#man pain is over the girlies deserve revenge!

[zmeydeva-arch]

despicable womxn are so important to the rpc ecosystem dare i say... the backbone of it 

[yeahtimesten]

How Your Relationship Started With Patrick, Art, or Tashi

As much as it pains me to say it because I’m such a slow burn girly, I think Patrick moves quick in relationships. I know he gives the impression that he’s a player and doesn’t like to get tied down. And maybe that’s what he thinks he’s doing. But really, I think he develops crushes quickly and dates around because he appreciates the art of connecting with people. And I think when he finds a person worth the trouble, he fixates on them with total earnest. He wants to take you on like three dates a week as soon he realizes he likes you. He’s not only quick to get you in bed, but also to ask you to be official with him. He wants to make it clear asap that you are just for him, and he’s just for you. If you insist on taking it slow, he’ll oblige. If you tell him you only want to be fwb or a casual relationship, fine then. But really, if you give him the opening, he’ll be on the topic of marriage and babies in no time. At first, he’s raising red flags with your friends who think he’s love bombing you. But like, he actually loves you, and he eventually proves it to your friends just how down bad he is for you. He’s the total definition of “talking stage? just move in babe we can talk at home.”

Art on the other hand? He takes his sweet ass time. For one, he loves the dance of courtship. Bringing you flowers, opening doors for you. He was raised to be respectful, to be a gentleman. But, I also think he’s scared of rejection and he’s not quick to pick up on reciprocated feelings. He’ll be so respectful, so patient, that maybe you’ll figure he’s not interested and he’s just a nice guy that wants to be your friend. But my god, he’s pining, he’s yearning. His skin burns *so good* if you brush past him or set your hand on his knee. He’s scared to make a real move. Maybe, he even watches you go through a painful break up with another man and is ready to pick up the pieces when you give him the chance. He wants to scream ‘I’m right here! In front of you. Look at me. Don’t make me say it, I’m so in love with you.’ I picture that it takes him a good year to finally confess his feelings. You’ll laugh, and he’ll get totally taken aback, sad, ashamed. But then you’ll say something like ‘what took you so long?’ A wave of relief will wash over him and only then will he be ready to ACTUALLY start the courting process. And the rest of your relationship will be him treating you like he’s still trying to win your heart.

Tashi? Ha. Yearning is too delicate. Whatever she goes through is much more disgusting. The scene in the movie where Art tells her Patrick doesn’t love her and she gets mad and asks if she ever said she needed him to love her (not verbatim lol), my heart breaks for her. I interpret that as her defense mechanism 100%. I wish I knew why, but I see that as she doesn’t think she deserves love. And that’s how she navigates her love life. “Love is 28 different things……. There’s fear and jealousy and revenge, control…” I think being in love is sort of a foreign feeling for her. And, especially if you’re a girl, it’s confusing for her to navigate. When you meet, you probably think she hates you, she acts totally cold to you. You wonder why she hangs around you so often. But you catch her reading a non-academic book that you finished reading about a week ago. And she asks to study with you after class. And she wants to borrow a couple of CDs she sees in your dorm room. And otherwise she’s extremely nosey about all your possessions. One night, she texts to you come to her dorm as soon as possible, and bring ice cream. And because you love her, despite being so confused on where you stand with her, you stop at the closest convenience store to grab her favorite ben and jerry’s (you did your own research, unbeknownst to her) and rush to her side. She’s distraught and she’s not opening up about it at all. You both eat your ice cream with a side of small talk. Eventually, after you poke and prod and offer her some stories about your life, she opens up, not about her feelings, but about her life as well. Growing up, her love for tennis, her other interests. She tells you she really enjoyed that book you were reading, but doesn’t admit she read it because of you. It gets late and you aren’t ready to go home but she looks sleepy and you offer to let her sleep and quietly she says ‘you can stay’ when you’re already halfway out the door. She doesn’t even think she wanted you to hear. But you did, and you join her on her twin sized bed. And for a beat, your laying squished awkwardly like sardines side by side until you adjust your arm above her head, and that’s all the invite she needs to readjust and rest her head on your chest. And without thinking you run your fingers through her hair. And she’s practically purring, until she’s snoring in your arms. That’s when you realize this was never about her hating you.

[kikimochiiiii]

My personal take on MDZS kins based on what I've seen (which is almost nothing)! Understand that this'll be very biased n uninformed, but it's just for fun and I cherish all kins! Please and thank you!💕

WWX: Fiercely protective over their homies/mother bear type; Live for the drama though, so they WILL pitch homies against each other; They will state that their opinion is ALWAYS right to assert dominance; They never feel silly enough; "What do you mean people don't have a bi panic every 20 seconds?"; The life of a party, for better or worse

LWJ: They are very accomplished and orderly; But ask them about that and they'll say that they hate how boring they are; They can recite all of their unrequited loves in detailed, dramatic stories; They have at least 1, if not multiple crushes where they hate the fact that they love them; once they hyperfixate on one thing, they'll never be able to tell you anything about anything else; Shy n sweet, we protecc

JC: "I HATE THAT I KIN THIS MAN, YOU DONT UNDERSTAND-"; Their family sucks so much and they absolutely deserve better; They always want affection but can't help but act grossed out by it; will fight WWX kinnies in a gas station parking lot; prayed to all the gods to be asexual because they hate hormones, but they couldn't be more thirsty; have killer fashion that makes everyone double-take; A fierce, chaotic beauty ppl don't forget

JYL: The mom friend; Is always the therapist/advisor/caretaker/friend/mom for everyone else; Girl, are you okay? You are overworked for real; Wishes they could be intimidating once in a while; LOVES ALL THE GIRLY FEMME AESTHETICS; "I'm so average TT TT" (is actually talented in so many areas wth); everyone is protective over them and they don't know why, but they like it💕💗

LXC: Oh my gosh, ARE YOU OKAY-; Have an emotional wall higher than Mt. Everest; The person with the most propriety; Perfectionism is their worst enemy; Have definitely dealt with toxic friends in their life, so please handle with care; the best listeners; Extremely artistic in some form or another; Are kind to all other kinnies, but will bloody take a bullet for JC kinnies on sight; No one shall ever know their music playlists...

