#my brain is not wired properly so tags may be off

[yanderegameguys]

Watching you go on with your life was something they loved to do.

Watching you live, breathe, eat, sleep and shower made them happy.

Seeing you live your life made them want to hold and hug you. They were happy you were doing well.

Watching you love though… that made them angry. They loved you more than anyone else could.

And they had to watch it all from the screen they were stuck behind unable to do anything about it

[lepusrufus]

To bargain for immortality pt.2

Finally, she felt well enough to leave the infirmary room for good. Her internal organs were at peace for the most part and she could keep some food down without the risk of seeing it for a second time. Her sinuses still seemed to refuse to recover though. Occasional nosebleeds would have her head spinning and the scent of blood so often present within the castle was somehow too offensive to her senses. Nicole couldn't help but wonder how exactly she got it this screwed up, but then again the first few days of the infection were a painful blur that she'd rather not remember.

For now she was content to sit in front of the fireplace with the rest of her family. They decided to have a movie night to break her out of the mopey state she had been in and, for the most part, it was quite the success. She wasn't paying much attention to the projector screen, some sappy scene from a movie chosen by Daniela playing at the moment. Instead, she was simply enjoying the close proximity to Cassandra that she so dearly missed in the last few weeks. Nicole was in the brunette's lap, with hands loosely around her waist and leaning against her shoulder. She was vaguely aware of Laura complaining about the poor life choices of one of the characters only to be unceremoniously shushed by the youngest sister. It made her chuckle.

Bela was passing the popcorn to her mothers when a knock on the main entrance reached their ears faintly. Lady Dimitrescu narrowed her eyes in the general direction of the sound, and listened. Soon enough the rapid steps of Alexandria, their Steward, reached them.

"My Ladies, Mother Miranda's assistant is here."

The whole family got up hesitantly and tried to look as presentable as possible, given their "lazy day outfits". For some like Bela that was a baggy shirt and shorts, while for the Lady it was one of her trademark white dresses. They made their way to the main entrance of the castle, where the assistant, a woman in her late thirties and the air of an annoyed teacher, was waiting. It was Alcina the one to ask why she was there.

"Mother Miranda wants to see um… Nicole was it? Yes, to take a look at the regenerative abilities."

"Why not do it here like last time?"

"Mother Miranda's laboratory is far better equipped for whatever she may want to test. Unless you have something to say against her wishes." She finished that with a raised eyebrow that would've gained her a talon through the skull were she not there as per Miranda's wishes.

Who's talons exactly was debatable.

"I'll come too," Cassandra spoke up from just behind Nicole.

That only got her a dismissive wave. "No, I was told specifically to only bring her. Come now, we don't want to make Mother Miranda wait."

With that, the woman turned around and started walking towards a carriage that would take them away. Nicole looked briefly at her family. They all had either confusion or mild concern in their eyes. All but Alcina who looked as if she'd like to protest and snap at the woman but was holding her tongue.

She reassured Cassandra that she'd be fine and started jogging after the assistant.

---

Needless to say, that was Nicole's first time stepping foot inside the underground network of tunnels. Not that she complained. Few people went there willingly and probably fewer left the same way they came in.

The ancient looking hallways were in such stark contrast with the occasional medical equipment and the pristine looking labs with doors left slightly ajar that Nicole had to wonder if the woman had no taste for a consistent aesthetic. At least Lady Dimitrescu kept all wiring and modern devices carefully hidden or blended in with the castle's decor. Here, the harsh neon lights illuminated worn out stone so dark it was almost black. Not to mention the smell of… old that seemed to ooze off the very walls she was walking by.

She was led inside a spacious lab, the bluish lights above being too bothersome for someone who got used to the warm or natural light in the castle. The room was rather long, numerous hospital beds lined up against a wall, some separated by white curtains and some left visible. An almost imperceptible whiff of an all too familiar foul odor reached her nose, but it was mild enough to be easily ignored. Nicole had a suspicion that the unmoving person laying in one of the cots further away could be the source, but she sighed and hoped not to join them by the end of the day.

Mother Miranda was sat at a desk, microscope in front of her together with a small stack of documents and a laptop. She was typing in what could probably be notes on whatever she was looking at, when icy grey eyes finally shifted to Nicole.

"Get changed and lay down," she ordered, not even moving from her spot.

The assistant that had brought her here, pushed a hospital gown that had been pulled out from a cupboard in her arms. At least she was allowed the decency of changing into a bathroom as opposed to stripping then and there in the middle of the room. The gown was surprisingly comfortable, fabric folding around her body and being held closed by a loose ribbon that she tried at the side.

Once she was back in the lab, she was ushered to one of the beds where she laid down, nervously waiting for whatever Miranda had in mind.

It was quite odd to see her without her usual attire, especially without the gold talons that Nicole was now far more familiar with than she'd ever hoped. The white lab coat looked far too normal on her and, were it not for the unmistakable cold eyes and regal posture, the woman would’ve been unrecognizable.

She finally got up, a few documents in hand, and approached her. The papers were handed over to the assistant, along with a few other objects and finally, Nicole had her full attention.

Mother Miranda bent down, scalpel in hand, and grabbed one of Nicole's wrists. Just like she did back during the first examination, the blade was dragged across the length of her forearm. Despite fully expecting it, Nicole couldn't help flinching at the pain, but she kept her eyes fixated on her arm, at the blood slowly starting to flow from the wound.

Soon the same tingling as before took over the pain and before their eyes, the skin started to stitch itself back together.

"Time," Miranda asked while wiping the blood to allow for a closer inspection of the now good as new skin.

"Five seconds."

"Alcina's?"

"Three seconds."

Miranda hummed, seemingly pleased with the results. Or at least as pleased as the woman was physically capable of being.

"Hook her up to the cardiac monitor," she further instructed while moving to retrieve something from another cabinet.

The assistant, Emma, if the tag pinned to her lab coat was to be believed, stuck a series of electrodes to her chest and abdomen. Nicole bit her lip to stifle a yelp when one came uncomfortably close to the still sensitive skin of the scar.

In no time, the machine came to life, familiar beeping sounding through the otherwise silent room.

"I hope you're not afraid of needles," Miranda said while grabbing the same arm she had before, lips pulled into a faint smirk.

Nicole only shook her head as she saw the needle of a syringe attached to a transparent slim tube slide into her arm. How ironic would that be. The sting was close to imperceptible, taken over by the now familiar faint tingle. Unlike with the cut, it didn't fade away, most likely due to not being able to fully heal the small wound with the needle embedded in the skin and vein.

She looked away, in the direction of the other occupied bed in the room. It was far away enough that she couldn't make out any detail, only messy brown hair sprawled on a pillow. The face was turned towards the wall and body covered up to the neck. She grimaced and decided instead to focus on the beeping machine, mildly annoyed by Miranda's lack of properly separating her dead lab rats from the living ones. At least she hoped she'd stay living.

The numbers on the machine started out normal. With the slight uncomfortable feeling of blood being drained however, her heart rate started to slowly increase.

Alright. Normal enough. Especially when someone is clearly in a fucking blood draining mood.

Nicole decided not to look at exactly how much blood Miranda was drawing, keeping her eyes glued to the various color coded numbers. The heart rate kept increasing until Nicole could swear she could feel her heartbeat ringing in her ears. She gulped. Still relatively within the norm.

Two things were at odds however. First, the blood pressure remained constant, almost as if her body simply refused to acknowledge the fact that it was currently being drained. Secondly, the temperature rose from the normal 36 degrees to a staggering 41 in less time than it should have.

"What the fuck…" She couldn't keep her tongue at the weirdness of her situation, her brain thankfully choosing confusion and curiosity over the dread that it probably should've felt instead.

Mother Miranda didn't seem to care though as she turned to type something on the laptop that she brought over from the desk. She tapped her finger on the device for a few seconds and finally spoke up.

"The accelerated healing means the blood is being regenerated constantly, thus not decreasing in volume. Which explains the constant pressure." She narrowed her eyes at the monitor once again. "It doesn't, however, explain the heart rate and temperature. Any bright guesses?"

