#the brain effort that goes into making the words pretty just doesn't feel worth it if no one else cares

[kiyomitakada]

Light likes to think he is an active person. An open-minded risk-taker, if one will. When he encounters a problem, he does not shy from the challenge but faces it square on. This is why he was a pleasure to have in class.

The first time Light is strangled asleep by the ghost of L Lawliet, he decides to put these skills into practice and raid Misa's sleeping pills.

Look, it's not like Misa keeps track of them. Light's usually the one who has to remind her to take her pills in the first place; she doesn't have any sort of refill schedule other than 'when they run out.' Taking just one won't hurt.

Still. He feels oddly guilty, shaking it out of the bottle, which is stupid for aforementioned reasons; the pill, at least, goes down as smoothly as a lie.

"Goodnight, darling," Misa mumbles, when he slides into bed at last, his throat bitter and tight.

"Night, Misa."

Light always sleeps on his back with his arms locked at his sides. He has nightmares, but not usually insomnia; he curbed that after the first week of using the Death Note. He closes his eyes and drowns with ease.

-

"Misa," he says the next morning, while dumping refrigerated salad into a bowl. He drinks coffee on weekdays like these. She drinks zero-sugar orange juice. Ryuk gets an apple.

Misa startles. "Yeah? What is it, Light?"

She's stopped wearing her pigtails recently. It's just too much effort to style her hair now that she's acting in more feature films, she says. These days it falls to her shoulders, straight and blonde. It makes Light a little sick to look at her.

"When you're falling asleep," he says. "Do you ever feel like something is crushing you?"

"Uh… no?" Misa tilts her head at him. "Why would I?"

"Some sleep conditions come with full-body paralysis and the sensation of weight. I was reading about it online yesterday." He wasn't.

"Hmm. Nope! Guess I have something else." Misa shrugs, grinning. "Thanks for looking it up for me."

"Sure," Light says. He wonders, briefly, if she's lying. No. Misa would never lie to him.

-

The pill, if anything, had dragged it out longer: the (lack of) screaming, the (lack of) thrashing, so on and so forth. But it occurs to Light, as he heads into the task force headquarters, that his nightmares are blurrier now. Usually the images last until at least lunch, possibly dinner if he has to use the voice changer for whatever reason; now he finds he can barely recall whether L's eyes crinkled at the edges or not when Light was feeding him cake.

This is, naturally, a relief. Light really hates his nightmares. He doesn't know why his brain insists on inventing a kind Ryuzaki, one who laughs at his jokes and returns his empty smiles and would not have killed him even if he saw Light in his entirety, which he didn't. Whoever that man is, he's an affront to the real L's memory.

Light snickers to himself in the empty elevator. Right, because he's doing such a great job carrying L's memory already.

Maybe the tradeoff is worth it, he thinks. He never wants to see L again, of course, but he'd take the real L over some facsimile in a heartbeat. At least L doesn't talk when he's strangling him.

-

"Where do humans go when they die?"

Ryuk snorts. "Midlife crisis, Light-o?"

"What? No. I'm only twenty." It had not occurred to Light that Ryuk would think he was asking about himself. 'Humans' had seemed like such an objective, distant word.

"Maybe heaven," Ryuk says. "Maybe hell. Maybe nowhere at all."

"With — equal probability?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Ryuk says. "Gimme another apple."

"No."

There is, obviously, no way that L has made it to heaven. So that rules one out. Actually Light is pretty sure this is a reskin of the Monty Hall game show problem, but he doesn't know what reward he's hoping for.

In any case, he's done his research by now. Sleep paralysis is a common condition that affects 8 to 50% of the population, a horrifically large range that should not still be tolerated by academia. The best treatments are cognitive behavioral therapy (which he doesn't need, since it's apparently centered around getting rid of fear of the paralysis), antidepressants (he's not depressed), and 'reassurance' (he is twenty years old).

In summary, this L is just as fake as Ryuzaki. Which Light knew already. Obviously.

It doesn't matter, though. It's better this way.

-

"—Light?"

Something is encircling his wrist. His left wrist. Light instinctively tries to reach for it, but he can't move, still — black-hole gaze and taxidermied butterflies and he needs to kill him, he needs to run —

"Light!"

And suddenly it all falls away. The person in front of him is blonde and soft and not any version of L at all.

He shoves her hand away. "Misa. What's wrong?"

"You were saying something," Misa says. "Over and over. It woke me up."

What is he supposed to say to that? 'Sorry'? "What was I saying?"

"…I don't know," Misa says. "Just gibberish, I guess."

Misa would never lie to him. He swallows the sudden acrid taste in his throat and his urge to scream at her for chasing L away. L will still be here tomorrow. It's fine. "Go back to sleep then."

"Okay!" Misa chirps, and flops down beside him.

Light checks his watch. It is still only fifteen past midnight. He must not have gotten very far into sleep.

He closes his eyes and tries to summon L again, not Ryuzaki with his oddly soft hair and dark brown eyes. L who is made of cruelty and vindictiveness and tricks. L who was never human in the first place.

He doesn't find him.

[ @deathnotetober day 25: ghost ]

(A/N: halfway through writing this i realized i might be drawing a lot of unconscious inspiration from telltale, which you should read right now because it’s gorgeous and it actually happened in canon i know because i was there. i don't think they are too similar but i just wanted it on the record if you're feeling deja vu that's probably why)

[miasmaghoul]

WET DREAM RAIN WET DREAM RAIN (please)

Hgkngjf

So W E T

He/they Rain because I can <3

Swiss loves sleeping with Rain.

Not just for the sex, though that's certainly a nice perk, but for the closeness. Rain is not a touchy person in their day to day, generally keeping to themselves. Not for any malicious reason, he just prefers his personal space. Swiss gets it, there are days where he can't stand the thought of being flattened at the bottom of a ghoul pile either.

But moments like this are a different story entirely. Rain becomes so very tactile once they've made it to a bedroom, once the door is locked and Swiss is all they have. Rain glues himself to Swiss then - presses against his back while Swiss brushes his teeth, plays with his hair while they read, lays on Swiss's chest with their legs tangled together while they talk about absolutely nothing of importance.

Moments full of little touches that eventually gain greater intent. A hand on the back of a neck, or under a shirt. The press of a thigh to someone's groin. A huffed chuckle of "Yeah? You want it?" followed by a happy sigh and a deep kiss that goes filthy almost immediately.

They fit each other so well. Swiss runs warm while Rain's elemental nature leaves them naturally cool. His long fingers sink so easily into the soft spots at Swiss's sides, along his throat, through his hair. Into his body, accompanied by shiver-inducing words and hitched breaths.

Rain feels the same, they've said as much. Whispering with shy reverence about how well Swiss stretches him, fills him up and overloads his brain. How Swiss can open them up physically and emotionally in a way the other ghouls couldn't quite match. Every encounter feels full, round at the edges and wholly satisfying.

Then they sleep, and that's Swiss's favorite part.

His fingers drift in aimless swirls over Rain's thigh, the water ghoul still snoring softly into his pillow. It's midday judging by the way the spring sunlight pours from between the heavy navy drapes. The air is thick with lavender and rose, sweet scents carried from the nearby gardens mingling with the heady aroma stuck in Swiss's nose.

Rain is pressed against his bare chest, their sleep shirt caught up around their ribs. Swiss's other arm is around his waist, fingertips teasing the trail of soft hair poking out of Rain's boxers.

His soaking wet boxers.

Rain lets out a sigh between snores and Swiss groans in the back of his throat as he watches the dark spot on the gray fabric grow. Whatever Rain is dreaming about, he hopes he's part of it. The musk of a salty sea breeze hangs around them, and Swiss really has to make an effort not to grind his aching cock against Rain's sleeping form.

He's been awake for a while now, and this has only been getting worse. Rain's little movements were what had dragged him awake in the first place, their hips shifting as quiet moans fell from their lips. Swiss is a light sleeper while Rain could sleep through a jet engine falling on the abbey, so the multighoul has been awake ever since. Watching. Listening. Fattening up against Rain's back. He wishes he hadn't slept naked last night.

The water ghoul lets out a particularly high-pitched whine in his sleep and Swiss has to bite his lip to keep from moaning into Rain's skin. Their slick has started to soak through the back of their boxers, and Swiss can feel it rubbing off on his own thighs and stomach with every move Rain makes. It's maddening. His dick kicks in the space he's trying so hard to keep between his crotch and Rain's ass.

He doesn't want to wake Rain up. That feels selfish, unnecessary. But between those pretty sounds and the way Rain's hips keep moving, the way he's drooling onto pillow below, Swiss is sure it would be worth it. He presses a kiss to Rain's shoulder.

"Rainbow?" Swiss says it so softly it's nearly drowned up by the birds singing in the garden. "You awake?"

Another snore, another twitch in Rain's boxers. That would be a no, then. Swiss groans into Rain's skin. He can't wake them up, not when Rain is so clearly lost in the pleasures on their own mind. No matter how much the slick spot that's now grazing the shaft of his leaking cock grows.

Swiss makes the impossible decision to retreat to the bathroom. To blow his load into the toilet and come back for more lazy cuddles. It's the sensible thing to do, the polite thing. Swiss carefully moves himself, unhooking his arm from Rain's waist and deliberately ignoring the unconscious whine of protest the water ghoul breathes out in response.

Swiss slides out from between the sheets in silence, holding his breath. Like he's trying to escape a wild animal instead of sneaking off to cream himself in Rain's bathroom. Rain turns onto his back in his sleep and Swiss feels like he's been punched in the gut.

Rain looks gorgeous. Their shirt is askew and rucked up even higher now, exposing the pale plane of their stomach. His cheeks are flushed and lips parted, breathing even but shallow. Rain's boxers are more obviously tented from this angle. And wet. So wet.

