#sorry to vent its just getting more and more difficult to imagine a life where i

[mourninglamby]

they should invent therapy that isnt expensive

[hibiscusfairys]

🐞 draco malfoy ; unrequited love, part 5 (hufflepuff fem reader)

♪ a lots gonna change : weyes blood

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

♡ warnings: angst

tagged: @miawastakens @watercolorskyy @pinkynecktie

also to the last person who requested to be tagged, im so sorry but i cant seem to find your blog when i try to tag it :(

by the way a reference to the last chapter, i realised adrian pucey is two years older than harrys year, so for the sake of it not being weird just pretend he was a year older than us

☆

You cried all night.

You didn’t know if whether you had swayed him, or distanced him from you even more. Each passing thought that involved him had only provoked your yearning tears. By the end of the long evening, your pillow was wet with the heartbreak and sadness you wept for him.

You were stupid enough to believe he was for you. The muggleborn girl and the pureblooded boy with a family full of blood supremacists which he was surely influenced from — yeah, right. What a foolish imagination you must have.

Dawn had rolled around, and your quiet sobs had eventually stopped and morphed into your sleep. The bright light of the sun shone through the fogged window, reflecting onto your hair. Your yellow duvet covers were spread everywhere, and the mascara you had worn from the ball before had stained your pillow like watery, black ink.

You rose up from your slumber, increasingly light headed from all the thinking you had been doing all night. It was time to finally get on with your life, and leave this all behind. Your feelings for him would have to disappear, soon enough.

Your ball dress was still on, and was crumpled from the action of tossing and turning restlessly in your bed.

A letter was positioned unknowingly on the windowsill. You noticed that the window door was open, the cold air hitting your face like a vent. You saw that a midnight feathered owl with amber eyes as bright as streetlights perched on the sill, looking at you with its pupils dilating.

Eagerly, you opened the letter, hoping it to be from your parents. They had only just figured out how to use the owl. But the envelope looked too classy, too posh even. Nothing like the basic white envelopes you’d usually see.

It had a certain family emblem on the black seal.

Ripping the top of the envelope, you lifted the mysterious letter from the pocket. You had almost instantly recognised the handwriting, as you had seen it in your potions class not too long ago. It was Malfoy’s.

The words were carefully carved with ink on the parchment, and ink smudges seemed to be far less of a problem for him to prevent than it was for you. Using a quill and proper ink was still something to get used to, even if it had been 4 years. You anxiously let your eyes scan the page, a lump forming in your hoarse throat from all the sobbing. To….

I apologise for my previous behaviour last night

I understand that I may have upset you. This is quite new to me actually. I’m too wrapped up in myself to recognise others problems, if I am being honest.

However, while I still stand by what I said about us not working out, I do want to create a compromise with you. And before you ask, I’ve dealt with Astoria. It was entirely difficult for me to tell her. And to be honest, I am feeling quite down. But I’m still so confused on where my heart is leading and I don’t want to lead her on either. She’s one of the only people I care about. Except for my family and some others which I won’t name.

If you are so desperate, it will have to be a hidden secret between us. If I ever eventually decide to let myself love you, while the guilt might weigh heavily on me, I am not afraid of it. It is quite dismaying knowing that you aren’t a pure-blood like I am, but I want to learn to be more tolerant at least. And I’ll try to be more open. But don’t let a word slip out. I’m sorry if I am asking much. I should really not ask you of anything, but I can’t help it. I’m still adjusting to this. I thought it would be so easy, love. But it’s not. Sometimes we fall in love with the wrong people. But I don’t want to label you as wrong. Rather — unexpected. My family will surely be disappointed, so it’s why I’m so hesitant. But it’s a risk I am willing to take for my heart to finally be at rest. It has been tugging on me for weeks.

Do answer me later. Moreover, maybe I can explain it to you better in person.

Draco Malfoy

You saw your tears melt onto the paper. Different emotions poured through you like a rainfall, you felt excited and happy, but also unnerved. It disappointed you that he couldn’t accept you in the first place.

You found out your quill and a pot of ink.

To Malfoy,

Thank you for your letter. I am glad that you’ve explained to me your feelings. Sometimes writing it down makes everything better.

But please, do accept me as I am. I don’t want to pressure you into doing something you won’t find comfort in. Plus, it would put me in danger too. I don’t know what your family is like, but I don’t want to entrust them just yet.

However, I do feel similarly. Maybe we could try it.

I’d be glad to keep it a secret for you.

From…

You finally signed your name in one swoop of your quill.

“Hopefully..” You say to yourself, handing the addressed envelope to the messenger owl.

☆

thank you all so much for reading this fic, i appreciate all the support youve given me so much and im excited to write more future ones for you soon ♡

also im sorry if the ending seems quite rushed, i had no idea what to do and i didnt want to keep anyone waiting too long :( ill try to improve on this in the future and hopefully, not pressure myself too much with releasing chapters

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Looking for a Place to Happen

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), age gap, general stupidity.

This is dark!biker!Sam Wilson x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s lots happening in Birch and you find it all too amusing.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, Little Bones, and Fully Completely

Note: We’re starting Sam’s installment but this weekend I’ll probably only be catching up on my headcanons and drabbles because I’ve been a lazy bitch and I’m sorry to those who have been waiting.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 1: I've got a job, I explore

💀💀💀

The sleepy town of Birch was awake. 

In those last weeks, the arrival of outsiders had roused the attention of many once passive residents of the timeless territory. Those brick buildings unchanged by the tick of the clock inlaid into the old tower above the library that chimed every hour on the hour. They still stood with only chips in the mortar but the air tasted different. The frost was more bitter and the sky more grim. An omen of something no one could predict.

It was the perfect setting for a screenplay. The isolated town with its unsavoury secrets and the visitors who threatened to bring them to the surface. It was inspiring to you, to imagine what was hidden behind the stern wrinkled faces of the town elders and under the jackets of those men who wore the cut of the local club. The bikers ruled the town covertly but everyone knew that Bucky Barnes’ palm was lined with the map of Birch.

As a bystander, an unnoticed observer, just another ant in the hill, you watched from the side and amused yourself with the drama of others. It was like a soap opera or another HBO hype machine. Those things you aspired to when you could be free of this ho-hum town.

The snows added to the natural gloom of the place. The deep heaps smothered the noise and harkened back to those days of colonial settlement. Forgotten, desolate, fearful. 

You ventured down in your heavy boots that stretched to your knees and pushed your chin down into your scarf. As a child, you ran and jumped in those piles, now you were out of breath just trying to walk past them.

You stopped in the bakery that doubled as the only café, a place where the owner, Babs, tried to to intimidate the last caffeinated trends. She was always a few seasons behind but you didn’t mind so much. 

You ordered the salted caramel mocha and waited patiently as the quiet woman fought with the steaming machines. She was older than you but you’d work with her for one summer during high school, only five years ago. She had the eyes of a child still, but there was something worn in her. As if she’d been exposed to far too much in her three or so decades in that place. She was a harbinger of what you didn’t want to become.

You thanked her for your drink and set out once more into the billowing winds. Birch winters were never kind but this one was crueler than most. Your teeth chattered as you blew the steam away from the lid and hugged it with your mittened hands.

You stopped short as you heard the familiar ding of the diner door across the street. You recognised the mechanic who kept to herself and once growled at you in the grocery store. She stormed across the street, followed closely and quickly by a black-haired man you’d only seen once before. He was one of those outsiders who came to deal with the club men.

You sped up as you sensed chaos brewing and pulled out your phone as you balanced your paper cup in your other hand. You flicked your camera on just as you got to the front of the shop and the man grabbed the mechanic. You let out an ‘oop’ as she turned on him and you aimed the lens at the couple as they fell into the snow, the man’s shoes giving little traction to his steps. 

You moved closer, stunned by the scene, and kept your cell phone rolling as you found a better angle around the snowy walks. As she choked him on the ground he elbowed her and she coughed as she rolled away. She snarled as he clamoured to his feet, slipping and sliding as he marched away.

You killed the recording and watched the man cross the street again, nearly wiping out as he did and when you looked back to the mechanic, she was gone behind the clattering door. You chuckled to yourself and tucked away your cell. It was prime footage for TikTok; with a bit of editing, it would be comedy gold.

💀

You stomped up the steps of your grandmother’s house, this time through the front door as you heard her chair rocking in the front room. You usually took the stairs in the back as you paid her to live on the upper floor of the duplex. You checked in with her daily, she didn’t get out much more than the occasional trip to the grocery store when you couldn’t or you dragged her out to join you for a tea at Babs’.

“You’re late,” she grumbled as you set your cup down and unzipped your coat.

“For what?” you scoffed.

“It’s after noon and you don’t even come down to say hello? A ‘good morning, nan’,” she harrumphed.

You chuckled and hung your coat before shoving your boots over on the mat. You grabbed your mocha and leaned on the doorway as you watched her crocheting in her chair, reruns of some court show playing from the boxy television.

“I was working,” you said, “sent in some stuff for review. Hopefully not much work to be done.”

“I don’t know how you make money on that interweb,” she bemoaned, “I don’t trust it.”

“Maybe you’d trust it more if you used the Netflix subscription I got you,” you crossed your arms, “then you wouldn’t have to watch trash daytime TV.”

She shrugged and muttered under her breath. She could be crotchety but you liked her sense of humour. Your aunts and uncles never came around because they just took it as spite. You were the only one who knew how to handle the jaded old lady.

“Maybe you coulda looked out the window,” you snickered, “quite a show going on in town.”

“Hmm, what’s that?” she stilled her needles and reached for her tea stained cup.

“Just a fight. You wouldn’t believe it, that lady mechanic beat the shit--”

“Language,” she huffed.

“Anyway, she had this guy in a chokehold. It was awesome.”

“What guy?” she squinted at you over her glasses.

“I dunno. Some out of towner. Remember I told you about that burly dude hanging around the library?”

“There’s more?” she sucked on her teeth, “those bikers have never been good news and now they’re bringing in more.”

“Yeah, well, what’re you gonna do?” you sniffed as you took out your phone and rewatched the scuffle with the volume down. You shook your head and opened up your TikTok. 

“I don’t understand why you’re always on your dang phone,” your grandmother pestered.

“I’m not always on my phone,” you smiled at her smugly, “there are those time when I’m listening to you prattle on or you know, making you tea, oh, and cooking you dinner. What was it I did last week? Oh that’s right, I got Pippin out of the crawlspace.”

“I’m too old to be chasin’ that cat all around,” she huffed, “where is he anyway?”

“He’s your cat, I don’t know? Last time I saw him, I sent him back out the window for shredding my charger.”

“He knows you need to give it a rest,” she laughed to herself, “got your nose to that screen too much.”

“And what do you do, old lady? Crocheting doilies to put where exactly?”

She gave you that dry smile, the one that said watch it but carried a hint of humour still. You hit post and put your phone away as you waved off her irritation.

“Well, you know what, I sit all day at my computer, doing who knows what and you know what it got me?” you taunted, “a large mocha!” you sipped as you sat on the sofa and grabbed the remote, “and it’s paying my rent and putting bullet points on my resume.”

“Mhmm,” she scowled, “just remember, real life ain’t online. Those videos you’re always laughing at like hyena, that’s not reality. You forget it and it’ll come back and bit you. ‘Specially with those bikers.”

“Oh, nan, you know too well, don’t you? Didn’t you have a fling with one back in your hippie phase?”

“Two, actually,” she raised her brows, “I was young and stupid. Not like you, but still.”

“I love you too,” you chirped and sipped from your cup, flicking the station to Jerry Springer, “that’s more like it.”

💀

Your usual TikToks were sarcastic and dull complaints about your small town life. The response was less than pleasing but it gave you an outlet to vent. You liked to goof around and document the very specific type of weirdos that resided in Birch. But the video of the fight in the snow blew up your phone and made it difficult to ignore the buzzing as you went back up to your room to eke out the last of your captions for the ad agency.

When at last you could call your day hard-earned, you logged off and sent in your hours to the agency. Social media promotion was easy enough but the working gigs for a thousand different companies was tedious. You hoped you could build your portfolio enough to manage a single corporate page as you continued to chip away at your creative outlets.

You picked up your phone as you waited for Netflix to load on your tiny smart tv and flopped onto your bed, not two feet from your desk. You hit the icon in the upper panel of your phone and scrolled through the notifications, pausing to turn on another episode of the cable sitcom from ten years before. You snorted as you read each comment but the number under the video made your eyes round. The thing was bound to go viral.

As usual, you went down to help with supper. Pippin, the orange tabby, returned to cry at his dish and you fed him too. Your nan peered through her glasses at a crossword as she tasted the tangy pasta sauce. 

“More basil,” she snipped.

“Well, I asked if you wanted to help,” you muttered, “I think it’s good.”

“Hmmp, I need milk,” she jutted her chin out, “for my after-dinner tea.”

“You couldn’t say something like three hours ago?” you blinked.

“I could have but I didn’t,” she snickered. You rolled your eyes and she took another forkful of penne and filled in another line on her puzzle, “ah, no hurry, girlie, you know I’m patient.”

“Patient? You?” you chuckled as you took your plate and shoved it in the microwave to keep it warm. The ancient thing had a dial and the door stuck, “I’ll just go get it over with.”

“Don’t forget your mitts,” she called after you as you tramped into the front room, “it’s cold.”

You pulled on your knitted cap and matching mitts. You zipped up your parka and shoved your feet into the deep boots. You grabbed your wallet and buried it in the spacious pocket. You bounced out the front door and down the steps as the sky sent down another coat of powder for the night.

You went up White Forge Street and through the short path behind the diner that led to the main road. You glanced over at The Asp, the beacon of the dull town, and turned towards the grocer. Like anywhere in Birch, the store was outdated and stuffy. It felt like stepping into another time with the paper bags and chunky tills.

You went down the center aisle and stopped at the fridge to search through the frosted glass. Your nan only drank whole milk and the last time you carelessly grabbed skim, she whined that even Pippin wouldn’t drink it. She was particular but that was just her nature. You couldn’t say you were any less fussy in some instances.

You grabbed a jug and the door slapped closed against the worn rubber seal. You headed up the candy aisle and brushed your woolly thumb over your chin as you considered gummy bears or Reeses’ Pieces.

“Hard choice?” The deep voice jolted you.

You snatched the box of chocolate and looked over at the man in leather, his chin tucked down behind the collar as snow dusted his shoulders.

“Sure,” you said as you brushed past him.

The cut of the leather told you he was better not entertained. While you thought the men amusing, you weren’t stupid enough to engage with them. You rarely listened to your grandmother but she was wise in her own way. 

You knew a girl in highschool, she was fucking around with one of the club men in her junior year, she ended up with a baby and no support. You didn’t think he was into you that way but he could hardly have innocent intentions.

“How’s the old lady?” Clayton asked as he rung in your order at the end of the belt, you moved along with the groceries and pulled out your wallet.

“The usual, you know? She’s tryna quit again. Don’t know how long it’ll last.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll keep a carton aside for her,” he kidded as you felt your phone vibing in your back pocket.

“Don’t encourage her,” you swiped your card and punched in your pin, “although I don’t know what’s worse; the smoke or her sucking on those mints all the time.”

“Oh, it’s not the bitchin’?” he laughed.

“That, too,” you scooped up the paper bag and put your wallet away, “have a good one.”

As you came to the end of the first counter, you were nearly cut off by the club member as he swept around from till two. His own purchase of a car magazine and jerky was tucked under his arm.

“Ah, sorry,” he smiled, a sparkling smile, almost charming.

“No worries,” you continued on and he followed close behind.

“Those mitts look real warm. ‘Specially in this weather,” he said as you pushed open the door.

“Uh huh,” you kept on as your boots crunched out into the snow.

“You know where I can get a pair. Leather isn’t exactly thermal, you know?”

“These? My nan made ‘em. I’m sure Clayton got some hung up back there,” you looked across the street as you stepped up onto the ledge of snow between the sidewalk and the road.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked.

You looked at him dumbly and almost laughed in his face. You glanced back across the street then down towards The Asp.

“Sorta,” you answered.

“Make you a deal. Leave ya alone for your name.”

You eyed him. He was older than you like many of the Commandos. At least a decade, likely more than that. You chewed on your hesitation and cradled the bag more firmly against your side. His eyes strayed as he tried to see through the thick layer of your coat.