NMJ: "I am who I am, and don't mess with me"; If people aren't genuine with them, they can't stand it; An open book at all times; Their face WILL show what they are feeling; They are just aiming to find a himbo or cute twink for their love partner (or both!); generally nice, but can whip out insanely painful insults, so don't test them; They are confident, and therefore, they are H O T

JGY: GOSH, WHY ARE THEY SO PRETTY??; Definitely were the reason for someone's bi or gay awakening; soft aesthetic e v e r y w h e r e; "A-Yao never did anything wrong!🥺"; Will 100% not snitch on you if you give them a favor or are just hot; Are all about optimizing their situation, if you catch my drift; They are the most loyal of loyal friends if they cherish you💗💕

NHS: "I was born to be petty."; They can recall everything they have a grudge against in worryingly great detail; They will exact revenge on you, so be nice; They have the absolute maddest make-up skills; Work in tandem with WWX kinnies to make chaos, but take a backseat more often; Either habe the highest standards or none at all with no in-between; Bring them to ALL of your sleepovers

WQ: Queen energy 24/7; "I fUCKING TOLD YOU SO-"; They are forever suffering from the incompetent, irresponsible people around them; They have dealt with creeps thirsting after them, and they all wound up missing, oops-; Will be a full-on bodyguard for JYL kinnies and MM kinnies on sight; They just hate men in general; Extremely smart and/or street smart

MM: Also constantly suffering from idiots around them; They are so pretty, but very modern n with the trend when it comes to fashion; They are so stable and sure in themselves, we love to see it; Definitely witnessed friends go through VERY cringe romantic relationships; Doesn't talk much in a group context, but if you start talking with them, they are an awesome friend💕💗; When protected by WQ kinnies, they'll insist that they didn't need up, but they'll secretly like it👀

WN: Classic shy and sweet TM; People were absolutely attracted to them before because they thought they fit a trope, and it was deeply upsetting to them; They are SO INDECISIVE; Their fear over making core decisions is immeasurable; They have an intense fear of emails; "Please don't perceive me..."; Can pop off when defending a friend, and it's very hot of them

XY: "Okay, but like, I'm just saying...a pocket knife would be good for self-defense because-"; They joke about concerning things in discord vcs at 3 am that everyone mutually chooses to ignore; Are adorably extroverted; "Omg you like candy too?! LETS BE BESTIES!!💕🎵"; Are oddly sweet considering they relate to Xue Yang; Definitely tried the goth look once, but they still looked like a cupcake; The hugging type of friend; Occasionally bratty for attention

SL: "Why do all these people lack common sense?"; Had 1 (one)(uno) crush and then never liked anyone ever again; Everyone calls their lifestyle dull, but they just say that they value consistency; You have to plan a meet-up with them 2 weeks in advance or else they will PANIK; Their form of love is helping you manage your finances; Are actually quite mature and wise once you get them talking

XXC: YOU ARE SO PURE, WHY ARE YOU ON THE INTERNET; Weirdly aged and ageless in personality; Also the mom friend, but they aren't burnt out, unlike JYL kinnies; Wear super cute, oversized sweaters, I don't make the rules; sweater paws HNNG; Sometimes a bit out of the loop, but they're doing their best; Jump around in a conversation; Found family is their absolute jam; An extreme empath, so they have to protect themselves from too much depressing stuff, like the news

Okay, that's it for now! I just picked out some of the MDZS people that stood out the most to me for now bc man, this is long, but lemme know if you want my take on any other MDZS character!

[boygirlbowie]

A Different Kind of Guilt

Summary: Kaia's dead and Claire's not dealing as well as she wants everyone to think. After a hunt gone wrong brings up more emotions and guilt than she can handle, she decides to drink them away. Dean, who's done that more times than he can count, finds her, and they have a talk.

Basically just an excuse for me to write h/c where Dean is Claire’s dad. :) I love their dynamic!

Word Count: 2961

Warnings: violence, angst, suicide ref (not about any important character), implied (?) attempted sexual assault of a minor (it’s so light, it’s barely there. Claire just punches out a creep)

(read on ao3)

Claire had been doing ok. The beer in her hand now—her second of the past couple hours—was no indication of how she had been, in the not too distant past. Really, she had been ok.

After Kaia had— after everything that happened with Kaia, she’d decided to stick around Jody’s for a while. She didn’t go back to school, and Jody didn’t try to make her, trying to be sensitive, but she’d been careful on hunts, and let Jody back her up sometimes. She had friends now, in Patience and Alex, and something like a mom in Jody and Donna.

Her relationship with Castiel was even normal now, as normal as your relationship with an angel possessing your father’s corpse could be; they talked at least once a week, so they both knew the other was safe, and sometimes he sent her music recommendations. She wasn’t really into Beyonce, or Taylor Swift, but she never said anything. Sometimes she even sent him a song or two back, and if her taste was a little too punk for him, he never said anything either.

Anyways— she’d been doing ok. Until this case, this stupid fucking case. A ghost had been killing kids with seemingly no pattern at a high school. It took three dead kids before Claire had put it together: they had all come forward about a boy who had been sexually assaulting girls on campus. He committed suicide, but apparently stuck around to take his revenge on the girls he blamed for it. It was a stupidly obvious pattern; she shouldn’t have realized it sooner— would have, if she hadn’t been exhausted from the last hunt (ok, so maybe she hadn’t been being as careful as she said, but it wasn’t like it had mattered. She could work just fine on four hours of sleep. Until she couldn’t). She got the last girl who had reported him to the school, Rachel Bishop, and drove out to his grave to burn the body. She told the girl she would be safe.

I’ll protect you.

Like that ever works. Claire scoffed, downing the last of the beer from her glass. She needed something harder. She didn’t usually drink, but the bar was dark and seedy and the bartender hadn’t even asked her for an ID. And she needed a drink, ok? She needed to be a little bit numb. A bit more. She waved the bartender down again.

“A whiskey? Neat,” she shouted over the growling indiscernible noise from the speakers that was probably supposed to be music. She had enough money to black this night out.

The man behind the bar barely looked at her as he poured whiskey into the same glass that had held the beer. She gave him a thin smile and took a big sip. It burned in her throat, full and sharp on the way down and she grimaced. The smile became a bit more genuine. She deserved to feel a bit of pain, deserved it for the promise she made to Rachel, and broke.

Just like the one she made to Kaia, another lie.

She had squeezed gasoline over the whole body, dropped in a thick match, and set the corpse up in flames. It should have been done there, and she thought it was, but she assumed they were clear too soon, and as she turned back to Rachel, the girl was flung across the cemetery, her head cracking against a headstone. She slid to the ground, a bloody smear trailing from the back of her head on the engraved marble. Her hand, which had been clutching a flashlight, went limp, and all Claire could do was stare in horror. All she could see was Kaia’s hand, going limp, her own slipping from it.

And then the ghost had appeared in front of her, and then she had seen the family headstone. A little box, secured to the base of it with initials carved into it, and one of them was his. She cocked the shotgun and fired into the boy, and then turned and fired into the box. Again, a third time, and it cracked open, plastic baggies with little rings spilling out. She struck a match and set the rings on fire.

The ghost burned away in a flash of fire, and Claire stood still. She swayed a bit, hands shaking on the shotgun. A family ring as a tether, not just the body. Fuck. She had forced herself to Rachel’s side, even though she knew there was no way she could have survived that head wound. And she was right: no pulse.

After that, the night was a blur. She knew she’d been supposed to meet up with Jody the next morning if the hunt was still on, and call if she solved it before then, but all she could think to do was leave. Her bag was quick to pack back at the motel. She’d thrown it in the back seat and hit the gas hard on the way out of town. She just had to get out of the town, as far away.