Swiss can't not stroke himself at the sight, just once. At the sense memory of Rain in his mouth last night, spilling pre down his throat. Of being pressed up against the shower wall with Rain's tongue in his ass. Of Rain riding him until their thighs gave out and Swiss had to wrap them in his arms, holding them to his chest and fucking them through both of their releases.

Rain's cock kicks hard enough that his whole body moves and Swiss has to look away. He's already dizzy enough without the phantom feeling of Rain's fluttering muscles around him. He turns with the intent of hurrying to the bathroom and yelps as he immediately stubs a toe on Rain's nightstand.

"Fucker!" It's bitten out between clenched teeth as Swiss hops on one foot, hissing. He tries to be quiet, but -

"Swiss?" Rain's voice is thick and slurred, like his tongue is too big for his mouth. He doesn't open his eyes, patting around him on the mattress. "Where'd you go?" Swiss sighs, reaching out to stroke Rain's cheek.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he murmurs, tucking a dark curl behind Rain's ear. They lean into the touch with a soft groan and their eyes crack open, cerulean blown nearly black. It goes straight to Swiss's dick. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he breathes, and he can't keep from crawling back up and slotting himself next to that lanky body. He presses a kiss to Rain's temple and the water ghoul gives a sleepy sigh.

"Was havin' a real good dream too," he yawns, humming happily as Swiss kisses his throat.

"I could tell," Swiss speaks into his skin, "you're soaked, tadpole." His hand drifts over Rain's stomach, coming to rest just above their still-tented boxers. Rain stiffens beneath him as they let out an embarrassed sound, burying their face in Swiss's hair.

"Fuck, again? 'm sorry, I -" Rain cuts himself off with a surprised chirp as Swiss catches him in a kiss. It doesn't last too long, the angle is awkward, but it's enough to quash the shame before Rain can try to hide his evidence. The water ghoul gasps when Swiss sucks at their lip before pulling back, callused fingers still grazing their exposed stomach.

"Tell me about it?" Rain moans, loud and wanton, when Swiss cups them though the damp fabric. "You always have the best dreams, wanna hear what made such a mess outta you."

"Shit," he gasps, sounding so very awake now. The rasp of arousal worming into his voice has Swiss shivering. "Yeah, yeah, I -" Rain clears their throat as Swiss starts sliding downwards, kissing over Rain's shirt and down onto soft skin, "I can do that."

Swiss settles between his legs and mouths at Rain through his boxers, watching the way the other ghoul's back arches. He tugs their underwear down and Rain gasps when Swiss starts lapping at this length, slow and messy. Savoring every last drop coating their heated skin.

"I wanna hear everything."

Swiss takes the tip into his mouth, and Rain melts.

[abyssal-author-and-artist]

Bitter Kipper 1

For @kirbytimelma0

Thanks for asking me to do this!

It's another day on Planet Popstar, and Kirby is sick of it. He's sick of the stares as he waddles down the streets. The people yelling at him over the smallest things. So what if he swallowed a building? That wasn't his fault! He was doing his best, and no one ever seems to understand that. At least he has a friend, one singular friend in the world. They always understand him, no matter what.

In fact, he's heading there early in the morning, holding onto whatever scrap of optimism he can. It'll be worth it, after all. He loves spending time with this friend. As he pushes his squishy, pink little body through the door, he smiles as widely as he can. Considering most of his body is mouth, that's pretty wide. He's so excited to see his friend.

Blood.

There's blood everywhere.

Blood and guts and horror. In the center of the room, there's a small, squished, mangled body. Small and green but covered in red. It's horrifying, and he spends a solid chunk of time just staring. It's like he's frozen in place.

And then suddenly, everything starts happening, and it starts happening fast. He's being pushed, and then he's pushing, and he can't see and doesn't know what's happening except that he's doing it, he's hurting people, he's lost in his own blind rage, he's losing himself.

He goes on a rampage for a long, long while. After a while he loses track of what he's done, who he's hurt. He literally sees red - a hazy screen of senseless rage he literally can't see through. Unfortunately, it leads to him tripping and falling off a cliff. His eyes open and close frantically, the sky so big and open and wide, and then he compresses and everything goes dark.

He can't open his eyes.

He can't see.

Oh. He can't see. He can't feel.

He- he can't. Is he... is he even anything right now?

Panic starts to set in.

And then he can open his eyes again, and he does except they're not his eyes. Not his body. It's too light and long and big and wrong. He's sitting in a bed, blankets tangled around his too-long-feeling limbs. He sits up clumsily.

Oh.

He's not him anymore. He's in the body of someone else. A young boy, it seems. He lifts a strange, long arm and flexes it. The feeling is weird and definitely not what he expected when he fell off a cliff. There's sunlight streaming in through a window.

Suddenly, the door slams open and he looks over to see a girl walk in, her face pouty and her steps heavy. She's got long hair and braces and there's what looks like cat fur all over her sweater.

"Can you believe it, Dip-dot?" she asks, and he's instantly more confused. "They're still sending us away to Gravity Falls!"

"I... w-what?" His voice is oddly low and words fall out with almost no input from him. There's no strain or extra brain power required on his part. She fixes him with a strange look.

"Our parents? Sending us to live with our Grunkle Stan for the summer? Do you... not remember? It was yesterday."

"I. I don't think you h-have the right person," he strings together, his brow furrowing from the effort of making sure he says the right things in the right order.

"Dipper, cut it out," she sighs. "I like playing games, too, but now's not the time."

"D-dipper?"

"Yes, Dipper, that's your name. Mason 'Dipper' Pines. And I'm your twin, Mabel."

"S-stop patronizing me," he says, pushing himself off the bed with shaky, too long limbs. There's an edge in his voice that he didn't even know was possible, though he doesn't even know what's happening and that's probably a factor.

"What? I'm not-"

"Cut the crap. Something's n-not right here and I'm going to figure out what." He stalks over to her and, though they're the same height, she backs away and shrinks into herself.

"You... you're really not Dipper, are you?"

"No."

"Who are you?"

And so he explains everything. Planet Popstar. His friend. The cliff. In return, once they're on the bus, a hat on his head and cat fur lint-rolled off her sweater, she explains to him everything she can. Mostly it's inane sibling bullshit, and he gets sick of her rambling after a few minutes.

"So you're telling me I'm stuck in the body of a nerd with no powers, and I have you to rely on?"

"Hey, that's mean, Kirby," Mabel says. "I'm doing my best. Actually, we should give you a name because you're half my brothe-"

"Does your best have to include so many unnecessary tangents?"

"I'm trying!"

"Not very hard, it seems."

"What do you know about trying? Aren't you a pink puffball?"

"A pink puffball who saved the world, like, a billion times."

"Why are you so aggressive?"

"I'm not aggressive. I'm passive-aggressive because you're an annoying little kid and I don't want to deal with you."

She gets up and moves away from him after that. Which is fine by him. Not like he wanted to talk to her or hang out with her anyways.

There's a long pause where nothing happens, and then Mabel shifts where she's sitting on the other side of the bus.

"I'm calling you Kipper."

"Don't call me that."

"You're Kirby in my brother's body. I'm not calling you Dipper or Mason and I can't really call you Kirby."

"Try."

"No, I mean people will get upset if I do. Kipper is easier to pass off as people mishearing."

"That's a stupid name."

"Hey!"

"Makes sense. You're stupid, after all."

Mabel shuts up after that - a thing which he is eternally grateful for. Yeah, he's probably being mean, but he just died and he's sick of everything already. He hurts and he's tired and Mabel's voice is high and annoying.

The bus grinds to a halt at Gravity Falls and Kipper catches Mabel staring at him. Instead of acknowledging her, he gets off the bus.

Gravity Falls, Oregon.

He hates it already.

[bejaeyoung]

it doesn't come as a surprise to jay, when siwoo melts completely under his touch, under his words, with little effort. back then, it had—the plethora of affection that siwoo had hid from him comes out in an unexpected explosion in the middle of one of their emotional arguments. at first, jay couldn't believe it. years of convincing himself of the opposite can't be undone by a sudden confession that jay never predicted. it's hard, detangling himself from the belief that siwoo wouldn't see him as anything other than a best friend. that had been enough for jay, even though the lines between them blurred until even squinting won't make them visible. soon he discovered it wasn't enough for siwoo—never was—and now they're here.

the irony of the situation is that prior to all this series of daunting realizations, jay dropping himself unceremoniously on top of siwoo's figure was an act that he had always done. from drawing on random patches of siwoo's skin, to tackling his boyfriend with little regard to his own landing. everything he had done is part of their norm, now cemented with their feelings unearthed. just like this, jay can pay close attention to the details of siwoo's face. the bushy eyebrows he likes to point out, the moles he would often poke for fun, the lips that siwoo would press against his own.

"of course i know," jay answers, unable to hide the smugness in his tone. "it's me, i always know. it's also the next logical step, to be honest. as a company." he's more than aware that siwoo wouldn't dispute his statement made in confidence. besides, it goes both ways. in certain moments, concealed moments, moments jay would never show anyone else—siwoo would be able to read him like an open book too. it's an equal arrangement; an equal relationship.

no more prodding is necessary, now that jay had nudged the other a little. soon enough, everything begins to spill out of siwoo in a flurry of words. the reason why siwoo hadn't told him, the anxiety that comes from wanting something so desperately, the fear of basking in the sun with the possibility of having it ripped away from him. jay listens to everything, as he often does when siwoo is in this type of mood, a mess all around that only jay gets to witness. it's awful of him to enjoy this—it's not that he likes the sight of siwoo in a constant state of worry and fright, endlessly fretting over the future. it's the fact that siwoo's walls only crumble like this with jay, no one else.

