#this one actually hurt real bad

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

song of the fic!! also lil warnin' this one kinda got outta my hands (WAY sadder than I meant it to be) so fair warnin'!! fic under the cut!!

There's a low, keenin' noise comin' from somewhere nearby. Meltin' into the sound the wind makes as it knocks the last fall leaves off the trees standin' centennial around the lot, already beat up 'n busted in, bark barely visible behind a hundred initials carved 'n scratched out 'n carved again.

Dallas tilts his head, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed as they swept back 'n forth. The lots mostly barren. Someone's ditched joy ride, scavenged to parts by the midnight auto supply, hood popped 'n empty engine block gapin' like a mouth with a missin' tooth.

There's that goddamn noise again. Somethin' low 'n soft that pricks at Dallas' memory uncomfortably. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, pulls out the crushed Winston's 'n strikes the last match in the pack against the back of his St. Christopher.

The car shakes, the back door slammin' in the stiff breeze. A dog. The kicked kind. God, that's what it reminds him of. 'N then his stomach does a sharp twist 'cause he knows who that reminds him of too.

He turns on his heel, pulls his jacket tight around him, bites down on the cig 'n blows the smoke out his nose. Whatever.

The noise sniffles. Sharply. Makes a low little huff that makes Dallas pull up short so fast his teeth click together. He knows that noise.

A head appears in the car window, hair blonde at the ends 'n wild around his eyes.

Oh. Alright.

Before he can stop to think about it, he's crossin' back across the cement. Footsteps makin' a lonely, off-rhythm beat. He yanks the back door open harder than he means to 'n Pony yelps, starin' up at him with big, red-rimmed eyes.

He climbs in. Doesn't bother to say anythin'. Neither does Pony 'n for a moment they're both just tensed up against the unbearable weight of everythin' they ain't sayin'.

"You know," Dallas finally speaks 'n his voice is hoarse 'n thick in his throat, "your brothers are lookin' for you."

Pony bites down on his lip, presses his palms into his eyes. "Let 'em look."

Dallas swallows back the last fizzled end of the cig, lets it burn in the back of his throat, 'n tosses it out the busted-in window. "You don't mean that."

Pony doesn't answer. Just slumps down against the leather seat. It's got long gashes along the seams, like some long clawed thing had sunk into it.

They lapse back into silence. Dallas tosses his hair back from his eyes, keeps his head up, turnin' slowly so he can see every corner of the lot. There's an angry thrum somewhere under his wrists. Poundin' in time to his heart. He clenches his fists so hard blood pools on his palms, presses bloody hands to his jeans.

"Do you know what today is, Dally?" Dallas turns to look back at the kid. He's pressed against the door, knees to his chest, cheeks wet. He looks... younger. 'N older. Like grief.

"Yeah." Don't say it. Don't fuckin' say it.

"He'd have been seventeen by now. Y'know?" He knew.

Pony's voice sounds hollowed out. Like someone's opened his mouth, put the words in there 'n then closed it again.

"Yeah." Dallas goes for the cigarettes again, barely gets it to his mouth 'n suddenly realizes he's shakin'. "I know."

"Don't you have anythin' else to fuckin' say?" Pony snaps 'n Dallas flinches. Fuckin' flinches.

"The fuck do you want me to say?" He spits out. 'Cause if he doesn't he'll cry. 'N that's fuckin' stupid. 'N he's not doin' that.

"Sorry."

"I know." Pony fishes a pack of matches from the back of his too-big jeans. Hand me downs from Soda or Two or both, hands it to Dallas. Dallas nearly snaps it in two. "Me too."

"I just... miss him. Is all." Pony pulls his legs up somehow even further into his chest, caves around them. He drops his chin down, cradled between his knees 'n he looks like he did just over a year ago. Like some kid whose biggest concern was the holes in his jeans he had to hide from his older brother 'cause he'd told him not to bail down on his knees when he jumped off that shitty skateboard Two had probably stolen.

God. That was a hundred years ago. A thousand.

He'd come to Dallas. For some goddamn reason. Like Dallas had ever known what to do about a skinned knee. Like he'd ever be gentle enough for that.

"I-" 'N suddenly Pony's full weight is against Dallas' chest. Fingers diggin' into the front of his shirt 'n clawin' at his skin.

"It hurts. All the time. Does it ever stop? How do I make it stop hurtin'?" He's cryin'. Low, desperate sobs that leave him gaspin' for breath.

