Young Got Sued for Not Sounding Like Himself

“They put me down for fuckin' around with things that I didn't understand - for getting involved in something that I shouldn't have been involved in. Well, fuck them.” -Neil Young, Shakey: Neil Young's Biography (2003)

“Sometimes in a bar, you will hear someone try to defend Neil Young's '80s albums. This is technically known as a 'desperate cry for help.'” -Rob Sheffield, The New Rolling Stone Album Guide (2004)

A process server arrived at Neil Young's door in early November 1983. It was several days shy of the artist's birthday, and he was visiting on behalf of Geffen Records, but he wasn't there to deliver royalties. That's not how royalties are delivered, and that's not what process servers do. He was there to serve Neil Young with a $3.3 million lawsuit, and in that moment, Neil Young became the first artist ever to be sued for not sounding enough like himself.

Filed by Geffen, which had signed Young less than two years prior, the lawsuit accused the artist of having produced albums deemed “not 'commercial' and … musically uncharacteristic of Young's previous recordings.” His most recent flop had been Everybody's Rockin', a goofy-eyed 25-minute jaunt through the rockabilly '50s. But the conflict really stemmed from a series of misadventures set in motion by Trans, the artist's intensely bewildering excursion into Vocoder-voiced electronica, which then proved to be his most alienating release to date - literally. By that, I mean it sounded to most listeners as if Young had replaced himself and his backing band with a small army of Martians, beaming his tunes down to Earth by way of some cosmic transmitter he had probably concocted on his California ranch, knowing him. Certainly that was what the campy, sci-fi album cover seemed to suggest.

No one at Geffen - or elsewhere, for that matter - could have known that Trans, in all its neon-tinted, spacey fancy, was an intensely heartfelt project for Young, one that he would later describe as “an expression of something deeply personal.”

How could they have? In the first of many strategic miscalculations, Young kept it all a secret.

Here's how I discovered Trans: I couldn't find it.

Thumbing through my father's sizable collection of Neil Young vinyl as a teenager, I somehow noticed that Trans was missing. Pretty much everything else up to and including 1987's Life was there and accounted for, as I recalled in a 2011 essay, even the forgotten Time Fades Away LP and the Journey Through the Past soundtrack, out-of-print rarities that have never been issued on CD and are more likely to be spotted in Graham Nash's attic than at Amoeba Records. So, why not Trans? If not for my Musichound Essential Album Guide book, I probably wouldn't have even known that Neil Young had released anything in 1982.

But he did, and as soon as I read some review or another referring to it, dismissively enough, as “Neil Young's techno album,” I knew I'd end up tracking it down.

So, I hunted it down. I found it used on Amazon, a dog-eared vinyl copy shipped from God knows where, and I was immediately charmed by the album's geeky song titles, which read like Prince-speak poisoned by some digital totalitarian nightmare, as well as its eerie, synthetic veneer, which is never quite thick enough to obscure Young's trademark melodicism. I was confused, probably, by the presence of three tracks that didn't trade in Kraftwerk rhythms and bleepy textures, but maybe I didn't mind the respite from the Sennheiser Vocoder VSM201 that otherwise swallowed up Young's vocals whole.

  I didn't, at any rate, know about the son who had been unable to communicate verbally with Young because he had been born with cerebral palsy and quadriplegia, and so I didn't know about the 15 hours a day Young and his wife Pegi spent in therapy programs, grueling work that would first channel into the pounding, repetitive crunch of 1981's Re-ac-tor. I didn't know that the synclavier and vocoder that subsume the record were meant to signify Ben Young's inability to vocalize in ways comprehensible to those surrounding him 24 hours a day, and I didn't read between the lines of songs like “Transformer Man”, in which alien-voiced Young bemoans that there are “so many things still left to do/ But we haven't made it yet.” Nor did I know about the music video Young envisioned for the record, which, in Young's words, would depict “a lot of scientists and doctors trying to unlock the secrets of a little being who had so much to say and no way to say it.” That video was never made.

I didn't, in other words, realize that Trans was a concept album about messages lost in translation whose message had been lost in translation.

