#take whatever minuscule solace you can in that

[idkaguyorsomething]

hey what

(IMAGE ID: a screenshot from a Variety article reading “Disney’s Live-Action ‘Hercules’ Will Be ‘More Experimental’ and Inspired by TikTok, Says Producer Joe Russo”. The article is written by Adam B. Vary)

[ask-lord-morgarath]

Much Like I Scoff At Your Ineptitude

Greetings, subordinates! It seems that some of you fragile souls are struggling to maintain equilibrium in the face of life's minor inconveniences- most notably @eccevenitvulpes of the Tumblr realm, at whose request I penned this guide upon the methods of warding off anxiety attacks. Yes, I, Lord Morgarath of the Mountains of Rain and Night, shall graciously bestow upon you my unparalleled wisdom and restore a semblance of composure to your chaotic existence.

When you feel the first tendrils of anxiety creeping up on you like the desperate pleas of peasants begging for scraps, take a moment to breathe. This is something even a barnyard animal can manage; surely you can do it too. Inhale deeply through your nose, filling those puny lungs of yours, and exhale slowly through your mouth. Repeat until you regain a veneer of self-composure.

Now, you must realize that anxiety is nothing more than your feeble mind playing tricks on you. Summon whatever minuscule amount of willpower you possess and confront those absurd thoughts head-on. Question their validity. Are you truly in mortal danger, or are you just catastrophizing? If the solution befuddles you, rest assured it's the latter. Take a moment to scoff at your unease, much like I scoff at your ineptitude. Ridicule it for the pathetic excuse for fear that it is. Picture it as a sniveling coward groveling in the corner of your subconscious. Show it no mercy, for when does it ever show you any?

Turn your attention next to the matter of distraction. Attempt to muster enough cognitive function to divert your attention elsewhere. Find something, anything, to distract your brain from its downward spiral into panic. Count backwards from 100, recite the names of every dullard you've ever encountered, or envision yourself triumphing over your own incompetence.

If all else fails, seek solace in the company of others. No doubt there are fellow imbeciles with whom you may join forces and engage in mindless chatter, or better yet, in a group activity that requires minimal brainpower. Perhaps a game of chance, such as dice rolling or rock-leaf-swords, shall suffice to distract you from your mental irrationalities. Should you be unable to locate such associates, an animal will often provide better companionship than a human ever could.

In conclusion, my dear inferiors, warding off an anxiety attack is a simple matter of mustering the meager remnants of your intellect and taking basic actions to cut away the thorns attempting to strangle your ineffectual minds. Follow these steps faithfully, and perhaps you'll emerge from your next anxiety attack with a shred of dignity intact, or better yet, ward the anxiety off entirely.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Would u consider a prompt where Nesta has given in and agrees to training and helping them with shit blah blah and Cassian although concerned about Nestas sudden submission one night finds her crying and try’s to comfort her and she’s like absolutely not and is almost like afraid of him

I heard it’s Nessian week? Why not take some prompts!

She could feel him standing outside her door. Every night, she could feel him. Standing outside her door, not making a single movement. Prison guard or nervous teenage boy, who could tell the difference. It was the not knowing that terrified her. Was he out there sharpening a sword or ringing sweaty palms together.

Preparing to hurl insults or confessions?

Which did she dread more?

At least the insults were honest.

Nesta’s entire body froze when thick knuckles rapped so gently she would not have heard any noise with human ears. Quickly, she wiped her nose and dried her eyes on the sheets beneath her. Tucking fabric awkwardly under her hip to hide the water mark.

“The House already sent in dinner.”

“I figured. Can I come in?”

“You have made it very clear that you can do whatever you like when it comes to removing my freedoms. I don’t see why privacy would be any different.

Nesta swore the wood on the door separating them thickened about two feet inside of Cassian’s pause.

“I won’t open the door without your permission.”

How gallant. “Will you continue standing there until I let you in?”

“I-” Cassian paused. So unlike him, to be at a loss for words. “Let me come in this once and I will not return to your door unless invited.”

“Is that a bargain?”

Silence again.

“Just a promise. Unless-”

“Come in.” Nesta did not need any more of Cassian inked into her skin than she already had.

Nesta always felt so small in his presence. In every meaning of the word. Now, watching Cassian fuel his wings to step through her door, she felt positively minuscule in the middle of this massive bed that was the size of the entire cottage she lived in for years.

“Why do you cry?” The question was so ernest that Nesta almost softened.

“Why do you not?” She asked with genuine curiosity. “After all you have seen, the wars and pain. How do you not weep every day?”

Cassian stepped closer, hand twitching at his side. Nesta shifted farther back in the bed and he stopped. “Are you afraid of me?”

“I am afraid of never being free again.” The more time she spent with him the greater chance she said something to infuriate him and was made to start back at square one. This was a game of endurance.

“Because there is still so much to live for.” Cassian said quietly. “Because there is more good in this world than bad.” Nesta’s face made it clear that she did not agree. “Because the good is worth fighting for,” Cassian amended. “I do not cry over the bad because there is still good. Because … crying doesn’t change anything.” Ah. There it was.

“Perhaps it isn’t about changing.” What was so wrong with simply … feeling. Mourning.

“You feel as though we trapped you? That we are trying to force happiness on you.”

“Not happiness,” Nesta looked out over the Sidra, finding more solace in its nearly black depths than in his golden eyes. “Utility, I suppose would be a better word.”

“Purpose,” Cassian half growled.

“And what is your purpose, general? Lead Rhys’ armies? Fight Rhys’ wars?”

“At least I fight for something.”

He would never understand. He could never understand that a person may want to live their life without fighting. Even love was a fight to him.

“You are addicted to fighting battles you cannot win.”

“And yet here I stand. Alive and breathing after so many impossible battles.”

Nesta snapped her gaze back to his at that. “Your swords and siphons will win no battles here.”

“You are not a battle, Nesta.” Satisfied by her reaction, Cassian smirked, “it has never been my intention to fight you.

“What is your intention, Cassian?” Nesta’s shoulders curled in with exhaustion. How long could they keep having this same fight. Keep running in circles around whatever this was.

“I have no idea.” Cassian’s honesty took all of the air out of the room. “This isn’t about my intentions. It isn’t about what I want.”

“How big of you.”

“Everything about me is big, sweetheart.” And just like that, crystal vulnerability cracked into a sparkling mist as equilibrium returned. Dirty jokes and rolled eyes and no answers.

There were worse games to play, Nestasupposed.

[kandadara]

Phantasmagoria Chapter 1: Paradox of Loneliness

Story: Phantasmagoria

Fandom: Diabolik Lovers and Monster High

Pairing: Laito Sakamaki x Twyla Boogeyman

Rating: M for later chapters considering the controversial and mature themes DL has, plus Laito being Laito. Warnings will be in the author's note.

Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: For whatever reason, we often put up a façade in front of the world, forgetting how to live sincerely. When your sense of self is lost, everything becomes distorted. Two souls, polar opposites at first glance, become entangled in ways they never thought possible, the lines between illusion and reality become blurred. Seeking love and understanding, are they so different?

I decided to post this on Tumblr as well, but I'll leave the alternate links if you want to check them out

Links:

Fanfiction

Archives of Our Own

Wattpad

Chapter 1: Paradox of Loneliness 

Why do people desire to be the center stage in the limelight with everyone’s eyes upon them, desperate to be idolized by strangers? Abandoning their identity, performing a dog and pony show for society’s acceptance, including tricks and impossible tasks to fit in. Living in this world of charlatan conjecture with the hollowness of bamboo during the monsoon seasons, with no roots it blows away in the wind. Why do we do this? 

 The notion of people crowding around me, as if I’m a spectacle at the circus, a marvel at a freakshow. Every minuscule move under a microscope, the feeling of being trapped under a glass slide, my every flaw under suffocating scrutiny of prying eyes. Leaving me vulnerable and exposed, they can’t ever know me, nor will they put in an effort to empathize. 

I’ve always lurked in the shadows; the darkness protected me like a blanket from the glaring eyes of judgement invading my solace of solitude. Foreboding dread and foreshadowed trepidation, board into my emptiness and shattering my psyche like a homing missile through a warzone. Since childhood, this way brought me a satisfied contentment, resting on the warm bosom of a sustained hearth. Like a turtle in their shell, impervious to pain, I am immune from the harsh reality of existence.  

Observing in the sidelines, seeing the unseen, holding a secret longing to comprehend someone’s inner world. These taboo things, keeping those skeletons in my closest under lock and key, bolted shut, and wrapped in chains forever. Everything that I am, no one can ever know.  

Deep down, could that be why I feel such a hollow loneliness?    

The sky was clear, the waning crescent moon hung low, and the stars twinkled faintly. Darkness engulfed everything in sight, silencing the harshness of the day, the shadows brought a sense of serenity. The horizon seemingly stretched endlessly; the distance insurmountable. The unknown that lies beyond, infinite possibilities, and yet, such discoveries will never be reached. 

The late autumn air was chilly, but still carried a gentle breeze. Animals already harvested their storage for the winter in their burrows, the leaves in varying shades of red, yellow, orange, and brown long since fallen. The winter drew closer, soon shadows will reach their peak and the world transitions into a state of hibernation. Taking the time to slumber away, replenishing themselves, but true appreciation remains a rarity.  

Times for introspection, these things that hold such beauty, each vital in purpose to be thankful for, yet taken for granted. In that regard, night and winter were kindred spirits, often overlooked in contrast to day and summer. The law of nature, the cycle of life and death repeats, waxing and waning, just as there are seasons and phases of the moon. A strange poetry, Twyla found it hauntingly beautiful, the concept of duality, two sides of the same coin, each dependent on the other. The snakes forever eating their own tail, coming and going, yes, it is Ouroboros. 

Always trying to seek deeper meaning, Twyla found herself wondering what her purpose was, a melancholic feeling looming over her. Time passes by, ever flowing, yet she drifts along, merely existing. She wondered why that was so, trying to understand her own rationale. 

Could it be she felt ungrateful? She pondered that possibility, there was plenty she should be thankful for. She had parents who cared about her and loved her, even if at times they weren’t on the same page. Even though they were few, she had genuine friends who loved and accepted her, even if they sometimes had their differences. In the end, quality was better than quantity. She had family and friends, such blessings that many take for granted, but not everyone has the luxury of obtaining. They would always hold a special place in her heart, those bonds were something she treasured. And yet, she still felt as if something was amiss in her life. 

Maybe it was a different reason? Was there anyone who truly understood her? Logically, she knew unconditional understanding and acceptance was impossible, yet emotionally she craved it, her greatest fantasy. She didn’t desire popularity whatsoever; in fact, the idea frightened her. For someone to know her sincerest self, a mix of fear and yearning, it was a paradox. Seeking to be known, to be understood; for her to wonder such things, such a desire surprised her. Did anyone know it? 

Is there anyone who truly knows me? 

This feeling, it was such a rarity for her that it almost felt surreal. Ever since she was a child, she was perfectly content with solitude, even craved it. Her kind as a whole were known for being reclusive and as a boogeyman, a shadow being, Twyla spent all her life in the shadows, darkness was her sanctuary. She found relief in it, hiding away from those secrets she wanted to conceal. And yet, on this particular night, why is she contemplating these self-contradictory feelings? 

Why is it I feel such a hollow loneliness? 

Wasn’t such a sentiment more typical for Howleen? Despite being best friends, in that regard, Howleen and Twyla were polar opposites. She could remember vividly the times Howleen grew desperate to become popular and the chaos that ensued after.  

It was the first day of the new school year and Howleen was plotting a way to make herself become known. Out of all the hair brained schemes in her attempts to become popular, building a billboard showcasing her name in lights was a top contender. 

Twyla observed Howleen hammering away, fiercely determined to make a name for herself and finally be out of her sibling’s shadows. She tried to reason with her, but to no avail, the young werewolf was hellbent on this. Twyla didn’t foresee this ending well, every possible scenario of Howleen’s plan backfiring bombarded her mind all at once. She commented, tone slightly sardonic, “I’d like to go on record saying that this is a bad idea.” 

“Noted.” Howleen replied, ignoring her warnings and continued on. She had a dreamy expression on her face, as if she was envisioning when she would finally have a limelight of her own. She truly seemed to believe nothing could go wrong. 

Why was Howleen so obsessed with becoming popular? Weren’t connections like that typically shallow? Wasn’t popularity fleeting? Why must everyone know her name? Twyla couldn’t understand it at all, even though she tried. She spoke again, “You don’t need to do this to get everyone’s attention.” 

Howleen turned to face her, giving a small chuckle, "Um, hanging in the shadows has messed with your vision Twyla.” Her face fell as she dropped the hammer, her tone becoming dejected, “Nobody knows who I am.” 

Twyla shrugged; the logic confounded her. “Uh...Sure they do.” What was Howleen even going on about? Outside of Twyla, Howleen had plenty of friends and acquaintances, so why couldn’t she be satisfied with that? Why did Howleen feel so lonely? 

“Yeah, they know me as Clawd and Clawdeen’s annoying little sister.” She gave a sigh before picking up the bulk of cables, “Nobody knows me for me...” As if she was struck by inspiration, a wave of excitement seemed to wash over her. She smiled, ever so optimistic, “But that’s all going to change after I pull this off! I’m going to be big time!” 