Sometime around dawn, the adrenaline all drained from her body, and a night of hunting and driving caught up to her, and she pulled off the highway, turned off the car, and fell asleep with her jacket pulled up over her shoulders, propped up sitting against the window. When she woke up, it took all of two minutes for the memories of the night before and the guilt to crawl back. And now, somehow, she’d ended up here.

Finishing the glass of whiskey, she went to call for another, when suddenly a man slid into the seat next to her, leaning onto the bar heavily. He was tall, but skinny, maybe fourty, forty-five, and she thought she could easily take him if she had to. Hunting was training her  to do that; size someone up in seconds, determine what level threat they were. This man, not too high.

“You look like you’re having a bad night. Can I buy you a drink?”

She gave him a look, her best fuck off face, but he just grinned and leaned a bit closer. His breath stank. Actually, grinning gave the impression of happiness, a broad, toothy smile. Whatever this man was doing could be more accurately described as leering. Fine.

“Another?” she shouted at the bartender. “It’s on him.”

The bartender filled up her glass, and the greasy man’s beside her.

“So, what’s a pretty girl like you doing at a place like this?” the man asked.

She didn’t respond, just tilting the glass up, tipping the liquor down her throat. He watched her swallow with slitted eyes.

“I asked you a question, girly.”

He leaned closer, snaking an arm around her shoulders, dangling fingers reaching down, down— and she grabbed his hand, crushing it. She twisted his arm and slammed it into the bar. “Learn consent, asshole.”

The man yelped, jerking his hand back, and cradling it against his chest. “I was just being nice!”

“You nice to everyone, or just the teenage girls?”

His eyes darkened. “There’s nothing wrong with liking ‘em young.”

 Maybe it was being drunk, or maybe she just wanted an excuse to fight, but either way, he’d just given her one. He barely had time to finish talking before her fist was slamming into his jaw. He brought a clumsy swing of his own up, but she ducked, and kicked him in the balls. He screamed and staggered back, clutching between his legs.

People were starting to look now; even in a place like this, a full out brawl wasn’t everyday. He wasn’t fighting back, not really, but he’d already done more than enough. She caught his jaw again, then his brow, and then he was falling back into a table, tripping and landing on his back, and she was going down beside him, crouching and swinging, again, and again. His hands were limp on the ground and his lip was cracked and something in his face broke, and his face was bloody and it was her face and she was beating herself.

It wasn’t until a hand caught her shoulder, and physically hauled her off of him that she realized someone had been calling her name.

“Claire- Claire— stop, Claire!”

She swung around, fists ready to start on the next target, to see Dean, his hands raised, staring at her with what looked like, through the blur of alcohol and tears— goddammit, when did she start crying— worry. She took a step back, swaying a bit, and squinted at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiled grimly. “You didn’t show for breakfast with Jody and you haven’t been answering your phone, so she went to check out the town anyway, and found another dead girl and no sign of you. She put out a hunter apb.”

Right. Breakfast with Jody. That’s why her phone had been ringing. (She’d put it on silent after the first hour or so of calls.) “How did you know where I was?”

“Marshall there’s a hunter who owes me a favor from a couple years back. Gave me a call back about a blonde girl in leather showing up at a dive bar.” He gestured to a burly man at a table nearby.

Marshall waved. “I applaud your work with Tom there. If there was ever a man who deserved to get beat down…” 

Dean looked at Claire. “Do I need to know?”

She crossed her arms, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Not about the man— Tom— he’d deserved it, but about the drinking, about skipping breakfast with Jody, about turning her phone off, about the way she knew she was swaying right now.

“I’m gonna take that as a no.” He looked her up and down and grimaced. “You look like hell. C’mon, I’m gonna drive you back to Jody’s.”

She let him wind and arm around her back, supporting her as they walked out. Maybe she didn’t really need it, but the heavy pressure felt like a hug, and her throat constricted at the sensation in a good way, so she didn’t say anything. They walked quietly for a while, and she sensed he was saying nothing to let her speak. They rounded the corner of the block, and she finally spoke.

“I didn’t know what it felt like before.”

“What?”

“The guilt. The way you feel, I didn’t get it, not really. I mean, I’d let people down, but never like this before.”

“The ghost hunt? Jody said you’ve been working yourself to the bones, you should cut yourself some slack.”

“Yeah, well ‘messing up’ doesn’t equal four dead girls in other people’s jobs. Besides, it’s not just that. It’s…” Kaia. “To promise someone they’ll be safe, and then have them die— die because of me? It’s a different kind of guilt, you know?”

Dean looked down at her, his mouth a hard line.

“Yeah, I know,” he said softly.

“I mean I’ve always felt… guilty, I guess, about my mom leaving. I mean, let’s face it, she would never have gotten that low if I could have been better.” Claire broke off and gritted her teeth. It was a snarl, almost at herself. Stupid. She would never say stuff like this if she was sober; maybe drinking had its disadvantages too.

“C’mon. That’s not— your mom made her own choices. You were just a kid.”

“No—no!” They’d reached the Impala now, and they came to a stop. She pulled away from Dean, who let her go, but kept his hands hovering nearby in case she fell.

“It was my fault, it was me. I do that. I hurt people. People near me just… die. Dad could have gotten out back then when Cas was in my body but he didn’t, and now he’s dead. That’s on me. And then mom left, and then she got kidnapped, and I was mad at her instead of looking for her, and she was tortured, all those years, because of me. And then… and then Kaia.”

“Claire—”

“I told her I would protect her!” Claire shouted. At some point she’d started crying, the eyeliner smudged into the dark circles under her eyes. “I said she would be safe, and she wouldn’t have gone back into that world if it weren’t for me. So that— that’s on me too. She’s dead, and it’s because of me!”

“And then Rebecca, and. And I told her I would protect her too, Dean.” She was almost pleading. Tell me, tell me I did the wrong thing. Yell at me. Hate me for it as much as I hate myself. “Same as I told Kaia, should’ve known better, and then that ghost killed her, because I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

“Kaia’s death is not your fault. And Rebecca— sometimes things get fucked up on hunts. Just cause you missed a detail, that don’t make you a bad person.”

“No, but it makes me a bad hunter. And if I’m not good at hunting, what am I good at? What am I good for?”

“Claire, you’re not just a hunter. You’re, you’re a student, and a friend, and a daughter, to Jody, and to Cas, and… to me.”

“Yeah and a lot of good I’ve done for any of you. All I do is drag everyone into my little pile of crap. You’d be happier without any of this—” she gestured to her body with a shaky hand— “to deal with.”

“That’s crap.”

She laughed sharply, cutting him off. “Yeah, right. Just admit it! I don’t mind. I can handle it, I’m a big girl, promise. I fuck up everything and everyone I touch, and maybe I’m not a bad person, but I’m certainly not a good one either.”

“Listen, I don’t care if you’re a good person. Maybe you, you screw up sometimes. Everyone does sometimes, and if we’re honest, comparing screw ups, I think I got you beat, but a good margin.”

Claire crossed her arms and sniffed, forcing back the tears that kept rising up to her eyes. Stupid alcohol.

