#they still need to work through their issues you know.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: daddy kink, somno.

You’re slow to wake up. 

Mouth half open on the pillow, bead of saliva pooling at the curve of your pout with a hand tucked under you chin like an angel, you’re still drifting somewhere in dreamland, your body far more aware than your mind. It’s late, and lazy, and he’s already handled all of the puppy’s morning duties and showered. He decided to go back to bed afterwards, sliding behind you under the covers and locking you back against him, leaving you no room to move, or pull away as he slid two fingers down your belly to your clit. You’re a heavy sleeper, making soft little sounds and whimpers plenty, but still no signs of waking up, even as you shifted, unconsciously giving him better access, allowing him to slip two fingers inside you and slowly stretch. 

You’re ready. He’s taken a slow, methodical approach, carefully stretching  tissue and muscle to be more accommodating, though he knows no amount of prep will soften the initial pain. 

“Mmm,” your head turns, lashes fluttering, and he closes his mouth over yours, slipping his tongue behind your teeth and bringing you into consciousness as gently as he can while his arm wraps like steel around your hip, fingers firmly buried inside you, palm grinding against your clit. 

You come to all at once. Every sense igniting, a ripple of awareness bringing your legs closed tight at his wrist. 

“Shh, you’re okay.” He murmurs against your ear, pinning you to the mattress with his weight. Your instinct is to push away, evade the overflow of thought and feeling, but he’s too heavy. You’re trapped. Overflowing with sensation, clit pulsing under his touch. 

“Wh-what-” 

“Sleepy girl, slept right through daddy putting his fingers inside you, didn’t you?” Everything about you is dazed and open, wanting, trusting, and you nod hurriedly. 

“Daddy,” you moan, pushing your hips back towards his, “d-daddy, I’m-” He slows, and you whine in protest.

“You’ve been so good, taking daddy’s fingers, letting him stretch you out. I think you’re ready.” 

“Ready?” The last syllable rings with confusion. 

“Ready for your daddy to fuck your sweet little pussy.” You shiver, a ripple cascading from head to toe, unbidden moan slipping from your lips. “Do you want that? Want daddy’s cock inside you?” 

“Y-yes,” he flicks your clit and returns to his previous rhythm. “Yes, please, oh- please.” You’re lost to the impending orgasm, already there with a flick of his wrist, quickly rocketing up and over, riding his hand, twitching and crying. 

Daddy, daddy, daddy. 

“I’m sorry I’m so tired.” You’re still nestled into him in bed, cheek to chest, slipping in and out of snoring as he turns the pages of a paperback. 

“It’s okay baby. You work hard, you need rest.” It’s a slow Sunday, and you need it. Eight to ten hours a day on your feet, constantly moving, kneading, lifting, rolling… it all takes a toll, one he wishes he could alleviate, though he’d never take your passion from you. He’s grateful it’s there, fulfills you, brought you to him. 

Right now, there’s nothing to do but take care of you, and Duchess, who’s snuffling at the foot of the bed, little puppy belly turned up towards the ceiling, paws in the air. You yawn. 

“I need a vacation.” 

“Mmm,” he strokes a line down your back, chasing the goosebumps. It’s not a terrible idea, take you away for a bit, get you out of town and into the sun. Maybe… “Where would you go?” Your brow crinkles. 

“I don’t know… I’ve always wanted to go to Lisbon. For the bakeries. And the beach…” You trail off and avert your eyes. “I’ve always been… it’s too much to go alone and I don’t really have anyone…” your pulse flickers under your jaw as he cups it. 

“I’ll take you, sweetheart, if that’s what you want. I’ll take you anywhere.” Lisbon is more than doable, it’s safe, and easy for him to navigate. It won’t be an issue. 

“Really?” You brighten, lip tucked beneath teeth, corners lifting into a smile. 

“Of course.” He’d give you anything, everything. Take you anywhere. A yawn drags your mouth into a circle. “Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit longer.” 

“‘m not tired anymore.” Brat. He raises an eyebrow, and you look away sheepishly. “Okay well… maybe for a little.” Good girl. “Can we take Duchess to the park? Later?” It’s your new favorite thing. A long loop down the street to the green space and back, a solid rhythm he’s working to settle you in so you can continue the habit when he’s away. 

“Sure baby. Now close your eyes.” 

“Open.” He forks another bite of pancake into your mouth. “Good girl.” Pancakes. He’s gotten pretty good at it, using your moods, emotions, as a barometer for what will make you happiest food wise. 

When you’re tired and a little bit cranky, it’s breakfast for dinner. 

He managed to get you outside for a bit, walking beside you and Duchess at a leisurely pace, soaking in the small bits he’s never truly enjoyed. The sapphire blue shade of the sky, the chirp of the bugs and birds, quiet lap of the pond. He’s always walked with purpose, never for love, for the act of it, but now, taking his time with you, living with you, he gets it all, experiences the world as you do, eats up every single second. Just being able to take a leisurely stroll with you and the dog is more than he’s ever expected for his life. 

It was a nice little outing, followed by a shower before he put you right back in bed, settling you in the nest of pillows and blankets. Even after a day of slipping in and out of a nap, you’re still exhausted. 

“Daddy.” You’re waiting for the next bite, mouth open, Duchess at your side watching intently like she’s going to get some pancakes too. 

“Sorry sweet girl,” he scrapes another piece free across the plate for you, pleased that you’ve eaten three fourths of your dinner. You reach for a piece of bacon, chewing thoughtfully, untangling a snare that's caught some of your words, and he waits. Always. 

“I was thinking…” when you don’t continue right away, he places a hand on your thigh, the skin to skin soothing the turbulent chaos in your mind, the things trying to sort themselves out. “I um, I saw the motorcycle in the garage the other day…” pleasantly surprised, he nods encouragingly, and you swallow. “I was wondering if maybe, you- we- you could take me on it?” He hasn’t been on the bike in about a year now, content to let it sit in its spot until he had the time, the energy to take it out. The joy of riding has never faded, but it’s different now. He used to ride because a part of him hoped the road might take him, might end him, though it’s been a long time since then, a long time since the darkness controlled him. Now, the bike waits for him, waits for when he has a moment to himself, a moment he can relax and enjoy it. 

This will be the perfect one. 

“You want to go on a bike ride baby?” You look up at him through your lashes. 

“I always thought it might be cool to know what it’s like.” Brave girl. You’re still a bit unsure, and he casts the plate aside to hold your hands in his. 

“I’ll take you, but following your rules will be very important. You’ll need to listen to me at all times, and tell me if you’re scared. Do you understand?” It will be a lot. Loud. Intimidating. An overall new experience he’ll have to coach you through, but he knows you can do it. You nod excitedly. 

“Yes daddy I do, I will. I promise.” The fork and plate rattle, and you squeal. “Duchess!” She's licking a string of syrup off her nose, clearly pleased with herself. The rest of your dinner is gone, and you’re trying hard not to laugh as he barely suppresses his own. It’s easy for him to get distracted around you, easy to forget the rest of the world when he’s got you here where it’s safe, in his home, where he doesn’t need to think about anything else, threats, fears, chaos. It doesn’t surprise him he forgot about the plate and put it down in reach of the dog.

You sigh, mischievous spark in your irises like a bad little girl who knew all along. “Oh well. Guess she was hungry.” 

[revelboo]

Hi revel! I’m asking in advance because I know u have like 2763 asks lmao but my birthday js next Friday (may 16)! How would like es and tfp soundwave say happy birthday to their respective humans?

Happy early birthday! Cryptid Soundwave would do a much better job at it than anger issues Soundwave. With ES, you’re getting aggression and mixed signals.

Birthday

ES Soundwave

• “It’s your creation day?” Skin prickling as he leans closer, you wonder why he has to say it like that, growling the words so they sound like a threat. Who does that? Offering him an uncertain smile, you nod. Lazerbeak and Frenzy had been excited about finding out. He just looks like he’s contemplating violence, but that seems to be his normal mode. “Don’t think that gets you out of working,” he adds, the words a snarl as he reaches for you and you stand up so it’s easier for him to pick you up. Does he have to carry you in a fist like that? The jerk carries you like a beer.

• Grumbling softly, he stalks into the back and shuts the door behind him, depositing you on the work table and ignoring as you stagger and glare up at him. “You could at least be a little nicer since it’s my birthday,” you mutter and he ignores that, too. Reaching to pull out the things he’d gotten for you after being told by Lazerbeak it was your creation day. It’s not like he cares. These are just human things you need. That’s all.

• Bending to pick up your tools, you yelp and go down on a knee, flailing to get free when Soundwave just dumps stuff in you. Glaring up at the jerk until you realize what he buried you in. Clothes, food, an actual mattress, pillows and blankets. “Get to work,” he growls, turning away as you dig your way out. Birthday presents? ‘Thank you?’ You call out and he just glares at you. “Now,” he snarls.

TFP Soundwave

• Head tipping toward you, Soundwave reaches out to comb the graspers on the end of a tendril through your hair. Because you’ve been quiet all day, distant in a way he’s not used to. Using a single servo to tip your chin up, you offer him a small smile. “I’m okay,” you say, but you don’t sound okay. “I just kind of realized I missed my birthday here. I think. It’s hard to keep track of days.” Birthday? A celebration of your creation?