Not that its themes were entirely without precedent. Like so much of Shakey's best songwriting, it concerns itself with a break in communication - but this time not with a love interest (“Will to Love”) or a dead junkie friend (“The Needle and the Damage Done”, “Tired Eyes”) or a shallow, posturing celebrity culture (“On the Beach”). It's a failure to communicate, in the most literal of ways, with one's young son, which somehow makes it all the more personal and all the more devastating. “That's why, on that record, you know I'm saying something, but you can't understand what it is,” Young would later explain to Mojo. “Well, that's the exact same feeling I was getting from my son.”

Except, of course, that the message was lost on pretty much everyone who heard it in 1982. That's probably because the record was drowned by its own obsessions, an LP about miscommunication that happened to be garbled and choked on the way to its audience. Young used every instrumental tool at his disposal to channel disconnection to his listeners, and in 1982, those instrumental tools had become all too heady for a popular audience that had been weaned on the pastoral tones of Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere and the even-footed country-folk of Harvest, an audience that thought Kraftwerk was a type of salami, not a musical outfit of any consequence. Too heady, too much, too soon.

That the artist responded to calls for a rock 'n' roll record in the most caustic and sneering possible manner - by throwing together a jokey '50s-rock outing - did little to improve the glass wall that had emerged between Young, his audience, and his increasingly impatient record label.

But it made for a thrilling contrast. Everybody's Rockin', for all its grinning, old-timey spirit, turned out to sound a hell of a lot colder than the LP that was designed to sound like a bubble bath with robots. Trans, by comparison, was a disarmingly honest, if excessively weird, statement. Ignored by thousands and despised by many others, it contains some of the most unusual, inventive, and even catchy material of Young's career.

So, here's the thing. Neil Young was sued - made a “Prisoner of Rock 'n' Roll”, as he would joke on 1987's Life LP - for making music deemed “not commercial and … musically uncharacteristic of Young's previous recordings.” But it wasn't. Well, sure, it was uncommercial. Of course it was. Synthpop hadn't yet broken through to the mainstream, and even if it had, Young hadn't the foggiest idea what it was supposed to sound like, a fact that gives Trans its distant, alien edge. But it wasn't unrepresentative of the impulsive, follow-every-rabbit-hole spirit that had characterized the artist's tireless and careening muse since well before 1980. Consider the ditch trilogy (Time Fades Away, On the Beach, Tonight's the Night) or the odd country excursion (Comes a Time).

All of which is to say, Trans wasn't “musically uncharacteristic of Young's previous recordings,” not really, not unless you focus only on the bewildering sonic properties that overwhelm the songs, which is a preposterous distinction to make because of course you are going to focus on the bewildering sonic properties that overwhelm the songs; that was all anyone focused on in 1983, how could it not be, who the hell am I to suggest otherwise?

Look: Imagine you are the process server guy made to serve papers to Neil Young in 1983, the hapless nobody tasked with rapping on a Real Live Rock Star's door and meekly informing him that he is in trouble - label trouble and maybe also legal trouble - because his records are getting too freaky. Imagine being that guy. He must have known who he was speaking to, what sort of bewildering message he was delivering. How do you do that? Did he prepare for this meeting, rehearsing his lines in front of a mirror? Did he take a mental inventory of the look on Neil Young's face, the artist slack-jawed, waving a joint, let's imagine, smoke curling in circles around his flannel shirt, and did he carry it with him for three decades so that someday he might relate it to his grandchildren? “I was the one,” he might boast, “who put Neil Young under arrest” - come on, you have to exaggerate when you are talking to children - “for not sounding enough like Neil Young.”

Now imagine that the case wasn't settled and here we are in court and I am the defense attorney. I am the one who goes before the judge and endeavors to defend Trans - not Everybody's Rockin', only Trans - against charges of uncommercial villainy and treason or whatever. I don't have to prove that it is perfect, because of course it's flawed; it's a messy and confusing record, but that never was the impetus for the lawsuit. I just have to prove that it isn't altogether uncharacteristic of Young's career, that beneath the alien-voiced specter lies genuine melodicism and heart, that some of its songs might even contain traces of what might modestly be called commercial potential.

Anyway, that's sort of what this essay is. So, here we are. The defense rests his case.