'N here's the thing. Dallas isn't... good with this. Bein' touched 'n holdin' 'n comfortin'. Dallas was carved with a switchblade 'n blunt nails that leave long searin' scars. He was made to die the kind of death that tabloids would rip apart in the front page margins. Never the kind of soft, diligent eulogy of a hood turned hero only when he was too far gone to know it.

Dallas was supposed to be dead.

But he wasn't.

'N Johnny was.

Pony wraps a hand around Dallas' bicep, clings to him like a goddamn life boat. Dallas bites straight through his cig.

Jesus. Everythin' was the wrong way up.

"Dally?" Pony tilts his head back, stops gaspin' for air 'n just peers up at him, tears still slidin' down his face.

"Yeah, kid." He doesn't know what he's doin'. But there's some instinct in him to wrap his arms around the kid 'n hold him as tight as he can. Somethin' he's never felt before. 'Cause Dallas is a rabid dog. 'N his only instinct is to bite.

But now he's got his forehead dropped down the to top of Ponyboy's head 'n he's holdin' the kid just as tightly as the kids holdin' him.

"Does it stop?" 'N Dallas doesn't need to ask him what he means.

Does it stop hurtin'?

And Dallas thinks suddenly of the year Pony had fallen off that bike 'n broken his leg 'n had sobbed 'n sobbed 'n Darry had held him 'n Soda had blocked his view 'n when Pony had asked is it supposed to look like that? Is it broke? Darry had looked over at Dallas all even 'n steady 'n sure 'n like he was tryin' to tell him a hundred things he couldn't understand. Yeah, hon. It's all fine.

"Yeah. Kid. One day it stops. One day you're gonna wake up 'n when you-" He stops. Swallows thickly. "When you think about him, it ain't gonna ache anymore."

He understood it now. Sometimes we lie. 'Cause it's kinder.

"When?" Dallas sighs, smooths Pony's bangs off his forehead.

"Soon." Maybe it's a good thing Dallas had always been such a good bluff.

He's not sure when he notices it exactly. That the kid's breath has evened out, his eyes fluttered closed. God. Even in his sleep Pony looks beaten down. Worry 'n heart ache chase him even into his dreams.

Dallas runs one finger over the wrinkles between his brow like he could get rid all that had put them there. He looks like Johnny. In his sleep. 'N wasn't that just funny.

"I miss you, man." There's a low noise from somewhere out in the lot. A noise Dallas would know anywhere. The soft sound Johnny made when he laughed. But when he looks up there's nothin' but the trees, droppin' their leaves 'n the initials J. C. carved into their bark.

'N he picks Pony up 'n thinks the kid doesn't eat enough 'n knows that Johnny's still there. Somewhere. Just beside him the whole walk to the Curtis home. Hoverin' in the doorway when four pairs of anxious eyes whip up.

Patterin' down the hall past the confused glances when Dallas carries the kid down the hall to his room. Leanin' on the door when he eases his shoes off.

Blockin' his way when he goes to leave.

'N when Dallas looks up 'n finds Darry in the hall, openin' an arm to him he doesn't stop to think that Dallas Winston was supposed to be tough. That he wasn't meant to let anythin' hurt him.

'N he knows Johnny's there. Urgin' him forward.

So he just presses his head down into Darry's chest 'n wishes he would lie to him. 'Cause that made it so much easier.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Remember: The burning sensation is part of the process.

[lizzylucky]

Draxum hadn't accounted for the fact that when he gave four hatchling turtles the DNA of a human being in order to give them greater intelligence, he would effectively be making himself a surrogate father to actual children, with wildly different needs.

When he sent his gargoyles to obtain a sample of DNA from Big Mama's prized warrior, the intention was to create his own. They were to be the prototypes for an army of simple creatures with just enough heightened intelligence to learn combat and follow commands, that he might defend Yokai kind with.

Instead, he quickly discovered the integration of human DNA had been a little over successful in allowing his test subjects to learn and think and feel in a civilized manner, going so far as to override some of their natural instincts as turtles that would otherwise allow them to learn to care for themselves. He had to feed them, by hand, with bottles.

Like infants.

They were easily distraught by unfamiliar things, and quickly became dependent on Draxum in every sense of the word. They babbled, they cried, they explored things with their hands, their tails, their mouths.

It was an unplanned adjustment needed to be made, but no matter. If anything, learning to understand the new hybrid emotions of these turtles would allow Draxum greater advantages when they grew enough to safely learn combat. Preferences, likes and dislikes, needs, diet, and so on, all became more complex areas of study.