• Watching him pull away, tendrils doing an agitated little dance around his frame, you wonder if he understands birthdays. His visor dims like he’s searching on the internet again like he does wherever he doesn’t understand you. Making you realize you have no idea how he was created. He’s alive, sentient, but maybe he was assembled? Which just makes his spike even stranger when you think about it. You two have sex, he obviously enjoys it, but maybe it’s only recreational? Not for reproduction? “How are little you guys made?” You ask and he stills right as he begins playing the happy birthday song for you, the first few notes wavering awkwardly into nothing.

• Frozen staring at you, his tendrils reach for you before he even makes a conscious decision. Sliding against you, touching any skin he can find. Why the sudden interest in sparklings? Do you want young? The thought putting him off balance, torn between his own guilt for his past failures and a hunger that’s shocking in its intensity. Starts trying to play the human birthing song for you again, but he’s distracted now. Aroused. Fixated on that idea even though he knows how bad an idea it is.

[sunny-knight]

THIS IS HOME

@forgettable-au Fan-Animatic ⭐️

The stars welcome him with open arms…

Work and Progress + Analysis below!

You can find the work in progress things here! because I wanna show the sketch animatic and you can only upload one video…

The entire idea was inspired off of THIS lovely little qna written a bit ago! havnt forgotten about it since! Despite what the AU might have you believe And recently I decided I could just draw out the fun part instead of go through the pain of storyboarding and cleaning up a nearly 4 minute long song 👍👍👍

Thats the idea though, theres no real plot, so no real context I can give other than the things the comic itself already provides. “This Is Home” just works incredibly well for this poor childs trauma, and it was a great opportunity to practice my composition and storytelling!!

Onto the deep analysis of every frame individually!!! (this is normal. this happens every time.)

The idea that Wingdings just eventually- gave up. Trying to connect with anyone. HURTS ME DEEPLY. I’m not sure if thats specifically because he just couldn’t get the font thing down, but I imagine that was a big contributing factor. But thats what specifically stops him here. He eventually slams his keys down on the board and says “IM DONE” and throws himself into a thing he can purely enjoy on his own- science. Even at a young age, I feel he only had 2 lives. One with Sans, and one with science. Then when those worlds combined when he became the royal scientist uhhh- I imagine it got worse.

Speaking of his young age, In these shots he’s also notably a tad older than the later depictions of his younger self with the scarf. Less full of joy and whimsy

“His mind is in a different place” is taken a tad more negatively than in the context of the song I feel, as he’s more or less isolated himself from everyone (but Sans) now in this “giving up” phase of his childhood. I wonder how Sans noticed/took that and if he tried to convince him otherwise, but in this case he just thinks he needs some time to himself.

Also let it be known that the words being crammed in at the “Give him a little bit of space” bit is on PURPOSE and a SILLY LITTLE JOKE/VISUAL GAG GIVEN THE LINE. I AM SO FUNNY.

The colors are also notably dark blues, that get greyer when Wingdings has given up. The light that Sans lets in ((looks into the camera, tearing up)) is still pretty cold despite it being brighter.

The berating is also in uppercase to show most of this is from Wingdings’ pov- I know he speaks in proper casing at this time, but I NEED SOME SORT OF INDICATOR, WORK WITH ME HERE. His main issue was his own self consciousness and desire to communicate properly, since it was said before on the blog that no one really picked on him for his inability to talk to them.

Then we have Papyrus!! The colors are similarly blue, but a lot brighter and a touch purpler and greener. Its from the same world, but not the same person. Also he’s wearing a yellow vest which is the complimentary color to blue ☝️

Papyrus is more heavily associated with warm colors in contrast to Wingdings, but this takes place very early on when he was very confused where his place was (or at least I assume thats what happened). He’s associating with warm colors (yellow) but is somewhat weary about it and still subconsciously clutching onto the comfort in familiarity.

The scene ofc depicts Papyrus being incredibly uncomfortable about any photos of himself as a child. It still definitely…looooks… like him. it just feels really wrong.

Similar thing to last time with the fonts as well, uppercase, Papyrus’ pov, he just wants to know who/WHAT he is.

I enjoy the colors in the photo and how they reallly stand out from the rest of the shot, just another emphasis that the photo feels otherworldly to Papyrus.

This is the part where I start weeping pitifully. The tiny Wingdings to Gaster comparison- it’s just so upsetting, I want to know what this poor child would think if he saw what he ends up as 😭

Wingdings enjoyed dreaming about the real stars he MIGHT get to see one day with Sans. The scene is dark, as it still hasnt happened yet, but still bright and hopeful as he stares up at the light! Its always a possibility. But then we have Gaster, who finally did it. He reached the stars, he gets to look up and say “wow…. I really did it”. Staring up at the void before him. Without Sans…I feel he wouldn’t ponder on it much, and consciously he doesn’t see anything bad about his circumstances, but the crack going down his eye that elludes to a tear says otherwise in the suppressed emotions.

The world Wingdings lived in when he was small, seemed so endless…Despite the underground being small compared to the real world, his imagination was endless. He could dream, he could imagine, and create things, get and give new ideas! But now as an adult that just so happens to be a lovecraftian entity, everything is much more simple and straightforward. At least from his perspective…Gaster may be able to DO way more than he ever could as a small child, but his mind is pretty one track at this point.

I wonder how Gaster feels…Now that they’ve gotten to the surface. without him

Im not sure how Papyrus in the game or even in the comic feels about stars, but Sans for one doesnt have to daydream anymore. They’ve also “done it” just like Gaster, but the hug insinuates less of that and more a “we WON”. They share in this moment together more emotionally than anything.

Again, compared to Gaster and them, they enjoy the moment in their own ways- Gaster just the action of seeing the stars, and Papyrus in what the moment itself means. I feel those are the 2 wants Wingdings had and thats a lot of what Papyrus and Gaster are. 2 halfs of Wingdings’…whole…thing

Also the stars welcoming him with open arms is both in reference to Sans but also Papyrus welcoming/accepting/loving himself…

IN CONCLUSION:

…yknow ive never asked before, but if anyone has any questions or needs clarification im happy to-

[leighsartworks216]

Totally not procrastinating by thinking about Game Developer Sylus

Bc we know he's skilled at coding and shit. Imagine being part of his team. You design the levels and he codes them. Working close together so he can program things to work the way you plan them to

Late nights in the office, takeout containers spread around as you both huddle together in front of a monitor to troubleshoot an issue you ran into. During your exhausted conversations, you doodle crazy ideas you bounce off of one another, sketching the protagonist of the game in increasingly absurd situations. The conversation lulls. Your head lands on his shoulder in a soft thunk, and his hands still on the keyboard as he watches your eyes flutter shut in the glow of the screen. He stares for a while at your sleeping face, heart racing, before he finally - carefully - picks you up and lays you down on one of the couches in the lounge. He covers you with his leather jacket that smells like the open road and his cologne

The team lead gets on your ass about not having all the sprites drawn up yet, but you have had no time to work on them in between the level design and trying to meet your basic daily needs. Sylus getting on the lead in return, telling them how horribly they've been running this ship and how they don't do shit but delegate all their work onto everyone else and bitch and moan about nothing getting done. Your work load gets a little lighter

He programs a test feature you didn't ever really expect to show up in-game when he's at home. Brings it in next day and tells you to demo the game for him, he wants to make sure it's working as intended. You go through the motions of the first level, and he sees you come to life before his eyes when you get to the new feature. You're laughing in disbelief, playing with it as you ask when the hell he had time to do this. He shrugs and says it didn't take him that long (lying). You both know it could never make it into the final game, but he saves a copy of this version for you on a thumbdrive that you can play any time you like

Anyway, Game Developer Sylus.

[urinarythreatinfection]

Hair

a/n: I like writing fluff, it makes me happy.

Shanks x GN!reader. 921 words. Post-Loguetown.

“I gave the straw hat to Luffy but now my head looks a bit empty…” Shanks thinks to himself as he looks in the mirror. He tries to run his left hand through his hair, realizing once again that it’s gone. “Shit, I need to get used to this.” He doesn’t regret saving Luffy one bit, he’d sacrifice his arm again if he were to go back in time, but it is proving to be more and more troublesome missing an entire arm; especially his dominant one. “Can I even cut it now? It’ll take a while before I have the precision again to trim this.” So many new issues to deal with, and he’s had the hat for so long he looks weird and plain without it. ‘Maybe I should grow out my hair a bit, but taking care of it seems like a hassle.’ Despite all these ideas, he sighs. ‘I’ll think about it.’

_______________________

Shanks walks outside onto the deck and notices you talking with Benn, he freezes. Right, you left Loguetown with him. You said yes and joined his crew. That thought makes him giddy and he wants to talk to you but he stops when he hears the conversation.

“So, what looks do you like in a man?” Beckman’s asking your type… Well, it’s not like the deck is strictly for you two. He slowly makes his way back to where he was, slowly hiding behind one of the masts.

“Looks, hm?” You put a hand on your chin, pondering. “I’m not too strict about what I find attractive but if I had to have a preference I do like men bigger than me.” The corner of Shanks’s mouth twitches up. Not to toot his own horn but he is taller than you. However, it quickly goes down when you continue. “Something about the way they can envelop me feels warm. A nice hug, their arms around me, it just feels very safe.” Arms. Ah.

‘They didn’t mean it like that.’ The redhead tries to tell himself, but it’s not working. Another new thing he has to deal with. He lost his arm, his dominant one. He can’t keep you as safe as before, envelop you like before. His expression darkens.