Howleen began walking to the outlet, Twyla following behind her, questioning her, hesitancy evident in her voice, “And that’s what you want...?” 

Howleen answered her question with a question, as if she believed it to be some universal truth, “Who doesn’t?” 

“Me...” Twyla murmured, the very thought making her cringe in revulsion. In her mind, the less people to know her, the better. In fact, there were times she wished to stay in the shadows eternally. Such a way was just how she liked it. 

Howleen chuckled as she placed the cables on the ground, before playfully quipping back, “Well, you, my testy bestie, are a better monster than me.” She turned to face the boogey girl again, an eagerness overtaking her, “Now please, will you help me?” 

Twyla finally relented; these attempts were in vain. She simply replied, uneasy, “I’ll see you in class....” She began walking away but stopped for a moment and turned to face her best friend a final time, then added, “And for what it’s worth, you don’t need to be popular, Howleen.” She gave a small, gentle smile, “The monsters that matter already know how awesome you are.” 

With that, she walked away, firmly believing those words. Howleen was a great person, Twyla wished she could see that, it saddened her that she couldn’t. 

From what she was told, Howleen’s plan went up in sparks and flames, quite literally, resulting in Howleen, Clawdeen, and some of their other friends getting detention as a result. As punishment, they all had to help clean the attic, which had many artifacts. Howleen stumbled across a strange lantern, inside housing a genie, who could grant her 13 wishes. Naturally, Howleen was ecstatic, but Twyla remained wary. Straight away, she felt something different in the shadows, as if something was lurking within it. Within a short time, things took a bad turn, Howleen’s wishes went awry and slowly became corrupted by the one known as the Shadow Genie. Howleen nearly lost herself, which saddened Twyla greatly. Luckily, with the help of Clawdeen, her friends, and Twyla herself, they were able to save Howleen and repair the damage done. In the end, everything worked out for the best, Gigi Grant, the genie who granted her wishes was able to stay at Monster High and Wisp, the Shadow Genie, was able to become the genie as she wanted. Looking back on those days, while in reality it only spanned a few days, those days felt like an eternity to Twyla. That was probably the last time she felt lonely. 

For Howleen, those events taught her invaluable lessons. She still was very much someone who sought out the limelight but has mellowed out some regarding it. Perhaps even among a sea of friends, family, or fame, someone could still feel lonely. In the end, being acknowledged and accepted were things most wanted to some extent, especially by those they regard as close or special. 

What does it mean to regard someone as special...? Such a loaded philosophical question, as of late she wondered what it was she was seeking the answer to, a strange uncertainty plagued her.  

She felt something nuzzle at her hand, causing her to come to. It was her pet dust bunny, Dustin, a lavender rabbit with green eyes snuggling up against her. She found him one day blowing in the wind all by his lonesome, immediately taking a liking each other and adopted him. He was a highlight of her day, ready to greet her whenever she returned home from school and cuddling next to her at night, she adored him for it. She stroked him gently, seemingly bringing him comfort, secretly hoping that even for a little while, her loneliness could be quelled even slightly. 

What am I doing...? She thought, barely comprehending it. Was she losing sight of herself and what was most important things? These little things, she had to cherish them, no matter what. She shouldn’t wish for anything beyond that, feeling a sense of guilt and a wistful heartache in her chest as she did so. 

And yet, why am I thinking about these things...?  

She heaved a soft sigh, there was no use dwelling on it. Maybe in the realm of her dreams, a sign would manifest itself to her. Patience was said to be the key, good things happen to those who wait, or so she had been told. Yes, she wanted to believe that. 

It was another day at Monster High, a place of diversity where all were accepted, regardless of their origins or appearance. A vision Headmistress Bloodgood held that one day all monsters and humans lived in harmony, she was slowly but surely making strides towards helping others unlearn the several millennia of toxic mindsets. In her time at Monster High, Twyla witnessed many fantastical sights. 

Twyla found a comfort in this simplistic contentment, a beauty in these carefree days. Even if some complained such days were mundane, Twyla relished in it. Here, a safe haven for everyone to embrace their freaky flaws, she couldn't imagine it any other way. Even if they were like her. 

  Like her... 

A simple wish, a world of love and acceptance, she longed for it too. Even if it takes an eternity and she will have long since passed on, she hoped one day it would happen. Even if she was a hopeless idealist, she wouldn’t ever lose sight of that dream. 

She made her way to her favorite class, Psychology. A subject she found very fascinating, learning about humans’ and monsters' inner workings alike, and the psyche itself. She wanted to understand it all, the complex motivations of others, the morality spectrum, and the reason why behind it all. Sometimes knowing that there was still good in the world helped her sleep at night. 

She thought of her own motivations, feeling a twinge of sadness as she did so. Unfortunately, whether it was human or monster, despite her desire to help them, she was never understood. No matter how much she wanted to convey her truth, she was forever like a shy little ghost, hiding away. 

Was it better that way? 

  She took a seat, lost in her own little world, unaware of how much time passed by. 

  "Hey there, is this seat taken?" Came a soft, yet cheerful voice, snapping her out of her thoughts. In that instant, she felt her heart thump painfully in her chest. 

She turned her head to see a boy whom she’s never seen before. The first thing she took notice of was how handsome he was, a blush creeping across her face as she looked him up and down. He was slightly on the taller and thinner side with fair skin. His clothing choice was interesting, seeming to prefer layering, he sported a white oxford shirt with a red tie around the collar, black and yellow striped sweater, a blue hoodie, and red capri pants. His shoulder length messy hair was the color of rust with a subtle golden ombre at the tips and he topped it with a black fedora hat with a red ribbon. His eyes were an emerald shade of green that held a mischievous glint and a playful smirk, she also noted a small mole on the right side of his chin. To say he was attractive was an understatement. For a moment, it seemed all her senses escaped her, time at a standstill. She was spellbound. 

From what she could tell, he seemed to be a vampire. His vibe certainly was a charismatic one, a confident and carefree air about him. He had a mix of both allure and danger, much like a siren’s call. A shadowed temptation. 

And yet, she sensed something even beyond that, a sort of darkness. Sadness? Loneliness? Anger? Trauma? Or something else entirely? Or was it a combination of those and more? She wasn’t sure how she knew, but there was definitely more to him than what he projected externally. But she didn’t dare say a word, fearing speaking out of turn; she didn’t have the right to pry into his personal business like that. 

  "Hm?" He made a noise, jolting her out of her trance. "What are you staring at?" He teased; clearly amused. 

  "N-Nothing!" She spluttered out, feeling her face heat up even more. "Y-You can sit here if you want to..." 

  He did just that. 

  What was happening to her? She's never gotten so flustered over a guy before, this was the first time someone's caught her attention in this way. What was it about him that made her so nervous? This guy was something else. 

  How she wished she could just disappear right now. 

  He observed the shy girl in her entirety. Something about her seemed to intrigue him, though he couldn’t quite place it. She seemed almost familiar, too, somehow. Just who or what was this girl?  

An understated girl, he got the impression she was a wallflower type that hides in the shadows, often overlooked by others. Ever so unassuming, the type of girl to shy away from attention, more than happy with staying in the background. He noted the way she retreated into herself, the way she nervously fidgeted with her clothing, and the way she coyly attempted to hide herself from his gaze; he noticed it all. Extremely flustered and blushing fiercely by his proximity, her expression was akin to a deer caught in the headlights. 

  She was certainly a pretty girl; her features were rounder and softer, with fairly prominent curves in all the right places, even if she tried to hide them. Her skin was predominantly a fair lilac shade, but her limbs had darker gray on them, swirling up her body like a shadowy mist. Her clothing choice was a modest one, comprising of the colors mint green, blurple, and black. The motifs she sported were interesting, which seemed to be dust, locks, keys, smoke, shadows, spiders, and dream catchers, though he despised creepy crawlies. Her hair was also unique, mint green locks with streaks of blue and purple that reached to her hips, he always loved the color green. But most of all, those violet and doe-eyed innocence eyes of hers were what fascinated him the most. 

There’s an old saying that the eyes are the window to the soul, one could tell their inner world by looking in their eyes if they sincerely looked for it. In this moment, she was as transparent as water to him, as if her soul was laid bare to him. 

She seemed pure of heart, or at least that was the image she wanted to project. While he could easily say that about nearly everyone in this place, especially compared to him, but she was on another level. She held an innocence and naivety so prominent that it was almost saccharine. He wondered if she even understood concepts such as depravity or corruption, but he found the chance to be highly unlikely. 

Purity, he thought with contempt, it's such a crock of bullshit. 

He wasn't sure why he and his brothers were even sent to a place like this, just what was his tyrant of a father planning? This place, an idealist's dream of one day of bringing all monsters and humans together, he felt it was a fool's dream, such a thing was impossible. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the school bell, it was time for him to start his first class on the first day. He couldn’t help but wonder what his time here would hold for him, and whether or not he’d find some quality entertainment. 

Purity, it had always been a farce to me. Why is it that people suppress their true desires? Why is it people try to live correctly by societies standards when inside they’re miserable? Wouldn’t setting yourself free, letting go your inhibitions, and succumbing to pleasure be the better thing? If I just indulge in those carnal desires, forever chasing euphoric lust, I’ll be able to drown out everything else. Repressing your true self, a mask so laughable, in the end it will only hurt you. 

But what does it mean to truly be yourself? Searching for sincerity, the answer always eludes me, just slipping beyond my reach. Disillusioned by this world of facades, putting on a happy face or tough front just seems to be the easier choice. Could it be better this way, to not wonder about the impossible? No, being true to yourself is a fallacy. 

Just as love is a duplicity, in the end it’s all inconsequential because truth doesn’t exist. No one has ever been saved by their belief...

[a-spell-a-rebel-yell]

March for the future

hello!!! as always i'm late for the March post because it's already April 3rd! yay! also pls clap for the title/pun i just invented :) originally wanted to use 'March madness' but then realized i used it last year, so :-)

actually nothing much happening this March (see the obvious pattern of my quiet, drama free life?) and i'm really glad to be honest. the reason for the title is just that i'm still on the journey of doing something i can't disclose what yet (the same one i mentioned on Jan post) but it's been good/okay!

highlight for this March is definitely the start of Ramadan! favorite month of the year easily. my workload is lessened, loads of day-offs, and in general just the best time of the year. so glad to be able to spend even more time with my family, especially my mum and dad.

the more i get older the more i realize 'seemingly minuscule' privileges like having my parents as my main support system or coming from a middle to upper class family plays a veeery big role in determining my future. i'm not saying if you have best friends as support system instead or having less than upper income is bad or won't land you in a good place, it's just an observation on the mental/physical health outcomes i've seen from various start points.

i mean, ideally, regardless of other factors, parents should be a person's mast... to support the sails and lets the wind to propel the ship forward. they also should be the ones providing financial aids until the child has finally grown into an adult and can stand on their feet, stable and secure. in reality, it's not always the case, and this is heartbreaking. i salute the people who found solace and anchor still in their friends, or even in themselves.

i think this post might be yet another appreciation post for my parents because without their careful guidance i probably won't be writing this down. they literally shaped and mended my way of thinking and never for once their advice hasn't succeeded in helping me out of tight spots or extracting the life lesson out of every failure i went through. my mum and dad’s neverending supply of comfort. everything i need and it’s given without asking. i can tell absolutely everything and they will try to understand, no judgement whatsoever. it’s the transparency and willing to meet at the common ground between me and my parents that i will make sure i’ll do the same with my children. i’m the very definition of my parent's daughter through and through i guess hehe

my belief is that if you are one of the lucky ones with these privileges and boost, is to humbly acknowledge them and use it to its fullest potential... this is common sense i know but oh well. you've probably seen others do otherwise lol

again another point of reminded to not! sabotage! yourself! by making rushed decision and never settle for less. i think i'm kinda glad i overthink a lot and always take what i deserve for the hard work i did, it saves me 90% of the time! literally don't care whatever people say, if i don't value their presence/opinion then it's 100% possibility their words mean nothing to me.

might sound like a super villain on that last sentence but i genuinely do not care and i'm saying this not with awful intention or menace, but i just can't find time/space for things that do not matter. i have my own life to take care of, so why should i bother with others haha

but yes, as i quote from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore said, "indifference and neglect often do more damage than outright dislike." and i wholeheartedly agree. when you no longer appreciate and ignore someone's existence, it hurts the most. because when you spew hate, technically you still spent time and breath to do, so it's slightly ‘less painful’ in my opinion haha

so yep. but rest assured i'm not mean! just trying to live a drama free, happy life. it does reduce my stress level, so i suggest you do that too. don't think much of the people who don't deserve your time and headspace. will do you good, trust me.

anyways, happy Ramadan to my Muslim pals! see you in next month's post :)

[folklorefairyy]

sweet, soft and swift - p.m

summary: headcanons which explore the softest moments in your relationship with pietro

warnings: slight mention of loss, i mention pietro picking you up but i imagine he can do so to most body types due to the speed enhancement - like he would’ve in aou

word count: 0.789k

authors note: this is a second request from a nonnie who requested i write a fluffy fic for pietro and after suggesting headcanons they requested i do!