It took Nicole a second to realize the question was actually addressed to her. Miranda seemed in an oddly good mood. Not any less hell bent on causing her pain, mind you, but she also seemed genuinely curious. Being a biology nerd will do that to you, she couldn't help but think.

Nicole hummed and thought for a second. She tried to recall any information about the topic at hand that she had studied prior to running away.

"Heart rate could just be the normal body response that stayed even with the mutation. Like… like a reflex. It remains even though it's not needed." Then she tapped a finger on her chin trying to find a less random explanation. "Or maybe it's the body's way of making sure that even while healing all body parts remain at least decently functional. No idea about the temperature though," she shrugged.

Miranda once again typed something up and then, without warning, pulled the needle out of Nicole's arm. She flinched, barely holding in an angry protest as she turned towards the woman. Which was a mistake. She couldn't help the gag that raised in the back of her throat at the sight of the metal container full of blood.

No, no, blood did not bother her. That would've cut her career as a medical examiner short before she even stepped foot in med school. It was the knowledge that that was her blood that made her stomach churn. The container could easily fit three liters of liquid in it, and it was full to the brim. Not to mention the smell that assaulted her still messed up sinuses mixing oh so perfectly with mr. corpse over in the corner.

Miranda just chuckled at her sour expression. "Do you think your darling wife would like to have this?"

With a sneer, masked by Nicole turning once again towards the monitor, she couldn't help slipping an edge of snark in her reply. "No need, she likes it fresh."

The numbers were back to normal, all but for the temperature that was taking slightly longer to go down.

---

By this point her vocal cords were raw from screaming and each shuddering sob felt like clumps of spines in her throat. Nicole was curled in on herself, small frame trembling pathetically on top of the uncomfortable bed. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, the tingling sensation feeling like needles constantly pricking at her skin around and under the wired leather cuffs wrapped around her wrists. The frantic beeping of the machine was grating to her ears.

An electric shock test.

Of course.

Mother Miranda decided to test out how the increased heart rate worked. Results? Her body vehemently refused to allow her to pass out. Even when the shocks traveled through every part of her body, causing the nervous system to short circuit. Even when damage to internal organs and muscles ripped painful sobs from her throat, that turned into gags as soon as the tingling turned to nausea. Even when she could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage so fast that she was sure the small organ would burst any second. But it didn’t.

Every muscle in her body flared up in a sensation of painful pins and needles when Miranda pushed the button to release another shock. The cardiac monitor started screaming again and Nicole brought shaky hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the sound. Her whole body was on fire while all the damaged tissue repaired itself, making her stomach turn painfully. She felt like throwing up. Not that she had eaten anything today, but bile and thick blood still coated her esophagus. It was all swallowed back with a disgusting gulp.

The nausea was oh so kindly accompanied by searing pain from her still damaged sinuses, who’s condition only worsened exponentially with the electricity. The blood that seemed to coat all the way up to the inside of her mouth felt horrible mixed with the putrid smell of death.

She swallowed again, but that proved itself a bad decision as now that same smell permeated the very inside of her nose and mouth and throat and the feeling of blood sloshing on her tongue behind clenched teeth made her head spin.

She lurched forward, a small river of dark blood flowing from her mouth and nose, into her palms that she instinctively brought to her mouth. Wet coughs made it splatter into crimson splotches on the white sheets, herself and anything else within proximity. It took surprisingly long to realize that, after the initial wave that rose up her esophagus, the rest of the blood was from her sinuses. It was cruelly invading her nose and sliding back into her throat only to come out of her mouth. Fuck fuck fuck-

“What’s wrong?” Miranda’s tone lacked any trace of sympathy.

Nicole simply coughed out the remaining fluid from her mouth and unceremoniously grabbed a piece of cloth from Emma’s hands. She pressed it to her nose, only to feel it soaked against her skin far too soon.

“Damaged sinuses, as you said,” she croaked, her voice sounding so unlike her own.

That made Miranda frown. She kept that same expression while noting down the previous results. “It should be healed by now.”

“Well they aren't,” Nicole spat. The blood and the horrid smell were clouding her mind and, as many knew, pain and holding her tongue did not mix well in her. “And did we really have to do this in the same room as a dead fucking body?!”

Nicole’s angry outburst gave the woman pause. Annoyance mixed with a hint of confusion on her face. She looked at her assistant, an eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“No. Just- just anestesia.” Emma answered promptly.

“What the fuck do you mean anesthesia? Anesthesia doesn’t make you smell like a goddamn decomposing corpse, do you have cotton stuck up your noses?!” Thankfully the bleeding was starting to subside, which meant there was nothing to stifle her steadily raising angry tone.

Miranda, now sporting a scowl, got up and grabbed Nicole’s chin between two fingers. It made her flinch back, but there was no escaping the iron grip.

“I can assure you that the man is not dead, simply under anesthesia and recovering from a bad infection.” She moved Nicole’s head from left to right, eyes scrutinizing as ever.

Afterwards, she turned back and wrote something down on a piece of paper and simply instructed Emma to wrap up and lead Nicole out. The sudden shift not only in demeanor, but also in her position from the bed to standing upright was mildly dizzying. She swapped the gown for her normal clothes as quickly as she physically could, not wanting to spend another unnecessary second in this underground grave.

While she was ushered out the door, Mother Miranda’s sickly sweet voice rang after her.

“I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Her stomach turned.

---

The trek home was short and silent, Nicole simply wanting to get home as soon as possible and get a damn hot shower and sleep.

She bid the young man that was accompanying her goodbye the moment the Castle’s entrance was within jogging distance, and hurried steps took her to the imposing doors. It was Alexandria to answer her knock, Nicole having left her own keys in her bedroom.

“Welcome back my la-” the polite smile was all but wiped off the woman’s face, replaced by wide eyes. “Are you injured?”

Nicole looked at her confused, then down at herself. A muttered curse escaped past her lips when she remembered the bloody mess on her skin. “I’m okay. Just-... just don’t tell anyone I’m here yet. I'll change first.”

Her plan went out the window when a set of hasty steps came booming toward them.

“Nico-”

Cassandra’s voice died in her throat when her golden eyes landed on Nicole’s small frame, dried dark blood on her face and arms and her clothes stained. An angry growl slipped from between bared teeth.

“What the fuck did she do to you?”

Nicole was quick to answer, too tired to deal with anything other than a few hours of sleep. “I’m okay. I’m just-...” she shook her head, then turned to the Steward. “Alexandria kindly ask a maid to draw me a bath.”

“At once.” And with that the woman turned and scurried away, most likely also not wanting to be in the vicinity of an angry Cassandra.

---

The hot water felt like pure bliss on her skin. It seemed to make every muscle relax and get rid of the awful tension. She leaned back, eyes closed and hands idly moving through the water.

It was just mildly difficult to fully relax with Cassandra muttering and pacing back and forth in the same room though.

"I'm-... I'm not letting you do this again."

Nicole simply sighed and started to scrub away at dried blood. The miniature red waterfall from earlier had gotten blood all over her arms and chest, some splatters even getting on her legs. Her face was also a mess, trails of blood going from her nose and mouth to the chin with smudges and splatters.

"What did she even do to you?"

Before she had a chance to reply, a knock came from the door and a maid entered with a few clean towels and a change of clothes from Nicole's own bedroom. The girl didn't linger, simply giving them both a courteous bow and exiting the room.

Looking for something to change the subject, Nicole focused on the pleasant honey smell. Honey with a slight citrus-y undertone, maybe lemon or orange.

"Did you get a new soap?"

Cassandra stopped pacing, brows furrowed. "No? It's the same one."

Confused, Nicole brought a hand that had just been scrubbed with that very soap right under her nose and took a deep inhale. It was indeed the same one. Chamomile and mint. She sighed in annoyance and leaned back against the cool porcelain while Cassandra came and bent down on one knee to be somewhat on eye level.

"Nose still not working properly or…?" She said while gingerly tilting Nicole's chin up with two fingers. She grimaced at one yet to be washed trail of dried blood that made its way to her wife's thin upper lip.

Nicole simply shook her head and grabbed Cassandra's hand. "Can you… go get ready. I'm beyond tired and just want to lay down with you."

Cassandra pursed her lips but nodded none the less. With a kiss on top of red hair, she turned and left the spacious bathroom, door shutting with a heavy thud.