Even a couple years in, he found himself continually surprised. Brain scans had shown that the turtles were more intelligent, still, than anticipated. They, truly, seemed more human in mind and function than anything else, with only some base instincts and behaviors left to influence their personalities. They retained many reptilian traits, but overall had the bipedal anatomy and function of humans and some Yokai. It had been an infuriating discovery at first, but Draxum had to admit that over time he became fond of it.

Each turtle had developed his own personality. The eldest, for example, had a love of plush toys, and showed a fierce protective instinct over the others. The youngest, Draxum had learned, was contrastedly reckless and excitable, not nearly so reserved or gentle as the first. Additionally, he was, decidedly, to be kept away from any and every writing utensil unless under strict supervision (unfortunately, this was learned a little too late, as was evidenced by the clear markings left in several work benches). Then, of course, were the slider and the softshell, who had the most bizarre relationship. They were constantly fighting with each other, but utterly inseparable, and each showed an incredible and unique curiosity, constantly exploring and watching and studying, with concentration filling their eyes in ways Draxum had never seen in other children so young.

Embarrassingly, it took another couple years before Draxum realized he couldn't simply refer to them by their species' names. It certainly was effective, but they were not the mild, simple creatures he had once expected them to be, and he knew that they never would.

Now, they were vocal, playful, inquisitive... energetic. By the gods, were they energetic. They never stopped moving, never stopped talking, never stopped eating, never stopped wanting or needing.

...This is why Draxum never had children of his own. It took all the time and energy he had to spare, and then some. Although it would be a lie to say he wished they were any other way.

They had so much capacity to learn, and with their emotional propensity could one day come to understand exactly why Draxum was doing this, which he knew would be an edge in their combative styles.

As he introduced them, slowly, to more of the world's culture and knowledge, he felt, in a new way, that their very existences were revolutionary. A perfect, synergistic unity between two entirely different families of genetic material, with numerous enhanced abilities. And they were children. They maintained all the properties of regular children, but had so much more in store! Such grand destinies! They would be, inarguably, the greatest warriors of their time when they were grown. They would be the compassionate, skillful heroes of all Yokai, the first of a new generation of super mutants, and the key to overcoming the evils of the humans who had overtaken the surface and posed such threat to all who lived below.

It was with great reluctance that he allowed himself to accept, however, that not all of mankind was evil. There were many forms of art, beautiful in different ways, there were some rare people filled with kindness, inventions that utilized resources in ways Yokai kind had never thought to. Perhaps he had been a little stubborn in his ways, a bias cementing over time that blinded him to some of the beauty that did yet exist in such a species.

Make no mistake, humans were a threat. Innocent families lived in fear, in hiding, of the governments and ruthless sciences designed to invade, to blaspheme the name of knowledge, with no regard for the safety of this people.

Draxum could live with being an outlaw to the Yokai if his experiments would lead to their salvation. He may be their villain in today's papers, but in history books he would be a hero.

Still, he wished to amend some of his practices. Even if only to his turtles, he would be known for his ability to change and understand. He would be fair, and he would be truthful.

And so it was that he told the turtles the nature of their existence. Perhaps he muted some of the details, to protect their minds until they had more understanding, but he would not lie to them about their DNA. He told them of Lou Jitsu, and their human genetics, and he begrudgingly allowed them access to the culture of the humans. He would let them choose their interests unbiased.

In the process, he came to know of some of the revolutionaries of human history. Though he wasn't particularly inclined to believe there were no evils involved, he was intrigued by the strange moral code that the humans boasted from their different time periods. The turtles, as well, were fascinated by the stories of war heroes and generals, seamstresses and inventors, artists and royalty.

Initially, when it came time to redesignate his turtles, Draxum had been inclined toward the names of those whose legacies persisted in the humans' culture even today- perhaps a president for the slider, a scientist for the softshell, a great general for the snapper, and an artist for the young box turtle. It seemed, somehow, clandestinely right; carefully considered to exemplify each of their personalities.

And although he had begun to get used to the possibility of names like "Monroe" and "Edison", his indecision on the matter seemed to be working against him. He was taking too long, and the boys were growing smarter.

It was a day in August, later that year, that he found his two youngest arguing over a Renaissance book, oddly enough. The elder two took to a game of knocking "secret patterns" on each other's carapaces, which he dismissed before he could allow himself the confusion that came with wondering why a five year old would want to knock on a spiked shell for fun.