Pietro loves through touch - whether its a hand tracing circles on your thigh or finding solace on your back, fingers interlocking with yours or a light brushing of skin, or perhaps even his head resting on your lap after a long day - whatever it is Pietro will find a way to touch you, he can’t keep his hands off you.

Perhaps a part of this comes from the fear that loss has instilled in him - he doesn’t want to lose you like he has those closest to him and so even the most minuscule of contact is a reminder of your presence, of your current permanence in his life.

Pietro would 100% pick you up and just zoom to wherever he wants with you - he has a carefree attitude, most likely to do with how fast his body wants to move so he just does things as they cross his mind.

Want to go snuggle in bed? You’ll be under the covers in a second, with his arms encircled securely round your waist.

Want a midnight snack from the kitchen? He’s got you sat on the counter before you can even tell him what you want, rummaging through the cupboards for your favourite snacks and most likely forgetting where they get stored, waiting for you to point them out without explicitly asking for help (Bucky and Sam probably move them around to tease him).

Want to sit on the roof and watch the stars? You’re snuggled up in a blanket, leaning against Pietro’s chest as you take in the vast expanse of darkness freckled with tiny glimpses of light.

Pietro would want you to bond with Wanda, since theirs was an integral part of his being, and you most probably would! You’d probably end up spending most days in Wanda’s room, watching sitcoms and jokingly gossiping about the avengers.

His jealousy would kick in (as well as his inherent need to be near you), causing him to speed around the compound looking for you, and each time he spotted you on Wanda’s bed he’d roll his eyes, crack a jab at Wanda and swiftly take you out of there.

Pietro makes it clear that you are his, that you belong to the slightly older Maximoff twin - he’d nuzzle kisses into your neck, tickling you and teasing you until you admitted that he was your favourite Maximoff.

Sometimes you’d tease him, relentlessly stating that he just couldn’t compare to Wanda and that would only prompt him further as he'd pout and form puppy dog eyes, Turning away from you until you finally gave into his antics - ones you knew were only lighthearted and joking.

Pietro would find the most obscure ways to make you smile, such a sight being one that set his heart on fire, and any chance to burn the kindling of love that resided there was a chance he’d take for he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

Whether that be bringing you a rock and saying it made him think of you or it be an oddly shaped cookie that he just found ‘cute’, Pietro would just bring you random objects to see your face light up with joy.

PDA seems like something Pietro is rather fond of - it wouldn’t be anything extreme but ideas of kissing you lightly on the lips at random moments during your trip, holding your hand as you perused down some random street or even his arm hooked around your waist as you sat on a bench in some random park, flittered through his head.

Such scenarios made his heart flutter, to know he was yours and you didn’t care who knew - he never had much but to know he had you, despite everyone else in the world, well that was one of the few things that kept him going.

Pietro would use every pet name under the sun - whether they be in English or not he always finds a sweet word to call you that was so endearing your heart could almost melt.

You’d use one back of course but his knowledge of multiple languages had you beat and a few competitions on who could come up with the most pet names in a week would definitely become a recurring thing.

At night, when the skyline was painted black and the corridors were silent, he would hold you close, arms locked securely around you as he veiled you in a cocoon of safety that only he could provide.

He’d listen to your soft breaths, to your heart beating gently against his - two sounds combining to create the sweetest song his heart could call home and in those moments of bliss, of remembrance of your physical and mental presence in his life, he’d realise just how full his heart was with for you.

[kaijurakunsobs]

Ok so imagine Heisenberg and his S/O finally escape Miranda, and they end up having a child together and when Karl holds the baby for the first time he starts crying because he finally has a real family and then he says something to the baby like: “I promise to give you a better life than I had.”

-distant screams of emotional distress-

does this belong to modern man Heisenberg? YES

am I gonna go for the Ethan lives situation? how dare yall think otherwise

am I throwing a bit of angst? ...maybe

surviving everything, doing a deal with Ethan, accepting whatever terms the BSAA offer, ending Miranda, and surviving everything? it feels like nothing compared to being free

there's a lot of things to get used to, the sounds, smells, tastes, everything is all just blindly new and so hard to adjust, but little by little he does

Karl's therapist has him making and sticking to a routine, one designed by him, one he has power over, it brings him peace and solace

you, Ethan, his work, and his routine are his anchors, it keeps him from panicking or succumbing to his own fears

that's why you fear telling him that you are pregnant, what if that throws a wrench in his development? what if he isn't ready? what if he doesn't want kids?

but you know you can't hide it forever and for the next few days you follow his routine with care and attention, searching for the moment to tell him

the moment comes when one night when he's pressing his head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat, you blur it out, knowing he prefers you to be blunt over beating around the bush

Heisenberg sits up so fast you think he's going to bolt for the door and never come back, instead, he speaks in a shaky voice, asking "Are...are you for real, buttercup...I'm...gonna be a dad?"

one nod and he's laughing like a maniac, running his hands through his hair, pulling you up, and kissing you like the first time you said I love you

he wants to call Ethan and Mia, even Chris! you have to convince him against it and remind him that the first 3 months are the crucial ones and that you will need to wait for a bit to share the news

all this awakens this side of him that BEGS him to be overprotective of you, even after your doctor said it's ok for you to keep on going with your normal life, he thinks he should keep you resting as much as possible

his routine does suffer a bit but he's quick to adapt, telling his therapist about the news and how he thinks this is a good thing! he's excited and wants to learn more about how to...well...be a dad!

you catch him reading books about pregnancy care, the milestones each baby reach, parenting books, it's cute and endearing

for the longest time, nothing feels REAL

he doesn't believe it when you two tell the Winters, when they help you put up a nursery, when the baby kicks for the first time, it feels like a dream

everything comes crashing down when Chris enters his lab and tells Heisenberg that you went into labor but that there are complications, he feels like he's suffocating, he doesn't register how or when he made it to the hospital, everything sounds so far away, his legs keep bouncing, there's a high-pitched sound in his ears...

it takes hours for the doctor to come looking for him, the woman looks exhausted and it's honest about how you lost blood but he can see you right now

Karl stays by your side, whispering how much he loves you, how well you did, how he can't wait to meet your child

when the nurse finally brings the baby to their mom, he watches enraptured how you hold and feed the baby, cooing softly, and gently helping him hold his child

he can't believe how tiny and fragile this child feels in his arms, he laughs when one minuscule hand holds one of his fingers, and then...he's crying, almost sobbing, pressing his forehead with the baby's

it's heartwarming and heartbreaking to hear him say "I promise to give you a better life than the one I had"

he's so careful when he kisses his child, afraid everything is just a dream or Miranda messing with him

he keeps true to his word and everything in his power to be, the best father he can be

[unohanadaydreams]

DAMAGE DONE FOR KENPACHI SOULMATE CAN YOU IMAGINE THE A N G S T AND CONFUSION

 I know ppl who follow this blog have taste because you were the the first of four ppl to ask for this exact combo jdhdjsjs. We are all Kenpachi brain rot compliant.

Features: Cutting/self harm, a real shit start to a relationship, and angst.

Bleach Your Soul: Ask Meme

Kenpachi Zaraki + Damage:

So much of your life was defined by isolation. A patient treated terminal. Everyone paid you the same attention they would a ghost, fleeting smiles and tears that fell over your bed as though it were a grave.

How could you not feel tortured and angry, to be saddled with a soul mate determined to drag you through hell with them? There were times you truly believed were your last. Stabs too close to your guts. Slashes peeling open to far towards your heart.

There was little room in your thoughts to worry about who suffered with you, other than to curse them. Whether they struggled to live or delighted in violence, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. It was hard to care about anything while laying in your deathbed. Through childhood, your heart withered like the flowers always dying on your window sill. If only they’d throw you away for good, as well.

You garnered hobbies to keep busy rather than to enjoy them. Your stitching, calligraphy, and precocious little drawings stained in blood more often than not. The 4th division was your jail. Your soulmate, your warden. Keeping you there, always.

For years, you begged them. Desperate to be heard--to have a modicum of fucking control--, you carved words into your skin. Were they scared the first time you did it? Did they hate it? Did it hurt them?

Vindictive, you hoped all your horrible thoughts were so. When you cut ‘stop. stop. stop. stop.’ you did it on your side and hip, so it would reopen. Again. And again. And again. And--

They never responded. No matter what you wrote. ‘Please stop.’ ‘It hurts.’ ‘Doesn’t it hurt you?’ ‘I hate you.’ ‘Who are you.’ ‘Don’t you care?’ ‘Kill me.’ ‘Die.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Slowly, then suddenly, the damage that had been near daily stopped for so many years stopped. Your family settled you back in the home, a living urn. They said your name and stroked your cheek and smiled too small when you spoke.

Your skin buzzed with the absence of what had plagued your entire youth. Was it sickness or shame that drove your blade through your skin still? Did you just miss it? Was the violence boiling you alive with no where to spill out anymore?

There were times you swore minuscule nicks would appear, healing too fast to smooth over, but staying long enough to feel. Older, able to be among people, you realized what that could mean. What kind of person you’d told to die as a pithy little tween.

Were they alive--really alive? Did anyone else care or were you the only one?

‘Songbirds.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘Your name?’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Work sucks.’ ‘Too hot.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Hotpot.’ ‘Cut words.’ ‘Please.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Shinigami.’ ‘13th.’ ‘Rank?’ ‘Rukongai?’ ‘I’m sorry.’

@

Retsu Unohana, the only woman he couldn’t quite look in the eye, was there to smile all serene-like over him. After he’d lost. Figures she’d be there when he fucking lost.

She asked him all those annoying questions about how his body felt and told him all the things he needed to heal from. He wanted to shake her like Yachiru did when he wasn’t paying attention enough for her liking. Who gave a shit about all that--he lost and got what he deserved. He had to get stronger. Just because she’d abandoned her pride didn’t mean he would. 

“Your soulmate is here, too.”

Kenpachi couldn’t ignore that one. He never ignored that one. Not that they let him, with all their fucking writing. Saying the strangest shit sometimes too.

When he was young, he’d been paranoid, not knowing what the fuck was doing the writing. He’d swing his sword over his calf or side or thigh, expecting to lob and invisible arm off. Running, Kenpachi would try to out pace the fucker.

 Yumichika explained it like having one was exciting. Ikkaku had yelped for Yumichika to knock it off as the man with beautifully kept hands had given himself a paper cut.

“See? It means the person you’re meant for feels everything you do on the battlefield.” His colorful eyelids narrowed, sights shifting between his captain and Ikkaku. “Or in the file cabinet, if either of you would bother to help out.”

The more he understood--and thought about it--the less he wanted to meet them. His soulmate. Kenpachi wasn’t a person who forgave weakeness and anyone meant for him wouldn’t either, right?

He’d been consumed by sleepless nights, futile attempts to nap, and brutal training sessions, trying to keep his failures out of mind after the realization. What if Yachiru had been forced to take every blow the same as he had? Whenever he tucked in his lieutenant, the question ate at him further.

With time, there had come some form of solace--one day he’d find the thrill of a horrible battle again, to drown the thoughts out. But what Ichigo Kurosaki had offered hadn’t been horrible in the way he’d imagined. And here he was, face turned away from Unohana’s thinly veiled impatience, his feelings too complicated to bother with fully.

“Well?”

Unohana stood, like she was disappointed and Kenpachi couldn’t help but snap at her, “Fine. Whatever.”

She smiled, soft as she’d gotten, and went to the door. “Fine to what? I only told you they’re here. But if you’re so determined to see them, Captain Zaraki, follow me.”

@

Grumbling about how much he hated ‘that sneaky shit’, Kenpachi did follow her, and went through the door she gestured at before being closed in with your recovering body. Your body hadn’t healed as fast as his, but that wasn’t a surprise--you’d be a captain for sure if you could pull that shit off.

Worst of all, you were awake, the scar lining one side of your face as thick as his own. No one else was in the room with you. There were no flowers or cards. And your mouth was hanging open.

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah well,” Kenpachi didn’t know what to say, trailing off as one of his fingers brushed over his thigh.

“Everyone is talking about your fight,” you said, filling his silence with a light shrug. “I figured it was more than coincidence that I ended up like this at the same time. I’m glad it was you and not the ryoka.”

“You thought that kid was your soulmate?”

“How was i supposed to know? No one’s seen him since your fight, or so they’re saying.”

“The scar’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“Uh, I’ve never seen you before and it’s not like you’re ever in the Seireitei Bulletin or...or wandering around where people could find you!”

Kenpachi winced, not because of your words, but because the closer he got, the more your sweat and shaking arms showed. You must’ve been like this for a lot of your life. A worming feeling of guilt he seldom felt curled in his belly. Now that he had a person to pin to the thought, it swelled large.

Maybe if he were a softer person, someone rounded out like the long gone Yachiru turned Unohana, he’d say something comforting or concerned or even charming. But his hand was still on his thigh and his mounting frustration at himself, all revolving around his lack of strength, felt thick on his tongue.

“This mean you’re gonna stop with the fucking words?”

You pulled your head back slow, looking up at him like you couldn’t decide between succumbing to exhaustion or lunging at him.

“What if I don’t? What if I just keep going till you respond?”

