#unlike neon's dad

[new-haven-psych-ward]

Kamen Rider Geats episode 40 poorly summarized via memes with as little context as possible:

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[loveindefinitely]

02 — 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘐'𝘔 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘈𝘉𝘖𝘜𝘛

༊*·˚ LUST FOR LIFE — task force 141 x reader

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, legal age-gaps, inexperienced reader, angst, graphic violence, slight power imbalance, enemies to lovers, slow burn, betrayal

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

"You assaulted two Special Forces Operators, kid," Price says, a barely veiled grimace contorting his features. "That's not a good look."

You tug against where your hands are cuffed to the metal bars, your brows furrowing. "Kidnapping the girl -- whose dad you killed after taking her virginity -- isn't a good look either."

...Alright.

So, if you could go back in time, and never eavesdrop on the four men who have completely ruined your life, you would take up the offer in a heartbeat.

Between landing your fist to Gaz's jaw, and where you are now, your life has become a total shit show.

Like, complete, this might just be a fever dream level of crazy.

It started from the moment you saw blood trickling from your now late father's forehead, and in the glint of the moonlight, seeing Ghost holding the gun.

Then, you'd turned, without another thought, and landed a punch right to Gaz's jaw. The man who had taken your first kiss no more than two hours ago.

You can relive the moment even now, under the harsh neon lights of an interrogation room, as if you're experiencing everything for the first time once more.

༊*·˚

Gaz hisses, wincing as he brings a hand up to the aching pain radiating from the bone that'd taken the brunt of your punch.

"You guys -- what the fuck --" You stammer out, eyes wide and borderline manic as you gape at the man before you. "You guys just killed my dad!"

"Yeah, but," Gaz starts, before backtracking. You figure he has enough braincells to realise that 'rationality and reason' isn't going to work with you, not in this state, and especially not after you just witnessed the murder of your only living family member. "Ah. Well. He wasn't a good guy."

You really, truly, cannot believe the audacity of this man.

Your mouth opens.

Gaz grimaces.

Your mouth closes.

He takes a step closer, hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Take another step near me and I'll punch you again!" You threaten, with an aggressive point of your finger.

You're extremely aware that your punch had done next to nothing, and Gaz's reaction to it was more one of sympathy, but the threat lands nonetheless.

"Alright, alright, we're not gonna hurt you," he raises his hands further, eyes bouncing between your own. You're not sure what he sees -- maybe resentment, or horror, or fear.

Whatever it is, it makes his frown deepen.

He goes to say something else, when your bedroom door opens with a soft click. "Finishin' up, ya read--"

Soap pauses his whisper, ice-blue eyes meeting yours. His grimace isn't unlike the one Gaz is sporting, and it only worsens your mood. If looks could kill, he would be lying on the grass beside --

Oh god. Your dead dad.

"Steamin' Jesus," Soap mutters under his breath, looking up to the roof in some semblance of a last minute prayer.

There's a moment, then, for a decision to be made. It's as if your brain can only come up with two options, and one of them will lead to your untimely death.

So, really, it's not entirely your fault when you pick up the salt lamp sitting on your bedside table and throw it right into the arrogant Scot's face.

"Holy shit," Gaz's eyes are comically wide as Soap cries out, the heavy pink rock slamming into his nose. He stumbles back, and the sound of your lamp hitting cartilage even has you wincing, panicked state or not. "How the fuck have you survived this long with those kinda reflexes, Soap?"

Soap drops into a squat, cradling his nose in his hand as he tilts his head back, squeezing the ridge between two calloused fingers. His voice comes out nasally as he mumbles, "Mighta' broke 'gain."

Your entire body is trembling, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you creep to the window with soft, quiet steps.

Maybe, you think, in the back of your mind, I can make the jump into the garden.

It's not to be, however.

"You're smarter than that," Gaz directs an unamused glare your way, before grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards your door.

Digging your heels into the carpet, you attempt to wrestle out of his grip -- but a trained military expert and you are no match, not even with the energy overtaking your body.

"Let go of me!" You grit out, tugging and displaying your weight in the opposite way to his goal. He doesn't even turn around as he drags you out of your room, slamming your door shut behind you.

"What the fuck is goin' on," Ghost's growl comes from the stairs, heavy bootfalls following until he's standing, gaze drifting from you, to Gaz, to Soap, back to you again.

"Fuck, man," Soap whines, squeezing his eyes shut as he keeps his head tilted back, blood running down his lips and chin. You somehow find it in yourself to feel slightly bad. Not enough to apologise, and certainly not enough to stop fighting back.

They were going to kill you. Probably. Or, like, what's the skin trade like in your area? Oh god. Fuck. Shit.

"She saw," Gaz mutters to Ghost, and his eyes narrow, black face paint crinkling where it's been put on the upper half of his face, skin not covered by the balaclava.

There aren't any lights on, and it's the lights on downstairs that cast shadows and highlights over the men's' faces.

"Fuckin' christ," Ghost groans, before turning and walking back downstairs without another word.

You continue to struggle against Gaz's hold, but both of your wrists have been collected in his hand, and he's pulled you so your back is to his chest. If it were any other circumstance, you'd be blushing, most likely turned on from such an embrace.

Right now, however, you're questioning every possible decision you've ever made.

"Ye Dad treated ya like shit 'nyways," Soap says, too loud to be under his breath, but too quiet for it to be conversational. "Dinnae why yer freakin''."

"You're murderers!" You hiss back, lips pulled back into a snarl. Your muscles ache from the punch, the hefty throw, and now from struggling against Gaz. "And I don't exactly have any other family, do I?!"

Gaz makes a sound of agreement, before shaking his head and countering. "We're not murderers, not really."

You choke a laugh, but it's entirely too wet and sad for it to be threatening or cruel. "So you guys didn't just shoot my father?"

"Si pulled th' trigger," Soap pouts, almost like a child would over a lack of candy.

"Soap," Gaz exasperates, and although you can't see his face, you're sure it's dismayed and annoyed. "Seriously?"

"What?!" Soap counters, and when it comes out high-pitched, he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his nose tighter. "Jus' tha truth, dinnae why yer so shitty. Yer not tha one bleedin'."

Speechless.

You are fully, unbelievably, speechless.

What the actual fuck was wrong with these... men? And what was wrong with you for being more than ready to spread your legs for them not too long ago?

You needed therapy. And coffee.

And a time machine, preferably. If one was made available at this given moment.

"Get down here," the final man of the hour shouts up the stairs, and your blood runs cold. There's something about him that's not quite as threatening as Ghost, but somehow makes you even more fearful.

Gaz, with surprisingly careful and gentle movements, guides you down the stairs. The parallel of how Ghost's hand had been at your lower back as he invited you to the lounge room, mere hours ago, isn't lost on you.

His hand doesn't move from the tense grip it has on your wrists. You can't help but feel like it's a completely unnecessary gesture, considering the fact that any of them could take you down within seconds if they really needed to. Hell, they all had actual, military-grade weapons.

"Seriously, Gaz?" Price huffs, looking entirely like a disappointed dad in this moment as he stands, leaning against your kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed over. "One job, mate."

"You lot weren't exactly quiet," he retorts, but he slowly releases your wrists.

At this point, you know it's a lost cause to try and escape this situation, so you just ball your hands into wrists at your sides. You can't imagine it's an overly threatening position, considering how your entire frame trembles, and your lips wobble.

Your father was dead.

And the men that had made you feel so comfortable, so cared for, are the culprits.

Stupid, stupid girl.

They are dangerous men who do dangerous things.

"Peas," Soap's voice is practically a beg as he stumbles into the kitchen, opening the freezer door with no preamble as he scours it for... peas.

They're in the far right of the bottom shelf.

You don't tell him that.

"Have some water," Price encourages, holding out a glass cup full of chilled water.

Your eyes narrow, standing your ground. "Not accepting drinks from murderers. Dad taught me that, y'know?"

Gaz chokes a laugh, before covering it up with a fist to his mouth and a clearing of his throat. It fools no one, and you allow yourself the tiny bit of pride that fills your chest at the reaction to your taunt.

"Ghost," Price mutters, resigned and almost frustrated as he looks at you.

You understand why, as soon as the feeling of a needle imbedding into your neck has you flinching, pain prickling at the intrusion in your muscle.

"What --" you begin, before your legs fall out beneath you, your eyes falling to half mast as Price hefts you up, beefy arms holding you beneath your armpits as your body becomes dead weight.

"Sorry, kid," are the last words you hear, before black overrides all of your senses as drugged sleep takes you.

༊*·˚

Sometime between then, and now, you've found yourself in a white-walled room, blinding lights turning the throbbing in your head from a low pound to an echoing boom of a drum.

"We didn't plan for... any of it to happen the way it did. This was our only choice." Price shakes his head, hands resting at the top of his vest as he studies you.

Right. The virginity, kidnapping and assault thing.

...Great.

"I must've forgot the part where I resisted arrest," you retort, forcing your eyes to remain open, despite the heaviness to them. It's as if a weight has been hung from your eyelids, and every blink drags them down more and more each time.

"Jesus -- you're not under arrest," Price rubs at his eyes, head dipped down as if he's recollecting his thoughts. You're not sure if he's had any sleep, although your sense of time has been completely thrown out of the window.

"Then release me," you say, voice softer than you'd intended, more pleading -- a truer reflection of your current state of mind.

The air is crisp, cool, like that of a hospital. Chemicals and bleach are a potent undertone to the clean scent, and it makes you question what could've previously been done in this room to warrant them.

Your heart pounds almost weakly, and you know if there's any more heartbreaks to come, it might just give out.

How you've resisted a complete mental breakdown is beyond you, and frankly, you'd give yourself a pat on the back if you could. Although, that act might in itself be a sign of insanity.

"Not until we can be assured you're safe," Price insists. "And not until we can clear your name from the books. We have enemies, sweetheart, and those enemies were also your father's. They are not above punishing you for your father's sins."

Your heart is lodged in your throat, and it takes everything in you not to just burst into tears and pray. Pray that this is all some sick joke, some terrifying nightmare that you haven't woken from yet.

But you know it's a baseless hope. You know that this is real.

You're in a military base, somewhere, surrounded by the country's most dangerous men. The most dangerous men on their side, at least.

"So I'm not getting charged for assault?" Your voice is entirely too small for the situation, not for someone who's still cuffed to a bed, going through grief in the most ruthless type of way.

The worst part is that you don't entirely miss your father. You miss the comfort of having a family member, that's true, but he wasn't a good parental figure, and his treatment of you could be classed as abuse to most people.

And from what these four are saying, he wasn't a good man either.

People didn't often talk about how separate the two things were. It was possible to be a great man, but the worst of fathers, and the opposite could be true, too.

Fate had dealt you a bad hand, in giving you one who was terrible on both sides of the coin.

"Technically," Price leans back into his chair, his voice littered with exhaustion, "We... should report it."

Your stomach drops.

Price's eyes meet yours, and somehow, he must see the turmoil battling inside of your head, because he lets out a deep breath, deflating just a bit.

"No. You're not getting charged for assault, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that," you reply, too quick for your brain to catch up. The endearment is entirely too wrong, smarting on a chafing wound, a reminder of the mistakes you'd made, and the deception these men had pulled on you. "...Please."

You refuse to meet his eyes as he nods, slowly, as if in understanding.

"What did he do?" You don't mean to utter those words, to ask that question, but after you do, you can't find it in yourself to regret it. "What made him worthy of death?"

Price rubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, you register the lines of his face. Lines of a story having been told, proof of a life lived. It makes you want to learn, to find the origins of the small scars you can see, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"He broke many promises. Betrayed his team," Price states, and you can tell the millions of words he leaves out, the context better off left unsaid. "He did terrible things. Killed people who had made no faults."

Oh.