After breaking up the fight and confiscating the book (which, as it turned out, the youngest only wanted because it had pictures in it, much to the chagrin of the other, who insisted that reading it was much better than just looking at the pictures), Draxum found himself idly flipping through pages of rustic images and rudimentary ideas, developed by people with strange names.

Maybe he was simply too tired to consider it properly, but, feeling defeated in his endeavor, he chose four names at random and assigned them to the young turtles, deciding it had been long enough.

It took a while to get used to, but soon "Raphael", "Leonardo", "Donatello", and "Michaelangelo" truly fit.

Over time, the boys grew... ravenous. They devoured everything- food, information, technique. They were learning quickly everything Draxum taught them. They practiced with Huginn and Muninn, leapt up, around, over, and through everything in the lab, and took special interest in action-filled films.

And Draxum grew fonder. He wasn't entirely surprised, of course; it's natural to develop some sense of sentimentality when caring for anything this long. Even if they had been the simple minded turtles he expected, he knew this was inevitable, to a degree.

What startled him was the sudden sense of fear that came with watching them train. The alarm that made his heart beat harder when one of them fell from somewhere high or any time they ran simple drills with weapons not blunted and made from wood.

He subtly began to intensify their defensive strategies, taught them where they were most vulnerable so they could protect those spots, insisted on perfecting their abilities to parry, block, and dodge before anything else.

And, over time, he found himself training them less often than before, thinking, "I must preserve their innocence and prolong their childhood experiences". After all, it was an essential part of development, was it not? If it were tarnished too much, they might become unwise or unjust as warriors. And, really, Raphael was only 8 years old, and he was the eldest; they were much too young to be exposed to the harshness of what their combative training was really for.

He told himself that, time and time again. He told them that, making certain they understood that their training was not a game. It wasn't untrue, certainly.

Really, he just wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to admit to what extent he cared about them, because it was too much. It was more than he could ever have been prepared for. It was more than that passion to protect Yokai kind ever was, and if he ever realized that, he might become the compromise to his own purposes, to the very reason these turtles exist this way to begin with, and then what? What was he to tell them, why was he to train them, who did they exist for if not the inhabitants of the Hidden City?

No. He couldn't do that. He simply would not allow it, not when so much was at stake.

And yet...

More and more often he desired simply to watch them. He was growing weary with worry, and with that tight feeling that arose in his chest each time one of his boys so much as frowned.

Raphael loved to carry his brothers on his shoulders. And he prided himself on being the big brother, in every way. He liked repeating instructions Draxum gave to the others, and tended to play caretaker anytime someone was sad, or had a bruised knee. He often played the "bad guy" in their made up games so the younger ones could "win", he was the mediator in big decisions, like what book they should read before bed, and he seemed always ready with an armful of stuffed animals when he wanted to express affection. So strong, incredibly strong, but soft spoken and sweet.

Leonardo adored Raphael. Just as Raphael did Draxum, Leonardo liked to imitate and repeat instructions. He tended to take charge in many of their childish endeavors, and had a propensity for dramatics and heroism, often pretending to rescue his brothers. This seemed to irritate Donatello to no end, unless he was also playing the hero, and often times he was. The two were usually glued to the hip, though Leonardo liked to make a point to tell all his brothers about everything that went on, and would take a movie night with the three of them over a one on one outing with Draxum any day. He was exuberant and joyous, and very driven by the concept of justice.

Donatello, similarly, seemed to care very dearly about maintaining a bond with all three of his brothers, but he was peculiar, often more reserved and enjoying his alone time. That child read and read like he might never get a chance to again, and he absorbed what he read like a sponge. Quite a few times Draxum found him pulling apart whatever he could get his hands on, and though an effort was made, there was no hiding place the boy couldn't discover in his quest for Draxum's tools. In spite of his quizzical, sometimes stoic nature, Donatello was sensitive, and very thoughtful. He would spend hours talking about his books and his ideas- some of which were very clever- and he was expressive in secondary ways- sitting nearer his brothers even without interacting, crafting things out of paper as gifts. Even the little heart-shaped mark on the back of his soft shell seemed a fitting part of him- he wore his heart on his sleeve, so to speak, and didn't even realize it.