Left alone, she scrubbed every inch of skin again and took a few extra minutes to enjoy the warmth of the water. It felt so incredibly odd to not feel any actual pain after the day's events. Any trace of what her body went through had been erased by her newfound ability, not leaving behind even the faintest mark of a scar, nor blackened skin caused by electric shocks.

She pushed herself out of the tub, grimacing at the slight pink tone the water had taken. Body and hair quickly dried with the towels, she put on the clothes, a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top, and finally stepped out of the bathroom too.

Cassandra was waiting for her in bed, velvety dark robes hanging loosely on her shoulders and eyes fixated on the window while her fingers were tapping furiously on the cover of a book forgotten in her lap. Book that was quickly placed on the nightstand when Nicole climbed in beside her and pushed her way into the brunette's arms. She was tired and absolutely not above demanding cuddles.

Her wife wasted no time in wrapping an arm around her and pulling the soft blanket up to cover them both. Nicole interlocked their fingers, absentmentally turning the ring on Cassandra's finger. The same ring she had, albeit in a smaller size. A golden band with intricate floral patterns engraved on it. It had no protruding gem, something they both opted for so that the rings wouldn't need to be taken off while working and wearing gloves. Instead, eight small ocre gems were lined among the minuscule curled leaves.

It took Cassandra about two minutes to take a deep inhale and open her mouth. New record.

"Are you… are you hurt?"

Nicole didn't look up at her, the concern dripping from her words alone were enough to squeeze her heart painfully.

"No. I'm all healed up, just tired." She could almost feel Cassandra's question of clarification, but not wanting to go over what had happened down in the laboratory so soon, she opted for something the brunette would hopefully be just as interested in. "We did get some odd results though."

At the lack of any interruption she went on. "Accelerated heart rate whenever I get hurt. Can't pass out." Which was both a blessing and a curse, depending on the point of view and situation. "Also for some reason my temperature gets really high."

"You get one hell of a fever?"

"Yeah."

Cassandra tapped a finger on Nicole's hand, mentally going over possibilities. "Aren't fevers used against infections? Maybe that has something to do with it."

A small hum passed her lips. Could that have something to do with it? It was possible that her healing abilities caused a fever in order to fight off any possible infection before it even became one. Maybe it was her body's way of lessening damage as much as possible since, as the day's events showed, the old replaced tissue had a tendency to get purged. She grimaced at the memory of slowly choking on blood and went for something at least slightly more pleasant.

"Oh and… I can't bleed out. Blood volume stays constant."

She looked up at Cassandra with what could only be described as a shit eating grin. Her wife blinked, realization seeming to dawn on her together with the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. She coughed.

"Yeah well. I'll keep that in mind. For when you don't need to sleep."

"And deny me some fun now?" Nicole's pout was purely for dramatic effect and it gained her an eye roll.

Two slender fingers gripped her chin to keep it in place while narrowed golden eyes bored into her green ones. The pout slowly morphed into a smirk. Cassandra was not the kind of person who did not indulge in her own pleasures and that, although to a more careful extent, included drinking her lover's blood. A fact that Nicole was not only not complaining about, but also learned to use in order to push all the right buttons.

When Nicole turned her head in the uncharacteristically gentle grip to plant a small kiss on the soft palm, Cassandra finally gave in. Concern was momentarily put on hold in the name of the normalcy they both have been denied in the last few weeks. She bent down, their lips meeting into a kiss that soon turned needy with tongue slipping past sharp teeth and a hand scratching lightly at her nape. Soon Cassandra broke their kiss, but only to slowly trail her way across her jawline with kisses and small nips. She bit at the soft skin right under the jaw bone, eliciting a quiet groan right by her sensitive ear. Black painted lips took her down the neck and across collarbones, planting a kiss right in between them, at the base of Nicole's throat.

When she slowly made her way to an exposed shoulder, Nicole's hand at the back of her head guided her further up, right above where her pulse was. After an inquisitive hum against her skin, she spoke quietly.

"Since blood loss isn't exactly a problem… no need to avoid the neck really."

Cassandra hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to trust her wife. She placed a gentle kiss on the spot right above where blood was flowing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The same gentle kiss that was placed on the skin countless times before and that only Nicole had the privilege of experiencing.

Sharp fangs sunk into tender flesh, the warm blood invading Cassandra's mouth making her moan low in her throat. Being used to the feeling of the bite by now, Nicole simply closed her eyes with a sigh and let her body melt into Cassandra's arms. The familiar blissful ache was welcomed, even though, she noticed, it did not bring with it the lightheadedness she had grown accustomed to.

Although she wasn't aware of it, Cassandra was, in a way, a creature of habit. Every time she would drink her blood, her hand would come up to cup Nicole's cheek, thumb slowly tracing the jawline, right before she would pull her mouth away. Every time, without fail.

This time however, when that happened, Nicole kept her in place with the hand tangled in brunette hair, her voice coming out breathy when she spoke. "Go on."

Cassandra would never admit it, but her self control would always waver while feeding. Therefore, she didn't need much convincing, continuing to take mouthfuls of blood in between a satisfied groan. When she finally had her fill, she pulled back with a bashful look in her eyes. Concern quickly flashed on her face at the sight of the crimson mess on her wife's neck.

Nicole however, not wanting their moment to get ruined, took one of Cassandra's hands in her own and slowly placed a soft kiss on each knuckle. After that was done, and the downright ticklish sensation of skin patching itself subsided, she guided the fingers over the bloody skin.

"See? Healed," she whispered.

Cassandra gingerly traced her fingers over the spot, looking for no longer existing puncture marks. She smiled upon not finding them and turned to pull out a handkerchief from a small drawer of her nightstand. A ritual of sorts, one practiced more times than they cared to count over the years. Cassandra passed the white cloth over the skin, wiping away the crimson stains while her wife relaxed into the touch.

"Feeling good?" It was a remark meant to poke fun at how much Nicole seemed to enjoy herself, but the double meaning did not go unnoticed.

A smile tugged at Nicole's lips and she nodded.

In turn, Cassandra hummed. "You taste different." And, at her lover's furrowed brows and the slightest hint of alarm flashing in her eyes, she clarified. "Not bad. Just different. Slightly sweeter actually."

"Is that so," Nicole purred, the smile returning to her lips.

Cassandra discarded the cloth on the floor to be retrieved later and shifted both of them back down on the myriad of pillows.

"Yes. Now how about you get some sleep."

Nicole wasted no time in snaking an arm around her waist and nuzzling into her side. It would never cease to amaze her how Cassandra's presence could make her feel so at ease, as if nothing beyond the castle's walls existed. At that moment, she couldn't help but be grateful for her newfound ability, useful in far more ways than one.

She stretched slightly upwards, auburn hair like a small waterfall behind her.

"I love you," she whispered against cool ashy lips.

"I love you too," Cassandra replied, closing the almost nonexistent space between their mouths in a soft kiss.

It left behind a slight coppery taste on Nicole's lips, but she couldn't bring herself to care, instead readjusting her legs to tangle comfortably around her wife's thigh.

[gumnut-logic]

Interview with a Fic Writer Meme

Thank you to @tsarinatorment  for the tag ::hugs you:: Sorry for the delay in reply.

1. Your favourite fic that you’ve written (or the one you want to give a shout out to)

We’ll Be Home For Christmas, mainly because of how much fun I had writing it and the new friend I found and the Kermadecs are an amazing place and that fic changed how I write Thunderbirds fic forever because I now know Tracy Island’s place in the world and its ecosystem and yeah, I am such a geek.

Also, VT Green, cos smart!Virg :D

2. Your favourite fic title that you’ve come up with

No idea. But because I’m old and live in a popular culture that peeps twenty years younger than me probably don’t, you might want to check out the chapter titles of We’ll Be Home For Christmas and the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. In my total cluelessness, I didn’t realise how unobvious they were to peeps who aren’t as ancient as I am and didn’t grow up with sixties TV on loop through the eighties.