For some reason, it hadn't truly hit you, not before now, the truth behind his death. What hadn't you been told?

How hadn't you been made aware that he was -- he was part of the special forces. He was a dangerous man -- he was one of the men he'd warned you about. How blind had you been? For so long? Those business trips, when he'd come with bruises, brushing them off whenever you gained the courage to make attempts of caring, of forming a relationship with the man who raised you.

They weren't business trips. They were missions -- ones with impossibly high death rates.

And he just.

Hadn't said a word. Just continued to treat you like you were worthless, a nuisance, a pain in his ass. Something worth protecting, if only so your weight in gold wasn't minimised.

What were you to do, if he just. Didn't come home after a mission gone awry? If he died on the field. If you woke up one day without a single living family member left.

You only realise that tears have fallen down your cheeks when Price's thumb brushes them away, your nose scrunching with a sniffle.

Jerking back, as if electrocuted, it takes everything in you to glare at the man whose gentle hands had led you to this position in the first place. "Don't touch me."

He backs away. Doesn't argue.

It hurts your heart in a way you don't want to touch with a ten foot pole. Not right now. Not ever, maybe. Preferably.

You let out a deep, stabilising exhale, before weakly meeting Price's gaze. "Can I sleep? Feeling kinda shit after the drugs," you mumble.

Price's lips twist into a grim line, but he nods curtly. "'Course, kid. Call out if you need 'nything."

You just lay back, turning on your side, facing the white wall as the lights turn off, leaving pitch black in its wake. Your wrist smarts where the handcuff has left a red mark, your free hand rubbing at the small patch of visible skin.

If you were more aware, more... ready for the conversations you needed to have, you would've demanded all four of them speak to you right this moment.

But your head is heavy, and thoughts are few and far between.

Grief and confusion cement in your brain like a thick fog, your emotions like cars without lights in the thick mist.

No directions, no ability to brake before crashing into one another.

You're an absolute mess, and you have no one to blame but you and your sick curiosity, your reckless decision making.

But, you realise, this was a long time coming.

Because there's one thing Price -- nor the other three men -- don't know.

Your father wasn't the only one who held secrets.

And it was you who held the key to this force's undoing.

a/n. lol so like. who's ready for some enemies to lovers? sorry to everyone who wanted immediate hurt/comfort!! for some reason plot lines and depth hit me and i was like. i need to do it justice. so here we are!!!

thank you all SOSOSO much for the reception of the first part. it genuinely means a lot to have people excited about my stories??? like omg youre all SO kind. comments and reblogs make my absolute week!! mwah mwah mwah

taglist comment/msg to be added. @captainjamster @alfa-jor @simp4miguell @yaboibauldano @dreamaboutpinkk @guyser @lovewithasideoflust @redz0mbie @ghost-is-my-bbg @astro-ghoul99 @the-faceless-bride @casterousaudrey @cutiecusp @kit-williams @lilpothoscuttings @florabelll

[devildomwriter]

Obey Me As Tumblr #29

MC: I love bears they’re so fucking big and dumb

Leviathan: I thought you were a lesbian?

MC: I am talking about the animal!!!!!!!!!!!!

Satan: This is kind of the opposite of straight people forgetting gays exist

•

Beelzebub: *me inhaling pure Neon into my body by sucking it out of an ‘open’ sign at a store: Hhhhhhhhh

Satan: Wtf

Beelzebub: I felt I was pretty clear

•

Mammon: Guy about to invent mayonnaise: damn I wish this sandwich tasted bad :/

Solomon: Op’s never had pizza with mayonnaise

Mammon: OP’s never throttled someone to death with their bare hands either but unlike what you said, that can change any second

•

Asmodeus: When in doubt slap His ass

Simeon: His is capitalized….are you talking about god’s ass?

Mammon: Are you in doubt? Just slap His ass

•

Mammon: Not to sound like a dr*gon but I do want your gold and I am going to lay on top of it in a pile inside a cave

Diavolo: Why did you censor dragon?

Mammon: Townsfolk may find it scary

•

MC: Killed a spider n now I feel bad :/

Mammon: Give birth to a spider to make up for it

Mammon: Why did I say that?

MC: Why did you say that

•

Luke: Hey everyone it’s 5:30 pm

Solomon: It’s 8:24 where I am

Luke: I decide the rules

Mammon: Rules are more like guidelines, fool

•

Asmodeus: How sharp is your knife (flirting)

Solomon: Come find out (flirting intensifies)

•

Diavolo: When people start having long random conversations on my posts, my initial thought is “I’m glad these two are having a nice talk” but then I investigate further and almost 100% of the time they’re both horny and role playing historical figures

Diavolo: You all wish I was joking

•

Solomon: 2025 bullies be like “give me your lunch coins or I’ll unsub from your dad’s onlyfans”

Leviathan: Posts that can cause physic damage

•

Satan: I am sending pain vibes your way. You will feel a lil discomfort on your leg

Mammon: Ouch

Satan: Yeah

•

Luke: What happens when you become tumblr famous?

Leviathan: So much happens

Simeon: Like what?

Solomon: So much??? God did you even read the post

Leviathan: Get his ass

•

Simeon: The best fruits are hardest to open

Beelzebub: This fucking bowling ball is gonna be delicious I know it

•

Solomon: YMCA but instead of young man they say comrade and YMCA is USSR

MC: Comrade, steel production is down

Solomon: I said comrade, you must sleep on the ground

•

Diavolo: You think I have a choice? I have to be real

Mammon: This isolated message makes me feel like I’m about to be shot and killed

MC: This reminds me of grandma

Mammon: Hi! What does this mean?

•

Thirteen: God I wish there was a wasteland I could banish people to

Mammon: It’s the afterlife, sis

Thirteen: You’re right! I could simply murder and kill the people I don’t like! Why didn’t I think of this?

•

Mammon: Want a gf but I ain’t prepared… I’ve not land to give, no cattle…

Last • Next

[shunshunrika]

Blue Lock boys with their pregnant partner!

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, aged! up characters, mentions of s*x

✿•˖*ISAGI YOICHI

Is probably the one most mentally prepared for it. He hadn't planned it or anything but accepts it as blessing in disguise. Makes sure he is attentive and composed when you first show him the pregnancy test in a panicked state. Tells you he wants to cherish your little treasure. Probably wants a baby boy. A fat one he can cuddle to death. Kind of an overprotective husband who makes sure you are safe and taken care of round the clock. Would take the pain to cook for you daily and pick up 90% of the household chores voluntarily so you can enjoy more time with the baby in your belly. Loves hugging your tummy to feel the kicks.

✿•˖*RIN ITOSHI

Is a bit confused at first. Panics a bit wondering why the contraceptives didn't work but doesn't show it. He takes a few minutes to think about it and finally shows you how happy he is. Starts shopping early for the baby to come. Buys all pink stuff because he's dead sure it's a girl. You scold him for stereotyping gender and tell him your baby girl, if it is a girl, will wear neon green. Will probably get his football team to make a mini version of his jersey just for your little one to wear when they are born. Most likely to take you out in the wee hours to satisfy your crazy cravings.

✿•˖*SAE ITOSHI

Doesn't react at first. When you start getting pissed, he tells you he knew before you even noticed because unlike you, he isn't stupid. (Also, he remembers your period cycle by heart and notices your mood more than you think he does) Tells you to give it a thought financially and emotionally as he doesn't want to bring a baby into this world just to mess it up further. Once both of you are sure about it, he becomes a doting daddy and husband. Very much into silent gestures like leaving sticky notes for your baby on your tummy before he leaves for his morning workout, doing grocery shopping and lifting the heavy stuff and makes sure to kiss your forehead and your belly before he leaves for tournaments.

✿•˖*RYUSEI SHIDOU

Is extremely excited. For the fact that he successfully impregnated you and passed on his genes. You bonk him on the head and yell at him for half an hour for being an idiot. He finally comes to his senses and is actually pretty nervous about being a dad. Wants a girl because he hates boys. Wants to make her a footballer, the best one in the world, after him. Makes you listen to all sorts of jank-ass music and vivid films so that the baby will be born with his taste in media. Wants the baby to have your looks though so no one will dare to bully them by calling them an insect. Goes above and beyond to make sure you have a comfortable pregnancy and ends up being more of a parent to you than your baby.

✿•˖*SEISHIRO NAGI

Experiences a change in personality and lifestyle when he hears a mini-him or a mini-you is about to come into this world. Starts moving his arse around the house more. Stocks up on baby formula 6 months in advance. Tastes it and regrets it. Starts planning the next five years of the baby's life too. He wants the kid to be active and social and do everything, unlike how he was raised. Wants to be a hands-on parent. Takes a lot of notes and advice from Reo. Diligently attends baby-prep classes and makes sure you are attending them punctually too. At night though, he sleeps with his head on your belly, wanting nothing more than to protect the two most important people in his life.

[sillyblues]

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 | 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

SYNOPSIS—*ೃ༄ you have lost three times. the first time, you lost your home. the second time, you lost yourself. the third time, you lost everything on a man who would rather lose you than lose everything.

CW—*ೃ༄ fem reader, spoilers on some mcu movies

NOTES—*ೃ༄ it's finally here HELP

masterlist

You were absolutely not normal.

You understood this at a young age when you were bitten by a spider in your backyard and gained not only your consciousness but also powers like shooting a spider web as you frantically waved your arms everywhere. As a three-year-old, you could barely handle the awareness of your surroundings and identity, much more your abilities that you could barely control. You did what any other toddler your child would do. You cried hard and loud until your parents burst through the door scrambling to get you in panic.

At three years old, you already had your first existential crisis.

When you turned five, you could confidently say that you could control your abilities now. No more random bursts of spider webs that took too long to clean up with both your fathers, no more falling in the middle of your wall and ceiling climbing and giving your fathers heart attacks, no more sudden turning of invisibility that made you and your parents cry at the thought of you never to be seen again. Just kidding, there will be more of that but hey, at least you were more in control now. 

When you thought you finally understood what you were capable of, you were instantly proven wrong when a portal opened out of nowhere in your backyard again. The portal was glitching and a variety of colours were swirling so beautifully, almost luring you in and you did. Because you were five and adventures seemed fun, it was like an itch in your brain that can only be relieved if you follow your instincts as a child. 

So you went in and falling into that hole was the most fun you have felt in your life and at the end of your fall, you landed on the concrete ground on top of a building. It hurt but you were used to it so it was fine. You healed pretty easily anyways so you didn’t care anyways. But what you did care about was the fact the place you were currently in was vastly different to where you were just seconds ago.

Sky-high buildings were all over the place and violets and dark skies and neon lights were decorated. It was very much unlike your bright, sunny sky and small houses on your block. At first, you thought you teleported into a different country or hell, even a different continent altogether. It wasn’t until when you swung down and walked down the streets, a man grabbed your hand and pulled you to the side.

“What’s a child like you doing here all alone?” the man with the exact features of your dad frowned, with the only difference being that he looked gruffer, sad, and more miserable.

“Dad!” you engulfed his legs in a hug.

“The hell…? I don’t have a child,” he held the collar of your shirt and pulled you away from him, “Who are you? Who sent you?”

His cold gaze sent shivers down your spine and his oppressing voice scared you. This was not your dad. Your dad was someone who could barely say any insult, much less cuss and would even hit your father if he so much mumble the word “hell”. 

This was not your dad. This was not your universe.

With a cry, a portal opened behind you and you pushed the man hard until he stumbled. You heard him exclaim in pain and shock at how a small child like you overpower an adult like him even for just a moment and you felt so guilty for hurting him. Even though he wasn’t your dad, you felt so bad for hurting him and you wanted to rush into him and hug him and cry onto his chest and apologize—but you can’t. Because he wasn’t your father. So you ran into the portal ignoring his yells.