"i'd love to tell you that it gets easier, but it doesn't," jay replies without beating around the bush. it's the truth, no amount of sugarcoating can prepare siwoo for the harsh reality that comes with debut preparations. "nothing is set in stone, but that goes for everyone. not just you." noticing siwoo's furrowed eyebrows, jay leans forward to plant a chaste kiss in-between. it's a serious situation, he's not going to downplay siwoo's concerns. but he giggles with the knowledge that siwoo's fear of being dropped from the project feels groundless. at least, in jay's perspective.

"you should hold onto this though. this fear, this desperation. it'll drive you forward." he laughs, knowing that his instructions are a little cruel, so he should offer siwoo some form of reprieve. "you're chosen for a reason, idiot. if they didn't see something in you, then you wouldn't have made it as far as you have. that's how these things work." his fingers massage the side of siwoo's head, the pressure points that he has memorized by now, a familiar rhythm in his mind. "do you think lime would keep you just because you're a pretty face? they prioritize skills, don't they? and they haven't cut you loose. if they know any better, they wouldn't." as much as jay is saying, he knows that siwoo's brain works overtime in making siwoo question his own worth. it feels like he's on a podium spitting out a motivational speech, but he doesn't mind. as long as siwoo is listening.

"and stop comparing yourself. you don't have to be born with anything to be able to do something. so what if people come out of the womb belting their voices out and strumming a makeshift guitar? it wouldn't hold a candle to someone who works like crazy, who would probably let his fingers bleed just so he can play a song well." the image makes jay laugh, but it's the truth. "so they called you all face in a survival show designed to push you down and pressure you to get better. and? so what? you basically proved them wrong already. you went from being out of tune to a decent singer! i don't know who else works that hard!"

jay has been rambling—then again, this is nothing new. jay never held back on his words, no matter what he was up against. unfiltered, wholly himself. "do you consider me someone born with talent?" he doesn't wait for an answer, he can already guess siwoo's reply. "then... hey, someone like me is rooting for you. someone like me wants you on stage! that counts for something, right?"

siwoo is so pathetic. so, so, so pathetic. needy, clingy, and full of desire. a greedy, envious human who works harder than anyone else to fit a standard of his own making. "i really love you too. a whole fucking lot," jay declares, unabashedly. "that's why i know you'll debut. i wanna see you debut before me!"

he smiles, bright and giddy, reaching closer once more. his lips ghosts the shell of siwoo's ear, unpredictable. "sunbae..." he whispers, followed by a breathier laugh, teasing. "you'll save me a front row seat, won't you?"

siwoo likes the feeling of jay so close to him, it's something that he's never quite hid – even when he'd been running from all this for years, from the emotion that his heart felt whenever he was near jay. this time though, now it's different. he clings onto jay, doesn't want to let go. as usual, he allows jay to have his way with him, moves his body in a manner that he doesn't quite question ( and never has. had it been anyone else, siwoo's defenses would be up. but it's jay, and he's always had his walls down around his boyfriend ).

this new position allows him a better look at jay's face. so cute, he thinks, lifting a hand to gently place a stand of hair behind his boyfriend's ear. he smiles, allows jay to talk – he talks a lot – and siwoo is used to it. he listens as his boyfriend speaks, in truth he's mildly surprised that jay even remembers him bringing up the fact that he'd wanted to tell jay something. has his expression been completely different, a little off when he'd spoken to jay? he furrows his brows slightly.

did they tell you it's a debut project?

but jay is right, like he is with most things when it comes to siwoo. he feels jay's thumb against his eyebrows, and it's funny how comforting this action is, something so simple, yet so intimate. again, something that siwoo would only allow because it's jay.

siwoo doubts that he has to answer, because his face is probably an open to jay by now. instead he replies my leaning holding onto jay's hand and giving his fingers a light kiss. "how'd you know?" he asks, and the smiles that leaves his lips this time isn't forced, if anything he feels his heart melting; jay knows him well. so well. and he'd used to fear this, being so vulnerable, so open to somebody – yet now it felt as though a sign that he was jay's and jay was his, the way the both of them knew each other.

"yeah, they told us that it was a debut project, and not to tell anyone else. that's why... i couldn't tell you while we were at the axis building, or outside," i was afraid they'd pull me out, he almost says, but he leaves that unspoken. jay knows him after all – jay would perhaps know that this is what siwoo had meant.

he sighs a little and allows himself to sink into the feeling of jay's fingers pressing onto his temple. he doesn't have a migraine, not yet, but he knows that anymore thinking and he might. jay probably does too, preemptively rubbing the side of his head. it's comforting, being known like this, a stark contrast to the way siwoo is perceived with anyone else.

"i really want this, jay," he says, perhaps the first time he's said this out loud. "i really want to debut," he bites at his bottom lip and furrows his brows once more. "but i've just... i mean – i just joined a few months ago. i don't think i'm that good. you know, some of those guys, they're born with talent. it's like they walked out of the womb doing music or discovered their fucking love for it growing up, it's... i mean, i envy that. a little, that they're so good. and that music is so... innate to them and where they're from..." he sighs a little, the cogs in his brain begin to turn in a way that they only ever do around jay. "i was never... you know, born with talent. i think that was pretty fucking obvious during next gen. face and all," he recalls the feedback he'd been given, that he was only a pretty face without much substance, a lack of talent to back everything up. "what if i don't debut....? even though i really want this?"

he closes his eyes, breath a little shaky. a moment later he opens them, and he's met with jay's face. so cute, so pretty, and his. he places a hand on jay's waist and gently he begins to rub circles around them with his thumb.

"and if by some miracle, i do debut," he says after a while, "then i'll get busy, and... i don't know when else we can do... this. you on top of me, us this close, just... this, being with you," he's siwoo after all, and the one thing he's good at – really good at, is being a pessimist, thinking of what ifs that make his heart sink. less time spent with jay, has his entire being sinking to the depths of the sea.

"i really love you," siwoo smiles, "like, a fucking lot."

[slashhinginghasher]

Midnight Star - Chromeskull x OFC - Part 8: The Greater of Three Evils

wow another chapter six months later. much shock. so surprise

Big TW for NONCON at the end of this chapter. Please read with caution.

This work is on Ao3!

Summary: Worst first date ever.

***

Her reward was a bedroom and a fat, juicy orange the size of both her fists. The orange came first; Cromeans produced it from some hidden jacket pocket and placed it in her lap with exaggerated delicacy. For a half-second, she was afraid he’d leave her there to stare uselessly at the piece of fruit until she caved and asked him to free her hands - or worse, to fucking feed her - but he unlocked her left wrist and… left.

Every instinct told her to rip into the orange before it could be taken away, but she forced herself to go slow. Having gone down the starvation route more times than a person should, she knew that stuffing her face would just lead to everything coming back up a few minutes later. She removed the peel in small, methodical pieces while her stomach growled at her like a rabid dog. Then she neatly sectioned one wedge from its neighbors and, self-control over, shoved the whole thing in her mouth. It was a good thing she was alone because she really didn’t want to cry in front of any of these bastards, but fuck, it was a good orange.

And then the brunette woman named Spann had to ruin it by walking in with another entourage of black-clad assholes. The tension that had marginally left Marena’s shoulders came back full force. Spann smiled at her again. Marena was really starting to hate that smile. It was indulgent and slightly condescending, the sort of subtle smugness that came from a person who knew they had damn well earned the right to be smug.

“You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?” Spann asked in a pleasant voice that suggested that she knew the correct answer, and that it would be better for Marena’s structural integrity if she also knew the correct answer. Marena was sorely tempted to spit a mouthful of half-chewed pulp in the other woman’s face, but that would have definitely fallen under the category of “stupid”, and besides, it was a really good orange. Instead, she silently held the brunette’s gaze, blank-faced, unmoving, unblinking, which she had been told by multiple people was “really fucking creepy.”

“Good,” Spann said, like she was praising a child. She nodded to one of the assholes who, to Marena’s credit, looking mildly terrified as he unlocked the other cuff. Marena jerked the newly freed hand into her lap just to watch him flinch at the sharp movement, because she was also kind of an asshole.

“Can you walk?” There was a solid chance that the answer to that question was “no”, but like fuck was Marena going to tell any of them that. She pushed back the sheets, noting with distaste that the sluttish excuse for a nightgown she’d been dressed in didn’t even hit mid-thigh, and carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed. The tile floor was cold against her bare, blistered feet, which was about the only thing that felt good at the moment. The motion had sent her head into a throbbing, nauseated whirl. Her weakened muscles burned and cramped. But she’d done a lot more with a lot worse, so she told her body to shut the hell up and pushed herself fully upright. Her right leg buckled slightly, and she leaned her hip against the railing of the bed like she’d meant to do that all along. Spann wasn’t fooled, but she played along.

“Follow me, then.”

Marena wanted to put up a fight. She wanted to be difficult, and violent, and savage. But she was tired. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, although it was probably going to be very unpleasant. And she had talked. A lot. There was a deep, dull ache in each of her shoulders and she could feel the memories hovering around her, waiting for her to fall asleep so they could dive in and eat what was left of her from the inside out. She shouldn’t have caved. She should have let him rape and torture her until she died, and taken all her shitty secrets with her to the grave.

There was also the pride-rankling fact that Mr. Cromeans had gotten more out of her in a matter of days than a trained therapist had in more than two years. Maybe if they taught psychiatrists how to throw a punch, they’d be more effective.

They reached the bedroom by elevator because apparently her captor was the kind of jackass to have an elevator in his fucking house. Spann didn’t say another word, a small blessing since Marena didn’t think she could handle any conversational attempts without making something bleed. Her legs gave out moments after Spann and the Faceless Muscle Squad shut the door behind her. She pressed her face into the carpet (very plush, very soft) and allowed herself to give in to the absolute, soul-obliterating panic for a count of ten. Then she forced herself upright and took stock.