“Thing is, if we counted up every bad thing we did and laid them all out, none of us would look too pretty. But you do a lot of good, and I don’t just mean saving lives. Sometimes I go into the kitchen of the bunker in the morning, and Cas is listening to a song you sent him, and he’s smiling like someone just gave him a puppy or something. You mean a lot to a lot of people. I include myself in that.  We don’t want you to stick around cause you’re good at ganking monsters, or cause you’re some morally pure beacon of sunshine, we want you around cause you’re you. And that’s it.”

And dammit. Dammit, but the tears were coming back up again. The burning guilt and need to have someone scream at her, punch her, had diminished somewhat, and the alcohol felt heavy in her stomach now, dragging on her like it wanted her to fall over right there. She smudged tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Ok?” Dean asked, ducking his head to catch her eyes.

She lifted them, looked into his eyes, and saw honesty reflected back at her. He meant every word he’d said, and he wanted to make sure she knew. She also saw pain, and guilt, and… maybe that one was love. She nodded.

“Ok.”

“Great.”

She turned towards the Impala and he held up a hand. “No, actually, one more thing.”

Claire turned back to him.

“You can’t do this when things get bad.”

“What?”

“This—” he gestured to the bar, and her bloody fists. “I know it seems like it’s gonna help, trust me, I know, and if anyone has a right to drink, it’s us, but drinking isn’t the way you deal with all the crap from this job.”

“I don’t do it all the time,” Claire started, rolling her eyes.

“Hey— Claire, I’m serious. Look, do what Sam does. Go for a run, get yourself a self-help book, or something.”

“What, like you do that when things get bad? I’ll be fine.” She spoke flippantly; deflecting. 

“The last person you want to imitate when it comes to stuff like this, is me.”

She scoffed.

“No, listen. I’m not joking with this, ok? Listen to me. Drinking is good for about as long as you’re actively doing it. You get a couple hours, a day off from feeling. And the next day you wake up with a helluva headache, and a pile of new crap to deal with that you did the night before, when you were drunk. And speaking from experience, it sucks in the long term too. You start drinking too young, and it fucks you up for life.”

Claire nodded, reluctantly. “Fine. No more black-out nights.”

“Get a dependency on protein shakes, or bullet journaling, or set your hands at a punching bag.” He paused. “Or, you know, you can call me, if you wanna talk about something.”

She smiled. Thank you. “Softie.”

Dean grinned. “Shut up.”

“Sure you don’t want to Dr. Phil a bit more?”

“Get in the car, kid.”

She giggled, or snorted— the giggle she would definitely put down to alcohol if asked about it the next day, and slid into shotgun.

She hadn’t been doing well. Really hadn’t been fully ok since elementary school, definitely not since Kaia died. But she had a family again, now, and they cared about her because of who she was fuck ups and all. Maybe, maybe she could be ok. Maybe, someday, she could get there.

--

Hello adored reader, I hope you enjoyed this fic!!

This is my first spn fic. As self-proclaimed Claire superfan it is my obligation to create Claire content. <3

If you have any thoughts feel free to send me an ask, anon or not. Constructive criticism welcomed, just be kind. If you like it, please like and reblog. Likes don’t get creators very far on tumblr.

i’m really excited about this i hope yall like it too :)

[sunshinetrappedinourhearts]

Nathmarc month day 13: Flowers

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491026/chapters/38944730 Okay, so. I didn’t want to make it too easy for myself this day, plus I already used giving flowers on another day soooooo, this one got a little angsty. 8D But don’t be scared, I don’t write sad endings for these two. ;)  @nathmarcnovember

‘Why don’t you give him flowers?’ Marinette had exclaimed, her eyes shining brightly. She had been going on about how romantic flowers were, and that no one could possibly refuse them, also flowers carried meaning, so communicating his feelings would be way easier through them. Sometimes, Marinette could be a little overwhelming, so Marc had been unable to reply to her, and here he was. Nervously walking around in the flower shop near his home, with no idea what to buy. Still doubting if he should even get him flowers at all. It was a little girly, wasn’t it? Knowing Nathaniel, he’d probably be scared he was being made fun of, even though he now claimed to trust Marc completely.

Marc sighed, staring once again at the roses calling to him. They were a deep, enchanting red, and would definitely get the message across. But, it didn’t feel right somehow… Giving him a flower to say “I love you” felt like cheating, a very easy way to cheat even.

‘Can I help you, young man?’

Marc jumped a little at the voice, and looked next to him to saw an old man, smiling at him softly.

‘Anything you’re looking for?’

‘Ah, erm, I uh, I don’t know.’

‘Well, maybe I can help you.’ His eyes were a very gentle dark brown hidden behind glasses, his hair slightly grey. He was wearing a blouse and tidy trousers, not too formal, not too informal.

‘I… I actually… changed my mind, sir, I’m very sorry,’ Marc said. ‘I think I should speak my heart instead of using flowers… I’ll get going. Excuse me.’

He averted his gaze and hurried outside, breathing in relief when hugged by fresh air. For a second, he closed his eyes, thinking hard. Then he sighed and started walking away. Maybe the time was not right yet. Maybe he should still gather up more courage. Maybe then…

Suddenly, a loud bang sounded and Marc turned around in a reflex, only to see the door to the flower shop kicked down, and a figure stepping outside, covered in black flowers, leaving petals as he walked. It looked terrifying, and it was coming his way.

Marc was frozen in his steps, unable to move as he realized-

It was the shopkeeper-

Was he-

Akumatized…?

He looked around, searching for a calming red and black, but nor Ladybug, nor Chat Noir had arrived yet.

‘Don’t walk away from me, young man! You were the last straw! Nowadays no one wants to buy flowers! Old-fashioned they call it, those youngsters. Making fun of me, making fun of the flowers! Well, let me show you how terrifying flowers can actually be if you don’t use them to communicate your love! I sense doubt in your heart, young man. I sense anxiety. If only you bought some flowers��� you’d be freed from this unrequited love, but too bad…!’

The man was closing in, laughing loudly. He didn’t make any sense, but Marc was still frozen, watching as this dark creature walked closer, and the only thing Marc could think of was, this was my fault…

He couldn’t have known the man was so frustrated. Of course.

But he was right.

He could’ve bought that single red rose.

Yet he hadn’t.

Like all those teens, apparently.

The man was only inches away from him now, and he raised his hand, as he grinned, more black petals falling down. ‘Taste the suffocation, young man!’

He aimed at Marc and he wanted to run but-

Suddenly, he felt sick. His stomach full of unease, his lungs aching with doubt. Slowly, but steadily, the sight from one of his eyes vanished, and he coughed.

In horror he watched, as pink blossom petals whirled from his lips, right into the hand he had held in front of his mouth.

He felt so, so terribly sick.

His head clouded with pain, he could only think of his eyes, his smile, his hands, his face, his everything, but far, far away from him, for always out of reach, only showing disgust whenever he looked at Marc.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. He was suffocating.

He wanted to die.

He didn’t remember falling to his knees and crying, but only pink petals fell down instead of tears.

The laugh of the akumatized flowershop owner echoed loud in his ears.