And Michaelangelo. There was an innocence and joy and goodness about the smallest turtle that had struck Draxum. Even when he was younger he always wore a smile and liked to see the good side of things. And he idolized his brothers. With him had grown his creative inclinations, filling every colouring book, drawing on every wall, and absolutely plastering the other turtles with stickers. They were a pain to wash off, but Draxum couldn't bring himself to mind it, especially given the elder three always loved their baths. Ironically, it seemed Michealangelo did not, enjoying it only under specific circumstances. Heat, bubble bath, and bath toys had quickly become a necessity. So too did bath crayons, the need to express himself coming through even when bathing. Everything about the ornate box turtle was bright and colourful.

Draxum... loved them. Dearly. Every facet of their personalities and growth. Every unique trait and behavior.

It was terrifying. He couldn't afford to love them. He couldn't afford to see any more goodness in the humanity they showed. He couldn't afford to change his goals right now.

So he continued disregarding the feeling, trying to reason that everything he did for them was to nurture their instincts as warriors, as science experiments, as specimen.

But a pained scream one day, different from any of the ones he heard when they were frightened as infants, when one of them tripped and fell, when a spat led to hitting, sent his heart into his throat and had him racing through doorways with more urgency than he had felt for anything before.

He had demanded an explanation, panic translating to perceived anger, and three of his boys looked up with teary eyes. Three, but Donatello remained curled up on the ground, wailing his little heart out without ever looking up, and it was one of the most heart wrenching, painful sounds Draxum'd ever heard.

Raphael sat not far from the smaller boy, looking over his shoulder seemingly at nothing, at Donatello, then up at Draxum and back again. Both Leonardo and Michaelangelo burst into frantic, panicked explanations, none of their words coherent enough to understand through their tears.

When Raphael stood, exposing red-tipped spikes on his shell and pointing frantically to Donatello's, it didn't take long to figure out well enough what had happened.

It became quickly a very long day. All four turtles were distraught, and though Draxum had more than enough first aid knowledge to address the situation, bile had threatened to rise the very moment he pulled out the suture kit.

The cuts were deep, and jagged. And poor Donatello cried the entire time, even after a numbing agent had been applied.

Draxum had never thought that in depth about Donatello's soft shell. Not like that. He chose a softshell for the experiment because it would provide greater flexibility, greater agility. It gave an advantage that the hard-shelled turtles did not have.

Now, here... The soft carapace, spongy and leathery and bloody...

It was an accident. Of course it was, Draxum never doubted that. He had to assure that none of his boys were in trouble, no one was in trouble, no one had done anything wrong.

But for the first time he had to be honest with himself. For the first time he couldn't deny how much he cared about the turtles. His turtles. His boys.

He wouldn't, either. If this was what it was, if this was something that could happen again because he insisted on making them into warriors, into fighters- if this could happen on purpose, if this could happen worse, if this could happen with malice and hatred in mind...

Draxum wasn't unused to physical affection, by now. All four boys adored hugs, although Donatello was usually more reserved about them. Now, Donatello clung like his life depended on it, sniffling and whimpering, having cried so long he had no more tears. Draxum clung back, idly smoothing over the edges of the bandages, holding the frightened, exhausted turtle to his chest, cradling.

He did so until well after Donatello fell asleep. He couldn't bring himself to put him down. He accompanied the others to bed, assuring them once more that things were alright, and then simply stood in the walkway, holding his boy tightly.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't go through with it. They were children, every bit as innocent and deserving as the Yokai he wished to avenge and protect. He could train them, prepare them to protect themselves, but he could never send them into battle, ask them to put their lives on the line, much less demand it.

How could he?

It took months of processing, of agonizing his way through the healing process with Donatello, of watching the other boys proving their humanity, their curiosity, and their innocence time and time and time again. His mind was constantly at war with itself, his heart constantly in turmoil and distress, worsened by the turtles' confusion at his sudden change in behavior.

What was even worse was that they would.

They would absolutely sacrifice everything they had for his approval, and for what they understood as "right". He could see them, easily, being willing to submit their very lives to a greater cause if he asked it.

But was he "right"? Even if this experiment had gone exactly as planned, was he right for ever considering putting these turtles into the station of a warrior? Even if they had remained turtles in mind, if they never expressed complex emotion, if they could not speak, if they did not have distinct and colourful personalities, would it have been right?

Was what he saw in them now what they would have been at heart, regardless of circumstance?

Or was it the humanity, that he stole from Lou Jitsu?

Perhaps... perhaps it was time to learn. To consider the root of his motivations.

He couldn't do this to them.