“Red hair too.” He’s snapped out of his moping. “The shade matching their personality would be nice too. A deep red for a passionate person.” Shanks thinks of his hair, he’s plenty passionate, and his hair is a deep red. “Also, maybe this is a bit unpopular, but I actually prefer men with hair on the longer side.” Long!?

“Are you hitting on me?” Beckman jokes and you laugh a little. Shanks panics, he doesn’t know how he could take care of long hair with one non-dominant arm.

“You do look handsome, so maybe I am.” The length based on their personality is nice too, for you your hair length is perfect.” He can’t listen to this. “For a more elegant man, hair to the mid back is nice.” It turns out Beckman is your type. “But, for a rouge-ish man like I mentioned it definitely has to be hair a little above or to the shoulders. Just enough to put it into a little ponytail, basically. It always looks so perfect that I have to resist the urge to stare.” Your cheeks tint at the thought and Shanks’s heart starts to quicken. He could handle hair at that length, not too hard.

“Red hair and a rogue-ish appearance. Reminds me of someone. Though he’s missing the hair length.” Beckman’s eyes glance at Shanks’s hiding spot, he’s been caught! The captain flinches and makes his escape to the back deck via speed walking. While he walks a smile forms on his face. Longer hair. He can work with that.

______________________

Shanks has been growing his hair out. Well it’s not surprising considering it would be hard to trim the way he used to with one hand, but you still didn’t expect it; especially since he’s mentioned before that anything not short would be a hassle to take care of.

“(Y/n)” You sit on the grass at an island, looking up to see your captain casting a shadow over your face. “Photosynthesizing?”

“I’m shocked you know that word.” You joke and he laughs, sitting next to you.

“I’m a real scholar.” He looks into your eyes and you smile back. Maybe you’re biased but he looks better with longer hair, your eyes keep gravitating to him. “Do I have something on my face?” He teases.

“You look handsome.” You state and his eyes widen. He didn’t expect you to just say it.

“R-Really!?” He grimaces at his stutter but your smile gets wider.

“Mhm, you look better with your hair longer like this. I like it a lot.” Shanks manages to regain his composure, smirking.

‘Wow~ Don’t fall for me too quickly.” He winks and you laugh.

“I’ll try, but if you steal my heart I’ll have no choice but to take yours. It’s only fair~”

___________________

That night Shanks looks into the mirror in his room, your words repeating in his head.

“If you steal my heart I'll have no choice but to take yours.”

His cheeks flush, what a funny thing to say when you already have it. “I’m the one trying to get one back” Shanks sighs and flops onto his bed stomach first. A moment passes.

“You look handsome.”

“I like it a lot.”

"Hehehehehehe" He giggles, rolling around on his bed.

I offer you.. a small cute shanks drabble. Hope you like! The 3rd scenario with the old men and male reader will be posted tomorrow, obvi, so the people who wanted don't worry :D

[brain4stew]

hiiiii!!! is it okay if we get romantic 1x4 x killer reader hcs 😇😇 the reader is basically just like. always in at least a bit of pain due to their transformation and doesn't speak often or well due to it!!!!

*accidentally forgets to close door and you see me in my bedroom sniffing your writing as I grab it with my teeth and eat it like I have rabies but in a good way* JWJSGSHAHSSUAHZHZXHSHAHS

“WOAH HEY!” — Marcille from Dungeon Meshi.

MY WRITING!!

But yes, I shall, LMAO.

(Note: Characters may be ooc, since I do not know how the characters actually will work/be like!)

That being said, here is your request under the cut! ;

1x4 and their lovely killer partner.

I’m surprised that you mamaged to get into a loving, and somehow happy relationship with this green genderfluid glowstick…

The first time you and 1x4 saw each other was when you were a survivor, and kind of… Snapped in the middle of their round as the killer.

You were obviously frustrated and angry at your fellow survivor teammates. Trying your very best to keep them alive. But. They. Don’t. LEARN.

So imagine this glowstick’s shock when she sees your transformation from survivor… To that of a killer.

He just, stands still where he is, watching as you wreck havoc and chaos on your previous teammates.

After your… Carnage…? You’re just a sobbing, confused, angry mess, whilst being in an awful lot of pain. (You’re on your knees just staring at your now clawed hands, filled with blood.)

They watch for a while, before they cautiously approaches you, and just stand by you. The only thing you see is their legs in your peripheral vision.

Neither of you speak for the remainder of the round, but when it ends. You and 1x4 are both transported to the killer’s cabin.

Surprisingly, 1x4 holds a hand out for you to take. You of course, hesitate, because you are originally a survivor, but now… You’re not sure. But you grasp her hand either way, allowing her to pull you up to your feet.

They carefully guide you to their room, and let you sit down on their bed. (Not sure if killers really need to sleep, other than the kids…)

He inspects your new form, asking questions. But, when you don’t respond, and point to your throat, he understands that you have issues talking.

She helps you learn about your new form, and occasionally helps you out whenever the pain is overbearing for you.

1x4 being patient and loving… To you.

They hate seeing you in so much pain, they even asked the Spectre for some sort of pain relief items. (They got painkillers thrown straight at their face…)

She holds your clawed hands within theirs, and watches other killer’s rounds with you. Just to see you smile upon seeing the survivors struggling, and dying from the killer’s.

Whenever you get drowsy and fall asleep, he surprisingly lets you sleep in his bed. (If you need someone to be near you while you sleep, or need to hug/hold someone while you sleep then… He’s there.)

1x4 may have sudden bursts of rage, but they call down after a while, when you comb your claws through their hair, and hold them close.

You once picked her up, holding her close to you, and she surprisingly became drowsy and fell asleep in your arms. (That’s the only time you actually managed to mutter a small “I love you,” to her, but she was out like a light.)

There are rare occasions where you’ll be paired with 1x4 to kill the survivors. But that is mostly because 1x4 knows how much you are in pain, due to your transformation.

On one of those rounds, when Two Time backstabbed 1x4, causing him to be stunned, you actually went ballistic. Chasing Two Time with a growl, and full on… (Hell for Two Time to be exact.)

When you get back to 1x4, you actually mutter something again, but it was loud enough for them to hear. “I won’t let you… Get hurt on my watch…”

She malfunctioned at that. (SHE LOVED IT.)

You’re always seen near, or by 1x4. Whenever it’s a solo killer run, you’ll be in their room, watching them. And they’ll be in their round, watching you.

He’s utterly stupidly in love, it’s funny.

(I GENUINELY HAVE NO IDEA IF THIS IS ALRIGHT ENOUGH, ANON. 😞🫶 BUT TAKE THE FOOD YOU HUNGRY BEAST /HJ)

[alexanderlightweight]

For writing Wednesday:

I know you only just posted the first part an hour ago, but maybe malec meeting and bonding in your new sentinel/guide au? Or magnus reacting to alec's childhood in the new sentinel/guide au. I really liked the first part and I'm weirdly fond of sentinel/guide AUs.

If you don't want to write any more sentinel/guide stuff, maybe something about how Alec growing up in the New York Institute made him weirdly connected to the wards or angelic core.

Your writing is a major highlight of my week! Please make sure to get some proper rest and dring lots of water!

Either nsfw or sfw is good

no you're good! I ended up having a flareup last night that hit pretty bad. I took my meds and got through it but I couldn't think straight so I'm finishing now, today lol there's a piece that goes before this here because you are not the only one who asked for more! and I love sentinel/guide au's so like, I definitely get being weirdly fond since i'm extremely weirdly into the trope.

thank you! I am definitely working to hydrate and drink water not just tea today! I hope you hydrate as well and have a good day and everyone who reads this! drink and rest <3

i hope you enjoy <3 lumine

currency of fate

Magnus frowns at the way his magic is tugging frantically at his levels, trying to beg for more magic yet he refuses. Recognizing exactly which one of his many wards are currently running out and unwilling to assign more of his magic to shadowhunters.

Fifteen minutes later, Magnus catches a fire message out of the air and when he goes to ignore it, Cahya’s growl deters him.

There’s a moment where Magnus meets eyes the same blue as his magic and then he rereads the message carefully. 

“You want us to go there, despite insisting we ignore everything to do with the Institute for almost two decades?”

Cahya growls, a stubborn note to the rumble.

“Then off we shall go.” Magnus steps into his closet to change and instead, his clothes are magically swapped. Cahya is unrepentant as they impatiently nudge Magnus and well, they have impeccable taste and are unwilling to wait.

Magnus’ outfit is dark, elegant and deadly.  It’s a statement piece of power and wealth and Magnus wears it with ease as he summons a portal and appears just outside the Institute doors. It’s with a sigh that he straightens his back and lets a smirk grow across his mouth.

The doors don’t open until Magnus flares his magic but there’s no one on the other side, in fact it isn’t until he’s already down the corridor that he hears voices at all. 

“Sentinel Bane!” There’s a call of recognition as a shadowhunter with dark, shoulder length twists greets him.  He’s clearly worried even as he nods to Magnus, politely refraining from offering his hand. 

“There’s a problem with the power levels of the wards, correct?” Magnus doesn’t want to waste time, he wants to get to the bottom of the issue so he can hunt down whatever is causing the restlessness in his soul to wake up.

“No, the wards are a problem but the real problem is Alec and his guide abilities and how the wards are isolating him.”

“What?” Magnus needs to be certain he heard that correctly. 

“Alec Lightwood, the Head and Commander, he’s a guide. We can’t get anyone close to him and the wards are shutting down in a pattern that’s locking us in our Institute but away from him. Medical can’t reach him and everyone who got past the wards before lockdown started are already unconscious from Alec’s abilities.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

None of it.