3. How do you get inspiration to write?

You name it, it hits me. I currently have several fics, including Wire, currently inspired by the fact I park my car in front of a farm every morning when dropping off my daughter to school. If I’m feeling down, Virg will either be whumped or end up in some hilarious situation (it’s weird, I’ve written some of my funniest stuff while feeling my worst). Sometimes I will be desperate to reach out to the natural world and can’t – that’s when Virg ends up on some beach and gets all arty-farty so I can reach out through him.

Often an initial scene will spark something bigger and I’ll be writing for weeks, desperately trying to keep a plotline straight and find an ending.

But my best stories happen from a solid idea of something that I don’t think has been done in the fandom before and is something I would like to explore – Sotto Voce, VT Green, We’ll Be Home For Christmas (which was a prompt but I actually developed and planned it before writing), Callisto, Gentle Rain – these have coherence, and while they may have wobbled crazily on their path, they mostly had a plan.

4. Your favourite genre/subgenre of fic to write?

I’m a whump girl, but I love a good plotline to go along with it. This often requires brain power, not something I always have. I also like a challenge and to try new things, which is why we have a romance, a boat trip and a space voyage in my stash.

5. Do you have other hobbies?

I have far, far too many hobbies. I rotate through them and obsess at times – anything in the art spectrum from traditional through to graphic design and a multitude of crafts, geology, botany, ecology, marine life, genealogy…lots of ology in the science spectrum, but the closer you get to the physics end, the less I understand due to my brain’s inability to process certain concepts. Oh and a variety of history, both local, and world-wide human, and definitely palaeontology. But yeah, lots of lovely knowledge and things to play with :D

6. A fun fact about you that a lot of people may not know

I’m a synesthete.

7. Pick one character to self project onto

Sorry Virgil :D

8. Favourite genre of music

Whatever my brain needs at the time, usually in concert with whatever I am doing. Lots of film soundtracks through to popular music. Very picky and suck at finding new stuff to listen to. Will listen on loop until both brain and track is fried.

9. Your favourite singer/band

I rarely know the singer or the band. Though Nick and Ben Foster are pretty cool :D

10. How have your experience in fandom been?

I have been properly active in about three fandoms over the years, though I have read in many more and even written in a few others. One was a big one, the other two were small.

The big one was good with the occasional odd encounter, but I kept to my little corner. The first small one was very small and was going very well until I had a falling out with another fan. Being a small fandom, it was very difficult for everyone involved. I also, at the time, was at a very hard spot in my life and that, in part, led to my withdrawal from fandom (though I eventually had kids so that really yanked me out of everything). Ten years later I found Thunderbirds and everything has been absolutely lovely. If I wasn’t enjoying myself, there wouldn’t be 200 fics to show for it :D (yes, I’m going to repeat that number repeatedly cos I’m quite happy I’ve been so productive :D)

Thunderfam rocks! :D

I’m tagging @onereyofstarlight @scribbles97 @godsliltippy @vegetacide

[anarchist-puppet-on-strings]

“You See Him Too, Right?”

SUMMARY: After his kids ask him to check for monsters under their bed, Chase begins to notice weird things.

Chase thought Stacy had been half kidding when she had warned him that the kids had been more skittish than usual. They’re abnormally quiet and their eyes are often drawn to the opposite sides of the room. It's only when bedtime comes when he realizes the extent of the problem.

Trey’s the one who asks.

“Daddy, can you check under our bed for monsters?”

“Kiddo, this is my room. I sleep here every night.” He shoots him an amused glance. “I can guarantee there's no monsters here.”

“He follows us,” Sam squeaks out.

That earns a raised eyebrow.

“He?”

Trey shrugs self consciously, picking at the threads of a cheap blanket. “We dun know his name.”

He pauses. It's odd Trey is telling him this. Trey is ten now. He's surprisingly mature and clever for his age. He seemed a bit old for the whole “monster under the bed” thing.

“Well, I’ll check anyways if that makes you happy.”

He could feel the two’s eyes on him as he knelt down and looked under the bed. As he expected, there was nothing there.

Chase gave a reassuring thumbs up from below. "Nothing down here, kiddos!"

"Can you check the closet too?"

The closet yielded the same result as underneath the bed. Both of his kids looked more at ease. Sam had latched onto Trey already, using him in lieu of a teddy bear. He had tried to push her away but eventually gave in and allowed it, appearing tired and disgruntled.

After the two had gotten their bedtime forehead kiss and the light had been flipped off was when Chase was able to relax on the couch with tv turned down low as background noise.

At one point, something out of the corner of his eye shifted in the darkness. He couldn't make out an exact shape but it moved quickly and silently. When he turned and looked out where the thing had been, there nothing but a small, dark kitchen.

It's nothing. He's tired and the dark plays tricks on the eyes.

He couldn't help the prickling unease that brought all his hairs on end from washing over him though.

Call Chase paranoid but he's been on edge the past few days after his kids left to return to their mother's house. There's nobody else in his apartment but the feeling of somebody's eyes on him wouldn't go away. It's infuriating!

It left sometimes—disappearing for anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours—but it always came back. It's hard to sleep under the impression you're being watched. He'd get drunk and ignore it but he's wary of getting drunk in case there actually was someone. But hey, that's the anxiety talking.

So instead of turning this into some big kinda thing, he talked to thin air. His hopes to dispel the tense atmosphere worked—kinda. He had to admit it's much funnier dealing with a problem when he didn't take it seriously.

It's easier talking and joking with an unseen presence than going to therapy and going on meds.

As much as he's convinced the anxiety is amping up his paranoia, he had an odd feeling someone else was hearing all the bullshit he talked about to himself.

It's been one of those weeks. The weeks where everything blurs together and his brain is mushy. Chase sleeps way too often because he's constantly tired no matter how much tea or coffee he drinks and how much sleep he gets. It's been the kind of week where he sleeps so much he forgets to eat and drink until he's forced to do it when it becomes unbearable. The one where he's holed up inside his house because he'd been calling in sick for the past few days. The kind where he isn't sure he'd been sleeping or just zoning out.

Basically, he wanted to die.

Chase squinted, eyebrows knit together in confusion as he struggled to remember whether he left the tv on or not. It's on a channel he didn't even have, loud static blaring from the speakers. It's entirely plausible he'd done it while intoxicated or just couldn’t remember it. He shrugged and muted it before switching it off.

When the power cut out with a dying hum, Chase couldn't help but groan.

This is stupid. It's so stupid and it's annoying. He hates it.

His power has been going out sporadically for the past week and apparently it's just his apartment. He's been paying his rent, so his landlord concluded there must be something wrong with the wiring, and they're sending over an electrician in a few days.

He blinked when the power flickered back to life.

Huh... that's faster than usual. Oh well.

The electrician found nothing wrong but the power had gone out while she was over. She's baffled.

He may not have the greatest memory (in fact, his is really shitty) but he's certain he's turning off lights. The whole point of turning off lights is to save power, but either he's sleepwalking or this is a part of the shitty power situation!

Every night it's the same. He flicks off all the lights and heads to bed. In the morning... or whenever he wakes up really, a light—or all of them—are turned on.

It’s confusing. He’s even started writing down that he turns them off before crashing. At this point, he’s given up turning the lights off before going to bed.

Now they’re turning themselves off.

When he hears the whistle, he nearly drops his glass of water. He spun around, met with nothing but the darkness around him. It had been brief and sharp with no tune or melody at all.

"What the fuck?" He breathed to himself.

Chase flips on the lights and walks around the kitchen, trying to find the source of the noise.

He scratched his head with a frown.

Trying to recreate the whistle had no success either. He simply couldn’t match the lack of tune it had. That rules out the possibility of him whistling without realizing it.

Besides… it came from a few feet behind him.

He'd been staring at his water stained ceiling for over two consecutive hours when one of the floorboards creaks out in the hall. Like the kind of creak when he walks down the hall. He stiffens up and his eyes flash over to the closed door. A shadow passes by the crack under his door.

He waits another minute or two, fully expecting whoever was waiting outside to barge in and kill him already. But nothing happened.

He’s not ashamed to say he nearly screamed when something brushed against the back of his neck. It’s featherlight and the touch zapped him like static electricity. Of course, when he whirled around, eyes wild, there’s nothing.

It's totally possible he could be hallucinating or something. His paranoia has been through the roof with every little thing that happens. But it just felt too... real. Like somebody had actually been there and reached out and brushed their fingers against his neck.

