#they are unknown in ways humans have not put to pen. they are patched together information from people who trembles behind doors and covered

[lanternlightss]

OH MY GOODNESS. OH MY GOSH ?????!!??

IM LOVE THIS SO MUCH !!!!???!!!?;!;!3)

What lies in front of him is a myth, a terrific rumor said behind turned backs. What lies in front of him is something that, by all means, by the King’s own unspoken implications, by sailors who share ocean secrets in quiet words, should not exist.

go read the boy and the whirlpool by @lanternlightss <3 I'm normal about it :)

[gale-dekarios]

Bouncing Baby Bloodsucker

Astarion and Tav had no reason to suspect that the undead would be able to reproduce. Turns out they were wrong. They approach Shadowheart with one question on their minds: will a baby vampire kill a human parent?

Trans Male!Tav/Astarion whoopsy-daisy into becoming dads.

Rated: M

Read me on [AO3]

“Well yes,” Shadowheart snipped, “that’s usually what happens when you have unprotected sex.”

“Between the living, yes, but the undead shouldn’t be able to-- right?” Tav asked, pitching forward in his seat. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Astarion that his hands had been held loosely over his protruding stomach ever since he began to suspect that the morning sickness, skipped periods, and extra weight was more than a rough patch in his health.

Shadowheart folded her arms, raising a brow, “I’m hardly an expert. Why didn’t you go to a normal doctor?”

“What a good idea Shadowheart! I’m sure any local doctor will act completely reasonably when they find out that a foul creature of the night left a surprise vamplet inside him. Should we break out the good torches and pitchforks?”

Despite his shortness, Astarion’s knuckles were held tight against his sides, reaching a shade of white that was truly alarming given his natural paleness, and he was pretty sure he was shaking to boot. The guilt; -- at not knowing better, at not taking precautions, of putting a bloodsucking demon with an unknown depth of hunger into his beloved partner, endangering them from the inside in a way he couldn’t begin to help with, -- wracked through his body in fresh waves as his thoughts spiralled like a madman’s.

“Shadowheart,” Tav pleaded, grabbing one of her hands in his, “We need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

She sighed, face screwing in concentration. “Fine. Hold on.”

She rose from her chair, marching across the room to pull some writing paper and an ink pen out from an old drawer, the pen scratching against the page disturbing an otherwise silent room.

Tav gave Astarion a weak smile, who in turn couldn’t muster one of his own. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Astarion mouthed to him, but it only made Tav’s brow furrow. He reached over and grabbed his hand, pulling it out of its fist, rubbing his thumb across his aching knuckles as he held it gently in his palms. The kindness of the gesture had Astarion’s stomach in uncomfortable knots. He couldn’t have told you how many people he had had sex with over the centuries, but the idea that his biology had only chosen to kick in now felt like a cruel joke the world was playing on him. Or rather, he really, really hoped his biology had only chosen to kick in now. The alternative was too ghastly to imagine.

“Alright, hopefully we’ll hear back soon.” Shadowheart broke the silence. She held the paper in clasped hands and muttered a few arcane words over it, the letter bursting into blinding divine radiance before disappearing from sight. She sat back down, levelling Tav with a sympathetic stare. “Are you alright? You look sick.” (Astarion tensed.)

“I don’t know how I am, it’s just… all so much. I’ve barely slept since we realised that I might be-- I think I’m too exhausted for it to have truly sank in yet.”

“I should take you back home,” Astarion said, his voice cracking at the end.

“You’re also free to sleep here for a while, if you like.”

Tav nodded, pulling his hand away from Astarion’s, and with it the little reassurance he had. “Thank you Shadowheart, really. I know all of this really isn’t your thing.”

“No, it’s not, but your little interloping tadpole is hardly the first daunting task we’ve dealt with together. At least this one doesn’t make a meal of your brain.” The joke fell flat as the unspoken sentiment filled a glaring hole in the conversation. A meal of his brain, perhaps not, but a vampire foetus to a living father hardly spells good news. Shadowheart sighed to herself softly, “The bedsit is through there, make yourself at home.”

Tav nodded and stood, leaning down to kiss his partner's cheek gently, before leaving the room silently, their absence haunting the chair next to Astarion. He crossed his legs, hands buried deep into the crook of his elbows as he and Shadowheart began a staring competition.

Loathe as he was to, he broke first. “Well?” He said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Is he going to die?”

“We won’t know for certain until we hear back.” Shadowheart answered truthfully, “But it’s not looking good. He seems to have the markers of a regular pregnancy for now, but it’s likely because the thing doesn’t have teeth to bite yet.”

Astarion flinched. “We didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“But it did.” Shadowheart snapped, before tempering her rage, blowing a short breath out. “Listen, I don’t think you’d do anything to intentionally hurt him, not anymore. But the truth is that the living and the dead are incompatible. It just doesn’t work. The living are always going to end up dead, or the dead are destroyed so the living might continue.”

Astarion shook his head. “No, we’ve been through far too much now to just give up anytime there’s a bump in the road. We’ll figure this out and be more careful from now on.”

“Astarion.” Shadowheart warned. “Depending on what we hear back, there might not be a ‘from now on’, do you understand that? You spent so long luring people back for Cazador, why did it never occur to you that this could be possible?”

“Do you think I should have asked before or after torture sessions?” he snapped in return. “There was hardly a guidebook he handed out when he turned us, and the welcoming committee -- my darling siblings -- didn’t know any more than me either.”

Shadowheart straightened up, “Your siblings.”

“Yes, what about them?”

“You have six of them. And seven thousand more victims roaming the Underdark.”

“If they survived, yes.”

“Well surely you can’t be the first that this has happened to. If it’s true that Cazador never mentioned it was possible to you, they wouldn’t know either. Do you think you could find some of them? Ask around to see if anybody down there has had the same problem as you?”

Astarion’s brow creased in distaste. “Even if I could find some of them, for a lot of them I’m the last person they want to see, especially heralding a new breed of vampire.”

“This is hardly about you now is it?” Shadowheart shot back.

He grimaced. “Fine. I’ll travel to the Underdark at sundown tomorrow.”

“At this point it’s the least you could do.”

The room fell silent. Unable to retort, his wit replaced with worry, he stewed. Astarion knew he had done many terrible things in his life, and even more in his death, but he feared this might have been the worst.

A few hours passed of little note. Unmoving, his mind raced, and a cup of untouched water stood equally still on the table before him, the subject of his steady gaze. With his flawless skin and rigid posture, he could have passed for a statue. Shadowheart had left to do something earlier, Astarion wasn’t really listening, his ears roaring with stolen blood. And so he was alone. With the cup. Fuck.

It clatters against the wall violently and Astarion’s chest heaves with effort, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

A moment later, a sleep disturbed face peeks through the doorway.

“Astarion!” Tav gasped.

"I'm sorry, I woke you up. Gods. I just--" He struggled to find the words.

"Are you okay?"

“Am I okay? No, I'm not okay. I spent centuries being tortured by Cazador and the first good thing I have after getting out, of being free, I ruin it with this disgusting body of mine. I have countless victims, destroyed by this,” he spits, gesturing wildly at himself, “and yet I couldn’t be done, could I? I had to claim just one more. So no, Tav, I have to say, I am not fucking okay.”

Tav’s face paled as they swallowed visibly. “I’m not a prop."

“What?” Astarion asked incredulously.

“I said I’m not a prop, Astarion.” He put his hands on his hips, the way he did before he was about to make a point. “You didn’t do anything to me, we had sex together, and I’m not destroyed just because I have a piece of you inside of me. I don’t want you to think of me like that. I’m better than that. You’re better than that.” He gripped Astarion's forearms. “Do you understand? I don’t know what any of this means for me, for us, and I’m not going to lie to you, I am terrified. But I need you to be terrified with me, not terrified for me, and that requires us to be on the same page with this. We fucked up, we’re scared, and we’ll figure it out. Together. As equally responsible participants. Okay?”

“I just feel like I should have known.”

“As should I.”

His tears fell over. “I am scared.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“What now?”

“We wait for Shadowheart to get back to us with more information. We know nothing, we’re just guessing based on our worst fears. When we know, we’ll know.”

“That’s incredibly unhelpful.”

“... I know.”

“What if--”

The door creaked open and Shadowheart stood in the doorframe, surveying the scene with an icy stare, something rectangular in her hands.

“You washed my walls. How kind of you both.”

“Sorry, Shadowheart.” Tav said, letting his hands drop.

“Gale got back to us,” she waved the rectangle at them.

Astarion spluttered, “It was Gale you wrote to?!”

“Yes. If you want information, who better to ask than the former wizarding prodigy without a social life to speak of?”

“Oh Gods, everyone’s going to know,” Tav moaned, rubbing his brow.

“Gale doesn’t shut up when you get him going, but he does know I can hurt him very, very badly. Excellent motivator, don’t you think?”

“What did he say?” Astarion asked reluctantly.

“See for yourself.” She handed the rectangle to Tav, which he could now make out was a loose letter tied to a dusty mauve tome.

He took it, opening the letter with shaking hands. He felt Astarion immediately press against his back, reading over his shoulder.

This should do it Shadowheart, will write you properly soon.

Dearest Tav and Astarion --

I believe some congratulations are in order! It’s no easy task to prepare for a new member of the family, but even more so with the kind you have cooking away. Should you find yourselves in need of a break, please remember Uncle Gale in his Waterdeep tower.

The good news is that the children of vampires -- known as dhampirs -- can lead a perfectly normal life. They can sustain themselves both on blood and regular food, they possess strange talents such as walking across vertical surfaces, and their physical appearances are as varied as any humanoid race, although it is likely they’ll possess some vampiric qualities--, i.e, elongated canines, red, or glowing eyes, ashen skin, the like -- but hardly the monsters their vampire parents are portrayed to be -- no offence Astarion.

I’ve sent along a tome I possess on the matter, please do take good care of it. I’ve bookmarked the relevant pages. From what I’ve read, there is no cause for alarm, although the (fascinating!) gestation period may not be as expected dear friends, so please pay close attention to Chapter 18, section 3. The bad news is that there’s no training guide on how to look after these children. You have a big challenge ahead of you both! But I’m sure between the two of you, as wonderful as you are for each other, you will figure out, like any parents, how to move forward with your new little family unit.

Please visit sometime, it would be wonderful to see you both, and I am unfortunately currently unable to disrupt my teaching schedule to make the trip to Baldur’s Gate. Perhaps with a little one on the way, one of you will accept my offer to introduce you to that fine Waterhavdian jeweller that I’ve mentioned previously?

P.S. Gale makes a fine middle name, don’t you think?

Yours Faithfully,

Prof. Gale Dekarios

“Wait a moment,” Astarion said, “Does this mean--?��

Tav whipped around to face him, eyes wide, grasping the letter like a lifeline, “We’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

“We’re okay!”

He launched at Astarion, arms curling around the back of his neck, and he caught his waist, hauling him up into a hug.

“I can’t believe it,” Tav gasped as Astarion let him down, still in a close embrace. “We--! Oh. We have a lot to talk about. Do we want a baby?”

Astarion spluttered. “I--”

“I mean, babies are big responsibilities. And we’re hardly the most stable people in the world.” He gripped his own head. “The amount of weapons we have at home. We’d need to babyproof the blades. Can you babyproof a mace?”

“We’d need to get jobs. Real jobs, I mean. We couldn’t be on the move all the time.”

“And the cost. Babies are expensive little creatures. And the time. They need so much attention.”

“Exactly. It’s a horrible idea.”

“Terrible. We wouldn’t be able to cope. We should definitely do the responsible thing here and get rid of them.”

“Right.”

“We’re in agreement. Take that for incompatible you horrible little cleric.” Astarion sneered.

“What?”

“I didn't have to help!”

The screams pierce the house, the walls shaking as two toddlers whirled around their legs like miniature steel watchers, destroying everything in their path.

“Aren’t they precious?” Petras cooed, looking after his blond-haired son who was currently smashing his tiny fists at the wall as he tried to remember how to walk up it.

“Our little darling, perhaps, but your little demon seems to have the brains of his father,” Astarion curled his lip.

As Astarion spoke, their daughter, a bright-eyed little girl, growing more beautiful with each passing day, shoved an ink pen up her nose. He shot her a withering glare, the toddler blissfully unaware of the social disaster she had just created for him. She was lucky he thought the world of her, or he might have pinned her to the ceiling, out of the way.

“Clearly,” Petras scoffed.

“Thanks again for your help Petras, we both appreciate it. We really have no idea what we’re doing here.” Tav spoke up.

Petras nodded, “It’s a bit macabre to put such a little one into a coffin, but it really is the best way to make sure they don’t start running across the ceilings at night, and our Eric had grown out of his months ago. Do you have that soothing salve recipe I gave you?”

“Yes! Thank you.”

“She’ll be getting her fangs in soon. They’ll push out the teeth that are already there and it’ll hurt, and not only that, but when they do grow in, they’re sharp, so you’ll need to get her some caps until you can teach her to keep them out of the way. It’s not pretty, but she’ll be okay.”

“Daddy!” a little voice yelled insistently, and three heads snapped round. Their little girl ran to Astarion, “Stuck.” She pointed to her nose, the black pen protruding from the nostril.