The room was small (by rich people standards) and sparsely furnished (by rich people standards). The carpet was black, the walls painted deep red like a cheesy vampire movie. The bed, dresser, and wardrobe were all carved out of dark wood and were too heavy for Marena to move, especially in her current physical condition of suck. The single window was made of thick, possibly bulletproof, glass, and seemed unopenable. A peek through the slats of the blinds offered a view of a large interior courtyard and a sunset-painted sky. Even if she could get the window open, there would be no escape that way. 

She didn’t bother looking for cameras. She knew they’d be there.

The attached bathroom was almost as big as the main room, with white marble floors shot through with gold. The bathtub and shower were huge, big enough for three people. Or one normal-sized person and one freakishly large person, but if she thought about that for too long she’d start spiralling. At least a dozen different hair products sat in the metal shower caddy, most of which Marena had no idea what to do with, and she’d bet Cromeans didn’t either, since he was fucking bald. Maybe he’d had someone (Spann?) buy them, or maybe they were leftover from the mysterious Veronica that Preston had so obviously wanted to taunt her with. It didn’t take a genius to guess that the woman was most likely dead.

Lucky bitch.

A huge mirror was set into the wall above the bathroom sink, but she didn’t walk far enough forward for it to catch her reflection. Marena avoided mirrors as a general rule; she’d covered the one in her shithole apartment with an old bedsheet. Seeing her face tended to fuck her up on a good day, and in her current state… it might break her, and she couldn’t afford to break right now. She returned to the main room and faced the wardrobe with the trepidation of someone about to open a box that might or might not contain a dead body. The wooden doors mocked her as she stood there, clenching and flexing her fingers. She took a deep breath that wasn’t remotely fortifying and threw them open.

Lace. Lace and tulle and silk because men, rich men, were so fucking predictable it was disgusting. Her gaze caught on a baby blue dress and she slammed the doors shut, staggering backwards until she hit the bed, and then the ground. She couldn’t even look in the direction of the dresser, although she had a fairly good idea of what it contained and it made her want to rip all those pretty dresses to ribbons and hang herself with them. The pain in her shoulders was radiating down her arms and across her back, but she couldn’t rub the ache away without feeling the ghost of the House Master’s touch as he did up the buttons of her dress after Hana changed out the bandages, his perfect pretty little kukolka, and he did always love her in blue... She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted Hana back, and the grief was so heavy it was crushing her, like so much dirt over a grave.

Marena curled in on herself and tried not to fall apart.

***

Her well-deserved panic attack was interrupted sometime later when the door unlocked with an electronic whir and a heavy click. She pressed her back against the wall, waiting for someone - something - to come through, but the door remained shut. Second after excruciating second crept by with no sign of movement. Marena remained huddled on the floor, fists clenched, jaw clenched, hackles up like a dog ready to lunge.

Seconds turned to minutes, and she got bored.

So much of Marena’s life had been spent in a state of torturous waiting. Waiting for Guests to arrive or leave. Waiting for the villagers to let her out of the river. Waiting for the beatings to stop. Waiting for the various devils in her life to fall asleep so she could slip away for a single moment of solitude. She was tired of waiting, and as much as she didn’t want to face whatever hell was about to be inflicted on her, she could not stand to spend one more moment suspended in this agony of uncertainty.

Pushing herself to her feet, she inched her way to the door, preparing to kick in the fucking kneecaps of whoever was on the other side. But there was only an empty corridor and a piece of paper on the floor.

Fourth door on the right.

The obvious choice was to go to the left, then, where a break in the wall indicated a stairway or another hallway. Or was it obvious? Maybe Cromeans was trying to lure her in that direction by giving her orders to do the opposite, expecting her to disobey. So then the thing to do would be to go to the right, to avoid whatever was on the left. Although that didn’t mean that the right was safe.  Perhaps Cromeans was so supremely confident in her inability to escape that he just expected she’d end up where she was told. She didn’t know the layout of the house, and if the car had been any indication, her captor was a technophile. That meant cameras, alarm systems, remote locks, maybe even booby traps. Was that something people did outside of movies? Okay. So assuming both directions were bad news, why leave any options open? Why not send an escort? Perhaps it came down to obedience. Disobey and you get punished; obey and you deserve whatever happens to you because you went willingly?

Fuck. She hated mind games. She barely had a grasp on what happened in her own head, let alone somebody else’s.

She could always remove herself from the situation completely. Lie down in that nice, big bathtub and take a few deep breaths until everything went watery and dark. Marena’s will to live was driven by spite more than anything else, but it was - save for one or two notable exceptions - iron-clad and unshakeable. She wasn’t afraid to die, but was she ready to make that final surrender?

It was the cameras that decided it for her, in the end. They were well-hidden in the room, but she could see a few small, red lights blinking in the gloom of the hallway. Cromeans was probably watching her right now, and if he really was just a few doors down, then he’d have plenty of time to foil a suicide attempt. And plenty of motivation to rain unholy hell down upon her when she woke. Men like him didn’t like it when their toys were taken away prematurely. Trying to rob him of the pleasure of orchestrating her death would end up very, very ugly. For her.

You don’t get to kill what is mine.

Marena shuddered and instinctively wrapped an arm around her midriff as she pushed the memory away. She was already going to have nightmares about bullets and pearl-handled guns the next time she slept; she didn’t need to add her nasty little suicide attempt to the queue. Of course, it was perfectly plausible that she would die before she got a chance to sleep again, or that Cromeans had something planned that would eclipse either of those in its awfulness. She ripped the note to shreds, trying to find some sense of control in the tiny act of destruction, and headed for the fourth door on the right.

It was some sort of lounge, all dark earth tones and metal accents. The center of the room was dominated by a dark, heavy slab of a wooden table that could easily seat twenty people. There was a lit fireplace to her right (which had to be fake, because who in the fuck could ever feel cold here?), heavy drapes blocking the far wall, something that looked like a home bar, and honestly, all of the details of this god-awful hell house were starting to blur together and she just couldn’t bring herself to give a shit about interior decorating.

A hand shot out from her periphery, slapping another pair of metal handcuffs on her wrists before she could even twitch, and the only coherent thought her overworked brain could produce was “Was he hiding behind the fucking door?”

Cromeans looked terribly pleased with himself as he ushered her towards a seat at the table. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that made it very apparent that yes, his biceps were bigger than her goddamn thighs, which was just fucking excessive, honestly. Heavy metal was playing in the background, a looping, ever-shifting soundscape of electric guitar, drums, and male aggression. Marena was normally quite partial to the genre, but a headache was building behind her eyes, and all this “friendly” buildup made her sure that whatever was going to happen to her tonight would be that much worse.

In a testament to how absolutely out of it she was, she didn’t notice the food on the table until she was seated right in front of it. Meat, greens, bread, wine. More of those heavenly oranges. She ate mechanically, ignoring the wine, refusing to look up at Cromeans where he sat on the other side of the table. It all tasted like glue and stuck in her throat the same way. If they were two normal people on a regular date, it would have been the most awkward first date in history. They barely qualified as people, though, let alone normal, and Marena could only wish Cromeans was feeling even a little uncomfortable. Smug fucker was probably having the time of his life.

Her steak knife sat heavy and tempting in her hand, but there wasn’t much she could do with it. The chain between her wrists was about 18 inches long, enough for her to eat without much trouble, but too short to throw a knife or a punch without an obvious and awkward windup. If Cromeans wasn’t such a stupidly big man, she’d try to choke him out with the chain. But she would need a damn ladder to reach around his neck while he was standing, and she doubted she’d be able to get behind him while he was sitting.

Cromeans stood and smirked as Marena clumsily pushed to her feet after him, desperate to close the height gap between them even slightly. He sauntered over to the bar, holding up two empty glasses and quirking a brow in question. Marena nodded. He turned his back to her and started fiddling with bottles and shakers and… cocktail things. She snatched up the steak knife and crept towards him, drawing on every bit of stealth she’d honed while hunting and hiding as a child. He knew she was weak right now, unlikely to try or succeed at any sort of physical attack. His hands would be full with both glasses, slowing his reaction time by a crucial fraction of a second. His right side was a blind spot. She would sneak up behind him and stab him in the throat when he turned around, and hopefully he wouldn’t be able to snap her neck before he bled out.

She drew as close as she dared. Stilled her breath. Stilled the knife, both hands wrapped white-knuckle tight around the handle. He turned. She lunged. Glass shattered. Her arms weren’t moving.

He caught it.

He caught the fucking knife.

Oh. BLYAT’.

If she thought the look on his face after kicking him in the balls was scary, it had nothing on the way he was looking at her now. Blood trickled between his fingers as he tightened his grip on the blade before wrenching it out of Marena’s grasp and tossing it aside.

There was a flash of silver. Moving purely on instinct, Marena threw her hands up, stopping the other, bigger knife he’d pulled from somewhere with the chain of her cuffs. Her arms shook with strain, the cuffs biting into the tender skin of her wrists. With a deft motion, Cromeans twisted the knife, wrapping the chain around its serrated blade until Marena’s hands were pressed together, all slack gone. Using the knife as a handle, he forced her backwards, step by step, until she was pressed against the table. Dishes were sent crashing to the floor with a mighty sweep of his arm, and then she was laid out on the table’s surface. Cromeans stabbed the knife into the dark wood, then yanked her back towards him until her arms were stretched above her head and her hips were at the edge of the table.

Panic opened like a yawning abyss in her chest, the sheer scope of her terror threatening to swallow her whole when Cromeans produced another knife and brought down near the scar on one of her shoulders. But he didn’t stab it into the old bullet wound the way she’d expected. Instead, he sliced through the straps of her silk shift and pulled the fabric down with a vicious tug that left her completely bare to his gaze, which was fast shifting from rage to pure, undiluted lust. He devoured her, drinking in the sight of her naked body like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. She wanted to say as much, but fear - and habit - had her voice in a vice grip.