‘Taste that, young man! The revenge of the flowers! You’ll never get freed from this disease, unless that one person returns your feelings! You should have given him flowers!’

And gone he was, leaving Marc alone, surrounded by petals.

He coughed.

He cried.

One by one, they fell down.

And Marc then realized.

Ah.

Nathaniel.

He-

He didn’t love him back.

Never did, never would.

Then, two hands on his shoulders. Familiar grey-blue eyes, worry within them. She took his face in her red-and-black covered hands. Telling him it would be alright. They’d find the akuma as soon as possible. And fix everything. Like they always did. He’d be fine.

But Marc knew he would never be fine.

He tried to tell her, but only more petals fell down, making his words inaudible and he just wanted to disappear.

Then she was gone, following her partner.

Marc crawled a little further, pushing his back against the walls of another shop, hugging his knees as he waited, trying to breathe slowly.

He had to trust Ladybug and Chat Noir. He would recover. This wasn’t real. This was caused by an akuma. A soon as they caught it, he would be just fine.

No you won’t.

Nathaniel still won’t love you, you know.

Wake up and accept the truth.

You are a coward.

So scared to be rejected.

Marc closed his eyes, wishing for the nightmare to end.

He felt sick.

It was getting even harder to breathe.

Harder to-

Focus-

Ocean eyes-

Bright red hair-

Covering one of those eyes-

Long, slender fingers-

Those of an artist-

Gentle smiles-

But never-

Never ever-

Directed at him-

It hurt-

It hurt-

It hurt-

Hard to focus-

Dizzy-

Nauseous-

He coughed.

More petals.

Vision was-

Getting blurry-

Then, another hand.

He could hardly feel it, but he knew it was there. The fingers felt long and slender, and Marc carefully looked up. There they were. Ocean blue eyes, full of worry, full of confusion.

He was saying something, but it was-

So hard-

So hard to focus-

He got closer, putting his arm around him.

Marc didn’t know what he was trying to do.

And then-

Everything went dark.

*** When he woke up, the flowers were gone. The funny feeling in his stomach had seized, and he could see again with both eyes. He got up. Too quickly. He saw stars.

And then-

Ocean eyes.

‘Marc…!’

Arms around him. A hug…?

Marc looked around him in confusion, they were in the park near the flower shop, Nathaniel’s jacket draped over his shoulders.

He absently wondered if he had dreamt everything up, but-

Nathaniel let go of him, then looked him in the eye, very serious.

‘Who?’

‘Huh?’ He blinked, sitting up slowly.

‘Hanahaki disease. I… immediately recognized it. It is a fictional disease. Made real by Hawk Moth using that akumatized man, however… But, it exists in fiction. It appears when people are suffering from one-sided love.’

Nathaniel had a strange, almost sad look in his eyes, and it confused Marc. He deserved to know the truth, though. Or the leftover feeling of those flowers in his lungs would never disappear. He averted his gaze a bit, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

‘I… wanted to buy flowers… for… the one I like, but… I chickened out… That man… it really affected him… I should have bought them,’ he lowered his eyes, the feeling of guilt coming back to nag at him.

‘Who?’

‘Why… do you want to know…?’

There was anger now as Nathaniel shrugged, mixed with something else Marc didn’t quite understand.

‘I want to know who to punch.’

Marc blinked. ‘Punch? You?’

Nathaniel now looked at him, slightly offended. ‘Hey! I can punch people, you know!’ There was a small hint of a smile teasing his lips, however, and Marc’s heart felt a little less heavy as he laughed softly.

‘Ah, well… I don’t know if that would work,’ he smiled, the pink back on his cheeks.

‘Why?’

‘… unless you want to punch yourself, I guess…?’

There. It was out. Marc breathed. But he couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye, instead focusing his attention on his gloves, fumbling with them awkwardly.

The silence was killing him, and he didn’t know what Nathaniel looked like now. He wanted to know, but he was a coward. That was something that would never change.

But then, a hand on his shoulder. So he had to look up. And he did. Slowly. Very slowly.

What he saw was not quite what he had imagined.

Nathaniel was biting his lip, blushing brightly as he tried looking him the eye, but he was occasionally averting his gaze.

‘Well…’ He then looked him straight in the eye. ‘I guess… The disease didn’t work properly, then…’

Marc didn’t understand. ‘What… do you mean…?’

‘I mean that…’ Nathaniel squeezed his shoulder. It hurt a little but Marc didn’t mind. ‘I mean that… your love is not… one-sided… So… the flower man was… wrong… And the disease… unfair…’

Huh?

Wait-

What-

Oh.

‘…oh… Well, erm, I guess… I erm, c-could have b-bought you a r-red rose easily… then…’ Marc stumbled over his words, but it didn’t matter.

Because Nathaniel was smiling brightly at him and suddenly he was hugging him tightly. He was warm and Marc wanted him to never let go.

[slut-for-fandoms]

Little witch (Part 11)

Pairings: Peter Parker x reader

Word count: 2 039

Summary: The reader is raised by Hydra but manages to escape after they kill her parents. She is emotionally unstable and can’t control her powers. The Avengers rescue her and give her everything she missed form life and wanted to feel. But would her new found love be enough to extinguish her desire for revenge? What would be the side she would choose to rely on? Will she be ready to face the real her?

A/N: I thought that this part would be the end of the story. Since the next chapter will be officially the last one, please tell me what you think, like, dislike or expect to happen ♥ I’m begging you because that’s what inspires me to write and right now i don’t think i have an inspiration... (And so so so sorry for the mistakes ♥)

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3// Part 4// Part 5// Part 6// Part 7// Part 8// Part 9// Part 10

Part 12

Dying wasn’t that painful when you were in the hands of your beloved one. And it was way longer than (Y/N) thought. Her shoulder was aching and her muscles were on fire but the feelings were in the reality while her brain made her believe it was some kind of a dream. She had buried her head in Peter’s chest listening to his fast heartbeat which made her relax. She was supposed to scream, shout for help not to feel blessed. A smile appeared on her face as their bodies were flying towards the lake below them together with the building. Tons of cement and metal were surrounding them as though to protect them from survival.

“I love you Peter.”, the girl whispered.

“I love you, (Y/N).”, in his estimation whatever he was going to say wasn’t enough to express the feelings he had towards this girl. She broke into his life like a bolt from the blue. She came and changed his life although his intention was to do the same with her. Peter desired to make her the happiest person in the world because she did deserve it... but now? They were going to die and no one could have changed that. He tightened his grip around her.

He was crying yet smiling. That girl gave up her life for her. If he wasn’t going to give the best to her in this world, he was going to do it in the other one they were heading to.

Tony and Vision landed on the landscape above the whole structure.

“What the hell is Thor eating?! He weighs tons.”, Tony complained as he let the god on the surface. He was still unconscious but Wanda was slowly returning back.

“Where are Peter and (Y/N)?”, Natasha asked cutting in the conversation.