Magnus would have known if there was a nephilim guide on his territory, he couldn’t have been hidden under Magnus’ own wards. There is no reason for his own magic to betray him so intimately. There’s a slim chance the guide recently came online, or is visiting from Idris, but Magnus still should have been able to feel or at least notice them.

“Why wasn’t his pride called?”

“He doesn’t have one. I can’t tell you why, it’s classified and I don’t personally know.” The implication is he’d tell Magnus if he did know is not unappreciated.  “They said restraining and healing magic are our best hope and as local Archon, you shouldn’t be overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed?”

“He’s powerful and the sentinel who caused this had been decently powerful. The Clave sent him through from Idris but he was sent back catatonic before the wards started to rampage.”

Cahya growls and flicks their round ears before knocking a large paw into Magnus’ calf followed by a hurried snap of their teeth in the air. Impatience suddenly sharp as the frost beading on their silver fur.

“Oh.”

There would be a reason, and not one that could be considered a betrayal. In fact it explains why Magnus magic is so desperately trying to sequester the guide, to hide him away from intruders or other sentinels.

Sentinel’s who aren’t Magnus if what Magnus thinks is right.

Magnus portals through the shuddering and quickly closing wards.  

They are locking in on themselves, just as the nephilim at the entry said. The fragmented magic was running out of power and it latched on the angelic core like a leech. Layering shields around the shadowhunter guide, his surroundings and finally the very Institute.

—

Alec tries to forget the rage trembling through his body, tries to clear his mind and ignore the fact that the Clave is pushing their agenda on him. There’s a strange noise that the wards don’t react to and a presence Alec doesn’t recognize is suddenly in the same space as him.

Alec’s mind reacts first and yet instead of a foreign intrusion, he’s met with nothing but familiar comfort and his mind unravels, reaching out to pool against the stronger power. It’s slightly different from what already guards his mind, but it’s too familiar for Alec to be thwarted.

It’s exactly what he needs after the slick, disgusting feeling of someone else's mind trying to influence his own from earlier.

“Oh darling, do you even know what you’re asking for?”

The voice is rich and makes Alec feel like he can do or ask for anything. It also doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know the words for what he wants, when he knows instinctively it’s what he needs.

“I’ll settle you enough to get you out of here. Then I’ll bond you properly.” 

—-

Magnus' mind luxuriates in the feel of rich, raw energy nestling against him and his senses instantly calm. Layers upon layers of Alec... Alexander's mind wraps around him in protective defense. The restlessness is purged, instead being replaced by urgency.

Magnus frowns as his guide growls, clearly displeased by the suggestion and the fact that Magnus isn’t yet touching him.  However, the last thing Magnus wants to do is bond to his guide in an unfamiliar and dangerous location, no matter that his magic is wreathed about the Institute.

The euphoria of being right, of having his guide here and now and already begging to be his — as if he hasn’t always been. Considering that Magnus can already feel the reciprocal energy of shields on his boy’s mind and doubts Alexander’s ever been anything but his.

Magnus knows that with his own tendency to go feral and the way Alexander’s rage coils like veins of lava bubbling beneath the surface that he should go for the kind of bond that will stabilize them. However Magnus has always been accused of being ‘too much’ and perhaps, he wants to prove people right.

In his own special way, of course.

After all, it’s a gift from Magnus, a choice that he’s making, to ensure someone else is correct for once.

So as much as Magnus wants to fuck Alexander through the Institute’s floor and sear their bond into existence and would be happy to do so. He also doesn’t want to share a single moment of their bonding euphoria with any shadowhunter beyond the one that’s his.

“I’m going to leave a note and then I’ll take you somewhere we can bond.”

Alexander grumbles at the delay, his familiar echoing displeasure and then a sharp-toothed maw and soft muzzle nudge Magnus’ fingers as if in acceptance.

Which is sweet, because no how much Magnus wants to sink his senses into Alexander here and now, he can’t with the knowledge and sense input of all the enemies around him.

AN:

typically sentinel/guides kind of project emotions when bonding etc and Magnus doesn't want to share that sensation. he could share it with his own pride as like a morale boost but he might not ever share that.

Alec is dissociating right now because after another year of ignoring attempts, the Clave sent one of the sentinels who work more directly under their influence to uh... seduce him. It didn't work and Alec's mad and the wards had a panic because they don't want to risk losing Alec for Magnus' sake and Alec's safety.

i'll get more into descriptions later, Cahya is ice natured as a representation of Magnus' future guide and Jayr is fire natured for the same reason

[yannig]

Miscommunication is the entire point, actually

I've complained about the total and complete lack of communication between Charlie and Babe, because I don't like miscommunication tropes on principle. They're rarely done well, and even then they frustrate me a lot.

However, after some time to cool off, and some nice reminders from people on here that said miscommunication is very much in character, I am pretty confident the show is going somewhere with said trope, and not just struggling to find conflict in the story.

(which, considering the kind of show Pit Babe is, would be a pretty big red flag, especially that early in the season)

First of all, it's more than just Babe and Charlie struggling to communicate about Willy. It's also Jeff straight up refusing to tell Alan that his visions are coming back, even when he asks. It's Sonic avoiding North and dancing around whatever the actual issue is.

That makes 3 (romantic) relationships hindered by miscommunication! Out of... well arguably 3, at this point in the story. Pete and Chris aren't anything yet, and Kim and Kenta still haven't been on screen together this season!

That's not a coincidence or laziness, that's a deliberate theme. The writers clearly have a point to make.

Which is reassuring, because there is nothing more frustrating (and worrying) than a theme that seems to exist on accident, or a plot-line that writers don't seem invested in.

The second reason I'm certain this is deliberate is because some characters in this show can communicate, and are written in a very pointed way.

The first one is Kim, because my man has always been very straightforward about who he is and what he wants, telling Alan he's changing team because, as much as they're pack friends, X-Hunter is not what he needs as an athlete. He's both very open and clear about why he's leaving, and reassuring that they're still friends and it doesn't change anything off the track (though the fact that he didn't appear in ep2 does diminish that a bit). Great job, 10/10, communication goals, you'll need at least that to get through Kenta.

The second one is Alan, who is trying very hard to model healthy communication for Jeff, even if it doesn't seem to be working yet. It's the way he tells Jeff that he can come to him about anything, but doesn't push when Jeff deflects. It's the way he tells Jeff he's sad about Kim leaving and lets himself be comforted. It's also the way he shows Jeff by including him in all his decisions: Jeff clearly knows before anyone else about North's promotion and Dean's return, and we see him with Alan and Dean in the kitchen when Dean first arrives (I would not bet on Jeff waking Alan up in the opposite situation).

The third one is North, trying desperately to reach Sonic over the entire canyon Sonic has unexpectedly dug between them. It's the way he change the subject himself when Sonic doesn't answer his question about the phone call, the way he offers a group meal since Sonic seems uncomfortable with him, the way he ends up asking clearly if Sonic is avoiding him when nothing else seems to work, the way he's still trying to find the right thing to say even as Sonic is leaving. He wants so desperately to get some footing with Sonic he's trying every possible approach, reaching toward him again and again and again. It's not working, but boy is the poor man trying to open communication back up.

So yeah. This feels very pointed. There are just too many elements that revolve around communication for it to not be deliberate.

At this point, I'm pretty convinced communication is gonna the central plot-point and theme of the season and probably half the character arcs. Is there scheming going on with Tony and Willy, plus all the research for the serum? Yes. But it's all gonna hang on how the characters can or cannot communicate with each other.

Mind you, deliberation doesn't guarantee quality. But we do get a much better chance at an interesting development. And the fact that this theme is so obvious so early makes me pretty confident they know where they are going.

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

The couple of comments about bad therapists reminds me of my own story of a therapist who decided I was addicted to technology. I was having endless terrors and struggled entirely to leave my house for both mental and physical reasons so my life was almost entirely online either on discord/skype, occasionally making digital art, or I would make minecraft videos so I could feel like I still accomplished something even when I could not do anything and so I could remember what I had been doing. I think the guy felt I should have been reading books or something because he always asked about that and why I didn't and seemed to not understand how the constantly movement in my vision and the phasing spots made reading physical books extremely difficult. I do not know why he harped on so much about physical books. We went to a facility my family was looking to see if would work for me. During this period in particular I had a lot of trouble at the time being able to consistently speak, and when anxious, that would become so much worse (on top of already being hard of hearing). I had learned to sign to communicate (though its use was rather limited). The lady at the facility asked if I had any questions and being unable to speak in that moment I signed to them, since they knew I had hearing difficulties and said they could accommodate them. But they did not understand sign, and my parents never actually put in the effort to learn either so I pulled out my phone and wrote down my question and handed it to my father for him to speak for me and he did (which then of course the lady speaks back to him and not me thank you) and we went back and forth like this for a bit.

After we left the lady reported to my doctor that I had been on my phone the whole time and refused to speak to them. My doctor concluded that I was addicted to technology and so it needed to be taken away. I tried to explain to him multiple times what had actually happened and why I used the computer so much in my day to day, but he did not believe me and called me a liar. Anyway after that my access to my support and social system was entirely stripped before my father put a stop to it, but by that point I had gotten so much worse and now I fear even more that the humans will suddenly randomly rip away any friends or support system if they decide it is no longer allowed.