“Nah, I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers,” you said and hopped off onto the road.

You heard him behind you as he struggled to follow and as you came up to the other side, he came parallel with you and kept stride with you easily.

“I know you’re young but you’re not a kid,” he intoned, “what’s the harm in a name?”

“It’s a small town,” you stopped short of the end of White Forge, “I think I know enough about you to avoid you.”

“Oh ho, is that it? Well, I’m Sam, I’m not a stranger now, am I?”

“Not interested, Sam. Sure there’s women your own age over at the bar,” you nodded behind him.

“You wanna come see? Maybe have a drink?” he gave a crooked grin.

“You don’t give up, do you?” you shook your head, put off by his forwardness.

“Well?”

“Not tonight, Sam,” you turned around and headed down White Forge.

“Then what night?” he asked but you didn’t answer and he didn’t follow.

You turned down onto your street and refused to look back in case. It would be best not to mention the run-in to your nan, she was paranoid enough as it was. Besides, you’d forget about it by the end of next week.

[lyallblacklupin]

My Truth about you.

Remus has a tendency to practice self-deprecation after full moon when he gets new scars. This time it is a big one on his face. He thinks that he looks hideous, but Sirius is there to tell him otherwise. 

Remus smacks the book on the table so loudly that even students sitting at the ends of the table jerk from their seats.

The marauders are staring at him with hanging jaw and bulging eyes like hawks.

“You okay there, Moony?” James tentatively asks.

“Does it look like I’m okay?” Remus glares at him, aiming his index finger towards the bandaged wound on his cheek. It has been three days, and everyone is steering clear from Remus’ way. The last full moon was a disaster that mostly did damages to his face and neck. He hated facial injuries, not because they were difficult to heal but they made him look ugly—considering the fact, his boyfriend is ten times beautiful than he could possibly imagine himself to be.

The silence settles, tinged with discomfort.  The marauders go back to their lunch before they are running to their classes. Throughout the whole day including the supper, Remus’ mood was at the same foul place. Sirius is trying hard not to step on his nerve that might trigger and eventually cause Remus to curse and boycott everyone and everything. Remus can see it but pretends it to be unacknowledged. He knows that Sirius is the only person he can be himself with, but not with the others because, James and Peter included, everyone is eyeing him with weird looks on their faces that mostly blooms one thing: fear.

They all go to their dorm, and begrudgingly Remus flops on the first bed. He remains there with his chest glued to the soft sheets, his face buried too, sniffing a strongly familiar scent. Before he processes the picture of the person in his head, a voice calls him out.

“Moony?” It is soft like the petals of a fresh white flower and silky like chocolate. He doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel that the exhaustion of the day is dumping out of him, dissipating into thin air.

“Moons?” This voice is much clearer but he doesn’t dare open his eyes again because there is something on his head, brushing his hair. He can picture it. Long, slender white fingers are spreading and fisting his golden curls.

And then, a kiss. On the temple. So gentle that he wanted to sink into its holiness. He groans with the felicity of experiencing such celestial intimacy.

“Wake up, Moons. Just for a moment then you can go back to sleep, love.”

Remus opens his eyes because this time he is shaken by the figure that is intoxicating him with their presence. And there he is. Grey eyes like silver orbs staring at him with such solace and the rippling dark hair are let down. The sight is scenic. Remus asks himself why didn’t he just look at his boyfriend the whole day. He know if he had, his day would’ve been spent much better. The regret is not strong but sweetly painful because Sirius Black is the foremost person in his life and being ignorant to his presence is nothing but ungratefulness.

“Sirius…” And he smiles. Sirius Black smiles his delicate smile which is only reserved for him. He hums in response. “What are you doing here?”

“The question is, my dear Moony, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is my bed.”

“So? This is my bed, too.”

“Okay, okay, this is your bed too, Mr. Grumpy.” He chuckles but Remus continues to glare at him, “What!? Okay at least get up and take off your school robes. I’ll lend you my pajamas.”

Remus doesn’t move from his position because he knows if he surrenders, he will lose the chance of Sirius undressing and caressing him. There is always something ethereal about Sirius’ touch. He touches Remus like he is made of delicate glass.

And then it starts happening, Sirius is getting him out his school robes and shoes. The moment is pure bliss and dreamy. Once Sirius was done, Remus looks up to witness him staring at his face with an intense yet unreadable expression. He reaches out to cup Remus’ cheek, and then suddenly Remus flinches away. He hasn’t forgotten it. The ugly feeling started assembling back to him, making him feel all blue and dejected instantly. Sirius has caught that look on his face.

“Hey, don’t…” He whispers.

“Why not!? I’m hideous!”

“You are not hideous! You’re not even close to hideous! You are very attractive and beautiful—“

“Stop! Just stop. I don’t want to hear this, Sirius.”

“Moony…why? Why do you think like that?”

“I-I never had a scar on my face…before it used to be like the tiny ones on my nose or jaws or my lip or eye or…dammit! Everywhere! They are everywhere!”

“Shh…” Sirius draw close to him and made him sit up. He laces his arms around Remus’ neck, forehead pressed together, breathing each other in.

“This one is the worst, Sirius…my life is the worst! I mean if I was meant to be cursed with this physical affliction, the least God could have done was to spare me with its brutality! I don’t just go through this physical pain, it is the mental pain too! Where I have to stand before this bitter truth that tells me that I have no future. No job, no living, no healthy relationships, fuck! No health at all! I can’t pursue my education because I’m not a human. I can’t have a family of my own. There’s nothing I can have that a normal person does.”

And then he feels lighter. His heart is not heavy anymore. But tears are streaming down his face, wetting his hands in his lap. The most remarkable thing is that Sirius is still breathing him in. They are in the same position. But he doesn’t look up to hold Sirius’ gaze. Sirius is quiet like an obedient cat.

Remus’ hands move, as if they are automatically functioning, and clutches the fabric of Sirius’ shirt on his chest. He still doesn’t meet his eyes. He just clings himself to him. His head resting on his shoulder, and Sirius holds him by his waist.

“I’m sorry.” Sirius whispers in his ear, “I’m sorry you have to go through all of this. I know you said that you don’t want to hear it but it's the truth and you deserve to know it. You are perfect to me. And I don’t think I can be more honest about that. Look, Moony,” He pulls away gently to meet Remus’ eyes.

“Do you care about others’ opinions about you?”

“No—“

“Do you care about our, me, James, Lily, and Peter’s opinion about you?”

Remus knows what answer Sirius expects, but today—at the moment—is Remus’ truth day, he cannot say things that he meant half-heartedly. The truth is and has always been this: He only cares about Sirius Black. It is a mad truth but it is what it is. He was mad. Madly in love with Sirius Black.

“Moony?” Sirius’ eyes narrow down on him skeptically.

“I care about what you think. I care about you, only. It’s strange and weird and insane but it is…it is my truth.” Remus has said it, and there is no turning back because Sirius is looking at him blankly. His face is flushing, his mouth is in a thin line. He presses harder. His lips become thinner, his jaws clenched and his nostrils flares slightly. It is not anger. Remus can tell. He knows him. More than he knows himself. He is trying not to cry but then there are tears floating in those eyes and then fell simultaneously. Then they are falling.

“I just…can’t see you like this…” Sirius says, and Remus knows he is struggling with his voice.

“I’m sorry—“

“Are you mad? No, you don’t have to say sorry, you idiot.” It makes Remus smile because they conversing in whispers and it feels so beautiful, “Of course, you can say all those things to me, you know vent out, don’t keep it inside you. I just…get you know, anxious. I want to make your pain easier for you. I know how much you suffer but I can’t feel exactly how you do. And it makes me feel indebted, I guess? I don’t know…I just want you to be happy.”

Remus tugs a lock of Sirius’ dark hair behind his ear. His index finger still lingering there.

“Remus,” Sirius continues, “I can’t promise to fix all of your problems, but I promise you that you will not be alone in dealing with them. I’m gonna be here as long as it takes, no matter what and how. I love you, you know that right?”

Remus nods at him, blinking away the tears. Sirius leans into Remus’ left and plants his lips on the cheek which has the long jagged scar. His lips are there for longer than they should have been. He is kissing the scar as if it is something sacred.

And just like that, he uses Remus’ position as leverage to make him fall on the bed. And Sirius lays his head on his chest as he grips his torso. Remus can smell the coconut shampoo from his hair.

“You’re beautiful. And that is my truth.”

Remus hears Sirius say before the sleep drifts so quickly by the aid of each other’s warmth and love.

[makoodlesarchive]

when i was young i fell into a river

pairing: kirishima x reader

word count: 5k

warnings: none, really! a bit of angst, a bit of fluff i guess?

notes: hello, it's me, back again with some writing! it's been a long time and i'm very sorry about that, but i've finally gotten around to writing and posting my spirited away au! i'm v stressed with college so this turned out more vent-y than i had originally intended, but hopefully it's enjoyable anyway! thank you all for being so patient with me, i am endlessly grateful for you

The dream is the same as always, comforting in its familiarity.

A salt-scented breeze cools your sweat-soaked brow as you pause behind one of the sliding screen doors, the rice paper windows doing nothing to block out the chatter of the other workers. The bubbling noise of the bathhouse is constant, and the quiet little moments you steal away for yourself in the middle of the working day is the only solitude you’ve gotten since you came here. The work is physically back-breaking, but you know that you’re working towards a goal. It’s just a shame that you can’t remember exactly what that goal is.

One of the other girls calls your name, and you sigh as your unofficial break comes to an end. You slip back into the room, ignoring the way the frog spirits snicker and hold their noses as you pass. They like to complain a lot about your human stench, but it doesn’t stop them from threatening to eat you every time you make a mistake. Fear, you’ve found, is an uncomfortably successful motivator.

The days bleed into one another, full of scrubbing dark wooden floors and the rich earthy scents of the herbal mixes they use in the baths. The spirits that frequent the bathhouse, that once inspired so much awe and fear in your heart, become so commonplace that you hardly spare them a glance anymore. From the cackling masked spirits that always travel in threes to the grinning cat spirits to the sombre, unspeaking river spirits, you only go as far as to offer them a polite bow before scurrying out of their way. They never spare you any attention, anyway -- most of the time, the spirits’ eyes seem to look right through you.

All but one, that is.

He looks to be a boy around your age, but appearances can be deceiving around here. His red eyes are often dull and blank, but even so they have a certain ageless quality about them that no human twelve-year-old could ever possess. His scarlet hair sticks up in gravity-defying spikes, and his skin is as smooth and clear as running water. His face is often stuck in a carefully cultivated blank expression; the only thing about him that doesn’t seem intimidatingly otherworldly are the deep purple shadows under his eyes.

He helped you once, when you first came here. The rare act of kindness had stuck in your head, made even more remarkable in the face of the following weeks and months of harsh work and cruel co-workers. You wonder if he remembers; he doesn’t often look at you, but sometimes when he does you swear you can see a flicker of something in his eyes.

Two of the girls start yelling at each other, arguing heatedly over the way the work is being divided. A foreman appears to break up the fight, but then they both start shouting at him instead. You take the moment of distraction to relax, wincing at the pull of your tired muscles in the back of your neck. All the other girls working at the bath house are older and bigger than you, which means you need to work twice as hard to keep up with them and prove that you’re worth keeping around.

In the brief moment of rest, your eyes are drawn slowly to the corridor, where guests and workers alike bustle past as they travel to the treatment rooms and bathtubs deeper into the bathhouse. As if you’ve conjured him just by thinking about him, the boy stands in the doorway.

You straighten up on instinct, suddenly self-conscious of your sweat-soaked body and dishevelled uniform. He’s not even looking your way, preoccupied with the two girls who are still yelling at the frog foreman. Slowly though, his eyes began to travel the room, and you take a deep breath and hold it as his dull ruby gaze lands on you like a physical weight. You crack a nervous smile, feeling the muscles in your cheeks that have gone unused for weeks ache at the strain, and raise a hand to give him a tiny wave.

For just a moment, that blankness in his face seems to quiver and fall away. He smiles back.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily and coated in a light sheen of sweat. You’ve had the same dream, or some variation of it, regularly ever since you were twelve years old and while it’s become familiar to you, you still find yourself feeling vaguely panicked when you wake up after it, as though you’ve forgotten something very important.

Once your heartbeat has calmed down a little, you pull yourself out of bed and trudge into the kitchen to make yourself some tea. The weak, milky light of dawn filters in through the windows, lighting your apartment up just enough so that you don’t have to turn on a light to make your way around. You take your tea out to the balcony and sit, gazing out at the purplish early morning sky.

Most of the time when you wake up from those dreams you feel blessedly lucky to be living alone with no one to question or bother you, but sometimes you can’t help but be overcome by overwhelming loneliness. The dreams are silly and most of the time they don’t even make any sense, but in the aftermath of them you’re always left with a vague sense of unfulfillment, though you can’t put your finger exactly on what it is you’re missing. You always end up exactly like this; sitting outside on your balcony in the early morning light, drinking tea alone and desperately wishing for something more.

You sigh, and go back inside.

The dream is the same, but different.

The garden is in full bloom, greenery overlaid with bursts of beautiful bright colours. Camellias, rhododendrons, and oleanders wave and shiver gently in the warm breeze, and apple blossoms hang heavily from a nearby tree. The flowering garden is enormous and maze-like, and you have yet to see it in any state other than fully flourishing.

It’s a beautiful place, especially after the hot, cramped working quarters of the bathhouse. You inhale the sweetly fragranced air and feel the knot of tension in your spine unfurl; it feels like the first time that you’ve been able to breathe all week, but that’s not the only reason that you’ve found yourself outside.

At the bottom of the garden, the grass drops off into a sheer drop. The cliff face overlooks a seemingly endless ocean, and you perch a safe distance from the drop before leaning back in the grass. The sky is an almost surreally deep blue and you watch as enormous fluffy clouds float by, looking as though they’ve been painted on a jewel-blue canvas.

It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream, and you know what you’ll see if you keep patiently watching.

It doesn’t take long — it never does. You time your lunch breaks precisely, all so you get to see this sight.

The clear blue sky makes it so much easier to spot the shiny white scales, flashing jewel-bright in the sunlight. The dragon writhes in the sky, streaking through the air like a great serpent caught in the wind. Even from this distance, you can see the knife-like teeth, the great sharp claws that gleam like pyrite, and the twisting horns that erupt from his head like daggers made from calcified bone. He looks deadly, a living weapon that swims through the air like a salmon in open water, but the sight of him makes something settle in your stomach.

You wonder what it would feel like to fall through the air with nothing but the wind to break your fall. You imagine it must feel like freedom.

The dragon flutters through the air, buoyed by the gentle sea breeze. If you didn’t know better, you might almost think that he was showing off — his movements are hypnotic, dreamlike, more like a dance than anything. His scales glow pearlescent in the midday sun, otherworldly and earthly all at once.

You could happily stay and watch him skim through the sky forever, but already the bell is being rung to call all workers back into the bathhouse. You heave a sigh so deep it feels as though your chest is about to crack with the force of it, before hauling yourself to your feet.

Your break is over, and now it’s back to work.

Sometimes you find it difficult to tell when you’re dreaming and when you’re awake. It feels as though everything is always happening all at once, in the present tense, forever. You don’t get to rest when you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, because the dreams just keep coming and coming. Sometimes you don’t feel like your life is real when you’re awake.

Riding on the train has always been therapeutic, especially at this time of the early morning. The sun rising lazily over the horizon sends milky threads of purple and pink across the cloudy sky, and you cradle your chin in your hand as you gaze out across the moving landscape. You love these little trips, feeling more at home in the creaky, overfull train carriage than you do in your own bedroom sometimes, though you can’t quite work out where that particular feeling comes from.

You know sometimes that stories end with “And then I woke up — it was only a dream”, but in your experience the story simply doesn’t end. You cannot fully wake up without the tail-ends of your dreams clinging to you for the rest of the day, and you never fully sleep. You just dream, dream, dream.

Sighing, you lean your head back against the seat that you’re slumped in. The train carriage is too full, and you were lucky to get a seat in the first place — from your vantage point, you watch as people sway in tandem with the motion of the train. It’s almost hypnotic, how they undulate back and forth with every turn, brushing against each other only to be pulled apart again by the lurching train.

Through the sea of bodies, you catch a man’s eye. It breaks the monotony of the morning commute and your own spiralling thoughts, and your spine straightens unconsciously. He quirks an eyebrow briefly, slightly, in such a way that no one would be able to safely accuse him of having done it.