He forced her legs open and stepped between her thighs as he dragged his hands over her hips, his injured hand leaving smears of blood in its wake. The table was tall enough that Marena’s toes barely brushed the ground; she had no leverage with which to kick him or push herself away. She flinched at the first touch of his hand between her legs, hating herself for reacting but unable to stop it. The first brush of his thumb over her clit was feather-light. The second was firmer and dragged a bone-deep shudder from her. With the exception of an asshole cop who got a little too handsy while frisking her, Marena hadn’t had any prolonged human contact in four years, and her touch-starved body didn’t know whether to pull away or lean into the pleasure. The result was an ineffectual jerk that did nothing but bring an infuriating smirk to Cromeans’ face.

And the knife moved, just a little.

Marena took a deep, shuddering breath, followed by an equally shaky exhale, shifting her hips slightly as though in surrender. Cromeans was tracing tingling patterns around her slit, drawing enough moisture that he could almost slip a finger inside. When she was certain his attention was fixed entirely on her cunt, she wrapped her fingers around the knife and began to work it free. The serrated edges of the blade cut into her fingertips immediately, hot sparkles of pain shooting down her fingers. She ignored it, just as she ignored the inexorable dance of the fingers between her legs and the building heat in her core. She just had to get the knife free, and then this nightmare would be over, one way or another.

So close, so close, so close…

Cromeans’ fist slammed down on the hilt of the knife, forcing it several inches deeper into the wood, and buried his cock in her at the same moment. Marena nearly bit through her tongue at the sudden painful stretch. She couldn’t breathe; he was in her and around her and god why did every fucking part of him have to be so big? He didn’t give her time to adjust before starting a brutal pace, long, hard strokes that stole her breath and dragged against every nerve ending in her pussy. One huge hand was splayed across her abdomen; Marena thought he must be able to feel himself moving inside her through her stomach. The other wrapped around her throat, tight enough to choke but not enough to let her black out.

She tried in vain to disconnect, to retreat behind the walls she’d spent so many years building in her mind. But Cromeans had added a twist to his hips that brushed against a spot inside her and made her see stars. The jolts of pleasure pulled her back to herself, made it impossible to divorce her mind from her body. Something hot and wonderful and terrible was building inside her. She wanted it to stop. She was being smothered and she wanted everything to stop.

Cromeans reached down to circle her clit once more, and the tension snapped. The orgasm rushed over her like a wildfire. A tsunami. A supernova. Marena was dimly aware of the way her back arched as her inner muscles clenched around Cromeans’ hard length. A strangled, keening gasp that escaped her throat just before he tightened his grip enough to completely cut off her air, pelvis grinding against hers as he chased his own release. Each stuttering thrust sent aftershocks of pleasure-pain skittering through her body. Her vision was starting to tunnel when he bottomed out for the final time and came with a growl that she felt more than heard.

He remained seated inside her for a long minute, breathing hard and supporting himself on one forearm. The hand around her throat eased from a choking grip to soothing strokes, like he could wipe away the lurid bruises already forming with a gentle enough touch. At last, he pulled out and tucked himself away. He wrenched the knife out of the table and pulled Marena into a sitting position. Her body was quivering, boneless; she doubted she’d have been able to sit up on her own. Cromeans pressed a chaste, lingering kiss to her mouth as he unlocked the cuffs. Then he ran two fingers through the mess of cum and blood coating her inner thighs and licked the digits clean with a wink.

He turned his back and poured himself another drink.

***

Marena didn’t remember leaving the lounge. Didn’t remember staggering down the hall. She had no idea how long she’d been standing in the doorway of her bathroom, swaying slightly and staring blankly at the wall. The stickiness between her thighs had mostly dried, smears of pale pink that matched the tender places where the denim of Cromeans’ pants had rubbed her skin raw. Her hands and wrists were covered in drying blood, fresh rivulets still seeping from the angry marks left by the cuffs.

She raised a shaking hand to her mouth, feeling the ghost of his scarred lips on hers, and her guts knotted violently. She lurched forward, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet just in time to vomit up everything she’d ever eaten in her life. Then she turned on the shower as cold as it would go and stood under the freezing spray until her lips turned blue.

[everythingsinred]

Let's Talk About NatsuMikan: Natsume (pt.10)

WOW we did it folks. 10 parts to an essay that we're like. a quarter of the way done with. That's pretty great! More or less, by the time you finish reading this post, you'll have read 35k words worth of analysis and I'll have spent countless hours writing it. What amazing dedication we have to this manga! We should get an anime reboot as a reward!

Anyway, let's go crazy stupid trying to wrap up this arc, where we can see the extent of Natsume's selflessness. As we approach the end, something will happen to make Natsume's plans to distance himself from Mikan very difficult. Let us begin!

Also I've been forgetting to put trigger warnings up for these but I put them on the first few so hopefully you know they're all like that. Child abuse is a huge topic we'll cover throughout, as well as all the consequences that come with it, so be wary.

Chapter Forty-One

Medusa--Mihara-san--is amused to see that the frightening, powerful, and awe-inspiring “Black Cat”, who demonstrates a trained command of his alice despite wearing an alice-restraining mask on missions, is actually just a little kid.

Natsume doesn’t care about being impressive; he cuts to the chase, asking where Mikan is. Medusa makes his comments, but Natsume stays on his point: his new mission is to save Mikan, after all. Though keeping Mikan and Ruka safe had been his personal mission from the get-go. But just as Natsume isn’t interested in anything Medusa has to say if it isn’t about Mikan, Medusa isn’t interested in any topic that is about Mikan. So the small talk ends and Shiki is commanded to test the kids’ abilities.

Natsume cares about one thing right now and it isn't his DA alias.

They are in the midst of some kind of battle or standoff when Mikan reappears, safe. She calls out to them, excited to see them again. Ruka and Tsubasa are happy to see her safe as well, so they call out too. Natsume is not as thrilled. He’s good at staying on mission and keeping his attention on the dangers around him, like Shiki and Medusa, as well as the countless other Z members, all with mystery alices.

Mikan suddenly appearing and making herself known is dangerous, and she’s immediately under attack, unwittingly. He runs to protect her, using his alice as a barrier between them and the man who just tried to hurt her, but when he turns back to look at Mikan, he’s livid.

The art in this scene is so gorgeous, I could stare it forever. Look at how silky Natsume's hair is. Pretty.

Tsubasa and Ruka have never been on a mission like this. They were just eager to see Mikan unharmed. She was also just excited to see her friends again after being separated. But Natsume knows better. On a mission, you have to stay vigilant and always careful, and Mikan was careless. He yells at her, scolding her. But even through his emotions, he stays vigilant, protecting her even more when the enemy tries to take advantage of the distraction.

This is what he came for, not just to be the brains and keep them on track throughout the journey, but also to protect them, because that’s what he always does, what his priority always is. He will use his alice to ward off enemy attacks, and use his body as a shield, even if he winds up exhausted and bleeding and hurt. And he is.

But he still tells Mikan to stay behind him, to stay safe, so he can properly protect her this time, because he couldn’t do it before.

He doesn’t expect Mikan to get up and tell him that he doesn’t have to worry. She doesn’t want or need him to protect her; instead she wants to help him. She tells him, for once, that he doesn’t have to be the only one hurt anymore. He’s understandably surprised to hear this, because it means that someone other than Ruka has been paying attention. She understands that he’s been through the wringer, and she doesn’t want to just sit back and benefit from his effort without giving anything back. But more than just saying she’ll take on the brunt of things for him, she wants to help. She wants to be his strength, not a burden on him.

She has been noticing him, even the things he doesn't want her to notice.

This shocks him enough that it actually distracts him from his vigilance, and suddenly it appears that Ruka is in danger. He leaves her side just long enough for her to be captured by Shiki instead, and immediately teleported to Medusa’s side. They needed to get Mikan out of the way, after all, so that Medusa could use his alice, which he immediately uses to petrify Tsubasa’s leg.

Chapter Forty-Two

Right off the bat, we’re shown just how much the stakes have risen. Medusa’s alice is deadly, not just dangerous, and he’s already managed to hit Tsubasa with it. His next command is to have Yuka steal the kids’ alices, and to start with Natsume. It would make things easier on him, anyway, Medusa says, obviously privy to the idea that a child like Natsume wouldn’t want to be a child soldier at all, unlike Reo who mused that maybe Natsume would be more content with just a change of employer.

But Yuka makes it clear that her alice isn’t strong enough to steal all of the alices at once, trying to spare the kids from losing their abilities. So Medusa then goes to a Plan B, convincing the kids that his alice will only be temporarily affecting them until they agree to work for Z. After all, Natsume can’t really use his alice when Medusa has Mikan in his clutches. He’s been in this situation before, practically living in it, having the lives and happiness of his loved ones held over his head so that he will be pliant. Medusa comments that he loves torturing people like him, and he must not be the only one, since Natsume’s been tortured in this way for years now.

Ruka is hit in the shoulder while trying to shield Tsubasa from another attack from Medusa, and the shoulder region is particularly life-threatening, as it’s close to the heart and he might die from the loss of blood flow soon. Of course, this sets Natsume into berserk mode, but before he can use his alice, he coughs violently. This gives Medusa an opportunity to strike Natsume in his dominant arm, his left one.

He tries to use his alice, despite being at a new disadvantage, and still angry from what’s happening to Ruka. So his leg gets hit too.

Medusa gets temporarily incapacitated by Mikan’s nullification, so he sends Yuka to steal Natsume’s alice, which should be a walk in the park because he’s lost control of his arm and leg, so he can’t run away.

It’s here that Natsume reveals to the reader the secret he’s been keeping for the past few days, the one that we must now keep as well, that Mikan is Yuka’s daughter.