You thought that you would come home. That you would see your dad and father waiting for you with open arms or at least, scold you where had you been and stop making them worry. You hoped. You believed. But reality proved you wrong once more as you entered not your universe but another one where everything feels like texturized. Colours were changing and it did not seem like it blended and lines were there.

This was not your universe.

At five years old, you lost your universe and had no way back home.

By thirteen years old, you slowly started to forget your home. You jumped to one universe and another to find answers of why you could barely find your universe. You did everything to even just find a clue. Loneliness and jealousy accompanied you as you watched children so happy with their families. Fear and anxiety greeted you when you found out there were no other versions of you. Betrayal walked side by side with you with so many greedy hands wanting to take your multiverse traveling power for their wants (you could never forget the way one Sorcerer Supremem wanted to absorb your soul just so he could be in an alternate universe where he was happy). Despair seeped into your every pore you when you finally pieced enough clues to find a definitive answer. 

You were not supposed to live.

At thirteen years old, you lost all hope and ultimately, yourself.

When you were eighteen years old, you had begun to accept your reality and even settled on one universe where you lived and studied thanks to some of the friends you made. You even made some Spiderpeople friends in other universes and thanks to that, you officially became one as well even if you mostly do is help them from the sidelines (you either confuse villains with two Spiders or call the police). Sometimes if the situation calls for it, you had to be a villain just so you could help save humanity in other worlds but maybe that was just a part of what makes you a Spider.

At eighteen years old, you were beginning to live.

When you turned 21, you started to encounter beings who tested the limits of the multiverse and almost succeeded. Peter Parker, another Spiderman and a friend of yours, decided to cast a spell that cost him the memories of his world. You met America Chavez, a girl who was just like you, hunted for your abilities to travel between the multiverse and the Witch who lost herself because all she wanted was just to be happy.

By then, you met a lot of people, different people from different universes despite having the same identity (except for America because just like you, there was no other version of her).

But you have never met someone, the same person, in different worlds despite having alternate versions of himself.

tag-list: @belos-simp69 @memospacexx @etherealton @lexingtoon @speaker15 @loonalockley @fandoms-run-my-life @gg-trini @julesandro @manchuria @wonderahgase @nyxhatesme @yumeneji @bookish-bimbo @lordmypantsaresocool @@tortilla-chips-and-allioli @johanseongs @nuhteyam @toji-whore

[whimsimille]

THICKER THAN BLOOD

Chapter 3: Cherry Blossoms

Jeong Jin-Man x Reader!

Ensuring the cold steel pin snapped back into the slide with a click? Check. Carefully inspecting the barrel, the recoil spring, and guide? Check. Examining the magazine, the safety mechanism, and the trigger, testing each one to guarantee they were functioning at their optimal level? Check.

“Yeah... I still got that," you murmur to yourself, the words barely audible over the soft crackling of the vintage radio playing a forgotten tune from the 60s in the background: Cherry Blossom Ending. Mom’s favorite. 

Taking another long drag of your cigarette, you savor the rich taste of a blend of Turkish tobacco that Pasin introduced you to.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, you watch it drift upwards lazily before dissipating into the stale air of the room. The sight brings back memories of foggy winter mornings back home, when the world seemed shrouded in a blanket of mist. But, unlike those mornings, there's no fragrance of dew-kissed roses or the sweet scent of mom's freshly baked apple pie to erase your nose scrunching—not when this place smells like a battlefield. The distinct aroma of gunpowder and the sharp tang of sweat mix in the air like a witch's potion, creating an unsettling olfactory cocktail.

Your eyes fall on the poster of an old concessionary you once visited, featuring a sexualized pit girl with improbably large breasts for her leather crop top. You sigh. No amount of decoration, no matter how weird or random, can erase the sensation that men in tactical gear might spring up through the gun stock’s door any minute. In your mind’s eye, they empty all the shelves as they run, their gazes wild with bloodlust, chins coated with saliva as the drugs they took to make them more alert take hold of their minds.

Yet, amidst the chaos, your eyes notice the old wooden table, scarred with years of use and abuse. Its familiar creaking sound, especially from the third leg, the one that always needed fixing. Despite its oddities, this place has a certain charm.

As a woman, you know that there are environments that society still judges as masculine. But whether you want it or not, whether you identify as a feminist or not, these judgments don't matter to you. 

Whilst memories flood back—your father patiently teaching you how to shoot, your mother cheering you on at the shooting competition—you can't help but listen to the echoes of your parents amidst the gunpowder. The rusty corner nearby the Glocks shelves reminds you too much of your old house, of mom and dad dancing across it the way they used to on Saturday nights, their laughter filling the room. Even the leftover smell of Gun's piss on the floor brings back how Honda brought home that forsaken cat that you've learned to love. 

These memories remind you that this has nothing to do with being feminine or masculine. This is about being you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated, breaking your shitty reverie. It was a muffled sound by the work table, buried somewhere beneath the scattered assortment of guns—pistols, rifles, and shotguns—in your twin's meticulously disordered workplace.

Discarding your half-smoked baby into the overflowing ashtray, you slowly rise from the creaky stool, stretching your stiff muscles. A dull ache radiates from your lower back—the result of countless hours spent hunched over the workbench. 

Ignoring the discomfort, you navigate through the maze of scattered tools and disassembled machinery, your boots echoing against the concrete floor, until you reach for the incessantly vibrating device under a pile of blueprints.

You lean against the graffiti and poster-covered wall, its coldness seeping through your top. Your gaze drifts to the multiple monitors displaying the gradually emptying streets of Seoul, illuminated by the neon glow of streetlights.

Honda always had an obsession with surveillance, with keeping an eye on every single movement outside. 

To the uninitiated, it might come off as paranoia. But in your line of work, it was a necessity. The last thing you both needed was someone sniffing around your... less-than-legal activities.

You swipe the screen, bringing the encrypted chat to life.

Younger brother by 6 minutes:

Hey, sis! Just checking in.

I trust Sukku's client came to pick up his custom order—the modified Glock 19? Did he give any trouble? Notice anything out of the ordinary? Are there any signs of suspicion that we might need to worry about?

Considering the late hour and the fact that you've been alone in this place all evening, do you want me to swing by? Gunpowder is already fast asleep. I took her to the vet earlier. They think it might be chlamydia. Apparently, it's a thing in cats.

Big sister by 6 minutes:

Chlamydia? In a cat? That's news to me. Is she going to be okay? Will she need any special treatment?

As for the client, there are no issues whatsoever. He seemed satisfied with the custom Glock. Even complimented the grip modifications.

And don't worry about me. I'm used to the workshop without you by now. Besides, I’ve been productive. Uploaded a few of our modified guns and encryption codes on our site for our initial clients to browse.

I also completed a thorough maintenance check on the old Sig Sauer P226. Replaced the recoil spring, cleaned the firing pin and even polished the slide rails. It's as good as new now. You know, just in case we need some extra firepower.

But yeah, if you're free and not too worn out, do swing by. We can grab a late-night snack from the 24-hour joint down the street. Their kimchi jjigae has been on my mind.

But for now, don't rush. I'm fine on my own. I will keep the place locked down and secure until you get back. It's not like we have a shortage of security systems.

And tell Gunpowder her noona got her back. And ask her to keep her paws off my toolbox.

Watching the gray bubble with your message pop up on the screen, you hit send.

Just as you were about to pull up the Murthehelp site on your phone—the one you had coded from scratch after many long, caffeine-fueled nights—a sudden flicker on one of the large monitors caught your attention. You squinted, setting your phone down on the table.

There, in the grainy black-and-white footage, you could make out a figure. It was vague and blurry, moving in the shadows, but their height and gait unmistakably suggested a man.

He was coming towards the workshop, his path unwavering and purposeful. You quickly glanced at his attire—a dark jacket and a baseball hat pulled low over his face. Not exactly the outfit of someone who was just strolling by, especially not at this late hour when even the nocturnal creatures had retreated to their burrows.

Keeping your nerve, you reached for the console, fingers nimbly dancing over the buttons to turn off the monitors. You didn't want the soft blue glow of the screens to betray your presence in the otherwise dark room. 

Leaving the gun stock downstairs, you entered the quiet workshop, the smell of oil and metal heavy in the air.

After tiptoeing towards the reinforced steel door, you hid behind a towering metal shelf cluttered with an assortment of spare parts, rusted tools, and half-assembled machinery, their metallic sheen glinting dimly in the ambient light.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the steady tick-tock of an old clock on the wall. Your heart pounded in your chest as you braced yourself for a loud bang, anticipating a forceful break-in. But instead, the soft rustle of someone kneeling near the entrance reached your ears. The muffled clicks of a lock being picked followed and then the door was gently pushed up, its usual creak betraying its motion conspicuously absent.

The moment the man stepped in, you sprang into action and the workshop transformed into a battleground.

You dove under a swing. A wrench grazed your arm—a missed punch. You retaliated with a swift kick, watching as he stumbled back, barely keeping his balance. But despite your best efforts, your back soon hit the cold metal of an old car under repair.

Cornered, with no way out.

A thin ray of light from a partially opened window cut through the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows. As your eyes adjusted, you saw him—Jinman. His face was as cold as the winter wind, revealing nothing of his intent. He held a knife in his hand, the cold steel pressing ominously against your stomach.

"Complacency could get you killed," he admonished as he tossed his baseball cap somewhere in this place. "In Babylon, I trained you to be sharper, faster, but you've let yourself grow soft. One inch to the side, and this blade could have nicked an artery. It would've been a messy end."

“Damn you, Jinman! What the hell were you thinking, barging in here like some low life thug?" Your hand instinctively went to your side, where your trusty Smith & Wesson lay as you watched through hooded eyes as he leaned against you, his nose scrunching in what might be the unique signal of pain from your attacks. “I mistook you for some gangster trying to get a hand on our stash! I could've shot you, you reckless idiot!" You pushed his hand away, stepping out of the claustrophobic corner.

“Do you remember our lesson on critical injuries?”

"The intestine, when damaged, can lead to sepsis," you replied, his voice flat, your eyes never leaving his as he begrudgingly sheathed his knife. You quirked up an eyebrow as you saw blood under his nails, but you didn’t dare say a thing, you knew he wouldn't talk about it anyway. Jeong was stubborn like that.

"And if left untreated, the mortality rate is high, even with immediate medical attention.”

Ignoring his continued lecturing, you moved past him, heading towards the narrow staircase that led back to the lower level where the gun stock was kept. He trailed behind, his usually light steps now heavy and labored.

"So, care to explain your sudden, unannounced break-in, Jinman?" You questioned, the cool air from the underground level hitting your face like a welcome reprieve. Without waiting for his response, you kept talking, "And why the sudden interest in giving me a lecture on gut wounds? Planning on stabbing my twin next?

"Because you..." he began, but his voice trailed off, replaced by a pained grunt.

Alarmed, you turned around just in time to see him stumble, clutching his side. He landed heavily on the last few steps, letting out a string of curses.

"Jinman?" you called out, rushing over to him. "What's wrong?"

His response was a mere groan, his face a sickly pale hue contrasted by the cold sweat forming on his forehead. The hole in his shirt as he shed his coat could be a smudge of dirt from his shoveling chore, and the blood that has soaked his shirt is almost invisible in the dim light. He's now making a strange whistling noise each time he inhales. He'd been shot. Near his intestines.

"Oh, God, Jinman! This... this is serious," you stammered, your hand shaking as you reached out to check his wound.

You have seen injuries before. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, broken bones are occupational hazards that come with your line of work. But seeing Jinman, your former partner and mentor from Babylon, bleeding and weakening struck a nerve. A sudden adrenaline rush surged through you, coupled with a rising protective instinct. You had to act quickly, keep your wits about you. Panic wouldn't help either of you now.