You look away, startled for no good reason. Do you know him? He feels familiar in a way that you can’t quite put your finger on. The train rattles on, and it takes several long minutes before you work up the nerve to glance the man’s way again. He’s still watching you, but you’re ready for it this time. His attention isn’t such a shock, and you allow your eyes to wander over his face properly.

You must know him, you think. Your eyes track over his features as though they’re winding over a well-worn path, admiring the curve of his nose and the fullness of his lips and the arch of his eyebrows over his intense, watchful eyes.

He smiles at you, and it feels as though you’re sharing a secret from across the crowded train carriage. You smile back — it’s just a small tug of the corners of your mouth, but it’s the most you’ve smiled in months. Longer, maybe.

In the middle of the carriage a woman laughs at something her friend has said and sways backward, blocking your view of the stranger. It feels like a loss.

The train trundles onwards, and the carriage gradually empties out. You watch people step off the train with friends, with their heads ducked low, lost in thought, arguing over the phone, distracted with their book bags. By the time it comes to your stop, the man is gone.

You try not to feel disappointed as you step off the train — it’s silly, after all. You don’t know the man, and whatever you thought you felt as you looked at each other was surely all in your own head. Your head has been awfully full, recently.

As you step off the train you grapple with your bag, side-stepping a businessman who is busy shouting down the phone at some unfortunate coworker. You’re distracted, which is the only reasonable explanation for how long it takes you to realise that the man from the train is standing in front of you.

“Oh.” You blurt, startled. You had already begun to resign yourself to never seeing him again, so you can’t help but feel distinctly caught off guard at the sight of him standing before you. “Hi.”

“Hello.” The man says. He’s looking at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s waiting for — as it is, you get completely distracted by his eyes. You hadn’t noticed on the train, but now that he’s up close you see that they’re a truly unusual deep burgundy. He tilts his head when you remain silent, and bites his lip. Now that you’re really looking, you notice how sharp his teeth are. “You’ve barely changed at all.”

You blink at him. “Er…” You trail off nervously. You don’t recognise him, but you feel like you know him. Clearly, he thinks that he knows you.

“It’s fitting, isn’t it? Meeting again on a train?” He smiles, and it’s an impossibly knowing expression. You don’t think you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a look that intimate in your life, though you have no idea what he’s talking about.

Someone collides hard with your shoulder and you stagger for balance. You only look away from the man for a mere second, but it’s enough; when you look again, he’s gone.

You take to walking. There’s a wooded area behind the town, and you enjoy traipsing idly through the trees. Ancient roots erupt out of the dirt and fan over the ground like hairs, and the moss that covers the trunks of the trees is such a deep green that it almost seems like paint pigment. It’s soothing, being surrounded by nature like this. It reminds you of childhood — the simplicity of being able to jump over tree roots under a canopy of pale green leaves, of being able to leave all your thoughts and stress at the boundary of the forest.

It’s where you come after waking sweat-soaked and disoriented from a dream that clings to you like a burr, where you walk among the ferns and the needle-leaved weeds until you manage to shake the last vestiges of memory from your mind. You need it, especially in the mornings where you wake up with the acrid scent of herbal cleanser stinging in your nose or the bite of hard calluses on your palms from non-existent rough cloths. On mornings like that, you walk and walk until you no longer feel as though you’re more alive in your dreams than you are in reality.

Deep in the forest is a great red facade, painted a flaking, faded red. You wander by it frequently, admiring the overgrown greenery that crawls up the walls like reaching fingers, the mossy stone guardian that stands sentinel amongst the cracked flagstones that lead into the tunnelled entrance. You’ve asked around in the town, curious about what exactly this building was for, but most of the locals either don’t know what building you’re talking about or admit that they’re not sure. One man told you that the facade was built for a theme park in the 90s that had ended up going bust in the recession, and that the building only looked old.

You remain unconvinced on that front. The building has the kind of presence that only very old things have; it feels like it’s watching you.

For the most part, your walks in the forest are peaceful. Recently though, you’ve found yourself plagued by an insistent, irritating sense of deja vu. You don’t know where it’s coming from, and it hits you at the strangest of times — when you’re making tea, or in the bath, or cleaning your apartment, or on the train, or admiring the sky on a cloudless day.

The man from the train is the boy in your dreams. It takes you weeks to come to that realisation. You just wake up in the middle of the night on a random Tuesday, with wide eyes and clammy skin and his name slipping from the forefront of your mind.

It shouldn’t be possible, but once it dawns on you, you’re certain of it.

Even stranger is that once you realise it, it feels as though you see him everywhere. You see flashes of red hair when you’re walking down the street, when you’re grocery shopping, when you’re walking home late at night. It’s only ever the barest glance out of the corner of your eye, just overt enough for you to know it’s him, but subtle enough for you to question yourself immediately after.

One night, you travel to a local city to meet some old school friends. At night, the city seems to pulse. The music from seedy clubs spills out into the neon-lit streets, muffled shouted arguments echoes from alleyways and apartments alike, and the streets are peppered with people either scurrying or stumbling home, with very little variation. Though the perpetually overcast sky hides any trace of the moon or stars, the streetlamps reflect in the ever-present stagnant puddles littering the street, lighting them up in varying shades of sickly yellow.

At night, the city seems alive. Chronically ill and struggling to breathe, maybe, but clinging to life all the same.

The way the neon lights flicker in the gloomy darkness, just barely illuminating the shadows of people hurrying through the streets to get in out of the rain, reminds you of something you can’t quite remember. It sits in the back of your mind like a sour taste, but no matter how much you reach for the memory it remains just out of reach.

You spend most of the night staring out of the steamed up window of the pub, entranced by the sight of the night streets and frustrated by the memories that seem to dangle just out of reach. You know that it doesn’t make for good company, and you feel guilty for that. Your friends don’t seem overly surprised at your detachment. You’ve been drifting away for years, and though tonight was supposed to be all about reconnecting it seems clear that it’s not going to work.

When you eventually stand up to leave, with forced smiles and awkward goodbyes, you can’t help but feel melancholy settle over you like a second skin. As you slip out of the pub and onto the dark streets, the thought crosses your mind that you’re not used to being alone like this. It’s a silly thought, really; you’ve been alone for years. But sometimes, in those liminal moments between waking and sleeping, you swear you can hear the gentle drowsy breaths of dozens of people sleeping all around you, as though you’re surrounded on all sides. On those nights you wake up hot and claustrophobic and uncomfortable, but never feeling lonely.

It is probably your own fault, you reflect as you drift down the sidewalk like a ghost. It’s difficult to make an effort to know people when you feel as though you don’t know yourself. You don’t know how to bridge the distance between yourself and other people. You think sometimes that you’re missing chunks of yourself.

You pass an open shopfront that’s serving street food, and glance briefly in at the kitchen. The cook is illuminated only dimly in the smoky room, standing out as a shadow figure more than anything, and for a split second you could swear that he has six arms. You look away quickly and carry on walking — you don’t want to look again only to be proven wrong. You want to preserve that little second of magic strangeness for as long as you can.

The puddles on the street seem like they’re glowing with the light reflected from the neon streetlamps, and you weave your way carefully around them to avoid getting your feet wet. The night has a strange quality about it, almost as though it’s holding its breath.

Considering the combination of your pensive mood and the expectant air of the evening, you don’t feel surprised at all when you look up from the wet cobblestones to find the man standing only a few feet ahead of you.

He smiles like he’s nervous, his gaze tracking carefully over your face. In his hands, he’s holding flowers. Camellias, you think. It’s the first time since you first saw him on the train that hasn’t been a fleeting glance out of the corner of your eye— he’s here in front of you and he’s real and solid and sturdy. He seems more substantial than the streets around you, than your friends back at the pub had been.

“Do you remember me?” He asks, voice soft as though he’s afraid of the answer.

“Remember you?” You croak. It feels as though the words are catching inside your throat. “No. But I’ve seen you every night in my dreams for years.”

If that’s the answer he’s expecting, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking at you, your face, your body. You wonder exactly it is that he’s seeing. “These are for you.” He says eventually, holding out the flowers. “I didn’t- I wanted to bring you something, when I saw you again. And I know that you always liked the garden.”

He’s talking as if the places that you’ve dreamed about are real. It doesn’t come as the earth-shattering surprise you might have expected — rather, it feels like a key turning in an old lock. A click, and then a sense of yes, that’s right.

You take the flowers, and clutch them to your chest. They’re a fleshy pink, with a vibrant yellow centre. The petals are as soft as velvet. Holding them feels like holding a safety blanket. “Thank you.” It’s the only thing that you can manage to say right now. Your thoughts are too full, and nothing else makes it out of your mouth.

It’s rather startling, the feelings that bubble up in your chest. It feels like something has just been unlocked, as though you had stored away all this emotion somewhere deep in your ribcage and then forgotten about it only for it to resurface at this precise moment, for this precise person.

“Eijirou.” You croak. “Kirishima Eijirou.”

His whole face brightens, and his eyes sparkle. “Yes. That’s me. You do remember!”

They’re not quite memories, you don’t think. They come in dreamlike flashes — the garden, an ocean, train tracks, the feral snarling of a dragon with sharp teeth, hard work and hot food, friends.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Kirishima is saying, his face open and earnest. “But I told you that I’d come and find you again, remember?”

You do remember, sort of. A flash of a warm hand holding yours, pushing you forward over a boundary between one world and another, and a goodbye whispered behind you that sounds like a promise.

“You saved me.”

Kirishima laughs, though his eyes look a little shiny. “It was the other way around, actually. I would have stayed trapped in that bathhouse forever, if it weren’t for you.”

“The bathhouse.” You murmur, wide-eyed. It was real, real, real.

“Things are different now.” He edges closer to you. He’s large and imposing and taller than you, but he’s hunched slightly in an attempt to make himself unthreatening. “That’s why it took so long for me to come for you. Things were changing. Me and Katsuki run the bathhouse now.”

Katsuki. In your mind's eye you see a boy with wild blond hair and a dangerous look in his eyes, a boy who gives you extra rice when he can manage and takes over parts of your chores when you get so tired that you’re fit to pass out.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait.” He says quietly, and the tide of emotion that you had just barely been holding at bay comes crashing over you. Before the first tear has welled over the edge of your eyelids, Kirishima has stepped forward and wrapped you in his arms. The flowers are crushed between your chests as you cry.

“I didn’t even know what I was waiting for.” You cry into his silk suikan.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair. “I’m here now. I’m not going to leave again.”

You don’t release your grip on him. You’re not willing to take the chance.

After a moment, Kirishima speaks again. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go?” You echo, finally pulling away. “Go where?”

“Home.” He says, and he means the bathhouse. He means the spirit world.

“You want me to work for you?”

“I want you to help us run it.” He corrects. The distinction is important for both of you — though the memories are distant, you both know what it feels like to have your names and voices erased so cleanly that it makes you wonder if you ever existed fully at all.

“I don’t know anything about running a bathhouse. Especially not one for spirits.” You say, but Kirishima just laughs.

“You were always a hard worker. You’ll learn as you go. That’s what we’ve all been doing.”

You want to say yes. The word beats in your head like a drum, and you can’t think of a good reason to say no. The bathhouse. Home. The chance to feel real and awake at the same time.

“Okay.” You say on a breath, staring at him with wide eyes. “Stay with me, this time.”

When Kirishima’s face lights up in a smile, it’s the first time that you think you can accurately describe someone as incandescently happy. “Good luck getting rid of me again.”

You laugh, feeling nearly delirious with relief and joy. It’s real. He’s real. He’s come back for you, and now you’re going back with him. You think you should probably feel nervous or hesitant, but this brief encounter has felt more solid and right than the rest of the night spent with distant school-friends made uncomfortable by your silences.

“So, how do we get there?” You ask, but Kirishima just grins at you like you should already know the answer.

The train station is tucked away down an alley just off a busy main shopping district.

“It’s easy to miss if you don’t know exactly where you're going.” Kirishima tells you with a sharp smile, and it’s easy to believe. The red brick building that housed the train station is unmarked, and the trains couldn’t be seen from the main street. The alley itself is home to many curious sights -- paper lanterns bob overhead (though they don’t seem to be suspended by anything in particular), a yellowed flyer from the 1950s advertising Marlboro cigarettes drifts along on what seems to be a breeze despite the noticeable lack of wind, and three magpies sit on a wall wearing little golden timepieces on chains around their necks and caw in time with the ticking.

“Ready to go home?” Kirishima asks quietly. In his hand, two train tickets flutter in a non-existent breeze.

A family of mice scamper past your feet, pulling a miniature suitcase between them. A tall, thin woman wearing a blank white mask assists them onto the train.

You laugh at the whimsy of it all — it feels as though you’ve stepped into a fairytale, into a dream, into your childhood. “Yes,” You grin, “I’m ready.”

Kirishima beams back at you, and holds out a hand to help you onto the train. Finding a seat was easy — despite all the passengers you had seen boarding, the carriage was oddly empty. As soon as you’re seated, you sigh. It feels as though you’re sinking into an old overstuffed armchair, comfortable and familiar. When the whistle blows and the train starts moving, you turn eagerly to watch as the train begins to pick up speed. Within moments, you find that you can barely recognise the landscape blurring past the window — It seems that you’re zooming passed a beautiful sea-view, despite the fact that the city the train station was located in was conspicuously land-locked. You sigh happily and lean against your seat.

You still don’t remember everything about your experience in the spirit world all those years ago, but you think you remember hearing someone telling you “Once you meet someone you never really forget them. It just takes a while for your memories to return."

You make eye contact with Eijirou, who smiles back at you so fondly that it nearly hurts to look at. He’s changed so much from the boy in your dreams, in your memories. His eyes are no longer glassy and distant — now they’re shiny and expressive and so bright. His hair is longer too; still spiked and wild, but longer and curling softly over the curve of his neck and shoulders. He’s the boy your remember from all those years ago, but he’s also a man now. Grown, like you have, but smiling at you gently just like you’re ten years old again.

Through the window behind his head, the sunrise begins to bathe the water in delicate pinks and yellows. You’ll wait for as long as you need to for the memories to return, but even if they don’t that’s alright. You can just make new ones.

[lord-westley]

Hi hun, I don't know if your requests are open right now, but I could really use some sort of comfort Imagine right now and I was hoping I could come and ask you. It doesn't even have to be a full set of Headcanons, just a short blurb about some Characters will do if that's fine with you.

I've been really struggling with my chronic illnesses lately, and I keep imagining the Fellowship taking care of me, so I thought I'd ask for an Imagine about that. I have a really weird condition where my right leg is physically longer than my left, which causes really intense pain in my hip and leg and also difficulty walking, so I've been really struggling with that lately. There's also the chronic fatigue from my sleep apnea, I'm absolutely covered in bruises that I don't remember getting, the classic anxiety and depression and executive dysfunction.. it's just been a difficult week tbh.

I'd appreciate any kind words right now. Thanks for being so kind and supportive to me, it means more than you could ever know. I hope it's alright that I ask this of you. Godspeed, hun 💕

Comfort HC’s

Platonic!Fellowship x Reader

Post LOTR; Comfort

Warnings: Mentions chronic pain, anxiety, depression, PTSD

A/N: Hello Ro! I’m sorry this took a while, I hope the pain eases soon and that these headcanons help. If you ever need to talk, my DM's are open anytime!

You’ve known the Fellowship ever since you were a little girl. You met them when your parents sent you off to Imladris to seek the aid of Lord Elrond, one of the greatest healers in Middle-Earth. For you had an unusual physical condition, where your right leg grew longer than your left. It made walking difficult and a burning pain to spiderweb from your hip down.

Lord Elrond tried everything he could in his power to help you, and yet there was little he could do except ease the pain. No amount of magic can prevent physical growth.

The tears that welled up in your eyes that day pained him more than any wound can. A child, barely twelve years old, experiencing such excruciating pain right in front of him, and yet he can’t do anything about it. And from that moment on, he promised to you that he’d do anything he can to help you, and care for you.

So with the permission of your worried parents, Lord Elrond gave you an offer to stay in Imladris for as long as you wish. To heal and receive the care you need. Which you kindly accepted.

For years up to adulthood, you lived in Imladris; drinking Athleas tea every morning and night for the pain and sleep apnea. While it wasn’t a cure, it helped make life much more bearable. Allowing you to enjoy certain activities and walk around with only half the pain.