Chase can't help but wonder if he's going insane.

Sometimes when he’s teetering on the edge of consciousness and falling asleep, he hears things. Things like low hissing and heavy, wet breathing. Something tapping in an inane rhythm against the hardwood flooring as weight shifts outside in the hall. Scratching—like his ex’s cat used to do when he got bored but louder.

And… and a weird voice? A distorted one warped beyond recognition that jumps high and low. He’s never picked up on any words—it’s all just nearly inaudible whispers that barely reach his ears.

He isn’t sure why his brain chooses to latch onto these bits of information. Your brain makes up weird things when it isn’t fully working properly.

Maybe it’s because he’s staring at deep gouges in the floor out in the hallway. It looks like some angry cat from hell got bored and destroyed his floor in a fit of rage.

Chase gets closure when his kids come back to visit a month after their first visit.

Quiet noises from his room caught his attention and his parental instinct kicked in. He needed to make sure his kids were fast asleep and undisturbed. Cracking the door open to allow the hall light to spill in and then peering in, he’s met with a ghastly sight.

Trey and Samantha are both sitting up, staring at the same spot as their father.

Something that nearly reached the low ceiling of the apartment while hunched over with big teeth, lots of glowing neon eyes, and a second mouth on its neck.

Trey turns to him with wide eyes and whispers, “You see him too, right?”

(A/N) Wow... two in a day huh...

Tag list: @assbutt-of-the-readers, @stuck-in-a-l-o-o-p, @bloodsoakedheretic

[chronically-autistic-dinosaur]

This is an EXTREMELY long post, but there you have it:

With the exception of the first photo, these tests were taken in March. I took the same tests back in November and I took them even earlier than that as well. I got nearly the the same results. I score high for Aspergers. I’ve had questions and concerns for the past 5 or so years about whether or not I had ASD (certain things stuck out to me) and so I started to do some research. I did those tests, talked to some people, and looked into my childhood and realized the signs were always there. Now, I could pay almost $3000 and get my diagnosis on a piece of paper, but what’s the point of that? I’ll still get the same results on the tests. The diagnosis will just sit in my medical file and unless I plan on getting government benefits, I don’t see the point. Yes, I was diagnosed when I was 12. No, I don’t have it in writing anywhere (that I know of). My testing was done as part of a clinical trial I was in and the results of those are never made public or put in a medical record. It sucks, but that’s how those things work. My parents know my diagnosis and I know. That’s enough for me.

Yes, I hit every developmental milestone, but most of us with Aspergers do. We don’t normally have the speech and language deficits that those elsewhere on the spectrum will have. It’s why we are usually misdiagnosed/diagnosed later in life. We are more intelligent than most people. My IQ is 120 (according to all the free tests I’ve done here and the over the years). Now that’s not genius level, but it IS higher than normal. I was reading proficiently at 4 years old. By the time I was in Kindergarten, I was reading at a grade 3 level and could comprehend what I was reading. We have excellent memory recall. I can retain information a lot easier than most. I could name the capital cities of most countries (and if given a few minutes, I could still remember). I love reference books and text books and I was the same way as a child. I’ve always been smarter than my age, which is common for Aspies.

In the language category though, I DO have minor echolalia. I will mimic/repeat what people have said to me. When a customer tells me they are paying with debit (or whatever their payment method is), I will repeat what they said. I’ll repeat numbers back when someone is telling me them. I’ll repeat phrases I hear on TV or movies. It may be immediate or it may be a delayed response somewhere down the road. I use words and phrases out of context. I’ll print something or a receipt will print and I will say “perfect” or “excellent.” I heard the word somewhere and I’m now repeating it in a situation. I talk to myself. And I’m talking full on conversations. Extremely common in those with ASD. I did it as a child as well but it would have been chalked up to “oh she just has an imaginary friend.”

I have very particular interests. At the age of 5, I was reading medical dictionaries and encyclopedias. I love anything medical. I love true crime and serial killers. My favourite TV shows are either medical or crime related. In grade 2, I knew the name of every dinosaur and what period they lived in. If I’m talking to people and they don’t like either of those things, the conversation is over. I could go on and on about my interests and not get bored. This is another ASD trait.

I also inventoried my Halloween candy. I did this every year up until I stopped trick or treating. I organized my teddy bears and inventoried them as well. In fact, everything in my bedroom was inventoried. I had a massive Barbie doll collection and I would spend hours setting everything up in VERY specific spots. It would stay like that for months and the Barbies wouldn’t get played with because I didn’t want anything to get touched and wrecked.

Stimming. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s how I deal with the world around me. Stimming calms me down and can prevent a meltdown. As a child, I chewed things. I chewed my sleeves on my sweaters and the collars on my t-shirts. I sucked on my fingers/hands. I still chew. I chew on hoodie strings. I chew my nails (which I also did as a kid). I play with my hands. I bang my fists against my legs. I play with headphone wires. I also do the stereotypical autistic clapping of the hands. It’s the most obvious of my stims, but what can you do? 🤷🏻‍♀️

Sensory Processing Disorder. This is the most common sign of ASD. In fact, anyone with autism will have SPD to some degree. This was actually the first thing I started researching since a person can have SPD without being autistic. After doing my research, that wasn’t my case. I have mild-moderate SPD. I have always been a picky eater. I eat foods based off of their texture. It’s why I eat a lot of processed food. It has no texture. I don’t like sticky foods like fruit because I can’t stand having sticky hands. In fact, I can’t stand having dirty hands in general. I eat finger food with a fork and a knife for this exact reason. My food can’t touch (unless it’s a stir fry or something) I can’t have tags in my shirts. I don’t wear belts. I don’t wear tight clothing. I don’t like being touched or hugged. It’s uncomfortable. This is also common in people with ASD. As a kid, I was forced to hug because in a NT (Neurotypical) world, that’s what you do. So I learned to fake it. I get window seats on planes so the flight attendants and other passengers can’t touch me. I wear noise cancelling headphones so I can block out most of the noise outside. It can be a tad overwhelming at times. I am sensitive to bright lights, high pitched sounds and certain smells. My brain doesn’t have a filter to properly filter out all the different senses so overload is a thing and always has been. My migraines are more than likely because of sensory overload. As a child, my sensory overload may have disguised itself as something else, though.

Social Interaction. Those with ASD struggle with social skills. I can count on one hand how many friends I had in school. And I’m going from Kindergarten to Grade 12. And I no longer have regular contact with these people. I was able to copy (common for those with ASD) those around me and make friends that way. But I had no idea what I was really doing. Making friends is hard when you have ASD. I lack the social skills needed to talk to people. I was shy. I liked playing alone because it was easier than talking to people and I could be off in my own world. To this day, I still don’t like talking to people. I have to rehearse what I’m saying before I say it. I don’t like talking on the phone. I will use self serve checkouts if I only have a few items. I use the self serve kiosks at McDonalds so I don’t have to speak to an employee. I have learned to adapt in a NT world and I have a job that requires me to talk to people. But it’s repetitive. I say the same thing to each customer. If I have to deviate from that system, I’m flustered. I do not make eye contact with people. It’s unnerving. I look past people. I struggle with reading body language. I avoid most large social gatherings. I’m not trying to be anti-social. But having to deal with all the people and the noise gives me anxiety and overwhelms me. Even in school, when ever there was some event in the class, I would try and be in the back, so I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.

Emotions. I struggle with empathy and sympathy. Not ALL those with ASD have issues with those but I do. I have a hard time feeling sorry for people or knowing what people are going through. I don’t know why people are crying sometimes. I don’t know what to do when people are crying. Even as a kid, I could hurt my siblings and it wouldn’t bother me that they were in pain. I simply didn’t care. I also don’t express my emotions correctly or know WHEN to correctly express my emotions. It’s why I threw tantrums as a child. It’s one of the reasons I saw a counselor in Grade 3.

Meltdowns. These are different then tantrums. Meltdowns happen when I get too overwhelmed with everything (sensory overload or stress) and I shut down. I CAN go non-verbal but that is extremely rare. I also suffer from shutdowns, which are milder forms of meltdowns.