The two flying avengers were about to turn and fly in order to take the two teenagers before the building had dived but as soon as the question escaped Nat’s mouth they all heard the noise. The sound made them all look at the shaking ground beneath them.

“No!”, Tony screamed as he activated  his suit and went straight to where they used to be but the falling structure prevented him from it.

“Tony, wait!”, Steve screamed to the avenger but Tony couldn’t hear anything. He was frozen in shock. Tears appeared in his eyes as everything splashed into the water. The boy he had to take care of, the boy who was like a son to him, died. (Y/N), the strange and dangerous girl who appeared more than a month ago, the girl who had been though hell just like him, the girl who he tried to help to recover because he knew about her nightmares, about the insomnia which was about to appear if it wasn’t the avengers and Peter, died. Many people had asked him if he had had a heart…At that moment he knew he had, because he felt it breaking. Breaking into million pieces as the two teenagers were being drawn in the lake. If it wasn’t the suit he would break down, too. He would have jumped into the lake and kill himself. His hands and lips were trembling. He bit the bottom lip and felt a taste of metallic, taste of the blood which he had felt several times. But this time he deserved it or at least that was what he thought.  

All of a sudden his body was filled with rage. ‘They are not going to die!’, he spoke to himself and within seconds he was above the ruins left from the building. The lake had increased its lever but only part of the structure had been underwater. Tony exploded part of them but it was vain. There was too much cement covering their bodies. He couldn’t save them on time.

“No!”, he screamed again in desperation. He fell on his knees and removed his mask throwing it away. The man couldn’t control his emotions anymore as he tended to do a lot. The tears were rolling down his face. When he felt an arm on his shoulder, he didn’t dare to look up.

“I had to protect them.”

“We all had to protect them, Tony.”, Steve knelt next to the mourning man, “And we all failed.”, Finally Tony gave up and lifted his head to see the blue eyes of the blond man. He was crying, too, “Come.”, Steve gave his hand to Tony and once he took it, the captain helped him to stand up.

Tony saw the helicopter near the water. All avengers were around it but nobody dared to get in. Wanda had opened her eyes but was still too weak. She had tears in her eyes and her muscled were tensed as she tried to use her power and remove the ruins from the water. They were slightly moving but it wasn’t enough. Her sadness was an obstacle for her powers to work. Vision was next to Wanda trying to calm her down as the witch suffered for her lost sister.

Clint was near Thor who was lying on the ground. The father had buried his head in his hands while they were resting on his legs. His body was shaking.

Natasha, who had seen many people dying, was crying near the helicopter’s entrance in Bruce’s arms. They had all lost not only partners but also members from this strange family.

They all got on the flying devise. Natasha turned on the autopilot and they all sat down in silence. Death can never be forgotten. It takes. Destroys. Tempts. Rules. Obsesses. Binds. The loss was painful, an agony for the Avengers. But it didn’t destroy them, didn’t obsess them to seek revenge…They would never be the same but what happened that day was going to keep them together as the family they thought they were.

(Y/N) slightly opened her eyes and felt a splitting headache. She groaned in pain and tried to take breath. It was difficult but somehow she did. ‘Why am I alive? I had to be dead…’, the girl thought and looked around. There was water everywhere and ruins over her and Peter. She looked at the boy, who was unconscious.

“Peter!”, the girl wanted to shout but the words came out as a whisper, “Peter, wake up.”, but no response. The little witch made all her efforts to move her right hand and once she did she saw it. It was dry. They were in something like a ball of air while the water was surrounding them. But the oxygen was ending as the girl had difficulties in breathing.

Moving Peter’s hair away from his face, she saw the blood on his forehead.

“Pete!”, shaking him a little didn’t work, “No! No, Peter! You can’t die you bastard!”, tears were forming in her eyes. Was that how everything would end? She wanted to be with him and now she would die in agony as the tons of cement over her and a dead body in her hands… ‘No! That’s not how I would die.’

The ruins of the base had pinched her and Peter’s legs, she was barely feeling them. The wound on her left shoulder wasn’t hurting anymore but the blood was covering the surface below her.

“We’ll live Peter.”, she stated and concentrated on the stones and metal. “You’ll live.”, as she opened her eyes they were shining in bright brown and green with parts of water. ‘Come on, (Y/N)! You destroyed it, so you can fix it.’, the air wasn’t enough, her blood was leaving her body way faster than before as she stained her muscles. Her body was on fire, screaming, dying, ready to give up.

The stones moved, she felt the weight of the water and the ruins pushing her deeper and deeper but thanks to the cement behind her back her body wasn’t moving. It was too heavy for her to get all the stuff out of the water, so using her left hand too she tried to at least move the cement away from them – in left and right. The visions became blurry and at moments dark. She was losing consciousness but the desire to save the boy she loved was her anchor. She was going to save him willing to give her life for his.

Wanda stood up. She couldn’t bare sitting in silence anymore. She needed to scream, to push, to break, to get the emotions out of her. They were tearing her apart, choking her. She went to the place where the pilot was supposed be and looked though the glass.

Wanda had lost her brother some years ago. She felt a thread tearing then. Part of her died with her brother. Now, the feeling was the same. (Y/N) wasn’t her blood but she felt it closer than anybody from the avengers. Shopping, although the little witch was against it, talking about boys, the girly nights, the teasing…everything was a dream that would never become true.                                                                                                                            She looked back at the lake where Peter and (Y/N) sank. They weren’t that far away so the woman managed to see a movement. Seconds later the ruins were getting up above the water.

“Steve!”, Wanda screamed in both excitement and fear. They had to help them or if the ruins fell on them, they would be smashed. The avengers turned to look at her, all of them with red eyes, “Turn the helicopter. Now!”, she demanded and Steve, as a good soldier, sat on the chair, turned off the autopilot and tried to follow Wanda’s order. The others were shocked because of the movement and stood up. Tony was the first one to go next to Wanda and see what was going on. When he saw the moving object, he filled with happiness.

“They are alive.”, he breathed out and went to open the helicopter’s gates.

“I’m coming with you! You’ll need me.”, Wanda ordered and Tony took her by the waist. Then both of them jumped and flew to the lake. When their feet touched the ground, Wanda inhaled and exhaled deeply several times in order to take control over her powers.

“Clear the way, I’ll get them.”, Stark announced and took the Iron man mask which was some meters away from him. Putting it back, he heard JARVIS’s voice.

“You must hurry, Mr. Stark!”

Wanda lifted her hands and the ruins followed her movements. It was way easier than she thought, maybe because (Y/N) was moving them. She then felt the stones weren’t obeying her magic because they wanted to separate in different directions.

“Smart girl!”, Wanda beamed and did the same in order to help the little witch under the water. But soon it became too heavy and Wanda understood why.

“Tony! Hurry!”, the way wasn’t cleared as he needed but the man used his small bombs to destroy the ruins. He didn’t need Jarvis to scan where the teenagers were as he saw them on the bottom.