"Alright, Ahjussi," you said, forcing a steady tone into your voice. "We need to get you lying down. Now."

He lets go, or maybe just loses the strength to hold on, as you maneuver him onto a makeshift bed—a heap of old, worn-out blankets and tarps that you usually use when working on cars. You pull back a little—not far. His eyes regard you from their deep and blackening sockets. They are as brilliant as ever, but you see, they are also full of terror and (this is what frightens you most) some wretched, inexplicable amusement. 

Still speaking low—perhaps so only you can hear, maybe because it's the best he can manage—Jeong says, "Listen, little woman. I can handle myself.."

 "No—you have to stop."

He pays no attention. He draws in another of those screaming breaths, purses his wet red lips in a tight O, and makes a low, incredibly nasty chuffing noise. It drives a fine spray of blood up his clenched throat and into the sweltering air.

He turns his head to the side, spits a wad of half-congealed blood onto the hot tar, then turns back to you. "I guess it's karma.”

You understand that he means it, and for a moment (surely it is the power of his eyes), you believe it's true. He will make the sound again, only a little louder, and in some other world, Bale, that lord of sleepless nights, will turn its unspeakable, hungry head. A moment later, if you don’t just move and fucking think, in this world, Jeong Jin-Man will simply shiver in this old place and die. The death certificate will say something sane, but you’ll know: his dark past finally saw him, came for him and ate him alive.

“I guess I’m getting old, huh?”

Leaning even closer. Into the shivering sweat and blood of him. Leaning in until you can smell the last palest ghost of the Prell he shampooed with that morning and the Foamy he shaved with. Leaning in until your lips touch his ear. You whisper, "Be quiet, Jin-Man. For once in your life, just be quiet. Don’t you dare make this pussy sound again.”

Looking around, you knew no bandage in your medicine cabinet would be enough, so you ended up tearing long strips from a sheet. The sheet is old, but you mourn its passing just the same—on a waitress's salary (supplemented by niggardly tips and only slightly better ones from the faculty members who lunch at Pat's), you can ill afford to raid your linen closet. But when you think of  stuffing it into his mouth to muffle his screams and grunts, you don't hesitate.

You caught sight of an old bottle of Korean whisky, a forgotten souvenir from a past mission to Jeju Island. Honda had won it in a high-stakes game of poker but never got around to finishing it. Now, it seemed like a fitting antiseptic.

Raising the bottle to your lips, you took a swig, the liquid burning its way down your throat—a twisted semblance of courage. Then, with a grimace, you drenched the wound with the help of a cloth, the sharp smell of alcohol mingling with the raw scent of blood. Jinman’s body tensed, a deep groan escaping his clenched teeth.

“I’m hot.”

"Shit, Ahjusshi." Emboldened, you rubbed your freezing, leaking hand along his right cheek, his left cheek, and then across his forehead, where drops of whisky-colored water dripped into his eyebrows and then ran down the sides of his nose. He hums in satisfaction. "You should have been more careful."

The room was filled with a heavy silence, the only sounds being the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere overhead and Jinman’s labored breathing.

You remembered a mission in Gwangju, back when you two were still new to the field. It was a stormy night, the air was so heavy with rain that it felt like you were walking through a cloud. The neon lights of the city were blurred, painting everything in an ethereal glow. There was a sense of surrealism to that night, a feeling of being detached from reality. That was the first time you had seen Jinman truly vulnerable, his usually stoic demeanor giving way to panic as a bullet grazed his shoulder.

“It’s just a scratch,” he had grumbled, his hand tightly gripping yours as you tried to clean the wound. He licked at his lips. You saw the blood on his tongue and it turned your stomach, but you didn’t pull away from him.

Now, years later, history is repeating itself. But this time, the stakes were much higher.

"Listen to me, old man," you began, your voice breaking the overwhelming silence. "We've been through worse, haven't we? Remember that time in Busan when that crazy bastard tried to stab you with a switchblade?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, his eyes half-closed, the sheets between his teeth stained with blood and saliva. "Yeah, and you broke his nose."

"You're damn right, I did," you chuckled, your fingers gently tracing the outline of the wound, assessing the damage, before rising up again in search of your purple lighter somewhere in this place. "And we made it through that night, didn't we? So, we're going to make it through this shit too. But you need to stay with me, alright? Don't you fucking dare drift off on me!"

Found it!

As you kneeled again and prepared the needles and threads, sterilizing them over a small flame, your throat felt as dry as the barren lands of the Mojave Desert. Words stuck in your mouth like cotton, but you forced them out. 

"Do you remember that pawnshop in Itaewon? The one with the old, rusted sign hanging crookedly and the fat, ginger cat named Tofu who would lazily sprawl across the counter? The owner—what was his name? Sungmin, right? He had this weird obsession with Elvis Presley. Used to play vintage vinyl records on that old gramophone he had all day long. You hated it; you said it was too 'old-fashioned' for your taste. But I caught you humming 'Love Me Tender' once."

His eyes met yours, a faint glimmer of amusement in them. You could see his chest rise and fall, each breath a little more labored than the last. But he was listening, a hint of a smile tugging at his bloodstained lips.

"And then there was that time in Hongdae," you continued, your fingers gently manipulating the sterilized pliers inside his abdomen. He hissed and jerked, the sudden movement causing the tools in your hand to clatter loudly. But a stern glance in his direction had him stilling, his jaw clenched tightly to suppress any further sounds. "We stumbled upon this cute little bakery at three in the morning. The owner was this old lady, who claimed her red bean buns were the best in all of Seoul. You were skeptical and said nothing could beat your grandma's recipe. But, after the first bite...”

You paused, recalling the look of sheer surprise on his face. "You devoured five of those buns in a matter of minutes. You even tried to flirt with the old lady, hoping to score the recipe."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, his grip tightening around your free hand. "And she said... she said she had a... strict policy. No sharing recipes with… playboys."

"Exactly!" You exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you noticed the mischievous light returning to his eyes. "She definitely put you in your place, didn't she?"

“Shut…up.”

“I like you too. Please don’t die on me. I don't want to hear Honda crying in my ears at your funeral.”

As you finally found the bullet, the harsh reality of the situation loomed over you, a grim reminder of the danger he was in. But for now, for just a few moments, it felt like old times. Just you and Jinman, bleeding wounds, guns on your feet and hips. You and him.

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

The short walk from the taxi to Jin-Man’s porch had been enough to thoroughly drench you, with your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Raindrops dripped from the brim of your hat, splashing onto the porch's wooden planks, causing the aged wood to glisten under the feeble light from an old lamp hanging precariously above the door.

A sudden gust of wind made you shiver, and you quickly pulled your coat tighter around yourself, silently cursing the weather. You couldn't help but take a moment to observe the changes Jin-Man had made to the entrance—the broken lilies and the shattered pot had been replaced by beautiful blue hyacinths. You admired them briefly before bending down to retrieve the spare keys hidden beneath the ugly cat statue.

"Hey, ugly one! Been taking care of them for me?"

As you straightened up, key in hand, the door suddenly swung open.

Jin-Man stood in the doorway, his eyes softening as they took in your soaked floral skirt, the one he had always nagged you about, and the top that clung damply to your torso. He looked spent, with dark circles under his eyes and the distinct smell of ink and gunpowder clinging to him. The stubble on his face stood out more prominently against his tired features.

"I didn't think you'd come home.” Unusually, he started to balance on one foot while his hair was too long in the back—he needed it cut badly. You know he looks in the mirror and sees a Kpop star but you look at him and see a vagrant out of a Woody Guthrie song—dust in the wind.

What Jeong didn't say was, "Why didn’t you come in earlier?" Or, "Why do you look so hurt?"

As Honda had pointed out on more than one occasion, Jin-Man had what was surely among the rarest of human talents: he was a business minder who did not mind too much if you didn't mind yours. As long as you weren't making explosives to throw at someone, that was, and in your case, explosives were always a possibility. 

You shrugged off his remark; the tension between you two is still palpable. "I'm not here for you, Jin-Man," you replied, your gaze hardening. "I'm here for Ji-An."

Stepping past him, you entered the house, your gaze scanning the familiar surroundings—a mix of vintage and modern decor. Everything was just as you remembered it; the mahogany coffee table with its assortment of vintage car magazines, the worn-out, leather Chesterfield couch that bore the imprints of countless lazy afternoons, and the rustic brick fireplace that still smelled faintly of burnt cedar—the same furniture, the same arrangement, the same scents.

As you moved further into the house, a familiar sound reached your ears: the quiet jingling of a collar. Turning around, you saw Gunpowder padding towards you, her amber eyes glowing.

"G-Pow," you called, crouching down to her level, your hand reaching out to her.

The moment stretched uneasily as she mulled over your extended hand and her new master, standing a distance away. “Betrayal alert: Hostile territory,” seemed to be the message running through her kitty brain.

Just when you were about to etch another loss, Gunpowder decided otherwise; tail held in festive high, she padded towards you, meowing a soft welcome.

A chuckle rippled through you as your fingers slid behind her ears, playing briefly, "Missed all this mess, didn't you darling?”

Gunpowder meowed in response, her tail flicking playfully.

“My good girl.” You kissed her fur before she ran away to the couch.

Standing back up, you turned to face Jin-Man, your gaze hard but determined. "Is Ji-An asleep?"

He nodded, running a hand through his hair—a nervous habit you remembered well. "She's had a long day. But she'll be excited to see you in the morning."

"That's good," Bidding your drenched jacket and your hat goodbye onto the nearby coat rack, your eyes danced around the familiar kitchen layout till it landed on the kitchen counter, noticing the half-eaten sandwich and the glass of milk. "Eating habits are still the same, I see."

Jin-Man shrugged, his gaze avoiding yours. "Habit is a hard thing to break."

"You should try sometimes. It wouldn't kill you to have a proper meal."

His gaze finally met yours, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "I can take care of myself, Y/N."

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. "I know you can, Jin-Man. But taking care of yourself doesn't mean you have to do everything alone."

He didn't reply, his gaze dropping to the floor. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head; his mind was probably grappling with the fact that you were back in the house after months of absence.

Deciding to break the silence, you moved towards the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the contents. "I'll make dinner. It's about time we had a decent meal. And while I do that, could you fetch me some dry clothes? I'd prefer the black shirt with the Nirvana logo if it's still around.”

He sighed, closing the fridge door abruptly. “Stop it,” he demanded, his voice carrying that note that you hated so much. The note of a boss talking with his partner. “Stop thinking about me and go take a shower. You’re freezing, and no shirt, Nirvana or not, is going to help with that.”

"Okay, okay, bossy much?" You rolled your eyes as you moved past him, heading towards the doorway. "By the way, I'm not freezing. I'm just a little wet."

With a sense of nostalgia, you began to tread softly down the hallway, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards echoing in your ears.

Gliding past Ji-An's room, you lightly pressed the door ajar. Bathed in the subdued glow of her nightlight was a picture-perfect scene—a tiny human swaddled in warmth, clutching onto her fluffy bunny with all the ferocity her little fists could offer. 

With feather-light steps, you ventured further in, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead as whispers of "Goodnight, Noona" danced around your heartstrings.

Clutching your top hem, your mind began to drift back to the past as you continued down the hallway. The memories of nights you spent in this house were like a movie playing in your mind: the arguments filled with passion, the shared meals around the worn-out dining table, and the shared silence that spoke more than words ever could.

After Honda’s death, you hadn't wanted the slice of cheesecake he would bring home from the restaurant for dessert, and you certainly hadn't wanted to go to any Hollywood movie... but you had wanted all those things with Jin-Man. Yes. Because over the last couple of months, and especially over the last months, you’ve come to depend on him in a funny way. Maybe it's corny— probably—but there's a feeling of safety when he puts his arms around you that wasn't there with any of her other guys; what you felt with and for most of them was either impatience or wariness. (Sometimes fleeting lust.) 