“Oh for the love of--” Astarion hooked under her arms to pull her up onto his hip. “Okay, let’s see. Tilt your head back. Okay. One, two, three.” He pulled the pen, grimacing at the disgusting thing -- and the pen was pretty gross too. “Don’t put anything up your nose. Please?”

“Down!” She demanded.

“Darling.”

“Dooooown!!!”

He let the wriggling toddler out of his arms, placing the pen gingerly off to the side as Petras suppressed a laugh.

“I must say, fatherhood suits you Astarion.”

“Shut up,” he growled.

“Anyway, I need to go, sunrise soon. We’re teaching Eric to be diurnal, but he still seems to prefer the night. I don’t mind it, means I can spend more time with him.”

“That we can agree on,” Astarion said. “I miss her during the day.”

Tav pulled his arm through his comfortingly. “I told you we’ll figure it out.”

“I know.”

“If you do find anything out about that cure thing, send word yeah? I know a couple hundred people that’d want to get their hands on that.”

“Naturally.”

“Right. Eric!” He called, and Eric’s small eyes went wide as he heard his dad speak the dreaded words, “Time to go.”

Blink. Blink. Havoc. Screaming. A sharp nip into the meat of Petras’s arm. (‘Where are your teething caps?!')

Finally, they were alone, standing in a loose embrace as they watched their daughter roam the living room with the rapt attention of a dedicated jungle explorer.

“Why did it have to be Petras?” Astarion moaned flatly.

“We should be grateful. He does all the hard work and we steal the results. Too bad he’s an idiot.”

Astarion snorts, pressing his cheek on top of Tav’s head.

[potteresque-ire]

can I ask you why people act like yibo and xiao zhan for sure are together and its just a matter of time for "not nice" people to find out?

Happy 2021 Anon! I think... this may be a question to ask them! I can’t speak for anyone except myself. This is fandom, after all, and fannish behaviour ultimately comes from the heart in equal parts as the mind, if not more -- fans can debate all day long about certain aspects of a canon -- the plot and writing for a book fandom, if the stars fit the characters for a TV fandom etc etc... but it isn’t the content of those debates and metas that decide who the fans are. Academics and professional critics can pen the same things. Fans are fans not because they’re especially bored / argumentative, but because they’re willing to dedicate their time and effort to investigate and get emotional over things others don’t care about, specific things that something in them * believes * to be especially unique, especially precious to be worth the time and effort.

BJYX is the first RP fandom I watch, and so far, I don’t see it as so different ~ turtles can go around in circles, get into heated arguments into which candy is real and which is “too hard”, come up with lists of evidence on why it’s SZD... but ultimately, IMO, at least, what makes a turtle isn’t the done-for-free-FBI work or the candy production. Instead, it’s the something inside the turtle shell -- the same complex wiring in the neurons and heartstrings that no scientists can explain and also draw the turtle into other fandoms -- that deems this relationship as unique, worth the time and effort to investigate / support.

I don’t remember where I read this or in what language, but I remember something similar to this being said about BJYX ~ each turtle will tell you a somewhat different version of gg and dd’s story, but somehow, they’ve all reached the same conclusion (SZD). The different versions, I’d imagine, stems as much from personality as from logic ~ which type of candies speak to them. Some turtles therefore spend most of their time fitting RL events to plot elements commonly found in classic love stories, patching the holes with fake rumours (rings in the pocket, for example); some put a magnifying glass over every pixel of their images; some listen to background vocals and The Demonic Chant (banyun-biss banyun-biss banyun-biss…) over and over again; some become experts of fashion to dissect their wardrobe. Personally, I'm very, very partial to gg’s designs and drawings -- not the hidden words or messages, but the general style and tone. Do I think they’re particularly strong evidence, something that proves SZD? Not at all. It’s just that I’m a visual person and these candies are sweet to me, and so I choose to incorporate them in my own version of BJYX canon ~ something that today, I’d still hesitate to call reality; I’d much prefer to call it a love story collectively written, in real-time, by its 2 leads + their millions of fans, that mixes fiction with some truth unknown, that takes place in fundamentally cruel, volatile world when such collaboration should have been impossible.

Still, I count myself a turtle. Even if I don’t go out there trying to convince anyone SZD; even if I won’t get upset if I turn out to be totally wrong. You ask, Anon, why people act like gg and dd are for sure together; here’s my reason, and there’s probably many more out there. I do it because I personally do believe SZD, with the understanding that the conclusion comes as much from the heart as from logic, that it may not be the truth and the details from which I drew my conclusion may not match reality. I do it because I respect the fandoms I’m in ~ it’d be disrespectful to come in here and throw doubts here and there. I do it because I love the fact that all the candies exist, even if I can’t taste the majority of them (I’m a very, very picky candy eater). I love the fact that, if each turtle has written their own ... gospel to this truth, this reality unknown -- after all, we don’t know gg and dd, and everything we’ve seen are nanosized facets of their lives -- there are millions of these gospels out there right now. Millions of tiny parcels of fannish, turtle-ish love that comes in the form of a story, told in a way that is the most romantic to the turtle brain it comes from. 

That’s a lot of love added to the world. I like fandom because I like love.

To wrap this up, Anon, once the SZD belief sets in, attitudes are filtered through it no matter how objective its owner strives to be. I try, but I know I’ll be a failure before I even start -- I’m only human, and it’s okay. There will be a part of me that’ll assume others will see what I see -- the “others”, in this case, including the people who’re “not nice”.

[tiredthinkbucket]

It comes in waves.

There are sometimes when it’s calm, it’s quiet, it’s almost serene. And Yennefer just feels like a person, she feels alright, like she was never incomplete, like she was enough, like she is enough. She’s strong, but not too strong, just the right amount of weakness to feel her humanity.

And then there are times that weakness is overbearing, it’s all consuming, where she comes apart from the inside. Pieces of her start spilling out, parts so deep and so dark she didn’t even realize that she had, things she’s shoved to the side to address later but later came too soon, and she tries to grab them, to hold them in place while she figures out a way to patch it back together. Yet she always manages to somehow get it, to be mostly whole, better. 

In a way, each time it happens, it gets a little bit easier, because she’s had practice at putting it all back. She’s learned what works, what doesn’t, she knows more about what she needs, and how to heal the fastest and the easiest. It becomes second nature, an unconscious sort of art form. 

But each time, it also gets harder, because the bones have never fully healed, the angles are a little off, the scars have already left her skin a little rough, the stitches are just yanked open, tearing the skin even more than before. Aches that have dulled but they never left, and the cold reminds her that they’re still there, they’ve never left, just been a little more quiet.

Every time, she misses a piece, but in it’s stead she gains a lesson. 

Her father— she was still so young when he died— but she remembers the first realization of loss. She learned that not all things are beautiful, and it was soon after that she realized that most things on the Continent are not beautiful at all. They were like her, ugly, malformed, unnecessary.

Her mother: meant well, but didn’t do well, or not well enough for it to matter. Through her and her failures, Yennefer learnt that good intentions are rarely good enough. Sometimes it’s just better to be straightforwardly selfish, if that’s how it has to be, because there is no sense in trying to make it more palatable. The pill has to be swallowed either way, the effect will be the same.

The villagers, they usually didn’t care enough to really affect her. The few unfortunate interactions she did have with the unlucky taught her fear: fear the unknown, fear the different, fear the ugly. The things that didn’t make sense, that were an abomination, the abnormal, she realized that most shunned them simply because they did not understand. It was not out of an innate dislike, it was protection, a mere defense mechanism. And while it hurt, she understood.

Her step-father was always filled with hatred, and perhaps that’s where she first truly learned the feeling. Sometimes it was not enough to fear what was different from you, sometimes you needed to hate it so you didn’t feel so similar. Hate creates a type of distance, in the way that trying to cross it feels impossible, because the two sides are irreconcilable. Distance makes you safe, removed, impossible to be reached and touched.

The Rectoress taught her humiliation—a burning, enveloping sense of shame and disgust for who and what she was.  Piglet, not worthy of a real name, not even worth full price, only another pig in the pen, an eel in the pool, only a conduit and nothing more. She brought her down lower than she thought she could go, having been raised unloved and unwanted, she realized that even if by some miracle someone could look past her disfiguration, she would still never be loved nor wanted. And so she learnt the shame of desiring something one could never, should never even hope to have. 

With the young sorcerer, her first lover, she came to understand the true meaning and the far reaching effects of betrayal. To put trust in someone so willingly was to ask to be broken. Laughably, she should have expected him to only act as dishonorably as she. It was a lesson she thought she had already knew, that trust was only for constants, and not for mortals. Foolishly, she had forged ahead, blinded by her emotions, comforted by his care, craving the feeling of being wanted by another, despite knowing it wasn’t real, she’d wanted it, she’d had it, and then she destroyed it with something as simple as trusting someone with too much. How could she expect someone else to handle her fragile, patchwork heart with the amount of care she needed to keep it together? 

The King, for all his charm and excellent tastes, was a fool, and if Yennefer learned anything it court, it was that men were more easily swayed by hips than with tongues, and yet they’d sooner listen to another pair of balls than a pair of breasts. People were easy enough to understand and manipulate once you brought them down to their most base desires, but you could only bring them so far within the carnal realm before they refused to go further, for they would rather wallow in wanton pleasure than care about more the more powerful pursuits. Sex can bring pleasure, can tease gold from purses, but it cannot bring peace to war torn lands, cannot feed starving bellies, and it cannot satisfy for very long.

The Witcher, the proud, presumptuous, woebegone mutant, left his parting gift of taking away Yennefer’s free will from her. All the rest, Yennefer had learned how to cope with, how to reassemble the pieces she had been left with when she crumbled down. But now, tied with strings of fate she had never consented to, bound to a man who she probably never truly loved, bereft of her freedom and trapped in a cage that she cannot see, she finally understands the stupidity of her heart. She had always chased after what she thought she could not have, believing that it would finally teach her how to be happy. She may feel constrained because of the man’s wish, but it is herself that has long imposed the restrictions that prevent her, the freedom she lost was nothing she had not already stolen from herself. Yennefer for so long had allowed herself to be told that she was not, could not, would not ever be enough. 

Tissaia de Vries stands before Yennefer of Vengerberg and asks her to stand with her, to fight alongside her, as an equal. Yennefer cannot seem to reconcile the woman that pleads with her now with the one that had once told her she would not be loved even if she were beautiful. But as the confusion swirls in her heart, threatening to break her down once more, reopening the hurts, suddenly all the pieces she has clung to come together.

Yennefer’s one defining fear had always been that she could not be loved because she thought she was hideous. Even after her transformation, she let that terrorize her mind, that she would always have to try her hardest and beyond to manipulate people into loving her. If she wanted to be seen and powerful, she would have to accept that because she was not, she had to fight and selfishly take what she wanted, she needed to ostracize, to despise, she needed to demean and degrade others, she would have to trust no one and especially not a man, and only when she had no choice in the matter did she realize that it has always been her choice. The person that Yennefer has for years striven to prove herself to all along was a hunchback girl from Vengerberg. 

Tissaia had been trying to teach her self sufficiency, by facing her fears and moving beyond them. What Yennefer thought she had wanted was to be good at something, to succeed and excel and to prove to everyone else that she could. That this hunchback, disfigured, undesirable girl could achieve what was thought to be impossible, and she stupidly thought that would be enough for her.

She was already excellent. She has already proved herself to be a capable sorceress. 

And only when she finally accepts that does she realize that Tissaia has long thought so too.

She will accept the invitation. Anyway, what other option does she really have? Fight now or fight later, but there is certainly something satisfying about being asked so desperately, knowing she is needed, wanted. She finally gets her wish when she realizes it was useless. Even now, however, some habits are hard to break.

“Have you ever used that word before?”

[cuzloki]

I wanted to write something different. So this is kinda different from my other stuff. If you guys like it let,e know and I’ll right more. If you have critiques let me know. Also I know spelling and grammar is not my strong suit so don’t be to hard on me haha. I hope you enjoy reading. ❤️

Everyone has their horror stories about their time in jail.....I mean school, but mine is a bit different. It's not about what was said to me it was about what wasn't said. I was ignored. Cast out by the popular crew and when I was talked to I was treated like a gazelle that had been accidentally put in the lion pen. But what people didn't know was that I have a secret. I'm a werewolf, an alpha werewolf. My best friend Ashton and my boyfriend Robbie are as well. I was born an alpha werewolf. Ashton and I have been friends since we were 2 and let's just say I went through a biting faze at around 4 that turned him into my omega. Then when I was 16, I met Robbie. I was with him for 2 years before I told him about me being a werewolf. Let's just say the idea of being just like me was everything to him. So now there is my little mini pack of 3, including me.

I am a tall blonde with hazel eyes. I'm not the skinniest thing but more muscular. I'm very shy but once you get to know me I can be quite the spit fire. Ashton is tall and muscular with the brightest smile you’ll ever see. He has the deepest green eyes that turn hazel in the right light. His hair is naturally brown but it's dyed black and brushed to the side currently. Robbie is a tall British boy with greenish-blue eyes that you could get lost in. He has brown hair that most of the time is just brushed and left to do its own thing.