“You’ll keep going until ya die.”

“Well, great! There’s you’re answer,” you scoffed. “You’ll have to kill me.”

It was a shit start, all things considered, and the silence that took over the room as Kenpachi sat on the nearest chair, so hard it almost cracked, felt as horrible as his zanpakuto refusing to answer him.

“The name’s Kenpachi Zaraki,” he said, resolved to at least get your name.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Damn right, you do. Now tell me yours.”

You wouldn’t have introduced yourself if he hadn’t looked so...well, you couldn’t quite tell what he looked like. Tired, maybe. Tired and wanting something.

So you gave him your name, your relief that he was alive, that you hadn’t wished him to his grave in your youth, outweighing your anger. An apology for putting you here was like grasping at the sky and hoping to hold a star, if his reputation proceeded him. So you let it go as best you could.

And Kenpachi settled back in the chair, grunting in acknowledgement. He didn’t think learning your name was gonna make him stronger, but it felt nice to hear someone talking to him like a person and not a beast.

If he was being honest, it’d always felt nice to be given your words, when so many people refused to give him any. A bit awkwardly, he stayed while you fell victim to sleep, your breath slow before he spoke again.

“Thanks.”

[alicemitch09writes]

someone said song recs for outsider looking in? say less! i found that this song is givin very outsider looking in type of vibe. and it helps that the lyrics are also a bit, what can i say... fitting? it’s a very soft, languid song that makes you feel.

“all this is not a coincidence, i know it just because, just by my feeling. the world is different from yesterday; it is so just because, just with your joy” / “ever since the universe was first created, everything has been destined. just let me love, let me love you”

a couple years down the road after he ran away and abandoned all hope; he was suddenly face to face with his first love. the person who made his heart grow, as much as it aches. and immediately, he saw how in those couple of years, time seem to only made his first love better. stronger. even more compelling. from a casually cool and collected facade to this. now, she’s openly smiling, gracing the world with an amazing spark on her eye. and god, the universe must be mocking him, really. cos no matter how much he wanted to destroy his feelings, he can’t help but think that maybe, even if it’s just a very minuscule maybe, this is their time now.

“when you called me, i became your flower”

i just adored the sentiment for this line, it reminds me of how soft rin is to reader. if you’re interested to know the meaning behind it, you can find it here.

“as if we have been waiting, we bloom painfully beautifully. perhaps it’s the providence of the universe, it just had to be like this (you know, i know). you’re me, i’m you” / “just let me love you”

did someone say growth? because that’s what they did; like flowers, they have both delicately blossomed beautifully but in the most painstaking way imaginable. but they both did it. as if they were always destined to find each other when they have both grown to be more mature and more open in terms of their heart.

“the universe has moved for us, there wasn’t anything even slightly out of place. our happiness has been destined. cause you love me, and i love you” / “you’re my penicillin, that saved me” / “i am your calico cat that came to meet you. (love me now, touch me now)”

and when they did open their hearts, after long, they both found the solace they both needed, from each other. and oh, how the two of them can confidently say how utterly glad they are to choose each other. because he is hers as much as she is his. and suna, the whipped man that he is, feels like he’s on cloud nine whenever she’s just within his vicinity. with how much her presence alone could mellow with the brooding storm that resides in his soul.

“now please be by my side, please be us. i don’t wanna let go, no. we can just leave it to date. we can feel it even if we don’t talk.” / “the stars are hanging in the sky, and we are flying. it’s not a dream at all. don’t be afraid and hold my hand, now we are becoming us. let me love you”

as suna said, being with reader was a dream that he did not want to wake up from; that being with her made him feel like he was lucid dreaming— from standing next to her, talking to her, holding her, kissing her— where he even has his eyes half-lidded open, to that that wasn’t a dream, and most importantly, nights and days where he made her his. because when emotions run high and he can’t put his desires and devotion into words; touch connects the both of them and takes them on a feverish, dizzying high. and true to his thoughts; truly, there was no better feeling in the world.

“as much as my heart flutters, i’m afraid because destiny keeps getting jealous of us. as much scared as you are. i, too, am scared. (when you see me, when you touch me)”

evidently, in this fic, we are shown of the vulnerabilities of suna rintarou. who, despite loving with his entire heart, is living in the shadow of his own insecurities as well as the past. especially when he got reminded of the long history between his first love and her own first love. when he was faced with atsumu’s longing, wistful gaze and the soft, adoring look he sends first love’s way. then, even four years down the road of a beautifully yet carefully and delicately built relationship, he was still so, so terrified of her seeing him in his darkest times.

“my angel, my world”

because in his eyes, reader is truly his saving grace. from the way her presence alone could ease the darkest shadows in his mind to the way that she chose to stay even when he slowly pushed her away. and true to his very own thoughts, despite having the power to do whatever she wanted to him; all she ever did was love him.

[disclaimer: none of this was proofread and since outsider looking in was only 16k words, i pretty much have the fic semi-memorised, though, not word for word so if i gave in context where it doesn’t 100% match in the fic itself, then im sorry hdjdhdjd but i think if you know the part, you’ll still get it? hopefully.... and also, i just typed this down like... freestyle. this is completely unplanned and unprepared so um if it doesn’t convey my feelings well, im sorry haha. also, if there are mistakes, close ur eyes. no there isn’t <333 anywaysss yup that’s it]

Ummm, I hope you know that this ask was sent to me 19 times, and I think there's some more on the way.

But thanks so much for the song and your essay to explain it, it's amazingly profound! I'll try to check it out when I have time :3

[knb-matchups]

Okay, I'm tempted to indulge in both the alternate match up and relationship headcanons for the one I got, so feel free to pick from this either or.

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i’ll go with both !  because a) i have the time & b) it’s so much fun to come up with these ideas?? (*´▽`*)

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your alternate match is . . .  𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐀 !!

it was really a toss up between kuroko & kise for this alternative match. however, i leaned toward kise for this! i’m pretty certain that a gemini & a leo are a great match anyway.

okay so hear me out- kise ryouta is literally a ball of goofy sunshine & you’ll never get bored being around him. he’s a natural when it comes to keeping a conversation. to your introversion, he’s the extroversion you need ! you’ll find yourself opening up because of how easygoing & open he is as a person. his good looks helps, too.

it’s a fact he’s popular, yes, but the reality is he’s only got eyes for you. i mean, you are one of the most realest & sweetest girl (who is, by the way, often overlooked) he knows ! in all honesty, he may in passing not bat an eye at you, but by chance (perhaps through a school project or something of that nature), he’ll get to know you. and i swear, this boy will regret not getting to know you earlier.

he’ll cherish the one on one time that he gets with you because you are like breath of fresh air to him. you aren’t the typical crazy fangirl he’s bombarded with; you’re you & he appreciates how you don’t put on airs and bend yourself backwards to be someone he would fall for. in turn, your genuine personality & overall persona has got him wrapped around your finger.

kise also picks up on your little quirks- like how you are with social situations. and while he may not initially understand empathetically why you get drained being around a group of people, he’ll be quick to make a casual exit with you to ensure you’re recharged to your comfortable state. 

he may seem like the type who doesn’t care about girls, but with the ones he’s close with, you best believe he’ll showcase his serious & protective side. let’s not forget the fact he’s also a quick learner; as a result, he’ll be informed on all there is to know about you. 

also? give him credit for his outlandish romantic gestures! he adores it when you’re smiling, so for special occasions, he likes to go all out. it may take a few tries, but he’ll finally find out what truly makes you happy & cater his gestures to that.

kise strikes to me as someone who is a party-goer & enjoys the social scene, but at the same time, he does enjoy the more intimate affairs. when he’s bored of hanging out with tiresome people, he’ll definitely find solace in chatting with you about the subjects you enjoy such as your ideas surrounding characters & stories. 

he’ll gladly talk about his ideas, to which you’re happy for, but the two of you find he’s a bit better at simply listening rather than inserting in his ideas. no offense; i’m sure he’ll get it one day.

also- kise is definitely a touchy-feely person; he’s not afraid of showcasing his affections through hugs or sometimes a small peck on your forehead. you may have to push him away if he tries to initiate this pda. but, kise can’t help but want to display his love for you (especially if you’re shy about such affection).

for someone so outwardly bubbly as kise, it may come as a surprise to some that he does have a cold side. he’ll only showcase this to people, who he, frankly, doesn’t care about. to you, he’s never truly showed you his colder side because in all interactions he’s had with you, he was pretty cheery & upbeat. however, his two-faced nature comes out especially if his protective instinct comes over him. 

he’s quick to change his mood if there’s someone being particularly troublesome to you.

to put it simply, you guys would make a really cute couple! yet, there is always some backlash with having two fundamentally different people together. you both would have to compromise & find ways to make it work because some things just don’t work naturally. but if you do, the effort will pay off !

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relationship headcanons with . . . 𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐈 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐔 !!

PROS

you’re both so considerate of each other !  you guys literally will put each other first, and it’s so wholesome. sakurai will never want to make you uncomfortable around him, and the same applies with you to him.

of the two of you, it’ll be hard to say who’s the better gift giver. both of you are thoughtful & very perceptive in nature, so who’s to say who’s better if you both win the “best girlfriend / best boyfriend” award?

your relationship is equal in terms of give & take. this is also good to know for the long run because you both know that not one person is trying to do it all.

you guys rarely fight. and even when you do, you both have that ingrained need of reconciling ( the moment probably ends up being like that classic moment where the two of you apologize at the same time -- )

your interests/hobbies align! it makes for a natural relationship to occur based on these similarities in character. due to this fact, you both find comfort in doing these activities together & it’s a way for you to always have a connection.

both of your confidence levels are fairly low, so the two of you try to lift each other up by describing in detail all the good qualities you guys have. this becomes such a soft & tender ritual you guys share. 

CONS

you both will have trouble communicating woes that you have with one another. i can see you guys walking on eggshells, trying so hard not to bother each other with things that you think don’t matter. 

but if you guys bottle up these woes, the reality is . . . at some point, the bottle will. . . explode because of the accumulative amount ! it doesn’t even have to be something big that blows the cap off.

when you guys end up fighting, perhaps due to this, it can get brutal in the sense bottled up feelings will come out like a tidal wave & things that you don’t mean will come out.

things may be a lil’ awkward & tense between you two; guilt & regret being the main feelings you two share. but you guys will reconcile; you always do !

you both don’t have much of a sense of adventure or risk-- you both are more drawn to staying within your zone of comfort. and while that’s perfectly fine, there may be things you both are missing out on.

HEADCANONS/SCENARIOS

as mentioned before, your dates will be so cute.

but the special occasion dates are on a whole different level.

sakurai will worry so much about making it perfect (being the perfectionist he is), and he’ll go back to his habit of apologizing profusely if something minuscule is wrong.

say it’s your birthday-- he’ll definitely want to have an intimate celebration because he knows large parties & groups of people is not up your alley at all!

he’ll be so sweet-- hanging up cute decorations at his house where he’ll lead you to after treating you out on an excursion for your birthday. from the bookstore to your favorite restaurant for lunch, he’ll make sure you guys hit all your favorite places.

it’s basically a way for him to showcase his love & gratitude for you ; he wants to say how lucky he is to have you in his life and while he can’t make it super luxurious, he wants this day to be special.

it’s overwhelming how kind he is. he’ll also have all the trademark birthday decorations-- with a theme of red because he knows that’s your favorite color. 

red balloons, red confetti, red dessert . . . it’ll be be quite the party even though it’s for a party of two. but, it’s special because even the idea of the two of you having quality time is more than enough.

then again, he doesn’t skimp out on gifts. he just goes all in just to see you happy.

even with how thoughtful he is about his gift, he’ll still apologize when he gives it to you, saying that he’s sorry if it’s not what you wanted or if it’s a bad gift. . . 

you, of course, tell him how much you’re grateful for his gift because it’s honestly so perfect? plus, has anyone ever went all out for you this way before? probably not on the same caliber as sakurai- that’s for sure.

he went above & beyond your expectations- essentially, he picked up on what you’d love through small hints from conversation. you’re not the type to give someone a list of what exactly you’d like as you probably see it as rude (which sakurai kind of adores that aspect of you anyway).

the whole day is basically perfect with the perfect boyfriend and just that fact makes you overwhelmed with happiness.

some other relationship things !!

sakurai would love to watch anime with you?? since it’s the next best thing asides from manga. he’ll get so emotionally attached to the characters that you find it kinda sweet how he’ll say with such a serious expression that this character deserved better and such.

sakurai is the type to draw out happy endings to the anime/manga characters that didn’t get the love they deserve. and you admire his skill of the art. but you definitely help with the writing aspect of it (from the overall development & characterization).

if you guys end up living together in a house or an apartment, sakurai is more than willing to do the house chores-- cleaning to cooking to whatever; he’s quite proficient & you’ll be surprised at how good his food tastes, too!

on that note, he’ll get a warm feeling when you offer to help him; old habits die hard since he’ll apologize and say that he didn’t mean to guilt you into doing chores.

you weren’t "guilted” though.

he basically feels so lucky to live with you, so that’s the reason why he’s so willing to be like a “housewife”.