But there is kindness in Jeong (hidden between the rusty corners and dark basement of his heart, but, yes, there was), and from the first you felt interest coming from him— interest in you—that you could hardly believe, because he's so much smarter and so talented. And he speaks a language you grasped greedily from the beginning. Not the signing language, but one you know very well, just the same—it's as if you were speaking it in dreams.

But what good is talk and a special language if there's no one to talk to? Someone to cry to, even? That's what you needed tonight. You’d never told him about your crazy fucked-up family or your past before him—oh, pardon me, that's crazy smucked-up talk in Honda's speech—but you meant to tonight. Felt you had to or explode from pure misery. 

Walking into the bathroom, its altered landscape consumed your attention. Pristine countertop occupied by practical necessities: a single toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and straight razor aesthetically laying on top screamed 'functional' compared to it once being decorated chaotically with personal effects nestled among skincare bottles alongside makeup and a carelessly thrown hairbrush—an exquisite mosaic of a life once lived.

Stepping into the shower, the hot water cascaded down your body, washing away the grit and grime of the day. Still, no water could stop you from remembering the last time you were in this shower—the last time you were in this bathroom.

"Can I join you?" Jin-Man's voice had echoed off the bathroom tiles, the door creaking open slightly.

Looking back, you found him leaning against the door frame, sleep-ruffled hair visible over the frosted shower barrier—a low-hung towel only embellishing his irresistible nonchalance.

“If you promise not to fuck me against the tiles again, sure, why not?”

“Alright, alright,” he had chuckled, opening the shower door and stepping in. The water immediately started soaking his hair, the droplets trickling down his face and chest. “I promise, no fooling around.”

You had laughed then, tilting your head back to rinse the shampoo from your hair. “Good. Because I need to get ready, and I don’t have time for your… shenanigans.”

Jin-Man simply smiled at that, his hands reaching out to help rinse your hair. His fingers were gentle as they massaged your scalp, working through the tangles. “I’ll behave. Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes at his antics but not being able to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth.

"But I could have been. Imagine how good I would have looked in the uniform."

You laughed at that, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. "Yeah, right. You would have been the rebel scout. I can just see you now, trying to start a fire with a pocket knife and a piece of flint, and ‘accidentally’ burning down the entire camp because some weird boy thought it was funny to pull on my pigtails."

"Probably," he agreed. His hands moved to your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there. "But I bet I would have been the best at telling ghost stories around the campfire."

"That's true. You do have a knack for dramatic storytelling. You could have scared all the other scouts half to death."

His hands stilled on your shoulders, and he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against your back. "I only scare people because I care," he murmured in your ear, his breath warming against your skin.

"Is that so?" You turned to face him, a soft smile on your lips, and you reached up to trace the line of his jaw. "Well, in that case, I guess I should be grateful."

"You should be. Now, let's get you rinsed off. We wouldn't want you to be late, now, would we?"

"No, we wouldn't.”

As you stepped out of the shower, you reached for the towel hanging on the rack.

Dressed in the Nirvana shirt and a pair of his boxers, you padded back into the kitchen, finding Jin-Man leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands. He looked up as you entered, his eyes automatically dropping to take in your attire. He said nothing, but you could see the flicker of something in his gaze—the ghost of a memory, perhaps.

His other friends saw his talent and were dazzled by it at first. You saw how he sometimes struggled to meet the eyes of strangers. You understood that, underneath all his smart (and sometimes brilliant) talk, in spite of his stern expressions, you could hurt him badly if you wanted to. He was, in your dad's words, cruising for a bruising. Had been his whole charmed smucking—no, check that—his whole charmed fucking life. Tonight, the charm could break. And who could break it? You could.

Any tension laying dormant was pushed aside as you reached into the refrigerator, selecting ingredients for tonight's culinary endeavor: crisp bok choy leaves, thick udon strands slightly sticky to touch, and leftover samgyeopsal marinated with sesame oil, which filled the air with a slightly charred meaty smell while cooking yesterday. The symphony of chopped vegetables thudding on a wooden cutting board, accompanied by a sizzling pan flanked by the soft purring of the refrigerator, announced another evening feast showtime.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore.

“Stop staring and say something, Jin-Man.”

He blinked, his gaze lifting from the coffee mug in his hands to meet yours. “You look…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Okay.”

You let out a sigh of relief, turning back to the stove.

“I wasn’t going to say you look good.”

“No?”

"Nope," he said, maintaining eye contact while parking his well-loved first edition Penguin mug with a soft thud. "You've got this 'This is my kitchen' glow about you—no make-up, tousled midnight hair against your cheeks, and my shirt on your body... You look like you belong at home, in this kitchen, with me."

“Oh, shut up, Jinman. Are you sure that coffee isn't spiked? That cheap bag of Dong Suh you've been hoarding since you bought it from that old market in Gyeongju?"

He laughed then, a deep, rich sound that echoed warmly around the room, bouncing off the peeling sunflower-yellow wallpaper and the worn-out, wooden cabinets. "I promise, it's just regular coffee. But if you're not careful, I might start spouting poetry next.”

"I'd like to see you try," you challenged as you moved to add the noodles to the boiling pot.

At the same time, however, a soft melody began to fill the room. Turning, you saw Jinman’s back turned towards you. He was hunched over an old radio placed precariously on the window ledge over the sink—an old Philco with a cracked case. It had been his mother’s; he kept it out in the barn and listened to it while he was choring. It's the only thing of hers that he still has, and you keep it in the window because it's the only place where it will pick up local stations. It was secondhand even then, when Jin-Man gifted it to her after earning his first paycheck, but when it was unwrapped and she saw what it was, she grinned until it seemed her face would crack and how she thanked him! Over and over!

The tinny sound of the old device was playing a song that you recognized immediately—it was your mother's favorite song. A smile tugged at your lips as you watched him, his fingers delicately turning the knobs to get the best reception.

At the end, he cocked a thumb at the radio and said, stupidly proud of his useless knowledge, "That's Busker Busker. The original indie version."

"Jeong…I—”

You had no idea where to go from there, and it seemed there was no need. The man raised the forefinger of his left hand like a teacher who meant to make a particularly important point, and the smile actually resurfaced on his lips. Some sort of smile, anyway.

"Wait," he said.

"Wait?"

He looked pleased, as if you had grasped a difficult concept. "Wait."

And before you could say anything else, he simply walked off behind you, turning off the stove before his hands found your waist. His warm body pressed against your back, his head burying itself in the crook of your neck.

The aroma of your cooking, mixed with the familiar scent of Jin-Man and the sound of the old song playing on the radio, transported you back to simpler times. Times when life was not about surviving, not about fighting, but about living. About enjoying moments like these.

He began to sway, his movements leading you in a slow dance around the kitchen. His touch was gentle yet firm and you allowed him to lead, your body moving in rhythm with his as you danced barefoot on the cold ceramic tile floor.

Beyond the rustic kitchen windows, Mother Nature cooed her own ballad—soft chirps cushioned in cool country air under the moon's watchful eyes, dressing everything in stretched-out shadows—that played on repeat. Gunpowder was outside too busy bullying a moth under a moon-bathed silhouette, while Ji-An’s gentle snores added a comforting motif to your nighttime symphony.

It felt like you were in some sort of dream, the reality of your world forgotten for a moment. You were not a killer, not a fighter. You were just a woman, dancing in the kitchen with the man she secretly might like.

Turning you around, he looked down at you, his gaze soft and filled with emotions you could not decipher. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked up at him through your eyelashes, your fingers idly playing with the hem of his worn-out puma shirt.

The world outside did not matter at this moment. The only thing that mattered was Jin-Man and the way he held you, the way he looked at you. You could see a mirror of your own emotions in his eyes—longing, fear, and a hint of sadness.

As the last note of the song played, you rose to your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was filled with promise, with hope—a kiss that said more than words ever could.

As you pulled away, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the two of you stood in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of your cooking still lingering in the air.

"Welcome home, Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the radio.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged.

[thenightfolknetwork]

Ok so, I'm not...supposed to exist?

I am—er, well, was an imaginary friend. My "brother" was a lonely little boy who was quite neglected looking back, and he wanted someone to spend his time with, a "sister".

So he dreamed, and I came to be. Now, even as a child he wasn't the most imaginative sort, preferring to imagine things he could see and wonder about what was rather than make something new completely from scratch. So, in his mind, his sister looked just like him, just with longer hair. I think that's one of the reasons i'm...like this.

Most children describe their imaginary friends as fantastical, with great glittering wings or neon spots and the like. Most children stop talking or believing in their imaginary friends around a certain age. Most children cannot see someone else's friend. No one, outside of the child, can see an imaginary friend.

Until now? I think? These are all observations I've made.

I remember only existing when my brother was around. We would play and "go on adventures" and just have fun. When it was dinner time, I would sit beside him and eat... but couldn't eat. I would say things to make him laugh, but no one else would acknowledge I was there. I didn't think much of it at the time since..well, I couldn't think. I wasn't real.

As he grew, he must have imagined me growing as well. As he learned, I did, too, and must have adjusted accordingly. Unlike his peers, he was convinced that I was a person and was angry when people told him otherwise.

We got older and he got more insistent when suddenly, people started to play along. Pretending to see me and talk to me when it was clear that they couldn't. I think this was when I started to...feel things? Think?

We fought, my brother and I. He was graduating secondary and heading to Uni. I asked him why he still imagined me when it was clear he didn't need me anymore. He said he did need me. I didn't believe him, we argued, and he left.

I was still there.

Before, time almost seemed to...skip? Think cutscenes from those video games everyone seems to like playing. The day ends, I blink and it's morning, no sleep needed. Brother was distracted? Time skips until he addressed me again.

I've never not been without him before. I panicked. I collapsed against the wall and I felt it. The cool wall, the tears streaming down my face, my brother's hug when he came to apologize. I don't know how to handle it.

When we sat down for dinner, his mum and dad addressed me and asked if I was alright, as if they had always known I existed. They could see me and my distress. I tried to explain, but everyone looked at me confused. They told me that of course i existed, I always did.

But I know the truth. There are no pictures of me in this house. There are no school records of me or medical ones. I have no bedroom or clothes of my own. I did not exist.

I don't know exactly when I became "real" but I am now. I just...I don't know what to do? I wasn't real and now I am and everyone calls me crazy for thinking otherwise. How does one exist? My brother is leaving for Uni soon and everyone expects the same of me, as if I've been accepted into one. I haven't, I've checked.

Why do I exist? Why does no one acknowledge that I never did?

Please.

I'm scared.

I'm so glad you've written in, reader. Quite apart from the existential questions your situation raises, there is also rather a lot of paperwork involved.

It is possible to live in the UK without being part of the civil bureaucratic system – indeed, there are certain isolated genuses whose right to do so has been fiercely protected over the generations. But it's a tremendously difficult way to live if you have any intention of engaging with the economic, education or healthcare systems.

The Bunbury Institute of Manifested Personages should be your first port of call to tackle the logistical and legal difficulties presented by your case. They'll be able to get you sorted with all the documentation you need to prove your existence, including a Certificate of Corporeal Incarnation, which will stand in where others might use their birth certificate.

Once you legally exist, you'll be able to open a bank account, apply for a passport, and essentially make whatever choices you want to make about how to spend the rest of your existence. Which brings me to the real heart of your letter – the emotional impact of your change in circumstance.

Sudden onset incarnation is a profoundly disruptive experience no matter how, when or to whom it occurs. Even if your family were able to understand the situation and support you through it, it would still be an extremely difficult situation to navigate. As it is, the nature of your previous existence and the way your incarnation has taken effect means they're just not able to.