It is just really striking how many therapists seem certain to view you and your existence through their own lens of how you should be and how you should live and that we are unable entirely to even know what our -real- problems are.

This is such a common issue with a lot of the "addiction" frameworks honestly. Like is that disabled person struggling because they're too much on their phone or are they so much on their phone because that's the only entertainment and community that's actually accessible to them? Because the difference matters so much and removing the phone will only make scenario two even more distressing without offering any real solution. I'm so sorry you were put through this! It is straight out abusive.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

When I was 12, I first started experiencing painful subluxations that happened every time I turned my wrist. Prior to that I'd had subluxations and dislocations that happened randomly and erratically but happened hundres if not thousands of times a day all of a sudden and as you can imagine I was in more pain than a 12 year old could describe. I was also experiencing pain that no one believed me about because they couldn't see it because it was internal and I'd never had imaging (they later couldn't even find the issue on imaging and even later literally removed multiple organs to fix it and now the pain is lessened even though the surgery did a lot of damage).

Anyway, a physiotherapist gave me a children's-style book that I cannot remember or find the title of to this day. I know there was a lot of red and it was spiral bound but not cheaply. The only passage that sticks with me is the one page about a guy who would experience pain in his hand every sunday and he couldn't figure out why until he found out his neighbour made bread every sunday and all he had to do was close the window and it made me so incredibly mad.

I've tried mindfulness since. My physiotherapist and parents made me.

Hell, I was in the year when the school system back home decided to fucking put it in the curriculum (terrible fucking idea when you don't even have a psychologist around to deal with the students like me who freeze up and don't know what to do because they know mindfulness brings up traumatic memories that you're not ready for when it's don't crudely). They had mindfulness over the PA system every morning. They had mindfulness in classrooms. Language arts started with mindfulness every day. They got rid of it pretty damn fast thank god.

I have tried so many forms of mindfulness outside of school, including ones specific to pain. I've tried other types of therapy specific to pain. I've been refused admission for psych emergencies because they think I need to connect with resources on psych pain management. My incredible, amazing, terrifically gay therapist actually specialises in mindfulness and he has decided to never even use the word around me because he knows it doesn't work for me. And still doctors treat my pain and now my seizures and my paralysis and my fatigue and my inability to eat food or drink water as a neuropsych issue (note: neuropsych has a years long waitlist in western canada and I may have to travel)

After trying all the psych options I can access, I went through with the surgery and guess what? the pain is gone. Is there new pain? Yeah, of course and it's bad but it's nowhere near as bad as the pain that was subtracted. And that one had a treatable root cause (even if they couldn't technically find it they removed the offending organs). I drink heavily, relapse on IV opioids every few years, and try and kill myself sometimes because the pain is so bad from the things they can't treat or don't want to treat and I want to scream because mindfulness is not a substitute for pain control.

And I cannot close a window to treat my pain.

Hello! I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you have any thoughts on Howard Schubiner's Unlearn Your Pain, Mind Body Syndrome, treating neuroplastic symptoms, etc.? I was just referred to a pain management group that centers around these concepts, and I'm having some Feelings about the whole thing.

Just wondering if you've had any experiences with this type of treatment, or thoughts about its effectiveness. Thanks!

Okay, so this is going to be long, and I'm going to need you to stick with me through the tangent. I promise it's relevant.

I haven't read Howard Schubiner's work directly, but his colleague Alan Gordon was a key speaker at the Migraine World Summit this year. I found his talk interesting enough to buy his book and do some more research on my own, and I found it worthwhile pursuing on my own.

I know enough from my mast cell disorder to know that the body develops 'bad habits' around pain.

In the case of anxiety, stress, or panic, mast cells become more reactive, and this can make pain worse. This is true for everyone*; it's just those of us with MCAS or some other type of mast cell disorder who have more alarming symptoms like idiopathic anaphylaxis.

So, unfortunately, if I, as someone with MCAS, experience an acute pain from an injury or illness, the inherent stress response of the pain and the out-of-balance response from my nervous system can make my mast cells degranulate. They're little fuckers like that.

Mast cells can also put your body on an inflammatory cycle that is counterproductive to healing. They can literally get trained to anticipate reactions and pre-emptively react, because again, they are little fuckers.

To give you an example of this for me: my major migraines, the ones that land me in the hospital, occur on the dot every ten days. There are no hormonal factors to this that can be found or other consistent triggers or stressors, but I was unknowingly being exposed to an MCAS trigger roughly every ten days for a while. When I realized, I removed the trigger, obviously. Problem solved, right? Unfortunatley no. By then, my mast cells had trained themselves into a new pattern, and the migraine now is both the response and the trigger. It's some bastard thing called Innate Immune Memory. But it's also, partly, my subconscious anticipating the event and priming my body for a reaction, which I am susceptible to because of my MCAS and dysautonomia, which is a type of nervous system disorder.

And this is where the neuroplasticity comes in.

I'm currently in the process of trying to unlearn this response and better regulate my nervous system, which unfortunately makes me sound like a TikTok girly with a link in bio to sell you cortisol healing tea, but I promise you the only thing I'm interesting in shilling is my smutty vampire books. (And this post will be how some people learn I write books)

Anyway, why am I bothering to explain mast cell dysfunction like this in relation to neuroplasticity?

Because, yeah, if a pain doctor handed me a leaflet about 'unlearning pain' and I didn't understand how my body is routinely sabotaging itself on a cellular level in response to acute and neuroplastic pain, I'd also be rolling my eyes and feeling like I've just been handed a bottle of snake oil in the market.

God knows I've been handed 'mindfullness' leaflets by enough shitty doctors who don't actually understand what it means when we say "stress affects the nervous system" and just assume the patient is inventing symptoms to be annoying.

Thankfully, that is not what this is. At least I am hoping the doctor sending you there doesn't think you are causing your own pain. What they are hopefully trying to do is introduce you to something that a lot of chronic pain patients are reporting helps them feel more in control of their lives after many years of feeling at the mercy of their pain.

I don't attend the sessions at my brain injury clinic (yet), but I do know they use neuroplasticity therapy to help amputees with the phantom pain they experience from missing limbs. My physical therapist spent an entire session singing its virtues to me while I was fighting for my life on a balance board. Which is also why I decided to look into it after I heard Gordon talking at the Migraine World Summit.

So, do I think Schubiner's methods are hokum?

No, I think there's a lot of merit to the things he talks about and explains, but I also know the only reason I think that is because of the insight I have into the brain-body bundle through the experiences of my mast cell disease that has taught me there is nothing the brain is incapable of fucking up.

Do I think targeting neuroplastic pain will work well for everyone?

No. I think you need to try it and see if it's a good fit for you.

Some people who attended the World Migraine Summit think it's snake oil/just another way for pain doctors to foist us off into the realm of mental health care. Conversely, other people won't shut up about how learning to break the cycle of fear and panic around their pain has been life-altering for them.

For me, it's been more subtle and is part of a broader spectrum of therapies and medical treatment I use to keep my nervous system in check. It certainly hasn't done me any harm. If anything, I found it quite validating to hear someone say, "Oh, the pain is in your head? Of course it is. Let's try to fix that," and then gave me actionable coping methods. They might not work profoundly in the long term. I'm still a sick bitch with multiple acute causes of my pain. But it's also not harming me the way mindfulness was (many chronic pain patients can find it traumatizing).

I will say, I am concerned that some doctors will use the treatment of neuroplastic pain to dismiss treating acute pain with physical causes.

Just like how mindfulness has been abused by an overworked, underfunded medical system not equipped to handle chronic patients, there's also the risk of neuroplastic therapy being tossed over the fence in a similar fashion as a last ditch Hail Mary to treat patients they don't have time for. But I don't think it's widespread enough yet for that to be the case.

I dunno. Give it a try. If it's not for you, it's not for you.

Personally, I hate anything that revolves around group therapy, but I did find the book "The Way Out" by Alan Gordon insightful in helping me figure some things out. Maybe see if your local library has it before you drop money on any sessions?

_ _ _

*There has also been more compelling evidence recently that suggests that chronic pain conditions like fibromyalgia are also affected by wonky mast cells. Also arthritis.

[kelpies-inthe-marsh]

"Talk To Me"

Braxton x Reader

A/N: like all my fics, this is really self indulgent, and maybe one day it'll lead to me writing for other jon bernthal characters but for now. This is all I got

Warnings: mentions of nightmares, otherwise none, its cute

It was late.

It was really really late, about 2:30 in the morning, kind of late.

Or was it early?

You really weren't sure, you supposed It depended on the type of person you were whether it was late or early.

It was late for you specifically though.

You were only awake because you'd had the most vivid and horrific nightmare and you just had to make sure Braxton was okay. You'd woken up panting, sweaty, your blankets bunched at the bottom of the bed, clearly you'd thrashed around quite a bit before you'd finally bolted upright.

He wasn't answering. This shouldn't have scared you as badly as it did, Brax was working, and you weren't even sure what country he was in, to know what time it was. It could have been just as late, or the middle of the day, you had no idea. All you really knew was that you desperately needed to hear his voice. You just needed to know he was okay.

You'd never actually been so disappointed to hear his voice mail message, instead of leaving one after the tone, you hung up and tried again. The fingers of your freehand drummed a random pattern against the mattress as you silently begged whatever god was listening for Braxton to just answer his phone. Usually he'd pick up on the first ring, because of his ever present earpiece, it would annoy you when he'd wear it at home, but now you were cursing the fact that he didn't have it.