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— lily ! ♡

[originalpistol]

༺ ⁝ 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁,  𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. ⁝ ༻ Shades upon shades of pastel pink passed by my eyes in multiple different fabrics. Lace? Overused, still sexy, but overused. Velvet? Perhaps but it would need to be [real] if [I] was going to place this piece in my line. Felt? Fuck no. God, what a travesty that shit would be. Leather? There were two competitors, that I knew of, who were planning to incorporate leather into their “signature” lines, and if anyone knew me? They knew I was bound to blow their lines out of the water, and drown them. Not to say it wasn’t a difficult task; I wouldn’t be sweating over it. Deep blue eyes wandered over all of the fabrics that were sitting right at my fingertips, and slowly I let that gaze rise up to each person that held these panels. With a swift flick of the wrist I dismissed two fabrics from the room, and nodded to the remaining four. A smile of absolute certainty casted in against my features, and I nodded the four of them to take their seat at the designing table for this morning’s meeting with Christian Dior. “Go. Now. I want each of you seated at that table in [ten] minutes. Fabrics and swatches, no exceptions. You mess this up — even the [slightest] mistake? You can gather your belongings and leave,” I called out over my slender, black-clad shoulder. Of course, everyone knew how I operated by now, and if they didn’t? There would be someone in this studio that would brief them before I laid eyes on them. That’s the way I liked it. When you’re at the top of the hill, you get other people to do the minuscule things for you, and Lord knows I wasn’t one to train a rookie. Not in this lifetime, at least. Those days were long gone, and I would rather be shot square in the temple than to backslide into that pathetic existence, again. The familiar sound of their feet shuffling behind me, making their way to gather all of what was needed, caused a knowing smirk to form in where the smile had once been. Time to get this year’s line underway, and ready to go for the September release. For years now, I had been in close cahoots with Mister Dior, and I wasn’t about to waste that type of talent, or let some other company attempt to yank at his sketchbook. That was [my] job. In an ease of motion I began to thumb through my mother’s old sketches before I settled at the one I’d been saving for the right time. For the right artist. Dior was my prized penny in a stack of bent up nickels and dimes. Gentle fingers swept against the old tattered pages of this book for a moment as I thanked my mother for this gift I’d been given twelve years prior. Eyes fell closed for this second in time before I nodded, folding the book back to hide this page even though I knew it would open right back up. Perhaps with old wounds. Perhaps with a whole lot of hate. Who knew? Ringlets of Chestnut and Dark Chocolate locks framed my shoulders, and fell against my back as I made my way towards the room surrounded with glass walls, and a priceless view of Seattle. I could feel the eyes of all those who sat in the studio focus on me, and instead of acknowledging their angst, I simply flashed a brief smirk. Some young girl held the door open for me as I entered the room and an immediate smile washed into play as Christian stood to hug me. Small embrace, and that was it. Nodding, I stood at the head of the table, setting the book on the table and turning my attention to all who sat before me. “This year I want things to change. I want to create a line that screams to be pleased. That begs those who wear it to be taken at their weaknesses, but in that, to be [used] but only if [they] say to do so. Now, you all probably assume that will have to follow suit with bondage, submission, and dominance. To that I say — you are [wrong]. This has to do with vulnerability, and you might wonder what in the hell does that have to do with lingerie? Everything. You have to open a new side of you to place these clothes on you. To present yourself as a present for whomever, and that is our ticket in. That is how we are going to wipe our competitors off the slate. This is the year of Provocation by Pistol. Welcome Mr. Dior, and feel free to take a look at everything we’ve got in store for you. There are fabrics there that many wouldn’t dare to place in a lingerie line, much less as a primary focus, but I would. I want to see Velvet made completely of Silk, Dupioni Silk, Lamé, and Embroidered Organza. I want [you] to incorporate each of these into my line this year, and I want you to do so making new renditions of my mother’s sketches. Make them your own, but more importantly, darlin’ — Make me love them.” 𝑶𝒉, 𝒚𝒆𝒔. I could tell by the way he raised a brow towards me that his interest had been piqued, and I had ultimately won signing Christian Dior onto this year’s line. Too bad Daddy was wrong when he told me a, “bullshit little lingerie line won’t get you anywhere big.” I loved him, but he underestimated the power of a woman’s sex appeal far too much. Though I supposed it had to be hard for such an ‘upstanding, tight-lipped’ man such as himself to ever think of his daughter in that dedication. Shame. He could’ve had a hand in being a partner, but he’d lost that right many years back. Perfectly manicured fingers used the glass table as leverage as I pushed myself back, coming to stand just as I flashed Dior with a sardonic little smile. Nodding once towards him as to let him know I would see him in my office as soon as he had briefed my team on what he would like to do. I wasn’t about to show my entire team the works of my mother; too many eyes are too many chances to be betrayed. Christian stood just as I made my way from the room, and sauntered up the nearing stairs to my office. The only room on the entire top floor of my studio, though there were many upon many floors beneath. Twenty, to be exact. I bought this building on my nineteenth birthday, my third year of unrivaled success as a model in New York City. Coincidentally; my first year as a designer was my last year as a model, though I could easily reclaim my spot on the runway if I wished. I decided long ago that I wanted to be the name on the clothes rather than the name in the clothes. By trade, this is how I came to know [many] of the talented and entitled designers, artists, and models. So I used my time on the runway to aide into my own fashion empire. Much as I had used my father’s colleagues, friends, and social tree to find all of those to invest not only in my company but in me. To believe in [me.] Worked like a charm. Daddy, on the other hand, was a completely different story. Being a model was one thing, but being the face and name behind a billion dollar luxury lingerie line? Fuck me, I might as well have become a prostitute on the corner of Monterrey Square in Historic Savannah. That would’ve been less disgraceful to my father’s eyes than what I was currently becoming. What I was [creating] for the whole world to view, and part of me hated his self-righteous bullshit. Mama never would have done that. She wouldn’t have done all to me as he had; she wouldn’t have allowed her friends to lay their hands against her only child. Her only [daughter]. These thoughts echoed throughout my mind as I felt my fingertips dig down into the denim fabric of my Marc Jacobs denim jacket, almost far enough to pierce through the mastered stitches. Anger didn’t begin to cover the searing pain that etched in against my heart. This was why I worked so goddamn hard. To be able to say I had become more than John Hale. The most influential man to walk the streets of Savannah since Jim Williams. A man who took the world for granted, and treated people like disposable resources. Yes, Daddy, use everyone who ever loved you, and throw caution to the wind when it comes to their feelings. How smart. Ocean inspired eyes rolled back at the thought alone, and I tilted my head to the side just as I opened the leather bound sketchbook. A small, subdued smile coming into play as I let my fingers glide in against the drawing. It was almost as if my eyes had glazed over in a daze as I felt the familiar strokes of my mother’s pencil, and I simply sat back in my seat. Wonder filled my mind as I let my mind drift off to the thought of where she was. Where my father had placed her when I was twelve years old. The year he found out that I was ‘afflicted’ with lusting for others. That I wanted to be in an industry so highly controversial, and that his little girl wanted to walk the runway. He saw it as my mother’s fault since she spent most of her days that turned into nights, and back to day, piecing together her drawings. Making them come to life in her tiny ass attic apartment that was our secret. He knew of her dream to become a designer. What he didn’t know was that she had found the little silver key to the attic the same year I was born, and from then on? That was where she went to find solace. To comfort herself in her darkest days, and where she taught me how to be something he never could —ｓｔｒｏｎｇ. “𝙰 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 ��𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.” I could still hear her sweet voice speaking to me from behind her wire mannequin as she pinned the dress in place. She would always make sure to peek around whatever masterpiece she had been working on, just to make sure I heard her quote Congreve but with her own touch. Maybe she didn’t realize it then, but I always paid attention when she spoke. Little did I know then, but I would always wonder if I subconsciously knew Daddy was going to throw her away the moment he found out. I did always have a knack for being able to predict certain outcomes, and perhaps a piece of me did know that particular fact of life. After all, by the age of fifteen I knew all the plays in my father’s playbook. 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝑶𝒏𝒆: Create a “lasting” relationship. 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝑻𝒘𝒐: Mind fuck them to the best of your abilities. Find out their weaknesses and their quirks. Figure out why they are in their position of power, and [how] they got there — that’s arguably the most important piece of information you can have against someone you plan to overcome. Once you know how they built themselves up to where they now stand; you’ll be able to see how to tear them down. Stone by stone. 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆: Take your time throwing the stones of their lives away. You do [not] want to rush this, if you do they will catch on. They will see that you aren’t a friend after all, and that you are only in this for yourself. You are using them as your next step in the game. 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓: Keep a distance, but not too much of a distance to raise suspicion. Make sure they know you “care” about what they’re going through. Hell, even offer your help if you feel it’ll help you step up your game. Build trust quicker than you tear it down. 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝑭𝒊𝒗𝒆: Be still and know. Make moves behind closed doors. Nothing leaks to the press. Nothing leaves the table of which pages are signed [until] whomever you are fucking is already too far buried to fight back. Make sure anything you have done has been covered. There are no tracks. Be still in what you have finalizing. Know that there is nothing to unravel your own work. 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝑺𝒊𝒙: Bury that motherfucker quicker than a lawyer who has something to hide. These are the six quintessential steps to overcoming [anyone] who dares to challenge a Hale. Especially if there is a threat involved. My father instilled these rules of the game from the time I was old enough to play a decent game of chess, with the logic that if I could outsmart a grown man at the age of thirteen; I could overcome any business tactic with a little grit and grace. Too bad I never liked to follow the rules. I play at my own expense, with my own rules, and at the hands of no mercy — for a mercy rule is a weak man’s way out. ⁝༺༻⁝ The familiar sound of knuckles against my office door quickly grasped my attention from the previous thoughts, and snatched me back to reality. It took a moment to fully refocus myself on the task at hand, and I nodded to the man who stood six foot three in the doorway. “C’mon in, Dior. I’ve got somethin’ to show you,” I called out in a clear, concise southern draw. Letting my gaze settle against him as he made his way over, straightening out his suit as seen fit. Once he had taken a seat across from me, and I flashed a small but noticed smile in his direction before I turned my mother’s sketchbook towards him. Taking a moment before I thumbed through to fourteen different designs. All a completely different style; all equally as challenging as anything else he had ever created. After I let him take the book into his own hands, to study the drawings, I began to speak once again. “What I want [you] to do is to take these and make them your own, but with remnants of her. My mother. She was quite the artist, without a platform, without a voice into the world of fashion alike. It’s time to break the ice. I want you to use only four fabrics to create something unimaginable. Bear in mind, every one of these looks will have to be transformed into lingerie, and every look will pair with leather boots made by Christian Louboutin; you’re free to contact him to work amongst yourselves on the scheme. However, I will want restraints to match, and perhaps whips. Something to keep the edge alive, to fight the competitors on their ‘love me leather’ pursuit. Like I said — make me love them.” His emerald eyes stayed fixated on me for nearly five minutes before he nodded a very slow nod of understanding. Perplexed; to say the least, I’m sure. Though his smile lead me to believe he was more than happy to do as I had demanded, and instead of speaking he began in against the sketches once more. Studying each detail in their design just to look back up at me, and finally he broke the silence, “These are beautiful. Such a elegant touch she had to the designs; I wouldn’t touch that. There are things I will refuse to change, and others you will never recognize as your mother’s — they will be my own. You will be proud Miss Alice, and you [will] love them. I am a man of my word.” The certainty of his voice made a smirk creep in against my lips despite the satisfaction I got out of knowing he was pleased with my idea. Then and again; who wouldn’t be? With a nod to him, I moved to my feet to shake his hand as if to non-verbally seal the deal, and just as he went to tuck my mother’s sketchbook beneath his arm, I shook my head. “I think not. Her book stays in the studio. It does not leave the premises; there will be no exceptions. However, my assistant can and will make any and all accommodations you need to be comfortable here. There is a whole extension to this studio that comes off the fifteenth floor — in the back. It should be big enough to fit your needs, and if not? You come to me. We will work something out.” With that in the air, he smiled rather warmly towards me before sliding the book back onto my desk. Without a word he stepped into me, gracing my cheek with a gentle peck to show respect for my wishes, and as a friendly goodbye before stepping away. I waited until he had made his exit to slip my mother’s most prized work into my locked drawer, though once secure I made my way from the office. Smiling at the familiar clink of my heels against the marble floors — Oh how I loved that sound. I waved a hand in the direction of those who were still at work on the floor before thanking them briefly, and explained deadlines to the few who were in the meeting. For a moment I had to double check myself to make sure there was nothing I was forgetting to say or do, but ultimately I turned on my heel and headed for the elevator. Tucking my phone into my purse as I walked, a somber smile came into sight as I stepped onto the glass box, pressing in the ground level button, and once the doors slid closed? I ran a hand back through my thick locks, nodding to myself as I knew where I had to go next. What I had to do. Who I had to go see. Ding! The doors slid open in what seemed like no time, and I sauntered through the lobby and directly for the car that awaited my arrival just to dismiss my driver instead of taking my usual ride to my temporary home on Bainbridge Island. With a heavy breath falling from my lips, I followed back to retrieve my Bentley where I slipped comfortably in against the leather seats before bringing the car to life. It only took a few seconds before I was pulling away from my studio and heading to the outskirts of Seattle to Northern State Sanatorium. After an hour and a half later, I found myself pulling into the dreary confines of this institution’s parking lot, and for a moment? I couldn’t help but to wonder what kind of horrific shit might linger deep within the walls of this building. There wasn’t a smile to be had here, and that much was evident. Nodding to myself, a silent confirmation that I needed to do this because if I didn’t do it now? I never would. Minutes passed as I sat in the car, breathing...just breathing before I slipped away from the car. My purse hung from the crook of my elbow just as I sauntered towards the door, and much to my surprise? It was a mechanical door instead of something wretched as I assumed it would be. That’s reassuring, at least I noted to myself just as I made my way to the front desk where a sliding window opened and a blonde woman of about sixty years sat. She looked over me for awhile before finally asking for my name and for the name of whom I was coming to see. 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈. “Alice Katherine Hale, I’m here to see my mother; Josephine Alice Hale.”