You ask why nobody acknowledges your previous non-existence. Generally speaking, most people find it extremely difficult to the point of near impossibility to really understand divergent realities. It's not that your family are trying to undermine you – they are literally, psychologically and biologically, incapable of understanding how you have come to be.

I strongly recommend you find someone to talk to about this issue as soon as you can. Without your legal paperwork in place, it will be difficult to access mental health support either privately or through the NHS. However, the Bunbury Institute and other such charitable organisations may be able to put you in touch with support groups for others like yourself.

What's important is that you know, you're not alone in this. Whatever your family may believe, your experiences are real and valid. And, now, so are you. It's going to be a big adjustment, figuring out how you want to live in the world now you're here. Try not to get too overwhelmed. Take things one day at a time, try to keep an eye on the positives, and give yourself the grace and time you need to process the negatives. In time, I feel sure you'll be able to build a life that feels right for you.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

[00sniff]

Fairly Ghost Parents 3

Cosmo swam up to the top of the fish bowl and asked Timmy, "What's up, why the long face."

Timmy signed and said, "That his parents mentioned that the relative they are going to visit have kids to but their older kids. What if they're like Vicky," he mumbles.

Cosmo smiles and tries to wave away, Timmys worries come on no is as icky as Vickey. Why I would bet my bacon that everything's going to be just fine, he cheerfully adds, poofing up a tiny goldfish size frying pan of greasy sizzleing bacon huming while he cooks it.

Timmy smiled, feeling a bit better at his godfathers encourage words.

Wanda swam out of the castle with poof right beside her. She faces plams with her fin when she sees Cosom cooking bacon,

"Cosmo," Wanda scolded "were supposed to be incognito at the moment"

Cosmo puffed out his chest. I'll have you know I haven't been incognito seents I got out of diapers, " he proudly proclaimed.

Wanda, Poof, and Timmy all sigh at the goofy but loveable fairy.

"We're here." The quiet moment is broken as Timmys father happy announces that they have arrived and pulls over to the curb.

As soon as the car has stopped, Timmy hops out, holding the fish bowl the fist thing he notices is that its in a much more urban area unlike his neighborhood back home but what really caught his attention is the giant pile of machinery on the roof that looked like a space ship from one of his adventures in space.

"Fentone works." Timmy reads out loud. The bright neon sign on the front of the building.

His mother walks up to his side and explains "yeah my sister and her family have their own business, a ghost hunting business." Ghost Hunting? Timmy repeated skeptical, but he also saw the nervous look his godparents shared while listening to the conversation.

"Well, it looks like ghost hunting must pay pretty well," his father's jelousy mumbles as he carries some of the bags up to the front door.

His mom knocked on the door it swings open at lighting speed, and a woman with a full body blue jump suit with long black gloves and short aubran hair opens the door "Susanne" she excitedly shouts, Maddie Timmys mom yells back and the two women hug.

"It's so good to see you again, Maddie let go first and steped aside to let them in Jack, kids come here, Susanne and her family are here, a large man in a bright orange full body jump suite comes runing out of nowere heeyyyy!

The large man shots exsidaly its been awile he gives a spine crushing hug to timmy parents lefting them off the groud.

Good to see you again to Timmy's dad, wezzed out as he was crushed. The guy finally lets go of Timmys' parents and spots him. Timmy glups as the guy ruffles his hair, and you must be Timmy. Last I saw you, you were this big he says as he pinches his fingers together.

Nice to meet you top, Mr. Uummmm, sir, Timmy says, caueing the man to laugh, "You can call me Jack, little guy," "and im Maddie." The woman replies and shacks his hand.

Then, two other people entered the room coming down the stairs. One was a young looking teen boy with black hair and blues eyes. He wore a simple white tee shirt and Jean's and looked like he might be nice. The other person was a girl who looked to be an older teen she had a black blose and light colored jeans and had long orange hair, Timmy froze for a second haveing flash backs of Vickey oh god Timmy thought there is gona be another Vickey here he nervously clutches at the fish bowl unconsciously.

[altocat]

Hi

Do you know why Sephiroth is the only Soldier whose eyes went from the normal sky-blue mako tinge to bright cyan-green? I noticed in the Ever Crisis profile art, his eyes look almost emerald as an adult and in Remake they look neon green. But as a child his eyes are the regular mako-blue.

Zack, Genesis, Angeal, and Cloud show no signs of this transformation and I’m confused.

I'm leaning towards the idea that Sephiroth probably received mako treatment at a very young age and was given continuous treatments afterwards. My guess is that, unlike the other soldiers, Sephiroth has probably experienced more subsequent Mako showerings/infusions than the average SOLDIER member combined given his unnatural genetics. Way, way more. He's not completely human and his body could handle an increased capacity. Plus, since Hojo is his dad, I definitely think he was pumping all sorts of nasty chemicals into his son.

[entropic-saudade]

Title: Do Angels Dream of Electric Sheep?

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: BasketcaseBetty

Link to Fic | Link to Art

Rating: M

Tags: Alternate Universe, Inspired by Cyberpunk 2077, Mercenary Dean Winchester, Sex Worker Castiel, Aftermath and Recovery from Mind Control, Body Modifications, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication Issues, Families of Choice, Happy Ending

Summary: 

Night City, California, 2077.

After Dad’s death leaves Dean a clan of one, Dean puts life on the road in his rearview mirror and follows in his little brother’s footsteps to the so-called City of Dreams. Unlike Sam, who went the corpo route, Dean becomes a merc-of-all-trades, doing anything it takes to make enough eddies to survive and make a name for himself before the lights go out.

When offered a lucrative job to locate some missing property from Cloud 9, a dollhouse deep in the megabuildings of Westbrook, Dean takes it with little hesitation— only to find that the ‘property’ in question is one of Naomi’s ‘angels’, a doll named Castiel.

Finding the wayward doll is just the beginning, as the job spirals far beyond a simple bounty hunt, and Dean is reminded of what matters most as he discovers a corporate conspiracy lurking beneath all the shiny chrome and neon lights of Night City.

For the @cdrcrossoverbang.

Thank you to @basketcasebetty for the art and prompt which inspired the fic! It was such a complex and interesting world to delve into and translate into an SPN story. I hope you enjoy it!

[trans-luis-serra-navarro]

TELL ME ABOUT TRANS LUIS!!! I WANT HIM TO BE TRANS SO BAD! (Also he has a giant neon sign over his head that says gay, this man reeks of homosexual)

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE OMG HEYYYYY HIIIIIII HELLOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! I’m SOOOOOO sorry this took so long I had SO MANY THOUGHTS!!!!! I plan on SOMEDAY Doing Like. A properly credited and researched document on why I think Luis is trans so this post is more or less kind of a tl;dr rather than a super proper read?????????? And ofc obligatory ‘this is just my own reading and personal interpretation if you disagree please just keep your opinion to yourself!!!!!’

Also this isn’t proofread like. At ALL so please ignore any sentences that seem wonky or weird HDBEHENDUDJX

ALSO also I do NOT give permission for this post to be screenshotted or reposted ANYWHERE!!!!!!!!!!! No part of this!! Don’t steal!!

Trigger warning for just general mentions of transphobia, religious transphobia and also I talk the death statistics for trans people near the end, so please keep that in mind when reading!!

Ok so, I’m gonna try and put this as chronologically as possible BXBSHDNSHDND but starting at the beginning from when Luis was little there’s already a few things we can pick up on

Luis has a pretty unorthodox family; his mum died when he was little and his dad left so he had to be raised by his Grandfather, and, ask any Trans person around you and they’ll tell you it’s oftentimes the people in their lives who weren’t their direct parents who decided to pick them up and raise them and accept them as they truly are- I feel like you could probably read this with Luis’ grandfather if you really wanted to, too. From what we can TEEEEEEELLL Luis held his grandfather and the memory of him very near and dear to his heart (ie referencing him in conversation, saying ‘not again’ when the medicine burns in seperate ways etc) so you could probably guess that maybe Luis’ grandfather was a surprisingly accepting figure in Luis’ life!!!!!

Which would also line up with the little we know about him- their house was somewhat far away from the rest of the village and from what the notes about him read, his grandfather was a bit of an outcast????? It seemed like the only person who checked in on him regularly was Bitorez- once again, another positive male figure in Luis’ life that he could theoretically look up to and admire.

AND we know that Luis’ grandfather encouraged his love for science and biology- something that prooooobably would’ve been frowned upon in a super conservative catholic glorified cult. So already, Luis and his Grandfather are a bit unorthodox in the setting they live in.

Then we cut to Don Quixote; obviously there’s a LOT to dissect about Luis and his love for that book, and it’s pretty common knowledge how,,,,,,,,, g a y that book is HXNEHENEUDIX like MAAAAAANY-a historians have already pointed that out I don’t need to beat a dead horse but ask literally any trans person around you and they’ll tell you about how they had a fascination with like,, Warrior Cats or Animorphs or Percy Jackson or Peter Pan growing up only to find out they were trans later. Trans kids are pretty drawn to books with unlikely protagonists who don’t fit the usual stereotypes and go on adventures with a whacky misfit family they formed by themselves- and Don Quixote kiiiiiiiiiiiinda falls under that pattern????? It’s a REALLY weird book and I wanna get into why later but it wouldn’t be shocking to assume that Luis probably grasped onto that idea of finding love and acceptance even though he was weird and unusual and he too could go on chivalrous adventures and do good in the world and be loved for who he is (I’ve kinda gone into this before and I plan on going into it again I’ll tag you in that post!!!!)

There’s also something to note about the fact that none of the village notes reference Luis by his first name. Luis is apparently a very “strong and masculine” name so if we ARE going off of the assumption that Luis is trans (which like,,. Duh HDNEHENDHS) then we can probably assume he picked that name for himself

It’s also pretty notable to note (hah) that like,,,,,, just in general, a lot of kids who grow up in a super religious environment just. Turn out gay and trans. I dunno why. I dunno what’s the exact statistic for that but like. Cmon. We’ve all seen it. We all know it right

Then huzzah! Luis’ Grabdfather dies!!! How sweet of him!!!!! /s obviously but Luis takes his death as an opportunity to run from home- again, something that’s sadly quite common amongst younger trans people it seems. When you loose your only support at home, and suddenly that home becomes unsafe, oftentimes the only solution is to run.

Now I’ve talked MUUUUUUCH more in depth about it in this post but considering the fact that Luis was probably a young teenager, an immigrant from the middle of nowhere, and had zero family or support- there’s a less than zero chance that he probably would have stumbled across the queer community one way or another. See, all throughout the 20th century, the queer and poc/immigrant communities were VERY intertwined- now I am WHITE AS ALL HELL so their history isn’t something I’m able to speak on with any amount of grace as actual people of colour could, so I’ll keep this breif and also if I’ve misrepresented anything PLEEEEAAASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME

Basically, like I said- the communities were very intertwined. They’d help each other and were sometimes seen as like the same circle of people when it came to what they were fighting for. All throughout history, this comes up time and time again- which is why I can only assume that Luis, a young person of colour having come from basically the middle of nowhere, would most likely find solace and a place in both communities- and would ABSOLUTELY have explored his gender and sexuality because of it. Even if he WAS cis there’s no way he wouldn’t have at least dabbled in a bit of the ol gender exploration every now and then

((Also, VEEEERY important to note that yes although trans and poc history are very intertwined they are still very seperate histories. It’s VERY IMPORTANT to not erase poc voices from this discussion when talking about this aspect of history- listen to your poc friends first and foremost before all else))

It’s also probably good to note that a few universities around that time were pretty notoriously open about being queer-friendly but we have no clue what exact university in Europe Luis would have gone to but idk we can probably guess he fooled around with some men and women HANSYWNEYENDUCJX

Then we cut to umbrella. I and a few other people have gone into how umbrella would have most likely groomed a young Luis into being excited to work with them and willing via offering him a place to stay, a college degree, a stable life etc etc but there’s also a sense of horror there when you take into account they could’ve offered him the ability to medically transition. Something that was NOT easy or very safe to do at the time. And plus this is resident evil so we can only guess what magical hoodicky they would’ve gotten to do that GDBEYWNDYDJ

From what we can tell, luis honestly enjoyed his time with umbrella!!!! He seemed to be friends with his coworkers and he was proud of the work he was doing (Yknow, before he would have found out it was all a lie and was going to kill millions HXBEHENEH) and honestly isn’t that every trans persons dream????? To have a job where you’re accepted and can feel safe at??????? To have friends who can accept you???????? It just makes what all went down all the more heartbreaking to me if we DO view him in the lens of being a trans character!!!!!!!!!