How could he?

[kelocitta]

The last thing I'll say, and I'm saying it because it applies broadly- is that there is very rarely a perfect victim OR evil mastermind and everyone needs to get better at recognizing and responding to that fact. Victims of legitimate crimes or horrible acts can be aggressive, or bitter, or biased or a dozen things that make them 'unappealing' to listen too. They can have willfully exposed themselves to content or been in circles they really shouldn't have. They could have been given warning signs that they missed or outright ignored. They might exaggerate or misremember their claims. That does not mean they are no longer victims. If you completely missed the red flags and were taken advantage of- you were still taken advantage of. If you exposed yourself to harmful content that was upsetting or distressing, you were ultimately still exposed to harmful content. Maybe it is "your fault" for being there, but you were still there and it still happened. Especially in terms of online, its just shockingly very easy to end up in places where you are in danger of harm- and its shockingly easy to not notice that you may have put yourself in that position until its too late. If you want to be supportive of victims, you need to recognize that very often victims did things that were inappropriate themselves, put themselves in harmful situations, didn't back out when they should have, missed "obvious" signs... and are still a victim in the end. Likewise, abuse ranges from the intentional to the neglectful. Sometimes an abuser can even do both at once. People do harmful things completely on accident- even repeatedly. It can be mental illness or stress, it can be a dozen things- but yes sometimes people have patterns of behavior that are harmful and destructive that they either aren't aware of, in denial of, or don't get how bad they are about it. That does not erase the harm those behaviors cause. If you handle a situation poorly, it could just be that you handled it poorly- you didn't think through your actions or their implications. But from the receiving end, it doesn't matter how accidental it was, its going to often read as intentional, or a pattern, or whatever. And ultimately the harm is still done regardless of what it was. There is a world of difference between harm done intentionally and harm done through stupidity, neglect, or plain old mistake- but it not always easy to identify which is which- and harm is still done in the end. Sometimes people are harmed because someone saw an opportunity to do so, and sometimes they're harmed because no one stopped to question if it was even a risk. Both of those still ultimately result in someone getting hurt. The point of this is that if you are ever going to analyze situations critically you can not be looking for just "the good one" and "the bad one". You can't just weigh initial impressions on a scale and hope one side tips further and call it a day. Believing victims doesn't mean you need to throw caution to the wind, but likewise bad actors or misinformation doesn't mean your reaction should be that there couldn't possibly be victims. Be very mindful of how you interact in situations where someone was potentially hurt. Being 'critical' can easily boil over into disregard for harm- both the harm the involved might have done to each other and the harm you yourself do in how you respond to it.

[wingsofwater]

peach pit

[ID : a chubby skywing dragon named Pyrite, who has yellowish-orange scales with a lighter yellow underbelly and dark freckles across her scales, resembling the inside of a peach. she has a crest of dark spines along the back of her neck and on the tip of her tail, antler-like horns, her body is dappled with scars, and she wears a cord around her neck like a choker. she is sitting down, facing towards the left, with her wings held open and an uncertain expression on her face. the background is a teal rectangle with white peach blossoms overlayed on top of it. END ID]

[thawthebeez]

i love reading haikyuu tiktok shipping discourse comment sections. it's so entertaining seeing so many people with such bad taste.

[gooperts-gunk]

me when the doomed yaoi is actually doomed. im so upset give them back (this post is about 4halo)

[pwurrz]

being obsessed with yakumo is a job and baby i’ve never called in a sick day!!!!!

[bluebellhairpin]

being really suspicious about this one wisdom tooth rn.

[pareidolla]

// tw abuse rant (nothing angry just moreso exasperated)

i'm going to admit that while i'm enthusiastic for the pristine cut, i'm also a little concerned canon will politely dismiss the tower's abusive elements, and if that happens then i might?? scream????

[jaynovz]

.

[tittyinfinity]

contemplating deleting my blog soon I might make a new blog but idk

[acourtofquestions]

Rowaelin Chapter 41 Kingdom of Ash:

She'd rebuild it—what she had been.

Perhaps one last time, perhaps only for a little while, but she'd do it. If only for Terrasen.

Rowan swooped from the mast, shifting as he reached her side at the rail. He surveyed the night-black sea beyond them. "You should rest." She slid him a glance. "I'm not tired." Not a lie, not in some regards. "Want to spar?" He frowned. "Training can start tomorrow."

"Or tonight." She held his piercing stare, matched his dominance with her own.