[bunnyhanasong]

Child Soldier

Main ship: mekamechanic

Side ships: n/a

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Notes: people, including blizzard, seem to only focus on Dva’s cutesy superstar gaming idol arc and completely forget about her not so fluffy past. She’s basically a child solider who has probably seen things a nineteen year old shouldn’t have to experience. I wanted to take that into consideration with this. Baby Hana must be protected she’s so strong n deserves better tbh

Warnings: descriptions of violence and death, panic attacks

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Blood was pounding in her ears as she shakily pushed herself out of her meka. The seat retracted so she could eject from the machine, shakily holding onto the battered pink metal frame. Her mech looked to be in rough shape, which would take a lot of repairs to bring it back to working condition. Still, that wasn’t the biggest worry on Hana’s mind in that moment.

“Hana!” A familiar cheerful voice was barely audible over the rapid beating of her heart, “You did great today!”

“Brigitte,” Hana mumbled, seeing a blur of her girlfriend’s yellow armour in front of her. She felt gentle hands fall on her waist, holding her up as she began to slump against her mech.

“Woah,” Brigitte kept a light hold on Hana are she tried to make eye contact with her, “You alright?”

The younger girl tried to respond but couldn’t focus enough to find the words. She gave a minuscule shake of her head as she tried her hardest to keep her breathing even. The room felt like it was spinning and the harsh lighting of the watchpoint garage was blinding in that moment. She clutched onto Brigitte’s sleeve that was exposed under her armour, trying to find some semblance of grounding.

“Hey, take a breath, Hana. It’s okay,” Brigitte’s lightly accented words were soft and meant to calm her, but they barely registered to Hana.

It wasn’t okay. It had never been okay. It never would be.

Hana took a gasping breath as she tried so hard to stay calm, her increased heart rate making her feel like she’d just run a marathon. The mission had been a tough one for sure, yet Hana wasn’t feeling the physical impact at all. All she felt was the suffocating weight of reality on her shoulders, feeling the realization hit her.

“I... I k-killed them.”

Brigitte was taken aback by the words Hana tearfully mumbled, “They were Talon agents, Hana. They were threatening us and innocent people, you did it to protect others.”

Hana shook her head violently, hands letting go of Brigitte to instead clap over her ears. She slumped down to the ground as her legs finally gave out under her, falling from the older woman’s loose hold as she collapsed in a pile of limbs.

Brigitte became increasingly worried and was unsure what to do. She had never seen her girlfriend like this and was afraid to spook her more. She was curled into herself on the floor as much as she could, sobbing and rambling brokenly in her mother tongue. Brigitte didn’t know enough Korean to understand much, except for a repeated mantra of “I’m sorry.” She was apprehensive to move Hana, unsure if she would want her to interfere. Still, she needed to get her off the garage floor and in a safe environment if she wanted to calm her down.

“Hana,” Brigitte tried again carefully, “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll go see Angela, okay? She can give you something to help you calm down.”

The Korean girl wasn’t listening though, her palms still pressed tightly over her ears. She was breathing shallowly, gasping every so often as she fought the urge to hyperventilate. She was still rambling to herself, tears streaming down her face. Brigitte was startled to say the least, having never seen her teammate so upset before. She quickly recognized this as an anxiety attack and knew she needed to be careful to avoid upsetting Hana even more.

“Hana, look at me,” she crouched down in front of the small woman, “Can I touch you? I want to get you out of the garage but I won’t pick you up if you don’t want me to.”

It took a couple more attempts of questioning before Hana seemed to understand her words. She nodded minutely, which Brigitte took as a prompt to scoop the girl up in her arms. Hana wasn’t heavy, quite the opposite, but with Brigitte’s armour weighing her down it was a bit difficult to get back to her feet.

Hana’s arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, clinging to her as if Brigitte would anchor her. She had begun to sob openly, hiding her face in her girlfriend’s neck. Brigitte tried to be quick and descreet about carrying Hana to the med bay in an attempt to shield the girl from questioning.

When she made it to the Watchpoint medical wing, Brigitte immediately made her way to Mercy’s office. She knew the head medic would be writing up notes of the day’s mission and any injuries sustained or resources used. The Swiss woman was indeed at her desk, and looked very startled when she saw the scene in front of her.

“Hana?” Mercy jumped up and crossed the room, “What happened?”

Brigitte answered for her, “She started panicking when she got out of her meka. Collapsed to the floor and has been hyperventilating since. I couldn’t get her to calm down but I wanted to move her out of that garage.”

Angela frowned and gestured towards the hallway, leading them down to a private exam room at the end of the hall. Brigitte could feel Hana shaking against her, her sobs not as loud now but she still felt tears falling onto her skin. She just shushed her gently as she followed Mercy into the room, letting her shut the door behind them.

“Hana, I’m gonna set you down on the bed, okay?”

Hana shook her head rapidly, clinging tighter to Brigitte. She looked at Angela for help but the doctor just looked concerned. With a sigh, Brigitte shifted Hana in her arms so she could look at her, brushing long hair off of her tear streaked face.

“Can I set you down so I can take off my armour at least? I’ll sit with you right after, I promise. It can’t be comfy with metal digging into you, huh?” Brigitte was speaking slowly and as calm as she could, like one would address a particularly upset child. It took a little more coaxing but eventually Hana nodded, still whining when she was set on the exam bed.

Brigitte tried to be quick with shedding her bulky armour, feeling her muscles screaming from the exertion of the mission and carrying Hana. As she was doing so, Mercy had taken to checking Hana’s vitals, all while the youngest woman was still borderline hyperventilating. Brigitte piled all her gear on the chair beside the bed, leaving her clad only in a long sleeve shirt and athletic pants. Once she sat down on the bed, Hana immediately threw herself back onto her girlfriend, who just gathered the small woman back in her arms.

“Hana,” Angela spoke in her gentle motherly way, “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

She squeaked a little and hid her face in Brigitte’s neck, her tears starting up again. She really did want to talk to Angela but she couldn’t find the words she wanted. Everything seemed way too loud and too bright and just too much. She found solace in Brigitte’s strong arms holding her close, but she was still shaking with the weight of her anxiety.

“Hana, it’s alright,” Brigitte hummed softly as she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, “It’s just me and Angie, you’re safe.”

Hana gasped a little as she tried to catch her breath, attempting to reply, “I... I c-can’t.”

Angela crouched in front of the bed, taking one of Hana’s hands in both of hers, “Take your time, liebling. Deep breaths, we can wait.”

“A-Angie,” Hana sobbed as she finally looked at the medic, “I can’t... it’s so- so b-bad. It’s a-all too m... too much.”

“I know, Hana, I know.” Angela felt her heart break seeing the amount of panic in her dark eyes. This strong girl who was always so cheerful and confident, never faltering in her bubbly idol image. She looked so small and fragile in that moment, held close in Brigitte’s arms as she cowered away from whatever thoughts plagued her mind. It was certainly heart breaking to see one of the girls Angela thought of as a daughter so broken and terrified.

“Talk to us, bunny,” Brigitte prompted, using a nickname for Hana that always made her smile. Angela watched as Brigitte kept speaking lowly to Hana, a gentle hand brushing her bangs from her eyes as she tried to get her to focus. She saw the internal struggle that was going on, knew Hana was fighting some serious memories that she was having trouble separating from reality. These were textbook symptoms of a PTSD attack and Angela was kicking herself for not realizing the signs in Hana before.

“Focus on me, alright, Bun? Angela and I are right here; you’re safe and we want to help you.”

Hana nodded a couple times, shakily looking back to Angela as she took another deep breath. She was still leaning heavily against Brigitte, trying to listen to her strong, steady heartbeat in an attempt to calm her own racing heart.

“I- I killed t-them, eomma,” Hana said to Angela with a quivering bottom lip, “They’re... dead be-because of me.”

Angela frowned, still holding onto the girl’s hand, “Who’s dead, liebling?”

“A l-lot of people.”

Brigitte leaned down to press a reassuring kiss to Hana’s temple, “Hana, you did it to protect others. You’ve never killed in cold blood before and I know you never would.”

“Brigitte, I k- I’ve k...killed people,” Hana murmured, “I’m a murderer.”

“Hana, darling, you know that’s not true,” Angela tried to reason with her, “Yes you’ve killed people but they were criminals who had a lot more blood on their hands. You are a strong and talented soldier and peacekeeper, you’ve protected your home and many other places.”

Hana shook her head for the umpteenth time, tears welling in her eyes again. She thumped her head against Brigitte’s chest as tears silently slipped down her cheeks, “I have seen the... l-life leave more eyes th... than I can count. I have been the reason p-people have lost their children; their parents; their loved ones. I’ve killed p... killed people and not thought t-twice about it.”

Running a gentle hand over Hana’s hair, Brigitte felt her heart ache for her girlfriend. Due to Hana’s confident and borderline cocky gamer attitude, it was easy to forget that she was still just nineteen. She was barely into adulthood and yet she had seen so much and done things no teenager should have to do. Brigitte never really thought about the fact that Hana had become a soldier before she was even out of her adolescence, becoming a meka pilot and a protector of her country before she had even finished high school. Hana wasn’t just cutesy gimmicks, impressive gaming rankings, and witty one liners; she had been a child soldier and seen more than her fair share of death.

“Bunny, it’s all part of the job,” Brigitte said slowly, “I know it’s bad and I know it hurts, god I know, but it’s for a good purpose. You’ve probably saved five times as many lives as you’ve taken, don’t forget that.”

“Brig is right, Hana,” Angela agreed, “We do our best to save as many people as possible. We are not killing out of cold blood and we always have a purpose. You’re allowed to feel remorse but please do not make yourself think you’ve done anything wrong.”

A knock on the door distracted Angela and she stood, stooping down to press a kiss to Hana’s hair, “Try to relax, Liebling, I’ll be back.”

Once the medic disappeared through the door to speak to whoever was on the other side, Hana shifted in Brigitte’s arms. She hid her face in her shirt, feeling her girlfriend begin to rub her back gently in an attempt to keep her calm. Hana had stopped crying by then but she was still shaking a bit, sniffling every once in a while as the two sat in silence.

“Hana?”

The younger woman made a sound of reply, not bothering to look up as she merely snuggled closer to Brigitte. The redhead smiled sadly at her and ran her thumb over one of her tear stained cheeks.

“I love you,” Brigitte said softly, “You know that, right?”

Hana squeaked a little at the out of the blue declaration but nodded against her chest, “I know... and I love you too.”

“You know you can talk to me about these things, right? I’m always going to be here for you, bunny, and that will never change. If missions cause you this amount of anxiety please don’t try and hide it, I want to be here for you but I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Hana hesitated to respond, unsure of how to reply, “I don’t know why... why it’s so bad a-all of a sudden. I was fine...”

Brigitte frowned as Hana sniffled again, “Trauma reveals itself at sporadic moments. You’ve seen a lot, honey, and you’re still young. It’s understandable that you have these worries, but you can’t let them plague you like this.”

“What can I even do? I’m supposed to be a strong and reliable protector and I can’t even do that without having a breakdown. People can’t see me like this, Brig; I’ve got an image to keep up.”

“Hana,” Brigitte shook her head at the implications, “You’re still human and you’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to be upset and scared and frustrated. Just because you’re a public figure and a soldier doesn’t mean you need to always be so strong.”

“I can’t disappoint my fans,” Hana argued quietly, “I have to be strong and confident.”

“Having emotions and pain from trauma isn’t weakness, Hana. It’s something you can learn to control and get a hold of when it gets bad, but it’s okay to feel like this. Your fans won’t feel any different about you; you’re still The Hana Song.”

With a sigh of defeat Hana slumped back against Brigitte’s chest, “What’re you so wise for? Pestering me like this is Angie’s job.”

“I’m a medic too, Hana,” Brigitte replied with a low laugh, “And I love you and I want what’s best for you. In this case I think the best thing would be to let Angela test you for PTSD and other related disorders, just so we know if there’s something to be treated.”

Hana groaned, “I hate this.”

“I know, honey,” Brigitte replied as she wrapped her arms tighter around her girlfriend, “But Angela will bring it up eventually.”

“I’m tired,” the younger woman murmured, “And my head hurts.”

“My poor bunny,” Brigitte hummed as she ran a hand through Hana’s disheveled hair, “Are you feeling calmer, though?”