Routine and Structure. Another big sign of those with ASD is routine. This is one of the the things that stuck out to me the most before I even started doing research. I always had a routine. And it couldn’t be changed or it would cause major problems for me. I have morning routine and it doesn’t matter where I am, I follow it. I have another routine for my Monday and Friday shifts. If it deviates at all, we could have a meltdown depending on how much of a deviation there is. I don’t recall much routine as a child, but I imagine it was there in some form.

Those with ASD have sleep problems. I wake up 3-4 times a night and I remember being this way even as a child. I am never tired though. 4 hours of sleep has always been sufficient for me and the research I have done on ASD and sleep shows this to be a common thing. I also have to sleep with my iPad on. I can’t have complete silence or darkness when I sleep. I can recall sleeping with my light on when I was younger.

Now how did I go so long without any of this being noticed by teachers or even my parents? Well I was born in 1989. Autism was not a big thing back then so it wouldn’t have been on the radar of anyone, really. My mom did tell me that I’ve always had behavioural issues and “strange and odd” behaviour since I was a baby/child but again, autism was not the thing it is now so there was no reason to have me tested when I was really young. Same as in school. It was chalked up to “behavioural issues” or “bad parenting.” Females are more commonly misdiagnosed or not diagnosed at all because doctors still hold the belief that only males can have ASD. Females are also better at masking their ASD traits than males. I have been masking the majority of my life. It’s how I’ve been able to keep the same job for 10 years. It’s how I managed to make the friends I did. I can appear NT even though I am not. Masking is also physically exhausting and I am trying harder to NOT mask.

Being part of an Aspergers group on Facebook and being a part of the autistic community on Tumblr has really helped me. It lets me know there are others JUST like me with the same things and that I am not alone.

“I have autism. It’s a part of who I am.”

[skruffie]

Thoughts on BOY THAT SURE WAS FUCKED UP, aka the post of mine that went viral on tumblr+screenshotted and posted on facebook/probably elsewhere

At the time of writing it is at 236,896 notes and occasionally I’ll look in tagviewer to see how people are responding to it. I’ve seen it travel through roleplay blogs as a character study through mental illness blogs of illnesses I don’t have (but since it’s relatable and there’s a lot of comorbidity, my post isn’t a PTSD club only kind of thing, it’s for literally anyone who can relate). Some of the tags that I was looking at tonight made me remember this article I had read on XOJane a long time ago.

From this link (content warning for discussion of rape)

“When I finally started therapy a decade later, I smiled while describing my rape to the therapist. I smiled when I talked about everything, as a well-trained Southern girl, but my therapist labeled this particular smiling a "lack of affect." My words, my experience, weren't connected to any emotion. “

I dunno if anyone is interested in the person-behind-the-viral-post, but that passage there describes how I approach trauma and why this post came to be. There are things that have happened to me that I cannot connect to any emotion at all though I remember in the acute days after things happened, I was definitely wired on some kind of feeling. A thing happened, and I went to bed that night shaking, and I woke up shaking. I was trembling for three days straight. This particular Thing wasn’t the PTSD-causing-trauma but it happened in the time when I was dealing with my PTSD the most, and I kind of feel like having these traumas stacked on top of each other made my brain go “...nah, I’m gonna peace out of this one.” Result?

I feel nothing about it. I can’t even say the words outloud hardly. I tried to talk about it in therapy and just as I was about to actually say it, it was like someone flicked an off-switch on my body and my head drooped down, my shoulders dropped down, my brain just went completely blank, and I was moving my arms like I was trying to physically pull the words out of my chest. I wanted my therapist to say the words for me but she didn’t know what I was trying to say. That was unusual in itself, because in my day to day event I can think about it and go “wow, shit that actually happened” and it is not connected to anything.

So, if anyone in those 200,000+ notes happens upon this post, know this: your reaction is a trauma reaction. It’s valid. In fact, both examples I described here are valid reactions because there is no right or wrong way to react to trauma. Emotional numbing can bring along depressive issues, which is what I experience now. If you have to laugh your way through talking about your trauma, it is a survival tool your brain is using to try to keep the emotions at bay. Someday, we may be able to unlock them and deal with them properly.

[writingwithadinosaur]

“Tightrope Walking” - Part 7

“Tightrope Walking” - Part 7

(Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6)

My Masterlist - Here

Tag List - Here

Bruce Wayne x Reader - Romantic Relationship

Jim Gordon x Reader - Father/Daughter Relationship

Jerome Valeska x Reader - Past Friendship

Word Count: 1,200-ish

Key: Y/N = Your Name, L/N = Your Last Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color

Warnings: None that I can tell. Let me know if I missed anything

Summary: The Aftermath

Author’s Note: This is the end of this series. I may do an epilogue at some point. But I hope you guys have enjoyed this series!

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces (All Works, Specific Fandoms, or Specific Multi-Parts), please let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

You woke up to the sound of a heart monitor beeping steadily and a comfortable warmth around your hand. You slowly open your eyes and have to blink a few times to get adjusted to the light. But when you do adapt, you see you’re in Gotham General. Then you look around and see your four favorite men.

Bruce was in a chair next to you holding your hand as he had his head leaning against your bed. His chest was slowly rising and falling, meaning he was asleep. Jim was in a chair on the opposite side of your bed, also asleep. Alfred was looking at the view outside the window, and Harvey was standing with him. They were chatting about something in hushed tones, probably not to wake the other two up.

It felt as if you had eaten cotton balls your throat was so dry. So instead of speaking to let them know you were awake, you just squeezed Bruce’s hand a few times. He slowly stirred awake and lifted his head, rubbing his eye with his free hand before really realizing the situation.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” You managed to speak, but it came out very scratchy.

“(Y/N)!” Bruce’s voice was full of relief and happiness. He stood up and leaned over to give you a hug. You winced a bit from the pressure on your shoulder. Bruce immediately pulled back and apologized. You put a hand on his cheek and stroked your thumb over a few small cuts that he had there. Before your could try to say anything again, someone cuts you off.

“I think you’ll need this if you want to talk, kiddo.” You look over and see Jim standing with a cup of water in his hand. You graciously take it and drink all of it. Then you gave Bruce the empty cup and pulled Jim into a hug. You could tell that he still felt guilty for all of this.

Harvey stood next to Jim and Alfred stood next to Bruce. Harvey was the one that kind of brought back reality.

“I hate to ask this, but do you remember what happened, (Y/N)? The doc said that there shouldn’t be any brain problems, but I don’t trust doctors.” You chuckled a bit before feeling your smile fade as you remembered what happened.

“Yeah. I remember. Jerome came back somehow, kidnapped me, led an insane circus, and had me go on a tightrope again.” You hated that it happened and that it wasn’t some nightmare. But the pain that you felt in your shoulder that night proved it was real. Bruce didn’t let go of your hand. He was going to say something but then Jim spoke.

“I know you don’t like talking about your past, but I had to fill Alfred and Harvey in. I hope you’re not more upset at me.” You reached for your dad’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I am not upset at you in any way. You had no control over any of this. And I knew that the two of them would have to find out somehow. I’m kind of glad that you told them.” You really didn’t want to talk about this all right now. So you tried to move the conversation. “So how long am I in here?”

“Another day or two. You not only have the bullet wound in your shoulder, but you had a small fracture in your ankle. You must not have felt it because of the adrenaline going through you after getting off the rope.”

You looked down and saw the boot on your foot. You vaguely remember it hurting while Jerome made his announcement on TV. You tripped and ended up landing on it weirdly. But you didn’t feel it while on the tightrope, but walking like how you did probably made it worse.

“I hate to break this up, but Jim and I gotta head back to the station and do the reports on this case. I’m sure the two of you won’t be leaving anytime soon?” Harvey motioned towards Bruce and Alfred.

“I am actually going to go and grab some grub for the three of us. Give you two a little personal time.” Alfred said as he went out the door with Jim and Harvey. He threw you two a look that said ‘Don’t be stupid’ causing you both to laugh a bit.

When they finally left, you scooted over and tapped the bed next to you. Bruce gladly sat next to you and put his arm around your shoulders, care to avoid putting pressure on your injured one. The two of you came together like comfortable magnets. After dealing with Jerome, you were so thankful to be back in comfortable arms.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah. Just glad to be here right now.”