This is another one of those situations, where the stars align in all the wrong ways. Something you've always wanted is within grasp, but there's too many reasons not to take it.

Natsume stands there, unable to move, and ponders his situation as Mikan desperately screams for him to run away.

He wonders if he was waiting for this exact moment, if that’s the reason he came along at all, so that he could meet Yuka and have her steal his alice away.

Earlier, Natsume left a conversation about losing alices because it was too painful. He doesn’t feel the same way about his that the rest of them do. It’s not some fond part of him that he can’t stand to lose. He hates it. It’s been a hindrance since the day he was born. People of all sorts of organizations, including the government operated Academy and terrorist organizations like Z, have coveted his power. It’s put his loved ones in danger. It’s made his life a living hell. He’s been robbed of a fun childhood, of smiles and friendship, of peace. It’s stolen opportunity from him, so he can’t even feel free to pursue a crush, or make bonds freely, or let himself laugh. It stole his future from him, and he dies a little bit more every day. He won’t live long enough to go on a date, graduate, get married, get a normal job, have kids, grow old. He might not even make it to middle school, and he knows it. He lives his whole life in eternal emotional, physical, and mental agony. He’s always under the gun, always careful, always selfless, always defensive.

Why would anyone want that?

And this is his chance to lose it all. Things could be easier, better, safer. He could lose it and finally exhale. He could go back home to his dad. He could be an actual kid for once. Yuka could steal his alice and all of his responsibilities and the deadweight he’s been carrying on his back for his whole life could be gone.

Of course he almost lets her steal it.

But Mikan has been screaming in anguish for him to run away, and he remembers what she said when she saved him during the Reo Arc: that it was too late to give up, and that they should return to the academy together, because a bright future must be waiting for them.

And because of that, Natsume makes his first move to escape Yuka’s alice.

Does Natsume really want a future if his friends and loved ones would still be in danger? Would it be worth it if he was safe, if it came at the price of their safety? If Natsume doesn’t use his alice to keep them safe and protected, then who will? Who can?

Natsume smacking Yuka’s hand away isn’t selfish. It’s not him realizing he wants to keep his alice, that maybe deep down, he might actually love it. It’s not dear to him in any way. It’s still the thing that wears his body down and forces him to cough up blood. No, this act is selfless, yet again, because his own happiness and even his life come dead last to him. He has to keep them all safe after all.

Yuka snatches his wrist anyway, ready to steal his alice away, until she realizes she can’t. Mikan is using her alice from all the way across the room to protect Natsume.

So basically, the idea of Natsume leaving the academy causes this kind of reaction in Mikan, something Natsume has no choice but to see for what it is: fondness.

He looks at her with surprise, because this is an act of affection. Mikan has just used her alice to keep him with her. His life isn’t in danger, but she wants him to stick around. Now more than ever, Natsume can see proof that she cares about him, even despite all the bullying he’s done, despite all the mean words he’s thrown her way, even after he told her cruelly that he hates every single thing about her. Up until now, Natsume had no reason to believe she was doing anything but tolerating him, and though that was the outcome he was working for, deep down he does want the girl he likes to have some fondness for him too. This is the first time Natsume can really see that he means something to her too, as more than just a classmate or a partner. He is someone she doesn't want to part with.

And Mikan has fulfilled her wish, to be Natsume’s strength, because now Natsume is able to yell at her to duck and blow up the wall behind her.

Usually such huge explosions are the result of him at his angriest, using his ability to punish the people who hurt his loved ones. He’s probably also done similar things on missions, maybe even when he’s completely calm. But this time Natsume is weaker than ever, his dominant left arm completely out of commission, unable to move, under duress. He finds the strength to cause that explosion because of Mikan, because she wants him around.

While everyone is distracted, Natsume tells Yuka to go help Mikan, hinting that he knows her secret.

So Yuka stabs Mihara-san and has the petrified kids lick his blood off the blade. It’s confusing to the other kids why she would do this, but Natsume knows exactly why.

It would be interesting to see more interaction between Yuka and Natsume. Surely Yuka knows that Natsume is Kaoru’s son? It would be interesting to see if she noticed that his name matches Mikan’s. What does she think of him? What might their dynamic be like? I will always mourn that we’ll never find out.

Chapter Forty-Three

This chapter is the one that should officially designate this manga into the “tragedy” category. Yes, there’s been some heavy and deep stuff so far, most having to do with Natsume and the heavy abuse he deals with, but even with all that it’s managed to be mainly a cheerful and upbeat story. This chapter makes it clear that horrible and heart-wrenching things can and will happen, that we can’t count on a happy ending every time.

The kids are close to escape. They’re about to head through a warp zone back to school, and it’s urgent they move fast because the hide-out they’re in is currently imploding. Unfortunately, Mikan has dropped the antidote to the bullet that hit Hotaru, so she refuses to leave until she’s retrieved it from under a pile of rubble.

Pengy finally has a chance to prove itself, wriggling under and saving the antidote for Hotaru. It has helped Mikan, and because that’s the best thing someone can do, Natsume is grateful.

Natsume's smile (even a small one like this) has incredible powers, like giving robots a feeling of self-worth, making his classmates fall in love with him, and making me think he is a good boy. It would be irresponsible to overuse it.

Just like when Tsubasa showed his worth back at the high school division when he used his alice to help Mikan, Natsume has a new respect for Pengy, who was able to do something amazing to help the group, and Mikan especially. So he gives Pengy a slight smile. It’s really subtle and nothing outstanding on anybody else, but it’s a rare thing to get from Natsume, even for those whom he loves. “I guess you can be a little useful,” he says. This is the best sign of appreciation someone can get from him, and Pengy glows for a moment (ahh… the power of Natsume’s smile), until things fall apart.

The floor gives way under Mikan’s feet. They’re able to pull Mikan up, but Pengy is still too far to reach. Despite Mikan’s desperation, Pengy understands that they’re wasting time trying to reach it. Finally, after Pengy has proven its use to Natsume, it refuses to be a hindrance again, and sacrifices itself so that everyone can safely return the antidote to Hotaru.

They’re all through the tunnel, hit with the knowledge that Pengy is gone. They all react somewhat differently, but Natsume feels guilt.

Pengy's smile has evil powers because it makes me cry.

Natsume had considered Pengy a robot, something unfeeling and mechanical, just a useless thing Hotaru made once. It was something that could be discarded, and after it had proven to be troublesome, he’d even advocated that it should be discarded. He’d considered it useless all along, but when it really counted, Pengy was able to save Mikan and the antidote. It proved not only that it could be useful, but that it wasn’t just another mechanical robot. When Natsume smiled at it, it smiled back. And in its final act of sacrifice, it acted out of love for both Hotaru and Mikan, and Natsume feels sorry for what he’d said about it.

Natsume has a habit for establishing a bad impression of someone, and then having that person work hard to prove themselves to him. Pengy is one example, but he’s like this with Tsubasa, Mikan, and all sorts of people at first. People (and robots) that he despises until they show him what they’re really made of, winning his respect and sometimes even affection. It makes sense he would be so distrustful, seeing the life he has to live. Trusting the wrong person can get you hurt sometimes, and can lead to disaster. And having something useless like Pengy can cause a mission to fail. But Natsume is sometimes wrong about his first impression of a person, and the same qualities that could lead him to believe something is useless or annoying can end up being strengths that he respects.

Chapter Forty-Five

Yes, I skipped 44 because that’s more noteworthy as a Mikan chapter. Natsume doesn’t do anything I found particularly intriguing and I didn’t want to make anything up or repeat myself. In fact, for the rest of this arc, there’s very little left for me to say, so I apologize if this is a short analysis to conclude with.

The first thing we’ll address is the ESP and Persona discussing the insubordination that has just occurred. Yes, an injured student has safely recovered, and a Z hideout has been destroyed, but it wasn’t their plan for things to happen that way. Narumi needs a warning, for one. Natsume, according to Persona, needs simply to be punished back into obedience. From the way Persona talks about him, we can see how little he thinks of Natsume, how easy he can be to manipulate and control, which is all he is good for anyway. To them, Natsume is nothing more than a pawn in their game. Sure, he’s a useful pawn, the Black Cat that strikes fear into the hearts of the school’s enemies and successfully completes his missions even with a punishment mask on, but he’s still just a pawn. Nothing more.

While watching Mikan and Hotaru’s reunion, Tsubasa teases Natsume about joining the group hug. Natsume ignores him, and makes to walk away, but stops just long enough to toss his healing alice necklace to him. Tsubasa can borrow it to make up for having Subaru put Natsume’s injuries first. He makes it clear that he doesn’t want anybody looking after him, and that might seem like a snub, but this is kindness too. Natsume calls Tsubasa by his name, though he’ll do his best to avoid ever saying it again, and lends him a source of comfort and healing to pay back Tsubasa’s compassion. This is a growing moment, because Natsume has opened himself up to the idea that he could care about more people, even if it means more to lose.

Saying people's names is another rare magic from Natsume, I guess.

Natsume has learned things on this mission too, just like Mikan has. He’s a bit more open-minded now. He judged both Tsubasa and Pengy, and ended up changing his mind about them both, even if only by a little. He’s also discovered that Mikan has affection for him too, and it will completely undo all the effort he’s so far tried to make in distancing himself. It’s one thing to stay away from the girl you like when she hardly stands you. It’s another thing when she enjoys your company, and your feelings are turning into love. His feelings have intensified, or maybe they were always so intense but are just newly solidified, as he’s not hiding from them as much anymore.

He won’t be able to distance himself from her anymore, so he’ll completely stop trying.

Conclusion

Natsume has realized that Mikan holds a degree of fondness for him too, and because he is now very deeply in love with her, he will not be able to stay away like he'd resolved to before. Tomorrow we will begin our essay with Natsume's birthday, a very exciting way to start looking at his new approach to his relationship with Mikan.