During those years you became great friends with the Fellowship. For they travelled often to Imladris to visit and rest between trips. They became your family, always joking and telling stories of their travels; teaching you new tricks and how to defend yourself. And in return you’d tell them stories of the elves around you. How the Ellon in the smithy loves to tease the Elleth in the bakery. Or how the children would braid flower crowns for you.

The boys know of your difficulties with your leg and illnesses. They’re constantly worried for you; asking how you are, helping when the pain begins to spike and holding you when you begin to cry. Everytime it starts getting bad again, they tell you it's okay to feel weak and to cry. That you don’t have to be strong all the time.

Aragorn

Aragorn is surprisingly soft despite his tough exterior

He believes that crying and venting about your frustrations is the most healthy way to deal

So on days you are having a rough time he’ll sit down with you in his lap, holding you tightly into his chest. One arm around your body and one hand in your hair

Aragorn will let you cry and yell into him, all while pressing small kisses into your hair

He’s not a very wordy person, so it’s not often he will whisper sweet things, but when he does. It’s always so soft and helps relax you

“Deep breaths Hun, It’ll be okay”

Legolas

A soft baby- an absolute angel when it comes to comforting you

Legolas is very big on grounding yourself and staying focused on your surroundings

So when he notices you’re beginning to have a rough time, nearing a panic attack, He preps a cup of Athleas tea and brings you to a private area

He’ll have you sit between his legs, and his arms gently wrapped around you torso

Legolas will have you ground yourself by telling him 3 things you smell, feel, hear and see

“Close your eyes, little one and listen… Listen to the birds sing”

As you begin to relax, he whispers praises, proud of how strong you are

“You’re doing so well, I’m proud of you”

Boromir

I love this man oml

If you’re bedridden due to the pain he’d 100% do whatever you ask of him

Need more pillows? Steals them from every. Single. Bedroom.

“Boro- holy crap how many did you take!?”

“Uh.. all?”

There is now a national shortage of pillows

Need more warmth? Will make a nest of blankets and wrap you up in his cloak

Comfort?? CUDDLES FOR DAYS

Boromir is there for you every step of the way

If you start crying, He might cry with you- absolutely hates seeing you in such pain

“I’m sorry- Im so sorry Darling. I wish there was more I could do for you”

Gimli

In true Gimli fashion, when he notices your anxiety he 100% wants to fight whoever triggered it

He gets a bit aggressive in the beginning, insisting to fist fight your problems away

but when you tell him that it’s something that can't be fought off, that its a constant thing, he calms down and just

“Oh”

“Oh oh wait Im so sorry”

Cue soft Gimli

Will rub your back affectionately while speaking softly

Asking if there is anything he could do to help

Another babe who will do anything you ask of him

If the panic attack happens in public, Gimli will bring you somewhere more private

He’ll shield you with his body from the eyes of the public and glare at anyone who dares stare

Not very good with soft comfort but if you ever need to feel safe and protected go to him

“Dont worry Lassie” (head pats) “I’ll protect you, You’re safe now”

Frodo

Sweet darling baby angel bean

He completely understands your anxieties and pain

Frodo did carry the one ring across middle earth after all

He absolutely has PTSD from it, so there have been many times the two of you would stay up late together when you can’t sleep, drinking tea

You find comfort in the fact that he’s quite similar to you, and vice versa

Most often, you guys will talk about what's going on and comfort each other

On the nights the two of you don’t wish to talk, Frodo will read stories to you

His voice is so soft and comforting, It never fails to lull you to sleep

“None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window” He reads aloud, peaking up at you and notices the way your lips part, a soft snore emitting. He hums, “Goodnight Y/N, sleep well”

Sam

This hobbit is such a softie

He understands that with mental disorders, you may forget to eat or care for yourself

So he always watches you, making sure you’re eating and you aren’t

Oh boy

Will cook your favorite meals and make you sit with him to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner

“Ah, I hope you enjoy the meal. I made your favorite!”

“Thank you, Sam..”

Ensuring you drink your water

Or if you don’t like plain water, make some tea. Anything really to make sure you get your fluids

As a gardener, Sam is busy quite often, tending to, well, gardens

He’ll set up a picnic nearby for you with finger sandwiches, drinks, and fruit that way you had company and can relax fully in the peacefulness of nature

Definitely will give you a bouquet of flowers at the end of the day

“I picked these for you Y/N!”

Merry and Pippin

Okay so these two are together cause well. They’re always together

Except that one scene

Absolute kings of distraction when you’re feeling depressed

You might want to just sleep it off- but we all know that never really helps

They’ll make so many jokes and sing and dance around just to make you laugh

Which often leads to them singing even louder and cruder, annoying every elf in the area

“Lucky Annie was a lady who’d been pleased by many men- They all would sail away but then they’d come right back again”

Yes they sing sea shanties

Oops

On days that you don’t have the energy to deal with such shenanigans, they’ll tone it down

The three of you will often be found in the field during these days, Tossing a ball back n forth

Or giggling amongst yourself, gossiping about the rest of the fellowship

“I don’t know Merry, Gandalf is kinda hot in an old man way”

“Pippin what the hell”

[meganwritesfanfics]

Buried Nightmares (Jack Hodgins x Reader) Part 2

Ever since he and Dr. Brennen had been kidnapped by the Gravedigger, Jack Hodgins had nightmares, nightmares about being buried alive again, nightmares about suffocating, nightmares about being utterly alone. Never in those nightmares did he imagine the love of his life being in danger. The Gravedigger is about to change that. When the reader is kidnapped, the team at the Jeffersonian must race against the clock to save her, before she become another one of the Gravedigger’s victims.

Part 2 of ? 

Part 1 

It had taken everyone about 30 minutes to regroup, and then they kicked into high gear, working away on what little they had to go on. They were trying to go off what they had from when Brennen and Hodgins had been taken. 

Hodgins however was pacing frantically around the room. 

“I’m going to give him the money,” He quickly said as he took out his cell phone ready to call his bank. 

“No, hey, no.” Booth said as he grabbed the phone out of Hodgins hands. “You don’t want to do that.” 

“Yes I do! If I give him the money, he will tell me where Y/N is.” Hodgins snapped. 

“Hodgins, you don’t know that? What if you give the Gravedigger the money and he doesn’t tell us where Y/N or worse what if he…” 

“Booth, I know that you are just trying to help, but we have nothing, we know nothing. The only chance we have of finding her is the hope that if I give the Gravedigger the 10 million dollars, that he will spare her. Because I can’t lose her!” Jack’s voice cracked. 

“Do you have that amount of money on you,” Booth asked seriously. 

“No I…” 

“And do you have that much money in the bank?” 

“No but the trust…” 

“The trust wouldn’t give us the money to save you Hodgins, its policy, there is no way you are going to be able to get the money.” 

“What am I supposed to do then!” Hodgins screamed as he threw his phone across the lab shattering it. “We have no clue where the grave digger has her. And he used her cell phone to call me which means she doesn’t…” Hodgins  froze. “I need someone’s phone.” 

“I’m not going to give you mine if you are just going to…” Booth started. 

“Please.” Jack's voice cracked hard. 

Brennen,who had quickly made her way toward the two, grabbed Booth's phone out of his pocket and handed it to Hodgin, much to Booth's protest. 

Walking away from the group, Jack called the number he had memorized, but had hoped he would never have to use. He knew it was a long shot, he knew that if she was buried, she couldn’t get a call, but it was his only hope. 

It was ungodly hot, that was the only thing Y/N could think of as she sat in the car. Her mind was going a million miles per minute as she was trying to remember what had happened, where she was, how the hell she was going to get out, but the one constant thought was about the heat. 

She had started to go through her bag when suddenly she heard a phone vibrating. Frantic she began reaching in all her pockets trying to find her cell phone. 

“Shit!” She muttered when she couldn’t find it. “Where is it,” She began looking around the back seat, when she remembered. After Brennen had been taken by Kenton, Hodgins had given her a cell phone, one that was only meant for emergencies and she was supposed to hide it in her bag, in case something ever happened to her phone. She had stuffed it in her school bag, the one that was currently sitting in the seat next to her. “Jack,” She gasped knowing he would be the only person to call that number. Quickly she reached in pulling out the phone. “Jack?” 

Hodgins gasped out loud, placing his hand over his mouth, tears forming in his eyes. “Baby, are you ok?” 

“I’m in a car, I don’t remember what happened, the gravedigger he…” She rambled trying to get as much information out as possible. 

“I know, I”m so sorry.” Jack cried. “What can you see, can you see anything out the windows?” 

“No, its dark, I…” Y/N started. “Wait Jack, how am I getting reception?” 

“I don’t know…” Hodgins quickly turned to the group. “Angela, can you trace her number?” 

“Yes!” Angela exclaimed as the group quickly ran to her office. 

“Y/N, I need you to stay on the phone, ok, Angela is going to trace the number and we are going to find you.” 

Y/N at this point was only half listening, she was focusing on the windows of the car, the car was very dark, so dark that the only light from the small light on the roof of the car. But the windows didn’t look like something was covering them, instead, it looked like they had been painted. 

“Jack, the windows, they are covered in black paint, I don’t think I’m underground?” Y/N said as she reached over to the car door trying to see if she could roll one of the windows down. 

“What do you mean?” Hodgins said as he stood next to Angela, he had plugged the phone into her computer and was watching as she quickly typed. 

“Damn-it” Y/N said as the windows didn’t budge. Suddenly there was a beeping sound over the phone, and Y/N looked down to see that she had low battery, and the phone was going to die at any minute. “No, no, no, no, no.” She gasped. 

Hodgin’s heart stopped. “What is it, what’s wrong?” 

“Jack, my phone’s about to die. I don’t think I’m buried. I’m going to try to break the window.” 

“What, no don’t do that.” But there was no answer instead Jack could just hear the sound of breaking glass and then silence. “Y/N, Y/N!” Everyone stared at him eyes wide as he held his breath hoping to hear Y/N’s voice again. “Angela, how close are you to tracing the call.” 

“She’s somewhere in Maryland, looks like near Baltimore, just another minute more and I will have her.” 

“Jack,” Y/N said coming back onto the phone sounding out of breath. 

“Oh thank God,” Hodgins gasped. “What happened, are you out of the car?” 

“Yes, but Jack, I’m in a shipping container. The car was in a shipping container, and the doors won’t open.” 

“There should be a vent that lets air in, can you see if you can find it?” Hodgins asked as he watched the map narrowing down on where Y/N was. 

“It’s been welded shut,” Y/N sighed discouraged. The heat and the lack of oxygen was already making it difficult for her to breathe. Once again she heard the phone beep, and she knew there wasn’t much time left. “Jack, I love you. I love you so much.” 

“We are going to find you Y/N, I’m going to find you.” Hodgins said as he leaned down getting as close to the phone as he could. “What color is the shipping container, describe to me what you see.” 

“Its…” Y/N started when the line went dead. 

“Y/N!” Hodgins screamed as he watched Angela’s screen as it stopped tracking the phone call. “Y/N!” 

“I’m sorry Jack,” Angela said sadly tears in her eyes, they had been so close. 

“Damn-it!” He screamed and he was about to throw the phone again when Booth quickly snatched it from his hands. 

“Do we have anything Angela, you said Baltimore, anything more specific?” Booth asked. 

“Yeah, but I don't know how helpful it is.” Angela said as she reached over and grabbed Hodgins hand. “It’s the Port of Baltimore.” 

Hodgins stumbled backwards tears streaming down his face, the Port of Baltimore was one of the biggest Ports on the eastern seaboard, and they were looking for a shipping container. 

He looked out the window seeing the sun beating down, knowing that on the hot summer day, they weren’t going to have to worry about Y/N running out of air, instead she would be boiled alive in that container. And trying to find her was going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. 

[trashyswitch]

Putting Elizabeth Back Together

Michael is finally taking the time to put Baby back together. After she's mostly finished, Baby surprises him with her curiosity and her advancements.

This fanfic has mentions of death (Michael's, William's and Elizabeth's) and references to PTSD. If you're sensitive to that subject, it is quite short and takes place while he's looking at the scooper.

As well, this fanfic prompt was suggested by another anonymous user. I hope you enjoy despite the slight dark themes! Although, this is FNAF...So...it's bound to happen.

Michael had calmly waited for the elevator ride to finish before walking out of the elevator with one of the boxes of scrap metal he had collected. Looking around for a moment, his eyes came across a hand truck in the corner of the building. That would be perfect for transporting! Michael placed the box onto the hand truck, and wheeled it over to the elevator. When it opened, Michael wheeled it in and placed all 7 of the boxes of metal parts onto the hand truck. Then in one quick trip, Michael brought everything further into the building. The best part was that it wasn’t that hard to push! If only he had this thing upstairs. Trying to open up the elevator while holding heavy boxes filled with metal that’ll slice you open, had quickly proven to be quite difficult earlier.

Michael walked a different way into the Pizza World rooms so that he didn’t have to try and crawl the hand truck through the tiny vents. He soon made it back to a storage spot that hadn’t been locked. Michael wheeled the stuff into it and decided to use this as his work station. Michael left the stuff inside the storage room and walked over to where the scooping room was.

He opened the door, and shivered at the look of the scooper. It was still a little stained with his own blood. The organs were gone, but you could tell something had happened in this room. Michael bit his lip as he felt the huge gaping hole that had been scooped into his gut. That scooper hurt terribly. Though the nerves were pretty much destroyed in the incident, he could still remember the phantom pain of the scooper hitting his intestines. How he wasn’t dead from physical trauma or even the internal bleeding, he will never know.

As Michael walked around the scooper to get to Baby’s body, he could feel himself disassociating and flashing back to the scooping incident over and over again in his head. The beeping...the impact...the pain, and the redness that filled his eyes just before he blacked out from trauma. It felt like he was hearing the beeping all over again. And he thought he had seen the scooper move a little bit. He tried to convince himself it didn’t actually move, and it was just his imagination. But his head was telling him to RUN!

Michael suddenly felt the back of his foot stop against something, making him lose his footing. Michael came crashing down onto the animatronic parts, making an ear-ringing metallic crash. It felt like 8 separate symbols had smashed almost at the same time! And the sound physically HURT. Michael groaned as his ears slowly stopped ringing. Moving and opening his jaw seemed to help a little. Michael got himself back up with help from the wall, and looked around for Circus Baby’s upper body. He couldn’t see it with the other animatronics. So where was it?

Michael took some time to look around, and soon found Baby’s head without the hair. It was hidden in the far corner of the scooping room on top of a maintenance desk. On top of that, Michael found more parts of Baby: her middle chest piece with the red sleeves, the fan that belonged in her belly, her full red skirt, and one of her hands without the plate covering. It looked like a black skeleton claw without the plates covering it. Using the legs and an arm from Funtime Foxy, Michael started bringing the supplies one by one to the storage closet to start working on putting Baby back together bit by bit. On top of that, Michael started collecting tons of wires from the other animatronics and putting them into a pile. With a few rolls of electrical tape at his disposal, he’d be able to make the wires longer.

Michael started off with the neck, chest and arms. Michael grabbed a voice box from Ballora’s chest and placed it into Baby. With that in place, Michael placed Baby onto the desk and placed the arm down beside it as well. He put the flashlight into his mouth and removed the chest plates from Circus Baby to replace the fan. But a strong smell emitted from Baby. It made Michael wince in disgust. If he still had a stomach, he probably would’ve thrown up. But Michael continued anyway until he accessed a storage unit of some sort.

This sent Michael mixed feelings. He knew his father was capable of murder and kidnapping, which made the storage tank all the less surprising. But...is this where the smell is coming from? Michael grabbed a metal cutter and attempted to open it. But when he couldn’t, he looked around for an easy access opening. Thankfully, there was one. Michael opened it up and found…

A red bow in the bottom of the storage unit.

Michael sighed as he grabbed the bow and put it into his pocket. He knew exactly who’s bow it was: Elizabeth’s. Michael removed the containment unit from Baby’s body and threw it out the window. No more murder. No more kidnaps. William’s murderous tendencies can end with him. Next, Michael found a metal claw thing that had been hidden inside Baby. He removed it, pulled it out and got a better look at it. Hmm...I wonder what this was used for?