My wolf is a jet black wolf with red eyes signifying the alpha gene. There is a little white patch on my wolfs chest that is white as snow. Ash’s wolf is white with glowing green eyes, which signifies his ability of telekinesis. He can control people and link people together so they can communicate through their minds. Robbie's wolf is jet black like mine with bright blue eyes, signifying his ability to do magic. He has a gene that was unknown to him from a warlock way back in his family tree. So technically he's a hybrid werewolf and warlock.

I get out of my car with a bag of groceries and start walking up the path to my house. It had a farmers porch around the front and is painted egg shell blue. The shingles on the roof are grey with specks of black freckled through them. The two story house stood at the edge of the forest on a dead end street where it is the only house. As my boots clicked on the stone walkway, the door to my house flew open " Hello love., let me grab that for you!" Robbie smiled at me fro. The door and put his hand into the air as a blue glow enveloped my grocery bag and floated towards Robbie. The bag landed I. His arms and he smiled at me as I continued walking up the path with a smirk on my face. "Well, wasn't that just magical." I say sarcastically as Robbie and I walk into the house, him still gripping the bag tightly and let out a little laugh .

We walk into the kitchen after walking through the hall entry way. The grey wash wood floor shined and the grey granite cabin area and stainless steel appliances sparkled as I walked in. "Surprise! I cleaned!" Robbie exclaimed as he set the grocery bag down on the counter and starting taking the various food items out. " You cleaned or you "cleaned" I said with air quotes and he looks over at me biting his lip. "Can't I just get credit for cleaning the place" he laughs as he walks over to me and loops his arms around my waist. "Hmm. Using your magic to get brownie points. I don't know if that's quite fair, Mr.Kay." I giggle as I wrap my arms around his neck. "Oh, you want to talk about fair! How about you making me do the dishes and the laundry?" He smirked as I started to laugh "That wasn't a werewolf thing that was a "I'm your girlfriend so do it" it. There is a difference!" Robbie threw his hands up in surrender and they landed on my hips. He brushed his lips against mine briefly and I pulled him in again to deepen the kiss. Let's just say the kiss was turning more into a make out session when there was a very loud knock on the door and yelling "Can you guys stop and just let me in!" Ashton. "He chooses now to show up on time." Robbie groans as I kiss Robbie one more time and walk to the door. I opened the door and there was look his brown eyes and newly dyed black hair. "Times like these I really hate my werewolf hearing." He mumbled as he walked past me into the house and I closed the door.

The three of us went into the living room and started talking about wolf stuff when I brought up the topic on everyone's mind. The pack. "So I found some more people for our pack boys." I looked at them both. "They are all the big show offs of high school. No one tells them what to do. Until now." I smirk and grab a chip from a nearby bag. "Why do you have to turn out of vengeance? Isn't that gonna backfire?" Ashton says and leans forward in his seat. "No it's gonna make a good pack. Strong obedient wolves that were never told what to do now have a purpose." I say as I look at Robbie "I say alpha picks her omegas. If she wants them, Ash, let her." Robbie stood up for me. I smiled at him and he smiled back. "Ok fine, not like it's my choice.When is this happening?" Ashton asks with his head in his hands. "Tonight’s football practice ends in 20 minutes." I smile as I stand up and grab the bag of chips, heading towards the kitchen. I rolled up the chip bag and placed them in the cabinet when I reached the kitchen. "Let's go boys!" I call as I head outside soon to be joined by my pack of two, soon to be more.

"GO BULLFROGS!" The team shouts as the huddle breaks signaling the end of practice. Robbie, Ash and I sit in the woods watching in wolf form. Robbie and is black fur hiding us from view and Ashton’s white fur blended with the green leaves, no one saw us. A group of 6 boys broke of from the rest of the football team and starting walking along side the woods. I looked at Ashton signaling him to use his powers to bring them into the woods. All the boys were pretty tall except 2 that were rather short. I see the piercing eyes of the boys that made my school life hell not because of what they said but the looks I was given and the lack of things they said. They come into the clearing we were sitting in and I had Robbie to my left and Ashton to my right. The boys froze unable to move or talk thanks to Ashton. All us wolves were mind-linked together so I introduced the great 6. First was Matt. The star of the football team and liked by everyone. A massive jerk but he has puppy dog brown eyes that make every girl weak in the knees. Next is Jack with his blue eyes. He was my crush back years ago and he broke my heart by simply saying no thank you when I said I liked him. Then there was Mike,Jacks best friend, he was nice but he always had that attitude like he was better than everyone else. Finally there was Dylan my first Love, even if he didn't know it. Then Nick who was a crush and I best friend to me at some point. Lastly there was John. He had been my crush in 4th grade and we haven't really talked since. I walked towards the boys , fear clear in their eyes. I shifted back into my human form, my red eyes still glowing. "Hello Boys. Long time no see" I say as I walk towards them. Still under Ashton’s control, they stood in shock and just stared at me. "I know you must be so confused right now. Thinking why us what did we do to deserve this!" I dramatically throw my arms in the air. I laughed as I looked over at one boy in particular. Jack. I walk up to Jack and grabbed his arm. "Interesting what you get yourself into, isn't it?" My eyes started to glow red as I open my mouth and bite down hard on Jack's arm. More than necessary I might add. I feel a hand on my shoulder pulling me back. It was Robbie. "Enough." I let go of Jack’s arm and blood dripped down my face. I use my werewolf speed to run down the line and bite the rest of the boys on the arm then take off, leaving the boys.

After about 20 minutes, Robbie and Ashton returned to my house to find me curled up in a ball on the couch. "I got a little carried away. " I say as I look at Robbie and Ashton. "He hurt you, I get it." Robbie said and Ashton nodded. "Let's call these boys shall we." I say as I got up and went out onto my deck. I howled ,loud ,turning my eyes red. I heard howls in return and knew they were on their way. Within 20 minutes 6 huge wolves stood in front of me. 4 grey and 2 tan. "Let's not be animals, boys" I say as I look at each one of them. Screams filled the air along with cracks and cries as they all turned human again. My howl triggered their first transformation and it hurts bad for the first month or so. The boys were in heaps on the ground. "Why" I knew that cocky voice. Matt. "Why?! Because I could, because I can. Because all the shit you guys put me through I thought I'd repay the favor. Plus I needed more wolves. Let me introduce my beta, Robbie" I pointed to Robbie "and my newly ranked up delta, Ashton"

[bookenders]

I don't know how I just realized you were having this celebration, friend! but congratulations! being one of your followers has been such an incredible thing, I love seeing the things that you come up with, and adore your characters! could I get a url based drabble?

[Help me celebrate 800!]

@abalonetea! Friend! Thank you so, so much! 💜 Having you as a follower has been equally incredible!

For you, a lovely little drabble. 

Things I was thinking of while writing it: MBMBaM, Atlantis: The Lost Empire, going to grad students’ office hours in the basements of the humanities buildings, and Tolkien-style linguistics!

Sitting at his desk in the pipe-ridden basement office, Alistair carefully set his still steaming cup of tea next to a mug full of pens and adjusted his glasses. Before him, covering the entire length of the desk, was a very old map of a very secret place.

The lost land was not so much a missing jewel as a page torn from an old book. One that, once found, will complete the story, not be the story itself. One piece of information does not a mythos make.

Abalone, Land of the Lonely Tribes. Ab-, prefix, meaning “away from,” and root word alone, from the Old English “ana,” “unaccompanied, all by oneself.”  Or, more literally, “wholly oneself.” And that’s it, isn’t it? A land untouched by outside influence, hidden beyond the mists all these years. No interaction with anyone else, no outside influence - just a land, living on its own, wholly itself and no other. 

It’s discovery had been Alistair’s dream since he first learned to read a map’s key. Once he started reading about it, he was never seen without a book in his hands, even at the dinner table, no matter what his parents threatened him with to put it down. The habit turned into a virtue once he was accepted to university. And now, little 9 year old Alistair, the child who checked out Latin books from the library to teach himself the language, would be absolutely screaming with joy and excitement.

It took ten years of sifting through dusty library stacks, fighting tooth and nail for funding, traveling around the world with nothing but a change of socks and a toothbrush to talk to people whose languages he didn’t know, being sequestered in basement after basement with the excuse of ‘no offices available sorry,’ and defending his ‘unfounded’ research to men who thought they were better than everyone else because of a piece of paper, but today was the day.

He’d come across a stray note in the margins of an old poetry book from an author whose name he would have to write down as soon as he averted this elation-induced panic attack, and traced it’s origin to a woman who had written not one, but two whole books about the true origins of the Atlantis myth. Apparently, over time, the name’s etymology went through some confusing translation phases and ended up in the Old English borrow word soup. In the bibliography of the second book, he found a title that caught his eye. 

Unfortunately, it was only available in India. So he spent two days learning specific phrases in Hindi and Urdu before spending half his meager funding on a one way plane ticket to a city he’d never heard of. That source led him to a phone call with the head curator at The British Museum, who was not amused by his request to plunder their archives looking for a big unknown something. 

Nothing a few favors for the security guards and interns couldn’t fix, however. Which cost him the rest of that semester’s grant funds. But that didn’t matter. Because inside a sealed wooden crate beneath an enormous coffin full of tattered shoes, he found it.

Oh, gods.

It was exactly as the Atlantis woman had described it. Or, rather, exactly as the people who discovered the map in the 1600s described it. Old and worn yes, and yellow-brown at the edges and around some of the ink blots, but surprisingly well preserved. The ink hadn’t even run or bled at all. It was a true miracle find. If only it were labeled.

All that was left was to actually find the region on said map that held Abalone.Left hand gripping the compass, right hand holding his place in the weathered explorer’s logbook, Alistair knew he was close. Two more coordinates to try, one more triangulation to calculate, and-

There. Right there.

On the eastern edge of the Coaldim Mountain range, just south of the Infinite Lake, in the small patch of flat land he had thought was a grove. 

He found it.   

Abalone.

He had gotten so close, closer than anyone in history. This was his life’s work, his ultimate achievement, the very thing that would elevate him to the third floor windowed offices.

In his joyous haste to celebrate his monumental academic achievement in his teeny tiny basement office, his arm swung a smidge too wide and nudged the mug full of pens on his desk. Alistair watched, eyes bugging out in panic, as the mug wobbled around and around and around before tipping ever so slightly one way, then bobbing the other, until finally giving in to gravity’s cruel intentions and spilling pens all over the map. His heart was in his throat, beating loud enough to rattle the pipes behind and overhead.

The handle of the mug twisted, caught the edge of the tea saucer, and, like a circus man paid peanuts to launch his friend up up and away via see-saw, threw the full, steaming cup into the air. It turned over once, gravity continuing to play tricks on poor Alistair by keeping the liquid nestled inside the cup’s curve, before landing upside down with a flourish of tea in a calming, chamomile-scented wave settling on the parchment sand.

The map of a landlocked region was now an ocean. The very old, very rare, very fragile map on loan from The British Museum.

With the future of his career so close, yet now so, so far out of reach, Alistair only had one regretful thought fall out of his mind.

“Aw, beans…”

I guess Abalone will have to remain away from everyone and wholly itself for a little longer. 🤷🏻‍♀️

There’s a really dumb subtle pun in here, too. 

Spilling tea ➡ spill the tea ➡ reveal information, but I inverted it. Ohoho!

**********

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[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 22: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A small, Randomly Colored folded paper bird. When unfolded, it refolds itself and any crumples or tears it has sustained magically fix themselves.

An eyepatch resembling a large flower that covers the entire eye of the creature wearing it. When applied to a creature’s face, the eyepatch grows rootlike tendrils that wrap around the bearer's head to secure it.

A set of fish jaws fashioned into a bracelet. When worn, the bearer has an in depth knowledge of northern pike.

A bracelet made from a lattice of woven brass. It automatically adjusts itself to the wrist size of its bearer.

A shimmery cloak clasp depicting a violin and a sword. It smells vaguely of ash and fire.

A sealed metal tin labeled “Armstrong Mustache Wax”. According to the description, the recipe has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations

A glazed porcelain pipe. Everything about it seems vaguely familiar, but you aren’t sure why.

An old and beaten up steel drinking flask. After carrying the object for more than 1d4 hours, the bearer becomes convinced that the flask has to be kept a secret.

An uncannily familiar face etched into a piece of dead wood.

A marble pyramid, small enough to fit in a human’s palm. When held, shadows seem to flicker in the corners of the bearer's vision.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A small, Randomly Colored folded paper bird. When unfolded, it refolds itself and any crumples or tears it has sustained magically fix themselves.

An eyepatch resembling a large flower that covers the entire eye of the creature wearing it. When applied to a creature’s face, the eyepatch grows rootlike tendrils that wrap around the bearer's head to secure it.

A set of fish jaws fashioned into a bracelet. When worn, the bearer has an in depth knowledge of northern pike.

A bracelet made from a lattice of woven brass. It automatically adjusts itself to the wrist size of its bearer.

A shimmery cloak clasp depicting a violin and a sword. It smells vaguely of ash and fire.

A sealed metal tin labeled “Armstrong Mustache Wax”. According to the description, the recipe has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations

A glazed porcelain pipe. Everything about it seems vaguely familiar, but you aren’t sure why.