(Y/N) had succeeded. The stones were moved and now Peter could be saved. The girl’s eyes were slowly closing as the blood in her veins wasn’t enough to keep her alive. Her body was cold but the girl didn’t care. The shield keeping them from drowning was becoming smaller and smaller. Maybe that was the end. She and Peter were dying and probably not going to the same place. She was sad…not because her life was leaving her but because Peter had left this world without deserving this. She had stormed into his life and because of her mistakes, past, parents…nature, he died. There was nothing holding (Y/N) back. She had been desiring for this day since she was eight years old. Her parents were killers, her life – ruined, her soul – taken, and she – a disaster killing every single thing on her path.

The light streaming through the water once the heavy things were removed was actually giving her hope, a small one, but still that the boy would be saved. And when she saw somebody swimming towards them she knew the pain was worth it. When Tony came closer, the only thing which escaped her mouth before passing out was:

“Save him.”

PART 12

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[ecotone99]

[SF] Matilda and the General Custard

[ XXIX ]

Matilda would awake each morning with the same sense of never belonging in her own skin. She would turn over and over in her sleep: unsure of which way to lean as she wept in through the middle of the night. Always returning to the room where it had all started. Always running away from the inevitable knowing she were in no control. It were the same rattling of echoes she felt in her bones whenever her friends were near: ready to pounce her with group hugs until she could stop crying. Matilda hated that she resented them for making her tell them why she couldn’t smile in the winter: unsure of what it meant to be vulnerable and believe in strangers to catch you. Such dreams of falling through the night skies screaming for the impact to arrive already because you broke your chute intentionally. There were no dreams of such beauty in her life: only the feeling of drifting along the world out of place: unwanted and unneeded anywhere. These longings for death would only grow over time, and Matilda would always find herself surprised touching burners or mutilating her skin was never going to be enough. She were too broken to Love.

Matilda wished she could feel non-joy when she were sad in her weakened state of mind: such humor can only be found in the Indigenous American community. She would be upset beyond repair and a soon to be friend would take responsibility to say hello and ensure she were never too lost deep within her cascading thoughts fantasizing aboot her own death. She weren’t allowed to take her sadness out on all those around her as part of her culture: she had hella random babies to defend and she couldn’t imagine how furious she would be at the state of world affairs whenever she were ready to pop out her own Indigenous Warriors. Instead she took lessons from those she had never got to met, but loved and lost: A smiling Robin and now Avicii. Both men fell ill to their own spirit when the strength of their body had been compromised with sickness: stolen lights from a dark world. Matilda knew them as equals in light and joy: teaching her how to be silly and creative even when she were scared of strangers and her own endless chronic pain. Matilda would miss them and revisit them in song or portrait: until she felt she were also an artist worthy of the name Ms. Paint: always sorry to the two men for how long she had taken to build up the courage. She were always so confused by appraisal after the fact: happy tears falling whenever people forced her into the present: acknowledged in the moment. Such beautiful compliments of applause and song would often make her eyes swell as they masked the confusion and horror in her eyes with tears overflowing. Mad to be caught off guard and general anxiety that comes when you don't know what to do with your hands all of a sudden in the middle of a stage and standing audience. Matilda were no role model: just a girl told by strangers that she had to keep going and it would make it easier if she practiced smiling. She would live a mellow life where she had to cry naked in pain as others helped her use the bathroom or dress her: and the other days she were indestructible to the eyes of the world, as she dared standing upright in a world not meant for her. Such were the trials meant only for the Warrior Gods that intended on coming back as themselves: only with better understanding of humanism... taught to children in the original Yurok teachings at least. They had been sent to summer camps meant to prepare them with cultural practices to uphold their spirits while they were tested endlessly in body, mind and spirit: surviving as themselves in a place now called Hell.

Matilda would remember fondly what lessons the summer camps provided her, as she had once wandered around picking berries and carving Redwood canoes as a carefree child. She had been sent with a purpose that consumed her day: calling her ungrateful whenever she forgot to smile to prove she were unarmed and no threat to their pathetic patriotic dream, a nervous tick invented to survive. Listening skills were attributed to Kness: her ability to strike a tone or glare: the Viking, the ability to hold herself truthful and honest were brought out naturally whenever she saw Joel. Such a diverse group of men lending hand in her Odyssey to flip an apple inside out she think: Matilda had done it successfully as she left the room walking backwards up a hill without taking step to either the right or left. She had snapped a band that rippled a sound within the cave she stood in: an ominous tone that filled her with warmth for a fleeting moment. She had drawn a spider in the void of space and named it after her eldest sibling: Athena. A woman who dared to openly admire their birth mother Missy. The woman never resisting facts in ways that proved she understood what it meant to be human: an occurrence that never happened because of Matilda and her meanness. Her sister deserved the world and all the stars that gathered around her: simply because she continued to stand each morning. Such a brave woman to have survived multiple gang rapes and still find muscle to smile at the world filled with only darkness and evil. Such horror stories were those that made her sick in the night: feeling weak she hadn’t survived as much trauma to all those around her, but still cried as though she had. Such poetic stories meant to teach Matilda and the two sisters how to find one another across time: their matching anger burning deep within their chests as they were forced to be apart and still try to find meaning. It were a curse that had began long ago before this time: but had began to churn and burn darker shades of ugly charcoal until Matilda finally gently put out her invisible fire with her own tears. No longer able to defend their existence to the Gods of Olympus, as they had once wished them extinct by the hand of her verdict. Another lifetime ago: the ball had been set in motion with the arrival of the cursed game: Custer’s Revenge. A game that requires real sacrifice of women: in order for others to play it into existence across dimensions: a way to connect gamers and readers alike to her own discomfort of what it meant to be alive in the non-zero. It were a game where she were forever tied up to a pole: helpless while white men raped her: escaping the rain of arrows sent by her Peoples to defend her, ready to own her strapped body despite the many warnings. Such vapid hatred and disgusting tastes were the ones found in the gaming community: forgetting that there were other people in the world: then forgetting there were other people in their screens: existing in their static. Such small ideas were the ones that had originally gotten her Peoples killed: after enlightening a few washed ashore strangers pale like death: vast knowledge of their numbers and stars now erased: met with murder and rape instead of intellectual conversation. A poetic attest to the beginning problems with all that follows: patriarchal governments, man-splaining, and now general inequality. Forever fighting for science and facts: condemned as witches by the grandparents and parents that now walked next to Matilda. Straight up chillin' in an afterlife that is neither considered heaven or Hell.