With some time and patience, Michael soon got the upper part of her body done. But it wasn’t without its complications. The Foxy arm that Michael had planned to use for Baby, had a separate attachment option than Baby’s arm. This had annoyed him to no end. But the moment he looked at the leftover claw, Michael started to experiment with it. Could the claw be used as another hand option? With a little tweaking and wiring, it could! Even though it looked like something even more murderous than his father’s blueprint plans, it did make Baby look more complete.

Michael soon laid the upper body down on the desk and started attaching the legs. Funnily enough, the legs were similarly reattachable just like Baby’s legs. Though Foxy’s legs looked more slim than Baby’s did. Baby had some thick legs. But with the new set up and the arms (kinda), the legs seemed to look anatomically correct. So, Michael connected them and stood Circus Baby back up.

It was...not as pretty as it started out. Well duh...It most likely wasn’t gonna be as nice-looking. The nice-looking one was also a secret killer. At least it actually looks like it commits murders. Michael started up the Servos motor, and watched as the animatronic quickly came back to life. Circus Baby lifted its body, opened its eyes wider and started moving its hand and arms around.

“Hello! Welcome to Circus Baby’s Pizza world. Are you ready for the show? I can sing, I can dance, I can even make you ice cream.” Baby greeted.

“Hello again Baby.” Michael greeted with a smile.

Baby moved her left hand up to her chin. “Do I know you?” She asked.

Michael nodded. “I worked here a week ago. Eggs Benedict, as Handunit called me.” Michael explained.

Baby held her hands in front of her belly, and tilted her head to the side with a smile. “Welcome back Mr. Afton.”

Michael’s eyes widened. How-

“I recognize you now. You’re much too big to fit in my storage tank. You must be fully grown.” Baby told him.

Michael bit his lip and awkwardly nodded. Thank goodness for that. “Do...Do you know my name?” Michael asked.

“You’re the first born son of Afton. He talked about you while he was building me. He didn’t know I was aware at the time.” Circus Baby explained.

Michael nodded and started to detach the chest again. Michael grabbed some wires and started connecting them to Circus Baby’s neck. “That’s funny. My father barely noticed me, and was too embarrassed to talk about me.” Michael admitted.

Baby looked at Michael as he weaved the wires into the chest and replaced them. “What are you doing to me?” Baby asked.

“Fixing you as best I can.” Michael replied.

“Where is Mr. Afton?” Baby asked.

“He…” Michael sighed as he removed a faulty wire. “He died a decade ago. He got into a wearable animatronic, and…” Michael made a raspberry sound and did a ‘cut the throat’ signal to represent death.

“Oh.” Baby replied. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Michael guffawed and snorted at those words. Baby quickly lifted her head up to look at him in worry. Michael’s smile dropped as he saw Baby’s facial expression. “Sorry. He...did some really bad things. So: it was a relief to hear he died. He deserved his death.” Michael explained.

Baby looked down, looking really sad. “I did something bad once.” Baby admitted.

Michael nodded. “I know, I know. You tried to give a little girl ice cream, and you ended up killing her.” Michael added.

“I didn’t know I would do that. I didn’t know my ice cream would be used to kill a child.” Baby admitted.

Michael placed his hands onto her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “I know that. And it’s okay. You were created by an evil man who killed children with his bare hands. You are not to blame for what happened to Elizabeth.” Michael told her.

Baby tilted her head. “...Elizabeth?”

Michael nodded. “Yup. Her name was Elizabeth.” he explained. He looked down a little. “She was my sister.”

Baby looked down, hung her head and dropped her tiny pigtail connectors. “I’m sorry.”

Michael smiled empathetically and lifted her chin a little with his hand. “It’s okay. You remind me of her a lot.” He admitted. “Just...with no british accent.” Michael said with a chuckle.

Baby looked at him more and smiled.

“Now: I need to keep wiring you up and replacing any faulty wires. You’re kind of a mess right now, Baby.” Michael told her as he started connecting a wire to her neck.

“Okay. I’ll try to stay still Mr. Afto-” Baby stopped herself. She looked at Michael for clarification.

Michael chuckled and connected another wire. “Call me Michael.”

Michael took a break from all the wiring in the body, and decided to spend some time turning black wires and different-colored tube parts into makeshift pigtails for her. When he filled in the face with layered orange and yellow bangs, Michael put together a pony by wrapping another black wire around the start of both pigtails. After the pigtails and the bangs were complete, Michael returned to fixing the wires on her body. But when Michael worked on her neck, Baby began struggling to stay still.

“Michael, your hands feel strange against my neck.” Baby admitted.

“Feel...strange…?” Michael repeated slowly. He brought his hand up to Baby’s neck and touched it. “Like this?”

Baby smiled and tilted her head to the side the hand was on. “Yes!”

“You...You can feel something?” Michael asked, moving his hand to the front of her neck. Baby quickly pushed his hand away with her hand and...let out a quiet little giggle. It was hard to hear, but Michael was just able to catch it.

Michael decided to ignore it for now, and started weaving a few wires through the chest. That didn’t seem to cause a reaction. But as soon as the other side of the wire reached her side, Baby started wiggling and smiling a little wider. Michael looked up at Baby just once, and quickly started spidering his fingers up and down the left white side cover.

Baby’s reaction was immediate! She closed her eyes as she let out a squeal! She quickly leaned over and covered up her side with her arms. “Heeheehee!...” Baby opened her eyes and looked down in confusion. “It’s making me laugh.” Baby looked up at Michael.

Michael was looking at her with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Her laughter was...really innocent-sounding! And it reminded him a little of his mother’s laugh. “I...Wow!” Michael immediately ran back up and started tickling the side again. “Do you actually feel this?”

Baby closed her eyes and started giggling again. As her hands moved around to cover up her sides, Michael snuck around and started attacking them from behind. This caused Baby to squeal again and bounce around on the spot! “HEHEHEhehehe! Mihihichahahael! Ihihihi dohohon’t uhuhunderstahahahand!” Baby told him, shaking her head as she giggled.

“This is gonna sound nuts…” Michael paused for a moment and held his forehead. “But so far, you have the same ticklish spots as Elizabeth.” Michael finished.

Baby had her back to Michael while holding her sides a few feet in front of him. Curious, Baby turned her head around 180 degrees to look at him again. “Really?” Baby asked, turning the rest of her body 180 degrees to match her head’s direction.

Michael widened his eyes at the super wrong head contortion, but soon walked back up to her. “Yeah! Her sides,” Michael poked her sides and watched as Baby jumped and threw her pigtails up.

“Her neck,” Michael gave both sides of Baby’s neck a little tickle. Baby giggled and started laughing as well while bouncing on the spot and waving her head back and forth.

“And her hips!” Michael went for the orange pieces at the bottom right before Baby’s skirt, and gave them both a squeeze. To Michael’s surprise, Baby leaped a good 3 feet into the air and thankfully, landed on both her feet! But the moment Michael so much as touched her orange ‘hips’ again, Baby flopped backwards onto the ground like she had lost all the muscles in her legs.

Michael had bursted out laughing at Baby’s funny-looking fall. Baby had gotten herself back up onto her feet, and looked at Michael with growing curiosity in her eyes. “Do you have this same feeling?” Baby walked up to Michael and attempted to give his side a poke. While the finger touched the shirt, the shirt seemed to sink in, revealing something unusual about his body shape. Baby was about to lift up Michael’s shirt to see why his body was so thin, but Michael pushed her hand away and tucked his shirt in again. “No touching my lower body.” Michael ordered. He waved his hands up and down from the bottom ribs to the hips. “All of this is a no touch zone.” Michael told her.

Baby nodded in understanding, and proceeded to poke his ribs instead. Michael jumped and yelped, quickly realizing what she was doing. He tried stepping back to get away, but it didn’t take long for another yelp to leave Michael’s mouth as he discovered: He had backed himself into a wall! Baby smiled, opened her big claw hand and placed it around him! This caused Michael to get stuck in between the claw and somewhat pinned against the wall.

“I want to see if you jump and giggle when I poke you.” Baby told him casually.

Michael tried to get himself through the claw, but the claw spikes would scratch against his arms and dig into the already-dying skin. So he was forced to attempt escapes while she tickled him out of pure curiosity.

Baby started off poking his different ribs. Michael would yelp and jump with each and every poke, trying his hardest not to satisfy her. But the longer that she poked and scratched the ribs, the more his instincts would betray him. Soon, Baby would tilt her head at the look of a wobbly smile growing on his face. “You do grow happy when I poke your endoskeleton.” Baby reacted with a smile.

Next, Baby tried tickling his neck. Michael squealed super high-pitched and shook his head all over the place. Then, things got even worse when Baby remembered how Michael had squeezed her! Baby had started imitating the squeezing motion, which was making Michael sweat in fear and anticipation. Finally, after about 3 minutes of squeezing the air, Baby moved her hand to the ribs and gave them a squeeze.

“eeEEEEEHEHEHEHEHE! STAHAHAHAHA!” Michael bursted out laughing almost instantly!

Baby was impressed! “You sound like you’re having fun.” Baby told him as she continued squeezing and poking his ribs.

“IHIHIHIHI- BAHAHAHABYYYYYY! STAHAHAHAP IHIHIHIHI’M WAHAHAY TOO-TIHIHICKLIHIHISH!” Michael shouted loudly.

Baby stopped squeezing and leaned her body ahead a little. “What did you say?” She asked.

Michael’s laughter fell right to giggles the moment she stopped tickling. “Ihi...I said...Stop I’m way too ticklish.” Michael replied.

Baby straightened her back and tilted her head to the right side. “What is ticklish?”

Michael let out a few laughs and widened his smile a little. “Ihit’s...something I haven’t experienced in years.” He replied. “It’s...what I was doing to you. Tickling you, to be specific. Tickle is a noun meaning to touch someone in a spot that makes them laugh.” Michael explained. “E...Elizabeth...I tickled her a lot...especially as a toddler.” Michael explained.

“Ooh. So this-” Elizabeth gave his ribs another squeeze, “is tickling.” Baby asked.

Michael squeaked yet again and bursted out laughing again. “YEHEHEHES, TIHICKLIHIHING, FEHEHEHEELS LIHIHIKE IHIT, YEHEHEAH!” Michael replied, nodding his head.

Baby smiled and continued to squeeze his ribs. “I’m tickling you. I’m giving you a tickle squeeze.” Baby said out loud as she tickled him.

“OHOHOKAHAHAY, YOHOHOU CAHAHAN STAHAHAP NOHOHOW!” Michael tried to order.

Baby tilted her head and lowered her pigtails. “But why would I stop? You’re enjoying yourself the way children enjoy ice cream, or balloons. You’re laughing.” Baby told him.

Michael didn’t really want to admit it, but she had a point. He was actually enjoying himself. The years of not being touched properly, were starting to really get to him. And this random act of touch, was making up for all the years of lacking love. It felt...nice.

“OHOHOKAHAHAY. YOHOHOU- YOHOHOU’RE RIHIHIGHT. IHIHI LIHIHIKE THIHIHIS. YOHOHOU WIHIHIN.” Michael finally gave up.

Baby raised her pigtails and practically beamed upon hearing those words. ‘You’re right’! ‘You win’! She was right! She actually won! Baby placed Michael down and clapped her metal hand and claw together excitedly. “I won! I won! I won I won I won!” She declared.

Baby quickly pulled out a few balloons from another little storage unit, and started blowing up balloons with her fingers. Then, she tied them together and added string to them. Michael watched the funny celebration reaction as he got himself up off the floor. Then, to Michael’s surprise:

Baby handed him the tied bouquet of balloons. “Here.”

Michael looked at the balloons, in which the strings had been tied together near the bottom. Michael smiled and happily took the balloons.

...Only for him to tie it onto a dresser knob and squeeze Baby’s hips again.

Baby squealed yet again, and flopped backwards onto the ground, holding her hips. This time, Michael took advantage of the girl down and climbed on, to continue tickling her hips and sides. Baby was now a mess of childish laughter and cute little giggles. And thankfully, Michael never got a claw to the face! Who knew that putting Baby back together would be one of the best things to ever happen to him?

[cozy-the-overlord]

Dances and Daggers

Summary:   The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 14: The Reckoning

Previous Chapter  |  Next Chapter

Word Count: 2,438

Chapter Summary: With Loki gone, Teki finds herself reaching a breaking point.

A/N:  I’m sorry.

This chapter includes depictions of violence.

Thanks for reading!

TW: Graphic violence, child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 @berriemalfoy @whatafuckingdumbass

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Somehow, Teki managed to return to her rooms, although she didn’t remember how—she was fairly certain the Queen had offered to escort her back, but she wasn’t sure if she actually had or not. Perhaps she was in shock, or perhaps her mother’s training to keep a mannerly expression was rooted deeper than she realized, but some way or another Teki made it back to her bedroom before she completely fell apart.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. She sobbed into the front of her dress, the words circling her head in an endless chant. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

He was the only person she had, the only person she could talk to, the only person who would listen. He was the only place were she could smile, where she could stretch out and actually breathe instead of suffocating all alone laced into a crimson dress. He was the only person in her life that didn’t have to care about her and somehow the only person who did.

And they had taken him away.

It was clear that her mother and Osvald had known about it. The dressmaker debacle made sense now—it was all planned, to keep her and Loki from protesting until it was too late. That night, Teki face down on her bed, hiccupping into her pillow, listening them whispering outside her door.

“It’s a good thing,” her mother was saying. “Even with her throwing a fit about it. I’m glad the King agreed. He was just mucking everything up.”

Teki turned her head to the wall, staring but not seeing. Empty vials of poison danced across her vision.

Was Daddy mucking everything up too, Mama?

She was still sniffling that night when her door creaked open just a crack.

“Teki?” Brant’s voice was hushed, uncertain. “Can I sleep with you?”

She quickly wiped her cheeks, humming in quiet affirmation as she grasped for her responsible voice. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Ever since he had learned to walk, Brant had been sneaking into her room at night, fleeing his bed and the snarling creatures he was certain lurked in the darkness. He had only stopped this a few months ago, after Osvald found them curled up together one morning and spent breakfast ranting on about how Teki was turning his son into a recreant.

But tonight, Brant shook his head as he crawled under her covers.

She frowned. “Then what’s wrong?”

He stared up at her with wide eyes that glistened in the faint moonlight coming in from the window.

“You’re sad,” he said.

Oh, Brant. Teki pulled him close, and he hugged her back. She rested her cheek against his sandy hair. It was nice to have somebody to hold on to.

“Yes, I’m sad right now,” she murmured. “But it’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ll be fine.”

“I have to take care of you,” he whispered solemnly. “Prince Loki told me I’m s’posed to.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Prince Loki?” she asked. “When did he tell you that?”

“He came while you and Mama were gone. He said they were sending him away and he had to talk to you. He said he’d be learning more magic things, so when he came back he’d be able to give me wings.”

Teki bit her lip. She wondered what he would’ve said, had he managed to get to her before they sent him off. She thought of the day of the Games, hidden away in the healer’s tent.

I don’t want you to marry my brother.

Next to her, Brant inhaled.“Teki?” he asked slowly, as if he were afraid to put the thought to words.“Do you think you could maybe marry Prince Loki instead?”

There was a lump in her throat as she pushed his bangs out of his face. “No,” she sighed. “It has to be Thor.” Saying out loud only made the cords around her heart pull tighter.

“I like Loki better,” he whispered, barely a breath.

Teki stared into the nighttime shadows. “So do I.”

Suddenly, Brant grinned through the darkness. "We could run away!” he hissed excitedly. “Prince Loki says there's secret tunnels all over Yggdrasil. We could go through one and meet Loki in Vanaheim!"

"Brant." She hadn't heard that one before, but it sounded like something the prince would tell her brother. Teki felt very tired. "That's just a story. They're aren't any secret tunnels."

"Yes there are! He told me where— I put them on my map!" He sat up, readying to crawl off the bed. "I'll show you!"

Teki pulled him back. She wished she had his steadfast belief in everything-- in magic wings and secret tunnels and happily ever after. As it was, all she could do was hold him closer. "It wouldn't work," she said. "They'd follow us and take us back. It wouldn't work."

For a moment, Brant seemed completely deflated, but then he perked up once again. “If I change my wish, do you think he could make it happen?” he asked excitedly. “Instead of the wings?”

Something about his face, the way hope seemed to radiate from his smile, crushed her even more.

“No,” she whispered. “Nothing’s going to change.”