An old and beaten up steel drinking flask. After carrying the object for more than 1d4 hours, the bearer becomes convinced that the flask has to be kept a secret.

An uncannily familiar face etched into a piece of dead wood.

A marble pyramid, small enough to fit in a human’s palm. When held, shadows seem to flicker in the corners of the bearer's vision.

A glass marble that looks a bit like a lizard’s eye and is always a bit cold to the touch.

A dried yellow tulip bulb that becomes healthy and opens when brought into especially strong sunlight.

A rather clunky cube of dark wood, engraved with hypnotizing patterns.

A hand sized, grey, stone statuette of a woman. It’s exceptionally detailed for its size, as even the folds in her cloak look almost lifelike.

A sewing needle made from some type of unknown, otherworldly metal.

A maroon eye patch, covered in fine embroidery that depicts tangled rose vines.

A polished wooden carving of a fish that turns a vibrant green when placed in water.

A polished mirror in a simple wooden frame. Looking into it for too long makes people feel uneasy in a way they cannot fully describe.

A crudely made wool, right handed glove, that's always pleasantly warm.

A fist sized crystal that looks like it holds trapped smoke. It is easily scratched.

A velvet pouch filled with coarse sand that feels weightless.

A bronze brooch in the shape of a feather that lets off a faint glow.

A single Randomly Colored dragon scale, worn away by time.

A glass bottle of some type of potent-smelling tonic. It’s taste is gritty and bitter, and somewhat reminiscent of charcoal.

A leaf that never rots, wilts or decays. Purple speckles dapple its surface whenever it’s held in the light.

An empty section of honeycomb. It causes an almost electric tingle if touched to bare skin.

A lock of fur tied into a tight bundle with a parchment scrap beside it. It reads, “Pelt Sample #027”.

A gilded teacup, laced with a spiderweb of thin cracks. Despite the cracks, it never seems to break.

A slip of tattered paper covered in something resembling letters. It seems to be a poem written in an old language.

A tightly rolled scroll. Reading reveals it to be someone’s diary. They apparently had a dramatic life.

A simple, copper belt buckle.

A twisted, grey wooden walking cane sized for a halfling.

An ornate, tarnished key with two prongs. Neither end seems to be able to open anything.

A rich, purple hand fan. Intricate designs of peacocks cover it’s surface when unfolded.

A small piece of dead brain coral. Your mind feels at ease when you hold it.

A tablet of fired clay. Dozens of names are written on its surface.

An iron-bound bullhorn

A small bone whistle carved with symbols and imagery of death. When blown it creates shrill, eerie notes that echos into the distance.

A simple white ribbon. While it is attached to clothing, the bearer finds it difficult to fall asleep.

An urgent letter requesting help. The date indicates that it's from over a hundred years ago, but its linguistics are more suited to more current times.

A used incense burner crafted from a human sternum.

A finely beaded women's handbag. The beads are made of glass, and the different colors have been sewn into an image of a sandwich.

A large, dark blue button. On it is a baby's bassinet painted in gold.

A sewing kit filled with cacti needles with fine holes in the end instead of regular sewing needles.

A set of watercolor brushes perfectly sized for a gnome.

A bronze calligraphy pen covered in filigree patterns. When used as a writing utensil, the bearer will be incapable of stopping themselves from adding an "e", or that languages equivalent, to the end of every word.

A whetstone that will sharpen blades, but only if the bearer asks nicely first. If the bearer does not ask, every blade they attempt to sharpen will become increasingly dull.

A large vial made of smokey quartz, whose plug is comprised of compressed grass and glue.

A deck of well worn playing cards, marked with indeterminable stains and smelling of cigar smoke and whiskey.

A small bracelet made up of a series of interlocking clockwork mechanisms and ring puzzles.

A pamphlet for a new church in an unfamiliar town. It details their strong beliefs in polyamorous relationships and their condemnation for magic of any kind.

A pamphlet for a lecture on the differences between gnomes and halflings in a town not too far away.

A six inch coffin, hand carved from elm. The inside is padded and covered in light pink silk.

A plain oaken case, the inside of which is lined in plush, royal blue velvet. The velvet has three indents on which lie three ordinary looking pine cones.

A poorly made porcelain vase with gold leaf randomly placed on it.

A mason jar with a scattering of unicorn hair across the bottom.

A stuffed toy frog with amber, glass eyes. When in possession of the bearer, they will notice that the air around them is oddly absent of bugs.

A set of fake eyelashes made out of owlbear fur.

A short haired wig made from owlbear fur.

A long haired, black wig made from the hair of a horse's mane. There are strands of gold woven through it.

A fairly unused set of Orcish dentures. The canine teeth are made of silver.

A crystal perfume bottle half filled with a potent, musky scent.

A gnome sized silver hair brush. On it in Orcish script is crudely scratched “Remember Me”

Several dried moose ears sewn together and fashioned into a sheath for an average sized dagger

A black linen sleeping mask that covers the bearer's eyes during sleep to stop light from bothering the bearer.

A clear hermit crab shell made of glass.

A small bowl made of bronze. If any liquid but water is put in it, it will take on a salty taste.

An off-white canvas bag with a green and bronze dragon embroidered on it. It always smells of a campfire that has just been put out.

A small pillbox made out of layered purple, metallic scales. A close examination reveals that the scales are metallic, but even a knowledgeable PC cannot identify what creature they originally belonged to.

A small bag containing a set of a dozen 2x2 cm steel cubes.

A large riding crop with steel studs in it. A creature hit by it immediately develops a series of bloody welts in their skin which spell out the word "Ouch".

A pair of Randomly Coloured silk stockings.

A flute that makes no sound, no matter how it is played. It’s surface is a shimmery grey.

A heartfelt poem about unrequited love on a pristine scroll.

A stone tablet, with etchings of great heroes covering it. All of their eyes are scratched out.

A sketch depicting a wilting rose that causes anyone who looks at it to feel bleak.

A flamboyant masquerade mask with large, rare feathers coming from one side. There’s a small chip under the left eye.

A ragged piece of burlap with the personal crest of a wealthy merchant inked onto it.

A set of smooth iron bangles. They have a decent weight to them, as if they’re pure rather than plated.

A broad cavalier hat that's a bit old, but it’s still fairly stylish.

An ornate saucer painted with scenes of songbirds in flight. Whenever you aren’t looking directly at it, the birds seem to move.

A wooden birdhouse, carved and painted to look like a castle.

A wooden spool with three feet of coiled copper wire.

A specially crafted steel cage that looks like it could hold about five rats. It includes stout leather straps around its open end and a metal crucible for holding hot charcoal or other fuel on its top end. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize this as a torture device used by tightly strapping the open end of the device to a helpless victim’s abdomen, inserting the rats into the cage, and setting the crucible’s fuel alight. The increasing strong heat of the metal crucible causes the rats to gnaw and dig their way through the victim’s abdomen to escape. Panicked rats will chew clear through the victim's body in order to escape the heat.

A deck of illustrated fortune-teller’s cards, used by those in tune with the spirit world to predict the future, and by charlatans to take money from gullible or desperate people. The deck is made of quality wooden plaques with painted color images and is stored in a smooth leather case.

A large suitcase containing a croquet set. It includes four wooden mallets, nine wooden wickets (goals), and four wooden balls.

A suitcase containing a dartboard set. It includes a multicolored board that breaks into four smaller pieces for easy travel and six brass-tipped darts. The board itself consists of a layer of of painted cork on hardwood backing.

A wooden box containing a set of dominoes. There are 28 white marble tiles with pips on each end.

A set of four brightly colored juggling sticks adorned with colorful streamers that can be tossed and manipulated to create displays and patterns.

A leather case containing two iron stakes and four iron horseshoes.

A thin length of rope with many oddly shaped bits of hollow metal fixed along its length. Commonly known as a roar cord, a creature can swing it over their head to generate a variety of eerie noises.

A broad-brimmed straw hat with a green linen band

A cast iron skillet whose perfect mirror surface never scratches.

A wood cased harmonica trimmed in tin

A small sack containing 30 gold pieces. Perceptive PC's will notice that they are all fakes, with thin gold plating over lead coins.

A palm sized rock with a lifelike mouth painted on it. While in a creature's possession, any laugh, chuckle or giggle the bearer utters sounds forced or fake, even if it's genuine.

An anklet made from fresh liquid blood, held together by odd magic.

A strange horn made of a winding pretzel of valves and tubes that according to the maker's mark, was finely crafted by a powerful bard. Knowledgeable PC's will remember that the horn was constructed for one purpose, to lock a terrible beast away deep within the mountain of Redwall. It contains a large portion of the life essence of that bard and to this day it remains as the solitary key to the door that holds the beast at bay. No one knows who this bard was, but he remains an unsung hero of the city.

A demon skin stretched over a black wooden war drum that creates deep growling rumbles when beaten.

A driftwood coin whose color is constantly swirling in different muted hues, from pale gray to seafoam green and even thin stripes of black. The surface of the coin is utterly smooth, as if it has spent an aeon at the bottom of the sea. Despite this, the elven queen and king that adorn its opposite faces are still depicted in perfect detail.

[kpopisthereasonihavenolife]

From Black to White

Monsta X

Lee Jooheon/Reader [F]

Genre: Demon AU, Fondness, Fluff, Demon to (Guardian) Angel

Words: 3.8k (Not proof read)

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

He monitored all the bad and the ugly in the worlds.  Some would say his eyes reached to the furthest depths of the known and unknown universe.  Maybe even further than that.  He saw all the toxic in every world he came too, and he laughed, smiled and played along with them.  Even furthering to worsen them if he was particularly tickled by an event. That is until he settled on just keeping his eyes on one planet.  A single rock floating in space and it continuously had something somewhere going on.  He decided to spy on Earth.

Starting wars for nothing, or for everything.  Fighting diseases or struggling against the immovable forces of nature.  Building, only to destroy and build more over the remains of whatever was broken before.  Shaming and discriminated others for small attitudes and locking others in cells for heinous crimes.  Yes, humans of Earth were quite fun to monitor and watch.

However, after 300 years of watching, Jooheon was getting bored.

Though it’s true he always helped cause mischief, he himself never physically did anything.  It was more negative influence he poured into the people to urge them on their dismantled ways. Maybe that was the change he was looking for.  Maybe it was time to change things up and to actually stir something among the common folk.  He had to of course familiarize himself with the times, however.  

Sitting on top of a building, just high enough to catch a breeze and but allow the streets below to still be visible.  He had cloaked his presence so that if someone should chance look up, the wouldn’t notice him.  He wasn’t invisible, but he had masked himself to where someone wouldn’t give him a second glance.  It was like passing yet another seemingly unfamiliar, boring face on the streets.  

He observed the way people dressed.  Some were dressed more than others, some more fancy for jobs, some more casual and even a few just sporting a few risque clothing choices, one that he wouldn’t judge.  Some with jewels, some with chains, and if he focused just enough he could even catch a few with hidden guns or knives tucked away.  The world sure it on edge, it’s like it doesn’t calm down or give itself a break.  

Shrugging, he lifting himself up to stand on the edge of the building now, stretching as he casually took a step off the edge and gracefully glided down to set his feet on the ground.  His apparel he had as a demon was nothing like what you humans normally wore on a daily basis. A long, back trench coat that hugged his chest and arms delicately, tigers printed and decorated either side of his lapels.  Underneath, a black dress shirt, tucked into his black pants that hugge his thighs and fanned out around his black boot clad feet.  A matching, black cravat tucked into his shirt.  

Over all of this, his trenchcoat was just covered by a rather color coded vest.  Littered with pins, patches and words of the worlds and galaxies he’s seen or messed with.  Wearing them like prizes.  The vest was rimmed the brightest, boldest shade of red he’d known as the collar of the vest stuck up, almost like a cliche vampire-like look.  Chains and ropes loope over the shoulders of the vest and made him look almost like a decorated soldier.  

His hair was curled into several loops and swirls as they framed his face and brushed his ears, making them tickle with the light intent of scratching them with the light wind.  Threatening to poke his eyes and with each blink of his eyes lashes caught the end of his bangs. Needless to say, if he wanted to be visible, he’d definitely have to change.  

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat, spinning on his heel as the trench swung around his legs in his action and he made way into an alley.  He stepped away from the opening, away from the light as he cleared his throat and rotated his neck, ready to try and blend in as a human.  

He pulled off his vest as he tossed it to his side, but it didn’t flutter to the ground, instead stayed hovering next to him, like there was some invisible counter at his side. Next, he shrugged off his coat, as he held it in front of him he snapped the fabric in front of him as if to get rid of any wrinkles or loose dust that caught onto it, and once the tail end of fabric made the sound of that ‘snap’, it vanished like he never held it to begin with.  He untucked his cravat from his shirt, tossing it with his vest, still floating beside him.

He took one last look outside the alley and saw the passersby as his clothes started changing themselves.  His black, ankle fanned pants changed to that of a pair of dark jeans with the knees frayed and a white t-shirt with a flannel over it.  His hair remained the same, but his eyes now held piercing in the lobe and in the other a cartilage cuff gleamed. His boots changed into flat, black and worn looking Vans as he kicked his toes into the hard ground beneath him to adjust to the new feeling.  