The third ring, and then the fourth. It stopped ringing, “hello?” There was his voice, finally, you'd never been so grateful to hear him.

The relieved sound you made was clearly heard by Braxton, because he asked, “sweetheart? Are you alright? What's goin' on?”

You took a really deep breath, and let it out before you started speaking, “I'm really sorry for calling, I know you're working, but I just, I had.. a nightmare and it was so real, and you- I just had to make sure you were okay.”

You heard stuffing through the phone, and the tell tale click of a lamp turning on, “I'm here, sweetheart,” he murmured, “I'm ok. How can I help?”

You couldn't help but sniffle, even when you were waking him up, Braxton was still ready to take care of you, “just, can you um, can you talk to me? Just about anything, just for a few minutes-”

“Yeah, yeah absolutely- I'm right here-” he agreed almost instantly.

You got nice and comfy in bed again, rolling over to his side. You'd definitely have to change the sheets, but that was an issue for tomorrow. As soon as you were settled you asked him, “how was your day?”

That must have been a very loaded question, because he was off. Braxton told you about his boss, and the insane demands the client had, “like I'm talkin' horse head in the bed, sweetheart, how fucked is that?” He tossed in, clearly annoyed.

You couldn't help but laugh, and in turn it made him chuckle, “they think I'm like, a mob enforcer- which sure I can pretend, for a price right? But they're not willing to pay the fee- so I'm just doing the job, should be done today actually, and then I'll be home, how's that sound?”

The sound of his voice always relaxed you, so you were really near falling asleep again, but you nodded, knowing he couldn't see you, “sounds good Brax, miss you-” trailing off with a yawn.

He smiled, running a hand through his hair with a small huff, “miss you too, so much, you think you can get some sleep for me? Maybe if we're lucky, I'll be home by the time you wake up, hm?”

You yawned again, cuddling into his pillow, “yeah, mhm, I can do that, love you.”

He shook his head, the smile never leaving his face, “love you too sweetheart, so much-”

He didn't think you would reply, but he stayed on the phone anyway, just until he heard your breathing really slow, and deepen. He only hung up after that. Running a hand across his face, he sighed, he was already awake, so there wasn't any reason why he couldn't get the job done early.

The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get home to you, and that was all he really wanted. Just to get home, and hold you. If he finished quickly, maybe you'd still be asleep, and he'd get to sneak into bed, and lay with you for a while.

That was all the motivation he needed to get out of bed, handling this while everyone was still asleep was probably the best way to go.. thank god he didn't have to outsource a horse head for this job. The little victories, and the idea of you waiting for him at home, would carry him through the completion of this job

[writers-lore]

Glasses

Solangelo + Kayla & Austin - 1,219 words - fluff

(Look, I’m not a medical professional, and I doubt CHB has general medical equipment for hearing or vision tests— I feel like the infirmary is more for the flu breakouts or hurting yourself. I tried to research hearing tests though, and I’ve sat in on vision tests— the infirmary makes do with what they have)

///////

Kayla was on the clock in the infirmary that night, making sure the one camper who was staying for the night would be fine. And, on the plus side, she got some company during the night.

“Hey” Nico said, walking in and heading to the desk. Kayla tended to the files that her siblings (cough Will cough) had taken down to organize and forgotten to put back. He sat down and started to spin in a circle in the desk chair.

“It’s like five in the morning Nico, why are you still awake?” Kayla said, picking up a file and flicking through it. “They didn’t even fill out their allergies-- hey that’s my chair, you get the bean bag.”

“Why don’t people fully fill them out?” Nico asked, slightly flopping into the bean bag.

“Sometimes they don’t know their medical history- some kids come to camp when they’re young, like me, and don’t know their history.” Kayla explains, adding another file to the pile of unfilled-out files, “Oh hey, it’s your file, Nico. Yeah, so that’s going into the unfilled-out files.”

“What? Let me see.” He snatched the file from Kayla, “Oh-- it really isn’t.”

“Have you had any of your booster shots recently?” Kayla asked, finally looking directly at him.

“What’s a booster shot?” He joked, trying to keep himself from smiling. Campers tended to assume that because he was born in the thirties, he had no idea what medicine was despite shots existing then. He has had shots before, but in recent years has forgotten to get his flu shots.

“Oh my gods you better be kidding. But in all seriousness, have you had them? Like a flu shot? Have you had an eye exam? Have you had a hearing test?” Kayla interrogated as if she were going down a list.

“Uhhhhhh,” Nico’s mind started to go blank after being put on the spot. He looked up at the ceiling as if it would magically tell him if he had ever gone to an eye doctor before. “I’ve had booster shots, do you really think your brother would let that slide? But, I don’t think I’ve had an eye test- whatever, before. Or that other thing you said.”

“What?” Will exclaimed, a dumbfounded look on his face. He had just walked into the infirmary to see how Kayla’s night shift had gone.

“This is gonna be awesome- hey, imagine you really do need glasses. How many fingers am I holding up dude?” Kayla says holding up two fingers before rapidly switching the amount of fingers she held up.

“Okay that’s so helpful Kayla. Is it actually necessary?” Nico sighed, looking at Will, “I don’t think I have issues with my vision, wouldn’t I have already known?”

“Mm- it depends. Sometimes what someone thinks is normal isn’t actually normal. So you could need glasses. I doubt you have hearing issues since that would’ve been a clear issue.” Will says while searching in the infirmary desk for a pair of earbuds, “Here, put these in. Let me know if you can hear them. It’s not perfect, but we don’t really have the equipment for general health stuff. Not even sure if I’m doing it right. We do have an eye test though.”

Despite having all the equipment to attend to trauma wounds, the infirmary didn’t really have anything for hearing tests other than headphones and asking, “Did you hear that?” before admitting they could hear, could hardly hear, or didn’t hear. It honestly wasn’t the best system, and unsurprisingly, not medical grade. However, cabin seven made it work. Surprisingly, hardly ever was any camper diagnosed, or not diagnosed, with something they did or didn’t have. The infirmary did more medic things than general medicine.

Will connected the headphones to his phone before cursing to himself silently while he shut down the hundreds of tabs he had open. His phone case was one of those cases that make it harder to break your phone. Although, you wouldn’t realize it by looking at his damaged screen protector.

“So, our next story takes place in the 40’s—“

“William is this just one of your podcasts??” Nico took an earbud out.

“Shit-- hold on. That wasn’t supposed to play.” Will said, making an overwhelmed hand gesture, “Okay, here. Let me know if you can hear it.”

When the music played, Nico could hear it clearly. Tear in my Heart by twenty-one pilots started playing. It was their song. Their song. Nico felt his face go red. When he first liked Will, he felt cheesy listening to love songs. But when he told Will what songs he listened to, there was no judgement. No reason for guilt, nothing.

“I can hear it” Nico said, taking out an earbud so he didn’t need to yell.

“Cool- now we just have to do your vision test.” Will said, taking the headphones from Nico and shoving them onto the desk.

“I wonder if we’re violating HIPPA by saying the results of your tests.” Kayla spun herself in the desk chair while eating a lollipop stolen from the infirmary’s supply.

“I doubt that’s something we’d need to worry about— besides I don’t care if people know if I have vision or hearing issues.” Nico said, “And, the dress code isn’t even up to standards and there hasn’t been many issues with that”

“Yeah, I mean it’s not like I’m going around gossiping that I knew it was Alice who made the camp have food poisoning for a week” Kayla said, starting to chew on her lollipop. Will glared at her and rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, I sat that piece of paper up on that far wall,” Will pointed a few feet away from himself, ”Let me know what letters you can read. Start with the bottom row please.”

“I can’t read that row— but I think I can read the third row from the bottom.” Nico squinted, he tried his best to read that row but eventually, he realized he wasn’t able to.

“Hm, okay.” Will said, he started to think to himself about the results.

“Damn, seems like you need some glasses dude.” Kayla said, she turned her chair to face her brother and his boyfriend.

///////

“For fu—“ Nico cut himself off knowing he was about to say something he could regret, “Will, I could see just fine before. Why do I have to keep them on?”

“I literally don’t know why you’re having such an issue with your glasses” Will said, puzzled. He looked up from his book to see Nico pushing his glasses back up for the third time since they sat down, “Darlin’, quit messing with em’.”

“Yeah darlin’” Kayla said, mocking her brother's accent. He didn’t sound southern all of the time, but it starts to slip now and then. Will whipped his head over to glare at her.

“Why don’t you just get contacts?” Austin said, sitting down next to Kayla with an orange.

“Pleaseee Willlll” Nico said a bit over-dramatically. He clasped his hands together as if he were praying. Will chuckled for a second before ruffling his boyfriend’s hair.

“Okay, I’ll put the order in— but you gotta put those in” Will said smiling.

[mintyys-blog]

TRAINING WHEELS 2 | kregg x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARMINGS: implied sex, daddy issues

The next day, everything returns to normal.

At least on the surface.

You stand beside Kregg in the war hall like nothing happened, like he didn’t have you shaking beneath him just hours ago, your body stretched around him, your name a broken whisper on his lips. Your uniform is crisp. Your expression, unreadable. Just another day under the ever-watchful eye of Viltrumite order.

No one suspects a thing.

Kregg doesn’t look at you once during the debriefing. He keeps his eyes forward, posture sharp, voice clipped. Just like always. You match his calm with your own. Detached. Focused. Unbothered.

But your body still aches in ways only he could’ve left behind.

The real difference—the only one that matters—is what happens after the doors close.