“I can’t even imagine being up that high on that wire with the chaos that was below.”

“To be honest, I kind of missed tightrope walking. Granted, not in that type of setting, but still… There was a moment when I was up there and I wasn’t in the fucked up circus. I was in my own world, doing my own thing. I think I did some tricks just because I was so lost in the moment. Then this shit happened.” You motioned to your wrapped up shoulder. 

“Would you want to continue doing it again?” Bruce was honestly curious. You were taken a bit aback by his positive question.

“I’m not sure where I would. I don’t think there are any job’s in Gotham that emphasize that. Lol. And I don’t know if I could go that high again. Going from the ground to 20 feet in the air was not a fun transition.”

“Well, what about recreationally?” Bruce mused.

“Even then, there isn’t really space in my apartment with my dad for any sort of line set up.” Your shared apartment with Jim was on the bigger side as far as apartments go. But there really was no place that you could set a slackline up without causing mayhem.

“I could see a few places around my place that could have one set up. ONly a couple of feet off the ground though.”

“Bruce, are you serious?” You couldn’t believe what he was offering. The fact that he brought it up so nonchalantly threw you off.

“I think it would be cool. It can help you work through your past more and get you back into doing something you love. It will also help you strengthen your ankle after this fracture heals. And as long as there is actually safety equipment, I don’t see any problem with it.”

There were no words that could properly tell Bruce how much you loved him. You just put a hand on his cheek and pull him into a kiss.

You were so thankful for this man. He accepted your past and wanted to be a part of your life. You truly loved him and he loved you. The circus girl and her boy wonder.

Tags: @melconnor2007 @cheyennethefangirl @fayrizo@insanityismysanity12345 @just-damn-peachy @ash-brooke4 @heyitskatrina

[canbechosen]

Flowers Need Fire

August 30th, 2014. Saturday night. 9:08pm. I’m eight minutes late to my nightly Facetime with my girlfriend at the time. I’m fresh out of high school, 17. The world is your oyster and all that. I was looking at vintage photos from 1945 that night, for reasons I don’t entirely know for sure myself, and Wait by M83 was streaming through my earphones. I was lost in thought about life in general - past, present, future. No time, no time.

One of the many sticky notes I wrote to track my feelings in 2016.

10 minutes later, I was no longer in a relationship. There has never been an event in my life more confusing, life-changing, devastating, or seismic. It took me about a year and a half to realize it, but after my breakup, I became good roommates with depression. It was my best friend, and it never paid rent. It tagged along every time I took a picture, ordered a coffee, or sneezed. It hummed along in the background before I was forced to acknowledge it. I moved through my life and I looked fine - smile on my face, I spent much more time with my friends, and I went to Europe for two weeks wrapped up in various countries.

I was on the top of a gondola above the clouds of Switzerland, enveloped in the Swiss Alps surrounded by dozens of people. It was beautiful and yet my heart was still with a girl in Edmonton. You wouldn’t know it only from the picture I took below, but the Swiss Alps are my favorite place, visually, in the world. The houses on the hills and the paths that connect them are like markers that trail and pinpoint, veins running through peaks and valleys. A quick google says the highest elevation of the Alps is 4,810 meters.

When I came home, I posted the pictures on my Facebook - mountains and skies and lakes and lion statues and Eiffel Towers and Venice and etc - and I desperately tried to appear happy. How could you not be when you’re surrounded by something so breathtaking and undeniably gorgeous? You’re literally on top of the world, and you’re just not that into it. Everyone else was happy, it was all over my feed. So why wasn’t I? I was in this stunning landscape, on a gondola with a bunch of people I didn’t know who all got startled when someone dropped a soda can on the floor, and we remembered we were on a platform in the sky sustained only by wires. I ate strawberry gelato in Assisi. I was 17 with the world in front of me, and in Switzerland the world was below me too.

Fast forward to 2016, my depression had hit its Swiss Alp peak and it dropped me 4,810 meters into the valley below. I can count the nights I got a full 8 hours of sleep on one hand that whole year. I felt as if I was carrying those alps on my shoulders every day. It’s hard to breathe properly when you’re carrying mountains. I came home from being with my friends one night - and it was another moment that I realized I was deeply in trouble, because what usually would leave me feeling at least a little happier and more energized had ran me empty. My emotions were disappearing. If I wasn’t empty, I was miserable. If I wasn’t miserable, I was empty. I went around and around in my brain, trying to figure out the answers that I knew I would never receive, attempting to find resolution in a stack of sticky notes, trying to alchemize closure with hands that had gone cold. I looked in the mirror and became increasingly unrecognizable from my usual chipper nature people around me had become accustomed to viewing me as.

I thought it would be easier if I just didn’t have to live anymore. I thought about death a lot. I wondered if I had a place in the world. I wondered if people actually cared about me. It’s a weird time when your own obituary is formulating in your head at the age of 19. That year and including a good chunk of 2015 as well, I had many days (various shades of countless and endless) that were bad enough that I should’ve gone to a doctor. And I wanted to.

I never went.

;

I’ve become better. I am better.

But there would be this recurrent thought that would always come into my head seemingly at random. It was a 11th or 12th grade science class when I was in high school, I don’t remember exactly which grade anymore - but biology was the only subject in high school science I could even moderately stay interested in, and that’s still a stretch. So this one day, my science teacher talks very briefly about this thing that happens when a fire rips through a forest, and instead of the forest being completely destroyed and scorched-earth forever, she says that the forest and the plants and the trees and the flowers actually grow back despite the fire. A highly destructive event, yet nature thrives again, contrary to what you would believe. I don’t think she even spoke about it for more than a minute, and it is the only tangible thing I carry with me from high school science class. It is one of the only things I remember from science class from grade one to graduation, and perhaps all of school period. Upon googling this phenomenon, and also finding out what the name of that particular process is (by the way, it’s called succession), I found a bunch of studies about it. This small, miniscule thing I learned about in 60 seconds and maybe brushed with once or twice on a homework assignment has stuck with me because I saw myself in those woods that were burnt to ash beyond recognition.

Source

I’ve seen my life combust since that August night, and I’ve seen my life in these flowers that have grown back roots-up after fireballs threatened their existence, and yes, wiped them off the earth. My house - my brain - went up in flames. My mental health circled down the drain, countless showers I never paid attention to, so many moments I was never mindful of because I was so lost in a never-ending vortex. I spun down the drain every day. And even my room didn’t feel the same anymore (and that’s actually not my room anymore.) There was nothing left to do, when the butterflies turned to dust that covered my whole room. So I punched a hole in the roof, let the flood carry away all my pictures of you.

 But flowers need fire.

“The forest fires of today lead to the forests of tomorrow. The heat and pressure of the fire explodes cones filled with seeds that start the growth of a new forest days after the fire has stopped.”

“Forest fires can destroy everything in their paths, burning trees and vegetation until the landscape is uninhabitable for months or sometimes even years. But, they can also usher in new life, creating a completely new ecosystem and fostering new growth.”

The flames of my breakup eviscerated and destroyed. But when it passed through my forest, I didn’t know that it had the potential to make it even more beautiful than it was before. I wandered the woods for a year and a half, trying to find my way out of the winding trees and the endless myriad of confusion, much in the same way I got lost in the walls of Venice for over an hour before I found my way back to the main path. But now I know I’m going to carry a lighter next time I get lost in the woods with the wolves chasing after me. If I find myself at the top of the Alps, I won’t be afraid to fall anymore.  And if I’m ever swallowed up by that deep darkness ever again, praying for that light at the end of the tunnel, maybe that light will just be in my matchbox.

Source

So, how did I get better, if I’ve always kind of sucked at quitting things long past their expiry date? I have never been good at letting go, and I am even worse at forgiving. But I can say that I’m sort of becoming good at both of those things.

Here’s the thing about forgiveness - if someone tells you that you need to forgive someone, you aren’t actually gonna forgive them until you’re ready to and want to. Forgiveness is as organic as the flower that grows in your backyard. It’s as organic as the plant that dies in that same backyard because you didn’t water it. It’s about realizing that sometimes, it just isn’t what you may have done, or who you are, or what they did, or who they are. Forgiveness is about accepting that there are more human beings in the world than you, and that we’re all human and we make human mistakes, and hurt other humans in a way that is just oh-so human. It’s easier to poison ourselves with bitterness than to heal someone else with compassion - and giving myself compassion was the hardest thing, and I was also not very good at lending compassion to other people.