…

The next week was less of a continuous period of time and more like a string of actions that looped over and over again. She dressed. She played piano for Frigga. She picked halfheartedly at her food. She waited for Thor to ask her to dance, then waited for him to move on once he had. She fell asleep to the empty throbbing of her heart.

Rinse and repeat.

Sometimes at night, she’d  pull Loki’s dagger from its sheath and stared at her reflection in the polished blade, running her hands over the golden snakes on the hilt and wondering what he was doing. He had said he had always wanted to study in Vanaheim. She wondered if he was enjoying it. She hoped he was. Somehow, the thought that he was just as miserable worlds away from her as she was here made Teki feel even worse.

Her mother tolerated her gloom for a bit, but by the end of the week it was clear she was ready to move on.

“I had an idea!” she announced one day after barging into her room without warning. Teki had barely any time to shove the dagger into her nightstand drawer, but luckily her mother didn’t seem to notice her scrambling. “You know those little white cakes you love, that they make for the Winter Festival? I was thinking that perhaps we could convince the chefs to make an early batch. We’re nearing fall after all, and I can’t imagine that they’d refuse a request from the Crown Prince’s bethrothed!”

Teki mumbled a nondescript reply. Speaking to her mother—even looking at her—had suddenly become one of the most difficult tasks throughout the day. She avoided it when she could.

“Or, perhaps the three of us could take a day trip to the countryside! Remember that little cove we visited when Brant was a baby?”

When Teki didn’t even bother to answer this time, her mother huffed indignantly. “Tekla, I am trying here. You can’t just sit and mope in your bedroom forever.”

“Why did you marry Osvald?” Teki asked suddenly. It had been a question that had clung to her like a shadow for the last few days, Loki’s words rattling in her head. Your mother had a plethora of other options. Why Osvald? Of all people?

For a moment, her mother was stunned into silence. She laughed nervously. “Well, your stepfather and I met, and we got along very well, and we felt that we liked each other very much—”

“I don’t believe you.” The Teki of last month—the Teki of last week—would have fainted at the thought of such bitter words, but now she didn’t even flinch.

Her face darkened into a deep scowl. “What do you mean you don’t believe me?”

She should’ve stopped there, but the simmering resentment that had been bubbling within her for so long had just found a vent.

“Why did you really marry him?” she snapped. “What did he do to get you to marry him?”

“Stop!” her mother snapped. “I’ve had enough of this from you! You’ve had your time to sulk, now we have appearences to maintain.” She stormed from the room, only pausing briefly in the doorway to spit one threat. “If you won’t listen to me, then perhaps you should have a talk with your stepfather.”

The door slammed as she left. Teki sat in silence as the vibrations echoed in her eardrums. She had the sudden urge to scream—just to scream, at the top of her lungs until the windows shattered and the very foundations of the palace shook—but she swallowed it.

…

It came to a head the next day. She had just taken Brant for a walk in the gardens—his idea, as he insisted that looking at flowers always made people feel better. It had been sweet sentiment, and Teki tried her best to smile for him as they strolled past the lake, hoping that her brother didn’t realize that the sparkling water only reminded her more of Loki.

When they returned to their apartment, Osvald was waiting just inside. His cold glare immediately screamed trouble, but it wasn’t until she realized what it was that he was holding that Teki’s chest turned to ice.

“I found your little hiding spot.” His voice was low and dangerous as he tapped her father’s journal against his other hand.

Teki didn’t say anything. She watched the journal swing up and down against his palm, hypnotized by the soft beat of worn leather against skin. Besides her, Brant whimpered, gripping her hand more tightly. She didn’t move. Something kept her frozen in place, but it wasn’t the usual chill of fear. No, a single thought broke through the fog in her mind as she watched her only physical memory of her father dance in Osvald’s hands.

How dare you.

“You stole from us,” he continued. “You went through your mother’s things and you stole from us.”

“I didn’t steal anything.” She felt Brant stiffen at her words. You didn’t talk back to Osvald. They both knew this. They both knew what would happen if you did. But the fire blazing within burned through her caution.

Osvald was seemed taken aback by her bitterness, but he recovered quickly. “No?” He stalked closer to her, waving the journal in her face. “You’re lying to me now? Is this what I’ve raised? A filthy, lying little thief?”

“I didn’t steal anything,” she repeated. Every instinct in her body was screaming at her to drop her gaze, but she held her glare into his glittering eyes. How dare you. “That book is my father’s. It belongs to me.”

His scowl deepened. “I am your father. And I will not tolerate this behavior—”

“You’ll never be my father.”

She cried out when his fist crashed into her abdomen, doubling over as pain exploded across her ribcage and air rushed from her mouth. Her stepfather grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her backwards, slamming into the door. Colors splashed across her vision as her head smacked against the wood. Before she could completely lose her balance, Osvald yanked her up by the front of her dress.

“You think you’re tough, don’t you?” he hissed, throwing her back to the floor. Somewhere in the background, Brant was sobbing. “Brave little bitch.” His boot collided with her chest. Teki’s pained scream almost drowned out the sickening crack from her ribs. His foot came down again.

Her chest was on fire.  

Teki coughed as she struggled to shield her abdomen, the taste of blood metallic and heavy on the back of her throat. He kicked her again, crashing against her lower back. When she gasped for her next breath, it felt like burning coals rushing down her airways.

“You never seem to learn, do you?” he snapped. She braced herself for the next blow, but instead her stepfather cursed.

Painfully, she craned her neck just enough to see her little brother pulling at Osvald’s arm.  “Stop it!” he cried, tears running down his cheeks. “Get away from her!”

No—

Teki fought to get up but her limbs weren’t working properly, everything was throbbing, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe—

Brant shrieked in pain, a horrible screech that cut Teki to her very core. The room shook as a body hit the floor, Osvald growling words that she couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart.

Get away him from Brant—get him away from Brant—

Her brother lay lifeless on the ground, Osvald towering over him like some malevolent spirit about to feast. Teki wasn’t sure how she made it to her feet, but once she did, she flung herself at her stepfather with the last shreds of strength she could muster.

He must not have been expecting her to move, because when she collided with him her meager effort was enough to send both of them tumbling to the ground. Her body howled as they hit the hard wood. She had barely enough time to gulp for air before Osvald had her pinned to the floor.

“Is that the game you want to play, you fucking cunt?” he snarled, his hand a vice around her neck. Teki thrashed against his grasp, but he only pounded her head against the floorboards. “Is this what you fucking wanted?”

She couldn’t breathe. Teki clawed at his hand in a panic as she battled for air, scanty gasps that were rewarded with a tighter grip.

She couldn’t breathe!

“Please!” she choked as his wild eyes bored into her. Her vision was going white around the edges. “Please!”

Osvald didn’t budge.

He’s going to kill me.

Tears flooded the corners of her eyes, running down the sides of her head.

Dead dead dead dead dead dead—

Please! she screamed in her head, for her voice no longer worked. Please! Mama! Norns! Somebody!

But it was only Osvald, panting down at her with eyes as black as Hel—

I don’t want to die!

Only Osvald, sneering mouth twisted in laughter because he knew no one else was coming—

… please …

But there was nothing. Even her stepfather dissolved into a million bits of sparkling glitter as Teki faded away into the white abyss.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Thank you, I hope I won't be too much of a bother! I was looking into various sources looking for the answers but found none and in the end I got even more confused. And you seem to be much more relatable because of your relationship with Joker since I have my f/o too and I consider him very attractive... But when it comes to real people it's not appealing in the slightest for me. People are always like: oh no, I haven't had sex in a year, I don't know how much longer I can stay like that and when I hear it it's simply ridiculous for me. Personally I haven't had sex since the day I was born and I'm in mid-20s and I literally never felt the need to meet with someone for that? No offence to people who do, everyone has their lives but for me it's like they're being dramatic, I completely can't relate. Everything is always about sex and people keep talking about how important it is and how everyone needs it and how abstinence is so difficult but it's really not. I mean, I realize the urges my body has but I don't think I'd want to get intimate with another person in real life. But when it comes to my f/o I wouldn't hesitate a second lol! Could it mean I'm being asexual or just not participating in this kind of life. Those were supposed to be questions but apparently there's only one, anyways. What is your opinion?

Hello, nonnie!🥰🥰💖

First of all, I want to apologise for the fact that it’s been a while since you sent this in, and I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting so long for a response!!!💗 Secondly, you’re very welcome and you’re never a bother! My inbox is always open to anyone who wants to vent or ask for advice (hell, even give advice if the need strikes!) or ask for comfort or anything hasdfghjkl thank you so much for reaching out before sending this in, I really appreciate the consideration!💝 Hopefully my response contains something you need to hear, and I really am so sorry that it’s so late!💘

I’m so sorry that research only gave you more questions than what they answered.😩 Sexuality is a very subjective thing and there are many nuances within it because it’s fluid, which means that one person’s experience won’t fully align with someone else’s. While that’s wonderful, it also makes searching for answers feel like pulling teeth, and I’m so sorry that you only got more confused!😔 I want you to know and to remember that you’re valid, no matter what!💜

To be quite honest, I identify with everything you’ve said here and I see a lot of myself in your ask. When I was in school, I used to have the mentality of “if you’re not [character], then don’t look at me. Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me. Leave me alone, I’m not interested”, and that should have been my tip off that I was not only asexual, but aromantic, too. I didn’t work it out until I was eighteen, though, and I’ve never been happier.🥰 Whenever I heard people at work say, “I haven’t had sex for [amount of time], I feel like I’m gonna [exaggeration here]”, I used to have to stop myself from eye-rolling, because it just seemed so ridiculous and I didn’t understand what they were so hooked up on, so I do understand darling and I agree!!! It feels to me like people who say these things are being dramatic too, though I do have to actively remind myself that not everyone feels the way that I do and I try to have an open mind about it. Just because it’s not my thing, doesn’t mean it’s not someone else’s. It’s a struggle, though, because like you, I just don’t relate at all and it’s really hard for me to understand where people are coming from. I always imagine it to be like craving chocolate cake every single day until you just want it... but you’re not able to eat some at the moment so you just keep wanting it, and the craving intensifies. That’s how I envision it (because I’d rather have cake than sex any day of the week) though I may be wrong, because I’ve never experienced sexual attraction towards someone who wasn’t fictional before.

I feel the same way that you do - my body has its urges but in real life, I would never want to be intimate with someone else, and that’s okay! You’re valid, angel, and there’s nothing wrong at all with wanting to have that with your F/O. I’m the same way - I’d have sex with Joker in a heartbeat if he asked me (because consent is sexy) but in real life, I once climbed out of a bathroom window to avoid the same scenario! (That’s not a joke - I did actually do that.😂 He was trying to coerce me into what I’d already said no to, so I excused myself to the bathroom and left.) So I do understand, and I think that in the end, you’re the only one who can say whether you’re asexual or not. It could be that you’re demi-sexual, wherein sexual attraction to an individual requires an emotional connection, but remember that sexuality is fluid so it might be different from one day to the next. It’s a spectrum, not neat little boxes, and the beauty of it is that you get to decide! My opinion on this is based on the fact that I relate so much to the things you’ve discussed with me here so for that reason, I would say you’re asexual.

Either way, my love, you’re valid and I hope that you’re safe and well, and that something here was helpful to you! I’m sending you lots of love!💖💖💖

[menalez]

Hey... So, I'm thinking back to one of the comments I left on the post where I was poking fun at those degenerate freaks that have been spamming your page. For some reason tonight, I started thinking about my mom and one way she'd help me and my little sister to keep warm in the winters when we had to walk to school. We'd heat up some microwavable burritos and put them in our pockets to help keep us warm on our walk to school. It wasn't terribly far, but thinking about this made me sad for some reason. I remember it was hard on my mom not to be able to drive because of her epilepsy. I'm sure if she could, she wouldn't have made us walk in such cold temperatures like we had no other choice than to do.

I know mom struggled a lot to take care of us and I still remember the nights she would be crying because of how difficult it was to be a poor single mom with a disability. She had to depend on a disabled people's bus system or the generosity of her own family and few friends to transport her places, whether they be doctor appointments or even just to get groceries. And then I remember when she would get us cheap pizza or take us out to eat at a low-cost buffet near our house. She didn't have to do that, but she did... And I know it wasn't anyone's fault that we were in this sort of a position, but my heart still hurts thinking about all of this. I wish there was a way I could pay my mom back in the way that she deserves. Yes, she was physically and psychologically abusive to a dangerous degree at times, but she wasn't like that all the time. And I know a lot of that came from the frankly unusually high levels of trauma that she and her sisters suffered during their childhoods until they each got married. They were in a cult. It was crazy...

...Anyways, this is all to say that I feel awful about saying my mom is dead in my own heart, because that's such a terribly ungracious thing to say. It's complicated for me to keep a connection with my mom seven years after I left home, but I thank God (or whoever) for every single moment that my mom is still alive on this earth. She may have messed up a lot, but she still did her damndest to take care of her babies. Dad did his share too sometimes, and I know the contributions of both my parents I will never truly get a complete grasp on (for all the goodness and sometimes abuse/neglect involved), but I love them both all the same. I'm so glad to still have them both in my life to one degree or another.

Sorry to trauma dump in your inbox. I just wanted to say something because what I said feels pretty fucked up now that I look back on it..

[You can post this or not. It doesn't matter to me. I just wanted to get this off my chest.]

first of all thank u for sharing ur story,, im so sorry u and ur sister went thru that. i have different experiences in many ways, but i can relate to some of what you said about your mom. my mom can also be abusive in many ways, luckily her physical abuse was very minimal and she stopped that a long time ago and shes much better now. and while the way she treated my sister n i has affected us n hurt us, i also still have a lot of love for her and know she went through a lot of difficulties and struggles that i can’t even imagine going through. my dad had some issues as well but i feel like, its really hard for someone to not have some love for their parents. and also its hard not to empathise with them and want to justify them to urself even when u know u cant. 

i don’t think being upset with your mom and saying shes dead to you is fucked up if she’s also mistreated you and been abusive, so i hope you’re not being hard on yourself either. i don’t blame you for feeling that way at all. parents can love their children and still do unjustifiable things to them.

also theres no need to apologise! if anyone wants to share anything with me, please feel free. im always open to listening and helping in any way i can! + stuff like this compels me to reflect onto myself and my own experiences. and if someone wants to talk to me privately, im not good at responding to dms but i will try to remember to and im more than happy to be there for you if you just need someone or just want to vent or even just say absolute nonsense. 

[rebelsandtherest]

(Un)civil part 2

A FACE-family-centric (heavily centered around the North America twins) retelling of the American Civil War, told in 28 parts through anecdotes, letters, and telegraphs. Rated for language, themes of and depiction of death, other dark historical themes.

FF.net  |  Ao3

Tumblr: Part 1

------------

Part 2:

November 7, 1860, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania One day after the 1860 Presidential election.

------------ 

It had all started with headaches. That had been years ago, though Alfred couldn't really remember exactly how many years it'd been. The headaches had come and gone, as so many things did, and he hadn't thought much of them. The life of a nation was a maelstrom of tiny ills that emerged and resolved at the turn of the wind. Sure, Alfred moaned about his sore head to Buchanan, and to Matthew, and really anyone else who would listen, but he never really thought about their cause. He'd just needed space to vent.

Then, they'd started to happen every day. Then they'd gotten worse. At one point, he'd lay in bed for nearly seventeen hours with all the curtains drawn and candles snuffed just to make sure he wouldn't vomit. He'd tried everything. Medicines, tonics, laudanum. He'd tried changing his diet and drinking more water, less water, more beer, less beer. He'd replaced all his pillows and forsaken wearing a tie for a week just to see if it would help. The only thing that particular experiment had accomplished was earn him reprimands from half a dozen senators affronted by his being under-dressed.

Migraines notwithstanding, he tried to function as normally as he could, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. The headaches began to affect him in different ways: confusing his memory, impairing his speech, making him think one thing but say another. He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Then he'd started losing time. He'd wake up at dawn in his nightshirt, go to wash his face, and suddenly he was fully dressed and sitting with foreign ministers at the White House, halfway through lunch with the sun high overhead and no memory of anything that had happened between for the last six hours.