The last essay (pt. 9) in particular inspired people to tell me that they were learning new things about Natsume, and as a result even loving him more, and that makes me so happy! Natsume is one of my favorite characters ever, and I want people to love him as much as I do! I love when people leave comments or questions! Really, I'm just so happy and over the moon that people are reading and enjoying, because again--this is a LOT of words. It's a long essay, and it means so much not just that people want to read about Natsume and his feelings for Mikan, but that they want to hear what I have to say about it! Thank you so much for supporting me! Isn't it exciting that we're about a quarter through? <3

I can’t put a song in the tags cuz I have too many tags. So. Church by Fall Out Boy.

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[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

White Lies (Pt. 16 of 21)

Pairing: Keanu Reeves X Reader

Word count: 2.8 K

Summary: Keanu found the girl almost dead, in the wrecks of what was once her car. While she was in surgery, stuck in a coma, he gathered the best doctors of New York to attend to her. They told him she is likely to have some kind of brain damage, what may lead to memory loss. And this possibility added up wit the fact that she's pregnant, made the council come up with an odd idea. They asked Keanu to pretend to be her husband, since the stress of finding out everything that happened could put the baby in danger. He reluctantly agreed, but only if she does has some kind of memory loss. He still goes she'll wake up soon, with her memories intact.

But when you finally wake up, there's nothing inside. You're quick to find your head is empty, void, like a blank canvas. The only thing that brings you some relief, that makes you feel less lonely is the mention of a husband. And you can't wait to meet him, because you know you can't deal with this by yourself.

<- Previous part (15)

Next part (17)->

{Keanu Reeves Masterlist}

{John Wick Masterlist}

×

Birth

Dr. Williams and two other nurses are the only ones here besides Keanu. You've been in agonizing pain for over an hour now, but it's finally time.

“You're completely dilated now.” Dr. Williams says from her place in between your legs. “You just have to push, alright? Can you do it?”

“No.” You cry, many tears staining your cheeks, hair attached to your face because of the sweat. The pain is too great, and you're conflicted by Keanu's presence. And you just can't. “I can't. I want a cesarian.” Pleading, you rest your back against the bed, hands covering your face.

“We can't perform a cesarian now.” Dr. Williams says. “(Y/N), you're ready. Your baby is coming and I get it that you're scared, but you're almost there. Just push.”

“I can't. I can't.” Voicing breaking, you feel as the sobs shake your body.

“(Y/N).” Keanu's voice reaches you, ripping through the chaos. Your eyes find him, standing away. But soon enough he comes closer, taking your hand. “You can do this, sweetheart. I know you can.”

Nodding, you close your eyes tight and push, biting back a groan as it feels like all strength is leaving your body. You can't faint now... You have no idea what would happen if you pass out.

“Good, (Y/N). Again.” Dr. Williams says, and so you do it.

“I can't.” Shoulders shaking, you squeeze Keanu's hand.

“I can see the head. A big push and it's over, (Y/N), c'mon.”

“One more,” Keanu repeats, moving to seat on the bed next to you. Nothing else matters now, and everything that happened is forgotten. You need him, so you just move, the best you can, your back against his chest as his free hand comes to grab your thigh, keeping your legs spread. “One more push and you'll meet Liam, sweetheart, you can do it.”

His voice brings you a new strength, and you turn your face to look at him, a hand finding its way to his face, pulling him closer so you can kiss him. Then, with your eyes still closed, you hold on to his biceps and push, with whatever strength still left inside you. You're almost giving up when a cry fills the hospital room, the pain surrenders, and Dr. Williams stands up straight, holding a tiny little human in her arms.

“Here he is.” She says, smiling. “I'll clean him up and I'll hand him over to you, alright?”

Still catching your breath, you nod, lying back down, colliding on Keanu's chest. The doctors do their stuff as you try to calm down after all this effort. You knew it wouldn't be easy, but you never thought it would be this hard. “I can leave if you want.” He says, letting go of your thigh. There will be a bruise there, but you don't mind.

“No.” You're quick to answer, voice a little harsh. Part of you doesn't want to need him, to love him this much, but you do. The heart wants what it wants. It loves who it loves. “Stay to meet the baby.”

“Alright.”

It takes a few minutes until Dr. Williams brings Liam to you. He's wrapped around a pale blue blanket since Keanu remembered to bring your bag when he went to pick you up at the hotel. And he's absolutely beautiful, so light you barely feel him in your arms.

“Hi, baby.” You whisper, barely hearing your own voice. Slowly, you touch his forehead with your fingers, softly, as if he's made of glass. You can't control the tears rolling down, but they're from joy this time. You can't believe you're finally seeing him, face to face, after carrying him inside you for so long. He moves his mouth a little, and slowly, he opens his eyes, curiously looking around before blinking a few times. “It's mommy, little one. And...” The words get caught in your throat, your heart sinking a little. “...And daddy...” You push out because Dr. Williams said babies can recognize the parents' voice from the moment they're born, and the father's voice belongs to Keanu, and you know how much it hurts to miss this man, you don't want Liam to feel the same pain. Turning your head to look at Keanu, you're surprised to find teary eyes focused on the baby. “D-do you want to talk to him?”

He nods, glancing at you. He does love this child, that's not up to discussion. “Hi there, little one.” He starts, voice a little clouded. “It's so good to finally meet you.” Liam seems to find you with his eyes, and they move from Keanu and back at you.

“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Reeves.” Dr. Williams says, and the way she addresses you makes you move uncomfortably. “I must take the baby now. Run a few exams to be sure he's one hundred percent fine. Then we'll bring him back so you can feed him”

“Alright...” You don't want to let him go yet, but you knew about these exams. “Keanu, can you... Just keep an eye on him?” You ask in a low voice before Dr. Williams comes to take Liam from your arms.

“Sure.” Keanu slowly gets up, and you feel a little abandoned. But you shouldn't. You shouldn't have him this close, and you definitely shouldn't have kissed him.

But you can't take those things back. And you're not sure if you would if there was a chance.

You spend two days in the hospital, with Dr. Williams teaching you everything you'll need to know. But you've been taking classes, and reading many things about how to take care of your baby, so you think you can do it. Well, at least the theory. Laura comes to visit, and so does Lucia. Keanu doesn't leave except to shower and have dinner. Other than that, he's always around.

But the day comes when you can leave, so you bathe, dress up and wait for the nurse to bring Liam. You were trying not to think too much about it, but eventually, you have to. As you thank and watch the nurse leaving, you see as Keanu comes in, always a little embarrassed, avoiding your stare, head low. You haven't spoken much. Actually, you haven't said anything to him since the birth. You did thought he'd leave after that, but surprisingly, he stayed.

Holding Liam on one arm, very, very carefully, you try to pick up your bag. “Let me.” Keanu quickly says, making you stop your motion, eyes following him around as he takes the bag himself. “I can drive you wherever you'll be staying.” The words come out heavy as if they're piercing through his throat. “Or a cab, if–”

“No.” Cutting him short, you shake your head. There isn't anywhere else. The hotel is out of question, as is Lucia. And you don't want to crowd Laura's apartment with a loud, crying baby. And the house is ready to receive Liam, so, for now, there's no other place. “For Liam's sake, I believe it would be better if we stayed at your place. If that's not a problem for you, of course.” It takes a lot of effort not to call his place ‘home’. Because that's what that place is.

“Of course not.” He seems perplexed, furrowing his eyebrows a little before gesturing at the door. “Let's go.”

“Let's go.” You mutter, setting in motion.

• • •

Liam proved that knowing the theory doesn't mean you'll nail the real thing. At first, you find it strange that he sleeps too much, even though you read that newborn babies sleep for like seventeen hours a day, only to wake up when they're hungry. And that happens every two to three hours, which means you barely have any sleep. But you're completely focused on him, jumping to your feet whenever you hear that low-pitched cry.

You also start with the postpartum exercises, which was already planned, with a personal trainer that comes three times a week, so your body will go back to normal. You dropped many pounds very quickly. These things aren't that important, not now at least, that everything got real and you're still trying to deal with the web of lies you were caught into, but the routine gives you something else to think about.

The diet is carefully followed too, but that's all Keanu. You don't really see him, since you confined yourself to the guest room, where Liam is also sleeping in his crib, but the meals are always ready. He doesn't even give you the chance to cook something. When you go downstairs to eat, there's something ready for you.

The first month goes by slowly, and you're starting to get the hang of things. Since Liam spends most of the day in the bedroom with you, you asked Keanu to take him for his daily morning walks around the neighborhood. You agree with Laura, you can't and won't pull Liam away from him.

Sometime around Liam's second month, you're checking your face in the mirror. You look terribly tired, and you feel even worse. But the exhaustion is worth it, and you get a reminder every time you see or hear Liam. Taking a step back, you take a look at your body. You did recover from the baby weight pretty quickly since sometimes you have nothing to do but to keep repeating the exercises. You barely remember how you looked before.

Despite being a little early, you decide to call it a night, curling up in bed. You did miss sleeping on your stomach, but you spent so much time sleeping on your side that you just feel a lot more comfortable like this. You're having some kind of dream, about a peaceful beach when you're awakened by a gentle shake on your shoulder. Breathing deeply, you slowly float back into consciousness, raising your head and finding Keanu seated on the bed with a teary Liam on his arms.

“What happened?” You ask, already pushing yourself into a sitting position.

“Liam was crying. You didn't hear it so I came and changed him. But I think he's hungry.” Keanu says in a low voice, and you take Liam from his arms.

“I'm sorry he woke you up. I... I'm just tired.” You're surprised you fell in such a deep sleep you didn't hear Liam. “Thanks, though.” Sliding the strap from your tank top down your shoulder, you open the bra, freeing your breast which is easily found by Liam. It takes a while until you get reminded of Keanu's presence, your senses overcome by the need to feed your baby. So you give him a look, and you find his eyes locked on his hands cupped together on his lap.