And then, of course, for the second time in his life; everything comes crumbling down. I’ve done seperate analysis on this and I plan on doing another cuz what I’m about to mention just hits,,,,,,,, S O O O O close to home to me, but when everything in his life gets destroyed AGAIN;

Luis chooses to go back to Valdelobos.

And isn’t that just so devastating?????? Because we as humans ALL do that- when life gets so bad and so intense we have no clue what to do, we all wanna turn to our parents or our childhood homes and get a hug and that feeling of nostalgia and safety from when we were kids that we missed.

But ask any other trans person and they’ll tell you that a lot of the time, that’s not what you’re gonna get; and that’s what happened to Luis. He went home, hoping- BEGGING- for some kind of support from the nightmares he just went through, only to be thrown straight into another one. Los Illuminados had been taken over and reverted his childhood home into something totally unrecognisable and forced him to work for them or else he’d literally be tortured. And isn’t that just,,,,, made all the more depressing when you look at it from a trans angle????

In this case scenario, when a lot of Trans people are forced to return to unsafe homes- they’re forced to push down their identity for their own safety. And reading that in Luis is just all the more devastating

And then there’s the whole thing where Luis literally SELF SURGICALLY REMOVED THE LAS PLAGAS FROM HIMSELF????????? WHY DONT MORE PEOPLE TALK ABT HOW TRAUMATISING THAT MUSTVE BEEN????????????? I know @/katabay made an INCREDIBLE post going into a religious reading on this and how I’m Don Quixote Alonso himself preforms an excorsism on himself and it’s weirdly erotic?????? And how that translates to Luis’ Plagas removal- they also made INCREDIBLE art go check it out- but throughout history there are a LOT of poems made by “”””women who want to be men”””” (aka trans men) who were religious at some point and describe the sensation of binding or getting top surgery to that of having an exorcism (this was mostly done to convince local churches that Hey no it was totally cool actually just let us get gender affirming care pretty pretty please) so, y’know,,,, maybe that meme that Luis showing Leon is scar was actually him coming out as trans wasn’t that far off HEBWYENXUXJXJDNC

And there’s also just the whole fact that he was a scientist that plays into this, too- Catholicism, specifically the hardcore Catholicism that Luis grew up with, absolutely HATES science. And the fact that Valdelobos seemed to be permanantly stuck in this 18th century cult-like state only confirms that they probably would have been anti-medicine, too; not only adding onto Luis’ guilt but also making him a prestigious scientist all the more impressive. Imagery that Luis is shown with (like that lil casket he carried around in seperate ways filled with the suppressants Ada needed) is often used by people in cults similar to Valdelobos to prove that ‘oh science is the devil!!!’ Etc, and y’know what else is related to science????

Medically transitioning babey!!!!!! A lot of the times hardcore religious people, again in similar cults to Valdelobos, use terms like ‘mutulating’ to describe medically transitioning and use already devil-associated imagery like science and modern medicine to hammer home that hatred of trans people (also obligatory not all religious people are like this in fact MOST religious people aren’t like this I’m talking specifically situations like the Gloriavale cult etc etc)

So like,,,,, again, that whole meme that Luis made his own testosterone wouldn’t be too far off BXNSHENDHDNX

But then we get some light at the end of this very depressing tunnel HXNSHENDUJ;

Leon, Ada and Ashley

Now from here on out I’m gonna get into some more like,,, CHARACTER dissection so I figured here would be the best place to put this HDBEYENEUS; Luis fits ALL the stereotypes of a stealth queer person during his time period. Like,, you know the song Gay or European????? Yeah that isn’t a joke that’s a real rhing European queer and trans men did to basically hide the fact that they were queer. It’s like. The oldest trick in the book. Which is why it’s SOOOOOO funny to me when I see Reddit dudebros going “errrrrmm actually Luis isn’t gay it’s just his Spanish charm!!” LIKE DUDE. YOUVE FALLEN FOR T H E TRICK. THIS IS THE EQUIVALENT OF A BIRD USING THEIR TAIL FEATHERS TO DISTRACT A PREDATOR.

And also Spain in general just has a very long and very beautiful Queer and Trans history- obviously it’d be way too much to fit into this one post but I highly reccomend just,,,, looking it up for yourself. Queer people have always been around :))

Ok ok, back to Leon- I plan on someday taking apart and dissecting EEEEEEEEEVERY interaction between them cuz it’s just. It’s all SO GAY. But in general, Luis treats Leon SO much differently than Ashley and Ada but in a good way!!!!!

Luis isn’t afraid to be open around Leon. He isn’t afraid to be flamboyant and jokey and flirt with him- and hell, he probably did enjoy that chain scene HXNEHENEUDJDJ he isn’t afraid to be more vulnerable and just generally what you wouldn’t consider a stereotypical “manly-man;” he doesn’t conform to western societies of stereotypical masculinity, and he isn’t afraid to show that around Leon.

He’s open with Leon- he’s vulnerable and he very openly CARES about Leon. He truly wears his heart on his sleeve and this is for a MULTITUDE of different reasons but I think a big part of it is not just because he’s genuienly attracted to Leon but because leon is a shining example of a chivalrous knight to him

I and many others have gone into this further; but when Luis first met Leon in that body bag, it probably honestly WAS like he was meeting his very own Don Quixote for the first time. He was probably a shining example of everything he wanted to be; brave, kind, never makes mistakes- and again I’ve gone into this further but this truly does play into his character and his very noble quest for redemption and forgiveness a lot and viewing this from a Trans angle just gives that quest SO much more power

Capcom does their best to make Leon out to be a super strong manly-man and @highball66 has gone into some of Leon’s own queer coding, but I think Luis also sees through this. He sees through his macho dudebro masculinity and he sees a genuine and kind human being underneath; just as Leon had done for him. Leon is everything Luis wants to be in a man- just like his grandfather and probably countless male figures in his life before him. So he’s not afraid to open up to Leon; he isn’t held back by that expectation of toxic masculinity because he wasn’t raised that way.

And he’s the EXACT SAME with Ada and Ashley too!!!!!!!! He CARES about Ada! He’s CONSTANTLY looking out for her and giving her the benefit of the doubt and he’s always so polite and kind around her!!!!!!!! Like yeah he puts on the front of being a ladies-man but again like SOOO many others before me have mentioned that’s probably just a safety front!!!!!! He wears his heart on his sleeve around Ada and Ashley, too- he’s always SO polite around her I feel like not enough people point that out????? He offered his hand out for her to take before inspecting the blood, he’s always asking for permission before he touches her etc he’s so nice people don’t give him enough credit for that!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And theeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnn it aaaaaaaaalll comes crashing down when he diiiiiieeeeeeessss,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

It’s pretty important to note that Luis is killed by Krauser; and again, other people have gone into Leon and Krausers queer relationship coding a lot better than I have, but it’s pretty interesting to note that Luis was killed by the guy who pretty much encapsulates all forms of toxic masculinity (again, that meme that everyone jokes about that Krauser killed Luis cuz he was jealous of Leon’s new boyfriend might not be far off HXHWHDUXHSH)

Luis uses his final breath to save Leon- to save the man who has shown him forgiveness and empathy and love for the first time in god knows how long. He opens his heart up to Leon in his final moments; he does one last ‘such a loss to the ladies of the world eh?’ As a last-ditch effort to try and convince Leon that he tooooooootally isn’t queer you guys and to try and hold onto that sense of normality; but he drops that act immedietly after Leon shows him that he’s taking this seriously

He opens up to Leon and admits that he led a pretty shitty life. He spills his heart out to Leon and asks him if people can change. And I’ve said rhis before and I’ll say it again; this is Luis looking for some kind of confirmation. Some kind of forgiveness and some way of saying that Yes his life DID mean something- that people CAN change and CAN be loved like he loved Leon and Leon loved him. And, hell, if we’re REEEEEAALY tryna stretch here (which I mean this whole post is tbh HXBSHSNEHDNSHD) you could even read this as Luis asking for somebody to accept him as he truly is, and see past the facade of a super flamboyant cis straight man. It’s not a stretch to say this moment is him looking and hoping that Leon can see through his past actions and see the beautiful human being underneath- so it wouldn’t be crazy to view it under a queer light either

Then, of course, Leon says that iconic line; you were a fine knight, Don Quixote. Confirming to Luis that he WAS like the chivalrous knight he always looked up to when he was little. Not just for his bravery and confidence; but also for his exploration of gender and non conformity in his sexuality. Leon confirms that for him in his final moments.

Then of course there’s the nature of his death; the fact that he dies below his childhood village is pretty telling to me.

Now this is where I’m gonna get into some depressing statistics, so readers beware, but unfortunately, there is a good chunk of trans people who will die in their childhood homes for many reasons. There’s been a good chunk of trans people all throughout history who have lived long, full lives but still were buried in their childhood homes and towns under their dead name or under the gender they were assigned to at birth. It’s depressing and there really is no making light of it- which is why Luis dying in the village he grew up in and tried so desperately to escape from hits so hard to me.

• Now HOPEFULLY obviously I am N O T comparing Luis’ death to actual real trans people’s deaths. But as somebody who HAS lost trans friends to suicide, the manner of his death absolutely REMINDS me of that and thus hits home harder for me. Go give your trans friends a hug, basically

But on the bright side, at least he didn’t die alone. He had Leon; he had somebody who could, theoretically, show the world who he truly was and remember him by his true name and nature. Luis won’t be totally forgotten underground; he’ll have Leon and Ashley and Ada ro remember the man he truly was just like how many, many trans people who have passed away will have friends and loved ones who will remember them for who they truly are.

Now I don’t wanna end this whole analysis on such a depressing note so I’ll add this at the end; I genuienly think that even if you DONT headcannon Luis as Trans, adding that element to his character not only enriches his already INCREDIBLY well written story but also just generally means the world to trans people in real life, too

Like,,,,, I’ve mentioned this before but I’ll say it again; seeing a character who is so genuinely confident in themselves, so open about their emotions and their identity and who holds themselves in a way that isn’t stereotypically “masculine”- that honestly hits so much closer to home than any other trans headcannon ever has. I’ve gone into detail about how much Luis as a character means to me, but seriously, reading him from this angle lowkey makes me want to cry with how much it means to me HDBEHENEHDJX

Luis is a Beautifully written character who shows the best and worst in all of us humans- who shows that we all just want to love and be loved and be forgiven and given the opportunity to change. All trans people deserve that, too; we all deserve the opportunity to live our lives to the fullest.

Even if you want to comment ‘ErM weLl CapCoM woUlD nEVeR hAvE a TrAns ChaRaCTeR-“ does it really matter???? Does it matter if a character has a canon label slapped onto them, if people can already analyse that character from their own perspective and find deep meaning in that themselves????? Is a character who is canonically queer any more meaningful than a character who isn’t????? I don’t think so, cuz clearly, myself and many, many others find solace and comfort and relatability in the fine knight that is Luis Serra

And finally; André Peña, Luis Serra’s voice actor, has been VERY vocal about his support for trans people and has even said he absolutely 100% believes that Luis would believe in trans rights- so suck it transphobes!!!!!!!!!!!!! Luis is for US!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[basketcasebetty]

This is my submission for the CasDean Reverse Crossover Bang!