Because behind them? Discipline dissolves.

His mouth is on yours before you even speak, like he’s been starving for it all day. He backs you into the wall of your quarters, hands already working at the seal of your armor, breath hot against your neck.

No words. No strategy. Just need.

You’re tangled in sheets again before you’ve even caught your breath—your leg over his hip, your back arched beneath him, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. And when he pushes inside you, slow and deep like he missed being here, it hits differently than it did the first time.

Because now? Now it’s not just want. Now it’s habit.

You bite his shoulder to keep quiet. He grunts against your throat, whispering things he’d never say under Viltrum’s sun. His hand covers your mouth again when you moan too loud—except this time, there’s a smirk in his voice when he says, “Told you—you’re gonna get us caught.”

And you? You just roll your hips and whisper, “I don’t care.” And he doesn’t. Not behind closed doors. Not with you.

The corridor stinks of blood and sterilized metal.

You’re fresh from a solo patrol—sore, bruised, and half-ready to collapse—when Conquest steps into your path like a boulder dropped from orbit. Still bloodstained from his last fight, grinning like he just found something soft to crush.

“Surprised you’re still alive,” he rumbles, voice like gravel scraping down a steel wall. “You’ve got your father’s eyes, but not his bite.”

You don’t flinch. Not in front of him.

But your hands do curl into fists.

“I’m doing just fine.”

Conquest tilts his head, that twisted amusement never leaving his scarred face. “Mm. And yet… I’ve noticed you and Kregg getting close.”

Your spine stiffens.

He leans in—just slightly—eyes glinting. “How would dear ol’ Daddy feel about that?”

You stare at him—hard. Flat. You cross your arms, keeping your voice as level as possible.

“He wouldn’t care.”

Conquest raises a brow, clearly amused.

“Because nothing is happening between us,” you lie, sharp and fast. “Why don’t you mind your own business, old man?”

His grin stretches wider, too many teeth, too much satisfaction.

“I love when you lie like that,” he growls, stepping aside with the weight of someone who could break your ribs just by looking at you too long. “You sound just like your father.”

You brush past him without another word, shoulders rigid, heat crawling up your spine—not fear. Not exactly.

But danger is in the air now. Because Conquest doesn’t just observe. He waits. And now he’s watching.

You make it two corridors before you stop.

Just far enough to breathe.

Not far enough to calm down.

Conquest’s words stick to your skin like sweat—filthy, smug, too close to something real. You know what he saw. You know what he thinks he knows. And worse… you don’t know what he’s going to do with it.

The door to your quarters hisses open the second you step close.

You don’t make it halfway to the sink before—

“What did he say to you?”

Kregg’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and already on edge. He’s there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting. Still in uniform, arms crossed, eyes burning.

You stiffen. “You were listening?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t deny it.

You grip the edge of the counter, trying to shake off the weight crawling under your skin. “He’s fishing. Said you and I are getting close.”

Kregg’s eyes narrow. “He’s not wrong.”

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not.” He pushes off the wall, steps closer, voice low. “But he’s not going to let this go. You know that.”

You hate how much your chest tightens at the truth in his voice. Conquest doesn’t care about rules. He doesn’t care about Thragg. He cares about power—and leverage—and blood.

And right now, you are all three.

“He brought up my father,” you say quietly, folding your arms. “Tried to bait me. Said he’s surprised I’m still alive.”

Kregg’s jaw ticks.

“And?”

You meet his gaze. “I told him nothing’s happening between us.”

A beat. Tense. Silent.

Then Kregg steps in close—too close—until the heat of him drowns everything else out. “You don’t get to lie to me,” he says, voice low, rough, not angry—hurt. “Not after last night.”

You falter. Just for a second.

But he sees it.

“I’m not lying to you,” you say, softer now. “I’m lying to him.”

Kregg exhales through his nose. “Then tell me how far you’re willing to go with that lie. Because if he starts sniffing around your name, your rank, your father—he won’t just talk next time. He’ll act.”

You look up at him. His face is stone—but his eyes aren’t.

“They’d never let us happen,” you whisper.

“I don’t care what they’d let.”

And when he kisses you again—slow this time, grounded—you know he means it.

But just outside the sealed door, farther down the darkened corridor… Conquest is still smiling. Waiting. And listening.

Conquest doesn’t wait long.

By the time Kregg leaves your quarters—clean, composed, his expression unreadable—the old warhound is already waiting.

He doesn’t bother hiding. Doesn’t need to. He stands in the middle of the corridor like a statue carved from violence, arms behind his back, smile carved into his face like a scar. And when Kregg rounds the corner and sees him, he doesn’t stop walking.

But he does go still inside. For half a second.

“Busy night?” Conquest asks, voice oily and low, like something rotting beneath metal. “Or just a productive one?”

Kregg doesn’t rise to the bait. He steps past him, like he’s going to ignore it.

Conquest turns with a quiet, amused hum.

“Ah. So it’s true, then.”

That stops him.

Kregg’s back is to him. His fists are clenched. But his voice is cold as ever.

“You don’t know anything.”

Conquest chuckles. “Don’t I?”

He takes a few slow steps closer. The sound of his boots echoes too loud in the narrow hall. “You’ve got her scent all over you. You’ve been watching her like she’s a bomb about to go off, and now?” He laughs. “Now you’re not just in over your head—you’re in her bed.”

Kregg finally turns, eyes sharp as a blade. “Say her name and I’ll put you through the wall.”

Conquest grins wider. “There it is. That little flash of ownership. You really think that’ll protect her? From him?”

Kregg doesn’t answer. But his stance changes—weight shifting forward, every inch of him a hair away from violence.

“She’s not your toy, Conquest.”

“She’s not yours either.”

They stare at each other, two predators locked in a moment too quiet to stay still for long.

Then Conquest leans in—close enough that only Kregg can hear.

“When Thragg finds out his daughter’s been spreading her legs for a runt, do you think he’ll kill you first?” His smile widens, voice dropping. “Or let you watch what he does to her?”

Kregg doesn’t move. Not yet. But his voice, when it comes, is a warning. “I hope you’re fast, old man. Because the second you lay a hand on her… I won’t give you time to regret it.”

He walks away without waiting for a reply. Conquest watches him go, still smiling. Still amused. But there’s a flicker of something else now. Interest.

You weren’t looking for trouble.

You were just walking the upper level halls—assigned to briefing, nothing unusual—until you heard it.

Two voices. Heavy. Low. Meant to be private.

But the way your name cuts through the air makes you stop cold.

You lean just close enough around the corner to see them: Thragg, towering and regal as ever, arms folded like a war god bored with peace. And Conquest, hands behind his back, his crooked smile toned down to something almost civil.

Almost.

“I thought you would’ve dealt with her already,” Conquest says, voice too calm. “She’s reckless. Distracted. Not nearly as sharp as you want to believe.”

Thragg doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t move. Just stares out the observation window like the planet below is the only thing that matters.

“She’s young.”

“She’s weak,” Conquest replies. “And she’s compromised.”

A pause.

You hold your breath.

Then Thragg says, “Explain.”

Conquest smiles. You hate that smile.

“She and Kregg have been… entangled. Quiet, but not careful enough. I’ve seen it. Smelled it. The way they circle each other? That’s not training. That’s indulgence.”

Thragg still doesn’t move. But his silence is worse than shouting.

“She won’t be taken seriously as long as she’s dragging around a guard dog with a hard-on,” Conquest adds. “And you know Kregg. Loyal to a fault. But he won’t let you touch her now. You’ll have to go through him.”

Still, Thragg says nothing.

And then—finally—his voice, calm and razor-sharp:

“Leave them to me.”

Conquest tilts his head. “So you do care.”

“I care about control,” Thragg answers. “And she will learn it. Or lose everything.” Your stomach turns.

You step back from the corner, quiet as breath, heart pounding in your ears. They didn’t see you. Not yet. But he knows. Your father knows. And he’s not angry. He’s calculating.

The throne room is quiet.

Too quiet.

No generals. No advisors. Just the three of you under the heavy weight of Viltrumite banners and Thragg’s unblinking judgment. His presence fills the room like gravity turned cruel—sharp-edged and suffocating.

He stands at the dais, arms behind his back, staring down at you like you’re nothing more than a malfunction he plans to erase.

“Is it true?” he asks, voice cold and absolute.

You lift your chin. “Is what true, Father?”

His gaze narrows. “Don’t play coy with me, girl.” The word girl hits like a slap. “Have you two been… together?”

Your heart hammers once—hard. You feel Kregg tense beside you, but neither of you look away.

You pause. Then—quiet, but steady—you say, “Yes. We… have.”

The silence that follows is worse than a blow.

Thragg hums—low and dangerous—as he turns to Kregg.

“You dare sleep with one of my daughters?” His voice cuts like a blade, full of regal disgust and something darker, something personal. “You—nothing but a blood-wet soldier crawling out of the trenches—you presume to touch my bloodline?”

Kregg says nothing.

Doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t cower.

Just stands there, shoulders square, jaw locked.

So you step forward.

You don’t look at your father—you challenge him.

“He taught me how to fight,” you say. “When everyone else gave me speeches, he gave me results. He makes me stronger.”

Thragg’s gaze snaps back to you.

“You were born stronger,” he snarls. “You carry my blood. You should not need some soldier’s hands on you to find it.”

You grit your teeth. “And yet I did.”

That lands. You see it in the flicker behind his eyes—fury, disbelief, something wounded and violent twisting together.