"It can wait a few hours, Aelin."

"Every day counts." Against Erawan, even a day of training would count.

Rowan's jaw tightened. "True," he said at last. "But it can still wait. There are ... there are things we need to discuss." The silent words rose in his animal-bright eyes. About you and me.

Her mouth went dry. But Aelin nodded In silence, they strode into their spacious quarters, its only decoration the wall of windows that overlooked the churning sea behind them. A far cry from a queen's chamber, or any she might have purchased as Adarlan's assassin.

At least the bed built into the wall looked clean enough, the sheets crisp and stainless. But Aelin headed for the oak desk anchored to the floor, and leaned against it while Rowan shut the door.

In the dim lantern light, they stared at each other.

She'd endured Maeve and Cairn; she'd endured Endovier and countless other horrors and losses. She could have this conversation with him. The first step toward rebuilding herself.

Aelin knew Rowan could hear her thundering heart as the space between them went taut. She swallowed once. "Elide and Lorcan told you... told you everything that was said on that beach."

A curt nod, wariness flooding his eyes. "Everything that Maeve said." Another nod.

She braced herself. "That I'm-we're mates."

Understanding and something like relief replaced that wariness. "Yes."

"I'm your mate," she said, needing to voice it. "And you are mine."

Rowan crossed the room, but halted a few feet from the desk on which she leaned. "What of it, Aelin?" His question was low, rough.

"Don't you..." She scrubbed at her face. "You know what she did to you, to ..." She couldn't say her name. Lyria. "Because of it."

"I do know."

"And?"

"And what do you wish me to say?"

She pushed off the desk. "I wish you to tell me how you feel about it. If…"

"If what?"

"If you wish it wasn't so."

His brows narrowed. "Why would I ever wish that?"

She shook her head, unable to answer, and stared over her shoulder toward the sea.

It seemed like he would close the distance between them, but he remained where he was.

"Aelin." His voice turned hoarse. "Aelin."

She looked at him then, at the pain in his words.

"Do you know what I wish?" He exposed his palms, one tattooed, the other unmarked. "I wish that you had told me. When you realized it. I wish you had told me then."

She swallowed against the ache in her throat. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"Why would it ever hurt me to know the truth that was already in my heart? The truth I hoped for?"

"I didn't understand it. I didn't understand how it was possible. I thought maybe ... maybe you might be able to have two mates within a lifetime, but even then, I just ….." She blew out a breath. "I didn't want you to be distressed." His eyes softened. "Do I regret that Lyria was dragged into this, that the cost of Maeve's game was her life, and the life of the child we might have had? Yes. I regret that, and I wish it had never happened." He would bear the tattoo to remember it for the rest of his days. "But none of that was your fault. I will always carry some of the burden of it, always know I chose to leave her for war and glory, and that I played right into Maeve's hands."

"Maeve wanted to ensnare you to get to me, though."

"Then it is her choice, not yours."

Aelin ran a hand over the worn wood of the desk. "In those illusions she spun for me, she showed me variations on one more than all the others." The words were strained, but she forced them out. Forced herself to look at him. "She spun me one dreamscape that felt so real I could smell the wind off the Staghorns."

"What did she show you?" A breathless question.

Aelin had to swallow before she could answer. "She showed me what might have been—if there had been no Erawan, if Elena had dealt with him properly and banished him. If there had been no Lyria, none of that pain or despair you endured. She showed me Terrasen as it would have been today, with my father as king, and my childhood happy, and..." Her lips wobbled. "When I turned twenty, you came with a delegation of Fae to Terrasen, to make amends for the rift between my mother and Maeve. And you and I took one look at each other in my father's throne room, and we knew."

She didn't fight the stinging in her eyes. "I wanted to believe that was the true world. That this was the nightmare from which I'd awaken. I wanted to believe that there was a place where you and I had never known this suffering and loss, where we'd take one look at each other and know we were mates. Maeve told me she could make it so. If I gave her the keys, she'd make it all possible." She wiped at her cheek, at the tear that escaped down it. "She spun me realities where you were dead, where you'd been killed by Erawan and only in handing over the keys to her would I be able to avenge you. But those realities made me ... I stopped being useful to her when she told me you were gone. She couldn't get me to talk, to think. Yet in the ones where you and I met, where things were as they should have been ... that was when I came the closest."

His swallow was audible. "What stopped you?"