He wished he had someone else to confide in, but he didn't know what he would've said. "Yes I'm very sorry Mr. President," he tried to imagine saying to James Buchanan, the great lump of a bachelor who'd been occupying the Oval Office for the last four years, "I know you're very busy and have a lot on your plate, but you wouldn't happen to have any idea why I keep waking up in the middle of doing something without knowing where I am, how I got there, or what I've been doing for several hours of my life?"

Not knowing who or what to turn to, Alfred did what Alfred was incredibly good at doing: he ignored the problem and hoped it would disappear on his own. In his defense, this was how many ills resolved among nations. Economy given you the sniffles? Wait it out. Bad crops giving you arthritis? Take it easy for a while. Massive storms give you a cold? Sleep it off.

Unfortunately, by the time the presidential election rolled around, this passive approach had had done nothing but grow a giant bezoar of worry in the pit of Alfred's stomach, a truth that he'd refused to acknowledge for months.

"It's getting worse," he confronted himself in the mirror, glaring into his own tired eyes. "You're getting worse, and you don't even know what the hell it is."

Then, something strange happened. Alfred's reflection moved, while Alfred himself stood still. It glared at him hard and its eyes seemed to darken, from sky blue to a churning Gulf indigo. Then, it snarled back its lips and began to speak.

"Yes you fucking do," said the reflection in a deep drawl. It sounded tinny and muffled as if trapped behind glass. "You know exactly what's wrong, Yankee Boy."

Startled beyond comprehension, Alfred drew back a fist and punched. The mirror cracked into dozens of shards, and while a few tinkled onto the ground, those that remained reflected Alfred's expression back at him in a mosaic of horror. He stood there, heart pounding, breathing heavy, bleeding fist drawn back at the ready.

That was the first, but certainly not the last time that Alfred encountered what he dubbed The Other in the days leading up to the general election. The Other was, as far as Alfred could tell, his own reflection, but it was not him. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it scared him shitless. He removed all the mirrors from his life, and fixed his hair and his tie blind each morning. He still caught glimpses of his reflection in dark windows at night, the glare on his own glasses, tepid ponds, and puddles after rain. He couldn't avoid it all, but he could try.

Alfred had always hated the idea of magic. It wasn't that he didn't believe in magic, despite what he told others, and whatever else Arthur assumed. Alfred Jones knew in his bones that magic was real—after all, what was he?—but it was easier to lie to himself. Acknowledging the truth drudged up unpleasant memories that he wished desperately to forget. New England had been a starved, angry, and superstitious place, back then. There hadn't been any witchcraft at work when their children died and General Winter stole their animals, but there'd been enough fear and anger to expedite their children's eternally-young playmate from the witchfinder's prison to the hangman's noose. That had been the first time Alfred had ever died. He'd been too small to hang quickly; it'd taken nearly an hour. He'd very nearly died a second time clawing himself out of the shallow grave two days later. He'd spat up soil for days, and vowed to never again be called a witch.

It seemed as though the witches had found him. It'd only taken a few hundred years for them to track him down.

"You can feel it coming, can't you?" The Other's voice had begun to follow him in recent days, a waking nightmare stalking his thoughts. "You know what will happen." He could practically feel the noose tightening around his neck again, and he tore at the knot of his tie.

Alfred knew by now that he had to tell someone, but who? Buchanan? The man was about to leave office, and anyway, he'd never particularly liked Alfred or understood what he was. Did he dare write to Matthew? To Arthur, even? Would they think he was crazy? Would they interpret it as weakness, insanity? Relations with the Empire were already tenuous enough, and he knew Matt was growing wary of him, what with all the western expansion. He hadn't spoken to any of the other nations in eons, and he couldn't possibly reveal his plight to foreign powers without inviting some kind of trade war or invasion.

It wasn't until the day after the election that the headaches and the blackouts and The Other coalesced into a new, all-encompassing reality. They'd only just begun tallying votes, and the College wouldn't be summoned to Washington for weeks, but Alfred knew. He felt it in his bones. He, Alfred Jones, was happy, but there was a boiling rage festering in his stomach that rose up through his throat, past his nose and into his brain like boiling champagne.

"I will not be lorded over by bleeding-heart abolitionists," growled the Other.

This time, the words weren't in his head. Alfred was saying those words, speaking that drawl. Alfred's own throat was rumbling around the hatred, Alfred's lips drawing back to bare Alfred's teeth. As if in a dream, his feet carried him to the window. In the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, he could just barely see his own reflection, translucent and furious.

"I will keep what is mine."

Alfred's vision started to go dark, head feeling fuzzy, and he began to wonder how long The Other had been doing this without his knowing. He wondered if this was the reason for the lost time, the migraines, everything else. He wondered at what point he'd would've still had time to tell someone, or if it'd always been too late. His hands moved without his accord and clenched into fists so tight he wondered if the nails would draw blood.

"You can burn for all I care."

---------------------

Historical notes:

1. Laudanum was a tincture (medicine steeped in liquid solution) of opium. It was widely prescribed for pain, depression, mental instability, etc. I know this sounds kind of ludicrous now, but just try to imagine treating your everyday ills without over the counter pain medications like Tylenol. Now imagine trying to treat clinical depression or anxiety without any understanding of psychology or access to antidepressants. People used what they had available—in this case, lots of opium. For context, Aspirin would not be synthesized until 1899.

2. One of the reasons Lincoln’s victory in 1860 was so controversial to southerners is that Lincoln didn’t even appear on the ballots of some states. Most of the states that excluded him from the ballot were also the states that would later succede from the Union. That alone illustrates how much Southerners as a whole disliked Lincoln before the election even began. Of course, it was nothing compared to what would come after. 

3. The College referred to here is the Electoral College, which is the United States’ method of selecting presidents. Unlike many modern democracies, the United States Presidential election is not determined by popular vote. Rather, each state is awarded a certain number of votes to cast in each election. The number of electors in each state corresponds to the number of senators and representatives from that state in Congress. While each state has just two senators, the number of House representatives per state are ostensibly determined by a state’s population, but there are a lot of problems in the modern distribution. Most states (not all—Maine and Nebraska being exceptions) cast all available electoral votes for one candidate, and which candidate those votes go to is (supposed to be) reflective of the state’s popular vote.

In this particular election, 1860, there was incredible dissent after the apparent popular-vote victory of Lincoln, so much so that some feared the College might not ever be assembled in Washington to officially record their votes necessary to elect him president.

[teaandatale]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @geekynerddemon​

You asked for some of my long lost fic, so I dug around in my unpublished fic files to the first Steggy fic I ever wrote back in 2015. I never was able to finish it, and the writing didn’t ever feel quite up to snuff to post, so it’s sat shelved the past five year (wow, it’s been five years?). So enjoy a dusted off two excerpts from my first foray into all things Steggy. For some context, this means it was written prior to a lot of what we’ve come to know in the MCU, with mostly an emphasis on CATFA and season 1 of Agent Carter.

Untitled 1949 Steggy Fic

Premise: In the early days of SHIELD, recently moved to a D.C. headquarters, Steve Rogers is found, alive, four years after being presumed dead. Steve finds it difficult to transition back to the life of living. Peggy lives a busy life as a Director of SHIELD, and having said her goodbye to Steve on the Brooklyn Bridge some years past, she finds reconciling his return harder than she imagined. There’s a new power dynamic, the logistics of bringing back a presumed dead person, and enough emotions to cause anyone’s temper to boil.

In sum, Steve and Peggy are idiots at dealing with their feelings, when they should be rejoicing in having a second chance. And of course, it’s not the 1940s without Howard Stark causing some drama.

Keep Reading Below The Cut For Two Scenes

*Scene 1:

"I think I want to stay here for a while." Steve interrupts Howard's stream of plans.

"Rogers, you've been wanting fresh air. Come on, a nice restaurant, some drinks, some music, you'll feel much better."

"I want to talk to Peggy some more."

Howard sighs. "You might be waiting a while."

Steve didn't budge. "Not as long as I made her wait."

"Alright. Fine." Howard reaches in his pocket for a card and scribbles on the back of it. "Come by my place whenever you're ready. If you need a ride or can't get a hold of me call Jarvis at this number."

"Thanks Howard."

"Don't mention it. Good luck."

Steve stays down in one of Stark's labs for a while, reading some of the files and news articles about all the things he's missed since he went down in the plane. Stark's secretary is helpful, quiet, and kind about answering some of his pressing questions about SHIELD and as subtly as he can about Director Carter. It's about six when she informs him that Peggy's returned to her office, catching up on her paperwork. He thanks her for all her help and slips upstairs where the desks and workstations are quiet. Only a few Agents are left on shift but he sees the light on in Peggy's office, files sprawled atop her desk on both sides of her typewriter. Steve walks over and stands quietly in her open doorway as he waits for her to appear from behind the file she’s reading.

"Were the accommodations not to your liking?" Peggy asks without lifting her head from the file. When Steve doesn't answer right away she sets the file down and looks up at what she reads as surprise on Steve's face. "It's been a while I admit, but I quite remember the sound of your gait, Captain Rogers. I hope you don't expect you can easily sneak up on a Director of an intelligence agency.”

"I wasn't trying to sneak up on you." Steve says and takes a seat in a chair near the doorway, pushing it to the left enough so that Peggy is right in his line of sight. He revels in her brown eyes meeting his, willing her to not look away.

Peggy indulges him for a few moments before picking up her file and then a pen. "You didn't answer my question. Is Stark's offer not suitable? Other arrangements can be made."

"I appreciate Stark allowing me to stay with him." Steve replies.

Peggy raises an eyebrow. "And yet you are still here."

Steve shrugs with a small smile and bright blue eyes she so constantly reminisced over the years. "As are you Director."

 She snorts. "Yes, well some of us have paperwork to finish."

 "I can wait," he says and pulls out the day's newspaper from his back pocket and starts to read before Peggy can protest.

She bites her lip and watches him for a moment, studying the concentration in his eyes. He looked more comfortable now that he was in a more substantial outfit: khaki slacks and a plain white button up over his white undershirt. It made his presence in her office more real. Steve Rogers, alive from the dead, and refusing to vacate SHIELD to read a newspaper in her office. The itch she felt in the morning was eating her alive again.

Peggy had no desire to kick him out, even if she didn't particularly want him watching her fill out paperwork for the next several hours. She wanted to know exactly why he wasn't out enjoying his freedom with Howard. She wanted to punch him and hug him. And oh, how it made her heart tighten. Instead she continues working diligently in the quiet room, filled with only the occasional sound of him sifting through the paper and her pen scratching.

She makes it through another half an hour before she doesn’t have the heart or the will to keep him at arm's length anymore. He was clearly, for some unknown reason, determined to stay in her company.

She sets her pen down with a sign. "Have you at least had dinner yet?"

Steve immediately looks up at her. "No ma'am."

She purses her lips at his formal address but says nothing.

"Not quite ready for loud, showy fine dining with Howard?" Peggy muses.

"The last thing I can remember eating, outside of the food here, were rations," Steve replies while rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Peggy can’t help but smile. "I think you'll rather enjoy going back to a full menu. You'll finally be able to eat as much as your improved metabolism requires."

Steve blushes gently at that, realizing that she had been aware of his eating habits during the war. Thinking back, he can remember Peggy handing off extra rations whenever she possibly could. Peggy always did know him well.

"It was fine." Steve was never one to ask for more.

"Well we can't have you starve. Are you committed to staying in this office or just by my side?"

Steve flushes again but as she was looking directly at him he did not back down from accepting what she was offering. "Some place quiet?"

"Some place quiet," Peggy agreed with a nod. We'll need to find you a coat. Maybe a hat."

 *Scene 2:

Steve is lying in his bed the next day, moping, when Ana gently knocks at his door announcing that he has a dinner guest. He is surprised to see Peggy standing in the front room given their last interaction. He barged into her office and when he wasn't getting the response he wanted he was rude to Peggy. To Peggy. Who has always been his ally. His friend. The shame crept in again.

"Hello, Steve." Peggy is smiling. The confusion on his face must show because she continues. "I took the night off," she explains.

Ana suggests they head to the lounge in the guest wing and then rushes away to the kitchen for dinner. Steve leads the way, opening the door for her and then belatedly asking to take her coat. As she shrugs out of it he adds her blue and red dress to his mental inventory.

"I hear you came in rather late last night," Peggy says. "How far did you run?"

Steve shrugs. "I'm not sure. I think about fifteen miles out and fifteen back. I needed it though."

 "I understand." She’s still smiling easily.

They sit in armchairs across from each other.

"Peggy, I would like to apologize for my behavior last night. I was upset and I took it out on you. You did not deserve that."

Peggy shakes her head. "Steve, you've had one hell of a week. An actually life changing week. I know you're still adjusting." Her voice is just as he remembers its being. Strong and assuring.

"It's just- I'm so frustrated! And I don't mean to be.".

Ana knocks on the door and quietly places cups of tea on the table. And then they are alone. Peggy gestures to the table. Once they sit behind their plates Peggy reaches her hand out to touch Steve's arm. He feels the hair in the spot she touches shoot up, warmth spreading through him. "Steve, tell me what's been keeping you frustrated." He feels his eyes water but his heart lighten. And Peggy keeps her hand steady on him for a few long moments.

They talk long after their plates have emptied, Steve's for the second time. He vents his frustrations of feeling like a man out of place, not content to not being able to rely on his own resources. She listens raptly so he continues. They move back to the armchairs and Steve asks her a lot of questions and she answers all of them. He's been piecing together information from what he's read or overheard that it is nice to finally hear the full story from a reliable source.

The only thing Steve leaves untouched is Peggy herself. He can't get himself to ask about her personal life. Nor does it feel appropriate to bring up the date he missed, the one he was desperate for now. Besides how could he ask for more when his best girl is sitting so close to him right now.

It's hours later when Peggy stands suddenly from her chair but Steve doesn't even have a chance to be disappointed. "Oh, I brought you something. I'll be right back."

 "Can I bring you another cup of tea? Or a drink?"

She smiles at him so warmly. "Tea would be lovely, Steve."

Peggy is already back in the Lounge when Steve comes back with the tray of tea and dessert.

She arches an eyebrow. "Is that all for you or am I allowed a piece?"

Steve blushes. "I brought it for you."

She laughs, amusement filling her face. "I'm teasing Steve. Although I do remember you having a bit of a sweet tooth." She grabs an eclair and urges him to try one. He's mesmerized by the chocolate left at the edge of her lips and the way her tongue pokes out to clear it all in a flash.

She puts a plain box onto his lap and leans forward. "I'm sorry it took a while, but I finally managed to get most of your belongings back. We managed to save the contents of your footlocker, the Howlies and I, before they cleared it out, but then things like your dress uniform were sent back to the U.S. Army. Other than your suit and shield, which Howard has locked safe, I think I brought most of it."

Steve opens the lid careful, fingers gently carding over the top of his personal belongings as his eyes took inventory. A few photos, of him and Bucky. His dog tags. A makeshift sketchbook he flipped through, with a picture of a dancing monkey tucked inside. There's an old Captain America comic he only kept because Bucky and the boys wrote dumb jokes and sketches into the margins. He looks through it all until he comes to the compass he assumed had been lost. He flicks it open, glad to see the photo of Peggy was only a little worn, studies it for a moment and immediately put it in his pocket for safe keeping. Peggy herself had been drinking her tea looking resolutely away in some semblance of privacy.

[plumrabbit]

I saw your comment about dealing with Trumpers. Do you have any advice for family members who truly believe they're on the side of good by supporting him? I'm especially torn up about someone who I believe is being taken advantage of due to lifelong social factors & her trusting nature. It's really difficult to unpack & it would be nice if there were a support group for this. I don't want to bother anyone but I need help too. I'm committed, I just shake during convos like these & it's draining.

Hello, and thank you for reaching out! Sorry it took a while to respond, I wanted to come up with something relatively comprehensive. Putting the rest under a cut as this is long!

I am so sorry you are dealing with this in your life, and you’re right, it is totally draining. The fact that these confrontations make you shake is significant because it means your fight or flight response has kicked in - your brain has told your body you are in imminent danger. Here is some info on this response, if you can understand it and how it affects you, you can start searching for ways to manage its debilitating effects, and make difficult conversations less stressful. 