I hated my ex. I hated her more than I have ever hated anybody in my life for our breakup and the circumstances of our last conversation - which in retrospect is also incredibly spectacular and weird - because I also loved her more than I have ever loved anybody else in this world. But when I was ready, I tried to figure out what exactly forgiveness is, what it involves, and what it looked like, what it feels like when your soul touches it. It comes in a lot of forms, and it’s ugly and powerful, and wavering and unwavering, and I pray to be more okay every day, and I think I am because of it. People say forgiveness is about compassion (thanks, Giles) and how forgiveness is always about you and not them. And that’s all correct stuff. But forgiveness is also about letting go of the idea that whatever happened to you is always awful, or that it’s that person’s fault. It’s about giving yourself a second chance when your demon whispers that you’re not good enough in your ear. It’s about accepting that everybody tries the best they can with what they knew at the time, and that includes yourself. I let myself finally feel my emotions, and for a solid year I desperately wished my ex could just be as miserable as I was. But hopefully, it doesn’t take too long to realize just how useless of an emotion hatred is, and how toxic that particularly brand of negativity can be. Wishing the people that hurt me to feel the same things I felt never created anything productive, beautiful, warm, or pure. By all means I was allowed to feel that way, but just because I had the right didn’t mean I should’ve stayed that way, and I’m glad I didn’t, because that was never who I was deep at the roots of my heart. Forgiveness is about gratitude for the beginning and the end, no matter how it unravels. Forgiveness is about realizing that someone dropped you off in the woods, but you have a tent and you can set up camp. Forgiveness was me getting to the point where I hope my ex is happy, even though I don’t hate her or love her anymore. It’s an inherently graceful act, even if the journey to the destination is ungraceful. Forgiveness lets go.

It’s easy to be mad. It’s a lot harder to open up your heart and understand the pain of someone else even if it’s at your expense. It’s easy to assume that nobody could ever understand the depths of what we feel, even though humanity in general is the same across the board. We all want to feel important. We all want to be valued. We all want to be loved.

So I basically slammed the lid on my Facebook and decided I would put my Instagram and Twitter on lock for good, and they still are, but sometimes I would come crawling back to Facebook for extended periods of time (nowadays, I just log in for a couple seconds every few months). Facebook used to be my obsession. When I was that age I just wanted everyone to like me and have a good opinion about me and think I’m funny and think I’m hot and think I’m cool and think I’m this and think I’m that and did this person check my profile and if I check their profile will I pop up on their profile? Despite the fact that I became more and more private and exclusive when it came to my inner circle, I still cared about the numbers and likes and comments and attention and would compare it to people I knew in real life and celebrities who get more likes in one photo than I ever will in a lifetime - even though my social media was intended only for my closest friends and people I actually like anyway. It’s a lofty daydream and an impossible expectation, and obviously a cruel comparison - trying to define myself by my struggles and screwups and bloopers, and only viewing one half of everybody else’s story on social media, the side they want everyone to see. It was easy to think I was the only one suffering when no one else was talking about how they suffer.

Because if I get dumped, that means I’m not enough, right? If I’m the one staying at home while my friends are sneaking out and having sex, and I’m still a virgin at 20, that means I’m behind, right?

I wanted to have it all because I felt like I had lost everything.

There’s this delusion that you can’t talk about how sad you are online, because people think you just want attention. Or that sadness isn’t a good environment to foster optimism and positivity or whatever, if those are the things you want to be. But even as an optimist at my very core, I still find it necessary to talk about sadness because it’s the ugly back alley everyone avoids talking about. In my opinion, the world needs more emotion. I banished the idea that strength is about not showing your weaknesses. I believe the strongest people are the ones that know when they need to be weak. I tried so long to find the equation to happiness that I figured avoiding the inevitable fire was supposed to be a part of it, but the solution usually involves just letting the fire burn all your math homework with that happiness equation scribbled all over it. All that happiness-math homework only made me more hungry for perfection and gave me the shittiest papercuts.

I needed to start taking care of the girl I was looking at in the mirror. I was less mean to myself, and praised myself more the way I would praise my best friend, because I am my own best friend. I surrounded myself with collages of my friends encouraging me to slay my demons like a Sarah Michelle Gellar montage. I started reading again, listening to music again, meditating, writing, being mindful. I hope I can work my way up to 15 constant minutes of meditation every day by the end of the year. I reconsidered what it means to actually treat myself like royalty, and that even queens need a good cry sometimes.

I look at that girl in the mirror today, and instead of the flames that wiped the earth, I get to witness succession. Instead of mental illness, I see recovery. I get to see that there’s someone there, as opposed to no one at all. I get to see the light sneak its way back into her face, ray by ray. Maybe she isn’t Clean yet, but the dirt is finally coming off. I look at that girl and don’t wish she looked different anymore, that she had different colored eyes or something or was a different race and maybe then people would compliment her, instead, I melt into my own eyes now. I love her smile. I love her wit and how funny she is. I love how she is now capable of cheering herself up. I love how she’s okay with not marrying the person she thought she would in high school, and how the idea of not finding someone for a very long time doesn’t terrify her anymore. I love how she is now more interested in herself than she has ever been, in that relentless pursuit of herself. She put the ring on herself. Consider me engaged. I love how brave she is and how she knows when it’s time to commit a little self-arson. I love how it finally feels like the cloud has lifted and the sun is breaking through, and she gets closer and closer to her truth every day.

I’m proud of myself. And it doesn’t matter if anyone else isn’t. It doesn’t matter if someone stopped reading this 17 paragraphs ago, and it doesn’t matter if they read this at all. I don’t care if you like this, reblog this, or view this. It doesn’t matter if you think or don’t think I’m cool or funny or hot, because I think I’m cool and funny and hot. She likes being alone and isn’t as concerned as her concerned family who fear she’s lonely because she’s been single for almost 3 years. Really, all she wants is happiness and a root beer or two, but maybe those two things are synonymous. There’s this hopeful little vibration, this optimistic hum that buzzes louder each day for me, and I don’t need some weirdo from Plenty of Fish who’s 9 years older than me to tell me I’m beautiful (oh and hey how about you come over to my house and we take a shower together? Fuck no, thanks. Can’t you see a bitch is engaged to herself?)

Passing through Utah on a tour bus in 2012 staring at the U.S. mountains, or maybe it was Idaho, I don’t really remember, listening to Holocene, wondering when someone would finally just fall in love with me. Texts in July 2013 and disloyal order of water buffaloes. M83. Tangled thoughts and all too quiet. Forest to fire to forest. Up and down like a gondola somewhere in Switzerland. The flower. The universe doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle. Will be chosen. Can be chosen.

It’s okay if no one sees the flower that’s growing inside the forest that still has burn marks. Because what matters is that flower is becoming what it’s meant to become.

Like the flower that bloomed after inferno, like the tree that gathered ring after ring, like the girl that kept living despite what happened. For the girl that cared too much about what people thought of her and whether or not they were thinking about her, who wondered whether she was good enough or if she mattered and if she needed someone to stay in love with her so she could love herself: flowers need fire. For the girl that embraced the flames, and now gets to see that small sprout in the middle of the ash. For the girl that wanted to end her life. For that girl, I wrote this for you.

I just want to drink root beer and be in a relationship with myself.

I still remember when my ex-girlfriend told me she had a dream that she made a garden for me.  

Maybe the garden that was growing, was me.

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Thank you to the following resources, also I don’t care that I literally won’t do citations right because this wasn’t for school or anything lmfao:

When a forest is burned, what comes back may not resemble what was lost (2015) by Elizabeth Pennisi for Science Mag

After the fire, how does a forest grow? (2016) by Mark Washburn for the Charlotte Observer

Rising from the ashes: forest fires give way to new growth (2007) - ScienceBuzz.org

Growing back; forest recovers from Sask. 2015 fires (2016) by Spencer Sterritt

Fire ecology - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

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Here are things that changed my life.

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[baileymacias]

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