He steps down from the dais slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. His voice lowers to something almost venomous. “You would defy me. For him.”

Your fists clench. “I’m not defying you.”

“Yes,” Kregg finally speaks—his voice calm, firm, breaking the tension like a gauntlet thrown. “She is.”

You glance at him—wide-eyed.

He doesn’t look at you. He’s staring straight ahead, into the lion’s mouth.

“She’s choosing her path. One you never gave her the freedom to find.”

And now Thragg is smiling—but it’s not a kind thing. It’s sharp, teeth-baring, laced with something violent and cold.

“So be it,” he says. “But understand this…”

He looks at you again, gaze like fire pressed to skin.

“If he weakens you, I will kill him.”

He turns and begins walking away, voice echoing behind him like a sentence already passed.

“If you weaken me—I will kill you both.”

The doors boom shut behind him.

And you’re left standing beside Kregg in the silence.

Not safe.

Not forgiven.

But still together.

You don’t speak until the door seals shut behind you.

The moment it does, you let out a breath like you’d been holding it since the throne room. Pacing a few steps, still waiting for the tremor in your legs to settle.

“I can’t believe he didn’t kill us.”

Kregg doesn’t sit. Just leans against the wall, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“It wasn’t mercy,” he mutters. “It was strategy.” You glance back at him. He looks tired. But not shaken. Not anymore.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he continues, voice low. “He’s not going to do anything. Not now. Not after what you said. Not after I didn’t back down.”

You nod slowly, realization sinking in. “He can’t afford the optics. His daughter choosing her own partner? Fighting better than she ever has? If he punishes either of us, it looks like weakness.”

Kregg gives a dry, humorless smile. “And Thragg would rather swallow nails than look weak.”

You cross the room to him, slower this time, the adrenaline giving way to something warmer. Something real.

“He’s not going to stop it,” you say, voice quieter now. “He knows. And he’s going to let it happen. Not because he approves—”

“—but because it works,” Kregg finishes. “Because we’re stronger together than apart. And he wants results more than control.”

You step in closer, between his arms, resting your hands on his chest. His gaze drops to yours. “I think,” you murmur, “we might’ve actually won.”

Kregg wraps his arms around you—slow, certain, protective in a way no one’s ever dared to be with you before. “You fought for it,” he says. “You didn’t flinch. He saw that.”

You lean your forehead against his. “So did you.” He smirks faintly. “I’m still recovering.”

You laugh—quiet, breathless—and the tension finally breaks for real. It’s not over. Nothing ever is, with a father like Thragg. But for once, the battlefield has cleared in your favor. And for the first time, it feels like the war wasn’t for his approval. It was for yourselves. And you won.

[maxdibert]

Oh, the main café she liked to write was owned by her brother in law, that's how she got to ask for a lot of coffees and not get kicked out for staying there for too long. As for her baby, she confirmed that she brought her to the café sometimes, but she also got friends babysitting.

The whole deal is that Rowling found herself in a hellish situation (just escaped her abusive ex, without a house and with a baby? I don't wish that to my worst enemies), BUT she had a good network of family, friends and economic state help to get through very comfortably. She never slept in a shelter, let alone the streets, because her sister had a very expensive flat she could share with her. Her friends lend her money and gave her furniture when she finally got her own flat. She felt comfy (or cocky) enough to throw away toys a charity had brought for her daughter.

Was it a terrible situation? Yes. Was it as tragic as the press painted it? Not really. One would think that this experience would have made her more aware of those who have it worse and don't have wealthy friends or family to help, but I guess not.

Look, even if she didn’t have to pay for the coffee, my point isn’t about money spent ñ, it’s about not needing to work in order to survive. I mean, what kind of person can afford to spend hours sitting in a café? Someone who clearly has the resources not to work, even while raising a daughter. And honestly, I’m glad — really — that she had a strong support network and was in a safe, comfortable place after leaving an abusive relationship (even knowing what a shitty person she turned out to be). I’m glad she had people around her and help when she needed it. But that’s not poverty. That’s not being a struggling, working-class single mother.

That’s being a privileged person who didn’t need to work, not even with a child and a divorce to deal with.

When I was a student, I worked in a call center just to earn some extra money for myself, and I saw real economic hardship there. Migrant mothers, with husbands doing double shifts so they could just barely afford a shitty flat and basic things for their kids. They couldn’t take a day off to go write in a café, they had to juggle everything, coordinate with their partners to pick the kids up from school, or rely on a neighbour, and if the neighbour had to work, they had to figure it out themselves. That is what a precarious life looks like.

I have no idea what kind of bubble of privilege this woman was living in, to think that maybe not having access to her usual comforts meant she was poor. I’ve known people in actual poverty — and people at risk of it — and I can assure you they didn’t have the time or the financial safety net to sit for hours writing in a café, much less the ability to not work and still have their children safe, fed, and cared for.

And that says a lot about her, about how little she understands the real social realities of the world she lives in, about her complete disconnect from structural issues, and, frankly, about the deep classism baked into her books.

[gisellegoldstein]

It was never going to be easy, the continual wondering of "if things had been done differently" on both their parts. What he could have done differently to not make her feel like she hadn't mattered enough to talk to, for her to stay and fight through the trust issues. In the long run, was it going to matter? They had both made their decisions and now they needed to learn to handle the fact that they'd be living in the same town. Eventually it would get easier, and that was something she could hope for. "Thank you, I was really surprised when I got the call." It had been something that she would have figured she would have heard way back when, but it had been something apparently that they had taken their time on given it was such a big position. "Guess so, I know that originally I wasn't going to take the position, when they called I figured it was just one of those general like we're talking about this position but then you don't actually get offered it, it's something totally different." Giselle had seen it several times throughout her life, but she hadn't wanted to be rude after all. That wasn't in her nature to blow things off, but when the offer to be Senior Vice President of the organization, she knew this was a once in a lifetime offer. Part of her hope that even if it was difficult for the both of them that Asher would have wanted her to take it.

"It's okay." Given she knew the truth, she didn't want him to feel too bad. It wasn't his fault, she had chosen to do this alone, so she didn't blame Asher, she just felt like it was better this way. Not letting him be tied down to something he didn't want.

When he mentioned that the store was doing well, "I'm really glad that it's doing well." Giselle meant it, she was happy that it was working out for him. Despite the issues it caused, the problems it had lead to, she was happy that everything seemed to work out for him. "Looks like it all worked out in the end, didn't it?" He looked happy, he looked good, at the end of the day she still wanted that for him. "I'm really glad, I hope you know that." It wasn't sarcastic, and she hoped that he would believe her.

Just as she was going to say something Clara, the little girl strapped to her chest, made a small noise, feeling her tiny body shifting. "Oh, sorry, think Clara is waking up." shifting as she reached over to grab a pacifier and gently pop it into her mouth so she wouldn't start crying. "I'm shocked they were both sleeping, typically when one sleeps the other is wide awake and vice versa."

A sharp pain pierced his heart, picking up on the start of the sentence, "back when we were together". A time before Asher had completely fucked up everything by a string of irresponsible and reckless decisions. If only he could get his hands on a time machine and go back in time to warn his past self about the terrible mistake he was about to make. If that were even possible, would it have changed anything? He couldn't fall down the rabbit hole of "what ifs" and "if onlys". Not only was she back in town, but she now held the position she had once dreamt about. A strange sense of pride washed over Asher, feeling that streak of happiness for his ex wife. "Wow, that's amazing! Congratulations!" A small part of him wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around Giselle to pull her in for a hug. However, things had changed too much and the last thing he wanted to do was make this any more awkward than it already was. "It really sounds like it was all meant to be."

With the small details about the father of the twins, Asher nodded his head. He was still slightly suspicious and knew there was still a small sliver of possibility that he could be there father. The more Giselle spoke, the more that spark of possibility dwindled. Sharp daggers pierced his heart at the thought of another man entering her life, sweeping her off her feet, and fathering the two beautiful twins before him. "Oh, I'm sorry," was all Asher could bring himself to mutter out. There was a lump forming in his throat, followed by the sting of tears pooling at his water line. He willed them not to fall by quickly blinking them away. "Well it's good to see you again," he stated as he soaked in the rest of the details about how Giselle ended up back in his hometown. The mention of the store caused his heart to drop into the pit of his stomach. Business had been booming and he was finally living out a huge dream of his—but at what price? Buying the store had been the catalyst that ended his marriage. If it weren't for his impulsive nature and better communication skills, he may have been able to accomplish his dream while staying married to his dream girl and the love of his life. But now, there was a hollow part inside of him. As long as Giselle was out of his life, Asher knew he would never again be whole. He did his best to fill that hollowed out part of him with music, work, and even the occasional joint, yet nothing ever works. "I've been good. The store is also good. Business has been pretty steady lately." The awkwardness that surrounded them felt so unnatural and foreign. After all this was the woman who knew all the ins and outs of him. She knew his secrets, his fears, and everything in between. It was hard to believe that in the time they've spent apart since their divorce that some of those things may have shifted or changed.

[springtrapsspringlockedbussy]

A Pit of Paranoia

FNAF Springtrap x OC

Word Count: 2,889

Summary:

Your dreams were always a nightmare. A past you never could escape from. Sometimes it would be merciful. It would just be you meeting your end. Crawling away from a man with a gun, too shot up to do anything other than growl. Other times, it was horrifying. Being a second too late to save your beloved. Witnessing him die. You could never stay asleep for long.