With a flick of his wrist, his vest and cravat vanished, spinning into nothing, like they were being sucked into a void of somesort.  He’d change back into them later when he left or was done for the day.  He didn’t really intent on pretending to be a human for very long. Just long enough to cause something, anything, to make him a bit less bored. He clapped his hands together, like they were covered in dust, he didn’t lower the mask he had over himself, he wanted to wander around aimlessly for a bit, and look how they acted before fully letting himself be known.  

He left the alley as he stuffed his hands back into his pockets.  He turned and started down the sidewalk, walking by person after person, no one sparing him a glance as he just strolled.  Looking in windows, watching how people spoke, how they moved their hands and the faces they made.  They were also nearly addicted to the phones they held, some small, some large, some touch screen and few rare flip, dial phones for the older ones.  People with headphones plugged into their ears, or over their head.  How technically obsored.  

He was walking by a window, not looking ahead of him when something rant into his left side, making him stumble backwards and widen his eyes as a surprised noise fell from his mouth. He looked down, and then behind him as the thing that hit him had moved to be slightly at his back.  He regained his balance and saw a girl, a woman older than his physical age looked.  She was hunched over, taking a skip or two to keep herself from falling, he had half a mind to reach out just in case she did end up on her face.  

Her arms in front of her as she stumbled, she let out a sigh as he turned around and looked at him.  His eyes widened further as she seemed to look straight into his eyes, even when his presence was masked.  She should’ve just thought she stumbled on her own feet, but she turned with an apologetic look directed strictly at him.  

“I’m so sorry!  I wasn’t looking where I was going!  You’re not hurt, right? I had a lot of force into that!”  He opened his mouth to respond, but only shook his head.  He cleared his throat as he turned to her, turned to you, and rubbed his neck.

Wearing a pair of blue jean, without any sort of damage in them, and a grey shirt, you had a hair tie around your wrist and your hair was loose as you looked up at him.  Eyes bright and wide.

“I’m fine,” was his simplistic reply. You sighed, this time in relief, and put a hand on your chest.  The watch strapped on your wrist caught your attention as you gasped.  You hopped a bit in your step, ready to turn and bolt it.  

“I’m sorry-I’m late,” you pointed over your shoulder with your thumb.  “I’m sorry again!”  You turned and he watched as you ran and moved around slower people.  You seemed ordinary enough. Just a regular human woman, who just so happened to be late to her job, or wherever she was heading.  His sensitive nose had taken in your scent that rubbed off on his shoulder when you collided with him, and with a smirk on his face, he started to follow the trail the scent left behind.  

You were quite mysterious.

About a 10 minute walk later, he stopped in front of a small cafe. Along with the strong smell of coffee, pastries and the smell of warmth, also came your scent.  You must’ve been in a hurry to get here.  Looking through a window a bit longer, he caught sight of you.  A smile on your face as your held a pen and receipt book in your hand, taking orders from table after table.  A waitress, huh?  

You wore a black apron, and your grey shirt was gone, replaced with a brown one that fit with the aesthetics of the cafe.  He finally, with a heavy breath out, dispersed the mask around his aura, and made himself look like every other human around him.  He moved to the door and pushed it open, the dinging of the bell on the top of the door alerting everyone that someone had just entered.  

You turned and greeted him with a happy smile as you finished up at a table and another one of your co-workers seated him.  Placing him by a window, which worked out for his people watching, in a single booth fit for himself.  They placed a water in a small glass on a coaster, something they did complimentary for each customer seated.  He was given a menu and left with a smile and usual ‘your waiter will be be right with you’ before the coworker stepped off.  

He watched as they stopped you, pointed to the table he was at, and you nodded, flipping your receipt book to a clean slate and made your way over.  He curled his fingers as he brought his elbow up to rest on the clean, wax cleaned table, as his knuckled pushed against his cheek slightly. You stopped at the end of his table, taking the pen out from behind your ear and smiled to him, eyes closed in a friendly manner.  You practically oozed approachable, which he assumed was good for a cozy little cafe like this.  

“Welcome!  I’m Y/N, and I’ll be waiting on your this morning.  Can I get you started with anything?”  He smiled as he just opened his mouth, eyes scanning the menu for a mere second, but with his demon instincts and sense, he was able to read and basically record the menu in moments.  

“A black coffee would be a fine starter, I would say.”  You nodded as you opened your eyes and wrote it down on your small little book then looked to him, finally seeing him as you simply let a small gasp out and covered your mouth lightly with your finger, your pen laced between your thumb, fore, and middle finger.  “Hello again,” he cheekily greeted with a smirk at you.  

“Oh my god, I’m sorry about before!”  You bowed to him as he just waved it off.  It wasn’t like he was offended, any other man might be, but he’s a bit different.  “I was just running late and wasn’t watching were I was going.  I really didn’t mean to run into you.”  He smiled a bit more genuinely as he realized, you really did see and take in his appearance earlier while it was masked.

“There were no bruises or scrapes, so forget it.  It’s all cool.” He was rather unuse to speaking so informally.  However, it was a nice change he supposed.  You put your pen in your apron pocket as it joined your receipt book.  

“Thank you.  I’ll be right back with your coffee, okay?  Just stop me if you need anything else.”  He nodded as you bowed once more and trotted off.  He watched you wait on and disappear back into the back, reappearing with trays of food, drinks and moving so fluidly it was impressive to see that the stumbling girl from before was so steady with a tray of so many things that could clatter to the floor.  

You had brought his coffee to him, black as he wanted, and the placed a small plate of lemon bread next to it as you smiled.  You put your finger over your mouth, slightly smiling as you shush him.  

“It’s on the house.”  You then stood and walked back to where you had placed your tray, and waited for the next task, passing a small moment of time with a coworkers conversation before a table had flagged you down for an extra straw for their glass of chocolate milk.  

Jooheon admittingly never really had human food before, much less something sweet.  He hadn’t always been a fan of sweet things, explaining the bitter, black coffee he had already consumed half of. But, has he picked up the soft bread, the yellow around the crust and the crumbs of flavor sticking the pads of his fingers, it didn’t smell horrible.  Sweet, but not sickening.  He was pleasantly surprised when he took a bit and didn’t want to spit it out.  It was a nice flavor.  

When the plates was empty, save for the few crumbs of lemon, you had come back and skillfully picked it up and placed it on the tray you held at shoulder height adding it to a small stack of other dirty, used plates and bowls and cups.  You asked for his opinion on the bread, and he responded positively making you smile as you walked away.  

He stayed at the cafe for probably going on 3 hours now.  He kept glancing outside, but it was like all time and motivation to leave was lost to his head.  He watched you working, and when he did so, he felt no reason to leave.  He laughed at the irony.  He was content, sitting in a peaceful, calm place like this cafe when his real reason to this entire farce of being human was to stir up some trouble.  But even with this peaceful route, he surprisingly wasn’t bored.  

You had stopped by his table, once again, coffee pot in hand as you refilled his mug, the steam from the new, warm liquid floating into the air.  You looked over your shoulder once your pouring stopped and listened to a coworker telling you that you were due for your break.  You nodded as you passed the coffee pot to a coworker needing it.  

Jooheon had half a mind to ask you to sit with him, but you smiled and did it first. 

“You’ve been here a while, mind if I take a seat and keep you company for the next 20 minutes?”  He nodded, not minding at all.  You untied your apron, setting it on your lap as you slid into the booth, a coworker sliding you a water for your break.  You took a sip of it, happy for the cool feeling to refresh your throat.  Jooheon leaned his chin on his palm as he opened up the conversation.

“Hard worker, aren’t you?”  You shrugged, smiling.  

“I try.  I like this job a lot more than my other one.”  He rose his brow at you and you two talked for the entirety of your break.  You almost didn’t want to go back to work.  He had learned you work a separate job at a local convenience store, stocking shelves and taking inventory.  You had wanted to go to college, but didn’t make it through, as the pressure to be successful lead you to drop out at the end of your first year.  

You had an apartment alone for cheap not too far from the cafe.  It wasn’t in the best condition, but you only had to worry about rent, as the utilities and everything was taken care of by the landlord, a blessing really. You two had chatted and by the end of your break, you had asked about his story.  So, he had to make something up of course.  Blurting out he was a demon just here for fun wouldn’t go over well, not to mention it’d be far too ridiculous.

He had made up the story that he was in the process of moving, and was house hunting in town.  He told you he was your age, as he looked the part, and explained his love for bitter things, and how earlier the lemon bread wasn’t his type of thing, but he did enjoy.  You two exchanged words and before the end of your break, you pulled out your phone.  

A blank, creme colors case over it.  You had asked for his number.  He nodded as he stuck his hand in his pocket, and with two taps of his forefinger to his thumb, he grasped a phone out of nothing and pulled it out.  Opening it, it had apps and fake contacts to people that didn’t really exist for the appearance of a phone that’s been well used.  

He handed it over to you for you to put your number in it and text yourself.  You handed it back as you were called back to work.  Standing up, you slipped and tied your apron back on and waved him off.  He left soon after you got back to work and found himself thinking that’d he’d stick around for a bit longer than he thought he would.

A month has passed, and Jooheon had been playing human everyday of it.  He had altered the memories of a small little duplex landlord and secured him a place to live, the papers and money to go with it.  Decorated the place with food and furniture fit for a human and was content being there.  He was always in his demon state when he was in the walls of his home, but with each knock he would quickly change back.  

Another change was that he was visiting the cafe on the days that you worked.  You had quickly become friends, something he deemed he didn’t need, but you were an exception.  He found you the exception to many things. He would scold you if you tripped, he would ‘pass’ you on the streets and walk you to wherever you were heading, tell you to eat and ever take you out if you had time.  It was so rare, but he almost felt protective of you.

That’s what lead to the pure white tattoo on his back.  He noticed it one day, a white ancient looking circled symbol, faint at first, but with each day and each encounter with you, it grew more bold.  Practically glowing white on his skin by now.  He knew what it was, and what was happening, and in any other situation he would be annoyance, furious even.  But, he wasn't.  He was content with it.  

The symbol was the symbol angels had on their backs when they didn’t have wings.  He had passed wingless angels before on the same streets at him, he even ran into one once, speaking with him briefly.  He had his number on his phone now too.  Bleached hair and an attention span and innocent of a puppy.  He was easy to see as an earthland angel.  

Earthbound, wingless angels were usually sent to the ground for a few reasons.  Watching the people and boosting morale of a place in need, keeping a specific place save, some even serving as priests of pastors at churches.  But, normally they were sent to watch over someone. He supposed they could be called guardian angels, but that felt too cliche to him.

Even though that white had began plastering his skin, he dressed like he use to before.  The black never failing to make him reminiscent on his full demon life.  But, he only wore them for one reason anymore, he was waiting for them to shift.  

Black was to demons, so it was only natural that white be for angels.  He was waiting for the day he was cloaked in white from head to toe. It was only a matter of time now.  He was walking around his living room when the ding from his phone caught his attention.  Grabbing it off the charger he sat down and opened up the text he was alerted of.  

[Sent: XX/XX/XXXX   xx:xx AM]

You: Hey Stranger!  We should go out today, since it’s rare I have a day off.  Don’t you dare reject me either.  As your best friend, I say you should go with me shopping.  

He smiled as he got up. Moving around his home to his bathroom, he felt the air around him change, a slight tingle in his back.  He looked in the mirror and smiled as he watched the black from his clothes and hair fade out.  Hair a lighter shade of blonde now. His clothes washing out the black as white took it over, like squeezing the soap out of a rag.  His vest, once black and red rimmed changed into one with a tamed collar and gold and white lines.  

Trench coat disappearing for a proper white, tucked in button down with a pair of white, hugging pants and boots with a slight heel to them.  Cravat being replaced with a tie as a white earring hung from his ear and a small tattoo appeared around his neck, attached to the giant one on his back.  A sign of a changed demon to angel.  It was rare for this to happen, but he couldn’t even be angry at it.  He smiled as he looked at your open message and typed in a reply.  

[Sent: XX/XX/XXXX  xx:xx AM]

Him: Only if we get to catch a movie later.  My choice of course.

[Sent: XX/XX/XXXX   xx:xx AM]

You: Deal!! Meet me at the cafe at 10!

Changing his clothes and taming his hair slightly, he looked at his reflection once more before slipping on his Vans and locking the door behind him as he left.  He’d drink a coffee at the cafe while he waited for you.  Maybe a bit of creamer to sweeten it up this time. It was always a good time for change.  

The best change of his entire existence was coming to earth as a demon and deciding to stay as an angel, leaving his demonic life behind with a smile on his face.  Just for the chance to be your very own guardian angel.  

[sweater-soo]

soulmates - baeksoo :')

how did u know i’ve been putting off a baeksoo soulmate au for months now i’m gonna try to write my own twist on this concept. it’s... a little longer than i planned on making it, but um. i hope you like it!

“I’ve been having dreams again,” Kyungsoo says to the wallpaper, shifting in his chair uncomfortably.

Junmyeon makes a little noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. Then there’s the quiet scratch of pen on paper as he writes something in his notebook, which is only frightening if Kyungsoo watches him do it. The room still smells of green tea and a hint of cologne.