Don’t worry about feeling like you’re being a bother, I am happy to help as much as possible, though I can only speak from my own experiences. I unfortunately cannot say I know of any support groups, but I imagine there would be some on Facebook, and you may also have luck asking somewhere like reddit.com/r/trumpgret. You’re right, it is a ton to unpack, and every Trump supporter is motivated by different factors, but at their core, they’re all relatively similar in that Trump is appealing to something in their psychology. Like I mentioned, I can only really speak from experience, so I’ll tell you what has worked for me. As a disclosure, these were people that only supported Trump, and had some ignorant views based on the false information he’s been spreading. This doesn’t apply to e.g. people that rat out undocumented immigrants to ICE, capitalist bootlickers, neo Nazis, etc. I usually advocate for non-violence, but you can punch those people in the face for all I care.

First and foremost, the main thing I’ve always kept in the back of my mind when dealing with Trump supporters is that at the end of the day, they’re also human. Humans are fallible, and our evolution as a social species has also made us so prone to mob mentality and blindly following others. There are a multitude of reasons as to why this occurs, but it tends to boil down to emotions, and not actual facts. From Wikipedia: “Herd mentality, mob mentality and pack mentality, describes how people can be influenced by their peers to adopt certain behaviors on a largely emotional, rather than rational, basis. When individuals are affected by mob mentality, they may make different decisions than they would have individually.”

It’s important to remember that how they are behaving is not necessarily who they truly are, and even though communicating with them may be difficult as a result, you have to forgive them for following herd mentality because they may feel pressured to believe certain ideas. It’s difficult, but compassion is a requirement for getting through to someone. 

If you’re having a discussion with the person you’ve mentioned and the topic of Trump comes up, the best way to establish a connection with them is to just listen. Acknowledge what they say by repeating it in a way that makes it clear that you are trying to understand their thought process. So many people respond by firstly stating their own perspectives, but this doesn’t show the other person that you are actually listening. Use this opportunity to find out what they are thinking, and remember what they said so you can analyze it later. I mentioned earlier that Trump supporters all tend to share certain psychological traits, and here are the studies, and the summary, that describe these traits in more detail. 

Figuring out which one(s) your family members could potentially be categorized in will help you understand what is going on inside their head, because you can do more research on that specific issue. What are they motivated by? What are they afraid of? Not only can you do research on their specific psychological traits, you can also find statistics that will refute their claims that they are using to justify their discrimination. That being said, bringing up objective facts can be difficult, because they are likely to not want to believe the hard evidence. Again, if you can coax them into a place where they are open to understanding the bigger issue, e.g. immigrants and crime (hint, statistical analyses show immigration does not increase crime), you can increase the chances of having a productive conversation with them. Another thing to be cognizant of is the language you are using. It’s very tempting to call Trump supporters things like “Trumpets” (and much worse), but this tends to make them tune out to anything else you may have to say. Again, remember that they are fallible humans that, while they may need guidance, also deserve to be treated with a basic level of respect. Along the same vein as language use, avoid using terms and phrases like “that’s wrong,” “you’re problematic/stupid/an asshole etc.,” (even if it’s true). It’s easy to respond emotionally because trying to get people to understand why what they believe is morally reprehensible means a lot to us, but you will have to fight that feeling. Preparing yourself with knowledge and strategies is the best way to combat the feeling of helplessness that causes the upset during discourse.

I guess a lot of it also boils down to getting them to listen to themselves. If you can guide them through their thought process, sometimes I find they start to realize what they say out loud doesn’t actually make sense. If that happens, it’s also important to not catch them in a “gotcha!” moment, even though it’s tempting, because they will feel ashamed and will likely shut down any further conversation. Listen, acknowledge, and make them realize you’re not going to shame them for their choices (you can vent privately to somebody you trust, but don’t take out your emotions on the person you are trying to get through to). At the end of the day, you want to change their mind, and if brute force doesn’t work, gentle guidance often does.  That’s all I can think of for now, I hope some of it is at least a little bit helpful! You’re welcome to continue this discussion, and let me know if you’d like me to respond privately in the future.

[daesungindistress]

You do know artists “retire” all the time and come back whenever? You do know you’re still pushing a false narrative of seungri just because you personally feel so betrayed from believing false media? Can you stop twisting words/purposefully misinterpreting for one sec and see it’s obvious the other 4 still support him?Where do you get off? Honestly you suffer from narcissism(google it please) and should probably get it looked at.

Oh, someone’s feisty! Alright, let’s go. *cracks knuckles*

False narrative? Please tell me what’s false about Seungri publicly announcing his retirement “because the issues I caused a societal disturbance with are too great.” About YG terminating his contract. About BB continuing on and making their comeback as four starting with Coachella next month. About their official promo materials portraying four members for the first time in their history. Not just on the Coachella website, on the YG website too. What part of this is false to you? All of this is real, all of this is true. But you, unable to adapt to changing circumstances, have barricaded yourself inside a world of your own making in which nothing has changed, not really, and everything will soon go back to the way it was. Newsflash: everything has changed and nothing will ever be the same. He did not “retire”, in quotations like he didn’t mean it, he retired. Actually, genuinely retired. Seungri bailed on BB and the industry, that really happened, and BB are going on without him, that’s really happening. To anyone with their head on straight it’s quite clear that he’s gone and the members are moving on. But yours seems to be duct-taped on backwards. No wonder all you can see is what we’re leaving behind.

It’s funny. You act like Seungri isn’t a competent, grown man who can make his own decisions about his career – and has! He made the decision to end it. Choosing not to believe the finality of it, which you are doing, doesn’t make it any less real or any less permanent. What you need to understand is that he did more than say goodbye to BB, he took it a step further – a big step further – and quit the industry. If he had any thoughts or hopes of coming back he would not have announced his retirement from entertainment, he would have pulled a Hanbin and left the group and left it at that – although even then, let me remind you no one in kpop has ever returned to their group after leaving. I think it’s safe to say Hanbin’s heart is still in music and we’ll be seeing him again someday, even if it’s not as a member of iKON. Seungri though… that’s a hard no.

Of course, it’s difficult to make this comparison due to the severity of their scandals being vastly unequal, which directly correlates to their chances of a successful return. I know you OT5/Seungri fans are stuck inside your own asses where I’m sure it’s all very warm and cozy and your precious trash panda isn’t regarded as one of the worst criminals in the history of kpop, but fact is… he’s regarded as one of the worst criminals in the history of kpop. And as if that wasn’t enough, his involvement in that chat, though he isn’t facing charges for it, is enough on its own to put his music career six feet under, which it did. It’s no coincidence that he retired the day that chat log went public. It’s time to face the music: Seungri can’t come back and he knows it.

But you poor thing, you’ve convinced yourself he wasn’t being serious when he made such a serious announcement. You think – oh, I see now. You think he was bullshitting when he broke everyone’s hearts and said he was out. You want that to be the case. How on earth is that any better? Wait, does that mean you’re cool with lies and manipulation? You must be if you’re still a fan of Seungri. Sorry, can’t relate.

Let me explain something to you. If you truly believe Seungri will come crawling back to the group after the immense amount of damage he’s single-handedly responsible for, the shame he’s brought to all of BB, the distrust he’s instilled in fans and non-fans alike re: the remaining members, the complete and utter disregard he’s shown for his hyungs’ well-meaning warnings, and the appalling lack of moral character he demonstrated the moment the mask came off… you haven’t been paying attention. You are not only turning a blind eye to the shitstorm he was at the center of last year (and still hasn’t found his way out of, in case you weren’t aware), you are also disregarding everything the BB members have been making sure we knew about him since late 2015. Which is that they expected him to leave – and they’d come to terms with it. It may even be that they wanted him to. Seungri’s days as a singer have been coming to a close for years as his interest in business gradually eclipsed his waning interest in music and his reasons for staying with BB for as long as he did became a source of tension. He was moving in a new and separate direction, one that was taking him away from them. BB knew this and they weren’t quiet about it. They made sure we knew it too. But you weren’t listening, were you. Now all their warnings to him have come true and you’re still not listening. What to do?

What’s more, please don’t tell me you actually think he’s going to stick his neck out there again and claw his way back up from the very bottom against the raging fires of hatred and disapproval and distrust, not just from the public but from BB’s own fanbase, to fight tooth and nail for a career he’d lost his passion for long before Burning Sun became an issue. He said in an interview that he had no plans to make a solo album, he was essentially pressured into it by fans. And in case you’ve forgotten, though his solo tour went well at first, it began falling apart shortly before he was swept up in Burning Sun. Cracks were forming, he was stressed and venting his frustrations in ways he shouldn’t have been, inciting unrest, turning fans against his boss and sparking inflammatory headlines and just generally making waves in a bad way. He bit off more than he could chew with that tour, and still greedy fans like you pulled on him for more, more, more. Burning Sun followed by the prostitution chats followed by the molka chats collectively became the straw that broke the camel’s back. Everything he touched crumbled and turned to dust. What makes you think he wants to try again? If it was hard then, it would be impossible now.

And it doesn’t end there. After almost a year of investigations (and probably another year of court proceedings to come) you really think he’s going to thrust himself back into the public eye? Live life under the microscope? He’ll be hounded endlessly, his every move scrutinized like never before. He would have to be on his absolute best behavior, never stepping out of line again… which he won’t do. In all his interviews last year it was clear that all he wanted was out. Out of the tight spot he’d found himself in, off the hook. He isn’t interested in changing his ways or the company he keeps off the clock. After seeing how he conducted himself when his and his friends’ crimes came to light (shameless, self-absorbed, too busy shielding himself and his criminal friends to breathe even a word of sympathy to their victims), returning to life as a public figure means he’ll probably end up in trouble again. You think he’s willing to risk that? I don’t. Better for him to live the life he likes out of the public eye where he and his buddies can enjoy that “shit Korean law” they bragged about without the media breathing down their necks.

Let’s talk about BB. By some miracle they made it through 2019 in one piece. Well… four banged up pieces that are working together to make a new whole. You think Seungri is going to subject them to more of his personal hell? After he’s put them and their legacy through the wringer already? He may have a big head and an ego to match, but he has always struck me as someone who is sharply aware of his standing among the other four. Obsessively so. He screwed up big time and he must know the members won’t stand for it, won’t stand for him, not with what everyone knows now. Are you forgetting how harshly they censured him when he had his first sex scandal? That was peanuts compared to this, yet the members took it so seriously that they moved in with him and babysat him. Alive!Seungri might have tolerated that, but the (ex)CEO Lee of 2020 would never endure that kind of micromanaging. Not a second time. He is too proud, too headstrong, in too deep with friends who stroke his ego and call him Boss. He is going his own way now, and so are the members of BB. His time with them is well and truly over. If you still don’t see this then you are only fooling yourself and setting yourself up for years of waiting that will culminate in nothing. Your fave is gone. Do like the rest of us and move on.

As for the members, sorry to burst your bubble but nothing they’ve done suggests that they’re taking him back or that they support him in the way you’re hoping. Any perceived “support” you think you’ve seen is merely a product of your own imagination driven by desperation and a paralyzing inability to cope with loss. It’s led you to make false connections and read coded messages that don’t exist. I suffer from narcissism? That’s a funny way of saying I’m well-adjusted enough to accept what’s happened and embrace what we still have, which is four accomplished artists with tremendous potential for more slowly recovering and resuming their careers in music after being dealt a crippling blow by one of their own. You, however, seem to be suffering from delusions stemming from your extreme and unhealthy emotional ties to a man you’ve never met and can’t bring yourself to let go of at any cost – even to the detriment of the group he left behind.

Seungri said it himself: BIGBANG will be BIGBANG without him. Though he said it years ago, this statement indicates that he felt he wouldn’t be with them forever, and he was confident that in his absence they would carry on as four. You’ll see soon enough that he was right.

PS. I promised I would make another OT4 edit for every OT5 ask I received, and I intend to keep that promise, so here you go, this is for you:

[ultimatefandomjumperhayden]

A letter from an insomniac

      More of just a thought dump really. When a human mind has decided that there are more important things than sleep, there is no way to prevent said mind from remaining active in thought and nuerotransmission. As one fidgets it becomes obvious that just laying around will only make for a boring 8 hours, why not do something productive. The problem with this becomes the sensory overload that one's brain can experience, further deepening the unrest.

      As you dive into rabbit holes of the deep internet to just occupy your busy mind. You end up researching whole essay topics while playing beat heavy music with simple lyrics to steady the thought process.As you research psychological disorders, serial killers, riddles, and even paradoxes, you sit and let the stream of information ease your mind. Your fidgeting lessens to a level that you now consider manageable. Now finding yourself on the inner monologue train of just thinking.

      I always try to write my thoughts directly from the brain because that yields the best result. Overthinking lowers the descriptiveness and honesty of writing as you overthink every letter and space. I find myself deciding to just...type. type what I think to share because that will give someone and inside look to my brain at night. Of course I never share such thoughts in such a successful manner under the sun because it becomes difficult. If your thoughts are over thought they sound unreal and for lack of better terms idiotic. I sometimes avoid punctuation as to not disrupt the thought flow.

      I can think like this for hours on end with no stopping as long as something runs in the background. Stories, thought, alternate futures presents and pasts. My mind is a universe upon itself that I can warp and shift how I want. For once I am the one in control. Nothing and nobody can touch me.

      As I sit at a place that feels like home, yet I feel unrest yet I think it is for a reason. There can be rest tomorrow for now exists and why wait. As I jump from planet to planet in my mind, writing full books, songs. Imagining the future near and far. Hoping tomorrow feels as good as today. As I'm sure you havent made it to this point it is mostly my own venting point.

      I'm not depressed, or anxious, I'm free. Free of parental chains and my own standards. Though I have a sense of unrest physically, I'm at peace. Among the music flowing through my mind and the words that are produced from and empty book, being written as quickly as I'm thinking. If I wanted I could make a whole world with only the power of my mind. A world just like ours, but 30 years in the future. A world where there are titans and faeries and mermaids. A world where we have all gone to hogwarts. A world where we all have magic. And though it isnt real, it is always there. I truthfully believe that there are so many possibilities in life that worrying is sometimes unnecessary, yet the human brain likes to think otherwise.

      All I can do is ease myself. I am better than what I believe, I am capable and talented and worth a damn whether others think so or not. I have made friends with the monsters in my closet and the demons under my bed. They have become friends that warn of troubles to come and I am not afraid to call them out when they are being irrational. I can laugh and smile and cry and scream and feel. And that is ok. I can be sad over this song, I can be happy about this memory, I can be angry at my parents because that is ok.

      And sometimes I dont feel and I just am. And that is ok because then I stay out of trouble. I'm not too loud, or a burden, or being irrational because I can be like that. I am just here and in a state of nothingness. A break from the rampant emotion of daily life. I often get so happy that I tire myself out. When I do nothing all day and feel nothing I can be up till 3 and awake at 8, but when I go and play and cry and laugh and scream I often fall asleep at 8 instead because I am tired. And it is in my states of nothingness that I find my moments of genius as the creative side of me joins with the analytic and all there is is thought. And if you are still listening then congratulations, I dont think you are still listening though. For I cant see why it's probably just bothering you and I am sorry. But I feel better. Like just pouring my thoughts out into a little purple message bubble made the unrest...rest. as i spew words like a rainbow fountain of youth my fidgeting slows and my emotions ease to a crawl. The beat slowly changes with the music and flows with my own heart beat like a boat along the river. As my thought process fluctuates with the music and I take moments to gather my brain waves. A new song to a new thought train.

      As I switch through realities I see different versions of myself that I want to be, some of them unattainable I see drawings of us that I wish I could draw, all of them in different styles.

      One version of myself I see with a pair of feathered wings that fade from a dark blue to a scarlet red as I fly and am free. I've always had an obsession with flying. The sense of freedom and passion as you feel the wind over your back and you holler into the wind and you swear you hear it respond to you. Like its calling you. Maybe that's how Icarus felt before flying too close to the sun.

      Another version of myself shifts into a wolf with fur that flows from dark gray to white in swirls. Being able to shapeshift has been another obsession for me since a young age. It made me feel strong and powerful. Like I could fight against everything I hated in this world and I would win. I felt powerful in a way I had been deprived of. I used to growl when I was angry, I still sometimes do. Being able to run with the speed and agility of a wolf has always peaked my interest, just barely feeling your feet hit the ground as you are pushed further forward. And if you saw someone in trouble, you had the ability to end it as peacefully as you needed to.

      I have always seen freedom and power as a luxury I am denied. Afraid to make my own choices as I never believed I truly had any. For if I did make a decision it was always wrong or selfish.

A Letter From An Insomniac: 1185 words.