She wiped at her face again. "The male I fell in love with was you. It was you, who knew pain as I did, and who walked with me through it, back to the light. Maeve didn't understand that. That even if she could create that perfect world, it wouldn't be you with me. And I'd never trade that, trade this. Not for anything." He extended his hand. An offer and invitation.

Aelin laid hers atop his, and his callused fingers squeezed gently. "I wanted it to be you," he breathed, closing his eyes. "For months and months, even in Wendlyn, I wondered why you weren't my mate instead. It tore me up, wondering it, but I still did." He opened his eyes, and they burned like green fire. "All this time, I wanted it to be you."

She lowered her gaze, but he hooked a thumb and forefinger around her chin and lifted her face.

"I know you are tired, Fireheart. I know that the burden on your shoulders is more than anyone should endure." He took their joined hands and laid them on his heart. "But we'll face this together. Erawan, the Lock, all of it.

"We'll face it together. And when we are done, when you Settle, we will have a thousand years together. Longer."

A small sound came out of her. "Elena said the Lock requires—"

"We'll face it together," he swore again.

"And if the cost of it truly is you, then we'll pay it together. As one soul in two bodies.

Her heart strained to the point of cleaving. "Terrasen needs a king."

"I have no intention of ruling Terrasen without you. Aedion can have the job."

She scanned his face. He meant every word He brushed the hair from her face, his other hand still clasping hers to his chest, where his heart pounded a steady, unfaltering rhythm.

"Even if I had my choice of any dream-realities, any perfect illusions, I would still choose you, too."

She felt the truth of his words echo into the unbreakable thing that bound their very souls, and tilted her face up toward his. But he made no move beyond it.

She frowned. "Why aren't you kissing me?"

"I thought you might want to be asked first."

"That never stopped you before."

"This first time, I wanted to make sure you were ... ready." After Cairn and Maeve. After months of having no choices whatsoever.

She smiled despite that truth. "I'm ready to be kissed again, Prince."

He let out a dark chuckle and muttered, "Thank the gods," before he lowered his mouth to hers.

"You're my mate." Her words were a breathless rush. "And I am yours."

The world might have been burning around them for all she cared, all he cared, too.

"Together, Aelin," he promised, and she heard the rest of the words in every place their bodies joined. Together they would face this, together they would find a way.

Together we'll find a way, their mingling breaths, the crashing sea, seemed to echo.

Together.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

I must remember to wear sunscreen in May. Not wearing sunscreen in May is the skin killer. Not wearing sunscreen in May is the little death that brings total epidermal obliteration. I will apply sunscreen thoroughly. I will permit it to get on my clothes a bit. And when my walk is done I will turn my eye to my unburnt skin. Where carelessness was there will be nothing. Only fun in the sun remains.

[autisticlee]

sometimes people who struggle like to make jokes or find positives about their condition that causes them to struggle so they can escape the constant negative and struggle. sometimes autistic people will say things like "the 'tism" or use the "autism creature" or say their autism helped them have a *positive trait* to feel better about their struggles. because living your life only focusing on the struggles and negatives is depressing and makes it hard to want to live, even if those struggle take up 100% of your life and you can't actually escape them. sometimes any little seemingly positive thing can help a lot.

but there's so many other autistic people that hate when we do that and call it "reducing autism to a cute trendy thing" and say it takes away from *their* struggles and is bad and shouldn't be used. maybe *you* want to only focus on your struggles, but some people can't live in constant negative and need some positive or to find ways to make their condition more positive so they can feel better about living with their struggles. life is hard. I take anything I can get.

I cant get jobs. I can't make and keep friends. I can't get help and support for doing "normal" things so sometimes I go weeks without being able to shower and without eating more than a bowl of cereal a day. most times can't even do things I like. struggle to communicate. have meltdowns. i'll never be able to live independently. I struggle a lot. but instead of sitting here always depressed and having no motivation to live, i'd rather try to joke about "my 'tism is acting up again" when i'm struggling (just an example. don't think I ever actually used the 'tism thing but i saw others use it) or say "i'm just being a creature" when I need to stay in my dark room because everything is too much and I personally find it cute to be a little creature meant in a positive way. i'm not actually downplaying mine or anyone else's struggles. I still acknowledge them and that silly jokes dont make them go away. i'm not trying to be trendy. i'm not doing any of the things people say we do by making silly little jokes. i'm using the silly little jokes to convince myself life can be a little more than pointless, painful garbage all the time.

(continue in tags)

[bananacat76]

i miss talking to my friends