Apparently having realized Kyungsoo isn’t going to say any more on his own, Junmyeon says, “Normal dreams?”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You know what kind.”

No writing this time. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Junmyeon straighten a bit in his seat, feels the therapist’s gaze fixed on him, burning holes. He brings a hand to his mouth automatically and starts biting at a hangnail he noticed earlier, still resolutely not meeting Junmyeon’s eye.

“Kyungsoo,” Junmyeon says a little too delicately, making Kyungsoo’s pulse pick up and stomach churn. “They’re completely normal. Almost half the population--”

“I don’t care if half the population has them.” He glances at Junmyeon briefly, not really liking what he sees in his expression, then balls his hand into a fist and lets it drop back to his lap. He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t ask for this,” he says. “I don’t want it.”

It’s been years since he last had one of his prophetic dreams. The last time was at university, and he had to do things like take the longest possible route to some of his classes just to avoid the hallway he’d been dreaming about so persistently. He’d been too afraid of what he’d find there, of the boy whose image he’d pieced together like a puzzle from small glimpses: thin and smiling lips, hair falling just above his eyes, bones too prominent in certain places. There was a name, too, one that Kyungsoo had done his best to forget.

The dreams are meant to lead people to their soulmates, and only one person in the equation will get them. It’s not always the straightforward romantic affair the movies like to pretend it is; sometimes it’s friendship, like what Jongdae found with his. And those are fine. Wonderful, actually. Kyungsoo would be over the moon if he thought his dreams were leading him to his future best friend, or anything along those lines.

Except they’re not. He knows this because some of the dreams--the ones that go beyond them meeting, the what-if dreams that will only happen if he lets them--are too tender and provocative to be platonic. Dreams so vivid he can feel his heart swelling with too much love, then wakes up startled and shaking and terrified.

It’s too bad for his soulmate that Kyungsoo was the one stuck with the dreams, because he doesn’t plan on pursuing them at all. Not with some guy he doesn’t even know, whom some unknown force has decided is his One True Love. Kyungsoo doesn’t even like men. Not usually, at least.

“Well, you’re not alone,” says Junmyeon. “I avoided mine for almost five years because I thought destiny was a bunch of bullshit.”

That gets Kyungsoo’s attention. He eyes Junmyeon curiously. “What happened? Did you give up?”

“No.” A tight smile stretches across Junmyeon’s lips. “She died.”

Kyungsoo’s ears go hot with mortification. He clears his throat, then says a quiet, “Oh.”

“I’m not trying to guilt you into doing anything,” says Junmyeon. “What you do is your own business, and I can help you figure things out either way, if you want. But time isn’t always on your side.” He rolls his pen between his fingers. “I just want you to know what the consequences can be.”

That conversation sticks in Kyungsoo’s head for the rest of the week as he thinks about how quickly choices can stop being choices. What a shitty conundrum, that his fate could be out of his hands no matter what he does. It doesn’t make him sad or anxious--it makes him resentful, indignant. He hates whatever caused this, and he especially, especially hates the man in his dreams who just won’t leave him alone.

--

Months pass, and their meeting happens exactly like it would in the world’s most unoriginal rom-com, with the two of them literally bumping into each other.

There’s coffee all over the front of Kyungsoo’s clothes, the fallen papers in front of him, the stranger who just ran into him at an alarming speed but somehow, miraculously, didn’t knock him down. He clenches his teeth and tries desperately to calm down. It’s been a long week, he’s tired, and all he wants is to go home and fall asleep in the bath. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this.

“Shit, sorry, sorry, sorry,” the other guy says frantically, dropping to the ground and gathering the papers he’d dropped during the collision. Around the coffee stains and dampness from the wet ground, Kyungsoo can make out what looks like a few watercolor illustrations. “Fucking ruined. Ha. This is exactly what I get for being a shitty human being.” The stranger looks up from the papers with a worried frown, then swears under his breath and returns to his task.

Kyungsoo would know those eyes anywhere, those hands. He feels a sudden wave of nausea.

“Christ,” he mutters.

“I’m really, really sorry,” says Baekhyun. His voice is tight. “We can trade numbers, I’ll pay for your dry cleaning or whatever, I just really--”

“It’s fine,” says Kyungsoo. “It’s just a shirt.” He just wants to get out of here as quickly as possible, away from fucking Baekhyun and this whole fucking destiny thing.

“No, fuck you, I’m paying for it whether you--” Baekhyun freezes, then laughs tiredly. He stops gathering papers and sinks back into a sitting position on the rain-soaked pavement, face buried in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m really stressed out. I haven’t slept in thirty-two hours. I’m late for a deadline. Please let me give you money so I don’t feel like a failure of a person.”

Kyungsoo is at a loss. He’s spent all this time fearing and hating everything Baekhyun represents in his life, but the guy looks so pathetic there on the ground, with wet, dirty patches on his knees from kneeling down, greasy hair plastered messily to his forehead, clothes rumpled and sad-looking and now coffee-stained. Some of the drink even got on his messenger bag. The pictures scattered around him are vibrant and pretty, even with the paint starting to run. It makes it hard to be mad at him.

“You really don’t have to,” says Kyungsoo. “Look, you’re obviously having a hard time, it’s not--”

“I’m the unstoppable force to your immovable object,” says Baekhyun, voice slightly muffled. “We’re never going to get anywhere.”

Kyungsoo almost laughs, but suppresses it, letting out a sigh instead. He squats down and grabs the messy stack of papers Baekhyun had already gathered and starts adding to it, glancing at the pictures as he goes.

From what he can tell, they’re little scenes in a forest, featuring brightly-colored, slightly cartoonish animals. The movement and texture--at least in the bits that aren’t ruined--are amazing.

“Are these yours?” he asks, pausing to look at one page featuring a huffy-looking rabbit. It’s the least damaged he’s seen of the bunch.

“Yeah,” says Baekhyun.

“They’re really good.” Kyungsoo hesitates. “So you’re an artist?”

“Yeah. Illustrator. I do children’s books.”

Kyungsoo hums. He carefully rests the page with the rabbit on the top of the stack, hoping to keep it more or less dry, then sets about collecting the rest of the papers. When he’s finished, he straightens them and holds them out to Baekhyun. “Here.”

Baekhyun’s eyes are red when he drops his hands. He looks at Kyungsoo, sniffles, and accepts the pile. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

“Sorry about your illustrations,” says Kyungsoo. “You must’ve worked hard on them.”

Baekhyun laughs. It’s not the bright, warm sound Kyungsoo’s dreamed of. “It’s my fault for going past my deadline and being an idiot,” he says. “Shitty things happen to shitty people.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Kyungsoo says, frowning.

“Someone’s gotta be.” Baekhyun gets to his feet, a little unsteadily. Kyungsoo follows suit. “I mean, life’s already doing it anyway, but what can you do, y’know?” Another laugh. “Sorry. Tired. My filter isn’t really working.”

There’s still a part of Kyungsoo--an increasingly small part now--that wants to immediately escape and never talk to or think about Baekhyun again, but he knows he’d feel guilty if he just left the guy like this. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I really don’t need you to pay for anything,” he says. “Really. It’s just a shirt, a boring work shirt, I have five other ones just like it.”

“Alright,” says Baekhyun, looking more exhausted than ever. “No dry cleaning. But--at least let me do something? Even just, I dunno, buying you coffee sometime or something. I won’t spill it on you, either. Promise.”

A smile tugs at Kyungsoo’s lips. “You’re not giving up until I say yes to something, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” He mulls it over. “Draw me something.”

Baekhyun blinks. “What, like--now?”

“After you’ve slept.”

“Okay.” Baekhyun digs around in his bag and takes out a marker, pulls the cap off with his teeth. He scribbles quickly on the top page, the one with the bunny, and then re-caps the marker and holds it between his teeth as he hands the page to Kyungsoo. Byun Baekhyun, followed by a phone number. “Text me in a week,” he says around the marker.

Kyungsoo nods. “I will.”

Baekhyun stuffs the marker and stack of damaged papers into his bag. “Cool. Um.” He laughs. “I’m... gonna go home and sleep. Sorry again.”

“No problem. It was nice to meet you,” Kyungsoo says, finding, to his surprise, that he actually means it.

Ugh.

--

A week and a day go by, and Kyungsoo finally texts the number Baekhyun left him: Hi, it’s Kyungsoo.

The response: Who??

Oh. Shit. Kyungsoo didn’t actually give him his name, did he? Before he can reply, there’s a follow-up.

Oh! Coffee guy?

Good timing! I just finished your picture today~

They agree to meet up for coffee, because Baekhyun still insists on getting him something. Kyungsoo is beginning to get the impression that Baekhyun is a deeply stubborn person.

The strange thing about all of this, Kyungsoo thinks, is that the encounter on the street had been nothing like what his dreams had shown him. The scenarios he’d always seen were more mundane and anticlimactic, normal, non-explosive. He wonders if fate got a little tired of his obstinacy and forced them to meet in a noteworthy and unavoidable way, one that Kyungsoo couldn’t just ignore. Which is an equally annoying and troubling thought, when he thinks about it.

He gets to the coffee shop a good fifteen minutes ahead of Baekhyun, his nerves making him even more pointedly early than he normally is. He doesn’t need to be nervous. Doesn’t know why he is. He orders herbal tea and forces himself to take deep breaths.

Baekhyun arrives looking much more alive and awake than the first time they met. Clean and put together. No tired slouch or unkempt hair. He’s--and Kyungsoo really hates to admit this--kind of good-looking, actually. Especially with how his face lights up when he spots Kyungsoo. It’s one of the nicest eye smiles Kyungsoo’s ever seen. Jesus.

“Sorry, hope you didn’t wait too long,” says Baekhyun, dropping his bag onto the floor as he takes a seat across from Kyungsoo. He peers into the half-empty mug, eyes widening. “Oh, shit, I guess you were.”

“I was running errands nearby, so I just got here a little early,” Kyungsoo lies.

Baekhyun visibly relaxes, letting out a whoosh of breath. “Thank god. Thought I was gonna look like a real asshole for a second.” He cranes his neck to look at the line by the register. “I’ll go up when you’re ready for a refill.”

Kyungsoo nods. There’s no point in arguing with Baekhyun again. “Have you been sleeping better?” he asks.

“Yep! Passed out for fifteen hours, then got up and started the whole project over and turned it in a week late.” He leans back in his chair and huffs out a laugh. “My publisher really hates me.”

“Better late than never?” Kyungsoo offers.

Baekhyun grins. “I think she’d rather see me die than turn my work in late.”

That reminds Kyungsoo, jarringly, of his conversation with Junmyeon. He feels his heart sink like lead. He decides to change the subject quickly.

“So what’d you draw for me?” he asks.

Without another word, Baekhyun grabs his messenger bag and sets it on his lap. After a moment of mumbling under his breath and combing through what sounds like a large collection of things, Baekhyun pulls out a manila folder.

“Here,” he says, sliding it over to Kyungsoo. “It’s not my best work, but I dunno. Hopefully you don’t hate it.” He sets his bag back down, more gently this time.

Kyungsoo opens the folder carefully. Inside is a plastic sleeve covering an inked drawing. It’s an anthropomorphic tuxedo cat, with large, serious eyes and a strong brow, its bottlebrush tail curled around a coffee mug. The animal has an unamused, put-upon look. Kyungsoo can’t help but chuckle. His chest feels strange and light. Soft.

“Is that me?” he asks.

“If you like it, yes,” says Baekhyun. “If you don’t, then no, definitely not.”

“I do. It’s really nice.” Kyungsoo traces his finger over the signature in the corner. His heart clenches a little. “Thank you.”

“I was honestly pretty surprised by how easy it was to draw you from memory,” says Baekhyun. “With how tired I was and everything. But I guess you don’t really forget about people you run over.”

“Yeah. Guess not.” Kyungsoo stares at the drawing a moment longer, then looks up at Baekhyun. “Hey, this is--sorry, you don’t have to answer this, but what were you saying that day about--life being hard on you? Are you okay?”

Baekhyun’s face falls. “Oh. It’s, uh. I’m not really--” He breaks eye contact and looks down at Kyungsoo’s mug again. “I’m gonna get something to drink. What do you want?”

“Um--americano. Milk, no sugar?”

Baekhyun nods and gets up from the table, leaving Kyungsoo alone for the next few minutes.

He comes back with two ceramic mugs and sets them both down on the laminated wood. The one in front of him is filled with mini marshmallows. Hot chocolate. Kyungsoo’s heart goes a little softer.

“Thank--”

“I was just feeling sorry for myself,” Baekhyun interrupts. “It’s not a big deal. My life’s not a tragedy or anything.”

Kyungsoo stays silent, looking at Baekhyun’s long fingers wrapped around the white mug.

“It’s just been kind of hard lately,” says Baekhyun, “watching people like... getting married and shit. Settling down with someone they met in high school or college. Their soulmate. Or whatever that garbage is.” He purses his lips. “I had to be someone’s best man a couple weeks ago. It kind of... fucked me up. So. Late project and no sleep, ‘cause I can’t control my dumb feelings.” He makes a derisive noise, shaking his head.