Hana shrugged, “I guess. Now I just feel like shit.”

The door opened as Hana was mid sentence and Angela reappeared, “Language, Hana.”

In response, Hana looked up at Mercy and mumbled something in Korean, clearly a curse of some sort. Rolling her eyes at the childish rebuttal, Angela came over to place a gentle hand on Hana’s flushed cheek.

“How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts,” Hana replied, “Tired too but I doubt I’ll sleep. I never sleep anymore.”

“Hana, you need to rest,” Brigitte chastised gently, worry clear in her tone.

Angela hummed and went over to the table across the room, picking up a tablet and tapping on it a couple times. She turned back to Hana after a few moments, “We have some anti-anxiety medication in stock I could prescribe, they may help you sleep and reduce attacks like this again. I do want to give you a full work up in the future, Hana, but it’s getting late and I would like for you to rest.”

Hana shrugged, “Whatever works, I guess.”

Angela nodded and made a comment about going to get the medication from the medical supply area. When the door clicked shut again Hana sighed and leaned heavily against Brigitte.

It was clear in her sluggish body language that the anxiety attack and the day’s mission had left Hana exhausted. Brigitte shifted Hana in her arms until she could lay them both down on the small hospital bed, though the younger protested a little.

“Just rest, Bun,” Brigitte urged her gently, “If you fall asleep I’ll take the meds from Angie and bring you back to sleeping quarters.”

Knowing she wouldn’t get anywhere in an argument about this, Hana sighed and just pressed closer into Brigitte’s arms. She hid her face in her shoulder, feeling herself relax against Brigitte’s familiar, strong body. Hana mumbled something in Korean into the fabric of her shirt, making her girlfriend ask her to repeat herself.

“I love you,” Hana said again, a bit louder and in English, “Thank you for being here for me.”

“Always, Bunny,” Brigitte promised with a smile, “I love you and I’ll never let you go through this alone.”

[yokosbetterthanthebeatles]

A Statement

So.

Just last week, for D4TC, I polished my manifesto as best I could. Now that an assignment calls for further fleshing-out, I figured I may as well post the manifesto in its entirety for reference.

A Manifesto for Makers

Good intentions aren’t enough.

           Creatives possess the power to change the world – whether we do so for better or for worse is entirely within our control. We can choose to improve life for the many, for the few, or for the individual. Though betterment isn’t always benevolent: look, for example at American billionaires, living opulently at the expense of their hordes of mistreated laborers.

           Betterment must never come at the cost of others. The golden rule, proposed in the New Testament[1] and later refined empirically by Kant[2], is flawed: interactions and iterations between individuals cannot improve reality for the whole. Creatives, again, face a forked path: view humanity as a conscious whole, or Otherize[3] entire masses into a means towards a paycheck. While we can’t escape the system of capital, we can do our best to mitigate the damage it wreaks.

Consequences must always be considered. If you create, you do so beyond the critical academic vacuum. To create is to do so for people, and to do anything for people is to know how your race, origins, past, class, belief, and goals can potentially cause harm. To be a creator is to think before you act, down to the most minuscule of minutiae; to know where you can, where you cannot, and where you must help. Creation for oneself is good practice, but creation for and only for others is where we, collectively, stand a chance against anti-human interests actively silencing and strangling us.

[1]So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets (English Standard Version, Matthew 7:12).

[2] So act that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means (Kant 1785: 429).

[3] “The anthropological other […] is based on the notion of perceived differences and is a cognitive process involving observation, collection of data and theorizing (Sundar, 1997).” Distilled, the other is anyone deemed alien by virtue of differing ideology, background, or culture.

Reflecting on this, with the assigned David Graeber reading in mind, I’ll take a shot at writing a statement that best encapsulates me.

I justify myself by doing my absolute best to act as a reprieve. Living, regardless of the recent hellish pandemic that doesn’t seem to end, is a painful, exhausting process. My art, my work, exists as something to provide solace to anyone who happens to come across it. Solace itself is a loaded term, and from what I try to provide respite from differs from moment to moment and person to person. But I figure, in the spirit of acknowledging and accepting that reality seems to defy sense, that working towards easing the daily struggles of those around me is the only tangible reason I have motivating me to work at all.

[sidespromptblog]

Hello, do you mind making something with Logan and Deceit, fluff preferably? Still, anything would be great, all your writings are so enjoyable ^_^ Thank you very much and have a good day!

(Sorry for this being so late, I hit a dry spell with my writing. But even so, I hope that you enjoy this, its got a touch of hurt/comfort but its fluff in the end!) 

“What aren’t you doing out here? At this time of night?”

Cracking his eyes open Logan blandly stared back in the direction that the voice had come from, he wasn’t all too surprised to see Deceit standing there his back facing the bathroom from which the light blanketed him and cask an imposing shadow where he stood. Although, that imposing shadow was slightly lessened by the green facial mask that was smeared all across the left side of the dishonest sides face, and even more so by the bright green pajamas that Deceit wore complete with lemons dotting the fabric in every which way. Had he not been so tired Logan would have snorted out loud at the sight of it, but instead, a tiny smile cracked its way onto his face before he pressed his lips together in a thin line to ward off the peels of laughter that wanted to bubble up out of his chest.

Deceit’s eyes narrowed, so the smile clearly wasn’t helping his case any. Not that he had been trying all that hard to begin with.

“I…” He groaned as soon as he sat up, his aching back screaming in protest at the action, and for a split second Deceit shifted forward before he froze where he stood. His self-preservation battling with his natural instinct to remain the bad guy, clearly. “I could not sleep, so I came out here to find some solace. Although..” Logan’s eyes darted down to the book that had fallen from his fingers, it’s pages were a complete mess and he’d really need to straighten them up before he put the book back on his shelf. “I happened to accidentally fall asleep while reading.”

Deceit nodded his head like one of those bobble head figurines as his gaze darted away from Logan and towards the darkened kitchen, it was well past dinner time. Evident by the fact that all of the pots and pans had been washed and put on the drying rack, the food that the others would have eaten were most likely in the fridge wrapped up all neatly for anyone who needed a midnight snack.

Or…

“So what are you doing up so late? I don’t mean to presume anything about your sleeping habits, lest you point out my own. But…” Deceit felt every muscle in his body stiffen as soon as Logan pushed his glasses back up the smooth curve of his nose, the way that the logical side was looking at him said everything. There was a look of concern and…confusion written all over Logan’s face, and never more so than now did he want to ignore it and shoo it away with his own evil actions.

Perhaps just a simple flex of his hand, to make that look of concern go away, or..or he could just cackle. After all, he wouldn’t need to silence the other again if he just felt that he was something to be feared, there would be no need for actions. At least not that threatening.

Opening his mouth, a sneer curled on Deceit’s lip like a worm scorching under the heat of the summer sun.

“You don’t need to lie to me,” And almost immediately the scornful words died on his tongue before they even had a chance to begin, “It’s not like I am the kind of person to tell on you to Roman…” A beat of silence passed between them, as Deceit’s fists clenched and unclenched, still allowing Logan to freely speak his mind and everything that came with it, before… “or Virgil.” A bitter sensation welled on Deceit’s tongue at Anxiety’s name, and even more so at the thought of the ex-dark side finding him here, or even just..confronting him here. Would Logan tell him? He said that he wouldn’t wake him, but he gave no promise to telling him about their encounter once the anxious side woke. Virgil would certainly be angry if he knew that he was here, with one of his precious friends of all things. He’d threaten him perhaps..and he’d never be able to sneak through here as he once did.

He’d…be locked out.

“Please don’t tell him,” The words of desperation left his lips before he even had a chance to think them over, and he could only watch as Logan blinked in pure surprise before a sympathetic but understanding smile curled onto his face. It was a nice smile, if only it was under better circumstances. “I’m here because..because…” The hem of his pajama shirt fumbled between his fingers, and yet that understanding look didn’t leave the logical side’s face. No matter how long it was taking him to come out with the truth, “I didn’t eat tonight..or this afternoon..or this morning either. I didn’t even eat yesterday, because…”

Logan’s shoulders straightened in an instant, as all traces of exhaustion fled his face. There was a look of seriousness on his face, a look that Deceit could only ever recall being on the receiving end of, only this time it wasn’t aimed at him. It was aimed at an enemy that he let alone Logan couldn’t see, a part of him felt delighted in the way that Logan’s eyes lit up with an icy cold flame as his the muscles in his jaw strained the moment that his teeth ground against one another. Nobody had ever been angry for him, it was unprecedented.  

Unprecedented…but enthralling nonetheless.

Logan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as the logical side swallowed thickly. “You need food?” He carefully asked, gauging Deceit’s every reaction no matter how minuscule. He certainly wasn’t lying, Logan was damned certain of that. More certain than he’d ever been in his entire life, and watching Deceit nod his head in a rather monotone confirmation he had only one thing to say to the dishonest side who looked more awkward standing there than ever. “Sit.”

Surging up to his feet, he saw only wariness from the other side, or at least before he gestured to the empty loveseat that a mere hour ago he had just been asleep on. Out of all the ways that he was reacting, he was sure that Deceit could never have expected this.

“Sit.”

That was the only word that registered within Deceit’s mind as his body mindlessly stumbled over to where Logan had just been sleeping, and it was the only word he heard again as his legs folded out from under him and he found himself sitting on the squishy couch cushions that had until a few seconds ago held Logan. He really didn’t even know what to think of this, out of everyone the logical side had always seemed like the less likely person to listen let alone care about whatever was going on with him. And yet…here he was, flicking on the kitchen lights and cooking what smelled like soup for him, when he really hadn’t asked him to do so. It really seemed like something that Patton would do, or..or something that Virgil would have done if they had still been friends.

But no, it was Logic.

It’s Logic. That was the only thing he could think as he looked back at Logan as he carried the bowl full of steaming broth back into the living room.

“I apologize,” Logan began with an almost sheepish grin, as he offered the warm bowl to Deceit’s waiting hands. “I’m not the best at doing anything outside of baking, so I warmed up some chicken noodle soup from a can. It’s best to stick to liquids if you haven’t eaten in a while, no use in you getting sick all over the place.” For the longest moment, Logan just watched as Deceit stared into the warm broth. The dishonest side didn’t make even a single movement to pick up the spoon, the frozen look of abject shock was written all over his face made Logan’s stomach twist uncomfortably for a moment.

At least until Deceit’s hand moved, it was slow at first, as if the dark side in front of him was living his life in slow motion, or in the very least trying to wade through molasses. But eventually, he grasped the spoon, although he didn’t yet bring it to his mouth, not until his eyes darted up locking onto Logan’s.

“Will you read to me? As I eat?”

Logan’s throat seized, and in that moment between them, if he were able to feel such things, then Logan surely would have allowed himself to cry at the question. It had been…far too long since one of the sides had wanted him to read to them, too boring, not fantastic enough, or..something to be listened to only when they wanted to get to sleep fast. But even so, Logan found himself blinking back tears as he settled onto the loveseat right next to Deceit, who was slowly spooning the warm soup into his mouth.

“Of course, anything for you,” Logan whispered, and he meant every word.  

[mutopians]

The Vessels

Also on Wattpad!

A Supernatural Fanfiction

When Dean Winchester is on his deathbed after being torn apart by hell hounds, a demon clearly masquerading as an angel appears and makes him an offer: become its new meat suit, and it will heal his injuries. But things don't go exactly as planned. Despite the assurances that they will share control, Dean wakes up six months later and discovers that the world thinks he's dead.

And the world has changed greatly in time that he has been gone. Sam Winchester has fallen farther and farther out of touch with the hunters he and Dean once regularly chatted with. Angels have stepped into the playing field. And there are rumors that the Devil himself has managed to break free from his cage and walk the earth once more.

As Dean finds himself unable to trust his brother more and more, the only alternative he has is to trust the demon/possible angel sharing his meat suit. Its name?

Castiel.

Chapter 1

Dean Winchester was about to go to Hell.

This day had been destined to happen for a year, and he had spent that year counting down to his final moments. He had known there was nothing he could do to fight it; that had been all of Sam's beliefs. But now that he could feel the hell hounds digging their claws into his skin and clothing as they tore him away from his brother, he suddenly wished more than ever before to remain alive. His sudden bout of struggling did little to help his situation. The hell hounds had likely dealt with worse before, and would likely deal with worse later. At least he could take some solace in the fact that he was going down the Winchester way: he wasn't going to die a coward. He would die fighting.

The hell hounds dragged him to the town's jail. Random facts begin to pop into his head as he tried to ignore the excruciating pain. They liked their symbolism. Whether it was a rule of Hell or just how things were, they would always bring their victims to someone symbolic of Hell. Claws mercilessly ripped apart skin and muscles as they dragged him into the nearest cell. He struggled to stay conscious; the ceiling was beginning to swim in his vision. His mind flashed back to his brother pressed up against that wall.

I'm sorry, Sammy, he thought. There was a bright flash of light in the distance, and the hell hounds howled and cowered as a figure clad in a trench coat quickly approached. Dean caught a glimpse of a face—young, male and surely demonic—before the pain simply became too much and the world began to flash from full color to complete darkness.

Another flash of bright light.