Set in Night City, a Cyberpunk 2077 Crossover.

@entropic-saudade claimed my piece and has gone totally above and beyond in the research to write this fic. I'm super impressed and thrilled to be able to share this with you all!

Do Angels Dream of Electric Sheep?

Night City, California, 2077.

After Dad’s death leaves Dean a clan of one, Dean puts life on the road in his rearview mirror and follows in his little brother’s footsteps to the so-called City of Dreams. Unlike Sam, who went the corpo route, Dean becomes a merc-of-all-trades, doing anything it takes to make enough eddies to survive and make a name for himself before the lights go out.

When offered a lucrative job to locate some missing property from Cloud 9, a dollhouse deep in the megabuildings of Westbrook, Dean takes it with little hesitation— only to find that the ‘property’ in question is one of Naomi’s ‘angels’, a doll named Castiel.

Finding the wayward doll is just the beginning, as the job spirals far beyond a simple bounty hunt, and Dean is reminded of what matters most as he discovers a corporate conspiracy lurking beneath all the shiny chrome and neon lights of Night City.

[misscinnamonroll16]

Brozone and the bunker part 3

We're in the second hallway now. Hopefully I don't get more problems. I added props and decorations in tubs. I tried to add the boxes with the shoes to be like "they belonged to the boys when they were little" but it doesn't really fit. Added a cork board with notices and such, like this brother is doing this on that day type thing.

Bruce, like Floyd has comfy vibes going on, he's got stuff for his kids like books and medals/ribbons. I went with sandy, beachy kind of vibes. Cosy but in a different way, like you'd wanna relax and take a load off. I added a couple of "restaurant" related items like the chalk board and cooking poster. I added neon lights (that for some reason don't act as lights so I had to cheat to get them to light up). I added workout equipment bc he may have a dad bod but he's built like Maui from Moana. Several lotions and body products. And a box of condoms bc they don't need no more kids (they were put there by John as a half-ass joke) and some baby stuff.

On to branchs room. Ignore anything that's floating, some cheats are harder to get to work than others. He's smart and resourceful so he has several bookcases of books. Unlike clay, he puts his books back on the shelf when he's done read. Poppy's added a few things here and there to bring some 'pop' into his space. The crocodile plush is meant to be crocko (I'm assuming it's from the TV series, I'm trying to watch it), branchs favorite childhood plush that has been worn and loved ( like that one Garfield plush).

Finally onto John Dory's room. Johns room was the most difficult to fill but probably my favorite. I'd like to imagine that once moving in he takes on that caring big brother role again. Not the bossy one, the one that tucked his little brothers in and patched up their scraped knee. I can see John (and maybe Bruce) being the only ones who know how to work the washer and dryer, so John does the laundry. He complains about it the whole time but he enjoys taking care of his little brothers anyway he can, he's trying to make up for lost time. I imagine he paces, a LOT, so I gave him room for that. I also gave him a white board bc I see him as someone who needs to visualize their ideas. I gave him the comfiest looking desk chair I could bc he's probably still gonna try and write all their songs but with his bad back it's hard sitting for long periods of time.

So there's all their rooms, the last part is gonna be the kitchen, dinning room, living room and bathroom and probably the girls if I can fit them in

@djmurphy @aerodominics @cow-boy000 @sharks-n-bones

[brown-little-robin]

Hello, Robin!! *waves*

Since we got onto the topic of synesthesia, now I’m quite curious: how did you come to find out that you had synesthesia? What did that process look like for you?

Hi, Grace!! *waves back*!

YEAH OKAY SO! It was pretty interesting! In a nutshell, it went: I hear about synesthesia and go "couldn't be me! my color associations must be made-up and only in my head!". I learn that not everyone sees real-time subtitles in their mental space. I learn that not everyone has a mental space. weird, but okay. I keep thinking about it for a few years. I read various synesthete's descriptions of their own experiences, including symptoms that are different from what I initially assumed was The Only True Synesthesia. (useful athough limited terms: "associative" versus "projective" synesthesia.) I talk to a psychology grad student who explains how synesthesia works, physically, in the brain. I finally accept that I process almost everything through the color center of my brain. Every concept, thought, sound, and touch-sensation registers as "color/light" to me. I have two fields of vision, which I cannot turn on or off at will: the physical one and the mental one, and sometimes they overlap. I decide that I definitely have synesthesia.

Basically, the process of finding out I had synesthesia was part paying careful, consistent attention to how my brain works, and part learning how other people's brains work. I had to learn that my experiences were not just What Everyone Does, and come up with my own terms for my own experiences as well as adopting certain existing terms!

Detailed timeline of Robin's Synesthesia Adventure below the cut! <3

1) At age 10, I have an argument with dad where I argue that 5 is green, and he says it's red, and I say NO it's GREEN, and he says "well it could really be either, I could see 5 being green", and I stop, confused, and think ....no, every number is only ONE color (except for the number 2 which is two colors at once), what is he talking about. I could understand 5 being red for dad and green for me, but the idea that 5 was totally unconnected to color, that this argument had no basis in reality? that was weird.

2) years later, I learn the term "synesthesia". Cool! I think. Couldn't be me, since when I look at the number five, it isn't green on the page, exactly. It's just green in my head, and sometimes on the page. Same with all the other letters and numbers, and with sounds and textures. High short sounds only make bright neon flashes in my head, and cello is only brown and fuzzy in my head, and guitar only makes sharp metallic shapes in my head, and so on; it's not like I'm actually seeing sounds. Also, "R" is "red", and "Y" is yellow, and "G" is green, and many such things; if I really had synesthesia, surely the pairings would be totally random and not influenced by my culture or the stuff I grew up with. surely.

3) I read a book from the perspective of a character with synesthesia (who also had magic alien communication powers related to that), and HER symptoms were so extreme that it confirmed me in the belief that I definitely did not have synesthesia, because I don't like, hallucinate! (note: the definition of hallucination is a bit loose. you could argue that I do hallucinate. but anyway.) but I, unlike this fictional character, don't react physically to sound-colors like they're real! Except when things are so loud that I experience them as bright and instinctively close my eyes, but that doesn't count. surely.

4) I get into a research rabbit-trail on synesthesia. synesthesia is so cool! what is it like to have that? from the inside? wait, this sounds like me. wait, you can have associative synesthesia versus projective synesthesia?? what's the difference?? WHY DO I FEEL LIKE I HAVE BOTH ASSOCIATIVE AND PROJECTIVE SYNESTHESIA. I have to be making this up. I don't think these words exactly fit my experiences; I definitely see the colors I associate with things, but not in the real world, not exactly, not all the time. hmm.

5) I learn that most people don't experience ticker-tape synesthesia (involuntarily seeing captions as people speak). It is at THIS point that I first go: yeah, I definitely have SOMETHING. I DEFINITELY have THAT. But then I think, wait, I don't see captions for ALL LANGUAGES. that must mean I'm making it up. when people speak a different language than English around me, all I see is blobs of color, like how it looks when people sing without words, and occasional "captions" when I pick up something that my brain can transliterate into Roman characters. surely this is not synesthesia. this is just... Thinking.

6) After upwards of a year of wondering about this and observing myself, I come to the conclusion that although the specific associations are not intrinsic to my brain (for instance, I develop color associations with friends that I don't have with strangers, and letters correspond to related colors), my synesthesia is both consistent and involuntary; piano was white sparkles five years ago, and it's still white sparkles now. I am not making it up on purpose. It happens whether I want it to or not, and I cannot turn the sensations off when I try. This is just something my brain does. (note: recently I've been having fun watching my brain come up with colors for the Japanese characters I'm learning! ら,る,れ, and ろ are all red :])

6.5) I meet a grad student in psychology at my university who hears that I think I might have synesthesia. He is DELIGHTED to share the current research on exactly how synesthesia forms in the brain with me, out loud and via sketching on a napkin. I kid you not, on a napkin. I learn that synesthesia is a physical process in the brain, and that almost every baby is born with some form of synesthesia; sensational signals (electrical impulses) travel to multiple receiving parts of their brain through your neurons. Eventually, baby brains figure out to send visual signals only to certain areas, such as the color and shape sensing areas, and auditory signals only to auditory receiving, and so on, without triggering the other parts. HOWEVER. Synesthetes' brains never quite lose some of the more convoluted sensational paths. (side note: you can also develop synesthesia later in life because the brain is very flexible and very weird. people sometimes gain it after a brain injury, for instance.) anyway, I, personally, seem to route all of my sensations through the color processing area in the brain. I don't know why, but maybe because it seems to be useful to my memory recall systems! When I try to retrieve memories, the first thing I always think of is the color I associate with a memory/concept/thought. Then my brain uses that color as a key to find the related memory/concept/thought.

Wow.

7) Sharing this experience isn't necessary to have synesthesia, but I realize that my synesthesia significantly affects my functioning; due to having two fields of vision that overlap sometimes (like glass being laid over the real world or something), I get easily overwhelmed/overstimulated. And being overwhelmed causes my "synesthesia vision" to overlap MORE with the real world, causing more distress, causing a spiral of overstimulation that I seek to escape via closing my eyes, putting on music in earbuds, or leaving the room. A lot of what I and others had labeled "being shy", I realized, wasn't that I didn't want to be around people; it was my body getting stressed out and overwhelmed and trying to escape the double vision by any means necessary. It also gave me a tendency to dissociate and ignore my body. I become gentler with myself and learn to work with my brain, including knowing when to embrace discomfort and open my senses versus when to accept that the current overwhelm is not helpful and dissociate intentionally and/or remove myself to a quieter environment.

8) present day! I am still learning more about synesthesia and I love talking to people with different forms of it, or people with related conditions like aphantasia (face-blindness / inability to mentally visualize). I also like to argue about it. April is pale purple and I will FIGHT YOU on that.

if you have any questions or comments or things that stood out to you about this you'd like to exclaim over, please feel free to reply or dm or send an ask about it!! I Love Talking About Synesthesia >:D

[mochicrackersss]

Blog Post - Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind ᯓᡣ𐭩‧₊˚ ⊹

I have very fond memories of watching Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind last year. During my and Dad's flight to Japan last summer, we downloaded all the Ghibli films we hadn't watched in preparation for the Ghibli Museum in Mitaka. Going to Japan, but ESPECIALLY the Ghibli Museum was on my bucket list for so long because I'm such a huge fan of Ghibli, so I wanted to make sure I could enjoy every bit of it! And I'm glad I did, as I don't know why I never watched Nausicaä until then. Not only is it (kind of) the studio's first release (since technically it was created and directed by Hayao Miyazaki even though the studio was founded after its release), but it's also just a beautiful animated story that holds up great even today.

During my second watch, I noticed Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind has a similar setting and tone to Neon Genesis Evangelion. Both stories are set in this post-apocalyptic world populated with monstrous, alien creatures. Although, it seems Nausicaä's world is more far gone than Evangelion's. The air is barely breathable due to the spore-like infection covering almost every inch of the Earth, and massive insects that could crush any remaining human civilizations. However, unlike the Tokyo-3 citizens, Nausicaä stresses to her people that cohabitation with insects and humans is possible. If anything, similar to Evangelion, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind illustrates that humans are the root cause of violence and destruction. The soil and water were polluted by the wars thousands of years ago, which caused the air to be unbreathable, all the plants to be lethal and the toxic jungles to grow.

Side note, I absolutely love the music for this movie. Joe Hisaishi ate so hard with the 8-bit synthesized fantasy score, it tickles my brain so well.