He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and in the pause that follows, it seems like he’s done talking. But then he says to his drink, “My friends all found their people pretty early on. Even the ones without the dreams. I’m the only one who hasn’t. And I’ve kind of started to give up on it happening, I guess. Some people never find theirs, I know that. It’s fine. Well, it’s not. But. It will be. Eventually.”

All at once, Kyungsoo feels like the most tremendous piece of shit on the planet.

For years now, he’s been refusing to follow his soulmate prophecy dreams because he hates being told what to do with his own life and isn’t comfortable with the implications of all this weird love-magic nonsense. But he failed to consider how all of this might affect Baekhyun, how it might hurt him. He’s made him feel unwanted, he realizes, probably in a big way. And even though Kyungsoo doesn’t care for any of this soulmate shit, he knows now that Baekhyun does, and he doesn’t have the option anymore of ignoring the whole thing. He takes a long drink of his coffee.

“Where were you these past few years?” he asks.

Baekhyun gives him a weird look. “Uh. I dunno, I traveled? I studied abroad at CalArts for a little while.”

“And when did you come back to Seoul?”

“Last year? Why do you--”

“Because--” Kyungsoo can’t look him in the eye. His throat suddenly hurts. “Because I didn’t dream about you for over three years, Baekhyun.”

Silence at first. Then the loud, stuttering squeak of a chair being pushed back abruptly across the tiled floor, and the rustling and hurried footsteps telling him Baekhyun’s taken his things and left.

Kyungsoo sighs. He looks down at the drawing, his caricature staring back at him unamusedly.

--

“I know you’re upset,” he says in his third voicemail that week, “and you should be. I’m a selfish dick. I’m sorry.”

He hits his head back against the wall with a dull thud and closes his eyes. “I’m still having the dreams,” he says. “Every night. I can’t get you out of my head, Baekhyun.” He chokes out a humorless laugh. “It was never this bad before we met. But I think about you all the time now. I guess that’s just what I get.”

He pauses, trying to think of what to say next. “I know if it had been you, you would’ve looked for me. But--maybe it had to be this way, or else I wouldn’t have believed it. I would’ve said you were crazy and left the country, changed my name or something so you couldn’t find me. But I do believe it. I still don’t get it, and I don’t like it, but I know it’s real. So I’m... I’m trying now. I’m not running away. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

A couple of minutes after he hangs up, Baekhyun calls him back.

“Hel--”

“We have the same fucking therapist,” says Baekhyun. “I was early for my appointment on Wednesday and I saw you walking out of the building, so I asked Junmyeon if he knew a Do Kyungsoo and he said yes and then said that was a breach of confidentiality and he shouldn’t’ve told me, but then I told him I was your soulmate and you know what he said? ‘That explains a lot.’”

“Oh,” says Kyungsoo.

“And we lived on the same floor our second year of university, did you know that? We had friends in common. We fucking have friends in common. I’ve known Chanyeol since I was six, Kyungsoo.”

“Oh,” Kyungsoo says again.

“Yeah, and you know, it gets even more fucking ridiculous than that. Your mom is my mom’s hairdresser. And we went to the same high school. And now we’re under the same publisher! You didn’t tell me you’re a fucking writer, you sack of shit.”

“Are we really?” Kyungsoo blinks in surprise. “I didn’t know they released children’s books.”

“That’s not th--look, my point is, all this fate bullshit isn’t actually bullshit, and our lives are weirdly connected for some reason. So I probably couldn’t avoid you even if I wanted to.”

“That’s... really unsettling,” says Kyungsoo. “But... also romantic? In a way?”

“Yeah. So.” Baekhyun sniffs. “I’m still mad at you, but I’ll let you buy me dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Ten dinners,” Baekhyun adds.

“I’ll buy you dinner every night for the rest of our lives,” says Kyungsoo. “How does that sound?”

No response.

“Baekhyun?”

Baekhyun laughs. “You’re right, this destiny stuff is really fucking unsettling. I just got chills,” he says. “God. The rest of our lives, huh?”

“Well.” Kyungsoo smiles a little. “That’s how it works, yeah.”

“Let’s just ignore the whole soulmate thing and go on a normal date or something. Can we do that? Is that allowed?”

“Probably not,” says Kyungsoo. “Let’s do it.”

Baekhyun’s chuckle is light and cheerful, just like Kyungsoo’s always imagined. “Okay,” he says. “Deal.”

--

Kissing Baekhyun doesn’t feel like an admission of defeat, like Kyungsoo always thought it would. It feels just the way it’s supposed to: soft, comfortable, perfect. He steals as many moments with Baekhyun as he can, just to make up for lost time.

this could’ve gone on a bit longer, but it was supposed to be a drabble and instead it’s already 3.5k so i’ll just. leave it there.

[aquarianlights]

Hey Killian, it’s been a good minute huh? That one strangers back from a long stay in an institution. I’m sorry for not being around to give you the kind words I wanted to. You’re a beautiful man my dear. I love that you can go into long flowing monologues over the littlest things. The way you put words together is unlike anybody I’ve met before. Keep being you, my dear Killian. You’re stronger than you know and I believe you can be anything you want. You can do it!

It’s okay. You need to take care of yourself, too, okay? I’m going through a major, major rough patch in my life and honestly the only place I can vent is on a completely anonymous site where no one can find me. It’s the one and only place I keep anonymity. Which is very weird. I mean, I’m transparent about who I am and everything but the site is so... small and unknown that no one would ever trace me back to anything like the normal social media sites. It’s unreal. I’ve used it a lot in the past, but I was never really, er... anonymous on it. I stretch the truth a bit on there to make me feel more comfortable. Nothing about my life. Everything about my life on there is true. More-so facts about me. For instance, I don’t disclose my transgender status and pass myself off as cisgender very blatantly. Little things about myself like that that would make a reader NOT connect it to ME. Lies about Killian not being my first name. Lies about my initials. As my initials are KQR. Stuff like that so if someone WERE to find me outside of that site, they wouldn’t so much be able to connect the dots unless they were to find this answer right here, which is highly unlikely. But honestly... if it does come to light, I wouldn’t be that upset about it. Because the lies aren’t big and it’s not like I’m forming friendships or bonds with anyone there. And no one looks up to me or forms bonds with me like they do on social media. It’s more of a ....follow my journal entries and send me messages if you want. I can make certain entries private if I want. Blah blah blah. Like. I don’t make anything private, obviously. Anyone who knows me would know that. In fact, anyone who knew me WAY back in the day would actually know what site I’m talking about and yes, if you’re one of those people and you’re thinking about a certain site that I used to be very popular on a long time ago anonymously in the top most popular diaries/journals section for... gosh, months, years? I don’t even know. But if you’re thinking of it, you’re right and yes I’m back there and yes feel free to go find me. I’m p easy to find if you know what to look for. My entries are all true to my life so if you know what site I’m talking about, then you’d be p intimately involved in my life in some way (or... a stalker of some sort LOL) so you’d instantly be able to read even ONE of my entries and know it was mine either from my writing style or from the content of my life that I write about.

I mean, I’m definitely not suppressing emotions like I used to. That’s stupid and immature and the most childish thing anyone can do. Like, no, I’m not a fucking teenager. I’m 26. I’m not suppressing anything. I express my emotions freely and let them flow however and whenever I want or need them to in whatever way I desire wherever I desire. But it’s also nice to have a place where I can be completely anonymous to every single goddamn person on that site and just... be able to vent nonstop and not bother anyone because of my chronic pain issues and the psych issues that come with having severe chronic pain and the stress that goes along with my life and my majors in my two schools. It’s ridiculous.

I don’t know if it’s been scientifically proven that bitching and whining and being loud and noisy about your issues when they’re severe and interfering with your daily life can help... but it has ALWAYS helped me. ESPECIALLY when they’re physical. I feel like that’d be a neuroscientific view of triggering the active distraction mode versus the passive distraction mode in your brain when you literally cannot do anything because of the physical pain and there are no pills or IM or IV meds to help anymore and all the physical therapy, electrode therapy, gels, creams, patches, and anything else will not help. The only thing left is a neurologist... and for that, I have to wait for my insurance to transfer. Sigh. LONG fucking wait and who knows if it even will, tbh. Fuck the government. Fuck america.

Anyways... I’m just having a really rough time because that’s the biggest issue right now and that’s just overshadowing all the other “major” issues which would be like... the major issues in a normal person’s life that would p much shut down even the most neurotypical of people, but I seem to be handling it like a boss. So idk. I’m a fucking demi-god, though, so that’s why probably. Pfft.

I cannot even BEGIN to list the amount of adulting things I am doing on the daily that people are not even slightly seeing because it’s all overshadowed by the fact I need really long breaks and need to be laying down a lot because of the fact I now have the prodromal symptoms to scoliosis and need an MRI stat. So that would just be fucking FANTASTIC to add on top of fibro and ehlers danlos. Fucking shoot me, tbh. I’d take death over this chronic pain any day. ANY DAY.

The pain is so bad that I’d take all the years of suicidal MDD where I was attempting suicide every other day and slicing myself to shreds all the time, barely existing as just a pile of apathy and lethargy, unable to even function as a normal human being coz I was too busy trying to die all the time and fighting with all the people who were forcing me to stay alive.

I literally stabbed myself with a pen just to try to take my mind off of chronic pain and see if acute pain would make it better. Wanted to stab myself with a steak knife but couldn’t do it... coz my A&P classes have me freaked out I might hit something... ugh. And I begged my roommates to hit me over the head with heavy objects or punch me as hard as they could in the temple or strangle me or rip a chunk of my hair out or stab me for me or ANYTHING that would cause major acute injury/pain. They wouldn’t do it. And the pen stab felt like a mosquito bite for about 2 seconds. And all my very serious migraines that impair me to the point of being unable to function at all just feel like pressure now. My joint and muscle pain from fibro and ehlers danlos... are practically gone because of how bad my spinal pain is. And when they examined it, sure enough, ligaments were out of place and either popped out or inflamed...very badly. And the lumbar region ... that part of the spine was just... too far down. It was reaching way too far down into me and sharply pressing onto or into something. And it’s twisted. The wrong way. And it’s fucking agonizing. Thank fuck the doctor was like “Jesus christ, fuck the opioid epidemic... you need this.” Because everything I have been using---voltaren gel, tens machine electrode therapy, lidocaine patches, oral nsaids at the maximum dosage, tylenol at the maximum dosage switched every two days with nsaids, lyrica, physical therapy, valium, who knows what else at this point---hasn’t done a single thing and it is only getting worse and worse every single day. And it’s getting to the point where my gait and my speech and my gestures and my vision and my concentration are..... gone, so to speak. And I’m experiencing the worst sense of vertigo ever and I’ve almost blacked out so many times that it’s terrifying because I have to lay on the nearest object---NOT lean, but LAY. The floor, a bed, a table, a chair.. LAY down on it. Otherwise, I would black out. And I have absolutely NO idea why.

A neurologist is my last and final hope... coz I’ve seen every single other fucking major specialist, barring a chiropractor which is a LAST resort option. If anyone is medical... you’ll all know why and I know you’re all snickering and nodding along with me.

ANYWAYS

Life is fucking painful and I am playing Dark Souls on nightmare mode. I thought living with crippling suicidal depression and a ton of psychotic disorders was daunting and impossible to live with. HAHA. Fucking hell, man. I look back at all those years and fucking LAUGH thinking about it compared to the pain I feel right now. NOTHING compares to it and I would take it all back and get off my medications if someone would just take all of this pain and these physical issues away. For fucks sake. ...thought it was impossible to live with... thought it was the worst thing in the world... I was such a child. Lmao.

So..... that’s the major thing that’s overshadowing everything else that would break a normal, neurotypical person and would probably break neurodivergents just thinking about it, nevertheless doing it, so idk how the fuck I’m functioning. I really don’t know. Here I am at 6am writing this reply because the pain is always too intense to sleep with. Even with these pain killers. Sigh. Fuck this.

Ahem... Rant over. I really go on rants about the most random of things. Jeeze. But that’s why I love myself. And why a lot of people love me. Or hate me. Either or. Doesn’t matter which. Haha.

But I really hope you were put on the “good” side and not the “bad” side or the “bad” building so that you don’t have ward induced PTSD or came out worse than going in. I’ve never been on the good side, but everyone who has are the people who are always the ones who are the ones saying “No omg wards saved my life and they are great whine whine wards are amazing and I’m gonna voluntarily commit myself every time I’m feeling anxious now hahah they’re so good for the soul!” and stupid stuff like that. Maybe not to that extreme NORMALLY, but I damn well HAVE seen it to that extreme quite a few times and dear god it’s annoying because they are the ones who are set in their ways and won’t listen because they’ve been in wards so, obviously, there’s no such thing as a “bad” side or they would know. So they call to find out or ask at their next voluntary admission and see if there’s such a thing and when they get the answer of “no” on the good side, they come back adamant that there’s no such thing because they don’t know how that works, how the laws work, and what the entire purpose of the “good” versus “bad” sides are and how they came about in an historical context and they don’t even bother to listen attentively for the slight codes over the speakers or the hushed phone calls to and from each side. Or, if they’re lucky, it’s COMPLETELY out of sight and out of mind because it’ll be a completely different building instead of a different floor or different wing. And then they get REALLYYYYYYYYYYY set in their fucking ways. In that case, it’s fucking IMPOSSIBLE to talk them out of it because “Well what you said didn’t happen, so it’s wrong. Duh.” Yikes. Just... yikes. Like, hello, hi, yes, I’m Killian and I stopped counting my institutionalizations at 20 times so I don’t know how many I’ve been in now but I’m p sure I know how it works now. Not to mention I dated someone who worked at one. So you can just, uh, fuck the hell off, yeah? (That’s usually some snarky response I have in my head when I’m flabbergasted at the ignorance these people have, honestly, to not know of the existence of the separation of the two and WHY they are separate and WHY it’s all hush hush when you’re on the good side and you don’t hear about it and WHY you have a grand fucking jolly good time on the good side and feel it genuinely helped, WHITE BECKY. ugh. Me at these people, seen below, as a corgi.)