The hell hounds retreated, leaving only their victim as his newest captor crouched down before him. He felt a warm hand brush up against his forehead. “I will not harm you,” the voice said, and Dean wished he had the strength to shoot back a retort. Though the demon's voice was probably meant to come off as comforting, there was a tinge of worry to the man's voice.

“You were not supposed to be this injured,” the demon commented.

Dean just gave him a look as a cry of pain suddenly erupted from within. He could barely keep conscious now, but he knew he had to—he couldn't let this demon do whatever it wanted with his body. He opened his mouth to tell it exactly that, but couldn't find the strength to say the words.

The demon surveyed him.

“I can save you,” it said.

Dean wanted to laugh. Making deathbed deals with a demon was how he got into this mess in the first place; did this one think he was going to be stupid enough to complete the cycle? When a minuscule chuckle escaped him, cut short by another cry of pain, the demon stared at him with blue eyes that should have never looked so honest—so human.

“No,” he coughed out.

The demon's brow furrowed. Dean groaned, pain making his vision blurred and dark. “I need to,” it insisted. “It is my duty-”

“Who sent you?” Dean cut him off. He hated how weak his voice sounded. It was barely above a whisper, and he could just barely hold back another cry of pain. “Lilith?”

It stared at him blankly.

“I am not a demon,” it said. The meat suit and the desperate deal-making said otherwise, but Dean didn't have the strength or time to argue. “I am an angel of the lord.”

That, admittedly, wasn't what he had expected, but he believed that in this guy being an angel as he believed in the tooth fairy existing. Dean tried to scoot back or sit up so he looked he presented some kind of a threat, but the purported angel kept its hand on his forehead. “So what's your deal, then?” he questioned. His words were a jumbled and mumbled mess; he was astonished when the demon seemed to understand what he was trying to ask.

“You would become my new vessel,” the demon said, and Dean promptly spit up a good chunk of blood in its emotionless face. If he hadn't been dying and horrified by the offer, he might have gotten a kick out of the way it slowly raised its free hand up to wipe off some of the blood. “I would be able to heal your body, and Lilith would never dare to send another hell hound after you.”

There was a pause.

“You would be able to see your brother again-”

“And I would be your meat suit?”

Another blank look. “I do not know what that is,” the demon informed him, and its ignorance made him want to laugh again. “But I would treat you well, as I do with all of my vessels. Once your body is healed and Lilith has been dealt with, then I will return to my current vessel. I just need your permission.”

“No,” Dean declared with another cough.

“No?” the demon repeated, tilting its head ever so slightly to the side. Now the room was getting really dark; Dean hadn't known that feeling so much pain was possible. But if he wanted to finish this conversation before he kicked the bucket, he would have to hold out for just a bit longer.

“No,” Dean repeated. “I'm not going...I'm not going to be your meat suit, and I'm not going to let you run around with my face. If I don't have control of my body, I'm better off dead than alive.”

The demon's expressionless face set its lips into a frown.

Dean was surely about to kick the bucket when it suddenly spoke once more, removing its hand from its forehead as it looked him right in the eyes. “Then we can both be in control,” the demon said. He knew he shouldn't be listening to a monster, but there was something about the way that it spoke that made Dean want to trust it. “It will be difficult, and has not been done for a long time, but it should be possible.”

He thought for a moment. He would have likely given it much more thought, but time was something he didn't have. Thinking of his brother, of Bobby, of Jo, of Ellen and of everyone else he cared about and wanted to see again, he knew exactly what he had to say.

“I'll do it,” he said.

A ghost of a smile danced across the demon's lips.

“Say yes, and you will be my vessel,” it said.

“Yes.”

And that was when Dean went unconscious.

When Dean next came to, he was slumped across the ground in the midst of the forest. His clothes were somehow fixed and covered in a very thin layer of grime—likely from the dirt he was laying in—and he felt surprising whole again. He propped himself against the wooden marker behind him and surveyed the area. The woods were entirely unfamiliar; for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where he was.

For someone who had promised to split control with him, the demon was surprisingly silent. Dean wondered if it had all been a bad dream. He certainly had enough of them about the hell hounds dragging him to hell, and that wouldn't have been the most bizarre of them. But then he turned to read what was on the wooden marker in the hopes that it would give him a clue, and he found himself staring at his own grave.

“Dean Winchester,” the grave read, undoubtedly carved by Sam. All Dean could do was stare at his name for the first minute, then curse and swear so loud that it startled several birds out from the trees they were nesting in. The demon had promised to heal him, but it had never said anything about Sam thinking he was dead!

He got to his feet. His phone was gone. It must have fallen out in the struggle against the hell hounds. Money and a car were also going to be an issue. Damn it, he thought. Why did I think trusting that demon was a good idea!?

Thankfully, it was easy to determine a path out of the woods. He eventually found an abandoned gas station a short distance away, and he began to frantically raid it. He grabbed food. He grabbed cash from the register. And while he was about to stuff his discoveries in the first plastic bag he found hidden in the corner of the room, he began to hear a white noise in the back of his mind.

He stopped.

It wasn't making any words yet, but he could do the math. His face set into a furious look, and he wished he could glare at it like he wanted to. Instead he had to stick with glaring at his reflection in the nearest window, and something was definitely lost with that. “Why did you let Sam think I was dead?” he demanded. Crossing his arms and tapping his foot against the ground, he waited for a response.

He would have tried to kill you, it finally said. It was trying to take control of his mouth—weakly—but he ignored how his mouth was trying to move in ways that he didn't want it to. He would have thought that I was a demon, or some other creature. Your body was already severely damaged. It took me a great amount of time to heal it, and-

“How much time?”

The demon was silent.

“How much time?” he hissed.

The demon, at least, had the intelligence to sound guilty and hesitant when it replied. Six months, it admitted. You were in a coma for the entirety of it. I did try to rouse you, but you only awoke when I brought us to your grave-

“You let everyone think I was dead for six months?” he yelled, anger bubbling up from within. The demon recoiled in his mind. Good. He wanted it to know just how furious he was. “I should have known there would be something written in the smaller font!”

When the demon wisely stayed silent, Dean threw his finds into the bag and stormed out of the building. There was a car nearby. Like the gas station, it also seemed abandoned: he easily broke into it and stole it. The demon didn't seem to like this decision much. He could hear it trying to argue with him about it in the back of his mind, but he didn't bother to listen. He just turned the key that had stupidly been left in the ignition and started heading to the first place he could think of.

He needed to see Bobby.

[imeugene]

He Spoke Highly of James Baldwin

“Your writing isn’t talented, it’s gifted”, that’s what Professor Collins said to me. I’ve never been good with compliments so I said a meek thank you and made note that I do write a lot. I didn’t want him to think that I just came into class and wrote the initial assessment essay and it happened to be to his liking. That there was real work behind it. Years of writing on some blog that had a small but I’d like to think a dedicated following. “You have good pacing and your word choice is excellent, you’re a visual storyteller and it shows in your paper”, it felt good for something you’ve been working on for a while to be recognized outside of it’s regular sphere of influence, you feel like it has real merit. “You’re grammar and technical skills are God awful though… but we’ll work on that this semester”, I looked at the grade it was a C+.

He was an interesting person. One of those people with a natural magnetic charm. He had absolute command and control over the community college class, there was an underlying respect that he garnered. Not through any type of authoritarian means even though you knew deep inside he’s absolutely capable of just that. He was a people’s champion of sorts. His accent thick like molasses as he puts it. A southerner who quit construction in his nowhere town in a nowhere state. I don’t like to bash the culture of the South cause I don’t think it is all as bad people make it out to be but he did come off as someone who outgrew the culture of ignorance that the South can sometimes be. He one day just drove to Baltimore during the height of the crack wars, found a place near John Hopkins (which if you know is absolute hood), got a college degree and began teaching. He looked like a shorter Woody Harrelson. Weathered face and a wit crafted through years of experience. Not the dry phrases people like to repeat, there was tact in every move, every word. It was immediate, it was sharp. This combined with these blue eyes that would pierce right through you. There was a lot inner turmoil and intensity in them. He hid it behind a kind smile though, even though that looked somewhat practiced. He was a dying man, I think. The first day of class he mentioned that at times he maybe absent and there would an assistant teacher in class to help him, all due to treatment. I wasn’t sure if anyone else caught it but I wasn’t going to press the matter. 

During that semester he really let me focus on the technicality of writing. A mixture of warm compliments and unflinching criticism. I respected that in him. I tend to coast through a lot of writing based class cause years of writing puts me on a different level than most my peers whose hardest work is 2 pages double spaced of the effects of the Spanish-Civil War or something like that. Not to sound like I’m bragging cause my math level is at a 7th Graders at most but I do write and I do it often. I got a C+ the first paper. That’s good enough, next paper I wrote I did more of the same, usual stylized stream of consciousness that I grew accustomed to. I’ll just coast on by and think about movies. The paper comes back D-, he tells me he wants to speak to me after class. I didn’t really get it then. I don’t think I did better or worse than the first paper. After class he takes care of all other business and we discuss the paper. He starts with his first few brief compliments than back to his unflinching criticisms. The paper had every symbol and line imaginable, marked beyond repair. He told me to turn to our writing handbook to see what each sign meant and fix it and he’ll add 10 extra points or something like minuscule like that.

See at that point I respected him a lot as a teacher, a person and as a man. A teacher cause his devotion to the subject was clearly there and he maneuvered the class to make the sour subject of Literature more approachable. I do not like a lot of liberal arts teachers, it seems often they’re just hacks who stroke their own ego using big words and empty ideas hoping to impress a student body that’s forced to be there. He wasn’t that. There was certain conviction. As a person, I respected him cause a Southerner like himself can easily categorized but he outgrew the parts that didn’t seem necessary and embraced the one that were. Our assistant teacher was Ms. Johnson. She was the usual cool, hip, down to earth, black teacher from the city living her life to make the world a bit better. It was an odd juxtaposition but you could tell Ms. Johnson approved of Professor Collins “one hundred” as she would hiply state. I think he even called himself white boy a few times. It made him all that much more approachable to the different type of people that constituted the class. As a man I respected him cause as the semester rolled on and life drained from his face, as his eyes grew more tired more weary. He still put on his best two shoes and persevered. That’s the trait of a real man. That conviction never unflinching, pressing on even when it’s so hard. You hear people talk about needing a day off for “mental health” and I don’t disagree with that, I’ve done it myself but that type of will Professor Collins showed during that semester was something else. Those heavy coughs and that handkerchief he kept around, a testament to his coming fate. 

I wasn’t going to give him a hard time though. If he’s going to take the time to give me some pointers than I’m gonna take my time to do him right too.At a certain point it was looking at the pluses and minuses that determined if I did well or not. At one point he made note that he put a smiley on a paragraph cause he liked it. It all felt like that book Tuesdays with Morrie. It’s about a sportswriter spending time learning with his old professor who is slowly withering away from Lou Gehrigs/ALS. I’m trying my best to be an adult these days, not some punk ass entitled kid who thinks just cause I write more and I do slight better than my peers that I should have a better grade and when I don’t, cry about it. This is a challenge he placed upon me as a man and it’s up to me to meet that challenge and I tried my best. C+ if I did good. D- if I didn’t. It was tough. But every paper the same few encouraging words followed by the poignant criticism. Re-write it and I’ll give you 10 extra points. I rewrote it each time and took on whatever extra credit given. 

By the end of the semester he was missing class more often and Ms.Johnson would be stand in. At no point was his health ever mentioned really after the first class when he mentioned attending treatment. I didn’t know whether to address it or not as we grew more familiar with time. In the modern world, it’s ok for men to discuss feelings. I don’t look down upon that at all. If that’s all someone does when we hang out, that’s something else but to share a moment of candid thoughts from time to time, we’re only human and have one life and that life can be overwhelming. I can understand that. Professor Collins was old school and that approach I don’t think was necessarily something he’d find solace in. He presented me a task and I respected his will and met with that task the best I can. I kept my mouth shut and my head down and did the work. What he’s dealing with is clearly full time and if there’s a moment where he can just badger me for my terrible sentence structure and not think about anything else, well that’s the man’s way. 

Nearing the end of the semester I grew kind of worried. Essays were the majority of our grades and I don’t think I got a grade higher than a C+. I did everything else well like our reading quizzes and class participation and what not but their miniscule. I asked him after class if there is anything else I could do to get a better grade since I was worried that the D+ average essay grade was going to drop me too low. He looked at me and said don’t worry about it. I trusted his good will. I finished the class with a C+, which I don’t think mathematically makes sense. It’s skewed I believe. In his final testament to me… still a C+. The way he is makes me think if there’s some greater purpose behind it. Like I said every word, every move, all seems pre-thought. Cause his interactions with me certainly didn’t seem like a C+ student type thing. Maybe he wants me to continue the hard work and accept pushback and adversity. That’s what I like to think at least sometimes. I wish I could say I continued our correspondence but he never seemed like the type of man who’d be comfortable with back and forth e-mails about nothing. In the final e-mail I thanked him for pushing me throughout the semester. I wanted to address his health but I didn’t want to open a soapbox now so I just wrote, “I wish your health returns and the best for you and your family”. Just something small to let him know I know. He did say I was good at word choice.