Matilda would simply shrug her shoulders at the things she couldn’t change: always proud of herself when she had done the thing where she won all the awards: always trying to change the things she didn’t like aboot herself. Her papa had worked contingently to teach her proper self-ness, mumbling to worry aboot herself whenever she felt her beady eyes were restless. Such oneness is the key to her success now: always worrying aboot only herself until it bothers her too much to do nothing. A curse of heroism embedded into her genes: reactivated by her papa as child whenever he spoke. She were always just happy to have a good papa who others admired, and she laugh to herself thinking of him telling her to find her own accomplishments when his own friends tried to brag to her of his might. She’d know he were right: she hadn’t done anything, and those were things he had already achieved: a loser from day one. She’d begin crying knowing it were a curse to feel so alone when there was so much to be done and so few helpful people: the need to motivate a child for at least a presidential candidacy bid was the dire weigh she felt from his tone. Luckily that the uneasy feeling left soon after she met her lifelong friend Shrujal: a tall man with strong principals: a sharp kid in a tie always cool and collected: like Obama. Instead of rebelling these expectations: she would always shrug her shoulders for knowing it weren’t out of the realm of possibilities since she were already addicted to books. Shruj and Philpott(s) always approved of her need to sit in the dark by static filled music and screens: the three were always pretty unfazed by their peers. Her papa would always scan her reactions as she somehow always stood: the only guy at the club still without cigar, but always at the head of the table smiling. He had been the one who had gotten her into gaming: so she couldn't be mad at him ever. Instead they'd always bicker as to what he'd done: annoyed her papa always fixed her flower crown and tangled heap. Her famed wilting ponytail always laying askew: wasting her day warding off randoms admiring their cuteness as a disarrayed team. Randoms finally forced to ask if her papa had done her hair that day, holding back laughter as she brushed it away with no avail: rolling her eyes obviously wondering why people had kept asking her that. She were always distracted by the sparkles and ruffles of the finer things, but too lazy to do the girly work: too bored to pick out a military uniform. She had grown scared picking between her famine or masculine side each morning: choosing instead only a lab coat and the goals of earning a blue jumpsuit. She selected a place filled with facts and data unending: powered only by the inspiration brought forth by all the diverse people of the world: watching only a few wished for a better future. An abandoned home she now missed: a place where there was only room for facts, solutions, and Love.

Matilda had found this hideaway of knowledge unending: safe hiding and fighting for science with Phd. Young, Kristen, and Michelle as her leading commanders. She laughed as she met each one over and over again, glad that her smile finally came naturally: allowed to breath with ease and live as an honest man in the moment. Matilda would teach her scholars the importance of self-efficacy and accountability: proud she were part of such a fine potential crew: being able to smile and say with honesty “At NASA we wear blue”: watching as their eyes saw blue for the first time in amazement. They enjoyed the many portraits of Romona RedSteer observing her future offices at the Blue Shield of Hope as a fat baby. Bored by what little resources they had, but gesturing the workers into motion with her cuteness and baby sighs until stars lit up the ceilings once more. Matilda called Romona the boss man because she had roared the loudest, and hugged the softest: a marvel of a human already and a true leader sent to her Peoples from the stars. She now only feared leaving such valuable nonverbal people behind, as they still refused to understand what it meant to be on this particular rock: flying through space: mere parasites to a self defending planet. The young and old alike were scrambling to catch up with one another in a tech race that would never actually end: running themselves ragged for minor upgrades and gimmicks to stay relevant to consumers. To this she would always gift her scholars the importance of teaching: first understanding that their own elders were people, as they bravely proved each time they had to ask their children for assistance with their Golden Shields or Apples. She let them feel their own well earned respect to their past: hidden in memories as she waited for them to upgrade their systems. She only wished to calm the raging waters that endlessly clashed directly at one another: knowing somehow that she had to find a way to redirect the misplaced anger forced upon these elders drowning in static. As long as they refused to dawn red-hats: Matilda would always mediate a lecture and apply it to home. Trying to be the adult she needed as a kid, but never found. She sent them on their way: always smiling and laughing when they returned to her side to ask for help: proving that they had somehow heard the lesson she had taught: Love.

Matilda needed to know she had attempted to change the world: a small feat she did once and nobody seemed to care. Something that made her mad still: a feud with the Smithsonian over a supersonic rocket. She had been the first of Universities to design, launch and retrieve her rocket successfully enough that it could be relaunched: attempting to advance reusable ships. Matilda and a small fleet of Indigenous Warriors had been the first team assembled to fulfill the task: a team made mostly of scholarly mothers and women. They had done it after two designs: laughing that one of the women fixed the issue by pointing out they could just make it smaller. The Indigenous Warrior men would occasionally fall ill when they mad jokes on behalf of their fragile masculinity, as Matilda would later joke in an interview how it weren’t always aboot size. They’d ask the Smithsonian to uphold their written promise to house their rocket in the museum: Matilda finally proving to herself that she had changed the world. She’d grow angry as she’d later met her mentor PhD. Herrington: who had mentioned he had his feather and flute in the Museum after he had successfully took them to the stars. Matilda would need this information to strike a glare of change: offended she being denied an honor that she literally given her blood and tears for: by the ways of the oppressive excuses forever given by the white man. She would destroy the world over and over again until they corrected this error in personal judgement: finally getting word back, but only after she had used their cultural insensitivity in an essay contest: where she explained she were tired of women being called Hidden Figures. They now saw her: they knew her name, and she were very, very real...confused why they argued she weren’t. The Smithsonian would want their dicks sucked by way of public liking on their blue platforms: proud they objected the Boar and his message of hate on a day of pink hats. They didn't like her cynicism when she asked about the tax dollars being used for their egos: asking why they didn’t even bother update what information they already had: (their one job as an archive). She thanked them for the fake representation and asked why they’d only represent when it were their own in danger or being mistreated. Confused from the start: why they had dared call her an “Indian” in large font on their building: bemused when they passively told her making US aeronautical history somehow wasn't enough for them: the Smithsonian forever misrepresenting. They pushed her away for the public lashing too late as the trolls attacked, after concealing that she had two other letters stating the definitive choice to “pass” on their previous written promise: obsessed with forcing Matilda to live in the past. They had ripped her in two with their ugly oppressive racism, as the other supersonic rockets were proudly placed all over: hers in a corner of a lab being forgotten. Not even a mention on a plaque or digital site anywhere to be found proving that she had achieved the impossible with her friends and family. Little did they know Matilda fancied her some fuckin' fine arts and literature: always ready to draw her silver sword and bitch aboot some real shit she couldn't change, and secretly wishing to find the time to write a book. She had only became noted for her mighty silver sword after proving in a single enraged essay: Matilda knew deep within her bones that she were considered useless flesh to these dead-eyed savages unless they got to admire her dead body: placed as a delicate artifact: a human prop needed to turn profit. Once again: Matilda were an unwed woman strapped to a pole watching as the world raped her body and her culture: every fucking day. She now resisted bringing back the scalping practices whenever she saw randoms that had the audacity to wear her religious attire out of boredom, it were the anger that made her bones shake all day. Such issues of her culture were whirlwinds of displaced victimization and blame when others Indigenous Warriors held heavier hearts than hers: for lesser reasons they were too sacred to speak of. She were always angry and fatigued by those she had already met: unsure of what the true message of all this bloodshed and bullshit had been for: her Peoples in ruins as they openly died of broken hearts: bleeding out from within. She were always stuck being stretched across two worlds: no person or place to ever call home. She had no reason to defend the fact that this situation were straight fucked: according to what history had written thus far. Matilda proved to be a lone survivor sparkling as she lay green with her daydreams: wandering forever in a loop of her own simulated version of Hell.

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