“You don't have to thank me. I'm here if you need me.”

“Why did you do this, Keanu?” You didn't want to talk about it, but there's a freaking elephant in the room and you can't take it anymore. And you need to hear it from him because you're not sure where you're going from now. You're living one day after the other, but still, you feel lost. Clueless. “Why did you lie to me like that?”

“They told me you could lose the baby.” He begins, sad eyes finding yours. “Depending on how you'd take the news about the memory loss, Daniel's death, and the pregnancy. Dr. Wright said you were too hurt already, and your body wouldn't be able to deal with the stress.”

“Then it wasn't your idea.”

Silently, he shakes his head no. “I knew it wasn't fair to you. You needed Daniel, not me, a complete stranger, but if anything happened to you or the baby because I didn't agree with that crazy idea I'd never forgive myself.”

You're about to say something when Liam makes a little noise, and you look down at him. “Slowly, baby, slowly.” You whisper, caressing his cheek before speaking to Keanu again. “Why did you... Why did you...”

“Because I was in love with you by then.” He answers, knowing exactly what you're talking about. “I didn't want to. I mean, I did, I just... I knew I should have stopped, but I couldn't. I loved you so much. I love you so much and I–”

“I felt so violated. I thought I was making love with my husband, not with a stranger.” The words are harsh, but they're true. And the truth must be spoken.

“I'm so sorry, (Y/N). And I completely understand if you hate me.”

“I hate that I love you.” Muttering, you focus on the baby in your arms because you can't bring yourself to stare at Keanu anymore. “But I do. And it sucks because I feel that everything you told me was a lie. The first ‘I love you’ certainly was.”

He takes a deep breath, and you feel his eyes burning on you. “The first was, but all the other times...” Keanu moves closer, and you raise your eyes to meet his. “I love you. And I hate myself for everything I did, but I did it for you. And for Liam. I was terrified that you'd leave after knowing the truth, that you'd never want to look at me again but I rather have you hating me than seeing you or the baby in danger.”

“Ke, I...” You don't know what to say, and you curse yourself for calling him that.

“The only thing I need to know, if you have any affection for me, even if it's as small as a speck of dust... Please... Is there any chance we could... Somehow make this–”

“I don't know.” Cutting him off, you feel a tear rolling down, so you look away. The hurt in his voice breaks your heart, and you want to hug him, kiss him. “I don't know. I-I'm here, and I don't know what to do next... I have feelings for you but I'm still heartbroken. I don't know when I'll be able to... Look at you as I did before. You're not my husband, and I'm not Mrs. Reeves.”

“And Liam is not my son, I know that.” With a heavy sigh, he gets up, making his way to the door.

But you won't let him go, not until he hears it. Not until he hears the truth. Now, more than ever, the truth is a sacred thing, and you will speak it, it doesn't matter how you feel about it. The truth is above that. “You may not be his biological father, but I'll let you be his father.” You raise your voice just a little for him to stop, but not enough to bother Liam. “He grew up inside me listening to your voice, feeling your presence, if that's even possible, and influenced by all the love I have for you. And I won't take that away from Liam, I know he loves you.” It's pretty clear that the baby knows Keanu. He feels good when held by him, and when for some reason the morning walks can't happen, Liam cries his heart out, only to be put to rest if Keanu takes a fake walk with him through the house. “If you love him... It doesn't matter what will be of us, I want you to be around Liam.”

His eyes are intense, full of sadness, confusion, and things you can't understand. “I do. I love this baby and I love you.”

“Then will you let us stay? Until... I don't know. Until somehow we figure this out. Because even if I move out, I won't be far.” You're trying not to cry, at least not in front of him. You don't know what will happen next, or when, but you're happy to know you'll be here today, and tomorrow, and the day after. Then... You'll see.

“(Y/N), you can stay here for as long as you want. This is... Your house too, even though you don't feel like it anymore.”

Nodding, you look down at Liam again, who already stopped sucking and has fallen asleep again. “He's out.”

“Do you want me to put him back in his crib?” He reluctantly offers. Keanu is back at the very beginning of this. Distant, trying not to make you feel uncomfortable.

“Yes, please.” Slowly, you pull him off your breast, quickly covering yourself before giving him to Keanu. You watch as the mountain of a man delicately puts Liam down, fixing the blankets around him before walking away.

“Good night, beautiful.” He says, immediately stopping by the door and looking at you. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you–”

“Good night, Ke.” You mutter, turning on your side and closing your eyes shut again.

×

@multific @inumorph @aestheticallywinchester @bvbwestfall @liviiii98 @allie1804-fan @gian-giannina @playboygeniusphilanthropist @partypoison00 @mariafetamina @fortheloveoffanfic @trin303

[samayla]

The Morning Pages

I'm a couple of weeks into writing "The Morning Pages" - which is a couple of weeks longer than any other journaling stint I've ever attempted - and I thought I'd share a few of the things that I've learned, about myself and the practice.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, "The Morning Pages" is a journaling practice from the book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron. It's supposed to be a creativity booster, a way to train your brain to get over roadblocks by committing to writing three pages of whatever is on your mind, every day, no matter what.

Now, a disclaimer - I have never read "The Artist's Way." There are, however, any number of excellent videos about it - and more specifically the Morning Pages themselves - on Youtube.

Onward!

★ No one will ever read my Morning Pages. Ever. I don't even reread my own writing. I flip through the pages sometimes, just to admire the pages and pages of handwritten text, but this style of journaling is not for reading, which brings me to my next point...

★ The Morning Pages are not for blow-by-blow, faithful accounts of my day. I approach my Morning Pages with one key question in mind:

Which thoughts are too heavy to carry around with me all day?

This is my brain, hauling around all kinds of junk and shoving it in my face all the time.

To be fair, I love my brain, and it's not all junk. A lot of it's pretty amazing stuff, but I don't need all of it all the time.

My life is hard enough without my brain dumping extra junk into the mix all the time. Also, I had nightmares about the Labyrinth Junk Lady as a kid. So I started writing the Morning Pages to give myself a place to put those things aside. There's a pretty little moth on the cover of my journal, and he can carry those thoughts instead. He's a tough little dude. He gets the ugly, messy, tangled thoughts I would never, ever share with anyone else. He gets those white-noise-tv-static kind of thoughts that try to eat my brain. He gets all the whining and crying and cussing and internal debates that stop me making decisions. He gets the meltdowns and the tantrums and the panic attacks, and he also gets those hyper-elated-bubblegum-in-my-hair kind of happy thoughts that are great, until they get in the way. He holds onto them for me, so I can let them go. They're not gone, just set aside in a safe place, in case I need them later, and that relieves so much anxiety for me.

★ Sometimes I don't have any thoughts like that to unload. I write my shopping list instead. I scribble down the song lyrics that are currently stuck on repeat. I ask dumb questions - like is the French Tuck named after Tan France, or does he just like it because it sounds like it could be? I draw stars or flowers or zigzag lines that mean nothing at all. I write in huge letters that take up three rows each. Flipping back through, those days make me smile.

★ Sometimes I just stop early, before hitting that magical three page mark. Despite all the videos saying it's basically three pages or die, I have not died yet. This shouldn't be a torture device, nor should it get in the way of real life. I didn't write at all the past two days, and guys? The world did not end. My migraines mean there are days when I have aphasia and can't make words happen, or my fine motor skills are trash and writing my own name feels like trying to dig out the Bread Basket in a high stakes game of Operation. I don't write much on those days because it frustrates me - but I could, because no one ever has to be able to read it, but I don't have to, and that makes me powerful. Sometimes my day launches before I'm even out of bed, and there's just no slowing down until my head hits the pillow that night. I don't write on those days either, because it would be just one more thing on a day that needs less things in it already.

★ I need a bit of a ritual to get my brain into Morning Pages mode because there are mornings when my brain just doesn't want to do it, for no very good reason at all. By having every session start with the same couple of steps, I don't have to think too hard to get started. Every entry starts with a little star at the top of the page. This started as a quick way to make sure my pen was working properly, but it makes me happy, so I've kept on, even though I have a really nice pen at the moment. Then I open the writing session with the date and "Good Morning!" - even if I've put off writing until later in the day. The greeting gets one whole line to itself, so I'm already making progress toward that three-page goal. Whenever I'm done, another little star goes at the bottom of the last page, just to close the session and help my brain switch gears again.

★★★So what has this done for me?★★★

I've caught myself thinking things like, "Oh, man. This would be a perfect topic for my Morning Pages. I should save it for that." But then, more often than not, just knowing I could write it in there is enough for me to let it go, right then and there, without any conscious effort. I get to my next set of Morning Pages, and I find myself writing about something completely different. My priorities are free to shift like that now. Instead of stewing over things, I can put them aside, and later on, with a little perspective, I discover that some of those things weren't all that important anyway.

I feel lighter and more in control. I think Intentional is the word. I feel like I'm here on purpose, doing things on purpose. I'm getting better at noticing which things are worth worrying about, and when I feel overwhelmed, I am better able to see my way clear of it.

I feel less pressure to be perfect in my other writings. "Just getting the words out" is easier in the Morning Pages, because I know no one will ever read them, and that's made me realize no one else will ever read the early drafts of my other writings either. I switch up my handwriting in my journal all the time. Some days it's chicken scratch. Others, it's perfect cursive. Or all caps. Whatever I feel like. And for someone who is embarrassingly concerned about the aesthetic of whatever I'm writing, that has been massively liberating. I started a writing journal for Magpie Grace recently as well, and a few pages in, I discovered that I preferred writing in it in all caps. In the past, I might have started over so the whole thing is in all caps, or given it up entirely as "ruined," but now, some is in caps, some is in cursive. No big deal.