.

..

...

BUT ER YEAH SO UH

I really hope you were on the good side so that you actually got help and so that you didn’t come out worse and with a huge extra shot of PTSD attached to your already very valid issues. And I’m so sorry if you got accidentally or purposefully thrown on the bad side. It happens accidentally a lot. Hell, an older woman with Alzheimer’s was on my unit once. It helped everyone, though. There wasn’t any blood spilled while she was there because everyone was doing their best to help her. She didn’t belong there at all and it was just her grandkids fucking her over for some reason we weren’t privy to and ... oh jesus christ, man, like thank fuck I have a heavy medical background. Came in handy. Really did. Ofc, as soon as she left, it was back to the blood and nonstop fights and lockdowns and thorazine cocktails and getting strapped down for nothing more than a sarcastic comment and all the physical and verbal abuse from staff and patients alike and the not getting seen or heard and this and that blah blah blah I could go on for hours.

But ahhhhhhh......... Just really hoping they purposefully (or even accidentally... either way is perfect) put you on the good side and you came out either the same, okay, or better for it. Take care of yourself and heed your own advice.

I want you to do something for me, okay nons? I want you to take every bit of those kind words you say to me and I want you to imprint them on yourself. Can you do that for me? Take all those words and internalize them and make them your own. If it helps, imagine I’m saying them to you. Okay?

I mean, in the end, you do you. Coz you’re an awesome person and a loved person. So... if that means ward time, then okay. That’s fine. You do you. I had to learn that the hard way. It’s not a bad thing. The only bad thing is the PTSD associated with it all and ofc all the things associated with PTSD... which is uh... you know... kind of er.. LIFE CHANGING IN THE WORST OF WAYS.

SO take care of yourself, okay? Dw about me. If I die, then it’s a purely good thing. If I live, then it’s an equally good thing and bad thing. Either way, I win in both scenarios. Since there is no getting rid of chronic pain. Especially the two chronic conditions I’ve been diagnosed with and now THIS spinal thing that I have no idea what it is except the prodromal to scoliosis or possibly actually scoliosis. . .which could and WOULD destroy my life. So. Right now, I have no reason to live, tbh, The pain is THAT intense. Yes, I have reasons but they’re overshadowed by how intense the pain is... Except for Echo. He’s the only thing thing I’d have a hard time leaving. I’d have to find someone I know and trust with steady finances throughout their entire adult life who knows how to handle spitz breeds and can properly take care of a neurotic 17lb pomeranian and really has the time to devote to him and all.

Most people cannot handle a pomeranian or spitz breeds in general and I honestly did not know that until I got Echo and owned him. I thought I knew what I was getting into just from extensive research and my grooming parlour history and my volunteering history and my pet sitting history. But... no... I had no fucking idea the extent at which you have to go for spitz breeds. And double coats. It’s... WAY above and beyond. And then on top of that, he’s diagnosed neurotic which is a little different in terms of what that means in dogs than in humans. So he’s, er... snappy and he’s very... adversarial. 

“A neurotic dog can be defined as a dog that is excessively anxious and highly emotionally upset.”“If your dog seems moody, in need of constant reassurance, and excessively suspicious of other dogs or cats in the house, or even of human beings then chances are you've a neurotic dog.”Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/1113508

That’s a pretty damn good and concise article on canine neurosis. Echo is more extreme in his neurosis than most. It happened before we got him. That’s why they called him “The Bully” and told us “Oh no, you don’t want him” when I was adamant that “Uh yes. That is going to be my dog and you cannot tell me otherwise. I don’t want the others. I want him. He is my dog. He is MY dog. I am HIS human. We are family. . .” I have never had a connection wth an animal like I do with my son.

...which is why I cannot die for him. And why I DO have one reason to live for that DOES overrule the pain and how intense it is.

The rest of my reasons... some come close, some are right at the border... some are right ON the border... but none are above it. If you get my drift. Echo is the only thing keeping me here.

...and honestly? It sucks. It sucks that I have to remain here because that’s how bad the pain is. My dreams to stick with pre-med and follow it through all the way to my dream residency program and one day be an attending at that hospital and take on a fellowship.... That is one of the VERY few things that are so close to the top of the border that it’s almost bursting through to Echo level... but not quite. And that kills me. Because I finally found my purpose and I may be knocked out of the game before I can even find out if I can make it there. Because of my body and because of physical disabilities that I cannot help and could never foresee. It had nothing to do with genetics. Nothing to do with my drug use or my alcoholism. Nothing to do with any of my habits. It was all completely fucking random. It was literally... Ehlers Danlos and fibro? “Some people are just born with it.” That is verbatim what my rheumatologist said to me when I begged him for answers on why this was happening to me, holding back tears. “Is it genetics? Is it what I did in the past? I used to do a TON of illegal drugs and drink a ton, too. Usually at the same time. All day and all night. It was terrible. For years upon years. And I’ve been anorexic for a long time. And this and that and... I don’t know. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?” “Some people are just born with it.”

Fucking hell.

Alright, I’m gonna shut up.

But, man, that felt good to rant.

Thank you for being my muse. Lol.

And I appreciate the encouragement so much.

People either LOVE my little novellas to death... or they’re like “What the fuck is with you ranting about absolutely nothing when someone just says “hey” to you? Completely unnecessary.” I’m like “Uh, FIRST OF ALL” and then I complete that WITH A NOVELLA LMAOOOOOOO. And usually get the answer “Uh, okay, professor. I’m not reading that.” And it’s great because I usually didn’t write it for them. I usually write it for me. So I know they’re not gonna read it ahead of time because of hat comment.. so I just write about a ton of stuff that I’ve been needing to vent about for a long fucking time and get it out and no one will read it because they think it’s a furious, passive aggressive rebuttal to some nice guy(tm) telling me he hates the way I go into tirades like this. HAHA. So it’s a win-win situation for me when people like that pop up in my life. The simpletons who give me one word introductions or one line phrases. I get to respond with huge novellas and they get SUPER offended about it for some reason and feel it’s necessary to tell me how offended they are in that passive aggressive manner and it’s just... ahh, it’s so refreshing to me because it feels like my weekly debt collector calls. I absolutely LOVE my debt collector calls. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, if it’s a debt collector, I stop what I’m doing to answer it. It’s just so much fun. I feel bad for one of them, though, coz it’s the same guy who has been assigned to my case and I end up changing my spiel to him every time. So now LAST TIME HE ASKED ME “Is your name [birth name]?” as per usual to confirm it was me before going into “This is a call to attempt to collect a debt” spiel. And I answered with “You know, I’m actually not sure. You tell me.” And he FUCKING HUNG UP ON ME AND I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED SO HARD IN MY LIFE. Every debt collector call I get brings so much joy into my day that I just... even if I’m having the worst day and I’m sobbing on the couch about to slice my forearm open... if I debt collector calls me, I will answer and pretend to be a forlorn widow, twice abandoned, which is obviously why I’m crying because my partner just ran out on me. TRAGIC, AMIRITE. I like it when they have enough heart to ask me “What’s wrong” when I say “I just... don’t know if that’s my name... I’m in such dissarray right now that I don’t even know who I am anymore.” And they say “Maybe I should call back later.” And I say “OH no no, this is a fine time. I need a distraction. Desperately. Please. You’re all I have.” Which then normally chimes the hesitant “This is a call to collect a .... actually... I just... what’s wrong?” And then I have to force myself to keep crying as I put my 10 blade down and go “Well, you see, it all started when...” and I make up some super elaborate story, choking and voice shaking all the way. Improving on the spot. It’s SOOOOOOO much fun. Jesus fucking christ. And by the time I get off the phone, I’M NOT SAD ANYMORE AND I DON’T WANT TO KILL MYSELF ANYMORE!

But the ones where I can just... answer EVERYTHING they ask me with a question... and then when they FINALLY (very frustrated at this point, ofc) get to the end in double or triple the time that they should have, I’m guessing, and can ask me “What would you like to do about x amount of money/How would you like to pay/take care of this?”, I instantly drop whatever facade I had going to say something like “Bitch please, you can send that bill to the orange in the whitehouse. He’s the one who is forcing it to continue happening in the first place.” I keep that one as concise as possible. It has a major variation of that every time, though. Telling them to send it to Trump with the implication of how opposed I am to our healthcare system and how angry I am about my exorbitant medical debt and how completely unnecessary it is that I have it and how the 1% should be fucking paying it until the ones in power fix it to the right system, with absolutely bitterness seething from every fucking syllable like fucking poison. And then, ofc, they stutter on the end of the line: “I, uh... we... we can’t do that, so, uh... how do you want us, to, uh...” “Well, dear, let me spell it out for you. No, I really will spell it out for you. Are you ready? I have the address to the white house. Got a pen and paper handy? Computer?” “What? No, you can’t jus-” “Okay good. So the address is-” And I go on to speak OVER THEM with whatever address is listed online that I can find in the moment through a quick google search and as they try to cut me off, I just talk as loudly as I can. And every time they try to cut me off or tell me they can’t, I just get this super chipper, sadistic tone and go “Awe, thank you so much for sending it for me! I’m super excited to hear the response from a piece of fruit! Don’t think those tiny hands are big enough to hold a pencil, but we’ll see, eh?” And the jokes just go ON AND ON and I have a fucking MILLION of em and they don’t STOP and they’re terrible and I DO NOT STOP until the debt collector on the other end is so frustrated that they finally say “I’m going to put it down that you’re not going to pay.” And I just keep responding with. “You’re such a sweetheart for getting that payment taken care of for me! Now, where did you say you worked out of again? What’s the weather like? Super hot here in New Orleans... gonna be one HELL of a summer. GET IT!? HELL!? HAHA” Click. Line dead. And then I’m just fucking howling as I drop my phone.

And my POINT is (yes, I actually have a point, wow haha) that when good guys(tm) feel the need to point out their unnecessary opinion about my completely unnecessary novellas of ramblings, I like to respond with one paragraph of a “FIRST OF ALL” message so they think the ENTIRE message is going to just be a passive aggressive rebuttal... and then I have a bunch of fun with the response and get to vent a fuckton about what’s going on and get to also have a ton of fun and throw in “did you know” facts and horrible, horrible puns and dad jokes and then end it with a paragraph that seems like it would be fitting to a rebuttal that was started in the first paragraph because I legit do want to write a rebuttal but I don’t care enough to say much but I love to use the opportunity to vent in a public space (usually here on tumblr when a nice guy anon sends me a question I deem stupid or in a threat on fb that I deem stupid and a nice guy(tm) is mistreating my friends and I have to sigh to myself and step in and make everything better, as per usual, because confusing the masses with doublespeak and making people question whether or not they’re absolute correct information and absolutely wrong information alike is right or wrong is my specialty). 

Public venting is the only way that things make me feel better because I need an anonymous audience. I don’t want to force people to listen to me whine, but I need a platform where people CAN listen to me whine if they WANT TO (and surprisingly a LOT of people do lol) and get feedback and help and similar stories and advice and such of their own free will without me prompting anyone or asking for it. Helps a fuckton. Just writing stuff down in a journal or notebook? Doesn’t do a fucking thing for as a coping mechanism. Forcing people to listen to me? Boring and defeats the purpose and isn’t a coping mechanism for me coz that means they’re not actively listening. Like psychologists. People who are fucking paid to listen. I don’t trust people who are active listeners. I need passive listeners. People who will overhear a conversation in a coffee shop I have on the phone with someone in a corner while there’s a group of perfect looking, white, trust fund, fraternity and sorority people chatting and laughing loudly in their expensive brand name clothes in the middle of the shop and have that one person come over to me after I’m done with my phone call to say something about how they like this or that about how I talk or was interested in what I was saying and wanted to know more about x or y. Or something else about a topic or the way I spoke and gestured or something weird like that that really intrigues me and makes me feel heard and appreciated and loved because I never prompted anyone into coming to me. Never.

And that, my friend, is the story of why the grinch stole christmas.

No, that’s the story of why Killian literally needs a public platform to vent on.

Okay now I’m REALLY done. I swear. I promise. I fucking PROMISE lmaaaaoooooo. Sorrryyyy.

Nah, I really hope you’re okay, fam. Coz I certainly most definitely 200% am NOT haha.

Live long and prosper.